Grown up, but still a kid

Friday was a good day. It was the kind of day that comes and goes and when you look back on it, you think, "Man, I loved that day." And it wasn't that anything amazing happened, but the gathering of all the little memories makes for one big nice one.

My parents were in because sick kids prevented us from traveling last weekend. So, I decided it was finally my turn to cook Christmas dinner. My first turkey and all the accompanying dishes. It's a dizzying task; coordinating what goes in first, at what temperature, for how long,etc. I'm really glad my mom was there to help me navigate the unknown paths. However, she did not take over, make suggestions or changes, or look exasperated at me once. She sat over at the dining room table looking amused for most of the day. And my Dad, who can't sit still unless there's an old western on the tube, came in and did all the chopping, dicing, and cubing for the recipes. I'm so grateful not to have cubed the sweet potatoes! So at that one point, it was me and Dad, who's busy, but unobtrusive presence are both positive and endearing.

And when it was all done, we sat down to a dinner table that looked completely alien to us.

A roasted turkey (who has his own story from being frozen the morning I started cooking to not quite done when I took him out of the oven) that I made by combining recipes I found from Martha Stewart and The Barefoot Contessa. Just a friendly note here; if you've never made your own turkey before, you can't just buy it the night before and expect to cook it early the next morning. It has to thaw for days.

A corn casserol and sweet potato casserole I found on the internet.

A Yankee Stuffing recipe (Horror #1) made from sourdough bread instead of cornbread (Horror #2) that I found on - wait for it - a BLOG (Oh, the horror!).

There was only one pie, not enough wine for dinner because we started drinking it at 10:00 that morning, and we forgot to open the can of cranberry sauce.

But, my family being the amazing people they are, all ate without making any comments about how different my meal was from our traditional Christmas dinner. Everyone had something nice to say (even Pearce and Cole) and we enjoyed our meal.

I was feeling very happy about having completed and eaten my first Christmas dinner. I was feeling very grown up. I felt very much the matriarch at that moment. And then my mom walked up to me and looked me in the eyes and said, "I'm proud of you." The feeling of being grown up didn't disappear, but I enjoyed the rush of child-like warmth to hear her say those words. In that moment, I was both grown up, but still a kid.

Worry chorizo

I worry. It's kind of what I do. I worry I'm not a good mom. A good wife. A good friend. A good person. A good Christian. Sometimes my worry overwhelms me and when I become overwhelmed, I feel out of control. That's the worst. Being out of control. Feeling helpless and hopeless is like holding my breath. Or like when my brother used to roll me up into a blanket so tight that I couldn't unroll myself.

Sometimes I'm overwhelmed by noise. By responsibility. By expectations. By anger. By jealousy. When I'm out of control of myself in these ways, it's like being wrapped too tightly in a guilt blanket. I become a guilt chorizo.

Tonight, I walked a prayer labyrinth; which is something I've never done. I asked God to tell me what to pray about. As I approached the center, I was focusing on all the above things - the things that wrap me up. The words 'out of control' came to mind and on their heels, the words, 'God is in control.'

This isn't a Christmas miracle post. My epiphany won't change the circumstances that cause my worry nor their frequency. And I don't know that I'm going to stop worrying or feeling less out of control. But, knowing that God is never out of control gave me peace. Peace that is still with me. Peace I can pass on. Peace that might still be in me the next time the blanket of guilt and worry comes calling.

God is in control.

Tomorrow, I will worry, even though I don't need to and it doesn't do any good. I will worry about my 12-year-old having his first girlfriend. About my sick great-aunt. About money. About singing off key at church. About cooking my first Christmas goose.

But God will not worry.

There is peace in that.

Psalm 46

1 God is our refuge and strength,
an ever-present help in trouble.
2 Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way
and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea,
3 though its waters roar and foam
and the mountains quake with their surging.

4 There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God,
the holy place where the Most High dwells.
5 God is within her, she will not fall;
God will help her at break of day.
6 Nations are in uproar, kingdoms fall;
he lifts his voice, the earth melts.

7 The LORD Almighty is with us;
the God of Jacob is our fortress.

8 Come and see what the LORD has done,
the desolations he has brought on the earth.
9 He makes wars cease
to the ends of the earth.
He breaks the bow and shatters the spear;
he burns the shields[d] with fire.
10 He says, “Be still, and know that I am God;
I will be exalted among the nations,
I will be exalted in the earth.”

