Author: dailyparrscription

I wonder if our beloved dogs and cats and squirrels go over the rainbow bridge, our sweet, precious fish swim under it as they are flushed down the tunnel that surely only leads to that great big banquet in the sky.

I wonder.

R.I.P. to the small school of fish that the Parrish household attempted to keep alive. It’s a direct correlation of our life right now.

Some months ago, when that darned fair came to town, my middle love got the opportunity to go with a parent that is nicer than her own. (I gave birth to her, and the way I see it is that it’s my ticket-out-of-going-to-the-fair ever. I don’t owe her that luxury. Maybe she even owes ME. No? Come on… ) Anyhoo, a few goldfish ping-pong-throwing-in-the-bowl-games later, and she is the proud owner of not one, but two fish. She only won once, but somehow hit the jackpot of the game and got the fish with a sidecar . She named them “Pumpkin” and “Spice” because she is basic, and what self respecting almost pre-teen girl with a fair fish wouldn’t name them some cult-y seasonal term? She’s mine.

And you know what happens when you get a tender hearted girl a fish? You’re going to need a fish bowl. Fortunately for our girl, her Daddy is pretty tender hearted himself when it comes to living creatures (which is why he refuses to kill a roach, he claims), so he took that baby to PetSmart after our dinner of sushi. (And don’t dare that middle one to do anything for a dollar…no, they wouldn’t sashimi the goldfish.)

Now, I feel like you need to know if you go to get any sort of item for a pet in your life at PetSmart, be prepared to for the great inquisition. What kind of fish is this? Where did you obtain said fish? Oh, the fair…also known as a fish mill (in the most condescending tone). Where are you going to keep the fish? Are you prepared for the responsibility? And then…Oh, a goldfish cannot go into that fish bowl. It isn’t large enough. (FOR THE LOVE, WHY DO YOU EVEN SELL THE BOWLS? OH, FOR THE CARNIES.) You need proper water conditioners and a toy for the fish to entertain them. And don’t forget the food…we don’t recommend the low-end brand… these fish deserve better. So, $27.56 later, after prying the el-cheapo plastic fish bowl and gourmet flakes from the hands of a reluctant sales associate, we had a spot for Pumpkin and Spice.

Yuppy guppies.

Those two fish were as happy as clams.

Well, Christmas came and Christmas went. Not that fast and not that easy. After about four hundred tours of duty standing guard of my closet of presents like the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, two hundred other obligations, and all of the stress that comes with it, we became the proud owners of another living, breathing (yes, betta fish are gulpers-whowouldathunkit), creature. That’s what G’s boy wanted, a fish of his very own. And being that a grandmother purchased said living quarters for this creature, henceforth known as “Vader Betta,” this fish was even yuppier. He not only had a larger, filtered watery mansion, but plants! and rocks! and LED lights! and even more gourmet food! and his very own PERSONAL HEATER. Yes. You read that right. Vader had it all. The PetSmart employees love my mother.

Y’all know about middle children, right? They are competitive little boogs. Especially ours. SHE WILL NOT BE OUTDONE. Pooling her money (that’s sorta punny, right there), she requested a trip back to the PetSmart. She needed to move Pumpkin and Spice on up. A million questions later, we head home with a tank larger than her brother’s, and begin the process of setting up. After arranging the new digs for the fair fish, we transfer them to their new home. Apparently they weren’t ready. Kind of like winning the lottery and having no guidance with the spoils. They just couldn’t handle it. Because obviously we did nothing wrong.

And so, the next morning, Pumpkin and Spice went to their watery grave.

And middle child wanted more fish.

So, back to the PetSmart we go, ready to unload more dough. We took our water sample to be tested, and after determining that it was safe for new fish, we were asked lots of questions. And because we are honest people, we answered truthfully, and I kid you not, THEY WOULD NOT SELL US A FISH. We had a waiting period for our tank, since it was a new set up. Yes. Wait like we were buying a firearm. We left, but oldest child with a betta fish for the plastic bowl that was now vacant. (Apparently they are the most virile of all fishes so no wait time was required.)

After our waiting period was over, we went back to our second home and got two neon fish. Little brother tagged along this time and he got a snail for cleaning his tank. Following all instructions from the fish monger thisclosely, we introduced the fish to their new home. They seemed happy.

Until that morning. Nothing like a kid waking you up to a floater. (Any kind of floater for that matter.)

Returning to the scene of the money sink hole, with one dead fish in a plastic bag for proof, we received a replacement fish and a bill for another one because apparently the fish lady just thinks these fish like to school and we need ANOTHER one. She was sincerely hesitant to sell it though, because our tank was a half a gallon shy for these type of fish’s taste. I thanked her for her advice and answering my questions, and if I’m lying I’m dying but she said, “Anything to give these little guys a happy life.” Where even am I?

Got home and the other fish was floating. Middle child is now in tears and refuses to add the other fish to this water that must be toxic. Drive back to the fish exchange to seek help, complete with another water sample and another fish in a ziploc casket. The water comes back clear for move in for these fish we had gotten an hour ago and the employee that we now know on a first name basis encourages me to add more slime enzyme and give the new ones a chance.

So I did.

Next morning. More floaters. More tears. We can’t keep fish alive. (This will be added to the list of things my child will need therapy for later in life. Yes. A list. We’re human. I just hope her therapist reminds her that we did keep her alive, however.)

I dump out the water and wash all the stuff in the tank and set it all up again. I’m not going down like this.

Back to PetSmart to show them I mean business. Do not judge me PetSmartians! I demand fish. I have more questions to answer. A new one this time: what is the ambient temperature of your house? (OK. This had gotten ridiculous. There is no way on this beautiful earth that my husband was going to adjust the thermostat for a fish. )

68 degrees, ma’am.

(Audible scoff) The temp of the water in the tank couldn’t be over 74 then, which is the optimum temperature for these finned friends. Don’t y’all have a thermometer in it?

We do.

What’s it read?

hesitantly…70…ish

Well there you go. You need a heater. You’ve been shocking your fish to death.

We left, with three replacement fish, a snail, and a heater. Those three are still swimming the waters of Lake Parrish.

Fins crossed.

