Going Dutch

One time, years ago, when I was spending a semester in Amsterdam I decided I needed to add more physical activity in my daily routine. Running on the cobble stone streets was starting to do in my fragile knees. I needed something new, different. I think it was my travel buddy Maureen who came up with the idea of attending aerobic classes at a local gym. Having been coordinationally challenged my whole life aerobics and I have not traditionally been a good fit. Yet, I found myself one cold winter night entering into this fairly large studio surrounded by people in their best/brightest athletic gear ready to get their groove on. I wanted to blend in and hang toward the rear, but as usual, those spots were already taken so I found myself much closer to the leader than I ever intended. Soon, the techno was blaring and everyone had that gleam of anticipation that only the expectation of endorphins can give. Meanwhile I was giving myself my little mental pep talk... "you can do this" or "if you fall down, it's ok, just make it look like you did it on purpose-just make it look like you needed a stretch"....

However, the next 60 seconds make me realize that the next 60 minutes were going to be harder than I anticipated. The instructor began to give his directions in Dutch. Up to that point, it hadn't crossed my mind that I would only be able to understand about 1 in 100 words. Amsterdam is a multicultural city and I had gotten so used to hearing English that I came to expect it, assumed it would be used, or at least desperately hoped I had a prayer of 'grapevining' in the correct direction. I am so thankful that my first session in that sweaty room was not captured on film. Confused, off beat, peripheral vision fatigued, and often moving in the wrong direction I lumbered through the evening. I still believe that the leader was making some jokes and my expense throughout the routine due the volume of pity smiles I received as I made my way to the exit after class. I ended up going several more times, each one easier a little easier than the first though less funny to those around me. So why am I thinking of the pinnacle of physical awkwardness? The moment when the ability to laugh at myself got a full test drive? Because this is one of those moments that lives in my memory and often likes to come out and dance around my head for awhile. It reminds me to laugh at myself--something that I need to be reminded of often.

I think some moments are experienced so completely that they become part of who you are. I know all the pieces of your collective life experience are wrapped up, or shoved into, the fragile vessel of our memory, but I am speaking of those moments that even while you are in the midst of them there is a consciousness that this will stay with you...is one to remember. This is when time seems to slow, that my eyes dart around soaking in as many details as possible to repaint this scene over and over because I know it will be useful one day.

I have had several of these moments in my life thus far and they are not always as serious as you would think, i.e. Dutch aerobics class. It is has always interested me what things strike me, cause me to pause, and collect the fragments of the moment to put away for later. Often, it is in the little nothings. Not in the big life moments one would expect.

What are the moments that stay with you? Which ones seem to fill up all your senses when they bubble up and come out to play in your head?

1, 2, 3, You're It

I used to be quite the tag player in my day (being the tallest person in the class gave me a wingspan of giants compared to my playground competitors). A friend of mine, Kelly Lawson, rekindled my desire to play so here is my bloggerific version...

The Rules:

1. Link to the person that tagged you, and post the rules on your blog.

2. Share 7 random and/or weird facts about yourself.

3. Tag 7 random people at the end of your post, and include links to their blogs.

4. Let each person know that they've been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

Fact 1: I have had 17 jobs since I was 14 years old (at least these are the ones I can remember). Before you judge me for my fickleness please note that most of these jobs were held simultaneously. So here's the list: babysitter, softball field score keeper, Memorial Stadium Concessions worker, Chick-fil-a, Salvation Army SE Headquarters Development, Rockola Cafe-Spartanburg, SC, Golf Club of Georgia (drink cart girl, waitress, bartender) Wofford College Post Office (Amie and I could tell you some stories), Ellen Hines Smith Girls Home, Wofford College Bohemian Editor, Snellville UMC Youth Assit., Snellville UMC After School Program Asst., Macaroni Grill, Gwinnett Co. Teacher, Fayette Co. Teacher, SAT Reader, Beeson Program Coordinator at Asbury Theological Seminary.

Fact 2: I have a secret, or not so secret, love for Star Wars. I know it dates me but I grew up on the original movies. Back in the day they were amazing. I had Star Wars sheets, a stuffed Ewok, and I seriously contemplated being Princess Leia when I grew up. I am by no means claiming to be a Star Wars expert and I have never attended a Dragon Con convention. However, in college I did dress up as Hans Solo one year for Halloween and my dear friend Ingrid went as Princess Leia (she had the hair and looks!).

