Potter Place

One down and one to go

2010-05-16T00:27:00.002-05:00

I finished my first year of nursing school this week, and as I reflect on the past nine months, I am filled with a mix of emotions:

Disbelief. One year ago at this time, I was unsure of my prospects of ever becoming a nurse. My advisor at the local university had told me that my chances of getting into their BSN program were slim to none and warned me not to hold out too much hope getting into the community college in a nearby town, because their selection process was just as competitive. After putting my dream of becoming a nurse on hold during my baby-raising years, such news was extremely unsettling.

Amazement. I not only got into the program at the community college, I have maintained a 4.0 GPA thus far.

Gratitude. My success this past year has only been possible because of a support system of family and friends who love me and support me in any way they can. I was really nervous about going back to school full-time and the effect that might have on my husband and kids, but they have been unbelievably supportive and encouraging.

Hopeful. Having made it thus far gives me the faith to believe that God will see us through the next year and provide a job at the end of this journey that will be exactly what I need. I am continually amazed at His provision in my life and eagerly await the unfolding of the next year of my life.

Good Friday

2010-04-02T18:32:00.001-05:00

If you've ever wondered why Good Friday could be called "good", go on over to see what CFHusband had to write about this day we observe the sacrifice of our Savior. His and Tricia's personal testimony is worth taking a few minutes to read.

A day of living and dying

2010-03-28T22:57:00.002-05:00

If I live to be 100 years old, I will never forget the events of today. Never.

Perhaps it was because it was the first death I’ve witnessed during my just-starting nursing career. Perhaps it was because it was such a sad retelling of the darkest chapter of my own life thus far. Maybe it was the deep compassion and professionalism I saw demonstrated today. Or because it was the first time I had seen that it is possible to die in comfort free from all the tubes and machinery of acute care settings.

Although I’m not sure of all the reasons, I do know this: I left a hospice facility today a different person than when I arrived.

I’d been looking forward to this experience since I’d first learned that we’d each be spending a day in the hospice setting. A group of hospice workers who spoke to our class last semester had piqued my interest in care for the terminally ill, and they had spoken so highly of their facility that I was eager to see it for myself.

The hospice home proved to be everything they had described and more. Immediately upon entering, I sensed that this was indeed a home, not a hospital. The beautiful wood floors, elegant furnishings, and smoldering fireplaces welcomed me, and I noticed immediately that there were no hospital smells at all. Rather, the fragrance of bacon and eggs made me feel as if I were entering my grandmother’s kitchen, and I felt at home even before a single person spoke to me.

I was assigned to Susan, an RN who has worked at the hospice home for six years. She was just about to check in on Ms. P, a 78-year-old white female with lung cancer who was about to get her next dose of morphine. “She’s actively dying,” Susan mentioned as we prepared to enter the room. And, indeed, she was. At first glance, it appeared that the patient had stopped breathing, but after a long pause, her chest rose and fell ever so slightly. Her son sat in a chair beside the bed, expressionless, holding her hand and waiting.

Without warning, I was taken back to that night three years ago when my brother and I held an all-night vigil at our mother’s bedside, waiting … and hoping … for her to take another breath, yet at the same time waiting … and hoping … that the nightmare would end soon for us all.

Susan administered the morphine, instructed the son to let her know if he needed anything, and we quietly left the room.

Next door was a middle-aged Hispanic gentleman with continuous bladder irrigation whose pain was difficult to control that morning. Susan had already given him his regular dose of morphine, but judging by his facial expressions, the patient was still hurting.

We went back to the med room, and Susan explained that rules pertaining to narcotic administration are a little more relaxed in a hospice setting than in acute care. The patients’ comfort is paramount, so they are given whatever they need to control their pain. Mr. G was eventually given two more injections before his symptoms abated and he felt like eating breakfast.

From there, we saw Mr. K, a new admit who could not communicate except for grunts and head movements and Mrs. S., an elderly woman who was able to be moved to a chair and wanted to tell us about growing up in Iowa.

Back in the med room, Susan noted that it was time for Mrs. P. to get her eye drops. “I don’t know if her son will want her to have them or not, but I’ll take them anyway,” she said.

We went back to Ms. P's room, and the patient’s family members sensed by the look on Susan's face that the end was very near for their mother. All conversation ceased, and the adult daughters gathered around the bed, holding hands while Susan felt the patient’s pulse. After awhile, she put her stethoscope to the woman’s chest and listened for a full minute.

Finally, she uttered the words they had known were coming. “She’s gone.”

In those moments, I felt an awkwardness that is strange to even write about. Being present at the death of someone else’s beloved family member seemed intrusive and far too personal a moment to witness. Like butting in on someone else’s wedding night, it felt like an experience to which I should not be privy.

But I was. And no one there seemed to have a problem with my presence.

When we left the room after expressing our condolences to the family, Susan didn’t stop for a moment before entering Mr. G’s room to make sure his last dose of morphine had done the trick and that he was able to eat.

I was a little surprised at the “business as usual” attitude surrounding Ms. P’s passing. Susan made the necessary phone calls to the coroner and funeral home and arranged for the body to be picked up when the family was ready. But really, this is a place where people come to die, I had to remind myself. When you witness death on a recurring basis, it probably ceases at some point to lose the mystery it has for the rest of us. It’s just another part of the circle of life.

At some point in the morning, I was summoned to another part of the building where Becky, a field nurse, was preparing to visit a patient in an outlying community. I helped her gather an armful of supplies to take with us, and she told me a little bit about the patient along the way.

Mrs. R. was in her early 60s and was being cared for in the home of her daughter. Over the weekend, the daughter had noticed a decline in her mother and had requested a visit from the on-call nurse. When Becky and I arrived, the daughter seemed anxious and eager to discuss her mother’s condition. They spent nearly half an hour in the kitchen going over Mrs. R’s medications and discussing which ones could be withheld in light of the patient’s ongoing problems with nausea and vomiting and which ones the daughter should keep trying to get her mother to take. Becky had several suggestions for foods to try that the patient might tolerate.

When we went back to see Mrs. R, I was surprised that she looked so young. Seeing what COPD had done to this woman made me thank God all over again that I had never put a cigarette to my lips. Even on oxygen, her breathing was labored. The ominous rattle of fluid in her lungs was audible even without a stethoscope.

“She really needs a hospital bed,” Becky told the daughter back in the kitchen after we’d had to perform great feats of strength to pull the twin-sized bed away from the wall and reposition the patient on a mound of pillows. “Do you think I could bring it up to her again?” she asked.

The daughter agreed that a hospital bed would make caring for her mother easier, and within the next several minutes, Becky graciously broached the subject once again with Mrs. R, received permission from the lady once adamantly opposed to sleeping on a hospital bed, and arranged for delivery later that day.

A phone call was made to the hospice physician after Becky and I left. Based on Becky's findings, Dr. Miller determined that Mrs. R’s death was probably not too far away and ordered atropine drops to manage the patient’s respiratory secretions. He agreed to phone in the prescription to an area pharmacy, and we headed that way to pick it up.

Within a few minutes, we were back on our way to deliver the atropine and have a very difficult conversation with Mrs. R’s daughter.

“I talked to Dr. Miller,” Becky began. “He feels like your mother is nearing the end of her life.” She reached across the kitchen table to take the daughter’s hands in her own. Looking her squarely in the eye, Becky very carefully recounted the details of her conversation with the hospice physician, told the daughter what she could expect to see as her mother’s organ systems shut down, and answered her questions as thoroughly and as sensitively as she could.

Once again, I had the feeling that I was some place I shouldn’t be. A peeping Tom into a holy, painful moment of truth. Someone else’s moment of truth.

But in that moment, I also realized that hospice nursing could very well be my calling in life. Years ago, while struggling to “find myself”, I waffled between three very different career paths: health care, education, or family counseling. And here, right in front of me, was a nurse filling all three of those roles.

“You have the best job in the world,” I told Becky later as we left the little mobile home once again. “You know that, don’t you?”

She agreed without hesitation. “I feel like I make a difference,” she said. “I can’t make everything all right for my patients and their families, but I can walk alongside them through some of the most difficult days of their lives and help support them, help educate them, and help them make decisions that they can feel good about.”

That’s a difference I sincerely hope I can make someday.

All names have been changed in the above post.

Budding talent

2010-03-26T11:02:00.003-05:00

I've spent the better part of spring break trying to eliminate as much clutter as possible from my house. Some of the treasures I've unearthed this week have been priceless. I'm going to have to take pictures of the love notes from G-man to really give you the full effect of his creativity. This morning, my great find has been a "song" (and I use that term very loosely) written by one of my daughters. The lyrics are so ... um, inspiring, that I really couldn't wait to share them with you all.

I'm sure you will agree with me that S may just be on the brink of a career as a songwriter. I'm keeping the spelling just as she had it.

Girls Rule, Boys Dule

Girls Rule
Boy Dule
Girls Rock
Boys wear dirty socks.
Girls are made of sugur and spice.
Boys are made of dog drool and farty backsides.
And girls have the power to do what they need to do.
Need to do.
Boys lay around all day laughing at girls
Hee Hee Hee.
Hee Hee Hee.
And girls always turn back and that's why
Girls rule.
Boys Drool.

Sing out!

Where in the world did I go wrong???

Breathe

2010-01-27T09:57:00.003-06:00

I made it through the first semester of nursing school and lived to tell about it. Can't say it was fun, but I learned a lot and had the most amazing Christmas break to recover.

Now it's on to the second semester which is already shaping up to be 10 times worse than the first. The sheer volume of information overwhelms me, but Jeff says I can do it, and I'm choosing to believe him.

I realized over the break that in putting all my knitting, sewing, and crochet projects aside, I had neglected a very important part of who I am. All books and no stitching make Sheryl a very dull girl. A friend introduced me to Ravalry, the coolest site for crafters, this morning. I plan to start uploading photos of my projects in the next day or so and will post them here as well.

My mantra lately has been, "I wish I may, I wish I might, Stitch a stitch or two tonight". One of my New Year's resolutions was to do that very thing. Even if it's only for 5 minutes, there's something so therapeutic about picking up the needles and yarn, I just don't think I can suppress all my creative urges for the next three semesters!

Somebody tell me what I was thinking

2009-11-17T22:42:00.005-06:00

Okay, so I haven't posted in WEEKS. It's because of a little thing called nurs1ng school. Oh, I forgot to post about that, too? It's a long story that I really should preserve for posterity, but the short version is this: I GOT IN. Finally.

And now I hate it. Absolutely hate it.

The classroom part is just fine. I really love the material, and my classmates are wonderful. I have several new BFF's, and things within the four peaceful walls of the classroom are just peachy.

It's clinicals that are making me second guess my whole decision to want to take on the nurse role.

And third guess.

It's been a pretty crappy experience overall (and, no, I don't mean the kind you clean off bottoms, haha!).

Until grades come out in a few weeks, I don't really feel the freedom to share too many details. Because I really want an A, and talking about the details of all this crappiness might jeopardize that A.

As soon as I see it posted, though, I'll probably feel inclined to share all kinds of details. Like how I thought I was going to get kicked out of nursing school last week. And all kinds of other juicy tidbits.

So, if you happen to be considering the idea of going to nursing school, give me a call first. I'm wishing right now some of my RN friends had loved me enough to tell me about all the similarities between Marine Corps boot camp and nursing school.

I'm moving to Mexico

2009-09-15T23:09:00.001-05:00

Dear Mr. President,

I'm planning to move my family and my extended family into Mexico for my health and I would like to ask you to assist me.

We're planning to simply walk across the border from the U.S. into Mexico, and we'll need your help to make a few arrangements.

We plan to skip all the legal stuff like visas, passports, immigration quotas and laws. I'm sure they handle those things the same way you do here. So, would you mind telling your buddy, President Calderon, that I'm on my way over?

Please let him know that I will be expecting the following:

1. Free medical care for my entire family.

2. English-speaking government bureaucrats for all services I might need, whether I use them or not.

3. Please print all Mexican government forms in English.

4. I want my three kids to be taught Spanish by English-speaking (bi-lingual) teachers.

5. Tell their schools they need to include classes on American culture and history.

6. I want my kids to see the American flag on one of the flag poles at their school.

7. Please plan to feed my jids at school for both breakfast and lunch.

8. I will need a local Mexican driver's license so I can get easy access to government services.

9. I do plan to get a car and drive in Mexico, but I don't plan to purchase car insurance, and I probably won't make any special effort to learn local traffic laws.

10. In case one of the Mexican police officers does not get the memo from their president to leave me alone, please be sure that every patrol car has at least one English-speaking officer.

11. I plan to fly the U.S. flag from my house top, put U S. flag decals on my car, and have a gigantic celebration on July 4th. I do not want any complaints or negative comments from the locals.

12. I would also like to have a nice job without paying any taxes or have any labor or tax laws enforced on any business I may start.

13. Please have the president tell all the Mexican people to be extremely nice and never say critical things about me or my family or about the strain we might place on their economy.

14. I want to receive free food stamps.

15. Naturally, I'll expect free rent subsidies.

16. I'll need Income tax credits so that although I don't pay Mexican taxes, I'll receive money from the government.

17. Please arrange it so that the Mexican government pays $4,500 to help me buy a new car.

18. Oh yes, I almost forgot, please enroll me free into the Mexican Social Security program so that I'll get a monthly income in retirement.

I know this is an easy request because you already do all these things for all his people who walk over to the U.S. from Mexico. I am sure that President Calderon won't mind returning the favor if you ask him nicely.

Thank you so much for your kind help.

You're the man!

What I WISH my nuptials had been like

2009-07-25T01:45:00.004-05:00

Now here are a bride and groom who are obviously SO delighted to be tying the knot, they can't make their feet behave.

Can I just say there is something about their unbridled joy that makes me jealous?

When I married Jeff at the ripe old age of 28, I was keenly aware of the standards of propriety to which I was expected to conform. I smiled at the right times, made certain that "The Kiss" wasn't, umm, passionate enough to raise any eyebrows and that my new husband didn't raise my skirt TOO high when he removed my garter at the end of the reception. I was a Southern lady through and through.

I'm not sure what's happened over the past 14 years, but I'm not THAT girl any more. I dare say if I'd known then what I know now ~ how rich married life can be, how delicious and satisfying the experience of sharing many years together, the rapturous thrill of gazing upon the face of a newborn that we created together ~ I'd have been dancing all the way to the altar and back.

Somehow, I don't think I could have ever gotten my groom to somersault in a tux, though.

A glory explosion in the teepee tonight

2009-07-11T23:56:00.003-05:00

I was kissing G-man goodnight tonight in his teepee ~ a wonderful sixth birthday present a few weeks ago from his Nana ~ when he looked up at me with a puzzled look on his face.

"Momma, you wanna know what I prayed for tonight?"

"What, baby?"

"I prayed, 'Lord Jesus, thank you for this wonderful day. Thank you for my wonderful family and home. And when I die, do you think you could let me bring ALL my Webkinz to heaven with me?'"

"And what do you think He would say to that?" I asked, really not feeling like a big debate on exactly why we can't take all our material goods with us to our mansion in the sky.

"I think he would say no," G replied sadly. And then he brightened just a bit and said, "So I asked him just to fill them with His glory, so I never have to be apart from them for a SECOND!"

The boy does love his Webbies.

Yes, women ARE born this way ...

2009-07-10T07:38:00.002-05:00

This is for any man who has ever wondered if the women in his world were hardwired to talk incessantly ...

My six-year-old son is fascinated by this video. He has asked me to replay it over and over since I first watched it yesterday morning. Each time, he stares at the screen the entire time with a look of curious delight on his face.

Soooo ... I decided to have a little fun with him last night.

"G, you don't know this, but that's the young lady you're going to marry one day," I told him.

Very quickly, the look of delight turned to one of fear.

"NO!" he exclaimed. "She talks too much!"

Oh, honey, we ALL do.

Little dancers

2009-04-27T12:27:00.003-05:00

Aren't they BEAUTIFUL? The one on the left is mine, and I'm so proud of her and all her friends for the way they danced on Saturday. Such a sweet group of girls.

And what would YOU tell her?

2009-04-25T22:37:00.002-05:00

The girls and I journeyed down to Little Rock this weekend for the Little Rock Feis. Along the way, S(9) was reading billboards aloud and asked, "Mom, what's an adult?"

"It's a grownup," I replied.

"So ........" she paused, furrowing her brows and obviously thinking hard about the next question. "An adult supercenter is a big Wal-Mart where they sell grownups?"

"Not exactly," I said, thinking VERY hard about how to answer the question I knew was coming next.

"Oh!" C(7) replied. "Stuff like wine and beer?"

"Yeah. That's it!" I answered, thankful she had bailed me out on this one.

It was an answer all three of us could be satisfied with.

