The House That Built Me

My daddy built our house. It was not very big by today’s standards. My first room was painted blue. I don’t really think Daddy was wishing for a boy, if he was he never made me feel like it. We had hardwood floors my mama fussed over. I could run and slide down the hall in socks. The bathroom was a neutral green and the inside of it’s closet was never finished, I’m not sure why but the furnace could be reached under the house by taking out a piece of plywood. You could also see the ground when it was moved and I was sometimes afraid a monster or witch would sneak up at night to get to me…I finally realized nothing was under there but dirt.
The kitchen was varnished pine with pink Formica countertops. There was a window over the sink that allowed a view of the big oak tree, the garden and assorted fruit trees. Huge old Hydrangea bushes peeked back in during summer months waving sky blue mop heads back and forth.
I remember playing under my mothers dining room table. My Barbie’s and baby dolls could often be found behind the tablecloths or in the upholstered seats of the fancy chairs. Every now and then Mama would let me help her polish the silver forks and spoons she kept in a special box in the china cabinet. There was a spoon, smaller than the rest with my initials on it. Mama said I used it when I was a baby.
We had a room we called the den. Daddy and I watched Bonanza, Ed Sullivan, Disney and the Flintstones on TV. At some point there was an aquarium with dozens of guppies and an orange Naugahyde couch. Neither made it very long. The guppies started eating their babies and the couch would stick to sweaty skin in the summer. Daddy decided after ten years or so to enclose the carport and make a new den. The old den became Mama’s sewing room and Daddy got a recliner and a fireplace. We all liked the addition but I kind of missed the sun coming in the kitchen window on winter afternoons. Mama insisted we needed a “sectional sofa”. I thought just a plain old sofa would have done the job with only three people in the family and Daddy in his recliner. We kept that gold couch for a long time. It made it through most of my childhood and two more houses.
When I was seventeen Daddy built us a new house. My mother tried to be happy about it but I knew she wasn’t. I was excited about picking the color of my new room even though I only lived there for a year before I left for college. I picked a light peach color with a slightly darker carpet. I got my parents mahogany bedroom furniture and a comforter that looked like a grown up. It made it easier to leave…since I didn’t grow up there I had no ties, no history, no openings where the witches and monsters could get in. I spent a couple of summers there but it never meant as much as the little brick house I grew up in.

There is a new Miranda Lambert song that inspired this note…I love her spunk and energy but this time she kinda tugged at my heartstrings.

My Reality Show Idea

I have a brilliant idea....Those with ADD know what comes next...I rant for an hour about my brilliant idea, then I lose interest in my brilliant idea and move on to the NEXT brilliant idea. This constant motion is a character flaw in us...those of us who have the "H" in ADHD. The truth is we can't help it, things tend to go unfinished especially if the idea is a long term commitment. (I wonder how many marriages have imploded due to one of the pair losing interest. For the record, I still find my husband very interesting.) I have a closet full of projects that I started and meant to finish. I have so many interests it's hard to pin me down to one. I have said many times I am good at a lot of things...NONE of which generate any income...they usually only generate OUTGO! But for unfinished projects I'd probably be a millionaire! I certainly am not, but...this brilliant idea has potential!!!
I have an idea for a reality show! Somebody needs to get me in touch with the people at Style or Discovery or HGTV. This would be a huge success. Ok, here's my idea.
Take "Super Nanny", "Clean House", "Hoarders" and "Extreme Makeover Home Edition"...put them all together and you have "Extreme Messy Family Makeover"! I am as serious as I can be. I want to be the first family turned in!
I can see it now. The bus pulls up and some hyper, super organizer people hop off and run to our door. They don't send us to Disney World for a vacation while they bomb our current house and start from scratch, they make us all stay and HELP! In fact, besides the dream team we are the ONLY help! They set up shop quickly, they line up my children....the five at home. The first thing we have to establish is it takes all seven of us to get this project off the ground. EVERYONE will participate. It's going to take two full days, huh, maybe weeks to work the magic necessary to get us done.
In the end I dream of us all standing outside in our freshly manicured yard staring up at the clean windows, the siding sparkling and the gutters clean. We are asked if we want to see what we accomplished in a matter of two weeks (or months maybe) we all nod and smile. In we go to see everything in a proper place, laundry all done and put away, kitchen gleaming, bedrooms spotless, tubs and toilets shining, closets easily open and nothing falls out! Quite the contrary, everything inside is filed and sorted. Bins and baskets hold every needed item, and for each tool a drawn outline to mark the spot where they go, where they are and where they will be returned to. Surely by now I am sobbing. There on the bulletin board is a chart with each of my children's names and a list of jobs they are expected to do each day starting with picking up their pajamas off the floor.
It is utopia! Paradise! I love it! Of course this is where I inevitably wake up and nothing has changed. But, I think my show has real promise…in the meantime if you want a brilliant project and you are NOT ADHD, call me.