As this goes to press, over the course of the day, our oldest’s betta has now turned ashen and is moving like it needs a walker. And it has it’s own personal heater, so what could it possibly be this time?

Anybody got a fair fish and a plastic bowl?

Morale of the story: Better isn’t always betta.

So so full. Anybody else have a hard time zipping your jeans up this morning? Or did you just say to heck with it and put on some yoga pants? Or just leave the top button unbuttoned? Or just going pantsless?

I feel you.

And speaking of feeling, I’m all in mine today.

Sure, I was grateful yesterday, but this morning when I woke up, I had to put words to my thoughts, as I’m prone to do.

So so full of thanks.

Like the job I was gifted this year. Eighteen precious little Kindergarten nuggets who call me Mrs. Parrish at least 1800 times a day.

“Ok, boys and girls. Let’s think of things that comes in pairs. For instance, shoes…”

“Hands!”

“Eyes!”

“Your chins, Mrs. Parrish!”

“Which is heavier, an elephant or Mrs. Parrish?” (This was a math lesson, not an attempt for praise)

With feeling, “Mrs. Parrish!”

See how blessed I am?

In all seriousness, getting hugs and snot rubbed on me and marriage proposals from six year olds and grins of confidence when the light bulb goes off–these things are wonderful.

So thankful.

And the time spent these past few days with my people. My family and extended family. Bliss. Watching my children play with my cousin’s children- whom had never met prior to – like they had known each other forever and ever and just run and laugh and play and eat all.the.sugar. (we’re related, remember?) just filled my tank. And memories just started coming all the way back up –I’m guessing because that tank was full again–and I could see and feel seven year old me as a kid playing with these cousins. These cousins whom we only saw once a year, the ones that I would literally not be able to sleep the night before they would get here. Those ones. Getting pushed all over our Mema’s house in a plastic baby tub, sledding down the stairs, and screaming, “Again, again!” to one of the male cousins, much to his chagrin, I’m sure– those sort of memories. As the kids played, we now adults (sort of) chatted and laughed and reminisced on Thanksgivings past- little Mema and her little pitcher of tea, feasts in garages with pictures hung to add ambience, the go kart races that would take place that week, and all the loved ones that left us way too soon. Just way too soon. And while that sort of makes you feel a little empty, us together makes me feel overflowing. (And sometimes overserved, we are Irish, ya know?!) Like a little patch for the holes in your heart that only family can fill. Oh but heaven…those will be eternally full days!

(And P.S. other side of the family…I LOOOOVE y’all too and missed our fireside chats and our kids playing and getting overserved with y’all too, and y’all ain’t even Irish!)

Just full. Heart full, belly full,

Wonder-full.

I’m thankful.

I’m sitting in an (a? an? Who even knows) urologist office. A urologist. I’m 38.

Hi. I’m Betsy Pee-rish. No. Betsy Wetsy. No. Betsy Parrish. I’m new here.

“Hi Betsy.”

How did I get here? When did this happen? I thought I had all of this under control. What a slippery slope…

I’m called to the back. Another waiting room. 35 mixed-matched chairs of navy, burgundy, and flesh colored pleather. Because pleather isn’t absorbent, I suppose, and can easily be wiped off with a Clorox wipe.  A wall of doors marked man/woman/family/whateveryouclaim screams at me. I’m passed an adorable plastic cup and told nothing. I should know what this passing of the baton means already as I walked in the door clearly marked urologist this morning. Hesitant glances fly all over this holding cell. Don’t make eye contact don’t make eye contact don’t make eye contact I’ll get stage fright and then what? As I open the door to go in, I know they all know what’s about to go down. Or come out. Privacy, where art thou? Pride, I’ll pick you back up when I leave this place.

Maybe.  As long as I don’t sneeze or have a fit of giggles first.

I don’t even want to touch a thing behind door number 1. Would it be appropriate to ask the nurse for some rubber gloves? Or a bottle of Lysol to do a spray down? The small aluminum door between me and the rest of the world (or at least the tiny man behind the curtain a la Whiizzzard of Oz) is not sound proof. I can hear the cup bearers talking about their weekend shenanigans and their mother in laws and that there’s only ten more Mondays ’til Christmas.  I’d prefer a little chamber (pot) music instead.  WHAT IS THIS PLACE AND HOW DID I GET HERE???

(All of these too many details to tell you guys that I’mma gettin’ old.  I’ve always had the bladder the size of a squirrel’s, but it’s starting to wear out.  In case y’all wanted to know. )

After I’ve washed my hands with the vigor of a washing machine spin cycle on high, I exit and reenter the waiting room and find an empty naugahyde chair.  Still not making any eye contact and with my pride as flat as my bladder a pancake, I’m quickly greeted by a sweet little nurse that implores I stand on her scale.  Why the scale?  This is a bladder doctor!  Weight is not a thing here!!! And further, if you insist, do it before I had to empty my bladder so I could blame some of that number on that! Bye pride, forever. Fat and incontinent.  This is not the life I ordered.

And I feel I must interject here that just a short week prior to this precious appointment, my back went out and I was stooped like a grandma headed to a bingo match.  Just needed a pair of Koret pants and a banded, collared sweatshirt with a sweet little patchwork design on the front and a white pair of SAS shoes to complete the look.  Diagnosed with two bulging discs and one that’s degenerating, I was sent home with some steroids and “exercises.”  I type that in quotes as I want a small pause here for you to imagine me saying that like a Memaw, “Shuga, I’ll fix you some corned beef hash just as soon as I’m finished taking my eggsersizes.  This ole back of mines is acking up again.  It must be about to rain today or summin.”  This getting old stuff is ridiculous.

After the weigh-in, I’m escorted down the hall and y’all.  I thought the pictures on the backs of the doors at the Ob-Gyn office were sort of obscene.  THIS PLACE HAS ANATOMICALLY CORRECT “things” just sitting out on the top of a shelf here, on the nurses desk there, staring back at me in the tiny little room.  Full on public view. You’re not even asked for your ID to make sure you are legal before these come into view. I’M BLUSHING, and you know that takes a lot if you know me.  I wonder if they are trophies? or awards? or some sort of “urologist oscar?”  I mean, what do they do with these things?  Gosh I’m glad my kids aren’t with me.  This not-so-little old stooped over lady would be ‘shamed of myself for exposing them to such imagery, in 3D no less.