Changing names

2009-04-03T16:29:00.002-05:00

My blog has turned into nothing more than kid stories ... I would apologize for that except for the fact that I don't scrapbook or do a very good job of keeping up with baby books, and so this is ~ in a very real sense ~ my children's only record of their childhood.

Two stories about G:

School conferences were held today and as is my custom before meeting with teachers, I always ask the kids what they think I will hear when I ask how they are doing.

Driving home from school yesterday, I asked G what Mrs. B was going to tell me. "That I'm a perfect angel and she wishes she had a whole kindergarten class full of boys just like me," he immediately replied. The kid didn't even stop to think of his response which I found funnier than his actual answer.

"And how hard is Ms. B going to choke on her coffee when I tell her what you just said?" I asked him.

Again, an immediate response.

"Pretty hard, Mom. Pretty hard."

Can you stand one more??

This afternoon, he asked me out of the blue if it was too late to change his name.

"Yes, G," I answered. "Dad and I picked your name very carefully when you were born, and I don't want to change it. What would you want it to be?"

Wistfully (and very seriously), he answered, "Wrestle Fart Toot."

The things they say

2009-03-14T09:41:00.002-05:00

S was talking to her Grandma Judy a few days ago and telling her that there are a number of Irish dancers from her dance school who will be competing in the Irish Dance World Championships being held next month in Philadelphia. This is the first time Worlds have been held on this side of the pond, and I believe if someone offered S a ticket to go, she'd be there in a heartbeat.

As the conversation went, Grandma Judy asked S if she had dreams of competing in Worlds some day.

"Oh, yes!" my girl gushed. "Maybe it will be in Ireland, and I can go see another country!"

Grandma Judy agreed that it all sounded like fun and asked if she might come along, too.

"Yes," S agreed. "If you're still portable, we'll be glad to take you along!"

Good night prayers

2009-02-11T21:29:00.003-06:00

I was tucking G into bed tonight, and he asked if he could say his night-night prayers one more time. He'd already prayed with his daddy a few moments before but apparently had a few more things he needed to talk to God about.

After thanking God for the wonderful day and asking for a good night of rest, I was surprised to hear my precious five-year-old boy speak these words: "God, thank you for my wonderful family and my BFF's."

He went on for another couple of minutes thanking the Almighty for just about everything a little boy can be thankful for (including his sisters, can you believe?? and finally said "Amen" and snuggled deeper under the blankets.

"G, what was that other thing you thanked God for after your wonderful family?" I asked.

"Oh, my BFF's," he casually replied.

"What are BFF's?" I asked, playing dumb.

"Oh, you know, Mom. There are friends and then there are BFF's which are friends you like a WHOLE LOT MORE than your other friends."

"Oh," I replied.

And then he melted my heart with this: "Mom ... If you weren't my momma, I'd let you be my BFF."

Awwwwwww.

First Feis

2009-02-08T15:34:00.003-06:00

S began studying Irish dance at the beginning of the school year, and this past weekend she competed in her first feis (a competition of Irish dancers and musicians; pronounced "fesh") in Branson. It was held at the absolutely gorgeous Chateau on the Lake. S had a blast and did very well, bringing home a medal for participating in her first feis and two first place medals for her performances.

We can't wait until the next feis in Little Rock in April!!

Our sweet dancer:

Applying the all-important sock glue to hold up the poodle socks:

Doing a jig:

Photos of campus

2009-02-08T15:27:00.003-06:00

C and I ventured up to the university on Thursday morning to see how things were looking. Here's what we found:

On any other day, Old Main would be clearly visible from where we're standing.

A closer view of Old Main.

Just one week later, I couldn't believe the difference. Very spring-like weather brought out hundreds of volunteers, and nearly every stick of debris was removed from the campus. It was a neat sight watching so many people work together to accomplish the back-breaking work that needed to be done.

What a week

2009-02-07T17:51:00.002-06:00

I know this is old news now, but the ice storm last week deprived us of power for several days, then I discovered that my computer had died a painful death, we took off for a weekend in Branson, and in general, it's been like a thousand degrees of crazy around here.

So, pardon me while I relive the drama of our ice storm.

We live in an older neighborhood of homes that are 30-40 years old. We have lots of well-established big trees, and they were not happy under the weight of so much ice. The sleet started on Monday afternoon, and by the next day, it sounded like a war zone in my neighborhood. Even indoors, I could hear the trees groaning under the weight of so much ice before they gave up their limbs. It was the creepiest thing I've experienced in a long time. At one point, something VERY LARGE fell on the roof over the office, and I heard one of my daughters scream. I was just sure something had broken through into the house. Thank God, that wasn't the case.

One of our neighbors lost a particularly large section of tree right outside their garage.

We camped out two nights in front of the fireplace. This was the first night playing Scrabble by candlelight.

I ventured into the hospital at 5:45 a.m. on Wednesday since I couldn't work from home. This is a view of the fountain area where many hospital employees enjoy eating in prettier weather.

Since we couldn't cook on our electric stove, Jeff snagged a bottle of propane soon after the outage so we could grill. We had a "discussion" on Tuesday about whether it was okay to put Pyrex on the grill (I didn't recommend it; he disagreed). We successfully warmed up a casserole for Tuesday night's dinner, but on Wednesday night when he tried to cook enchiladas, this was the result:

He cooked a great breakfast for us on the grill Thursday morning. What a great way to celebrate his 39th birthday!

Surviving

2009-01-29T12:17:00.002-06:00

In case anyone's wondering about us, we're surviving the ice storm. The Great Ice Storm of 2009 as it will forever be known in our family. Northwest Arkansas looks like a war zone, and it will take weeks, if not months, for the devasation to be cleared away.

I have plenty of stories and photos to share, but they will have to wait until we have power. I'm typing this from a coffee shop right now. You will hear great shouts of gladness when the power is restored. I'm not counting on that happening anytime soon. Reports are that over 100,000 people are in the same boat we're in.

A hot shower will feel wonderful.

Please pray for us and all those who have been affected by this horrendous storm.

My guys

2009-01-23T20:15:00.004-06:00

It's been so long since I posted, I nearly forgot my login a few minutes ago. The past few months have reached a new level of busy, and although I find myself in the midst of various situations thinking often, "I really should blog this," I fizzle out so early at night that writing is the last thing on my mind.

But when I downloaded this picture of my boys tonight, I knew it was time to post. These two guys have me wound around their little fingers in ways I can't even describe. They make my heart beat funny, and I get lightheaded when they kiss me.

Perhaps I should feel a little guilty about carrying on with two men at the same time. But I just don't. There's enough love in my heart for them both. And they're both okay with that :-)

From our family to yours ...

2008-12-23T14:37:00.003-06:00

A little holiday merriment for your viewing pleasure! Enjoy!

American Girls, part 2

2008-10-22T00:02:00.005-05:00

So much for my intentions to post the next day. Right before I left to take the girls to dance last week, my computer started smelling like it was on fire, and I've been having to beg, borrow, and steal computer time from the husband and kids. None of them are as unselfish with their machines as I wish they were (ha!)

So, the rest of the story ...

All the girls who had been chosen met in September for the first of several rehearsals and the moms were given a list of shoes, tights, slips, and other assorted accessories our daughters would need for the shows. What fun S, C and I had going shopping for all their necessities!

Even more fun was meeting such fantastic young ladies and their moms. For the duration of the rehearsals and performances, I ceased being "Sheryl" and became "Samantha's mom". Likewise, the other stage moms were known as "Kit's mom," "Addy's mom", or "Josefina's mom".

The only part of being a stage mom that I really didn't enjoy was not being allowed backstage once I dropped my daughters off for their call times. They entered through the stage door, and that was the last I saw of them until they appeared onstage, completely transformed by the hair stylists and a team of ladies backstage into young ladies from another era. Any mom who tried to sneak past Miss Nikki, the director, was quickly shown to the door. That was tough.

What was wonderful was seeing the amazing growth in confidence in S and C from the time of the audition until the time of the performances. S was so nervous on audition day, I was a little apprehensive she might throw up. None of that on show day, though! She awakened with a broad smile on her face and not one ounce of trepidation at the prospect of walking down a runway in front of a few hundred people. That alone made the experience worth it.

S summed it up best as we drove home after the second show on Saturday. "Wasn't today just magical, Momma?"

Yes, my American Girl, it surely was.

We were not permitted to take pictures during the rehearsals or shows, but I "sneaked" a few. Most were very dark and blurry, but here are a couple of the better ones. (There was a professional photog there, and I will be ordering better quality shots from her).

Each historical girl modeled several different outfits. This is Samantha's Christmas dress.

And this is the back view of one of Samantha's every day dresses. This is a big-girl version of the dress the Samantha doll wears when she arrives on some lucky girl's doorstep.

My American Girls

2008-10-12T20:57:00.003-05:00

A few months back I was browsing the web site of an area arts center to see what kind of theater classes they offer for kids, and I saw a notice for upcoming auditions for an American Girl fashion show. They were looking for young ladies to model clothing in just two sizes, 6x and 10.

Completely convinced that neither of my girls would fit the height requirement, I decided that the experience of auditioning alone would be good for them. I have a theory that the sooner in life kids experience a little disappointment, the better. Nothing is ever gained by being a spectator in life, so I did a quick spiff-up after church one August afternoon and drove them to the arts center. I prepared them along the way that they would probably not be chosen, and if they weren't, it was no big deal. I told them that half the girls of northwest Arkansas would probably be there for auditions, and since there were only a handful who would be chosen, just to be prepared for anything. I assured them that I would be very proud of them just for trying.

We arrived about 15 minutes before the doors opened, and the line of mothers and their nervous daughters, many clutching American Girl dolls, already wound down the street. What we discovered was that not only had half of northwest Arkansas shown up, there were also girls from eastern Oklahoma and southern Missouri as well. This was a bigger deal than even I had imagined.

When the doors finally opened, and they allowed us in, it wasn't long before we saw little girls being turned away. Some didn't fall within the required height range. Others didn't have the necessary measurements around their midsection. When I saw a very beautiful girl sobbing, nearly having to be carried out by her mother, I began seriously questioning my own judgment. What were my motives for subjecting my own daughters to this?

We saw that scene repeated several times over the next half hour, and as I deliberated the pros and cons of taking S and C out of line and driving them home, I realized that both had made it through all the hurdles and were being invited into the auditorium to speak with the judges. They were given a brief set of instructions on how and where to walk across the stage, then given a question or two by the judges to answer. After that part of the process ended, we were allowed to leave with the promise that we would hear from the judges within a week.

At this point, we were hopeful that at least one of the girls would get a part but never dreamed that it would be both. You can only imagine my surprise the following week when I received an email notifying me that S had been cast as Samantha, one of the historical girls, and C as a Bitty Baby.

What an exciting moment it was as I shared with the girls the exciting news.

To be continued tomorrow ...

And I thought I was the only one

2008-10-03T09:54:00.001-05:00

This guy could have been writing about me.

Changing the collective consciousness

2008-10-01T11:21:00.002-05:00

Does this creep anybody else out besides me? This guy is NOT the messiah.

Wealthy beyond measure

2008-09-26T09:39:00.002-05:00

I celebrated another birthday yesterday, and once again when my family began asking me several weeks ago about my wish list, I couldn't think of a single thing I wanted. Not one.

Gathered around the table a week or so ago, one of my daughters pointed out that she had almost 10 things on her wish list. "I have everything I have ever wanted and more," I explained. "I have Daddy, you guys, some great friends, a wonderful church, a roof over my head, and plenty of food to eat. What else could I possibly want?"

I've tried so hard to impart to my children attitudes that are in stark contrast to the consumerism that bombards us all daily. From every direction come messages that we must have have the best! the prettiest! the newest! the fastest! the coolest! the most technologically sophiscated! the most expensive! stuff available. No sooner do we get one new gadget out of the box and on its charger before something newer hits the market and suddenly the thing we have has lost its luster. It is no longer desirable to us, because our friend has something we regard as nicer.

What a trap.

Avoiding those messages is one of the primary reasons the televisions in our home stay off most of the time. I want my children to learn contentment. The kind that Paul wrote about in Philippians 4:10-14.

"I'm glad in God, far happier than you would ever guess ... Actually, I don't have a sense of needing anything personally. I've learned by now to be quite content whatever my circumstances. I'm just as happy with little as with much, with much as with little. I've found the recipe for being happy whether full or hungry, hands full or hands empty. Whatever I have, wherever I am, I can make it through anything in the One who makes me who I am" (The Message).

You can imagine my joy when last night before dinner, G-Man wanted to ask the blessing, and somewhere in the middle of it, he spoke these words: "And God, bless all the poor people and let them be rich just like we are. Give them jobs and food and money and a place to live."

May we all be filled to overflowing today with a sense of just how filthy stinkin' rich we really are. Not because our bank accounts say we are, but because of all that has been lavished upon us by God, the One who makes us who we are.

The best part of a spanking

2008-09-22T21:00:00.004-05:00

A few days ago, the kids and I were running errands when G-Man remarked from the backseat about some mischief he was thinking about getting into. I can't remember the particulars now, but I do remember thinking how much I love five-year-old boys. They'll tell you anything. At least mine will. So, there he is sitting in the backseat dreaming up something naughty to do. Aloud.

I wasted no time telling him, "But, G, that's something that will get you in a LOT of trouble with Mommy and Daddy. I don't think that would be making a wise choice, do you?"

"No," he answered slowly.

"In fact," I continued just to make my point and drive it home well, "that would probably get you a spanking."

He sobered for a moment as if remembering how much he despises discipline of any variety, and then his face brightened. "But after the spankin' comes all the hugs and cuddles! That's my FAVORITE part!"

I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud.

"Hey G, here's an idea," one of his sisters volunteered, "why don't you just skip all the DISBEHAVIOR (dontcha just love that word??) and go straight for the hugs and cuddles? You don't have to act ugly to get attention."

That's some advice I hope he takes to heart. For a very long time.

A side of me you've never seen before

2008-09-11T19:43:00.004-05:00

From YearbookYourself.com:

1996
1992
1978
1966
I saved the best for last ...1954

Yes, I already know I'm turning into my mother, so please don't leave me comments to that effect. It's scary, folks. Really scary.

Dear Mom

2008-09-10T09:41:00.008-05:00

Two years ago at this very moment, I was standing beside your hospital bed in Litttle Rock watching you take your last breaths here on this earth. I simply cannot believe that this much time has passed.

I have replayed those last hours at least a million times in my mind since you left us, and although it still hurts that you're not here, I now understand that you couldn't stay any longer, and I'm okay with that.

The kids and I talk about you all the time and speculate on how you and Aunt Mary are spending your time beyond the pearly gates. Just this morning as we walked to school, Big Sister wondered aloud if the two of you celebrated your birthdays at Luby's by sharing a dessert.

We will celebrate your birthday tomorrrow with one of your famous chocolate cakes and will send up a big bunch of balloons and sing Happy Birthday. I have to believe that you can hear us and that it makes you smile to know your special day is not forgotten.

Thanks once again for all the love you gave so freely and the wonderful memories you left us to remember. You will never be forgotten.

As if life weren't complicated enough

2008-09-07T22:53:00.003-05:00

I was standing in my driveway a couple of days ago visiting with my father-in-law and his lady friend when the mailman made his rounds through our neighborhood. I sent Big Sister to the mailbox to see if we'd finally gotten our notice from Ed McMahon that he would be bringing us a check for millions. No such luck. Big Sister placed in my hands a manilla envelope addressed to me, and immediate dread washed over me.

I'd been summoned for jury duty for the next three months.

"Oh. No." I said and closed my eyes. "Why me? Why now?"

Now let me just say right now that I am a firm believer in doing one's civic duty. I am a registered voter. I actually do make it to the polls for (most) elections. I pay taxes and try to stay abreast of local, state, and national issues . I help old ladies across the street and never, ever speed while driving. I am a model citizen.

But jury duty? Really. I have no time for this. I work a full-time job and have a few little part-time gigs on the side. I am a wife, mother, homemaker and am now taking classes to apply to nursing school next year. I hardly have time to eat and sleep these days.

"No problem," FIL said, grinning. "After you tell them that you're married to a cop, despise all attorneys, and believe that insurance companies are always wrong because of a judgment that didn't go in your favor 20 years ago, they'll never call you up."

I have never been so tempted to take bad advice in my life. Didn't say I was gonna, I'm just tempted, that's all.

News to me

2008-09-07T01:25:00.002-05:00

Just about the time I was sure all the bills from my four-day vacation had rolled in (to the tune of over $45,000 ... praise God for good insurance!) I found in my mailbox today a $1250 bill for ... are you ready for this? A PROSTATECTOMY!

Wouldn't you think that someone at the insurance company would question why (and how) the same patient could have a uterus and prostate removed?

Wanna guess who I'll be calling first thing Monday morning?

