If your fish died tonight, would he go to heaven?

Last Wednesday Shep's sweet loving teacher sent an email that said this: "Dear moms - as an end of the year gift, and to coordinate with our ocean unit, I want to send all the boys home with a goldfish. Please let me know if you would prefer not to have one for some reason."

Who, me? Me prefer not to have one more living creature in this household to clean up after, feed and care for?

Oh, little goldfish, how I do not love thee, let me count the ways.

Images ran through my head of Shepherd in his classroom, watching all the other boys receive their fish, a solitary tear running down his face as his chin quivered - and debated whether or not to say no. But, as my goal in parenting is to avoid any of my own children starring in their own personal after school special, I bit my fingers. And sighed. And emailed all my friends instead, asking, what do I need for a goldfish?

Oh my word, the fish horror stories that filled my inbox! Stories of fish ending it all by flopping out of their bowls! Stories of gills turning black! Stories of preschoolers dumping a whole can of fish food in and killing all the gluttonous fish in the aquarium!

Oh wait, that last one, was not a story. It was a personal memory. The fish were my grandma's. She handled it very well. Only one bad word that I can recall.

I began to get less and less excited about the newest member-to-be of our family.

Friday, when I picked Shep up from his last day of school, he proudly held up the ziplock of water in which swum his pride and joy. "I got a fish, Momma! Look!"

"Awesome, Shep!" I feigned excitement. "So cool!" I faked some more. "What's his name?"

"Buxton."

"Pardon?"

"Bux. Ton."

"How on earth did you come up with that name?" I asked.

"It's cool. I like it. That's how."

"Ahhhh, gotcha," said the woman who named her sons "Shepherd" and "Ingram".

In between protecting Buxton from his oooing and ahhing new aunts and uncle, I decided to wage a preemptive strike. I explained to them all that I had heard some sad stories about fish, that they often don't live very long, that if Buxton died in a week, we should not be too disappointed, because that's just how it goes with fish.

On the way home, Shepherd stated, "Momma, I want to take Buxton to church on Sunday."

"To church? Why?"

"So he can learn about Jesus. If he dies, I want him to be in Heaven with me. So he needs to come to church."

"That's very sweet, but you know," I explained, "he doesn't need to come to church to hear about Jesus. You can tell him about Jesus, Shep!"

Shep chuckled, shaking his head. "No way, naw. He needs to come to church."

Note to self: discuss evangelism with Shepherd. Evidently he doesn't know what it means to be a fisher of men, much less a fisher of fish.

So Buxton was welcomed into our family, and Shepherd showed him around his new home before leaving him in his room while I scrounged around for some kind of impromptu fish bowl.

A few minutes later, Shep left his Legos to check on his new pet.

Then I heard the screams.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! HE'S DEAD!!!!!!! BUXTON'S DEAD!!!!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!"

I raced upstairs to find, there on the hardwood landing, a very cold, very stiff Buxton, his little plastic starfish scattered about him, an empty ziplock tossed nearby! Surveying the crime scene, I interrogated the bystanders. "Who did this? Who dumped him out?"

"Not me!" Eva Rose cried. "Unnhhh," Ike grunted. And pointed. Because that's what Ike does most, he grunts. And points.

"I di it!" Maggie announced, with her speech delayed way of talking that makes her sound like she should be asking if you want a pedi with your mani. "I yet him ou!" she admitted. Proudly.

"YOU KILLLLLLLLLLLED HIM!!! MAGGIE IS A FISH KILLLLLLLLLER!!!!!!!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!"

"Maggie," I explained, "fish need water to live. They can't live unless they are in water. When you let him out, he died."

"Ohhhhh. He die? Ohhh. I sowwy Sheh," she patted him on the back. "You get nodder one."

Problem solved.

Then Maggie put her hands up by her shoulders, and hopped around, her head bobbing, and said, "He go yike dis."

At which point I almost died on the same cursed hardwoods in trying to suppress my giggles.

Shep was still screaming and crying hysterically in my arms, Maggie was hopping her dying fish dance, Eva Rose was running up and down the hall, wailing in grief, and Ike was grunting and pointing. Something had to be done. I kissed Shep's tear stained cheeks, looked into his eyes, and said softly, "You wanna flush him in the toilet?"

