When Our Worlds Collide -- At Home.

It takes 20-something hours to fly halfway around the world.  20-something hours with your knees stuck in your chin due to the majesty of coach seating.  And it stinks.  Stinks like the airplane food you have to eat for those 20-something hours.

It is possible you will also have to spend the night in an airport during those 20-something hours, and almost inevitable that one or more pieces of your luggage will be lost.

But, nevertheless, after the 20-something hours, you will arrive halfway around the world.  And if you are really lucky, you then will be able to board some type of odd public transportation to get you even deeper into the bowels of halfway around the world. 

And then you can say that you have arrived.  Arrived at "the mission field."  The people will touch your skin and point at your blue eyes, and they will stare.  You will buy clothes that look like the "natives," and you will feel very missiony.  You will do your best to muddle through the language, and you will end up asking for "a cat's banana television" instead of the bathroom.  You will learn to drive on the other side of the road, and you will convince your taste buds that weird food is good...even if it might be considered domesticated animal in the States.

It's what the mission field is all about.  Taking Jesus to people that don't speak like you.  Or look like you.  Or live near you.  It's what we give our Christmas offerings for. 

Or is it?

What if the mission field was right down the street from you?  What if you could drive your minivan emblazoned with your children's sports stickers to the mission field?  What if you could do it while eating a quarter pounder with cheese and drinking a chocolate shake?  What if you could wear your Old Navy bermudas and a camp tee-shirt? 

Impossible.  That's not real missions.

Real missions is trading your satellite and DVR for a grass hut.  Exchanging your air conditioning for mosquito nets and malaria shots.  Switching out pepperoni pizza for curries made from Fido and Flicka.  Everyone knows that.

That's real missions.  No question.

Or not.

Missions is loving on people.  No matter if they are right next door or a 20-something hour plane ride away.  Missions is meeting people where God would have us meet them.  No matter if it is in a dirt road village in the jungle or in a suburb full of million dollar homes.  God's children wear rags.  And they wear Gucci.  They go hungry at night, and they gorge themselves on caviar and expensive champagne. 

And it's just as much missions to go downtown as it is to go to China.

Have you ever seen anything so precious? I'm not sure that I have.  Because when I see this picture all I see is God's goodness and grace.  I see His mercies just a'pourin'.

That's missions, friends.  And it isn't happenin' in an African village.

It's happenin' in the Georgian suburbs.

And Jesus is pleased as punch about it!


My bestest friendy, Tiffani, has experienced the wonder that is "Home Missions."  She's been lavished upon by the Father and been handed moments of ministry that are doable.  And close.  And so riveting.

Isn't she gorgeous in that picture?  Can't you just see Jesus radiating?

Please please please go HERE and read her story.  You won't be the same afterwards. 

And then get up, ask the Lord for opportunities, and go out in your own communities and serve. 

You'll never be the same. 

I promise.


Your communities are bursting with opportunities for you to get involved.  Your local church will have unlimited paths for you to journey down.  If you would like to get more information about the North American Mission Board and its work thorughout the United States, you may visit here.


Things I Don't Understand

1.  Splinters.  I do not understand splinters.  Well, I guess I understand splinters, but I do not understand why my offspring would rather walk around with a 2x4 in their foot than just letting me dig around and pry the sucker out with my ultra dull tweezers get it out.  I also do not understand why the Feds didn't show up at my house 20 minutes ago when they heard the deafening screams of my child as I sat on him and performed minor surgery.  If I was a Fed, I would've showed up.  For sure.

2.  People Who Spend More On Outfitting Their Child For Baseball Than On Their Mortgage.   All of our boys play baseball.  It's in their blood.  I'm pretty sure if you look hard enough you can see their body parts seamed together with tough red stitching.  And that's all well and fine.  Because I'm the first to admit that I'm all about some baseball and some fence-climbing cheering calmly from the sidelines.  But I'm super proud to admit that we are not some of those baseball parents.  Sawyer played in a tournament yesterday with his little traveling team, and we looked like the Bad News Bears out there.  While our little hand-me-down uniforms stayed half-untucked and our cleats stayed untied, the other teams there sported their F.A.I.N.C.Y. spun-with-gold-by-the-Dalai-Lama-himself uniforms, matching team bat bags, and matchy glittery personalized batting helmets.  Oy.Vey.  I'll take scrappy and grass-stained, thank you very much.

