Just hold me now before I fall and break a hip

From the time in third grade when I asked my mom what the Snoopy shirt said across the way at Target (the Target love runs deep) and she realized what were soon to be the beginnings of myself being blind as a bat (as well as having a penchant for run on sentences) until I was about 27 and got the long awaited, long beloved LASIK SURGERY, I spent a great deal of time at the eye doctor.

LASIK changed my life because when I said blind as a bat, I mean, like 20/1200. You know what that means? That means that I would have to be 20 feet in front of something to see what you could see from 1200 feet away, ie, over a third of a football field. Which might explain why I often found myself cheering at the wrong time when the wrong guys ran the wrong way at all those Longhorn games. Well, actually it was because I found/find football about as complicated as calculus. And boring too. As boring as calculus too.

Once I fell asleep in the middle of a UT/Rice game. Right there. In the stadium. Snoozing. On a date even. The fact that we used to um, doctor up our cokes a little bit might have had something to do with it. But mostly it was just because the roar of the crowd sounds a bit too much like the roar of my white noise machine and lulls me to sleep quicker than you can say Pavlovian Effect.

Where was I.

Oh yes, I had LASIK surgery and it was one of the most fantabulous things to ever happen to me. After almost a lifetime of wearing prescription coke bottles and spending a fortune on lost contacts, I could SEEEEEEEEEEEE. It was glorious.

But, then I got pregnant. And along with those pregnancies completely ruining redesigning the curvature of my butt/gut/etc, they also changed the curvature of my eye. 

So, back to the eye doctor went I. My new glasses were kinda cute and I felt oh-so-Lisa-Loeb and I proved that I have no pride whatsoever when I sang for y'all here.

After my Lisa transformation life was fine and all but then in the last few months - well, ever since I turned FORTY - something dreadful has begun to happen. Not only do I need my glasses almost all the time, but I can't read with my glasses on!

Y'all know what it means when you are both nearsighted and farsighted y'all....the B word!!!!!!!!

Some of y'all who are like, 35 and under might not know what the B word is and I hate the be the one to scar your virgin ears (eyes) but...well, someone has to rob you of your innocence, might as well be me/Lisa. Brace yourselves....The B word is....

Bifocals.

I'm sorry.
It hurt me more than it hurt you.

Today I went to an awesome new eye doctor who explained that except for the farsightedness, my left eye is almost 20/15, as in, over achiever, but my right eye is 20/60!!

Which actually makes perfect sense being that all them pregnancies left other parts of my body equally lopsided.

(Biiiiiiifocaling bifocals!!!)

The right eye is also farsighted, of course, because she showed me on the computer how the muscles that make you read get really lazy as you enter your late thirties - and then she looked straight at me and said - 'and especially during your early forties.' Rub it in, dr. sister. But, she had some new contacts that could help both issues.

I gasped and replied, don't say it Dr....don't say the B word...

'No!' she said. 'You're not ready for the B-word. Yet.'

Exhale.

The new non-bifocal contacts fit quite nicely and I could feel the youth just begin to ooze right back into my misshapen body via my misshapen corneas.

A few minutes later as the barely legal receptionist (a fetus, Walker would call her) checked me out, a song came over the radio, and I told her, "Oh! I went to this concert." Then I added, all bifocally like, "I bet you weren't even born yet."

And she said, "Oh, but I know this music, because my parents used to play a lot of oldies."

And then the Holy Spirit intervened and prevented me from slapping her upside the head and knocking her farsighted.

Here is the oldie prissy lou was referring to.

And I saw them live, in 1985.

Cause I'm a lopsided half blind national historical stinkin treasure.

One year olds hit, and other amazing bits of wisdom

Once upon a time there was a mother who had a baby. After both of them survived Newborn Hell, a fierce and beautiful relationship developed. When the baby caught sight of his mother, his face would light up in a way that he did for no one else. The mother's heart would melt as she reached for him, and basked in the amazing love he bestowed on her.

They were inseperable. She carried him proudly to all her favorite places: Target, Gymboree, the bathroom. They spoke their own special high pitched language. They had their own songs, and their own inside jokes that even Daddy wasn't in on. The mother had never experienced such unconditional, all encompassing adoration.

Finally, she began to understand why her mother-in-law hated her so much. 

One day, not long after the baby learned to walk to the cheers and tears of his ever adoring mother, he reached for a piece of old gum that was stuck to the floor of a supermarket. "No, sweetheart!" his mother cried, her voice dripping with love and concern.
 
The baby looked at his beautiful mother. Then he whacked her across the face as hard as his little arm could whack, threw himself to the ground, kicked his pudgy little legs, and from his lips came a piercing scream of rage which his mother did not know he possessed the lung capacity to emit. She knew he must be having a seizure and as she gathered him into her concerned, loving arms, the look in his eyes brought back memories from The Exorcist as his formerly precious pudgy legs kicked her in the stomach with a strength she hadn't realized he had. 

