A Week Gone A-Wry

So it wasn't exactly the most productive week of my life, but by Friday, at least we had all 50 toes and 50 fingers accounted for before the next week began.

And that's saying a lot. If you would've been hanging around the place and getting a full scoop of what happened, you'd be checking on your fingers too.

First off on Monday, we ha----- no wait. Let's start on Sunday...

While away on leave for Britt's wedding, I got the word that I am the new teacher for my new Sunday School class. And what that means is that I have to count the students ladies in my class, tally the offering and then start the lesson. Not a huge deal at all -- it's not like I have to stand behind a podium and give a chalk talk or anything. Teaching that first Sunday's lesson I actually enjoyed. A lot. I think I tend to talk way too much to not enjoy something like this.

The only time this designated responsibility may become a difficult thing is when one of the kids wakes up sick Sunday morning, the dog runs away, the van won't start and I can't find my Sunday School book 5 minutes before class starts. Other than that, I think it'll be okay for at least a year.

Like we always do on Sunday afternoons, we enjoyed nap time. Well, Janae and Alex enjoyed nap time; I attempted to enjoy it while Landon attempted to not enjoy it. Let's just say I had a pretty disturbing nap.

Monday came like it usually does after Sunday and what did we find but rain! rain! and more rain! That automatically entitles Dad to a day of bookwork in the basement while the green grass outside grows greener. After a full day of putting in a pretty big quota of bookwork, I dragged the half-decomposed-man up from the basement where he had practically fermented and we went on a nice family walk.

So, not much exciting has happened in the week so far. Wait till you hear about Tuesday...

Okay, so Tuesday comes and before I was even out of my early morning bed, I learn the dreadful news that my dear loving husband is SICK! With the flu. As he dresses for work and heads out the door I strongly suggest lovingly imply that perhaps today would be a good day to take advantage of those sick days he never uses when he's sick and call the boss and tell him he thinks that this time he may just have a rare and infectious disease and should perhaps stay home so as not to start an epidemic or anything.

I have a few strong feelings about Toby's boss and my conclusion is that the guy must be a work-a-holic who drives his workers to near fatality. Why? Because Toby rarely calls in sick. Oh wait... I guess he is the boss. Well, never mind on that theory then.

So, he goes out the door with a can of toxic waste pop and leaves. Just like that. He's gone. I wave to my "in sickness" husband while I watch him wearily head to the work force.

About an hour later, I call him. You know, just to make sure he's still breathing and everything. I could hear the strain and pain in his voice when he weakly informed me in just a few words, "I'm coming home, honey."

I made every effort I could to not retaliate back, "I TOLD YOU SO," but the only thing I seemed to stifle was, well, I guess it all came out like that. (I wanted him to know that I'm always right that I was going to be glad to see him.)

He came home and though I made every effort to dote on him, he resisted all suggestions of health and wellness that I recommended and instead, went back down to the fermenting basement and had a pretty steady PC Diet. (Eat as much Pop and Candy while using the Personal Computer.)

Now folks, I should've put my foot down, really, I should've. But apart from nailing my foot to the floor, it just doesn't stay down. But, by Wednesday, my normally submissive spirit exploded into a fervent devotion to my husband's well being and I did just that: painfully nailed my foot to the floor.

He soon was happily stuffed full of vitamins and tea and everything else in the kitchen that I knew he'd hate eating that was supposed to help him feel better. By bedtime on Wednesday, he was feeling much better.

But, back to Wednesday... so I'm running around like a beheaded chicken trying to keep the kids in line, keep Toby alive and get my work done.

Alex was a bear. Janae was playing wedding. Landon was hunting in the backyard. Okay, now all three of those activities take a lot of focus on my part. And in the midst of all that, Alex got ink written on his face, Janae had ink circles on her arm, Landon found the scissors, and Janae's very own quilt that I made for her got cut in half.

I was pretty much beside myself with with feelings of anger and retaliation shock but I kept my feelings on my sleeve in check and made it quite clear that SCISSORS were off limit as well as FINGERS and QUILTS and anything that was designed to be used more than once. Basically, they can play with Styrofoam plates and empty toilet paper rolls.

So then on Thursday, Toby says he feels better and I am strangely looking forward to having a normal day again. While he gets ready to leave for work later in the day and not in the usual early morning (because the weather man called for rain all morning), I am moving around the house doing typical mom things. You know like making lunch, fixing my hair, finding a piece of wet-fruit-fly-covered-toilet-paper behind the toilet, cleaning the bathroom, noticing white fuzzy stuff on the bathroom wall, you know typical mom stuff...stuff? STUFF? growing on the bathroom wall? As in like fur stuff coming right up the wall?! What is going on? I thought this was America?

And then I remember that call someone (who's name I won't mention) made recently to the plumber. The Plumber that should've been here weeks before but he wasn't called until, well, like yesterday. (at a later time and a later date, I will perhaps delve into the details surrounding the leaky pipe.)

So then Friday and Saturday and Sunday roll around like they usually do on the weekend and with them came more rain. Thankfully, other than the rain, nothing was too eventful until Sunday night when Landon crawled in bed next to me with a bad stomach ache. A really bad stomach ache.

Deja vu? All over again...

Life Begins At Conception, or does it?

Ethical and moral issues are discussions most of us prefer to avoid. Morality and ethics have turned into "an-every-man-for-himself" kind of thing so it gives us greater reason to not step on toes when we promote or discourage certain issues. Especially when we have a faceless audience like blog readers. It is so much easier and more comfortable to keep silent.

But, I am using the vantage point I have here and breaking the status-quo of "every-man-for-himself" and taking it upon myself to speak the truth. I am really not concerned as to whether everyone that reads this will agree with me. Why? Because I believe that there is a tragedy happening day after day and I am doing nothing about it. Sometimes well meaning people just don't know the truth on matters that tend to be kept silent and I don't want to be guilty of keeping silent while knowing the truth about contraceptives and conception.

It may be shocking but there is a huge moral issue in many ultra-conservative people, the general public and lots of people in-be-tween. I'm not talking about people leaving their spouse to go sleep with another or about husbands having multiple wives. I am talking about moms destroying the life of their unborn. Whether it's at 9 days old or 9 months old, it doesn't matter. It's still a life. It's still a baby. And whether it's intentionally or unintentionally, it doesn't matter either.

Through research and discussions with medical doctors, I have learned the truth on something that is widely practiced but yet highly misunderstood.

First of all, the word "contraception" means that conception ALONE is stopped -- the egg is never fertilized. Stopping conception before it starts does not kill life. Hormonal Contraception (which it shouldn't be called anyway since it doesn't primarily impeded conception so therefore should not be called a contraceptive) has the ability and hormones of stopping the implantation of a fertilized egg(s) after it has been, unfortunately, conceived.

The bottom line is that life begins at conception and only God is the Giver and Taker of life. It doesn't matter if your doctor says a birth control is "safe" in supporting life or that a pill won't kill your baby; what your doctor doesn't tell you (unless you ask like I did) is this:

There are two basic kinds of hormonal birth control pills: (1) the combination pill which is made up of two synthetic hormones (estrogen and progestin) and (2) the progestin-only pill (sometimes called the minipill). The synthetic estrogen in the combination pill works to prevent the ovaries from releasing an egg. If no egg is released, there is nothing to be fertilized by sperm and the woman cannot get pregnant. In addition, the synthetic estrogen works by suppressing the body's normal hormonal pattern (which involves one egg being developed per menstrual cycle and released for possible fertilization).

The synthetic progestin (present in both types of pills) works to:

thicken the cervical mucus, which hinders the movement of sperm,

inhibit the egg's ability to travel through the fallopian tubes,

partially suppress the sperm's ability to unite with (and thereby fertilize) the egg, and

alter the uterine lining so (in the event that an egg is released and fertilized) the egg will likely not be able to implant into the uterine wall. (A fertilized egg would then be discharged with the rest of the menstrual blood.)

(found at GoAskAlice.com)

Not wanting to believe what "Alice" is informing in the above piece of research, I separately googled several different popular contraceptives commonly used and approved by the safety standards of the FDA and AMA and found her advice to be true for:

The Pill

The Mini Pill

The Nuva Ring

The Mirena IUD

The Patch

As you will find from the links above, the primary functions of all those methods is to prevent sperm from penetrating the cervix and to also disable ovulation. Now, these two functions are not moral and ethical issues -- human life is not being destroyed when contraception is used ONLY to impede conception. We all can hope that's all that is happening in each prevented pregnancy but the chance of that is highly unlikely and quite risky if you're banking a human life on it.