The observation of a child

2008-09-03T12:34:00.002-05:00

If it seems like I've forgotten about the blog lately, it's because I have! About 10 days before the kids started back to school, I was lying in bed one night drifting off to sleep, and the thought suddenly went through my mind, "You know, I always said when I get all my kids in school, I'm going back and finishing that nursing degree I started working on eons ago. HOLYSMOKES ... ALL MY KIDS ARE ABOUT TO BE IN SCHOOL!!!!!!!!!"

No joke. I was out of bed and on the internet in 2.3 seconds flat. Within 72 hours I had been readmittted to the university and enrolled in the only pre-req for nursing school that I could possibly take this semester.

The only hitch has been that I'm homeschooling my oldest this year, so I tote her along with me to class two mornings a week. What a hoot that has been.

We sit in the very top row of a large auditorium, and she takes her computer and books along with the hope that she can "do school" while I "do school". After the first class, as we walked back to the bus stop, I asked her what she thought.

"I think you're going to make an A+ in that class, Momma, because you're not sitting there texting all your friends while class is going on."

Oh, how times have changed since I took my first college class more than 20 years ago!

Peace ... and progress

2008-08-16T22:39:00.002-05:00

I spent a couple of hours tonight at Wal-Mart doing the weekly grocery shopping thing. The store is in the midst of a complete remodel (I'll save my very strong feelings on that for another post), and in the giant turnover that has relocated all health and beauty products just past the rows of school supplies, I found myself carefully navigating my cart between MANY buggies driven by parents obviously on a last-minute quest for crayons and pencils.

The whole experience brought back memories of last year and my 9 p.m. shopping trip the night before school started. The depths of self-loathing for my procrastinatic (is that even a word?) tendencies reached new levels. This is going to sound really judgmental, but I looked at the other people who had put off purchasing their children's supplies until they couldn't put it off any longer, and ~ honestly ~ I could not for the life of me see myself as one of them.

I vowed that night to get a grip, plan better, and not get myself in last-minute races against time that send my blood pressure into dangerous territory.

A year later, I can't say that I NEVER put off important tasks, but there's a whole lot less of that nonsense going on that ever before in my four decades of living.

Some noteworthy examples:

In May, at the end of the school year, I had my grades ready THREE DAYS before they were due in the office.

I now plan all meals a week in advance and make one grocery trip each weekend. It is very rare that I make a mid-week trip to the store for something I forgot or we ran out of.

Last year, I'm sure I bought at least a dozen new books for the Fayetteville Public Library with all the overdue fines I paid. We haven't had an overdue library book since April. (I began writing down due dates in my planner and scheduling library trips in advance instead of waiting until overdue notices started showing up in my mailbox.

My kids' school supplies were purchased two weeks ago and have been bagged and labeled for the first day of school.

Now ~ my next big goal ~ to get them all to school ON TIME for an entire school year. Ambitious? Yes. Attainable? We'll see!

The devil made me do it

2008-08-06T14:50:00.003-05:00

Posting has been sparse these days, because, frankly, I've been feeling whiny. Each time I've been tempted to sit down and complain at my keyboard, the words of my mother echo in my mind, "If you can't say anything nice, it's best not to say anything at all." And since I haven't been able to think of much that would be edifying, I've just chosen to remain silent.

In case you're wondering what's been getting under my craw, here's a brief summary:

I underwent major surgery seven weeks ago yesterday.
I was discharged from the hospital with a large open wound.
I was started on a wound vac about 10 days after surgery.
The wound vac did its work in nearly three weeks.
It only weighed about 7 pounds but by the end of the day felt more like 40.
The next mode of treatment came with a prohibition against getting it wet.
Sponge baths in the hottest part of summer don't really cut it as far as I'm concerned.

This morning as I was preparing to flip my hair over the side of the tub for its daily lathering, something overcame me that I could NOT resist. I tried, I really did. But the fact that I was going to see Nurse Nancy at the wound clinic in less than an hour dispelled any concerns I might have about soaking my bandages. Gleefully, I jumped in the shower, and oh. my. goodness. Intoxicating is the word that comes to mind. I stood there with the water flowing over me, realizing again just how much we take for granted in the normal course of life. I've had some amazing showers over the years (the ones after long camping trips are the best!), but this one took the cake. I emerged afterward feeling cleaner than I have in, well, SEVERAL weeks.

When I saw Nancy a little while later, I confessed before she even had a chance to see how mangled my dressings had become. Her response? "Good for you!" She even gave me instructions on my way out the door to enjoy another shower before I come in and see her Friday morning.

I wonder if that was her very kind way of telling me that the sponge baths aren't really cutting it in this 100-plus infernal Arkansas heat??

We may need a few history lessons ...

2008-07-28T10:40:00.003-05:00

My nine-year-old niece is here visiting this week. She, along with my two girls, loves nothing more than to write, produce, and perform "shows" for us. The production the girls are working on for tonight is based on The Great Depression, they announced earlier this morning.

They've been hard at work on costumes, script, and songs, and just a few minutes ago I heard the (very loud) strains of this song coming from the living room:

"The Great, The Great Depression
It really was so great.
The Great, The Great Depression
It really was so great!"

Hmm ... I'm thinking when we make our usual Tuesday visit to the library tomorrow, I'm going to make a few selections from the American History section for their, um, enlightenment.

Tooth Fairy Humor

2008-07-27T07:03:00.007-05:00

Not too long ago, Middle C was beginning her last week of kindergarten and from out of the depths of her six-year-old imagination, a vision occurred to her. She would join the ranks of her snaggle-toothed friends for the final days of school.

Never mind that she had already lost multiple bottom teeth.

And never mind that none of her top teeth were loose. Much.

It was destined to become reality, that snaggle-toothed vision of hers.

And so, one night during that final week of kindergarten, C shared her glorious dream with me and went to work with tissue and dental floss to remove the unwanted dentition.

Here's a play-by-play description of how things went down:

Just getting started

>Looking a little like Nanny McPhee

>Mission accomplished!

And so on that note, I leave you with a little Tooth Fairy humor. Watch to the end ... the last line is worth it all!

The adoration of a child

2008-07-21T23:15:00.002-05:00

I was curled up in bed tonight beside the little man, and he was reading to me. Suddenly, he rolled over toward me and with complete adoration in his eyes, he placed his hand on my face and said, "Momma, I sure like the way God made you."

My heart dissolved in that moment, and I was just about ready to say, "Oh, G, I sure like the way God made you, too," when his expression and tone completely changed, and he pointed to my lip and added, "except for that bump on your lip!"

Aw, the honesty of children!

Bye, Bye Betsy

2008-07-21T16:15:00.005-05:00

After having my constant companion for 17 days, Betsy is gone. She did the work she was asked to do, I recharged her batteries nightly, and now we are moving on to another form of wound closure.

As I passed through the wound center waiting room today, I walked by a man about my age who was strapped to his own Betsy. I gave him the most sympathetic look I could and then, for some reason, felt compelled to share the news that I WAS FREE FROM MY WOUND VAC, OH HALLELUJAH.

I wasn't sure whether my news would make him feel better or worse, but it sure made me feel better to share my glee with the waiting room. And now with you, all my friends on the internet.

Betsy even went with me to the firing range a couple of times to shoot my new handgun. I'll have to do a separate post on that sweet lil thang.

I love this age

2008-07-09T19:53:00.002-05:00

With the addition of a wound V.A.C. to my care, the visits to the wound clinic have slowed from daily to just three times a week. For the first couple of weeks after surgery, my mother-in-law was driving over daily to take care of the kids while I made the rounds between my various and assorted doctors.

In case you haven't noticed, gas prices aren't cheap these days, and I started feeling a little guilty about all the fuel I was costing her.

So, over this past weekend, I decided to try taking The Musketeers with me to see if they might be able to manage themselves in the waiting room during my dressing changes.

We went through the whole list of "be on your best behavior" rules, and they assured me that of course they would behave, so I was a little caught off guard when The Little Man walked through the doors of the clinic and within 2.4 seconds was plastered against the fish tank in the waiting room, yelling, "LOOK, MOMMA, IT'S A DEAD FISH! A DEAD FISH! DO YOU SEE IT???" I tried without much success to divert his attention to a nearby table where his sisters were already setting up a game of Hi-Ho Cherry-O, but the fish corpse had all of his attention. "SO, MOMMA, DO YOU THINK THAT FISH IS DEAD OR JUST DYING?"

There were probably a couple dozen patients waiting, and I'm sure you can imagine the smirks and snickers we got.

Fast forward to my appointment today. I went through all the rules again in the car, being sure to emphasize the "No Yelling" rule. All nodded their heads and affirmed that they would behave like perfect angels.

The rules were forgotten, however, the second The Little Man walked through the door and spied the aquarium again. He raced over, noticed another black fish in the tank, and I watched as his eyes grew wide. He turned and yelled, "MOMMA, LOOK, IT'S A MIRACLE! GOD RAISED THE LITTLE FISHIE FROM THE DEAD! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT???"

Oh, the wonder of being five.

Sporting the latest in summertime fashion ...

2008-07-01T07:08:00.005-05:00

I got my wound V.A.C. yesterday. It wasn't at all what I was expecting.

My assumption: A tiny little thing that I could wear inconspicuously on (or under) my clothing that would be silent and, well, inconspicuous.

My reality: A purse-sized pump that must be worn across the shoulder that makes periodic noises that sound like farts.

The doctor and nurse who put on the V.A.C. assured me that once patients get used to carrying it around, most of them "love" it (no kidding, they really said that) and just carry on, business as usual.

Okay.

I had a prescription to fill last night, so I swallowed my pride and made up my mind I would ignore any sideways glances or staring I might get and headed off to Wal-Mart after dinner. As I stood at the pharmacy counter, handing the tech my prescription, Betsy (I figure if it's got to be a part of my life for several weeks, it might as well have a name) decided to start growling and tooting. Not certain whether the guy heard it or not, I figured my best bet was just to raise the volume of my voice and hope that he's familiar enough with medical devices to know one when he hears one.

Almost as bad as the gassy sounds is the fact that this thing is continuously pumping blood and other gack from my incision, and if you happen to look at the wrong time, you're likely to see all manner of nastiness surging through the tubing.

And I'm going to learn to love this thing like a dog loves ticks.

The one positive is that they taped me up so securely yesterday when I got Betsy that I no longer have the creepy sensation that all my innards are about to fall out. That's the thing about open abdominal wounds. You can know in your head that an incision is only 3 cm deep, but there is an irrational fear that it is much deeper, and if you lean in the wrong direction, all kinds of essential body parts are just going to tumble out. It's very disconcerting and a sensation I've tried to control by wrapping my midsection very tightly with an Ace bandage (over all my other dressings).

This is a part of the recovery process I could definitely have done without, but I'm going to give Betsy a real chance today, on this our first full day of partnership, and perhaps this arrangement can be terminated before too long.

I take a break from all surgery talk ...

2008-06-27T19:36:00.002-05:00

to share this with you.

Now, you know I try hard to keep this family friendly and avoid profanity, but I couldn't figure out how to retitle this with "heck". It makes me happy every time I watch it. And makes me dream of traveling the world.

Where the Hell is Matt? (2008) from Matthew Harding on Vimeo.

Minor setback

2008-06-25T19:47:00.001-05:00

The hematoma that kept forming in the hospital still isn't finished doing its thing, apparently. I went back for my THIRD wound check this week feeling discouraged and VERY sore after whatever the heck Dr. P did to me yesterday. I have to clamp my hands together tightly to keep from punching her when she starts digging around in my incision with those long alcohol-soaked Q-tips. She comments every time on how stoic I am and apologizes repeatedly for the torture. I can tell she derives no pleasure from my pain, but that doesn't keep me from wanting to slap those instruments right out of her hands.

I have an appointment tomorrow afternoon at a nearby wound care clinic where the techniques for dealing with "hard-to-heal" patients are more cutting edge, according to my doctor. I'm going to miss seeing her every day but definitely won't miss all the probing and digging.

Wish me well.

Uterus Trivia

2008-06-24T22:34:00.003-05:00

The weight of a normal uterus is 103 grams. According to Dr. P, physicians deem it a "complicated" hysterectomy when the uterus weighs more than 250 grams.

Mine? According to the pathology report, it was just a few grams shy of 1000. Yikes!

I promise to stop all this surgery talk soon ...

I always wanted to be notable for something ...

2008-06-24T14:48:00.003-05:00

I went back to see Dr. P yesterday afternoon to have my incision checked. Since I developed a hematoma in the hospital, she wanted to be certain that there had been no reaccumulation of fluid at the wound.

Beth, Dr. P's nurse who was present at my surgery, walked into the examining room and exclaimed, "Girl, your uterus was GINORMOUS!"

I had already seen pictures and knew she wasn't kidding, but just to satisfy my curiosity, I asked Dr. P how big was the largest non-pregnant uterus she had ever seen.

She thought for a second, and said that in more than 500 hysterectomies she's performed, mine easily made the top 5.

I feel like the Guiness people should be calling me soon.

Perhaps my family is tired of hearing me complain

2008-06-23T12:12:00.006-05:00

One of the more uncomfortable after effects of general anesthesia is a slowdown (or in some cases, shutdown) of bowel activity. Dr. P and several nurses made it a daily practice to place a stethoscope over my belly to listen to the sounds my gut made in the first few days post surgery.

Without venturing into the TMI category again, let's just say they heard a lot of noise, but there wasn't a lot of activity going on.

C6 and G5 made lunch today (nachos), and the above is what I found waiting for me at the table. I nearly popped my stitches out laughing!

What made my hospital stay enjoyable

2008-06-21T11:51:00.003-05:00

A longtime fan of novels about Amish people, I purchased book two in the Sisters of the Quilt series by Cindy Woodsmall several months ago and held onto it until my hospital admission. As I was packing my bag for the hospital, I thought about the fact that it had been over a year since I started the series and threw book one in the bag for good measure. (I am notorious for forgetting important details of books and movies.) I was glad that I did, because I ended up rereading the entire first book and then made it through the second book as well.

"When the Heart Cries" and "When the Morning Comes" are the first works by this author, and she weaves a compelling story. Even under the effects of heavy medication, I could not put these books down. I found myself thinking of Hannah, the main character, throughout the day and continually being drawn back to her story to find out what would happen to her next.

Now, I'm forced to sit and wait until mid-September when the next book, "When the Soul Mends" is released.

If you're a fan of Beverly Lewis and Wanda Brunstetter, you'll love Cindy's style. Any book that can hold my interest enough that I would call three days in the hospital enjoyable has got to be good!

Just in case you've been wondering where I am ...

2008-06-20T20:00:00.004-05:00

I'm gonna warn you right now ... this post definitely falls into the category of TMI. So if graphical descriptions of surgery gross you out or you're offended by discussions related to passing gas, you might want to keep on surfing, because I'm not planning on leaving out a single detail of what I've been through this week. NOT A SINGLE ONE.

First, a little background info ... I saw my GYN, the fabulous Dr. P, back in August for my yearly exam. She thought my uterus felt a little "boggy" and sent me for an ultrasound. A healthy, normally functioning uterus should measure in the vicinity of 8 x 6 x 4 cm. Mine was 12 x 7 x 10 cm. We should do a biopsy, she suggested, to rule out any possibility of something cancerous growing in there. It was negative, and with a new school year beginning, I didn't feel inclined to really deal with things at the moment, so I put my "boggy" parts out of mind as best I could until school was out.

The only problem was that while I was busy trying not to think about it, my uterus kept on growing. And started mashing on things like my colon and bladder. I ran into a former coworker sometime during the winter who was recovering from having a hysterectomy, and I decided that was EXACTLY what I needed. Melissa was only three weeks out from her surgery and looked absolutely fabulous. Knowing how many doctors frown on performing unnecessary hysterectomies, I started getting my sales pitch ready for Dr. P. I was really gonna help her see why my situation definitely was in the "necessary" category.

As we moved into spring, my symptoms were really getting annoying, so I went back to see Dr. P in May. We needed to do another ultrasound, she said, and the second one showed my baby box to now measure a whopping 14.8 x 9.0 x 14.1 cm. For you non-medical people who don't think in metrics, that's approaching the size of a football. And, yes, it absolutely FELT like I had a football in my pelvis.

Turns out, I didn't have to use my sales pitch on her at all. She was suggesting surgery at the same time the word "hysterectomy" came out of my mouth, and I left her office with a date on the calendar: Tuesday, June 17.

The presurgery festivities began the day before when I followed the doctor's orders to eat a clear liquid diet all day. That worked fine for breakfast, but by 11 a.m., I really found myself craving a sandwich (or something besides chicken broth and jello) for lunch. But, being the rule-follower that I am, I stuck to the plan all day. The real fun began around 7 p.m. when I drank the requisite 10 oz. of magnesium citrate. Just getting that fizzy stuff down was a real chore. I found that if I drank it through a straw placed as far back in my throat as I could stand it without gagging, the taste didn't bother me so much. And if I alternated swigs of mag citrate with Dr. Pepper, it bothered me even less.

