Dear Allison...

Dear Allison,

      Today is somewhat of a bittersweet day for me.  It's a day I knew would come, of course.  A day I have been excited about, yet a day I have hoped wouldn't arrive as quickly as it has.  Today, you turn 16.  As I write this, you're standing in line with your Big Daddy at the DMV, getting your license.  I want to go pick you up right now and force you in the car and tell you how driving is overrated and momma will drive you everywhere you need to go for the rest of your life.  But I can't do that.  First of all, it's weird.  Second, I don't want to drive you around everywhere forever.  Third, you're a good driver and I know you're ready for your license.  And fourth, this isn't about a driver's license at all.  Not even close.  I am a big ball of mixed up emotions.  I am happy that we've raised an independent, responsible, smart, kind, Christian young woman.  I'm happy that we can trust you to make good decisions, but I'm realistic that you're still a teenage girl and there needs to be room for mistakes.  I'm happy that you're outgoing and funny and you aren't afraid to try new things.  I'm happy that your life is progressing the way it's supposed to.  So what is wrong with me?  I'm excited, but a little part of me is sad.  Really, really sad.  Every mom can say, "Oh, it seems like just yesterday I was changing their diapers."  There is so much truth in that statement.  It really does seem like yesterday.  Perhaps it seems like yesterday because my life has big one big "baby-fog" over the last 16 years.  All of your "firsts" are so fresh in my mind.  Your first sneeze (December 23, 1998...biggest sneeze I ever heard come out of a baby.  You still sneeze super loud), your first poo-poo-all-the-way-up-your-back diaper (January, 1999...it scared me to death.  Didn't know babies could do that), your first steps (Thanksgiving Day, 1999...you looked like a chubby little drunk, stumbling across the living room at Aunt Jessica's house), your first day of Kindergarten (August, 2004...you loved it, and I was relieved that I was able to save my tears for when I got home), your first day of high school (August, 2013...you wore parachute pants and tried to convince me they were back in style.  Whatever.  You wouldn't let me walk you into the school building that morning.  I don't know why.  I wouldn't have cried or anything.  Maybe just given you a long, lingering hug.  Just long enough to be uncomfortable for those around us.  Then maybe, just maybe, I would've gently released you into the lion's den that is high school with my favorite motherly advice, "Make good choices today!!"  It would be the most embarrassing moment of your life, ah yes, the moments I live for).  I can still remember the way you smelled as a baby, the way your chubby little legs looked in ruffle-bottom bloomers, the way your eyes would cross when you were taking a bottle.  Sometimes, if I concentrate really hard, I can still feel you lying on my chest, peacefully sleeping...the ONLY way you would sleep for the first several months :)  I miss that.  I miss the way your crazy, curly hair would look when you woke up after a nap, or if it was humid outside, or if a storm was coming.  The bigger your hair was, the closer the rain would be :)  I miss the way you couldn't pronounce the letter "R" until you were six years old.  I miss the little songs and stories you would make up. I miss the way you would smile when I sang Frank Sinatra songs or the "All in the Family" theme song.  I miss all of that.  I have prayed a silly prayer over and over again for time to slow down. But God doesn't answer that prayer the way I want Him to.  Time, if anything, is speeding up and I see what He is doing.  He is leaving time as it is, which "forces" me enjoy the time with my babies all the more.  He is allowing me to see the blessings that each of my daughters are and appreciate the little things, like sneezes and parachute pants.  I don't think He intended for you to stay dependent on me forever.  That's not good for either of us.  I think what He intended to happen is exactly what is happening, you're growing up the way you're supposed to and I just have to accept it.  So I will.  Eventually.  Slowly, but eventually.  Be patient with me.  I've never been on this side of it before, the mom side of it.  It's weird and different and much harder over here.  I just need you to promise me a few things.  Promise me that you will keep making the right decisions, no matter how hard they are.  Promise me that you will choose a college within 30 minutes of home (I'm kidding...sort of).  Promise me that you will always remember that you are loved wholly, unconditionally, and in that crazy ,over protective, I-will-break-the-legs-of-anyone-who-tests-me kind of way and that will never let up.  Finally, promise me that when you are a mother, you'll be better than I have been.  Take what you think I've done well on, and improve upon it.  Discard the things that you don't think I did well on.  Just be better.  Know that when you are going through these same things with your children, I'll be here to cry with you because all the things you will be feeling at that time will still be fresh in my mind.  I'll be able to tell you that everything will be okay, just like my mom is telling me now.  She's right, and I'll be right too. 

I almost forgot...promise me one more thing.  Take every opportunity to embarrass (not humiliate) your kids.  You could, oh I don't know, dress up like Alice Cooper and show up at their school on the last day, or run the coat check room at their Homecoming dance and make weird, semi-threatening comments to all the boys and then let them know whose mother you are, leaving your sanity in question to those around you.  I'm just throwing ideas out there.  Your kids may pretend they don't like it at first, but they'll be funny stories to tell later.  Happy Sweet 16 :)

Love,
Momma 
 

 

Lend Me A Hand...

            I have a slight obsession with checking out people’s hands.  There, I said it.  It’s weird and perhaps socially unacceptable, but I can’t help it.  I love to look at hands.  They say so much about someone.  A man’s calloused hands and dirt laced fingernails might suggest that he works hard for his family, putting in long hours at his blue-collar job.  A woman’s perfectly manicured, soft hands may say that she is particular about her appearance and takes good care of herself.  A child’s sticky, Play-Doh scented hands say, “I’m a kid.  I’ve been playing all day and I don’t have a care in the world.”  There are two pairs of hands that I’m very familiar with; hands that I’ve seen work, play, and serve others my entire life.  They are the hands of my sisters.

            My sister, Jessica, is six years older than I.  She was like my second mom when we were growing up.  I always loved her hands.  She has long, piano-player fingers and beautiful fingernails.  Her hands were always so gentle with me, whether she was braiding my hair or hugging me, her hands brought me comfort.  I always wanted my hands to look like hers, smooth and flawless.  Now as an adult, I see past the physical appearance of her hands and I see how she uses them to serve those around her.  Jessica’s hands work tirelessly raising her three children all on her own.  Her hands rise early in the day and don’t rest until late at night.  Her hands take care of other people’s children all day in her career as a teacher.  They are calm and kind hands that don’t become easily irritated but have the patience of Job.  Her hands comfort crying children and are always there for a certain little sister :) They are hands that can cook, clean, and single-handedly run a household.  They are hands that I’m sure feel as if sometimes they are running out of steam, but they are hands that keep going, because they have no choice.  They are hands that I hope and pray a sweet, loving man holds in his someday and thanks the Lord for this precious woman by his side.  Jessica’s hands are hands that deserve a man’s respect and adoration for all they have done and for all they continue to do.  Her hands should be admired for being delicate and graceful, but should be regarded for their strength and resilience that is below the surface. 

