Author: admin

Raising a teenager is not always a walk in the park. It’s nearly impossible to keep well-fitting clothes on the child. No matter how often we go to the store there is never enough food in the house. We are always trying to find the balance between independence and guidance.

Today, though, was a walk in the park… literally.

It was a beautiful fall day. Rain last night took many of the leaves off the trees, but the ones that remained seemed to know this was their last opportunity to put on a show.

One of our favorite things to do with The Progeny is to put her in the car and take her somewhere without telling her where she’s going. So, as soon as she stepped off the bus, I put her in the car, and started driving to a local park so we could enjoy the beautiful weather and the fall foliage. She asked where we were going, of course, but I wouldn’t tell her.

I was aflutter with the excitement of surprising her with a pretty walk on a pretty day. She took the wind out of my sails when we arrived at the park and she said, “Mooooom,” in that way only a teen can and then said she was hungry. We weren’t 100 feet on the trail when she started to complain that her feet hurt.

I was tempted to turn back. I wanted to enjoy a beautiful fall day and that was not going to happen with a complaint every couple of minutes. But I really wanted to be outside. I’m not often stubborn, but I dug in my heels on this one and made her continue.

As she got distracted throwing rocks in the stream, crunching in leaves, playing with a stick in the water, and panicking that I was going to fall while I climbed a fallen tree she started to talk. I listened. She told me about her essay in English, and her idea for an internet safety video game, and about a story she is working on, and about a funny incident at school, and about things going on with her friends. We didn’t talk the whole time. A lot of the time we listened to the creek talking to itself, the birds talking to everyone, and the wind talking to no one in particular.

We didn’t walk the whole trail. The Progeny was hungry, so it was time to turn back, but we walked about a mile, and it was enough.

A mile was enough to see and appreciate the beauty of God’s creation and to connect with one another.

Today was not a good day.

I saw the school’s caller ID on the display on my work phone. There was still a chance that it wasn’t bad news. We had recently taken some supplies to local schools, so it could have been about that.

It wasn’t.

When I answered the phone, it was The Progeny’s math teacher. It’s never good when a teacher calls you at work. He had had to write her up.

She knows better than to do what she did. We know we have taught her better, but she made a poor choice today.

We were mad. We’re still mad.

We didn’t yell.

We took her computer and we restricted her activities. We also played some games with her, cuddled with her, watched a TV show with her, ate with her, and talked with her. But we didn’t yell at her.

Today, we had a choice. We could have yelled and let her know we were in charge and that she messed up. Or we could remind her that even when she messes up, we love her and will work with her. She’s not getting a free pass by any means, but hopefully today she learned that while there are consequences for her choices, she has parents who love her and will be there for her to help her find a way to do better next time.

I have a confession to make.

I love romantic comedies. I also love those cheesy movies on cable where the country guy with the flannel shirt and golden retriever woos the city girl when she realizes how materialistic she’s become after she returns to her hometown because her crazy old aunt left her an inn she has to run while aforementioned Flannel Man does the repairs so she can sell it. I love that those movies end the way I want them to. They’re predictable. They’re stable. They’re (usually) entertaining. I’m not saying they’re valuable as art, or even examples of good relationships, but they’re a nice way to escape for a couple hours now and then.

I read that those movies are problematic because they give people unrealistic expectations of relationships. Personally, I never had difficulty understanding that no one was going to stop an airplane to sing me a song… he wrote… in the car… driven by a rock star… on the way to the airport… or search every yellow cab in New York City to find me so he can confess his undying love for me… while lifting me in the air… in the snow… with my rescue dog at his feet… while the orphaned children whom I just fed cookies (that I made in my new bakery) “ooOOOOooo” in their childish way. A bigger problem with those movies is that they end at the beginning. They end where the new life of the couple begins. We never learn what happens in the Happily Ever After. The problem is that it makes people think that once the wedding bells ring, that’s it… it’s all smooth sailing from there. Those of us who are married know that is not the case at all. Life is not smooth sailing and if you’re living a life together you are not experiencing smooth sailing.