The horrible truth washed over her: this wasn't a medical emergency.

This was a rebellion.

The mother squatted in the grocery store aisle, staring at her previously perfect baby, wide eyed and mouth agape, too stunned to be embarrassed (yet), as the other women in the store pushed their carts past her and tried not to smile.

For me, it was in the stationery store when I was looking for birth announcements for the eminent Eva Rose. Twelve month old Shep wanted to pull all the cards off the racks and I wouldn't let him. It was too hard for my gigantic-with-child self to hold him, so I set him down, whereupon his thrashing soon caused him to whack his little hard head on the concrete floor. Which stopped the tantrum stat, although I don't necessarily recommend that technique. Meanwhile the sale lady stared at me staring at my child with a look like I was the worst mother ever to peruse her embossed notecards.

Soon after his sister came, the hitting began. And by soon, I mean, the day she came home from the hospital. He was smacking a newborn. Hard. At the time I was appalled and frustrated and terribly concerned that I might be one day profiled on Dateline as the mother of a serial killer. The obvious cause to his evil effect.

Three years later, his little brother Ike began to smack everyone who came within smacking distance. I disciplined, patiently, and rolled my eyes. Because four kids in three years had taught me at least one thing:  One year olds hit.

Indeed, one year olds have a wide variety of interests and hobbies. Such as:

• pulling books off bookshelves
• putting objects in containers, then carrying them, then dumping them, then putting them back in, then carrying them, then dumping them, then putting them back in
• pushing anything pushable
• wearing sunglasses
• chewing toothbrushes
• pulling out diaper wipes and scattering them all over the floor
• arching their backs when you try to get them in the carseat, especially if you are running late
• taking shoes and socks off in the car, especially if you are running late
• coloring with markers all over their face, or anyone else's face
• pouring anything, everything, all over the floor
• hanging onto your legs and demanding to be held while whining unceasingly, especially while you're cooking dinner

And if you are really blessed, your child will also enjoy creating art from natural objects found in his or her environment.

I will tell you a secret...lean in close now...I hate this age. Oh, hate is a strong, guilt inducing word. Okay, I really, really, really don't enjoy it. I love my kids more than life itself yada yada yada.  My ovaries quiver at the sight of infants, and I adore 4 year olds. But I consider 18 months to about 3 years a period of time to simply be endured. 

They are at their peak of cuteness, it is true. But the exhaustion matches the cuteness. The constant messes, the inability to complete a phone call much less a project, and the incredible worry that comes from being almost solely responsible for a child who has the exploring capabilities of Christopher Columbus combined with the wisdom of Britney Spears causes me to long for the days when doctors considered Valium nothing more than a maternal necessity.

Oh, and then there's the fun of discipline. What are realistic expectations? How much do they understand? Am I too hard or too lenient? Am I being played, or am I scarring them for life?

I remember when my kids went from one to two to three and I invested a small fortune in books just to TELL ME WHAT TO DO TO MAKE THEM BEHAVE. I never found any, and I decided it must be because no one had a clue how to make them behave at that age. In a weird, sad way, that brought me comfort.

Later, I discovered there were one or two people like John Rosemond and the Love and Logic people (this book is truly wonderful) who could give me a clue as to how to deal with toddlers.

But what I really learned that helped the most were these two things: 1) everything's a phase and 2) this too shall pass.

And when one passes, they turn


TWO!!!!


More on that later...

Missionary baking

Recently we had some missionaries from a Muslim country talk to our Sunday School class and when asked how they went about building relationships with their neighbors, the woman answered, "I've found that baking and delivering treats is a wonderful way to get to know them. So, I bake a lot."

For one brief touchy feely moment I pictured a future beatific baked-goods-loving Eva Rose, sparkles glinting off her smile and her halo as she explained her secret to winning so many converts to Christ: "I'm ever so thankful that my ma-ma taught me to bake. My baking has done so much to advance the Kingdom of Heaven."

I vowed, again, to team with my daughter to bake every cookie recipe in the Betty Crocker cookbook.

Which was simply one more sign of many that I am still in denial that I can't bake.

At all.

As in, epic failures have ensued.

Such as last week.

All my children are involved in a very schizophrenic affair with bananas, which means we are either completely out of them or have a bunch of rejected brown speckly ones on my counter. When I get tired of my husband asking if he can throw them out yet, I make banana bread, the one baking project I have mastered. Occasionally, I'll go a little crazy and make banana muffins.

Well, last week I decided to go REALLY crazy.
Like, wantin to spread the gospel to some Muslims crazy.

Down came Betty, and she promised me that a layered banana cake with cream cheese frosting would be heavenly. And easy! As two excited daughters and one messy son helped me measure and stir I hummed some Maria Von Trapp ...besides which you see I have confidence in me!

