Search This Blog

Tuesday, January 31, 2006

Fever?

I read recently that the American Pediatric Association has come out with a new guideline regarding fever. The guideline states that if your child is running a low-grade fever and is not exhibiting any other symptoms, they may go to school. Apparently, this is in response to poor attendance due to fevers.

ARE YOU CRAZY? How many times has my child run a low-grade fever with no symptoms, only to develop symptoms within 24 hours? It will be interesting to see what happens to attendance rates if this actually catches on. It seems to me that children will be spreading all kinds of viral bugs to their classmates who will, in turn, need to be out of school. Part of the whole reason for keeping your child home is to try and contain any potential illness. My son has asthma and is very compromised during the winter. Please don't come around him with a fever, even a low-grade one.

My concern is that the American Pediatric Association is responding to pressure from working parents who can't send a child to school and, thus, miss work to stay home when the child may not ever develop further symptoms. But what about the times that they do. And, if my child is running a fever, even a low-grade, he's certainly not in a position to sit in a school room all day long. He needs rest and low stress levels, to keep that fever from developing into something worse.

I can assure you, this will be a topic of discussion with my Pediatrician at our next visit. Here's hoping the idea doesn't catch on.

Monday, January 30, 2006

The Race

Dane's Cub Scout Troup had their Pinewood Derby this past Saturday. Dane and Don have been working on my little guy's car for months. First, they selected a design from pictures they found on the Internet. Dane wanted a Spiderman Car. Then, Don purchased the "Kit" from the Boy Scout store, which consisted of a block of pine with two score marks across the bottom for the wheel axle. Then Dane drew the shape of the car on the block of wood and he and Don cut it. Next was the sanding, which must have taken a whole month in and of itself. They started with a coarse sandpaper and progressed down incrementally to finer until the car was almost slick. Then, it had to have two coats of primer and the painting began.

Several coats of paint later, they began the design. They drew a spider on the top of the roof with legs extending down the sides and a web across the front. Once the black paint of the spider dried, Don outlined it in silver. But he was concerned about the weight of the car. Seems as though you need to have the car at the maximum weight of 5 ozs. to make sure it gets enough momentum on the hill to make it through the straight-away.

Don drilled holes in the bottom of the car, up into the body. He carefully weighted out fishing weights and then stuck them in the holes. Next, he plugged the holes with wood plugs and sealed them back in place with wood glue. A little touch-up paint, and you couldn't even tell there had been holes on the bottom.

They attached the wheels and then began the waxing - first, rubbing compound, then Turtle Wax. This is supposed to make the car so smooth and slick that it glides through the air. A little graphite on the wheels and, presto, the car is done (after 3 months of arduous work and Don's "workshop" in the corner of my kitchen).

So, we were thrilled to have finally reached "the day"!! Dane had to be at the school cafeteria, where the race was being held, by 8:45 to register. The race was to begin promptly at 9:00. Don took the two boys with him early while I finished my bath and dressing, and then Deanna and I were going to scoot down. We were late. I prayed the whole way that they'd either start late or Dane's Den wouldn't be the first to race.

I certainly didn't need to worry. I don't believe the races really got underway until 10:00. We made it in plenty of time. The track was stretched across the length of the cafeteria with tables barricading it off. The boys were huddled as close as they could get to the tables with looks of longing and excitement in their eyes, each one knowing their car was the fastest. The cars were laid out on the Registration Table, each with a sticker containing a number and an letter on its belly. The letter signified the Den - T for Tiger Cubs, W for Webelos, WO for Wolves. The numbers began with one and ran through the total number of cars in that Den. Dane was T-6.

I stood looking over the cars. None look as professional or cool as Dane's. There were two that ran a close second, though. One was cut in the shape of a sports car and was painted all in gold. Another had a most unusual shape, it looked like something out of a James Bond movie, and was painted cream. This car, it turned out, was the fastest. Some cars were decorated with stickers. Some were painted with cool designs. There were a couple of pick-up trucks. One car I saw had Canadian coins glued to the bottom to provide extra weight. Several cars had metal pieces nailed to the front for their weight, looking like a grill on the front of a Bentley. One car was coated in pecan husks that had been painted and a turtle head with google eyes made from a pecan came off the front. It was very clever. It really did look like a turtle. But it ran like a hare and won several heats in its category.

At last, the races began. There were going to be 72 in total for Dane's Den. Each car raced every other car twice on each track. (There were two tracks - one yellow, and one blue.) Dane's car won in race after race. Some cars didn't do as well. Dads were working between heats to add graphite or to straighten wheels. Some of the Moms gathered in a small cluster and discussed how to make their sons cars run faster. Don was helping the boys and I was taking pictures. About 35 heats into the races, Dane's car lost. The look of shock on his face was amazing. I felt numb. It's amazing how a few wins can make a loss feel all the more painful.

My friend, Rachel, and I discussed the situation. In the end, I decided Don needed to graphite Dane's car to make certain it had the most advantage. I ran over to the opposite side of the table, as close as I could get to where Don was sitting by the track, and yelled to him above the din, "You need to do something to Dane's car. It lost. It needs graphite."

Don responded simply, "No". No explanation, no other words. Just a simple answer.

I abandoned the idea, temporarily, and busied myself doing other things. Dane won a few more races, which pumped me up, and the Moms and I laughed about our competitiveness. Before long, Dane lost yet another race. I was struck to the core and ran, once again, to Don.

"Honey," I yelled, "you've got to do something about Dane's car. He lost another race. Please, honey, please!! At least look at it."

"I can't," was the response.

"What do you mean you can't?" I asked. "What can't you do?"

"It's against the rules to do anything to the cars once they've been registered," he said.

