Wings

Finley comes downstairs where I am reading.

Finley: I want some wings.

Me with confusion : Uh... I don't think we have any.

F: Mom, I need some wings.

Me trying to clear cobwebs from my exhausted brain: Well, your dragon costume has wings. You can go get that out of your closet and put that on.

Finley disappears upstairs, then returns a moment later with dragon costume in hand.

I help her put in on.

F: I need to go outside so I can try to fly.

It's Been a While...

We've been busy, and when I do get a moment to breathe, I usually just want to nap or curl up in bed and watch (or more often, listen) to something interesting on TV. Since I actually have half an ounce of energy right now, I figured I should post something before everyone thinks I have abandoned my blog.

I had my first OB appointment last Friday. I called Chris afterward to let him know everything was okay. I had gotten an ultrasound, and so after he hung up, he told Finley that I had seen the baby.

Now, Chris has a habit... a bad habit, really. When some one asks him a question and he either isn't really listening or doesn't hear, he automatically answers, "Yeah." (That makes me crazy.) So Finley, not understanding the methods of modern medicine, asked if they cut me open to see the baby. Chris wasn't really listening, and answered, "yeah," and Finley freaked out. Thankfully, Reanna was there and heard her question, so immediately attempted to comfort Finley and get Chris to correct his unfortunate mistake.

When I got home, she still hadn't gotten the idea out of her head, and asked me if "it" was "still open" and could she look inside to see the baby.

So here is the first picture of the reason I have been feeling so lousy.

Laptops

I like to read books that pull me out of my little world. I've come to treasure books like Roots by Alex Haley, The Good Earth by Pearl Buck, and Life Is So Good by George Dawson and Richard Daubman. They help me think outside of my box.

You would think that I'd know better by now, but I watched 60 Minutes again the other week, and saw a piece on One Laptop Per Child, an organization started by some MIT guy (Nicholas Negroponte) to try to get laptops in the hands of every child in the world, specifically those in third world countries. Initial thought: that's nice. And then they showed a village in remote Cambodia where there was no running water or electricity. There was a shot of a family gathered around the soft glow of a laptop in their dark hut. Next thought: that's ridiculous.

There was a special hut built to house generators to power the laptops and the electronics necessary to connect them with the rest of the world. That's right. This little village with no running water is sporting a satellite dish.

I have come to the conclusion that 'Western Society' is whacked, and we are doing our best to screw up the rest of the world, too. We are trying to send the message that nobody should be content with their lives. We are trying to send the message that the goal in life should be to gain as much knowledge as possible in order to obtain that envied executive desk job where one only has to lift one's fingers so much as to type.

I was struck by a passage in The Good Earth that said, in essence, that when a man is put in a position where is is no longer necessary for him to physically work for his living, it opens him up to a greater danger of corruption. Think about the men with desk jobs who inadvertently have become addicted to Internet porn. The man behind a plow hasn't the time for that.

It seems that there is a message being sent to the world that no one should be content to simply work and survive. The 'American Dream' is the sentiment that we should never be content with what our parents achieved, but that we should 'rise above' and try to get more stuff.

Let me clarify. I am not saying it is wrong to try to 'better yourself' through education and a higher paying job. I am say that we have devalued those who are content with life as it was given them. We are dishonoring those, who by Western standards, are 'poor' (don't have a car, computer, or [gasp] running water) and take pride in wrestling an existence from the earth.

Forget the laptop, Negroponte... If I lived in the bush of Africa, I'd rather have a cow.

Indoor Play

When the weather outside isn't nice enough for me to want to be outside watching the kids, I have to draw on my childhood experiences to keep the kids occupied. One of my favorite things to do was to build houses or forts out of couch cushions and blankets. Finley isn't big enough yet to handle it all on her own, so I usually end up building something for them.




Of course, it doesn't last long, and the living room becomes an obstacle course.

Ronnie

Ronnie called Chris' cell at 11:45 pm last night. He had fallen and couldn't get up. Chris had to go over, unlock his door, and call the fire department to help get Ronnie back up.

Ronnie has been in and out of the hospital at least one other time since I last blogged about him. He had been staying out in Murfreesboro, but this last week returned to his house. Chris says he hasn't really cleaned anything... Just covered the bed with blankets and sprinkled baby powder on the carpet..

He hasn't paid the mortgage and says the bank account is frozen. He thinks his brother's ex had been taking money out of that account, but he doesn't know how to even begin to balance the account. So in light of the fact that the house will be foreclosed on and the apparently frozen bank account (is all this still in Olene's name I wonder?), he is selling anything he can. So far, the only thing he has been able to sell is his fridge. So now Ronnie is living in a house without a fridge. How much sense does that make?

As I laid awake waiting for Chris to come back home, I thought about people who refuse to be truly helped, people who refuse to do what it takes to put themselves in a better situation. I tried to think of a biblical example to help us handle the situation. The only example I could think of was the rich, young ruler. Unfortunately there aren't many (if any) examples of life-suckingly-needy people that Jesus had to deal with.

I was reminded of a girl I met when I first moved to TN. She 'befriended' me, but every time she called, she needed something. I don't remember her every asking me how I was doing or expressing any interest on who I was as a person. She even told me that the reason she befriended me was because she had a crush on a friend of mine. When I finally confronted her on the issue, she told me she couldn't believe how much I misunderstood her and that I had hurt her feelings, and I never heard from her again.

When Chris's phone rang again at 5:15 am, the answer became clear to me. I don't think Jesus would ever turn down a person who was truly in need, but I am sure that he set up clear boundaries. Yes, it is okay to call at any time if you are on the floor and can't get up... but Ronnie called again at 5 to tell Chris that he was okay and wanted to know if Chris wanted to stop in and check on him before Chris went to work. Not okay.

Babies

Before I had Finley, I could count on one finger the number of times I remember holding a newborn. In the hospital after she was born, I asked the nurse to check to make sure I had put her diaper on properly. I remember her crying as I felt helpless and stupid. I've come a long way.

A week after a woman initially might suspect that she is pregnant (due to a missed period), a wee little heart begins to beat in the developing baby. Three weeks after that, the fetus has already developed all its major organs. Amazing.

I remember watching an ultrasound of Joe wiggling around at 8 or 9 weeks, and it looked like he was snuggling into me. He still snuggles.

Finley was an easy baby to carry. She didn't get that big, and when she wanted to move, she would just fidget or stretch out a little. I really enjoyed feeling her movement inside of me. Joe wasn't so fun. He would kick and jump and push on me as hard as he could.

Now I've got another peanut-sized baby growing in my belly. I'm sick, I'm exhausted... but I am so looking forward to meeting this new one.

Doggie

Here is a picture of Joe and Doggie, or as Joe calls him, 'Wa-wa' (a lazy version of a bark, since Joe can't pronounce 'dog' yet.) Doggie was a gift to Finley on her first birthday, but since there is something irresistable about him to a toddler, he is really now Joe's.

As we have been under the weather the past week or so, Joe has gotten his quota of nose wipes in for the next year.

