A short homage

to my friend Sophie, who, bless her heart, burned her tongue on some salsa today at She Speaks (where I am not. And where I am now thinking of my friends who are and feeling very sad.)



I hope y'all are having fun.
Maybe I'll see you next year.
(sigh)

Entomology for beginners

I was born in the heart of downtown Houston. My skin reaps the wrinkleless benefit of 100% humidity. My hemoglobin transports smog. I used to play Love Ya Blue on my clarinet.

But as much a Houstonian as I am, I just have never gotten used to all the stinking bugs we have in this town. Especially the cockroaches, the big huge black cockroaches, that tend to come inside when we lack rain.

Ugh.

I think it is a sign of Christ within me. It is an indication that I long for Eden. Because I tell you what - there were no cockroaches in the Garden. Cockroaches are a sign of the Fall, y'all. They are the spawn of Satan and destroying them advances the Kingdom.

Shepherd gets a quarter for every cockroach he picks up off the floor (not with your hands!! use a Kleenex!!) and flushes out of our lives. The way this summer has gone, he should be able to buy a car by his sixth birthday.

Due to the glory of extermination, most of the cockroaches he finds are dead or dying. But there are plenty of living creatures to keep him busy. While his lizard catching abilities have long been perfected, this summer, the live bug acquisition skills have reached advanced status.

I am so very proud. And so very grossed out.

This afternoon he proudly brought in his latest catch, a huge insect with lacy wings. "Oh," I said, "that's a locust. A cicada. A locust. A cicada." Now why do I call them locusts when I know they are cicadas? A quick visit to Wikipedia confirmed it: locust is the "colloquial" term for cicada, even though they are two totally different insects. Ahhhhh. Wikipedia, you make me a better mom.

After a quick wiki lesson on the life and times of the cicada/locust, I noticed that our newest little pet was not looking so good. S/he was laying on her back and while I am no locust/cicada expert, she appeared to be in distress. I warned Shep that his new pet might soon follow the Naptime tradition of an early demise.

Shepherd sadly agreed. Then suddenly he yelled, "Look! Mom! It had babies!! There are two babies in there!!"

What? Oh, no, surely not. Not on my shift. I peered into the plastic box, expecting to dismiss his findings as clumps of dirt. And then I saw them. Two little white creatures - two squirming little white creatures - which were not in there thirty seconds ago.

Oh yes, that cicada/locust indeed had been feeling like death. She had been in the throes of labor. Natural labor. A single mom, delivering twins, all alone. Except for a humongous pair of curious green eyes staring at her.

Immediately a little female simpatico kicked in. Had I known I was watching her bring forth her precious blessings, I might have maybe helped her count to ten while she pushed, or something. I can guaran-dang-tee you I would not have held her little knees for her though. My empathy, it knows bounds.

Any simpatico dissipated when I gazed upon the little miracles. Oh, gag! Two disgusting little white larvae looking nasty little creatures! BLECH!! Perhaps they had a face only a mother could love? Nope, Momma was ignoring them too as she chewed on a leaf. Well, birthin babies does work up a girl's appetite, to that I can testify.

The happy family was transferred to a bigger jar and fresh green leaves were gathered. I tried to ignore my goosebumps.

Oh my life cycle, I am winning some major mommy points for this one.

Please join me in welcoming two precious little cicada larvae who have been christened Jack and Eva. You will not find them wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.

Here, Shep and Sissy narrate the situation for you. The nose picking, that's just a bonus.

Update: I have just returned from Bunko to find that little Jack and Eva are now orphans. Which doesn't seem to bother them a bit, even after their mother gave her life for them. Little ingrates.

Update 2: a little more research revealed that locusts/cicadas burrow under ground for 2-7 YEARS before they come out as nymphs, which are the ones that leave their crusty shells stuck on the side of trees. So I convinced Shep that Jack and Eva needed to be set free if they were to have a chance at life. He let them go in the backyard, sobbing.

Kid needs a dog.

