When My Heart Leaves

“You can kiss your family and friends good-bye and put miles between you, but at the same time you carry them with you in your heart, your mind, your stomach, because you do not just live in a world but a world lives in you.”  ~Frederick Buechner

 

It’s mind-blowing how a year and a half of planning for a huge event stretches on interminably and yet is over in a blink. When our son, Nick, and new wife Kyla were engaged two years ago, the wedding date June 29, 2013, seemed as far away as the moon. A lot of living happens in two years, and the distant date seems more like a fairy tale. People ask a lot about how preparations are going, and my standard response sounds a lot like, “I don’t really know; I’m the Supporting Actress.” A few months before, the action picks up. I’m ordering tuxes and organizing a rehearsal dinner complete with homemade centerpieces.  (This, incidentally, is a feat in itself for a non-crafty person like me.) And then, in a matter of hours, it’s completed.concluded.kaput. The anticipation and excitement of 9 family members camping in our home for 10 days comes and goes like a streak of lightning.

Actually, when my parents arrive, it feels like it’s going to be forever—like going to Disney World not enduring an Italian opera. It’s important I clarify that. My brother’s family joins us the next day along with my aunt and uncle. We stuff people into three cars to various venues for the rehearsal, wedding and reception. Hours later, after all the posing for pictures, saying “I do”, and dancing of the bride and groom, we crash on couches exhausted yet content. A perfect day complete with the promise of more fun in the ensuing days. I count in my head seven more days of memory making. I open and shut my eyes aware that the days fast forward like a cassette player. Memories of  Lake Monroe in a storm, Kings Island rides and 4^th of July bonfire and fireworks imprint on my mind.  Family start dropping off like flies. First, my aunt and uncle, then my brother and his beautiful family. Finally, I drop off the sole survivors, my parents, at the airport. I hate saying goodbye. Unbidden tears flow threatening to ruin my makeup. Not a surprise for such a stoic person as I!

The silence is deafening on the way home, even with magpie Maddie sitting beside me. We feel the letdown of two weeks of nonstop activity. The only word I can think of is one that I hate to hear coming out of my own kids’ mouths—BORING! Now, what will we do? I walk in the quiet house that once held the clamor of 13 voices. I’m not liking it one bit. I text Mom, “It’s too quiet here. Come back.” She’s already flown away, cell phone silenced.

Mess is everywhere, but who cares enough to clean? I don’t even want to get up to pull leftovers out of the frig. Lethargic and listless, that’s what we are. The world stopped for two weeks, and now we can’t figure out what to do with ourselves. Between dad making breakfast and my mom and aunt fixing dinner, I’m pondering how I can approach Tony about hiring a cook. I’m sure it’s a necessity. Even with new pots and pans in the cupboard that the four of them conspired to purchase (something about my old ones being completely inadequate), I’m not compelled to pull out a recipe.

And, who knew that two retired men could fix my oven broken during the self-cleaning cycle and repair a dryer that has been taking an average of two cycles to dry? No wonder I’m crying when they all leave! The bottom line is I pretty much love hanging out with my family that lives a million miles away from me. And, no matter how much time we have together, it’s never enough. I’ve heard horror stories of the family that tolerates each other, overstays their welcome and is skedaddled out the door.

Glad those folks don’t belong to me!

A Joke and a Smile

He burst onto the planet with a smile tattooed on his baby face like those who sport tattooed eyeliner. Frankly, that happy face was simply his permanent face status.  And today that beaming boy celebrates his 21^st year of life. The doctors gave me an April 1^st due date, but true to his nature, Nick fooled me and came ten days later, a cruel joke to play on a mom still waddling around like the Pillsbury Doughboy.

If there were an award for babies, Nick would have received “Most Cuddly.” He loved being rocked to sleep rather than fall asleep on his own. And, when he moved to a big bed, he would slip out of it sometime during the evening and sleep right by the inside of the door so that I couldn’t open it in the morning. He hated being by himself; he always wanted to be in the middle of the action. And, Nick could eavesdrop on an exchange from two miles away! Seemingly engrossed in homework or a book, he would pipe up from the other room asking for clarification on a conversation that didn’t involve him. That’s my Nosy Nick. Wonder where he inherited that trait?