11 The LORD Almighty is with us;
the God of Jacob is our fortress.

Sneaky Stocking Stalkers

I love my childhood stocking. My Dad’s mom made it and it’s the symbol of Christmas magic to me. The stocking is my favorite part of Christmas morning. No matter how many presents were under the tree, Christmas always felt like it started when we, wide-eyed with anticipation, carefully pulled out each treasure from within the stocking. And Christmas always felt like it ended when the last item had been dug out, the bottom of the stocking checked, rechecked, and triple checked for emptiness. There were still presents under the tree, and I loved them, but the anticipation and excitement of the stocking was unrivaled.

You remember how hard it was to go to sleep on Christmas Eve? Knowing that Santa was coming and yet knowing he wouldn’t come until I fell asleep was torture. It was like taking a NoDoz and a sleeping pill and hoping for the best. You know you need to sleep, but can’t. One Christmas, I had a particularly hard time staying asleep. My bedroom was on the second floor and opened to a balcony that overlooked the entire living room. Each time I’d awaken, I’d sneak out to see if Santa had come. On the third time, there it was. The Stocking. And although Santa had most likely brought me something awesome that was sitting out in plain sight, I couldn’t see anything else but the glittery, beckoning, felt and sequined embodiment of temptation. There’s something spectacular about the heft and shape of a filled stocking. My stocking had a rosy-cheeked Santa who always looked so fat and jolly when he was stuffed.

I deftly made my way downstairs and dared to peer into the depths of its wonder. I could see a Hello Kitty emblem, the traditional Book of Lifesavers, something fuzzy, and then…was that the top of a Star Wars figure? I could see the logo; I knew the familiar cardboard box. But I couldn’t quite see which character. I oh-so gently removed the top item from the stocking. I swear the sound of a Life Saver box coming out of a felt stocking was like a jet engine in the living room. I removed the Hello Kitty stationery set. Did it have bells on it? It was so loud! I removed the fuzzy thing and there it was. Luke Skywalker in the orange X-wing suit. I lovingly removed him from his sleeping place and marveled at him. Santa was truly amazing. I decided not to press my luck and place everything back in the stocking, but realized as I put Luke back that there was the bottom of a Star Wars figure box further down. Two Star Wars characters! Oh, Santa, surely I was naughtier than to deserve two! And that was it, the stocking was completely emptied and I sat among my loot so happy. An orange Luke Skywalker and a Chewbacca. I’m still aglow with the memory of that moment.

I replaced the items in my stocking, too caught up in my reverie to replace them in the correct sequence. That Christmas came and went and the next year, I made my trip downstairs to look at the stocking in the dead of night. To my surprise, everything on the top of the stocking was crinkly or honestly covered in bells. So, Santa knew. It felt like it took me an hour that year to go through my stocking noiselessly. I learned to replace the toys exactly as they came out, but it didn’t matter. Each year after that, Santa placed the noisiest treasures at the top of the stocking and each thing within it was put together like Jenga. One year, there was even a toy that spoke loudly when I moved it.

I don’t remember when my yearly sneaking tradition stopped, but it was well into high school. It’s a fond memory that my parents and I laugh at now, although I never dared to tell them when I was a child in case they had ways of communicating with Santa. My kids aren’t afraid of Santa, though; because they confessed to me that they have been planning and executing midnight raids on their stockings for the last few years. Strangely, knowing their secret keeps the magic going for me.

Tinsel stress

Reminiscing 'Wonder Years' style is hard to do when your parents are still alive (and reading your blog), so I hope my mom forgives me for this post. I hope she reads it in the voice of the guy who wrote and narrated 'A Christmas Story.' Otherwise, I might be presentless this Christmas.

Today, I hung tinsel on the Christmas tree. It was Chad's request. It was something he remembered fondly about the trees of his childhood. And as I opened the package, I was suddenly aware that I hadn't hung tinsel in all my adult life. Had it gone out of fashion? Had I just been too lazy to do it all these years? Who knew.

As I pulled out the first strands of tinsel, the stress came back in a vertigo shot (you know that shot in a movie where the actor suddenly realizes something and the background zooms while the actor stays the same size?) I flashed back to myself from probably 4th grade to my senior year of high school. The trimming of the tree in my house was a looked-forward-to event that always seemed to have a dark side.