            My sister, Meri, is older than me by three years.  Meri’s hands are physically the opposite of Jessica’s. They are small and square, like mine, but her hands are nothing short of beautiful because of what you can’t see. Her hands held mine when we were little girls, playing house or when she was reading to me.  Her hands threw a pretty mean punch when we were in high school…but only when absolutely necessary :)   Meri’s hands wiped the sweat from my forehead and fed me ice chips when I was in labor with my fourth baby.  Her hands wiped the tears away from my face when being in labor with said baby was almost too much pain to bear.  I saw Meri’s hands comfort others when she buried her first husband, when it was our hands that should’ve been comforting her.  Her resolve was so great to attempt to heal from that tragedy, and I watched those small hands pick up the pieces of a broken life and rebuild a new one.  Her hands found love again and are now held tightly by the one who loves and adores her ‘til death do them part.  Meri’s hands serve others in every way they can.  Whether she’s reaching in her purse to give out a piece of gum, baking someone a wedding cake, or bringing a meal to someone in need, Meri’s capable hands are always taking care of those around her. Those hands have seen the depths of heartbreak, yet refused to allow any circumstances to keep her down.  With every valley those hands have fallen in to, they have clawed their way back up to the peak and dared anyone to stand in their way on the journey upwards.

            I love my sisters and the examples they have been to me.  They continuously do for others, no matter how tired they may be.  Their hands live to serve and I can’t help but think their hands are not theirs alone, but the hands of Jesus.

Another Trip Down Memory Lane...

      Some time ago, I wrote a post about my early childhood memories.  I wrote it mainly because I had absolutely nothing else to write about and that dreaded "writer's block" has struck again.  So, I'll submit for your approval and for your reading pleasure, (can you tell I love Rod Serling?) my next installment of, "Someone Else's Memories You Don't Really Care About ".

            As I said in my last "memories" post, I remember lots of stuff; unimportant, weird stuff.  I spent the first seven years of my life on a farm in North Dakota.  It was cold and snowy, but I loved it.  To me, it was a huge wonderland that was perfect for a kid like me who just liked to wander around and think about stuff.  One overcast day, I was on one of my "expeditions" in the little clump of trees surrounding our house when I came upon some delicious looking red berries.  They looked like holly berries in a way.  I was getting pretty hungry during this long journey around the yard, so I picked a handful of the berries and ate them like you eat popcorn at the movies;  popping each one in my mouth one-handedly.  I decided after snack time, it was time to go inside.  When my mother saw my face, covered in red berry juice she yelled, "What is all over your mouth and cheeks?!  What did you eat?!"  In my four year old honesty, I said, "I ate those red berries that are all in the trees."  My mom gasped and said (more like growled), "Oh Lindsey!  Those are poisonous!  Why did you do that?!"  Telling her I was hungry seemed like a stupid answer, even to a four year old, so I just shrugged my shoulders.  She made me sit down and drink some milk and she watched me closely for the next half hour or so.  I couldn't figure out what was so bad about what I'd done.  The berries didn't taste bad, a little bitter, but some sugar would've fixed that.  After realizing I wasn't going to die, she sent me to the bathroom to wash my face and hands.  While I was standing at the sink, I thought I better get rid of the pocketful of berries I had saved for dessert.  I took them out and flushed them down the toilet.  I would never know if they tasted better with sugar.



I could never look at Lady Lovely Locks the same way again.

            Sometime after I ingested poison berries, my two older sisters and my older brother and I were playing "Army" out in the woods around our house.  I was on my sister, Jessica's side and we were quietly and carefully treading through a small clearing in the woods.  Jessica would look over her shoulder every so often and put her finger to her lips to "shush" me.  I took "Army" very seriously.  If Neil and Meri heard us, they'd capture us and then we'd lose the war.  Who wants to lose the war?  Not I.  While my fearless leader was proceeding onward, something caught my eye.  It was this huge mound of dirt, hanging from a tree.  I thought it best to go check it out...I did have my gun after all (Not really, it was a huge stick...I was six.  Give me a break).  When I got closer to it, I thought, "This kinda looks like a piñata!"  So I hit it...hard...and it crashed to the ground.  But instead of tons of delicious candy bursting forth, a swarm of angry hornets descended upon me.  I started screaming and dancing around like an idiot.  "Be quiet!" Jessica warned and then she realized what was happening.  "RUN!" she screamed.  And run I did, faster than I ever have before.  Hornets were stinging me all over and my running and screaming just seemed to spur them on.  I made it inside the house and my mom came to see what all the commotion was.  "What did you do?!" That seemed to be her response to much of what I was involved in.  Not waiting for my answer, she stripped me down to my "Lady Lovely Locks" panties and proceeded to slap me...well, she was slapping the hornets.  For whatever reason, she made me lie on the kitchen table so she could assess the damage.  While she was pulling out stingers and putting cream on each wound, my dad came home.  "What's going on?" he asked.  "Lindsey knocked down a hornets nest with a stick," my mom replied.  My dad, ever the sympathetic said, "Judas Priest." and walked out. That was his go-to phrase when he couldn't think of anything else to say :)  Later that day, we were visiting my mom's friend and my mom proceeded to pull my pants down, exposing those beautiful "Lady Lovely Locks" panties, and show her friend my stings, right in front of her friend's teenage son.  Fantastic.

                   

My beloved.

 For my sixth birthday, I wanted a Keyper.  It was a rubber and plastic toy that came in the form of a snail, or my favorite...the orange and yellow turtle. They came with a key and you could unlock their shells and hide stuff in there.  I thought of all the little goodies I could hide in that shell. My plastic bracelets, maybe some candy, my sister's Michael Jackson card with the still photo from "Billie Jean" that she got out of a gumball machine.  Oh, the possibilities.  My sixth birthday arrived and low and behold...I GOT A KEYPER!  She was lovely, that orange and yellow turtle, smelling of weird, processed fake orange scent mixed with a little whiff of molded rubber and plastic.  I played with that turtle all day, carefully selecting what to hide in her tiny shell.  After I had proudly crammed everything I could think of in her shell, I locked her with the special key and carried her out to the kitchen where my mom was so I could show off my beauty.  I set her on the table and admired her factory-fresh beauty.  Just then, my little brother Stewart came walking in.  I always knew when he was up to no good, just by the smirk on his cute little chubby face.  His eyes were locked on mine and I knew a showdown of epic proportions was looming.  Somewhere in the distance, I'm pretty sure I heard that music from old Westerns when there's about to be a shoot-out.  Stewart swiped my turtle off the table, held it above his head, and threw it on the linoleum kitchen floor.  It all happened so fast.  Curse my slow reflexes!  My beloved lay on the floor in pieces.   She was finished.  We were finished.  The sad remains of my turtle and her secret contents lay scattered about.  I cried and Stewart giggled and ran out.  I felt like my head was on fire, "Mom!  Look at what Stewart did!"  My mom glanced down and said, "Oh, I'm sorry.  Pick up these pieces now and all that other stuff that spilled out of her shell."  Clearly, I was alone in this tragedy, left to my own devices to cope with this grief.  My day in the sun with my ever-longed for turtle was over.  Forever.  As for Stewart...I got him back years later when I tore all the stuffing out of his prized sock monkey.  Long story as to the circumstances surrounding the monkey's demise, but Lindsey-1, Sock Monkey-0.

           Thank you for joining me on yet another rambling trip down memory lane!  I really hope you'll join me next time :)



            
                                 
                                                  
           
         
           

When I Grow Up...

I don’t know about all of you, but I am constantly waiting to “grow up”.  Sure, I’m married, I have four kids, I have a job, and I do all the other things most “grown-ups” do, whether I want to or not.  But mentally, I still feel like a kid.  I have a few people in my life that I look up to and think, “I hope I am like them when I grow up.”  I’ve known these people for most, if not all, of my life.  They are spiritual giants to me and although you may not recognize their names, the influence they’ve had on me may be an influence that is familiar to you.