A look of excitement instantly replaced the tears. "Okay!" He hopped up and cradled Buxton gently in his hands. "Bye, Buxton." He slid him in the toilet, his siblings echoing bye, Buxton, and Unnnnnh. Then he slapped his sister's hand away, "No, it's my fish, I get to flush him." Just like I knew he would.

And Buxton swirled out of lives.

"Momma, I want to go to the pet store and get another one, okay? Please?"

I exhaled. "Of course we will, honey."

"And this time I'm gonna put it WAY UP HIGH where NO BABIES can get him!"

And next time, I thought, I hope you give him the gospel immediately. Because fish, they just might not make it till Sunday.

A mother's prayer

I found this in an old book today:

O Father who gavest
My baby to me,
May the love of my child
Bring me closer to Thee.

May the Children of earth
Who know not Thy Son,
Be more precious to me
Because of my own.

Cenotes and pyramids and insects, oh my

I was always terrible at math but I will now propose an algebraic formula.

a = the amount of days Mom is out of town
b = amount of laundry piles

if a = >1, then b = infinity.


I am so far behind in my real life vs. bloggy fantasy. But I do want to wrap up Mexico very quickly.


Which shouldn't take very long, because most of our days can be summed up like this:


We woke up around 10am. We ate a gourmet breakfast. We layed by the pool. We read. Jose brought us icy beverages. We ate a gourmet lunch. We layed by the pool. We read. Jose brought us icy beverages. We napped. We ate a gourmet dinner. We went to bed.


Oh my swine flu, it was fantastic.


The resort, Hacienda Tres Rios, is brand new and five star, but because it is not all the way open and there is still some construction going on, the Naptimers could actually afford it. If you are looking for an amazing vacation at a good price, book now, sister, book now. They are even doing a "kids stay free" special.


It is on a nature preserve, which has something called "cenotes", which are collapsed caves full of fresh water.


Um, cold fresh water.


You get in there with a thingy around your waist to keep you afloat, and snorkle from the cenote, down a stream that looks just like The River of No Return at Astroworld (shout out to my Houston girls!) So beautiful. You just float as the current carries you down to the ocean. It was truly magical.

Then, at the end, you climb out and guess what you see to your left:

and to your right:


To where, of course, you retire and ask Jose to bring you an icy cold beverage.


We also ventured out one day to Tulum where we saw lots of ruins


and lots of iguanas


and down below, between the cliffs, one of the most beautiful beaches in the world.


And for the record, in my early twenties, I was on a quest to personally visit all the best beaches in the world, so I do qualify as an expert in this field.


It was very sweet of the resort to do things to make us feel at home, like sprinkle rose petals on our bed.


Because I do that every night. You too?

Uh huh. Right after this guy comes for dinner.

Speaking of dinner, there was one traumatic episode. On our last night, we were served a specialty of the house.

In this little empanada were some delicately sauteed, beautifully seasoned


CRICKETS.

Yes. Cricket tacos. Um, um.

Walker popped his right in ("crunchy") but I couldn't do it. I tried, I summoned up every thing I had in me - but then I made the drastic mistake of cutting mine in half. When I did, a little leg fell out and, well. That was the end of that.


Could you have done it??? What is the weirdest thing you have ever eaten?

Focus, Ethel, Focus

I have told you before how much I love, love, love Seeds Family Worship. My children can probably recite 30-40 bible verses right now and get this - I can too. And this brain? This brain that has to fake half my recognitions at church? And, um, in at home? Well, that's a huge accomplishment.

I just downloaded about 8 new ones off iTunes. You know, "for the kids". Between Seeds and the LPM scripture memory which I am SO BEHIND on but have to join up now because of the big ole event in Houston that of course I MUST attend because hello, I've been a Tuesday Night Girl for 1/4 of my life (I almost typed 1/3, but that was fantasy youth math) - okay, but I digress. Focus, Ethel, focus.

(My friend Shelly used to do home health and was working with an old couple once and the husband kept telling the wife Focus, Ethel, Focus so I tend to tell myself that a lot.)

My point:
Let's just use some bullets to get right down to it:
Cause that's why they call them bullet points:
And colons:
Or should we skip the colons? Tell me, should we have a colon cleansing?
(Oh, my skull, I CRACK myself UP):
Here goes:

• I love Seeds. My kids love Seeds. You will too. If you have kids, of any age, they will too.
  
