It Bothers Me

“The doctor is running late. He’ll be in....well, when he can,” the nurse told me sweetly before leaving.

Ugh.

I hate when the doctor is running late. If I can show up for my appointment on time, he should too.

Granted, I know it’s not entirely his fault. Sometimes he’s held back by those mothers who ask a billion questions: “what’s that on my kid’s eye, my kid made a weird sound just now, can you hear it? No? I can clearly hear it. It sounded like a wheeze. Here, bend down and you can hear it. That’s funny, he was JUST making that noise. Wait, what’s on his toe? Oh, his nail? Oh, I guess you are right. While I have you, doctor, my daughter has a cough should I give her Tylenol? Could you look at her now?”

Look, I admit I can be somewhat paranoid. I still check to make sure my kids are breathing before I go to bed at night. But I’m not that paranoid.

“This bothers me that we have to wait,” Tommy spoke up, plopping down in a miniature blue chair in the room.

We were at Natalie’s three year checkup. I had to take him because he’s on Spring Break this week. Tommy’s latest thing is using the word “bother” whenever he’s miffed. He’ll latch onto a word or phrase and use it for a week before he drops it and moves onto another one. The past four days he’s been dropping the bother bomb as in “it bothers me when you burn dinner, it makes my food taste weird,” and “it bothers me that Natalie screams and it bothers me even more when I cover her mouth and then she tries to bite my hand off” and “it bothers me when you say I can’t have a cookie. I don’t want an apple instead. It bothers me that you’d even say that.”

Bother, bother, bother.

“It bothers me too, Tommy,” I said dryly as I settled down in the adult sized chair.

Natalie had failed miserably when the nurse had her try to read an eye chart. All Natalie had to do was name shapes but instead she clamped her mouth shut and shook her head roughly.

“What’s this?” the nurse had said, pointing to a circle.

Natalie shook her head.

“What’s this?” the nurse tried again, pointing to a square.

Natalie shook her head.

“Natalie, come on, you know those shapes,” I said.

“What’s this?” the nurse continued.

“A heart!” Tommy called out.

I frowned at him. “Tommy, shhh.”

Tommy scowled. “It bothers me that Natalie won’t say anything!”

Well, you and me both, kid.

In the end the nurse just gave up.

“I bet her eyesight is just fine,” the nurse said, scribbling something into Natalie’s chart. She probably wrote “STUBBORN CHILD!” and underlined it three times.

We waited for the doctor.

And we waited.

And waited.

Natalie had gone through all the books in the room and was bored. She started to climb on the exam table and tried to leap off of it.

I caught her just in time.

“Do you want to crack your head open?” I hissed, putting her on the ground.

“Cool, then we’d see Natalie’s brains!” Tommy spoke up.

I checked the clock. We had been waiting for nearly a half hour.

Then the kids started scooting around in the tiny chairs. They made horrible scraping sounds to the point where a nurse popped her head in and asked if everything was okay. This was her polite way of saying, “Tell your kids to can it.”

“Guys, stop,” I instructed. “The noise bothers me.”

Tommy glared at me. It was as if he was saying, “Hey, that’s MY word, woman!”

Finally, the doctor came in.

“You took a long time,” Tommy said bluntly.

The doctor blanched. “Sorry about that. I’m just running behind.” He went over to wash his hands. “How are you doing, sweetie?” he asked Natalie, who was now hiding behind my knee.

I tried to sit her down on the exam table but she held onto my arms in a death grip.

“Can I listen to your heart?” the doctor asked.

“No thanks,” Natalie answered.

“If you don’t listen to the doctor, Natalie, you’re going to jail!” Tommy sing-songed.

“No brother, you stop that!” Natalie yelled. If he had been next to her, she’d have surely bonked him on the head. That’s HER latest thing: if you say something she doesn’t like, she bonks you on the head.

I had to sit her on my lap so the doctor could look her over.

“I’m just going to feel your belly,” the doctor said, lifting up her shirt.

Natalie lifted her hand. I knew what was coming.

“You stop it,” I warned her because she was all set to bonk the doctor.

Thankfully she listened.

And it turns out she’s perfectly healthy. She weighs 25 pounds, about the same as Giselle Bundchen. (Who, I must point out, has already lost all her baby weight. She quipped in an interview that some people while pregnant act like garbage disposables and eat whatever they want while she was mindful of what she ate. Well lah-di-dah, Giselle. Lah-di-dah.) (By the way. I was a garbage disposable while pregnant. Oops.) (And still sort of am now. Oops again.)

Natalie is also 36 inches. Yes, she’s petite but the doctor isn’t concerned because she’s always been petite.

Some people have said, “I never knew such a noise could come out of someone so tiny,” when they’ve witnessed one of Natalie’s tantrums.

And Natalie is where she should be developmentally for a three year old. It’s always startling to me to hear that a child is on track seeing as what I went through with Tommy (“he’s speech delayed, he should know how to do all of this already, flapping his arms could mean he has something called Autism. Do you know what Autism is?”)

We left after that. I got the kids in the car and the second I started driving off, the fighting began.

“Natalie, that’s MY toy. HEY! Mommy, she just BONKED me. That BOTHERS me!” Tommy yelled.

“NO BROTHER!”

“SHE BONKED ME AGAIN!”

Is Spring Break over yet?

Off To - 18th-Century America

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1780 Blacksmith Simon Wickes' House, Chestertown, Maryland

On my blog It's About Time, I am trying to take little photographic day-trips to pockets of 18th-century architecture & culture preserved in America today.

So far we have visited:

Old Salem in North Carolina,

Colonial Kitchens,

Historic Annapolis in Maryland, &

Old Town Alexandria in Virginia.

Our newest junket is to Chestertown on Maryland's Eastern Shore of the Chesapeake Bay. Chestertown was a bustling seaport town in the 18th century. Please come along to historic Chestertown. 1769 Thomas Smythe's Widehall. Chestertown, Maryland
..

Easter Pics, Tennessee Ernie, and Sixteen Tons - What a Combination!