Velveteen Rabbit

This week my granddaughter Aiden will turn two. I am holding out hope that the arrival of her little cousin Anderson will bring her to me soon but I don't want to wait to mail her gift. I want to give her the book The Velveteen Rabbit. I have always liked the story but it didn't really mean as much to me until now. There is a part in the story where the old rocking horse tells the rabbit what it means to be real. He says that real is a thing that happens to you when a child loves you for a long, long time. He goes on to describe what happens to you before you are real and the kind of people who never become real, "people who break easily, or have sharp edges or who have to be carefully kept." He tells the rabbit that by the time you are real most of your hair has been loved off and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. Yep, I'm real. I didn't know it until I got the book out for our little Elle at five. I was reading this part and started to choke back tears, she asked me if I needed to just stop reading, she's a compassionate one. I finished the book but I kept thinking about it.
What is real? My Raggedy Ann was real. She was my friend when I was a child. I suppose she was my security blanket, my one thing that helped me go to sleep when I was afraid. She went with me to college, took her place on my bed with the pastel pillows. It sounds silly but I couldn't leave her behind just yet. I would trade her soon enough for a grown up life.
I believe we are real because God wants us to be. I believe he puts children in our lives to teach us what that looks like. We teach them to be honest; they test us when we are in situations when a lie might be easier. They watch us in our relationships with others. They ask themselves if they are loving like mommy or truthful like Daddy. It is their love that makes us want to be those things. We start to look worn out and frayed to the world but we are more precious to them when we lose all pretenses and become who we were meant to be.
It is in our frailties we discipline them. We are not perfect, we can't expect them to be perfect, we can only hold them up to God and ask for his wisdom in our ignorance. Unfortunately many parents don't become real until it is too late for their own children. It is most often grandchildren who take on the job of making us real. I am thankful that God gave me young children at my age. I feel very honored
and blest to have them in my life. And when they tell me I'm soft in the middle or my hair has silver in it I smile. They aren't trying to hurt my feelings they are telling me what I already know, I am becoming shabbier and loose in the joints, they have loved me into real.

Lion Tails and Ruby Slippers

Some days my life is easy and fun and nothing at all goes wrong but many more days are long and hard and scary. I haven't a clue what I'm doing here, I jokingly say it's "how I roll" or "I just fly by the seat of my pants" but the truth is if I didn't have absolute belief that God is working it all out for my good and His glory I'd have a hard time breathing. It's not the marriage or the kids or the job or the endless responsibilities that go with these things that cause me to doubt myself or my abilities, it's the face in the mirror that keeps telling me I'm too old, or too slow, not educated enough or not gifted enough. I doubt myself because of my SELF. I so identify with the Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz, it is not that I don't have courage really, I just have never had to stand up and use it. I would rather stand quivering and twist my tail in my hands jabbering about what I do or do not believe in than to face the day confident that the God who holds the universe together has got my little problems handled. Let me give you an example of what I'm talking about.
Before Christmas my Suburban outran it's transmission. It was not a good time for this but instead of waiting for it to get fixed I drove a car that had an expired tag and was not insured (I REALLY thought our shop insurance covered it but it did not). I was pulled over by a sweet young policeman who no more believed my sob story than I believe in the tooth fairy (don't tell my younger kids I don't believe in the tooth fairy but for the record she has been slacking at our house lately) I was ticketed and told that I could appear before the judge and plead my case yada yada yada...fact is I didn't really have a case. After investigating the fines for my crimes I discovered I had to appear before the judge...in that, it was not an option. This rattled me. I don't really know why but I didn't want to have to explain why I had been driving an uninsured, expired tagged car.
I stewed in this knowledge for several days. I talked to my attorney, joked about going to jail, dreaded having to go to traffic court but ended up going by myself. But, I was not unarmed! My friend Kim called me and talked ninety-to-nothing about what I needed to to. "Go in there, fall on the mercy of the court and know that whatever the judge says will be what you have to accept". She also did as we often do for each other, she prayed, over the phone out loud...and pretty much asked the Lord to not let me say or do something stupid. I really love her. She so "gets" me. She was still talking like the girly machine gun she is when I pulled into a parking space and told her I HAD to get off the phone and go in because I was late and I was sure they'd add more fines for that!! I found the entrance and took my place in a very long line. I wasn't even sure I was in the right place but I asked a few people and was told everyone had to stand in this line first.
I observed the line shuffling along. Some people would talk to the lady behind the glass then leave the building, others here and there would take their tickets and exit to the right into THE COURTROOM. I saw several rows of chairs with a few people sitting, arms crossed looking very determined that they had a good reason for whatever it was they did. I started hearing the questions the lady behind the glass was asking. "Do you plead guilty or non-guilty?" the individual would answer and proceed from there. I caught on that the people who were pleading not-guilty were the smug looking ones in the courtroom. I knew I had no leg to stand on so when it was my turn to plead I said...."Uh,um,guilty" in fact I think I said "Uh, um I'M guilty!". I was so relieved not to have to go before the judge! When the lady asked how I wanted to pay the fine I asked her how much I needed to pay, she said however much I could. I was confused, she was confused then I asked her how much the fine was...she told me $311. I finally breathed again. I had thought it would be worse. Three hundred dollars is a lot of money for me but I had been told it would be more. I handed the lady my debit card told her to take it all at one time and I left feeling that I had somehow avoided prison.
I learned my lesson. I won't be driving anymore cars with no tag or insurance. I also learned that when I've done wrong even if grace is extended I will have consequences. I've been watching a pink netbook that I can write my stories on and skipe with my sweet baby Aidie. It will have to wait a few weeks. I am thankful to have a part-time job that I love so working for it won't be hard.
I also learned that although I may identify with the Lion, I have the ruby slippers. They are my family, my friends and all the things I love about my life and anytime I forget I can click my heals together and be right back where I'm suppose to be. Life is good, God is faithful and this action packed ride is pretty fun.
So, I'm gonna tell the Lion in the mirror that I am not afraid, I'm gonna dig that courage medal out of my pocket and wear it.

