Imperfect

A dear old friend of mine told me she just couldn't bring herself to read my blog. She left me with the impression that it intimidated her somehow, and I didn't understand.

I think I understand a little better now.

This morning, I visited a perfect blog written by a perfect and beautiful blogger with a perfect life. She posted gorgeous pictures of herself and her family. She wrote about her historic restored house, blissful homeschool experience, classic and impeccable taste in all things vintage. I swear I looked for just one post or picture with a hint of a tiny flaw, but there were none.

Was I somehow jealous? Maybe. Will I visit her blog again? No way, because I picked up a cruel measuring stick too long for myself while lurking there.

I realize now that my dear old friend must have found that same unkind ruler for herself on my blog. And though I wish I could, I cannot remove it from her hands.

So, today I wanted to mention that I bite my fingernails terribly. I take for granted those I love much too often. I must spray chicken poop from my sidewalk every single day. I have never cleaned the outside of my windows in the four years I've lived at my house. My seventeen year old van could never be clean or good looking again. There are weeds in my lovely garden. My children are not always well mannered and thoughtful. Homeschool is excruciating at times. I am hopeless with a budget. I not as domestic as I need to be. For example, up until today, one of my cabinets had a thick layer of goo where honey has perpectually dripped for years. And you should see what my daughter is wearing to the carpet store this afternoon- her blue Dorothy dress with white bear buttons, ruby red slippers with white socks (I talked her out of the purple and yellow ones), and a frazzled apron she cut herself from light green checked fabric. I spent at least five minutes convincing her to brush her hair, but it didn't really help tame her wild disarrayed mane. She's carrying a basket lined with a colorful Russian shawl with a stuffed dog on top.

My life is imperfect.

More everyday posting

The decluttering and painting is done in my room. Note that the cat is extremely pleased as he has many new opportunities of clean and clear space to shed white hair onto dark surfaces. I am totally bugged that the edger brush still put little silvery greenblue blots of paint on the ceiling, and I'm not altogether sure why. Grrr! I so wanted to do it perfectly- like our fancypant orthodontist's office with the Hummer brace bus.

Buck agreed to new carpet, but I am intimidated about picking something out. Last time I chose a berber, I didn't see the goofy orange dots in the sample until it covered my little girl's bedroom floor.

Tater's Children's International Summer Village leader, Amber, came for dinner tonight. She just graduated with her degree in child psychology- specializing in schizophrenia and violent personality disorders. During a wild Vyne card game of The Great Dalmuti with Amber and our family, Tater exclaimed, "Isn't mine a totally crazy family?" Amber could not contain her laughter, "No, Tater. I've met my share of totally crazy families, and this isn't one." It was a priceless moment lost on Tater, but well appreciated by me and Buck. Every family member accompanied Amber on a tour of the pretend True Vyne Farm, and we ended by going over paperwork for their trip to France. She mentioned the possibility of us hosting an overnight for team building for U.S. delegates before they head out in July. Sounds great to me.

Tomorrow Hauna and I plan to teach ourselves how to build a trellis from vines from a book. Wish us luck.

To the First Kat from Scribbit

Dear Kat,
Meet Kat. One is a new bloggie friend and the other is absolutely most wonderful college roommate ever.

Here's the recipe from Scribbit. It's yummy.

Oh, and the sauce makes enough for two meals.

3 tablespoons butter
1/4 c flour
5 cups milk
2 teaspoons mild chili powder
3/4 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon pepper
1 tablespoon olive oil
4 cloves minced garlic
½ pound diced, chicken
8 ounces finely chopped frozen spinach, thawed
6 ounces grated cheddar
2 tablespoons Parmesan, plus some for topping
16 ounces of cooked penne

Melt the butter and add the flour, whisking to combine. Slowly whisk in the milk and cook over a medium heat until the sauce is thick and bubbly. Add the chili powder, salt and pepper.

Meanwhile, saute chicken and garlic in the olive oil until it begins to brown then add the spinach, heating throughly and cooking the chicken until it's done. Add the chicken mixture to the sauce then add the grated cheddar and Parmesan, stirring until the cheeses melt. Serve over cooked rigatoni and topped with shredded Parmesan.

Yawn Post

I know it sounds silly, but I can't paint my bedroom until I get rid of all the junk. I spent yesterday clearing a mountain of clutter. The clutter consists primarily of books, computer CD's, mail, disorganized notebooks and papers. And what's up with the wires all over the place? Buck has flimsy explanations for keeping every one. I'm patting myself on the back for finding important missing notebooks I require for my Shepherd's Call work. I also found three solid writing projects waiting patiently for me if I get a wild hair to pick them up again.

Four years ago, when we moved into this house, I peeled off a gawdy border trimming the wall next to the ceiling in my bedroom. I never went back and repaired the chunks of drywall I also removed during the job. In fact, I've never done anything to my bedroom, since I've lived here beside peel off that border. Guess that fix is on queue 1,460 days later. I chose ice blue green paint to match a fabulous fabric I ordered at Short Sheet last weekend. It's worth the hour drive to Crossville just to wander aimlessly in that gorgeous store for an hour or two. The bedspread I ordered from Ebay is silk chocolate brown. My sinister plan is for all new decor to totally clash with the nasty, faded and stained maroon carpet enough for Buck to demand we immediately install new natural colored berber carpet.

Along with improving my living quarters, I'm making dinner today for a large family of all boys whose mom and dad are in China picking up their adopted daughter. Won't that be a hoot? A delightful little girl surrounded by six rowdy brothers? Sunday I tried out a chicken rigatoni recipe by scribbit, and it makes nearly a ton of food. It just might do for a pack of devouring wolves like these young men. The best part of all is that these crazy people LOVE my sometimes pathetic cooking. They'll treat me royalty when I carry in trays of food.

Memorial

I will not pledge allegiance to any flag, but I will stand with my hand over my heart when the Pledge of Allegiance is spoken. I love my country. I am patriotic, which astoundingly means that I love peace and pray for an end to all war, not just wars concerning the U.S., but across the globe. Afterall, America allows me the luxury of freedom of ideas and speech, and I recognize people have given their lives for my freedom. I am so very thankful to live in a location where I don't lay down my head in fear each night that ferocious bombs will cave in the roof overhead and land on my sleeping children's beds. My greatest worries of the day have been weeding the overgrown monkey grass from my trellis of climbing pink roses arched over the grey sidewalk and choosing a new paint greenish pale blue color for my bedroom.

Last evening, I took my yearly sobering American experience like a dose of bitter liquid by placing flags in the Lenoir City Cemetary on the graves of war veterans alongside my sons. It's something my Boyscouts do annually for Memorial Day.