There was the lighting nightmare. Year after year my father cursed and growled at the tangled mass of Christmas tree lights in his hands. They seemingly had no end or beginning. Or they had so many ends sticking out from every direction that he had no idea where to start. Every year he tried a new method of putting them away that might yield less stress the next year. There was the lights around the coffee can year. The lights around the extension cord frame year. There was even a year when dad was ahead of his time and just put the tree up with the lights still in it. Thank goodness for pre-lit trees. They saved our family.

There was the yearly garland conundrum, where mom tried new and innovative ways to strand the garland. Up and down the tree. Sort of tucked into the tree. Plain slapped onto the tree (when Derrick was in charge).

There was the ornament instruction each year. Ornaments were to be hung evenly from front to back and top to bottom. My ornaments were rehung every year as I never quite seemed to grasp the spacial concept my mom was going for.

But among all these stresses, none topped the tinsel. I dreaded tinsel time like no other. There were rules about how many strands were in one toss. There was a wrist flick method that escaped my mastery. There was the 'purposeful randomness.' You know what I'm talking about? My mom wanted the tinsel to look randomly placed - in a perfect way. We spent more time trying to make the tinsel look whimsical than we spent getting the tree out of the attic, watching dad hurl expletives around the room while lighting the tree, and all the decorating prior to tinsel time. I never got it right. I'd toss a clump of tinsel. Or I'd let too much fall to the floor. Inevitably, my mom would relieve me from tinsel duty and exasperatedly strip me of my box of tinsel. I can close my eyes and see my mom with the tinsel in her hand - alone because the rest of us were more afraid of her in that moment than we were when Dad was in his scariest lighting rant. She was the Cruella de Vil of tinsel. Maniacally flicking her wrist and reworking where the errant strands had randomly landed to make them look more random.

At the end of the night, when the stress of the tree trimming was over and my mom and dad had had a chance to recover, we looked in awe at our tree. It was always magical. Perfectly whimsical. Sparkly and mesmerizing. And my mom always got up every morning after it was decorated to plug in the lights so that as I came into the living room each morning through Christmas, the shiny, beautiful tree was there to greet me. And the tinsel sparkled happily and I didn't remember the stress of its conception.

Until today. And instead of stressing, I smiled, threw clumps of tinsel this way and that, and concocted this blog post while I worked.

A letter to the squatters in my home

Dear Germs,

I learned in a writing class in college that it’s best to start any letter with a compliment. In the spirit of creative letter-writing, I offer you this; you are indeed very powerful and tenacious. Your patience in waiting until one of my children is well to strike the others is pure evil genius.

I admit you’ve had your run of my house. You’ve had us sleepless with worry, frantically calling in grandparents for help, and constantly doling out money to our family doctor and the Green Oaks 24-hour Walgreens pharmacy. Your presence has led my doctor to make jokes about naming a wing of his office after us. Sure, laugh it up.

I have no doubt you are feeling rather smug about it all. We missed out on working at our church’s pumpkin patch, a fall festival, Trunk-Or-Treat, and Halloween altogether because of you. We missed a Halloween hayride party we go to every year because of you. We narrowly escaped your grasp at Thanksgiving – but were on antibiotics to combat your efforts to infiltrate us again. We missed two Christmas parties because of you. And now, we are manically trying to rid our house of you before Christmas starts in earnest.

I don’t allow the word ‘hate’ in my house, so I’ll say this; I abhor you. I loathe you. I detest you.

However, looking at the future with optimistic hope, I know your presence now almost guarantees my household freedom from your reign later. I know my youngest two boys will have the immune system that resembles Godzilla and your effectiveness will be something akin to Tokyo. You will fight with your armies of germs, but my kids’ adaptive immunity will annihilate you. What, not laughing now? You’ve already lost your hold on Pearce and Cole. You, with all your pathogenic schemes, haven’t been able to penetrate their stronghold of layered defense. It’s called immunological memory, my friend. Pearce and Cole’s bodies see you coming. And they giggle at you. That’s right. You are like a toddler playing Red Rover with the 1985 Chicago Bears* defensive line.

So, please enjoy your time, albeit short-lived, with my youngest two. Because soon, you will be an unpleasant, but distant memory.

