New Blog

Hi Friends! Thanks for following these little lights for the past few years. My family is changing; my name is changing and my blog is changing! Please follow my journey at www.raisingmagnolias.com.

Thanks!!!

Life is Messy. Clean it up!

11:30 p.m. I can’t sleep and we’re driving to Arkansas tomorrow. Scratch that. I am driving to Arkansas.


12:30 a.m. I’m thinking about my soon-to-be former husband. My stomach churns. I am nauseous. I have to go to sleep.

1:30 a.m. I’m thinking about my future husband. You know, the one who loves me and adores me; who loves Jesus and dotes on my children; who will rub my feet and kiss me goodnight.

2:30 a.m. Sigh. If I’m going to be awake, I might as well be driving.

2:50 a.m. Kids are loaded and the journey begins.

The first 3 hours, silence. I am amazed that other people drive at this time of night. I start to worry. Maybe they’re all drunk, just coming home from the bars. I mean who in their right mind would be driving at 3 o'clock in the morning. Oh wait. Never mind.

Tiger starts to whimper. Loudly. I start praying. Literally praying because hunger and poverty and world peace can wait, but right now I need a quiet dog and sleeping children. And God hears. He always does.

But then, I accidentally bump my keys. The children are awake. First question? How much further?

They eat. I eat again. Calories consumed between 3 and 6 a.m. do not count.

4 hours logged and we make our first stop. “No, you may not have a slushie. It’s 7:00 in the morning.”

Back in the car, Tiger is out of his kennel and in Coulter’s lap. They're watching a movie on their dual-screen portable DVD player that cost $85. Who said money couldn’t buy happiness?

But then Coulter starts FREAKING out! “Mom! He’s puking! He’s, uh, He’s, MOM! He’s doing it again! STOP THE CAR!” I pull off at the next exit and, yep, that’s doggy-puke all right.

I open the door and Coulter bolts out. Sympathy vomit? Seriously?

I look around. A 12 hour road trip and no paper towels. There is a cooler of diet coke and Gatorade, there are chips and cookies and chocolate and cheese sticks; there is white bread and wheat bread and two boxes of ZONE bars; there are movies and colors and dry erase boards and baby dolls but there is not one.single.paper.towel.

I look at the seat. At Coulter. At the seat belt. And I can only laugh. Once upon time, we had towels that covered the seats. Nice gray ones that matched the interior of my van. But I didn’t like the towels. They made me feel like the family whose couch is covered in plastic. Welcome to my home. Crunch.

So, out with the husband and out with the towels. And now there’s doggy puke on my non-leather seats. And while we don’t smile much together anymore, I can’t help but think this would make him smile. At the very least, an “I told you so” smile.

The movie’s over and the kids are playing. I am lost in my own random thoughts from the night before. Wait, this is the same day. Coulter, another one for random thoughts, breaks in and says:

“Mom? Do you remember when we were fighting for Texas?”
“What?” Is he talking about football?
“You know! When George Washington was the ruler and we were fighting for Texas?”

OK, sure, I mean, maybe. I wanted to elaborate about how my American Government teacher was a football coach and that’s the reason I can’t currently remember who the ruler, I mean president, was, but then I remembered that we probably covered the Texas thing during American History and I actually had a real teacher for that, so moving on…

“Well, man I am SO glad we won. I mean if we had lost, Logan and Micah would live in Mexico!”

Logan and Micah are his cousins. They live in Texas. And boy are we glad they don’t live in Mexico.

The time passes. Emma Claire fusses. Her tummy hurts. Her back hurts. Her head hurts.

She begins to cry and then, “Mom! She’s puking! She’s, uh, she’s, MOM! She’s doing it again! STOP THE CAR!”

And this is the moment. The moment when grace is all you need and it’s always enough. She’s sobbing. She doesn’t remember ever being sick like this. There are no words. I gently pull her clothes off and take out the car seat. I wrap her up and lay her back down. I kiss her. I cuddle her and these are the moments Mothers were made for. We drive to Walmart and buy a new seat. It’s not pink and it’s not pretty and it came in three parts and the Walmart lady kept saying that my credit card wasn’t working and I calmly looked at her and stood firm and try though she may, I did not back down. And I didn’t really care if my credit card worked or not. As we say in these parts, come hell or high water, I was leavin’ Walmart with a car seat.

And I did and then we made it. Home. I wanted to do a little happy dance right there in the driveway. I’m a single mom; I parent alone (well, except for the massive amounts of help from my parents); I sleep alone (ok, given the two children and dog, I guess that’s not true either), but, whatever, I can drive alone and I can clean up kid puke and doggy puke with beach towels. Alone.

Life is messy. Kids puke and dogs get car sick and marriages fail and you forget the paper towels but His grace is enough and when life gets messy, you clean it up. And what happens when the towel is too gross to clean? When the mess is too big? You toss it (and I'll leave it to you, my faithful readers to decide on your own if I'm still talking about towels.)

His grace is enough. I don’t need him because I have Him.

This guy had the brightest smile that I had ever seen. And the whitest teeth. And somehow as he preached you could see them. All of them. His smile was that big. He had this way of looking right at you as if you were the only person in the room. I was fascinated by this man. I was captivated.


And, as it turns out, that’s what he wanted. He was preaching from the book of Mark about the friends who brought the paralytic through the roof to see Jesus. He challenged us. Are we still captivated by the stories of Jesus or have we forgotten that it’s kind of a big deal to make the lame walk and the blind to see. Come on! He calmed a storm. He walked on water. He freakin’ rose from the dead and this preacher is right. Am I still captivated by Jesus?

Or am I just held captive by circumstances and people and thoughts and fear?

And my children? Am I captivated by them? I love them; adore them; cherish them, but am I captivated?

After reading Good Night Moon 2,354 times over the past 7 years, I gotta say, I don’t get it. Is it a poem? It’s lost its magic. And The Three Bears? She ate the porridge, already. Let’s move on. And I seriously can’t explain how hard it is to feign interest in a star wars/ninja lego battle.

“Yes, that is wonderful, with the sword, oh it’s not a sword? Well, with the saber and, what his head came off? And they all died? You’re kidding. That’s wonderful, dear.”

In those brief moments, those gory, blood-filled, dead lego-men moments that string together to make a life, am I still captivated?

Some nights, I find myself, all snuggled together with little blond ones hanging on my arms trying to hold a book and scratch two itchy backs at the same time and, yes, I find myself or rather catch myself reading the words on the page while at the very same time reading the worries of my life. “Jack and Annie returned to the Magic Tree House and to their very great surprise, (how am I going to pay for health care in November? Where are we going to live in November?) there was a Dinasoaur waiting at the end of the path, (and how am I going to provide for my children?) but the Dinasoaur was a plant eater so Annie became his friend, (and how could their mom have been such an idiot?) and the Dinasours didn’t eat them and they all lived happily ever after.”

I read, but I am not captivated. I am lost. My thoughts wander. And am I equally disturbed and amazed at my ability to do this.

But then we had a play date. A new friend. She hadn’t been in the car 30 seconds when she started talking.

“Those are our neighbors. She’s my friend. Sometimes I go play with them, but only when my mom says it’s okay. One day I went over there by myself, but my Dad said, “where in the world did that little girl go?’ And then they came to get me. My room is pink. I love pink. Pink is my favorite color. Is pink your favorite color? Wow. Look at that. That machine is pink. Emma Claire, do you like pink? What’s your address? Mine is 1234 Maple road. Is this your house, Emma Claire? I like your house. Is your room pink? Let’s make cupcakes. Can I take one for my mom? Oh and my dad, too? He is at his work.”

