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Today’s Forecast: Windy

March 23, 2009

 

It’s getting to be that time of year again.  As I type this, I can hear baby birds chirping in the tree outsde my window and I can’t help but remember last spring’s adventures in bird watching.  Here’s hoping this year’s bird nests are built to withstand high winds.

.

Ned and Violet:  Short on Life, Long on Love

May 1, 2008

It seems like every Spring gets kicked off around here when we start seeing tiny eggshells on the ground under the trees. It is Mackenzie’s favorite time. She loves to talk about the baby birds that hatch and wonders just why we never see them when the evidence of their existence is so clear.

It is all kinds of crazy windy around these parts lately. The kids have had a bit of a challenge staying up on their bikes and the tree tops are being twisted in every imaginable direction. This has presented these young baby birds with certain peril.

While falling from a tree might seem like a pretty bad thing in the life of a baby bird, the real danger is in the location of the fall. I would imagine that if a dear sweet baby bird fell from his nest in the middle of the forest, his Mama bird would immediately swoop down and rescue him.

If that same baby bird falls from its nest in the tree in our apartment parking lot, his complications greatly intensify. First, you have the asphalt. If he survives the fall, he has to navigate his way off the hot, black asphalt and onto the strips of green grass. Now, if his Mama bird is there, he has a pretty good chance of survival. Sadly, we had two little birds who recently met a different fate.

They were discovered by some very helpful neighborhood kids. Being the helpful youngsters that they are, these kids swooped the baby birds up in their grimy, human smelling hands. By the time these kids were at my door, these poor birds were so loaded with human scent that I knew there would be no returning them to their Mama.

They appeared to be older baby birds, like maybe the human equivalent of a teenager, so I had some amount of hope that they could be somehow make it in the real world. And so began my day and half long vigil with Ned and Violet.

I had high hopes for Violet. She seemed more sturdy. She could fly/jump further than Ned. When I massaged her neck to get her to open her mouth*, she took in the mushy bread I offered. Ned though, Ned seemed a bit more in need of a Mama bird.

I wore rubber gloves in hopes that maybe time would wash away the scent of those kids. We kept the birds outside and watched while about six or so blue jays gathered around and squawked at the baby birds. This crew of birds kept a constant surveillance over the babies, but wouldn’t go anywhere near them. It really was one of the sadder things I think I have ever seen.

Violet continued taking bits of mushy bread, but only if I put it directly in her mouth. My audience of about eight children all cheered when Violet took her first bite. They cheered and I bit my lip.

Somehow, I just knew that little Violet’s lack of fear of me would prove to be a bad thing if she is to make it out there where she needs to have a higher sense of concern for who comes up to her. Even as the children hopped excitedly around and cheered for Violet, I suspected that Violet would not be long for this world on account of her early on specie confusion.

Ned started out doing the same fly/jump bit as Violet, but his inability to take in food or water didn’t take long to deplete his energy. We finally gave up on his ability to be released back to his home and made a cozy bed for him to find some shred of comfort. It really was a sad sight.

Ned had a lovely service out by the AC unit. We brought in a “priest” from two cul de sacs down and she did a lovely eulogy. Each of the children had a say about how much joy Ned had brought to our little parking lot play ground in his very brief life and we buried him.

While we held Ned’s very somber service, our dear Violet did something amazing. She picked up a bug all on her own and ate it. I looked into her eyes, and she looked right back into mine. I swear to you she was communicating with me. “Let me go, Miss Amy. Let me go.”

And so I did. I scooped her up in my apron, lifted up one of the loose fence boards and sent her on her merry way into the high grass of the creek behind the parking lot. We watched her as far as we could. She really does look like she could make it. Except for her whole “no fear of humans” thing.

I give her two days.

Ned
This is Ned. As common as blue jays are, it really was something to see one so close up. I took about ten or twelve pictures of Ned and Violet and they never flinched.

This is Violet. You might notice that she is perched on a bike tire. Before we sent her on her way, she got to where she could fly and perch anywhere under three feet tall.