A tall thin somewhat curved man, a veteran in a ball cap and jeans, with a kind yet low and scruffy voice, met us there as usual with his pick up truck to hand out bundles of red, white, and blues neatly tucked in rows on the truck bed. His voice made the listener want to clear his or hear throat while he is talking in an effort to free the frog which must have been hopelessly trapped deep inside his neck. The question which I silently ask myself about him goes something like this, "Does he remember the horrors of war? Does he suffer now from them?" Aloud I asked, "May I have a stack o' flags, please?" I was a little surprised he remembered me as there are so many of us who come back time after time to participate, "Mam, I know you've done this before, so you don't need me to explain."

Most graves were very well kept, but there are a few which required weeding and brushing off in order to verify markings such as Veitnam, Korea, WW I, WW II, Armed Forces, Navy, Airforce, Marine. Our thirsty national drought had made poking the pointy wooden end of the short poles into the dry compacted dirt a more difficult task than usual. Each time I struggled to push the flag into the hard rusty earth, I spoke to myself through the lump in my throat, "Thank you for your service, sir. You've made my America a better place."

Every grave needed to be read to be sure no veteran was missed. I kept to myself wandering through the cemetary, knowing sometimes head or footstones undo me- I wiped tears without making a raucous. One grave for a child read, "See you in the morning." I couldn't help but think about the mother of that child who may have spoken those words for the last time as they lowered her child's coffin into the ground. I thought of all the daunting mornings since in which the mother woke up wishing she could hear her daughter's soft singing or feel the curve of her small body during a bedtime story just once more. Will that illusive morning ever come again?

Another granite stone I came upon belonged to a veteran who died fairly recently. I realized mine would be the first Memorial Day flag to reside at his grave. The grass hadn't fully grown over the length of his casket, and I felt the flag easily sink down beside the marker. I do hope he died proud of the service he gave to his country. To me and mine.

"Thank you" are not adequate words for all you American military people, but it's what I have to sincerely offer. Your lives and deaths matter to me.

Velvet Elvis and

I realize I'm a latecomer in reading Velvet Elvis by Rob Bell. I heard about the book when it first came out, and was reminded of it by a friend in the fancy orthodontist office. I tend to wait for the dust to settle a while on a trendy books like this one before I buy. Can you believe I still have not read Purpose Driven Life and probably will not? Ultimately, Rob's quirky writing style in Velvet insulted my vast intelligence. It took me a long time to finish, because I had to be in a certain charitable mood in order to be willing to pick it up and continue reading. He wrote some things I truly don't believe or like, and he also penned some illuminating and amazing ideas I'd never before explored. The interesting stuff created a little trail of sweet breadcrumbs to the end for me. I give the book my recommendation with a disclaimer for the things with which I disagreed, specifically the anti-creationist perspective and the possibility of denying the Virgin Birth. Just so you know, I didn't write any notes in the back of the book in the empty pages like I was supposed to.

It hurts my teeth and gives me a headache just now to think about sinking back into his choppy sentences by picking up his latest Sex God. I know it might be arrogant of me to say so, but I really think I have a great grasp on the topics contained in that particular book- I've been blissfully researching with my husband for almost nineteen years now.

I also just finished Running with Scissors. I do NOT recommend it, and I certainly don't want to see the movie as the book was incredibly graphic for me. I have a thirteen year old son, the same age of the boy in the book, and I hated every minute of the abuse the boy in the story endured. I learned nothing except more ways for families to mess up children.

Routine

Routine
by Arthur Guiterman

No matter what we are and who,
Some duties everyone must do:

A Poet put aside his wreath
To wash his face and brush his teeth,

And even Earls
Must comb their curls,

And even Kings
Have underthings.

You know your son is something of a geek when...

You know your son is something of a geek when at the beach he asks, "Mom, may I please swim past the continental shelf?" And I do use the word "geek" as the sweetest term of endearment (just in case he reads this).

Home Sweet Home

I love the way my own bed feels so inviting and warm.
how my garden gives hope to every new day.
the anticipation of projects put off during the school year.
new eyes to see what needs to be done to bring peace to my home.
the ease of putting my children to bed in their own rooms.
the crowing sound of roosters to wake me in the bright sunny morning.
goats calling out to me as I pull tall weeds.
my overgrown vineyard.
fresh chocolate chip muffins made with newly milled whole wheat.
the prospect of time to study and think.
connection with dear friends.
a new book which arrived in the mail while I was away.
calling my life back to daily order.
graduation announcements of splendid young people in my mail.
the single volunteer pink snap dragon in full bloom just outside my window.
Home.

What I like to do on vacation:
read, read, read
sleep
hike
work out everyday
eat
be alone or just with my beloved
see and learn new things

What I've done on vacation:
read a little
worked out a little, took my first Pilates class ever
ate
played Sorry, Uno Attack, cards
went to see Spiderman III
rode a zillion roller coasters
saw the Weeki Wachi mermaids (again), they were so glad we came
visited with all the grandparents and a dear aunt and uncle
sat on the beach, I put my feet in but I don't like to swim with sharks
watched some television I never see like National Geographic
spent a day away with Buck
totally dug the Salvador Dali museum in St. Pete

I'm missing my garden and hoping the new rescued goats are adjusting well with the others. Hauna is taking care of everything at True Vyne Farm, so I know all is fine. I'm also missing long times of quiet away from others and the sacred unhurriedness of the life we create at home. The grass will be up our knees when we arrive, due to the ever malfunctioning lawn tractors. Before we left, Buck broke down and purchased a faithful John Deere, but, of course, it rained the two days before we vacated. I'll have to fight Buck for the mower- both of us enjoy cutting the fields.

Somethins' burnin'

My mom kept the children for us the last few days, so Buck and I could have a few days alone together. Quite a treat. We made a sunny day plan of hikes and beach, and a rainy day plan of museums and movies. It didn't rain, but we were forced to invoke the indoor plan. I knew something was up yesterday morning when I found the carhops at our swanky hotel (thanks again, Mom) in Tampa wore surgical masks. Outside everywhere plumed with smoke from the Georgia forest fires. Visibility on the bridge from Tampa to St. Pete was down to a quarter of a mile!

And here's a free vacation tip for you, I've learned through experience. On really smoky days in Florida, you might not want to be reading The Road, a post apocalyptic tale of a man and his son struggling to survive after fire burned the United States to the ground. It was not easy for me to shake the dark mood of the book while breathing in grey clouds as thick as fog all day long.