She was captivating.

All morning she and Emma Claire played house and dress-up and they held hands and they hugged and we were blessed and there was joy in this house and I was captivated.

Captivated by two little girls whose smiles, much like that pastor, just radiated and whose giggles echoed though out the house.

“I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven." (Matt.18:3 NIV)

I’ve always thought this verse meant that to enter the kingdom of heaven we needed to trust the way a child trusts. I don’t know, maybe I was taught that or maybe, in all of my theological wisdom, I just made it up. But after hearing smiley-man’s sermon, I now wonder if Jesus is talking about being captivated. Being in awe of Jesus the same way that our special friend was in awe of that pink machine. To be captivated by our children and their books and their toys and, oh my gosh, even the lego battles and the great big room with the red balloon.

And I’m starting to feel it. I will not be held captive. Not by him; not by my thoughts. I will be captivated. By Jesus; by my children; by this blessed life. I will be captivated and I will smile like preacher-man.

But first, I will go to Sephora.

Because while I can’t find it directly in scripture, I’m sure that even Jesus knows a pretty smile; a captivating smile, needs new lipstick. And yes, pink is my favorite color, too.

Stupid Pigeon

I am mad. Hot, sweaty, salty-tears mad. And sad. Hiccuping, gasping and that weird sound you make when you can’t catch your breath, sad.


I am mad and sad. And I’m rhyming like a Dr. Seuss book. Good grief.

Yesterday I met with a personal training client (who, as a side note trains dogs for a living, and I think it’s safe to assume she wasn’t impressed with Tiger. Or me. It’s possible she noticed all the bits of chewed plastic from toys gone by and the half-eaten $40 flip flops that my Mother simply had to buy Emma Claire for Easter, because looking around with wide and horrified eyes, she politely suggested that I buy some more dog-appropriate toys. And, thank you very much, I did. I spent $7 on a bone that he promptly buried in the backyard. I should’ve just given him $7 to chew. That would’ve at least saved me the trip to Wal-Mart).

Anyway, my client. She wants to be healthy. She wants to be strong. And she has about 100 extra lbs standing in her way. She’s a mom and a wife. We’ve all seen Oprah. We know the story: she forgot to take care of herself. Her battle is mental. She has to believe that she’s worth more and until she does, nothing will change. Our first session was scheduled for tomorrow. She just called to cancel. She doesn’t believe.

It’s easy to give advice. She deserves more.

And since everything, including dogs and bones and overweight clients, seem to point me back to the drama that is my life, it hits me. He doesn’t think I deserve “more”. I’m not hot, sweaty, salty-tears mad because we are divorcing; I’m not gasping for air, sad because I’m going to be 40 and single (well, maybe a little bit sad); I’m mad because I spent 14 plus years loving and trusting and giving and trying and now I see. I’m sad because we’re “that” family…sitting in two different sections at the swim meet; sitting alone in church because the “kids are with their dad.”

Seriously, how did we become “that” family?

I’m mad because I didn’t see. How did I not see before? How do eyes get so clouded?

Fuzzy and wet from tears?

He didn’t think I deserved more. He doesn’t think I deserve more. Me, the mother of his children so little in his eyes. And what you do to me, you do to them. Standing in line tonight at Jimmy John’s (I really know how to rock a Friday night) I noticed several wall plaques just bursting full with sub-sandwich wisdom. One read, “Not every day is going to be sunny; some days you’re the pigeon and some days you’re the statue.”

Stupid pigeon.

He may not believe, but I do.

Or at least I’m starting to.

We deserve better. I mean, yes, without Jesus, we deserve, death, so Praise God for Jesus, but I was created in the image of the most high God and while I can’t find it directly in scripture, I’m pretty sure that means I was NOT created to be the statue.

Where do babies come out, how does Jesus get into our heart and other very special questions!

We were driving home when out of the clear blue (and I so want to add the word yonder,) Emma Claire asked how babies come out.


Not where do they come from, but how do they come out.

“Well, pumpkin, there’s a special opening.” I say, wishing for the 1st time ever, that I’d have a c-section.

“But where?”

“In a special place. It’s a special opening.” It’s seriously all I can think of. You know, how special it is.

“But WHERE is the special opening?”

I’m corned. She doesn’t give up.

Ever.

This is the same child, who, after days of frustration, trying to figure out how Jesus lives in our hearts, pulled up her dress (sorry for the visual) bent her knees, pointed upward and said, “Mom, did He come in through there?”

Finally I gave her some lame answer about how it’s close to your knees. Don’t judge, I mean the knees are somewhat involved. They’re bent; they’re high; they’re; oh, never mind, my Dad is reading this.

Anyway, last week Emma Claire announced that she wanted a baby sister. Of course she does. I mean what little girl doesn’t want a baby sister?

We’ve established that she knows where they come out, but for the record, she also knows where they come from. Duh! God grows them.

“God, please put a baby sister in Mommy’s tummy.” Wait for it….1….2…..3…. “MOM! He didn’t do it!”

And then with no emotion whatsoever, Coulter says, “Emma Claire, Mom’s too old to have a baby!”

Uhm, Ouch.

My heart ached. I’m not too old to have another baby. I suppose I’m too single to have a baby. I’m too alone to have a baby. I’m too un-employed to have a baby. But, whatever, I am not too old to have another baby.

Emma Claire is right. God grows. He knits, actually.

I remember sitting on the couch, holding Coulter as a newborn. I sat for hours, for days, and just held him. His dad said, “I can’t believe we made this.”

Uhm that’s because we didn’t.

Fast forward seven years. His dad, as if defending something that really didn’t need defending, says to me, “Our children were conceived in love.”

Eeewww.

It was a very serious moment, but I kind of wanted to laugh.

I don’t want to think about it; you know, the conceiving part, and I sure as heck-o-la don’t want to talk about it.

Ever.

Because the only truth that matters is the one that Emma Claire already knows. God grows. Coulter and Emma Claire are His workmanship (not ours) and they were “…created in Christ Jesus to do good works which He has prepared in advance…” (Ephesians 2:10)

And He chose me to be their mom.

Today I ran 4 miles and biked 12. A dual-athon. I love that word, and not just because it means that I don’t have to swim. I love it, because as I’m riding along on my bike (which evidently is not a road bike and I’m totally confused because what else is there?) Anyway, I’m riding along dodging horse trailers and pig trailers and dead deer and the drunk people just now leaving Uncle Larry’s beer garden from last night; yes, as I’m riding along with Emma Claire’s seat bouncing empty in the back, it dawns on me that I’m not just in the middle of a divorce. I’m in the middle of a dual-athon. Which, actually just dawns on me that it's not a dual, it's a du. As in du-atholon. Whatever.

I’m fighting for my children; my children whom God knit together inside of me. Me, this nothing of a person, this nothing of a body, so weak I only managed to come in 4th from last in said duatholon (just before the 6 year old and his mom and what appeared to be his grandma. Such a proud moment.) But even still, He chose me. I carried them. Humble and grateful.

It’s not conception. It’s creation. It’s a miracle.

For some, we experience the miracle right there at our knees; for others through the gift of adoption, but whatever way God chooses, whatever way God uses, it’s a miracle to be called mom.