• Marci from Finding Joy in the Journey is doing a giveaway of Seeds. Yea! So go enter here.
• If you don't win it, and I hate to tell you this but statistically you probably won't, I mean, the truth hurts, I know, I am still dreaming of a Dyson from Shannon, so once you find out you didn't win, go on over to iTunes and download you some, or order a CD from here and they will send you an extra that you can giveaway on your blog!
  
• Speaking of giveaways - I am going to have my best one yet next week. Stay tuned.
  

Okay. Over and out.

I'm headed here with several girlfriends.
I know, I am being crazy spoiled lately.

OH - and:

• and, you know what, if my Continental OnePass miles are good to me, I am also going here in August to see one of my heroes, Kay Arthur. (And another one of my heroes, Annie Downs.) Wanna come???

TOP TEN QUESTIONS ABOUT MISSY'S VACATION

1. Did you have to pay extra for the beach beds?
Nope. The trip was all inclusive. Which means if we tipped Jose $5 with your first tamarind margarita, for the rest of the day he would continue to bring another one to us on our beach bed before the last one was empty.
2. Did y'all sleep out there?
We napped. It didn't have sheets - the mattress and pillows were made like of patio furniture material. I guess you could sleep out there, but I would be too chicken. (This same response applies to the other question that some of you were brave enough to ask regarding what we did on the beach beds.)


3. Did you have to pay extra for the beach beds?
Nope. The trip was all inclusive. Which means if we tipped Jose $5 with your first tamarind margarita, for the rest of the day he would continue to bring another one to us on our beach bed before the last one was empty.


4. Did y'all sleep out there?
We napped. It didn't have sheets - the mattress and pillows were made like of patio furniture material. I guess you could sleep out there, but I would be too chicken. (This same response applies to the other question that some of you were brave enough to ask regarding what we did on the beach beds.)
5. Did you have to pay extra for the beach beds?
Nope. The trip was all inclusive. Which means if we tipped Jose $5 with your first tamarind margarita, for the rest of the day he would continue to bring another one to us on our beach bed before the last one was empty.


6. Did y'all sleep out there?
We napped. It didn't have sheets - the mattress and pillows were made like of patio furniture material. I guess you could sleep out there, but I would be too chicken. (This same response applies to the other question that some of you were brave enough to ask regarding what we did on the beach beds.)


7. Did you have to pay extra for the beach beds?
Nope. The trip was all inclusive. Which means if we tipped Jose $5 with your first tamarind margarita, for the rest of the day he would continue to bring another one to us on our beach bed before the last one was empty.
8. Did y'all sleep out there?
We napped. It didn't have sheets - the mattress and pillows were made like of patio furniture material. I guess you could sleep out there, but I would be too chicken. (This same response applies to the other question that some of you were brave enough to ask regarding what we did on the beach beds.)


9. Did you have to pay extra for the beach beds?
Nope. The trip was all inclusive. Which means if we tipped Jose $5 with your first tamarind margarita, for the rest of the day he would continue to bring another one to us on our beach bed before the last one was empty.
10. Did y'all sleep out there?
We napped. It didn't have sheets - the mattress and pillows were made like of patio furniture material. I guess you could sleep out there, but I would be too chicken. (This same response applies to the other question that some of you were brave enough to ask regarding what we did on the beach beds.)

It's been crazy busy (May is always NUTS, isn't it?) and I have to go to bed - but I will tell you more about this



as soon as I can....

PS - YEA KRIS!!

I've been wondering all night who sang Two Tickets to Paradise. It was Eddy Money. 1977.

Early Friday morning, we kissed half our bedheaded babies goodbye (the other half were at Mimi's, the grandmas divided and conquered, for which we LOVE THEM A MILLION TIMES OVER)


and we left for the airport.

As we were walking in, we saw a friend of ours, Mike, dropping off two other friends, Stacy and Tone, who were on their way to Hawaii with their baby boy. It amazes me that this city has over five million people, but you still run into friends at the airport. I thought they were really brave to be taking a new baby to Hawaii for ten days until we got inside and saw them meet up with her parents. Ahhhhh. Ten days in Hawaii with a new baby and two grandparents. Now we're talkin.