"Well, everybody else is doing it," I yelled to him again. "It may be against the rules, but nobody else is obeying the rules. All the dads are messing with their son's cars between heats." As I yelled this last part, the room suddenly became very quiet. Where, before, I had been yelling against noise louder than me, now the only sound you could hear was me yelling.

Everyone heard. I almost died of embarrassment but one of the officials, who had been passing out graphite between heats, responded, "And we were corrected for that, Patti." The noise started again, I hung my head and mumbled a quiet, "Oh!" but he went on.

"We didn't know the rules didn't allow for repairs between races. But we've been told and we won't do it anymore."

In the end, Dane only lost two races. Everyone thought he had been the Den winner until Deanna told me that another boy had only lost one race. Dane came in second for the Den, which doesn't account for anything, except the pride of a mother.

I learned several things from this experience. One was that these races are unbelievably long and, next year, I need to make sure to take toys and food with me for the children. Second, I learned that mothers, or some of them anyway, are way more competitive than dads. Don threatened me halfway through the races. He said that, if I didn't behave, he'd not allow me to go to the races next year. He also threatened that he and my friend, Rachel's, husband, Paul, would start their own Blog and write about competitive women.

Rachel and I agreed that we are happy to have husbands that are different from us - men that are gentle and quiet and aren't concerned about winning for it's own sake. They're a wonderful balance for us wives that feel it is essential to win at all costs. The biggest question is, what are we, in combination, teaching our children?

Thursday, January 26, 2006

Pet Peeves

Nicole at Summer Rain tagged me earlier this week, and I've been remiss at responding. The tag specifies that I am to list my 5 favorite pet peeves and then tag 5 people. Sorry, Nicole, that I've been so slow, but here goes:

1. People who drive while talking on cell phones. For that matter, people who drive irresponsibly in any fashion. (Of course, I have to admit, I may fit in this category myself, since I tend to speed terribly.) My niece had a serious accident recently that wound her up in the Emergency Room because she failed to see an oncoming car and pulled out in front of it. It was raining very hard at the time and she was pulling onto an extremely busy road, but she was also talking on her cell phone - not a good choice at that time. Today, I got behind a woman who was putt-putting along at 10 mph. I noticed her from WAY down the road and wondered if she was lost or something. When I pulled up behind her (by the way, she was turning right and I was turning left, thanks be to God), I saw that she was talking on her phone.

2. Poor service at a restaurant. There are few things I hate more than having fussy, whiny children who need to go home and get to bed, only to be ignored by our wait-person. I realize we can be a handful in a restaurant, but my children are sweet, aren't loud, and don't get out of control, and I always try to be polite and friendly. Is it too much to ask for our check when we're done eating? Pay attention, please. It's your job.

3. Ordering something off a menu only to be told "we're out". Come on, folks. You're running a business here. We took my mother out last year to a Tea Room for Mother's Day and, luckily, had a WONDERFUL time. But, my sisters and I had gone there in March to scope it out. This place was known for its exotic teas but everything we asked for was not an option. We were shocked at how many teas were unavailable. The little waitress told us that the owner was in Europe. We asked if she planned on bringing back teas with her. She didn't seem to get it. Then, recently, I went to Sonic to pick up a breakfast burrito and a cup of decaf coffee in the early morning. No decaf. I could hardly believe my ears. That meant I had to drive someplace else just for a cup of coffee. Several times recently, I've been in drive-through windows and, when they told me they were out of an item, I cancelled my order and drove off. This is a sad way to do business.

4. People who make commitments to do something with you and then cancel at the last minute for no good reason. Now, if your kids are sick, I understand. But I've had people make plans with me two weeks in advance. I've had other invitations extended to me for the same time frame and explained that I already had a commitment, even though some of the other invitations sounded more interesting to me, only to have the other person call me the day of and say they've changed their minds and don't really "want" to do that. Commitments are commitments. We're not First Graders, trolling for the best offer. If you make plans with someone, be considerate enough to keep them or, if you really don't feel like it, ask the other person if they still want to go. If they say yes, bite the bullet and GO. Perhaps they'll say no, but be considerate enough to at least ask.

5. Long waits in doctor's offices. I think it's ridiculous to make a sick patient wait for 3 hours for a scheduled appointment. If you can't see them at the appointed time, reschedule or ask them to come back. I used to have an OB/GYN (guess why I don't use him anymore) who would schedule me for 9:00 a.m. and I'd still be sitting there at 4:30, waiting to be seen. I seriously considered billing him for my salary since my job wasn't getting done and I ended up having to stay the next day until late in the evening to get caught up. Some doctors seem to be able to manage their appointments within a 20-minute wait routinely. What's wrong with all the others? It's just POOR customer service, I'm convinced. They need to FIRE their office manager and get someone who understand the importance of their patient's time. I understand doctor's time is valuable but what makes them more valuable than me?


So, now you've heard at least 5 of my Rants. I tag Joyce at Tallahassee Lassie, Daniel at Mirror of Justice, Amy at Raising Angels, Heather at Fullhouse, and every other blogger I know has already been tagged.

Tuesday, January 24, 2006

Little Giant

I got a call yesterday afternoon from the receptionist at the children's dentist's office. They had several cancellations for today and were going to have a quiet, uneventful day unless they could rebook some people. They asked if I'd like to bring Dane in for his check-up which was scheduled in December, but we missed because he had a Field Trip that day and was re-scheduled for February 23. I gladly agreed.

I picked him up from school, ran him to the dentist and then took my favorite 6-year old son out to lunch. He chose Pizza Hut, so he could use one of his Book-It coupons.

Daelyn and Dane happily munched on breadsticks with sauce from the bar while Dane waited for his personal pan pizza to be delivered. I was working on a lovely salad when a young, thin black man walked past me. To say he was tall was an understatement. He came near to touching the ceiling. I was so shocked, quiet little me couldn't help herself. I blurted out, "Good grief, you're tall," to this perfect stranger. "Just how tall are you?"