Without regard,

Dori

*Anyone over 40 might argue that the 1970s Steel Curtain defense would have been a better example, but I’m a generation younger and the 85 Bears won the Super Bowl, so I ultimately chose them. Oh, and it’s my blog, so there.

Craftiness

I realized something this week while talking to a friend at work. I neither flaunt my girliness nor exploit my tomboyishness. So, I've made a decision to relate to my all-male household by learning how to fish and committing to camping (an activity I loved as a child). However, my family will have to excuse me while I 'fill up' the girly gas tank.

I decided to give crafting a try. I found a great How-To magazine and tore out several articles. I also found a few blogs that have amazing crafts. I'm not bragging. My first attempts at craftiness are pretty sad, but I know it'll get better (and the seams straighter) as I gain some experience. And there's the problem. My lack of attention span and impulsivity almost guarantee that these are the first and only attempts at these particular crafts. The gift tag took an hour. Who wants to spend an hour making gift tags? And the candle I'm turning over to my oldest boys to make as crafts for their teachers. I might reproduce the camera strap a few more times with alternate colors. If you need one, let me know and I'll make you one. You know, as long as straight seams aren't a big deal to you.

Here are the first attempts.




I actually like the way this one turned out. The kind of craft that doesn't have to have perfectly straight lines. I used tissue paper instead of all fabric and I think that'll look nice as it's burning.




DIY camera strap cover! It's kind of large and the seams aren't pretty. At all. But it looks decent in the picture! I made one for Baxter's strap and one for Baxter's older sister, Dee70 (shown here).





The gift tag that took an hour. Never, and I repeat, NEVER again. If your present has this gift tag on it, know that it represents an hour of my life. I hope that knowledge makes up for what is probably a poorly-made, hand-crafted gift.

Eye Level

It happened. There I stood bare-footed looking slightly up at Pearce in his tennis shoes. Truthfully, I didn’t notice it. I was just talking to my kid. But Pearce; he noticed it. He noticed it out loud.

Puberty embarrasses him. The infancy of a mustache on his top lip causes him anxiety. His voice breaking amuses him. But realizing he was eye level to mom was a rite of passage. A moment he realized he could hold over me. Literally.

The funny thing is that I still worry that he’ll have trouble putting the dishes away in the high places when unloads the dishwasher. Maybe I’m in denial. I need to reflect on that.

Here’s the funny freebie for you. My 12-year-old is about to be the tallest person in my house.

Waterworks

I have always prided myself on ‘keeping it together’ during times when other mothers shapeshift into blubbering heaps of maternal embarrassment. I don’t cry on the first day of school. I don’t cry at Pre-K graduations. Or K graduations. In fact, I die laughing every time I see the scene where Mr. Incredible gets lectured for missing his son’s 4th grade graduation:

Helen: I can't believe you don't want to go to your own son's graduation.
Bob: It's not a graduation. He is moving from the 4th grade to the 5th grade.
Helen: It's a ceremony!
Bob: It's psychotic!

In my never ending pursuit of full-disclosure with you, though, the real reason I relate to Bob (Mr. Incredible) and the reason I make fun of my maternal peers is that I’m secretly worried that there’s something WRONG with me. Why don’t I cry at these occasions? Why can’t I appreciate the momentousness of these milestones? What kind of monster mother am I??????

Thankfully, I now know that the timing in my blubbering engine is just a little off. A case in point is last week’s PTA meeting. It was the kind of meeting where they bribe you to come by tacking on a musical program at the end. You know; the musical program with your child in it. So we went, as we’ve done since Pearce was in Kindergarten. For six years I have sat in the audience and not cried while other parents misted up and even shed a few poignant, dramatic tears proving that they love their kids more than I love mine. But during the last PTA meeting, something in me broke. And I mean broke. I was admiring the absolute genius of Cole’s performance. I was swelling. And then, the show ended and the choir teacher stood up to say thanks for coming. I thought of how great she is and how much I’ve enjoyed her shows over the years. And it hit me. Because Stone and Cade will go to a different elementary, this was the last of these performances at this school. And as the kids went into their completely awesome school song, I felt the heat rise in my face and I knew something terrible was imminent. It surprised me as my eyes were filled with alien moisture. Then, my attention was directed to Pearce, who was standing with a group of ‘alumni’ – all singing and doing the hand motions to the school chant. And I did one better than cry, people. I broke down. I drew a mixture of horrified and sympathetic looks from the people seated nearest me as I sobbed semi-quietly.