The fact that the lining of the mother's uterus is being changed to not accept a conceived egg is the function of these methods that makes hormone birth controls a non-option for a pro-life person. Why? Because life begins at conception.

To make the safest, warmest and most life sustaining place on earth for a new brand new life a habitation of destruction and rejection, is a tragedy. And worse yet, this tragedy is sitting in many Christian homes and churches today.

I have heard it said so many times by many well meaning people..."This new birth control method (insert name here) I'm using doesn't kill the baby; I asked my doctor and he said no!"

Of course your doctor is going to say no. A woman is unable to CARRY that pregnancy because the birth control her doctor gave her made it physically impossible to KEEP that baby that only had the chance to grow for short time. The baby is gone before the mother or the doctor even knew there was a conceived baby.

I found out myself when I asked my doctor and her doctoring partners. They all informed me in separate consultations that each birth control:

• Kills sperm
• Can effect the cycle, inhibiting ovulation
• Is backed up by making the uterus lining thin therefore insusceptible to a fertilized egg
  

"So if life begins at conception and I believe that it does, than using a birth control that is not supporting a fertilized egg, is wrong?" I asked a doctor.

The doctor nodded her head and said, "Right... if you believe that then you'd have to accept that this is destroying a life."

------------------------------------------------------------------------
For a very informative read, go here and find an in depth look at Contraception And The Christian and the captivating dialogue that takes place when conception occurs and how quickly it is destroyed when hormonal contraceptives are used.

"...If the fertilized egg is not allowed to implant in the uterus, it is being killed. The only difference between this and a later abortion is the size and stage of development of the tiny human offspring."

The writer also includes other information about birth control that does not kill a fertilized egg.

More Pro-Life information given by doctors can be found here. And here.

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Disclaimer: I do not support or endorse other information that may be included on ALL the links above. Please do not abuse the links I listed to support a stand I am not endorsing through this post.

To Everything There is a Season...

Last night, I sat holding my breath at this computer, daring myself to look between the fingers that had been plastered to my whitened face.

I never knew that clicking "Save Changes" could so dramatically effect a person.

I almost felt tears well up inside somewhere when it fully dawned on my that the old look was gone. Forever. :'(

I breathed short, shallow breaths.

I felt my heart beat in hard, fast thumps.

Had I just lost all the 478 posts that I had written over the last three years?

Nope. They were all there.

But there was something else there too... It worked! The template transfer actually worked!

I found myself squealing hysterically at 11:00 at night and jumping up and down in my seat while Toby called to me from his lonely bed (which wasn't entirely lonely: he did have a computer with him) and wondered what I was doing.

Coeur d' Court had a new look and it was BROWN and PINK!!!! (and when I came back today, it was still Brown and Pink! Yay for html code that doesn't change in your sleep...)

So, for those of you that are scratching your head wondering what in the world the above jabbering is about, I know that you read my blog on Bloglines or some other blog alert thingy. The fact that you are scratching your head right now and the eyebrows on your forehead are screwed up funny, proves you are one of those blog lines blog readers. (this blog is under security camera use, by the way. Just kidding.)

I have a special invitation just for you savvy readers that use a blog update program. Yes, because YOU made the effort to put me in your blog lines, I am giving back to your great cause. Please accept my invitation just this once to personally visit my page directly and tell me what you think of this new look.

(Now, about www.bloglines.com .... I highly recommend such programs because A) they're easy to set up and B) you never have to visit any of your favorite blogs wondering if they've updated it or not: your blog program notifies you when you log into your account. A great and excellent and convenient time saver. Visit www.bloglines.com and set up your own account. Or use another program/website that someone else has recommended to you and see if I care that you didn't take my number ONE recommendation of www.bloglines.com. As long as you're saving time and spreading your metaphysical computer wings out a little more, I am pleased with your aspirations to blog savvyness whether you use www.bloglines.com or not.)

What War is to Me

9-11 is here again and we all tend to think back to that day and What I Was Doing When The Towers Fell. Yet the consequence of what changed that day was not fully known until about 2 years later when a whole army of troops entered the war zone that our enemy came from.

I vividly remember that particular day, in March of 2003, because I had just celebrated the happiest day of my life: my wedding day, and I felt almost guilty that I could be enjoying such happiness and bliss while other wives were saying goodbye to husbands they'd never see again. It's almost sad to realize that every time we celebrate our wedding anniversary, our nation commemorates another kind of anniversary, The War on Terror.

Have you ever read the news and found an article about troops heading into Iraq or Afghanistan or North Korea or some place where bullets fly and bombs explode? I'm sure you have. You can find those articles anywhere and if you miss today's edition, tomorrow will likely have something new about the war anyway.

Did you ever think twice about it when you saw a line of soldiers ready to take off on their mission? Did you ever just think in the back of your mind that it was their choice; they chose to be on the battle field so "what's the big deal" and then quickly scanned the page for another article? Did you ever think twice about a soldier going to war?

If you're like me, probably not. Soldiers are made for war. Why act surprised or sad when you hear of a whole troop of them boarding a plane and heading to a war torn foreign country? We all know that's their job.

I used to not really think about it. I mean, I appreciated the fact that soldiers and military personnel were always on duty protecting my national freedom and life as I know it but I never felt very personal about news stories I'd read or hear. I would hear about the President sending more troops over and just assume he was getting the job done faster. I'd read about a soldier being killed and feel bad but then forget about him as soon as I turned the newspaper over. It was just the way things were and I was glad I didn't have to think about it.

But that all changed one day.

Now, every time I hear about more troops going over, more problems in the middle east, more battles being fought, my ears perk up. I think twice. My heart gets heavy and I look a little closer at the pictures of those men. I now realize that each soldier on the battlefield represents an entire family. A circle of friends. A unit of people. People that are praying for and worrying about that one soldier. A mother stays up nights praying for them. A father reads the news and hopes the critics aren't right in their prediction about the war. A wife fears for the safety of her husband that she won't see for another 10 months, at least.

I never really thought much about the news reports that would blast over the radio about another explosion in Baghdad. I mean, that seems to happen all the time there, right? But now, I won't be able to listen to a report like that without wondering who was killed and if I knew him.

And counting the days until he comes home.

And wishing that the newspaper would write more about the war and the facts that are happening constantly around the bunkers of that soldier I know.

War is hard. And war is real. But, when your little brother heads into it, you realize just how hard and real war really is. And how sad it makes your life.

But, yet how grateful you can feel knowing that your country's national freedom is being defended because your little brother is some place far from home where bullets fly. Where bombs explode. Where wrong is right.

And he's there in that battlefield, with that whole troop of brave men, so that you can stay free. So that your backyard is safe. You enjoy a grassy lawn while he disintegrates mine fields from one of those giant Humvee trucks. Because his dream is that someday that minefield will be a grassy slope. With carefree children playing freely without the danger of evil men producing death and destruction on their innocent lives. Children as innocent as mine will enjoy freedom someday too because someone brave made their home a safe place.

As if it wasn't already going to be bad enough having a loved one in a war zone, my loving and normally-laid-back-and-anti-trouble-causing-sister, went and fell in love and married a soldier scheduled to go over the same time our brother is. I now fully understand the seriousness of 'having all your eggs in one basket,' so to speak.

So, when most couples are enjoying the honeymoon phase of marriage, this couple will be parted because of the cost of freedom. A freedom I will never take for granted, ever again.

That's what war is to me.

All's Well That Ends Well If All Ends Well

Being home all day alone with my kids, really isn't that big of a deal. I mean, c'mon: it's my JOB. But, I usually tend to draw a line when it comes to being alone in the evening with the kids. Which is what happened recently.

Slated on schedule for the local jail ministry, Toby came home from work in time to grab a bite to eat, shower, say about 147 words to the kids and I (that is not very many words... trust me) and then he was off like a dirty sock to the county jail.

What was I supposed to do for 3 hours alone with his our kids? Yeah, I asked myself that a few times too.

First we went for a walk. But, on the walk, I felt guilty for leaving a foot of grass evenly standing in the front yard. Especially considering we just spent forty-some-bucks getting the lawn mower fixed not to mention that the grass had been mowed pre-wedding trip. (ie., 17 days ago.)

I debated mowing though; we have gone longer than 17 days between mowing's so was it a worthy investment to use a precious fuel propelled blade evenly across the yard? What about the budget? (what budget??? Toby is wondering as he reads this). What should I do with the kids while mowing? These questions and many other life altering questions stared me in the face as I trudged home with a kid loaded stroller and 3 wheeled bike strapped to my arm.