"Me?" he said, quite innocently, "I'm short." Then he grinned at me and continued, "I'm 7'7" or 7'8"."

Now, I ask you, if you were that tall, don't you think you'd know your heighth? Unless, of course, he's related to that old bean stalk of Jack's and is growing so fast he loses track. All the same, I was suitably impressed. I jumped up and asked him if I could stand next to him and get a real feel for just how tall he was, which I did. I came up to about the middle of his chest, which he thought was hilarious.

Throughout lunch, as he made his way back and forth to the Buffet Bar, we would speak to each other. Our favorite discourse was when Dane commented that next to him, I looked like a Hobbit, and he looked like Gandolph.

Now, depending on which one of the epics you're reading, Gandolph is either Grey or White - neither really seemed to apply to this young gentlemen. But I passed along the information, anyway. He was so good natured, he cracked up and repeated it back to me, emphasizing that "he was Gandolph"!!!

Later, he stopped by our table again and asked me if I liked sports. I responded affirmatively and he told me that his "little brothers" play college ball - one for Duke and one for Virginia Commonwealth. I laughingly asked just what he meant by "little". He motioned above his head and said, "You know, LITTLE." Then he snickered again.

"You see, I'm the oldest, but I'm the smallest in my family," he went on to say. "My baby brother, who plays for Duke, is 7'9" and weighs 350 lbs. Compared to HIM, I'm the baby."

We visited for quite some time. He was a very nice young man - pleasant, well-mannered, and very well-spoken. He said he had played basketball in Alabama, but doesn't play anymore. He's a working man now.

Before he left, I asked him his name so I could watch for his brothers on T.V. He said their family name is Roland and his brother that plays football for Duke is Frederick Roland.

Thanks, Mr. Roland, for the entertaining lunch, and all my best to your "little" brothers.

Monday, January 23, 2006

Number's Game

My friend, Rachel, at Testosterhome, posted this last week. I found it absolutely hilarious and, what's more, the comments were even funnier.

For those of you who don't care to look further, Rachel's post was about a rare and divine gift she has of remembering the smallest details - for years, and years, and more years. She slipped up and used this gift on an unsuspecting person who, thankfully, has a similar gift and understood that she was not stalking him. She's just gifted. What can she say?

Part of the reason I found this so funny is that I have a similar gift (curse?). I never forget a face, which I expounded on in Comments on Rachel's post. This face thing is a huge challenge for me, not simply because of the gift, but because I can't ever seem to just let it go. If I see someone who looks familiar, I can't help sneaking peaks at them in the hopes that where I know them from will pop into my head. People get a little nervous when they see you not only blatantly staring, but sneaking, as well. When I get caught, I'll quickly look away. Then, when I think they won't notice, I peak again, inevitably to get caught again.

Last week, Deanna and I saw a woman that really looked familiar. What made it even more challenging was that Deanna thought she looked familiar, too. I was looking at her when she glanced up. I flashed a friendly smile, hoping she would think I was just being nice. Then I looked away. Within seconds, I was looking at her again, and I'm quite sure my brow was scrunched up in a quizzical look. Once again, she turned and caught me. I looked surprised, shrugged, and got busy with something else. But I just couldn't help myself. I had to look again and what do you think happened? When I began to become concerned that she might call the police, I decided the only sensible solution was to LEAVE . . . QUICKLY!! But, it's been driving me crazy ever since. Who was this woman? Where do I know her from? If I had told her my name, would she have known me?

As if this "gift" doesn't get me into enough trouble, I have yet another "special skill". I remember numbers quite easily - particularly, phone numbers. Don will come home from work and be furiously looking for something.

"What do you need, honey?" I ask, hoping I can help before he destroys the house.

"I'm trying to find ________'s phone number," he'll say.

"Oh, I know that. It's XXX - XXXX."

Don will stop and glance at me. One can only wonder what thoughts are going through his mind. Why did his wife know this married man's phone number by heart? How come his wife has this single person's phone number on the tip of her tongue? Is there some reason why his wife has the phone number for the (fill in the blank) memorized?

It's scary. Not for me but, apparently, everybody else. I find it immensely convenient. I love not having to look up phone numbers. Don will say he needs someone's number or I'll think, "Gee, I ought to call so-and-so," and the numbers just miraculously pop into my head. Some of these are people whose children grew up and went to High School with me. Back then, I called their homes often and having the numbers memorized might have been expected. But I graduated from High School over 25 years ago. Why are those numbers still rolling around up there?

I still remember my family's phone number that we had for 3 years when we lived in Belgium. We moved to Belgium when I was in the Third Grade, left when I was in the Sixth. But the number's still there - clear as day - rolling around in the old brain.

What's really scary to me is how much of my brain space is wasted with unimportant details. I know there's important things that I should remember, if I just had the extra brain space, but I can't seem to remember what they are long enough to get them in there good. But give me a number - I'm sure to remember it forever.

Thursday, January 19, 2006

Make Time for Time

We have a friend who is a single mother. Her son is in Kindergarten. The impact of not having a man around the house for several years is beginning to build in him.

Our friend, Ken, decided he needed to reach out to this little boy and do some "guy things" with him, so he invited our two boys to join him and this other little boy last Friday to go shopping at the "hardware store" (which turned out to be Lowe's). He dangled the carrot of a Blizzard from Dairy Queen after looking at tools in front of their noses, and all three boys bit.