I was glad to get out of there.  I mean, the people were very nice and I saw lots of sweet little ole Mamaws and Pawpaws in the waiting room but I don’t belong here.  Yet.  Right??  I’ve decided next time I go (which will be soon, ha), I’m going to strike up a conversation with one of those Peepaws and ask them a thing or two:  how they feel about the upholstery on these chairs, the whole scale thing, and those 3D models.

And I may even ask if they know when Koret goes on sale down at the Belks.

So ’til next time, I gotta go.

Literally.

Part 1

No disrespect to you, Mr. C.S. In fact, ALL respect as I piggy back on your title. You see, sir, The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe were a gateway drug to my writing bent, thanks in part to my childhood librarian Sister Summers (yes, that is her name, and it is iconic as she is), and to the Holy Spirit that inspired your writing.

I’m back teaching kindergarten, but most of you know that as you preciously question how I’m (we’re) doing, and the care you’ve shown us has been nothing short of divine. I’m serious.

We’re good. Sort of. Some of us.

While the adjustment has felt like that of a springing forward as to a falling back, like a thunderstorm as opposed to a light summer rain, like a hernia vs. a hemorrhoid… IT’S BEEN GOOD. WE ARE ALL LEARNING LOTS OF THINGS AND IT IS GOOD.

While my darling, patient, ever-enduring, for-better-or-for-worse husband is discovering that my years “at home” weren’t just workouts and loungewear, and my children are learning that it’s not magic that clean laundry reappears in closets overnight, and the dog learns to hold it until, well, he gets thought about, I’M the one that’s being educated. My lands.

I’m not old y’all. At least in theory. Or in my head. Put me in Athens, GA at the hippest hangout in town at 8:00 P.M. (HAAA) and I think I belong. Like I am one of them! I’m young! I’m fun! Sure, your cute outfit doesn’t include Spanx and perhaps wasn’t purchased at Target and your makeup isn’t undergirded by primer, but I’m WITH IT. I am! I’ve learned to “make it” in this world.

I thought.

These kindergartners y’all. They are teaching me more than I may impart to them. I even own a kindergartner of my own, but Jeez Louise. I don’t know NUTTIN’.

Take for instance the word “boo-boo.”

This past week, there was a small occurrence when boo-boo appeared on a shoe. It was heralded at me through the most precious voice,
“There’s boo-boo on my shoe, Mrs. Parrish!!” and there I was looking … looking like Yogi Bear for a picnic basket. Like surely the Yogi Bear’s sidekick was emblazoned on the side of a Target-brand shoe kind of looking… perhaps the 90’s wear making a comeback with the kids, ya know? A cute little Booboo embroidery wielding a pic-a-nic-a basket with a Yogi next to him…I mean… that’s a sneaker I can get behind.

But NO, y’all.

Boo boo now means poop.

And I thought I was smarter than the a-ver-age bear.

The smell alone should have alerted me that there was no picnic basket with this boo boo. Unless it was filled with aged Muenster, some Bleu cheese, and a rotten egg or two.

Y’all. What do you do when you run in to unexpected poop? Get a stick to wipe it off? A water hose? Febreeze?

I chose the school secretary and office manager, which are the heart beat of our school. THEY KNOW WHAT TO DO, right?

And they did. They knew how to resuscitate this situation. With Febreeze, a water hose (they wished), and a stick to beat me.

(They’re angels. They literally had gotten lunch delivered just prior to my own special delivery. Nothing screams appetite inducer like boo boo on a shoe.)

But y’all, I wasn’t ready for this lesson. And not because I’ve not seen poop places other than it should: i.e., toilets, beside trees, diapers, etc. I’ve raised three kids. I’m LITERALLY NOT SCARED.

But this. This.

My Dad has called me Boo Boo ever since my brain can remember. And while I always thought of it as this precious, endearing, loving nickname of his little brown haired, blue eyed sidekick who would wipe boogers on his jeans, eat the cucumbers off his salad, and who he would surprise with a treat often, I now realize he was really calling me “little stinky” or “poophead.”

And I’m not sure how I feel about that.

(Please know I know exactly how I feel about this and I’ll take my Daddy’s meaning of BooBoo any day of the week. Though I do know I had my fair share of times where being called a “Shitthead” would have been more than appropriate and probably still will…though I’m trying to be smarter than the av-er-age bear!)

Well my lands, friends. It’s been a hot minute. Literally hot. I’ve missed y’all. I have.

Things have changed.

It’s not you. It’s me.

I got a job. (Yes, you read that right.)

A jobby job!

An employed woman after 10 years of riding the sofa pine, staying home with my babies that aren’t even babies any more…but still my babies. It’s WILD, y’all.

And I can barely tread water the size of a kiddie pool. This coming out of retirement is hard stuff. Not bad, just hard.

I’ve reentered the teaching trenches and these trenches are showing NO.MERCY. I ain’t as young as I once was — years ago when I had alllll the energy, less weight both figuratively and literally all heavy like, had sleeping down pat (you know, no night sweats, sick children, unexplained insomnia that comes with revolutions around the sun), and not as many other living things that I bore responsibility for — I was still tired. But in my untethered (except for my husband) youth, I could come home, nap it off, and be ready to go that evening. So, it’s not like I didn’t know I was going to be tired. I did. It’s just I wasn’t mentally prepared. I should have started binging on some ginkgo biloba or one of those essential oils for mental clarity or something as soon as I felt the itchy pants to get off the couch. ‘Cause my brain is fried. Deep fried crispy.

This gray matter of mine has error code 24/7 flashing, needs a soft (and firm) ware update, has forgotten its passcode, is running out of gigabytes; otherwise on the brink of a server crash.

Result: a woman with dark circles that would make an albino raccoon jealous, wrinkled skin that rivals a pug, and zombie-like eyes and grunts that are just in time for Halloween (at least that’s one thing to knock off my War and Peace thick list of things to do).