          Clyde Jones is one of the kindest, most forgiving, most generous people I have ever met.  I’ve known Clyde since I was seven years old and all these years, he’s remained one of the most influential people in my life.  He taught me the power of forgiveness and how it can change someone’s life.  Clyde has been known to allow people to borrow one of his cars if they needed it.  Back when I was 15 years old, Clyde let my dad borrow one of his cars for a few days.  For whatever reason, I thought it’d be a good idea to take that car out for a spin.  No, I didn’t have a license and no, I didn’t have anyone’s permission so yes, I basically stole that car.  In my infinite wisdom, I chose a dark, rainy night to take that car out and I ran it right into a telephone pole.  I.Totaled.That.Car.   I wasn’t really hurt, because I did have enough sense to wear a seatbelt, but I was dreading when my parents found out…and when Clyde would find out.  The next morning, my dad drove me to Clyde’s house so I could apologize in person.  I was a nervous wreck the whole way to his house and my knees felt like Jell-O as I stood in front of him and apologized profusely.  I was so embarrassed and afraid and my “ugly cry” was in full force when Clyde put his arms around me and said so sweetly and softly, “I forgive you.  I’m just glad you’re okay.  This car can be replaced, you cannot.”  I felt the weight of the world lifted off my shoulders and for the first time in my life, I knew how it felt to be wholly and sincerely forgiven.  To this day, I can still feel that immediate relief of true forgiveness when I relive that moment. He showed me how to be like Jesus that day and in that moment of pardon, Clyde was the embodiment of Christ.  I was taught one of most important lessons of my life that morning of March 26, 1997.  Forgiveness is a powerful, life-changing thing and I needed to be sure I passed that forgiveness on to others in my life when the time came.  Every time I’ve uttered the words, “I forgive you” since that day, I think about those words and that sweet hug from Clyde and I will be forever grateful for the lesson he taught me and the influence he continues to be in my life to this day.  Those three words changed me and I am so thankful.

          Miss Mary Etta Neiland is a legend, in my mind.  She started Happy Times Preschool at Central church of Christ over 30 years ago (my husband was in her first class!) and she retired this past year.  Three of my four kids have attended or are attending Happy Times and when she announced her retirement, I begged her to stay at least until all of my kids were out of preschool.  She simply smiled at my request and said, “No.”  It’s that honestly and candor that has resonated with me ever since I met Miss Mary Etta.  I grew up attending church at Central and Miss Mary Etta quickly became our adopted grandma…well, ours and everyone else’s!  At that time, she had no grandchildren of her own and I remember thinking how sad it was that this sweet lady wasn’t somebody’s grandma yet and I wanted to see to it that she felt like she was our grandma.  My little brother and I used to spend the night at her house from time to time and it was just like grandma’s house, from the carton of Purity Lemonade she’d pour us, to the trips to Toys R Us.  She would also “get after” us like a grandma would too.  Once when we spent the night, she tucked us in and turned off the light.  My brother and I of course didn’t settle down and Miss Mary Etta came back in the room and said very firmly, “It is time to go sleep.  I will NOT come in this room again.”  We understood and we went to sleep.  What she said went, and we loved and respected her for that.  A few years ago when my third daughter was at Happy Times, she went through a phase where she cried every time I dropped her off.  One morning after a particularly bad departure at the preschool, I called Miss Mary Etta and said, “I am so sorry about this morning.  I am at a loss for what to do.  What should I do?”  Miss Mary Etta let out a little laugh and said, “Well, first of all, I think you need to lighten up!”  I loved it.  She was exactly right. She explained that my child wasn’t the first to behave that way and she wouldn’t be the last and she assured me they could handle it.  “It won’t last forever,” she said.  There have been many instances when I’m unsure how to handle a situation with my kids and I think, “What would Miss Mary Etta do?” She has set the standard in my eyes and I can only hope to raise my kids as well as she raised her children.  To me, she is the epitome of child-rearing and common sense. She keeps it simple and she means what she says.  She’d probably think I was silly for admiring her as much as I do, but her mark in my life has been so significant and indelible it’s impossible to be anything but eternally grateful for the influence she’s had on me.

          My sweet Aunt Julia is the definition of a Proverbs 31 woman.  She has lived her life dedicated to the Lord and His work.  I often think about what God will say to her when she meets Him and there’s no doubt in my mind He’s mighty pleased with her.  She’s so calm and kind and whenever she enters the room, the atmosphere is softer.  She just has that affect on her surroundings.  I saw her last week and she came right over to me, kissed my forehead and said, “Love you,” in her sweet, gentle voice.  How could you not feel loved after that?!  She always has made me feel important and wonderful.  She has such a loving, patient, motherly way about her that I see she has passed on to her own daughters.  What a gift to give your children.  I remember when we were growing up, Aunt Julia used to expect her children to obey “right away, all the way, and happily”.  Such a simple saying, but it says so much about the expectations she had for her children.  My Aunt Julia has shown me, and many others, how to live for the Lord and to always put Him first no matter the circumstances.  What a blessing she has been to me.

          I’m sure everyone has those people in their lives who’ve had a profound impact on them.  Like I said, these names and people may not mean anything to you, but they mean the world to me and the countless others they’ve influenced.  I can only hope to influence those around me in the way that these three have in my life.

Well, Bless Your Heart....

      Bless your heart. Living in the South, you can get away with saying nearly anything if you follow it up with a , "Bless your heart". I have such a love/hate relationship with that phrase.  Love it if it's directed towards someone else.  Hate it if it's directed towards me. I learned that firsthand last Friday. 

      That afternoon, I had to make a run to Publix, my favorite grocery store.  I love going to the grocery store.  Ryan and I usually go together, but he was at work and I needed a few things right away.  I feel almost "nekkid" if I walk into Publix without him.  Sadly, just about everyone who works there knows us.  Ryan especially...he tends to stand out in a crowd a little more than I do :)  We walk in and the Meat Manager comes over and slaps Ryan on the back, "Hey!  Big Man!  How's it goin'?!" I love it.  I love that my sweet Ryan makes friends everywhere he goes.  Anyhow, I already felt somewhat out of sorts waltzing through Publix without "Big Man" by my side that afternoon.  I had my two littlest ones buckled in the cart and I was deciding what butter to buy when a sweet little old lady pushed her cart over to me.
     
      "What beautiful little girls you have!" she said.  I thanked her and then she dropped a bomb on me.
    
        "Are they excited for the new baby?"  I was totally confused.  Baby?  What baby?  I even glanced at my cart to see if I had given birth to an infant since arriving at the store.  I told you I was feeling out sorts, so who knows what I could've done in those first five minutes, browsing the butter.  I must've looked like a confused puppy because I cocked my head to the side and just stared at her blankly.  Then the realization hit me like a ton of bricks.
    
        "Oh, I'm not pregnant," I said softly, partly because I didn't want to embarrass her and partly because I didn't want to embarrass myself.  This sweet old lady looked as if she were about to cry.
    
       "Oh! I'm so sorry! I just...I thought...your blouse...well, bless your heart."  I couldn't help but laugh.  She put her hand on my arm and kept apologizing.  I kept laughing.  She kept trying to explain why she thought I was pregnant.  I kept laughing. 