When three year olds act like computers and computers act like three year olds

I have been working on a post for two hours. And you know what? THIS AIN'T IT. Because I have been fighting with my stinkin computer all night. And now I have that clenched jaw, achy shoulders, frustrated, want to throw something feeling that only comes from a fight with a rebellious hunk of plastic.

It it the second time today I have had that feeling.

Earlier today, Maggie and I had our first real fight.

She stood up, pointed at me, and said, "I am three years old, I am issuing a declaration of independence, I absolutely WILL NOT pick up the barbie dolls on the playroom floor, I don't care how you discipline me, I don't care what you threaten, I WILL NOT DO IT. Not only that but the whole time I am giving you the toddler equivalent of flipping the bird at you, I will cry and scream and look very pathetic so that even in the midst of your extreme irritation with me you will feel slightly guilty like you are torturing my very little soul and scarring me for life."

I AM the Calgon woman.



Without the Calgon.

Advil, take me away...

Just one granola bar on a five minute drive.

The kid's got skilz.

EXTREME BLOG MAKEOVER - JACKIE EDITION

Those of you who are not new know that I got a beautiful blog makeover a couple of months ago - can I say how much I love my little owls??

Well, Naptimers, guess what....Jackie at Memories By Design, who gave me my new blog do, wants to give you a makeover too. Yippee!!

She is offering a full blog design giveaway - Package 1 (you can upgrade with her if you want)

She'll include 10 istockphoto credits.

Listen up y'all - the winning blog has to be a hosted by blogger.

If your blog is already fabulous, you can gift someone else - or -- ooo! -- maybe you could get a Christmas design!

All you have to do is go here, and then leave me a comment noting which of the blogs in her portfolio you thought was the precious-est (if you do not my follow directions, I will have to disqualify you, keep you in from recess for a week, and schedule a conference with your parents.)

I was gonna say, if you don't have a blog be sure and leave me your email, but if you don't have a blog...then...well, I'll just say it anyway.

I will choose a winner on Monday.

I have been trained - part 2

So I'm driving the long 30 minute drive to VBS last week and something makes me think of this whole bible study thing, and how this is not the season for it, and how someday it will be, but how now - as I told Lisa - my first priority is my family. And the mountains of laundry that they accumulate. But some day, some day, I will get to lead my bible study.

As I am pondering all this, I glance in the rear view mirror at the four little souls in the four car seats behind me, singing along to their CD. Then the silent but deafening voice of the Lord whispers to me, You are their bible study.

I think, yes, I am. I know this. I know that after years of teaching other young women and other people's children, my job right now is to teach my own little ones. And what a blessing that is! They have learned so much!

I begin to think about all the Scripture they already know, between Seeds and the book that we use, not to mention what they learn at Sunday School and VBS to which I so diligently take them. Those tiny little kids already have so much scripture hidden in their hearts...I guess I am doing okay at leading this particular bible study!

My heart rejoices at this. My heart even gets a tiny bit - just a tiny bit - of the P word going. You know the P word. The one that rhymes with bride.

And then the Lord whispers, that's not what I'm talking about. You are their bible study.

Immediately a flashback: the previous morning, when Shepherd had left out a screwdriver. A tool, which he has been told a thousand times is not a toy. A tool that he had retrieved from the toolbox in the garage that he has been told a thousand times he is not to touch. A tool that he had left on the couch, and his baby brother had gotten, and was chewing on when he fell into the couch. The tool that caused Ingram's lip to bleed. The tool that caused me to panic when I saw the blood, imagining that the baby had stabbed the inside of his mouth with the screwdriver.

The tool that caused me to completely and utterly lose my temper, to yell loudly at my child until he sobbed his apology, the tool that hardened my heart even as I hugged him and lied to him and told him that he was forgiven.

You are their bible study.

My child can say from memory Proverbs 15:1 , A soft answer turns away wrath. He can also recite Psalm 34:13, Keep your tongue from evil.

How many times have I quoted to his sister Ephesians 4:26, In your anger do not sin.

I have taught them to forgive one another seventy times seventy.

Yet I negated every one of those bible teachings in five minutes one Tuesday morning.

You are their bible study.