3.  Personal Trainers.  I guess I shouldn't hold Jennie-From-Hades-the-Trainer responsible.  I, after all, am paying her the husband's hard-earned cash to practice medieval torture methods on me, but I don't understand why she has to be so serious.  Like when she said, "No eating out for 3 weeks.  Just order water."  Whahuh?  Water?  Holy Roman Hydrogen, Batman, this is going to be a long month.

4.  The Husband.  He has an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon tomorrow.  For a surgery consultation on his knee.  SURGERY.  Did you hear me?  Let me repeat, because evidently the concept is hard to understand...at least for the husband....SURGERY.  But yet, he felt compelled to sign up for the church softball team when they called a couple of nights ago.  Makes perfect sense to me.  Go out with a bang, I guess.  Literally.

5.  Boys Who Want Mohawks.  Yep. I'm still skirting around that one.  As of right now, Sawyer still has a head full of hair.  And for those of you who asked:  No, Puck from GLEE's hair is not okay. 

That's All.


Boys Are Going To Be the Death of Me

Sawyer wants a mohawk.

No. Really.  I'm serious.  A for real mohawk.  Not a faux-hawk.  Or a spiky something-or-other that we can pretend is a mohawk.  Um...no....he's thinking Mr. T worthy.

And his dingity dangity daddy thought it would be hysterical to tell him he could have one just to torture me.

A mohawk?  Really?

And when begged to change his mind and asked why in the world would he want to make his mother so crazy? 

"Because Dusty gots one."

Well, Dusty's mama is way cooler than me.  Obviously.


My precious soon-to-be-sporting-a-hawk son also has become the catcher for his traveling/tournament baseball team. 

He loves it.  Even though it gives me a heart attack every time I see the ball whizzing at his precious face.  But I'm coping.

He has discovered a new piece of "equipment" that he is especially proud of.  And is very quick to discuss with anyone who will listen.

New glove?  Nope.
Helmet?  Nuh-uh.
Pads?  Oh no.  Too easy.

Sawyer has a new found fascination with this:



So if you're out and about and need to find Sawyer, just look for the red-headed kid sporting a mohawk and waving his jock strap. 

That's my boy.


What Up, G? (-iraffe)

This is security in manhood personified:

Or could just be an insane case of pink eye and a pathetic feller who left his manly shades at the house.

Toemaytoe.  Tuhmawtoe.


A GLEElisciously GLEEful Winner


My dear friend, Kay, a self-professed "hesitant Gleek," is the proud new owner of a shiny $10 iTunes card!

Kay, make me proud with your choices!! *wink*

Random Integer Generator

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Timestamp: 2010-04-21 03:21:02 UTC


I can remember her handwriting. 

Every time she signed their assignment notebooks where I had scrawled out their night's homework assignments, she would sign it with these really loopy letters.  Almost bubble-like. 

I also have 3 or 4 Christmas ornaments that hang on my tree each year that she gave me as teacher presents.  And I still have a couple of candles that were part of the gifts. 

One of the baby outfits that was my favorite of Keaton's was given to us by her.  It's been in his baby box since he outgrew it almost 10 years ago.

And now I'm going through my house looking for the things that hold little reminders of her.  A bookmark that was signed by her.  A picture drawn by her daughter when she was in my preschool class.  A scrapbook of my teaching days which holds pictures of her at various school events.

Because last night her earthly body failed her.  And today her new and perfect body is dancing with Jesus. 

I taught at the same private Christian School for almost a decade.  And I had the privilege of teaching every one of {Sarah's} children.  Some of them multiple times.  And it was just that...a privilege.

{Sarah} was a beautiful, soft-spoken woman.  She was always laughing.  Always smiling.  It always made me giggle that even years after I had taught her children, I was still "Mrs. _____" when she saw me out in public.  Never just "Amber."  I used to joke with her that even in Heaven, when we'd meet on the Streets of Gold, she'd greet me with "Mrs."

And now she's gone.