Here's my quick review of the book as it's now finished. It took me a a while to figure out Carthy's style, but eventually I grew accustomed to it. It's a page turning harsh journey book, not an uplifting redemptive read. I'd give it an 8 on The Super Scientific Vyne 1-10 reading scale.

Let the vacation begin

The Goat Brigade

Betsy, the Goat Yoda, asked me to pick up two rescued Nubian does yesterday. I had some concerns about transport, because my goat whisperers Buck and Peace were unavailable. Buck had to work and Peace was off to Boy Scout camp. I was left with energy boy (aka Tater), Wise One, and Pooh Bear as inadequate helpers. What if the goaties wanted to jump into the front seat and drive with me?

I called Claire with my woes, and she promptly offered the caprine wrangling services of herself and Slow to Speak. Apparently, they were just sitting around moping about Slow's departure, and a goat adventure sounded like the ticket out of the blues.

She was right.

Claire rigged up an amazing contraption with a baby gate and bungy cords which as a driver's security measure. Slow to Speak set a jolly tone when she began to sing the puppet song from The Sound of Music, "High on a hill stood a lonely goat herd. Lady, oda, lady, oda, lay, hee, who." She continued the merriment by pointing out how my ride had already been "mommed" and how the addition of goats would seal the deal. Though it embarresses some of my friends, I proudly drive a 1991 Previa with 230,000 miles on the odometer, sundry missing pieces, scratches, holes, and crayons melted on the passenger seat. I intend to drive it till it dies, which may be the end of time. It's been to the repair shop twice in five years.

Our goat exchange took place in a McDonald's parking lot. I think I met Betsy years ago when I bought soap molds from her. I carried the adorable black fuzzy creatures one at a time to my van without a bit of trouble. Though they are two years old, they are scrawny due to neglect, not Betsy's, but the previous owners who lost interest. Betsy explained the does are in much better shape now than when they arrived at her farm.

Slow to Speak spoke goat, so she told Sissy and Sarah, "Just lie down girls." They obeyed by coiling their necks 'round one another and lay peacefully till they cheerfully jumped out of the van at True Vyne Farm. Their names are Sissy and Sarah for now, until my children decide otherwise.

The does are springy, curious, loving, and surprisingly not afraid of rain. My other goats seem fine with the new girls in town.

I took a happier Claire and Slow to Speak to Claire's house. I'm glad to add another suddenly fun memory to our time together before Slow heads back to Oklahoma.

Collection of Thoughts from Last Night's Liturgy for Slow to Speak

The Church of the Willow Tree

Picnic table cathedraled by barked arching arms, green fingers dripping ropes of new growth. There is Healing in those hands.

Chirping birds ring as bells.

The feast exudes garlic and overflows with oil. There is Healing in that oil.

We share the truest kind of Communion until all the wine is drained from the glass.

Flowers dress the table. Meaningful blossoms of purity, friendship, loyalty, suffering, and wisdom. The frangrance is sweet.

Night falls with evening prayer.

The Holy Spirit falls fresh like a bird on wing.

Dogs bark in the distance reminding me of your parting. My eyes do not laugh at this thought, but I let you go willingly.

Your work is not here now.

Go meet with destiny, again.

Drum roll please....

Slow to Speak has bestowed upon me my Indian name. She chose it, because she wanted to capture what is in my heart. Since eyes are the windows to the soul, she gave me the following name:

Laughing Eyes

I thought I'd seen it all. Until yesterday.

On my drive to the hardware store a few miles down our country road, I lagged behind a big red doolie truck (truck with four rear tires). Something flashed and dangled from underneath the trailer hitch on that vehicle in front of me. I wondered if the hitch had come undone somehow and might be about to fall off. Perhaps my next idea didn't demonstrate good judgement, because I decided to get closer to the truck to find out. My discovery left me blushing. The trailer hitch was fine, but the driver had attached a glistening set of swaying silver testicles. Apparently these are the new way to "cowboy your sweet ride".

Personally, I'll stick to air freshener in the shape of a daisy swinging from my rear view mirror.

Sundries

What's sproutin' today in True Vyne garden?
sweet corn
nasturtium (never sprouted these outside in the ground before)
a precious few wildflowers
yellow squash
zucchini
beans, beans, beans (bush and pole)
sunflowers

Still no sign of watermelon, cucumbers or snap dragons. Hoping they simply take more time to germinate. I'm not joking when I tell you that I go out to my garden a few times a day in spring just to see if something new has popped up through the soil. It delights me to no end when I identify a new bud other than a weed pushing out of the dirt.

Speaking of new things. My children found two new baby chicks in the shed two days ago. Nothing like fuzzy yellow peeping creatures to ignite joy and energy in our family. Let the hatching begin!

I'm writing a liturgy for tomorrow to send a dear friend, Slow to Speak (aka Runs with Scissors) off to Oklahoma with the blessing of deep friendship. The liturgy is coming along beautifully, but I must admit a heavy heart in letting her go. She's called to live among the Kiowa Indians- a worthy work. I'm told she's giving me my Indian name in our service, something I look forward to receiving.

Off to make home made cinnamon rolls. The dough has been rising since I began in the garden this morning. We have an honored eleven year old guest who might like to eat breakfast sooner or later.

I'm tickled pink as tomorrow is the last day of school co-op for the Vyne family. I asked my seventh grader Peace to write his teachers a good old southern thank you note.
Here's what he wrote to this English teacher, and I do quote:

Tank yous fore lurning me about comp; my kin is so pleazed

Yawn Post

I intended to write something meaningful today, but here's what I did instead:
watered the garden
tended my new flowers
made muffins
scrubbed floors
scrubbed bathrooms
cooked lunch
scrubbed the kitchen
weeded through heaps of clothing for my children (winter clothes away, spring duds out)
worked on a Shepherd's Call with Jo
talked to a dear friend
10 loads of laundry
cooked dinner
sorted seeds
decluttered but not as much as I'd hoped
vacuumed
discovered two leaks
washed the shower curtain
listened to a whippoorwill with my boys

On the subject of decluttering- I've been thinking hard about how I could let go of some of my books. This is extremely difficult as I'm an addict. I have at least 10 bookshelves scattered throughout the house except the bathrooms. I have baskets for books in the bathrooms. I know, if I tried very hard, I could alleviate one entire bookshelf and earn some used book credit to boot. However, the thought of which ones to part with overwhelms me. Wouldn't that be like giving up children? Should I hire a therapist to help me sort through the shelves? I'm afraid it's hopeless.