Two hours later, I asked myself, you attempted a layer cake? Seriously, Maria??

How do you solve a problem like Mariiia....

I have a long history of being bakingly challenged. Around middle school I began to branch out from chocolate chip cookies and my mother gave me full range in the kitchen. I'd pore over her cookbooks, choose a recipe, and commence to developing a delicacy that should turn out just like the picture.

The first disaster I recall my brother 'lovingly' titled Toothpaste Pie.  As I labored over a lemon merangue pie, I spied some lemon extract on the spice shelf, and thought a couple of drops would surely enhance the flavor. Problem was there was a bottle of peppermint extract right next to it that looked almost just like it. Mm. Fresh and minty.

Once at my grandma's, I learned that if you confuse cornmeal and flour, what would have been a beautiful poundcake will come out with a nice golden crust. A crusty, inedible, crusty crust.

And then there was the time I was twelve and tried to make chocolate mousse, a fancy schmancy dessert I'd heard about on TV. The fact that it isn't actually baked didn't stop me from ruining it. How was I supposed to know that when a recipe called for coffee, it meant brewed coffee? I remember my mom smiling at me pathetically as she tried to eat from the chilled champagne glass I had so proudly set before her. "It's good, honey," she said, as she picked the grounds from her teeth.

I gave up, and by high school had determined that cooking was my skill, since the directions didn't have to be followed so precisely and there was room for innovation (ie: I am not a rule follower.)

And then I had kids.

And denial reared her clueless head again.

Last summer I went through a "We go through a loaf of bread a day and surely I can make it for less money and it will be healthier made from scratch and taste so much better and I will be so freaking Proverbs 31 I won't be able to stand myself" period. Two bread makers, many confused hours, a small fortune spent on various glutens and flours, and a peculiarly obsessed toddler

and my homemade healthy bread still usually looked like this

or, if I got really lucky, like this.

It was immediately following the above raisin bread that I chunked my bread maker and my Betty dreams in the trash.

Problem is, my kids keep having birthdays, and they keep asking for cakes. For their parties, I don't even bother going homemade. I mean, please. But in December, Mags turned 5, and when I asked her what she wanted for breakfast on her birthday, she said, "Cake!" Strawberry cake, to be precise. With sprinkles, to be preciser.

Of course, Betty makes a strawberry cake mix. It looks just delightful on the box that Eva Rose put in our shopping cart. Then she chose pink and purple frosting for writing her little sister's name. After four year old Maggie went to bed on December 13, I baked the cake she would eat the next morning when she was five. The cake from a mix. That any idiot could make. From a mix. Betty's mix.

When I took it out of the oven and dumped it on the roasting pan for that extra fancy roasting pan effect, I noticed that it looked...flat. As in not fluffy. As in, only about half as tall as it should have been. Seriously, Maria? What kind of idiot messes up a cake mix?? 

Whatever, I'm sure it tastes just as good, I mumbled as I frosted it and then began to write Happy Birthday Maggie. Then I remembered what I always forget to remember: the icing tubes need tips. And squeezing the icing out of them without tips takes supermomhero strength. And tends to look, well, just flat out pathetic. By the time I got to Maggie my hand was aching so bad I could barely get the icing out. Whatever, I'm sure it tastes just as good, I mumbled, and laughed a little maniacally at what was surely the ugliest birthday cake a mom ever made.

Sweet girl did think it tasted good.

Last week, my sister-in-failure Melissa blogged about her sad attempt at making an ice cream cake for her daughter's birthday. I emailed her, "I win." and attached a closeup picture of poor Maggie's cake.

Melissa answered, "Only because you managed to make yours look like a crime scene."

The blood splatter analysis revealed very clearly: Maria can't bake.

Beautiful Day

We are in the process of selling Walker's truck. It's in great shape, very low mileage, so we've got three guys vying for it. By lunch today, I expected to kiss it goodbye and kiss a stack of cash hello.

This morning when I walked outside to take the kids to school, I was stunned at how beautiful the morning was. Chilly, in the 50s, but with bright bright sunshine. The type of day that makes me love living in Houston.

Walker had driven my van last and left a CD playing. As I backed out of my driveway, U2 poured over me and the kids.

It's a beautiful day
Sky falls, you feel like
It's a beautiful day
Don't let it get away

Then, on my street, I saw this

You love this town
Even if that doesn't ring true
You've been all over
And it's been all over you


Called one of the hundreds of mobile glass guys. One will be here in 40 minutes. He'll make it look good as new for just $100.

And see the bird with a leaf in her mouth
After the flood all the colors came out
It was a beautiful day
Don't let it get away
Beautiful day

Why I'm not tweeting for Oprah

Yesterday I received an email from a woman on behalf of the Oprah Winfrey Network. Tonight, on Our America, the uber cool Lisa Ling is taking a look at the controversial issue of homosexuality and Christianity. Also tomorrow there is going to be special show hosted by Gayle King and she will take twitter questions.