And I'm having a strange time processing it all.  I'm grieving for that blessed woman that I used to know so well, but haven't seen in ages.  I'm grieving for those sweet angel babies who have lost their mama, but their faces are still those of the ones that used to sit in the desks of my classroom.

And I'm sad.

Very very sad.

And am looking forward to the day when I can hug her neck in Heaven, and hear her say, "Well, Mrs. ___, so glad you finally made it!"

** Please please please lift up {Sarah's} family to our Jesus.  I cannot imagine their grief and anguish at this hour, but I do know that our Lord is holding them close.


Look At Me! Or Don't.

I hate it when I can't sleep.

There are some nights that sleep doesn't come because I've napped too long the day before or I drank too much coffee, but then there are other nights that sleep evades me because I'm being thinky.

And if I'm being thinky about something, the something is probably not good.

So goes last night.

I was being thinky.  And praying a lot. 

Because I'm realizing that vanity has not only taken root, but is sprouting buds of flowers that are not pretty. Not pretty at all.

Here's where the saying "Confession is good for the soul," might come into play.  I don't know if it will be good or not, but I'm feeling compelled to continue.  So continue we shall.....

I'm a very vain person.

Not vain in the Must.Be.Put.Together.Every.Second.Of.The.Day. kinda way, because goodness knows I have no trouble tromping through Walmart's rush-hour traffic sporting greasy hair, yesterday's clothes, and a freshly popped pimple on my chin. 

BUT.  I am vain in the Look.At.Me./Look.At.My.Family./We.Have.It.All.Together. kinda way. 

Odd for one who will quickly point out to you that my house is never clean and that my children only eat processed, highly over-antibioticated, very un-organic food?  Um...yes.  I'm the first to see the irony.

But what I want you to believe, and where the root of all my vanity stems, is that I'm so comfortable in my own skin and the way our family rolls, I really want people to want to be like us.  Weird?  Yes.  Twisted?  Absolutely.  Should I seek therapy?  Sign me up.

Because you know what?  It sucks.

Because I've noticed myself having more and more thoughts about what people think, and I can see that if I don't let the Father check me (and fast!), I could begin to spiral headfirst into a place I'm pretty surely positive I don't want to go.

Here are two things that have been creeping around and rearing their ugly heads:

1)  Most of you are aware of Sawyer's neck injury that took place about a month or so ago.  (If not, you can you read briefly about it here.)  You may also recall that the orders from the doctor state "No Sports. Ever." but that he did go on to leave that to the discretion of Kirk and I as his parents. 

Well, we made the decision to go on and allow him to play baseball and other low-impact/contact sports right now, and just monitor as the years progress.  Because we felt/still feel like living in fear or anticipation of bad things to come is no way to live.  That a kid should be allowed to be a kid.  Doesn't mean that we're going to be knowingly foolish in our choices for him and sign him up for motocross racing or tackle football, but we are not going to chain him to the couch for the rest of his life either. 

Sounds very wise on our part, doesn't it?
We're very brave, aren't we?
You wish you could be that trusting of Jesus to protect your baby?

What if I told you that a huge part of me fought for Sawyer to be able to play sports because I like being a sports' mom?  That I love being the mother of the kid that people brag about at the baseball field?  That part of my thoughts in the doctor's office that day drifted to Oh no. But Sawyer is good. We HAVE to play baseball.  That I adore hearing new people sitting behind me in the bleachers say, "Whoa, who's that red-headed kid?!" 

Vanity can take your mind to ugly places.  Places that aren't so much about coiffed hair and tan legs, but places that stroke the ego.  And it ain't pretty.

2)  Summer's fast approaching, and we've busted out the shorts at our house.  And as much as I adore summer and bare legs and flip flops, I also despise seeing fall and winter fall by the wayside. 

Because it means that Keaton starts wearing shorts again.

(Keaton has a skin-disorder that you can read about here.)

And people are already starting to stare.  And look.  And wonder.  And it makes Keaton squirm.  And it makes me squirm, too.

Yes, because he's squirming, but also because I don't want my kid to have an imperfection.  I don't want people to think that something is wrong with US. 

I hate that I debate now about whether he should wear jeans or shorts somewhere, and that most of the time it depends on who will be there to see us.  I hate that I'm happy that his baseball uniform covers his legs so that it's not an issue, but that I despised soccer and basketball season because his legs were showing.