I found him in the bathroom today with a wad of toilet paper, wiping Doggie's nose.

Fall Images

Playing in the rain...

Playing in the leaves...

Not playing. Sick...

This Is My Husband

Pity me.

No, really, I'm just kidding. Although sometimes it is like having three little kids to monitor instead of just two, he is a pretty great guy to have around.

I met Chris (for those of you who don't know the story) when I moved to Nashville and started attending Belmont University. He worked in the landscape maintenance department, and had plenty of opportunity to scope out the ladies on campus. Then he scoped me. Then he started stalking me. Really. He knew where I parked, he knew when and where I walked on campus, and his co-workers would radio him if they spotted me. He asked me out. I told him I wouldn't date him, as it was pretty obvious he wasn't the kind of guy I should get involved with. We became friends.

Three or four years later, a guy I worked with walked up to me out of the blue and said, "You know, God will make him into the man you need him to be." I thought - who?

Six years ago, Chris decided to give up drugs and alcohol for God. He never had withdrawal symptoms like he had in the past when he tried to quit drinking. We started dating. He met my parents and terrified my mom. (Tatoos and long hair?!? Not what she had envisioned.) A year later, with my dad's blessing (thanks, Dad), we got married.

Anyway, I was thinking about how he has become the man I need him to be.
-He works hard to provide for the family, but never makes work more important than family needs. If I have a splitting headache, he will figure out how to get home so I can get the break I need. -He does the dishes almost every night and takes care of the trash. -He will check on the kids in the middle of the night (if I kick him). -He is very handy with tools (like me). (Have you seen our house?) -He is generous and helpful with a balance that I need to learn. He doesn't feel guilty if he tells some one 'no', and when he says 'yes', it is usually because he feels like God wants him to. -He tells me I am 'the most beautiful woman in the whole wide world'. (Who knew?)

I could go on.

Thankful

That I have clean sheets and clothes.
That I can walk to the bathroom.
That I am surrounded by lots of people that love me and would take care of me if I couldn't.
That I have a reason to live.

The Neighbors: Ronnie Update

Before Olene died, she took a mortgage out on her previously paid-for house to pay off all her debts and have some money left in the bank. Ronnie was to purchase headstones for Olene and Kenny.

Ronnie has ended up in the hospital several times since Olene's death. He has Hepatitis C and cirrhosis of the liver. The doctors told him that if he wanted to live more than a few months, he needed to stop drinking.

Three weeks ago, in the middle of the night, Chris noticed an ambulance in front of Ronnie's house. In the morning, he saw Misty come home via a taxi, so called over to see what had happened. Ronnie had been drinking 1/2 gallon of vodka daily and wasn't taking his medication. His legs were terribly bloated, and when he poked a little hole in his leg that night, they couldn't get it to stop bleeding. Misty called the ambulance. Misty was exhausted and wanted to get home to Murfreesboro. After she took a nap, Chris drove her back to Murfreesboro.

Apparently, Ronnie had been having some hallucinations and had seen his brother Kenny and Olene a few times. Ronnie said they seemed mad at him. I think that is because Olene had asked Ronnie to order headstones for their graves, and Ronnie has yet to do that.

A week or so later, after Ronnie was released from the hospital, he wanted to go get some food. On his way to his van, he fell and cut his head open. Our neighbor saw him and called an ambulance.

This past Thursday evening, Chris called to check on Ronnie. He offered to take the trash out and wheel the can to the curb. Ronnie didn't want Chris in the house, saying there wasn't much trash, and said he could manage to throw the trash out the back door. Chris wheeled the trash can next to the back door and left the lid open.

Saturday, Chris got a call from Misty asking Chris to go over and help Ronnie. He wasn't able to walk and Misty wanted Chris to get the door open and turn off the alarm so that paramedics could get in if needed. Chris went over to talk to Ronnie and found that he had managed to get the door open. Ronnie wanted Chris to run to the store for him and get some Lysol and something for him to eat. Chris said the smell in the house was horrendous, and he was gagging as he left.

After he delivered the food and Lysol, it was obvious that Ronnie wanted a little company, so Chris hung out with him for a while. He told Chris he was 'ready to see Jesus.' Chris asked him if he had made his peace with God, and Ronnie asked Chris to pray for him. Chris prayed for him and told Ronnie that Jesus wasn't mad at him. Ronnie cried. Chris told him that he was probably still alive because he had unfinished business God wanted him to take care of first. Chris said that he knew God was with him as talked to Ronnie, because he didn't notice the smell.

Today, Misty called and told Chris she hadn't heard from Ronnie. Chris left work to check on Ronnie. When Chris got in, he told Ronnie he needed to get ready to go when the ambulance came. In spite of the fact that Ronnie hasn't been able to get around the house, and the house is in a disastrous state (as you can imagine since Ronnie can't get himself to the bathroom or get to the trash can to throw food away), Ronnie didn't really want to leave.

We've found out a little about Ronnie's dad. He was an abusive alcoholic. (Misty broke up with Ronnie because when he drank, he started to get verbally abusive. She has continued to take care of him knowing that he really doesn't have any one else willing to do it.) Ronnie's dad ended up homeless after Olene left him, and he ended up dying homeless. The Salvation Army paid for his funeral expenses.

A Happy Face

I enjoy carving pumpkins. It is a creative outlet for me.

This year, we neglected to buy a big pumpkin to carve, so instead, I carved Finley's little 6-inch pumpkin that she got last weekend on an outing.

I rather like it. Too bad it is already rotting.

Plumpy Nut and Honey Bees

I think if I don't stop watching 60 Minutes on TV Sunday evenings, I might just end up dragging my family to some hippy organic co-op out in some far corner of the earth.

Two weeks ago, I watched a story about Plumpy-Nut. It is a simple mixture of peanut butter, powdered milk, and other vitamins and minerals that is helping save kids from starvation. Read more about it here. It is amazing. Anyway, apart from the fact that seeing all those cute little kids caused my heart strings to get pulled a bit, there was one piece of dialogue that made me stop short. The interviewer asked a doctor, "But what about peanut allergies?" The answer: "You don't find peanut allergies in developing countries."

This Sunday, there was a story about honey bees. I did remember hearing something on the news earlier this year about it, but had forgotten about it until now. In short, millions of honey bees have been deserting their hives and disappearing. It has left everyone stumped, but many have their suspicions about the causes. The massive use of pesticides have weakened the bees' immune sytems, which is allowing more diseases to infiltrate the hives. Mites and viruses are commonly found in bee colonies, and the practice of growing only one crop on acres and acres of land doesn't allow the variety of food the bees need. (Can you imagine only eating, say, apples all day every day?)

So who knows. In a couple years, you may have to drive to the boonies to see us. Just watch out for happy bees and the antibiotic-free milk cow on the way up the lane.

a poem

dark and raining
street water reflecting street lights
vents blasting heat to curb the damp clothes chill
flashback to when i was alone
my atoms expanding into the old familiar feeling of freedom
like the newness of the universe feeling out the emptiness of space

Moderation

I keep thinking about things, and wanting to put down my thoughts in the blog... But it seems like there are several different subjects that somehow relate, so as a warning, I have no idea where this one will end up.

