News From Joe in St. Joe, "It dunn't look good."

When Coulter was born, like, while we were in the hospital, I had an indescribable urge to get a van. It must have been hormonal thinking, because at the time I had a jeep and a jeep is plenty big enough for a 7 lb baby and his mother. But I wanted a van. I needed a van and I went out and I bought one. I met with the salesman. I negotiated. I call the owners of the dealership. I wrote them a check. I bought a van and I loved my van. Last summer I finished paying for my van. And then this week my van died. No loyalty. No thought or consideration that I was driving 75 (well maybe 79) miles per hour down the interstate. No thought or consideration that I was carrying a 2 year old to see her grandparents. No smoke. No leaking fluids. No fanfare. Just a loud revving sound that I barely heard because Emma Claire and I like our music loud. And then she was gone.

Cars, from the time I was 14, have meant freedom and over the past 24 years I've had 6 of them. When I turned 16 I drove a light blue Chevy Chevette with an "I love Gymnastics" bumper sticker that had an 8 track cassette player. I did not love gymnastics. When I graduated high school my parents gave me a black Ford Probe that had a stick shift and I thought it was awesome. Next, I drove the Miss Nebraska car. First, I crashed it in a parking lot. Second, I received a speeding ticket for going 75 in a 55 and third, I was pulled over for suspicion of drunk driving. This one I really can't explain except to say that I think someone wanted to play a little joke on Miss Nebraska. After they took that car away (evidently you don't get to keep it) my parents gave me my brother’s car. I'm thinking he had moved to D.C. and had no need for a car. This too was a great car. A Diamante. But, a couple years into it, it started to smoke. Billows and billows of smoke and exhaust to the point that you were basically a fire driving down the street. Next came the jeep and then the van.


And now my van is gone. I had planned to tell you the whole funny story. I had planned to tell you how we waited and waited and waited for AAA only to find out that the operator had sent the tow guy to the wrong interstate. I had planned to tell you that while we were waiting I got Emma Claire's DVD player out only to discover that the sound wasn't working and let me just say that Elmo doesn't make for a good silent movie. I had planned to tell you about the guy who picked us up and how he said I'd just need to hold Emma Claire in my lap (on the interstate!) because he didn't have room for a car seat. I had planned to tell you that while holding Emma Claire at the Honda place in her pajamas with no shoes and listening to some mechanic tell me that "It dunn't look good," some other guy was trying to sell me a new van. Really? Do I look that easy?



I had also planned to tell you about the Enterprise guy and how they really do come and pick you up. And about how the guy behind the counter wasn't going to take my credit card and how I lost it and then re-gained it and asked ever so politely that, given the circumstances perhaps he could show a little mercy. And I was for sure going to tell you about how they had no cars, save for this little go-cart looking thing that I wouldn't have carried a hamster in, much less my daughter, until I had what can only be described as a hot flash. I was talking with my husband on the phone and he wasn't making sense and I wasn't making sense and I was just trying to make a decision when all of a sudden my hoodie Had. To. Come. Off. It was so hot! In the moment, I forgot that I was only wearing a camisole underneath in anticipation for the outfit I was going to wear later. It was tight and was in no way appropriate as a standalone clothing article and yet, guess what? All of a sudden, as it just so happens, we've got a clean van that you can take. Now, not to toot my own horn, 'cause some men are pigs and it wouldn't have mattered in the least what I looked like, but I gotta say that after 38 years of gravity and more than 2 years of nursing babies, they are at least still facing in the right direction and 15 minutes later I was driving down the road in my souped-up van listening to Sirius radio.



I wanted to tell you this whole funny story but Joe from St. Joe (I'm not kidding) just called and as it turns out to fix my van; my van that has carried us safely for 6 years, my van that is full of cheerios and juice and diet coke and donuts (I hide them under the seat) will cost twice what my van is worth so now I'm too sad to tell you the whole funny story because I have to say goodbye to my van and hello to life as a one-vehicle family.



Life happens in our cars. I still remember "car time" with my parents when I was a child and I will remember always the memories that my van holds. I don't want to be too dramatic; it is after all, just a van, but it holds some pretty cherished memories as it has carried some pretty cherished munchkins. I'm grateful and I'm thankful and we are healthy and cars don't matter. Yes, I get all of this. But for me, cars mean freedom and the news from Joe in St. Joe, along with the fact that someone at the gym this morning asked me if I was pregnant (and I'm not) has just made me a little too grumpy to share the whole funny story.