Good-bye, Ned and Violet. May there be no parking lots full of curious children in bird Heaven.

*How did I know to massage the neck? I don’t know. It just made sense. I blame too much children’s programming.

Weather Update

March 20, 2009

My season as the neighborhood Miss Amy is coming to a close.  I am eager for the next still unclear season, but feel a bit sad about leaving this one.

It happened three weeks ago, but I can still hardly think about it without tears in my eyes.  I guess it actually started about a year before that, but I didn’t notice because I wasn’t paying attention.

After seven years of having neighborhood kids congregate in my living room, they all began to go away. Some moved, some started after school programs.  After a time, I only had one extra kid who was in my home regularly and three or so who mostly played outside because they have moms who actually pay attention and keep them on a short leash.

A month ago Bobby showed up on my porch and told me that he was moving cross country.  My heart skipped and started to pound a little heavier when I heard it, but then I was able to explain it away. Kids are always misunderstanding what their parents say.  I’ll bet he’s moving furniture in his room.

Three weeks ago, he showed up and said his Dad needed Eric’s help collapsing the ramp on the moving van. Eric comes back inside and tells me that he’s gone.

“Gone?” I ask, a lump swelling in my throat.

“Yeah.  It looks like that was it.  They just pulled out.”

“But, Bobby didn’t even come give me a hug.  I didn’t get to say good-bye.”  

Why should they linger to hug the neighbor lady?  As far as his parents are concerned, I’m a nobody who sometimes gets their son a drink of water.  

But I know their son.   I fed their son.  I prayed for their son.  I ached for their son and spent countless hours talking with him about his thoughts on things.

I went back into my bedroom and closed the door.  I started to cry.  And not just a little bit of a wrinkled chin with a single tear kind of cry.  It was an ugly cry like when your two year old didn’t get their way in a very public place and they want the whole world to hear them kind of cry.  I didn’t just cry for Bobby.  I cried for every kid who has ever sat in my home and then left, likely to never see me again.  I count 24 total, with ages ranging from 2-16.

As I cried, I saw each of their faces and I remembered each of their stories.  Some were more heart breaking than others, but all shared the same thread: They needed a comfortable place to relax and be kids and I was it.  I wept and prayed for each one, feeling overwhelming agony at not having done more or been more.  I wept and begged God to have mercy on them.  

I wept and burned with shame that I have for so long taken for granted the good fortune of where God has placed me in His plan.  I entered this world with two parents, four grandparents, and a myriad of aunts, uncles, and cousins who all postured themselves to nurture my knowledge of Him.  Were I to take a misstep, I know that an uncountable number of hands will be waiting to lift me up.  But not most of these kids.  Some of them had a parent, an aunt, or a grandparent who were believers and I knew that they had some grounding, but too many of them came from homes which were apathetic to Truth.  What luxury I was born into and what great shame I bear for having neglected to praise God all these years for it.

As I ended my nice long crying spell, I washed my face and took a moment to say good-bye and close a chapter.  

So many of you have come alongside of me in my work here.  You have come to my home and helped prepare meals, you have provided shoes, bikes, clothing, and candy(!).  You have even provided for my own comfort.  God’s grace is sufficient for me and in so many ways, you have been His grace offering hands.  Thank you so very much.  I praise God upon remembering your countless gestures. 

We are moving next month and our plan is to live cheap, pay off debt, and enjoy cows for neighbors.  I can’t stress enough that this is our plan.  There’s always room for God to shake things up.  I’ll keep you posted when the changes come and details are more clear.

The Time I Threw Away a Kid’s Bike

March 15, 2009

I am in the process of leaving a season of my life. In just over a month we will have moved out of our apartment and said good-bye to the few remaining neighborhood kids. Unless God changes our plans, we will be moving to a place with no kids near enough to visit.
I plan to give this chapter a proper send off by writing my thoughts on leaving for you, but for now I would like to share one of my favorite posts about these kids.  I laugh everytime I remember their faces that day.

There Was an Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe…

March 24, 2008

The reason our place is the neighborhood kid hang out place, I believe, is because ours is the only household in the area with a parent available at all times. (Special thanks to Eric for making that possible. Seriously.) Kids need a grown up ever ready to intervene and even they know that.

