Airbrushed vs. Toothbrushed

Brushing my hair and applying makeup were once thought to be practical steps to beautification before heading out of the house. 

  Not so much...anymore.

  Ever since the time, in the not-so-distant past, when not once...but TWICE...found that by leaning over the bathroom sink to apply a bit of color to my pasty white skin I was actually completing the task of becoming minty fresh as well.  That would be quite the multi-tasking feat IF it were happening in the dental region.  However, since it was happening midriff section...I was less than pleased. 

  Yes, I had managed to get a good-sized glob of toothpaste across the undershelf of my belly zone.  What the heck, I'm 44, mother to seven children,  compiler of countless hours of exercise with a side of clean eating.  I have absolutely no reason to put on airs and deny the "baby pooch."  God as my witness, I've tried to humble it's appearance.  It can't be that bad, because no facial, close-up mirrored reflection reveals it.  No, apparently it can't be seen until all make-up is applied, hair is curled, and I'm ready to walk out the door.  Only when time is running short and a step back is taken to reveal the finished product will it most likely reveal itself.  Of course, the fact that it is outlined in a thick, sticky, white, peppermint-scented tracing of my sink ledge might draw attention to it. 

  I quickly decided it best not to highlight the area by allowing my children's dental routine left-over's to remain on my purple bloused midsection.  I grabbed the nearest towel slung into the tub and quickly doused and rubbed before glancing in the mirror only to notice I still had mascara to apply.

 No big deal, no harm done I thought, UNTIL I leaned back from the mirror and observed, YET ANOTHER slab of breath freshening intrusion across my towel-blotted belly.  You have got to be kidding me!  I checked the time, which was already pressuring me, and lunged for the sopping towel once again to rid myself of all offensive white paste.  It worked!  However, left in it's place was the darkened shapes of not one...but TWO dark silhouettes coming together to form a genuine likeness to the finger lakes region.  I probably could have explained one sodden patch...but this new addition called for drastic measures. 

  I ran for my hair dryer, searching high and low, until locating it in the most obvious of hiding places- right next to my wood-burning fire place.  Memories of my 15 year-old trouble-shooting, ingenious son attempting to achieve a hotter and higher flame during the previous night's cold-snap enlightened me as to the why of it's location.  No time to reminisce and ponder on his brilliance...nope...only time to recognize the familiar ashy scent that had flooded the house the night before causing windows to be opened a crack.  If I weren't scrambling for time I might have appreciated the scientific teachable moment which revealed air circulating into a suction driven motor will carry other particles along with it depositing a certain scent as air is dispersed...right into the fibers of my swampy, purple blouse in five seconds flat.

 I give up.  Why try and hide the fact that my life is not picture perfect, nor am I.  Perhaps this is a good thing...if you don't require fragrance free and have an appreciation for the finer perfumes not found in the most exclusive boutiques.  It seems I have created a most enchanting, totally original, unique aroma boasting an outdoorsy bouquet of mint, laced with hints of soap and undercurrents of filtered woodsmoke.  Ooh la la.

Dinner Party

 

  Question for you:  Do you find anything unusual about a frozen, lifeless waterfowl being shown around the table during a dinner party? 

  Clarification:  It WAS formally dressed for the occasion in a swanky, white, plastic garbage bag with just it's head exposed...well mostly, there was that beautiful colored wing feather that deserved to see light.

  I ask because I was a participant at said dinner party.  Ok, fine- I hosted said dinner party and was participating in the oohing and aahing while my hunter son walked seat to seat, proudly displaying this chilled, beautiful bird.  Forks paused midair while guests viewed tinted hues of greens and blues.

  It wasn't until my eyes met my mother's, amused and twinkling under raised eyebrows, that it occurred to me... perhaps this is not the norm around dinner tables across our great country.