      "It must be your blouse, dear.  Oh, bless your heart.  I do apologize."  I told her it was okay and I do have what I like to call "permanent baby belly", since I've had four children.  Well, that struck a chord with her.  She also had four children.  I learned all about them.  And their spouses.  And their children.  And her husband is a preacher.  And they always go grocery shopping together (just like us!) She said she could tell I was a Christian by the way I handled her thinking I was pregnant.  I took that as a compliment :)  And she is also one of four children.  And they are all in their 80's.  And she turned 85 on April 4th.  After a few minutes, she said she must go because she could see that her husband was getting a little wild in the potato chip aisle.  She squeezed my hand and said, "You're so sweet.  I do hope we meet again."  I said I hoped the same, and I turned to walk down the ice cream aisle.  I had a coupon for the best ice cream bars on the planet.  They are a little pricey, so when I have a coupon, I have to buy a box.  Just as I reached in the freezer case and pulled out my beloved bars, my new friend was looking at me, half ways smiling.

      "Okay," I said, "This is really why I have 'permanent baby belly'."  She laughed and gave me a look that I KNOW said, "Well, bless your heart."

     

     

Someday...

Someday, you'll miss this, so I'm told

Try not to wish it away

Too soon it seems your babies grow old

And you'll be wanting back these days

 

Someday, you'll miss the growing belly

The swollen ankles, the tiny kicks

Constant cravings for peanut butter and jelly

And feeling like your body's taken 1000 licks

 

Someday, you'll miss that newborn cry

Jarring you out of a deep, dead sleep

The long day that blurs into night

And being so tired, you just want to weep

 

Someday, you'll miss sitting, rocking her in the chair

Feeling so unproductive, laundry piled high

Forgetting the last time you washed your hair

Feeling like every sign of youth has waved bye-bye

 

Someday, you'll miss diapers, teething, spit-up

Car seats, high chairs, and first steps

Pureed peas, pacifiers, sippy cups

And wondering if as a mother, you are inept

 

Someday, you'll miss the tiny sound

Of footsteps creeping down the hall

"Get back in bed!" you stand your ground

But would that extra cuddle have hurt, after all?

 

Someday, you'll miss running around town

Dropping off, picking up, and bringing to

Swimming upstream, about to drown

Feeling like your whole life is a zoo

 

Somedays, I feel like that "someday"

Is so far down the road, out of my reach

But somedays that "someday" feels not so far away

"Not yet!" I think "So much is left to teach!"

 

So hold my hand, yours in mine feels so small

I wish I could halt this swift-moving time

But I'll have my memories, I'll cherish them all

And someday remember when you were all mine

 



In My Life...

I've had a severe case of blog-writer's block lately.  I've been working on another project (aside from my husband, raising kids, my job, church stuff, school stuff, extra-curricular stuff, etc) that has taken up the creative compartment of my brain.  It seems that no matter what, I just haven't been able to think up of anything worthwhile to blog about.  I even converted our rarely-used dining room into an office so I can have an actual space to sit and write quietly.  I always have this feeling that no one reads my blog anyway, so I'm sure no one even notices that there have been no new posts in months!  My husband asks me every so often why I haven't blogged in awhile and my answer is the same each time, "I don't know.  I guess I have nothing good to write about."  He'll try to give me a few ideas that I quickly dismiss, but the other day he had a pretty good one.  "Why don't you write about your life," he said.  "You could start when you were born and blog about all the stuff you remember."  All the stuff I remember?  I have a memory that goes as far back as 1967, yet I was born in 1981 . . . meaning I remember lots of stuff.  Lots of unimportant stuff.  Lots of weird stuff. I even have some memories that I'm not sure are mine.  What I mean is, it could be something that has been talked about so much during my life that my brain has just "adopted" the memory as its own. But it might be kinda fun (or incredibly boring), I thought, to rehash as many of my memories as I could.  We'll see how this turns out . . .

Our farmhouse in North Dakota

I was born on October 12, 1981, in Devils Lake, North Dakota.  I am the fourth of five kids and from what I've been told, my brother Neil was super-ticked when I was born because I was a girl.  His third little sister in a row.  Poor kid.  But he got a little brother when Stewart came along three years later, but more on that soon.  Anyhow, my mom said I was a big baby . . . ten pounds, four ounces and 22 inches long.  That is a big baby.  I feel the need to apologize to my mom every now and then.  I'm sorry Mom, fourth baby or not, that one had to hurt.  She said I never slept and I would just play in my crib.  Maybe that's why I love to nap now . . . making up for all that lost sleep as a baby :)  When I was a few months old, my mom noticed a weird bump in my nose.  She took me to our pediatrician who I guess had it tested and it was a tumor.  A benign tumor, but it still had to be removed.  So in January, 1982 my parents took me to a hospital in Minneapolis to have surgery.  My dad said it was so funny how drugged up I was before the surgery.  I was trying to hold my head up, but it was too heavy from the drugs so I would bob my head and just smile all high-like :)  I guess the surgery went fine because I got to go home and everything healed pretty well.  I don't remember anything of course over the next few years.  My very first memory is of our kitchen of our farmhouse in North Dakota.  I was about two years old and I was standing at the bottom of the staircase in the kitchen. 

Me and my MASH-lovin' Dad.

I was wearing my favorite dress . . . a Strawberry Shortcake dress.  Ahhh, she was so beautiful :)  I don't know why that is forever seared into my brain, but it is.  I remember being really sick around the same time and having strange dreams and waking up in the middle of the night, terrified because the room was spinning.  I was too afraid to go downstairs to my parents room so I stayed in my bed and had crazy hallucinations because of my high fever.  I remember thinking that the wallpaper was coming to life and crawling upwards to the ceiling.  This might have been the same time that I had a bad ear infection and my ear drum burst during the night.  My mom came into my room the next morning and there was blood all over my pillow.  Poor Mom.  I bet she was the one who was terrified after that.  Some time later, I remember sitting in my dad's lap watching MASH . . . oh that explains so much (like why I have 27 episodes of MASH saved on my DVR right now!).  Whenever I hear the theme song, it brings back that memory.  Sitting in my dad's lap.  He smelled so good.

Neil, Jessica, Meri, and Me.  

When I was three or so, I remember playing outside one day in particular.  It was windy and a little cold out and I was wearing a red-hooded sweater.  We had a footpath in front of our house and for whatever reason, I was running up and down it.  Then suddenly, I was skipping for the first time.  I remember thinking, "I'm skipping!"  I was so proud of myself.  I wanted to show everyone :)  I remember our dog, Rebel, seemed to skip along with me.  I loved that dog.  I am convinced he was a human being in a dog's body.  There will never be another like him.  He made Lassie look like an amateur.  There was one time that my mom told me to go outside to where my dad and some other men were working on our farm.  It was time for their "coffee break" and they were near the grain dryer, which was this huge metal thing that we were not to go near because it was dangerous.  But my mom knew it was safe to send me because my dad would see me coming  and wouldn't let me get near the dryer.  I was making my way across the gravel driveway to my dad, when Rebel ran over to me and stopped, blocking my way.  Every time I would try to take a step forward, Rebel would push me back away from the direction of the grain dryer.  I was so little that he would knock me down when he'd push me back and it made me so mad.  I was crying, "Stop it, Rebel!  Move!"  My dad saw what was happening and he came over and said, "Good boy, Rebel," and scratched Rebel's ears.  The dog was trying to keep me away from something he knew was unsafe and I didn't understand that until years later.  We had a milkman named Ron who would come deliver milk to our house.  He drove a blue Lakeview Dairy Truck and Rebel would bark whenever Ron's truck was coming down the driveway.  Rebel would bark whenever anyone came down the driveway :)  Ron was tall and had dark hair and a beard.  He smiled all the time and wore a blue uniform.  I would ask him EVERYTIME he'd deliver milk, no matter what time of year it was, "Do you have any egg nog yet?"  He would laugh and say, "No, not yet!"  But I remember this one day when I asked, he DID have egg nog!  Jackpot!!  Best.Day.Ever.  He was so nice.  I think he'd give us ice cream sometimes too, which made him even more awesome.