Fact 3: I have a very unusual laugh. Some say obnoxious, some say unique, I say memorable. I was reminded of this fact the other night during a family tickle fight in which I lost the battle due to a double offensive launched by CB and Kevin. It had been a long time since I really laughed that belly, uncontrollable laugh. I don't think anyone here in KY has heard it.... and realizing that made me sad. Perhaps I knocked the rust off my tickle box and will be ready to laugh again.

Fact 4: I can't stand to watch people get embarrassed. It makes me so self-conscious for them that I become more miserable than they are. If it is happening on TV, I immediately turn the channel. Luckily, KB has the same aversion so he doesn't mind when I have to 'turn away'.

Fact 5: I love to go camping. Love it. Smoke, dirt, bugs, no bathroom facilities does not deter my fun. Some of the best times in my life have been around camp fires. The annual camping trips with David T. were always a highlight of my year (even though they usually ended with at least one of us in physical peril…jumping off water falls, slipping down rock faces, being in the middle of a river when the damn is released, busted rafts…sound familiar?) Kevin and I used to camp a lot but we haven’t much since the kido was born. Charlie, my sleeping bag, and I are always ready for an outdoor adventure. Maybe for Kevin’s graduation I will buy a tent (the spouse of a graduate should get a present too I firmly believe) since ours has dry rotted in storage.

Fact 6: Chinese food is my favorite. Although I haven’t tried, I believe I could eat it everyday. I like pretty much anything that you can order in a Chinese restaurant. I realized how often we get Chinese food the other day when I asked CB what she wanted for dinner and she asked for the soup with eggs in it from the restaurant with the fish tank, unusual request for a four year old. Due to budgetary concerns I usually order similar items, but if the sky is the limit I love those unusual dishes that come out in strange little pots full of oddities and yummies.

Fact 7: I have a PBS addiction. I find myself watching the strangest things simply because they are on PBS. In our current grad student lifestyle, we have very limited cable… fourteen channels to be exact (two of which are the same channel). So perhaps my current PBS relationship is due to a lack of choices. Yet, when other favorites are on I still gravitate to channel 13. Why? I think it is because I always learn something and I like to learn. Maybe one day you will see me on The Antique Road Show. Currently, I don’t have any antiques or anything of real value but I am thinking this is the only way I will ever make it onto PBS (Masterpiece Theater and NOVA are pretty much out).

Ok... so that is a little snapshot of my strangeness. I will now pass the torch of tag onto:
http://kevinbbarnes.blogspot.com/
http://danunderwood.blogspot.com/
http://wadeandbrittany.blogspot.com
http://drk-shannon.blogspot.com/
http://2manbreak.blogspot.com/

Please feel no need to continue the game. I am just sharing the opportunity!

A Little Thank You Goes a Long Way

I have always been terrible at writing thank you notes. I have the best intentions/fantasies of writing the most perfect, timely, and touching note in return for every kind gesture I receive. My thank you note anxiety is so severe that I am often thrown into the bowels of guilt because I receive a thank you note from someone so promptly that I wallow in the memory of all my unwritten notes through the years. I find comfortable excuses (I can't spell, I have messy handwriting, I don't have stamps) to wrap around me for awhile. Yet, these wear thin and the guilt always finds a way in through the crevices of my threadbare excuses.

I now have a large green box full of notes for me to write.

It stares at me from the chair by our door.
For almost a week it has sat mocking me for the task that I have left of undone.

But my heart is afraid of opening that big green box for it was the box that the funeral director handed me as he walked out the door after my mom's funeral.

These are no ordinary notes. These notes represent my mother, who took thank you notes very seriously. What can I say to our/ my/ her/ their friends and family that poured out so much love to us through meals, flowers, cards, calls, and visits. What can I say to those who drove up to my parent’s house in those final days to say their goodbyes to our Lela but were thoughtful enough in their own pain to take care of us?

I am afraid of that big green box because I know when I open it my heart will break.

I am left to write the thank you notes for my mother who always wrote them so well.

I will do my best.

Three Coffins and No Funeral

I saw three people die this week.

This is what happens when you spend much of your time at a hospice center.

When I went through those hospice doors for the first time I expected to exit them like the families I saw through the week, who walked slowly out with broken faces behind the covered body of someone they loved...

The doctor called in the family because my mom was not expected to live more than a day. She did. She is very tough.

She was moved to a hospice facility because she was not expected to live more than a few days. She did. She is very tough.