I just received an invitation which is written entirely Spanish. Here are the words I recognize:
Cinco de Mayo
fiesta
Derby de Kentucky!
mint juleps y margaritas
television nueva
Svetlana's address (suspcious isnt' it?)
May 5, 3 pm (post time 6 pm)

What do you suppose it all means?

Hoeing

Hoeing
by John Updike

I sometimes fear the younger generation will be deprived
of the pleasures of hoeling;
there is no knowing
how many souls have been formed by this simple exercise.

The dry earth like a great scab breaks, revealing
mosit-dark loam-
the pea-root's home,
a fertile wound perpetually healing.

How neatly the green weeds go under!
The blade chops the earth new.
Ignorant is the wise boy who
has never performed this simple, stupid, and useful wonder.

I attended a gathering today where a friend of mine, Chris, spoke. He's a powerful orator and inspirational man. He mentioned this painting "Christ Enters Brussels" as a favorite. Chris told us the painting was controversial and shunned in it's day(1889), because Christ was not depicted as a the leader with followers coming behind. Instead, Jesus' image is hard to find in the midst, the center, of the chaotic crowd. Chris compared the work of Christ as spiritual director as something much more closely related to this painting, walking beside people, than artwork which shows Christ out front. This is a match to my pedagogy as well. God became flesh in Christ and made a dwelling place among us. Reachable. Personal. Close. Touchable. Knowable. It's astounding that Christ would call us friends.

I'm not even Methodist but...I'd like to proudly announce that, according to this terribly scientifically accurate poll, I am John.

You scored as John the Methodist. You are John the Methodist! You are a mysterious, shadowy figure obsessed with the threats that zombies and abstract art pose against humanity. John the Methodist 100% Lorna Koskela 75% Art Ruch 75% Theresa Coleman 58% Keith McIlwain 33% Gavin Richardson 33% Jonathon Norman 17% Allan Bevere 8% Abi Carlisle-Wilke 8% Which Methoblogger Are You? created with QuizFarm.com

How Does Truevyne's Garden Grow?

Seeds planted today:
cucumbers
watermelons
Honey and cream corn
Snap Dragons
Cosmos
Nastursium
a few sunflowers
wildflower mix
zuchinni
yellow squash
pole beans
gourmet bush beans

I know, I know it's heavy on flowers, but what's a garden without beauty?

plants planted from dear Hauna:
5 tomato
1 pepper

Only three of my sugar snap pea vines made it through the Big Chill, but the chives have a lovely happy bloom. And I have three little asparagus ready to be eaten which I forgot to bring in today. I'm mourning what I think may be the loss of my most favorite lavendar from a fancy greenhouse, but the lavendar plants I began a few years ago look perky. All traces of volunteer Zinnias died in the frost, but there is good news. The frost also killed the beginnings of volunteer Morning Glories,glorious yet completely invasive, which eventually overtake my unkempt garden by August. I guess I'll have to pick up more zinnia and sunflower seeds and tray of tomatoes, basil, and sweet peppers. We especially cannot have summer without a thousand Zinnias at Truevyne Farm.

After bugging me from the "get go" this morning...

Tater: Mom, can I have computer time now?

Truevyne: No, honey. Maybe later.

Tater: You've said that a hundred times already.

Truevyne: Later.

Tater: When later?

Truevyne: I dunno. It's a pretty day. Go play outside.

Tater: You already made me be outside the whole time while you were in the garden planting. Mom, you've been on the computer all day except for when you were gardening. Why can't I do that?

Truevyne: I'm writing an article. Go write an article.

Tater: What?! I'd rather play a game, Mom. I'm a kid.

Truevyne: Fine. Half an hour. No fighting with your brothers and sister afterward, okay?

Tater: Forget it. I'm going to teach myself yo-yo tricks instead.

If you mess up at being a wife and mother, nothing else you do really matters. Jackie Kennedy

I must disagree, Mrs. Kennedy. Every wife messes up. Every mother messes up. Some more than others, so I believe what matters most is much more about learning and teaching forgiveness than not "messing up". Mistakes are inevitable. Forgiveness and healing are optional.


Honestly, I used to think I could live my entire life without regrets. I woke up every morning and went about my good work- with inner city families and my neighbors. I did all the right things for all the right people. Looking back, I had a poorly examined life and conscience at that time without realizing it.

When I was pregnant with my first child I thought, "This will be easy, because I'm already great with children. I will study all the right books and be an expert parent."

Then I gave birth to my first son. I did not figure on the emotional tail spin an itty bitty seven pound living creature could cause. First of all, the birth did not follow the textbook. Secondly, despite my careful research and care, Peace dehydrated and had gotten a "fever of unknown origin" in his third day on earth. He spent several days from then on in the Children's Hospital enduring IV's, spinal taps, and blood tests. Seven days later, my husband, myself, and my mother returned home safely with Peace though we were utterly exhausted, spent, and undone.

Thirteen years later, I remain undone. I have a pile of regrets which string to the moon and back. The funny thing is that I don't really mind. I can't do or be more than I know how to be. I learned in Catechesis of the Good Shepherd that life "is a big work, a long work." I can't live in fear of messing up, because my life is messy. My marriage and children need deliberate and constant care and tending exponentially more than my vegetable garden. Weeds in the heart are far more difficult to pull than the stubborn Johnson grass which loves the right side of my tomato beds.

I know avoiding mess ups to be hopelessly impossible when:
my six year old daughter angrily cries, "You are breaking my life when you make me clean my room!",
I try to "help" the reluctant Peace with a composition assignment,
Wise One won't stop whining,
Tater refuses to acknowledge his mistakes,
and Buck has to listen to my ugly fuss about clutter on the kitchen counter.
Finding a way back to one another in conflict is the harder and more important task.

So, Mrs. Kennedy, since you can't speak for yourself from where you are, the charitable assumption is that you knew and practiced the art of forgiveness which kept your family strong and beautiful. I hope you don't mind me taking the liberty of going beyond your quote.

Thicket Dweller got me thinking (again) in her recent posts, "How do I feel about what people, even strangers, think about me." My first response?

I don't care what others think of me. thank. you. very. much. I yam what I yam.

Those of you who know me, know that I don't struggle terribly with negative self worth, and I'm not hopelessly inclined toward arrogance either.

However, my first "I don't care" reaction didn't ring true inside the core of my being.

Yes. I. do. care. what. others. think.

And here's how I know- because the behavior of my children tells me so. Thicket taught me that when my children turn into whirling dervishes upon entering a store, it's because they sense my immediate dislike for what they "might" do. When children feel uncertain, they act uncertain. In turn, they look to parents for clues of how to be in times of question. When I give my son the "you are an embarrassment to me" vibe, inevitably, he becomes an embarrassment.