This wasn't our milkman, but this was somebody's milkman from Lakeview Dairy :)

I remember going to the grain elevator in Devils Lake with my dad, I think it was called "Lake Region Grain".      They had a coke machine that dispensed glass bottles and my dad would let me get one sometimes.  I didn't really know how to drink out of a coke bottle, so I'd put my entire mouth over the opening.  My dad was talking to some of his friends that worked there and he looked down at me and saw how I was drinking my coke.  "Don't do that, Lindsey or you'll get your mouth stuck on that bottle and we'll never be able to get it off," my dad said.  His friends started laughing and one of them came at me to tickle me or something.  I didn't like it.  All those grown men laughing at me.  Not cool.  For years I really thought if I drank a coke like that, it'd get stuck on my mouth.  The guy that came at me, his name was Dennis and I think he died in a bad accident some time ago.  It makes me sad when I think that he tried to be nice to me, but he ended up scaring me instead.  Poor Dennis.  He just thought my dad's joke was funny.  I remember this other time, I was watching TV and it was showing an ambulance loading up a body covered by a sheet. I had never seen anything like that before. I said, "Dad, what's that?"  He said, "That's Marvin Gaye.  His dad shot him and killed him yesterday."  I was about three or so . . . nice, Dad :)  He believed in keepin' it real, I guess.

You remember that movie, "The Shining"?  There's a scene in it where Scatman Crothers tells the little boy he "shines", meaning he can read people's minds or something.  Well, I don't really believe in things like that, but I had a similar experience around three or four years old.  I remember seeing a "ghost" outside my parents bedroom window one night.  It was over by our clothesline (yes, it was probably a bed sheet!) and I can still see it to this day in my mind's eye.  While I was looking at it, I remember thinking to myself, "This isn't real, I'm inside my mom's dream."  Weird, yes, but hang on.  The next morning at breakfast, my mom was saying something to my grandma (who was visiting) about her dream.  I then chimed in and told the rest of my mom's dream to her and my grandma, even though my mom hadn't told anyone else about it. I talked about my mom's dream like it had been mine and I was able to recall it even though she hadn't told anyone about it.  Weird little girl.  Apparently, I did a lot of things like that freaked out my parents.  Now, I don't think that mind-reading is real, nor do I think ghosts are real, but I do think there are lots of things we as humans can't explain.  My dad's parents lived in the farmhouse  right up the road from us in North Dakota.  Their house was big and white with green trim.  My great-grandfather built it around 1920 or so.  To the side of that house sat the house where my grandma was born.  Her grandpa built that house and his name, "Chris Hermanson", is etched in one of the window panes.  Neat.  Gives it character.  Anyway, we used to play "school" in the older house.  It had a closed in front porch that had old school desks in it.  We weren't allowed to go into the main part of the old house because I'm sure it was dangerous; old floorboards and stuff.  I loved playing on that closed in porch, but the house itself terrified me.  I always felt as if we were being watched by something inside the house.  I'm not saying we were, but it felt like that.  You know that feeling when someone is behind you . . . yeah, it felt like that.  It wasn't scary enough for me to stop playing there though :)  The main house where my grandparents lived was the neatest house.  I can still smell it.  It was a mixture of plaster walls and potatoes boiling on the stove.  Again, I realize that's weird, but that's what my mind remembers.  Everything about that house was comforting . . . it was what a grandparents' house should be.  My mom's parents lived away, but they'd come visit from time to time.  One time when I was three and they were visiting, my Granddad was reading the Bible to Meri, Stewart, and me.  I started reading along with him and he stopped and said, "What's this word, Lindsey?"  I would read to whatever he pointed to.  He said to my mom, "Claudia, did you know this baby could read?!"  No one knew I could read, except for Meri.  She taught me when she would force me to play school every afternoon.  I guess she and I didn't think it was a big deal that a three year old could read and believe me, Meri has NEVER let me forget who taught me!!  But I'm very thankful.  I don't think I would love reading and writing as much as I do if it weren't for her, shall we say, persistence in teaching me.

The "Thriller" Zombie pic that I am still terrified of.  Thanks, Meri.

Speaking of Meri . . . we had this Michael Jackson picture book that had different photos of him with his video extras and stuff.  There was this one picture of him with some of the zombies from "Thriller".  Meri used to hold that picture up to my face and it would terrify me . . . nothing in this world scared me more than the Thriller zombies.  Meri would laugh and I would scream bloody murder.  In fact, I was about 28 years old before I watched the entire "Thriller" video all by myself.  My other sister, Jessica, had a book too, but it wasn't full of zombies.  It was an awesome sticker book.  It had pages and pages of stickers she had collected.  I remember sitting there and looking at the book over and over again.  She had Garfield stickers, scratch -n- sniff stickers, ahhh . . . I was in sticker heaven :)  She told me recently she still had that sticker book and I felt a sense of joy that has only been matched by the birth of my children.  Haha :)

Meri probably just showed me the Zombie picture.

One night, shortly after I turned three, my mom and dad had to go to the hospital because my mom was in labor with her fifth and final baby.  My grandma was in town since the baby was coming soon, so she kept us while mom and dad were gone.  I remember that night so well . . . we were watching "Love Boat" and I was chewing on my Cabbage Patch belt (yes, I said I was chewing on a belt.  I already made it clear I was weird, so let's move on) and the belt buckle became stuck on my lip.  It hurt so bad and my grandma had to "unstuck" it from my mouth.  That was the last time I chewed on my belt.  Lesson learned.  My mom and dad brought my new baby brother, Stewart, home from the hospital a few days later.  He was so cute and fat (he was also 10lbs 4oz) and I remember getting to hold him on the couch.  He seemed SO heavy, a lot heavier than my baby dolls.  Some time later, my mom was trying to dress Stewart and he was screaming.  I said, "I wish I had a little sister instead," and my mom replied, very matter-of-factly, "Little sisters cry too, Lindsey."  Yep, she was right, seeing as I now have a houseful of little girls.  

Around the time I tried to eat my Cabbage Patch belt :)

Well, I hope you enjoyed my little walk down memory lane.  Thank you for walking with me :)  Maybe you can walk with me again in a few days while I do a little more reminiscing . . . I do enjoy your company!

A Little Something From the Vault...