Entering the garage was my first insurmountable feat. Don't ask why but there's a stack of lumber in the garage designated for a certain house in our neighborhood. I guess the people are getting rooms built in their basement AND getting a remodeled kitchen. Lucky people! Why the lumber is in our garage is beyond me because we certainly have no need for new bedrooms and a kitchen.

Did I just say that?

Anyway, sitting in a nice neat stack of wood in our mouse laden garage is the future of my new kitchen and expanding finished basement. My dreamy eyes made it difficult to calculate the fact that I would in no way be able to cram the lawn mower between the wood and other garage paraphernalia so I did what most wise people crazy women do, I attempted to pick up the lawn mower. You know, just bend down, pick it up and carry it. Let's just say it was pretty heavy.

Plan B meant I had to go out the side door. But that didn't just mean open a door and push the mower out, end of story. It was a lot more complicated.

As I contemplated the brevity of mowing twelve inches of grass in our front yard, I was impressed to realize that my mind had the whole situation all calculated in my brain in the "Plan B Mow Yard" file. As complicated as that plan clearly was, it made me desperately want to scratch Plan B. So I tried a little harder with Plan A and literally tried to pick the mower up like I would pick up a laundry basket. That was just not an option.

Before I could open the door and push the mower out, Plan B style, I had to run into the house through the front door, charge through the house and out the back door, lock the dog in her kennel, open the twelve feet of side fence (which meant moving a basket ball hoop first), unlock the garage side door from the back-yard-side of the door, painstakingly shove the lawn mower precariously out the side door, perform a hair pin curve maneuver between the garage side door and through the narrow opening allowed by the 12 foot of now leaning green treated fencing and plow the mower down the driveway through the eight inches of fine gravel that some brainless person dumped in times past while my feet sank up to my knees past my shoe soles in the weighty, quick-sand-like gravel that was never intended for driveway use. Especially when you are alone with kids and attempting to mow with a push mower by yourself alone with the kids. (did I already say that?)

Anyway, primitive.

I mowed like a crazy person. Designing roads and alleys for the kids to run their dump trucks through was a blast. The grass was so high you could barely see their little heads bobbing up and down out in the middle of the yard, it embarrassed me. I knew their freshly mowed "roads" were well defined and they loved the exploration found in our little suburbia yard.

And I knew where they were the whole time; their squeals and screams of delight made it easy to keep an eye ear on them and did nothing to drown out the mower. My mower didn't hit any snakes (for once) and I patted myself on the back congratulating my decision to mow in the evening instead of the day time, thus avoiding the sunning snakes. The only thing to worry about were the huge crickets stampeding the yard. The blade got all wadded up with juicy cricket bodies and cricket guts were flying everywhere. Good fertilizer, I guess. That could explain why half way through, the self propelled mowing feature locked up. And we just payed part of that $40 to fix that. Must've been those crickets jamming things up inside the mower.

While Landon asked me deep, profound questions on who gets shot at jail when they're naughty, I worked hard on trimming the edge of the grass where the sod meets the sidewalk. That was a huge mess. A certain person I know (who's name I will not mention) has a deep infatuation with Roundup. He tends to use it pretty much where most people would use a Weed eater. We have an embarrassing yard uniquely designed edge all along our yard and it has turned a dead ugly brown an interesting color in about a fourteen inch strip all around the circumference of our yard. This was a one-of-a-kind display that I hope was a one-time-only application. You know, I'm all for personal individuality in landscaping and design but this was just a little too original.

Most people try NOT to have dead grass in their yard; this person attempts getting MORE dead grass in his yard. Most people spray FERTILIZER in their yard; this guy refuses to let his wife even WATER the yard let alone make it grow healthier with some hormone induced grass growing formula. Why? Because he hates mowing. He'll be the first to say it too -- just ask his wife or mother. Or you could ask the neighbors too; they know it pretty well... the poor souls they are having to put up with such an eye sore of a yard on their civilized street.

He hates mowing, like I said, and it's evident in the fact that his poor wife has no choice but to drag the kids out to the yard, strap the baby down in a safe place and then proceed to spray twelve inches of grass clippings and cricket guts all over their little plot in the universe while he the grass killing man reads the Bible to a law breaker.

But, after we got it all done, we celebrated with story time and popcorn. An innocent celebration, keen for peoples of all ages, but deceivingly dangerous I found.

While innocently retrieving an innocent mug from the innocent cupboard in which to innocently melt butter for the innocent popcorn (this was nothing illegal, folks), I did the most stupid thing inevitable: I smashed my face with the opening door. Like an innocent bystander with a clean record, I was punished for something I never did. I mean, yeah it was my hand swinging the door but what had my face done wrong to get a smack like that?

I learned the hard way that when you put your head close to the door, swing the door at your face at a very high speed and then lift your chin in order to peer up at the top shelf where the mugs are, you can result in hitting the left side of your right cheek bone. It leaves an immediate mark too, which is worth it so that the witnesses that didn't SEE what happened can know that you honestly did just crack your face open and you have proof of it for them to see now after the accident has taken place. Just try it and then look in the mirror quickly.

Landon saw the whole thing take place and calmly sat in his chair at the table watching me wishing he could have as much fun in the kitchen as I do impressed with my smart kitchen moves. The smart kid he is, he wisely asked me what I was doing. As if he couldn't tell that I was running around the house, banging my head on hard, wooden objects??! Such a fitting question, I mused in my fuming head that was pained by the sharp shooting pain caused by the violent door.

After popcorn evenly coated the dining room floor I had just vacuumed earlier that day, Toby came home. After he got the kids in bed and I was comfortably rubbing his feet, he wondered what I had occupied my time with while he was gone. Not wanting to think he didn't see the battle scarred face of his normally fair complected, loving wife and not wanting to believe that he could not decipher the smell of fresh cut grass I had arranged to greet him when he stepped out of the vehicle he had gone to jail in, I rubbed his feet pleasantly harder by taking all my aggravation out on his feet I navigated my eyeballs back to their sockets from where they had jumped from and vowed right then to invest in a whole barrel of Roundup.

Not wanting to discourage me when he heard me mumble something about mowing grass, he assured me he appreciated my effort but I should understand that in the dark he couldn't tell that I had mowed in the back behind the garage (!!!) because he came in the FRONT door.

"Honey, whoever said anything about behind the garage?" I asked him. Not waiting for his answer, I assured him... "Next time you mow, you won't have to worry about the front yard because I took care of that tonight."

He tried to look satisfied but I don't think he believed me until he went to work in the morning and saw for himself that yes, the crickets were dead the yard was mowed.

A Question Worth Asking

"What have I to do with thee,
Jesus
thou Son of the Most High God?"

A Matron Of Honor Recounts THE Wedding

It was a lovely day for a wedding. Perfect weather. Perfect sun. Perfect temperature. It honestly could not have been any better.

After a short night of sleep the night before, 3 of us girls piled out of the same bed and the 4 other room mates got up as well. The nice thing about going to bed at 2am and showering just before you crawl in your bed is the fact that you don’t need a shower a mere 5 hours later when the alarm goes off. It’s like a glorified nap. We saved water and time that way although we did lose sleep using this sleep vs. shower method.

A short hour and 45 minutes later found a whole passle of smiling, giggling girls spilling out of the same hotel room and bustling down to a waiting, shiny limo. A couple of us weighed our options and opted for coffee instead of a limo ride. Yeah, that's how important coffee can be to a person: instead of taking your first limo ride ever, you’d settle for coffee instead. I almost felt foolish mature watching the gawking hotel guests drool over the our limo while I slipped into a blue Corolla instead and went to a drive through coffee shop. But, my priorities were in order and that's all that mattered.

Arriving at the church we immediately plugged in irons, set up ironing boards, began fixing hair and spraying perfume. I personally became heavily intoxicated with the cloud of hair spray and perfume and nail polish that filled the room we were in but hey, at least we all looked nice and smelled good too.

After getting my hair done, I began to prepare for putting on my dress. The Dress. That bridesmaid dress I had slaved over along with my kind sister-in-law who had finished it up for me and made it fit perfect.

As I went to get my hand picked undergarments that I needed before putting the dress on, I found that they were no where. I looked everywhere I knew I had put them and they were entirely missing. I ran out to the limo that had just arrived with the male wedding attendants and interrogated the driver about the location of my clothing. The petrified driver kindly assured me my clothes were not in the luggage area as he nervously dodged my flailing arms and threatening jabs while preparing to step back in his limo. I searched the church foyer, the car I had come over to the church in and ransacked all the luggage and duffel bags that were not my own. But, nothing turned up. The clothes were missing.