He came by after school, got Daelyn's carseat, picked up both boys, and took them and their friend off to look at tools. He later told Don and I that, on the way, he told them, "Men like to make things!" The boys all echoed, "YEAH!!" Then he said, "Boys like to make things, too!" Again, the boys shouted, "YEAH!!" Ken went on, "And you know what they use to build things? Tools!" This was followed by yet another chorus of "YEAH".

He tooks the boys and explored the tool aisle. Then they went to the woodshop where the workers were custom cutting boards. Ken asked if they could spare a block of wood for each of the boys and explained what he was doing with them. The employee gladly cut a nice block of wood for each of the boys. Dane came home talking about what he could whittle in his block, if we could but find his pocket knife that my brother gave him over Christmas and Daelyn promptly lost for him as soon as we got home from our trip to Alabama to visit my brother.

Daelyn didn't really have anything to say to Ken - - until tonight. Ken came for dinner and Daelyn kept rattling off questions, the answers to which were very self-evident. As Uncle Ken tried to leave to run to a prayer meeting, Daelyn followed him, patted him on the back, and continued his long list of questions. After listening for a few minutes, I said to Ken, "I think he's trying to get some special attention from you, and he doesn't know how else to do it."

Ken picked him up and spent about 10 minutes JUST talking to Daelyn, eyeball to eyeball. Daelyn asked questions and then just talked to Ken about a variety of things. He mussed Uncle Ken's hair and tugged on his ears - all his little displays of affection. I sat and watched in amazement. While he loves Uncle Ken, he's very selective about whose ears he pulls. He pretty much reserves that for Mommy, brother, and, sometimes, Daddy and Sissy, but NEVER anyone outside of his immediate family. Uncle Ken finally gave him a hug and kiss on the cheek and explained to Daelyn that he had to go or he'd be late, and he plays the guitar for the music ministry at the Prayer Meeting. Daelyn said he understood and relinquished his hold. Uncle Ken put him down, patted him on the head, and Daelyn walked him to the front door.

I've been thinking about this incident all evening and wondering why Daelyn suddenly was so chummy with this family friend. It finally clicked with me that he bonded over tools, wood blocks, and a Blizzard that ruined his dinner. I had forgotten how important it is for children, especially when they're little, to have quality time with someone to feel close to them.

When Deanna was little, she wouldn't have anything to do with Don from Tuesday through Friday. Over the weekend, because he was around and spent time with her, playing with her, feeding her, and just, in general, being present to her, she would get really close to him. She asked for Daddy to tuck her in at night and want to sit in his lap in the evening. By Tuesday, the weekend "fix" had worn off, and she was Mommy's girl again. Don always seemed puzzled by this. I tried to explain it to him, but he just couldn't get the concept of the need she had to spend time with him to feel close to him.

I don't know why he couldn't get the concept. The truth is, it's no different for me. When we have time together, such as a date or just quality time talking in the evening after the children are in bed, I feel way closer to him. Several days later, we fall back into the routine again and the closeness wears off. There have been occasions in our marriage, such as our anniversary trip last summer, that took much longer to wear off. For at least 3 months after that trip, we were closer and he would pat me or slip his arm around me every time he walked by me - very uncommon for Don.

Apparently, it's not only women who need time to feel close. Daelyn feels it, too, and, I suspect, so does Dane. It seems to me that men somehow get untrained in this area as they age. This is one area in which I'd sure like to keep my guys childlike for the rest of their lives. And, maybe, I can begin to help them understand how important it is that they spend quality time with those they love. I think Ken caught sight of it tonight. I know Daelyn felt it.

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

Winds of Change

The wind is blowing powerfully here today. We're experiencing gusts up to 35 mph. We started taking down our tree yesterday and, last night, Don put it out on the side of the street for the garbage folks to remove. This afternoon, as I was coming home after taking Deanna to a doctor's appointment and back to school, I couldn't get in our driveway because the tree had blown across it right where the driveway met the street. I had to put the van in park in the middle of the road, jump out, and drag the tree back over the curb before I could pull into my own driveway.

Later, I was sitting in the living room, which faces the street, talking on the phone to Don. I heard police sirens that seemed to stop in front of my house. I peeked out the lace curtains and a motorcyle policeman had left his bike in the middle of the road with the lights flashing and was, once again, pulling my tree out of the street.

There's nothing to be done about it. I could try and put it in the backyard until the wind dies down, but, even then, it could just as easily blow into the front yard and the street. I decided I needed to check more often to try and keep it out of the street so as not to endanger traffic, which speeds down the road in front of my house.

This afternoon, I was wrapping ornaments for packing and heard a clanging sound, like a garbage can being knocked around or something metallic. I checked out the window. My tree had managed to stay put and was still on the curb, but below my driveway, in my neighbor's yard (very near mine), was a speed limit sign that had, apparently, blown over and blown up the street. The speed limit in our driveways is now 30 mph.

On another note, I've made some decisions about doing things a little differently with regard to chores. I'm putting a schedule together for each child, including daily responsibilities as well as specific things that they each need to accomplish on different afternoons during the week. Their allowance will be tied to their completion of these chores without having to be constantly reminded.

So, the winds are blowing hard outside and just as hard inside. I'm hoping that they'll blow out all the old mindsets and laziness and succeed in blowing in a new understanding of responsibility.

Blow, wind, blow!!

Sunday, January 15, 2006

Tree Lights

My parents are out-of-town, visiting my sister in California for her 51st birthday. They called the other day from Las Vegas. Apparently, they decided it would be fun to take the short drive from Bakersfield, where my sister and her family live, to Las Vegas for 3 days. They were looking forward to seeing all the sights.

My grown niece has been staying at their house but Deanna had to go up today to water all the plants. Grandma pays her to look after all her plants each time she and Grandpa hit the road. Don took all the kids late this afternoon and headed up the street.

Several hours later, the children finally burst through the back door. I was amazed at how long they had been gone.