How much easier would it be to just lead a group bible study!

I could prepare for you a wonderful lesson on Philippians 2 about putting others above yourself. Then if on the drive home I refuse to let someone cut into my lane of traffic, you'll never know.

I could research and teach you what the original Greek text of Ephesians 5 says, then come home and chew out my husband for not taking out the trash while I was gone, and you'll never know.

I could give you a wonderful exegesis regarding exactly what God meant when he said "Thou shall not steal." And if the next morning, the teenager at the grocery store charges me for regular apples rather than the more expensive organic ones and I don't correct him, you'll never know.

But if I tell my children that I love God and seek to obey him, and then dishonor their own grandmother with my tongue, they will learn more from my hypocrisy than from the Word.

If in my anger I choose to punish instead of to discipline, then bible lesson for that day will be on vengeance, not grace.

If I teach them to do all things without complaining and disputing - Philippians 2:14, another one they can rattle off - yet constantly gripe about having to clean up their messes, then my lesson for the day is selfishness, not servanthood.

I am their bible study.

I am not saying that the Holy Spirit will not and does not work on their hearts in spite of my actions. I am well aware that the double edged sword that is the Word of God is a million times more powerful than my sin.

But, oh, dear Jesus, do my actions sometimes cause the Holy Spirit to have to work harder? Are there days when the Lord must work around me, instead of with me??

Oh Lord, forgive me and help me!
Remind me to practice what I teach!
For this I have been trained!!
Amen!

I have been trained

Walker and I met when we were leaders for a world-wide Bible study (which I adore and highly recommend) called BSF. Aside from thoroughly being trained in the Word, BSF has an objective that each of its leaders receive extensive training on how to lead a bible study. Their goal is that we could go anywhere, anytime, and given a few people, start up some serious Jesus lessons.

I have been trained, y'all.

And I am a teacher by nature, in other words, naturally bossy and love to be the center of attention. Put those two together and you have a girl who is just ITCHING, ACHING, CLENCHING MY TEETH WHILE I BALL MY FISTS AND WOBBLE MY HEAD to lead a bible study.

But for seven years I have only been a participant.

One thing I have learned about myself is for me to be out of a bible study is a dangerous thing, so any church offering a good study near me with free childcare, and I become Shameless Bible Study Crasher.

I have sat in some and absorbed the Word and the wisdom of the other ladies, glad that all I had to do was show up and drink coffee (or a smuggled Diet Coke on Tuesday nights) while precious, organized leaders did all the work.

Others, I spent a lot of time jiggling my leg and feeling my blood pressure rise while I resisted the urge to shout "COULD YOU PLEASE QUIT TALKING ABOUT YOUR VACATION AND ANSWER QUESTION NUMBER FOUR?!"

Those kinds are painful for me. If I were leading, we would finish the questions, I think. I know how to avert rabbit trails. I have been trained.

As soon as I traded my inner-loop life for the glory of the suburbs, I began begging God to give me a bible study. B e g g i n g. And the Lord's answer has always been, "Nah. Thanks though. We'll keep your resume on file."

One wise thing I have learned in the craziness of the past few years is to never volunteer for anything, even if I want so badly to do it. Especially if I want so badly to do it. I tell God my desires, and if trust that if he wants me to serve him, he will make it abundantly clear. So clear that even my fuzzy headed, sleep deprived self won't miss it. Until then, I must sit on my jiggling leg, keep my mouth shut, and - watch out, here comes a 4-letter word - wait.

I am sure this has saved me from starting up about 42 doomed-for-failure small group studies.

Finally, it happened. Someone approached me!! And asked me to lead a study! And it was Esther!! Could this be it? My chance? The chance I have been begging God for?

I pondered these things in my heart for several days before I mentioned it to Walker, aka, Mr. Reality Bites.

He was instructed to not speak until I had explained that all that would be required to me would be to show up, organize the lesson, and maybe make coffee in one of those big complicated church coffee pots. He sat very quietly on the bed and listened with a blank face while I washed my face and brushed my teeth. Finally, I took a deep breath and said, "Okay, tell me what you think." After being reassured twice that he had permission to talk, he told me.