As my husband has so tenderly reminded me, I know I ain’t the only working mom in America. I do know, so don’t hear this as whining (unless you feel sorry for me), rather that this is an experience I haven’t had before and I’m learning (that it’s hard! Good, but hard!) and those of you that know me know that I have to talk, talk, talk about anything going on in my life — I mean, I’m not self-centered or anything. And since my voice sounds like I’m a late night lounge singer that smokes a pack or two a day right now because I talk, talk, talk to five year olds all day long at school and then four three other kids at home, I’m typing. Cross-eyed and drooling, but typing.

I’ve heard of busy-ness likened to a juggling act and I think that’s a pretty fair analogy. And listen up clowns at Barnum and Bailey: you ain’t got to worry your pretty little wigged heads that this girl here is coming for your gig. ‘Cause I’m not good at juggling lots of balls. A couple is about all I could handle, and that was a difficult set (STOP– you know who you are), and I’ve thrown in about 14 more and I’m telling you, I’ve been dropping balls everywhere.

Not just balls. I’ve been dropping kids off at all of their after school shenanigans, dropping construction paper at the laminator, dropping dolla dolla bills, y’all at the Dollar Tree, dropping chores like a hot potato, dropping calls and texts from my people (and not because I don’t love them), and dropping cell phones when trying to answer for once. Dropping said cell phone in a toilet that hadn’t been flushed by my son.

Dude.

Did a little google research and am pretty sure I gleaned from the top 1 out of 1,654,387,243,683 articles found in 0.2 seconds that urine is sterile– so I’m taking that nugget like this: my phone has been sterilized. (And don’t worry you scientist friends– I teach Kindergarten and not this concept so you don’t have to worry about me damaging any scaffolds in knowledge acquisition. I’m just trying to teach Kindergarteners to flush and wash hands and obvi I need some strategies in conveying that lesson because the kindergartener that lives under my roof hasn’t learned that one yet.)

So all this to say–I’ve dropped this Blog ball here recently, but I’m not dropping it forever. Promise. This teaching stuff has too much wonderful fodder for me to allow my typy-typing fingers to idle. But I’m thinking I may not have as much time as I did before to give to this little side project dream of mine like I once did. So though I may drop it for a little bit, I’ll pick it back up.

And surely drop some other ball in its stead. Like paying bills, doing taxes, flossing my teeth, cooking dinner (HA! I just chortled! I’ve never handled that one in muh life!)…

or teaching Kindergarteners to flush.

Stay tuned…I’m literally front row to the Greatest Show on Earth (teaching babes, that is–the road to sanctification, I tell ya) and I know I’ll have plenty of shenanigans to share. And if I can’t share, I’ll update you on my juggling skills…

or do a youtube tutorial on clown makeup application to cover these bags under my eyes.

First day of school.

Oooooweeee.

We were prepared. We really were. Uniforms were laid out, some of the pieces even ironed. (Yes, the middle’s. Hers were all hand-me-downs, so I figured it was the least I could do.) Lunchboxes ready to go, snacks packed, water bottles filled. Cute little sign written up in chalkboard markers, nutritious breakfast prepared in the way of a bag of powdered donuts and homemade (ahem) chocolate chip muffins. Sugar is one of our love languages over here. (Judge me, people, I’M SECURE.) Forms all filled out by type A mom, placed in bookbags in their cubbies (Nerd Alert: yes, I had some custom made), Jitter Glitter (a nerve placebo given by the teachers) sprinkled on the little man’s head (and pillow and under the pillow and in his pants’s pockets for the next day and basically errrrywhere), alarm clocks set and we.were.ready. We weren’t even sad. Not a tear to be found. (See my most recent post:https://dailyparrscription.blog/2019/08/06/marinated-in-the-last-days-of-summer/)

We were ready.

Fast forward to the First Day of School A.M.

The older two get up and dress up and tie up new shoes. They eat their nutritious breakfast of muffins (the middle child proclaims that, “Wal Mart sure knows how to make a good home made muffin!”) with a side of Tums (for the older one-I get it) and sort of squeal together in giddiness about the first day. The little one gets up and gets dressed new shoes and all, and he’s all there for the breakfast–powdered donuts–(that only show up at our house one other time during the year when our Elf brings them)–also with a side of Tums. He gulps them down while watching his iPad and waking up. He obliges my picture requests and even suggests just a “plain” one that doesn’t include him holding the hand lettered first day of school board. I’m thinking he’s okay with all of this.

After I’ve snapped the girls’ pics, brushed my teeth, put on my bra (https://dailyparrscription.blog/2018/03/06/psa/) shoes, and had the babes kiss Daddy bye, I declare it’s selfie time!

RUT ROH.

He declares it’s not! (Can you tell?)

“It’s time to load up, y’all!” I cheerfully say. Cheerful this early is work, y’all.

The girls bound out to the car and they don’t even fight about the front seat or any seat or any thing, for that matter. Oh the irony! Little man tells me he’s not going. Like this:

“I’M NOT GOING TO SCHOOL. I’M NOT GOING. I’M NOT!”

Well, he is. He really is, and it’s up to me to make sure he does. I grab his bookbag, and his hand and draaaaaaaaaaag him out the door. I’m gently trying to reassure him that he is, in fact, going, and that he’s going to be okay, just fine, and for the love would he pick up his feet so his new shoes don’t get dirty. I physically place him in the car, in his booster seat and close the door real quick like. I jump in the front seat, crank up and throw it in reverse before he realizes he could open the door and jump and run. He’s not even buckled and I don’t even care at this point. My coffee sloshes out because I reversed out of the drive so quickly, and he decided he best buckle up else he’s in for some whiplash. He might not have wanted to go to school, but he wanted to live to see his iPad and the powdered sugar donuts another day.

The entire route to school, which thank the merciful heavens isn’t that far, I hear this cacophony:

Sis 1: “W, it’s ok, buddy! You’re going to love school! Kindergarten is so much fun!”

Sis 2: “Buddy, you are going to be ok! You will have TWO recesses! And you used your Jitter Glitter–“

Him: “–it’s not wurking (he’s got the cutest little misarticulation ). <lots of sobbing> IT DOESN’T WURK. I DON’T EVEN LIKE THE PLAYGROUND.”