I had a cathartic realization. I realized how proud I was of my kids. I realized how much I appreciated the school and how much I’d miss it after this year is over. I realized that both my older children were flagship kids at that school and that they’d broken in those hallways, those classrooms, and those school songs. And the realization of it all broke me in a way I had no defense against. I was not the mother who makes other mothers feel bad for not crying. I was the mother other mothers look at and say, “Thank goodness I’m not that lady (or her kids).” I had a chance to compose myself as the Art teacher made announcements and the kids were ushered into the cafeteria for pick-up. I managed to make it through telling Cole how proud I was of him without more waterworks. But on the way home, when I was alone in the car, I cried more. This time in earnest, without the stares of others to deter me.

I’m pretty sure I cried enough to cover every event in the past I missed out on. And I know I’m covered for the rest of the school year, if not next year, too. Who knows, I might have unleashed something inside. I’ll get back to you on that. Stone has a pre-K graduation coming up.

"Sthuck? Sthuck???"

I started work last week and a few of my friends have told me that they can tell because the funny Facebook statuses and blog posts have all but stopped. Lucky for you, my kids never take a break from...well, being my kids. Thanks to Pearce for giving me a story that should satisfy you for weeks.

I consider myself very lucky. I have four boys and only Pearce has had stitches. Four boys and only Pearce has fractured a bone. Four boys and not one of them has ever had to have the fire department called to rescue him from a school desk. Until yesterday.

I'm sitting in a coworker's cubicle and I get a call from the dreaded number. Pearce's school calling. Again. It most likely means he's forgotten important school supplies or was 'excessively social' during class. I answer and it's the nurse. My first mental reaction is 'Whew...he's not in trouble.' The nurse begins with, "Pearce is fine. Your son is Frank, right? Goes by Pearce? Hold on, I need to make sure I'm talking to the right parent." She yells to someone in the background and comes back to the phone. "Ok, Pearce got his finger stuck in a desk and we tried ice to get it out. We tried soap and oil and are still unable to get it out, so (there's a pause)...we've called the fire department to come and assist and we are wondering if you can come up here."

And there it is. The reason I shouldn't have been relieved that it was the school nurse on the phone. Note to self - just because it's the school nurse doesn't mean my child isn't in trouble.

I call Chad and he comes to my rescue by flying out of his work to the school. He calls to tell me that Pearce is still stuck and that his finger is cut and swollen and that the firemen are deciding what to do. They've moved Pearce and the desk to the nurse's office. I'll just stop so you can enjoy the visual of the vice-principal and Pearce carrying the desk through the halls to the nurses office with his finger stuck in it.

By the time I get through my training (fifth day on the job, just to remind you) and get in the car, they've rescued Pearce from the desk by drilling holes in it then using what they called 'tiny jaws of life' to cut from hole to hole until they can bend it back and remove Pearce's manacled finger.

Chad informs me that he has 'good circulation and can feel the tip of his finger' but that we need to have it looked at by a doctor.

Why did Pearce stick his finger into a hole that was too small for his finger? Because his friend hid popcorn in the desk. Of course. Why did he think he'd be able to retrieve popcorn through a hole that was smaller than the popcorn (and his finger)? Because he's a boy and he has brain damage.

And my husband, the one who heroically left work to fly to Pearce's aid, did not lose his sarcastic wits. He took these pictures for posterity. And for your benefit. Enjoy.




Here he is giving the 'ok' sign. This was what Chad sent me to let me know Pearce was in good spirits.






And here is the finger. The desk top has been removed and you can see that his finger is too swollen to remove. And it's cut at the base where he tried to twist it out of the hole before calling the teacher's attention to his predicament.

There is so much more to this story. How the first fire truck didn't have the right tools and they had to call a second one. How Pearce almost passed out at one point. How the doctor lectured Pearce for 10 minutes about the importance of studying and not messing around in class. So much more, but you got the best part of the story. My kid's the one who got his tongue frozen to the proverbial light pole.

Just For Fun Friday

Each Friday, I'm going to post a picture I took that week that makes me smile - or laugh - or say 'Hmmmmm.' These won't be the most amazing pictures, just a warning!




Stone in glow-in-the-dark face paint. Boys LOVE glow-in-the-dark stuff. On the 4th of July, it was a the glow sticks that held their attention, not the fireworks. And this face paint was a huge hit, too. SPOOKY!