"Where's Daddy," I asked, not seeing him as the children streaked by, heading for the T.V.

"He's still at Grandma's," Dane yelled over his shoulder. "He's working on the Christmas tree lights."

It was quite some time later before Don appeared. Later, while we were both in the kitchen, cleaning up after the children wolfed down some food before heading for the Den and "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition", which was a 2-hour special, Don said, "I can't use my thumbs anymore."

"What are you talking about, honey. Why can't you use your thumbs?" I asked.

"I took two strings of lights off Grandma's tree. Every single light had two clips connecting it to the tree. I took off so many clips, my thumbs feel like they're going to drop off."

I laughed and recommended he rest his thumbs. After the children were in bed, Don brought out a plastic bag and began pulling out a string of lights.

"We will NEVER have a pre-lit tree," he stated emphatically. He plugged the string into an outlet to begin the process, once again, of trying to figure out why the lights wouldn't work.
Low and behold, the lights all lit up. Don grumbled and then began to tell me how he had worked for two hours trying to figure out why they wouldn't work on the tree before he decided his only option was to remove them - thus the sore thumbs. Now, here they all were - lighting up just fine.

Unable to quite abandon this project, as I'm typing, he's working on light strings. I'm not quite sure what he's doing to them, but I'm sure they'll be much better when he's all done with them - unless, of course, we run out of weekend before he gets it all done. At least he's got an extra day in the weekend. Looks like he might need it.

Saturday, January 14, 2006

Generation Gap

I've written before about the routine Daelyn and I got through at his naptime each day. I ask him questions like, "What's your name, little boy?", pretending to be a police officer soliciting information from a lost child. By this point, he knows his name, the names of his siblings, his phone number, the name of the road on which he lives, and we're working on his full address. Up until this week, when I've asked him the names of his parents, he's responded that Daddy's name is Don Doughty, but Mama is Mommy Doughty.

As we were snuggling one day this week, I began the litany of questions. When we got to my name, he said, "Pasheesha Doughty". It took me several minutes to figure out he meant "Patricia", but, when I realized, I was thrilled. For the first time ever, he used my given name. Being encouraged by this victory, I went a step further and asked him if he knew how old Mommy was. He responded "75".

I snickered, knowing that, to Daelyn, it probably seemed like I was 75. For fun, I asked him how old his Daddy was. "I don't know, Mommy. I just don't know. How old IS Daddy?" he asked.

"He must be 100", I commented, assuming this would make great sense to Daelyn. Instead, he laughed and said, "No, Mommy, of course Daddy's not that old."

Huh!! Daddy gets to be younger than 100 - in fact, that's even a silly thought - but I'm ancient. I'm sure this comes from hearing Don tell the children, on many various occasions, that Mommy was around with the dinosaurs and, "If you want to know what it was like in Jesus' time, just ask Mommy. She was alive then." It makes no difference how ancient the incident the children are discussing - according to Don, I was there.

This attitude comes from him being 4 1/2 years younger than me. We were still newlyweds when, on the way to church one Sunday morning, we were listening to the radio and a song came on that I knew well. I sung along. When it was done, Don commented, in shock, that I knew every word.

"Of course I knew every word. Didn't you?" I asked, incredulously.

"No," he retorted. "I've never heard that song before."

Oh, come on. How could that be. He's only 4 1/2 years younger than me. We're not separated by 15 or 20 years, here. How can we possibly not know the same songs.

Don pushed the issue even further by the emotionless remark, "In fact, we're from different generations."

Excuse me???? If he hadn't been driving, I think I would have hit him. It was unbelievable to me that he could so blatantly make such a controversial statement. My response was so extreme that Don shrinked a little. But, when we got home from church, he gave me a copy of U.S. News and World Report, which he reads faithfully every month. This edition explored the differences between the "Baby Boomer" generation and the "Baby Buster" generation. Don's reading had, apparently, led him to the conclusion he had spouted off to me.

I sat down and read the magazine from cover to cover. Then I began pondering the articles. You see, I'm the youngest of 5 children. I was born in 1961, which was right at the tail-end of the Baby Boomer generation. But, because I was the youngest of a fairly large family, I related upwards, to my siblings and their friends. I listened to their music, read their magazines, worshiped the same actors and musicians they did, etc. I truly am a Baby Boomer, in every sense of the word.

Don, on the other hand, was born in 1965, well past the end of the Baby Boomer generation. He was the oldest of two children and related to his younger sister and her friends. He clearly was raised with a different understanding of life, in general, than I was. He really IS a Baby Buster. And, thus, don and I are from different generations.

We don't talk about it often anymore. Don got tired of defending himself from an Angry Mommy. But the truth is indisputable. I married a man who's from a different generation than me. So, Mommy's 75 and Daddy's something much less. I guess I ought to be thankful he loves me despite my immense age.

Thursday, January 12, 2006

Gifted in Different Ways

Daelyn and I were in the van yesterday on the way to school to pick up Dane and Deanna when he started professing his love for his brother.

"Daney is my favorite brother. Well, he's my only brother, but he's my best brother. He's my best friend, too. I love him."

I was very touched by his affection and it got me started thinking.

Everyone loves Dane. He's one of those children that's, just, sugar-sweet. Sweetness and kindness just oozes out of him. Although he's all boy and a child, at that, and has times when he's quite a stinker, he's basically very obedient, gentle, and SWEET. He's so much like Don. His daddy must have been the same way as a child. The only reason Don doesn't ooze sweetness to everyone now is that he's so quiet, no one really gets to know him well. And, he's got this fabulous sense of humor that overpowers the sheer gentleness that really is a part of him. I see it all the time, as do his children and my family - the people who are closest to him.