Me: “You are going to be fine! You were fine last year, remember? And you LOVE the playground. You told me so just yesterday.”

Sis 2: “What’s that different this year from last year? You didn’t act this way last year!” (guess what sis this was?)

Him: “I’M NOT GOING I’M NOT GOING I’M NOT GOING I’M NOT GOING I’M NOT I’M NOT NO I DON’T WANT A TISSUE. I’M NOT GOING TO BLOW MY NOSE!!!”

Sis 1: “Wipe your snot, buddy. It’s going to be ok!”

Sis 2: “You don’t want to go in the class with boogers on your face and see your friends that way! And besides, your friends are all there, you know H, and—“

Him: “I’M NOT GOOOOOOOOOOOING!!!”

Me: “You are. You really are! It’s going to be ok!”

We say our little morning prayer that’s our ritual, and Lord, I’m asking you now to forgive W because he was yelling during the whole thing, being very un-sacred like, and I pray that you could actually hear our prayer and it wasn’t drowned out from the screaming banshee in the backseat. Amen.

We pull into the parking lot of DW, which is really one of the happiest places on earth, like the other DW (Disney World, duh). All of us pile out of the car except one. That little fella of mine climbs himself all the way to the backseat in the most fartherest position he can be from me and is all curled up like in utero in the back of my Toyo. My heart hurts as I grab him by his new shoes that he was so excited to be wearing, drag him to me and pick him up wherein he clings like white on rice.

{I feel like here I need to tell you that the school’s theme this year is Jungle and all the school is decked out in the most adorable jungle-y stuff including zebras and lions and vines and lizards. Yes. Real.life.lizards.}

And keeping in theme, I’m bringing in the Capuchin Monkey. Or maybe a leech? Those are in the jungle, too, no? Anyhoo, I’ve got a stage three slobbering, snotty clinger. I bid my girls/cheering squad adieu and I’m so proud of them– they skip gaily off to their respective classrooms, and I head to drop the monkey off in his cage classroom. Everyone is so sweetly patting my leech on the back, whispering sweet things in syrupy, loving voices, and all that love from them and me and him is totally punching me in the gut. BLESS the sweet teacher’s heart as she peels him a loose from his monkey mama, like the peeling of a banana- gently so there’s no bruising (ha! I kid, I kid), and then he sort of turns into a banana- a little mushy. I kiss his little blonde blonde head that still has jitter glitter stuck to it because you can see clear through that hair, tell him bye and I love him, and gallop like a wounded gazelle out of that jungle.

I pass “Diana Jones,” the leader of the pack, and tell her that they may need some reinforcements (because I left a wild one that may need a tranquilizing dart), and all of the sudden I’m super thankful that I’ve got some dark sunglasses…

I make it to my car sort of nodding and blubberishy to my friends that offer their smiles and love, and as I sit there I can’t help but just think. I’m seeing how fast time flies and I realize that I’m sitting witness to a situation that will all too soon be flipped. I’ll be the snotty, slobbering Capuchin Clinger on my then grown monkey as I drop him at college, saying “I’M NOT GOING I’M NOT GOING I’M NOT GOOOOOOOOOING,” to my husband as he peels me off to drive back home.

With jitter glitter flying in my wake.

P.S. I was updated throughout the day from both Dr. “Diana Jones” and W’s teacher with pics and encouraging words. I told y’all this place was like Disney World. I love leaving my babies in loving hands!

I’ve seen some folks posting about “soaking up the last days of summer,” and I’m in a state of semi-confusion. I mean, I get that it’s awesome. Summertime that is. Lazy days. Hazy days. Sluggish, even. Perched on a sandy shore, lounging on a back porch, smelling the fruit of a grill’s labor, lying in the bed way past an alarm clock. Summertime is good. Summertime is good.

But I’m saturated, y’all.

I couldn’t soak up the blood from a turnip, even if I was poked with holes by a shark swimming in the Gulf.

I’m SATURATED. Full up of it.

(Maybe because I’m raising three kids and a husband in an almost mid-life crisis?)

I’m so saturated my go-to shorts are now all of the drawstring/elastic waist band sort. I’m over 15 pounds soaked up. Literally. The liver has about gone out and the guy at the corner store has learned to quit commenting on my “frequency” because he knows what’s good for him and his bottom line. Plus, I don’t need lip from another human bein’ right now and he might have finally learned his lesson. Keep quiet around mama.

My kids fight like they’re training for WWF. You know, that fake fighting but the attacked offended acts SUPER dramatic and the offender struts around acting SUPER sanctimonious. “That’s what you gets,” and “OMG my leg is bro-keeeeeen. For real this time! It’s brooooookens!” are the script du jour around this household. For the life of me, I cannot ref another round with these offspring of mine. Can’t. And not just because my elastic waisband is too tight to move…

Lunch during the summertime OMGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG. “I’m hungry!” “What’s for lunch?” “I’m sick of BLT’s and PBJ’s!” Why didn’t Truett Cathy sprout somewhere along my family tree to offer me even more free Chic-fil-A than I already get?!? “NO WE CANNOT GO TO CHIC-FIL-A TODAY! Y’ALL USED ALL MY POINTS IN THE APP AND I AM NOT PAYING FOR LUNCH BECAUSE WE’RE NOT MADE OF MONEY AND IF WE EAT IT AGAIN OUR DRAWSTRING PANTS ARE GOING TO QUIT FITTING! LIKE BUST WIDE OPEN, PEOPLE!” It’s so much easier packing a lunchbox (remind me of this when I start fussing eight days in) that they open with chagrin half way through their school day and with nary an ear that cares what kind of grumbling they might have. It’s kind of their comeuppance when they go back to school. “Bet that BLT sounds pretty good right about now,” their lunchbox whispers as they eat cold ham and cheese slices with an apple all brown from being sliced the night before. Mwahhahhahahh! (Not to worry– I spring for the chemical laden apple slices that don’t brown at the beginning of the year. Heck, who am I teasing? I send those apples whole. They’ve got front teeth for a reason…) I offer a handwritten note as a band-aid and a white flag some days…

Just today my son informed me that, “Today was the most boring day.” The.most.boring.day. Oh these spoilt rotten chilrun. He had literally just jumped off the couch in the air conditioned living room with a bag of Cheez-its next to him and a half-charged iPad with every game under the sun on it including Netflix after spending a week at the beach with grandparents that gave in to his every whim and a weekend with his other grandparents that gave into his every other whim and I suh-wear that I was this.close.to.the.edge.of.explosion. I suggested he read a sight word or two, write a thank you to his Uncle Cody and Aunt Ashley (I finally got some airmail stamps, y’all!) for his birthday gift, or go clean his room, and then his boredom was cured for a minute. But coming up with these ideas, y’all. I just can’t do it anymore, captain! (And hear me when I say: I feel NO need to entertain my children…they have to learn to do such on their own at some point, no?)