 My desensitization began thirteen years ago while checking the pockets of my young son's jeans before loading the washer.  I was horrified and completely disgusted upon withdrawing a tangle of shriveled, dry worms.  You can thank me for sparing you the blog I envisioned about two years ago titled, "Fish guts on my front door."  And I won't bore you with details of the frog leg I stepped over while trying to break into my own back door to retrieve the keys locked inside. 

  I will tease you with tantalizing hints of future posts detailing how glorious it will be to have yet another set of antlers that are currently being... readied...for display from the newest hunter to hit the trails.  But you probably know ALL about that...because doesn't EVERYONE have a deer head buried in their yard with just the antlers sticking out...covered in tinfoil...letting nature do the dirty work?

 

 
 

Oops...

  Fiction could not be funnier than the truth during a recent car ride across town to visit my sister.

5 year- old daughter in a hoarse whisper: "JAAAMIE"

9 year old son distractedly turns his attention from the passing view out the window to his sister as he responds in a similar hoarse whisper: "What?"

5 year-old "You should have brushed your teeth before we left for Aunt Liz's..."

To which my 14 year old daughter chimes in from the front seat, "Guys, we're passing the poop factory," while gesturing to the Wastewater Treatment Plant on our left.

My five year-old daughter simply squeaked out "Oh," before sliding her eyes to her brother sitting a mere foot and a half away in the backseat and added, "sorry."

My nine year-old manages to catch my eye in the rear view mirror to express his exasperation with an understated eye roll before returning his gaze to the city whizzing by just outside his window.

Aaand...on we drive.

Pumpkin "Bliss"

 "Mmmm, what is that smell?  Do you have yogurt in here?" 

  This is the "hello" I received as my two youngest hopped into the car to escape being dampened during the four foot walk from the school bus.  Normally, I just walk across the street to escort them home.  Normally, as in- not experiencing gales that broke my wet-weather confidence, flipped my hardy umbrella inside out, spanked us both and sent me scrambling back for car keys.  The odd and somewhat humiliating piece of this generous act of kindness on my part was the rapid deceleration of winds and the slowing of pelting rain to a gentle drizzle by the bus's arrival.  After deflating their excited expectation of going to a store or fast-food restaurant, the focus shifted back to the car's unfamiliar scent.

  "Why it's Pumpkin Bliss, of course!" I declared proudly.  Their unimpressed "oh" wasn't my desired response.  During my purchase of the orange packaged car freshener, displaying pumpkins, cinnamon, and colors of candy corn, I envisioned tv commercial actors deeply inhaling wafts of heart-warming, homemade Pumpkin Pies.  Yes, my reward for spending $3.99 +tax would be watching my children breathe in the likeness of those cinnamon fall treats followed by twinkles of delight, shining in their grateful eyes.  I must admit I did not notice any trace of pumpkin pie or harvest spices in the bought essence.  If I covered one nostril and sort of breathed out while half-breathing in I might have been able to justify the colors of candy corn...kind of.  But, for the purpose of pride, I declared once more with gusto, "It's Pumpkin Bliss!" and drove back around the bend to our house.

  An hour later I agreed to drive my oldest daughter to her friend's house.  "WHAT is that smell?!?" she asked, while lifting a genteel palm to her nose.  "It's Pumpkin Bliss!," came my triumphant, yet wavering response.  After all, it was her calling attention to the car's mild odor the day before which prompted my aquiring such Fall freshness.  Show me some love, I think as she blurts out, "It smells like yogurt."  I covered my waning hope with a smile, "That's funny!  That's what the kids said!," I weakly offered.  Her eyes slid sideways towards me as she added, "Rotten yogurt."  I began to think back to my attempts of choosing between the store's two offered scents.  Vanilla and Cream's scratch and sniff declared it NOT the winner.  And...wait a minute...that's funny...three Pumpkin Bliss in a row don't have a scratchy piece of plastic to test?  How odd, I think as I dig through the entire stock...not a one.  Hmmmm....perhaps I should be suspicious?  Well, it IS raining out and I really don't want to go to another store soooooo...we'll go with- you guessed it, Pumpkin Bliss.  Til I get in the car and realize it's more like Butterscotch Feet.  I guess I shouldn't be shocked by my children's underwhelmed reaction. 