As we checked in at the Continental e-check in computer thingy, the screen said, "Would you like to upgrade your seat to first class?" Walker said, "Say yes, see how much it is." And do you know it was cheap? I mean, real cheap? And, I had saved mucho dinero by not shopping at Target, right? So of course he said, "DO IT!" And we started our vacation off in the style to which I have grown unaccustomed.

Now, the last time I flew first class, it was after I had followed this guy to Prague and back on a very ill fated mission. And God used it to teach me a lesson. Which, for the record, is my very favorite way that God has ever chosen to teach me a lesson, and I would be delighted for God to teach me another lesson by bumping me up to first class anytime. Amen. But if you do read that story, there is a beautiful irony in the fact that the next time I flew first class, it was with my first class husband and the father of my four wild first class chilluns.

He's a sweet, sweet God. Sometimes I just have to stop mid conversation and point out, that he is such a sweet, sweet God.

Back to the airport. Y'all, due to my gestation occupation, I have flown, like, three times since my honeymoon. Which means that I am a big dork when it comes to all the fancy new stuff at the airport. Which means I say things, out loud, like, "Why, looky there! They have a whole iPod kiosk! Well how smart is that, in case you forget your headphones, you can just buy you some more! Tsk!" while my husband, the frequent business traveller, pats my head and says, "Oh, Ellie Mae, you're so cute" while his eyes dart around embarrassingly to see if anyone overheard us.

Finally we got on the plane and he could pop in his headphones and be put out of his misery.


First class is nice, y'all. The seats are bigger, for starters, which is good since every time I fly my butt seems to be bigger than the last time. And your breakfast looks like this


with your own little mini salt and peppers and cloth napkins, and the flight attendants actually act like they are happy to serve it to you, as opposed to kind of tossing some cereal and a kiddie cafeteria milk at you.

I have mentioned that I am freaked out by public restrooms of any kind (I have my reasons) and every time I have flown coach and had to go back to that teeny tiny thing they call a toilet, where you know it can't be too sanitary because the men go standing up and hello! turbulence! and there is that sign that says "Water not drinkable" as if you need to tell me that and the other sign that says "as a courtesy to the next person, please wipe off the wash basin" which causes me to ponder, just what needs to be wiped off? Water? Or Something Else Perhaps Caused by Turbulence?? and that flushing noise that sounds like a dentist drill - ugh. Anyway, while I suffer these circumstances, I have often wondered if the first class people get something better than us plebes in coach have to deal with. So I was, for once, a little excited about using the toilet on this trip.

Imagine my disappointment.


Airplane potties: the great social equalizer.

One of the great blessings of living in The Republic is that you can fly to Mexico in half the time it takes to drive to Dallas. So quicker than we could say, 'Why yes, I'd love a Bloody Mary, thanks so much for asking in your sweet first class voice,' this appeared outside our window:


See that blue water? I got the feeling we weren't in Galveston anymore...

Within an hour, this was me:


a very, very, very happy woman on the balcony of our beautiful room:


at a little place called Heaven Hacienda Tres Rios in the Riviera Maya.

Hasta manana....

Funny, the husband? Did not buy a thing

I shall start my Mexico recap where all great vacations begin - with the shopping.

Lately I have been nesting up such a storm, if I didn't know any better I'd be shopping for an EPT. (But believe me, I know better.) I have cleaned out every closet in this house and actually put away my winter clothes, something I have not done since we got married and I spent the next few years supporting Liz Lange.

My closet organization technique comes from Clean Sweep, the most inspirational show on TV next to Mamaw and Pawpaw's show. I always keep a couple of Clean Sweeps on the DVR and on the days where I just feel like sitting on the couch in my jammies drinking coffee and facebooking while my children destroy my house, I fire one up. By the time the guests are fighting for their stuffed animals (who knew so many grown women have such expansive collections of stuffed animals? TV is so educational) I have an insatiable urge to organize.

And whoa, lucky for me, the opportunities to organize in this house are ENDLESS.

My own closet was last on attack list. After channeling my inner Clive, the closet was stripped bare, then I kept/tossed/donated for a good two days. After which I beheld the glory of a organized closet of spring and summer frocks and my heart was filled with awe and delight.

Until I realized something.

HEMLINES HAVE CHANGED.

Visions danced in my head of walking along a Carribean beach, hand in hand with my beloved, long flowy skirts trailing in the wind. Kinda like a feminine hygeine commercial. Except, not at all like that. Let's call them gypsy skirts. That's much nicer. Problem is, last summer short flowy skirts were all I bought.