Back to Work

I got the call today. An offer on a job I really wanted. At a location that is perfect. Working with people I know and care about. A really perfect job.

As I'm talking with Chad about the news, I look up and there are Stone and Cade, sitting together on the floor playing race cars. My throat constricted. Two years ago, I had the incredible luck of staying at home with them. I was pregnant with Cade, and Stone was only two. It's been an incredible two years of joy and learning - about myself and my children. And, although I'm incredibly grateful and excited about this position, I can't help but look back on the last two years with a hint of sadness that it's coming to a close.

The highlights:


Stone is a patient older brother. But it wasn't always easy. This picture was taken right after Stone poked Cade's eyeball the day we came home from the hospital. Daddy said, "No!" a little too loudly and this was Stone's reaction. This picture reminds me how much he's grown in his role as big bro. These days, he's the one to get Cade up and he does it with this sweet little voice - I'm looking forward to that not changing.


I also loved the interesting places I found my kids when the house was WAY too quiet.



I also got a kick out of watching the interaction between my oldest kids and my youngest kids. You don't know how a wide age gap is going to affect your family until it happens. Luckily, I have amazingly awesome kids. Here's an example of weapons training. :)




One of the things I loved most of all was hanging out in the back yard with my kids and watching them run around. Mostly naked. Um...them, not me. One of Cade's favorite things to do was to go over and peep through our fence to the neighbor's yard.



I'm not going to lie to you. I'm excited about the job, but having a hard time looking at Stone and Cade without getting misty. We've been traveling this road together for two years. But, I'm excited to learn about their new friends and what they are learning each day.


And truthfully, I'm excited that someone else is in charge of daily diaper changings and potty training!

Just For Fun Friday

Each Friday, I'm going to post a picture I took that week that makes me smile - or laugh - or say 'Hmmmmm.' These won't be the most amazing pictures, just a warning!

I love this time of year for so many reasons. Here's one. If I let me husband slack off on the mowing, our yard fills up with the little white flowers. And, sometimes there's a bunny laying in them. It makes me smile.

Enjoy, because I got super itchy lying in the grass to get this shot for you. :)

Remember the Alamo!!!!!!

I'm just warning you. This is going to be a sappy one. The kind where I'll write it, post it, then realize that maybe not all of my inside thoughts belong outside. And the internet is as outside as you can get. At any rate, here I go. And really, I pick on Chad enough that he deserves ONE sappy post on my blog.

When we were in San Antonio together without our kids, we both realized that we still LIKE each other. Aside from loving each other, we really get along. Like chocolate and peanut butter. Ok, maybe more like ants and picnics; we aren't perfect, but we still go together (I'm the picnic in that scenario, just in case you wondered).

We made a pact as we walked hand-in-hand down the Riverwalk that we were going to get through the child-rearing years come hell or high water. We both know that if we can just hold out another decade or so, we'll come out on the other end still liking each other.

And that's the catch. Getting through that decade or so with our kids. Parenting differences are effective relationship land mines. Agendas, conflicting communication styles, goals, expectations - all of these things are bad enough on their own, but when you throw in children, they become nuclear. There are times when I can't fathom why we got married. There are times when I feel like he's an alien because we can't agree on the best way to handle a parental conflict. There are times when I feel defeated and hopeless.

In the future, these are the times when I'm going to Remember the Alamo. It was there that Chad reminded me who he is as a husband. We went into the gift store to look for trinkets to take home to the boys (by the way, lollipops with scorpions in them are big hits in my house) and on the way out, I saw this awesome necklace. Just a silver chain with a pendant-sized silver Texas Rangers' badge. I admired and we walked out. Once we were in the courtyard, Chad asked, "Did you want that necklace?" And I replied with the usual, "Yes, but I don't need it." He told me I should go back and get it. He held out cash and asked me for a kiss. I kissed him and he said, "Even." And that's my husband. Who regards my affection so highly that a simple kiss is considered currency in an impromptu gift exchange.

I was embarrassed as I purchased the necklace fighting tears the entire time, thinking of Chad outside who thought he'd gotten a fair trade that day. He is amazing and I will fight for him, even if the battle is within me during those times when the stress of life gets us down. I will remember who he is. I will remember why I love him. I will Remember the Alamo!