  Another 15 minutes go by before my second eldest daughter chimes in during her ride home from school.  The dramatic question passes through lips curled in disgust, "What smells like SWEAT in here??"  Siiiiigh... by this point I can't even muster a jolly declaration so it comes out more like a question, "Pumpkin Bliss?"  "Eeeeew, it doesn't smell anything like pumpkins!," is her gauntlet tossed on my defeated purchasing prowess.  "Look here!, I begin my defense, "I saw pumpkins and candy corn and thought it would be festive with Thanksgiving coming up AND I paid for it so we are USING it!"  "Eeeew," seems to be her best come-back.  Then I just could not help myself and had to know, "So you really don't think it smells like butterscotch feet?"  Just as swiftly as the wind had died down, my white flag rose and the stink became casual conversation.  "Ummmm no, I think it smells more like sweat, but kinda like a vanilla-y sweat. But I get why the other kids smell yogurt."  I can't believe I'm nodding my head in agreement to this...siiiigh.

 It's been a solid week of  scent that never fails to "surprise" us each time the car doors are whipped open and the aroma wafts out.  It never gets old and doesn't seem to be ebbing in strength.  I've circled Thanksgiving's date on my calendar to count the number days I must be strong until a "certain purchase" goes missing on garbage day.  I already have it's replacement stashed deep in the cupboard to conceal my defeat.  It's  Frosted Pine.  Hey! Save your judgement...it had pictures of snow covered pine trees and a lovely holiday gold...right above a white convertible with it's...OH NO...how did I not see it's... top down???  In winter??? 

 Oh well, I already bought it...

   

My Life is Perfect...on Facebook

I love Facebook...yet it is a book of faces and what those faces are doing.  Admittedly, I get sucked in and during my weaker moments, it's for hours at a time. 

  Why?  I suppose the reason varies.  It's good to see what others are up to.  It's a curious itch that seeks to be scratched.  Scrolling uses mindless muscles that aren't linked to any type of time-awareness faculties.  Sometimes I just want a good laugh for the day.  Occasionally I want to mindlessly escape the realities of life that of course would never show up on my timeline. 

  I've witnessed beautiful displays of tantalizingly arranged dinners...would you want to see my overflowing sink of crusty dishes?  Now that's just silly, and gross.  Why would I, wife and mother of seven, have cups and plates jam-packed in a 13"x10" space, competing for room with a chili encrusted, two gallon soup pot to see which can jettison more tap water onto the kitchen floor?  Puhleez!  I can't run fast enough to wash dishes since my little angels race to do this task and fight for the privilege.  Yes, MY children should be role models for the U.N. in the  manner they get along so amiably.  If you saw my FB you'd see them gathered round the table for a wholesome game of Bingo.  On a more raucous evening it might be Monopoly.  You'd detect no sibling rivalry like the children "I heard about" who tore each other's homework to shreds in a fit of revenge--how beastly.  If I could master technology I'd probably post videos of my children volunteering at our Church's fundraising Oktoberfest.  There'd be no hint of neighbors closing windows against offensive bickering...nor air conditioners being turned on to further diffuse our...I mean, some families...clamor.   If you were to look through the history of my photos you'd notice that it took me a bit of time to get the gist of what is meant by "camera friendly."  Of course now, my hair-do is ALWAYS on point (see how trendy my language is ;) ) and professionally enhanced.  Isn't everyone's?  Why wouldn't it be?  We have hordes of money.  Simply boatloads, tons, kajillions of dollars!  Why would I sneak away to Sally's Beauty Supply, under cover of darkness, with my 14 year-old daughter and grill the once upon a time beautician now turned clerk about coloring?  Don't be ridiculous!  Why would I accept her offer to write instructions on scrap paper about how to put hair into sections and have my daughter google the steps to balance out dark roots?  Honey, Please!  Remember..."On Point"- that's me!  If I ever sobbed into my bathroom mirror at 1 A.M. after my daughter begged-off and went to bed because it was the first day of school and I was left to rinse my orange tinged hair on my own and attempt a few snips to get rid of frizz...you would NEVER know about it!  Of course...never happened.  There are no pictures.  You can't prove a thing. 