Most of these kids leave their bikes in front of our apartment, which wouldn’t be a problem except that they don’t line the bikes up properly in the bike rack and we wind up with two to three parking spots taken up by bikes.

This is a bother to other tenants, obviously, and they complain, obviously. I am the only responsible adult commonly witnessed giving all these kids marching orders and the notices about the errant bikes wind up slipped between my door and frame.

Our apartment’s assistant manager is a mousy, frustrated, anxious little woman (To be fair,I’m sure her mother would describe her as “smiley and precious”).

She tiptoes up the stairs, fearful I might hear her (not a reader of my blog, she doesn’t know I have the hearing of a hawk). With the finesse of a ninja - or something, she gently - so gently - slides her white legal envelope through, just above the door knob and dead bolt. Then she quickly, but oh so quietly, trots down the stairs and into her waiting golf cart. Her faces scrunches into a wince at the high pitched squeal of the back up alarm and her eyes dart up the stairs, worried that she has alerted me to her covert operation.

Twice now I have let her have her anonymity. I have graciously watched her do her thing without opening my door wide and scaring her to bits. Twice. I think that puts me in the “giver” category.

Now, I can only give so much. I am, after all, just one person.

A few days ago I left the front door open to enjoy fresh air and cool breezes (the two week Spring of Texas lore). I’m in the kitchen when I hear the unmistakable sound of her one inch heels clacking on my stairs. I know it’s her. I can almost smell her terror at the sight of the open door. I take a moment to consider what to do. Do I let her toss it through the doorway and run? Or do I go ahead and do the awkward verbal tango that I know will come of an attempt to argue the charges?

Drying my hands on my apron, I waltz to the door and decide that it’s time to tango.  I wear an apron. And sometimes I waltz, and or tango, in my apron.

“Is this about the bikes again?” I ask as she hands me the note. I can see the paper shaking slightly in her hand as she gathers her thoughts and dabs at a bead of sweat on her upper lip.

“Umm, yeah. It seems as though some of the neighbors are complaining about all your bikes,” she punctuates her charge by adjusting her thick rimmed glasses and scrunching her nose a bit.

“Actually, you’re preaching to the choir on this one,” I say, trying to loosen her up and convey that we are a team, me and the mousy apartment manager, “We only have the one bike and the two scooters,” I continue, gesturing at the one scooter parked on the rack and Ian on his bike while Kenzie scooted past our sight, “and to the best of my knowledge, they are always either being used or put away on the bike rack.”

“Well, the complaints are about more than one bike. These kids really need to put their bikes away.”

“I agree. And the kids that I am responsible for do put their bikes away. These other nine bikes do not, in fact, belong to me”

“See, the problem is,” she scrunches her nose and readjusts her glasses, “people have to park here and when there are bikes every where, people can’t park here.”

I have a million snarky replies barking at the end of their leash on this one, but I ignore the barks and behave as best I can.

“Tell me about it, just last night I had to move two bikes to get to a spot. These kids are ridiculous. Maybe it would help if their parents got notices as well?”

“Yeeeah, you have to understand that the problem here is that the bikes do not get placed in the bike racks like they should. I’m going to have to ask you to make sure that all of your bikes are put away properly,” she says as she tugs at the bottom of her smart little suit jacket for authoritative emphasis.

Just how special does this lady think I am? Does she really think I am mother to this veritable patchwork quilt of about ten children? She can’t have misunderstood when I told her which children were mine. Has she just decided that I’ve collected all these kids in one tiny apartment like I’m some sort of Angelina Jolie on a really tight budget?

As I am making a movement to turn to go in, Jay Jay pulls up on his bike and drops it right in a parking spot. He actually looks both of us in the eye and walks away.

“See that little boy? You really need to tell him to put that bike up,” she admonishes me.

Admonishes me. Me! Admonished!

“I’ll tell him, but perhaps you’ve noticed that Jay Jay is not my kid.”

