Daily Parrscription

Riding down our street since Hurricane Michael is like playing a game of Operation.  Like connecting the ankle bone to the knee bone with the rubber band and tweezers…Too far to the right…woooooooonk.  Long tree branches scar your paint.  Too far to the left, while not only the wrong side of the road, you’re met with more scritching and scratching.  Piles of limbs and debris are the unwanted bumpers down the lanes of traffic.  They seem to be everywhere you look, deep and endless, rough and aggravating, piles of death.  Certainly these piles won’t be here forever, but watching levers lifting and dragging and plopping huge trunks of pine in to waiting dumpsters on wheels that seem to barely scratch the surface (though literally scratching our surfaces) of the enormous mess… it all seems so so overwhelming.  I’m sure the workers feel similarly.  Bless them.

My baby, my baby.  He’s five.  This past week he lost his first tooth and while late for our offspring (our girls ripped out their ivory pegs prior to this age), it’s not unordinary because these things happen in the hourglass of time and then, my husband took him to get a haircut which is also not unordinary and not near his first one but he just started looking so very BIG. Grownish.  Right in front of my face and I even PAID for the torture: four quarters for the tooth and thirty-six quarters for the cut.  To add insult to the heart injury, my middlest precious baby turned 8.  EIGHT.  Which means she’s almost half way done living under my roof, so they say.  When you guys find the link to a pause button on Amazon, let me know, cause I’ll pay for that too.  What a cruel, cruel, overwhelming batch of feelings that requires.

This time last week, we were celebrating one year since my father in law was gifted and transplanted his new to him lungs.  One whole year.  One year of living life that wouldn’t have happened without this transplant.  One year of joy, of smiles, of more deep-throated chuckles of his.  Shared dinners.  Texts of pictures of grandchildren and sharing of inappropriate jokes (me, not him, but that’s from whence those chuckles come). Another Fourth of July.  Another college football season.  A whole year.  And in turn, remembering the loved one of someone else’s that he’s literally carrying next to his heart.  So.many.emotions. to emote…It’s so overwhelming, these feelings.

And then, our veterans.  We live in a country of freedom.   And yet we don’t live like it.  Or let others live like it.  We’ve almost sort of smeared the bloodied faces of these war veterans with the way we’ve been acting, fellow Americans.  These soldiers fought for our freedom to speak how we want to speak (whether it’s attractive or not), to kneel if we want (even if we don’t like it), to bear arms (you don’t have to like that either, but it’s a freedom), to worship the God we choose (even though I believe in the one true God), to live like we do.  They fought and died for everyone here…not for a skin color, for a voting preference, for a religious group, for an opinion that you either agree or disagree…they did this for America.  Americans.  For You (because that’s the majority of readers of my blog…people in the U.S.A.).  And amazingly enough, the freedom they have ensured for us doesn’t mean perfection or less messiness or Utopia.  It doesn’t and that’s ok, because we get to live it all out here in our country that really is great because it’s made up of all kinds.  Loving ones, funny ones, handsome ones, young ones, butthole ones, all of the ones.  And then this in turn reminds me of someone else that died for ALL these ones’ freedom…  for EVERYONE’s freedom.  Every single living soul on this planet.  Even the jerks.  This freedom has no strings attached, rather the profusion of sheer love which in turn begets joy.  Man.  Jesus. Try it.  You’ll see.

I sit overwhelmed.

And as I sit in this beautiful thought, I can’t help but notice the laundry basket lying at the foot of my bed.  When five people remove their clothes, a load is created.  My five peopled family has done this act twice recently and I’ve got a basket overflowing.  I’ll be doing laundry for a few hours tonight, which overwhelms my tired bones.  But as I place each item of funkdafied, stanky, stained up clothing in the drum of the waiting washing machine, I can’t help but think of each body these items of clothing encompassed a few hours prior (or let’s face it, days before–my people don’t understand laundry baskets and timeliness and cleanliness always), and then I think of each of the precious souls that were gifted to me from above, and my heart, oh my heart.  The love just overflows.

I’m overwhelmed.

This time one week ago, I thought that hard floors and confined spaces were meant as torture chambers. Today, I know they are safe spaces.

This time one week ago, I had only heard the sound of a freight train while stopped at a flashing light with striped bars coming down to block the track for the impending train to come barreling through. Today, the sound has a new effect: that of wind ready to whip the sap out of a pine and the roots of decades old trees out of the ground. It’s often accompanied by a bass drum sound only years’ worth of pine or hickory can make against a roof that covers huddled bodies of circled up loved ones.

This time one week ago, the sound of chainsaws at 7 AM was cacophonous. Aggravating, even. Today, the sound is reminiscent of Handel’s Hallelujah chorus.

This time one week ago, my bedroom was my retreat. The safe haven my husband and I retired to each night. My bed, the place my kids snuggled in unabashed safety. Playing a video game, watching America’s Got Talent, just relaxing after a long day of school; each offering a respite of sorts. Today, it’s a hollow space, void of any creature comforts it once enclosed.

This time one week ago, I hadn’t willfully had ramen noodles in a while. Today, ramen may owe me some dividends. And my waist line may be larger as it accepted the calories they comprise since these were an easy thing to prepare on a gas burner with a bottle of water. (They still cure what ails you…)

This time one week ago, a hot shower was daily monotonous routine, void of gratefulness. Today, it means glorious renewal-a refreshing reminder that I’m alive. That I’m blessed. And that I’m still unworthy.