Now my frail, fragile mother keeps outliving the defined 'term' of her terminal disease.

I am thankful for those term extensions because we got to share some moments I have packed away in my heart...for the years ahead when I won't have her anymore.

Like every other important thing in her life, my mother is dying independently, on her own terms, and with a touch of classy stubbornness that makes her so special.

Now she is at home to spend the rest of her days. She knows it all defined by God's 'term' after all.

Beyond the Background Check

As a person who has had my fair share of background checks in my day, (no fun back story here... just an ex-public school teacher) I wonder what these random pieces of information gathered by different police or public agencies say about me in the dusty drawers of several Board of Education offices in the State of Georgia. I give them my date of birth and my social security number and they tell someone how I have spent my time ... or rather how I have not spent my time.

I would like to think that I have more to offer the world than a background history deemed clean by the GBI.

So what is my back story? If I met you today what you would find out about me over time? Or maybe, for those of you who have walked life's path with me for many years, did you know that...

• the Atlanta Braves is my favorite baseball team.
• I have knocked myself unconscious.
  
• I have been in 27 states.
  
• I have visited 11 countries.
• I would rather drink good sweet tea than any other drink.
• I would rather have an arid thirst instead of drinking unsweetened or 'bad' sweet tea.
• I was an English major at Wofford College.
  
• I read Moby Dick for fun.
• I lived in a dorm for four years.
• I have been to Disney World over 20 times.
• Blue is my favorite color.
  
• Currently I have had seven knee surgeries and counting...
• my first concert was Cyndi Lauper at the Omni... my second was the Indigo Girls at the Fox.
• I started playing soccer when I was eight.
• I have witnessed three people faint in operating rooms while I was under the knife (my father, a nurse, and a med student observing the procedure).
• I wore braces for 5 years and I only got them off because my orthodontist died.
• My first car was named 'The Silver Bullet', the next 'Nessy'; then 'Minnie Pearl'; until finally 'Wilma the Family Truckster'.
• I have blue eyes.
• I love the beach... or any place with water.
• I had my first child at 29...
• I knew Kevin for four years before we started dating.
• We were engaged for four months.
  
• I have made clothing and fixed car accessories with duct tape.
• My sleeping bag is named Charlie.
• We had two cats but the thought of living in Kentucky made them run away.
• I can't decide if I like carrot cake or cheese cake better.
• My favorite place to eat is Inoko's in Athens, Ga.
• I had to change two flat tires in one day.
• I can't spell at all.
• I was a high school English teacher for seven years.
• I wore 9 when I played soccer--before Mia was born.

Trains, Planes, and Automobiles

Recently, Kevin and I caught the end of this classic Steve Martin movie on tv. It made me laugh as it always does. But now as a person who has been pounding the pavement a lot lately the stress of travel is not so very funny in real life. So as I reflect...

Trains: I don't like them. I might go so far as to say I am somewhat afraid of them. I still carry deep scares from the horrific Driver's Ed video combining a train, a school bus full of small children, and a reckless teenage driver in a most gruesome way. Needless to say I always stop and listen at all RR crossings. I need one of those stickers that are on the back of buses (this vehicle stops at all Railroad Crossings). Kevin has come to expect my slow, deliberate crossing, often with windows rolled down, over all the tracks I encounter. (Don't get me started on the crossing located at intersections... redlights...it is too much!) I have ridden trains and I like it when they take me to a fun place but I don't like to be around them. It is a pity I now live about 100 feet from the LOUDEST and busiest train track in the US. It seems like 100 trains a day go by... most at 3am in the morning. These trains I fear now haunt me even in my dreams...

Planes: I used to love them. I flew quite a bit as a child and yound adult and I always thought it was special, exciting, and adventurous. Now, by the time I actually get on a plane my nerves are so shot by the airport experience that I am threadbare and stressed. I take as much Dramamine as I dare and hope for the best. I am supposed to go to Korea this winter and I am already dreading the 22 hour flight... who have I become? Where is the girl with a backpack ready for adventure? At this point in my life a plane trip usually means I have to leave me family as I usually travel with work. This part I like the least. Perhaps if we all three took to the great blue skys together...

