Mitten Monday

The heater in my truck is currently not working. And this morning when I went to work it was a crisp 22° inside the cab. My dad offered me a 12 V portable heater and my husband offered me these amazing woolen mittens. 

I was extremely grateful for both. 

However, I quickly learned there are many things I cannot do with mittened hands. 

I cannot scratch my head with mittens. 

I have trouble choosing the elevator floor with mittens. 

Cannot scratch deep inside my nose with mittens. Seriously, I'm scratching. Not picking. 

I cannot offer other drivers constructive criticism with mittens. 

Choosing a radio station is always a surprise with mittens. 

I cannot say 'I love you' in sign language with mittens. 

But, at the end of the day I realized that being able to use my fingers because they were not frozen into popsicle sticks was worth all of the frustrations I experienced with mittens. 

Makeup Contouring Tutorial for busy moms

I've recently been sucked back into the world of Pinterest.  And I'm finding so many good recipes and crafts for the kids for both Thanksgiving and Christmas.  But more interestingly, I've discovered makeup contouring.  Has anyone else heard of this?  I'm amazed that you can take a basic face and create the appearance of high cheekbones, longer or shorter nose, and even less of a double chin.  I have to try this! 

I started by taking pictures of my clean, washed face.  Definitely lacking high cheekbones.  

Definitely have what is referred to as Marcella's nose (thanks to my grandmother).  Aside - anyone sporting the Marcella nose, also known as the 'Pearce' nose (my grandmother's maiden name) makes a perfect turtle face.  End aside. 

turtle face

And I have a chin issue.  Let's definitely deal with that.  

My first obstacle was a lack  of makeup.  I don't own a contouring kit and I don't have a makeup artist to help me.  What I DO have is a surplus of:

Crayola "washable" paint and paintbrushes 

Access to the internet

Artists up to the challenge

I also don't have a fancy headband to keep my hair out of my face, so we adapted.

I showed the boys what I wanted to look like and they said they absolutely knew they could do it.  They even made a plan.  Cade would take the left side of my face and Stone would take the right. 

I was so excited to see the results.  

I opened my eyes once or twice and saw the looks of concentration and knew they were fully invested. 

I saw them looking again and again at the computer and knew that they were taking this seriously. 

I saw tongues - a sure sign that mastery is being attained.  

And once, Cade stopped to point out a part of the contouring they missed, which assured me they were bring thorough.

They finished with a little lip gloss.  It tickled. 

And finally, the finished product was revealed.  All I see is cheekbones and lips for DAYS.  Hollah!

 

 

Here are some close ups of their work, ladies, if you want to book a consultation. 

And here is the glamour shot we took.

One thing the tutorial fails to mention is just how much face washing it takes to get the contouring off.  I mean, it looks like strawberry milk in the sink.  

And I'm not sure the towel will ever be right again.  I wonder what Kim Kardashian looks like underneath all that contouring...  

The Man, the Myth, the Septuagenarian

Today, my dad turns 70.  Which is weird.  Because he hasn’t aged since he turned 50.  I don’t give my dad near enough blog space.  My boys will tell you that many of my sentences begin with “Your Ada used to say…” or “Your Ada taught me…” or “One time, your Ada…”  My boys love these stories because they are the perfect combination of folklore and wisdom.  So is my Dad.      

My dad gave me the secondary scripture by which I live. 

“It is what it is” – he didn’t create the saying, but he made it a life-lesson for me about things I have no control over.

“It takes all kinds” – another phrase my dad didn’t invent, but used as psychological cannon.  This was the phrase my dad used when I was having trouble understanding the behaviors of others (he used this quite a bit through my high school years).  I know this seems too short a phrase to be mind-blowing, but I’ve leaned on it numerous times in my adulthood and thanked him for the voice in my head that reminds me I can’t change people and that my world is fuller because we are all different. 

“That’s slicker than buffalo snot on a porcelain doorknob.”  - you could just say something is slippery, but where’s the fun in that?

 “Can you do anything about it?  If you can, do it.  If not, stop worrying about it.” – my dad to me whenever I was stressing verbally about something.  It’s not just a saying to him.  My dad lives this better than anyone else I know. 

“I’ll hit you so hard you’ll hum like a ten-penny finishing nail hit by a greasy ball-peen hammer.” – my dad is not a violent man.  But this was the threat I honestly believed would happen to me if I ever dared to tickle his bare feet as they hung off the end of his recliner.  A related threat, and the one we laugh at the most, was “I’ll wrap your ass up around your elbow.”  I’ll let you ponder that image.  The lesson here is; don’t tickle my dad’s feet.  Bad things will happen to you. 