This man is my daddy!  Isn't he handsome?  This picture was taken in front of our house on Georgia Avenue in West Palm Beach, FL on an Easter Sunday morning, when I was four, and I truly believed if he would just wait for me I would marry him when I grew up.  I said earlier in the week that I was going to use the Easter theme this week and today's is a stretch so hang in there with me.  This picture was made on Easter Sunday....but from there I am going to take a different road.  Those of you who are old enough to remember might remember Tennessee Ernie Ford.  Ernest Jennings Ford (February 13, 1919 – October 17, 1991), better known as Tennessee Ernie Ford, was an American recording artist in both the country/western and gospel genres.  My daddy sang just like him.  When I was we would be in the car going somewhere and my dad would break into "Sixteen Tons."  It would become one of my favorite songs.  I remember the day I learned to play it on the guitar and sang it back to my dad...he sat there and smiled.  Tennessee Ernie was a good 20 years older than my dad but that did not matter one bit to me.  Everytime my dad would open his mouth and that velvety smooth voice would trickle out...Tennessee Ernie was timeless.  I remember when he died in 1991 I cried when I heard the news.  I never even met the man!....but I knew my dad...and to me...they had always been one and the same.   My favorite line from the lyrics is, "If you see me coming better step aside.  A lot of men didn't and a lot of men died.  One fist is iron and the onther one steel, if the right one don't get you then the left one will."  When my dad would sing that...he would ball up his fists...smile broadly and shake them at you.  This man, the gentle giant would not hurt anyone.....but he sure sounded tough.  This is my first Easter without Him.  I am an Easter person...I will get through this holiday, his birthday, memorial day, Father's day (well...maybe not Father's Day)...but time will continue...and the memories will grow dimmer and sweeter....and evertime I hear "Sixteen Tons"...I will smile.  Happy Hump Day!

Hey, It's Okay Tuesday!

I got this idea from Glamour magazine. They have a section called Hey, It’s Okay and will list a bunch of things to be okay about. I think I’m going to do this every Tuesday now. You're welcome to join in and do something like this on your diary. Doesn't have to be on a Tuesday either.

Hey, It's Okay....


To not understand why people bring their miniature dogs everywhere. It’s an animal, not a purse. I don’t need Fido me eyeing me in the store, thanks.


To know that you’ll never use a Diva Cup (but be in awe of those who do.)


To think the Paparazzi need to be banned from taking photos when celebrities are out with their children.


To only eat flavored oatmeal because plain oatmeal reminds you of paste.


To know that you’ll just be using one of those boxed Easter egg dye kits to decorate eggs and nothing more than that because you are allergic to crafts.


To wonder what the hell Jesse James was thinking.


To wish Supernanny was available for rent.


To want to shriek, “What did I DO? How can I make it better?” when you realize you’ve lost a blog follower. (Same goes for a Twitter follower. I lose Twitter followers on a daily basis. Guess people don’t like to hear about farting children. Oops.)


To have bought ANOTHER pair of shoes for your daughter even though she has plenty. But hello....gold seahorses?! PERFECT for the upcoming beach trip.

The History of the Easter Egg, et al.

I decided that this week was going to be all about Easter.   Thursday and Friday are easy.  That is Maundy Thursday and Good Friday, but when my kids were small one of their favorite traditions from Easter would have to be the Easter egg hunt.  We would boil, color, decorate and stuff (with candy and money) hundreds of eggs and all the grandkids would come and the men would hide the eggs in my father-in-laws pasture.  Sometimes there would be hidden under a cow patty.  You always hoped it was an old one that was dry.  Occassionally a warped male would hide an egg in a not so dry cow patty....and it would remain there....no one would be brave enough to go after it.  I am sure all of you that celebrate Easter have egg hunt tales you could share.  Today, when I was looking at a fabrege egg at a local antique dealers I got to thinking...where did this tradition originate.  Do you know?  Well, I didn't....or if I did I had forgotten, so I went online to see.  I found out that it's pretty much common knowledge that Easter is a Christian celebration of Christ's rising, but this holiday also has pagan origins. Where did the colored eggs, cute little bunnies, baby chicks, leg of lamb dinners, and lilies come from? It turns out that "they are all symbols of rebirth and the lamb was a traditional religious sacrifice. Easter falls in the spring, the yearly time of renewal, when the earth renews itself after a long, cold winter. The word Easter comes to us from the Norsemen's Eostur, Eastar, Ostara, and Ostar, and the pagan goddess Eostre, all of which involve the season of the growing sun and new birth. The Easter Bunny arose originally as a symbol of fertility, due to the rapid reproduction habits of the hare and rabbit. The ancient Egyptians, Persians, Phoenicians, and Hindus all believed the world began with an enormous egg, thus the egg as a symbol of new life has been around for eons. The particulars may vary, but most cultures around the world use the egg as a symbol of new life and rebirth. A notation in the household accounts of Edward I of England showed an expenditure of eighteen pence for 450 eggs to be gold-leafed and colored for Easter gifts. The first book to mention Easter eggs by name was written five hundred years ago. Yet, a North African tribe that had become Christian much earlier in time had a custom of coloring eggs at Easter. Long hard winters often meant little food, and a fresh egg for Easter was quite a prize. Later, Christians abstained from eating meat during the Lenten season prior to Easter. Easter was the first chance to enjoy eggs and meat after the long abstinence. Some European children go from house to house begging for Easter eggs, much like Halloween trick-or-treaters. Called pace-egging, it comes from the old word for Easter, Pasch. Many old cultures also attributed the egg with great healing powers. It is interesting to note that eggs play almost no part in the Easter celebrations of Mexico, South America, and Native American Indian cultures. Egg-rolling contests are a symbolic re-enactment of the rolling away of the stone from Christ's tomb." Fancy that!  So...now you know the rest of the story.  Hope it was as interesting to you as it was to me.  Happy Tuesday.  Six more days until my favorite holiday!  Whoooo hoooo!

Not A Fan Of Spiders

I shuffled downstairs, half asleep.

For some reason Sundays exhaust me.

I was walking into the living room and that’s when I saw it.

“Stop!” I shouted, pushing my kids into the hall. They had been following me, hoping for some breakfast.

“What?” Tommy demanded.

“I saw…a spider.” My voice dropped down into a whisper. I’m not sure why. Probably because spiders can speak English, sense fear, and suck out your insides. At least that’s what they all do in my mind.

Natalie buried her face into my leg. “I don’t YIKE spi-dahs!”

Tommy wrinkled his nose. “Nona says we shouldn’t be afraid of bugs. She says they help the planet.” He was naming his grandma, my mother. Would you believe that my mother loves bugs? She does. She’s sort of like a hippie in a way. She loves plants, bugs, and leftovers. Yes, leftovers. I usually throw our leftover food out and she’s horrified by this. She’s probably wondering how she could have raised a daughter afraid of bugs, too.

“Well, Nona was alive in the 60s,” I replied, peeking around the corner to see if the spider was making its move to attack.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tommy asked.

“I’ll…explain it when you’re older,” I promised. “But right now Mommy needs to figure out what we’re going to do and how we’re going to kill it.”