Automobiles: Anyone who knows me knows I love to drive. It has always been my American Dream. Car= Freedom. Good music, sunroof, and a destination (sometimes not) has always been my go to place for letting the stress of my world dissipate. In our little town of Wilmore there is not too many places to 'drive' unless you lap yourself-- that is not too fun. Currently living on a tight seminary budget there is no money to burn useless gas at a million dollars a gallon and my heightened greenness just makes me feel guilty. Now my driving typically consists of stressful trips to Atlanta rushing in an out of the state of Georgia over a much too full weekend.

What is left for the transportation challenged like me? Walking. I like walking. Besides, the pace of walking leaves times for the little details... blades of grass instead of patches of green, reflections of items for sale in small shop windows instead of exit signs, the color of the eyes of the people you pass instead of metal objects passing in space. Yes, walking will do....

The Big Ups and Downs

When I was a kid I loved roller coasters. I mean I loved them. I grew up going to Six Flags Over Georgia and countless midways at the Shrine Circus each year and I loved each moment of flight those glittering giants afforded me.


One hot summer day we took our annual family trip to Six Flags on Coke Day. All employees and their families of Coca Cola Bottling Co got in to the park free and had all the free Coke you can drink. A child's dream. My parents would only take us to Six Flags Coke Day because it was cheep and there were no lines... a parent's dream. On this particular visit I was still young, probably about 5 or 6, and unusually tall for my age. All day I begged my Dad to take me on the The Great American Scream Machine, an old fashioned patriotic themed wood coaster, that respectfully earned its name. It looked amazing and I wanted to ride it so very bad. So to the line we went-- the very short line-- and waited our turn. I was so happy, thrilled to be a BIG girl getting to ride the biggest ride in the park (at that time). When they held up the dreaded measuring stick I was just a little shy of the required height. That could have been the end of my dream but my Dad didn't want me to be let down or more likely didn't want to hear me complain the whole way home so he convinced the attendant to let me on the train. What is a few inches?


We climbed in as close to the front of the car as we could get and I snuggled in close to my Dad. For those of you who don't know him he has quite a belly, so when he pulled to 'safety bar' down to keep us secure it caught snuggly on his belly but left a gapping hole between my tummy and the metal. Please note for the horrified parents out there, this was before seat belts and car seats were even part of a parent's vocabulary. So a poor fitting metal bar did not seem like too much of a risk. The loud swoosh of releasing brakes and off we clicked up the gigantic first hill as we caught the chain mechanism that pulled us up into the heavens. I was thrilled. We crested the peak and for a split second I looked at the world around me amazed. Then we became gravity's toy as we plummeted down the first hill. At first I felt my stomach climbing into my throat and then I felt the release of pressure of the seat as I became weightless. My thighs pressed again the bar then my shins as I continued to rise out of my seat and into the space between earth and sky. I was floating away like that cherished balloon who escaped the sticky grip of a child. But my Dad grabbed my string and pulled me back in. He clinched his arm across my body clinging to the bar with all his strength. I remember his knuckles turning white and all look of fun drain from his face as he fought against gravity for 3 minutes and won. I was far too young to understand his fear and only later when I saw his bent wedding ring crushed on his finger from his grip on the bar did I sense that there was something wrong with my first big girl ride. He made me feel safe and I loved it. I even asked to go again. He said no.

I have rode countless roller coasters since that day long ago. I have flipped, flown, dropped, in about every way imaginable and I have loved it.

I do hate the trite way people use a roller coaster as a metaphor for life. When you flesh it out does it really work? So why am I willing to go there now? My metaphor is my father's firm grip when I was unaware of the danger. His willingness to keep holding on even though my pleasure was causing him pain. This was what my Dad did... and I know my Father does so much more. So why do I have trouble trusting Him who created it all in the midst of my ride? Why do I now get panicky mid way through? When it is all over will I ask Him to go again?

Why am I thinking of roller coasters and near death experiences? As I have been processing my mother's continual decline in her ongoing battle with Ovarian cancer I have been thinking a lot about my childhood, where I came from, and where I need to be going. Perhaps the last four years of our life--the ones when cancer became apart of our daily vocabulary-- have been a ride in themselves. Full of ups and downs. The thrill of hope and the crushing weight of 'news of progression'. Now I am going to have to recant my dislike for the roller coaster metaphor. At least I am right in the fact that it all lasts a lot longer than three minutes.

The End Times-- A glimpse of life in Turkington Manor

This blog/scattering of my thoughts was originated out of my own desire to write more-- not from any belief I hold that my thoughts or life is interesting enough to read about. Therefore, I write each post like no one but myself reads it--which is basically true, and since ranting to yourself is an indicator of mental illness I try to steer clear of such posts.