My dad gave me my flair for exaggeration. 

“I left 52 messages.” – meaning he called twice and left me one message.

“I had to hit it 57 times to get it to stick.” – maybe 5 times. 

“You’re talking 53 miles an hour.” – I’m not sure there’s science that can back such a claim, but I bet if there were, he might be right on this one. 

My dad says fitty.  So It’s fitty-three or fitty-two, etc.  And it’s ALWAYS a number in the 50’s when he’s exaggerating. 

My dad gave me mental snap shots of his awesomeness.

My dad was always fixing my cars, so I have a still shot of my dad’s legs stretching out from underneath a car.  And my dad, very much like Darren McGavin in A Christmas Story, used "colorful" language when he was frustrated.  So, my dad is kind of like the wicked wizard of home auto repair.  Legs protruding from underneath a car instead of a house and curse words streaming into the atmosphere like puffs of diesel exhaust.

My dad was the Easter Bunny.  Easter was Donald Formby’s holiday and we all knew it.  Mom bought the dye and Dad and I dyed the eggs.  Then, he hid them for me – all the way through high school.  I have a picture in my mind of my dad skipping away with a basket full of eggs to hide while my mom and I stood laughing at him from the house.  We shook our heads as our hearts were filled with love for a man who could fix a car in the morning and skip away from the house like a cartoon Peter Cottontail in the afternoon.  The payoff for my dad was eating the dyed eggs, which he swears taste better than regular boiled eggs.    

My Dad carved a mean Pumpkin.  We didn’t have these fancy carving kits you find in the stores today (said in my best crotchety old lady voice).  I have a picture in my mind of my dad with his tongue out to one side, a scowl of concentration on his face, a butcher knife in his hand, and the beginnings of a friendly smile on our pumpkin’s face.

My Dad cries like a baby at rehearsal dinners.  What’s especially endearing about this is that my dad is a man’s man.  A deer hunter and former gun-store owner.  He’s athletic and fearless and rugged and everything the quintessential Southern man should be.  Until he gets a glass of champagne in his hand and has to give a toast.  Then my dad is a lawn sprinkler.  A huggable, loveable, underdog of a leaky faucet.  He’s going to wrap my you-know-what around my elbow for telling this one.  J

My dad knows how to make a bad situation better.

We went to see The Empire Strikes Back at the movies and the film broke in the middle of it.  The theater apologized and sent us on our way.  I was 7 at the time and seriously bummed.  So my dad turned our Mazda 280ZX into the Millennium Falcon. He drove home swerving and downshifting and speeding up to escape the Imperial ghost ships that were hot on our tail.  Best movie date ever. 

My dad has fixed more than one science project gone awry.  For me and my kids.  He has a tool or glue for any occasion.  He's not just a duct tape guy.  He's evolved.   

My dad buried my dog, Charlie, and we cried together and he told me that it was ok because our cat, who had died that same year, would be there to make sure Charlie was ok.  Dad, thank you for that.  In case I never told you. 

My dad fixed numerous broken hearts with equal amounts of hugging and trash-talking the offender (whether boyfriend or best friend).

My dad gave me my love for Westerns - thanks, Dad.

Today. I am filled with love and gratitude for my Dad.  He’s made up of equal parts hero, legend, and straight-man – but he manages to come across as all heart.  He's who I want to be when I grow up.  Well, except for the threats about touching his feet and vehement hatred to tangled Christmas tree lights.  I'll let him have those things as a kind of signature. 

I love you, Dad.    

Apron Strings Removal

It’s happening.  I’ve prepared myself for it. I’ve repeatedly prayed for God to make me strong.  I’ve had moments of insane confidence that I’d weather it in stride.  And now it’s happening and I don’t like it.  Not one bit.

Pearce is pulling away.  He’s becoming his own man.  He’s finding his independence.  All the things I’ve groomed him for.  They are happening and it feels like the air in my lungs is thinner than it used to be.

I know I’ll adjust.  And I know I’ll try really hard not to become the Martyr Mother.  Or the Guilt-trip Queen.  Although I think these reactions are intrinsic in my maternal make-up. 