In my teen years, while other girls were reading Danielle Steel novels (another great source of unrealistic expectations), I was reading the writings of Laura Ingalls Wilder. Though I’ve only read it once (because I have issues with the circumstances of the posthumous publication, but that’s a topic for another day), The First Four Years is an excellent illustration of what real love in real life is. In their first four years of marriage, Laura and Almanzo lose their crops multiple times which leads to their financial ruin, they experience illness that leaves him partially paralyzed for the rest of his life, they lose a child, and they lose their home and nearly all their possessions to fire. At the end of the four years, they remain committed to each other and the life of farming they chose together. In her middle age Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote for The Missouri Ruralist and in many of her articles she provides illustrations of their partnership in life. Her writing reflects their mutual love and respect for one another in the small, quiet, everyday things. There’s nothing flashy or dramatic about their life together; it is simply waking up each day being thankful for each other and working together to live life whether the seas are calm or rough. This quiet, strong, supportive love was the Happily Ever After I wanted when I grew up.

Bugs ‘n Plugs and I will be celebrating our 16^th anniversary next week. Happily Ever After has not been smooth sailing for us. We’ve lost family members, experienced multiple financial setbacks, had frustrations at work, navigated special needs parenthood, helped when our parents have had medical issues, and cared for each other when we’ve experienced health issues. Happily Ever After has definitely not been smooth sailing. Still, we’re excited and grateful… not because we have another anniversary together, but because we have another day together. Before our 12^th anniversary we almost didn’t have another anniversary… twice. Once, Bugs ‘n Plugs was diagnosed with kidney cancer and a few years later he had a pulmonary embolism. In both instances the doctors gave me scary news and then left me alone in a hospital room while they took him for testing or a procedure. I wish I could say I prayed when they left the room with him. I did… eventually. But first, I thought of every scary thought and worst-case scenario there was to think about. I didn’t cry or fret, but inside my brain was a pretty dark place to be. Both instances happened before my 40^th birthday and when you say your vows at your wedding, you don’t think “until death do us part” will happen before your 40^th birthday. Though everything turned out fine both times, we learned to be thankful for every day together because the next anniversary is not a guarantee. Happily Ever After has not been smooth sailing, but we’ve sailed the rough patches together. We’ve cried and prayed together, supported each other, and loved each other. We wake up each day thankful for one another, we remain each other’s favorite person and best partner, we commit to loving one another and praying for one another daily, we respect each other, and we laugh together. There is nothing flashy or dramatically romantic about our life together, it is a quiet, strong, supportive love.  Maybe our life wouldn’t make a good romantic comedy, but I have the Happily Ever After I dreamed of when I was a teen and that quiet, strong, supportive love that can weather the storms of life is better than any grand gestures or romantic speeches.

The last few weeks I’ve been thinking about my dad’s socks.

Not just any socks.

I have been thinking about his ugly, itchy, gray “I <3 Dad” socks. When my brother and I were little, Mom let us pick out a gift for him, so we got him these horrible socks for Father’s Day and he was still wearing them in my late teens or possibly even into my 20s. I folded laundry, so I know they weren’t comfortable socks, either. He wore them just because we gave them to him, and he loved us.

Dad has been gone almost 9 years now and today is his birthday. He would have been 69. Most days I just live life; I think about Dad, but my thoughts don’t interfere with daily life. Some days though, I really miss him. At times, things can be pretty lonely without him. Bugs ‘n Plugs said that I am an “Island of Stability in the Sea of Chaos that surrounds” me. I’m honored and touched that he views me that way and it’s become something of a joke in our house when my ADHD Army does something to ruffle my feathers. But sometimes… it’s lonely. Dad was another Island of Stability in the family dynamic and now it’s just me. At least, it feels that way sometimes.

Growing up, it was very clear that I was Dad’s kid, and my brother was Mom’s kid, even down to the blood types! Dad and I were quiet, driven, fastidious, and responsible. Mom and my brother were more free-spirited, flexible, spontaneous, and gregarious. When Dad needed help with a project around the house, I liked to be around to be his helper. When we would get something from the drive thru or get take-out, Dad and I would go pick it up. I ran a lot of errands with Dad.