For whatever reason I sign on to Facebook, I typically read through the top of my News Feed to see what's what.  I keep going to see what's been missed- til I realize the current time and grasp that what's been missed is a chunk of my day! 

  This isn't a rant about social media...for heaven's sake I'm typing on a blog in real time here.  It's just a notion that perhaps it's a good thing to set boundaries for how much of my own life I'm willing to spend on the pictures and captions of family, old classmates, mentors, strangers, and friends of friends.  The currency used is seconds, minutes, hours.  The hitch is there is no refund.  You can't get time back...ever.

 Besides,  what your currency is spent on perhaps is an illusion.  Except on MY timeline- where all is authentic as it's intended to seem ;) 



 

I Can See Clearly Now...

  I recently took my 11 year-old and 8 year-old sons to the Optometrist.  Unbeknownst to me this type of doctor appointment should have been routine since they were six months old.  I was to be enlightened on this topic during this visit.  After the pre-screening we were ushered to the exam room where it was pretty clear my boys were closing out a busy day for this particular office.  The doctor was shifting lenses while asking the standard "Which is clearer, one...or two...two...or one?"  for the umpteenth time that day.  Appearing rather unenthused, she was able to look away while screwing in long distance vision cards to the machine- a sign she could do this in her sleep.  I actually began to feel bad as I observed her standing and shifting during the exam, concluding she was trying to inject some motion into what had obviously become a monotonous routine. 

  My older son asked the doctor what she could see as she shined the light in his younger brother's eye.  "Oh, all kinds of things- veins, capillaries, and even the brain stem that will show up as white."  I was surprised and uttered, "you're kidding me?"  "Oh yes" the kind doctor responded...and then elaborated by telling me she can detect all kinds of significant health problems by dilating the eyes.  "I can see hardening of the arteries, high blood pressure, multiple sclerosis, and cancer among other things.  I get so frustrated because a baby can't even leave the hospital after birth until they've had their hearing checked because it could affect their development."  Then she asked with more than a hint of exasperation, "Don't you think their development would be affected if they can't see?"  Clearly we had hit a hot-button for this woman and her passion for eye health rose to the occasion.  Her whole demeanor shifted to a warmer, more engaged gear and she began to ask my boys what they like to do.  We laughed over the similarities with her son's interest in football and use of imagination.  "That's great," she smiled at my sons enthusiasm for playing outdoors and having neighborhood throw-together games then added, "Kids don't typically like to do that these days."  We were now on common ground.  The excitement level rose in the room as she announced there was no-one scheduled after us and invited the boys to look into each others eyes.  My younger son held the flashlight and steadied himself, as instructed, by placing his arm on his brother's shoulder.  He then lowered the flashlight, gave his brother a grimace and said with a head shake, "You're not going to make it..."  A huge guffaw burst from us all in unison.  We kept the humor going while being simultaneously amazed at what you really can see in a dilated eye.  I even got a chance to look and saw the illuminated brain stem- which prompted the doctor to point out, "Hey, you really do have a brain in there!"  It was an unexpected delight, this appointment that morphed into a classroom as we broke through the sterile purpose of intent and actually interacted therefore bringing out the best in each other.

  We left feeling uplifted and educated, even in the department that my younger son had a surprising sense of humor.  What a great encounter.  I thought of the doctor and how she seemed refreshed as she became intent on digging through under-counter boxes to offer the boys prizes of flashlights and delight them with their black, plastic sunglasses to shield their sensitive, dilated eyes.  Their imaginative play took them from roles of playing the blind brothers to good cop/bad cop as we headed to the car.  Sometimes it just takes someone showing a bit of interest to lift the dusty, mundane lid off a passion and give greater purpose to what others offer day in and day out, letting them know they are making a difference.  Ironically, while filling out papers in the waiting room before being called back, I had asked my older son if he ever thought about what he might want to do when he grew up.  Who knows?  Perhaps this fun experience broadened my son's range of vision, offering a new perception and greater insight into the field of Optometry.  (SEE what I did there?)  ;)

GLAMOUR-ish...