And so I fight. I fight for my children. I fight for our future. And like Emma Claire, I don’t give up.

Ever.

Who Won The Draft and Blood-Sucking Animals

And there it was. A break from real life; a break from the hard life. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe this was real life and all the other, you know, “stuff” isn’t real at all; just an unfortunate distraction. Whatever, whichever, it was a break in my thought pattern and a welcome one.


We picked up Coulter’s friend; Coulter’s friend whose dad helps coach basketball and football and knows, well lots of sports stuff. Coulter’s friend, who knows what ESPN is and the difference between college sports and professional sports. This is all stuff that we don’t know.

Immediately he starts talking.

“Coulter!” What did you think about “So and So Such and Such” moving from the Sox to the other Sox.”

Coulter plays it cool. He has a mom who watches the Razorbacks. That’s it. If they’re not playing, there’s no need to be watching. Coulter is clueless.

C: “Wow! What happened?”

Friend: “Dude! He moved from the Red Sox to the White Sox and he wasn’t doing to so hot, but now he’s doing great.”

C: “Wow. Uhm, yeah. Cool”

I feel his pain. He doesn’t want his friend to know that they might as well be talking about chemistry. In fact, Coulter probably knows more about chemistry than either Sox. So I do what any good mom does. I step in.

M: That’s great! What position does he play?

Friend: Uhm, (insert silent DUH, here) Third Base. Just like always.

I was trying to help. I didn’t. But the Friend seems undeterred.

Friend: (Ignoring lame mom and with great excitement says,) “Coulter! Did you see the NBA draft?”

Coulter: “Oh, man! I so wanted to see it, but we were out of town. Who won?”

Mom: (silently of course, this is painful). I’m sorry son for never turning on ESPN; for choosing instead Dancing with the Stars.

What? They’re athletes.

Friend: (Totally confused) What? It’s not a game! Nobody won.

He continues. Explaining. Trying. Doesn’t anyone understand how great this is?

Emma Claire has had enough. She is bored.

“Friend! Friend! Friend!”

Friend: “WHAT, Emma Claire?” (He has his own little sister. He is not amused by her charm).
Emma Claire: “Did you know that some animals suck your blood? Really, they do. I read it in a book.”

And that was it.

All is grace. And this day, it was baseball players and who won the draft “game” and animals sucking blood and a son who was pretending and trying and hanging in there as best as he could. That’s what we do. We hang in there as best as we can. And we fail, but it’s o.k.

And that was my grace. That was how God chose to bring me out of myself; out of my thoughts, wandering and lost in a swirling, confusing sea of what was real; was anything real? Was I ever “the one”? Was it, and oh my gosh, this is so cliché, but was it ever love? Was it real?

I don’t know.

But being a mom? This is real. Shuffling children to the pool and the park; to camp and to swim team and now back home because we forgot our goggles and next to Scheels because we lost our goggles. This is real. Adding ketchup when there’s too little and scraping it off when there’s too much. Cutting crusts off of white bread for one child and using a round cookie cutter on wheat bread for the other. Inching into the freezing water so little feet can swim and onto scary, nausea-inducing roller coasters so big boys can ride and yes, this is being a mom. This is real.

This is grace. This is "who won the draft, blood-sucking animals" grace.

Because at the end of the day? The end of grown-up stuff? Marriage and  divorce?

Because at the end of the day (and wee early in the morning) they call me Mom.

And that I know, is real life.

But It's Not Fair!

I was sitting in church. Listening. Sort of. Wandering thoughts. Focus, already! But Emma Claire is up and she is down and she dropped her crayons and she’s hungry. Starving, in fact. And I try to listen, but mostly I’m just hearing. But then he says it. And then he repeats it and I hear it. I really hear it. And it makes me mad. I am certain he is wrong.


We are to blame. Us. The parents. The behaviors we see in our children (you know, those less than desirable ones?) Evidently they learn it from us.

Well, kindly speak for yourself. That can’t possibly be right.

But he said it and I think maybe, just maybe God has given him special insight as He often does to those He calls and perhaps I should give this further thought.

So I make a list.

TOP 5 BEHAVIOR PROBLEMS: (and I’m happy to report that I only made it to 2).

#1. “What’s next?” As in, “this was great, but I need more.”

#2. “It’s not fair!” Also takes the form of “She did it!”, “It wasn’t my fault.” “It’s never my fault.”

And that was it. That’s my list. I am blessed. I know this.

I look at the list. Pastor was wrong. Must be public school.

Fast forward. More church. A picnic lunch (ok, whatever, it was sort of a picnic. We ate sandwiches in the car), and “Seussical the Musical”. 7th row.

Heading home, we call their dad (lest I be accused (again!) of hiding or concealing them) and Coulter starts in telling him about our day. Coulter turns on the speaker phone. “Great!” Their dad says. “What’s next? Is mom taking you to the pool?”

The POOL!?!?! It was 4:30 and we’d been gone since 9:15. I’m thinking a morning of worship followed by a Broadway show counts for a full day. I was so annoyed.

And then I smiled.

“What’s next?” Oh my gosh, Pastor was right! I went back to my list and marked through #1 with a note that I would need to talk to their Dad about his behavior. :)

It was weeks later when I received news of November. Remember. November? I emailed my attorney and I asked to meet with him. And soon.

I tried to communicate my feelings (I cried). I tried to verbalize my frustration (More crying). I tried to explain why November was no good. He told me November was it. He told me to accept it. And the whole time, screaming silently in my head, there was a three year-old little girl crying out, “But it’s not fair! This isn’t my fault!”

Darn Pastor.

My attorney got mad. I frustrate him on many levels. This I can see. He doesn’t understand my life for the past 15 years. He looks incredulously at me, wondering how a seemingly intelligent, well-educated mother of two got here. Here.

“Look,” he says. “I’m not the one that married the guy and had his children.”

Uhm, ok.

And then I remembered my list. Oh. My. Gosh. What am I teaching my children?

He’s right. I married “the guy.” And while God’s grace frees me from a life of slavery, there are logical consequences to our choices. Some are blessings. Some are miracles and I have 2 of those. And I’m not just talking cliché miracles. I am talking, living, breathing, spirits full of joy, miracles.

Would I make a different choice? Never. But are there consequences beyond the miracles? Absolutely.

The truth is I’m stuck at # 2. Is it fair? No, it’s not. But is it fair that I was born in America? Is it fair that some worship in secret while fearing for their lives, while I have the freedom to go where I want, when I want and worship Who I want? Is it fair that soldiers are being sent out all over this world to fight battles; some of them not even our own, while tonight, surrounded by friends (and diet coke!) I will gaze at “bombs bursting in air”? Is such an easy life of freedom and abundance fair?

No. And Praise God for it!

Happy 4th, everyone!

Being Brave

Friday I took the kids to see “Brave.” Emma Claire fell asleep. She doesn’t care about being brave. She’s three. I, on the other hand, watched in wonder trying to glean something from this children’s cartoon. I want to be brave. I need to be brave.


And lately, on my quest for bravery, I’ve been pushing the limits. I learned a wee bit of anatomy and physiology and became a personal trainer. I wore a two piece swimsuit. Two pieces. As in, my stomach was bare. Seriously, how brave am I?

And I signed up to become a Body Pump Instructor.