If I didn't care what other people thought of me and my brood of children, I wouldn't worry over their behavior. After all, and with the exception of the childish untrained parts, my kids are incredible human beings. I like who they are. Why do I change my mind so quickly about my own stepping into a china shop? They aren't bulls. Monkeys maybe, but not bulls.

The one factor which changes in the "china shop + me + children= certain disaster" equation is me with all my selfish thoughts and fears. It's simply callous that my own child can instantly become a bother to me if I want to look without his interruptions of "I have to go to the bathroom." and "Can't we go to the children's books first?"
I worry that something might get broken if I don't watch like a hawk. So, why can't my hoodlums look silently without touching and follow me wherever I want to go?

One answer is that God made children curious, so that they would be hungry to learn. How boring and sad the alternative would be to have zombies thoughtlessly trudgng behind in a store I find delightful. One goal I've always had for my offspring, aside from the goal of creating compassionate activists (as if I could do that?), was for each one to fall in love with learning.

In thirteen years of parenting my children in public, nothing has ever been broken except for perhaps a crevice in my child's heart when I am too harsh.

Hat tip to Thicket for teacing me a new lesson. Let's hope it sticks.

Panic. I just realized Tater is taking his final assessment in language arts for the year this afternoon, and I'm not prepared for summer. Otherwise, in the morning he'll wake up with absolutely nothing to do but fight with his brothers and sisters!

Not. Good.

Honestly, I am so over homeschooling that I'll embrace the break like a black bear hugs a dripping honey tree. I'm sick of cracking the academic whips over children as they whine, "I don't want to do math today. Why do I have learn about fractions anyway?" I have never acquired any brilliant answers to inspire my progeny toward scholarship except for the standard, "You don't want to raise your family on a minimum wage job now do you?" My motivational speech generally yields absolutely no effect, because my children honestly believe $5.25 an hour is an absolute fortune.

I'm scrambling to make summer charts of chores and enrichment for each child. The chart will give Tater a gauntlet to run and list a few things to accomplish before he starts irritating Peace to pieces, getting Wise One to cry, and clashing like Titans with Pooh Bear.

I Stop Writing the Poem

I Stop Writing the Poem

by Tess Gallagher

to fold the clothes. No matter who lives

or who dies, I'm still a woman.

I'll always have plenty to do.

I bring arms of his shirt

together. Nothing can stop

our tenderness. I'll get back

to the poem. I'll get back to being

a woman. But for now

there's a shirt, a giant shirt

in my hands, and somewhere a small girl

standing next to her mother
watching to see how it's done.

Deerlodge weekend for us again sans the working man, Buck.

Big hits:
1. MOM My Ride http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HEFE3B0Rje0

2. Homemade tamales Buck helped me make beforehand smothered with Sweetwater Valley Farm Jalapeno cheese sauce

3. Adult conversation

Air Traffic Controller's Wife Rant

From the "get ready for more of it" files...

Recently, only one full performance level air traffic controller was scheduled in New Hampshire tower for a four hour stretch. After three hours on position and in compliance with FAA procedure, he handed his planes to the nearest center to watch over as he took a necessary "biological break". That's FAA lingo for "potty time out".

Two planes were left in a holding pattern for 12 minutes until he was able to return to position. Twelve minutes is certainly not unreasonable considering ten flights of stairs may be in the mix for the controller to scale.

However, one of those two planes in the holding pattern contained human lungs for a transplant.

Think the shortage of air traffic controllers is not real as the FAA states? Think it won't ever effect you or someone you love? Get ready, it just might.

Even if the FAA recognized the shortage and did something about it NOW (besides the current brilliant plan of mandatory six day work weeks), it would take a few years for trainees to make full performance level.

Currently, starting pay at the FAA academy is $8 an hour. Once one makes it to a tower like Knoxville, it's a whooping $15 an hour. Anyone want the most stressful job for that kind of pay in which one mistake might result in the death of hundreds of people? Old air traffic controllers, like my man, get paid exponentially more.

Call your government representatives. They are responsible for the shut down of negotiations between the FAA and the air traffic controllers in June last year.

Really, I'm mean it, really, old air traffic controllers do not want more pay. In fact, they are willing to take paycuts. More than anything ATC's want REST, days off, to bring back limits to time on position, a reasonable plan to hire new controllers.

When we contacted our state representative before June 'o6, he voted with the FAA against air traffic controllers on the basis that he believed my husband wanted more money. Ridiculous!

Don't let politics compromise air safety.

Four years ago, after my knee reconstruction, I took up swimming. I swam a mile every other day for about a year.

I was reminded yesterday of why I run and don't swim nearly as often.

First of all, one has to bring a whole lot of stuff. You may know I don't even like to carry a purse much less a loaded gym bag- towel, clean underwear, suit, swim cap, pony tail holder, ear wax, and goggles. I've actually forgotten my towel, more than once, and had to use the paper ones from the sink holder to dry off before. I get ear aches without the wax. My horse hair requires the taming of a holder and cap lest I inhale wet strands of it gasping for my next breath. I get a less-than-fresh feeling puttting underwear in which I've sweated in during my weight workout. I wear contacts, so goggles prevent me from blindness and needlessly bumping into other swimmers in the lanes. My goggles have gone missing, so I borrowed Tator's yesterday. I needed to empty the right eye of water six thouand times, and my nose bridge held the imprint of an uncomfortable red gash for an hour after removal. What trouble.

Second of all, it takes a long time to swim. I can run three miles in half the time it takes me to swim one. And all that undressing, dressing, undressing, showering, dressing takes another 15 minutes. Then there is the 45 minute drive home. It's a long time to be out and about.

I surprised myself by swimming the entire mile. While it's not beautiful to watch, I manage all the four competitive strokes. Buck says he doesn't think he could endure a water mile, but he beats my running records every. single. time.

My knees whispered, "Thanks for the break, woman." a thousand times, so maybe I'll fit it in my schedule once in a while for the sake of those wimpy joints who cause me such trouble.

Today goes down for me as a great day. It's painfully private except to say my work I love best may be going somewhere I prayed it would, I've been asked to do something I love, and a plan for India in January 2009 may be in the works.

The great day is simply about hope for me, since the rest of the day was rather ordinary. I made muffins, homeschooled, looked at really old pictures with my children as they pulled them out all over the living room floor, walked the track with my walking buddy, read a little more of The Velvet Elvis (it's getting somewhat better), ate a delicious grilled dinner which Buck, Pooh Bear, and Tator pulled together, got medicine for Buck's sore tooth, and rented V for Vendetta.