I was asked to 'join in the dialogue.'

How cool is that? I get bloggy offers every week, some great, some just flat out weird, but getting something from someone who is within a few degrees of separation from Oprah made me feel pretty tingly inside.

So why'd I say no?

Short answer: I have Beth Moore tonight, so I can't watch the show live.

Long answer: I'm a chicken. Yup. Bock bock bock bock bock.

The homosexuality and Christianity thing is so complicated that there is just no way that I can go there in 140 characters. (I've covered my thoughts in depth on it here.) It's an issue that is dear to my heart, as I have gay friends, some who even call themselves Christian. Are they Christians? I hope so. Can you be a Christian and be gay? Well, I really really hope so, because if sinners can't be Christians, I'm in a heap of trouble. (OH! Good thing we have the bible to say yes, the one thing a Christians cannot be is a non-sinner. Cause that would seriously throw off the whole crucifixion thing.)

Unfortunately, some other folks who call themselves Christian but who have seriously missed the point have done such a terrible PR job for us in the way that they have treated homosexuals, that I hate being associated with them simply because of our shared faith in Christ.

I remember years ago when a gay activist group was planning on picketing the biggest Baptist church in town. A guy who was a member there told me, with a smug, almost excited smile, "Well, good. If they are picketing us, we must be doing something right."

Exactly!! Coming off as hating other people in the name of Jesus is SO AWESOME!!! Way to share the gospel, you idiot.

Those kind of folks are the ones who I really wish would just shut up. They do a whole lot of damage to the Church. And that does damage to people who are already hurting, and who then feel like God wants nothing to do with them.

So the rest of us, who do believe that not being a sinner but actually sinning by having sex outside of biblical marriage is indeed wrong (whether you are gay OR straight! Same thing! Doesn't matter!), have been portrayed as such hateful stone throwers that it's very difficult for anyone to listen to us with an open mind and open heart, no matter how lovingly we may speak the truth.

But - I get equally frustrated with those in the church who encourage people, gay or straight, to remain entrenched in their sin, which only facilitates separation from the fullness of a right relationship with God and the blessings that follow. I don't call that love, I call that abuse. And I'm afraid that the pastors in the show might do that.

About a jillion very opinionated people are going to be watching the show tonight. If I hashtagged, some of them would probably come to my blog and leave me mean comments that might make me cry.

Bock, bock bock bock bock.

Here's the link to the preview.

If you want to drown out the stupid Christians, tweet your questions to Gayle tonight at @ouramerica. And I am sure I don't have to tell y'all this, my sweet readers, but just in case this gets forwarded: IF YOU DO NOT TWEET AS AMBASSADORS OF A LOVING CHRIST WHO CAME TO SAVE THE LOST THEN FOR GOD'S SAKE SHUT UP.

The world is watching.

Hello? Is it 911 you're looking for?

After the Lionel flashback yesterday, we pulled up the original video on youtube. A video that my friend Jenny says she used to watch over and over - rewinding on her VCR after recording it off MTV - because it was so romantic. And she needed tips on how best to wear socks with heels.

Watch this y'all,



Then tell me the truth: Would you not get a restraining order on this man??? Good grief.

If you still have ten minutes of your life to waste and are still humming some Lionel, go watch this. It had me LOLing, and I don't LOL that often. I mean, I do, but not often from like, the internet. Okay, that's not really true either. Actually I LOL a lot. Whatever. Just go watch it.

I am paying bills and whatnot because I am behind. Cause when I get sick, I get behind. When Walker gets sick, I get behind. When the kids get sick, I get behind. When I go out of town, I get behind. When I have Smockaholics, I get behind. When ALL THOSE THINGS happen in a ONE MONTH PERIOD, I hyperventilate a little bit. Just a little. Small paper bag amount, like a lunch sack. And then I snap at my husband like I did this morning. You know when they get the very wide eyed look that leads to a wide eyed roll? Saw that.

I have so much to tell you, invisibles. SO much to share. My head is a swirl of blog posts. It's time for me to start neglecting my family and spend more time blogging. Priorities and all. Soon as I get my sad self caught up, oh, the blog posts we'll go.

** A little note to my fellow Ethiopian adoption peeps: I think the hoopla may very well be unwarranted. VOA is not a terribly reliable source, as far as I can determine, and its certainly not an unbiased one. I've heard encouraging things. So I'm cooling my jets till someone with more authority gives me cause to officially freak out.

Cause I don't know what to say, and I don't know what to do

The news from Ethiopia gets worse and worse.

Good thing I have a husband who regularly emails me things like this.

It's all I got. But it's all I need.