I have been thinking about moderation, and how wonderful a thing it is.

I have been chewing on the state of the earth a lot lately, and it makes me very sad to see how ravaged it is. I think we have taken too lightly our responsibilty to care for the earth, and have done irreparable damage in the process. Hosea 4 talks about the how the land and wildlife are impacted by man's relationship (or lack of relationship) with God. Just one aspect of this is the way farming is handled today in America, the details of which I refuse to get into at this point.

What really gets me frustrated is the fact that I feel powerless to do much about it. If I only bought food from local, organic growers, we wouldn't be able to eat much, since it is simply not in our budget to do so. If we tried to live off food we grew ourselves, we'd definitely starve. (I'm hoping to get better in that area, though.) The only answer I can find is in moderation. I can be concerned. I can buy what good food I can afford, and I have to draw the line at worry. Once I begin to worry, I am no longer in balance. Moderation.

The medical field. I know some folks who are extremely anti-medical-establishment. Yes, it is amazing how God provided natural remedies to many health issues. Yes, a lot of doctors rely too heavily on what their text books have taught them instead of waiting to see what the body will naturally do to correct itself.

On the other hand, I have loved ones that are alive due to the wonders of modern medicine. I have safely given birth to two children thanks to the help of modern medicine. I'm not sure things would have turned out so well for me otherwise. Moderation.

Hangovers are no fun.

Sipping a Newcastle is just plain wonderful. Moderation.

The Terrible/Terrific Two's Are Nothing

I've been thinking... Finley's 2nd year wasn't so bad for me. Yes, she had meltdowns and stubborn moments, but I don't think they can compare to what I have to deal with these days.

I almost like a kid throwing a tantrum. Joe threw his first good one the other day, and I just sat and smiled while I watched him scream and roll around on the floor. Since he isn't very verbally or cognitively developed yet, it is easy just to ignore him and let him figure out that screaming won't work.

Finley is three. Finley can talk, and she is getting more sophisticated in her thought processes. This means that I find her a whole lot more difficult to deal with.

Here is an example:
F- May I play on the computer?
Me- Not right now. You've been on the computer a lot already today.
F- Please?
Me- No.
F- But PLEEEASE! (thinking that because she uses the word 'please', I have to let her.)
Me- No.
Finley drops to the floor crying and this is when I ask her if she wants to be fun or to go sit on her bed.

Another example:
We are outside, and our neighbor Brenda is out in the yard with her granddaughter, Melissa.
F- What is Nannie doing?
Me- What do you think she is doing?
F- But what is she doing?
Me- I don't know. I can't see her. Go look and tell me what you think she is doing. (I look over and see that she is obviously watering flowers.)
F- She is spanking Melissa.
Me- No she's not! What does she have in her hand?
F- What is Nannie doing?
Me- Finley, look at Nannie. She is watering her flowers.
F- Is Nannie spanking Melissa?
Me- No. (Brenda and Melissa go inside.)
F- What is Nannie doing?

Yes, sometimes she can be funny, though. Last night, we were trying to get Finley to eat some supper.
Dad- If you eat your supper, you can have ice cream tonight.
F- I'll just have ice cream tomorrow after I eat all my pizza.
(Who said we were having pizza?)

P.S.- Photo is of Finley listening to 'The Grinch...' on Reanna's ipod.

The Men of the House

The War and Criticism

I recently watched a little of the documentary The War that PBS has been broadcasting. After seeing lots of war movies and hearing lots of stories, I thought I had at least some grasp of what happened during World War II. I don't think the quoting of numbers or the few movies I'd seen really gave me a clue. I have only seen a few hours of this new documentary, and it helped me understand how little I did grasp the magnitude of what was happening in the world back then.

A few months ago, I heard a talk show on NPR that was discussing the bombing of Hiroshima. One WWII vet (who fought in the Pacific) called in to defend the bombing, saying that the number of lives saved due to the bombing was estimated to be in the millions. Someone rebutted saying that those numbers were probably exaggerated.

What I realized was that it is easy for most of us, who are one or two or three generations removed from the experience, to criticize. We didn't witness the Japanese soldiers who would fight to the death or the civilians who chose to jump off cliffs rather than surrender or be taken captive. Yes, I admit the bombing was horrible, as was the entire war, but who is to say if the bombing was right or wrong under the circumstances?

More and more, I realize why God told us to 'Judge not, lest ye be judged.' Most of our criticisms and opinions come from pride and ignorance. More and more, I see the world is not a picture of black here and white there, but of black and white so intermingled, the picture is mostly grey.

Curious

I went to the grocery store to pick up a few items. As I approached the U-Scan checkout station, a white, freckled, red-haired, mulletted boy of about 4 or 5 was sitting in a cart growling at anyone who passed by, while an older black man scanned the items from the cart. I can't help but wonder what their story is.

Fiery Gizzard

A few months ago, I took the kids on a walk in Shelby Park here in Nashville, where there is a paved 'nature trail' along the river. It was like a brick hit me in the head when Finley asked me if we were going through 'the deep, dark forest.' Good grief, I thought. I can't let them grow up thinking this is a forest. So yesterday, we went on our first real family hike in the South Cumberland area of Tennessee.

I had forgotten why I liked Tennessee so much after I moved here ten years ago, and yesterday I remembered why.

Hikes are different experiences with small children, though. In the days of my youth, we used to take our shoes off and run the trails, take a dive into the swimming holes, and free climb any available rock faces. Yesterday, we walked at a snail's pace so that Finley wouldn't fall behind and exercised extreme caution when it came to rocks, drop-offs, and poison ivy. We hardly let Joe out of the backpack. He was a fall waiting to happen. Finley slipped on a rock and fell into a section of creek. We must not let her get dirty often enough, because she wanted to change clothes immediately, and I had to 'talk her down.' And she kept asking me where we were going.

Here's hoping it's not another three years before we see a real trail again.

State of the Household Address

It is Sunday afternoon, and the little ones are in the basement with Daddy watching football, throwing balls, rolling cars, and/or playing on the computer. (Yes, Finley is a computer whiz. More on that later.) Reanna is with her mom for the weekend. I am in our finished-out-attic-space bedroom, as far away from the rest of the family as possible and still be in the house, for a little peace and quiet. Allow me to zone out for a minute....

(pause)

Ah. That was nice.

I have been operating in that constantly overwhelmed state of being that most mothers slip into now and again. Perhaps it is all perspective. I am too tired to figure it out, though. And honestly, the hardest part, and one of the contributing factors is that disjointed lack of ability to concentrate fog that hovers around my head. That last sentence didn't make any sense. Whatever. Can Omega-3s clear this fog? I'll move on. (I sound like president Bush, don't I?)

Back to the State of the Household. Perhaps if we take it point by point...