Not content to play alone, Nick looked forward to little sister, Alix’s arrival, anticipating that immediately upon her return from the hospital, she would somehow mobilize herself into playmate action. Much to his dismay, she lay around, cooing and googling for weeks and months before his dream came true. Even then, as Alix grew older, she would refuse to play with him, and Nick would get angry. Most big brothers can’t ditch their younger siblings quickly enough. Not Nick!

Nick’s love for games and jokes began early, beginning with his surprise late arrival. We’ve endured homemade “knock knock jokes”, library joke books as well as the book presently gracing the bathroom shelf. It never fails that even now, when that young man comes home from college, he comes out of the lavatory with a joke on his lips. Groans and moans ensuing from those dumb jokes don’t stop that kid. As a young teen, Nick antagonized his baby sister Maddie incessantly while proclaiming that he “didn’t do anything.” He’d continue to provoke her by silently invading her space knowing she’d scream and we’d chastise her unaware of his sneakiness.

Nick struggled with being a good sport when playing games. After losing, he would throw board pieces and pout, but he caught on quickly that no one would play with him if he didn’t grasp that universal concept that everyone wins and loses sometimes. That doesn’t mean he isn’t competitive; he just doesn’t stomp his feet and pound his fist anymore! He thrives on activity whether cajoling Maddie to play basketball with him or begging the family to play Electronic Banking Monopoly. One summer, Nick organized a hiking expedition in the woods behind some property we own. We traipsed along trails brushing past tree branches overhanging the path and climbed huge limestone rocks, scraping our knees and arms as we navigated to the top. Hours later, we dragged ourselves home, wounded and tick infested, swearing we’d never listen to Nick’s bright ideas again!

For years, prior to April Fool’s Day, Nick would search for practical jokes to play on us. One year, Nick wrapped saran wrap over the opening of my shampoo and conditioner. Another time, Nick offering to prepare Alix’ breakfast should’ve clued her in that something was amiss; however, with her blond roots, she remained oblivious. When she tasted her cereal, discovering it was mixed with a blend of flour and water, she scrunched her face at Nick, “What is this?!” Yep, it’s best to be on your guard on the 1^st of April when Nick is present.

Nick is all about details. It’s wise not to ask him how he enjoyed a particular movie because he will then describe it play-by-play. Asking him a simple question will lead to recounting additional information and stories he feels are necessary to convey a complete answer. If Alix is “just the facts, ma’am” and Maddie is “embellish and dramatize all the events,” Nick is “clarify and spell out every detail.” Extremely conscientious as a teen, Nick checked in frequently, cataloging specifics, carefully relaying material he felt we should be aware of. As a case in point, one evening after Tony and I had gone to bed, Nick felt it important upon his return from work to knock on our bedroom door to inform us that he had brought home Chick-Fil-A sandwich leftovers. Tony responded, “Gee, thanks Nick for letting us know!” While Nick’s major in the minutiae gives us a good laugh occasionally, I certainly can’t chortle too loudly. For, Nick and I are two peas in a pod in pontificating the particulars as well as prying information. We both desire to be in the know as well as setting the stage for the story that follows. Everyone else is screaming, “Get to the point!”

Responsible firstborn, Nick has always protected and kept an eye on his two sisters. He was the voice for Alix for many years, because she was too shy to speak up. And, with 10 years between he and Maddie, he took care of her like a parent, making sure she didn’t run into the middle of a street and keeping track of her when we were occupied. He assumed the task as naturally as a bee gravitates to honey. And, while he loves to joke and pester, Nick doesn’t have a mean bone in his body. Easy going, kind, gentle, dependable…all describe this 6’2” young man. In keeping with what mom says of my younger brother, “He’s such a nice boy!”

And yet, for all these positive traits, Nick definitely knows how to argue a point to the death. Determined to have the last word in a conversation even if it’s muttering something under his breath as he stomps out of the room, Nick loves to be right. Learning that some topics and discussions don’t have to be a hill to die on is an ongoing process for Nick. Still, this stand firm mentality carried him through tough teen years and gave him the ability to make wise choices.

This resolve also caused him to make these declarations, “I will not have a girlfriend until college” and “I will not go to prom in high school.” Wrong on both counts! Nick became friends with a girl who liked hanging out with him. Everyone knew she liked him, but naïve Nick! Part way into their junior year, Nick told me he was going to ask her to be his girlfriend. When he asked her to the prom, Nick had to recant his previous pronouncements. Fast forward four and a half years and Nick is engaged to this same girl, the only woman he’s ever dated. Next year, that joke-telling, jovial, gentle son of mine will join his life to a lovely lady who has made him a better Nick.