  I've learned a thing or two about style and chic "expression of self" with clothing.  Pretty much that thing or two I've learned boils down to one fact: that style and chic-ness have no place in my current lifestyle.  Now wait, all of you jumping to the conclusion that I'm a fan of the "letting myself go" ensemble---this simply is not so.  I have merely learned that as a mother of seven it is, ummmmm...impractical shall we say, to shop with a mother of one child who is over the age of seven and listen to her advice on what is "cute and sassy."

  One example of my sister's (did I just nark on her?...oh YES I DID!) fashionista advice is when she held up a royal purple (jewel tones were ALL the rage of the season) tank top with GLAMOUR emblazoned across the chest in rhinestones.  "Oh Sus," she gushed, "this is soooo cute!  You could totally dress this up or wear it casual.  You have to get this!"  I could see the red-carpet version of me sashaying up to all of my Cosmopolitan friends (other Mom's with humongous vans and enormous grocery lists) in this sparkly top.  Yes!  This jewel of a shirt was created for me...I must own this glamorous tank!  And so I did.  Yes sir, I whipped out my credit card and purchased my very own slice of Vogue!  I am woman...hear me roar...or at least watch me glitter!

  One month and a few errant attempts at dressing up my high-fashion tank later, I was sitting on our back deck while wearing my precious purchase in the high noon sun.  I was sweltering in the summer heat while watching my kids ride bikes, run their Popsicle sugar-high off , and have no-nap melt-downs (Warning: this type of melt-down is enough to make a grown man cry...ask my husband .)  I could feel the perspiration beading on my nose while my bangs had slowly become plastered to my forehead.  I was irritable, tired from chasing children and putting out argumentative fires.  I hung my head to shield my face from the cruel solar-rays unhindered by my shadeless yard.  It must have been the 100 watt glare of reflected sunshine off my classy rhinestones that drew my attention to the irony of my un-ironed shirt...GLAMOUR.  My shoulders slumped and then slowly began to shake from my laughter as I thought, "Oh yeah baby- I'm livin' the high life!  Especially with that particular smattering of baby food on my midsection:
 I  WAS:  G L A M O U R O U S!!!"

  I went in and changed my shirt and thought "That does it!  It is time to trust myself.  I will no longer listen to the voice that tells me a Hawaiian print tankini is a good fit for my annual Cook Forest tube down the river!"  I probably should have had the foresight to guess that I would be catapulted from my tube by a rapid which would have the tankini (which should have been a TANK-MUMU!) top exposing my  midsection, which is never pretty when bordered by Hawaii's tropical flowers in bright reds with puce colored leaves...I know...I should have known.  No, I will not bow to the pressure that black patent-leather shoes with three inch heels and chains across the top are not only fashionable to wear at the mall, but will also be a good staple for "nights out."  I truly felt my toes were being stabbed by staples during one date night...which tragically ended up with hubby and I strolling the local aisles at Wegman's grocery market...eventually with me in my bare feet.  And who wants to wear heels while pushing a double stroller and wearing a baby in a sling? Not me...not anymore.

  Sorry, sis, I can no longer deny my favorite athletic shoe aisle.  I won't cower in shame when you leap out from behind the track-suit rack and shout, "A-ha!"  I WILL own my non-Cosmo, must-be-comfy, stretchy due to the slightest bit of spandex, cotton fabric with a powerful sigh of relief!  And maybe...just maybe...I will slip that Glamour tank on under my sweatshirt just to remember what was...and giggle at the contrast to what has become of my life-STYLE ;)
 

Justice...by "PINKIE"

Once upon a time in the not so distant past there lived a family of seven children under the loving care of their parents...