I called a family member still at the hotel asking them to please check the room my clothes were last in. The clothes were gone. I just knew they were probably sitting in the corner of an elevator or laying strewn on a parking lot somewhere getting black tire marks on my much lacy necessary “clothing.”

I was desperate and really needed to be dressed and practicing the piano instead of running around like a chicken with my head cut off in search of lingerie. I finally decided to just go to the bathroom and think. While in my perfume intoxicated state of mind and feeling dizzy from all the smells and lack of fresh air, I found in that hazy bathroom that the clothes I needed were already where they were supposed to be: on me. I was so relieved that the embarrassment of the whole ordeal did nothing to keep me from relieving the worried bride and my fellow bridesmaids that this matron of honor had indeed accounted for everything she needed for this day. I was met with scoffing laughter instead of sighs of relief.

And I don't understand why.

Anyway, now the dress. The Moment had come. I put it on, stepped out of the bathroom for inspection. I was met with yeah-it’s-okay-but-are-you-sure-you-can’t-tighten-your-bra-straps type of reaction. Not the type of response a maiden of honor expects. Or appreciates.

I decided to try on a different dress. So, I grabbed another one laying over the back of a chair. That one was too tight.

I slipped out one last time, hoping I hadn’t lost/gained too much weight over the course of time that had lapsed since my dress was sewn and grabbed the next dress I could find. Finally, it fit. I am making a mental note to personalize matching dresses I make from now on in order to save on time and the embarrassment of trying on every pink dress I could lay my hands on. Bare in mind that this is moving closely to about an hour before the beginning of the wedding and I still needed to practice the piano –before guests arrived—and do the finishing touches on myself.

I zipped into the still empty sanctuary and ran to the piano, relieved I was alone to practice the song assigned to me by the bride for her special day. I began to play and suddenly out of no where, people dressed in black began flashing lights at me, zooming in on my playing and taking in the piano from different angles. That was an excellent practice set up because it made me feel like I was seriously performing and definitely on display. It was realistically intimidating which was what I needed to live in the moment of performance without actually performing.

My fingers glided perfectly and as the damper peddle faded the song at the end, the photographer began to tell me how much he liked that song and the arrangement he heard and how he had it on his Ipod and perhaps I could listen to it later on that day. It was the inspiration I needed and appreciated but didn’t expect.

Doing the finishing touches on myself, opening bridal attendant gifts and then racing to the kitchen to get a bite to eat in order to help eliminate a sure tendency of fainting, I realized this was it. The groom was visiting with his attendants and looked out-of-the-ordinarily sober and serious. I felt an advantage on my sister (the bride) because I got to talk to the groom and see him on HER wedding day before she did. HA! Wait! That was the point… duh.

Teetering on the gold, pointy heeled sandals strapped to my feet, I attempted to gracefully flit around and make sure everything was in line that I was in charge of: flower girl, ring bearers, husband-of-the-matron-of-honor, etc. I found myself happily accepting the steady strong arm of the brother-of-the-bride who also happened to be my brother too. Those darling sandals were for looks, not for wearing. But, if you had a handsome soldier to escort you around, you knew exactly how Cinderella must’ve felt.

Helping the bride put on her beautiful gown, I couldn't believe the miracle that takes place in a girl when she becomes a bride in that one single moment. It’s a transformation. The point in time when she enters that portal between single hood and marriage. The radiant beauty the dress inspires in the girl that is now The Bride is heavenly. It was HER day. And she looked every bit of it too.

The moment came for us to line up in the order of our attendant positions. And then the tears of happiness came. I have never in my life had obvious tears on my eyes because I was happy. I was petrified my make-up would run and began receiving directions from all kinds of friendly people on how to dab one's eyes when you wear the kind of make-up you are not used to wearing. The rest of the people I was with told me to just quit crying because if I cried, then they would cry too. I felt so responsible in my out of character state of my mind and quickly controlled my tears. And that make-up.

The music started. The Grandmothers were seated. It was too late now to do anything else. Everything had to be ready. The first attendants entered the church. And then the next. And then the next and so on and so forth until it was my turn.

I stepped out on the white runner with my sparkly, tipsy sandals while taking hold of the strong arm of the attendant I was attending with. Thankfully, he had a much more substantial base than I had and it allowed me to thrive in the moment of dainty heels, shimmering dress, climaxing processional music and the fact that my sister was getting married. Immediately, I felt all the excitement and emotion of such a special day and my smile felt like my face would break. I was so happy.

I remembered back a few years when I walked down the same aisle on the arm of my father to the smiling groom waiting for me at the front of the church. I looked over to where that groom sat watching me and saw that same smile and that darling wink. I was so happy.

This was Brittney's day. The day she had waited for. Her groom had a very pleased smile on his face when we met eyes and I could tell he partook of the same joy I had for Britt only his was deeper. He had so much love for her in his eyes. This man that had won my sister's heart was worthy of her affection. He was so happy and I could see in his eyes what a million words could never say: she's all mine now and I will cherish her forever.

In a shower of pink petals and bright, giggly smiles, the flower girl and ring bearer put on a delightful show of sprinkling flowers down the aisle runner. They were perfect. I had no idea those children could possess such perfection. Anyone could tell they delighted in the participation they had in their Aunt Beemoo's day and the joy they had was evident in the pink cloud of petals they were all the way down the aisle.

And then the bride. She was beautiful. Her hair was perfect. Her dress sparkled like a ray of sunshine. Her smile, her confidence, her happiness, her composure, her love... all were as evident as the sun was outside. She didn't take her eyes off her groom the whole way down the aisle. She was radiant. This was the moment of her life and she celebrated every minute of it. I was so happy.

The ceremony, special music and vows were all perfect. Nothing went wrong. The first kiss was beautiful and the smiles and peace the couple had together was so inspiring to watch. They were definitely on a good start to a great marriage.

I never knew a day could be so perfect. But it was. And I was so happy but even happier that the happiness didn't end when the last notes of the recessional died down. A good marriage is sure to follow this happy wedding and I look forward to at last having a married sibling and settling down to life as young married couples together.

As hard as it is to believe, I have an idea I'm not half as happy as Andy and Britt are though. And for some reason, that makes me real happy.

I would post a picture from the wedding but due to previously committed-to requests, I was unable to photograph any part of the wedding. I guess that's part of being IN the wedding: you can't take pictures OF the wedding yourself. So, I captured it the best I could in words although I do realize that a single picture is worth a thousand words.

And So Ends The Day

Folded laundry stacked in piles all over the house for some reason does not leave me with a feeling of accomplishment. The reason is probably because I know that until they get put away, each folded stack has a 99.99% chance of getting toppled over just like a short lived terrorist's regime.

Dark red luggage left on the deck to air out with Febreze is marked up with sidewalk chalk. One hefty duffel bag holds various pieces of chalk "so that we can take it to Grandpa and Grandma's house." Lovely. At least the suitcases smell pretty, though the white clouded covers and insides look like they were wheeled through a flour factory.

A wake up call bright and early this morning was in the form of excreted substance from my teething 14 month old. Poop on the sheet. Poop on the blankets (all 3 of them). Poop on the pillowcase. Poop on the bumper pad. Poop on the crib. Poop on the floor. Poop... you get the idea.

A fresh sheet, clean blankets and fluffed pillow were more than that 14 month old could ask for when it came time for a nap. A little cow pie pile of baby poop sat in the middle of the bed when I went in to get him up. Oh yeah, and it had streaked on the clean blanket as well. I am debating whether or not to change the bed because by morning he'll be back at it again. (just kidding... the original sheets are clean and ready.)

We are leaving on a 10 day trip. I have tons of stuff to do. Everything I start, gets interrupted, destroyed, turned upside down, and then pooped on. My to-do list ends with "Finish Everything On List" because I was so desperate to find more work to do so I could cross it off my list because getting my list completed is a job in and of itself.

Oh, and that pooping teething 14 month old? He has Mad Baby Disease. Basically, he is depressed and down about everything in life. His weight bothers him -- especially on his thighs. His latest hair cut. That new bruise on his forehead after he ran into the piano bench the other day... He's just sick and tired of running into so many problems during his day (pun intended). He never gets fed. His diapers are left unchanged. He even wakes up in his own excretions. This is America folks, yet this twenty-five-pound-fourteen-month-old-food-scarfing-hefty little kid is suffering from the bad life he has. Yeah... he has it rough. No wonder he's so sad.