This time one week ago, air conditioning was a no-brainer, expected, creature comfort that I DESERVED, dangit. Today, I know that I’m privileged to be cool–hell, comfortable– around the clock. I liken it to a princess being fanned by palm branches and served grapes by hand and refreshed with water and…

This time one week ago, I let the faucet run with little thought while brushing my teeth. It ran while washing my grapes, ran while cleaning clothes and dishes, ran while I took that hot shower… It wasn’t even a real thought. It wasn’t. Today, fresh running water is life giving in itself. It’s appreciation is renewed. And it’s super helpful in flushing toilets. (I’ve got three kids, y’all. And a husband. Toilet flushing is vital to sanity. And sanitation.)

This time one week ago, I didn’t smile and engage and hug everyone I encountered. Don’t get me wrong, I love people. But today y’all, I see a piece of heaven in every single pair of eyes I have the privilege of meeting with my own. This place is good. Heaven manifested here on earth.

This time one week ago, flipping light switches, humming fridges, working dishwashers and washing machines were as automatic as the sun rising and setting. Today, I see electricity as a gift that is taken for granted moment by moment. And brought to me by some of the hardest working, selfless, tireless individuals. I’m not…no…we’re not worthy. But we’ve been gifted it anyway.

This time one week ago, I had three gray hairs and no pimples and my circles under my eyes were just a skyline blue. Today? Let’s hope you don’t bump in to me…

This time one week ago, my cell phone had become my lifeline. My entertainment. My communication. My accessory on my hand. WiFi was a way of life. It had taken the place of a lot of human interaction. Today, well, let’s say I’m still working on that aspect of my life. But I’m happy to report that my real-life human interaction has spiked. I hope to continue the trend.

This time one week ago, I prayed to my Heavenly Father who I trust with my whole heart and mind and most beloved ones He gifted me to keep my family and my Southern city safe. Prayed that His glory would shine, His will be done, His light made bright in the darkness that loomed. After all, He had proven Himself over and over to me in so many ways before and I knew He would do it again though I didn’t know how. I’m not supposed to, because I’m not Him. And today, I prayed that you would know this too. Know that God spared lives in our city, brought us together in love despite chaos, and gave us opportunities to be His hands and feet…

And today, if you don’t know these things, I would love to talk to you about our good, good Father.

Even if you didn’t know one week ago…

Did you read that title like Salt-N-Pepa’s hit song from ’91? If so, you’re my people.  If not, phone a friend.

First, let me clarify that I am no grammatical genius.  While I tend to think I’m not too shabby in that department, this blog writing here has proven my inefficiency in my quest of grammar greatness.  (And since I’m being vulnerable here, I’d appreciate  NO FEEDBACK ON PREVIOUS POSTS’ MISTAKES.)

Since that little tidbit is clear, I want to talk about apostrophe esses (spelling the letter “s” just made me LOLsers!).  It’s sort of a passion of mine, especially since I have a child with nomenclature that ends in the letter -s.  He is one child.  He is not plural.  Thus, when writing about him and using his name with ownership, he requires an apostrophe -s to be added.  So, if his name was Poots, his boots would be Poots’s boots, his suits would be Poots’s suits, his flute would be Poots’s flute, and his toots would be…

Stinky.

Anyway.  You are catching my point, I’m sure.  This is the way I was taught in elementary English all the way through college English.  And I know that it is right, because it’s the way I was taught. 

Except.

I’ve been noticing for quite some time that other people, including people whom I love (what is this world coming to?  We’re on the verge of The End, for sure), don’t follow the rule as I know it.  As it’s supposed to be, darnit.

And so, being the investigator that I am, I did some research.  (FBI, start shaking in your boots.  ‘Cause I’m gooood at investigations. See post “I’ll Take Things…” for reference.)

From grammarbook.com:

(You needn’t read the entire list, but specifically look at Rule 1b and 1c)

Sooooo.  Was I right?  I was. 

Are “the others” that do this different than the way I do correct, too? Looks like it.

We’re all all right.  (Even though it kind of makes me a little uneasy saying that…)

So my point is?

We are all products of what we’ve learned.  Where we’ve been.  What we’ve experienced.  What we’ve had the privilege of (or lack thereof) learning or seeing or doing or…  It doesn’t make us more right because of what we’ve had anymore than it does someone that’s learned something different.  And it also doesn’t give us the privilege to shame someone for having learned it differently than we did.  I think that anger and shame and ugliness that comes out of people when there are differences is rooted in one thing: FEAR.  And like that song that’s been playing on the radio says: “Fear is a liar.”

I could have found a website to corroborate my theory of the apostrophe -s.  I could have called on some old grammar teachers for a direct quote.  Could have dusted off the old Grammar book I paid (ok, my mom and dad did) an arm and a leg for at UGA… I could have made my point valid and logical and sound and…right.  Perhaps the terminology for that method may be “Fake News.”