 One morning the eldest son (we shall call him Sir Grouch-a-lot) awoke to find that he had indeed overslept the royal wake-up call of his alarm.  His kind and devoted mother (we shall call her Queen Deserves the Respect of her Children but Does not Get-a-lot) went to gently nudge him out of his bed and into the shower.  Sir Grouch a-lot did a fair amount of mumbling and grumbling and stumbled into the royal bathroom whilst the rest of the family scurried about the palace (haha) to ready themselves for the 2 mile trip they would travel to see their beloved son/brother off on his very first "away battle" on the field of Lacrosse, in the neighboring village of Pittsburgh. 

The father in this tale (we shall name him King Good Hearted), was determined to see his son would arrive at the site of departure on-time AND with a full satchel of food to fill his belly (since this battle was determined to be a double header).  Suffice it to say there was a lot of roaring and bellowing within the palace walls due to Sir Grouch-a-lot having missed the royal wake up call and having several siblings (we shall NOT call them servants) underfoot during the preparation to depart. 

With the large blue 15 passenger chariot pulling out of the driveway onto the main thoroughfare, young Sir G. (we shall shorten this name to make him seem hip), bellowed at King Good Hearted, "Why are you going this way?!?!"  To which the good King responded through clenched teeth, "We are going to grab you a couple sub sandwiches and some royal Powerades."  The young prince Grouchy (nicknamed thus by his siblings- who are not servants...) forgot his princely demeanor and roared in return, "FORGET THE FOOD...WE ARE LATE!!!  TURN AROUND NOW!!"  The King continued on to the local Superette and "gently" slammed his chariot door as he trod towards the market.  The Queen, using her tone purposed for calming turned in her chariot throne to face her eldest son and remind him the family's efforts were for his sake.  She pointed out this stress would all be over within ten minutes and he would be on his way to battle with food to sustain him.  The young prince grouched and muttered and ordered his fellow passengers/siblings to "SHUT UP!"  However, the youngest Princess (aptly named Lady So Cute You want to Squeeze-a-lot) continued to address her eldest brother by name over and over until Sir G. would relent and say, "What?" and she would merely smile at him then begin calling his name to repeat the process.  The King returned with his purchases for his ungrateful son and tension filled the chariot.  The royal passengers were silent while the Queen suggested to her eldest son to tuck the morsels and drink into his backpack so that he could hop out of the chariot upon arrival.

Seven minutes (and one wrong parking lot) later the 15 passenger, dark blue chariot rolled across the cracked pavement of the departure lot in front of the assembled "battle-ready" soldiers (and some other bleary eyed parents). Sir Grouch a-lot barked out "Sorry,"  to the King as a means of apology and grumped out a "Bye..love you" then threw open the creaky chariot door and whipped around to climb down and out of the ride that had caught the attention of his fellow warriors.  Suddenly there was a collective gasp from the rest of the royal family as they caught site of something so horrendous and hilarious at the same time...

Sir Grouch-a-lot was striding towards his astonished peers with his baby sister's pink, fuzzy blanket which was trimmed with delicate pink satin, trailing from his backpack.  The Prince had accidentally zipped the very edge of his young sister's "Pinkie" into his bag as he loaded his lunch in a hurry!  The Queen could barely garble out a "Waaaitt..." while the young Prince did the confused dance of spinning around and around to see what his family was pointing to.  Of course as he turned the blanket would disappear from his view- like a dog chasing it's tail...

The mute look of horrified exasperation sent to his Royal Mother was a plea for death...or Ground- swallowing disappearance.  The royal punch from the Queen upon her King's muscled arm silenced the King's guffaws immediately as she pleaded through her own clenched teeth, "Not now-just wait!"  A loyal friend raced to help the prince untangle from the "enemy silky" and throw it back in the chariot.  The family bid farewell to their beloved Sir Grouch a-lot while wishing him "Good Luck".  The youngest charming princess clung to her "Pinkie" afraid it might disappear just as suddenly once again.