“Nona says we shouldn’t kill bugs but let them go outside,” Tommy explained.

Ugh. Mom! This is true though. She DOES think that. Back when Tom and I lived in Nebraska she came to visit and there was this disgusting spider by our front door. Tom was all set to kill the thing and Mom was all, “WAIT!” Then she scooped it up and carried it across the street to safety.

Once when I visited her in Texas a spider ran across my FOOT as I was throwing some laundry in.

Yes, I screamed.

I mean, a spider ran across my FOOT!

“What?” Mom shrieked, thinking that I was being attacked. And in a way, I was. Did I mention that a spider ran across my FOOT?!

“A spider ran across my foot!” I wailed.

Mom frowned at me. “Amber…honestly…” Then she got down on her knees, found the spider, scooped it up in her palm (shudders), and brought it outside.

“It’s just easier to kill the spider so it doesn’t attack,” I told Tommy, reaching for my tennis shoe that sat by the front door.

“But Nona said—”

“Shhhh! Mommy will take care of this,” I cut him off. I held the shoe out. “Say Tommy? How would you like to be the hero? Want to kill a spider?” I said, trying to make it sound like it was the most exciting thing ever. This could be like Tommy’s rite of passage. They do that all the time in Africa.

“No,” Tommy said, shaking his head.

“You sure?” I prodded.

Tommy gave me a Look. “I said no.”

Fine. Geez. It looked as though it would be up to me.

Then Max the Cat walked by.

“Hey Max? Could you kill a spider for us?” I picked him up and pointed to the offensive spider who was STILL IN THE SAME SPOT PLOTTING. “Sic him!” I bellowed, setting Max down. I expected the cat to take off and protect us from the spider. But no. He just lay down and started licking his butt.

DID NO ONE IN THE HOUSE WANT TO BE A HERO?

Tom was not an option because he was sleeping after working the night shift.

Natalie…well, Natalie was holding my leg in a death grip.

So I’d have to do it. Fine.

“You guys stay here,” I said to the kids, prying Natalie off of me. I took a deep breath. I could do this. I gave birth twice for craps sake. Killing a spider is nothing next to that. “Here I go,” I said, holding the shoe out so I could strike quickly.

“You’re not moving,” Tommy observed.

“I’m taking my time so I don’t startle the thing,” I answered. This was partly true. The other part was that I was working up my nerve to move.

I took one step. Then another.

The spider still wasn’t moving.

Maybe it was already dead! Maybe it had a heart attack. Can spiders have heart attacks?

I was almost there. Almost there….almost….wait….wait….

I peered closer at the spider.

Why did it look familiar? Why did it—

OH.



OH!

It was fake. It was from Tommy’s bug kit. Well, it wasn’t my fault that I thought it was real! It LOOKED real and I was half asleep.

I had to save face. I couldn’t let my children know that I was cowering in fear over a plastic spider. I had to keep some sort of dignity. So I brought the shoe down and went, “Mommy got it!” Then I quickly grabbed the fake spider and stuck it in the drawer.

“Can I see?” Tommy asked.

“No. It’s too gruesome. It’ll give you nightmares. You stay there while I…shake the body outside.” I pretended to do this and then came back in all set for praise from my children. But no.

All they cared about was getting some breakfast. And okay, the spider turned out to be fake but THEY didn’t know it. Where was my thanks?

That’s the last time I protect them from a fake spider, let me tell you.

The Story of the Empty Easter Egg

 I told you yesterday that I am an Easter person.  I love every story about the events of Easter....but yesterday, a dear friend sent me the following Easter Egg Story by e-mail. I was so touched by it that I sat at my computer and cried.  I had a post ready for today....but the story was so compelling that I had to share it with you today.  I hope it touches you in the same way that it did me. "Jeremy was born with a twisted body, a slow mind and a chronic, terminal illness that had been slowly killing him all his young life. Still, his parents had tried to give him as normal a life as possible and had sent him to St. Theresa's elementary school. At the age of 12, Jeremy was only in second grade, seemingly unable to learn. His teacher, Doris Miller, often became exasperated with him. He would squirm in his seat, drool and make grunting noises. At other times, he spoke clearly and distinctly, as if a spot of light had penetrated the darkness of his brain. Most of the time, however, Jeremy irritated his teacher. One day, she called his parents and asked them to come to St. Teresa's for a consultation. As the Foresters sat quietly in the empty classroom, Doris said to them, "Jeremy really belongs in a special school. It isn't fair to him to be with younger children who don't have learning problems. Why, there is a five-year gap between his age and that of the other students!" Mrs. Forrester cried softly into a tissue while her husband spoke. "Miss Miller," he said, "there is no school of that kind nearby. It would be a terrible shock for Jeremy if we had to take him out of this school. We know he really likes it here." Doris sat for a long time after they left, staring at the snow outside the window. Its coldness seemed to seep into her soul. She wanted to sympathize with the Foresters. After all, their only child had a terminal illness. But it wasn't fair to keep him in her class. She had 18 other youngsters to teach and Jeremy was a distraction. Furthermore, he would never learn to read or write. Why spend any more time trying? As she pondered the situation, guilt washed over her. "Oh God," she said aloud, "here I am complaining when my problems are nothing compared with that poor family! Please help me to be more patient with Jeremy." From that day on, she tried hard to ignore Jeremy 's noises and his blank stares. Then one day he limped to her desk, dragging his bad leg behind him. "I love you, Miss Miller," he exclaimed, loudly enough for the whole class to hear. The other children snickered, and Doris's face turned red. She stammered, "wh-why, that's very nice, Jeremy. Now please take your seat." Spring came, and the children talked excitedly about the coming of Easter. Doris told them the story of Jesus, and then to emphasize the idea of new life springing forth, she gave each of the children a large plastic egg. "Now," she said to them "I want you to take this home and bring it back tomorrow with something inside that shows new life. Do you understand?" "Yes, Miss Miller!" The children responded enthusiastically - all except for Jeremy. He just listened intently; his eyes never left her face. He did not even make his usual noises. Had he understood what she had said about Jesus' death and resurrection? Did he understand the assignment? Perhaps she should call his parents and explain the project to them. That evening, Doris' kitchen sink stopped up. She called the landlord and waited an hour for him to come by and unclog it. After that, she still had to shop for groceries, iron a blouse and prepare a vocabulary test for the next day. She completely forgot about phoning Jeremy 's parents. The next morning, 19 children came to school, laughing and talking as they placed their eggs in the large wicker basket on Miss Miller's desk. After they completed their math lesson, it was time to open the eggs. In the first egg, Doris found a flower. "Oh yes, a flower is certainly a sign of new life," she said. "When plants peek through the ground we know that spring is here. "A small girl in the first row waved her arms. "That's my egg, Miss Miller," she called out. The next egg contained a plastic butterfly, which looked very real. Doris held it up. "We all know that a caterpillar changes and turns into a beautiful butterfly. Yes, that is new life, too" little Judy smiled proudly and said, "Miss Miller, that one is mine." Next Doris found a rock with moss on it. She explained that the moss, too, showed life. Billy spoke up from the back of the classroom. "My daddy helped me!" He beamed. Then Doris opened the fourth egg. She gasped. The egg was empty! Surely it must be Jeremy 's, she thought, and, of course, he did not understand her instructions. If only she had not forgotten to phone his parents. Because she did not want to embarrass him, she quietly set the egg aside and reached for another. Suddenly Jeremy spoke up. "Miss Miller, aren't you going to talk about my egg?" Flustered, Doris replied, "but Jeremy - your egg is empty!" He looked into her eyes and said softly, "yes, but Jesus' tomb was empty too!" Time stopped. When she could speak again. Doris asked him, "Do you know why the tomb was empty?" "Oh yes!" Jeremy exclaimed. "Jesus was killed and put in there. Then his Father raised him up!" The recess bell rang. While the children excitedly ran out to the school yard, Doris cried. The cold inside her melted completely away. Three months later Jeremy died. Those who paid their respects at the mortuary were surprised to see 19 eggs on top of his casket, ...and do you know what?  Every single one of them was empty. Happy Monday!