About 90 minutes later, the party in my intestines began. There was some rumbling and some grumbling followed by SEVERAL rapid trips to the restroom. And then some more rumbling and grumbling. And MORE rapid trips to the restroom.

That made for a pleasant night, but I really hadn't planned on sleeping much anyway, because I wanted to be SO exhausted by the time I checked in at the hospital at 11:15 a.m. Tuesday that perhaps I could sleep through all the presurgical stuff. Unfortunately, I didn't realize that the hospital folks wanted to re-ask me the 93 questions they'd already asked at my pre-op visit eight days earlier, and sleeping through five nurses asking me to please state my name and date of birth would not be an option.

Once on the surgery unit, the hospital staff wasted no time getting me fitted in a backless gown and paper booties. They were all very nice (for the most part) until I raised the question of exactly why I needed to be sedated with general anesthesia.

"Of COURSE you have to be sedated," one nurse told me.

"Well, duh," I replied, trying hard not to roll my eyes. "My question was why do I have to be completely out? Doctors perform C-sections every day using an epidural, so why can't I have my uterus taken out with an epidural?"

She looked at me as if I had suddenly started speaking Chinese.

"You ... you ... want ... to be ... AWAKE ... for your surgery?" she sputtered, as if no one had EVER made such a request.

"Yeah, why not?" I replied.

"Uhh ... because it's just not done THAT WAY," she said, still giving me the look.

"Oh." And just because I really wanted to horrify her, I added, "I was really hoping to watch."

I can't even begin to describe the look that comment got.

Dr. P came in, and when I told her how sad I was not to be able to observe the surgery, she offered to take pictures for me. She didn't think it was weird at all that I might want to see with my own eyes the football that had taken up residence in my body and caused me untold agony. "I would want to see too," she said, patting my hand reassuringly.

I awoke several hours later in the most pain I have ever felt and mad as a hornet that the surgical staff allowed me to awake in such horrific pain. It only took a couple of minutes to locate the button for my morphine pump, and I started pushing that thing like crazy. Never mind that it's programmed to deliver the blessed medication every so often, I pushed it several times a minute just because I could.

Wednesday morning dawned, and I felt FABULOUS. Really. Although I only cat-napped for 20 minutes at a time throughout the night following surgery, I got was up at 6 a.m. Wednesday ready to take a shower and walk the halls of the hospital. Perhaps she might let me go home on Thursday morning if I could just show her how amazingly well I was doing.

Thirty seconds into the shower, and I was rethinking that plan. The hot water, blood loss, lack of food, and everything else all swirled around me, and I would have fainted in the shower stall were it not for a shower bench to catch me. I didn't even get to shampoo my hair, the dizziness was so bad.

Once I recovered from that experience (about four hours later), I did get up and do some walking, still holding onto hope that the next day would bring my discharge papers.

Unfortunately, by Thursday morning, I had developed a hematoma at my incision site, and she took out all my staples to pack the wound. (After only one meal of solid food, I was back on a clear liquid diet again. Serious bummer.)

Now, in case you've never had any experience like having a large abdominal wound packed, let me just tell you, IT IS NO WALK IN THE PARK. The cavernous sides of the incision smiled hideously at me, and I was certain I saw my spine hiding down below all the bloody tissue.

The business of packing and redressing went on THREE MORE TIMES. Each time, I would hold onto the sides of the bed and pant like I was about to give birth to a 12-pound baby. Sometimes the nurses would even have to tell me to breathe, because I would forget. The pain was that bad.

In the midst of all this packing and redressing, the cheerful nurses would stop by to ask if I had "passed gas". The answer was always no. It hurt too much to cough. I couldn't imagine the pain of trying to pass gas. And why did they care so much?

Late this afternoon, Dr. P stood over my gaping abdomen and proclaimed that it looked "beautiful". I peeked once again just to see what had changed, and it still looked like a big bloody hole to me.

"You're ready to be sutured up," she announced, and the sweet nurse Marilyn lined up instruments and suture material and created a little mini-OR right there at my bedside.

I watched as she injected lidocaine and then methodically brought the edges of the cavern together with Vicryl, tying each knot perfectly.

"You would have made a great seamstress," I commented.

Half an hour later, the wound did indeed look much better. I don't know that I myself would have described it as beautiful, but I was pleased that Dr. P had proclaimed it so. And more pleased when she handed me a stack of instructions and prescriptions and sent me home.

And just because I know all of you would be disappointed if I didn't share a picture of my oversized boggy uterus, here it is in MOST of its glory. Apparently there's a pretty impressive fibroid hiding out on the backside. Dr. P said when she pulled it out, it made a loud sucking sound. Neat, huh?

Five years ago tonight ...

2008-05-31T21:45:00.006-05:00

I was in the hospital giving birth to my baby. It had been a very long day. My parents had come to see us the night before, and I awoke the next morning with a burning desire to birth a baby before the day ended.

Although I was three days past my due date, there was no real reason to think that the blessed arrival would be anytime soon. At my OB visit a few days earlier, I was not dilated or effaced at all, and the baby was still high in my belly.

But as they say, where there's a will there's a way.

At 7 a.m. on that beautiful Saturday morning, I announced to my father that his job was to watch the girls that day. My mother's job was to walk with me around our 1-mile subdivision until we could get some contractions going.

"Put your shoes on, Momma. I have only one goal today and that's to have a baby!

I don't think anybody really believed me. At first.

We must have walked three or four miles before I had to stop for a break. Discouraged that I hadn't felt so much as a twinge, I decided to have a light lunch before resuming the walking.

At some point, I decided that since walking wasn't doing diddly squat, I would bounce very lightly on the trampoline with the girls. My parents weren't too keen on this activity, and neither was my oldest who was about 3-1/2 at the time. "I don't think this is such a good idea, ShelPotter," she said worriedly. "What if the baby decides to just fall out on the jumperline?"

"Oh, if I could only be that lucky," I laughed, and jumped a little higher.

The parents tried to stop me and threatened repeatedly to call my husband (who was working that afternoon and would never have tolerated such reckless behavior from his 40+-week pregnant wife). I just laughed and bounced a little higher and harder.

The bouncing wasn't nearly as uncomfortable as I had imagined it would be, and with my hands supporting my ginormous belly, I finally threw all caution to the wind and jumped as high and as hard as I possibly could. The doctor had refused to induce me, and I had the possibility of a C-section looming ahead if I didn't go into labor spontaneously, so what did I have to lose?

After all that activity, fatigue overtook me in the middle of the afternoon, and I napped for about an hour before I was awakened abruptly by ... a twinge? Yes! It was the first very faint hint that my sweet baby was about to exit the womb.

"Put your shoes on, Momma. We've got more walking to do!"

And so the march around Jericho began again. Amused neighbors smiled every time we passed, and some even asked, "Any luck yet?" I wasn't ready to tell anyone that I was feeling occasional twinges. Not until I was certain they signaled something big.

Finally, around 7:30 that evening, my husband was called home to drive me to the hospital. Five and one-half hours later at 1:06 a.m. on June 1, our third child (and only son) was placed in our arms. That night was sacred for several reasons and will forever remain etched on my heart and mind. Even now, five years later, I can hardly reflect on it without tears of joy.

Happy fifth birthday, my sweet boy. You were the baby we almost didn't have, yet I can't imagine our family without you. You bring a whole new dynamic to the clan with your wild enthusiasm and your extravagant love.

We're just head over heels in love with you!

My disorganized ways

2008-05-30T23:17:00.003-05:00

They are finally catching up with me.

I recounted the story over dinner tonight to my BFF Laura that this time last Friday I was on cloud nine. For the first time ever, I ended a semester without piles of essays to grade. No final exams to mark. The only school work hanging over me was entering a few scores in Engrade and turning in grades to the office. Folks, that is MAJOR for me. The night before grades are due, I'm usually pulling an all-nighter. I know a number of teachers who don't think a thing about being late with their grades, but I'm not one of them. Mine are going to be on time, by golly, even it it requires me to hook myself up to a Jolt IV and down a steady stream of Mountain Dews.

But that wasn't the case this time. I stayed on top of the paperwork these last nine weeks and was feeling quite encouraged by the end result.

Perhaps there is hope for me, I foolishly thought.

(Anyone who knows me well is enjoying a good belly laugh right now. I have always been extremely disorganized, and short of a divine miracle of the Almighty will probably always be that way. I hate that about myself, I really do.)

Fast forward two days to Sunday.

I was grocery shopping late in the afternoon, and as I so often do, went in the store carrying only my checkbook holder, keys, grocery list, and pen. I don't know why I hate carrying a purse, I just always have. I see lots of cute purses around these days, but I really hate the chore of switching purses to match outfits, so it's just proven much easier since I gave up diaper bags a couple of years ago to just carry the bare essentials.

Somewhere in the middle of my Target stop, I looked down and saw my little checkbook holder perched precariously near a large opening in the front of the cart, and a little voice in my head said, "You know, it's really not a good idea to carry all these little loose items around like this."

I agreed with the voice. After all, just how many times in my lifetime have I lost something important? Hundreds? Thousands? The Lord only knows ...

And so I made a mental note to find a good all-purpose purse that would match most, if not all, my summer outfits.

Unfortunately, my good intentions came a little too late. By the time I arrived home no more than 30 minutes later, I had lain eyes on my beautiful navy leather checkbook holder for the last time. As well as my driver's license, concealed firearm permit, debit card, and heaven only knows what else (no credit cards, thankfully).

I've given everyone I know permission if they see me in public without a handbag to please slap me. Hard. I don't ever want to have to visit the Revenue Office unnecessarily again.

Pray for the family of Stephen Curtis Chapman

2008-05-22T06:23:00.005-05:00

I awoke to the awful news this morning that the five-year-old daughter of contempary Christian artist Stephen Curtis Chapman and his wife Mary Beth was struck by a vehicle in the family's driveway yesterday and died later from her injuries.

Please pray for this wonderful family.

You can read the article here.

So giddy I can hardly see straight

2008-05-18T08:23:00.004-05:00

I woke up briefly at 1 a.m. this morning, and as I glanced over at the clock a thought went through my mind that excited me so much I almost didn't go back to sleep.

School is out THIS WEEK!

For me, at least. My oldest and youngest finished this past week which will ease up the schedule a bit. Middle child (in a different school) will finish June 4.

But right now it's this Friday ~ the day I empty out my classroom ~ that excites me the most.

As I have said before, I have loved every moment of this year. The experience of teaching in a small private Christian school has been RADICALLY different from teaching in a 7A public high school. I have enjoyed each one of my 27 students ... but I'm ready for summer.

More than anything, I'm ready to prepare for next year. I will be moving up with my sophomores and teaching American lit this coming year. Call me a nerd, but my brain is so abuzz with ideas that I can hardly see straight. We'll be reading "The Scarlet Letter," and I already have a preliminary pattern sketched out for my Hester Prynne dress with a big fancy A that I will wear to introduce the unit. Early American literature is one of my passions because of the glimpse that it gives us into the origins of our great nation.

Bye bye Silas Marner and Julius Caesar. Perhaps I will see you again in a few years, but Hester Prynne and Tom Sawyer are calling me now ...

Why I love being a mother

2008-05-11T20:46:00.006-05:00

Of all the hats I've ever worn (and, yes, there have been quite a number of them), being Mom to three is hands down my favorite. Here are just a few things I'm enjoying these days:

Built in buddies to accompany me on the most mundane of errands. As my older daughter told me yesterday as we headed off to a long graduation ceremony, "It doesn't matter what we're doing. Just being together makes it special."
The "shows" they put together for their daddy and me.
Watching them sleep at night. They look so angelic as they slumber, it's hard to remember all the mischief they get into during the daytime hours.
The constant reminders that little people are watching me. I watch what I say and what I do so carefully these days, knowing that even when I don't think I'm being scrutinized, I probably am.
The built-in humility they offer on a daily basis. When I slip up and act in a way that is inconsistent with the values we are trying to pass on to the kids, they are very quick to spot it and point it out. Sometimes publicly. Ouch.
Late-night talks while cuddling in bed as they fall asleep.

This has been a wonderful Mother's Day. My family let me sleep until the ridiculously late hour of 9 a.m. at which time I awoke to the smell of pancakes and syrup. Hubs and the cubs would have served me in bed, but the prospect of blueberry syrup on my bedding was a gift I could do without, and so we all dined at the table together. At my place were cards and a gift (a new bottle of Ralph Lauren "Miracle" which is my new favorite). Later, it was lunch at the Olive Garden and a peaceful, lazy afternoon spent at home, followed by a special dinner prepared by my little girls.

And the gift I wanted most? For the kids to get along well with each other today and play happily. They delivered, I'm proud to say.

As joyful as my heart is on this, my ninth Mother's Day, it is mixed with a measure of sadness for a number of friends and acquaintances:

For the ladies in their 30's and 40's who would love to be moms but are still waiting and praying for God to bless them with a mate.
For the couples who long for the blessing of a child in their home but struggle with infertility or repeated miscarriages.
For our friends in Texas who recently lost their first pregnancy after only a few short weeks.
For the moms who are grieving the loss of a child.
For several friends who are spending their first Mother's Day grieving the recent loss of their moms.

Mother's Day is such a special day but one that has the potential to bring a great deal of pain. So while I celebrate my blessings today, I also pray for those who felt like they had little cause to rejoice. My heart goes out to you all.

Shruti

2008-05-10T19:22:00.007-05:00

During the summer of 2006, I received an email about the Friendship Family Program at the University of Arkansas. Within the email were statistics about the percentage of international students who come to the U.S. for their programs of study, live here for an average of 2-3 years, and return to their homelands without ever having set foot in an American home.

Birds of a feather definitely flock together, and in a university setting, it is only natural that students would seek out companions who share their language and customs.

The Friendship Family Program seeks to broaden these students' experience in America by allowing them to experience life as Americans experience it ~ in the setting of a family that they get together with on a casual basis once or twice a month.

Intrigued, I signed up, requesting a female student from India. One of my best friends from my undergraduate days in Louisiana was a guy from Madras, and I fell in love with the people, the culture, and the food of India. This would be a great experience for the kids, I thought.

Within days, I received an email with the name of our student, Shruti, and given her contact information.

Unfortunately, within a few days my mother became ill, entered a hospital in Little Rock, and passed away. Contacting Shruti was the farthest thing from my mind.

When I returned to Fayetteville after the funeral and life settled down a little, I sent her an email and explained my situation. At that point in my life, I wasn't feeling particularly hospitable or friendly and seriously considered contacting the international students office to let them know I wouldn't be participating in the program at that time. Perhaps they could find a more suitable family for Shruti. A family that wasn't reeling from the sudden loss of a mother and grandmother.

Something told me I shouldn't do that, and am I ever glad I made the choice to email her a few days later.

We were all smitten with this delightful girl (I can call her that since I'm old enough to be her mother!) from the start. She has captured our hearts, and we've enjoyed some special times over the past year and a half. Shruti has awakened in my kids an awareness of other peoples and cultures and a desire to see and experience the world outside of Northwest Arkansas.

She was awarded her MBA today from the Sam M. Walton College of Business and will be leaving us in just 11 short days for a new life in Boston.

Shruti, we're so very proud of you and your hard work. We hate to see you go, but we know God has a great job waiting for you up in Boston. Stay in touch!

Who knew it would be this hard?

2008-05-05T17:09:00.002-05:00

I'm about to make a shocking confession.

It's been three years since my eight year old took swim lessons. My six year old and four year old have never taken them.

Now it's not that I don't value swimming skills. Far from it. It just seems like every year something happens to foil my ability to get my kids on a list ~ anybody's list ~ for lessons.

I've tried. I really have.

One year it was a new baby. Another year it was a move. Last year, I simply let the time get away from me. Never thought about anything related to water activities until the pools opened Memorial Day weekend and by then it was too late. I was laughed at when I called several area pools the day following Memorial Day to inquire about swim lessons.

"Our list filled up in March," one snooty lady told me.

Excuse me, I wanted to say. I was not thinking about swimming when it was still snowing every other week.

Note to Self: START thinking about swimming EVERY single time you see a snowflake fall from the sky.

My original plan was to enroll the little people at The Swim Ranch here in town. It's run by a former Olympian and University of Arkansas swim coach, and everybody I've talked to swears they could teach a boulder the backstroke.

At their prices, I would certainly hope so. It's $90 a kid for one week of lessons. Let's see ... for three children, that's $270 buckaroos for, did I mention, ONE WEEK of lessons.

For that amount of money, I'd expect all three to have a guaranteed spot on the swim team.