Oh my word, it is so hard to be a mujer.

I had seen some advertised in the Target flier that fit the flowy feminine hygeine commercial gypsy bill, but they were on sale for $26. Let me know if you have ever had this fantasy conversation:

Hello, Target? I understand and respect that you have gotten much cooler and cuter in the past few years. However, I feel the need to remind you of something. You're TARGET. If I want to pay $26 for a skirt, I will do so at a place different from where I buy my toilet bowl cleaner and diaper wipes, okey dokey?

Or is it just me?

So on Saturday afternoon, I headed to the most exciting thing to hit my side of town since our new HEB: a new SteinMart. Where I was sadly reminded of something.

Soy muy baja.

I'm so short.

I know it seems that I have to be reminded of this a lot. I get a smack-remind when I try on a beautiful skirt and instead of looking like a gypsy ready to walk on the beach, I look more like Laura Ingalls ready to milk the cow in a blizzard.

After many Laura's I did find one Gypsy which was beautiful (and less than $26)


And I have a message for SteinMart too: I want every pair of shoes you sell. Unfortunately, I have the feet of an 80 year old woman, so many of them are out of the question. But these will leave some nice footprints in the sand:


My grandma had gold lame' house shoes, with pointy toes no less, but I repressed that memory. Now I just have to hide these from my daughter.

SteinMart has the most fun accessories, so I got these aretes:


And at the checkout I found out there was a coupon so they were even cheaper than I thought. Dios mio!!!

My goal was to avoid the mall if possible, so from there I headed to Marshall's, a huge fat disappointment. Finally I landed at Ross.

Oh, Ross, why oh why did I ever go anywhere else?

Because even though it is a little, um, ghetto, every week is Pretty-Flowy-Gypsy-Beach-Wear Week at Ross. And cute clothes at bargain prices can cover up a multitude of sloppy display and surly salesclerk sins.

First off: pink. Oh, pink, how I love you:


some tank tops, including this one, for $3.99 each (Target tanks: $8.99. Right next to the Kotex.):


I love brown, I love lycra, I love this:


This little '80s swimsuit cover up:


And the grand finale!! How cute and beachy keen is this?


Last time I went on vacation, I took my makeup in a tupperware. Like leftover chicken. Problem solved, and solved so cutely:


I also got some new bras, because you know buying new bras can be so uplifting.
(HAHAHA I crack myself up.)

Every single thing I bought was $9.99 or less. Ca-ching!!!

Friday morning, very early, off to the aeropuerto. Me in my new pretty gypsy-walking-on-the-beach clothes, and very cute hat I found deep in my closet. My husband, in a ballcap, old shirt and old shorts that didn't even match.

Mars and Venus head to Paradise.


Notice the dark circles under my eyes, the look of exhaustion, because it's all about to disappear...

A great cloud of grannies awaits us

Eva Rose and I were driving today and she began asking me about my grandma.

My grandma was The Greatest Grandma Who Ever Lived. She lived on a farm in deep East Texas and she made the best light rolls and fried pies and fried okra and, well, fried everything, and on Tuesdays she took us to the bowling alley and bought us pizzas and then to the Piggly Wiggly and bought me a Tiger Beat magazine so I could indulge my Donny & Marie addiction. She filed her nails in the Woods New Hope Baptist Church every Sunday ("even though it might be a sin", she'd whisper) and loved us all ferociously. Although I am pretty sure she loved me the best.

Eva Rose: What was your grandma's name?
Me: Verna. Verna Lou. But everyone called her Vernie.
Eva Rose: So where is she now?
Me: She's in Heaven.
Eva Rose: So when I die I will get to meet her?
Me: Oh yes. And she would have loved you so much. She's gonna be so happy to meet you!

She paused a minute, and then she said, "I have a lot of grandmas in heaven, don't I? Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands of them! All waiting for me!"

Wow. "Yes," I told her, "you do. You certainly do."

I'd never thought of that before, have you? We have hundreds of grandmas in heaven, all waiting to meet us. And someday, we will meet the thousands of grandchildren that will come after us.

How amazing is that?

And I thought, sweet Joseph is up there right now, getting spoiled rotten by hundreds - thousands - of grandmas. As if Jesus weren't enough!

Hallelujah.