I mean, really?  This is the kind of mom that I am?  That I spend more time worrying about who's looking at his legs during a family outing than just enjoying the family?


But it's how it's going with me right now.  And I'm taking it to our Precious Jesus and asking Him to deliver me.  But I know it won't be overnight.  It'll be a process that could potentially last my entire life.  A process that will require constant plucking and pruning, and that will probably hurt.  A lot.

So I just ask that you pray for me if I come to your mind.  Because in all of my The.Same.Load.of.Laundry.Is.Going.On.Four.Days.In.The.Washer.But.I.Don't.Care.To.Tell.You.All.About.It. glory, my heart is really a tangle of emotions and thoughts that I constantly have to battle.

Vanity isn't pretty.
No matter how you look at it.

***I understand that this post probably has offended many of you.  It is inconceivable for some of you to ever understand how a mother's heart could feel this way towards her children.  Please let me assure you that my babies are my passion.  I love them UNCONDITIONALLY.  I love Sawyer whether he ever lifts a baseball bat again, and I love Keaton regardless of those spots.  This post is just an expression of my heart's journey. 

Because being human sucks.  And I'm very good at being human.


GLEE Forth and Prosper

So, I actually have been waiting for another one of my bloggy besties to pop up and write this post.

But since they're dragging their heels, I'll just hop right on in and steal the thunder.  And you all can thank me later.  You're welcome.

Something amazing happened Tuesday night.  It had nothing to do with taxes being finished (which mine weren't finished until 6 hours prior to the day turning over to the 16th, by the way), and nothing to do with Adam Glambert's lovey laser show on Idol.  Nor did it have anything to do with the 13 Oreos that I consumed that night. 

No.  Tuesday night was the glorious night that the FOX Network decided to jump back on board with the rest of America and give us back what we've been demanding since the fateful day last fall that they took our beloved off the air.

But it's back now.

I'm almost certain that I could hear a sweeping swoon of relief Tuesday night as our precious GLEEacters were restored to their rightful place in our televisions.

What?  You haven't seen it? 

What?  You have seen it, and yet you fail to find the amazement within its 60 minute parameters?
I'm sad for you.

What?  You're a GLEEk, too?
I feel like I need to hug you.

And because I'm feeling super GLEErific (and because my taxes are finally done!!), I'm giving away something that you can use to feed your need for GLEE.  Or if you are one of those people, then you can use it to fall in love with GLEE and join all of us on the cool side.

Or you could just use it for something else.  But don't ever let me catch wind of you doing so, or I will scream, "GLEE Blasphemy!" at the top of my lungs, and all of my fellow GLEEks will come after you.  And we're a scary bunch.

iTunes has GLEE songs in abundance.  And they are glorious.  So if you win, you can use this to hook yourself with all kinds of GLEEness.

I'll keep the giveaway up until next Tuesday evening...when GLEE comes on again!!  Squeal!!
So, enter as many times as you want.

Here's the catch.  All you have to do is this:

1)  If you're a GLEEk too, then tell me that you are!  And tell me what your favorite scenes/songs/quotes/characters are from the show.
2)  If you're not a GLEEK, then tell me that.  And I'll pray for you.

Don't know much about GLEE?  Please don't leave here uninformed....get thee HERE pronto.  You can even watch old episodes!!  Go.  Now.  Shoo....

GLEE Forth and Prosper.  And enter.


Singing the Blues

I think BLUE gets a bad rap.

Whenever I hear the word BLUE, my mind always shifts to elderly African American men sitting on slat-back chairs, wearing dark glasses, plucking away at loved-on guitars, and bemoaning the loss of love, liquor, and cash. 

Or I think about BLUE suede shoes.  And I don't care if you are the King of Rock, there is nothing okay about leather shoes that sport one of the colors of the rainbow.

Then there is the phrase, "I'm feeling BLUE."  Well, that's just sad. 

And remember Violet Beauregarde?  She was turned into a BLUEberry....not cool. 

"Once in a BLUE moon."  Now that one doesn't sound horrid, except for that it means that something hardly ever happens.  And for a creature of habit like me (or someone who just wants lots of something I like *wink*), then hardly-ever-happening is rather depressing.