1. Reanna/School. Going well, I think. I line out two or three weeks of work in advance for Reanna, and she does the work. Not too exciting for either of us, but I think it is working. I am sure that most of the the stuff she is reading in History and Science is not going to stick, but I haven't felt too concerned about that. After all, I didn't need to know most of that info, and forgot a lot of the dates, places, people, and scientific jargon over the years. Most of the time, she works ahead of schedule, which allows her free time later in the week.

I am a little discouraged Reanna doesn't get too much hands-on/real-life learning, but I don't have the time or energy for what I would consider ideal. For the most part, I try to look for teachable moments outside of the books that relate to her studies. In science, she is beginning to study the animal kingdom (I think), so we went outside to the compost bin where a huge garden spider has woven her web. I caught some bumblebees that were flying nearby, and forced them into the spiders web. Finley and I enjoyed watching her wrap up the bee in her webbing and inject it with poison. Reanna was fascinated, but I don't think she would admit to enjoying the spectacle. She has taken to baking a weekly batch of cookies. She experiments with the recipes and allows Finley to 'help' her.

We joined a group that has scheduled field trips for every Friday of the school year. We went rollerskating a few weeks ago. Although there were so many kids there and it was impossible for a newcomer to actually meet anyone, Finley and Reanna enjoyed themselves. Finley was fearless in her little plastic Barbie skates. She went right out into the middle with the big kids all on her own after Reanna had skated with her for a while, and picked herself right back up after falling several times. Reanna won a glowstick necklace in a contest.

2. Finley. In an attempt to keep Finley occupied when Reanna needs help, I let her draw on the white board. I have learned to make her wear an old t-shirt of mine in order to avoid marker stains on every piece of her clothing. I recently realized that if Finley is to learn to read, she will also need to know lower-case letters, so I introduced those to her last week. I hope I don't confuse her too much.

I have been a little concerned about her interest in TV. If she gets bored, she like to ask if she can turn on the TV. Most of the time I tell her 'no.'

Finley also loves to play computer games. Once the computer is on, she knows to click on my name to log in. She then will click on the 'e' to get on internet explorer. (I am thankful she can't type yet.) I help her pull up the pbs-kids website, where she maneuvers all over the website playing the different games. In one game, she has to pick out the requested letter in order to help build a wall to keep the big, bad wolf out of the house. In another, she helps Cookie Monster sort fruits and vegetables into different colored bins and learn about the food in the process. Amazing. A useful tool... in moderation.

3. Joe. He threw his first full-on tantrum this Friday, complete with flopping on the ground, almost-throwing-up-I'm-crying-so-hard crying, and resulting snuffing. All because Mama wouldn't stand and hold him. Mama wanted to sit down. Apparently, that's not okay.

Joe is also an extremely picky eater. I wonder if he has some food allergies. He refuses cookies, peanut butter, mayonaise... No sandwiches, no rice, no meat. He subsists off smooties with vegetables snuck in, bagels (with cream cheese), apples, bananas, grapes, cheese, beans, and pasta.

And I love hearing him learn to talk. If you haven't seen the latest video, click here.

4. Misc. I am beginning to wonder if it is possible to have more structure around the house... It seems that if I could work up a sort of schedule for the kids (especially for Finley), that might alleviate some of the 'games' Finley and I play. 'Can I go outside?' 'Not right now.' ' Can I paint?' 'Not right now.' 'Can I watch Mr. Rogers?' 'He's not on TV.' ... (Shyla?)

I remember once after Finley was born, I decided I would make a cleaning schedule. I worked it out so that I would do laundry certain days, vaccuum certain days, and detail clean one room every week, so that the whole house would have a good cleaning every month. I didn't make it through the first week. I sweep under the kids' beds when the fuzz is about an inch thick and creeping out into the hallway.

5. Chris. He works hard most days, packs his own lunch, cleans the kitchen every night, and rarely complains about my movie picks. He's a good man.

6. And though there are only a few of you that I have let know the details, I have been working on a little book. I am excited about it. It is a concept I have carried around in my head for two years, and finally started on the artwork for it in July. Woohoo!

So there. It's hard work, but we're gonna stay the course.

School Days

Generally, Finley wants to thinks that any word that starts with 'F' must be her name. I have been trying to teach her otherwise, but most type includes the small letters, (as opposed to capitalized... is there a more technical name? oh yes, I just remembered...) I mean lower case letters, and she doesn't know those yet. Learning is complicated isn't it?

Anyway, I managed to keep her interested and encouraged enough today to get her to scrawl out her entire first name for the first time today. I only helped her with the 'N.' Finley's is the one in black, if you couldn't tell (wink, wink).

I was far more excited about it than she was.

When Bunny Grows Up

Has anyone of you read the book When Bunny Grows Up by Richard and Patricia Scarry?

Baby Bunny's family speculate about what the baby will be when he grows up: lion tamer, policeman, doctor, pilot... But bunny doesn't care to be any of those things.

Baby Bunny wants to be a daddy rabbit.

Tractor Pull, Part 2

I meant to write about this, but forgot...

One of my favorite things at a tractor pull is when a father lets his son drive the tractor.

There were probably three or four boys-becoming-men that drove tractors in this pull, with their dads walking along side, coaching them. One kid was a bit chubby with reddish hair and freckles. He unconsciously kept pushing out his lower lip in concentration. I don't think he ever took his eyes off his dad.

There's something about it that makes me almost need to pull out a hanky.

Sunday at the Tractor Pull

Tractor pull: tractors compete to see how far they can pull a sled. (A sled is a big trailer with a moving weight that increases the drag the further the the tractor pulls the sled.)

Finley entered the kid's tractor pull and won a blue ribbon.

Joe just enjoyed sitting on the tractors.

Maybe I'll own something like this someday:

Joe Bl-bl-ing

Mr. Rogers

Who knew a guy who looked like this would be so popular?

I remember that when I was being induced and was stuck in the hospital bed waiting for Finley to emerge, I ran across Mr. Rogers on the television. I was drawn in, and the nurse thought I had lost it.

Today, none of the things that normally hold Finley's interest for more than ten minutes seem to do the job. She wants Mr. Rogers.

"Mr. Rogers isn't on until 12:30," I tell her, and proceed to explain that 12:30 comes after lunch. I even show her the microwave clock and put a post-it note up to show what the numbers on the clock will say when it is finally time to watch Mr. Rogers. She still refuses to 'get it' and continues to ask me every 5 to 10 minutes if she can watch Mr. Rogers. Finally, in exasperation, I tell her that if she asks me one more time, she won't get to watch Mr. Rogers.

As I glance at the clock, desperately wishing time would go a little faster (at least until 12:30), I receive a revelation from above. It is 35 minutes until Mr. Rogers. I can now set the timer, the one thing in this house that Finley unhesitatingly obeys, and tell Finley that when the timer goes off, Mr. Rogers will be on. Amazingly, she accepts this, and proceeds to play by herself and with Joe until the bell sounds.