“Yes, but someone really needs to tell him what to do with his bike,” she says.

barking, barking, barking. The meter is running on my emotional energy and this lady has no clue how loose my grip is becoming on that leash.

“Hey, Jay Jay! How you gonna just pull up here and leave your bike right there? Put it up. I’m not about to be getting any more notices about your bike,” I tell him, and simultaneously admonish her.

He puts his bike away and she thanks me for my crowd control efforts but, “What are we going to do about all these other bikes?”

“I don’t know what we are going to do. I’ll keep getting on these kids about it, but I really think you’ll have to, I don’t know, put notices on their doors or something. Maybe somehow convey to their parents that they need to take care of their bikes,” I turn to go in and she tries one last time to get me to understand the root of the problem.

“It’s just not fair to people who have cars. This is where cars park and all these kids can’t be leaving their bikes in the parking spaces.”

“I hear you. I really do. These bikes are a problem. Can you believe this weather?”

She heaves a sigh and realizes that she hasn’t gotten through to me about all the bikes being in the way, agrees with me about the stunning weather, hops in her golf cart and putters off to do anything but put notices on the doors of the bike owners.

The second part of this story is about how I actually fixed the problem by really and truly throwing away one of the kid’s bikes. Put the fear of old lady Peterson in them, I did.

Here’s a Lady Who Needs Her Coffee

February 18, 2009

 

Yesterday morning I was doing my regular phone call with Mom while I waited for my coffee to percolate, when I turned to look at the coffee maker and discovered that coffee grounds and water were all over my counter.  The mess didn’t even register with me as much as the sudden reality that I was without coffee.  I told Mom about my fix and she offers her wisdom, “It sounds like the doohicky that slows the flow is broken.”  And she was right. The doohicky was completely missing.  We bought a new maker post haste and it set me to remembering this post from last summer.

What I Did for Love

June 3, 2008

I learned a coffee making tip last summer that I promise you will make good coffee even better. You need to make the coffee with cold water. It’s that simple. I don’t know why it works so well, but for some reason the coffee comes out a bit sharper and the flavor is more defined. Try it next time you make coffee.

That’s not what I came here to tell you though.

So, this morning I wake up with a kid at my door. No biggie. He comes in and gets settled with my kids for breakfast and I walk to the fridge to get the chilled water to get my coffee going. Cold water in the machine, I next open the cabinet to get the cof…

There was no coffee. We’re all out. I stare at the empty spot on the shelf and vaguely recall that a mental note was made to get more, but clearly not followed through on.

I look back at the kids and start to feel a little bit upset. “Just look at them. Eating their toast and drinking their juice. Don’t they even care that I’m having a crisis? They don’t even care. Jerks.”

Back in my bedroom, I tell a sleeping Eric, “Honey? We don’t have any coffeeeeeeee.”

He mumbles something in his pillow and it sounded to me like he was offering to watch the kids while I made the quick half a block stroll to the nearest convenient store to get some. Still in my pjs, I quickly throw on my jogging pants (I DO NOT jog. They were given to me by a jogger), a t-shirt and my trusty Birks and headed off to the store.

The walk there was a bit of a haze. I remember pushing the button to cross the busy intersection, but beyond that I am not certain how it was that I found myself actually pouring the coffee and getting it all mixed up the proper way (LOTS of cream and sugar).

Once I had my first sip of that sweet, sweet, Wag-a-Bag coffee, I came back to reality. I was awake. I was WIDE awake. Wide awake and hanging out at the Wag-a-Bag in stoopid jogging pants and a stained t-shirt. The manager engaged me in a friendly conversation about our mutual need for coffee. I think my disheveled appearance made my desperation obvious.

I paid for my crack coffee and headed out the door, quickly putting my Jackie O. sunglasses on to hide my face before scurrying across the parking lot.

Standing at the street corner and waiting for my signal to cross, I started to notice that I was the only pedestrian in sight. That didn’t strike me as any kind of big deal until I got my signal and started to cross in front of four lanes of heavy morning rush hour traffic.