The weekend I signed up, I was feeling very brave. As it drew closer, I began to feel somewhat less brave (terrified!) and by the time my weekend of strength training hell had arrived, I felt pretty much like an idiot. What was I thinking? I can’t teach strength training. I’m not strong. Good grief.

But I survived the weekend and I was given the green light to teach. Body Pump makes me feel strong. And during a year where much of life seemed to be spinning, the weights were something I could control.

I can lift weights. I can be strong.

And then I hurt my back. Hurt, as in lie in bed for the rest of the day. And I no longer felt brave. I felt old.

I’m turning 40 in September. My back hurts. I’m getting divorced. I don’t have a job. My family is miles and miles away. Where am I going to live? How did I get here? More importantly, how do I get out of here?

Wait, where was I? My back. It hurt. I left class and went to the Y break room. A staff person handed me advil and water. I begin to sob. Not little streams. Not dabbing at the eye, isn’t that sweet. I’m talking a river; an ocean. I am sobbing. I am weeping. I am….looking around…and there seem to be…more and more staff arriving. OK, now they are sitting down. Why are they here? More and more, they trickle in until my weeping turns to laughter.

A staff meeting? Seriously?

Couldn’t someone have said something? Something simple like, “Myra Katherine, we’re going to have a staff meeting so if you could, you know, have your nervous breakdown somewhere else, that’d be really great.”

*note to my husband’s lawyer….it was not really a nervous breakdown. I hurt my back and I was in physical pain. (stupid divorce is seriously messing with my creativity.)

Fast forward a couple of weeks. I’m teaching. My back feels great. I’m gaining confidence. I’m brave. Yes, I am totally in control.

And then my lawyer calls. “November.”

That’s the first opportunity to stand before a judge. And I’m mad. November? I can’t live like this for 6 more months. I’m mad that we are even having to go before a judge. I remember conversations. I remember promises of no lawyers and no courtrooms. I remember vows. Broken.

One of our Body Pump tracks that I teach to is, ohhhh, I don’t know, something about Teen Spirit and smelling and whatever. It’s not a VBS song, that’s all I know. But it’s our chest track and it’s grunge and edgy and there’s this one part where they sing, “life is stupid.”

I hate that part.

And yet, sometimes life is a little bit stupid. For the past two weeks, I’ve been thinking that divorce is pretty stupid and lawyers (though I totally respect and adore mine :-)  can be stupid and laws can be stupid and I’m teaching and I’m sweating and I’m pushing that bar up and down and up and down and for the first time I sing along with Mr. Nirvana (it is a he, right?) and it dawns on me: Life isn’t stupid, but people can be.

Including myself.

It was time to teach my evaluation video. As in video tape myself teaching so that people a lot stronger and braver than I, can evaluate me.

Now, not to toot my horn or anything, and ok, well it was a hundred years ago, but I was Miss Nebraska. I’m not gonna be thrown by a little video camera.

Oh, the pride. The ego. Bruised and battered. My class? One. Hot. Mess. Not being humble, here. Mic problems, concentration problems, I did all my lunges on the same leg (as opposed to you know, switching to the other leg for round two) and I dropped the mic. Mutiple times.

But I survived.

And when it was over, I turned to see my face in the mirror and there are no words. It looked like I had survived a bear fight.

And I laughed. And I prayed that the video wouldn’t end up on you tube. And I laughed some more. And then I felt better. Better than I had in weeks.

Life can be a little bit stupid. Turns out there was a strap on the back of the mic that would’ve pretty much solved everything (except maybe the lunges) but that morning, I was just too stupid to see it.

Weeping may last for a night but joy comes in the morning. I was laughing. I left the Y that morning and I knew my joy was back.

November? Bring it!

I’m gonna put on my little two-piece swimsuit and I’m getting in the boat and I’m going to remember that Jesus gets in with me and He will calm this storm. And until He does, I’m going to laugh. A lot. And I’m gonna celebrate this not-so-stupid life with my children. And I may just even get a pretty nice tan while I’m at it.

In Christ, we can be brave. In Christ, I am brave.

The Greatest Gift

Written for Momaha Magazine


(Small note: this was written in April. My mom spent a great deal of time here in January and February during what I call the “crisis” months. She is no longer here and she doesn’t and hasn’t ever “lived” with us…. a point I make for the purposes of anyone who would choose to use this blog against me.) :)

Growing up, I remember a small plaque that hung in our kitchen. It read, “The greatest gift a father can give his children is to love their mother.” At the time, I was certain there were some other gifts (some equally wonderful gifts) to consider as well (a new car, perhaps?) and yet now I know it was, and continues to be, my father’s greatest gift.

My dad loves without reservation. He gives sacrificially of his time and resources. He tells the truth (and this, evidently, is hard for some men).

He puts his family first. Always.

My divorce is no exception. Publicly, it’s my mom. She makes the 11 hour drive. Alone. She buys the groceries. She cooks the dinners. She taxis my children. But in return, she gets grandbaby hugs and kisses. She gets bedtime stories and nighttime cuddles.

My dad doesn’t get that. He gets worries and high blood pressure and waiting. My dad is sacrificing in ways that, until recently, I had completely overlooked.

This past weekend, we celebrated my Dad’s birthday. (Well, actually this past weekend, I celebrated the razorback’s victory in Omaha, but remember this was written in April). Just days before we left, I mentioned to my neighbor that we would be leaving for Arkansas. “My Dad hasn’t seen the kids since Christmas.” I said. She gave me this confused look and said, “Your Dad? I thought he was dead.” I burst out laughing. (Which, whatever, I guess isn’t really that funny). But still, it kind of was.

She thought he was dead. And evidently, she’s not the only one. My neighbors assumed that my mother had the freedom to travel because she was a widow. Only, she’s not. She’s married to a generous and unassuming man whose sacrifices are so hidden; so private, that my friends think he’s dead.

Only he’s not. And it was time for his birthday.

Time, in fact, for presents; a pair of jeans from my 98 year old mammaw (who, incidentally, recently decided she wanted to “just see” if she could still drive. Since she’s not even supposed to walk to the mail box, you can imagine how the driving thing ended. My dad now has her car keys); two western shirts from my mother; horse supplies from my sister; a crafty-block-thing with his business logo that I learned how to make on Pinterest (impressive, I know!) and a copy of Love Wins by Rob Bell for the Sunday School class that he teachers. Oh, and pictures of grandchildren.

What? He’s hard to buy for.

The next morning, he put on his Wranglers, buttoned up his western shirt, grabbed the fishing poles, and horse supplies and with four of his five grandchildren in tow, saddled up the horses for a day of what I call “being there.” My dad shows up. My dad follows through. My dad, sorry to be so cliché, totally rocks!

The greatest gift a father can give his children is to love their mother. That’s my dad.

But what about my children? I hate to go negative when I’m trying to love on my dad for Father’s day, but it is an obvious question as I spend this day alone. Without my father. Without theirs.

Of course, I also hate to go negative since I have so many of you who “lovingly” like to send me messages hiding behind the Christian mask, speaking of respect and class and God’s law, but as I was reminded this morning in church, we don’t have to hide our emotions from God. The pastor spoke of the Psalms being “undisciplined” as David cries out his prayers to God. I am Southern. I am good at pretending. I am good at swallowing emotion and only saying things that are appropriate or expressing what I know others want to hear. But God doesn’t expect that. He doesn’t want fake. The pastor went on to say if we are to learn how to pray and cry out to God in our deepest pain, we only need to look to the Psalms and we can hear God say, “Bring it. Bring whatcha got.” We don’t have to dress it up for God. Therefore, I’m not going to dress it up for you.