 With Mother's Day coming up, I've been trying to think of something I could post in honor of my momma.  There's so much wonderful that could be written about that sweet lady, but the words wouldn't come to me.  I kept coming up short and she deserves better than that.  She deserves my best and I think the post I wrote a few years ago about my momma was my best.  In fact, it was my very first blog post.  I love you, Momma...hope you don't mind the 'recycled' post  :) 

I always pictured myself being the kind of mom that had perfectly dressed kids that never argued, a spotless house, a clean car and having energy to burn at every minute of the day. That all seemed pretty attainable until babies two, three, and four came into the picture. Don't get me wrong, one child kept me pretty busy, but nothing like four little girls in one house! Now my days are filled with changing diapers, dropping off and picking up kids at school, listening to at least one hormonal meltdown from our 11-year-old, breaking up a fist fight between our four and two-year old, dishes, laundry, etc. Some days I really can't remember if I brushed my teeth that morning. Thank goodness for Extra Sugar-Free gum. My clothes are wrinkled most of the time and the only time my hair looks decent is the day I get it cut. I remember to mop the floor when the bottoms of my girls' feet are black and I remember to dust when I turn on the ceiling fan and dust flies everywhere. I always thought I'd be like June Cleaver. Her house was spotless and her laundry was always washed, dried and put away. She vacuumed in high heels and pearls, which is insane. Supper was always ready when Ward came home (sorry, Ryan!). Truth is, I'm nowhere near J.C. I go to work at my office to get a break from my work at home. My job as a mom is much harder than any office job and it's even harder when I try to live up to the J.C. standard. I think about my mom and how she handled five kids. She was no June, either. I don't ever remember her vacuuming in heels and pearls and I remember piles and piles of laundry eating up our couch. But, I remember her cuddling up on the couch with me to take a nap. I remember her always being happy to see us kids when we came home from school. I remember her always being cheerful and in a good mood, even when she probably wasn't. She made me think she was. I like to think about her rocking my little brother to sleep at night and how warm and cozy her hugs still feel. I like to think about how pretty her hands are how she's used the same blue comb since the late 1980's. I love that she tells me I have a beautiful singing voice, even though I'm so tone-deaf that it embarrasses me to even think about how awful my voice is! I know to her ears it's beautiful. I don't care that our house was messy from time to time growing up. I don't care that my clothes rarely matched when I was a kid. I like that my mom didn't care about that stuff either. That gives me hope that someday my girls will look back and not care that their momma was no June Cleaver. Thanks, Momma, for teaching me to keep things in perspective. I love you. Happy Mother's Day :)

My God and I...

When you think about Heaven, does an image of some earthly place come to your mind?  I know Heaven is better than anything we could ever imagine and nothing on Earth can even compare what Jesus has gone to prepare for us.  Still, my wandering imagination loves to think about what my heavenly home will look like.

For the first seven years of my life, I lived on a farm in North Dakota.  It was the perfect place for a kid like me who liked to roam around and just be alone with my thoughts.  Our farmhouse had clumps of trees all around it and I would find myself walking around exploring every nook and cranny of those miniature forests.  I loved the way the trees would bend at the top and touch the tops of other trees on the opposite side, making "tree tunnels" with their branches.  There were small clearings where rays of sunlight would warm the soft green grass that had little purple wildflowers peeking out of the ground.  It smelled fresh and clean, with just a hint of diesel in the air (it was a working farm, after all!)  Even now when I think about it, I get a sense of calm and peace.  Maybe that's why I've never felt the need to go to a spa . . . my thoughts of that place and time bring me peace and serenity.  Of all those lovely places in that sprawling yard, there was one in particular that brought me, shall we say, "a peace that passes understanding".  It was a corridor that ran down the long side of the yard and the way the trees bent and swayed with the breeze sent flashes and flecks of sunlight all around.  I thought as a little girl, "This must be what Heaven is like."  I felt so close to God there.  I couldn't imagine anything more beautiful than that spot.  I felt almost otherworldly as I drifted down the grass, towards the rays of sunshine poking through the silvery-green leaves.  Years later on a Sunday morning at church, we sang "My God and I" and immediately my mind went back to that place and time.  I pictured my God and I walking through my heaven on Earth, holding hands and hearing the breeze rustle through the trees.  I can hear him (because I KNOW his voice is a cross between my Granddad and Morgan Freeman!) tell me all about His creation, why He made beaches and forests and yes, I think he'll even tell me what Paul's "thorn in the flesh" was. . .  because he knows I am dying of curiosity :)  He tells me why things in my life didn't always turn out the way I thought they should, but he shows me that His will and timing are perfect . . . just like my Heavenly spot near my childhood home.  He tells me He loves me and He's glad I'm with Him and He's created this beautiful corner of Heaven all for me.  He tells me Jesus has been preparing this exact spot for me ever since I was a little girl, knowing I would be here someday to enjoy it for eternity.  I didn't have to tell Him how much I loved that place, because He was always in my thoughts and in my heart.  He knew how much I loved that place before I did.  It's already waiting for me.

My sister took this picture of her three children a few years ago when they visited our farm . . . I was thrilled when I saw it.  It's my spot.  It remains unchanged from how I remember it all those years ago.  It's simple, but I know God had me in mind when He made it.  I know my version of it in Heaven is even greater, because He'll be there to walk this beautiful grassy path with me.

I Will...

Do you have a favorite song?  A song so wonderful you think, "I could listen to this forever and never get sick of it" but you don't because then it would completely ruin it and it wouldn't be your favorite song anymore?  Still with me?  Okay, good :)  I think my favorite song ever, in the whole world, forever, for the rest of my life, til the day I die, I-love-it-so-much-I-want-it-played-at-my-funeral is "I Will" by The Beatles.  I.love.this.song.so.very.much.  It has been a favorite of mine for years, it was even in my wedding.  It's not a popular Beatles song, somewhat unknown and very simple and sweet.  I really listened to the words recently and my heart took on a whole new love for it.  If I could write a song for Ryan, this would be it.  It doesn't hurt either that The Beatles sang it.  The four men that I love so much that if I ever have twin boys, I'm naming them John and Paul (I'll tell Ryan, "Oh, those are family names" but I'll know who they're really named after . . . I'm doing my "evil plan laugh" right now!)  Anyhow, I love the song, the words, the singer, all of it.  I wish I could wrap it up in a pretty box, stick a bow on top and give it to Ryan for Christmas. But then, he'd probably return it for a song that Hank Williams, Jr. sings or something.  Well, we can't all be Beatles fans, I guess. Click the link to listen to the most fabulous song ever.   Way better than "There's a Tear in My Beer".    http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=endscreen&NR=1&v=Rx_APcTyIUg

How could you not love a man in a tux AND a sombrero?

I Have Fought the Good Fight...

October 9th, 2011 was a day I'll never forget.  It was a day that I thought (and sometimes hoped) would never come.  It was a day that gave me nightmares, but at the same time I was beside myself with excitement.  It was the day I finished the Chicago Marathon. 

Back in January, my friend Stacy asked me if I'd like to train for a marathon with her.  I thought she was crazy, but I said yes anyways because well, I'm crazy.  Stacy and I were runners in the way that we'd run a few miles here and there, maybe even a 5K when we wanted to mix it up a little.  But this was a marathon. . . 26.2 miles.  That's a long way.  Stacy did a little research and we decided on the Chicago Marathon.  It was still ten months away, which was plenty of time for us to train and get ready (and maybe chicken out).  It is a flat course and a great marathon for first-timers. I also thought that this would be a great way to wrap up my 20's, since my 30th birthday would be October 12th.