"Sure, you can do it.

"But let me tell you what your Wednesdays are going to look like. Every night, you will be running out of here, late and freaking out. You won't have had time to prepare and you will be that much more behind on laundry. By halfway through the lessons, you will be dreading it, and every week you will ask me, 'Why did I say I would do this? Why?' You will be tired all day Thursday, and you will feel guilty all the time that you aren't doing enough.

"Basically, babe, you will be the suckiest bible study leader they ever had. And the worst part is, it won't even fulfill you, because your desire is to teach, not to pop in a DVD. But you can do it, go ahead, I will support you in whatever you decide."

Dang. It.

He kinda had me at "Suckiest Bible Study Leader Ever." Cause that's not what I have been trained for.

Sniffling, I emailed Lisa a big sad no. Can't do it. Not the season. Not right now.

I'll continue this later. I really do have a point. Stick around.

~ Part 2 here ~

.

Fortunately, he is very secure in his masculinity

This morning we arrived at VBS and my magical automatic doors opened to reveal that one of my mommy nightmares (seriously, I have had real nightmares) had come to pass.

Ikey was barefoot.

I had forgotten his shoes.

And we were thirty minutes from home.

And already late.

I knew that it wouldn't be a big deal for his little feet to go commando in his classroom, but on the playground? Toddler crisis in the church parking lot!!

Usually there are extra shoes living among the trampled art projects, putrid sippy cups and petrified french fries on the floor of my momivan. I surveyed the wondrous mess and sure enough, the Lord blessed us. I spied not just one, but two shoes.

Two adorable pink plaid ballet slippers that Maggie had worn to church on Sunday.



A momma's gotta do what a momma's gotta do.

If only I had an extra hairbow to match...

I've got peace like a faucet

In the past couple of years I have had two friends come home from dinner to find that one of their children had left a faucet running upstairs while they were gone and caused serious damage.

This morning, while at VBS, Walker called to inform me that we have passed the requirements to obtain membership to their exclusive little club.


I am not positive who the perp is.
But I have my suspicions.



And, um, our house is on the market.

Flustered and anxious to come home to survey the damage, I loaded the children in the car. As I started the ignition, the hymn on the CD the children had been listening to came on: It is Well With My Soul.

Which was a great reminder to me that all my children had not just drowned in a shipwreck, as Horatio Spafford's had when he amazingly wrote this hymn.

My troubles are not so big.
It is well.


When peace like a toddler destructeth my way,
When bathroom sinks overflow;
Though sheetrock hath rot,
Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my hole.

.

Syndication - My Perfect Son

I decided to pull and run the most commented post I wrote last July. This is what came up. My baby is getting so big! (sniff) But he is just as cuddly.



My sweet Ike, at 15 months, is possibly the cuddliest of them all, and loooves his mom-mom.

The other night, due to the paint fumes in his room, he spent the night with us. About midnight he woke up. I laid him on my chest, his favorite place to be, and thought about how he perfectly fit into my body. He head snuggled into the nape of my neck, and soon his soft skin seemed to morph with mine, his breathing to regulate with my breathing.

I rubbed his back and kissed his ducky hair whispering I love you over and over and then I thought to myself:


"Ohhh - so this is how unbearable mothers-in-law are made..."

1) What's the big deal? I mean, I'm sure I could do this. Couldn't you??

2) We had a guest pastor today at our church named Pat Roach. He is planting a church in Portland, Oregon, which is considered one of the most unchurched populations in the country. Probably be easier to plant a church in Timbuktu. Not that I know exactly where Timbuktu is, come to think of it. Where is Timbuktu?

Anyway, he preached on Matthew 11 and this was a part of his sermon: "We cannot be WalMart Christians. We want Jesus to be what we want, when we want it, at a very low cost to us."

Wow, huh?

3) Well, our house is listed, and we had a big fat zero number of showings this weekend. Which is either very discouraging, or not. Showings stress me out so much I prayed that God would keep away the looky-loos and only send folks who are serious. Hopefully the utter lack of interest is an answered prayer.