What about my children? Well, I could joke (although some of you don’t seem to like that either) and say that it’s a fair assumption that I don’t have my mom’s plaque about a father’s greatest gift hanging up in my kitchen. Wait, actually that’s not a joke. I really don’t have the plaque. I do, however, have one that says, “It’s never too late to live HAPPILY ever after.” (What? OK, so I’m a little taken with Pinterest).

And so what about my children? What about their mom?

Jesus. We fall into the arms of Jesus. We fall into the arms of our heavenly father and we know.

He holds.

Happy Father’s Day!

God Hates Divorce. I get it. Read a new verse, already!

The kitchen table. That’s where it happened. Isn’t that where it always happens? Where the walls come down? Where the truth comes spilling out? Where the tears and the sweet tea and the barbeque all run together?


In the south, we gather around the table. We do kitchen-table talk. People make fun of my Mother because she tends to over-do. But that’s what Southern hostesses do….they over-do. If you are invited to my Mother’s house for dinner, there will be a seat for you. At the table. We don’t do couches. We sure as heck don’t pick up drinks and mingle. We sit. We eat. We talk. There may be 4; there may be 44, but you will have a place. Some see it as fussy. Some see it as controlling. I know it as welcoming. She wants you to have a place; your own special place around the kitchen table. And she’ll do whatever it takes….which usually includes sending my Daddy to raid the fellowship hall at the Methodist Church.

And she did just that (raid fellowship hall, I mean) for a family gathering in honor and memory of my Aunt Ann. I hadn’t planned to attend. I couldn’t. I was already in Arkansas and I had to bring Coulter and Emma Claire back to Fremont, per my agreement. There was the 12 hour drive; a birthday party; a a baseball game; and….well, you see, I couldn’t go.

And then, in a moment, I could. And I did.

I brought my kiddos back to Nebraska. I assembled a basketball hoop. I celebrated, bunkin’-party style, my 7 year old’s birthday. I un-packed. I re-packed. I gassed up. I bought chocolate. I drove back home. (And I may or may not have used the kid’s DVD player to watch Footloose, and I may or may not have shaved 2 hours off the trip.)

And we were all there. The 1st time in almost 40 years; 16 cousins spanning 20 years; all gathered around the kitchen table. We shared our stories; our memories; our hearts. Over food, of course, I mean this is the South.
It happened slowly at first. One cousin asked. Another joined in to listen. We moved from mourning the dead to caring for the living. I answered her quietly at first. Embarrassed. Ashamed. Humiliated. Slowly, I realized I was talking to several cousins, then all of the cousins. Then my aunt Betty, oxygen tubes carrying life to her lungs, sang out, “Yes! Please talk to us! Your mom won’t tell us a damn thing!”

Laughter. Tears.

Before long I was sharing my story. And they were listening. Do you know, can you believe, that in this family of mine, no-one told me that God hates divorce. (DUH!) No-one asked me if we wanted to try counseling (DUH!) No-one told me that divorce is hard on children. (DUH!) No-one told me about God’s laws and what happens when we break them. (Hel-lo! Anybody heard of Jesus!) No-one said anything. They just listened. To my story.

My story.

We’re always told that there are two sides to every story, but that’s not true. There’s only your side. There’s only my side. In this moment, surround by family, no-one gave a shit (ake mushroom) about his story. It’s only my story.

Someone posted a picture on facebook recently that read:

What’s the difference between a Midwestern fairytale and a Southern fairytale?

A Midwestern fairy tale starts with, “Once upon a time.”

A Southern fairytale starts with, “Y’all aint gonna believe this shit! “

And that’s what this felt like.

"Gather round friends; gather round family ‘cause, Y’all aint gonna believe this shit."

I am getting divorced. There. I said it.

I am a Christian. God hates divorce. I get it. Please don’t feel as though you need to remind me. You won’t be the first. Divorce is hard on kids. Divorce is devastating. Yep, I got it. I see it. I live it. I know it. Divorce sucks the joy and the energy and the trust and the memories and it stomps all over your life. God hates divorce? Yeah, well so do l. Look up a new verse, already.

I was recently reminded (and not the nicest of ways) that, given the divorce rate, I’m not exactly the only one going through this. The meta-message? No big deal. You’re nothing special. Get up. Get over it. Move on. Suck. It. Up.

Thank you. I will try.

The truth? This is no fairytale. (I mean if it is, the storyline sucks!) But that’s ok. In a post-Eve world, a lot of things suck, but as Christians, we know how the story ends. And regardless of what today looked like (and I’ll just tell you…it looked ugly), I know there is a happy ending. That’s a promise of God.

Jesus is enough. Jesus is bigger than divorce and while I am devastated, I know that my children need Jesus even more than they need married parents. (Thanks to my dear friend for the reminder!) Beauty from ashes. God can redeem even this.

And finally, a little note to the Pharisees; a little advice to the judgers and the blamers and the gossips. Pick up your Bible. Re-read it. Jesus came. Jesus died. Jesus rose. And then he sat.

It is finished.

Green Isn't My Color

We don’t have enough to do. I came to this conclusion last week after several failed play-date attempts. Perhaps I’ve read too many parenting articles on the dangers of over-scheduled kids or maybe it’s that I’m too lame-o to figure out where we should be running to, or what we should be doing; I’m really not sure, but I am sure that everyone around us is super busy, and we are not.


“Oh, we’d love to, but today is errand day. Sally needs her tap shoes and Bobby, you know, reads to the elderly every Wednesday afternoon, and tomorrow at 3:30 we have dance and hockey and ice-skating and then at 5:00 we plan to save the world, but maybe, you know, some other time.”

And don’t get me started on the grandparents. The only thing worse than being rejected for errands is being reminded, once again, that everyone here has grandparents. Grandparents, Great-Grandparents, in-laws, cousins, sisters, yada, yada. They are everywhere and they are seriously starting to get on my nerves. (read: I’m jealous) “Oh, sorry, we can’t today. We are meeting Grandma for some shopping time. Yes, well maybe another time. Nope, not tomorrow either. Gran and Gramps are coming like they do every Tuesday. It’s so great; they do all my laundry and cook all our meals for the week (we’ll just put it in the freezer and then all I have to do is thaw and bake. Isn’t that cool?) and well, we’d love to meet on Thursday but that’s our day to go the farm. We’ll ride horses and drive tractors and what’s that? Oh, Friday? Sorry, but that’s my Bunko group. It’s super fun. You should try and start one. You know, with all your friends. And this weekend we’re going to be at the lake….gotta try out those new jet skies. So, anyway, what are you doing this weekend?”

Uhm, oh yeah, it’s going to be super busy; lots of,......well.....you know just really, really fun and busy. Yeah. Maybe we can catch up next week, you know, if our schedule frees up.

I know that the green-eyed monster and robe of self-pity isn’t pretty, or as my mom would say, “it’s not becoming” and yet today, it’s what I’m wearing.

And then something happened. Alecia’s mom at Coulter’s school mentioned that Alecia won’t have a grandparent for grandparent’s day on Friday. We’ve missed plenty of grandparent days, so I tried to encourage her. “Oh, I know, it’s hard when they live so far away.” Except Alecia’s don’t. They live 30 miles from Fremont.