He’s a prankster with a huge heart, and at twenty one, still sports a smile as big as the sea!

 

Pinching Myself

I remember the first time I set eyes upon my future husband and told my sister-in-law, “All right, set it up.” Admittedly, his good looks were quite appealing. She then talked to his sister-in-law who conversed with said hunky guy who agreed to meet. A chance? I think not. I prefer to believe God orchestrated and opened doors for the two of us to experience the beauty of redeemed love. After all, it had to be God because the picture I sent of me over the internet didn’t exactly portray me as a ravishing beauty. It was the only one I could scrounge up at the time, however.  

We agreed to meet after church the next week. My two kids in tow, all of us (my brother’s family too) found a place to eat and get acquainted. I figured if this guy survived watching my son, Nick, drip catsup all over his mouth, fingers and shirt, he may be a keeper. The next week dragged by slower than congress takes to pass a bill, and by the end of it, I reasoned he wouldn’t call—certain the little buggers had scared him off. Oh well, I thought. Not meant to be.

Hindsight is 20/20 they say. I’ve since discovered that this hunk of mine is as spontaneous and unpredictable as a squirrel darting across the street. Thinking this relationship had started and stopped like a 100 meter dash, I gave up hope. Then—he called to meet for dinner—that night. He had trekked the hour and a half south to his mom’s house assuming I had no plans. No forewarning. No forethought. No midweek phone call. Did I mention that I have kids? Single men without kids can be spontaneous; single moms with kids don’t have the luxury! They plan, prepare and phone babysitters—a week ahead of time. Desperate not to let this opportunity escape, I scrambled and sucked my sister into taking the munchkins. Spontaneity worked this time, but in my opinion, this happy-go-lucky dude had a lot to learn.

Thus began a budding, beautiful relationship between a free-spirited hunk and methodic planner with two children. Fast forward almost a year later and this shoot-from-the-hip businessman arranged an unforgettable night. Several couples planned a dinner out in Seattle culminating with an Amy Grant Christmas concert. My impulsive man would take the ferry over from Bainbridge Island to the restaurant and meet the rest of us. While waiting, my phone rings and he tells me he’s stuck on the other side of the Puget Sound. A bomb threat of all things. He will meet me at the concert. I’m concerned and anxious and feeling desperately awkward eating single at this couples’ night. Time slows to a turtle’s pace. I’m trying to enjoy the company but finding it difficult to concentrate. Where will we meet? What if the stalled ferry prevents him from getting across the water? Worries fill my mind like helium in a balloon.

We walk up to the doors of the event center at the same time, worries a needless waste of time.  We hug, ecstatic to be together. I relax—finally. All is right with my world. Amy Grant’s performance is phenomenal, and my man who narrowly escaped the ferry bomb, sits next to me. During intermission, we pop out of our seats to stretch our legs. Snatched from the jaws of death, Tony leads me to the outer corridor.  It happens. My impetuous, impulsive, impromptu mister pops the question every girl longs to hear. A question that requires thought, intention and sheer guts.

“Annette, will you marry me?”

I pinch myself. It’s real. Tony stands before me, anxiously awaiting my answer. I joke, “I’ll pray about it.”

Mr. Life of the Party remains silent to Miss Perfectionist’s flippant remark, so I quickly blurt out, “Yes, yes, I’ll marry you!”

Eleven and 11/12 years later, I’m still pinching myself!

Friday Feast

Approximately 24 years I ago, I created a cooking disaster of such epic proportions it is forever seared in my memory. And, it’s pretty much prevented me from buying and preparing a whole chicken.

Let me set the stage for you, and inform you right up front that I blame my mom for this episode. She had baked a scrumptious chicken that literally melted in your mouth a few weeks before. Mom said cooking a chicken was as easy as making Pillsbury biscuits—pop them out and pop them in the oven. No problem. I reminisced about that chicken and thought why not? I’ll give it a shot.

I cooked that chicken to death. Pulled it out of the oven a million times, and parts of it weren’t done. It never fell apart, tender little pieces falling off the bone. The meat gripped tightly to the bone as if hanging on for dear life. Finally, it appeared done enough, and I tired of waiting.