Mr. Rogers is only a half an hour long. Now I'm wishing time would slow down so I can have a longer break.

Politics

If there is one thing that makes me crazy, it is politics. As this country is (supposedly) a democracy, I recognize my obligation as a responsible citizen to vote. I hate doing it. It is not easy.


Part of the reason I would not ever make a good salesman is the fact that I have the (dare I say it?) gift of analyzation and criticism. When I worked at Mail Boxes Etc., I had the hardest time not telling people that they would do better to drive the extra two miles to the post office to buy their stamps and mail their packages. If I am selling someone a car, I am anxious to point out all the defects as well as what I liked about the vehicle so that the buyer can make an informed decision.


When I prepare to vote, I try to inform myself about the candidates so that I can make the best decision. Unfortunately, most of the time, after listening to debates and comparing the candidates values to mine, I rarely feel that I can wholeheartedly throw my support behind one of them. Then it becomes that horrible game of pick the lesser of the evils for me.


The latest 'oportunity' for me to exercise my right to vote is Nashville's mayoral race. The run-off election is next week, so we have been inundated with campaign ads. Yesterday, we got an ad in the mail for Bob Clement. It made me want to dope slap the man. Here is a Clement quote printed on the ad:

"I believe we must hold Nashville public schools strictly accountable for their performance, with no excuses accepted."


Why is it that no one will say out loud that unless students get the support and encouragement they need from home, they will continue to struggle in school?


It goes on to state that he 'knows a good education helps build strong families by creating economic opportunity...' blah, blah, blah.


Isn't that a little backwards? I thought is was the family that instilled the value of education and a good work ethic into its children.


For once I would like to see a candidate that was honest and would simply say, 'This is a complicated issue with no easy answer.'

The Straight Story

I know not all of you that read this blog check my movie review blog, so I decided to review this film here as well. The Straight Story is one of my all-time favorite movies, so I expect every single one of you out there to hunt this movie down from the library, netflix, or your neighborhood movie rental place.


I first saw this film back when I had Christi for a roommate. She needed to take a nap, but got so drawn in to the movie that she got mad and had to leave the room to take her nap.





It is based on the true story of Alvin Straight, an aging man who realizes he needs to make amends with the brother he hadn't spoken to in 10 years. He drives a lawn tractor across rural Iowa to make the trip.





I know many of you may not be as endeared to corn fields and tractors as I am, but I guarantee you that you will like the movie anyway. And if you aren't on the verge of at least one tear by the end of it, well, I'll be stumped.





For those of you with younger children, although this movie is rated G, there is one scene with a bit of old-man cussing. (It reminded me of my great uncle Babe, who like to throw G-d and hell around quite a bit.)

Nest

A year and a half ago, my neighbor up the street, Erika Johnson, who happens to be an incredibly talented artist, invited serveral women to be involved with an installation piece she did for a show at Vanderbilt University. I was lucky enough to be included.

Erika's piece included several cages and nests made out of wire that represented both the joy, the comfort, and also the restriction that we experience in relationships. (Forgive me, Erika, if I am butchering this.) I won't even attempt to describe what it looked like, but it was fabulous. Anyway, I helped out by building a nest.

She then made 'prints' of our nests using some sort of weird photographic process of which I can never remember the name. She gave mine to me for my birthday. I have finally framed it and hung it above our fireplace. I am very excited about it...

For those of you that live in or near Nashville, she has a few more installations that will be shown later this fall and next spring. Keep an eye out. It will be worth your while.

Growth

Finley is three. I look at her legs and am amazed at how those curved little chunks she started out with could grow so long, straight, and slender in such a short time.


Joe is almost a year and a half. My baby has turned into a little boy with a determined trot and a killer throwing arm. He does still like to cuddle up on his mama's shoulder, though. At least I still have that.


Almost more amazing to me is the growth spurt I have gone through.


I have a ficus that I started from a cutting about 13 years ago. I looked at it earlier this summer, and realized it hadn't grown in several years. Then I realized I hadn't been fertilizing it at all. It was in survival mode. I bought some Miracle-Gro and some Superthrive, and lo and behold, my little ficus looks like a whole new plant.


I think I'd been in survival mode for a while. But somebody must have spiked my punch with some Superthrive and Miracle-Gro. God is putting new bits of revelation into my mind and spirit, and it is changing the way I think, the way I operate. And it is good.

The Best Anniversary Gift Ever

Chris and I are celebrating our 5th anniversary.

I have finally learned that if I want something other than some good beer or another type of massager (that I inevitably make him return because I can't stand those electric vibrating things [they make me itch]), I need to tell Chris exactly what I want for a present.

So I asked for an electric pencil sharpener for Christmas this year. Then I told him I was getting desperate since the sharpener we salvaged from an old school is falling apart and the little hand-held tends to shred the wood of my art pencils. I told him I might have to buy myself an early Christmas present.

I ruined what I think was supposed to be a surprise, though. I saw him walk in the basement door today with an OfficeDepot bag in his hand, and since I couldn't figure out why he thought we would need a ream of paper, decided to investigate. He had bought me a sharpener and a box of colored pencils.

Unfortunately, the one he picked out only had one hole size... too small for my pastel pencils, so I had to take it back. I returned home with this fine piece of machinery... the one he said he thought about buying first (but since it was a bit pricier...). It is now sitting proudly near me on the desk.

If anyone wants to bring your pencils over, I might let you sharpen them.

The Three Year Old Mind

Finley likes for me to pray for her every night when she goes to bed. I ask her what she wants me to pray for, and in her quiet, I-might-be-embarrased voice, she says something like 'night, dreams, God, cereal, get up in the morning...'


A few days ago, I was sitting on the couch reading, and Finley decided to 'put me to bed.' She said I could sit up so that I could read for a while (just like I let her), then she asked if I wanted her to pray for me, so I said 'yes.' Then she proceeded to stroke the hair right around my ear as she prayed (just like I do for her). And if Chris tries to pray for her without stroking her hair... 'Daddy, you've got to rub my ear!'


The other night, she caught me off guard, and asked me, 'Pray Jesus comes in my heart.' (We have had numerous conversations about who and where Jesus is, and most of the time, my brain starts to shut down trying to figure out how to explain these concepts to a three year old.)


'Well,' I said. 'Do you want to pray to Jesus and ask him in your heart?'


'Yes.'


'Okay, just say, "Dear Jesus, please come into my heart."'


She scrunches her eyes shut, then says, 'Dear Jesus, please come in my heart.'
Then her eyes popped open, and said, 'Did a hole open up in the top of my head, then close right up again?'

Hummingbirds

I am pleased to announce that the hummingbirds have finally made their presence known... About two weeks ago, I noticed a bird trying to swallow some of the old, stale sugar-water I had left in the feeder. I whipped up a fresh batch, and now we have daily visitors. I don't know if the drought encouraged them to seek new sources of food, or what, but I am glad to have them.

The first picture is a bird at my feeder. The other is a shot of him sitting on our phone line, guarding his territory. If any other bird comes along to take a drink, he chases it off.