Tomorrow, Coulter’s grandparents will make the 12 hour drive north to be here for Grandparent’s day. They will watch him play his first flag-football game and they will take him shopping for yet one more Under Amour shirt (our very own school uniform). They will treat us and pamper us and, perhaps best of all, they will take one of us home with them for the week. (Hint: she’s two.) I will never stop wishing that they (we) were closer, but I am reminded often that there’s more to being close than just geography. It takes a little more effort (and a lot more gas) but my parents are always there for their grandchildren; they will always be close.

Goodbye, Mr. Green Monster. I'll have you know (you, the monster; not you, the reader...just didn't want you to think I was being rude) that today we were super busy. We had piano lessons, Kindermusik, gymnastics, dance class and AWANA. And tomorrow, CeCe and Pop.

“What's that? Lunch on Friday? Sorry, we’d love to but we have grandparents in town.”

The (My) Sears Guy

This morning I went for an early run and I was quickly reminded of two things. One, I hate (sorry to used the H-word) being cold and two, I miss my village. While everyone is going around talking about how beautiful the weather is, I’m secretly mourning the loss of heat, humidity and 90 + temps; I’m mourning the fact that my ears were cold for the entire 5 miles this morning. And my village? Well, I guess I can’t expect Berm the Worm or Mary Elizabeth to call every time we leave the garage door open, but Mr. Mark on Alpine Ave would’ve called. To be fair, Mr. Mark knew our phone number and I’m not sure Berm can even see to dial, but still it was a shock to realize that we (although, it wasn’t me!) left the garage door open all night, which is a little embarrassing considering that we are still in transition (read: chaos) but at least I didn’t have to worry about anyone taking anything. I’m pretty sure if anyone tried, they would take one look and decide it wasn’t worth it.


Once you close the garage door, though, you walk into a beautiful kitchen filled with new appliances and new cabinets and a drawer that hides my trash. There’s even a little tip-drawer for my sponges and a faucet that has the sprayer connected; I mean how cool is that? The only problem is that having new things breeds paranioa. Legos in the kitchen? I don’t think so. Are those scissors? Absolutely not. What? You thought you were going to get to eat in here? Step away from my (ooops, I mean our) kitchen.

The first time I cooked in the new oven, I was making BLT’s. (In case yall missed it, I'm a fan of the sandwich and BLT's are my way of really stepping it up a notch!) Anyway, in an effort to keep bacon grease from spilling all over, I lined the bottom with Reynolds wrap. This is a good idea, right? Me being responsible, right? Well, according to the service man who visited my house today, Reynolds wrap melts under high heat….it becomes like metal and it is now basically welded to the bottom of my (our) new oven. He looks it over and chuckles, “Yep, that’s too bad.” He wasn’t here, though, because of my Reynolds fiasco. He was here because my (good grief, our) new oven makes a noise…almost like a loud fan….when it’s pre-heating. I’ve never had an oven that you could actually hear, so I requested a service call. Turns out, we have a convection oven and there’s seriously a fan that heats it up. But here’s how I see it, thanks to me that Sears guy is going to be ahead of schedule all day and better yet, he got to start his morning with a good laugh (or two, if he remembers the Reynolds and I’m thinking he will).

The Sears guy probably can’t do anything about fall (or the looming winter) but he did teach me how to heat up my oven and I guess, in a weird way, that makes him part of my village.

Preachin' Kindermusik

Last year about this time, my former colleagues at Bright Beginnings Studios in Sioux Falls had a booth at the Children’s Expo. It was fun and energizing to talk about subjects that I love (music and early childhood) with Moms, Dads and Grandparents, many of whom had never heard of Kindermusik. Sometimes I get a little too excited though, and sound like a preacher trying to get the congregation all fired up for the morning potluck (or worse, like the preacher who’s brought out his yearly hell, fire and brimstone sermon.)




I can’t help myself. Really. I start off with the basics: we are an early childhood music and movement program for newborns through age 7. We address all areas of development including cognitive, language, physical, social, emotional and musical. But before I know it, I’m off on some tangent about the crucial early childhood years and if you miss these precious opportunities for development, well, you never get them back. It’s too late. As Kindermusik says, “A good beginning never ends.” And well, a bad one never really goes away. Then it gets worse. I try (key word: try) to talk about the science of it all and the research behind Kindermusik. I began telling one first-time mom of a newborn about all the little parts in your head…."let’s just call them balls," I said. "The balls on the right side need to connect with the balls on the left side and with every year that passes you lose the chance to make those connections." The window is half closed by age three and by five it’s pretty much all she wrote. That’s it. That’s all the time you have. And it goes by fast. Blink and she will be in Kindergarten. The mom look horrified and scared and quickly excused herself from the conversation with a gentle, “Well thank you for the information” and left. I’m sure I sent her spiraling into a pit of post-partum depression since I basically just told her that her that she should just go ahead and schedule the kindergarten shots.

Another conversation that went somewhat better was with a Mom whose son was slightly younger than my daughter Emma Claire. We bonded over the joys and challenges of parenting. She was a stay at home mom and talked about how much work there is, and how, on many occasions, she puts her son down for a nap only to realize she’s spent no real time with him. I can identify. Coulter is back in school and yesterday I drug Emma Claire to the Y, Wal-Mart, Hy Vee and a furniture store. During one brief stint at home while visiting (and praying!) with other moms about the new school year, she was left unattended outside with friends. All of a sudden my friend looked out (which is easy to do since we don't have blinds or curtains) and saw, with horror, that her daughter and Emma Claire were going potty in the grass. Guess our neighbors knew what they were doing when they put in their new privacy fence. Anyway, at the end of the day, the best I could say was that Emma Claire and  I had been together. Quality time? Not so much.


There will always be errands to run, calls to return, groceries to buy and meals to prepare. There is never enough time for programs like Kindermusik; you have to find time. You have to make the time. I didn’t mean to spook the new mommy, but the truth is that in 5 or 6 years her daughter will be getting those shots and she will either remember with joy all the special time they spent together on the floor reading books; time in the backyard tossing a ball; time in Kindermusik playing, dancing, singing, bonding and creating a good beginning that will never end, or she will wish desperately that she had. I know. I have a 1st grader.

Home SWEET (or as Coulter would say, Suh-weet) Home!

We are in! We are in! Thank you Father of heaven and earth! We. Are. In.


Well, we’re sorta in. We have carpet. Fresh, clean, non-orange carpet and I am finding great joy in simply watching my children spread out and play with no splinters or nails to worry about. We have beds and three bathrooms; seriously, three! And while that may not sound like a lot to some of you, it means that ¾ of our family can go to the restroom at the same time. It means no more gas station runs (see former blog) or “go in between your sister” mishaps. We have great water-pressure. Our house was built before any sort of water conservation efforts (sorry, Earth) so gone are the sprinkles from our Sioux Falls shower. (I may be singing a different shower tune, though, as this luxury will surely be noted on our next water bill.) What we don’t have, speaking of showers, are blinds in the bathrooms and for the 1st time ever, said windows face the street. So every night, I turn off the light, get down on my knees and crawl to the bathtub. “Berm the Worm” who lives across the street may be nearing 90, but I don’t want to take any chances.