Needless to say, it didn't break my heart when my buddy Laura called a couple of months back around 7:30 a.m. on a dreary March morning to say that she was in line for Swim Ranch signups and ... take note of this ... she was number 168 in line. The Swim Ranch people apparently pride themselves on taking as much time with each family as they possibly can (to discuss what, I can only imagine ... politics? religion? the high price of swim lessons??) and so it was about 6:30 p.m. (yes, that's 11 hours later) before her registration was complete and she had shelled over hundreds of dollars to the Swim Ranch for her kiddos.

It would have been hard enough to part with that much money, but parting with that many hours was out of the question. Not for swim lessons, for the love of Pete.

So I began investigating other options and found a pool in a neighboring town that offers 8 days of Red Cross lessons for $40. Significantly better. The only problem was that sign ups began at 7:30 a.m. this morning. I had kids to get to school in our town, so I begged my mother-in-law (who lives just a few miles from the pool) to go hold a spot in line for me until I could make it to the registration place.

My phone rang at 7:15 this morning. She was at the registration building and was told that all our forms needed to be completed before we could even get a number and stand in line. Okay. I began rattling off dates of birth (these are her grandchildren ... shouldn't she know this stuff already??) and emergency contact information while simultaneously driving my 8-year-old daughter to school. She was safely deposited into the care of the sweet cafeteria ladies at 7:20, and off to the pool we headed.

All the while spitting out dates and phone numbers to my MIL who was frantically writing it all down on the other end. I was also registering a friend of my older daughter's, and when it came time to sign the forms, MIL asked, "What name should I sign?"

"Her mother's name I replied," and began to spell it for her.

Long pause on the other end.

"But that's (pause here for dramatic effect) FORGERY (gasp!)"

"So?" I replied. "This is not a tax return." (At this point, my own mother would have told me to stop being a sassy pants, but this is my mother in law, and she would never say such a thing to me. Ever.)

Another long pause.

"Well," she began in her authoratative way, "if you sign another child's consent forms, then if something happens to her, you are liable."

I was tempted to ask her what law school she graduated from, but I decided I'd probably already crossed one too many lines considering how good she'd been to haul herself out of the house that early in the morning on account of my children's swim lessons.

"Umm, but we're not signing MY name ... we're signing her MOTHER'S name ... and if they have a problem with my forging her mother's signature, they are free to call her mother when I get there to verify that I am not breaking any laws."

"Well, okay, if you're sure."

"What I'm really sure of is that I'd better not show up at school later today with my own children registered for lessons and X (the friend) not. That would be bad."

Within another 10 minutes I'd arrived at the youth center, and MIL met me out front with completed paperwork in hand. She handed me our assigned number (#14), directed me to the proper room and took my younger two off for a morning of fun. Left alone in this room full of moms and a few dads, I began glancing over the papers. I was mystified over a "field trip consent form" that had been stapled to the back of each registration form.

And then I noticed the heading on the top of the front page: "2008 Day Camp Registation".

Oh no, surely not.

I caught the eye of a nearby mom, and tried very casually to ask why the registation forms said Day Camp on them.

She couldn't hear me, so I had to ask again, louder this time, catching the attention of half of the people in the room.

"Why does the registration form say 'Day Camp' on it?"

She and every other person within earshot looked at me like I had broccoli growing out my ears.

"Because THIS IS day camp registration," someone finally answered.

"Oh," I said. I should have stopped there, but I had to confirm before I gave up my place in line. "So where are swim lesson signups?"

"Down the hall in the room marked 'Swim Lesson Sign-Ups."

I was growing redder by the moment.

Ninety minutes (and better directions) later, all four kids were registered. I was $120 poorer, and not too happy about all the wasted time, but it was over. And it didn't take 11 hours.

Just in case I haven't mentioned it ...

2008-05-02T10:14:00.002-05:00

After today, I have ONLY THREE MORE WEEKS OF SCHOOL!!!!!!!

I have loved every moment of this year. Teaching in a private school has been an experience that I could not have imagined 12 years ago when I taught in a public high school. I am simply wild about my students. I will miss them like crazy this summer.

But still.

I NEED summer to come quickly. The lack of organization around my house is killin' me.

Go Fish - The Mom Song

2008-04-28T20:39:00.001-05:00

Fun weekend

2008-04-06T22:03:00.002-05:00

Our wonderful friends Steve and Angie Titus and their children invited us to join them and a group of folks from their church for a weekend of camping and hiking on Petit Jean Mountain.

I'm simply too tired to write much tonight, so I'm posting a few pictures from the trip. The scenery was breathtaking, and the fellowship was sweet. Thanks, guys, for inviting us along!

Lisa's Mom

2008-04-04T13:05:00.002-05:00

My cousin Pat calls it the club that no woman wants to join and no member can leave.

It's the group of women, like myself and Pat, who have lost their moms way too soon. Pat was just a day away from turning 40 when her mom (my Aunt Mary) died, and I was 38 when my mom passed away.

Today, the group got a little bigger. My sweet friend Lisa lost her mother this morning after a courageous year-long fight against small cell lung cancer that was diagnosed at the end of March 2007.

Please pray for Lisa and her family as they travel to Nevada for her mom's service. She and Ben will be leaving four of their five children at home in the care of a relative. Pray for their safety as they travel and for peace for their broken hearts.

The club has enough members for now. My hope is that the rest of my friends get to enjoy their mothers until they are well into old age and have had many happy years to enjoy their grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

That's the way it ought to be.

Wishful thinking

2008-04-02T12:56:00.004-05:00

This morning as we were gathered by the front door, holding hands, ready to pray for God's blessing on our day, Jeff scrunched up his nose. He looked around our little circle and said, "Whew! Somebody stinketh!"

I knew immediately it was the little man. There's just something about little boys (and big boys, too) that is ... hmm ... odiferous after they've been outside playing for more than three or four seconds.

We headed to the bathroom as soon as Dad had left, and the little man began to strip down for a quick bath. He was full of excuses that he did not smell bad and why I should not give him a bath before school.

Lifting his arm to his nose, he sniffed loudly and proclaimed, "Why, smell me, Momma. I smell just like a BUTTERCUP!"

If you can't beat 'em, join 'em

2008-04-01T21:58:00.004-05:00

I knew my husband was a gamer when I married him. I foolishly thought that he would want to give up his online madness after he discovered the immense joys of marriage and parenthood.

Twelve years later, I know better.

And so, after much protesting (and excuse making), I came to the realization that there was probably much fun to be had in the online world of elves and such ...

And so, I introduce to you Elyndrien (my character) and Gelric (Jeff's character).

Aren't we just precious?

I know this is late ...

2008-03-24T20:05:00.006-05:00

From our gang to yours, happy belated Easter.

Resurrection Day began on a stressful note (as do most Sunday mornings at our house, I shamefully admit). Knowing that the kids' choir was singing in the later service, I set my alarm for 7 a.m. That would surely give me enough time to put together the squash casserole I would be contributing to the annual Easter gathering at the in-law's .

Things went well until I decided 15 minutes before we should have been leaving the house that I really couldn't bear to skip a shower after all. Clean and late or on-time and miserable?? The shower won out, but unfortunately, there was no time for makeup. I was putting on mascara in the car with one hand and holding onto the casserole dishes with the other when my honeyed carrots decided to overflow their banks. Sticky honey sauce dripped all over my new pants, and I was sucking in a big breath of air before exploding in anger when I remembered that it was Easter Sunday. In the grand scheme of things, was my vegetable mess really that big a deal? A big enough deal to completely ruin the morning with an outburst on the way to church? Thankfully, I had the presence of mind to realize that it wasn't.

I braced the kids for the likelihood that we would not make it to church in time for them to sing with their choir, and all three were gracious in their responses.

"It's okay, Mom," one said. "We know you've been working really hard this morning to make us look nice and to cook some good stuff for lunch."

Wow. I didn't expect that. I wondered what their response would have been had I given in to the temptation to scream loudly a few moments before.

When we finally arrived (after pulling over to mop up part of the carrot mess with a towel), the kids' choir was halfway through their second song (of four), and a very kind lady ushered them into the sanctuary and onto the risers so they could finish out the performance. I survived seven hours in my sticky clothes, and we had a mighty fine time (and some incredible food) at our family dinner.

He is risen, folks. He is risen indeed.

May we celebrate each and every day of our lives the death that gave us life.

History repeats itself

2008-03-15T23:24:00.002-05:00

We're currently on day nine of a ten-day vacation to Florida, and I'm sitting in the hotel laundry room washing a few loads of clothes and reflecting on the previous week and a half.

I have tons of photos to post when we return home, but I just wanted to write for a few minutes tonight about some of the striking similarities this trip bore to our previous trip to Disney World in 1996.

Twelve years ago I had just married the love of my life in October, but we waited until Christmas break (I was taking classes that semester) for our "big" trip. My paternal grandmother had been declining over the past few months, and one of my aunts took me aside before the wedding and made me promise that if my grandma passed away that I would not cancel or delay my trip at all. "She knows you love her," my aunt told me, "and she would NOT want you to alter your plans in any way." Our wedding trip was still over two months away at that point, and I couldn't imagine such a thing actually happening, so I told her what she wanted to hear and didn't think too much more about it. Sure enough, on New Year's Day 1996, just two days before Jeff and I were supposed to leave for WDW, God called my sweet grandmother home. On the very same day, Northwest Arkansas got a ton of ice and several inches of snow making travel to Little Rock impossible. And as if that weren't enough, I came down with a nasty case of bronchitis and had to scramble to find a doctor who could see me given the fact that it was a holiday and the weather was so bad.

I have never felt so conflicted in my life as I boarded the plane for Florida at the exact hour my grandmother was being memorialized in a city 200 miles away. Never mind the fact that there was no way I could have gotten there safely. And never mind the fact that I was on the brink of pnemonia. My sweet aunt was kind enough to call me several times that morning to reassure me that things were turning out exactly as God wanted them to. He knew my heart was in Little Rock, and my family knew my heart was in Little Rock. All I knew was that my body was on an airplane bound for Disney World, and it felt like the most disrespectful thing I had ever done in my life.

Fast forward 12 years.

Striking similarity #1: A couple of weeks or so before we left, I came down with a nasty case of strep. When I realized that I wasn't getting any better with over-the-counter stuff, I high-tailed it to the walk-in clinic because once again I couldn't get in to see my regular guy (this time flu season was to blame, not a holiday). After 10 days of an antibiotic that at first seemed to be working but ultimately proved powerless, I was seen by Dr. O the day before our vacation was to begin. When I saw him, I was in worse condition that I was 10 days before (and I was in pretty bad shape then).

Striking similarity #2: It snowed three days before we were scheduled to leave and a big snowfall was forecasted for the night before.

When I started noting the eerie correlations that seemed to be unfolding with each bag we packed, fear gripped my heart and I asked my husband to pray that the similarities would end there. My dad's mother was 94 when she died, and my maternal grandmother is now 95 and lives in a nursing home just like my other grandmother did. All the strange coincidences were causing my imagination to run crazy with thoughts of "what if ..."

We prayed that the snow clouds would go a different direction ... and they did. We prayed that my new drugs would work quickly ... and they did. We prayed that no tragedy would occur in our immediate or extended family ... and it didn't.

Until tonight. Less than 36 hours from our return home.

While sitting here in the laundry room checking email and reading news from home, I was blindsided to read the obituary of my dear friend Joyce. She was my neighbor for more than four years and has been a mother figure to me, especially since the loss of my own mother.

I last saw her a few days before Christmas when the kids and I stopped by one Sunday afternoon to drop off a gift to her. We knew her health was declining, but her spirits weren't sagging at all. She had some gingersnaps for the kids, and we sat and visited for quite a while. A few weeks later, one of her brothers came to visit from Florida in his motor home and she got permission from her oncologist to make a trip to Birmingham to visit her daughter Carol.

On the day of her departure, I was supposed to run by her house to tell her goodbye, but something held me up that morning. I gave her a phone call instead to wish her a safe trip. It never crossed my mind that she wouldn't be coming back in a few weeks as planned.

She got to Birmingham and it became apparent that the medication she was taking for her leukemia wasn't working, and her oncologist told her that he was releasing her to hospice care.

I'll never forget the day she called to break the news and to ask me for a favor. Would I please call all her neighbors to let them know that she was dying? I've wanted to blog about it all before now, but my heart has been so broken I've hardly known what to say.

By the end of the phone call, she and I were both crying hard, but she was able to say these words that she had never spoken to me before: "I want you and the children to know how much I love you all. I really, really do." I reassured her of our deep love for her and our daily prayers for her health.

I talked to her several more times after that, the last time on her 74th birthday on February 23. She sounded so strong as she told me about her wonderful hospice workers and the great care they were giving her. If the doctors had given her any idea of how long she had to live, she never mentioned it to me, and so I was hoping for time to visit her in Birmingham. When I asked if I could bring the girls to see her this summer, she seemed delighted by the suggestion, and I was glad I had asked.

If there's anything I should have figured out by this point in my life, it is that there are no guarantees of a tomorrow. I am losing count of the friends I have lost that I really didn't give a proper farewell to. Of course, we as Christians know that we're not really saying goodbye, but you know what I mean. It's hard enough to grieve a loss without also grieving a missed opportunity to say things that need to be said. To give one last hug. To say one last "I love you."

So I'm going to say it here.

Miss Joyce, you meant the world to me and my family. You were the first neighbor to welcome us when we moved in across the street from you. You were the first person to come visit me just a few short weeks later when we brought Gavin home from the hospital. You shared your tomatoes with us in the summer and showed me the best places to go pick blueberries. You shared your favorite books with me and all the wisdom you had gained from successfully raising two daughters. You were like another grandmother to my kids, and they are going to be devastated tomorrow when I tell them that all their prayers for God to heal you have now been answered in the way we were not at all hoping for.

You maintained your hope and courage until the very end, and I hope that if I ever face a terminal illness that I can handle it with the class and grace that you have displayed.

I miss you so much already, but I take joy in knowing that you are now free from leukemia and all of the medications and treatments that took a harsh toll on you these past few years. I take joy in knowing that we will see you again one of these days. If you can arrange for my home to be somewhere near yours, it would delight me to no end to trade garden vegetables with you again and swap novels.

Think you could pull that off??

I guess this means I'm a Crochet Guru?

2008-03-03T12:25:00.003-06:00

I ran across this quote today and had to laugh:

"You appear to be a Knitting Guru. You love knitting and do it all the time. While finishing a piece is the plan, you still love the process, and can't imagine a day going by without giving some time to your yarn. Packing for vacation involves leaving ample space for the stash and supplies. It can be hard to tell where the yarn ends and you begin."

I can't say I feel that strongly about knitting. It's enjoyable but requires much more mental energy (and manual dexterity) than crochet. When it comes time to relax, I usual don't have much mental energy to spare and am much more interested in going to my happy place for a brief time.

We've got open suitcases filling the living room and packing lists galore for our upcoming trip in a few days, and my overwhelming concern? Whether Delta will allow me to fly the friendly skies with my crochet hook and something with which to cut yarn. Oh, and whether I will even have a spare carry-on for my current project.

My compulsion to stitch can best be stated by a sampler I saw in a cross-stitch shop in Branson more than a decade ago. It read simply:

"I wish I may
I wish I might
Stitch a stitch
Or two tonight."

Most people I know cannot relate at all to my fiber addiction, but if a single day passes and I haven't done at least a few stitches, the day just isn't complete. My husband would be horrified if he knew just how many nights I have stayed awake over the past 12 years listening for the slow breathing that lets me know he's drifted off to sleep so I could creep to the living room for just one more row (which more often than not has turned into several rows ... ahem)

I just found a website today that lists allowed and prohibited items on domestic flights, and hallelujah, crochet hooks would appear to be on the approved list. Just to be on the safe side, I'm going to purchase a plastic hook this week and stash the old metal hook in my suitcase.

Call me strange, but I think I'm as giddy over how much of this afghan I can get done while travelling as my kids are over meeting The Mouse.

Please stand back ... my head could explode at any moment

2008-02-25T14:08:00.003-06:00

Eight days ago I was awakened in a most unpleasant way ... by a throbbing in my throat that would not be relieved by hot tea and honey.

Hubs and the cubs went on to church without me and somehow the therapeutic effects of 3+ hours of solitude in bed convinced me that I was much better by their return.

The following morning I was once again awakened by the sensation of being knifed in my throat, but a few sprays of Chloraseptic numbed me up enough to get through the day.

Fast forward a very painful four days to Friday. I agonized all day long over my symptoms. Should I go to the doctor? Or should I hold off until Monday? It's not going to see the doc that bothers me. He's a very likable sort and always makes me feel like I'm the most important patient on his schedule that day even if he has an entire room of coughing flu-bags vying for a few minutes of his attention (and his prescription-writing powers). I just don't like taking antibiotics and view them as an absolute last resort after I've tried everything over-the-counter I can get my hands on.