It's Not Fair!

(Written for momaha.com)

We love story time. Well, sometimes we love story time. It’s actually quite a surprise each Friday at our neighborhood library. Some days, it’s fun and creative with a cool little craft; other days it’s long and boring and downright painful. Occasionally, I’m left wondering if the librarian of the day even likes children or if she’s ever practiced reading aloud.

My 2 ½-year-old daughter, Emma Claire, is oblivious to the good vs. the not-so-good. She simply doesn’t care. She’s happy to just be there. She sometimes forgets to listen to the story. Two weeks ago, she walked to the middle of the circle, lifted up her shirt and exclaimed, “These are my breasts!”


After a recent story and craft, Emma Claire became fixated on the baby playing next to us. I’ve seen this baby before and have often wondered why her mother brings her to a pre-school story hour. (Of course, I’m sure people are wondering the same about me since the librarian usually reminds me that toddler time is the next hour, which I’m thinking is their way of saying, “Your daughter and her breasts are driving us all crazy.”)

This is a cute baby, but his mother is young and she is struggling. She yells at him for crumpling his paper. She swats at him for trying to touch my daughter. She thinks he should act like the 3- and 4-year-olds surrounding him. She is overwhelmed, but she is there. She is trying. My heart aches for her.

And then she tells me, with a nervous giggle, that she’s pregnant. “Can you imagine?” she asks. No. I cannot. I am taken over by ugly emotions. I judge her. I think about my friends who can’t have babies and I wonder, “WHY?” She laughs again, this time revealing a mouth full of rotten teeth. Oh my gosh, is she on drugs? Does she do drugs in front of her baby? Is she on drugs right now?

Now, I am fuming. Why is it that so many women – women I know and love, smart women, loving women, on the ball mature enough to handle it not on drugs women — spend thousands and thousands of dollars only to be devastated month after month while other women — careless, too young, don’t even want a baby women — get pregnant with seemingly the bat of an eye?

As my children would say, “It’s NOT fair!”And maybe it’s not, but as I’ve told my children again and again, we should be thankful that life isn’t always fair because all I have to do is look at the two miracles that are my children to know that I have way more than I deserve.

Is this woman on drugs? Who knows and who am I to judge? Because if being a mother was only for the worthy then I would have surely been passed by. There’s no way I was smart enough, ready enough or together enough to be deemed worthy of motherhood.

We will never understand the “life’s not fair” moments, and perhaps we’re not supposed to. As I regularly bask in the joy of being a mommy, I know that I’m no more deserving than Library Mom.

But hallelujah for me — life’s not always fair.

Our New (well, not that new) Little (well, not that little) Yellow ( sorta yellow) House!

We did it! Approximately 24 hours after closing on our Sioux Falls home, we bought a house. We don't close for another 2 weeks so at my estimation we will have been model, if not perfect, Dave Ramsey students for approximately 6 weeks. I've never taken his class, although we have friends that speak very highly of it. I personally shy away from such classes because I don't know how to balance my checkbook. I'm more of an "in the ball park" kind of girl. The thought of actually having to keep such close track of, oh, I don't know, our grocery bill is a little bit terrifying. Anyway, I think Dave would've been proud of our 6 week debt free lifestyle and I'm hoping that he understands my need for a house with two bathrooms  (And if he doesn't understand then my guess is, that his son never tried to use the restroom at the same time that his younger daughter was on the potty because the son "just couldn't wait." This, of course, is a random example and names have been left out to protect the not-so-innocent!)

I am also hoping he understands my need for a little sprucing. The kitchen and bathroom have bright orange sinks and the den is home to some lovely orange shag carpet. As my Mother would say, "It's not one of your 'colors,' dear." And did I mention the orange and green peacock curtains? Beyond the color scheme, there are a few (and I guess somewhat important; read: boring) projects we need to address beyond the aesthetic. Evidently the back patio drains water into our foundation and evidently that is a problem.