Bottom line is that I am wishing and hoping and praying that people would just stop.  Stop always trying to be right.  Stop always trying to tell others how wrong they are.  Stop screaming about this, that, or the other.  JUST STOP ARGUING.  And understand that there will always be things that are, well, gray.  Things we don’t always agree on, the whole way through.  However, there is usually a common thread that connects us at our point of disagreement.  For my example, I think both parties would agree that an apostrophe is needed…somewhere. And as quoted on the website mentioned above,

“There is no right answer; the best advice is to choose a formula and stay consistent.”

And I might perhaps add to that small sentiment: try to see where the two points collide and rest there.

And so, with all of this being said, I wonder how many other things of which I need to do some investigative research.

Perhaps you do too.

Regardless if you appreciate my “preachy-ness” here, there’s one thing for certain:

Poots’s toots still stink.

I want a refund on my weekend.

Remember how I told you I was sending my oldest off to her first overnight camp for the weekend this past one?

WELL, that one didn’t work out.  Saturday morning first thing I got a call that there were some stomach issues that required me to pick her up.  After some research, drama investigation, followed by more digestive issues, it was decided it was, in fact, a virus and not the sickness of home and we had to insure that the rest of the Methodist camp didn’t come down with the “weekend weight loss” disease.  So I picked that girl up in Waycross thanks to a kind counselor that offered to shave off a few hours round trip for me.    Thankfully I had some football to entertain me on that long boring drive that wasn’t in my plans for my Saturday.  Alas, parenting calls and I’ve been nursing her back to health ever since.  Tucking her in to bed last night, I gave a little sigh of relief that perhaps this virus had skipped the rest of my offspring and I hadn’t heard of any widespread outbreaks on the island she was about 48 hours prior.

BUT THEN.  Fast forward to about 12:11 A.M.  We were asleep, like most of you were.  Out of nowhere I’m aroused from my slumber by an Arcadian, high-pitched, whimper.  Swimming to the surface, it occurs to me that it is a noise made by my pup.  So I do what most good wives do– I kick my husband in the fanny and tell him that the dog is whining and to see what it’s about.  He doesn’t respond.  So I use my foot again, this time with a little toe nail action and that gets some recoil.  He says, “HUH?” and then the rest of what he tells me needs a Rosetta Stone for Swahili to make sense of and I just decide I will get up and look.for.my.self.dangit.

We have a small L-shaped hallway that comes off of our bedroom and leads to our living room, where this now less-idyllic bleating is coming from.  I blindly type in the pass code to disarm the alarm figuring that the dog just needs to run out for a quick potty.  Once I hit the crook of the hallway, my nostrils are assaulted guerrilla warfare style.  As the rods and cones in my eyes are working their level best to get some clear vision for me, the sclera, too, is ravished by the odor that burns it to red.  I continue to forge ahead because I am a battle tested warrior and I ain’t skeerd.  Making out a furry and now blurry white, breathing, moaning animal as I move closer to him, my foot lands in a warm, mushy pile.  A WARM MUSHY PILE.  THESE AREN’T ANGEL TEARS UNDERFOOT.  SOS.

Now, my great forging ahead turns more into ginger navigation of a land mine that has been set before me.  It’s enemy territory, in my home.  I feel so very threatened.  And also so very nauseated.  And also so very TICKED OFF.  IT IS 12:15 AM AND I JUST WANT TO SLEEP.

I fumble for the key, unlock the door, and cuss the dog out of it.  He scurries into the deep darkness to handle himself.  Next, I turn on the light to see what the status of my foot is and how many other land mines have been laid out on the floor.  And I wasn’t ready, people.  I wasn’t ready.  I’m still not ready.

Lights on, and I see that the land mines were only half the battle plan my pooch had orchestrated for me.  My seagrass rug now resembled artistry by Poocasso himself.  This dog of mine my husband’s had literally marched around my coffee table as if he were Joshua in the battle of Jericho and instead of blowing a shofar as his battle cry he blew a whole lot else.

Hopping on one foot to the kitchen to get some ammo for the mess kit needed, I discover there is poop behind the couch, up the steps, on the tile, in my sunroom, and on my sisal rug, too.  Did I mention my foot?

Splat packs were everywhere.

There, under the dark cover of night and through the green haze of the odor, I created no less than 29 new four-letter word combinations.  Sailors would have blushed.  Satan may have quivered.

After cleaning 22% of the square footage of my house and my foot with enough Clorox wipes and paper towel rolls and Fabuloso to keep P&G and Sam’s Club in business for the foreseeable future, I decided the rugs would have to wait until tomorrow.  Or really, a few hours until rise and shine time.  And really really until I could have my dearest sleeping husband get his butt up and enjoy the fun with me.

I went to the back door and called the dog.  He starts toward me in a slow trot, and in his last attempt at a valiant stand darts like a cannon ball through a barrel between the door and jamb and me and launches himself back into his kennel.  Rounding the corner, I can see he has his ears pinned so far back that any farther and they would be inverted.  Bless him, hims sick, but hims in trouble, too.  Turning off the lights and crawling back into bed with singed nose hairs and raw fingers and a foot I’d sooner have had amputated on the battlefield, I attempt to go back to sleep.  The adrenaline is pumping through my veins after that assault, so it takes some time to get back to full repose.

What feels like a few minutes later, the alarm goes off to start Monday.  I think to myself, things have to only be looking up from here…I will remain positive.  I will remain positive.

And then it hits me…I’ve got my annual exam today.

The cherry on top of my Poop Sunday.