When things didn't improve over the weekend and I woke up this morning at 5 a.m. burning up in the middle of a dream that the people from Home Improvement had all taken their power sanders to my pharynx, I knew the OTC stuff just wasn't cutting it. It was time to make the phone call I'd been dreading.

A much-too-cheerful receptionist answered my call and told me the very soonest I could be seen was late on Wednesday afternoon.

"Mmmm ... I think I'm really sick," I told her. "There's no way he can see me today?"

"Oh no," she replied in her too-happy way. "There's a LOT of flu going around right now." But, she went on to suggest that I pay a visit to the walk-in clinic if I thought I needed attention sooner than Wednesday.

The walk-in clinic? The clinic we always referred to as Medi-Quack when I was in college? I just didn't know about that ...

Somehow I made it through class, but by the end the pressure in my left ear was so bad I was afraid my eardrum was about to rupture.

Medi-Quack was sounding more and more like a viable option. So the Little Man and I stopped by on our way home. Forty minutes later, having been diagnosed with a raging case of strep and left otitis media and prescriptions in hand, we headed to the pharmacy.

I had to laugh at his youthful naivete. "Now that you have your drugs, Momma, you wanna stop at Chili's and have chips and salsa?"

No, honey, I think I'd rather have a power sander taken to my throat.

Just give me a few days, though, and I'll be all over that.

And how would she know this?

2008-02-24T13:04:00.002-06:00

Yesterday, my Sara and I were out doing a little shopping in preparation for our upcoming trip to the Land of Mouse, and we stopped by the snack bar at Target to get some popcorn and a drink. As we walked to the car, Sara commented on her favorite popcorn.

"I like the really yellow pieces the best," she said, "because they're really buttery."

And then the observation that had me scratching my head:

"But Momma ... when you're out playing in the snow and gathering it for snow cream, the yellow snow is NOT the best."

I don't even want to know how she figured that out.

Disbelief

2008-02-22T10:43:00.002-06:00

This from the BBC this morning:

For the second time in two years, an Argentine teenager has given birth to female triplets, BBC News reports.

The 16-year-old, who goes only by the name of Pamela, first gave birth to triplets at the age of 15.

Pamela, who lives in Leones in the central Argentine province of Cordoba, also gave birth to a son two years ago. All seven children were born prematurely, and the mother did not use fertility treatments, the report said. The chances of giving birth to triplets once are more than 8,000 to 1, according the report.

Provincial authorities donated land and built a house for Pamela’s family when the first set of triplets were born. Pamela’s mother plans to ask the government for more assistance.

So, if I'm reading this correctly, Pamela first gave birth at age 14 to a son, at age 15 to triplet daughters, and at age 16 to another set of triplet daughters.

Folks, that makes this child the mother of SEVEN BABIES.

The government has donated land and built a house for this girl, and now her mother is planning to ask for MORE???

I don't know whether I'm more appalled by Pamela's actions or by her mother's. This family definitely needs help, but it's NOT in the form of government assistance.

No Peanuts, Thanks. I'll Take a Valium Instead ...

2008-02-20T13:46:00.003-06:00

It's been almost two weeks ago that my husband called home one morning with some news he was practically BURSTING to share.

"Okay, hon," he started. "Do I have ALL your attention?"

So excited was he that my first thought was that he had won the Powerball or something. But then I remember that he doesn't buy lottery tickets. A tax on people who are really bad at math, he calls them. And just in case I haven't mentioned it before, Hubs is really bad at math.

But I digress ..

"Yeah, you have it all," I replied. "What's up?"

In a nutshell, his new employer is sending him to some training in Orlando, and they are encouraging him and his coworker to take their families along, since the hotel where the training will be held is practically on Disney property.

My initial enthusiasm was quickly followed by a near panic attack as I realized that my plans to drive there had already been foiled. We're flying, I was told.

Yikes. I haven't been on an airplane in so long I'm embarrassed to say. Certainly not since 9/11. I always did okay on airplanes when I was younger, but it's different now. I'm a momma of three, and there are crazies in this world who think it's noble to take over American planes and crash land them into buildings.

I know, I know ... safety measures have been put into place since then that make it nigh near impossible to board a plane with anything besides the clothes on your body and possibly a toothbrush in a carry-on if you're very lucky, but still.

I'm a worrier, and what makes this even worse is that my primary means of destressing (knitting and crocheting) will not help me at all seeing as how they're not about to let me board a plane with needles of any sort.

Since Hubs is a certified, card-carrying officer of the law, I thought perhaps he might be allowed to board with his weapon concealed. But no. The Airline Nazis don't allow that either.

I don't want to sound prejudiced or anything, but I'm just giving my family fair warning right now that if there is ANYONE on that plane that looks the slightest bit like a terrorist, I'm not flying. Unless they drug me first.

It's Always Good to Know Who Your Competition Is

2008-02-05T15:47:00.001-06:00

The little man and I were having lunch together at home today, when he suddenly looks at me and says sweetly (and emphatically), "Momma, you are the best momma in the WHOLE ENTIRE OF THE WOR-ULD."

"Really?" I asked. "In the whole world? Are you sure?"

"Mmmm hmmm," he replied, nodding his head. "I'm VERRRY sure."

After a brief pause, he went on to add another thought. "In fact, Momma, if they (not sure who "they" is) lined up ALL the mommas in the wor-uld, and I got to pick one, I would pick you."

"Really, Doodle Bug? You would pick ME?" I tried to act surprised, even though he has expressed this same sentiment at least 49 times already this week.

And then the clincher.

"Oh, yes, Momma. In fact, if they let me spin to pick a Momma, and my spinner landed on Scott Donna Momma, I would just CHEAT THE SPINNER and pick you anyway! So there!"

You can only imagine the sigh of relief that escaped me as I realized my arch rival Scott Donna Momma was NOT going to beat me out for the affections of my little boy. Whew.

This Crazy Arkansas Weather

2008-02-01T10:26:00.000-06:00

On Monday of this week, we awakened to unseasonably warm temperatures. The thought briefly passed through my mind that I could easily see myself wearing a skirt and flip-flops to class that morning. "It's January," I reminded myself. "People will laugh at you if you show up in flip-flops."
So I dressed in something appropriate for what the weather would normally be in January (never mind that my upstairs classroom usually feels 15-20 degrees warmer than it should). And I roasted.

Walking out to my car afterward, I spoke briefly with Susan, the ninth-grade English teacher who was wearing flip-flops. We commented on how beautiful the weather was, and could this be a sign we would have an early spring.

The next morning, the weather again was gorgeous when I awoke to a balmy 65 degrees. And so I did what I had wanted to do the day before. I shaved my very white legs, threw on a skirt and top and my most favorite pair of Skechers flip flops. (This is probably a violation of some obscure rule in the 20-page dress code, but since I haven't taken the time to read it all, I surely can't be held responsible for following it, right??)

Hubs commented before he left for work that we were going to see a significant drop in temperatures that day, and there was even a chance of snow that evening.

A wiser woman would have immediately put on a pair of tights and boots (seeing as how my warm wool pants are forbidden by the dress code), but I dismissed his warning and assumed that the big drop the forecasters were predicting surely wouldn't happen before I got home around noon. After all, those guys are rarely right anyway.

So off I went in 60ish degree weather. A mere 90 MINUTES LATER as The Little Man and I headed to the mall to buy Daddy's birthday present, it was already well on its way to the 30s. Those smirks that I had worried about getting the day before ... yes, I got plenty of them as we braved strong winds (without coats, of course, because who would wear a coat and flip-flops together??) G and I went into a shoe store to get Dad a new pair of Merrill's and when I asked for a man's size, she coyly remarked that it looked like I could use a pair of shoes as well. What could I do but laugh?

It's been freezing every day since, and the snow finally came yesterday, though not nearly as much as we'd been told we'd get. Somehow our 4-7" turned into not much more than a heavy dusting, but we got two days out of school, which have been wonderful!

This is the view from my deck this morning:

Now if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go pack away every pair of sandals I own just to avoid the temptation of donning another pair anytime in the near future.

Makeup lessons

2008-01-20T10:45:00.000-06:00

This is an excerpt from an early morning conversation yesterday as we readied ourselves for the trip to see Grandma:

Sarah: "Momma, what do you do with this?"
Me: "That's a lip liner pencil, honey."
Sarah: "But what do you do with it?"
Me: "Well, you outline your lips with it before you put on your lipstick." (I'm realizing as I type this that what I SHOULD have said was ,"I outline MY lips before I put on MY lipstick ... mmmmm, what is it they say about hindsight??)
Sarah: "Oh."

Three minutes later:

Sweet mercy. I can picture her even now behind the wheel of a pink Mary Kay Cadillac.

Rays of sunshine on a cold afternoon

2008-01-19T22:16:00.000-06:00

Caffeine from Sonic: $1.97
Lunch: $17.97
1/2 tank of gas: $20.00
Bringing smiles to 87 nursing home residents: Priceless

My 95-year-old maternal grandmother lives in a nursing home about two hours away. I try to get down to see her as often as I can, but that isn't nearly as often as I'd like. When my mother was still living, Grandma's place was a convenient rendezvous point for us, and we met there every other month or so, sometimes to spend a weekend (when Grandma still had her own place) and then after she moved to Legacy Lodge we spent many happy Saturdays at the home. Sometimes I would bring my Cairn terrier Bagel, and Aunt Mary (my mother's oldest sister) would bring her schnauzer Lady. Oh, the stir it caused when we walked those two puppies down the halls. We could attract a following quicker than the Pied Piper.

After mom and Aunt Mary died, I'm afraid I haven't been as faithful about visiting, a fact that makes me terribly un-proud of myself.

Today was forecasted to be bright and sunny (albeit COLD!), and so the two little princesses and I decided earlier in the week that today might be a nice day to visit Grandma Gerry. The moment we stepped in the front doors, I remembered why I love spending time there. The mere sight of children brings smiles to faces that look as if they haven't smiled in months, if not longer. It is clear by their desire to touch us that many haven't been hugged in a very long time.

Some of the sights, smells, and sounds of elderly hovering somewhere between life and death are disturbing, but to my children's credit, they seem undaunted. My grandmother moved into her facility just two months after my first child was born, so these sights and sounds are nothing new to them. They neither stare nor look uncomfortably the other way.

And so we walk down the hallways and touch as many hands as we can. I have told my kids not to be afraid when the sweet residents want to stroke their hair or hold their hands. Sometimes a resident simply wants to look into the eyes of one of my babies. When this happens, and I see the smile and nostalgia pass across his or her face, I wonder if they are remembering their own childhood. Or perhaps their own children as youngsters.

I'm so thankful that the girls don't see these visits as long, arduous afternoons to be endured. They love the attention they get and enjoy being beams of sunshine in an otherwise dark and sad place.

If the Lord grants me many years on this earth and the final chapter of my life is spent in a nursing facility, I do hope that there are many kind children (and puppies!) who won't mind if I run my fingers through their hair from time to time.

I love the internet

2008-01-12T11:14:00.000-06:00

With a husband in law enforcement, I hear stories frequently about the dangers of the internet. Predators by the thousands are lurking in cyberspace watching and waiting for the opportunity to lure innocent kids into a web of deception.

I know this, and as a mom of three I am deeply disturbed by such happenings.

But this morning, I want to think about the good of the internet, about the incredible power that results when thousands of people of faith mobilize in prayer when a story grips their hearts.

I ran across such a story several months ago, and it has captivated me.

When I first "met" Nathan and Tricia at Confessions of a CF Husband, he was blogging about his sweet wife who was born with cystic fibrosis and her workup for a double-lung transplant.

Everything changed when they discovered on September 1 that she was about 5 weeks pregnant. This past Tuesday, a short four months and one week later, Tricia gave birth to Gwyneth Rose, weighing just 1 pound, 6 ounces.

There are no words to describe how this story has gripped me (and apparently a multitude of other folks around the world) without sounding like a crazy stalker. In the days leading up to Gwyneth's delivery when Tricia's lungs were failing, I awakened several times in the middle of night, rushing to my computer to check for updates and praying for the safety of both mother and baby. Thoughts of them occupied my mind throughout the day, and when I couldn't be near my computer, I felt antsy and anxious for news from Tricia's hospital room at Duke University.

We live thousands of miles from this precious family, yet as I was checking my email on Wednesday, I found an urgent prayer request from our church for Tricia and Gwyneth. Turns out there are people here in Northwest Arkansas who are personal friends of Nate and Tricia. Small world, huh?

It's now been four days since baby Gwyneth's birth, and both she and her mother remain on ventilators in critical care units. Things could go either way at this point, yet Nathan's faith in God remains steady. He posted these words this morning:

"Sad is the furthest emotion from my heart these past few days and weeks. I have never experienced so much joy packed into such a short period of time in my entire life.

Pain? Yes!
Frustration? You bet!
Helplessness? Duh!

But, no sadness here.

I've seen members of my own family return to God, heard from couples who have considered their marriage more deeply, read of mothers who have hugged their kids more tightly, seen Duke staff by Tricia's bedside in prayer, witnessed the increased faith in a real and tangible God of so many strangers and friends, and been told of people coming to know my God for the very first time...all because He has chosen to use Tricia, and now Gwyneth in an eternal way.

This is a story of Hope in the future, Joy for the present and Blessings for the past. It is a story of a God Who takes a left turn just as you are moving right, Who shows you the mountain top while others see the valley, Who never leaves nor forsakes you, and Who is bringing you to a destination that is unfathomably beyond anything you could have desired for yourself."

If you have a few minutes to stop by their blog and leave them some words of encouragement, I know the family would appreciate it. And then pray for God's healing hand to be upon these two ladies. There have been many miracles prayed into reality for Tricia and Gwyneth, but many more are needed.

Have I mentioned that I love the power of the internet?

This kills me ...

2008-01-11T19:47:00.000-06:00

So who actually has time to come up with this stuff? Obviously someone with just as much free time as I have to surf around and find it on the net.

The Recipe For Sheryl

3 parts Class
2 parts Nonconformity
1 part Mischief

Splash of Delight

Finish off with an olive

What's the Recipe for Your Personality?

Hope your Christmas was merry and bright

2007-12-27T10:54:00.000-06:00

I had very good intentions over the past week of writing a lovely Christmas post and wishing all of my online friends a wonderful holiday. It never happened. Just like Christmas cards this year didn't happen. And the big Christmas meal didn't happen.

But you know what? It was wonderful anyway in a low-key, simple way.

This year, I set a new rule. If it hasn't happened by December 23rd, just don't worry about it.

That went for last-minute shopping, baking, stressing, the whole Christmas enchilada.

Hubs and I did do a good bit of Christmas Eve wrapping but not nearly as much as in past years. (The awful memory of that Christmas about three years ago when we did ALL our wrapping on Christmas Eve still haunts my memory and prompts me now to start wrapping gifts as soon as I buy them which isn't nearly as early in the year as I wish it were, but that's another post.)

The simplicity allowed us to focus more on the Giver than the gifts under the tree. It gave us time to sit around the kitchen table with our nativity set and "What God Wants for Christmas" and reflect with the kiddos on the real reason we celebrate. Time to bake cookies and decorate them. Time to snuggle on the sofa and read Christmas books. Time to appreciate all that is precious to us.

I hope your Christmas was the same, that amazing smells and people filled your home and that you made the kind of memories that will cause you and your children to smile in years to come and say, "Remember that year when ..."

I hope you feel as blessed as I do.

Soup's On!

2007-12-07T15:04:00.000-06:00

BooMama is asking for soup recipes today, and I'm thrilled to pass along one of our absolute faves here at The Potter Place. Since this only serves 4, I usually double or triple it. It's great fresh but muy fabuloso a day or two later!

White Chicken Chili

2-3 chicken breasts, boiled and chopped
1 can navy beans, undrained
1 can great northern beans, undrained
1 can Rotel, undrained
1/2 tsp. cumin
2 tsp. chili powder
1/2 tsp. garlic powder
1/4 t. thyme
cheddar cheese
Monterey Jack cheese

Combine all ingredients except chicken and cheeses in large pot. Simmer for 30 minutes covered. Add cheese and chicken and simmer for an additional 15 minutes. Serves 4.

Head on over to BooMama's place for more souptacular recipes!

The Month Before Christmas

2007-12-05T20:48:00.000-06:00

'Twas the month before Christmas
When all through our land,
Not a Christian was praying
Nor taking a stand.

How the PC Police had taken away
The reason for Christmas - no one could say.
The children were told by their schools not to sing,
About Shepherds and Wise Men and Angels and things.

It might hurt people's feelings,
The teachers would say.
December 25th
is "just a holiday".

Yet the shoppers were ready
with cash, checks and credit
Pushing folks to the floor
to be the first to get it!

CDs from Madonna, an X-box, an I-pod
Something was changing, something quite odd!
Retailers promoted Ramadan and Kwanzaa
In hopes to sell books by Franken and Fonda.