4) I have to be across town at VBS with all four kids by 9am every day this week. Help me.

5) Until later...The Next Food Network Star and my husband are calling my name. (Go Melissa!!)

Angels among us

It is summertime, and while Houston is always hotter than blazes, this July has been exceptionally awful. Oh, my word, it is unbelievably hot.

Growing up in Houston leads to many summertime traditions: free performances at Miller Outdoor Theater, Fourth of July fireworks over downtown, day trips to Galveston. And another tragic tradition: children dying. Twenty children have drowned this summer. So far.

I haven't heard any reports yet of little ones dying after being accidentally left in cars, which is another sad Houston sign of summer.

Sometimes the children climb in the cars themselves, and lose their lives as the car becomes an oven in the 102 degree sun. That happened to two little boys last summer. I always used to wonder how a child could get into a car, then be gone long enough to die from the heat. I couldn't grasp how a responsible parent, a good mom, could not notice the child was missing.

Till it happened to me.

The summer after Ingram was born, Eva Rose was two, nearly three. Ike was tiny and still slept soundly enough to take his naps in a cradle in the dining room. I was upstairs sorting through baby boy hand-me-downs, and my mom was downstairs where the children were playing.

I came down to retrieve a box from the garage. Eva Rose followed me outside, then back in, and I went upstairs and got back to work.

And then, apparently, she slipped back outside.

After ten or twelve minutes, Ingram began to cry. I kept working, knowing my mom would take care of him. He needed to sleep longer and he shouldn't have been hungry, so maybe he just needed a paci pop-in.

His cries got worse. And worse. Soon he was inconsolable and I could hear his screams loudly from the second floor. Everything my mom was doing to comfort him was futile. I set aside my stacks of clothes and my Sharpie came down to see what the problem was.

There was nothing obviously wrong with him, he was just having one of those mysterious newborn fits. I looked around. "Where's Eva Rose?" I asked my mom. "I thought she was with you," was her reply. "No, she never was with me. I thought she was with you."

In a millisecond my mom an I exchanged That Look. Poor tiny screaming Ingram was laid unceremoniously on the rug and Mom and I began frantically running around the house, shouting her name. Checking the bathtubs first, then the backyard, then the street, the next door neighbor's pool - no Eva Rose.

My panic level was peaking when Shepherd ran inside and shouted, "She's in GG's car!"

I ran to my mom's car, parked outside in the driveway, opened the unlocked door and pulled out my daughter - my soaking from sweat, hoarse from screaming, trembling from fear, almost too weak to cry anymore baby girl - wrapped my arms around her wet little body, rocked her on the driveway and whispered "you're okay, you're okay" over and over, to both of us.

That's how it happens.

She was in there maybe fifteen minutes. Which, experts say, is sometimes long enough.

We never figured out why Ingram was crying. He soon fell back asleep. I know that he saved his sister's life.

When I remember this story, I imagine Eva Rose's guardian angel poking that sleeping boy, then maybe flicking his little ear, then pulling his silky hair - whatever it took to get him good and furious enough to make his momma come check on him and save his big sister whom he now adores.


Thank you, thank you, thank you Lord.

Wordless Wednesday

Not move-in ready

Oh, laud, I am a busy busy woman.

We decided to list our house and it's like, a paint job here, a knob screwed there, here a paint, there a knob, every where a paint knob...Old McMissy had a cow, EIEIO.



Ah, memories. Ask Eva Rose about the precious memory above. She was only two, but she will tell you what happened: "Mommy got real, real, real mad and threw me in the baby crib and made me take a nap."

After priming away the Sharpie, I spent several hours rubbing a WD40 pen along Maggie's wall art.

I know you now have Shelia E in your head - me too. She wants to lead the glamorous life...

Tomorrow I shall spend several hours trying to remove toothpaste footprints from the carpet. Toothpaste footprints? What's that you say?


Shep informed me, "They're clues, Momma. Clues. So Shaggy and Scooby can solve the mystery."

I bet the carpet cleaners charge more than a Scooby snack to make those ghost prints disappear.