This summer has been a summer of manic activity for Pearce and Cole.  It’s been a combination of friends, athletics, church youth events, and vacation.  And I feel like I’ve seen them 10 minutes since school ended.  But there’s more to it.  I feel disconnected.  Pushed out.  Like a Mom.  *shiver*

My first big clue was during Mission Trip.  Every year, my church’s youth group spends a week in service.  This year, both Pearce and Cole went.  Cole called me almost every night.  And he called his dad every night but one.  Connected.  But Pearce – I didn’t hear a peep from him.  Instead, I stalked him like a crazy person – trolling Instagram for a glimpse of his week, searching the daily videos for a Pearce (and Cole) sighting.  I finally fell victim to my urge to troll his friends’ Instagram feeds (and the youth leaders’ feeds) for a morsel.  And when I’d find one, I shoved my phone in Chad’s face saying, “Look, there he was behind the kid they are interviewing!  He walks by!”  What happened to the cool mom who posts her own life on Instagram?  She was gone - replaced by That-Mom-I-Used-To-Make-Fun-Of-With-Pearce.  Suddenly, Instagram became the instrument of my indignity. 

Then, various activities kept us running around – barely seeing each other for weeks.  I’d get him up early, drop him at his dad’s house, go to work, pick him up from somewhere, and then watch him disappear into his room not to be seen until dinner.  And after dinner, he returned to his cave until I went to bed – stealing a hug or a wave goodnight.  I found that even though we were in the same house, I missed him.    

Then, the shame spiral deepened.  He left for a week-long vacation with a friend to Red River, N.M.  And he gave me a signature hug, which is like a sarcastic bear hug.  I know that’s a weird definition, but if you received one, you’d come out of it saying, “Hmm…it IS a sarcastic bear hug!”  I asked him to text me each night to let me know he was safe.  It wasn’t too much to ask.  He looks like a man, but he’s only 14.  He hasn’t texted me once on his own. 

Here’s a screen shot of our discourse over 4 days.  I make the request, he says yes.  I remind him, he says yes.  Then, I resort to subtle mom-guilt.  I put the emoticon in there to soften the guilt.  J

 

Because my son is wholly wrapped up in his amazing teenage vacation adventure, I am forced to resort to more shameful devices.  Namely, the Find My iPhone app.  It’s the devil.  I’ve never used it before, but it’s been on my phone in case I need it to locate a missing phone.  I opened the app, refreshed the feed, and I knew the exact moment Pearce crossed from Texas to New Mexico.  I knew when he was at his cabin.  I knew when he was in town.  I was like an evil satellite Cyclops, looking down upon my son from my malevolent space-eyeball.

It’s time for self-intervention.  Time to be the confident mom I profess to be.  Time to be the mom who is intentionally raising her son to be independent from apron strings.  I honestly didn’t think it would be me who needed to loosen them. 

I knew there’d be a day when he’d be on his own.  That is the day I’m parenting him toward.  I want him to be his own man – self-assured and self-sufficient.  I just expected it would be college before it started…    

 

The Duck Dynasty Thing

I am not a reality TV fan.  In fact, I despise reality TV.  Watching any of it gives me an uncomfortable anxiety.  I don't even watch The Office because it's too close to reality TV.  I'm ok with how ridiculous that sounds. 

I don't like competition - in fact, I'll not play a game if the competition is going to make it less fun. Ping pong?  Sure - but let's not keep score.  I don't like conflict and do whatever it takes to avoid it.  I don't like to see people down on their luck. It makes me sad.

I don't watch reality TV because all of these things occur.  Backstabbing, lying, fighting, screaming, cussing - and it all makes me feel stressed.  I have four boys.  I have enough stress.

Enter Duck Dynasty.  I had friends tell me it was their favorite show on TV.  Friends who watch the same kind of shows I love.  So I asked what it was about and they made the mistake of starting the explanation with, "Well, it's a reality show about..." All I heard after that was white noise.  That was the first season. 
This past year, I heard more and more about it.  Other people told me to put aside my perception of reality TV and give it a shot.  But I was exposed to other reality shows that my husband and father-in-law watch where families struggle to mine an ounce of gold out of mountains and wrangle hogs and fight and scream and fight and scream and fight.  No thanks.  That was season two.

This year, I had enough of my friends tell me it was their favorite show.  I sat around work listening to coworkers discuss the latest episode and laugh hysterically at the antics of 'Uncle Si.' 

I broke down.
I set the DVR.
I watched the first recorded episode.
I thought, "I don't get it."

I honestly didn't.  The fighting wasn't that bad, though, and I have a rule that I'll try three episodes of a show before I decide against it.  So, I watched another episode, this time with my kids in the room.  They laughed so hard.  I laughed at their laughter. 