The Vyne Easter was fantastic.

My children glimpsed at the treasures in their Easter baskets on the kitchen table as usual, but we quickly made our way outside to dig up from the garden our jar of Alleluias and Hallelujahs written on strips of white paper which we buried weeks before. The late cold snap caused us to slap on coats before we headed out the door. As a family, we fast from these two words during Lent. Once Buck reads the Easter story, we open the dirt crusted jar shout, "Alleluia, Hallelujah!" till it resounds across the meadow. Through the nearby fence, the goats inquired with their "ah,ah,ah,ah"s as to what we doing at the crack of dawn beside not feeding them. Tator had to chase stalker rooster Mohawk away for Pooh Bear and I to feel at ease for our family sunrise service.

I hurried off and away to spend the first hour of church with my buddy, Tom, who is autistic. My family arrived to worship with me the second hour. The presentations of song, dance, plays, and Word celebrated the Risen Jesus in a fresh and beautiful way.

We spent the rest of the pleasant day into the evening with the most hospitable Sky family. I didn't see hide nor hair of my boys except for at mealtimes due to the six entertaining boys the Sky home endeavors to contain. Carrie and I split the menu and laid out a splendid table. Of course, with that many boys, the meal was devoured soon after serving. Our families also both filled 300 eggs with candy for the traditional hunt. Buck and Bert took about half an hour to hide the eggs, and it took approximately four minutes for all eggs to be found.

I truly don't understand why Pooh Bear always fusses about going to the Sky's home, because she always has a grand time. "There are just too many boys there", she complains the week before our visit. She says she needs a girl to play with which the Sky's are just about to provide- they leave to pick up their five year old daughter through Chinese adoption in just a few weeks! Her Chinese names mean "Thinking of you forever". Pooh Bear plays with Thinking's dolls which wait patiently in Thinking's new room for her much anticipated arrival. The Sky's youngest boy, Eli, joined Pooh Bear and together they played non-stop house and mommy and daddy. Buck went out on the deck to harass them at one point and began talking in his old man voice, "I don't even remember your wedding. Two babies! How is it that you already have two babies?" Bert helped Eli and Pooh Bear dye eggs in the afternoon.

Other friends of the Sky's joined us for dessert of carrot cake and cupcakes. Carrie made a very Southern Living like Easter basket out of cupcakes. It was adorable. Pooh Bear and Eli put the finishing touches of brightly colored covered chocolate chips in all the right and wrong places. The conversation was light and pleasant, and sometimes deep as usual. I feel incredibly blessed to be part of the Sky Easter tradition.

Not that I needed anything else to do, but...

Lectio Divas

What do you think of the name? I'll want feedback on concept and content if you could be so kind.

A day in the life...

Nothing says, "Dump all your junk right here" like a clean kitchen counter.

What happens when you put together:

a light box
a projector
black sand
stirring music from the Passion
an artist?

Something magnificent. Joe Castillo, the artist, presented the Passion of Christ story using these materials by drawing on a lightbox in sand using his fingertips. The images he constructed projected onto big screens in our church as he worked. Joe's digits slowly and methodically painted out scenes of the Garden of Gethsemane to the glorious Resurrection to the music from the Passion of the Christ.

His art set the solemn tone of Good Friday perfectly. Thank ye, Joe.

Website www.sandstory.com

Good Friday

GEORGE HERBERT(famous "Metaphysical poet")

‘GOOD FRIDAY’ (written in 1633)

O my chief good,

How shall I measure out thy bloud?

How shall I count what thee befell,

And each grief tell?

Shall I thy woes

Number according to thy foes?

Or, since one starre show’d thy first breath,

Shall all thy death?

Or shall each leaf,

Which falls in Autumne, score a grief?

Or cannot leaves, but fruit, be signe

Of the true vine?

Then let each houre

Of my whole life one grief devoure;

That thy distresse through all may runne,

And be my sunne.

Or rather let

My severall sinnes their sorrows get;

That as each beast his cure doth know,

Each sinne may so.

Since bloud is fittest, Lord, to write

Thy sorrows in, and bloudie fight;

My heart hath store, write there, where in

One box doth lie both ink and sinne:

That when sinne spies so many foes,

Thy whips, thy nails, thy wounds, thy woes,

All come to lodge there, sinne may say,

No room for me, and flie away.

Sinne being gone, oh fill the place,

And keep possession with thy grace;

Lest sinne take courage and return,

And all the writings blot or burn.

Don't know where you stand on women's college ball, but we got the champs (again) here in Tennessee. Give a shout out to our Lady Vols.

I ran into Pat Summit once in the grocery store some years ago. Did you know she actually eats food like the rest of us mortals?

Pooh Bear and I were browsing in Kohl's when an older well dressed saleswoman stopped Pooh Bear in her little six year old tracks with the exclamation, "Ruby red slippers! What pretty shoes." The elegant lady lifted her bifocals up closer to her eyes from the silver chain on her neck to take a closer look, "You look like the girl from Wizard of Oz. What's the girl's name from that movie?"

Pooh Bear grinned up at her baring her partly grown in front teeth, "Dorothy." There's no other shoes my girl will put on her feet of her dozen handsome hand-me-down shoe collection.

"That's right" the woman stooped down to look into Pooh Bear's eyes and continued, "Do you know, when I was in jr. high school, I got a pair of ruby red slippers too. I wore them to the homecoming dance and got first runner up in the homecoming court. I was never a beauty queen, but I won. Girl, your shoes made me remember that day. It was the first day I felt that I could be something- I was something special. I'm glad you wore those slipper here, so I could think of that again."

The clerk then turned her gaze my way for the first time. I could see a question mark in her shining eyes.

"Aren't those the times we remember that give us confidence and pride, the good kind of pride? I see that in you now." I affirmed in all genuineness. Her clothes, her walk, her talk, spoke the word "beauty".

The saleslady gave me a long nod of her head before walking off to her work duties, "Thank you for blessing me today."

.

When I look back on those awkward jr. and high school days, I remember three days when my opinion of myself changed to something of embarrassment to one of self worth. None had anything to do with winning first runner up at anything, but a transformation in the way I thought of myself.

.

I'll share one. I might be mortified to write the others out loud.

.