So, instead of sitting down and having a good cry myself because life is one never ending uncompleted falling apart pooping project after another, I sat down and blogged. Hey, it's either bawl or blog. At least this way, someday I can blackmail my kids look back at the good ole' days and say "Boy, I'm glad those are over!" "Those were THE days!!" because I have them documented in something other than tears.

Babies Come From Policemen

Holding up a life size replica of a 11-12 week pre-born baby, Landon made a keen observance...

"You can't get this baby in your belly, can you Mom?" he said sizing the tiny baby in front of my waist.

"That's right Landon, I can't." I agreed, impressed with his ability to comprehend such deep knowledge.

"You just need a policeman to do it, right." He finished.

"Uhhhhhh.... only if the policeman is the dad," I said in a tone that said go-have-this-conversation-with-your-dad.

The Mad Sad Bad Glad Blog

Blogging.... ahhh! One of things that for some people is a steady diet, for other's like a cup of coffee: you only do it when it's hot, strong and fresh. And you can just really enjoy that cup, wax nostalgic and not be interrupted by 29" and 36" and 43" long people.

I'm the cup-of-coffee blogger -- it has to be hot, strong and fresh on my mind or else it's just not a good blog post. Right now, between trips and weddings and projects and sewing machines, I have so many things to blog about. Seriously. My mind is full of blog thoughts but there are too many things to think about.

I've said before that when I'm mad, sad, bad and glad all at once, I cannot blog. And that's how it is now.

If I'm mad about something, I better cool off before I write about it. If I write about the things I'm sad about, they'll come across selfishly pathetic. If I write about the way I think about some topics, I'll come across bad. And if I write about what I'm happy about while I'm still in the midst of gladness, it comes across belittled because of a gitty tendency to explain my happiness.

To complicate this, if I write about what I'm mad about while I'm sad about something else, I'll send a pitiful message about a topic that probably could be a lot more light hearted than I make it sound like. If I write about something I'm glad about while being "bad" in another area, I'll overlook the joys and humor in the happy topic and allow the "bad" thing to shadow over delightful topics.

I know: it's complicated and you're probably getting ready to delete me from your blog favorites and send a notice to my county nurse and have me sent to an institution but really you should be impressed that I have figured all this out about myself at such a young and impressionable age. At only 25 years of life experience, I have learned the absolute truth that the thing called "life" just is complicated sometimes. And I've had a lot of life around me lately. So that explains my blog hiatus.

You're probably thinking you had heard it all when it comes to reasons/excuses why people don't update their blogs from time to time. Before I leave you entirely shaking and scratching your head and saying this is by far the most unbelievable excuse, I'll mention a few titles that keep flashing through my head over in the "Blog This" category just so you know I am still an official blogger since my mind does still have the ability to think in "blog thoughts"...

You may notice I won't always tell you what is making me glad, mad, bad and sad. That is for me to know and you to just not find out.

---Mice in the basement walls are better than mice IN your basement. These Wall Dwelling Mice do not get into your things like food, storage, clothing, etc. I'll admit right now this makes me glad because if I HAVE TO have mice, I'll take the wall kind.

---Just because you are fortunate to have Wall Dwelling Mice, doesn't mean you only know about them because you have a good memory of seeing your cat pull out the screeching live Wall Dwellers on a pretty regular basis. Rather, you may be hit with the reality that you share your home with another family/race/creature every time you open your basement door. It doesn't take a hound dog to smell mice pee and I know this for a fact because I happen to not be a hound dog and I can smell mice pee and recognize it's origin the second that door swings open.

---I have had heavenly impulsive visions of tearing out the entire stair landing and replacing the flooring and anything else that could possibly be tainted by mouse pee.

---I hate to publicly announce an absolute must be done now project a possible job on Toby's honey-do list especially when I know how much he can't wait to make me completely happy by eliminating mouse pee from our house how busy he is right now. And, I have to hate to admit that Mice Pee makes me mad, sad and bad.

---If I can smell things on a regular basis -- especially disgusting things like stale cigarette smoke in our walls, mouse pee downstairs and a poopy diaper in the trash, I tend to go crazy with impulses like completely scrubbing down the bathtub or vacuuming every carpet fiber in our house or dusting all the woodwork. We all know that scrubbing your already clean bathtub is a sure way to eliminate mouse pee odors from your basement.

---Knowing that no matter how many spring cleanings I do a week, my house will still stink so I may as well drink coffee, sit at the computer and wish I could live in a single family dwelling and not share our little home with entire generations of 4-footed-pee-producing creatures.

And so ends the spurt of blog thoughts from the "Blog This" category of my brain. I had no idea mice pee fumes could intoxicate a human brain was such a big topic in there until I mentally opened that file and found how full it had become. I'm just glad those peeing mice are only in our basement.

(Now you see how I'm mad, sad and bad about those stinking mice (literally) but glad that they're not upstairs. Thus proving my whole Mad Bad Sad Glad theory and the reason why it's too complicated to blog when I share all 4 emotions at once.)

Sleep, Baby, Sleep

You tiptoe stalkingly to the closed door. Afraid of the non-existent floor boards that are sure to creak loudly.

You peer cunningly through the key hole. Afraid that even the slight movement of your eye in front the key hole is sure to alert the occupant on the other side of the door.

You scan the entire premises of the baby crib through the key hole like a trained detective examines evidence. You see nothing suspicious.

You then take a deep breath, step up sharply on the very tips of your toes and very carefully peak around the barely-cracked door, risking all just to know for sure that the baby is still sleeping.

And he is. Peacefully. Totally unaware of the pains and mental strain you just went through to find out for sure that he is totally unaware that you saw him sleeping.

Family Planning

I have a new Family Planning method. I figured it out this morning and it really does work.

All families need plans and mine badly needed one this morning. So, since I AM the lawyer policeman executioner mom and I do have the ability to reign with an iron fist authority here, I made a plan.

After removing all the knives and sharp objects from the dish washer, I designated Landon to put dishes away empty the dishwasher. Alex helped played in the kitchen with him and I gated their community by... you guessed it: putting the gate up. They were safe, secure and out of trouble... as long as they didn't fight.

I delegated Janae to:
1: go potty
2: put underwear on
3: get dressed

Knowing my family was functioning around a plan and each member had assigned projects and jobs that would take them an "x" amount of time, I knew I had approximately 4.37 minutes to shower, put deodorant on and get dressed.

Sure enough, when I got done, Landon had all the dishes lined up on the counter ready to be put up in the cupboard, Janae was completed and topped off with a backwards jumper and Alex was happily dumping pantry items over the gate and into the dining room.

They were all happy, no one was fighting and work had actually been done in my absence!! I on the other hand, was showered, clean and dressed and enjoying the aroma of peace that rarely graces our mornings. A hot cup of coffee waited for me on the table.

I'm thinking Family Planning is something I should do more often.

When You Could Just Really Use A Doorknob

A couple week ago, Landon was tearing our bedroom apart napping one lovely afternoon in our bedroom. Through a series of events that surrounded the entire nap time, I found the night stand got completely wiped off, a lamp was taken apart, all electronics unplugged (including his dad's alarm clock) and various and random items randomly scattered in various places. Later that night when it was finally my turn to go to bed, I found that the door knob had experienced great atrocities committed against it as well. Basically, it was in 3 pieces. And none of the pieces were able to function as a doorknob should function.

Now, perhaps he is a budding Albert Einstein or Thomas Edison but please, can't he dismantle destroy experiment with his own toys? Or with items already trashed? Or with sticks and stones? (Son, if you're reading this 20 years from now, I hope you're taking pity on your dear, old mother after all you put her through...)

Until that day, I complained that our door did not have a lock on it. Now I had real reason to complain since it now didn't have a door knob either. I neglected complaining because at that point, I was just very thankful that we at least still had a door never mind a knob or lock. You don't appreciate what you have until you lose something close to it.

So, using a tried and true honey-do-list technique that only works when it's his idea and not mine that I happened to try that day, I basically asked the husband if he could fix the door knob. I mean, it is his room too and he seemed even more desperate and disgusted when he found that the knob was broke.

He disappeared for a few minutes and came back saying it couldn't be fixed: it was missing an important screw *that he couldn't find.* (note the asterisks: they connect with asterisks later on this post.)

The kind and soft hearted wife that I am, I believed him. I mean, his amazing record at finding things that are lost is quite a document of the ability he in no way shape or form has for finding things... ie., like the glasses on his face that he can't find on the dresser because they happen to be on his face while he's looking for them, or the belt on his pants that he can't find anywhere because he's actually wearing them while looking in the closet for them, the countless times he's "lost" his cell phone only to have me find it on his desk... right where he left it. etc., etc., etc.