I was the ONLY pedestrian. The only thing to look at while these motorists passed time waiting for the light to change. I crossed that street with a pretty massive complex. I felt countless eyes burning holes in my ridiculous jogging pants and I was certain that they all noticed the stain on my t-shirt.

I had just made it to the other side when the maintenance man from our apartments saw me and offered me a ride in his sweet golf cart. I accepted, but only because I was desperate to get home and add more creamer to my coffee.

“So, you really needed some coffee, huh Miss Amy?” (The maintenance man has become a dear friend and he calls me Miss Amy.)

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, your shirt’s on backwards and inside out. Looks like you left in a hurry.”

We’re not friends anymore.

I get back upstairs and in my little home, where shirts can be worn however we please as long as they are on, only to find Eric still in bed. He sits up and asks me if we have coffee.

So I poured his down the drain.

Not really. But in my head I did.

Archived: The One That Gets Me Many Google Hits for “Spanking”

February 13, 2009


 

Here’s another chat with Mackenzie.  This one is from three years ago.  She still likes to have diplomatic chats like this one about her concerns with my parenting.   I think I’m paying for my own childhood.

 

A Chat About Spanking

January 12, 2006

Eric and I were both spanked children. I figure I got it worse than he did because he is faster on his feet and can talk his way out of almost any frey. We determined that when we had children, we would use spanking as a primary form of punishment. We rarely use time outs or deprivation unless it is in addition to a firm spanking. As the kids have aged, we have seen the results of fast, square discipline. They still act out, but they have grown to learn to make good choices to avoid the consequence of a spanking.

On a recent evening Mackenzie earned a spanking.  At the conclusion of the grueling “beating” I sent Mackenzie to her room to get in bed and told her I would be there in a moment to discuss the spanking. When I arrived for our chat, it was clear that she had put on her diplomatic hat and was ready for a serious discussion.

“Mom. We need to talk about the spanking.”

“What would you like to tell me about it, Mackenzie?”

“Well, I think that you should tell me that you’re sorry when you spank me.”

“Mackenzie, I am very sorry when I have to spank you. It makes me very sad when you don’t mind me and I have to punish you. If you would do as I say, then we wouldn’t have to bother with it at all.”

“Well, I just don’t like spankings.”

“Mackenzie, did you know that when I was a little girl my Mommy and Daddy spanked me? And did you know that Grandma and Grandpa are the ones who raised me?”

Her eyes grew really big and I realized that I had just basically told her that Santa Claus and Mary Poppins used to beat me senseless.

“Grandpa doesn’t spank little children.”

And she’s right. Grandpa has retired his paddle and replaced it with Ottor Pops and quarters.   I suppose I fared better being raised by my paddling Dad rather than my daughter’s mushy Grandpa.

April 2007

February 11, 2009

I think this post has to be one of my very favorites.  Both of my kids force me to almost daily twist my brain and find the right response.  Mackenzie mastered this skill very early on and this post recounts a chat I had with her when she was five that I think will stick with me forever.

God Talk with a Five Year Old

April 16, 2007

Mackenzie often approaches me with questions that appear to have come out of the air, but she has actually been thinking on them for some time. Last week was no exception.

Mom, what is the most important thing we should know about God?”

Wow. That’s a brain twister. There are lots of important things about God that I want her to know, but what is the number one most important thing? My brain buzzed with all the answers I could give her. I could tell her that God loves her and that is most important, but is that the notion I want her walking away with? It sounded a bit self important to me. Back to square one.

What is the most important thing we should know about God?

Wait a minute. Sometimes she asks me these questions and she is being more rhetorical than actually seeking my thoughts. Maybe she has an answer in mind and I can get a pass.

“Mackenzie, what do you think is the most important thing we should know about God?”

“I don’t know, Mom. That’s why I asked you.”

Hello again, square one.

In my head, I am having a conversation with God that is racing at lightening speeds. I love having chats with my kids about God, but I am always concerned that I will paint the wrong picture and leave them with a distorted image of who God is. I want her to know that God loves her, but I don’t want her to think that God is a big mushy Santa-type character who just winks at sin and gives her a lollipop. Conversely, I don’t want her to lay awake nights on end, waiting for God to squish her with His thumb because she is a wicked, evil sinner.