 Sitting at the dinner table, we sawed pieces off until the innards slithered onto the plate. Turning ugly Shrek-like shades with stomachs churning, we immediately lost our appetites. Dinner over, I phoned Mom to ask her about this strange phenomenon. She howled while I held the phone away from my ear. I’m sure the people in the next apartment heard her chortling. After the shrieking stopped, I wondered why she neglected to give me such important information about the chicken. And, why in the world wouldn’t the chicken killers take care of this mess before they arrived at my dinner table?

My whole chicken baking days sufficiently in the toilet, I stick to boneless, skinless chicken breast recipes. It’s a safer bet, and I don’t have to worry about unwanted body parts sliding out. One of my all time favorite crockpot chicken recipes is so easy, my 11 year old couldn’t mess it up! With five minutes preparation time, this recipe works well for busy families.

Slow Cooker Chicken Stroganoff

4 skinless, boneless chicken breasts, cubed

1/8 c. margarine

1 package dry Italian-style salad dressing mix

1 package cream cheese

1 can cream of chicken soup

Put chicken, margarine and dressing mix in slow cooker; mix together and cook on low for 5 to 6 hours. Add cream cheese and soup; mix together and cook on high for another ½ hour or until heated through and warm. Serve over hot, cooked egg noodles.

Enjoy!

A Girl With a Voice

Eleven years ago today, baby Madisen burst into the world like a captain commanding attention from his troops. Not content to serenely slip onto God’s green earth in a normal fashion, she sent nurses and doctors scrambling to prepare for an emergency C-section on her behalf. She’s marched to the beat of dramatic flare and adventuresome spirit ever since.

I suppose it’s only fitting that in 2001, her birth year, the name Madisen with its various spellings sat at the top of the charts, right where our own Maddie reigns. Just like Daryl Hannah’s movie name from “Splash” we pulled her name directly off a Bainbridge Island street sign. Her name derives from English origin and means “Son of Matthew” even though she’s the “Daughter of Tony.” We appropriately nickname her “Mad Dog”, “Mad Girl” or just plain “Mad” for the years of fit-throwing in Target, Kroger, friends’ houses, restaurants and church. It’s obvious the pinch of Irish O’Connor blood trickling through her veins overpowers the 1/8 teaspoon of calm, cool English blood.  

With two siblings quite a bit older than she, Maddie matured more quickly in the ways of the world than her friends. In many respects, this maturity paired with her magnetic, outgoing personality serves her well. On the one hand, she speaks before she thinks, forgets to filter her words and tender her tone. Yet, she courageously rescues those being bullied and speaks up on behalf of those too timid to fight for themselves. Maddie pontificates her point of view without fear and will argue a topic to death.

One day at school, Maddie fought with another boy about the Big Bang Theory versus creation. Her voice rose as she related the story to me. “Mom, he kept saying “big bang” to me under his breath over and over again. He made me so mad!”

I assured her that he was achieving his intended effect on her—making her mad. “He’s just trying to get your goat. Ignore him, and he’ll stop.” My advice was like telling a cat to stop chasing mice.

In first grade, Maddie kicked another little boy because he wouldn’t stop following her. Second grade she punched a boy in the face on the bus because he pestered her one too many times. Third grade, when an older girl bullied her on the bus, Maddie be-bopped down the bus steps straight into the principal’s office to report the incident. When I asked her if she was scared, she stated, “No, mom, that girl was crying in Mr. Richardson’s office.”

Maddie is not afraid to voice her opinion yet fearful regarding performances of any kind. A girl who loves to be the center of attention, make people laugh and tell jokes, she loathes being the lone person on stage performing. Piano recitals unnerve her; gymnastics meets make her anxious; singing in front of an audience petrifies her. Maddie desires to control the situation—how, when, where she draws attention. When she’s forced to perform, she doesn’t feel in control.

Still, she is a social butterfly to the nth degree. When school begins each fall, Maddie detoxes for a minimum of three weeks from the summer season of fun, friends and furlough. Forgetting that summer is over, she views school as an extension of her social season—until the teacher clamps down on her chatting. For a girl who epitomizes the word “fun”, school is utter drudgery. For approximately 7 hours, she must listen, learn and lock her lips. Difficult to do for a girl who’s wiggled like a worm since her birth weight, 6 pounds, 13 ounces.  For this reason, recess remains her favorite time of day when she is released from desk and task to fun and freedom.