Just For Fun Friday

Each Friday, I'm going to post a picture I took that week that makes me smile - or laugh - or say 'Hmmmmm.' These won't be the most amazing pictures, just a warning!



It's been so hard to wait to post this picture. Chad and I bought this turtle for Cade that projects stars in amber, green, and blue on the wall. I've wanted to take this particular shot since then. He finally fell asleep deep enough for me to go in with a tripod (and Chad's assistance placing the turtle just right). This picture just makes me smile.

The most glorious day ever

**DISCLAIMER** I love my kids. I really do. I have many posts on this very blog that proclaim my love for said kids. I love them more than coffee. More than Star Wars. I even love them more than my camera (horror!). So, to sum up...Who loves her kids? That's right; I do. **DISCLAIMER**

Today I had the most glorious day ever. I don't even know how to describe it or what part of it made it so spectacular. But, to start, it was JUST ME. Alone. Singular.

Wait, I'm getting ahead of myself in my excitement to share with you.

Chad and I are in San Antonio. He's at a technical conference and I came with him to have a mini vacation. He went to class today and I grabbed Baxter and drove out to the San Antonio Missions National Park.

Ok, now we are caught up. Back to being alone. Several times today, I had the 'Oh no - where are the kids' panic moment followed by the blissful 'Dori, you are completely by yourself right now' moment. It's like being dipped into a pool of ice and then wrapped in a blanket fresh out of the dryer. There were times when I sat on benches and closed my eyes just to take in the awareness of 'being.'

I know that being a mom is rewarding and that my kids add endless entertainment to my life, but there's a sacrifice in parenting. You give up a certain amount of yourself to do it. Maybe not give it up, but definitely set it aside (where it becomes dusty and outdated). Today, I was free to remember something - I am me outside of my roles. In other words, I'm Dori. Not mom, wife, daughter, friend, crazy blogger, but Dori. Being alone with yourself on a beautiful October day surrounded by 300 year old Spanish missions is restorative. I feel filled back up with a sense that I'm not lost, I'm just traveling several roads at once.

As I touched those stones that had been there so much longer than me, that had been there before the roads, the 7-11 across the street, the power lines above them, the business of tourists, I had one of those zoomed-in moments. I was aware that, by touching it, I was a part of that building's 300 year old history, and yet I was separate from it (as it was from me). It's that way with my life. I'm part of a history I'm making in these roles I play, but I am separate from them, too. I'm me.

It was nice to spend a day apart from my roles. A day with just me. A most glorious day indeed.

It's My Dad's Fault

I play an online game called Rings of Orbis. In the forums, a person started a thread titled, "Why are you here?" Here's where we take another fun look into the thought process of a woman with serious adult ADD.

It's my Dad's fault that I play that online game. Stay with me.

You see, my Dad watches Westerns. Lots and lots of Westerns. And I was indoctrinated into the world of westerns at a very young age. I was quoting John Wayne at 3 and I'm pretty sure my dad used the War Wagon theme song as a lullaby. We spent many a weekend hanging out watching Jack Pallance 'get his' and Chuck Connors trying to redeem his name. Love of Westerns - check.

When I was in 2nd grade (8 years old, so you don't have to do the math), the trailer for The Shining came on TV and I was petrified. You can view the trailer here. My Dad took time to tell me how it was made of Cherry Koolaid (not at all true - Stanley Kubrick shot it numerous times because the texture and color 'didn't look like blood'). He did this for every scary movie question I had until I developed a strong love of horror films. Love of Horror - check.

That same year, The Empire Strikes Back came to our theater. Dad took me to see it. The theater had trouble with the film and the entire audience was offered refunds as we dejectedly left before the movie was finished. My disappointment was more than palpable, I'm sure. So my Dad, who had just bought himself a suh-weeeet red Nissan 280ZX, took me home Han Solo style. We swerved and shifted crazily pretending to outrun Imperial enemies. Love of Sci-Fi - check. Twice.

So, even though my Dad doesn't love scary movies or sci-fi, his coolness solidified my love of those genres. That's why, when a friend loaned me the already canceled Firefly Season 1 DVD set, I was a goner. A space western. With a scary twist. Once it was over, I was left in the same pool of people who fell in love with prematurely canceled Fox series. Wanting more. Jonesing for more. And like an addict who can't get the real stuff, I went to the next best thing - new series with the actors from Firefly. Chuck and Castle are both currently in my DVR favorites. I even 'follow' Nathan Fillion on Twitter. Leading to the answer, why do I play Rings of Orbis? Why, because Nathan Fillion endorsed it. And he was Captain Mal. Who reminded me of Han Solo. Who reminds me of my Dad. The coolest space cowboy of them all.