I just don't know what to make of this. I have had many years experience with children, I know enough not to say I'm an expert...I think there are very few of those. Children are not as predictable as we grown ups think. I believe my little Lissy is a great example of this unpredictablity theory.
We started out okay today but quickly went down hill. There was no battle about clothes, shoes or hair. She brushed her teeth without complaint, but when it was time to go to school she bristled. She wanted to take her "bloony", a latex balloon she got last night a Chik-fil-a. She also got a little red basketball, which would have been appropriate for "show and tell". She had a meltdown because we wouldn't let her take the balloon. She left in a bad mood and according to her teacher went on to throw a fit at school, kicking, screaming, all the normal characteristics of her fits of rage. This time there didn't seem to be a cause.
We got home a few minutes ago and she greeted her balloon (now on the floor) as if it were a long lost friend. Then she realized something had changed...her balloon was not reaching for the sky like it had this morning. This made her angry! She started calling the balloon "stupid" and fussing at it to stay up in the air and not fall down. It was like watching a scary science fiction movie, there were no tears...so I'm guessing she was just mad but it was intense!! I was very glad not to be a balloon. She finally got so mad at it that she reached in the drawer and pulled out a pair of scissors and popped the useless thing...She then picked it up...walked to the trashcan and dropped it in. Not another word. Weird huh?
I can only imagine what she'll do next, she keeps me guessing and on my toes.

Peanut Butter Toast

I have a thousand things on my mommy list today. It is Monday and my house looks like it. Why am I the mom who fusses at everybody about not picking up their stuff but get no results whatsoever? Note to self, fussing doesn't work, find alternative methods of crowd control. Yesterday afternoon I clearly remember thinking, if I can just get them all out and back to school I can have this place whipped into shape in no time. Well, it sounded good but now I wish I had sent everyone up with a laundry basket full of their clothes and all their shoes. When you multiply those items by seven you have a truck load and now I have no help. I suppose I shouldn't say I don't have ANY help. I have the little one. She's four, she's adorable and impossible all at once. She came in the kitchen a few minutes ago and asked for some peanut butter toast. I was so impressed that she actually wanted to eat something remotely nutritious for breakfast I got right on it. Her normal breakfast consists of Fruit Loops, a cookie and a couple of pixie sticks, I jump at the mention of peanut butter. As I delivered the toast she smiled and told me I was the "bestest mommy ever". I responded to the little cherub with "Thank you Sweetie" and mumbled under my breath, "I hope you remember that when you're fourteen". I know better than to let that one go to my head. I am not the bestest...um, best mother anyone ever had. I am old and tired and lack the ability to focus on anything for more than a few minutes tops. I think what she was saying was more like this. You are adequate, you take care of me, I don't have to worry about bullies or being hungry or cold. You love me and that is enough. I love you for your effort. Break that down into four year old vocabulary and understanding and it comes out "Bestest Ever". If I do my job well, she'll grow up and want a family, she'll be the mommy spreading peanut butter on the toast. She won't remember always having clean clothes or a good night song, she won't remember getting to pick out snacks at the grocery store or rummaging through my purse for gum or being lifted up to reach the mail. I hope she remembers being told she's beautiful and that she can be a ballerina or a doctor, a scientist or a pastry chef. I hope she realizes someday that she had a really fun childhood and was cherished and for a moment in time was my entertainment, my encourager and my help. These days are racing by, in a minute she will be gone. So, as I get back to the mundane chores of Monday I pray for her and thank God for the little gift I get to hold for now.