Our kids start back to school this week. I’m excited about this, y’all. I tell my husband every event on our calendar and ALL THE THINGS THAT WE HAVE TO DO THIS WEEK (which he adores when I do) and I kid you not, y’all, but this joker of mine plans a BACK TO SCHOOL PARTY. AT MY OUR HOUSE. What in the ever loving world? The summer heat must have gotten to him. I do love our friends that he coordinated this with. Like love, love. But oh my word! It’s like my husband wants to take the stress and multiply it exponentially– like he’s a dang stock trader or something. Risk taking, going out on a ledge, and expecting a solid return. While I love that he is finally getting things done around the house that have been needed to be done all summer (just kidding, honey, a little bit), my summer tank is on way full and I’m about to overflow.

So much for the solid return, hon.

I’m a liquefied pool of done. Full on saturation.

Bring on the school year!

Some time ago, when I was 9 or 10, I would spend the night with my cousin Corrie on occasion. Who am I kidding? I was more like 13 or 14 before I could spend the night off without needing a midnight rescue phone call to my mama. Anyhow, at 13 or 14 I would go to Corrie’s for the night every now and again. And I loved it. Not just because of Corrie, though I love her, but I really love her mama and her daddy. Her Daddy especially. My Uncle Bubba.

You know, if you look up the name Bubba in the dictionary the definition is this:

Bubba:
Noun \buuuuuu’ buh\
A gentle giant, cuddly teddy bear, full of fun guy, brother, daddy, uncle. Found mostly in the blessed South, these guys are of extreme good nature, love Jesus, cuss a little, and would give you the XL shirt off their backs.
Habitats: Southern states, kitchen tables, La-Z-Boys

Or maybe it’s not in the dictionary, but that’s what it means. I mean, you can’t say “Bubba” without your lips half cocking in a curl at the corners. The name is just synonymous with joy.

Uncle Bubba has always been so sweet to me. Sometimes homesick, very talkative, always hungry (kindred spirits, here, y’all), push-my-boundaries-to-the-limit me. And he was still sweet despite the shenanigans us two girls used to concoct when together…he deserves a star or four in his crown…

Like the time Corrie and I thought it was an excellent idea to attempt bike riding in the new gunite pool just poured in their backyard. Beautiful white molded concrete bottom, pristine cool and clear water; it just begged for a jaunt with a mountain bike swim. Doesn’t it sound that way to you? Fast forward to a few laps underwater –sans helmet and bikini clad perched upon her Huffy — and one of us notices when you stand on the side of the pool and look down to the bottom, you can see tire tracks. Lots of tire tracks. The aquatic equivalent to a BMX dirt track. Lovely little lines that left nothing to the imagination of just where that bike had lay tread. Whelp. I’m not for sure how that issue was ever resolved or remember how the punishment went down, but I do know we didn’t see the whites of Bubba’s eyes for a good few days as he has a mean squint when he’s mad. But he didn’t stay that way for longer than that. He just can’t. He’s Bubba.

On very special occasions, i.e. the Saturday mornings after a Friday night slumber, Uncle Bubba would load us up in his Yardbusters van. This was a white and collard green-green colored van, complete with a decal-ed-man pushing a lawn mower with grass clippings flying — like a “Flat Bubba” character — emblazoning the outside of it. It said “YARDBUSTERS” in large letters and 883-0834 on the side, his calling card on wheels. Who ya gonna call? Yardbusters! The inside smelled like gasoline and fresh cut grass, while it sounded like a battle ship. The rattle of well worn yard equipment was magnified by every bump in the road and the noise of it made a beautiful composition with the crackling radio tunes and the incessant chatter of this girl in the back of the van. On mornings like this, I was privileged enough to get to ride bird dog between the lawn mower and the hedge trimmer, with a red plastic gasoline tank as my backrest, mouth watering and eyes wide as we would pull into the Hardee’s drive through just up the road from their house. Every time, he’d ask what we wanted, and I don’t know about Corrie’s menu choice, but without fail I got biscuits and gravy with a medium sprite every.single.time. Mmmmmm. That last sentence made my mouth water just thinking about it. Those biscuits and gravy tasted divine, like the Hardees here in Albany had 5 Michelin stars, and that Sprite slurped from a straw out of that wax covered paper cup had to be the nectar of some exotic fruit found in Eden. And when I close my eyes and breathe deep, I can smell the divine combination of unleaded fuel and butter and biscuits and love…love, but mostly gasoline…Love fuel. Man, I treasured those days. Still do.

Uncle Bubba got diagnosed with pancreatic cancer not too many moons ago. Regrettably, I’ve not seen him or talked with him since the word got to me about his pancreas that was diseased with the 6 letter word. But it doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about him and talked to God about him often. I’ve journeyed down memory lane –the long and winding path it is — a time or two, too, and I smile just thinking about that.

And my hope is that when he reads this, he smiles too. That sweet, big grin that makes his eyes squint up with joy, (not the squint from our Tour de Pool) and that he feels all the love I’m sending him. The kind of love you feel when your belly’s all full of peppered white gravy and buttery biscuits, all full, and your nostrils all full of the sweet smell of grass and gasoline…

and love.

Lots of love.

This summer has been a productive one. We’ve traveled some, laughed a lot, cried a few times, taught our youngest how to make poot noises with his armpit, and lounged around in pajamas for too long on most days. And we’ve I’ve learned a lot. A lot.