Palm Sunday - Just the Beginning for the Easter Person

Today we celebrate Palm Sunday.  It will be the first time I have ever preached on Palm Sunday and I am a little nervous today.  Palm Sunday is a very special day for me...it is the one time of the year that Rhonda B. and I sing the song, "Via Dolorosa".  This year I will sing it three times...today at the Arbor, today at Waverly...and Friday at our Good Friday service.  I love this song...Via Dolorosa if you are not aware of it...is translated as the Way of Suffering/Pain.  So what exactly is Palm Sunday in the Christian world?  Well, it is on this day, Palm Sunday, that  Christians all around the world will celebrate the Triumphal Entry of Jesus Christ into Jerusalem on a donkey, the week before his death and resurrection. For many Christian churches, Palm Sunday, often referred to as "Passion Sunday," marks the beginning of Holy Week, which concludes on Easter Sunday. The Bible tells us that when Jesus entered Jerusalem, the crowds greeted him with waving palm branches(hence the name Palm Sunday), and by covering his path with palm branches. In church today there will be a procession of the children into the sanctuary/Arbor carrying palm leaves that they will lay at the altar. This is a dramatization that represents the palm leavs that were strewn along the path when Christ, himself, entered the city.  On Palm Sunday, Christ was able to reveal himself as a King and all the people in Jerusalem were given the opportunity to worship him as a King. Immediately following this great time of celebration in the ministry of Jesus, he begins his journey to the cross. This is the beginning of a very challenging process that Christ was going to have to experience.  Christ knew the master plan and knew that he was going to have to die and be raised from the dead...and He began preparing for his work, with no fear, even though he knew the pain would be intense.  I have to pause and say I find it amazing how one man....could go from entering a town and having palm branches laid at his feet....to carrying a heavy cross up a hill in the space of a week.  So, I asked myself on this Palm Sunday morning in 2010, "Karen, just what are you celebrating?"  This has been a challenging year for me...and I have felt like I have lost every battle I have faced this year....and then...I stop for a moment and look at Christ, and it all seems so irrelevant.  I am a Easter Christian...and so I am going to celebrate him today regardless of the difficult times I may be experiencing. I am celebrating because Christ is my King, my Savior, and my God. In him, I have my hope.  I am the one singing “Hosanna to the sound of David. Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord. Hosanna in the highest.” (Matthew 21:9)
We, the world, are more than conquerors in Him who conquered death.  Let us celebrate the victory and the freedom we have because of what Christ did. God Bless you all real good today.

Today It Truly is Well With My Soul

This weekend was one of those rare weekends when all is well and right with the world...at least it was that way in my world.  I am a member of the Emmaus community and this weekend I sponsored my friend and collegue, Marie Parks.  I drove her to Camp Alimisco to begin her 72 hour retreat on Weds. night.  During the weekend I was in and out, attending functions which were very uplifting.  Friday night we had a singing and I loved it...the only song missing from my to ten list was, "It Is Well With My Soul."  It truly was well with my soul.  That song was my father's favorite song...when I was 12 he asked me to sing it at his funeral...I was 12...what did I know....so I agreed.  Little did I know that 43 years later I would stand before his coffin and sing that very song to him for the last time.  The song has always been one of my favorites in the Old Hymn division.  As you probably already know I am a music fanatic and have hundreds of favorite songs...so I have taken to catagorizing them.  I love the lyrics of the song, I love the harmonics of the song,  I love the story of the song.  Have you ever wondered where hymns and songs come from?  I have.....so many years ago I researched this one and found out about Horatio Spafford.  Do you know who he is?  I didn't....but do now.  Horatio Spafford (1828-1888) was a wealthy Chicago lawyer with a thriving legal practice, a beautiful home, a wife, four daughters and a son. He was also a devout Christian and faithful student of the Scriptures. His circle of friends included Dwight L. Moody, Ira Sankey and various other well-known clergymen of the day. At the very height of his success, Horatio and his wife Anna suffered the tragic loss of their young son. Shortly thereafter on October 8, 1871, the Great Chicago Fire destroyed almost every real estate investment Spafford had.  In 1873, Spafford scheduled a boat trip to Europe, to give his wife and daughters a much needed vacation from tragedy, and so that he might join Moody and Sankey for an evangelistic campaign in England. Spafford sent his wife and daughters on ahead while he remained in Chicago, to take care of some unexpected last minute business. Several days later he received notice that his family's ship had encountered a collision in which all four of his daughters drowned; only his wife had survived.  With a heavy heart, Spafford boarded a boat that would take him to his grieving Anna, in England. It was on this trip that he penned those now famous words, when sorrow like sea billows roll; it is well, it is well with my soul.  Philip Bliss (1838-1876), composer of many songs including Hold the Fort, Let the Lower Lights be Burning, and Jesus Loves Even Me, was so impressed with Spafford's life and the words of his hymn that he composed a beautiful piece of music to accompany the lyrics. The song was published by Bliss and Sankey, in 1876.  I love to hear the Isaacs sing it....so I thought I would share with you their version today...since all is right in my world.  Happy Saturday and God Bless You!