There is a reason why I have catapulted myself into homeshowing hades. We need a bigger house. With more bedrooms.

We need a bigger house with more bedrooms because....

OH NUH UH GIRL BITE YOUR TONGUE!

I told y'all womb service was closed!!

We need a bigger house because my husband has informed me that we cannot begin the process to adopt a baby from Ethiopia until we move into a bigger house.

Feel free to pray our house sells.
Soon.

Sunday link love

Fabulous ideas for things to do with the kids where was this on my whiny day?

The Song of Songs beautifully set to medieval music be sure and click where it says "hear"

Optical Illusions blow my mind -well, kinda literally

Could you do this???

The best diet secret ever

John Piper is a jerk that was his tweet, not mine!

Too much time online strains marriages and on that note...

Oh, what wouldn't we do for free Chick-fil-a?

Just pretend we are sitting at Starbucks and I have consumed about three grandes and this post might make some sense

Couple weeks back Amanda wrote a post over yonder about calling hineys "bunny". Now I am very interested in Southern speak, both syntax and sayings, but I do declare, had never ever heard that one in a month of Sundays. Pronounced "Sundeys."

I am also very interested in accents. And I am here to testify that there is only a teenintsy bit difference between a North Carolina accent and a Texas accent. I found this out when I lived in London. Once on a little jaunt to Israel, I stalked this tourist group all over the Mount of Olives because I was sure they were from Texas and I was so homesick that I just inhaled their accents. They were sweet enough not to question why some tan, lonely girl with a backpack and a slightly desperate look in her eyes was shadowing their paid-for tour. I was convinced they were from Austin and can you believe they were from North Carolina?? I was so ashamed.

Y'all, I went to Israel for a week all by myself. How stupid was that?? I could have been blown up, or run off with an Israeli soldier named Shlomo, and no one would have known what became of me. You do things when you are 23 that you would later disown your own child for even considering.

While we are on the topic of Israel, when I was there, I went swimming in the Dead Sea, because you just have to do that. "Swimming" in the Dead Sea is one of the most amazing experiences, because the salt content is so high that you just float. It's like you are covered in invisible floaties - it is the coolest, oddest experience. It's kind of like being in a hammock, except the hammock is, you know, made of water. Israeli water. Holy water?

But I had a serious problem that day as I bobbed in my water hammock. I was traveling with only my Let's Go Israel book to keep me company, and obviously the Dead Sea section was written by a man. Wanna know how I know? Because if a woman had written it, surely she would have included some advice like this: "Now, keep in mind, the Dead Sea is eight times saltier than the ocean. So while your normal pre-beach protocol probably (hopefully) includes shaving from head to toe, trust us, DON'T DO THAT. Otherwise your whole body will feel like it is ON FIRE, and the saltiness of your tears will mix in with the saltiness of the sea, which would be very poetic if only you did not feel the urge to cuss in Hebrew as loudly as possible."

Oh, how I wish s/he had written that.

Not that I know how to cuss in Hebrew. I improvised.

Back to accents (another grande lowfat please, thanks.) I also discovered that Irish people who move to London develop an accent that sounds just like they are from Texas. Which I think says a lot about how much the Irish influenced the Texas accent, like the way we stress our R's while the rest of the South drops them. Except maybe in North Carolina they don't do that. Hmm. Does Lysa drop her Rs?

But where was I going with this? Oh yeah, Amanda, bunnies.

Being that I am interested in all this Southern talk and whathaveyou I asked my mom, who is from Deepest Eastest Texas, if she had ever heard this particular euphemism. She gave me a confused look, shook her head, and said, no, never.

Eva Rose overheard all this, and her little (bunny) ears perked up. "Bunny means hiney?" she asked. "Well, some people call it that, evidently," I told her. "Well I'M gonna call mine that! Ha ha! My bunny!! Ha ha! Hop hop hop! Ha ha!"

Which works for me because some kids might have gotten a couple of squirts of a little somethin somethin in their mouths recently for their new favorite word, butt, which I just deplore.