So, now I’m thinking about his socks. He wore those itchy gray socks year after year just because he loved us. He passed up an opportunity to apply to the astronaut training program because he loved us. He retired earlier than he had to so we wouldn’t have to move after we started high school. He drove us to music lessons. He helped us with homework. He helped us research colleges. He pointed out things that we would think were interesting in the newspaper. He saved the comics page for us. He went without so we wouldn’t have to. And, he wore his “I <3 Dad” socks. All just because he loved us.

I was talking to a friend yesterday about how the Armed Forces Medley can be difficult for me sometimes because the Air Force song makes me think of Dad. But, it’s not a bad difficult. I’m glad I had a dad who loved me so much that that song makes me a little sad. I’m grateful that he was such an excellent example of love and sacrifice that thinking of him makes me a little melancholy sometimes. So, on Dad’s birthday, I’m going to think about his socks and about the love and pride with which he wore them, just because he loved us.

My MBTI personality type is ISFJ and one of the great things about being an ISFJ is that my memory is strongly connected to my senses. Certain sensations can take me back to memories that I can recall with vivid detail. Gentle summer breezes rustling through trees, lightning bugs dancing their illuminated dances, a warm wind blowing on my face, freshly cut grass, and verdant vistas bring back friends, silly situations, and fond memories.

Last night, I was at an outdoor church event and decades of summer memories came flooding back to my mind as I watched the clouds chase each other across the sky and listened to wind whisper through the leaves of the trees.

I remembered leaving my best friend’s rehearsal dinner the night before her wedding and looking over a field filled with thousands of lightning bugs sparkling in one of the most stunning displays of God’s creation I’ve ever witnessed. I remembered a night during college when my high school friends and I were all home and we stood in one friend’s driveway until 2:00 AM talking and catching up, none of us having any clue what time it was because we were enjoying each other’s company. I remembered the sense of freedom I felt with a hot wind blowing on my face from the open windows in the back of my friend’s car as we went to the movies on a weeknight, knowing we didn’t have to get up in the morning. I remembered games of Ghost in the Graveyard and Flashlight Tag with neighborhood kids. I remembered running up and down my grandparents’ street with a jar, trying to catch lightning bugs. I remembered the excitement of going to a church dance with a friend, wondering if we might meet someone special there. I remembered coming home to Mom and Dad with the sounds of baseball on TV and crickets chirping outside. I remembered walking with a friend to buy Slurpees at 7-11. I remembered getting ice cream with friends and walking and talking together as we ate it.

There was something special about those summer nights. Maybe it was the freedom of knowing I didn’t have to get up for school the next day. Maybe it was the potential for adventures. Maybe it was the increased time outside connecting with God’s creation.

As adults, I don’t think we take the time to appreciate these things. I guess for one thing, summers don’t mean the freedom from responsibility they did when we were younger. I think we also seem to have either a self-imposed or society-imposed expectation to be always doing something or to be always engaged in some work… or, maybe that’s just me. But next time you get a chance to be out on a summer’s night, take a minute to listen to the wind, watch the lightning bugs, feel the cooling of the air, and smell the grass and see if it doesn’t take you back to those summer nights when you were younger. Then, even for just a minute, you can be that kid or teen enjoying freedom, anticipating adventure, and enjoying God’s creation.

Some women are born to be Pinterest moms. Their perfectly cleaned and organized homes, organic meals, and well-behaved children provide inspiration (even if it is only 30% real). Then there are the Failblog moms. Their disasters, good intentions gone wrong, and Pinterest fails provide laughter. I am in this second category of mom. It might seem, based on what I pin on my neatly-organized Pinterest boards, like I have it all together and I would be one of those first kind of women, but what I pin and what I do are two vastly different things. This was evident a few weeks ago when my plan to surprise The Progeny with a visit from her dogs turned into a disaster of epic proportions.