And what about poor Eeyore?  Notice that they didn't make the poor, sad, woe-is-me equine yellow.  Or red.  Or even black.  Oh, no...poor fellar is BLUE.

My grandma used to say that I could "talk a BLUE streak."  That didn't sound like a bad thing until she used the same phrase to describe an old biddy in town. 

Then there is BLUE cheese.  That's just nasty.  And you can argue with me if you want to, but cheese shouldn't be BLUE.  It just shouldn't.

 "In a BLUE funk."  That one just sounds dreadful, both literally and figuratively.

And I could go on and on.  (I know, because I googled.)  And the more I thought about BLUE, the more I got all kinds of depressy.  Because I wish that BLUE wasn't looked on so poorly.

Because I love the color BLUE.  And it means all kinds of happy things to me.

Like Texas BLUEbonnets.  And the color of Sawyer's eyes.  And the BLUE of the china patterns in my mama's house. 

It makes me think of the beach.  And of BLUE jeans.  And of blingy sapphires.

And then yesterday, while I was hanging out at the park with the boys, I looked up and saw this:

How could anyone ever say that BLUE was bad?

Because I'm pretty sure that there isn't a prettier sight that does more happy things for my soul than BLUE.


Gladitudes: Sun-Schooling Edition

We have 38 days of school left.  So says my handy dandy planner.  38 days.  I may be able to squwosh it down to 35, or even 30, since I'm having an affair with the principal.

Y'all, I have a major caseage of spring fever.  What I really want to do is pack up the school books, say "Pashaw" to the rest of the school year, play from morning to night in the sunshine, and lie to everyone I see by saying, "We homeschool.  We're done. We're exceptional."

But, since I have some sense of conscience (and because the principal hasn't completely lost his mind to my wiley female ways), we're still plugging along; ripping off a ring of our paper chain with what probably could be mistaken as too much joy each and every day.

Oh..and we're taking school outside.  A lot.  Because I the children need to be outside.   

Yesterday we had school on the back deck.  And today we headed down to our little community park.  Thus giving me some very Gladdie Moments.....

My Gladderific Gladdies About Gettin' Our School On In the Sunshine

1.  If you must do fractions, then doing fractions in the sun is at least a teensy bit pleasant.  Aw...who am I kidding?  I despise fractions in any kind of weather, but if the sun is shining, at least it's tolerable.

2.  It is much easier to bribe the middle child who hates anything school-related to do his schoolwork when a playset and a fresh yard of grass is staring him in the face.

3.  I HATE fixing lunch.  It is my least favorite meal to fix evuh.  But slapping together PB&J on a picnic blanket doesn't fall in the same category as lunch-fixin'.  So, technically, I got a day off of cookin' lunch.  Suhweet.

4.  Sunshine and playgrounds make the rascals tired.  And tired rascals equal quiet afternoons.  And quiet afternoons means mama gets her nap.  Score.

5.  I'm very glad that the neighborhood dogs didn't crash our party.  There's nothing fun about fighting an 80 lb. mutt with a John Deere collar for the last crumbs in the chip bag.  Nothing fun a'tall.

6.  The self-proclaimed "Community Constable" will come by and just want to know your business promise to keep an eye on things so that we can "enjoy the facilities in peace and safety."  What that really means is that he and his nosey wife wanted to know why there were kids out of school in the middle of the day....but I let him play his little game.  I did, however, get invited to a community Political Pie Rally, which sounds intriguing.  I'm not sure if the pies are for consumption or for throwing at the politicians, but I don't think you could go wrong with either option. 

7.  When I get out of my house, then the mess that is my house is non-existent.  Delusion is a great color for me.

8.  Calories don't count while consumed at a picnic. 

9.  My fear of my car being dead when we got ready to leave didn't come true.  The thought actually crossed my mind, and I was nervous about having to go find the constable and ask him for help...only fueling his ego for park-saveage. 

10.  I was able to cross off Day 39 in my planner.  With a bright pink colored pencil.  While I sunned myself.
That was the Gladdiest Gladdie of all.

Oh...and though this has NOTHING to do with sun-schooling, I have one more Gladdie:

GLEE STARTS BACK TONIGHT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  WAHOO!!!!!!