All my high school hang out buddies had chosen entirely separate colleges spread across the USA- University of Kentucky, University of Virginia, Johnson Bible College (TN), Eckherd (FL), Northern Kentucky University, Indiana University, and others I can't think of just now. We met at Reet's dad's for our final "Big Chill" gathering before the first of us left the next day. Much of my time in high school was spent with lounging around some one's living room singing to guitars strumming. Ritt, Marc, and sometimes Jim played lotsa Fogelberg's "The Reach", Joel's "Sadness or Euphoria", "Captain Jack" and Dillon's "You ain't going nowhere". Many homespun tunes hailed from those fine men too. That last night together we jammed together one last time, and someone, probably Reets captured the memories with the camera. She shot tons of pics and sent them out to us all.

.

Helen and I sorted the photos from that night together. Helen stopped flipping through the stack abruptly at a picture of me on the floor, hair everywhere (still that way), in a college sweat shirt and short blue jean skirt, arms supporting my outstretched frame looking over my shoulder. She asserted, "True, whenever you start feeling like you are having an ugly day at college, get this picture out. Aint' no way the girl in this picture can't feel great about herself." I was taken aback. When had I ever taken a good picture? I may have rushed to disagree with her and searched to point out my flaws, but Helen was right, the picture was entirely me and entirely good. Maybe for the first time, I let myself see beauty in myself.

.

If you are thinking, "Isn't that vanity or selfish pride?" then you would be quite wrong. This new found loveliness sank inside my being and prevented me from taking crap from those who considered me less.

.

Helen probably doesn't even remember that day (till I ask her to read this post), but her comments made all the difference in my college experience and probably still even make a difference now. I gained confidence in self presentation which still follows me today.

.

Do you have any important ruby red slipper or photograph stories to share? Make sure you share them with me even if you don't want to do so on my blog.

Did you know this man turns 40 tomorrow?

Under all that coarse humor and sarcasm is one of the sweetest men in the universe.

Perhaps you didn't know he called my boys pretending to be Barney on their birthdays when they were very young? What single man who digs girls, parties, music, and radio remembers to call a five year old on his birthday?

I truly appreciate the friend you have been to Buck and our family for all these years. Heck, you're the only Uninvited Guest who will still talk to us.

You're simply the best, Chris Comer!

Wise One: Today at enrichment class we learned that exercise actually makes you smarter, Mom.

Me: Now that explains why I am so very smart, doesn't it?

Wise One: Yes, it does.

Me: Did you tell your teacher your old mom exercises?

Wise One: No, because it is so obvious!

The best thing is that this boy has not guile or pretense. He means what he says every time. I gotta love that child.

As I sat waiting for Helen, the Mimi's Cafe waitress tilted her head sideways when she asked me what exactly I was reading. The cover of the book I'm reading is striking in it's vertical presentation of the title- The Velvet Elvis-repainting the Christian faith. "What in the world is that book about?" she questioned. "I'm not altogether sure. I've just begun reading, and I don't know if I like it or not. It has something to do with someone who found a velvet painting of Elvis in his garage and how that got the author thinking about the Bible in a different way." The waitress gave me a puzzled look and a pensive, "Huh." She took a much longer than the usual waitress to collect her thoughts enough to ask if I'd like something to drink while I waited for my friend to join me.

The truth I didn't share with the waitress is that the first chapter both intrigued me and irked me. However, I decided I like the questions enough to keep reading after my initial snag on the questions concerning the virgin birth of Christ. I don't have time to play with the truth, but I am interested in "outside the box" thinking in terms of bringing fresh and new perspective for those previously beaten over the head with the Gospel.

I'm also reading Too Small to Ignore-why children are the next big thing by Compassion International's Dr. Wess Stafford and Into the Silent Land on contemplation by Laird. After several chapters, I am still not interested in Amy Tan's Saving Fish from Drowning, so it sits on the tub waiting. I have another Doug Addsion book on dreams and a Bevere book sitting on my bedside table I may begin on vacation in May. I can't seem to stick with one book lately and finish it. I think I have book ADD.

If you have opinions on any of these books, I'd love to hear in the comments. Perhaps someone can spur me on to the end of one of these selections.

They're gone. All gone. I went to the dermatologist and had three more basal cell cancers erased from my body.

Suddenly, really, suddenly I noticed two strange spots inches below my collar bone while combing my hair at the mirror a few weeks ago. I taunted the spots, "You can't fool me. I know what you are, since I've been through this before." I explored my skin more carefully and found another tiny suspicious spot on my arm.

I asked the dear folks in my small group to remind me to make a dermatology appointment, and I got a flurry of sweet reminding emails for the next several days. Buck made the appointment for me. God bless them, every one!

Last time, the first time, doctors had to dig a durn spot out of me twice(!), because I let it go for years out of ignorance. This morning the Physician's Assistant burned those nasty cells off my skin with liquid nitrogen before she could utter the words "Suncreen" and "Wide Brimmed Hat" more than once.

So, here's your reminder, friend. Tend the needs of your body you might sometimes put off. Earlier is better. Better late than never.

The Vyne's had a family meeting this morning. An uprising boiled over a certain sentence in our family agreements which caused major contention. We agreed that consequences for a six year old girl should not be as severe as for a ten to thirteen year old boy, and that Mom would decide. Everytime Pooh Bear yelled at her brothers calling them "Big Meanies!", (and she does have quite a short fuse), I followed our group recommendations to have her serve time away from the family, which apparently put my reputation as a fair judge into question. My boys began to complain, "She calls names and has a ten minute time out playing dolls?" As many times as the boys grumbled I answered, "She's six for goodness sake. Did you have to have hour long time outs when you were in kindergarten?"

Finally, I asked all of us to come together for a discussion. I talked about child development and how a little girl isn't able to withstand the same consequences as older boys. I talked about nitpicking Pooh Bear's words and actions as if she had some complicated sinister plan to get away with murder, or worse, yelling "You Snookerdoo!" I put a strict half time consequence for her with an absolute time limit of consequences on the worst case scenario of thirty minutes. I can tell my oldest son is not entirely convinced, leaving the whole family agreement thing hanging in the wind. Usually when it comes down to this, I have him call the adult of his choice to ask the question, "Is my mom being fair when..." Works everytime. Adults tend to be rather rational and fair, or at least more rational than thirteen year old boys.

I'm not the first to wish children came with an instruction guide. I suppose it's by design in that the whole parenting thing keeps me on my knees in prayer.

It's that homeschooling decision making time again. Buck and I must decide our course of action for our four children's schooling next year. This year has been our best year yet in that all the children have stayed on course and applied to academics. My oldest, Peace, who has few organizational skills, is being challenged but not broken at a once a week cooperative. My middle children are much further along in critical thinking, language skills, spelling, composition, literature, and math than last year. We've done more history and science than ever before. My youngest has begun to read and is mastering a few number skills.