However, (you had to know there was a however was coming).... however, life at the illustrious Turkington Manor has gotten so interesting that I felt I had to get it off my chest. For anyone who has missed the unparalleled pleasure of spending anytime in our little nest of an apartment I feel I must share some basic background. The cinder block family housing was built just after the fall of man and hasn't had much invested in continual maintenance or upkeep in decades, and has recently been scheduled for demolition to make room for new family housing. Currently four units in the building are condemned due to raw sewage overflows due to ongoing plumbing issues. (nice and smelly)! Thankfully, we live on the other end of the building but the lovely leaks have made their way into the shared storage in the basement. I apologize in advance for my stinky winter sweaters in the upcoming months...

Kevin and I had just recently worked the cramps out of our faces from our 'grin and bare it' stance on our living conditions, knowing we are in count down mode to our move back to the Peach State. Living in student housing was a decision we made to help us take on as little debt as possible during our time at Asbury. (Taking on student loans in our mid thirties means we will still be paying for them when our children are in college-- not quite the college savings plan I had in mind). So little set backs like our bathroom fan making a screeching sound like something dying a painful death, like the window seals all being busted so each bustling breeze or train rumble (we live close to busy tracks) starts the shaking of the panes that has a nice crescendo in the early morning hours, like the paint pealing off the banisters to the degree that if I was a more active parent I should have CB tested for lead poisoning, or like the small waifs of sewage blowing through on the evening breeze were all taken in 'count down' stride. Yet, last night when our precious neighbor Courtney Coates came by to tell us of the large and active roach colony right outside our apartment I felt like it could be my last straw. Now our little nest was their nest too-- I am not willing to share.



Although I am not afraid of roaches I feel I share most people's rather strong dislike of them and I was so proud of my barefoot pajama-clad husband as he went into the dark of night to fight a brave but futile battle with the little beasts. Unfortunately, to no avail as they had him outnumbered 100 to one. So today I am sure as I sit here writing this post a kind member of the maintenance staff, who really try to do there best with the old building, will come a spray roach-death juice all around our building and all over my weedy but organic garden.

Will this be the end?

Will this be the last straw of Turkington vs. Barnes?

Bodacious Broads

Setting: Mother's Day 2008; Dacula, GA

Characters: Rebecca (me), Roxanne (sister), and Lela (mother), various other wonderful ladies of the Bodacious Broads Chapter of The Red Hat Society and their lovely daughters and daughters-in-law.

Exposition: Two hour drive with my mom, sister, and broken foot cross country to avoid Atlanta traffic.

Climax: Adorning our pink (or red if you are over 50 years old) hats and walking up to a predominately men’s golf club for our annual Mother’s Day brunch.

Resolution: Realization that the heavy burden of expectation of my attendance at the annual event (“come hell or high water” as my father says) was worth the hassle of the long drive with said broken foot (i.e. hell or high water) to spend those moments with my precious mother and her amazing friends.

Sequel: The hope that next year will bring together those same faces from all over the country to honor our mothers and share in their friendship. The prayer that one day I will share a similar moment with my own daughter.

May Flowers

I love the month of May. September and October are in a close running but I think May is the winner, although I am not sure the other months know it is a competition. I never claimed to be fair.

May brings warmer days and flowers. Two of my favorite things. As a person who is free from allergies (at least to normal things-- I still have the pesky pencil and chalk issues) I loved to breath deep the syrupy air of spring.

Tulips make me smile. Such a perky little flower popping up for a grin at the world.

Hydrangeas make we want to weep from beauty. Their snowy blooms remind me of old southern houses and gentle touches from someone who really loves me.

Wisteria makes me feel safe. It comforts me that the rugged vines of winter that seem wasted produce canopies of purple each spring.

These are the flowers that I love, that are of my past, of my childhood.
They are part of who I am.

I love May for another important reason. On May 27, Kevin and I will celebrate our eighth wedding anniversary. Eight years. Eight years planted with little moments we have shared. My journey through life with Kevin has been blanketed with tulips (smiles) , hydrangeas (beauty) , and wisteria (safety).

He is now part of who I am.

I love it!

In 1492 Columbus sailed the ocean blue

I love history. I have always loved history. I was one of those nerdy kids who read my social studies book cover to cover by about the second week of school.