So today in the Home Depots, when Eva Rose announced loudly "Shep just kicked me in the bunny!" I reckon I was mighty obliged to Amanda, for learnin' me some new Southern-speak that might orta help my younguns in their home trainin'.

Bless her heart.

(Nonfat tall, please, make it a decaf.)

Oh mah gah, so totally over the hill

I heard on the news today that the Sony Walkman turned 30 years old. Coincidentally, Walker and I just quit calling our iPods 'Walkmans', um, like, last month.

The Walkman was invented in 1979, and introduced in America in like, 1980. They cost like - for real - $200. What-ev-er. But that totally explains why my mom never bought me one, which was so totally bogus.

It also weighed like a pound, which made it totally hard to use when you jazzercized to your Jane Fonda videotapes on Betamax.

I did get a cheaper knock-off Walkman for my 14th birthday party, which was an awesome boy-girl dance party held jointly with my BFF Meredith. It was way totally cool. We had like, a DJ and a cookie cake and everything.

This was me. Oh, mah gah.


I am so sure, you totally want my twist-a-bead necklace.
And my Pat Benatar mullet.

I also got a BIG stellar stereo from Santa that year (along with, apparently, a book about Prince Andrew, he was so fine, and some Junior Harlequins - gag me with a spoon)


(you totally want my rentals' grody orange carpet) and that stereo was like totally awesome because I could then tape all the songs I wanted off of 79Q or 93Q and make myself a tubular mixed tape to play on my fake Walkman. I got so, so totally awesome at taping the songs without the DJ's voices, which was like totally not easy. Seriously. For real.

And if I still had that mixed tape, it would have had these excellent tunes:

• Goody Two Shoes, Adam Ant
• Hold Me Now, Thompson Twins
• Cruel Summer, Banarama
  
• Hard To Say I'm Sorry, Chicago
• Tainted Love, Soft Cell
• Total Eclipse Of The Heart, Bonnie Tyler
• We Got The Beat, Go-Go's
• Don't You Want Me, Human League
  
• Somebody's Baby, Jackson Browne
• Come On Eileen, Dexy's Midnight Runners
• Let's Dance, David Bowie
• The Safety Dance, Men Without Hats
• Always Something There To Remind Me, Naked Eyes
• Too Shy, Kajagoogoo
• Our House, Madness
• All Night Long, Lionel Richie
• What About Me, Moving Pictures
• True, Spandau Ballet
• Shout, Tears for Fears
• Against All Odds, Phil Collins
• Missing You, John Waite
• Here Comes The Rain Again, Eurythmics
• Almost Paradise, Mike Reno and Ann Wilson
• Think Of Laura, Christopher Cross

and, fer sure, this one. Which is like, my like, theme song.

So, like, what would be on your middle school mixed tape?
Totally leave it in the comments, okay! That would be awesome!

Stay sweet!!
F/F!

LYLAS,

GOT HER

Thank you God!!!

Go here for more details.

Inside my head all day:

God bless America!!

Shep's first watermelon, July 4, 2003


Have a wonderful holiday

Girls

Almost six years ago, Walker and I were asked to participate in a pilot bible study at our church for couples on finances. I had just had a baby boy. Unbeknownst to me, I was also in the throes of postpartum depression. The fact that my stupid boobs wouldn't work right so that I could nurse my new baby, despite trying every method known to woman including waking up in the middle of the night several times to pump an hour for a measly two ounces - then spend another 30 minutes feeding him - was about to put me over the brink of sanity. Or maybe I had already gone there.

That night, at the end of this bible study, Walker submitted my breastfeeding trauma as a prayer request and then, of course, I burst into tears.

All the other moms surrounded me immediately with love and support, several with nursing horror stories that topped even my own. One in particular, a tall girl named Jenny, said, "I never had any problems nursing. But, I had about every other new mother problem that exists, so, I think I understand your misery."

And with that, a friendship was born.

Our husbands liked each other too. And we liked each other's husbands. Many of y'all will agree when I proclaim that when two couples all not only like, but really like each other, it is nothing short of a mariage miracle.