Deanna is a very sweet child, but that is not her outstanding quality. She has a great sense of humor, but that is not her outstanding quality. She's extremely kind-hearted, but no one would call her gentle - just like her Mama (or at least I hope that's like me). But her strengths are more deeply hidden and aren't as obvious.

Some strengths are extremely obvious. My father has those kinds of strengths. Everyone who knows him considers him a man of prayer, tremendous virtue, and Godly strength. He can discern almost any situation and has spiritual eyes. He's had about 15 careers in his life and has perfected every one. He knows everything there is to know and is a great story-teller. My mother, on the other hand, talks less. She's a sterner-type person that doesn't have quite the sense of humor my father is famous for. When we were growing up, Daddy was an Army officer and was gone a lot, including two isolated tours to Vietnam, so my mother had to wear the hat of mother and father. It was essential to her role in our lives that she keep some distance and not be our "friend". She had to be the disciplinarian and maintain family order. She paid quite a price for that responsibility.

I was grown and had left home before it occurred to me that my mother didn't really like the burned-up, crusty edges of the casserole she fed us for dinner. She just said she liked it so we wouldn't question her and quietly took the parts that everyone else left behind, making sure her children got the best and, only when they were satisfied, taking the worst for herself. I can't even count the number of nights we ate our fill and Mama had a piece of bread with butter and honey for dinner to top off that empty spot. Although I now know she enjoys a slice of bread, it was necessity, not pleasure, that led her to meet her own hunger with bread when the remains of the meal were not sufficient.

I could go on and on about the sacrifices my mother made for her 5 children, but I'm sure you get the point. However, Mama's strengths are not the things that you first notice about her. I was a grown woman before I realized her sacrifices. It's not until you've known her for quite some time that you begin to get a glimpse into what a marvelous, gifted treasure of God's she is. Those gifts of hers are deep but don't run near the surface. She never toots her own horn, she just quietly and compassionately loves the people everyone else has discarded. She's always bringing home someone that she loves with the heart of Jesus that desperately needs that kind of love but doesn't receive it from the world.

Deanna's gifts are much like my mothers. Several years ago, Dane was sent to his room without supper for disobedience. Deanna pleaded on his behalf and asked if she could take his punishment. We made an agreement that I would give her a spanking in front of her brother as his punishment. Then they could both share a meal. Dane was shocked beyond belief to watch his sister receive three swats with the wooden spoon in his place. It was just hard for him to fathom that his sister loved him that much. But she does. And she loves Daelyn that much. Deanna has a depth and capacity for love that is sacrificial but that seldom gets seen by anyone outside our home.

There have been many nights that she's been crying when I've gone to pray over her at bedtime because she witnessed cruelty to one of her friends on the playground or she recognized some burden someone close to her was being called to bear. She notices everything and ponders it deep in her spirit. More often than not, her response is deep compassion. We often, in those situations, turn to the Lord in prayer for her friends and loved ones. She recognizes that the answer is seldom easy and almost never her responsibility. But she cries and prayers for the injustices and pain she sees in this world.

And, when possible, she tries to help. She reaches out and invites lonesome girls over to play. She makes an effort to include them in games on the playground. Last year, at Christmas, she took all the Christmas money she had saved up and asked me if she could donate it to children in orphanages. She has a generous and kind heart.

Two children - both with such tremendous gifts of love, both displaying it so differently. One is so obvious, the other, almost hidden.

When I see people that are difficult to love, when I rub elbows with curmudgeons, I must remember that not everyone is a Dane. Some people are Deannas and their gifts lie deep below the surface. But those gifts are well worth digging for.

Wednesday, January 11, 2006

One Step at a Time

I missed my deadline yesterday to clean out the Toy Room due to Daelyn's little accident. The hour that I had set aside to make a dent in it got gobbled up with an emergency trip to the doctor's office. Turns out, though his cut was very deep, the doctor thought it would heal without stitches, provided I can keep Daelyn from using the finger, so the wound won't get broken open again. He wrapped Dae-Dae's tiny finger tightly with a large bandaid. It served as a sort of splint. It was large enough and tight enough that Daelyn can't bend his finger. Just the same, yesterday afternoon, while making a quick trip to the Grocery, it began bleeding profusely again - soaking through the bandaid and getting on everything.

It's amazing how this little incident drained me of all energy. I'd forgotten that one rush of adrenalin is paid for the remainder of the day. By the time we got home from the doctor's and had lunch, I laid down with the baby for a nap. Then it was into the pick-up-the-kids and after-school rush.

So, today, I'm taking a stab at the Toy Room. I figure that if I can fill one box full of stuff to get rid of and make a path through the doorway and into the room, I'll be in good shape. After spending 20 minutes in there, I can tell there's more work than can be accomplished in one day, let alone one morning. But a start is better than never doing anything.

I'm heading back into the Toy Room. If you don't hear from me for two days, send out the Navy SEALS.

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

Emergency - 911!

Post Script: Just after Posting this morning, I jumped into the tub and was washing my hair when I heard Daelyn wailing all the way down the hallway. He came into the bathroom with his finger bleeding profusely. Apparently, he had decided, while I was bathing, that he needed some apple slices. He said he tried to use the paring knife sitting next to the sink, but it wasn't sharp enough, so he reached in the drawer and pulled out my pearl-handled, 12-inch serated knife, the sharpest blade I have in the house, and began attempting to cut up the apple half. He sliced his finger, fairly deeply, and I had to rush him to the doctor's for stitches. I'll fill you in on the details later.

Clean Room

The children have been struggling with being very tired since school started again last week. Dane has dark circles under his eye, which we can't seem to get rid of. Deanna's been grumpy. And Daelyn and I are just plain tired. He wants to lay around all morning, watching cartoons or movies. But, after naptime, he seems to be energized.