I got my first opportunity to be a car rider mom several weeks ago when The Progeny’s school went to four days of in-person instruction. That morning, I got her in the car and dropped her off with a kiss and a smile and drove off like I’d been doing it her whole life! Score one for me!

Then, I got a little too bold!

I decided The Progeny would love to be surprised with the dogs when I picked her up that afternoon. In my mind, I could envision her cherubic face alight with the elation of seeing her beloved canines wagging their tails so fast their whole bodies wiggled, and I could hear the happy whines from the dogs as she jumped in the car greeting them. What a beautiful picture I painted for myself. Bugs ‘n Plugs advised against this plan. He was afraid that our younger dog, who is a bit of a wild man, would run away as soon as the car door was opened. Not to worry! I had a plan! I tied him to the seat with his leash! Patting myself on the back for thinking a way around the greatest catastrophe we could imagine, I headed to the school to wait in the car rider line with the dogs, confident that my Pinterest Mom trophy was in the bag!

After our 45 minute long wait in the car rider line (because that’s how early you have to get there if you want to see your child before suppertime), The Progeny jumped in the car and was buckled without incident! Score two for me! Now we were all happily heading home.

And then it happened. A malodorous cloud began to permeate the minivan. At first, we figured our younger dog had gassed us as it’s something he’s wont to do. But the smell lingered in the air even with the windows wide open. This was not a simple gassing. I looked back at a red light and there on the floor in the back was a pile of dog excrement. That is bad enough, but this pile had paw prints in it. That’s right, prints, as in the plural form of the noun print. Both dogs had stepped in it. Now, we live in a small town, so everything is about five minutes away and we were already halfway home. But the remaining two or three minutes to the house felt like an eternity. The mile or two seemed like a trek across the galaxy. And the dogs would not sit still. They were walking all over the van. I don’t like to think they were trying to do it on purpose, but they spread that mess over the car with an efficiency rivaling even the most disciplined military units.

We arrived at home. The Progeny bolted into the house, so I was left alone with two dogs with poop paws and a van full of pungent poop. I put the poopy pups in the backyard to deal with them later. Then, I gathered the appropriate accoutrements to begin the cleaning and I sat in the driveway. I just sat for a while, looking at the car and contemplating the ways I might be able to destroy it and still collect the insurance money for it. What stories could I weave that the insurance company might believe? I just sat in the driveway laughing for a while, the neighbors probably think I’m crazy. Finally, I decided I had to be an adult and actually clean the car… and the dogs. Fortunately, the mess was pretty much contained to the floor and hard surfaces and it wasn’t too hard to clean, and the dogs just required a little foot bath.

In life, poop happens. And when it does, you just have to be an adult and clean it up. Of course, if you’re not trying to be a Pinterest Mom, it doesn’t necessarily have to happen in your car!

A few days ago, my mom and I picked up some burgers at a drive thru while we were on the road. We were trying to save time, so we ate while I drove. I’m no stranger to eating while driving; Bugs ‘n Plugs and I often pick up burgers from the drive thru when we’re making a trip. But, as much as I love my mom, the process wasn’t as smooth as it is when Bug ‘n Plugs and I take a trip together. We have a routine we do when we get food at the drive thru. The passenger manages handing out the food while the driver eats their meal a part at a time. It’s like a dance. Whichever of us is the passenger anticipates the need of the driver and ensures that the next thing is ready while taking care of the trash from the previous thing.

I think this is one of my favorite parts of being married to Bugs ‘n Plugs. I love that in our life we have these little things about us that just work. And it is only through learning about one another and growing together that we have arrived at this point. Now, I’m not saying we get it right all the time; we never will, but I love that with each passing year more of these little dances exist in our life together.

Last summer we bought a new swing for the deck when we had to cancel our vacation plans. I think it might be my favorite thing we’ve ever purchased for the house because it gives me an opportunity to do something I rarely do: sit.

Just sit.

I am often seated, but I am usually engaged in some sort of work while seated. But every now and then I sit on the swing.