Still, I believed him. *He did say he looked* so you can't blame a man for at least trying. (re noting the asterisks just to make sure you notice.)

So, one bright early morning, Janae came into our room and shut the door. Now, this paragraph may not sound bad or suspecting of trouble or the beginning of a long, sad story but you have to understand that a door without a doorknob can sometimes still shut and latch shut BUT you can't open it to get out of it if it doesn't have the knob-turny-handle-thingy. Which is exactly what my door was missing. (the door knob was in 2 pieces on the buffet out in the dining room; the 3rd missing piece (the screw) was exactly that: missing.)

I was undressed (well, I mean, I did have pajamas on-- can you be undressed with pajamas on?), getting ready to shower when that door latched shut. I was trapped. I was locked in. I was a prisoner in my own house held captive by a three-year-old girl with braids and blue eyes.

So, what did I do? I rose to the challenge. My day could start bad, sure, I always get all the trouble anyway that's fine. I'll show it that I am undaunted! I'm in control! I'm woman! (blah, blah) Using a skinny, long, plastic, handy device that was randomly laying on the floor, I stuck it in the hole and tried to turn the latch. It didn't turn. But, at least I tried to open it in an attempt to rescue myself.

I could at least have that to say to Toby when I called him. For a guy, there's nothing like helping a girl if she is not willing to help herself. I had evidence to prove I was trying to help myself: I stuck a plastic thing in that hole and it didn't work. (you can't blame a girl for at least trying.)

Because I really wanted him to know about the distress I was in thanks to his incompetence Because I didn't know of anything else to do, I called Toby... "Honeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeyyyyyy?" I said into the phone I was very thankful to just happen to have in my room (we JUST moved a phone into our room.)

All formalities aside, I filled him in on my day... how I was locked in my bedroom by a small child, barely 3' tall with no way to get out all because the door knob hadn't been fixed the other day because he couldn't find a measly screw because he had been distracted by reading a book instead of fixing the door the child just happened to shut the door while I was in it and the door knob was on the other side of the door.

"Besides going through the window, I have no way to get out of here," I informed him assertively with an aire that said thank-you-very-much-but-I-have-everything-under-control.

He sighed and breathed deeply and moaned and groaned pretending to show remorse, sympathy and regret over how much he disapproved of the kids doing this to me because he didn't know what to do next.

"Find something that you can stick in that hole," he advised.

"Oh, I did honey. I can't find anything that will work," I told him.

"You have NOTHING in the room that could fit in that small square hole?" He asked, sounding shocked that our room is not equipped with state-of-the-art equipment commonly used to rescue one's self from one's own bedroom. The only tool I could find was a level, under the bed.

"Dear, I have no perfectly square screw drivers made to fit in a door knob and designed with precision for emergency purposes. You will need to call your local hardware store and have them custom make you the recommended tool. I would give you the number right now but news flash: the phone book also is not something I normally store in our bedroom. If you get me out of this room, I vow from this day forward to equip our entire room with a week's worth of food, tools for emergency purposes and an adequate reference guide known as a phone book. Thank you for calling Woman in Distress Ministries, have a nice day." "No Dear, I have nothing," I informed him quite matter-of-factly.

"As long as the front door is unlocked, I guess the window is your only option," he said, regretting that he hadn't fixed the door in the first place informing me of my last option.

To which I calmly replied, "Oh it is indeed locked."

In a panicking voice tinged with disgust, he asked, "So now what?"

"Well," I said, "as long as the van is unlocked, I think I can get the keys out of there and then open the front door and then actually get into my own house again," ending my note in desperation because I didn't want him to think I enjoyed this kind of distress at such an early hour in the morning nor did I want him to think I was indeed mentally capable of handling such complicated scenarios because I truly was feeling desperate.

"Okay," he said with all the love and tenderness a man can have for a damsel in distress that he is trying to save because there really was nothing else for him to say.

Before hanging out my bedroom window and lumbering up the driveway while humiliating myself to the whole neighborhood because 1) I didn't have deodorant on yet and 2) I couldn't even get out of my bedroom from inside my house and 3) I really wouldn't want the neighbors to know either one of those facts about me, I looked one last time for something to stick in the hole.

And what should I find right behind the door with neon lights flashing blaze orange arrows at it unburied on the surface of the carpet? The missing screw.

I calmly gracefully serenely quickly utilized the redial button on my phone. His defense? "Oh, that's good... *I never really looked for it." * (were you noting asterisks?)

I didn't even go there with him. A man is always right.

Before ejecting myself out the bedroom window, I just so happened to find a Popsicle stick on the floor. Two to be exact. It fit perfectly. I wiggled it snugly in where-the-door-knob-is-supposed-to-be-hole-that-you-never-see-unless-your-four-year-old-destroys-your-door-knob-during-his-nap. The entire mechanism inside the door that the four-year-old has yet to figure out how to destroy couldn't reach when he was removing the knobs, turned in perfect harmony. The door unlatched.

I was free. And I fixed the knob right then and there because I wanted to tell Toby that not only could I find the screw but I could also FIX the door knob because I didn't want to lose that screw again and start the next day the same way I had started that day.

Within minutes, I was serving my little family a nutritious breakfast cold cereal and we commenced the morning by spilling milk on the table, crying in the high chair, letting the outside dog in, and fighting over who got the purple bowl for their cereal. Yeah, it was a great start to a great day.

Next time I'll just stay locked in my room because I think these kids had it planned all along. Seriously, I do. My kids are out to get me. Perhaps they want to have a day where they run the show and have all the cookies and candy they want and keep me locked up nice and tight. It's like they had this criminalistic plan all contrived where you have the booby-trap set-up guy and then you have the booby-trap detonator guy and then you have the good guy. Landon was Bad Guy #1 and Janae was Bad Guy #2 and I was The Good Guy.

From now on, I will sleep with Popsicle sticks next to my bed. And I'll always keep a phone with me... just for emergency purposes: you never know when a 3 year old might kidnap you.

Coffee.

I fell in love a couple weeks ago with a really good cup of coffee. If you don't have one of these and you drink coffee, you have no idea what you're missing. It's called a Bodum French Press. Sounds fancy shmancy but in all honesty, it's a plain jane contraption that's nice and compact and good for small kitchens. And it makes great coffee.

It retailed at Bed Bath and Beyond for $49.99 but with my 20% off coupon, I struck a good deal.
(I finally realized what the "beyond" means in Bed Bath and Beyond: it means a Bodum French Press.)

It was especially a good deal since my old coffee pot was giving out and needed to be replaced and had always made gross coffee anyway. It was actually hard to tell that it was giving out since the coffee had never tasted good but the flood of water surrounding the pot every once in awhile indicated that the Mr. Coffee was going the way of all coffee makers and would soon end up at the landfill where we know all coffee makers go.

Some should just go there right now anyway and you'll agree with me when you buy your very own Bodum French Press coffee maker and enjoy a cup of it's robust, dark yet creamy goodness. You haven't tasted coffee until you've tasted Bodum's. (In case you're wondering, I am not getting paid for this advertisement -- except in the good cup of coffee sitting next to me.)

But, when you pour your cup of coffee, be sure not to put it in this cup like I tend to do. I love the $1 deal I got on it at TJ Maxx and absolutely adore it's tall, narrow elegance but find it's natural tendency to tip-over-easily-when-bumped to be a slight inconvenience... especially when it spills my good cup of coffee all over a crisp, white, piece of eyelet fabric with the pattern already pinned to the fabric. And gets on the books sitting next to the fabric. And goes under the serger just beyond the fabric.

Not to change the delicious subject to something less appealing, I just thought in case any of you are still wondering about my computer as I am still wondering about it, I thought you might be interested to know that it is still sitting in that nice computer bag. In the corner. On the floor. Out of sight, out of mind. Well, not quite out of mind but you get the idea.

Back to that cup of coffee... I need a refill.

What's Worse?

So, I find out that the gravel Alex was just having a blast playing in, was sprayed with Round Up yesterday. And the twenty-first-century-mom that I am, I go right to http://www.google.com/ and look it up, just like all other moms do these days when their kids do deadly and toxic things.

Okay, so Poison Control is still there for you but at least you don't have to head right to the phone in the heat of a disaster if you use Google. Plus, I can never remember that number or find the "convenient place" I stored the number at. Google is so much handier, faster and obviously safer since it's literally at my finger tips. And it's not on the phone.