And so, I finally get the one word that I think encompasses the number one, most important thing there is to remember about God.

“Mackenzie, God is sovereign.”

“Huh? What does that word mean?”

Great. Sovereign means sovereign. That’s what it means. How do I tell her what it mea…
And then it came to me.

“It means that God knows what He’s doing and He’s always right.”

Mackenzie has turned that conversation into her mantra. Just this morning, she made me repeat back to her what sovereign means and then she happily skipped away chanting, “God knows what He’s doing and He’s always right.” I think I could use that as my own mantra.

Archived

February 9, 2009

Whenever I think about a post that has been archived, I always picture a huge library with stacks high as the ceiling. Not that my blog posts could fill a library, but that’s how it looks in my head.

In your head I would like for you to picture me pouring over my many archived leather bound volumes until I have found just the perfect one to rerun. Don’t think of it as leftovers, think of it as a funny memory that we share. This one still makes me laugh. I’m so Lucy.

How to Keep Your Neighbors On Their Toes

April 28, 2007

Our neighborhood used to be a several hundred acre cotton farm. It was actually owned by the Peterson family (no relation) and they still live a few blocks away from us in the original farmhouse. When it rains, the water seems to sit on the ground surface for far longer than I have ever seen it do elsewhere and, according to Mr.Peterson, this has something to do with the farming that the land was formerly used for.

Our driveway has a large dip in it right where Eric parks, and when it rains there is usually a three foot long puddle for him to step in up to his ankles.
A few days ago he called me from work while it was pouring outside and it sounded like he was having a pretty rotten day. I stepped outside after the rain stopped and decided that, while I couldn’t fix things at work for him, I could get rid of the heinous puddle before he got home. I got one of the kids sandbox buckets and started to scoop out all the water. When I was finished, I still had a substantial amount of mud to contend with. I shoveled out quite a bit, but was still dissatisfied with my progress. Nothing less than dry ground would do for my dear dragon slayer. I looked around for a weighty item and found a log from our wood pile. I picked it up and began throwing it into the mud. This caused it to splatter all over the yard and driveway and finally gave me the results I wanted. I went inside and thought nothing more of it.

That night Eric took me on a date and when we got home I saw that there were more casualties of my act of love than I thought. My neighbor’s fixer upper car was COVERED in splotches of mud. Enough time had passed that I am fairly certain they had come home and wondered who disliked them enough to bring such vandalism on their property and I felt awful.

Eric sees the mud on their car and says, “Wow. I wonder who did that?”
“I did,” I say with my head hanging.
“Why on earth would you do that?”
“Because I love you so much.”

I went in the house and got a bucket of water and a towel and cleaned all the mud off the car. Now I wonder what in the world my neighbors must think of the anonymous vandal who trashed their car only to sneak back to the scene and clean it. I think I might paper their house tomorrow.

How I Roll

February 6, 2009

Over the last 14 years my multiple sclerosis has changed course from relapsing/remitting to secondary progressive.  This makes it hard to say how it has changed day to day, but I can look back over the last year and see how things have progressed.  Last year I was able to walk the half a mile to the grocery store and home again with forty pounds of groceries on my back.  Now I cannot imagine walking all the way down the block.  

This does not bother me as much as some might think.  I just see it as the way things are.  I accepted long ago that this was my lot and that’s just how it is.

This leads me to why the scooter I recently received is such an unexpectedly awesome gift.  While I had accepted that I was less moblie, I had no clue just how much it had negatively impacted my little family.  It turns out that if Mama’s not walking, nobody’s walking.  My children have missed out on those exciting walks to the store filled with adventure.  We had stopped going ANYWHERE at all, in fact.  When we did go out, I would put an end to all the fun about thirty minutes in because I needed to sit.  