Just sit.

The gentle sway of the swing, the slight breeze, and the sounds of the suburban paradise all come together to bring back times I spent sitting on the breezeway of my grandparents’ house with my grandma. My grandma and I were early risers and when my family would visit, I would sit with her on the breezeway in the mornings while everyone else was getting moving in the house (this is what my kid mind remembered, who knows if that’s how it really was). I can still hear the hum of traffic, the soft rustling of trees, and the shrill screech of blue jays. My grandma was a busy lady. She kept the house running and I’m sure our visits made that task more difficult. But when we visited, she and I would sit.

Just sit.

These are some of my fondest memories. The breezeway at my grandparents’ house meant both quiet and activity; solitude and company. No one ever went in the house through the front door when I was there. Everyone came through the breezeway. It was where we would have jars of lightning bugs in summer and where we’d stomp snow off boots in winter and play with cousins in whatever time of year we were there. It was where neighbors would stop to chat as they went by on morning or evening walks. But my favorite thing we did in the breezeway was sit.

Just sit.

When we built our house, we opted not to add a front porch because it was prohibitively expensive and would have been too small to be able to have a swing or rockers. When I walk around our neighborhood, I notice that most of the houses don’t have usable porches (and breezeways are definitely not a thing you see!). Houses now don’t have places to sit.

Just sit.

Maybe they should.

Maybe if there were more sitting spaces we’d all be more relaxed. We’d all have a place to get back in touch with our families, our neighbors, our Lord, and ourselves. The breezeway at my grandparents’ house was unique because my grandpa built it with his dad so it’s not the kind of thing you see in a lot of houses. But maybe it should be. I wonder how many of the issues that seem so impossibly big might be put into perspective if we all learned to sit on a porch or a swing and think and talk and connect. And sit.

Just sit.

You can’t improve what you don’t practice.

I’ve put this project on hold for several years. Partly because I was struggling to find time to devote to learning what I needed to learn to make a successful blog. Partly because I discovered there were pieces to a blog I needed and I didn’t know how to go about getting them. And partly because I had come to a point in life where I was feeling like I didn’t have much to contribute. I suppose it came down to struggling to find hope and humor… which was a pretty big impediment to a blog devoted to finding hope and humor.

So, why come back here now? Practice. I play the flute and one of the many things playing an instrument has taught me is that you can’t improve what you don’t practice. I don’t have all the nuts and bolts figured out, but while I work on figuring that out I can practice.

Mom, The Progeny, and I traveled Home for my great aunt’s funeral a couple weeks ago. The capitalization of Home is not a typo. My Home has always been there. My parents are both from there. All our relatives live there or used to live there. In my childhood, it was always the place to which we returned, but I have never actually resided there. As I’ve mentioned before, my childhood was full of transience. Dad went to the Air Force Academy straight out of high school and after that he lived where the Air Force told him to live… and once they got married, so did Mom… and once we came along, so did we. But we always returned Home whenever we could.

When someone asks me where I’m from, it always begins with, “Well, Mom and Dad are from…” This is because until I was 18, I had never lived anywhere more than four years (and even that was not in the same house, just the same town). Military families embrace this lifestyle (at least mine did); many of them had magnets or embroidery or cross stitch or some other type of folk art display saying, “Home is where the Air Force (or other branch) sends you” or “Bloom where you are planted.” But don’t feel bad for those of us who grew up in this situation; I’ll address why it isn’t such a bad thing another day. But finding and defining Home when you live this lifestyle can be challenging.

My parents’ Home was always the place to which we returned because that’s where all the family was. All my living grandparents and most of the aunts, uncles, and cousins were there. I remember spending days just visiting all of them. The sights and sounds of that area are as much a part of my childhood as time spent with my parents and brother. Now, as an adult, I look forward to going there any time the opportunity arises. I may have never lived there but it will always be Home to me. Home doesn’t have to be the address on your driver’s license or the city on your birth certificate; it’s where your heart finds its rest and happiness. So, make yourself at a Home!