That's when the first realization hit me.  This is the first show I've seen in many years that I don't have to pause when the kids walk into the room.  It seems like they don't make family TV shows anymore.  Everything is sex and violence and cursing and political agendas masked in comedy or drama. 

We watched a third episode and this one was really funny.  Even to me. 

So, Duck Dynasty became a family thing - something we could all watch together on a rainy day.  And eventually, we were all laughing at this show - talking about how people we knew were like our favorite characters on the show (are they characters in a non-fiction show?  I guess they are because really... Si is a character). 

Then a defining moment happened.  I'm a huge advocate for dinner at the table.  It's one of the things I love about the show.  And one night at dinner, Stone said, "Can we do the Duck Dynasty thing?"

I said, "What's the Duck Dynasty thing?"

He said, "You know, when they sit down at the end of the show to eat and the Daddy says the thing."

One of his older brothers (I think it was Pearce) said, "You mean pray?"

He said, "Yeah, pray!  Can we do that Duck Dynasty thing?"

A little back story - and I don't want to sound weird here or like I'm picking on Chad - but I'm the 'church person.'  And because I love him and don't want him to feel like I'm judging him, I don't shove faith down his throat.  Ok, I try not to.  So, I've never insisted that we pray before a meal.  I insist that we eat together.  I insist that we put away electronic devices.  But I've never insisted on a prayer because I don't want him to feel like I'm becoming overly 'religious.' 

So, when Stone asked if we could pray by calling it the 'Duck Dynasty thing,' it made it somehow ok for us all to say, "Yep, that's a good idea."

And now we do.  Pray before dinner.  We call it the Duck Dynasty thing and I keep it light.  Something like, "Thank you for this family and for our love for each other and your love for us.  Help us to love each other and you more and more every day.  Thank you that we are so blessed to have this good food.  Amen." 

You know...light.  But in my heart, I'm bursting with heavy gratitude for this stupid show about this family who makes duck calls; a group of brothers who fight like my boys fight; a crazy Uncle (we all have one -and in my case more than one), and a patriarch who gives thanks to his father at the end of the day. 

Ultimately, I give thanks to God who works in the most amazing and creative ways to make himself known. 



 

Happy Birthday, Stone!

Last week, Stone turned 7. Most people who know me will laugh when I say in many ways Stone is my most challenging child. Maybe that's not the right way to put it. Most people who know CADE will laugh when I say in many ways Stone is my most challenging child.


Let me clarify. Stone isn't challenging to raise. He's very well behaved, very responsible, very compliant. He's challenging to me because we are so different.

He’s taciturn; I’m gregarious.

He’s introverted; I’m extraverted.

He’s realistic; I’m idealistic.

He’s more like Chad than I am – and where that leads to an interesting marriage, it’s challenging to me as a mother. The parenting skills that worked with Pearce and Cole (both very much like me) do not work with Stone. My humorous parenting style earns blank stares from Stone. Sometimes he even groans.

I’ll confess that when he was a toddler, my parenting methods exacerbated his negative emotions or behaviors. I once told Chad I worried that Stone didn’t like me. That was from a naive, ego-centric point of view. I’m so thankful I’m not looking at it from that perspective any more. And for that, I have thanks to give.

I thank my former Pastor, Steve Langford for teaching me about personality types in light of how they function in family systems. He taught me the value of all personality types and how to balance mine (which can be a little over-the-top) in order to relate to others. He also taught me to be self-aware and to constantly be open to growth, even if it stings to learn something about yourself that needs to be changed. Luckily, he also taught me that growth is something you let God help you with, so you never have to do the heavy lifting alone. I’ve grown as a mother to understand that Stone and I are different in ways that we can celebrate. We are different in ways that lead to growth for both of us.

I also want to thank the myriad of books on parenting that have said over and over that I’m the grown up and that the onus of relating to him is on me. He doesn’t have to change for our relationship to be amazing. And neither do I. But I have had to learn to relate to him in ways that are foreign to me. He doesn’t do silliness unless he decides it’s safe to be silly. He doesn’t ‘do’ silly on command like my other boys. Like me. And that’s ok (she repeats to herself over and over).

I want to thank my mom (this is starting to sound like an acceptance speech) who has given me an example of what it’s like to be the mother of a child who is very different from you. My mom is a Stone. And she raised a Dori. And she did it without stifling me or trying to make me into a Cherryle. We are so good together BECAUSE we are different. Because she values my differences. We ground, but also fuel each other. And she did all this intuitively where I needed parenting books. My mom is amazing.