Fly Like An Eagle

  I love eagles, falcons, hawks...all the magnificent birds.  I think they are the most majestic creature on the face of the earth.  I am amazed when I see one take flight.  They are awesome.  I discovered a verse from Isaiah several years ago (Isaiah 40:30 - "but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.  They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary; they will walk and not be faint.") and knew the moment I read it that I wanted to be like an eagle....I want to fly on eagles wings....not walk on the ground like a turkey.  Why would anyone want to be a turkey when they have the opportunity to soar.  I invite you to soar with me. today and have a Fantastic Friday!  We only have 45 more days of school!  Whooo hoooo....I am so ready for summer.

The Mom Who Reads Books About People With No Heads

“What’s your book about?” the little boy asked me curiously. He looked to be around six or seven.

“Oh. Anne Boleyn. She was a Queen before her husband, the King, had her beheaded,” I answered kindly.

“What’s beheaded?” the boy wondered.

“When your head is chopped off.” As soon as the words escaped my lips, I knew I had said the wrong thing. The little boy’s eyes grew huge and then he ran off towards his parents. I watched as he flung his arms around his mother’s neck and whispered something into her ear. Then she turned and glared at me.

I am not good with children.

I admit that.

I mean, most people would know that it’s not good form to talk about heads being removed from a body. But I didn’t. I tend to speak to children like they’re adults and I forget that there are some things that I might want to omit.

Crap.

See, I was at Reading/Pajama Night at my son Tommy’s school. It was a night to get kids excited about books and reading, you see. We were all scattered around the auditorium with our books. The paper that Tommy came home with had said that you could bring whatever book you wanted. So I brought my Anne Boleyn one. Of course when I got to the school I realized that most of the adults were reading children’s books.

Oops.

Well, I’m sorry. I was excited over the prospect of reading in peace for a few minutes. I don’t get the chance to do it much at home. The second I crack open a book my daughter takes it from me and says, “No.” Then she drags me onto the floor where I’m forced to play with her creepy Yo Gabba Gabba toys.

“You can borrow one of my books,” Tommy offered. I think he was a little embarrassed that I was the only parent flipping through a giant book while the others were browsing colorful books for children. He was also on edge because we were supposed to bring a blanket to sit on.

I brought a towel.

He was mortified when he saw other families fluff out their blankets.

“You see? They have a blanket!” Tommy moaned, pointing.

Then another family would roll out a blanket.

“And so do they,” Tommy added. Then he started counting the families with the blankets. “They have one, so do they, and them, and—”

“I get it, Tommy. You wanted a blanket. I thought a towel would suffice,” I cut in.

“It doesn’t!” Tommy griped.

“Well, then you’ll have a lot to discuss with your therapist won’t you? You can talk about how your mother didn’t bring a blanket on reading night,” I said.

“I will,” Tommy confirmed even though he doesn’t even know what a therapist is.

So yes. He was already unhappy with me and then I go talking about rolling heads. When he offered me a book, I figured I ought to take it.

“What do you have?” I asked, shutting my Anne Boleyn book.

“Oh, The Things You Can Think and McElligot’s Pool,” Tommy said grandly.

I swallowed back my groan. They were both Dr. Seuss books. Dr. Seuss books give me a headache.

I eventually took Oh, The Things You Can Think. I really wasn’t reading the words though. I was thinking, “Is this thing almost over?”

I mean, what is going on here?



My eyes eventually started to wander to other people. I counted two women with Kate Gosselin’s old hairstyle (!), four teenagers with Twilight books (blech), and eight children picking their nose.

Then I took a picture of Tommy. He was not amused.



“Why, Mommy? Why?” he whined.

The reading seemed to go on forever. I wanted to read my Anne Boleyn book, dammit. Look, I’m all for having an imagination but I think Dr. Seuss went overboard. Surely he had to have been drunk when he wrote his books.

Finally we could stop reading and Tommy’s class went up to perform songs from Seussical The Musical.

He was a water boy.



You see?

He was the best water boy up there, I tell you.

When he was finished, we headed for the exit to go home. On our way out I heard a tiny voice say, “That’s her! The Mom who reads books about people with no heads!”

Oh crap.

Tommy gave me a Look.

Now he’s going to be the kid whose Mom reads about people with no heads.

“Er...how about some ice cream when we get home?” I suggested.

The Picture Fight

So most of you know that I eventually got a cute picture of Natalie in her birthday outfit.



But it wasn’t easy.

It took a lot of work to get that picture.



When we first started, she wanted nothing to do with the camera. I started singing a Yo Gabba Gabba song and she promptly shushed me. Then I did some wild moves that made it look as though I had an ice cube down my back and I was working hard to get it out. Her response? “I don’t YIKE this.”



So I sang another Yo Gabba Gabba song. I was all, “I want to be big, big, big, not small, small, small,” and a guy walking past went, “Sorry to hear that.” “It’s a song!” I shouted back. Great. Now Stranger Dude thinks I have height issues.

Still, Natalie refused to smile.



I asked her, “What do you think of the health care bill?” And she was all, “Dude, it’s 2000 pages, who knows?”



Then she blatantly ignored me. Apparently grass was more interesting than her mother. The woman who birthed her.

I refused to give up. So I went to what usually works.

I ran into the side of the house.



A-ha. I was getting somewhere. And yes, it’s a little disturbing that violence gets her to smile.

But....

If bumping into the house gets her to smile for me....



Then I’ll do it.

Bruises be damned.

The Road Less Taken

I am a road fanatic.  I love to take pictures of roads...especially roads that have some about them that makes them unusual.  The road to the left was taken in Wales.  I loved the little tunnel that I stood on the otherside of to take the picture of the road that continued on.  As I stood there, in the freezing cold, I was reminded of Robert Frost's poem, "The Road Less Taken" and I had to think of all the times in my life I have chosen to take a lesser walked path.  Many times those choices brought me blessings I had never expected.  Other times the choices brought me great heartache.  I am someone who loves to explore optional choices. 

The Road Less Traveled by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth; 5

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back. 15

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Sigh....at 55, soon to be 56, I have had a number of road choices over the past several months.  I had to decide whether my mom would remain with us and have round the clock sitters and risk the chance that she would take off again,  or live at Adams and be safe.  I took the safe road there.  I don't always.  I am speaking more and loving it more than I ever thought I would....so the road appears....what am I going to do with this?....or what road is God directing me towards.  I love writing....another road....do I want to write for me (which is what I have done forever)....or for the benefit of others....I have such a story to tell and I feel that God is leading me.....the deal is....will I take the right road....and listen to God...or take the road that looks pretty and easy....and regret my decision forever.  I have a Retirement Seminar to attend on my birthday....again I find myself at a crossroad and wondering which road I will take.  I love my job...I love the kids....but I will have 25 years in 2014 and can retire.  I will be 60.  What road am I going to take?  So many roads....so little time.  I want to travel them all!  I want to live my life with no regrets!  Don't you?  Happy Thursday.