What was and has been, has always fascinated me. I love to visit places where people have been reliving the human drama for a long time. I can feel the heaviness of so many souls. Such places give me goose bumps. I would have been a history major in college if it weren't for all the dates. I love history but not numbers and somehow the two are perpetually connected-- it is the timelines.

A good timeline will go a long way in making order out of a complex idea/world, but I struggle with all the numbers. I had an assignment at one point while pursuing my Masters that asked me to create a comprehensive timeline of the literature of my life. It was like one long mix tape of novels with a verbal annotation between songs. Needless to say it was a difficult but enlightening task as I re-walked my life path focusing only on the books I carried with me on the journey.

I remember a time when my own personal timeline was defined by positive life experiences. The Christmas we went skiing as a family, my first summer at Camp Glisson, the summer I went on a mission trip to New Mexico, the Interim I spent in Honduras, the semester I lived in Amsterdam, the youth BBQ when Kevin and I started dating, our wedding, and so on and so on. These sort of life moments served as the the vertical markers on my horizontal life that when labeled said, "something good and important happened here-- remember this."

In the past few days I have been thinking of my updated timeline and the definitions have seemed to shifted more to the negative, with a few notable exceptions. Now it looks more like: the summer my mother was diagnosed with cancer, the fall of Cavender's birth, the winter I finally had to drop out of my Masters program, the New Year's Day my father had a stroke, the summer I was diagnosed with postpartum depression, and so on and so on.

God is good. Life is good.
It has taken me awhile to see that each negative has brought something good into my life.
Besides it is my timeline-- it reflects what I am living. I am choosing to reflect the light and not the dark. I know there will be more times when I will stop and say, "something good and important happened here-- remember this."

Fired up for behavior modification!

As most of you know Kevin and I have been big supporters of the Babywise parenting philosophy even before we had Cavender. Although we have adapted and adjusted some of the ideas to better fit our personalities, the Babywise concepts have served as the foundation for our parenting.

So when Cavender recently began her tantrums and tirades we turned to our faithful guide (after we recovered from the shock of her behavior!). Onto book 3... or is it 4?

Kevin, now being the reader in the family, has already finished the book and has written out a list of areas we need to improve in our communication with Cavender. I am a little behind but so far completely agree with him in the areas where we need to make our 'next steps'. Just when I seem to think we have it all figured out Cavender always sets me straight by immediately entering into a new development phase.

Couch Time, Reduction of Decision Making Freedoms, and Direct Verbal Commands... here we come!

Let the adventure begin!

HGTV has done me in...

Perhaps, I have watched too much home improvement television.

I am willing to take the first step and admit I have a problem. I could make excuses for myself when we actually used to own homes to improve, but now in the cement-block-world of seminary housing why do I continue to watch?

Kevin and I went to Lowe's yesterday to buy a few gardening supplies. The bright blue sign, the hard cement floor, and the smell of fresh cut wood made my project-planner heart flutter in the oversized container store. I could only image my reaction if we had been in a Home Depot. We went straight to the garden center and were in and out the huge sliding doors in 10 minutes and spent less than 10 dollars. But as we made our way to the check out line, my eyes kept wandering to the ceiling fans and paint samples.... oh what a little paint could do for cement blocks.

My compulsion to make thing prettier, to organize, to decorate has been fueled by the countless hours of home improvement shows I have watched, but to what end?

Then it hit me like the smell of fresh paint in a small bathroom.
Why the discontentment?
Why the longing for improvement which usually ends in disillusionment of an unfinished task?

On TV, the over-the-top makeovers are presented by an outside expert, the participant submits to the plan, and then they are off to the races. In 30 frantic minutes all the work is accomplished by the 'team' most of whom are off camera. The job always seems impossible but miraculously it all comes together in the last seconds with amazing results.

I keep waiting for my expert to make a plan and my off camera team to swoop in and help with all the junk of a real life make-over. A heart make-over. Besides my occasional obsession with curtains or paint I have moved past the home improvement phase to my heart improvement phase. For so long I focused on the external world so I would not have to look the shabbiness of my heart (not even shabby chic).

Duct tape, hot glue, and a little fabric will not make the grade here.
There are no short cuts.
There is no off camera team or editing crew to remove the mess ups.

So here in Wilmore, without a house, a yard, or a paint scheme I am working on the hardest make-over of my adult life.

When I grow up...

I keep thinking of all of the things I want to do when I grow up. I am not sure at what point I will consider myself a grown up but here are a few of my ponderings on the subject....