Just For Fun Friday

Each Friday, I'm going to post a picture I took that week that makes me smile - or laugh - or say 'Hmmmmm.' These won't be the most amazing pictures, just a warning!

The world around me is getting ready for Fall. Grocery stores are now filled with men buying chips and queso for football games. Some of my friends are already shopping for and even wrapping Christmas gifts. My church is preparing to transform itself into the Pumpkin Patch Church once more. And yet, there are rebels. There are the women still wearing white patent leather shoes. Spaghetti straps abound. And my oldest sons refuse to put away their shorts until January. But this flower stands out among the rebels. The other plants in the bed are going to sleep, putting away their blooms, and preparing to turn their nice oranges and reds, while this harlot brazenly screams, "What are YOU looking at?"

Commando

I'm reevaluating my favorite potty training method. With all three older boys, I decided that just letting them run around bare-bottomed would be the best means to self-awareness. In all actuality, it worked out pretty well. My floor might disagree, but I had quick results with minor, messy set backs.

You might be thinking that this is going to be a Cade post. And that it will revolve around yet another horrific mess story that makes you glad your kids are grown. Or that you have no kids. Or that your kids aren't my kids. But this isn't a Cade posting.

You see, I think my potty training method messed Stone up. Because right now as I'm typing this, he's playing his Daddy's X-box with no pants on. And I mean NO pants. He's got a shirt (one that I'll need to bribe off of him later in order to wash) and his bright green Crocs on and that's it. Commando. Completely.

This isn't his preferred state. He prefers to have shorts on with no underwear. But for whatever reason, this morning he deemed his shorts from yesterday unworthy. And he refuses to wear long pants, which are all he has in his dresser (he's already lectured me on this point).

And here's another dilemma. He doesn't want to go to church anymore. Totally unrelated rant? No. He doesn't want to go because I make him wear underwear. Not because it isn't fun. Not because he doesn't love his teachers. Not because he doesn't want to see his friends. But because Church = Mandatory Underwear.

Scarily, he's become quite a liar to the question, "Did you put your underwear on?" At first he answered truthfully. Then, once he figured out that the truth only led to underwear, he answered by telling me that he had put them on. I (being a very clever mom) asked him what color they were and he grinned. Busted. The next time he answered yes, and when queried about the color popped off, "They're blue" with such panache that I believed him and we went to church. Underwearless. I discovered this while he was sitting cross-legged. So now, no matter how fervently he answers that he applied his undergarments, I double check them before leaving the house.

Who knew a potty training technique could create a pantsless, fibbing, church-avoiding 4-year-old. You see now why I'm reevaluating my method for the Cadester??

Just For Fun Friday

Each Friday, I'm going to post a picture I took that week that makes me smile - or laugh - or say 'Hmmmmm.' These won't be the most amazing pictures, just a warning!

We found this fun project online. The bottom layer is water with blue food coloring. The yellow stuff is vegetable oil. It's pretty difficult to describe molecular attributes and density to a 4-year-old, but he can understand that oil and water don't mix.

Happy Birthday?????

12 is a difficult age. At least it is for me as a parent. I can't really get into celebrating 12. The I-know-more-than-you attitude. The hormonal tumult. The girl-craziness (oh the horror!!!!!). 12 makes me less 'Happy Birthday!' and more 'Happy Birthday?' It's said with that facial expression that is part trepidation, part fear, part humor.

However, I can celebrate this. He's my kid. And he knows it. And he loves it. We get each other and there are fewer and fewer melt downs between us. We have a language together - a non-verbal, conversational secret decoder ring. And he's funny. A bit on the sarcastic side, but funny.

So, here's Happy Birthday to my arrogant but self-deprecating; my cocky but self-conscious; my awesome but explosive man-child. The kid who loved his Lego birthday cake even though the Lego guys were drooping off the back of it. Who told me he wasn't disappointed in waiting a few more days on his present (procrastination, thou art the bane of my existence). Who acted excited about the book I bought him. Man, I love this kid.