Because we planted a garden.

Hurricane Michael uprooted a very large hickory tree that toppled right on our house and created quite the mess, and in its wake left a naked bed of dirt. Exposed, it gets lots of sun and is watered perfectly by the now fixed sprinkler system, so it felt fitting to do something there. As a family, we settled on a vegetable garden. A “victory garden,” of sorts, even.

First the ground had to be tilled. Man what a job -fit for a man – but this woman took the bull by the horns (or the tiller by the handle bars) and did work. Sweaty and nasty, hard in some places, easy in others, but it got the land mostly ready for sowing, albeit a few gnarled roots that wouldn’t budge, wouldn’t budge. That was OK, we thought. We could work around that in spite of themselves. (Thankful for a Gardener that sees that in me, too.) After some careful decision making about what exactly to plant (along with a few picked out in haste – hello tomatillos -what in the green salsa were we thinking), we then mapped out the places that seemed best to place each one. Digging holes in dirt with sweet dimpled hands holding make-shift shovels and aging-ish hands with spades, we opened up the dark earth that was prior the death bed of our large tree, now to be an incubator for new life. It was exciting and a little scary. Not scary in the monster sort of way, but scary in the way that we invested some cash on these seedlings with the hope, the hope that our investment would return something. And HOPEFULLY that something would be edible.

But that takes time, y’all.

Have I mentioned I’m impatient? Am. Completely and totally a slave to this microwave world. While my impatience trait can sometimes be to a benefit–I get things done. Like tilling. — it can also be a total encumbrance. You know, Hurry up and make a tomato you seedling! I want a salad tonight; tomorrow for lunch at the very latest. Chop chop! Wait is a four letter word to me. I can’t stand to wait for things to come to fruition. Pun intended. So it is apparent to me that this is something I need work on, as I have found myself and family in a season of wait. And because our God has a sense of humor in teaching lessons (especially for me), He saw fit that we plant a garden.

What a summer of learning, and not just the armpit tooting variety.

Each morning, while walking the dog out for his morning duties in my muumuu, I come to my garden alone. It’s funny; the dew is wet on my toe-ses. And there’s this voice I hear, falling on my ear. I know WHO He is that discloses these things, these truths to me…

Our lives are like a garden. All of us, y’all. In fact, the Bible teaches us that life itself began in a garden. A beautiful garden. Laid bare in the earth, in the darkness, we are formed. It’s where the “magic” of formation occurs. The dark. Where our hearts take hold and become the seed bed. And then, with the light from the actual sun, the new life is coaxed out. Tender at first, baring itself to the elements of the world. Pushing deeper roots down in the dark dirt to strengthen it and let it take hold as the winds come and blow it and the rains pelt it down. Sometimes those roots don’t take. Perhaps that was a seed not meant for fruition-maybe it wasn’t good fruit, maybe it wasn’t the right time, maybe it wasn’t for us, maybe we were needing light from the Actual Son, maybe the weeds took over. I can’t say for sure because I’m not the Master Gardener; I’m just a helper along the way, trying my best to do my part, tending my little laid bare patch of dirt…

The weeds. Oh man the weeds. Daily I have to pull those things out. Tend to every.single.day. Every.single.day. And preferably first thing in the morning when it’s still a little cool and I’ve got the energy to stoop down (because you have to stoop to get weeds, lowly they are) and do it. Those weeds will begin to choke out a squash blossom over the course of 24 hours, beat down a cucumber sprout in a matter of days…leave for vacation for a week and my lands. The garden of goodness looks like it’s a hot bed of angry vines, wayward grasses, and other inedible fruits not of your labor. Or your intentional labor. So I bent down and picked, plucked, yanked, cussed, because that’s what you have to do with the weeds. Same with the “weeds” in our lives. Got to pluck ’em daily like a hair on an old lady’s chinny-chin-chin, best done in the light, with the light. And as a chore to tend to daily–exhausting as that is, even more exhausting (and seemingly overwhelming) does the chore become when we let those weeds sit in the driver’s seat. Some of those days we see THAT weed again. AGAIN. Like, didn’t I just remove you yesterday? You’re back? WHAT??!! We’ve got to stoop low, get our hands dirty, and do the work. Every.day. Preferably in the cool, rested chill of the morning, with time I’ve made myself carve out, while I’ve got the refreshed-from-a-night’s-slumber strength to do the work. It’s work. I’m not preaching to the choir here, I’m preaching to myself. Let Jesus take the wheel.

And then those pesky bugs. Remember that wild hair we had planting tomatillos? Alan makes the most delicious green salsa that requires these little boogers from the tomato family. We thought we for sure needed to grow some of these so that we would have some farm-to-table eating here on taco nights. The white rectangular pointy-ended stake said you had to plant two of the plants so that they could cross pollinate in order to produce fruit. In other words, there would be no produce by itself. It had to do it together to make something delicious. And that which perpetuates the pollination is bees. Bees. With stingers. And buzzing noises. That poke and flit from flower to flower. Maybe even annoying at times? But without those little stinger butts, there would be no growth, no changes made. So I’m saying we need bees. This analogy working on any of y’all’s seed beds right now? Your heart-garden? We need the bees. And maybe I’m a bee to you–but you need me. Ha ha ha ha ha. Just had to throw that out there.

Buzz.

But with those pollinated populous verdant spheres abundantly growing, a coup of sorts was almost enacted. Take over the other green spheres that would otherwise turn scarlet. Choke them out! No tomato left behind! You don’t belong! I need more sun! I demand to be on top, encompassing you tomato, keeping you DOWN! And so, because I’m an Enneagram 8 and an ardent supporter of the underdog, I did what I had to do. Prune. Snip the suckers into order. Not submission, because that’s not the point. Hear that? Being pruned by the Master Gardener is not to make us submissive to the reality that we can be chopped down in a blow, because that’s not the way He works. Sure, He absolutely could because He is all powerful, but that’s not His nature. He wants the best for us always. And sometimes, a shape up is what’s best for us, just like my tomatillos. Sure, some blossoms were lost in the nipping, some whole limbs that weren’t doing us any favor except sucking the life out of our core lopped off, but it’s for its best life. Does it hurt a little bit? It does. Does it hurt the gardener too? Absolutely. Because the gardener doesn’t want the trimming to take the life out of the plant (the person), but rather give opportunity for new life, new growth. It’s for the best. Branches that choke out another one’s sun? Gots to go. Branches that have some withered leaves that are more like leeches? Gots to go. A heavy laden branch of empty seed pods? Gots to go. And when the plant looks tired and weary after producing an abundance of fruit at one point? It’s going, too. Making room for new growth, new purposes, fresh starts, and sometimes making literal room for something. Something, someone else’s turn.