We have cabinets (complete with a hidden trash drawer) and we have counter-tops. The orange sink is gone (well, at least one of them) and in its place a nice big stainless one without a divider. I’m confused though, because people keep telling me that it’s not practical to have this type of sink when you have children. Why? Don’t they know that after six months of unscrewing the water filter, re-screwing the faucet, moving a two-ton piece of equipment over to the sink and hooking up a water-hose that I am finally going to have a built-in dishwasher? Seriously, do they think I’m going to be hand washing dishes with my little Kenmore mere inches away? Not likely.

Now that we’re moving on, literally and figuratively, I know y'all are waiting for my epiphany; waiting for me to tell you all the lessons I’ve learned and how, now, looking back on the past six months it really wasn’t all that bad, in fact it was quaint and lovely and I’m secretly going to miss the little yellow house. Again, not likely, but I will quote Coulter by saying I am thankful for the shelter.

Yes, we are in. We are meeting neighbors and making friends. Ross, the 5th grader next door continues keep Coulter abreast of the latest news and Mary Elizabeth, Berm’s 93 year old wife, has offered me eggs or a cup of sugar anytime I need them (although I’m pretty sure I won’t since you need neither ingredient for a PB&J.) And if all that weren’t enough I even received an invite to the neighborhood ladies night. Not sure if Mary Elizabeth is coming, but something tells me that it’s probably a great story (or a blog) in the making!

A story to tell (for the Omaha World Herald!)

OK, so I'm a little hesitant to write about this because I don't know all the details, but as my faithful followers (we're up to 16!) I thought you'd like to know that I've been hired by the Omaha World Herald to write a column for their women's magazine, Momaha, that comes out monthly. I haven't been updating my blog because ever since I received the news, I've been paralyzed with fear that nothing creative or funny or remotely interesting would ever come forth again and what if I only have one funny thing each month? What if I use my only funny story for the blog and then I'm left with nothin' for the column? The minute I said yes to the column it was if my life became boring and dull and not in the least blog-worthy. A couple of weeks ago, driving back from Texas I started to panic that perhaps my trip would be completely normal and I wouldn't have anything to share. No tow trucks; no rental cars; no broken DVD players (well, yes, one broken DVD player). And it pretty much did go as planned, although I will say that when traveling through Oklahoma and Kansas one needs to be very prepared for a L-O-N-G stretch of highway in which there are no gas stations.

My new van (hooray for 2 car families!) has the 'distance until empty' feature and I was just so excited about it that it seemed such a waste to gas up when I had a full 87 miles left. After a very nerve-wrecking drive with a flashing sign that read low fuel (uh, duh! I know), I finally found gas. I had been driving 60 mph without air conditioning in an attempt to use less fuel and praying a lot! Emma Claire, sensing my mood, said, "Mom? Why are you so nervous?" When I finally saw the station and filled up a 19 gallon tank with 18.87 gallons of gas I said, "Emma Claire, say 'Thank you, Lord Jesus!'" To which she replied, "Mom, can you say it, please?" I guess that's only fair. I was the one after all ,who didn't want to stop with 87 miles left in my tank.

Anyway, as I was saying, nothing funny, nothing interesting; nothing of anything and then this morning, after arriving an hour late for Coulter's camp without a lunch or sunblock (evidently I should read more) and after driving to Walmart and then back home again because I couldn't find my wallet (smushed under paint buckets, but in the car the whole time) and then after going back to Walmart, I walked out with diet cokes and bread in hand (I've quit cooking until we move and I have a kitchen in which the smoke alarm does not go off  every time I turn on the stove, which makes for a pretty short grocery list.) Anyway, I walk out only to discover that the lady next to me had been sitting in her car for 1/2 an hour waiting on me to return because I'd left the side door of my van wide open and she didn't want anyone to steal anything. Let's see, what could they have stolen? Umpteen gallons of paint? Light fixtures for the new kitchen and den? My purse? Yes to all, and that's when it dawned on me that based simply on the fact that I'm the kind of person whose son will have to go hungry for a day and who loses her wallet in her own van and locks her van without actually closing all the doors, yep, that's when it dawned on me that I have nothing to worry about. There will always be a story to tell!

Smart Mom

Written for Momaha.com

This past week my six year-old son Coulter, attended Camp Invention. First up on the lesson books? Atoms. As parents we were encouraged to follow through at home with the question of the day which was “What three parts make up an atom?”


“Uhm. I don’t remember,” Coulter said. “O.K.,” I replied. “Can you think of just one?” Later, after reminding him how much money we had spent on this camp he decided he knew the answer. Atoms were made up of gas, liquid and solid.

I’m guessing this is where most moms (or at least those of us who never took chemistry and aren’t even sure if chemistry is the class in which atoms are covered,) would probably have confirmed this, say, with one click of the internet. But my son is usually a good listener and besides, gas, liquid and solid sounded pretty smart to me.

The next morning we reviewed. Gas, liquid and solid we all repeated. I signed him in and walked out, and that’s when I overheard a dad say “O.K., son, now remember, it’s protons, electrons and neutrons.” Well, darn.

I’m not a science mom and given the fact that Coulter’s favorite part of camp has been singing about the inventor of diapers to the tune of Justin Beiber’s “Baby,” I’m going to take a wild hunch and say he’s probably not a science kid. He’s also doesn’t get too excited about experimenting. On crazy outfit day, he chose a pair of basketball shorts and a t-shirt with a picture of a baseball player. Yes, mixing baseball and basketball is really crazy. But, who knows maybe he could be a science kid. Maybe it’s in there and I just haven’t been smart enough to bring it out.

Yesterday, thanks to the wonders of Facebook, I discovered that a dear college friend was visiting Nebraska. We met for dinner and caught up on 15 years of marriage and jobs and parenting. She home schools her children and when I asked if they had school during the summer she replied, “Yes, but it’s different. We do a lot of science because it’s so easy to get outside and discover nature.” “Oh, sure,” I replied. “So easy.” (What? The grass turns green. The flowers bloom. Bees pollinate. There’s more?)

No, I’m not a science Mom. I’m also not a history Mom. I once told Coulter who was looking at a history book that George Washington was our 1st president, which obviously is true but after a closer look at the picture, the lesson of the day should have been about sailing the ocean blue in something-something 42.

Some days I struggle with the fact that I’m not a super-smart mom, but I am a loving mom; I’m a passionate, supportive, cheerleader, hug you till you can’t breathe mom, and I’m also a mom who’s smart enough to know that even if the greatest take-away from Camp Invention 2011 has less to do with atoms and more to do with diapers, it was still money well spent.

There She Was....A Long, Long Time Ago (must be sung!)

O.K., so I think most of my readers know this, but on the off chance that you don't, I'm going to "out" myself. In 1995 I competed in the Miss America Pageant as Miss Nebraska. Or, as Coulter puts it, "My mom was Miss Nebraska last year." Last year. Yes, let's just go with that. You may wonder how a girl born, raised and educated in Arkansas becomes Miss Nebraska and well, that's a story for another day so I will just leave you to wonder, but obviously it can (and did) happen and I left many in Atlantic City thinking that Nebraskans have Southern accents (which, is not exactly that far-fetched, especially if you've visited way-Western Nebraska.) Anyway, while far from the home-town favorite, I was quickly welcomed, and became an "adopted Nebraskan." North Platte became a second home. And the people of North Platte as well as Miss Nebraska volunteers from all over the state became family.