Fin's Hair

I just want to take a minute to brag on my accidentally good hair cutting capabilities.

A few months ago, I gave Finley a haircut. In an attempt to cut the longer, straighter top hair off of the curlier back hair in a sort of layered fashion, I cut off her curls as well. Thankfully, the side curls, which are the favorites of us all, as they tend to stick out in peculiar ways, remained. The result was a punky, trendy cut that actually looked good.

As it grew out, I debated on letting her hair grow out as most folks tend to favor long hair on little girls, but wasn't happy with the idea. This week, I cut her hair again, taking pains to leave the ear curls and trimming the longer wispy bangs so that they won't get stuck in her mouth when she eats. I trimmed up the lower back.

It looks great. And I am especially proud of the way her hairstyle helps give her head more shape, as she inherited a nice flat head from my side of the family. The only downside... once in a while, Finley has to bat her bangs out of her eyes. But that is a small price to pay for such a good look, and besides, I'd put a barrette in her hair if she'd leave it in.

Joe Sings His ABCs

Future American Idol contender?

Fly and Be Free

This morning (Sunday) as we were walking outside, Chris noticed that the butterflies had emerged from their cocoons. One was flapping furiously against the window. I was so distressed that I immediately opened the door and watched it fly away.

'What are you doing?!' Chris asked me. He wanted to get pictures. I reluctantly shut the door on the other two.

Here is a shot of the third butterfly as we 'released it back into the wild.'

Cocoon

Because I know most of you are just dying to know how our caterpillars are doing...

Well, really, I have no idea if you care, but I'll update you anyway. I didn't realize that when the caterpillars were ready to cocoon themselves, they wouldn't just jump happily onto the nice sticks I provided. All but one of them made several attempts to escape the nice confines of my critter cage. Three of them manage to attach themselves to various places on my sunporch before I could put them somewhere more appropriate.

The first one that escaped attached itself to a candle holder of mine. A day or two after it attached itself (forming fuzzy tie from its bottom), I checked on it as I took the kids outside to play. There were two strands of silk from it back suspending it away from the candle holder, and its green color was fading to a grey. When we came back into the house an hour later, it was cocooned, and a little ball of skin lay on the table beneath it.

I was determined to not miss the transformation of the next caterpillar, so when I noticed another one turning grey and wriggling in a strange way, I locked the kids in the house and only poked my head in once in a while to make sure they hadn't hurt themselves or were destroying something.

Everybody talks about the drama of the butterfly emerging from its cocoon, but somehow, I doubt it can compare to what I watched. Perhaps it is only because I can relate more to this stage of developement at this point in my life.

I have no idea how long the caterpillar wrestled within itself before it molted its last caterpillar skin. (They molt several times as they grow and eat the skin they shed.) I watched it off and on for an hour. Finally, the skin split around the head, and it writhed as it worked the skin down over its body. The skin balled up in front of its tail so that it was stuck between it and the stick it was attached to. It was now pale green and moist, and it looked so vulnerable, like the flesh of a wound that oozes. Although it was naked, it continued to writhe, working to get the old skin away from itself. When the old skin finally dropped away, it slowly calmed down.

Looking closely at the new, raw form, you could see hints of what it was going to be... Future butterfly legs and body and tail. It was amazing. Then the soft outer flesh started hardening. It started to tighten up so that vulnerable creases were pulled up in behind the new tougher flesh. The pale green faded, and soon it had closed itself into a grey and black little fortress, where it could continue its metamorphasis in relative safety.

Pursuit of the Potty

I had high expectations when I introduced the potty to Finley around 18 months. I potty trained myself at 23 1/2 months (No lie. I have written proof.), so I figured this would be a breeze. And Finley is my daughter, after all.


I had no idea how exceptional I was in that department. And I discovered that Finley was not going to be another version of me. I was relatively independent, but as a child, I exercised that independence safely within the boundaries set for me. Finley...


Finley is so independent, she likes to test the boundaries on a daily basis. Her confidence in herself when she is out in public amazes me at times. Like many two and three year old, she likes to do as many things for herself as possible... when it is convenient for her.


And Finley is so independent, she had gotten into the habit of wetting her pants at home because it was easier to do that than bother with the potty. Of course, she hadn't wet her pants away from home in probably six months.


So I asked her pediatrician if he had any advice, and he suggested cheap prizes to reward her when she initiates pottying on her own. Been there, Done that. M&M's, stickers, smiley faces... you name it. They all worked for a few days until she got bored with them or they were such a given, it wasn't real motivation anymore.


I have to admit, she has been pretty good in the poop department. It was obvious, though, that she would wait until the absolute last moment to deal with number twos.


So I think I've finally figured it out. It is all about keeping it new and interesting for her. I was reading some advice from one mom to another about night-time training, and she said she put the training potty next to the bed. The toddler was told to use it whenever needed in the night, and if he woke up dry, would receive a reward.


Anyway, I thought about trying that with Finley, and mentioned it to her. She got so excited about having her potty right next to her bed, that she asked me to go get it out of storage right then. That was nearly a week ago, and she hasn't had an accident since. She uses her little potty throughout the day (insisting on emptying it herself) as well as the big potty.


The funniest part to me is the change in her pooping habits. She would usually only deposit a number two in the toilet every two or three days... and it was usually very large. Since she's had the little potty out again, she's pooped in it every day, and, no surprise, they are much smaller.


Joe has taken an interest in the training potty, sitting on it whenever he can. Unfortunately at 16 months, I don't think he's quite ready for it yet.


Now I'm wondering what new gimmick I'll have to employ once Finley gets bored with her little potty again. What an adventure.

Caterpillars

My neighbor suckered me into taking some black swallowtail butterfly caterpillars to raise. I guess it wasn't that hard, since I love to see nature in action up close. I was hoping for just a few little larvae to watch in their journeys to adulthood, but I ended up with ten. Three of them are just babies that popped out of the shell today.

I tried to pawn a few of them off on another friend to raise, but she said she was doing well just to keep her two kids alive.
When I got them on Monday, two of them were black with a white midsection, and no longer than a half inch long. Today is Thursday, and most of them are about two inches long. The little black speckles is the poop from the caterpillars. That is just a half day's worth of poop.


I would tell you more about them, but since I can't give you a really good picture of what they look like, click here to find out the details about their lives and see a picture of what I hope will emerge from my lowly critter tank.

The Pioneer Lens

I am reading yet another pioneer book. I grew up on the Laura Ingalls Wilder series. Before I could read, I remember sitting in my mother's lap while she read it to me. As I got older, I read them myself... several times. I read them again about a year ago. I have always been fascinated by the detail in which they describe life in those days. I have dreamed about making my own maple syrup and pouring it into a pan of snow so that it would harden up to eat as candy.


To say I love these books is perhaps and understatement. I analyze my life through the lens that these books gives me. Sometimes they motivate me. Sometimes I get so overwhelmed at my lack of motivation in comparison with the pioneer women that it causes me to shut down. My life doesn't depend on my canning every tomato from my garden, but I almost feel cheated that it doesn't.