Expressive, exuberant and energetic characterizes this bundle of joy. Spreading happiness wherever she goes, Maddie gabs with old and young alike. She doesn’t know a stranger, communicating with maturity well beyond most teens. Her greatest struggle, self-control, surfaces often in her daily life—in speech and behavior. Still, she loves God deeply and desperately desires to please Him. I see this love in her journal writing, her questions and conversations.

I pray that she becomes a strong young woman of faith, not ashamed of the gospel, proud of the girl God created her to be—a girl with a loud voice and a principled point of view.  

The Red Robe

The bowels of the basement are full of boxes containing a plethora of memories past—pictures, yearbooks, rejected home décor, old cassette tapes and vinyl records. Really? I still have the Music Box Dancer record? Where would I rustle up the ancient relic called a record player in the age of CD’s and Ipods? And why am I still hanging onto my AP History study cards? Just in case someone needs them…? Since boxes threaten a coup, I’ve decided to purge or recycle unnecessary items and reorganize. That’s when I stumbled upon the picture of mom wearing the red robe.

I’d post the picture, but it doesn’t show Mom’s best fashion sense. And, I want to live a few more years. The red robe evokes memories of late nights and boyfriends. It was a staple as much as bologna sandwiches at lunch. Mom crashed on the couch at night waiting for me to return from dates in that zipped up redness. Eyes half shut, feigning interest, she listened to me recount minute details of the evening. Finally, mom clothed in red robe, exhausted from my rambling, mumbled she needed to sleep and plodded to her bedroom. My sister says that delineating the exact number of times I used my napkin threw mom over the edge, but I seriously doubt that. When my sister’s turn came to encounter mom sprawled in red robeness after her own date nights, she learned from my mistakes. Verbalizing her evening to mom meant answering yes or no to a few quick questions and slipping off to bed. Mom, expecting an hour long conversation, spent a little less time in her robe when “keep it short and sweet” sis came in at curfew. Dumfounded initially by the stark contrast between the two of us, I’m fairly certain she relished the short and sweet just a tad more. I’m not the least bit offended if she does.

Umpteen years have passed since the red robe days. The names have changed, and I wouldn’t don a red robe for cash, but the circumstances are similar. While Tony sleeps, I wait for the teenagers, and I understand it now. I’m tired and just want to sleep, but someone needs to be the sofa-crasher with or without red robe. And, I too, have one of each—teen, that is. My first born is just like me, regaler of details, expert of the play by play until eyes glaze over. He needs to set the stage from the very beginning and relate all occurrences so it makes sense. I get that. I’m like that. My daughter, like my sister, recounts what is required of her. No more, no less. “Just the facts, ma’am” could be her motto.  She offers responses when asked and never volunteers extra information.

Recently, I dozed on the couch waiting for “don’t mess with the details” daughter to arrive home from a night out. Awakened from my comatose-like state with the garage door opening, I greeted her with a sleepy yawn.

“How was your evening?”

“Good.”

“How was the movie?”

“Good.”

“Ok, well glad you had a good night. We’ll chat tomorrow. I’ve got to get to bed!”

Happy to comply, daughter Alix heads to bed. Padding to my room for some shut-eye, I realize that the only time ditching the details is acceptable is when it interferes with sleep!  I am my mother, after all.

How Blonde Are You?

I’m beginning to believe that everyone may have a tiny bit of blonde underneath their red, black or brunette strands. Family and friends teased me for years about my blondeness even when my hair color resembled that of dirty dishwater. When I was a teen, boys stood on either side of my head to talk claiming the wind blew right through my ears. The number of jokes I didn’t understand were as numerous as the sand on the beach. And sometimes, I clearly don’t think before I speak. A few days ago, I asked my 17-year old about the 30-hour famine youth event she would be attending.

“So, will you be fasting for 24 hours?” I asked.

Smirking, she said, “Mom, it’s a 30-hour famine!

I’m grateful for the opportunity to give my family and friends stress relief at my expense. Even today, friends laugh when I tilt my head slightly to the left saying, “Huh?!” Yes, I have this disease, but it’s not simply because I shell out big bucks to be blond.

Many claim this dumb blonde myth circled the globe since ancient times, but it culminated with Marilyn Monroe who paid to dye her brunette locks to blonde when she played in the movie, “Gentleman Prefer Blondes.” Hair color commercials seized the opportunity to promote the idea that blondes have more fun.  Brunettes were seen as serious and intelligent, while blondes were depicted as fun-loving and superficial. The movie industry continues to sell this dumb blonde myth in movies such as “Legally Blonde 1 and 2.” A story about a dumb brunette would bomb at the box office.