As Targets were hanging their trees upside down,
At Lowe's the word Christmas was nowhere to be found.
At K-Mart and Staples and Penney's and Sears
You won't hear the word Christmas; it won't touch your ears.

Inclusive and sensitive
Di-ver-si-ty
Are words that were used
To intimidate me.

Now Daschle, Now Darden,
Now Sharpton, Wolf Blitzer
On Boxer, on Rather,
On Kerry, on Clinton!

At the top of the Senate,
There arose such a clatter
To eliminate Jesus,
In all public matter.

And we spoke not a word
As they took away our faith
Forbidden to speak
of salvation and grace.

The true Gift of Christmas
was exchanged and discarded
The reason for the season,
stopped before it started.

So as you celebrate "Winter Break"
under your "Dream Tree"
Sipping your Starbucks,
Please Listen to me.

Choose your words carefully,
Choose what you say
Shout MERRY CHRISTMAS,
Not Happy Holiday!

Author Unknown

Pruning

2007-12-03T22:30:00.000-06:00

I'm no greenthumb, but house plants have always held a special place in my heart. My Mimmaw Snyder could grow African violets like nobody's business and always had a variety of cheerful colors brightening up her little home. My mother was fond of her Schefflera, Wandering Jew, and heartleaf Philodendron. I loved to tease her that she took better care of her plants than she did her kids.

After Mom's memorial service last September, I brought more than a dozen beautiful plants home with me. Knowing I couldn't care for all of them, I gave some away to family and friends and carefully tended the remaining half dozen with all the care that my mother gave her plants over the years.

I watered them, fed them, talked to them, gave them plenty of sunshine on pretty days, and brought them inside on cold winter nights.

And so you can imagine my heartbreak when I awakened this morning to the sight of a half dozen frozen plants on my deck where it rained all day yesterday and then dropped down to 22 degrees last night. Some of them had to have warm water poured around their bottoms to even pry free.

Disappointed, I nearly threw them out with the morning's trash, but something stopped me. Perhaps they can be saved, I thought. But then I looked again and saw no signs of life in the frozen foliage.

I left them on the kitchen table as I departed for school, planning to do something with them when I returned later.

Much to my amazement, when I prepared to toss them out later in the day, hiding deep beneath the dead black leaves, now thawed and hanging listlessly over the sides of the pots, I saw something that made me rejoice. GREEN! BRIGHT GREEN LEAVES!

With my sharpest pair of kitchen scissors in hand, I proceeded to cut away everything that the ice had destroyed from the cruel night outdoors, and when I was finished, I was left with a half dozen naked houseplants.

As I thought about the new growth that would be permitted (and encouraged) by removing the dead foliage, I thought about the pruning God does in the lives of his children to encourage their spiritual growth.

The dead leaves and vines piled up around me, reminding me of the unpleasantness that must be purged not only from my ailing houseplants but also from my sinful heart. Jesus reminds us of this when He says, “I am the true vine, and My Father is the vinedresser. Every branch in Me that does not bear fruit He takes away; and every branch that bears fruit He prunes, that it may bear more fruit” (John 15:1-2). Doing so makes the tree bear better fruit, grow higher or to give the tree a more lovely appearance.

Just as my sharp scissors were the perfect tool for pruning my plants, God's Word is the perfect tool for pruning us. God’s Word is sharp so that it can remove unwanted branches in our lives without harming us. “For the word of God is living and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the division of soul and spirit, and of joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart” (Hebrews 4:12).

I have no idea whether my plants will survive this experience or not, but I do know that my own pruning -- as unpleasant as it can be at times -- will allow me to grow in God's character and to be more fruitful in His kingdom.

I will never feel bad about my house again

2007-11-29T13:17:00.000-06:00

Okay, I can't reveal ANY of the details pertaining to how I got my hands on this photo, but suffice it to say that police officers get invited into a LOT of homes they wish they didn't have to visit.

Let me just say right now that I will NEVER feel bad about the messy condition of my home EVER again, and you shouldn't either. Here's why:

You know a house is bad when the occupants, completely unworried about the possibility of someone breaking into their abode, secure the front door with DUCT TAPE ALONE. Heaven help us.

Updated to add: The ironic part of all of this is that this was NOT (as I would have assumed) a shack in a seedy part of town ... this was a nice middle-class neighborhood with homes in the $180,000+ range ... I started to post of photo of the outside of the house but thought better of it.

Happy Thanksgiving!

2007-11-22T18:44:00.001-06:00

From all of us at The Potter Place to everyone at your place, Happy Thanksgiving! We've had a grand time this week counting our blessings, and they are many. We hope that you can say the same.

Here are some highlights:

Our precious Pilgrim Rachel

Gathered around the feast giving thanks

Our place "cards" ... aren't they
adorable?

If I weren't so tired, I'd have a title for this post

2007-11-04T23:46:00.000-06:00

It feels like a hundred Sundays ago that I last posted to this blog. And I don't really know why I'm writing tonight except that about 30 minutes it suddenly occurred to me that I couldn't even remember how to log in, y'all. So I tried various and assorted passwords, everything from my ATM password to Old Faithful, the password I've used for simply everything for the past ninety-eleven years. And now that I have finally remembered how I used to get into this thing back in the days when I, you know, used to share my fascinating life with all of you, I feel obligated to write something. Only I'm not really sure what that something should be.

It's like this ... I'm tired. Really tired. And I don't just mean because it's a few minutes before midnight. Trying to work a full-time job, teach part-time, run a business on the side, be involved in a Bible study, volunteer at church, AND tend to the never-ending duties of managing a home, being a wife, and raising children has just worn me out lately. I keep trying to think of something "deep" to write about, but truthfully, if there has been a thought deeper than how to get my children to like each other that has fluttered through my mind recently, it got lost in between all the sleep deprivation and caffeine-induced insomnia.

Jeff and I talk often about how I need to give something up, but we never seem to come to any conclusions about what that something should be, because I really love everything I do. I love my job at the hospital. I love teaching my sweet group of 28 sophomore and junior English students each day. And I love the creativity of designing gifts for people that bring smiles to their faces and occasional tears streaming down cheeks. And, it goes without saying, that I'm absolutely head-over-heels crazy about my man and three kids (despite an occasional threat to hock one or more of them on eBay!) How in the world does a person make a choice like this? And yet to continue living this way, pushing myself to unhealthy limits, is utterly crazy.

Midnight is here now, and my alarm will be going off in a little over five hours. Although I can think of at least three more things I really ought to get done before calling it a day, common sense is telling me those things can wait.

'Night, y'all.

My Boy is Going to be a Bible Scholar

2007-10-07T06:32:00.000-05:00

I've written before about my efforts to get the Little Potter People to pay better attention at church on Saturday nights. I'm pleased to report that of late, as I have quizzed them on the drive home, they have dazzled me with their increased attention to the lesson.

With my oldest (almost 8), I ask for a summary of the story and the lessons she learned that night. She can recite to me almost word-for-word the story as well as lessons learned and applications to life. Since I work in her class every other week and can keep a close eye on her, I have little doubt that she is there to grow spiritually and is behaving herself pretty well.

It's the other two that I just haven't been so sure about. They bring home a "Ride Home Recap" that is a coloring sheet on the front with their Bible story on the back. I ask them a couple of questions before we start our review just to get a feel for whether they were mentally present in class that night. Broad questions such as "What Bible character who was hidden in a basket as a baby did you learn about tonight?" will often be my first clue, then as I read the story, I leave out key words for them to fill in.

Last night, the lesson was about Queen Esther. Gavin assured me as we buckled in that he had been listening "very, very, very well" and was ready to tell me all about his night.

And so I began: "A long time ago, there was a Queen named ...."

from the back seat, in unison, "ESTHER!"

"And she had a cousin named ..."

Long pause. I finally decide they need a prompt. "It starts with 'mmmmmm'

"MORON!" the little guy yells.

I sincerely hope that if my little man ever runs into Mordecai in eternity, that the old guy has a fantastic sense of humor!

My baby girl is 6 today

2007-10-06T09:00:00.000-05:00

Precious Sarah,

Six years ago tonight, your daddy and older sister and I welcomed you into our family. It had been a very long labor (24 hours to be exact!), but the moment I saw you and held you in my arms, I knew you were worth it all.

And six years later, I still feel the same way.

You have heard me say this before, but it bears repeating. You are a daughter anyone would be proud to claim. You are smart. You're funny. You are beautiful. And without a doubt, you are THE most compassionate person I have ever known. You cry for and with those who are suffering. You always have a gentle word to encourage the discouraged. You are helpful. And kind. And precious beyond words.

I look at you and your brother and sister, and I cannot believe that I was chosen by God to be your mom. It's a blessing I will never take for granted.

Thank you for six wonderful, amazing years. Your daddy and I are so very proud of you!

This made my day

2007-10-05T15:15:00.000-05:00

If laughter is good medicine, then I should be the healthiest gal today. I just read this over at Baby Bangs which echoes numerous thoughts I myself have had in recent months while working out at the gym. Go visit Amanda (Beth Moore's daughter) who is a VERY funny lady and get your daily dose of laughter, too!

I Took On the Parking Police ... and Won!!

2007-10-03T12:50:00.001-05:00

I will warn you right now. I'm in rare form today.

It all started bright and early this morning (well, it was early, but due to the monsoon season we're in right now, I can't really say it was bright) as I drove around the University of Arkansas campus hunting for a parking spot. I just needed to run a book into a building to a friend, but every empty spot was for permit holders only.

So, I did exactly what I would have done 17 years ago when I moved to Fayetteville as a grad student ... I snagged a permit spot and prayed HARD that I would not get a ticket or a ride on the back of a tow truck during the three minutes that it would take me to run my quick errand.

A few short minutes later, I approached my vehicle to see what looked like Cro-Magnon man standing near my truck punching buttons on his ticket machine.

"Excuse me," I began in disbelief. "Are you writing me a ticket?"

"If this is your vehicle, then yes, I am," Cro-Magnon man replied, without expression.

"Sir!" I protested. "I was in that building for just a couple of minutes, and there are PLENTY of empty spaces in this lot! PLEASE don't write me a ticket!"

"The rules are the rules," C-M man replied slowly, staring at me from under dark, heavy eyebrows, his flattened affect giving me the chills.

The drama queen in me switched into performance mode, and I looked him square in the eyes and asked, "Have you people NO compassion or mercy???"

"Compassion and mercy," he repeated back to me, again, with no trace of expression. (I'm starting to wonder at this point if he is on drugs.)

"Do you even KNOW what COMPASSION and MERCY are?" I pleaded with him in my best schoolteacher/perturbed mom voice. "I AM BEGGING YOU. PLEASE. DO. NOT. PUT. A. TICKET. ON. MY. TRUCK."

He looked stunned for a second as if no one had ever dared to speak to him like that. I myself was a little stunned that I had the nerve to even TRY to take on one of the Parking Nazis (those of you who are familiar with the UofA will know EXACTLY what I mean).

A brief silence followed.

And then, the words that I have been rolling around in my mind the rest of the morning: "Have a nice day, ma'am."

I've been celebrating this unexpected act of kindness the rest of the day by passing the generosity along to others:

* In a long line of traffic, I stopped to let TWO cars turn in front of me.

* I cancelled a quiz my tenth-grade students were supposed to take today.

* I gave my little guy an extra spoonful of cinnamon applesauce at lunch.

* After the elevator doors were nearly closed, I pushed the "open" button, because I thought I spotted someone rushing toward the elevator. The woman and her son who got on were in a big hurry and very glad I waited.

And there are still lots of hours left in the day to commit all manner of random acts of kindness ...

Random thoughts

2007-09-29T23:19:00.000-05:00

Tonight's post may be rambling. I'm not sure that I have much worth writing about, so bear with me here ...

THE POWER OF THE INTERNET
Much has been written about the seedy side of the Internet and the adult predators who lurk in chat rooms posing as children, but I'm seeing a whole other side to this thing we know as the World Wide Web, and it excites me.

Conor and Boothe Farley lost their precious daughter Copeland this week just eight days after birth, and within a few short hours, there were HUNDREDS of messages of hope and encouragement on their blog from believers around the country who have been praying for this family.

Let's face it: The Internet brings people together in ways that "real life" never could. It offers us the safety and security to drop our masks and share our lives with each other the way we long to connect ... with authenticity and transparency.

It was therapy for me when I was walking through my dark valley to process the pain, the lessons learned, and the truth gleaned in the safety of this blog. So many of you responded with the most comforting words and scriptures, and I cannot even begin to tell you what it meant to me. Remembering the love I felt as I read each post compels me now to connect with others who are in their own dark valleys and send comfort, love, and hope their direction.

I think this was exactly what the apostle Paul had in mind when he penned these words long before the dawn of the 'Net:

"Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God. For just as the sufferings of Christ flow over into our lives, so also through Christ our comfort overflows." (2 Corinthians 1:3-5)

MY GIRL LOVES THE HOGS
Okay, this is a total change of subject, but I warned you that I was feeling a little bit random tonight.

I took Rachel to her first Razorback football game tonight, and she LOVED it! We took the North Texas Mean Green to the cleaners, bless their little hearts. They couldn't seem to gain any yardage to save their lives, and the ONE touchdown they made at the end of the second quarter was almost funny. They ran the ball down to their ONE YARD LINE and then took THREE plays to get it into the endzone and score.

She kept watching the scoreboard and exclaiming excitedly, "We're WAY ahead, Mom! Do you think we're gonna win??" And when it was time to call the Hogs or do The Wave, an onlooker would have thought for sure that my baby was a veteran Hog fan, so confident was she with all the goings on in Razorback Stadium tonight.

My favorite moment of the night: When she looked upon the 70,000+ fans in the stadium and asked, "Where are the people from the other team? There's no one here wearing green. Oh wait, they're down below us ... all TWELVE of them!"

Can I hear a loud "Hallelujah!"??

Guess who's 40 today ...

2007-09-25T07:22:00.000-05:00

An open letter to the world:

Before I even get started on this, I should mention a couple of things. First, I am Sheryl’s husband. Second, I am a recovering marriagephobe. I was never against marriage, mind you. I knew that someday I would want to, but the fact was that I was comfortable in my day-to-day bachelorhood. Like a nice old pair of shoes, my life was comfortable. Then Sheryl happened.

For three long years, she laid siege to my defenses, and I found myself unwilling to go one step further in life without marrying her. That’s not to say there wasn’t arm twisting involved, but I was a willing participant. Needless to say, twelve years ago, I married Sheryl and that’s where the excitement really began.

Now anyone who might know me knows that I don’t gush, play games, or act really sappy. I do, however, call it like I see it. Sheryl is, without a doubt, one of the best gifts God has ever given me. I still find it incredible that her father willingly gave her over to me. Me?! I was an ignorant kid. Had the roles been reversed, the young man would still be in a coma. However, God seemed to make things happen for us. I think I was the one He was blessing that day, and let me tell you why.

Sheryl embodies so many of the qualities in a person that I aspire to have in my own life. She challenges me daily. Yes, guys, she challenges me in bad ways sometimes too. One of our long-standing jokes started one day when I looked at her and said, “You are IMPOSSIBLE”! Without missing a beat, she replied with, “I’m VERY possible" ... and then walked off, completely failing to explain. To this day, I’m still working on figuring that girl out. Regardless, I am a better man today because of her. Our differences complement one other perfectly. Where I fail to be tender, she is. When I lack insight, she makes up for it. We fit together like two pieces of a puzzle.

Like a song I heard not too long ago, she does not at all match up to the boyhood fantasies that I carried with me so many years ago. She is so much more than my limited imagination could come up with at the time. Her ability to love me; her love for our children; her hard work; her great cooking abilities; the fire that dwells inside of her all come together to make a wife I could never have imagined.

I love you, Button. Happy Birthday! Let the celebration begin!

Your husband.

P.S. I know you will edit this. (Note from Sheryl: Yes I did, but only a teeny bit!)

The Celebration Cometh

2007-09-24T17:10:00.001-05:00

In case you were unaware (which I am painfully aware that most of you probably are), a celebration is coming tomorrow ... more details to come.

Pray for Copeland

2007-09-24T10:10:00.000-05:00

I've been following the story of tiny little Copeland Farley of Nashville, TN, since before her birth last week, and my mind can hardly think of anything else today.

Copeland's parents, Boothe and Conor, were told several months ago that their little girl had Trisomy 18, a chromosomal disorder which usually results in death before or shortly after birth. These precious parents have been blessed to spend several days with their little one, but it's been a roller coaster ride from the beginning. In the wee hours of this morning, it appeared that Copeland was in her final moments of life, but she is still here, breathing and living.

You can read the rest of Copeland's story here. Prepare to be blown away by the faith of this mother and father. If you think of the Farleys today, please pray for them. They're walking through the fire, for sure.