Several months later, I sat on Jenny's red couch while our little boys played, pregnant with my first daughter. We talked about how Jenny, the mother of two boys, had always dreamed of having a little girl. But Jenny is one of those who considers the baby stage what you put up with to get to the good part: toddlerhood. (I am the opposite, I love newborns, and suffer through the following couple years. Every time she and I discuss this it ends in sighs and looks of bewilderment at the other's oddness.) Considering her post traumatic colic disorder, Jenny had no desire to go the newborn route again. But still, she dreamed of a little girl named Rosemary.

Then I gasped and said, "You should get a girl from China! Oh! Chinese Rosemary!"

We had plans to adopt from China, and because I recruit company for all my endeavors, she was not the first to whom I had made this suggestion. But she was the first to respond with "that look." That wistful look, off into the distance, as her brain began churning and her heart began dreaming of a little Chinese baby named Rosemary.

I lamented the fact that Chinese girls were usually a year old before they were adopted, so I would miss those first months. Jenny considered that a bonus. We sighed and shook our heads at each other.

That was five years ago. Since then, I have been a blessed witness to all the roller coaster rides which adopting from abroad entail. We've seen obstacles melt away. We've traded books and blogs and articles about how horribly girl babies in China are treated. We've agonized as China has made adoptions more and more difficult to obtain. And last year, when the six month wait suddenly turned into six or more years, we prayed about letting go of the image of a healthy toddler named Rosemary and asked God if Rosemary was really a six year old little girl with scoliosis.

God affirmed that she was.
She always had been.

It was during this time that I began to realize that, for various reasons, my decade long dream of having my own daughter from China was probably never going to happen. I told Jenny that I believed that God gave me that desire so that I could pass it along to her, and while it broke my heart, I was okay with Him using me in that way. And then, of course, I burst into tears.

So, tomorrow, when my dear friend Jenny and her family go to an orphanage and meet a little girl who, before the Lord laid the foundations of the earth, He gave the name Rosemary Juen Johnson,


I know you will understand that while my body is in Houston, my heart is in Shanghai.

Jenny is blogging about this experience for the New York Times. You can follow their story here.

And the Get Over Yourself award goes to...

Okay, y'all are the greatest blog readers in the world, and I really mean that. I am not just trying to sound like Tina in PeeWee's Big Adventure (there's no basement at the Alamo!)

Your suggestions were so wonderful. I really can't wait to try SO many of them out. I mean, why did I never think to wash the car? That is brilliant fun in the form of very cheap labor. And freeze things in ice and let them work out their aggression by hammering away? Fun and therapeutic. I have a long list now to keep us occupied until August 17.

The saddest part is, have I mentioned I was a teacher? An elementary teacher? Who taught pre-k? Who has a specialty in, um, early childhood?

It's pathetic. Y'all should be asking me what to do. But any other former teachers out there, have you found that all your experience and ideas just turn utterly off when it comes to your own kids, or is it just me?

Teacher, teach thyself.

Today I came across this devotional that some holier-than-thou know-it-all wrote a while back. And the prayer down at the bottom just - sigh. Right to the heart.

It's a special level of rude to be convicted by one's own words.

After I read it, and squirmed, I realized my basic problem is this: I don't want to clean poop off the rug. I don't want to referee arguments all day. I don't want to pop Barbie's leg back on for the sixth time. I don't want to sweep up Cheerios again and again and again.

I do not want to be a servant.

Which, conversely means this: I want to be served.

Which means this: I need to get over my sinful selfish whiny self and remember Who it is that I serve, disguised today as four short little people. And one six foot tall one.

So tomorrow, this will greet me in my (filthy) kitchen at the crack of dawn:



cause I'm gonna need to be reminded all day long. Cause I'm stiff-necked like that.

'Night.

God's servant must not be argumentative, but a gentle listener and a teacher who keeps cool, working firmly but patiently with those who refuse to obey. You never know how or when God might sober them up with a change of heart and a turning to the truth, enabling them to escape the Devil's trap, where they are caught and held captive, forced to run his errands.

2 Timothy 2:24-26 (the Message)