Ahem Ahem Ahem

Ahem Ahem Ahem Tom went.

He said his throat was sore and he was just trying to clear it.

Ahem Ahem Ahem

It wears on ones nerves to hear this noise for over an hour, let me tell you.

Ahem Ahem Ahem

“Tom,” I said, my voice tense. “Can I get you something? A Halls? A Ricola?” I wanted to add, “A sock down your throat so you’ll shut up for two seconds,” but that probably would have been insensitive. The poor guy was sick. But at the same time, the poor guy was seriously irritating the crap out of me.

“It’s just my throat,” Tom said from the computer. “Ahem ahem ahem. I’m trying to clear it.”

“Obviously it’s not working. Just go suck on a Halls or get some soda,” I suggested.

It was quiet for a few minutes. I enjoyed the silence as I sat on the floor. Natalie was doing my hair. And by doing my hair, I mean she was practically pulling it from its roots with her toy Princess brush. But whatever. It was keeping her quiet. I tried not to whimper as she twisted my hair into her plastic curling iron.

Ahem Ahem Ahem

“Tom!” I yelped at the same time Natalie pulled some of my hair free with her pretend flat iron.

“What?” Tom answered.

“The aheming is really getting annoying. Could you stop? Doing that won’t clear your throat. Natalie, precious, be gentle. I’d like to have some hair left by the time you’re done.”

“No, I can’t stop. My throat hurts,” Tom whined.

“I’ll make you some soup,” I offered.

“I don’t care for soup.”

He’s the only person I’ve ever met who doesn’t CARE for soup. Who doesn’t care for soup? Soup is like a warm hug when you’re ill.

“Please take a Halls,” I begged.

“Don’t need one,” Tom insisted and then sneezed all over the keyboard. Ew. Did he miss the memo about sneezing into the crook of your elbow?

After I cleaned the keyboard with a Clorox wipe, I went to unload the dishwasher. As I was bent over, Tom came up behind me and started humping my back. Seriously, men have GOT to have a signal in their brain that goes off the second a woman has her ass in the air.

“Hi,” Tom said suggestively. I can almost bet he was wiggling his eyebrows up and down.

I pushed him away gently. “You’re sick,” I said. “I can’t afford to be sick so there will be no sex until you’re better.” Unlike him, I can’t lounge around on the couch and stay on the computer for hours when I’m ill. I once tried to rest on the couch when I had a massive headache and a stuffed up nose and Natalie sat on my face. She didn’t understand the concept that Mommy needed to rest.

“I’m really not sick,” Tom insisted. “Ahem ahem ahem.”

I took a step back. “Gross. You are sick. We can resume...relations when you’re better,” I promised.

“But I’m not...ahem ahem ahem!” Tom rubbed his throat.

I dug into the cupboard and pulled out a bag of Halls. “Take one. For my sanity. Take one now.”

He popped one in his mouth but it didn’t help much.

He was still aheming an hour later.

When Lost was on.

I cannot have distractions during Lost.

I was in the middle of trying to figure out what was going on when..

Ahem Ahem Ahem

“Tom! No noises during Lost!”

“I can’t help it! Ahem ahem ahem.”

“Do you see that man on the TV, Tom? His name is Richard. He never ages. I really need to watch this so I can figure out why this is. So shhhh.”

AHEM AHEM AHEM

It seemed like he was only getting louder.

“Say, how about we tuck you into bed?” I said.

“Are you trying to get rid of me? Ahem ahem ahem.” Tom tried to puff his lip out but as soon as he did, he started coughing wildly.

Oh yuck. I’d have to sanitize the entire house.

Tom thankfully decided to head off to bed though. Of course he tried to seduce me but phlegm is not really sexy. So I passed.

When I came to bed later, I prayed that Tom would be silent so I could get some sleep.

I closed my eyes.

I was about to drift off…..

AHEM AHEM AHEM

Yeah. It was a long night.

Second Chances

I'm a dreamer and I so want to share my life story of how I came to meet my sweet Savior. I have been given encouragement from my Sunday School class over the years as I taught Sunday School life lessons....but now....I am dreaming of attending a conference my blogging buddy, Deb at He Gave Me A Dream told me about called, She Speaks! She Speaks is a funny title for a conference...but it is exactly what I want to do...I want to speak, write, minister. I have some big shoes I want to fill. Deb told me that this is the creme de la creme of Christian writing conferences. She said it was "a gathering of talented writers and speakers and renowned editors and publishers. And a great place for writers at all levels to gain both knowledge and confidence in the writing/publishing process." I was so excited. I told her, YES! I want to go....but then reality hit. My husband lost his job before Thanksgiving...Christmas was tough...he did get a new job...but the pay was significantly less than we were used to...and when Deb told me how much this conference cost....I was embarassed but had to tell her I could not go. Imagine my surprise when she posted this scholarship information. There is hope yet...maybe God did NOT entirely close this door for me. I found myself a woman on a mission again. I could hardly wait to sit down and blog. Lysa Terkeurst, founder of Proverbs 31 Ministries, is offering a few scholarships for bloggers who want to attend this year's conference. These scholarships are valued at $575.00 each! Right now...to me that is like a million dollars. Wow! The link to her post that explains how to apply for one of these scholarships will be at the bottom of this post.
The conference, She Speaks offers something for everybody: writers, speakers, and those who are in women's ministry. Umm....that would be me. I am a writer, a speaker, and I am a United Methodist Certified Lay Speaker...meaning I fill the pulpit from time to time...and love it. But, my real dream is to write. Through the writing I figure the rest will come. So, I like Deb, am most interested in the writer's track. All of the session descriptions for each of the three tracks sound wonderful, but I'm very very interested in the following classes: "From Blog to Book Deal" - That is the one for me! Oh yes! I feel the title says it all. And my personal second favorite is "Magazine Writing 101" - I entered a Guidepost contest as a teenager...did not win...but I have always wondered how it would feel to have an article published in a magazine. I have been published in some obscure poetry journals, and I have been in a Blue Mtn. Arts book, but poetry is not where I feel I am being called. I want to write a book....and my third session choice is where Lysa tells you "The Power of a Story." I am shaking with delight at the possiblity that I may actually get to attend this conference...and learn! I have a title for my book...it is called, "Have I Got a Story for You." I have pages of writings....I just don't know what to do with them to make them come together....and that may be what I need to learn at the She Speaks Conference I have to quote Deb and say, "Can you tell that this is going to be one-rocking-Concord, North Carolina-startin' a fire for Him-July 30th - August 1st conference? Such a gathering of women with words. women with strong, powerful words. I want to be part of that with all my heart! Here's the scholarship link that I promised. What? You are still sitting here? I thought you would be gone already. wish me luck on getting one of those scholarships. I can hardly breathe I am so excited. Writing...and Writing about and for Him. It does not get much better than this!