My pioneer lens really magnifies the absurdity of our modern affluence for me during birthdays and Christmas. Laura was excited to get a penny and a piece of candy for Christmas one year. My three year old opens one present, throws it aside, then demands, 'I want another present.' My heart breaks.

Finley's 3rd Birthday

Last Saturday, Finley turned three.



















She even help bake her own cake. Finley dumped in the ingredients, Reanna iced, and I decorated. We were all pleased with the results.



She enjoyed all the cake and presents, and has already been asking if she can have another birthday and be four.

The Neighbors, Part 3: Rose

The years have not been too kind to Rose. I often wonder what she looked like when she was young and just married. Allergies and genetics give her bags under her eyes that always make her look tired. She is fighting off diabetes with excercise and diet. Her doctor didn't think she could do it. Her doctor underestimated Rose. I bet many people do at first.


Rose is white, her husband, Danny, is black. Rose stayed home to take care of their son, Immanuel, until he reached school age. Staying home was the right thing to do, she said. At the time, they were living in the projects... not the best place to raise a child. One night a bullet shattered their front window and knocked the drapes down while Danny and Rose sat in the living room. Rose took cover on the floor. Danny ran back to make sure Immanuel stayed safe in his room. They were determined to get out of the projects, so once her son was in school, Rose went to work.


About 15 years ago, they finally left the projects. A friend of Rose's rented the house to them for a good price, and eventually Rose and Danny were able to buy it from him. Rose planted a flower garden out front, and they have made major improvements to the house since buying it.


Life in this neighborhood hasn't been easy either, however. Because of their mixed-race marriage, most neighbors shunned them, and prejudiced kids would yell racial slurs at Immanuel . The old woman that lived in our house before us once called the cops when Immanuel's basketball rolled under her bush. Rose got teary-eyed as she told us how much she appreciated us just accepting them for who they are.


In spite of all this, Rose is not afraid. Rose is not afraid to tell you the way things are. She is not afraid to open her arms and love those others won't. Rose is not afraid to ask for help when she needs it, and she gives help when she thinks you need it. I wish there were more Roses in the world.

Churchin' It - GC Style

This morning was a struggle. After staying up a little too late, and the kids getting up too early, I was tired and cranky.


I used to like to go to church... when I didn't have kids. The past two and a half year, however, it has been a struggle, so we tend to not go quite frequently. Worship always feels hectic, trying to keep up with two little ones that don't want to sit still. And although Finley has finally gotten over the separation anxiety and wants to go to her class, Joe is another matter. He does not want us to leave him in the nursery. The past three times we have gone, I have ended up in the nursery, trying to get him acclimated. It hasn't worked, and I got tired of missing the message. So I've given up.


I have to admit, though, that GC is doing it right. GC has always been family friendly. In its smaller days, children would run all around during worship, dancing and waving flags. Mothers (at least those comfortable enough to do it) nursed their children in the service, and nobody looked at them funny. Today, the family-friendliness lives on, although things have changed. The converted gym (aka 'sanctuary') is packed. The 'hospitality room' (old school library) is outfitted with ultra-comfy chairs and sofas where the nursing mothers can lounge and watch what is happening via video feed. The foyer is outfitted with a plasma monitor as well, which allows those with restless leg syndrome to watch out there. The coffee shop off the foyer also has a monitor.


Inspite of my crankiness, we went anyway. And today, it was good. Today, we discovered another cozy spot. This small suite of rooms with a couch and two chairs also had a TV. We were able to kick back, relax, and let Joe run around without having to chase him down a hall or aisle.


Now thats what I call church.

Neighbors Feedback Requested

I received an e-mail from somebody (who shall remain nameless) who felt uneasy reading my Neighbor posts. As I tried to state in N,P1 but maybe didn't express cleary, is that I am just trying to give snapshots of this little slice of my world (to the rest of you, who don't live in it) as I see it through my lens, which I try to keep as objective as I can. Not all things you look at in life are pretty... Does that mean one shouldn't take photographs?



So I have a few questions for you, dear reader:
Do you like or dislike the Neighbors series?
Does this qualify as gossip? (And does gossip have to be negative to qualify as such?)
Would you react differently if the writings were fictional?
Do you have any other thoughts or comments?


I do want to hear back from you. (Just click beneath the title where it says comments.) Leave your comment anonymously if that makes you more comfortable... and thanks. You will make me a better person for it.

The Neighbors, Part 2: Ronnie & Girlfriend?

Ronnie is Olene's son. Ronnie called on the 4th to tell us that Olene had passed away the day before... the same day I posted Neighbors Part 1. Chris felt bad and wanted me to edit my post. I didn't. Ronnie said that they made the decision to remove Olene from oxygen. He asked Olene if she was ready to see Jesus and Kenny, and she nodded her head. Kenny was Olene's other son that died earlier in the year of lung cancer.



Ronnie is the product of dysfunction. I suppose we all are to some extent. But Ronnie is the product of obvious dysfunction. Olene was one of those sweet, mama enablers that let her children walk all over her and rewarded them for doing so. We have other neighbors that are similar. I might get to that in a later post.



Anyway, Ronnie has what we think is a girlfriend. She weighs quite a bit more than Ronnie and is, ironically, named Misty. They met at work at a time when Ronnie had a cocaine habit. She befriended him and stuck with him through his rehab. Misty lived with Olene and Ronnie the first year or so we lived in the neighborhood.



Olene, who was going through chemo at the time, complained to Chris that they didn't help much around the house. Chris ended up mowing most of the yard, because Ronnie could never seem to mow more than the front patch of grass. Finally, Ronnie and Misty decided to move out... to Misty's dad's trailer. Olene became even more miffed. Ronnie ended up calling Chris about a grill left at Olene's, and Chris used the opportunity to give Ronnie a verbal spanking. Ronnie cried on the phone.



Eventually, Ronnie moved back in, and Misty moved to government assisted housing. Ronnie picks her up for weekend visits.



Ronnie is in his late thirties or forties, I would guess. (Can you tell by his photo?) We have never known him to be able to hold down a job longer than a few months, and in fact, he hasn't worked at all in the past year or so. Since getting power-of-attorney rights to Olene's bank account, has blown lots of money on booze and fireworks. Another example of Olene's enabling (aside from the obvious grown-man-living-at-home-for-free): she refinanced the previously paid-for house to cover any debts, including a year-old minivan that she gave to Ronnie. Ronnie was never taught how to handle money or life, and since Olene has died, he now thinks that the best decision is to allow the bank to foreclose on the house... Oh dear. What will become of Ronnie?

I had a weekend away with no children and nothing on my agenda. In spite of Joe crying half the morning (Mom, I know you hid my pacifier - where is it - I need it), I have a renewed sense of calm, and feel like I can do this mom thing for a while again without freaking out. At least until Friday.