Speaking of phone, that seems to cause a disaster in and of itself anymore these days. I get on the phone to check on a sick relative or verify wedding plans and even though it's a tender caring thought that is propelling me to connect with my phone, it turns into a serious problem.

A problem like a 3 year old climbing in the fridge, looking for her vitamins that she already had. The phone rings/I call someone and suddenly, there she is in the fridge... every. single. time. I. get. on. the. phone. It's like that's her cue to get her pills for the day... "Oh Mom's on the phone -- GET ME MY ACIDOPHULUS!" I should just start putting her in the fridge as soon as the phone rings/I dial a number so that I don't have to wonder what all that racket in the kitchen is about.

Or that four year old that follows me around exhaling in a balloon, screeching the air out and then asking me politely (but loudly) if I would please blow his balloon up. Oh yeah, like I'm going to huff and puff into a rubber bag with a small opening and carry on a phone conversation. Balloons can wait. And so can those banana flavored pills.

So, back to the Round Up scene... after sitting at the computer for about 27 seconds which was also roughly about 25 seconds after I put Alex down on the floor, I begin reading that on skin contact, "No first aid procedures are required for Round Up. As a precaution, wash skin thoroughly with soap and water," I happen to jump up and remember that I have a 13 month old on the loose and the bathroom door was left open.

I make one step away from my computer (and breathing a sigh of relief that my child is going to survive the minimal contact that he may or may not have had with Round Up) just in time to see him splashing in a very unflushed toilet.

So, I guess I saved his life from the wolves only to hand him over to the lions on a shiny, silver platter. He may not be contaminated from toxic chemicals but toxic biological waste is a sure guarantee, thanks to the evidence I found on him.

I'm not risking utilizing Google's bar and the keys on this computer that would spell "my child played with pee" in case he decides to play with matches or stick a metal prong in an outlet or drink bleach or crawl out to the street or choke on a cheerio or do some other deadly thing while I'm checking on the procedure prescribed for urine smelling children. We'll just wash him up and keep him out of trouble instead.

(In case you're worried, the said child was sleeping through this whole post, safely and soundly.)

Working It Up in the Corn Husker State

Nebraska continues to amaze me. Which is actually a good thing otherwise I'd be bored stiff after 5 years in this flat, corn field state.

Seriously though, 'corn field' is about all I can think of right now. Cobs and cobs of corn filling and overflowing pick up trucks. And about a quarter of that (okay, my figuring could be off... I stand corrected if so) mounding high in the back of my van.

It all magically transformed into a tractor bucket full of neatly shaved corn cobs and about 200 bags of sweet, yellow, juicy corn all ready for a hand full of freezers spread across this side of the state.

First the corn had to be picked. That was only for the strongest, the bravest and the smartest (I have to talk these people up because really, their job was a big one.) "The Slackers" stood in knee high grass with grass hoppers climbing our legs and large bee-like flies buzzing around our head while we husked.

Husking for several hours in the hot sun brought "close fellowship" and an array of topics to discuss. Grass hoppers and bugs added to the excitement as well as certain children that failed to remove all the hair from the naked cobs. Sharp knives hacked the ends of the cobs off and usually an aunt or two would shriek in horror when the child closest to them would start flailing and stabbing at a cob of corn. It was scary. Children with sharp knives should always be careful or better yet, they should just not have knives at all when their aunts are around. Or, the aunts should just stop shrieking in horror. (says an aunt who shrieked a time or two).

Then the corn was "cleaned" and stacked/piled/dumped into a place where it waited to be cleaned and cooked.

A double propane heater boiled the kettles of water which cooked the corn for either 3 minutes or 5 minutes, depending on who was cooking it and if they were getting their way with the timer or not.

Then the corn was quickly transported to cold water. Once the cobs began to float, they were moved to an even colder tub with ice in it. There it was cooled and carefully watched so it could be moved out ASAP in order to keep everyone busy (namely the cutters).

The Person moving the corn would shout an echoing "CUTTERS" as he carried the cold corn in colanders to the make shift, plywood-board-on-saw-horses table where about a dozen people stood ready with bowls and sharp knives. From there the corn was cut into sticky, kernelly bowls and then carefully measured into hundreds of bags (okay, just make that 2 hundred) and then counted, re-counted, counted, re-counted and then re-counted again before being stored in a cooler, freezer or box.

A home cooked meal spread itself throughout the processing part of our corn work and our hostess was amazing. She seemed to manage being at least 7 places at once and yet stayed unstressed, giddy and throwing her two cents around. I love people like that.

I would've taken pictures but I didn't bring my camera. Just envision big tables heaped with yellow corn. Huge rubbermaid bins piled high with a juicy mound of corn. And old wash tubs filled to the brim with waiting, yellow corn. And then picture lots of dirty, wet, sticky people yelling to be heard above the loud fans and noise while cleaning, cutting, packaging and tasting corn.

I learned some new phrases today and what they mean. Also, some new experiences were experienced today.

"Working it up." Three little words, but whoa, they mean a lot. WORKING must be emphasised (if you know what "work" means, you understand how to emphasis it) and use the word "up" to the fullest, highest amount you can fathom. 'Working it up' is a great way to call what we were doing with corn today.

"Shucks" is not always used as a euphemistic word to describe frustration, disappointment, etc.; it's also another word to describe the husks wrapping the corn before we strip it off.

"Shelly" is a cow. And she knows her name.

You don't have to have OCD in order to insist on counting all the cobs just so you can know how many cobs to pick/plant/plan on next year. Or wanting to throw the shaved cobs off the tractor bucket in the dark one at a time in order to count them... "one... two... three...." Is it even possible to count that high in the dark? What would happen if you accidentally threw an extra cob but didn't know if it was just one extra or two extra? Unanswered questions remain as the person wishing to intricately count each cob did not get their wish to come true. We will never know how many cobs of corn we effected on this green, growing earth. Or how many we should effect next year.

Bare feet on a cement slab sandwiching a green, gooey worm is a very impeccable experience. Don't try it. Just don't.

The R on your vehicle does not stand for "roll forward." It actually means 'Reverse' (or, backwards, if you use simple English) and if you don't intend to go that way, I suggest putting it in D for drive. Because we all know that the only way to go forward is to 'drive.' (You'd think you'd remember this stuff from your Driver's Ed book...)

And when the bowls are finally empty, the kettles have quit cooking and the knives are laying still, we all know what the corn is then: it's all; the term used when something is gone/finished/empty/over/etc. in Nebraska.

That sums it up for Nebraska Corn Season First Picking Of Season 2008: it's all. But, it all was very fun.

That Computer Again

Well, it's back, in all it's splendid glory. Yes, that's my computer I'm talking about. It's sitting somewhere in this house closed up, cold, unused, dead and lifeless. Basically, as normal as ever.

I did find a snazzy computer bag for it at a discount price. That's nice.

The smart Geek (ie., the dude with Geek Squad at Best Buy) informed us that the real problem with my computer is that the new ram (or would it be Ram? Or RAM????) that we put in when we first bought the computer is not compatible to the mother board. He assured us that the ram is fine and the mother board is fine but they are not compatible to each other.

You may notice that I italicized 4 words in the above paragraph. For those of you that didn't notice, go ahead: re-read the whole sentence just to know what I mean.

For the rest of you that are still reading, that ram was installed per Best Buy's suggestion/recommendation and included in the purchase of that computer. Basically, what I'm saying is that when Toby asked what ram we could get to "upgrade" the computer to a higher gigabyte/speed/power/performance (whatever), they pointed to a package and said, "Here. We'll put this in for you." And now they blame us. And will charge us to re-purchase the original ram.

The nice people they are, they offered to put it in for free but from what I hear from a reliable source, slipping a ram in a computer is similar to injecting a memory card in your PC box. So, we'll handle it from here, thank you very much.

Even my non-computer savvy sister-in-law who so kindly stood in line for hours (well, not quite but almost) just to pick up my computer on her trip into to town the other day, offered to re-insert the ram for me. I honestly trust her more than the Geeks in that Squad at this point.

That service plan at Best Buy isn't bringing us much service. After one long stay at the computer clinic, hard drive wiped, screened cleaned and full analysis and diagnosis made then shipped across creation and finally landing back in our laps, the computer didn't work. Why didn't they check the ram then?

After another even longer stay at the computer clinic, the computer comes home with a repaired bottom (yeah... it had been cracked but that was how I could tell it apart from any other computer), no wiped hard drive, no replaced motherboard (like they told us they'd probably do) and still functioning wrong, it's back in our laps. And they say, "Oh, the problem with your computer all this time is that the ram is too big for it." So, tell me why it had to sit in their warehouse for weeks??? They obviously weren't doing anything to it all that time.