Hey, It's Okay Tuesday!

I got this idea from Glamour magazine. They have a section called Hey, It’s Okay and will list a bunch of things to be okay about. I think I’m going to do this every Tuesday now. You're welcome to join in and do something like this on your diary. Doesn't have to be on a Tuesday either.

Hey, It's Okay....


To wonder why people eat String Cheese whole. It’s called STRING cheese for a reason. You pull it off in STRINGS. (I’m talking to you, Tom.)


To never wear animal print clothing.


To not be able to do the Macarena so when the music pops on, you’re left flinging your arms and shaking your butt in confusion while people gape at you as though you have a thong on your head.


To roll your eyes when actors go on about “forgetting to eat because they’re so busy.” No one FORGETS to eat.


To not enjoy Dancing with the Stars and be a little bitter that it takes up so much air space.


To know that your right thigh probably weighs as much as an Olsen Twin.


To give your computer screen the finger when someone outbids you on eBay.


To be a little afraid of giving your honest opinion over the health care bill because some people are cah-razy!


To want to burst into tears when people keep telling you that “chick lit is dead.” Especially because that’s what you write.

Only A Silly American Tourist....

I am a picky eater. I don't like many green veggies, I don't eat meat that is served like it lived on earth, I don't like white butterbeans, picky I tell you. Several years ago though, I found myself in Llangollen (pronounced Clan Glocklyn),Wales at the Kings Inn. It was a delightful town and so, we went down for breakfast. All week long we had toasts, cereal, Irish soda bread, jams, and juice and occasionally fruit for breakfast. Not a big breakfast eater...at breakfast time...I would grab a couple pieces of toast, some hot tea, and throw a piece of fruit in my bag for later. Imagine my surprise when...sitting on the table was a new type of toast. It was bigger than a piece of Melba Toast...and looked divine. Also, sitting right beside the toast things was some Braeburn Applesauce...the chunky kind....my absolute favorite. I got two pieces of the toast...smothered it in butter and applesauce, poured my tea and sat down with our tour guide to enjoy my breakfast. Adam Buckmaster peered at me over his morning paper as I took a big crunchy bite of the toast and asked, "is that how you eat them in the states?" I knew I had goofed and needed to save face...so I replied, "of course...how do you eat here?" He replied, "with a spot of warm milk and some sugar." I continued to crunch my new found delicasy with delight...even though I was mortified. My friend, Cindy, came down and looked at my plate and said,"what in the hell is that?" "Breakfast" I said smartly. When I was finished and left the dining area...I stopped the waiter and asked him what the toast things were...."Wheetabix" he said. "Wheetabix? what is that?" I asked. He smiled and told me it was similar to our Shreaded Wheat...only more compact. I could have died. Buckmaster loved my blunder...and brought it up several times throughout the trip...who would have thunk it. Wheetabix...the perfect looking toast like thing...was a shreaded wheat square...made to be eaten like cereal...and here this crazy American tourist was eating it raw with butter and applesauce. Only in America. I will say this...Wheetabix are good with butter and jam on them....and they taste like cardboard (just like shreaded wheat) smothered in milk and sprinkled with sugar. The Brits just don't know a good thing when they see it. Have you ever had one of those embarassing moments...when you did something that seemed to make sense...and it was the stupidest thing ever...tell me yours in a comment...I would love to hear about it. It might make me feel better. :-) Happy Tuesday to all!

Sodderbug Giveaway

Today is Monday and we started back to school today after a week off for Spring Break. I am not feeling creative....I am feeling blah....I need some sunshine and warmth....I am all over winter. Today the high is barely hitting 40. Groans...warmth I tell you warmth....not much to do but catch up on past blogs...when...I got hit with an Oh wow...if you are a jewelry lover...and of course I am...you need to check out the giveaway on Tatertots and Jello. It is an easy enter....and Janelle from Sodderbug has offered up an awesome prize. Janelle is a mother of two and awesome crafter. Check out her block Sew Blessed. She is really crafty! I wish I could be totally selfish...and just keep this quiet...but I can't. I am not made that way. You need to go on and check out the giveaway! Are you still here? What are you waiting for....Good luck and Happy Monday!

A Yo Gabba Gabba Celebration (Yikes)

“Happy Birthday, Natalie,” I said on Friday morning when I went to get her up.



She ignored me.

“You get some presents,” I tried again.



This time her eyes flew open.

The night before I had set up downstairs in anticipation for her birthday. Her theme? Yo Gabba Gabba. I know. Tres scary. (If your child also likes creepy Yo Gabba Gabba, I bought everything here.)





I even put pictures of the Yo Gabba Gabba characters against the wall. Brobee is already ruined. Natalie took it off the wall and tried to sleep with him. Poor Brobee got stuck to her and she flipped out.

“BROBEE SICK!” Natalie had hollered.

RIP Brobee.

Natalie came downstairs and opened some presents.







She also got a bike. She can’t pedal yet so this is pissing her off. Lots of shouting is coming from our household.



Later, she had some friends come over for some cupcakes. We passed out Yo Gabba Gabba gift boxes. Yes, Natalie got one, too. She’d have never let me hear the end of it.



She picked Olive Garden for her birthday dinner. I find it amusing that my children prefer to go out rather than have me make something. I don’t mind though. Because hello, it means I don’t have to cook.

Then it was CAKE TIME. Yes, I changed Natalie. Didn’t want her ultra adorable white shirt get stained. We do not have good luck with white shirts over here. Tom wonders why I keep buying white shirts then and I’m all, “What can I say, Gymboree keeps making cute white shirts.”





As Natalie gobbled her cake down, I thought back to her first birthday.



She was NOT amused by the cake then. She was insulted when the frosting got on her precious fingers. I was all, “Lick it off!” and this infuriated her even more. I remember thinking, “Whose child is this? Why is she not respecting the frosting?”

She definitely respects frosting now. In fact, that’s usually the only thing she eats from a cake.