The afternoons have been glorious. The temps have typically been in the 70's. Yesterday, I actually encouraged Dane to change into shorts to play outside. Perhaps this is part of the reason the children are so tired. After school all day, they're playing hard outside all afternoon and, by dinner time, they're falling asleep at the table.

Last week, Daelyn could hardly keep his eyes open during lunch. I asked him if he was tired. It's very rare for him to actually admit tiredness. I was very surprised when he responded, "Yes, Mommy, my sweet little body is just worn out."

Obviously, he hears comments quite often about his "sweet little body" from Mommy - your sweet little body is just tired out; your sweet little body needs a good meal; your sweet little body needs to get washed clean; your sweet little body ... you get the basic idea. It really is an awfully sweet little body, and has a sweet little boy inside it.

On another front, I got fed up with the situation in Deanna's room. The bottom line is, she just has wa-a-a-a-ay too much STUFF. She's a hoarder, just like her sweet little daddy. When, after working on a project with the boys, you couldn't find a single square inch of empty floor space, I sent her and Dane in to clean. Two hours later (by Deanna's account - I really think it was closer to 45 minutes), much had been done, but there was still loads to be accomplished.
I had already told her she needed to spend more time on it on Sunday, and expected about 1/2 hour worth of work, when I overheard her telling Dane, "This is as clean as it gets."


Hah!! That's what she thinks. Everything would have been just fine if she hadn't been so accepting of mediocrity. So, Monday night just before her bedtime, I forwarned Don so he'd be prepared for the crying, shouting, and fussing, and then I took a large box into Deanna's room and began picking up everything off the floor and putting it in the box. Deanna very quickly asked what I was doing. My intention was to put everything in the box and remove it from her room. If she didn't miss it in 2 weeks, I'd dispose of it because, obviously, it wasn't important. But, when she asked, I told her that anything on the floor was going in the box, and anything in the box was being disposed of. I've never seen the girl work so hard and fast. She started working in front of me, amazingly finding places for all her treasures that littered the floor. Every couple of minutes, she's go through the box and look for stuff I was throwing out that she wanted. And, thus, in half an hour, the entire floor was cleaned off and 3/4 of the room was spotless. Deanna had cleaned out the floor of the closet over the weekend, but we got all her bookshelves cleaned out and even cleaned under her bed.

Yesterday, I cleaned out her closet and disposed of clothes that don't fit. I organized her clothes into outfits and put all the pants that aren't parts of outfits together, as well as all the loose shirts and sweaters. Then, I reorganized her drawers. I had noticed that her underwear and sock drawer needed some help, so I began with it, getting rid of things that no longer fit and neatening up. Then I went on to clean out all her drawers. I got so excited, I then moved to the boys' room and redid all their drawers, as well. Then I put away their clean clothes, washed their sheets and remade all the beds. By the end of the day, I felt like I had really accomplished something, and was very encouraged.

This morning, before taking the children to school, I checked in on Deanna. Her bed was made - neatly - and the entire room looked orderly. I couldn't believe it. She's always had trouble making up her bed, but there it was, all clean and neat, with her stuffed animals laid out prettily. I commented on it. She pretended to not know what I was talking about.

"What, Mama, what do you mean?" she asked, coyly.

"Your room, honey. It looks great. Your bed is all neat and your room is orderly. Doesn't it feel good?"

"Oh, that," still not willing to acquiese. But she had a slight smile on her face and I could tell she was enjoying the order and peace around her.

As I am today. The whole house just feels better. Now, Daelyn and I have to tackle the toy room. Wish us luck!!

Wednesday, January 04, 2006

Grits, anyone?

Despite the fact that I've lived in the South for 3/4 of my life, I don't really consider myself a Southerner. I suppose, if I had been born to Southern parents who were just displaced by the Army for a time, I might feel differently. But, these Canadian parents of mine have never tried to make me feel like a true Southern Belle. You have to realize that my parents have lived in the South as long as me. We moved here when I was still in elementary school. But, they only began to REALLY appreciate the South and understand it when my father was assigned a preaching circuit in a small south Georgia town - Sparta - where even the dogs move slower and conversation is a true art, practiced by everyone. The older men had a storefront that they converted into a "gathering place" with a coffee pot, a counter with stools, chairs, and who knows what else. They called it "The Board of Directors", their motto being, "We'll direct anything you want us to." You had to be invited to join and, as far as I could tell, all they did was sit around on stools, drink coffee, get to know each other better, and talk, talk, talk. Not bad for a group of older Southern gentlemen.


Regardless, I never became a "good Southerner". I hate greens (all kinds - collard, mustard, kale, spinach, and any others you can think of), I don't use fatback (in fact, I don't even know where to buy it or how to use it), and I have very little of a southern accent. My speech sounds pretty clean, possibly because my mother speaks perfect Queen's English, with no trace of accent of any kind. She doesn't use the typical Canadian upswing on every statement nor does she say, "Eh", thrown in haphazardly in every sentence like my cousins, aunts, and uncles. She is the perfect Army Officer's wife - timeless, with no allegiance to any territory, beautiful, well-spoken, and immaculately groomed. Her house is lovely and ALWAYS neat and clean. Her person is lovely and ALWAYS neat and clean. Even when working in the yard, she seems to look better than most people when they're dressed up.

I decided some time back that my children who, shockingly, are Southerners, needed to learn to be Southerners. But how do you teach something you don't know. Ah, the quandry. But I figured the least I could do was get them started eating grits. We avoid black-eyed peas as well as my much-hated greens, so I figure there must be some Southern foods I can make a part of their normal diet.