Finally, I want to thank God for giving me this little boy who is so smart I can’t keep up with him. Who wears khaki slacks and tucks in his shirts even on the weekend. Who is sometimes more mature than his 12 and 14-year-old brothers (it’s not an insult; Pearce and Cole would agree). Whose contagious laugh makes his family want to make fools of themselves just to hear it for a second. Who is a perfect reminder of the wonder and mystery of God.

Happy (belated) Birthday, Stone!!!!!!!

Raconteur

A raconteur is someone who can spin a tale. One who is skillful in telling anecdotes.  A storyteller. 

I believe my 7-year-old son is a raconteur.  

Today, I got a phone call from the school nurse.  This was what she told me:

Nurse: "I couldn't stop thinking about your family last night after the story Stone told me.  Did this actually happen?  Stone told me that a man broke into your house the night before last and your husband shot him in the stomach."

Me: "What?  Oh my gosh - NO!  That didn't happen!"

Nurse:  "Oh. (laughs) I didn't think so, but his story was so elaborate I thought I'd check.  He told me that a man who was being chased by the police drove up to your house in a black car.  He got out and...do you have a play room with a door?"

Me:  "Yes, our upstairs playroom has a door to the deck."

Nurse:  (laughs) "Ok, he said that the man jumped out of the black car and ran to the door and busted out the window to come in.  He said he and his little brother were in there playing XBox and he (Stone) grabbed his little brother and ran through the house yelling.  Then he said that his dad grabbed a gun and shot the man in the stomach."

Me: "Uhh..."

Nurse: (laughs) "Then he told me that they called 911 and the police and an ambulance came to get the man who wasn't dead."

Me: "..."

Nurse: "I decided to ask his teacher - actually his substitute - about it and he told her the exact same story down to the details..."

Me:  "Wow.  I'm not sure what to say." (we are both laughing now)

Nurse: "I just needed to make sure that it didn't happen because if it really did, I'd need to report it to the counselor.  That would traumatize a kid!"

If this were the only story that Stone had recently told, I wouldn't call him a raconteur.  Last month, he had a school project that we completed together.  It was a diorama of an opossum habitat.  I went outside and brought a small pile of leaves from the ground and we glued them all over the outside and inside of a shoebox. 

He came home the afternoon he turned it in and told us that a big brown spider had crawled out of the leaves on his project and one of the kids in his class screamed out "SPIDER!"  His teacher then grabbed a flyswatter and killed the spider by swatting it several times on top of the shoebox.  He told me she vanquished the spider.  Vanquished.  His word - not mine. 

I sent the teacher an email because I was mortified that I'd taken a project up to school with a big spider in it.  She emailed back - "There was a spider in it?  I didn't know!"  So I recounted the story to her and she replied that it was just that - a story.  It hadn't happened.  When I asked him that afternoon whether he'd told me a story; he grinned.

Raconteur. 

DIY Earring Holder (a.k.a. Much more fun that washing dishes)

Tonight, I promised myself I'd do all the dishes. They've piled up this past week. Before you judge, you have to cut me some slack for the following reasons:

1. Our house has no dishwasher (unless you count me, but I'm referring to the appliance)

2. There are 6 of us eating three meals a day. One of us is a teenager. That's a possibility of 18-25 dishes a day.  Over 5 days, that's...well, a counter-full of dishes. 

3. Chad had knee surgery a week ago and I'm down one person on my two-man team.

I looked at the dishes.
I thought about how my parents are coming in this weekend. My very tidy parents...
I looked at the materials I had for a quick DIY project.
I looked back at the dishes.
Then back again at the DIY project.

I haven't looked at the dishes since then.

Here's my fun little project.

My parents recently gave me this old cabinet door. They had it hanging in their house with a few items displayed inside. Very cute. But, I saw an idea on Pinterest for an earring holder and knew this door was the perfect foundation.





Here's the door.  Cute!  Look at that tiny glass knob!





This is the backside - oooooh, racy!





Here's the decorative radiator grating I decided on from Lowes.





Detail of the grating.  It's very pretty.





I measured what I needed and then used metal snips to cut it.





The metal snips left the edges bent this way and that.  Ugly!





I used a highly technical maneuver to straighten the edges. 





I popped the metal grating into the back - it fit so snugly, I didn't
 even need to use tape or staples.





The finished product!  I will go back soon and staple the metal to the
door for stability.





Ooooh, aaaahhhhh.  So pretty.  So girly.  So awesome...





Seriously, if you looked at this mess and then looked at an awesome
earring holder just begging to be made...there's really no choice.