And guess who is required to fix it after all the "professional help" that was supposed to fix it? Not them and their service plan Geeks. Why couldn't they just slip a ram in while it was at the computer junk yard? I mean really, is it THAT big of a deal compared to replacing the motherboard like they thought they would do?

So, they wrote down the garbled and gibbered numbers that should be on the new ram we install. They couldn't sell it to me because they didn't carry it in the store. (not like I really want to buy anything more from them for that computer...) The place of purchase they recommended was a website online. (where else is a website?) But, Toby's computer blitzed out and our house was honestly computer-less for 24 hours. And there was no way we could get mine "fixed" since our internet access was the link to the missing piece for my computer and that was gone thanks to two faulty, Best Buy computers that wouldn't turn on. It was at that point that I got that nice computer bag. It looks really nice, all filled out with a nice, closed up lap top inside it.

Turns out that Toby's computer has a glitch in it that needs to be repaired. But as long as you don't do any irrational thing to it like close the lid without hibernating it (or did he tell me it was "sleeping" it?) or pull the chord out while in use, or the electricity goes off unexpectedly, etc., you're fine. I'm on that computer now.

Toby on the other hand, decided to purchase a desk top computer because these laptops seem to have traditional hiatuses that make it very inconvenient/impossible for him with his business work. So, now we have a desk top and two back up laptops... if you can call that one in that nice computer bag a back up computer.

Not to make this into a rant or anything but just to get the word out, if anyone googles "Best Buy's computer service is the best" I hope they come to my blog and get the rest of the story.

Random Realities of Real Life

While splurging in luxury, and drinking coffee while surfing the web (ie., checking email, blogging, etc.), I am listening to a busy dad upstairs making pancakes with 3 small, motherless children. The busy-ness above me could be a reflection on the busy-ness of life around us and ahead of us lately.

My computer is still with the Geek Squad at Best Buy. (No comment on it's "success" because I have none: they don't return my calls or answer the phone when I call.)

My generous, sisterly heart offered to make 5 bridesmaid dresses for my sister's wedding in order to pay back all that nanny service she gave us for several years. Thankfully, my sister here was the "umph" I needed to just go ahead and offer my sewing services. It happened in a phone call when I told my sister-in-law that Britt could not seem to find any dresses but the idea she had seemed simple and you-wouldn't-think-too-hard-to-find. "Why couldn't we just make them?" was the question asked and the next thing I knew, I had yards and yards of shimmering bridesmaid fabric sitting on my porch. Now that we're trying out another pattern, things should start taking shape soon.

My daughter is also in the wedding and is required to wear a flower girl/miniature bride dress. That project sounds really, really fun. I want to do one of those white, fluffy, full, yards and yards of tulle, little dresses. Thankfully, the boys require no sewing for this event so I'm really thankful that we have 2 boys and 1 girl in our little family, just for sewing purposes.

My schedule isn't quite full yet so we're sticking in a little camping trip next weekend. That sounds like loads of fun. We're going with a group of couples/families from church and we're just staying one night, about 45 minutes away. The plan is to split our family and Toby's brother's family between a tent and a camper... girls in one, boys in another, type of thing. The kids are really looking forward to "canting" (as they call 'camping') and Toby and I think it'll be fun to just chill and hang out for a day or two with friends and family.

Since this is a very random post, I'll fill you in on another few details...

2 applications of sun block does not keep me from burning on July 4th.

Alex is not walking yet; if he learns within the next 2 months, he will walk down the aisle at Britt's wedding. (Not exactly to commemorate his achievement but you could look at it that way if you want.)

Mowing on a gigantic John Deere tractor in a cemetery can result in tipping one gravestone over. I know because I tried it. Well, I didn't exactly try but it did happen.

A cat that mouses by pulling live mice out of a hole in the wall, five feet off the floor and then kills them and puts the dead mice on the office chair is good. A cat that "snakes" (she catches/kills snakes) and puts them in a plastic grocery bag that just happens to be laying on the floor is better; you just take the bag out and throw it away without even touching the snake. Let's just say our cat is definitely earning her keep.

Fourth of July is by far my favorite holiday. It always has been ever since I can remember.

I always look twice when I see a National Guardsman so when they're in the parade, I tend to stare. The National Guard in our town's parade is my favorite display -- even if they do tuck their pants into their boots. They're my favorite next to the Pro-Life float. I saw a quote yesterday that made a lot of sense: "You can't have Liberty and Justice for all without Life."

Fire trucks that spray water in the parade are a big hit.

Taking pictures of fireworks is easy. Getting pictures of fireworks to turn out nice is hard/difficult/next-to-impossible/etc.

Not turning all the lights out in the park where the town fireworks are displayed, is annoying and takes away from the fireworks.

Seeing 3,200 white crosses on the college lawn was stunning and shocking. We all know that many babies die every year in our country but to see a symbol of each life is heart breaking. Pray to end Abortion!

I am feeling guilty for sitting here while Toby slaves away on his Saturday morning breakfast tradition. I should at least go get the syrup on the table. Or set the plates out. Or offer 2 adult hands in a kitchen overran by toddlers.

Hope you all had a wonderful Fourth and remembered that the Liberty and Justice we have in our country is because of God. But still, our liberties would be limited if it wasn't for the freedom our country has given us to worship and live the way we want. May we never forget The Hand that turns the king's heart.

Fun In The 'Good Life' State

I've been in Nebraska for 5 years. Over 5 years, actually. And I've done a lot of things in that time while in Nebraska. I've lived in 4 different houses, owned 5 different vehicles, resided in 3 different cities, birthed 3 children, laughed, cried, cooked, cleaned, etc. BUT, I have never found a nice place to go in the dead of summer when all you can think about (at least when you're from Wisconsin) is a good, old fashioned, swimming hole.

Until recently.

At last! I have found the place! It really helps to have friends in high places... ie., friends that are aware of such a wonderful retrieve from the summer's heat. I guess I should've just asked a lot sooner.

My friend/beach buddy, Sarah, is one of those "think of everything" moms so of course, she didn't forget to suggest buckets and shovels and sand toys for the kids. The boys (and maybe the girls did too) would drive their dump trucks at full speed into the water and race them around on the lake bed. It seemed like an imaginary way to play with a dump truck but I've heard that imaginiation stretches a child's thinking habits and developes their brain better.

So, yeah. Our kids should have better brains now because Sarah thought to even bring dump trucks to the beach which resulted in good brain expansion through imaginary comprehension of driving truck under water.

What fun it was. 9 kids, 6 and under really made it fun. It was like watching a whole flock of fishing bobbers float in the lake. Only these "bobbers" had arms and legs and a mind of their own to head deeper in the lake.

We had a rushed lunch, since everyone wanted to get in the water, and even had a couple dads/husbands show up in time for the food. It was great fun for everyone.

Mouthfuls of water and sand. Buckets of sand clinging to wet clothes.. Scattered sand toys across the beach. Basically, there seemed to be a lot of sand. But it was still fun. Especially for those that used it for other purposes: you can't tell from the pictures very well but Alex topped his lunch off with a generous serving of sand. "Some like it hot; some like it cold..." he liked it just the way it was.

No matter how careful I am to put on even amounts of sunblock, or stay directly aimed under the sun's glare, I always always get burned on one side of my body and hardly warm on the other. This beach day was no exception. They tell me that the sun is more direct in Nebraska than in Wisconsin because of elevation. But, wow. This is pathetic.

I think I need some type of scope like guys put on their guns in order to zero in on the target with precision. Only this would be used the other way around: I would be in the scope, all zeroed in and slowly adjust to the sun's position in order to not become a half baked lobster instead of an evenly ripened strawberry. No pictures of this but I can assure one arm is dark/red and the other is light/white. And it just looks weird. I suppose after it happens enough times this summer, I'll eventually be evenly roasted like a rotisserie chicken.

The beach was public but we were surprised to find it large and private and the water not too sea-weedy. I think it helps to go in the morning and then leave right after lunch. Not only do you avoid the hottest sun of the day but you also can find your swimming hole to be quiet, partially secluded and fun to be had for everyone.

We're already talkin' about doin' it again. Anybody wanna come?

Quote Of The Day

(Or maybe the title should be, "Tongue Twister Of The Day")

If you think you know what you thought I meant when I said what you think you thought you heard, then tell me what you think you thought I meant when I said what you thought you heard me say and then I can know what you think you thought I meant and you can know for sure what I meant when I said what you think you heard.