We began training right away and since Stacy was a morning runner and I'm an evening runner, we trained separately.  The first few months of training went fine, but then summer came and with summer came the humidity and high mileage.  Horrible combination.  There were evenings when I felt as if I was running through maple syrup, the air was so thick.  The weather began to take a toll not only physically, but mentally.  I started to think, "If I'm struggling through fifteen miles in humidity, how am I going to run 26.2?"  I started to doubt everything I was doing. I had to get together a new strategy.  A good friend of mine who has finished many marathons and Iron Man competitions told me that running is just as much mental as it is physical.  With that in mind, I started coming up with little "games" to play in my head while running.  I would count red cars, stop signs, churches, anything to keep my mind off the task at hand.  I also added some new songs to my ipod and let me just say "Never Say Never" by Justin Bieber is not only a great song, but it is inspirational.  So what if I'm 30 years old and women my age shouldn't be allowed to listen to JB, it's true and it's awesome.

The day finally came for us to make the journey to Chicago.  Ryan and I drove and met Stacy and her husband, Chris up there.  I was glad to see that Stacy was just as much of a nervous disaster as I was.  I was so nervous that I was making myself sick, so much so that I thought I was pregnant.  I wasn't, but I secretly hoped I was. . .that was my ticket OUT of the marathon!  Sunday morning, October 9th, Stacy and I walked several blocks from our hotel to the starting line.  Since the crowd was so huge, it took us about 30 minutes to even cross the official start.  The first several miles went great, but then my heel started to hurt (plantar fasciitis that had plagued me for months, SO painful!!)  I told Stacy to go ahead without me.  She had worked way too hard over the last ten months to slow down now.  The next 15 miles were okay, but I was dying to see Ryan.  I kept thinking, "If I could just hug him right now, that would lift my spirits so much!"  And then I saw him, like a big 'ol hairy angel, waiting for me at Mile 20.  As soon as I reached him, I hugged him and sobbed.  I wasn't sad or anything, in fact, quite the opposite.  I was thrilled that I had actually made it alive to Mile 20.  I wrapped it up with Ryan and told him to meet me at the finish line.  Around Mile 24, the reality of the race was setting in.  I was going to finish.  I started to think about all the people that helped me get to where I was at that moment.  Ryan, who made me get my shoes on and go for my runs and didn't complain when I bought my third pair of running shoes since I wore out my first two pairs during training.  He also would drive to wherever I was on my route and bring me a Gatorade, so I wouldn't pass out from dehydration. My four daughters, who made me feel like Super Woman every time I returned from a run and would rub my back when my long runs were over.  Stacy, who roped me into this madness in the first place and forced me to get out of my three-mile-comfort-zone and try something extraordinary.  My parents who kept telling me how proud they were of me for even attempting a marathon.  My sisters, brothers, and the rest of my family who were always so supportive and so encouraging from the very beginning.  My marathon-running friends who gave me so much helpful advice on everything from treating injuries and stretching to teaching me how to push through when my body wanted to quit.  The last mile, I think I cried the whole way.  I had been carrying a picture of Ryan, the girls and me in my hands the entire race.  When I needed a little "lift" I'd unfold the picture and give it a little sugar.  The last quarter mile, I held the picture up to my lips, sobbing like an idiot.  I kept saying to myself, "Momma did it, girls!"  I'm sure the people running with me thought, "Who is this lady talking to?!"  I saw Ryan right before I crossed the finish line and I yelled at him between ridiculous sobs, "I DID IT!!!"  and I crossed the finish line with my arms in the air like Rocky Balboa.  For the next few minutes, I walked up to random people saying, "I finished!"  To my surprise and complete amusement, they would reply, "Me too!" and give me a big hug. I'm usually not one that hugs strangers, but I dug it, big time.

When it was all over, I kept thinking about one of my favorite Bible verse, 2 Timothy 4:7, "I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith." Now, I know Paul the Apostle was probably not talking about finishing a marathon when he wrote that verse, but I think it puts into words the indescribable feeling I had when I finished.  Training and finishing the marathon was a fight from beginning to end.  Because of God giving me the physical ability to run and my family and friends supporting me, I had the faith to stick with it and finish.

My medal now hangs in the rear-view mirror of my car.  It serves as a reminder that I can do anything I put my mind to. . .a lesson I hope my girls will learn from all this.  It also reminds me that I have nothing else to prove to myself as far as marathons are concerned!  On the other hand, like my little friend Justin Bieber says, "Never Say Never" :)

Only the Lonely...

This past week has been a wild one at our house.  School started on August 8th, and so began the chaos.  Dance lessons, cheerleading, homework, early to bed, early to rise...yuck, yuck and yuck (those yucks are directed towards the last three tasks).  Allison started the 7th grade and Mary Carolyne started Kindergarten.  So far, so good :)  I've been so busy with those two starting school, I failed to recognize that one of my little ladies was getting lost in the shuffle.  Laurie.  My sweet, precious little Laurie Beth.  My first red flag should've been on the first day of school when we brought Mary Carolyne to her classroom.  MC was all smiles and was more than ready for us to leave so she could embark on the magical journey that is Kindergarten.  I told Laurie to give MC a hug good-bye and she slowly walked over to her sister.  Laurie laid her head on Mary Carolyne's shoulder and I watched her big blue eyes fill up with tears.  MC didn't notice of course, but I did.  Laurie was struggling to be brave....that was her best little friend we were leaving.  I could only imagine what was going through Laurie's mind. " Who am I going to play with now? Baby Anne Claire?  Are you kidding me?  Please.  Anne Claire can't have karate matches with me.  She can't do cartwheels in the den with me, even after mom says stop.  Anne Claire can't have a contest to see who can stand on their head the longest."  The entire day, Laurie never left my side.  Every few minutes she'd ask, "Can we go pick up Mary Carolyne now?" 

A few days later, Laurie started ballet and tap for the first time.  She was so excited to be taking the same class the Mary Carolyne had taken the past two years, but I made a huge mistake.  I didn't tell Laurie that Mary Carolyne wouldn't actually be in that class with her.  She walked in the ballet room so excited, but her face fell when she realized she was once again without her sister.  I watched her wander around aimlessly for most of the class.  When the other ballerinas jumped and pranced around the room, Laurie shuffled sadly, shoulders slumped.  It was heart-breaking.  I realized how lonely she was without Mary Carolyne.  She wasn't moping around the ballet room because she didn't like the class. She was feeling things that a three-year-old can't put into words .  She couldn't say, "Mom, I'm sad because you failed to tell me that Mary Carolyne won't be joining me in ballet class.  I feel you misled me and now I'm going to shuffle around this room like a Charlie Brown cartoon character."  When class was over, Laurie wouldn't even walk over to me.  She just glared at me...angrily. On the way home, she hardly said a word;  just stared out the car window.  I had grossly underestimated how hard Laurie was taking the separation from Mary Carolyne.  I told Ryan about it, so we made sure to pay extra attention to Laurie.  We loved on her a little more, slipped her a couple extra cookies...you know, the kinds of things that speak to a three-year-old :)

I'm happy and relieved to say that things are slowly getting back to normal.  Laurie is returning to her old self.  Why just yesterday,she attacked Mary Carolyne with a stick horse and later she kicked her in the mouth ("It was an accident, Momma," according to Laurie...yeah right).  Who knew I'd miss the slightly violent, story-telling Laurie?  I'm sure Mary Carolyne didn't miss her :)

I'll Take "Misunderstood Politics" for $500, Alex...