 As the big, blue chariot rolled away the stunned silence was shattered by the Queen's honking laughter.  The King joined in then each of the six remaining siblings added their own laughter to the chorus...Tears streamed down the Queen's cheeks and she begged "Mercy!," for she truly could not breathe- so strongly had her funny bone been tickled.   Once she regained her composure she slid her eyes in the direction of the King and whispered, "That was BLOG-ALICIOUS!...but I don't know if I could do that to him."  To which the King responded, "If you don't- I will!!"  And their peals of laughter trailed out behind them all the way home.

The End

KEEPIN' IT REAL...with WATERMELON EYES...

Okay...  It's time to get real!  My 15 year old son has tried to enlighten me as to the error of my ways...that error being too Lofty, TOO Religious, too BORING!  "Mom," Isaac said, "I'm only trying to help you.  No one is going to read that stuff.  It's a total turn off."  "Well, I asked, slightly...ok, very defensively, "Have you even read it?"  He responded with, "I saw the bible stuff (teenager speak for scripture reference), and knew it's just like all those other sites out there.  You're too formal when you write Mom- too hard core.  I've lived with you long enough to know that's not you.  If you were to be in a room with strangers and they read this (he's talking about my post Drowning in muck...and Scones - which, incidentally has ONE scripture reference (adult/formal talk for bible stuff) they wouldn't get a clear picture of who you are.  "It's called writing to your audience, son," I countered, then kind of slumped from his room, which is boldly decorated with a teen's idea of cool, ie.  one of his first hunting kills: a stuffed and mounted turkey- strewn with Christmas lights ...yes, it's March, hanging on the wall.

Fume, second guess, self doubt...repeat...

Alrighty, Isaac...you want real...here we go...** READER- PLEASE REFER TO EARLIER POST TITLED: BAGS PACKED AND READY TO GO.   Perhaps a bit lofty...included deeper meaning.  I shall now share with you the REAL LIFE that was unfolding all around me as I wrote that "pie in the sky" piece.

  Earlier that morning God had placed the idea of the story in my mind- what He didn't give me was the immediate time to write it.  A good friend once told me, "God will open a window of opportunity and you must grab it then."  Now, I am known to be a bit...uuum...distractable.  So, it shouldn't be a surprise that at 7:30 p.m., while climbing steps to get my daughter's jammies, I noticed the family was occupied and a window seemed to have suddenly opened and called my name!  Of course it made sense to me to toss the p.j's over the landing and holler to the nearest child to snag them while I fired up my trusty laptop and dove through that open window.

  It didn't even bother me when my second eldest son heard me yell about the jammies and took it as an invitation to join Mom upstairs.  Within minutes I had Stevie, Sam, and Jamie playing their e-game, Dinosaur Hunting, a mere three feet away from me as I typed away.  My daughter Susie decided Mom looked lonely sitting at her desk and decided it was time for a hair make-over.   Envision if you will, me- lost in thought staring at the computer screen while my fingers are tapping out the latest blog, meant to inspire readers to start their day with God, while my nine year old has removed my pony-tail holder and is trying to tame my naturally tight curls into flowing locks with the help of a vent brush.  "Does that hurt Mom?" she asks as my head jerks back and my eyes tighten into slits with the pulls of the brushing.  "No, hon, it feels good," I respond not missing a beat in my typing.  I'm not lying either.  At this point in my life being pummeled by a hale storm kinda feels like a massage.  Around this time Lily, my ten year old joins the party and exclaims, "I get to do the make-up!"  Susie yells, "Grab the flat iron- and don't let Dad upstairs til we're done!" while Lily descends the stairs to raid my makeup drawer.  Now I'm switching screens on my computer to look up a bible verse while the kids are trying to decided if the scary voice on their dinosaur hunting game is really saying,"Giiive meee yooour sooul!"  "What the..Gimme your WHAT?" I demand.  "What are you playing, Stevie?  Jamie, get off your sister! Ouch, Sus, that one kind of hurt... No, I don't think the dinosaur wants your soul...turn it down though, I can't think."