Remembering and rejoicing

2007-09-22T20:53:00.000-05:00

Monday, September 10 marked the one-year anniversary since my mother ended her journey on this earth and began a new life in heaven. The following day would have been her 66th birthday, and we chose to celebrate that day exactly like we did last year -- by sending a bunch of balloons heavenward and singing "Happy Birthday" as loudly as we could.

Last year's balloon send-off was held in a church parking lot across the street from my parents' house. There were about a dozen of us there, and we were in complete shock and disbelief that God had taken our mother from us.

This year, we chose a neighborhood park as the site for our birthday gathering (I cannot bring myself to call it a "party"). The mood at this year's balloon release was considerably less somber but still marked by its fair share of tears. The girls sent up one pink balloon each, and the guys a blue (although my little guy somehow managed to pop his before we even left the house). We spent a few minutes before we sang to her just remembering many of the things that made her incredibly special to us. We laughed, we cried, we remembered and rejoiced that we had been so privileged to be loved the way she loved us.

Weekend at the movies

2007-09-02T01:55:00.000-05:00

Spoiler warning.

My theater visits seem to come in bursts. The last time I went to see a movie at a theater (in early June), I saw THREE in one weekend. That's a heckuva lot of Cherry Coke and artery-hardening popcorn, folks. The movie bug hit again this weekend, but it was only two this time.

Yes, my arteries are thankful indeed.

My heart, however, is not.

For the first time in I can't remember when, I deliberately did not read a single review before handing over my $7 for a movie ticket. You can rest assured that will not be happening again.

Since the first preview for Becoming Jane, I had been waiting most impatiently for its opening. Oh the disappointment when I learned that yes, August 3 was the release date, but it was a limited release and not one that included Northwest Arkansas.

Circumstances prevented me from seeing it the following weekend on its full release, and by the time this past Thursday arrived, I could not wait another moment to take in what I assumed to be the spectacular love story of a brilliant writer.

And it was. Sort of.

Anne Hathaway was delightful as Jane, and I couldn't help but wonder as I watched the story unfold, "If Jane had written a story about her life, would it have looked anything lke this?" It reminded me very much of the screen adaptation of Emma, Sense & Sensibility and Pride & Prejudice.

I found the tender relationship between Jane and her sister Cassandra very touching and sweet, but when the final credits rolled, it wasn't tender sweetness I was basking in but profound sadness over the author's unfulfilled longings for love and marriage.

Stories of sadness and despair fill newspapers and the airwaves daily. When I go to see a movie, I expect to be uplifted, and frankly Jane just sucked the air right out of me. Judging by the tears flowing down her cheeks as we left the theater, I'm fairly sure that my companion that evening shared my sentiments.

The following evening, Hubs and I enjoyed a rare date and took in Bourne Ultimatum. It did NOT disappoint, and I left some serious indentions in a sixth-row seat to prove it. There weren't too many moments through the nearly two-hour action fest in which I wasn't holding my breath, digging my fingers into something or both. I needed a masseuse after it was over, my muscles were so knotted.

And that's all I'll say about that. It's one you need to see, but be prepared for a bit of unwholesome language the writers, unfortunately, chose to use.

All in all, it's already been a good weekend and we've still got Sunday and Monday left to enjoy!

Gut wrenching

2007-08-31T13:04:00.000-05:00

Our friend Kyle sent this to The Potter Place today, and I was moved to tears. Oh, how many times have I been this girl ..

A little something for your Monday night enjoyment

2007-08-27T20:29:00.000-05:00

This is so stinkin' awesome I could watch it over and over and never tire of it. Talk about TALENT. I don't know what kind of job this kind of entertainment would land a person, but it sure is fun to watch. Enjoy!

Reminiscing

2007-08-25T21:25:00.001-05:00

I've been doing a lot of reminiscing and reflecting lately. I hope my vast numbers of readers (all both of you) will forgive me as I relive the events leading up to the first anniversary of my mother's homegoing.

It was one year ago today that I made the agonizing drive to Little Rock in anticipation of the meeting in which my mom and dad would be given the news that we were looking at not only an esophagectomy but also metastatic bone cancer. It does not seem possible that an entire year has passed since that day.

This time last year I was camped out on the recliner in Mom's hospital room in what would prove to be our last bunking party. She coughed and struggled to breathe so much through night that I became very worried and traipsed to the nurses' station in my PJ's several times for assistance. Even though I got little or no sleep, I felt honored that she wanted me to stay. I remember pulling my chair as close to her bed as I could and holding her hand as we both tried desperately to rest.

I remember watching "America's Funniest Home Videos" and laughing just like we had not a care in the world. After Dr. Bravo delivered the tragic news earlier that day, neither of us ever spoke the word "cancer" in our conversations with each other. Perhaps we were in denial, but I'm so very thankful that I have a night of laughter to remember and not one of tears.

There were certainly enough of those to follow.

One down, 35 to go

2007-08-25T12:44:00.000-05:00

We survived the first week of school. I had really good intentions of posting first-day photos of the kids in their new outfits, but, folks, the reality of getting myself and three youngsters up at 6 a.m., getting to school on time AND snapping a few photos along the way proved more than I could pull off. The bell rang at 8:15 a.m., and if memory serves me right, I believe we scooted in the door at 8:16, earning my two oldest a tardy slip on their first day of the new school year.

The late arrival wasn't entirely my fault. Hubs came down several days earlier with the same fever virus that Sarah had two weeks earlier. He had taken off sick on Monday and was sweating and shivering on the sofa watching TV when somewhere around 8 a.m. he decided that it might be nice to see the girls off on their first day of school. He pried himself off the sofa and slowly managed to clothe himself as I herded the children out to the car and began buckling them in. I watched the clock as several minutes passed (desperately willing myself NOT to honk the horn and thus add MORE stress to the morning). Finally at 8:06, he ambled out to join us. With all of us finally in the car, I took off in haste toward school only to realize that in the morning traffic, the drive was going to take considerably longer than it had when I mapped it out a few days earlier.

I should have known the first morning could not possibly go smoothly. Nothing else leading up to the start of the school year had.

Just a little background for your reading pleasure:

We decided in late May to enroll the kids in a private school this year. When we went to check it out, we were told there was a dress code, but no real specifics were given. When I asked for a handbook, we were told that they were in the process of being revised and that we would get one in the mail in just a few weeks. Sarah's kindergarten teacher just happened to be working in her room that day (the students were already out for summer), and we spent a few minutes visiting with her. Sarah happened to be wearing a skort that day that hit several inches above her knees (remember that little detail; it will be important later), so I asked the teacher if that sort of outfit would be appropriate for school. "Sure" she answered.

Throughout the summer, the girls and I shopped for skirts, dresses and skorts, and I was feeling pretty good about the condition of their wardrobe.

And then, the first week of August, THE REVISED HANDBOOK made its appearance in my mailbox. And right there, second paragraph on page 20, were the words that started my back-to-school excitement on a rapid downward spiral. "In grades K-3, girls' dresses and skirts must reach the top of their knees. The top of their knees? This was seriously news to me. No one had bothered to mention this small bit of information, and of all the skirts and dresses we had acquired through the summer, only two or three were going to work.

The next paragraph brought more surprises as I read about the shoe requirements. The no sandals rule sent both girls into a tizzy. Tennis shoes could be worn if they were all white (i.e., Keds). "You mean we have to wear TENNIS SHOES with our DRESSES???" they protested in unison.

Being the procrastinator that I am, I waited until Sunday afternoon (as in less than 24 hours before the start of school) to go purchase white tennies for the girls. Rachel and I headed off for Shoe Carnival, and so sure was I of their correct sizes, I didn't even have her try on her shoes. We grabbed boxes off the shelf, and I did a cursory glance inside each to determine that the contents were the right size and style, and off to the registers we went.

Later that evening after kids were in bed, I began laying out their outfits for the next morning. After clean socks and underwear had been placed atop each girl's dress, I got out their new white Keds(which STILL had not been tried on, if you can believe it) and did a double take. Inside Rachel's box were TWO right shoes. It was after 9 p.m., and I did the only thing I knew to do: Grab my keys and head to Wal-Mart.

"Oh, faithful Wally-World, how many times hath thou saved me? Please don't fail me now," I thought as I sped off for the second time that day in search of white tennis shoes. I was shocked as I pulled into the parking lot at the sheer volume of cars at that hour. Throngs of families crowded the school supply aisles, frantically filling their carts with pencils and crayons. That sight quickly erased any trace of self-condemnation for my own procrastination. At least we took care of the school supplies several weeks earlier.

Back in the shoe department, I quickly located Rachel's size, but it was in a wide width. There is NOTHING wide about that child, including her feet, so I kept looking. The only other possibility was a pair that looked to be a half-size too small. Into the cart the wide pair went. And just to make it up to her, I picked up a bottle of "Love's Baby Soft" for the girls, their first bottle of "real" perfume.

The following morning when they finally tried their shoes on for the first time, Rachel's wides were much too big for her. Sarah's were much too large for her as well. R ended up wearing the pair I bought for S, and S fished out a pair from the depths of their closet which might have been white when they were brand new but had since turned a lovely shade of dingy gray-brown. But they fit, hallelujah.

The girls might have looked slightly thrown together in their cute little dresses and tennis shoes, but I have to tell you, they smelled heavenly!

I couldn't resist

2007-08-17T20:49:00.000-05:00

I've NEVER in my own personal blogging history ever posted twice in the same day, much less twice in the same hour. After I foud this, however, I knew MUST share. This is SO where I'm at these days ...

The girl's got it all figured out

2007-08-17T20:29:00.000-05:00

Late this afternoon, Rachel and I were walking to the mailbox together. I was checking out the flower beds and wondering if I should water then or wait until later. She was going on about her most recent score on Dance, Dance Revolution when I winked at her and said, "You know, really cool people call it DDR ..."

"What?" she asked, looking at me in confusion.

"DDR for Dance, Dance Revolution," I replied. "You go to school and tell the kids you made that kind of score on DDR, and they'll think you're just the coolest," I said, sure she could hear the kidding in my voice.

"Mom," she chided me, "I'm not in-stres-ted in livin' the cool way, I'm in-stres-ted in livin' God's way!"

Oh, that girl sure knows how to make her mama proud ...

It's too hot to live ...

2007-08-12T21:37:00.000-05:00

Somebody just take a gun and shoot me. One of us (I think it was me, but I'm much too ashamed to admit it) thought it would be Oh! So! Fun! to escape to Branson once more for the weekend and hit the parks in one last roller coaster fling before school starts back next week.

And what I'm really too embarrassed to admit publicly is that I actually tried to talk my family into camping out one night before we checked into Big Cedar on Friday.

What was I smoking?

It is hotter than Hades in Arkansas right now, y'all, and Missouri is not a whole lot better. It passed tolerable about a month ago.

The past three times we've traveled, I have forgotten some essential component necessary for the Baby Bears to ~~keep from hurting each other~~ watch movies in the back seat. The first time it was the stash of movies. The second time it was the power supply. The third time it was the player itself. I groveled all the way to Branson, a 90-mile exercise in humility, and promised the kids up and down that I would never as long as I live ever, under any circumstances, pull out of the driveway on a trip longer than 50 miles without first testing the player to make certain, you know, that ALL the parts and pieces were along for the ride.

They were quick to forgive because they understand all too well that their Mama is probably the most scatter-brained Mama west of the Mississippi.

Anyway, Hubs and the Cubs were all too eager to talk me out of my hair-brained camping notion, and so were understandably thrilled when I announced last week after watching the local weatherman forecast 100+ temperatures that maybe camping out in a tent wasn't the brightest idea after all.

So, we spent Thursday night in the sanctity of our own beds and air conditioning and took off early Friday morning to experience three full days of humidity-induced madness.

My brother and his sweet little family joined us there, and my sister-in-law and I competed with each other to see who could slather the most sunscreen on our offspring the fastest. I really wanted to share some pictures of the Sweat-Fest, but, alas, in my obsession to make certain that we had a functional DVD player (and movies) for the trip, the camera didn't make it along.

When did I get so middle aged and forgetful??

A Commitment to Healthy Living

2007-08-04T22:56:00.000-05:00

It was my privilege today to volunteer at the Speaking of Women's Health conference at the beautiful John Q. Hammons Covention Center in Rogers. The morning started early when my alarm went off at 4:30 (gasp ... until this morning, I wasn't aware that such an hour existed on Saturday mornings!), and I was tempted to pull the covers over my head and go back to sleep. I'm so glad I didn't ...

Speaking of Women’s Health is a non-profit foundation whose goal is Saving Lives Through Education. They strive to educate women in a variety of ways, including educational conferences like the one I was a part of today, and to provide up-to-date information from credible experts in a fun and entertaining way so that women can better care for themselves and for their families.

One of the things that impressed me the most was the number of mothers and daughters (and daughters-in-law) that attended together. What a positive example we set when we show our daughters that taking care of ourselves mind, body, soul and spirit and working toward wholeness is important. We can't adequately care for others if we neglect ourselves.

At each SWH conference, attendees are encouraged to take a pledge for better health. Big changes come from small steps in the right direction, so with that in mind, I am pledging to drink more water and exercise daily.

So, let me pose the same question to you: What's your change going to be? Lurkers, come out of the closet, and share your thoughts.

Summer Fun

2007-08-01T21:24:00.000-05:00

Mom Judy -- that's my mother outlaw as I like to call her -- and I took the three munchkins across the state line to the Oklahoma Aquarium on Sunday. With temperatures creeping toward 100 and the humidity at unbearable, it was a great day for some indoor, air conditioned entertainment. Aside from some ~~minor squabbling~~ fist fighting and eyeball clawing in the back seat on the way home, I think a good time was had by all.

The Incredible Adventures of Rat-Shack (or how my boy snagged himself a Drumstick)

2007-07-28T22:00:00.000-05:00

Hubs and I have been growing increasingly frustrated with an occurrence that seems to be happening with increasingly regularity at Potter Place. I've labeled it "The Saturday Night Brain Drain."

It goes something like this:

On the way home from church, we routinely ask the children to tell us what they learned in their class that evening.

Rachel (oldest child, Type A personality, always eager to impress) takes a deep breath. Exhales the following: "We-learned-about-Moses-and-Pharaoh-and-how-he-wouldn't-let-the-Israelites-leave-Egypt-to-go-to-the-Promised-Land-even-after-God-sent-terrible-plagues-on-the-land-what-an-idiot-he-was!"

Very good.

Sara (middle child, so very NOT Type A) yawns, looks around the car as if waiting for someone to help her out: "Ummm, I'm not sure. I really don't think we had a story tonight."

Good try, except for two things. First, I am 110% certain that the leaders of our children's ministry would NEVER plan a lesson that did not include something from God's Word. Second, they send home a "Ride Home Recap" card each week that summarizes the main points of the lesson with discussion questions and suggestions for home activities to further reinforce the principles taught.

So, even if she can't tell me the first thing about what she learned, I have it all right there in front of me, something one would imagine that she would figure out over time.

So we try again with Gavin (baby of the family, a class clown in the making).

"What did you learn tonight, honey?" I gently probe.

"Nothing," he replies in a tone that lets me know he is hoping that will be the end of discusson. Which, of course, it is not. But, alas, more gentle mama probing gets me nowhere with these two tight lips. If they remember something, anything at all,from their time at church, they certainly aren't about to let on.

So, last weekend I announced a new Saturday Night incentive program. Any child who could give us a suitable synopsis of that week's lesson would be rewarded upon returning home with a scrumptious ice cream treat. That sounded reasonable, I thought, and was sure to motivate all three to put on their listening ears at church.

Eager to see the first week's result, I picked them up last weekend and began asking questions on the way to the car. Take note of that last statement. I did NOT wait until we got home. I did NOT wait until the next morning. They were given the opportunity to tell me what they had learned as quickly as I retrieved them from their classes.

And still, neither of the younger two could even tell me the main character's name. It broke my heart to serve up their older sister's ice cream treat while they looked on in shock, yelling about the unfairness of it all and how-in-the-world-could-I-expect-them-to-remember-anything-for-THAT-LONG?????

(Umm, maybe because when I promise to take you to the park, you remember that for HOURS?)

Fast forward to tonight. I mentioned to the children several times today that there were Drumsticks in the freezer for everyone who listened quietly at church and could tell me about their story afterward. I hoped that the result would be better than last week but definitely wasn't holding my breath.

And so it was with great joy and surprise when Gavin and Sara jumped into the car this evening that I heard my little man burst forth with, "I LISTENED TO MY STORY TONIGHT AND IT WAS ABOUT ME-SHACH, RAT-SHACK AND A-BEN-DI-GO AND HOW THEY WOULDN'T BOW DOWN AND WORSHIP THE STATUE."

It has never thrilled me more to give a kid a Drumstick.

And yes, both of his sisters got one, too. It was a mighty fine night at Potter Place as our four-year-old regaled us with stories about Rat-Shack and his friends.

Man, I love this age.