A few weeks ago, I had the absolute pleasure of visiting my local Social Security office. I always enjoy seeing my tax dollars at work, mainly to make sure that they are, in fact, being wasted and I'm happy to report that they are.  I had some personal business to tend to that I had been putting off for quite some time and I ended up having to make three separate trips over the span of about two weeks.  On my final visit, I couldn't help overhearing a conversation between two of my fellow taxpayers.  The topic?  Politics....always a crowd favorite.  I'm going to do my best to recount the conversation below...

Man:  "So who do you think was the worst president?"

Woman:  "Probably Clinton.  He cheated on his wife."

Man:  "Well, that was Hillary's fault.  You know she couldn't have been a real lovin' lady."

Woman:  "No matter.  Obama is the worst.  Big time.  I heard Congress ain't even gonna let 'em run   again."

Man:  "What?  Why not?"

Woman:  "Cause his birth certificate ain't real.  He was really born in Africa or somethin'."

Man:  "Naw...he was born in Hawaii."

Woman:  "Whatever.  He still ain't legit.  Hawaii didn't even become a state until 1975 or somethin' like that."

Man:  "Well, whatever the case may be, he's gotten us in the money pickle we're in right now by messin' up the interest rates.  I can't even buy a tv without having to pay 20% interest!"

Woman:  "I heard that!  I can't even put new siding on my mobile home because everything's so dern expensive now.  If I'd known all this was comin', I'd stayed livin' at my momma's."

Man:  "I sure hope we get a good feller in office next time to save this broke-down economy."

Woman:  "Yeah, me too.  I don't even vote anyways.  Waste of my time."

Man:  "I don't vote either.  Haven't in about 20 years."

It was at this moment, I thought, that somewhere in the world Jeff Foxworthy's head was exploding.

What Would You Say...

I often think of really weird things.  Really strange, off-the-wall, made-up scenarios of things that will probably never happen.  I don't know why I do that; to pass the time maybe, since I have SO much time to be wasting :)  One of the weird things that I can't get out of my head lately is if I had some "Back to the Future II" moment and I ran into my past self.  Oh, the things I would tell me!! 

I would tell newborn Lindsey to enjoy these first fleeting years.  Inhale your momma's sweet smell and enjoy the sound of her beautiful voice singing you to sleep.  I would tell her to enjoy being the baby of the family, because Stew would be along before too long and forever strip you of that title.  I think I would also tell her to live it up while she can in those comfy footed pajamas, because apparently it's unacceptable to wear them as an adult :) 

Next, I would like to run into five-year-old Lindsey.  If memory serves me, Lindsey at this age was a happy-go-lucky little girl that preferred to skip instead of walk.  I would tell her to keep that sunny, positive attitude because Heaven knows you'll need it when you hit about 16.  I would tell her to cherish the times that she spends with her family dog, Rebel, because he'll be gone soon and you'll never have another pet like him.  Even when you're an adult, you'll still be convinced that Rebel was actually a human being in a dog's body :) 

Seven-year-old Lindsey has no idea what is going to happen to her at this very young age.  It will change the course of her life.  She has no idea that in July of that year, she is going to meet her future husband.  I would tell her to keep an eye on that cute little boy sitting in the church pew next to her, because someday he is going to be the reason you get out of bed in the mornings.  He'll be what brings you immeasurable happiness and he'll be the one you'll be thrilled to grow old with. He'll be the one you want to have children with and the one you want to cuddle with on the couch.  He'll hold you when you cry and make you laugh so hard your stomach hurts.  He'll drive you crazy when he leaves his bathroom a mess, but you'll clean it up anyways because your heart will be so full of love for him.  He'll leave the house at 10 pm when you're pregnant and have a craving for Kripsy Kreme and he won't get mad if you don't save him one.  You will know how it feels to have butterflies in your tummy for the rest of your life, because of him.

Fifteen-year-old Lindsey is well, a brat.  Plain and simple.  I would probably slap her if I ran into her.  I can say that, because it's me :)  After popping her in the mouth for talking back to her momma, I would tell her to try to enjoy being a teenager.  I know all the stress you're feeling, all the pain, all the fear.  Honestly, Lindsey it gets harder before it gets easier.  Much harder.  But you will be just fine.  Don't invest time in boys that don't care about you and stick with those sweet friends you have, especially the friend you have in your mom.  Stop being so rebellious, stop being ugly to your mom, stop skipping school...and go clean your room.

Twenty-two-year old Lindsey finally has it (somewhat) together.  She married the best fella out there and she's happily settling into married life.  She's trying so hard to be the perfect wife and mother, but it's not happening :)  After forcing her to stop obsessively cleaning the house, I would sit her down and tell her she's being unrealistic.  You've got years to clean this house, trust me.  If you had any idea how much laundry you'll be doing before you hit 30, you'd rest up now and save your energy.  I would tell her that in just a few short years, her house will be full of precious little girls bouncing off the walls and tearing up the place.  I wonder if she'd believe me if I told her that it won't really bother her anymore if the laundry isn't done and there are dishes in the sink?  I'm sure she'd be shocked to hear she'll be the kind of mom whose girls aren't always well-behaved or well-dressed, but you'll be okay with that...you can handle it.  You will have days that you want to pull your hair out and getting to go to the bathroom alone is a rarity.  There will be times you feel so alone, but you snap out of it fast because you'll realize you have more love and more support than you ever imagined.  You will consider yourself beyond blessed because you have healthy kids, a husband who adores you and a family that makes your job as a mom SO much easier, just by being there for you.  By the by, enjoy that figure because by the time you hit 25, it'll be long gone :)

I wonder what I'll tell 40-year-old Lindsey, 50-year-old Lindsey or even 70-year-old Lindsey?  I'm sure I'll tell her that it's okay to cry when your girls leave for college or when you see their daddy walk them down the aisle.  I may tell her that hot-flashes and mood swings are a normal part of menopause, but try not to take it out on Ryan so much, he's only trying to help :)  Or maybe I'd tell her that her choice in a retirement community was excellent, although I know it was hard to sell the home where your children grew up. 

Oh, and big points to the first person to knows what band has a song with the same title as my post :)

To Know Her is to Love Her...

Our sweet Anne Claire turned one this past week.  I really feel as if it were just a few weeks ago that I held that tiny (for one of our babies!) seven pound, nine ounce baby in my arms for the first time.  I will never forget the look on her face that precious moment.  She had the sweetest, loveliest expression on her face, almost as if she were telling me, "I'm here, Momma."  That very minute, all the pain I had felt seconds before vaporized, and time froze.  I felt like her eyes were fixed on mine and that she was studying me as much as I was studying her.  I still get that feeling when her beautiful blue eyes meet mine.  She has a calm about her, despite the chaos that ensues in our home on a daily basis!  Anne Claire simply sits back and takes it all in.  She watches her sisters with quiet observation and I wonder what is going on in her little mind.  I can't wait until she learns to talk so she can fill me in on what she's thinking about.  For the time being, I am happy just to watch her grow and soak up all the love and happiness that surrounds her.  Ever since she was born, a verse of The Beatles song, "To Know Her is to Love Her" has reminded me of Anne.  This verse is a perfect fit for that perfect baby:

To know, know, know her

Is to love, love, love her

Just to see her smile

Makes my life worthwhile

To know, know, know her

Is to love, love, love her

And I do.

Happy birthday, Anne Claire.  You light up my life :)