For those of you still reading my posts, welcome to a ride on my emotional roller coaster! Tickets are free, and you have to be this tall to ride.  Climb on board and buckle.up.

This past week, my third and youngest asked me to read him a book.  This is a novel concept for him because he is my third.  The first child literally had every book located under our roof read to her no less than twelve times each.  The second child had books read to her by our first child, and the third one…bless his little (il)literate heart.  Thankfully school has taught him what an actual book is.

So of course I obliged him, after making him wait twenty minutes while I folded laundry, packed lunch boxes, clipped his sister’s fingernails, counted out some box tops for his classroom, sold a few magazines for the school fundraiser so the three of mine could get a blessed plastic chicken to hang around their necks for a week (status symbols start YOUNG, y’all) and fed the dog.  He sat there upon the couch with his eyes that are shaped like a Precious Moments character and waited.  A stack of books were perched next to his bruised up boy legs, and he patted the cushion and implored me to finally “SIT!”

The first book in his que was Love You Forever by Robert Munsch.  (He must have dug deep for that treasured story…I haven’t seen that one since 2013, you know, the first kid)  Tucked up next to me thisclose and smelling like a wet puppy dog from an afternoon outside, I began to read the book to him.  For those of you unfamiliar with the book, I recommend you grab a copy and a box of tissues, too.  There is a repetitive stanza in the book that goes like this:

“I’ll love you forever,

I’ll like you for always,

As long as I’m living

My baby you’ll be.”

And the story continues on throughout the life of the young boy with his mother’s love proclaimed in this way while she rocks her baby boy, even as he isn’t so little anymore.  (She even drives to his house with a ladder attached to her roof when he is a grown-up man child and I don’t judge her.  Not at all.)

Gah-lee, Robert Munsch.  What kind of emoting man are you?  Who taught you to feel like that?  Had to be your mama.

So as I’m reading this inaugural story to my little boy and my voice starts cracking as the pages move through the story line, he thinks I’m just changing my voice to sound like a “litttttllle ollllld laaaaady” like the way the mama turns and I let him think that.  Until. Until he puts his little dimpled hand up to my face and feels a little precipitation.

“MOMMA! Are you crying? Why are you crying?” (and he says his C sounds like T’s still so it’s sort of “trying” that he says and I love it except when he asks if he can pet someone’s “kitty” and that’s why we are paying for him to learn to say it correctly.  K-K–Kitty.  So no “litttttttllllle olllllld laaaaady” slaps him with her walking cane when he asks if he can touch her “kitty”.)

“No buddy, not really.  Well yeah, a little bit.  This story just sort of makes me sad.”

And I choke out the last stanza of “I’ll love you forever…” at the end of the book and I get myself together.  As I close it, I ask him if he liked that story.

“I’m just gonna throw this book in the trash can.”

Sweetest boy doesn’t like his Mama crying.  I think next time he asks me to read to him he’ll go for the manl-ier looking books with tractors and trucks on the cover.

And that will probably be when he’s 7.

My oldest child had perched herself next to us as the book was in progress.  She knew the words by heart (duh) and she even admitted it gets her a little verklempt too.  Dang Mr. Munsch.  But now, this one.  This one is going on her first over-night weekend trip with our church this weekend.  We’ve already packed for it because we are both type A.  There are outfits ready to go labeled in Ziploc bags (if you think this is over the top, I don’t care and I won’t judge you either when you decide to copy me one day when you pack your child up for camp because you know it’s a darn good idea to keep her organized when she is out from under the shadow of my wings.)  The packing list is checked off with no item left behind…toothpaste and toothbrush, underoos, jammas, sunscreen, Pepto Bismol (we feel with our stomachs, both of us), socks, towels, honing device…

Just kidding.  But I did tell a few girlfriends of mine that I was going to call my vet and see if he would put a tracking microchip in her neck, as it will be useful not only now but for years to come.  Spring break? I see you! Back away from the Moon Spinner, sister.  16 and driving?  You ain’t got no business pulling up to the Lighthouse Package store.  College? Oh man.  I can think of one million uses for it then.  Walks into Heery’s Clothes Closet, locks down the “emergency only” credit card.  (And yes, I’m assuming she’s going to Georgia because is there even anywhere else to go to college??  That’s rhetorical, you Tigers and Elephants and Gators!)

She’s growing up on us.  And while we couldn’t be a minute prouder of her and adore watching all of the growing and changing and the glorious hormones that go with that (those are FUN! How did we get so lucky?), it stings a little.  Stings the corners of my eyes, the strings of my heart, and my fingertips as I squeeze just a little bit harder to hold on to what is…

(And for the record, I’ve not forgotten about my precious, adoring middle love.  She didn’t make it in to this particular coaster ride because she is like a cat…comes around when she wants to and it’s her prerogative. I’ve already put a chip in that one… But in all seriousness, she is our glue that holds us all together. We love her so!)

As this ride is coming to a close, make sure you unbuckle your seat belt and take all your belongings with you and make it snappy.

I’ve got to go measure my ladder and google “best way to tie rope knots” after my vet texts me back.

 

 

I kind of woke up in a mood to toot my own horn this morning.  I’ve told y’all before that words of affirmation are my love language, so I’m affirming muh-self in this dissertation of all of the things I’m really, really good at doing.  It’s fine if you feel a pang of jealousy; these things happen when you meet the master.