When I grow up I will...

• wake up effortlessly every morning without the repetitive shrilling of my alarm clock because I arise before the sun with out hitting snooze so I can start my day right.
• want to look for opportunities to do the laundry and dust to keep out little hovel clean.
  
• find the motivation and self-discipline to go work out everyday.
• stop falling down or dropping things more often than my three year old.
• stop dreaming about afternoon nap time, even at my office... I can fit under my desk.
• rather drink a glass of water than a Coke product.
  
• stop secretly wishing I was eating what my toddler is eating off of the kids meal at most dinning out experiences.

Maybe one day...
tomorrow, I think...
but there seems to be a great deal of work to be done in growing up....

Swimming lessons in a land locked state....

There is something ironic in the fact that we waited to for my little one to take swim lessons until we lived in a place with no water... well, there is water but it seems to be limited to concrete pools.

It saddens me that my own flesh and blood does not love the ocean like her Mama. She thinks the waves are TOO BIG, and from the perspective of a three year old I can see her point. But having just gotten back from the white sands of the Gulf, I am reaffirmed in my belief that those rhythmic waves are important to my peace of mind. Unfortunately, since my handsome redheaded husband shares our girl's disdain for the ocean I don't see many family vacations to the coast in my future.

So tonight I will head out to our first swimming lesson with our girl knowing that I am only preparing her for fun days at the pool or maybe a small lake that is reasonable in size. Perhaps when she grows up and digs her own toes into the sand she will love the beach like her Mama. At least she will be tall enough to hold her own in the waves.

A loaf of bread, a container of milk, and a stick of butter...

Background: Kevin and I have given up TV for lent. We have done it before and we really enjoy the kind of time no TV creates for us.

Issue: No TV equals no news.... and I am really ok with this fact. I stay in the loop online, which is what I prefer to do anyway. However, last night our internet was not working and we missed the "Great Storm" forecast. So when I awoke this morning to snow flurries I felt the need to hurry, to rush somewhere. But where?

Realization: Why is it those of born and raised in the South have a compulsion-- a need to scurry to the grocery store for winter storms? How bad does it really get that we need to 'stock up' 'just in case'? Remember the great storm of ... '82?
I can hear Glen Burns in my head.... Action 2 weather.... stay tuned!

I must say I was shocked the first time I rushed to Kroger to stock up during our first Kentucky snow...there were parking places, milk was on the shelves, and there was no line in the beer isle. Different.

But I am not a local, so off to Kroger I will go.... 6-8 inches of snow...
what do we need?

A loaf of bread....
A container of milk...
and a stick of butter.....

or something like that.

It is too cold to wear pajamas to school... or is it?

Today it is cold.

Very cold.

I have said, " This is the coldest I have ever been" at least twice today and I think five times in one day is my record. That day involved ice.

So it is cold. I feel like I really have to establish this fact.

I am ready for spring. I am formally protesting the late arrival of spring in Kentucky by already switching to spring footwear. This small but important willful act has indeed increased my feeling of walking around on blocks of ice. Yet, sock-less and frozen my claustrophobic feet are proclaiming it is time for sunshine and warm weather and I feel good about the claim.

Maybe, just maybe, it will flip-flop weather by the weekend... at least in the house.

Today is pajama day!
Did you know this? Or as Cavender says, "How do you know this mama?" Cavender's school calendar has it clearly labeled on March 5th, Pajama Day. I have been attending or teaching in schools for most of my life and I do not recall an official pajama day until today. What was I missing?
Perhaps all those things that a pre-schooler does in a day at school will be better-- a little more pleasurable because it is pajama day.
I know nap time should be better.

The Seed

Is it a seed of thought that grounds us, roots us to those around us?
Or is growth the sequence of actions that are produced from something urging to be born from within us?

I wanted a tomato sandwich-- the seed of thought was planted. But will it fall on untended soil like so many of my thoughts. Will it bear fruit?

So I have been planning a garden this spring.
I have decided on tomatoes.

The work of gardening will have to be done... or I will have to fill myself on the empty thoughts of good intentions.

I know the smell of those sticky vines will make me sick for home. But the joy of tomato sandwiches- the delightful combination of the freshest of white bread, mayonnaise, tomatoes, salt and pepper- packed onto the roof of my mouth will make it worth the sadness that smelly vine will produce.

Tomatoes.... grow little seeds.