Like a garden in a tilled up spot that represents new life, new change. And lots and lots of lessons learned and being taught, even as I type.

Gotta run to Lowe’s for some fertilizer and some Sevin Dust. These worms in my garden gots.to.go. And the fruit laying dormant in the flower that’s trying to bloom, just waiting, waiting, waiting maybe a little more patiently for its time to shine; it needs that fertilizer.

Good thing I know just the Gardener to ask for help on what He recommends. I’ll walk with Him and talk with Him; we’ll tarry there. And we’ll share joy there (in that place of wait that is sometimes dark),

None other has ever known.

15 years ago, I said “yes” to taking the reigns of an untamed horse that I thought sure my naive “Enneagram 8” self could domesticate. And 15 years later he is wilder a bit more subdued but with a greyer mane, and three foals (who are equally as feral) added to the fold. It’s ok. I like him that way. Most of the time.

Ole Al.

21 years and some months ago in April, we met at Spring Break in PCB (Panama City Beach, Florida for those of y’all not fortunate enough to be on a first name basis with it). Right outside of the Moondrifter or Moonspinner or something like that, a mutual friend of ours introduced the two of us and I gave him a bear hug (because that’s what you do when you see a cute teddy bear and I’m a hugger) and said something along the lines of “nice to meet ya,” and we both went our separate ways spring breakin’. Next day, lying out on the beach with my girl friends, I told that mutual friend of ours that I was going to marry him and have children with him, too. I really did. God let me know on that beautiful beach that day that I had met the one that He had made for me to tame to love. It was one of those “I just know” moments that makes my soul sing. We didn’t even go on an official date until some months later, but we’ve been together ever since that June 20th first date to Plantation Grille…

Young Al.

But it’s not all sunsets and beaches, y’all. In our fifteen years of marriage, I’ve learned a few things. One of which is that there is no taming (see also: controlling, fixing) a person you’re in covenant with. Throw all your expectations out the window. All of them. Like that once you two get married he will realize that the toilet paper roll goes that way and moreover he’ll actually put it on the tp holder. Because he won’t. Perhaps even that he’ll put his dirty clothes in the cute clothes basket y’all got from your wedding registry. Because he won’t do that either. There is only training. Sort of like a circus animal. Pavlov’s dog sort of style. For instance, I’ve learned to utter the words “I’m hot” and bam, Al hits the fan switch. Fill the trash can to overflowing with lots of dripping things and he’ll finally take it out. Pick up a hammer or a screw driver or a wrench to “fix” something and all of a sudden he’s Bob “La”Vela.{PCB reference for clarity}(Just kidding. He picks up his cell phone to call someone to do it). Make a list of things that need doing and boom- he’s teleported to the golf course where he gets “spotty” cell service. Use the check card at a boutique and, like magic, my cell phone rings. Training. This is, in fact, our circus and our monkeys. And I really, really love our circus master. (And I cant wait to hear him talk about the expectations he had of me…I know one involves cooking…hehehehe)

Fun Al.

I’ve also learned that marriage is H.A.R.D. Hard hard. When one imperfect person marries another perfect (ahem) imperfect person, the head-on collisions are real. Sprinkle in some offspring and we’re talking roadside airlift helicopter scenarios. There are days that you have to remind yourself that you actually really do love the other one even if it seems like a stretch of truth to say you like him or her. And if you’ve never felt that way then a) you’ve not been married very long or b) you’re lying. And just to yourself because no other married couple would believe you nor would your very own spouse. Just sayin’. But alas, you keep sticking with it (AKA fake it ‘til you make it) and then you all of a sudden realize that was a passing feeling. The fact that he cooked a yummy meal that included wine and dessert helps (even when I wasn’t likable either).

Patient Al.

And the last little bit of wisdom I’ll impart is that you’ve got to really work at keeping things interesting and surprising. Work work work work work (sung to the tune of Rihanna). Things can go stale after 15 years… I’m happy to say we have freshness down pat. We do new fun things together all the time like navigating tire blowouts, going to Lowe’s to buy lightbulbs and wall anchors, forwarding coupons we get in our inbox that we know the other would appreciate, leaving the toilet seat up in the middle of the night (that has to be one of my favorites), playing games like Roshambo to decide who gets to clean up the dog diarrhea first thing in the morning…I mean get it? We are FUN!! In fact, for our anniversary this year, we cleaned out our shower drain that had been clogging and argued about whose hair was thinning the most. It was truly a memory I won’t soon forget. Is the 15th Anniversary gift supposed to be hard water buildup and hairballs?

Balding Al. (Hahaha! He’s really not. He’s got lots of hair in his mane.)

15 years and 3 kids. Geez. When I really stop and think about it, I feel my soul sing. Like the lyrics to the television show I wasn’t allowed to watch (so don’t ask me how I know to quote them…sorry mom. The song just sucked me in every time) sung by Frank Sinatra:

Love and marriage, love and marriage
They go together like a horse and carriage
This I’ll tell you brother
You can’t have one without the other

Love and marriage, love and marriage
It’s an institute you can’t disparage
Ask the local gentry
And they will say it’s elementary

Try, try, try to separate them
It’s an illusion
Try, try, try, and you will only come
To this conclusion

Love and marriage, love and marriage
They go together like a horse and carriage
Dad was told by mother
You can’t have one without the other

Love and marriage- My Al.

We go together like a wild horse driven by a bossy carriage driver with love as the bit and forever long reigns.

Now let me steer this carriage to the local Walgreens and pick up some Rogaine and Mane and Tail Thickening Shampoo that my sweet hubby emailed me a coupon for…