Firstly, I have the “late game” on lock.  You know (or maybe you don’t), the never on time, sliding in minutes past a time assignment, also known as tardy to the party.  I don’t know what it is in me, but some dark spot in my DNA (that obviously didn’t code from my mother or father’s DNA but it’s somewhere in the genetic chain) has this thing for time constraints.  It doesn’t like it.  It’s a literal fight within my flesh to make it somewhere on time.  And please spare me any nuggets of advice on “how to be on time.”  I know some of these strategies, but the Grim Time Reaper in my soul just.can’t.do.it.captain.  It’s just me, y’all.  Mark my words, Kimbrell Stern Funeral Home…I’ll be late to my own funeral.  Now, this languishing ability leads to my next skill set:

Making excuses…I can spin a semi-believable yarn at a moment’s notice.  In fact, when I’m en route to various places where I’m expected at a certain time, I’ve got a short story prepared that is filled with allegory, alliteration, and altruistic undertones ready to spill on the waiting party.  It’s a gift, people.  A gift which I don’t deserve, but will use with reckless abandon.  Once I get there…

Next, I have an amazing ability to clean my plate.  Not the soap and water kind of cleansing, mind you– rather the shovel to mouth method.  Leaving things on my plate is also a gift given by my makeup.  My family likes to eat.  Some more than others (ahem), but food is our jam.  I think serving others food was my maternal grandmother’s love language.  Every Sunday, we would roost like vultures at her house after church for lunch that she had prepared for us.  If you didn’t go back for seconds, she might check your head for fever.  And at the kids’ table, where my cousins and I all sat until we could be accepted at the adult table (and that didn’t happen until you went off to college, which was fine by me because sitting at that particular table usually required cleaning plates in the actual sink after the meal was consumed, and as I said…that’s not my method), we would often hear at the behest of our Mimi that we join the “Clean Plate Club.” Not being one to turn down an invite to a club, I joined that cult every.Sunday.  Heck, I insured my membership every time I sat in front of a plate of food.  Happy to say, I’m still a member of this prestigious club that’s dues are paid in waist sizes and thigh gaps.

Moving right along…I’m a tenured employee of FBI.  FaceBook Investigation.  I can find out more info than you care to know about your pest control agent, your child’s fencing instructor, or even one of your shady family members.  I don’t need much information to go on either…I can garner insight in to the person in question’s life without a search warrant or a password protected, highly encrypted, fire walled data base.  All I need is a Facebook springboard with a Google-capable search engine, coupled with my internal antennae that are attuned to otherwise inconsequential facts (thanks, ADD…you do have your merits). Want to know where your OB/GYN vacationed a few years ago? I got you.  How about the incarceration history of the neighbor that lives next door to your step grandma? On it.  Here’s one– your enemy’s sister’s ex-boyfriend’s baby mama’s shoe size? I KNOW THIS, MAN.  Don’t worry, I’m not stalker status, but the real FBI should contract my services.  I can do it in my PJs.  (And please note aforementioned attribute: fabricator of tales.  I can fill in the blanks with my imagination.)

Last horn toot for this post: I win at napping.  Accept it.  Give me a semi-soft spot, like a bed of pinestraw or leaning against a stuccoed wall, and I will nod off in Guinness Book speed.  Give me a really soft spot and I’m already asleep thinking about it.  Naps are crucial to my other gifts I’ve mentioned.  Let me explain in a quick example:

If you give a Betsy a plate of chicken pot pie, she’s going to want seconds.  After cleaning her plate of the second helping, she’ll decide she needs to lie down for a bit on the couch to stretch out that belly full.  As soon as her head hits the pillow, she’s out like a light for a good hour or two.  After she’s sufficiently napped, she’ll wake up to discover that it’s two minutes until dismissal for her son, so she’ll run to get her car keys, carefully careening down corridors then coasting cautiously into the carpool chaos. (See what I did there?) Running five minutes late, she’s relieved to see that she’s last in the long line but not terribly late, so she can avoid apologizing for being tardy and instead take a few moments to look at Facebook and begin digging up some intelligence on the new boyfriend of her good friend’s oldest daughter.  She’ll do the research pro bono, because she cares. However, her friend will pay her in a glass of wine, and you know what happens when you give a Betsy a dish (wine glasses included in this category)…

It’s the strangest thing…I was thinking about how I couldn’t wait (like CAN.NOT.WAIT.) for it to be football season just last night, but how I wished the time would SLOW down as this morning’s events just snowballed into a tornado.  You know those kinds of AM shenanigans–NOTHING goes right (especially having to wake up with the roosters) and Murphy’s Law has martial law which in turn has formed the coup of “Operation Overthrow Sanity.”  (Sorry neighbors if my daily “raised” voice woke y’all up.  Hope y’all get a little nap this afternoon before the “raised” voice chorus starts up again around dusk.) I needed the time to slow up so I could get everylittlething done and not have the kids get tardied up on the 13th day of school.

But isn’t that just the way we (yep, y’all too) are?  We want time to hurry up or simmer down.  Rarely does it seem time is behaving in or cooperating with our human constraints.