I do like my kids. They are pretty cool so far. I'm a little worried about Joe, though. When Finley was his age I was able to focus when I needed to discipline and guide her. It's not so easy with Joe. I'm far more distracted so that he gets things his way a bit more than I'd like.

Coming back after a few days away let me see my children with fresh eyes. Finley is so much more of a growing little girl than I give her credit for. Her thought processes are maturing, and I need to be careful not to treat her like a toddler that just needs ordering around. Joe is really starting to figure things out. Even though he can't say three words so that a non-mom could understand him, he can communicate what he wants. This morning, he opened up the cupboard, put his hand on the toaster oven, and started whining. (Mom, I need a bagel.)

The Neighbors, Part 1: Olene

Since I am fairly confident that most of my neighbors don't read my blog, or know what blogs are, I have decided it would be fun to share them with you. Let me know what you think of the series...


My goal is to be as objective as possible, but I'm afraid that I'm not so good at objectivity, as most of my life has been dedicated to forming opinions about one thing or another. Our former pastor was once informed by his son that 'God doesn't care about your opinions.' I've chewed on that for a while, and am trying harder to find what I think is the truth rather than what my opinion is. It's a fine line, and I can't always tell which is which. And when it comes to people... an opinion equals a judgement. That said, let me introduce to you Olene.


Olene is old, I think. I don't know how old, but she has/had two sons in their early forties. That doesn't really tell you much. She might look older than she is because she has battled cancer for years.


Not long after we moved into our house, Olene was admitted to the hospital after a resurgence of her cancer. Chris and I went to visit her. I have to admit that beforehand, I had visions of going to minister to a kindly woman who was suffering and we would strike up a beautiful relationship. Silly me.


While we visited, Olene talked about how Jesus was her stay in life. How he had helped her out of an abusive relationship with her first husband. How the hope and strength she derived through her sickness was all from Jesus. I could feel a warm glow.


Then she talked about our neighborhood. She talked about how she wasn't racist, but didn't trust those black folk. She talked some more, but I don't know about what. We finally were able to cut in to tell her we needed to leave. We prayed for her and left, the warm glow long gone.


Olene was released from the hospital not long after that, and for the next couple years, I have to admit, I tried to avoid her. I haven't much patience for people that talk only about themselves and never ask you any questions. And Olene could talk until you wished a Mack truck would come out of nowhere and run you over to put you out of your misery. It wasn't really hard to avoid her, though, because I don't think she ever remembered my name. She did, however, remember Chris' name and frequently called to have Chris come help with this or that, ignoring the fact that she had two capable, if lazy, sons. I learned to make sure that Chris took his cell phone so that I could call to give him an excuse to come back home.


Chris says Olene likes to complain about the neighbor in between us, Clay. Clay works a graveyard shift, cleaning at a hospital. He comes home in the morning, and only comes out to mow the yard and get the mail. He says 'hi' to us and is quiet and courteous. Apparently, he draws Olene's criticism because he doesn't own a weed-eater. But my guess is it's because he's black.


Olene is back in the hospital now, and her remaining son is just waiting for her to die. We are wondering what kind of neighbors we'll get when she's gone.

Green Grass

Chris is proud of his stripes. After mowing the lawn yesterday, he went outside to take pics of the yard.

We get lots of comments on our yard. Mostly, folks wonder how we get such a lush, weed free lawn. I'm going to tell you our secret. We learned these secrets from Mike McGrath, who has an organic gardening program on NPR called 'You Bet Your Garden.'

The first thing is... there are weeds... You just don't notice them.

Secondly, we don't use chemicals, but we do aerate and over seed once a year (though not with that crazy Bermuda grass).

But most importantly... All of you out there who hate to mow tend to cut the grass as short as possible so that you don't have to mow as frequently? Well, that works, but the trade-off is stressed-out grass and happy weeds. Set the mower to cut the grass 2.5 - 3 inches high (instead of just above dirt level), and you will leave the grass its food source. It will then be able to establish a healthier root system, which in turn creates healthier grass, all of which helps to choke those weeds out.

No Hummers This Year

I'm sad. Not because we aren't able to buy a big, ugly SUV this year...


I don't have any hummingbirds.


Last year, we had three or four in our neighborhood. One bird would come and sit in the ficus tree on our front porch, guarding the feeder that hung out there. Any other poor, hungry bird would immediately get chased off whenever its beak got too close. I would sit and watch for minutes on end. (Moms don't have hours to sit and stare.)


This year, perhaps due to the late frost or some other unknown (maybe Finley screaming at the first hummingbird that approached as we sat on the porch), my feeders have remained without patrons.

Brains

I am reading Bringing Up Boys by James Dobson. My sister-in-law gave it to me for my birthday. She said it has helped her understand her son better... I was hoping it would help me understand my husband a little better, and it has...

Dobson explains the physiological differences between boys and girls, and during the 6th or 7th week of the developement of the male fetus, there is a 'spiking' of the testosterone hormone which (this is the quote, no joke...) "actually damages the walnut-shaped brain..."

I was going to leave it at that, but I suppose that's not fair to my husband... Lately I had been wondering why he just doesn't get the connections between his words and/or actions, and the resulting hurt feelings, etc. by me or other members of the household. Well, I guess he has a good excuse: Due to his 'brain damage,' he just can't connect those dots. I know once in a while, the Holy Spirit steps in and helps him via 'revelation,' but I guess the job is mainly mine right now.

Solomon, John Wayne, Life...

As I was in the shower this morning, I had the notion that Solomon must have been my age when he wrote Ecclesiastes. When he was young and idealistic, he asked God for wisdom. Perhaps as his ideals were held up to the light of reality which wisdom can't ignore, he saw his ideals for what they were, and became a little cynical and depressed. Then he wrote Ecclesiastes.

I got a Louis L'Amour book from the library yesterday to enjoy some light reading. I've read a few in the past, and they give you the feeling of watching a good action movie. This time, however, my enjoyment was stifled by a new perspective of westerns.

Our cookout a few weeks ago was attended by one of Chris' friends and his wife and sister-in-law. The women are twin Native Americans that grew up on a reservation in Nebraska. Late in the evening, after most of the guests were gone, they sat smoking cigarettes, drinking beer, and relating they oppression they experienced growing up. In their discourse, they described bleaching hair in attempts to pass as white. They described the relief they felt when they moved to Tennessee, where 'Indians' aren't the focus of racial prejudice. And they despise John Wayne.

Hate John Wayne? The great American hero who shot bad guys and protected the women and the homestead from those wild and crazy Indians? Oh.

On another tangent... I received an e-mail about a massive, 23-foot alligator that was caught in a Texas lake where there aren't supposed to be alligators. The end of the e-mail stated that it was a shame they killed it... That it would have been helpful in the Rio Grand. I can imagine the writer is also a republican who also is against stem-cell research and raves about the sanctity of human life. And I suppose if he or she happened to be born in a third world country, he or she would be content to sit and starve in a slum when the 'promise of a better life' was just a few hundred miles away.

The big picture is not black and white.

I should write my own modern-day Ecclesiastes.

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