I've tried grits for breakfast several time, but they don't seem to go over very well. This morning, I made the ultimate sacrifice. I cooked grits from scratch (which, pretty much, is adding water to grits and cooking) and added Mexican-blend cheese, Cheddar, salt, butter, small cut-up chunks of smoked spiral honey ham, and a touch of hot sauce for added flavor. I have to admit - they were GREAT!!! (The typing here may be a little disjointed as I pat myself on the back.) I raved about them, only to discover that the children didn't agree.

The truth is, I think they loved them, too, they're just determined to NOT LIKE GRITS. Far be it from them to eat anything "southern". Dane took a bite, made a terrible face, and held the face in place as he chewed and attempted to swallow. Daelyn took a big bite and said, "These are GREAT" (at least I think he meant the Grits and wasn't just imitating Tony the Tiger), then Dane suddenly began to smile and said, "Oh, now that I've tasted them 7 times, Daelyn's right. They are great." Yeah, sure. If they were GREAT, I'm sure they were just as good on the first bite as the seventh.

Deanna nibbled at hers while finishing up some homework she had forgotten last night. Daelyn must have managed 2 full bites before abandoning the table. I sat and blew on each bite and fed Dane for several minutes, then went to dress myself. When we returned home after dropping brother and sissy off at school, I noticed bowls still very full of grits littering the table.

My kids may not yet be diehard southerners, but if I keep up the yummy grits, maybe they'll at least learn to eat them. In the meantime, more for ME!!!

Tuesday, January 03, 2006

Chronicles to Wrap Up in

In case you haven't noticed, my 9-yr. old daughter, Deanna, has discovered my Blog. She logs in under my User I.D. and posts comments, often with mispellings and lacking punctuation. Her remarks look pretty funny under a picture of me with my name attached.

Deanna loves to read my Posts, but she prefers that I read them to her. She's always loved to listen to interesting stories and begs me to relate her favorite ones over and over. From the time she was very little, I'd read to her, and she would lie on the couch by the hour and listen. When she was about 3 and was sick once with a stomach bug, I read her the entire book, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe by C. S. Lewis in two days. She loved it but I would have to stop after every chapter and answer questions.

Two summers ago, the year our house was under construction and we lived in a cottage owned by some friends, I read all three of the children, Charlotte's Web. We finished the book in August, just before school started. Deanna came home the first week of school and told me that her teacher was reading it to them at school. She was very tickled that she had already "read" the book and thought she had one-up on her friends.

Lately, we've been reading Hardy Boy's mysteries. We also have quite a few Trixie Belden mysteries that Don's mother gave us several years back and almost all the Nancy Drew books, but the children find Nancy Drew archaic and boring (I tend to agree with them - there's not near as much action as in the other two sets of books). I just finished a Hardy Boy's mystery over the weekend. Then, on Monday, we took the children to the new movie version of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. For Christmas, Don gave me a boxed set of CD's - the BBC version of this film as well as Prince Caspian, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, and The Silver Chair. However, the BBC version isn't near as good as the Giant Screen version. On the way home from the movie, we decided to attack all the Chronicles of Narnia next. Several years ago, after reading the first one to the children for a second time, I started Prince Caspian, but they lost interest. They seemed to have gotten much more interested now, and I think it might hold their attention. I haven't read all these books since I was in grade school, and would love to read them all again.

After the movie yesterday, I was chatting with some friends who have gone to the same movie as us and sat behind us. I couldn't remember, but thought there was some connection with, who the Professor was in the first book. I thought he had been a Narnia child, but couldn't remember who. My friend, Anne, explained that he is the boy who visits Narnia in The Magician's Nephew. His mother is ill and Aslan gives him a Narnian apple to take home for his mother. If she eats it, it will restore her health. The boy then plants the seeds from the apple and they grow into a huge apple tree. When the tree dies, many years later, he cuts it down and makes a wardrobe out of it, carving an apple tree on the front of the door. This, of course, is the wardrobe that takes the Pevensie children to Narnia. The Professor is quick to reassure the two older children that Lucy should be taken seriously about her story of Narnia and his ears quite perk up when they mention that this "magical land" was reached through the wardrobe. All this sends chills up my spine.

I can't wait to jump back into these books. But, I fear it will have to wait until this weekend. The children have homework and we are all trying to adjust to them being back in school.

I substituted again today - this time for Deanna's teacher. It was interesting, being the first day back from Christmas vacation. They were all jabber-boxes. They seem to have forgotten, in just 2 short weeks, how to work quietly. One boy confessed he had forgotten how to do long and short division and how to double-check his answers.

Last night, I began preparing lunches. I thought 2 was a pain - you should have seen me doing 4. Daelyn had a lunchbox right next to brother and sissy's to take with him to Grandma's for the day. She gets frustrated because he never wants to eat what she cooks, so it's best I send a lunch. Besides, he feels like a big boy if he gets to take a lunchbox with him. Then there was my lunch. I had a huge problem trying to figure out what to take for me to drink. I'm allergic to milk (sort of - not really allergic, it just causes my reflux to act up and my stomach to secrete more acid, causing me to get sick) and juice makes my stomach hurt. I thought about just plain water, but I want something a little more interesting for lunch, so last night, at midnight, I was steeping decaf tea bags to make ice tea for myself.

Needless to say, I got it all done but sleep eluded me, yet again. This seems to be the "insomnia week" for me. At 2:00, I was still awake when Don rolled over. Still awake at 4:30 when his alarm went off. Still awake at 5:15, when he finally forced himself out of the bed. I begged him to pray over me, citing the fact that I would have 15 9-year olds waiting for me to make their life interesting for 6 1/2 hours in just two. Despite Don's prayers, I don't think I ever dozed.

So, it's off to take an Ambien and let it gently nose me towards slumber. Goodnight, sweet prince (Caspian, that is), and I'll see you in Narnia this weekend.