Time slow down!:

–as I watch my babies lightening fast grow up

–at the start of  nap time

–for the interval between bills that inevitably come

–when there’s just a few seconds left on the clock and your team NEEDS a touchdown

–when a diagnosis is terminal

Time speed up!:

–when the “your package is out for delivery” email shows up in your inbox

–as I’m waiting in the line at the “WalMarts”

–the two minutes that elapse to see if two little lines show up on a stick (that’s not me now, you yoyo’s, but I’ve been there)

–expecting some news of some sort–be it test results or arrivals or job applications

–losing those extra 10 (or 45) pounds or so (I mean, I worked out twice and am paying for a gym membership, come on, fat cells!)

–when dinner is cooking and my belly button is rubbing a blister on my backbone (just kidding–see above.  Those two parallel points have a long way to go to touch.  Loooong way.  But y’all know: hangry)

It’s break pumping or screeching rubber.  We rarely sit in between.  Coasting seems the appropriate pace…letting time be time and accept what it is and live in the here and now for better or worse, with knowledge that both good and bad are in it all.  (Side note: perhaps that’s why the literal coast is so appealing to many of us.  Because we were made to coast…breathe in, breathe out, letting the waves of the ocean be our pace car…but we want our vacations seaside to go slow, no?)

But also, in this big beautiful world, I see other examples of this disjointedness.  For instance, we judge judge judge and criticize criticize criticize others for not being __________________ or being too _________________ or being a total blankety-blank.

He doesn’t love enough.

I would never do what she did!

He is the most inconsiderate individual.

She is a blazing self righteous jerk.

I can’t believe he said that!  Or I can, but how could he?

Yet then how we preach: compassion, acceptance, forgiveness, LOVE.  And y’all, we aren’t seeing the forest for the trees.  A wise man (known as my father) once told me as I was complaining about someway someone was treating me, “Remember, when you point the finger at someone, you’ve got three pointing back at you.”  Zinger.  But try it.  Right now.  Point your finger and see the three pointing back at you.  It’s been a pretty good visual for me as I’ve grown older and seen that the sticks I’m picking out in others are often branches made from the same huge logs within me.  If perhaps you can’t see or don’t see or won’t see those things in yourself, try offering a little grace someway somehow.  Because the Good Lord knows He offers copious amounts to you.  Every day.  And He’s got plenty for me, too, cause He knows I need it.  (Probably every minute of every day.  Let’s say I keep Jesus in business in that department.)

In other words, don’t drink Haterade and expect to be hydrated.

One last observation in the Upside Down for this post:

Why do we treat those we love the worst?  (See the first paragraph above for an example if you don’t understand.)  I mean, I know why we do.  Yet what an oxymoronic thing it is!  We do it because our most loved ones are comfortable, safe, present, ours, and tell us the oft unwanted and/or unsolicited truths about ourselves.  What a tragedy, though.  Those we love the deepest should be the most cherished, most respected, and treated with abundant patience and kindness.  It’s just weird how we human beings are in this world.  Strange things, we are.

Now I know there are many more oddities and juxtapositions around this sphere perched in space, but I don’t have time to think of anymore because I’ve got to hurry up and get these kids to bed so that I can go relax in my own bed and have a long night’s sleep. Hope the time slows down once I’m there…

 

 

 

 

 

Oh my goodness.  Twas the night before school starts and all through our house, not a creature was stirring, except for my husband’s spouse.  Me.  I’m a bag of mixed emotions, and I’m not sure to do with all of that.

Packing three lunch boxes this evening for three very discerning palates, my mind began to dread this task.  One likes apples, one likes peanut butter no jelly no crusts sandwiches, one likes pea tendril salads with prosciutto and goat cheese and lemon zested dressing and English cucumbers…lunches are sort of exhausting.  I legitimately consider it cardio without exercise because my heart rate gets up there just thinking about it.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m blessed with the privilege but you guuuuysss…it’s so hard for this non-cooking woman to come up with somewhat healthy lunch ideas that don’t taste like “water” (the words of my oldest–you can infer which lunch she desires). Le sigh.

The clothes were all laid out by the bedsides with care, in hopes for quick dressing and more time for brushing hair.  Or teeth.  That’s important too.  My middle baby is vain vain vain with no shame shame shame when it comes to her hair.  We have to make sure we have enough time in the morning to get it jest right…lest I catch the wrath of that curly headed cutie.  She don’t play.  Her curls best not be poufy or she will.not.have.it.  And my baby boy wakes up with an epic tangle of bed head that has to be coerced into behaving by drowning the hair follicles in water and combing them to attention.  Then there’s the oldest of them all.  She just had 12 inches of hair removed from her head and I have to say that was one phenomenal idea on her part (that’s punny!).  Not only was she able to donate her hair to Locks of Love, but she shaved off a good 10 minutes of brushing and another 10 minutes of fussing.  And uniforms.  Oh uniforms.  A gift from heaven…Who knew “uniform” means “manna from heaven” in Hebrew?  Well, it might not, but it certainly feels like it.  That for sure buys some time in our morning routine.  (I don’t know where that time it buys goes, however.)

The children were nestled all snug in their beds, while their mama lay in hers feeling a little bit of dread.  Tomorrow morning, I get to walk all three of my babies in to the same school for the first time ever.  While I love that they are all in one place, my heart hurts because my baby is at “big” school now.  He’s ready, but am I?  So much changing and growing and so fast. It’s exciting and sort of sad all at the same time.  Time waits for no one.  Except Santa.  He takes a looooong time.  More Le Sigh.