My good buddy Gretchen is always super Gladdirific.  Go over and visit her!  She's the best.


Please Don't Tell....

.....my trainers that because I knew I was happily skipping sadly missing bootcamp tonight, I decided to go ahead and fall completely off  dangle my left big toe over the side of the diet wagon.  I took the boys out for ice cream today, and instead of chewing on a piece of gum to stifle the gnawing in my stomach, I dove head first into a pile of cookie dough icecream mixed with peanut butter and graham cracker crumbs.  Yah, you heard me.  And it was every bit as good as it sounds.  As were the stares of the people in the ice cream place as they watched me lick every slurping drop out of the inside of that styrofoam bowl.  You betcha.

.....my kids that I despise watching their baseball practices.  The husband is otherwise detained, so that means that I have to pick up the slack on practice duty this week.  And, honestly, I would rather hunt down a random porcupine in the woods, slather his quills in lemon juice, and then jam them one-by-one in my eye.  Don't get me wrong -- I adore my man children.  And I adore watching them play baseball.  But that's just it...I love to watch them PLAY.  Not practice.  Blech. Ugh. And a heavy dose of Argh. 

.....your blogs that I haven't been reading them.  I don't want your gorgeous sites of bloggy love and joy to feel neglected.  But neglected they are...at least by me.  But my mojo for the internetty has taken a brief hiatus, it seems.  I'm going to blame it on Global Warming.  That seems like a sufficient place to place the blame....it works for Washington, anyway.

.....my kids that they are looking at two weeks longer of school than their public school friends.  I worked on mapping out the entire rest of the school year a couple of days ago, and I can see the end in sight.  And right now, the boys are excited about our countdown to summer.  But as soon as they talk to one of their little friends about it, I'm pleading the Fifth.  And then I'm going to say horrid things about their little friends and tell them that they are crazy.  Because that's easier than admitting that had I had my stuff a little better together this year, we'd already be done.  Ahem.

What do you want me to keep a secret for you?
Go on...tell me.
Your secrets are safe with me!!


Testing Schmesting

Standardized testing.


The thorn in the side of any educator.  Whether you work in the conventional school setting or teach at home, it all boils down to this.  Or so they would tell you.  Although I still haven't figured out who THEY are...but THEY sound scary enough.

The test that reflects what your students know.  What they have absorbed.  Whether you did your job as their teacher or not.

Oh, sure...it's supposed to be a reflection on the student.  Of their level.  Of their abilities. 


We all know it's really a test of the teacher.  Did you teach fractions efficiently?  Did you cram in enough new vocabulary words to increase the student's climb up that percentile ladder?  Did you review how to properly fill in an answer bubble sheet enough?  Perhaps you should have studied up on tried and true "guessing" methods and passed the priceless knowledge on to your pupils.  Maybe. Perhaps.  I wonder.

Today Keaton took the test that reflects my ability to do this home-schooling thing.

His answer when I asked him how he thought he did?

"I think I failed."


(Please hear me:  I do understand that the evidence of my children's academic successes are not held entirely in the palms of these tests.  I really do.  But I also can make myself believe that a piece of chocolate cake is a health food.  I'm American.  It's what we do.  But there is just something terrifying about ONE test that holds this grasp of culmination on  your entire effort at something incredibly hard.  And don't pretend like you wouldn't feel the same way....because you know you would!  And if you wouldn't...then eat all the chocolate cake you want...because you're perfect.)


Carsick Much?

Are you a carsicker person?  Because I tend to be.  It actually depends on who's driving, but I'm not going to get into calling people out on their driving skilz, so we'll just say that SOME people make me totally and absurdly sick.  And I actually think that I'm one of the people that make people sick, because I'm a self-professed bad driver.  I just want to get where I'm going...and if I have to take a curve slightly too sharp, then so be it. 

There's your PSA for the day.  Don't ride with me.  You're welcome.

And in keeping with the theme for the day, this post also is most assuredly going to give you the queaves and quakes in the tummiculur region.  My sincerest apologies....but buck up, take a Dramamine, and hang on...

First curve in the road:   Endure looking at my family's Easter pictures.

Now sharp rightLook at the eggs we dyed.