I love this house. I love the yard. I love the front window and that for the first time in 10 years you'll be able to see our Christmas tree from the street! I love that my prayers were answered. As I've said before my husband and I have very different ideas about what home means and where home is and the truth is he'd be happy staying in The Little Yellow House forever. I'm grateful for the shelter it has provided, but home? No, we are not home.

Following Through and I Love You!

My younger brother played basketball throughout high school. My dad, a devoted father and fan cheered from the stands with what I remember being a never-ending chorus of "FOLLOW THROUGH!" (Of course I also remember him yelling at the refs for their glaring errors and on at least a couple of occasions, he incurred a technical foul for sharing such honest opinions.) Anyway, while visiting my brother at his "farm house" (think cool beach house, only instead of a beach there's a river with cows and horses grazing in the front yard) he was playing door-basketball with my two year old daughter. This involves a tiny little basketball and a net that has been attached to the back door. I was nervous because while the ball is rather little, this farm house is quite nice and I'm afraid my brother under estimates the amount of damage my precious pea can do with said ball. She tries to bounce. She tries to throw. Eventually my brother lifts her up for the slam. "WHOA! Did you see that follow through?" He cried. "She's a natural!"


My brother plays the role of adoring uncle quite well and he is amazed not only at Emma Claire's follow through, but my 6 year old's son remarkable and super-natural upper body strength and speed. You know, this all coming from an un-biased uncle! I had to laugh, though, at the follow through comment because in Coulter's short life with approximately 6 basketball games, I have had my own little chorus going. I'm not even exactly sure what it means but I just know to say it. Coulter likes to dribble a couple of times; run down the court and throw up a hail mary and all I know to say is, "Follow through!" (Besides, I think it makes me sound smart next to all the dads.)


The advice for me carried way beyond high school basketball. I often hear my dad's voice telling me to follow through. Gonna write a book? Follow through! Going back to school? Follow through! Whatever the goal, follow through! Today though, I'm thinking less of the message and more of the fact that it still rings in my ear more than 20 years later and it makes me question, what chorus are my children going to remember? What am I saying today that will carry with them?



I could seriously cringe at some of the things I have said to my children. I once told Coulter that if he didn't "turn it around" I was going to take him to the doctor for them to give him a shot. As in stick a needle in him for punishment. Who does that? Some of you may also remember my telling him that it was a good thing we didn't believe in spanking just before actually spanking him. More recently (and even more embarrassing,) he was screaming (as in AHHH!) in frustration and I thought it would be funny to scream too. It wasn't.



Every morning I hear myself telling him that we can't be late for school. "Come on. Let's go. We're late. We can't be late." Occasionly I even break out my jr. high cheer, "L-E-T-S- G-O, Le'ts go! Let's go!" I figure it's kind of like bringing a teaching (spelling) moment to the occasion. Being on-time is serious business, I am telling you. Coulter's school once had a pajama day for the entire school because there were no tardies. I can't deal with that kind of pressure. I mean seriously, what if every child is on time except that darn Fritz kid. No pajama day for us. Sometimes I fear him sitting on a therapy couch in 20 years explaining why he's 45 minutes early to every appointment. "Well, you see, my mom was always yelling, 'Hurry up! We can't be late!' And then there was this cheer..."



I mess up a lot, but one thing I know that I get right and the chorus I hope my children will remember, is hearing "I love you." Because while I've said a lot of dumb-o things as a parent (the above paragraph is only what I'm willing to admit publicly) my children know that they are loved. They know we are proud of them (you know, because we are such special Christians!) (see former blog about special Christians if that comment makes no sense) and they know that we love them. A bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck, my children are loved.



Basketball is over and we are knee-deep into soccer and baseball. I would say t-ball, but my ever so talented son with his super-natural upper body strength has successfully made the transition to coach-pitch (well, whatever, he's had two hits.) Anyway, I yell from the stands and cheer him on as if his college tuition depends on this very game. I'm no soccer mom, but I know to yell "dribble" and "turn it around" during soccer and "throw it to first" during baseball. I also know that when your son is last up to bat and thinks that he has hit a home-run because the Coach calls in all the runners, that all I'm supposed to say is "Way to go, dude! A home-run! Great job!"

I may have been known to threaten with medical needles but I would never squash my little athlete's spirit with something as ugly as the truth; I love my children way too much for that!