Since receiving this scooter, our lives have changed dramatically for the better.  We now take nightly strolls as a family again. I can make it to the store and back with no problem and I even have a cute basket to put my groceries in.  Eric and I used to love to go window shopping and this activity has been returned.  I would wager that I have put at least 5 miles on this thing in the first week alone.  The kids are so happy to be back to walking and getting to enjoy the dedicated alone time with Eric and I.

An unexpected side effect of having the scooter is that I have more energy at home than before.  Would you believe that I cleaned out my closet AND my refrigerator in the SAME day?  I feel as though I have been given a whole new way to function and there are no words I can find to express my undying gratitude.

Last Friday Sarah called and asked me if the kids and I would like to join her for play group at the park.  She calls me almost every Friday and invites me and my knee jerk reaction almost every Friday is “No”.  This time my answer was, “No… wait…would you mind if I took my scooter?”  This particular play group boasts a few members who own their own photography business.  One thing led to another and I can now offer, for your entertainment and especially that of my scooter gifter, some pictures of me enjoying the day.  

All pictures are courtesy of Nicole at with Cutie Pie Photography.


The mink was a Christmas gift from my dear mother-in-law. I feel like the scooter neutralizes the mink and lessens the odds that I’ll be doused in paint by a Peta member. Who’s going to dump paint on a lady on a scooter? That’s just poor taste.
To whomever it was that listened to the Spirit telling them to send a scooter my way: Thank you from me, my family, and all my friends who enjoy my company. May God bless you richly as He has me.

It’s Here!

January 26, 2009

Some of you may have followed the comment thread on my last post and noticed that an anonymous person offered to buy me a scooter.  I thought you all, and certainly the kind gift giver, would like to know that it has arrived!  I’m so excited about this that I just can’t find the words.  Give me a few days and there will be pictures and indeed some thoughts.  This is just so cool.

For now, I’d like to share some posts with you from my archives where I’ve talked about being on God’s radar.  This is certainly one of those days.

On Flip Flops and Radar

My Rock Collection

Bloom Where You Are

Who’s a Merry Homemaker?

Where’s Today’s Post?

This Has Been Eric’s Wife, Good Day

January 8, 2009

About two months ago I started to experience the symptoms of a Multiple Sclerosis relapse.  I kept thinking that it would subside soon enough and I could get back to my regular self.

It just hasn’t happened and I want to share with you some of my thoughts about that.

I have known for as long as I’ve known about the MS that it could get worse.  I would be lying if I told you that I am one hundred percent at peace with that reality.

After many years of walking unaided, I recently took advantage of Wal-Mart’s courtesy scooter.  It was a really big deal to me.  I have always figured that such a thing was akin to giving up hope of returning to normal.

Since then, I have given up walking outside my home, except when necessary.  I see the benefit that it is to my family that I save energy.  I am still able  to prepare meals, clean my home, school the children, and be available to Eric.

Suddenly, not walking makes sense.

Can I be honest and tell you that I HATE that it makes sense?  I hate that it makes sense that I should have special parking and fat handled toothbrushes and low heeled, sensible shoes and plastic cups.  I hate that I have now fantasized about getting my own scooter.

There are a lot of reasons that I wanted to be so honest about how I feel about this.  I have a good attitude because I have responsibilities that require me to.  But sometimes people mistake a good attitude for feeling good and happy with circumstances.  I do not feel good and I am not happy with my circumstances.

I wanted you to know because this spell has affected my ability to write freely without a lot of effort.  My thoughts are jumbled and it is hard to get them out in a way that doesn’t leave me hitting “backspace” or “select all” and “delete”.  I have decided that I should make my blogging absence official.

I figure I’ll post some of my archives on occasion and still pop in here and there, but I think it is better if I just go ahead and bow out for the most part.

Thank you all for your patience while I hemmed and hawed about this.  I hope to get back someday in the not too distant future.

In the meantime, I would like to leave you with one last piece of advice from Eric’s Wife.  Whenever I face anything like this and I start to feel a bit anxious, I just adopt my “Whateverdude, Jesus is ABSOLUTLEY coming back for me” Attitude.  WA, for short.  A Whateverdude Attitude is how I roll.  Unless I’m on a scooter, and then that’s how I roll.