All in all I think she had a good birthday. Thank you all for the birthday wishes.







I can’t believe that she’s THREE. Here comes the sass! (What am I talking about, the sass has been here since she was born..)

I Am the True Vine

Today's sermon, delivered by our Senior Pastor Bill Etheridge, at the Arbor came from John 15:1-"I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener. My official title at the Arbor service at First United Methodist is Arbor decorator. I put together the altars for the service every week. It has been an amazing, and to begin with expensive, process. When I first started doing this about 5 years ago...I bought what I needed. I had no clue that there was an account for such as this. I looked at it as my ministry....so I never asked for money back. I love getting the sermon topics during the week...and then praying over what the altar will look like on Sunday. Many times I have one idea...and change my mind when I get to the Arbor to put the altar together...other times the altar comes into my head...and stays there. I have scavenged through thrift stores, junk stores, antique stores...looking for just the right element to make it come to life. It wasn't until this year...that someone actually realized...I put the things together...and that they are never the same. Do I photograph them...keep a file on them? Nope! I just do them(my friend Billy took the picture I have attached today.) It was kind of funny. I have never wanted to take pictures of my altars...but this week I was singing Shackles...and had this post idea. Putting the altars together is my alone time with God. You see, I go to the Arbor...usually late in the afternoon on Saturday....don't even turn on the lights...except for the one in the storage room...and the altar comes to life. It is amazing sometimes and definitely humbling. Do I do this? Heck No! This is a God Thing...it is time that God and I spend alone. I am not a interior decorator...but somehow (it's God)...there in the darkness of the Arbor (again...it is God)....an altar comes to be...under my non-artsy hands...when I step back...it never fails (and I don't know why it surprises me...after all it is a God thing)...there it is. The altar...just as I envisioned it. God is amazing...and no matter what your talents are....or aren't....He can use you. BTW...for those of you who read my sermon earlier in the week...it went over well. Hummmmm....is there another calling there? Who knows...we will just have to listen for the whisper and see! Happy Sunday and God Bless You All Real Good!

Colonial Kitchens, Gingerbread, and Old Salem

,
Old Salem's Moravian Gingerbread

Just posted a a tour of Colonial Kitchens and of the buildings at Old Salem, a mid-18th century Moravian village in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, on my It's About Time Blog. Also posted the Moravian Gingerbread recipe.

The Moravians were featured on this blog in the story of arist Johann Valentin Haidt. Please come visit the other blog for modern depictions of the restoration.

The Single Brothers House, 1769, Old Salem, North Carolina.

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Saturday Morning Charm

I love photographing tablescapes. This morning I was planning out a birthday party for my friend Debbie. She will be 50 tomorrow. I wanted my table to be cheerful and happy so I got out a incomplete set of yellow dishes my mom had up in her house and went to work. My Charm glassware is green and sits in the hutch so I wanted the yellow to kind of blend with it. I had found four green striped placemats in the hutch at mom's house too, the yellow daisies I purchased at the Dollar Tree. It took four bunches to get the right amount and the yellow pail I picked up at the Mission Thrift Store for twenty-five cents. What a find! The glasses are just a set of Walmart glasses. I think at one time I gave somewhere around $7.00 for them. The photograph is where Debbie will sit and it is a picture of she and my dad at an Old Fashioned Sunday. The white little ginger jar is going to be her gift. I bought it at Big Lots for less than 10.00. I hope she likes the presentation. I seem to be all about presentation since I started checking out Mid-Atlantic Martha, Edie Marie's Attic, and Tales of Bloggeritaville's Thursday Tablescapes. I never knew setting a table could be so much fun. It has become a treasure hunt trying to find just exactly what I am looking for, for the perfect table. As you all know I have Blue Garland China and when I did my last tablescape I used Crystal I bought in Ireland. What I am looking for is some smoky blue glasses...I think Fostoria makes a set...they would really enhance the blue flowered garland on the dish. Oh well. I am hitting some antique/junk shops/thrift stores today...looking for booth items....but maybe I will luck out and find something for me. Happy Saturday!

Happy 3rd Birthday, Natalie!

Dear Natalie,

Here’s the thing, sweetheart.

You cried.

A lot.

I don’t think you liked me very much in the beginning.

Our relationship back then could be summed up with these pictures:



First you’d be all, “WTF? I’m entrusting my life to THIS woman?”



Then you’d be all, “I don’t think I like this. I demand a replacement.”



Then you’d cry. For like an hour.



Then you’d resemble a pissed off old lady. You thought again, “I’m entrusting my life to THIS woman? Where is the damned replacement?”



And the whole thing would start all over again when you realized that there would be no replacement.

I tried my best! You’re lucky that you were my second child. You’d have been incredibly ticked off had you been my first. Your poor brother had a mother who had no idea what she was doing. You at least had an experienced parent.

At least I thought I was experienced.

Then you came along and WOULDN’T STOP CRYING and I started to fear that I had no idea what I was doing all over again.



You cried.



And you cried.



And oh yeah, YOU CRIED.

I think I know what upset you so much. It was the fact that I sang to you, wasn’t it? Because when I sang to you when you turned one, you covered my mouth and went, “Shhhh.” You do that even now. Were you crying because that was your way of saying, “Jesus woman, could you SHUT your yapper? You are NOT the next American Idol.”

It also could be that I was always putting stuff on your head. I couldn’t help it, Natalie! I had a boy first, I couldn’t decorate his head. Then you came along and I was all, “Yay, hair pretties!”





Apparently you didn’t like the hair pretties.



At around six months, you cheered up. I think it’s because you realized that I was the best you were going to get.

Sure, you still had an attitude. At a year old you informed me that you were mad. You followed this up by, “No.” Soon it was, “No this,” and “no that.” No, no, no.





You keep things interesting though. You give me a lot of write about in my blog and for that I am appreciative.

I cannot believe that you are three.

I cannot believe you enjoy watching a creepy show called Yo Gabba Gabba. One of the characters looks like a diseased male appendage, darling. And should I be concerned that he is your favorite?

Thank you so much for allowing me to dress you up.

Thank you so much for keeping me on my toes.

I wouldn’t change anything for the world.

Happy Third Birthday, Natalie Elizabeth!



Love,
The one you love to torture the most


PS. I’m sorry, but you probably won’t be able to date. Ever. Blame your father.





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I made a video of Natalie and the outfits that I put her in. It is just for fun. The song is "Material Girl" and I usually always get a note saying that material things aren't important, blah blah blah. I GET that. It's just for FUN.

Photo and video editing at www.OneTrueMedia.com