Slam on the brakes at a stoplight:  Look at my kids showing off the eggs they found in the hunt.

While you're waiting at the stoplightPonder that the oldest kid looks less than thrilled to be alive that day, let alone about having his picture made.

Green means "Go."  Foot on the gas:  Look what I've been eating.  But don't tell my bootcamp trainers.  They're scary.

Big turn ahead.  Brace yourself:  Look what I've been reading.

Hang on.  Going around curve on two wheelsListen to me tell you that that book is probably the funniest thing I have ever read.  Ever.  Ever ever ever.  But only read it if you are okay with making fun of yourself.  If you aren't....then pretend like I never said anything.  (Go here to read Jon Acuff's blog...just as funny as the book!)

Screeching halt.  Random vermin in the road.  And our car doesn't look good dressed in vermin:  Listen to me tell you who my top pick for American Idol is.  Yep.  It's Lee.  I likey him very muchly.

Big dog-ear turn to the leftYou mentioned a trainer?  Yep.  I'm in this crazy outdoor bootcamp that I joined during a momentary lapse in sanity.  I now have my own Jillian and Bob.  And I'm eating stuff that resembles horse food....because they told me to. 

What?  Wanting to throw yourself from this moving vehicle?  I don't blame you.  Go ahead jump.  But if you do, you'd miss this:

That's right.  Another look as the husband modeling the Savior of the World's hair.   

That never gets old.


That's all.


Not So Therapeutic This Time

Some people blog to record family memories.
Some people blog to share devotions or other inspirational writings or thoughts.
Some people blog just to be funny.
Some people blog to be thinky.
Some people blog for therapy.
And other people blog for whatever other reason there is to blog.


I happen to blog for therapy.  Some people call it journaling.  But I like the word "therapy."  Because only people who have it altogether have time to "journal."  People like me need therapy.  And lots of it.

But every once in awhile when I'm not trudging through the trenches bemoaning my lot in life as the only estrogen bearing member of my family, I do see the need to plaster a few good pictures of what our family has been up to, just for the sake of all you people seeing why it is I have gray hair my children having a precious record of their little lives.

So here we go.....

For starters, we endured the underworld that is the spring soccer season.  I will tell you that I'm not a huge fan of soccer anyway, but I tend to err on the side of tolerant when it's in the fall.  But stick me on the sidelines of a soccer game in the spring and you might as well rip my fingernails out with rusty pliers.  It is all I can do to not say ugly words.  You think I'm kidding. 

Arkansas finally decided to get with the program and put on its Spring face.  The sunshine gave us permission to wear flip flops and get sunburns.  And like the excellent mother that I am, I forgot to slather the babies in sunscreen.  But I made up for the massive blistering slight rosy glow on their cheeks by making them do schoolwork.  Because every good mom makes their kids do their school work (ahem.).  Although I did sweeten the deal by taking school to the lake....because even fractions are semi-fun in the sun. 

March brought Sawyer a birthday.  And it also brought me my chance to make another birthday cake for one of the kids.  Since I rebel against the birthday party, I try to resolve the matter in my head by pretending that I'm on that Ace of Cakes show.  Um...I'm so not on that show.  Because Sawyer's Bionicle cake ended up looking more like Wilson the Volleyball on fire than the helmet of the "fireguy." But, whatev.  It was Wilson in buttercream...so it's all good.

We headed north to hang with Jim-Dad and Grammy for a couple of days.  Jim-Dad's church was putting on a production of The Living Lord's Supper (the story of the Last Supper with the spin of da Vinci's painting).  We wanted to be there to support Jim-Dad, and I'm so glad that we went!  They really did an amazing job.

Doesn't Jesus' hair look lovely?  I think it is marvelous.  But I will have you know that the devil was against Jesus having beautiful tresses for the production.  I know because I spent most of the morning prior trying to tame the frizz of the Master's do.  And every good wig stylist needs a wig holder...

Snicker. Snort.

We did some egg hunting and egg dyeing....

Oh shoot.  I can't even focus long enough to post the rest of the Easter recap -- that picture of the husband channeling Led Zeppelin just threw me right off track.

Maybe I can regain my composure later. 

Right now...still just a'chucklin'.

That's all.