This past weekend was the Miss Nebraska Pageant and if we are family, then I guess you could call this our family reunion; complete with your favorite cousins, the crazy Aunt who pinches your cheeks and the Uncle who drinks too much and hugs just a little too tight.

I love returning home to North Platte. It holds precious memories, including, but not limited to the time a complete stranger ate a pork chop off my plate at the official "Pork Chop Breakfast". Recently, though, I've developed a love-hate relationship with going back for the pageant. Much like I have a love-hate relationship with wearing a swimsuit. I love going swimming. I hate wearing the suit. This weekend should be about the big, crazy family that you adore (even the hugging uncle) but it's bittersweet because quite frankly, the whole thing makes me feel O.L.D. "Formers" as we're called, walk the stage and re-live the glory of it all as we're announced at the beginning of the program and the whole thing is depressing because first of all, no-one really cares to see us and second of all, with each year there seem to be less formers "in front" of me. This year I was the fourth oldest. Ugh. But it's not really (or I should say, only) the walking that makes me feel old (although I really do not like the walking. I didn't like it 16 years ago and I don't like it today.Give me a microphone; give me a piano; give me just about anything (o.k., well, not a baton) and it will be preferable to walking.) But no, it's not the walking, and it's not even the contestants who could be my daughters; it's all the well-meaning relatives.

"Oh my gosh! (read: genuine surprise) You look beautiful." (Meta message: Oh my gosh! 1995? I can't believe we still recognize you.")

"Oh, how nice to see you! You haven't changed a bit!" (Meta message: I am so surprised you haven't gotten fat! Wait, didn't you used to be fat?")

I know what you're thinking (just be grateful) and yet I know there will be a small group of you who understand what I'm saying. Yes, I am grateful for the words of affirmation; I just don't necessarily believe them. And there's a part of me that laughs because it seems that my Miss Nebraska family, especially my more distant relatives, just seem so darned surprised that I'm still hangin' in there!


But my Mother tells me that you can't make other people responsible for how you feel; that no-one can make you "feel" anything (which, well, let's just say is ironic considering that the Catholics (and their so-called Catholic guilt) ain't got nothin' on my Mother.) But, since I know she's right, I must recognize that I was in a funk even before arriving in North Platte. Just prior to leaving for the Miss Nebraska weekend, I had been out for a bike ride. I had my hair up in a ponytail (a detail I only mention because from the back it might give you the impression that I'm not 38.) Anyway, a group of young boys in a truck approached from behind. They rolled down their window and were making noise (please don't ask me to explain) when they caught up to me at a stop sign. The boy closest to the window leaned his head out and, for the first time, saw my face. Evidently it didn't match my back-side (and by back-side I'm referring of course to my pony tail) because at that point the boys just burst out laughing and drove off. Once I realized what had happened, I too burst out laughing. Had they not seen the toddler seat on the back?

Later that same day, and totally unrelated to my bike ride, I was admiring my daughter, complete with scabs and scratches and rashes and sunburns, and a face full of left-over Nutella, and I said , "Emma Claire, you're so pretty." (And she is.) And she said, "M-oooomm, I don't want to be pretty. I want to be awesome."

Well, how silly of me. Of course she has greater purpose than just being pretty. Did I teach her that? No. Wait. It would seem she just taught me, that above being pretty or skinny or even young; we are called to be excellent (the grown up and I'm thinking more biblical word for awesome!) and so today, as a girl raised in the South where being pretty is, well, pretty important and we say things like "Pretty is as pretty does;" today, as a girl whose identity was wrapped up in pageant officials' opinions for far too many years; today that girl feels pretty awesome (and not at all old.) I guess that's what a pretty awesome 2 year old (not to mention a cute ponytail) can do for a girl!

Thank you Lord Jesus for the precious spirit and humble heart of a two year old. Help me to move past my own insecurities and nurture her awesome aspirations! And now I'd better get back to the job of Mothering. Seems that while Emma Claire claims to have no desire to be pretty, she has in fact made her way into my make-up drawer and, in her words, is "getting ready."  Oh. My. Gosh! Is that my new, anti-aging, retinol, line erasing, decade removing cream mixed all over your face with pink lipstick?

Perhaps we're not finished with pageants after all.

Annabelle's House

A couple of weeks ago, Emma Claire and I made our way to the Municipal Building (at least that's what I think it's called) to transfer utilities into our name. When I gave the clerk our new address, she beam, "Oh, you're moving into Annabelle's house." Uhm, o.k. I thought. This is a really small town.

I didn't think about it at first, but after we signed the dissertation of documents (including one that confirms you are the same person as other names used during your lifetime. Can you imagine how long that took me?) Myra Hale. Myra Katherine Hale. M.K. Hale. M.K. Hale Fritz. M.K. Fritz. Katherine Fritz (not sure about that one.) Myra Fritz. Myra Katherine Fritz. And finally, Myra Katherine Hale Fritz. Yes, a form for each one. Anyway, I didn't think about it at first, but after they handed us that key, I've given a great deal of thought to Ms. Annabelle.

Annabelle's house was built in 1973 and walking inside makes you feel as though you've entered the set of the Brady Bunch. Orange shag carpet. Orange sinks. Dark, dark (unbelievably dark) cabinets and paneling, and green and orange parrot curtains, and what I can only imagine to be original paint and carpeting in the upstairs bedrooms. But while I have been very anxious to bring some modern life to Teakwood Drive, I've also become increasingly sensitive that with every rip of the carpet and every stroke of the paintbrush we are tearing away bits and bits of Annabelle's history; her history in this home with family and friends. And even though I have never had the pleasure of meeting Ms. Annabelle; here, (from talking walls and chatty neighbors) is what I know.

I know she liked orange. Oh my gosh, did the lady like orange. I know she played bridge (and has a fancy cart/moving wet bar/card table and chairs to prove it.) I know she liked to entertain because in her custom made cabinetry there is a full length cabinet made especially to accommodate the leaves from her dining room table. I know she liked music and she either taught lessons or had a child who took for many years, for her closets were full of Hanon and Czerny and not just the average Bastien piano books. I know from Ross, (the 5th grader next door who seems to know everything) that lightening hit the front bush and that's why there's a gaping whole in it. I know that Annabelle picked up "helicopters" one-by-one from her yard. She was a perfectionist about her yard. I know (also from Ross, but confirmed from other neighbors who aren't 10) that her daughter was murdered 17 years ago and not too long after, she buried her son. He died while out for a run. I know that she is a Christian as evidenced by her Bibles and hymnals (many of which ended up in the trash because she had no living children to claim them,) and the "God is My Security System" sticker that faces out from the front window. I think I would have liked Ms. Annabelle; and certainly would have respected her, because if walls could talk they would tell me that of all the tragedy she faced, she never lost her faith.

Annabelle has dementia and she will never know the family that has taken up residence in the house that she built, but if I could meet her, I would want her to know that the Fritz's will take care of her house; they will take care of her yard (although picking up all the helicopters might be a stretch.) They will plant flowers and keep the grass green. They will play the piano and  fill the halls with music and the book stands with Bibles and hymnals. The will ride bikes down the street and swing at the nearby park. They will laugh and play and grow. They will fill Ms. Annabelle's house with love and kindness. And knowing all of this, I'm hoping that she will forgive us, later this week, when we bid a fond adieu to the orange kitchen sink, and, well the "God is Our Security System" sticker.  I know He is our Protector and I know He's hers as well. God Speed, Ms. Annabelle!

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.