*And this, dear friends, is what I refer to as a pregnant pause.  No.  I’m not pregnant. (puts wine glass down)*

Ahem.  I had to take a minute after writing this prose above some days ago.  I got waaaaay too in my feelings for a hot minute and had to regroup…

And then instead of sappy song lyrics all I could hear ring-dinging in my head was George Michael and “FREEDOM” and it feels good.  I’m happy to report that I’ve been doing all sorts of things since my kids are all back in school:

–working out a lil’ bit

–hearing silence (it’s a beautiful sound that’s akin to a dog whistle…it can only be heard when the kids are in school)

–eating my chocolate outside of my closet, in the actual light, with no fear of sharing

–using the restroom in PEACE with the door closed

–rediscovering Hoda and Savannah and my coffee

While I love love love my babies, the school and the schedule are so far, so good.  I’m sure I’ll have some updating soon, but for now…

Morning drop off: (this time with feeling)

Go and hop in the car, you do know I love y’all,

but dash away, dash away, dash away all!

 

Before we begin, let me say that the way you read that title–meaning the word on which you put the emphasis -(go on ahead, say it out loud, we’ll wait)- will probably dictate the way you take this musing of mine.  Please note that there is no judgement in these lines, and if you take it as such, I’m sort of sorry but not, because you might be one part of one problem of what’s wrong with America: offensiveness.  I have no intention to offend here, and those that know me know I enjoy poking fun of others but mostly poking myself in my Pillsbury dough girl belly, so please laugh along with me.  Or lighten up!

God bless America.  I mean it. This past week I had the pleasure of taking a seat on my observation deck, better known as a beach chair, and people watching.  On the Fourth of July.  The birth of our great nation.  Now, I know that we have many problems in America and there are many things that indeed need fixing (kind of like ourselves, if we’re honest), but by the grace of God we have had another year to live in freedom.  So we (should) celebrate this day with joy in our hearts and hope in our future.  (More side note: I’m all about freedom of speech but I don’t want to hear or read any political commentary here. This isn’t what this post is about.  Read on. )  Happy Birthday, America!

But you know what, nice lady…it’s not YOUR birthday (or maybe it is, but still), so that birthday suit you’re wearing is inappropriate attire for this day out on the (family) beach.  I’d prefer to leave my lessons for “how to floss” with my kids as a conversation for, I don’t know, the bathroom?? You know, someplace a bit more private?  I see more rumps than a meat counter, and more cottage cheese than can be found in the dairy section at Publix.  And to be clear, I’m not making sport of your cottage cheese ’cause Lord knows I store a container or two, and I’ve got enough meat here to make an Angus cow shake in its hooves, but don’t you have a mirror? Or even a significant other that might gently nudge you in a “swim skirt” kind of direction (like mine did?)? It’s fine if you’re cool with letting your meat hang out, really.  I just choose not to do it (purposefully, that is-ha).  And to the girls who had the nice bums–I’m a little salty, yes. But, let’s cover up at a family beach, k?  If not for the sake of my husband’s children’s eyes, for us poor moms’ feelings sitting in our swimsuits that are as close to yoga pants made of swim wear that we can muster.  (Can you wear Spanx under a bathing suit? asking for a friend…)  You cutie booties make us feel…hungry.  Pass the bag of Doritos, dangit.  Oh, you don’t know what those are? Ah, that’s why…that’s why…I’ll work on that for next summer.

Behind my shades and cover up (I’m doing research, people), a bright piercing catches my eye on another human — OUCH.  Just ouch.  Who did that to you? And how do you even clean that? With floss?  And dear girl that looks just like your mother…I’m not so sure you should have gotten that butterfly tattoo where you did.  How can I make that assumption? Well, you look JUST like your mama.  And give or take twenty-five years, but the placement of that butterfly is gonna accordion fold back up into a pupa based on my observations.  Because LOOK at your mama.  I’m just saying.   Nothing says “I was a young girl with a free-spirited butterfly tattoo back in the day” like a cocoon wedged and suffocating in a fold. Might want to think about how to rectify that, or don’t.  It’s your perogative.  Because ‘Merica.  You do you, Boo.

I do love those adorable rainbow Pegasus floats.  I do.  I tried to talk my husband into buying one that swung from the rafters at our local Sam’s.  He wasn’t digging it.  Anyhoo,  that float can fit approximately 17 people on it and you, adorable college coed with good flossing skills, are commandeering about an acre of ocean in a sea of about 53,000 people.  And there is just ONE of you on it.  It’s sort of, um, excessive, no?  Nobody likes to have to punch a unicorn, but you are making us do so to move it to and fro and out-of-the-way.  Besides that, you are smothering the fish.  Can you save that until another day? Not the U.S.A.’s biggest beach day? We appreciate that.

One last observation: I have noticed all of these Americans sitting around me are doing a great job of hydrating, but not a one of ’em has moved from his or her spot except to gallivant into the ocean waist deep for a minute or two (or four so as not to look too obvious) and sauntering smolderingly through the waves Baywatch life guard babe style back to his or her chair.  Myself included.  I guess that’s so they (we) can “cool off.”  In other words, don’t drink the water people, not that you would (hmmm…is that sea salt or pee salt I’m tasting?) I cannot even think about it.  It makes me want to go brush my teeth and rinse with Scope and —

floss.