While I have endured abuses all my life because of my mental incapacity to “get things” (it must be the bleach seeping into my scalp), I have managed to overcome these trials by taking advantage of the opportunities to laugh at others’ blonde mishaps. Even though my hubby is a natural brunette with about three gray hairs sprinkled in, I howled when he unwittingly taped the movie “Braveheart” in Spanish. A few months before that, he taped a “must see” movie for all of us to watch because of its apparent good ratings. In his confusion over the title, he recorded the wrong movie. As we viewed this movie with our two daughters, our jaws dropped when a man’s pants dropped. We stopped the show and ribbed Tony for scarring us for life! “The Piano” and “The Pianist,” are apparently two very different movies.  

It’s nice to know that no matter the hair color, everyone has their blonde moments.

A Completely Fluffy Tail (Tale)

“A dog owns nothing yet is seldom dissatisfied.” Irish Proverb

I’d like to tag onto the above referenced proverb with one of my own: A dog does nothing and is completely content. Almost every morning when I let Bella, the Wheaten Terrier, out of her crate, she stretches her front legs then back legs, yawns and scurries to me, tail wagging. A couple of strokes later, she jumps over the back of the couch, circles three times and positions herself near soft pillows. A full night of sleep and she’s all ready for her early morning nap. Gazing at her curled up, I wish I could join her in her sweet repose. Must be nice to not feel a sense of urgency to do anything all day.

In stark contrast, my morning is brimming with all manner of doing--awaking contrary kids for school, getting Crunch Berries and chocolate milk, bagging lunches, prodding said kids again. Rushing, hurrying, always doing. Miss Daydreamer finally sleepwalks into the kitchen.

“Maddie, you have 8 minutes to eat your cereal. When the timer goes off, get your teeth brushed and hair combed so you can practice your piano for 30 minutes.”

Yes, I set a timer for the girl that tends to dilly dally and daydream, the girl who hasn’t perfected the art of time management, like me. In the meantime, Bella snoozes contentedly, on her back with her form fully extended and legs stretched. Jealous, I check on laundry then head to the powder room for a little freshening up. The timer beeps, but I’m convinced Maddie doesn’t zoom off her stool just yet. Ten minutes pass, and I don’t hear the pounding of the piano. Another typical day. Sigh. Time for nagging and nudging.

“Maddie, you need to be playing the piano now!” I yell from my bathroom.

“I know,” she responds. Alas, she always knows. Why doesn’t she do? Bella’s the only one that can get away with sprawling and doing nothing. Ten to one Maddie is still in the bathroom primping. As I venture toward her bathroom, she emerges, hair pony-tailed, lips glossed and hands lotioned.

Setting the timer for piano practice, I say, “You only have 20 minutes now since you took so long in the bathroom.”

Maddie bangs piano keys, stumbling through scales and a song. While wasting several minutes making up melodies, the bell beeps and we bee-line for the bus. I breathe relief as I reenter the house noticing Bella lying on the couch, serene except for exuberant wagging. She jumps down, following me into the kitchen while I grab water bottles in preparation for the merciless cardio machine. A girl of routine, Bella recalls my schedule, soars over the back of the sofa, snuggling once again on top of fluffiness. When I return from doing, she will be napping in the same place, body elongated, tail wagging wildly.

Ahhh, the sweet bliss of simply being, content to do nothing but twitching tail.

Mr. Fix-It Man

The shirt draped over the fence for months, its color fading in the sunlight. As summer turned to fall, rain saturated the nondescript hue. Seasons changed, and the garment stuck like glue to the wood. After a year passed, the jokes began. “Hey dad, how long is your shirt going to stay on the fence?” Dad smirked along with us but didn’t remove the shirt. Through our kitchen window, we watched the fence begin to bend backwards like a person doing the limbo. It leaned until it broke, the shirt falling with it.

We reminisce about those days when my siblings and I reunite, remembering kitchen cupboards with no doors because dad was repainting them—for months! When we put our house on the market, it sold with doorless cabinets displaying pots and pans, Tupperware, and canned goods. We had nothing to hide. When Dad showed the house, he liked to pontificate his future plans for renovation. “Yeah, if we lived here much longer, I was gonna knock out this wall and extend this room.” The first time we had heard of such plans, we looked at each other with raised eyebrows and question marks, stifling giggles.