  Okay, breathe..type, type type...God, holiness, type... "Mom?" Lily asks, "what's your favorite fruit?" She's returned with my eyeshadow pallet and her hand is hovering over various colors.  "Fruit?" I ask, "well, I like blueberries."  "Oh," she sounds a little disappointed, "do you like watermelon?"  I smile as I notice her hand poised above a bright pink and say, "Sure, Lil, I love watermelon."  Then I continue on trying to wrap up my inspirational thoughts while the flurry of activity around me escalates into a blur of hair straightening, face beautifying, t-rex slaying frenzy. 

Suddenly Susie shrieks, "Daaad!  You can't see her 'til she's done!"  I can hear his voice climbing the steps as he's not about to take no for an answer.  "It's late, Hon," he says, "and we should've been getting the kids to bed an hour ago.  "But there was a window," I silently think...

"Ok," the girls call, "You can come up! What do you think?"  I know I'm in trouble by the glazed look that always accompanies my husband Steve's efforts to cover up a laugh... he manages to croak out, "Wow!"  By this time I've seen a cell phone picture of my hair that Susie took after she pulled back my bangs with the largest, shiniest, silver daisy clip I've ever seen.  What I didn't know was that Lily had turned my eyelids not into a lovely shade of watermelon...but into a likeness of the seeded fruit itself!  I believe there was even a green rind.  Steve can't take his eyes off me as he is led to the black rocking chair with flowered cushions and Susie immediately appoints herself as his beautician and begins to gel his receding hairline into a magnificent

mohawk while I launch into reading my future blog about the wise man and poor villagers.  We continue on amidst the tracking and shooting of various prehistoric beasts until Isaac, our 15 year old and only family member who was not congregated within four feet of my "window of my opportunity" came upstairs and took one look at Mrs. Watermelon eyes and said.."WAIT...Mom, you can't be serious."  "What?" I responded, "I'm reading the blog to Dad.  Now quiet."  Isaac said, "Mom, that would be like me trying to read you something serious while wearing a Darth Vader costume."  Taking his words as inspiration I continued on.."So, the wise man," pause for *SOUND EFFECT* Darth Vader heavy breathing through cupped hands, "says to the young man..*MORE ELECTRONIC HEAVY BREATHING... until Isaac, shaking his head, disgustedly stomped back downstairs. Somehow I finished reading to my husband amidst the chaos, only to have him respond, "Well, it's kinda long."

AND THAT, DEAR READERS, IS THE BACKGROUND WHILE MY KEYBOARD AND I MAKE MAGIC HAPPEN...(tongue in cheek). 

  You should know, every word of that is true.  As is the fact that while I've been writing this Stevie has asked me about 100x if I'm ready to take him fishing.  I've doled out at least seven chores and watched my five year old do a "leprechaun dance".  Sammy has stomped upstairs and slunk back down after being scolded for his echoing volume while Evie, our 22 mos. old, is napping in the next room.  Lily brought me salsa chicken and reminded me to count my Weight Watcher points.  I had just downed a box of Mike-n-Ikes so shamefully asked Lily to wrap up the chicken to avoid going over my Points (siiiigh).  And now the sun is out...so I will hit the road to take Stevie fishing and let the others go crazy on the playground.  This is real life-my life anyway... As for being too "hard core," in the words of my 15 yr. old, I will continue viewing life through eyes trained on the goal of Heaven but will attempt to be more open in letting my imperfections and surrounding chaos show too... Certainly not perfect here...definitely human.  Isn't that how humans connect?  By relating to what is common in life.  I know not everyone will find their eyes decorated with a fruit theme or hair frizzed out a mile wide...but then, maybe it will open a window for you into my life.  Maybe it will  spark some sort of connection somewhere down the road.  I hope so.