As the sun moves a little farther west, my skin a little more red than the white it was, the cacophony of blue tooth speakers wailing everything from Alabama to Lee Greenwood to Tone Loc to Cardi B. (that’s me, but it’s the clean version), and my kids’ eyes bloodshot from a day of opening their eyes in the large toilet known as the sea, I sit and smile with a satisfying grin.  We are Americans, God bless it.  We have freedom thanks to the brave.  Because of the brave. And for those that call themselves American but swim in the seas of negativity on the reg, I’ve got two words for you on this sacred day:

Beach, please.

 

 

 

I’ve written a PSA before, but for those not catching it, PSA stands for Parrish Service Announcement, which can be defined as advice free to you that came at a price to me. (Clearing throat) I’ve got another for you.

My oldest daughter’s feet have grown.  Like, grown grown.  The size of my feet minus a half.  And so, she believes now that my closet is a mini Shoe Station.  A Shoe Station wherein she helps herself and doesn’t pay a dime.  She’s got a very “what’s mine is yours” attitude about them which is reason #28,432 for my insanity.

A bit about my closet: it’s not huge.  Since the floor space isn’t large, I store summer shoes on high shelves above when it’s winter shoe weather and then trade them out when the seasons shift.  Which basically means that those winter shoes sit on the top shelf about 10.5 months out of the year because we live in SOUTH Georgia and you can’t spell South without H-O-T.  Those higher shelves also contain other infrequently used things: handbags, luggage, hot hair rollers (HELLO 1998!), a pair of Timberlands (HELLO 1988! What? I’m nostalgic.), and a white paper sack which is a quaint home to our Elf on the Shelf.  It’s its Air BNB. And it’s a cheap rental with excellent accommodations including bedding as soft as tissue paper!  It’s literally an Elf on the Shelf.

So, oldest daughter decided unbeknownst to me that she wanted to try on a pair of my booties to go with her “outfit.”  (Listen, I know, I know.  I’m raising a mini-me.  It’s ok…we’ll all be ok.) She blitzkriegs my closet and launches one of my “spring time” shoes up on the top shelf to dislodge this pair of shoes she thinks she can wear.  Like a grenade with its pin removed, the shoe send shrapnel falling down everywhere.  A few shoes, a hot roller, and a white bag.

That girl of mine is curious which is a nice word for nosy here.  (Told ya she was a mini-me.  My earliest memories of childhood included the words, “Don’t meddle.” But I’m a researcher.  I should have gone into the FBI.  Anyhoo…)  She picks up our Elf on the Shelf’s home away from home — because we all know its home is the North Pole, duh! — and peers inside.  Its tissue paper shroud is removed and our daughter’s jaw hits the floor.  Running to the nearest adult–my husband– she shrieks,

“WHAT IS BUDDY* DOING IN MAMA’S CLOSET IN A BAG?”

*Buddy is the name of our elf because my kids are creative name assignees.  You know, from the movie ELF?

Being the wonderful father he is, he encouraged her by saying,

“Go ask your mother.”

Y’all.  I can’t.

But then also very wisely said, “Don’t tell your siblings.”

So, this big footed child of mine comes stomping into the kitchen (with MY shoes on) and is demanding to know what Buddy is doing in my closet.  And I know what you are thinking, “if her feet are big enough to wear your shoes, ain’t that child too old to be believin’ in things like elves and tooth fairies?”  And the logical answer is probably so, but this girl has quite an imagination and she’s also smart enough to know to play along, or at least reap the benefits from these flying fictitious characters.

I proceed to scold her for going through my closet and also tell her that’s what she gets for snooping…because she needs to know when you go digging where you shouldn’t, you might come up with a surprise you weren’t ready for–and that goes for you adults too.  Don’t meddle.

My dear husband walks in at this time giggling like a school girl which leads me to giggle which leads our girl to start crying.  Her world got a little bit crushed and I did hate it, but it was just too funny for me to stop chuckling.  I mean, she’s smart.  Really smart.  Surely she didn’t believe that a felt covered, plastic faced, side-eye painted on, no hand or feet having, cotton stuffed, glorified dog chew toy ACTUALLY moved himself to and fro the North Pole and scaled our chandeliers and wrote silly notes and played with Barbies every year at Christmas.  Surely.  I mean, come on.  You actually believed that Buddy broke his leg this past Christmas and THAT’S why he didn’t move for a few days and it wasn’t just that your mama forgot???

Bless it all to pieces, mostly her heart.  And then mine too.  My baby is growing up. And while that hurts my feelings, I will say I’m sort of happy to have the stress taken solely off of me to move that elf this Christmas.  She has now officially been recruited my helper on this.

As we are trying to move past this and I’m consoling her and telling her not to tell her siblings (though I have an itching suspicion that my middle girl child has had this figured out since she was 8 months old–she’s a sprite, I tell ya)– ok, not so much telling but threatening her– she looks up at me with her big beautiful tear dripping eyes and says,

“Well at least Santa is still real.  There’s no way you and Daddy could pull that off.”

Okay, Virginia.  There is a Santa Claus.

PSA #2: Hide yo’ children, hide yo’ wives, hide yo’ ELF ON THE SHELF.