It’s not that Dad wasn’t a Mr. Fix-It Man; he was just too busy to complete the projects he began. Holding down a full-time job and being a full-time parent to three children kept him too pooped to even pick his shirt off the leaning fence. Taking kitchen doors off the cabinets took a fraction of the time it required to paint and put them back on. Consequently, projects remained unfinished.

I guess he was just too busy being a dad, coaching our basketball teams, attending our band and choir concerts, watching t-ball, volleyball and softball games, participating in daddy-daughter events and making pinewood derby cars with his son.  Dad was the resident math homework expert and specialized in story problems which were my weak subject. He quickly became impatient with my confusion and almost shouted the problem. He seemed to think that the louder he read it, the more likely my brain would compute it.  This rarely, if ever, worked.

Thirty years later, some things don’t change. My mom tells me that for almost a year, a cabinet door has been awaiting proper placement.  Eventually, Dad will attach it, but it’ll be in his own timing. I married a guy just like that.  He’s a fix-it-guy just like my dad, but he’s primarily a provider and a participating parent. 

Several months ago, the canned lights in our bookshelf burn out. Hubby drives immediately to Lowe’s to purchase the products he needs to fix them. However, he soon determines that he needs something different to repair the lights which requires another trip to Lowe’s. The box of lights sit on the shelves for a month, then two, then three. I ask about the lights. “Hey, when do you think you’re going to fix those?” He doesn’t have time right then. I move the eye sore behind closed doors. Every so often, I ask about the lights—nicely, of course. He moves them back in his line of sight to remind him of a project still unfinished.

Other things seem to claim his attention: choir concerts, gymnastics meets, school carnivals, National Honor Society inductions, piano recitals, game nights with family. Meanwhile, the package sits, longing for the attention he’s giving to everyone else.

After months of no progress with the lights, I jokingly ask, “How long do you think those are going to sit there? I’m kind of tired of them sitting on that shelf.” I don’t understand why he doesn’t appreciate my comment. More days go by until one weekday evening, at 9:30 pm to be exact, hubby heads to the garage returning with the ladder. He sets it up and fiddles with some cords on top of the bookshelf, casually commenting on the exorbitant amount of dust accruing there.

 “Hey, maybe while this ladder’s up, you could dust up here.” Ahhh, hubby enjoys adding to my list as I do his!

I ask, “Why are you working on this project NOW? It’s 9:30!”  He climbs down and states he’s going to bed. I follow. The next morning, I notice the ladder is still set up in the middle of the living room.

When hubby awakes that morning and enters the bathroom, I smile mischievously. “So, how long do you think the ladder is going to stay in the living room? Until the lights are fixed?!” Two long work days later, he folds the ladder up and sets it against the wall. Judging by past history, I believe it’s going to be there for awhile…  

If the worst fault these men in my life have is failing to finish projects around the house, we’ll cite them for a few counts of procrastination and let them off for spending time with their active children.  After all, relationships are built over days, months and years and can last forever. And the fence, the cabinets and the lights? Well, those can be repaired any old time. “Lord, just give me a little more patience in the meantime…”

Welcome Summer!

My latest article on Sanctified Together is posted! I hope you enjoy reading my article as well as all the other fabulous writing about summer...

Royal Wedding

For years the petite brown-eyed girl lit up as soon as her daddy walked in the door from the long day at the office. “Are you ready to get married, daddy?” she asked. She’d been waiting all day for this exact moment…Cinderella awaiting her handsome prince to arrive in his white carriage to rescue her. Donned in Cinderella dress-up and daddy in his fine suit, they proceeded with the ceremony with daddy holding two roles, minister and groom. As soon as daddy pronounced them man and wife, Cinderella ran to me announcing that she was now married to my husband.

I recall one particular day in which the princess Maddie announced, “Mommy, I’m afraid I’m in love with your husband.” Of course, I knew that. After all, she had been marrying my husband every single day for weeks! At some point, I don’t recall when, the wedding song, dress-up and man and wife pronouncement stopped. Life is like that, isn’t it? It hums along in the same routine until one day, a person is jarred with the stunning reality that life has changed in some form or fashion. Whether Maddie realizes she can’t marry her daddy because he is already spoken for, or she becomes gripped with how old that man actually is doesn’t really matter. The little princess has grown up and is currently looking for a younger more hip handsome prince.

While Maddie has set her sights on a different goal, she remains a princess at heart. At the risk of being stereotypical, I would imagine that every girl has longed to be a princess. As a young girl, I was fascinated with the royal family in England. I wondered what it would be like to live in the palace, have ladies-in-waiting, wear beautiful dresses and be married to the king. Well, maybe not Henry VIII who threw a few too many of his wives into the Tower of London. As an adult, I’ve read a plethora of historical fiction about the royal family. I can’t quite explain my obsession except that deep in my heart, I’m a princess wannabe. Offer me a book about Brazilian, Greek or Swedish history, and I will cast it aside as easily as a plateful of green peas. But, great reads about Anne Boleyn, Catherine of Aragon or Elizabeth I—I’ll soak up like a day in the sun by the pool.

I don’t believe I’m the only woman on the planet entranced by English royalty. Just look at the magazines at the local grocery. Even the media is encapsulated by the upcoming royal wedding. Newscasters are holding interviews with notables regarding an event with which the entire world is enraptured. Prince William has chosen his princess, Kate. My curious mind wonders if she ever dreamed that she’d be in THE royal family. Probably not in a million years. I ponder if she ever pinches herself thinking she’ll wake up from this reverie to discover herself transported back to regular life without palaces and paparazzi, crown jewels and coronations. Her world has forever changed. Maybe she’ll regret being elevated from an average commoner to a royal princess. After all, she’s trading in a life of anonymity for a life of publicity. Her life is no longer her own. She’ll always be watched and followed. Media will criticize her conversations, clothes and companions. The responsibilities and obligations of royal life have the capability of dampening the thrill of playing the part of the princess. Still, I might trade in regular life for no more vacuuming, toilet cleaning, laundry or cooking.  Surely a princess can’t be seen participating in household duties!

In just a few hours, Kate Middleton will be Princess Kate, and the entire world will be watching the big event. Someday, I might even get to see her as a reigning royal with her hubby—IF I outlive Elizabeth and her son! Yet, as fascinating as English royalty is to me, their reign on this earth is temporary.  In contrast, God’s reign knows no end; no one can oust Him from His throne nor will He ever die. In addition, because God’s word tells me that I am His child, I am as much a princess as anyone on an earthly throne.  “How great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! (1 John 3:1a) Because I am royalty, I am his heir. “The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God’s children. Now if we are children, then we are heirs—heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ, if indeed we share in his sufferings in order that we may also share in his glory.” (Romans 8:16-17)

I don’t reside in a luxurious palace containing hallways lined with magnificent paintings, ballrooms brimming with beauty and grandeur, or pristine gardens manicured to perfection. The only people at my beck and call are my hubby and kids; no butler in service here. Come to think of it, my kitchen crew is pretty puny as well. It’s quite all right, though, because I have a palatial abode being prepared for me, and it’s not temporary—it’s permanent! So, Princess Kate can move into Buckingham or Kensington, and I will be ecstatic. It’s a real-life fairy tale come true. Every little girl’s dream—or at least mine!

And guess what? My King, God, through His son Jesus, paid the price for my own rags to riches, commoner to co-heir, pauper to princess story…for all eternity!

April Fool's Day Fun

This morning I roused the 10 year old out of bed with an attention-grabber. "Hey, you'll never guess what I saw in the backyard this morning."

"What?" she asks.

"You won't believe it!"

She sits up in bed fully awake. "What did you see?"

"A mountain lion!"

"REALLY?!" She's going for it lock, stock and barrel.

"Remember a few weeks ago when a mountain lion was sighted in some of the neighborhoods?  Well, it was in our backyard. It was so scary!"

"Why didn't you get me up? I would have wanted to see it!" Maddie is fully engaged.

"April Fools!" I exclaim, bursting her bubble.

"Ohhhh! That's mean!" She plops back down into bed, pulling the covers over her.

Since I was a small girl, April Fools Day has been a big day in our house. My mom was the master of making jokes, putting baggies of dry dog food in our lunch and even making cardboard frosted sheet cakes for my dad to share with his co-workers. I like to think that I carry on the tradition in our house with my own children joining in the fun. Two years ago, my son Nick put saran wrap underneath the cap of my shampoo bottle and mixed flour and water to make it look like milk in his sister's cereal bowl. Then, Maddie switched the cereal in the boxes, so that when the other kids poured out Fruity Pebbles, they received Reese's Puffs instead.

What's the best April Fool's Day joke or prank you've pulled or how has someone fooled you?!