For the first time, I think I look forward to our standardized testing scores. I'll let you know if I'm off base when the results are in.

I've spent a good part of this evening filling out an application for one son to take one science course in a lovely Classical School next year. We're good to go on plans for next school year as far as I can tell.

My only regret again is that I still haven't found an excellent art teacher near enough. The local ones I've spoken with don't follow my "no spaceship, no robot" policy. My boys already only draw spaceships and robots- they don't need instruction for that.

We'll officially conclude academics the first of May and begin again in July.

My youngest son, Wise One, remains half a year behind, but he simply cannot go faster. He's seriously considering some summer schooling with me. Strangely, he's the only child of mine who asks for his work and wants to get it done everyday. I must work much harder to inspire my other children to finish daily work.

My children are living proof that children are born as who the people they will be. I can mold but I certainly cannot make my children what I want them to be.

A Good Gift

In his comment on my post yesterday, Scott at Swept Over set my thoughts in a direction I've been traveling lately concerning self talk. I've come to an obvious conclusion that kind words in the presence of self deprecation are such a good gift. In his comments, Scott deeply affirmed himself and me in one fell swoop. I will print out his kind words to about my writing and put them in my notebook of thoughts I must allow to sink inside myself. What service would it be to anyone if I wouldn't receive his good gift to me?

The truest friends I have set up a standard of accountability with one another in this particular area. When one of us says something negative about ourselves in the context of a conversation we have given one another unspoken permission to call the statement into question for examination, "You mean to tell me you would hold that against me like you do yourself if I were to do the same stupid thing? Or would you be more charitable to me than yourself?"

For example, I felt great guilt over the tragic death of a very special family pet cat. The neighbors watching over our cat while we were on vacation allowed their six year old daughter to check in our cat instead of coming with her. Our house got too hot as I'd turned off the heat and air, but the little girl didn't notice. The cat got caught inside and died of heat stroke. I carried tremendous personal guilt about having thoughtlessly turning off the air, and I cried for days. Thoughts of his horrible death followed me for months- I thought of the dear cat gasping for fresh air, hoping for someone to come let him outside the house, everytime I stepped into our closed sweltering hot van. Finally, I brought up my shame before a friend, and his words released me, "You'd did not turn off the air knowing it would hurt your cat! Would you be so hard on me if I had done the same thing to my cat?" Nope, I'd have given my friend grace and chalk it up as a terrible and sad mistake. However, I wouldn't grant myself that kind of peace. Why not? Self hatred. My friend's gentle words revealed unforgiveness directed at myself which may have been subconciously felt by my neighbors. I was grateful to let go of it all and breathe deeply again.

Claire and I recently decided negative self talk is a waste of precious time. It distracts us from our good purposes, and we are on a quest to be rid of it. When she starts with, "I really blew it" my ears automatically perk up. It's important to not interrupt her but to allow the words which follow as they bring clarity to us both. If I hear about an opportunity missed, then I ask, "What can we learn from this?" If she's being too hard on herself, I give her the gift of putting myself in her place and checking her response.

Do you have anyone in your life who listens to you on your behalf? Thank you to all who offer this good gift to me.

I am frustrated. Recently someone asked me to consider submitting an article for publication, and I felt true inspiration to do so. As usual, I simply started writing out all my thoughts and happily concluded some time later. I read it over and felt some dissatisfaction. Instead of a clear path on a particular point, I'd written a windy road on several points. Claire, dear friend and editor agreed, "I like your thoughts, but where on earth is your thesis statement?" She gave me marvelous suggestions on how to pick a single point, develop a thesis, and write a beautiful article. So, I scrapped the first draft, took a few days off and began again anew. Again, I sent Claire the new work sheepishly noting the distinct lack of a thesis statement. "True," she questioned,"Didn't you understand the need to start with thesis statement? I often spend hours crafting the initial sentence, and then the writing flows easily after." Right! That's never been how I write. Try as I might, I can't spend hours on a single sentence, or I'd never get anything down on paper. I recognize my "stream of consciousness" style is not efficient, but pragmatism utterly cramps my creativity.

Claire is a blessing in that she guides me with great patience. Tomorrow we'll tackle the giant of I can't seem to conquer on my own.

Chicken Wars

Buck and Wise One spread the rich dark mulch over my perfectly weeded and tilled garden and in some of my flower beds. For those gardeners who do not raise free range chicken, this would be deeply satisfying. However, I know mulch means a new season of battle.

Let the games begin.

My cute, cuddly, and annoying chickens will take their luxurious dust baths in my flower beds. They'll dig and scratch willy nilly mulch onto the sidewalk. I'll sweep it back into the bed every few days, but the pattern of scratching and sweeping will last the entire summer. If I want to plant something new, I'll have to create a chicken barrier so it won't be eaten or scratched out of the ground. Last year, I quickly figured out chickens really like to eat hostas, and none of the three Claire gave me for my birthday made it. Frown. The silly birds do, however, leave all the established foliage alone so my bushes, red hot pokers, peonies, lilies, roses, bee balm, seedem, herbs, and spices are just fine. It's the begonias and impatiens which will be most at risk when I bring them home from the nursery in a few weeks. I constantly found them all over the sidewalk in the strewn mulch last spring and summer.

We could and should give away of some of our roosters. I betcha this mulch game might factor into their demise.

I'm officially beat. I've been working in the garden all afternoon in a gentle rain, and I'm tired through to the bone. Buck tilled it for me last week, so I needed to put the rocks back along the path just the way I like them. I also put in the beans and sugar snap peas I sprouted. Hauna gave me chives, and I planted those as well. Every new sprout looks very happy. Buck ordered mulch tomorrow to help keep the weeds down.

I came in for a hot bath afterwards, and I didn't even have to sneak. Pooh Bear is having a sleepover at Anna's. I noticed a distinct quiet in her absence. She usually follows me room to room, flower bed to flower bed, garden spot to garden spot, chattering all the day. In the silence, I began a book this evening for the first time in a long time which my friend Beth bought for me months ago.

My sons are taking the Standford Achievement test this week as they do every spring break. Wise One keeps asking me, "What if I got ALL the answers right, Mom?" My answer, "I'll send you to college next year at the ripe old age of eleven." Trust me, he won't get all of them right- he struggled to read the word "unity" a few days ago. Peace came out saying, "This was the hardest math year ever mom. I think I did fine though." Last year, he misbubbled and spent a great deal of the time recovering rather than finishing the math section of the test. I told him, "Better to learn all about checking every answer and every number in the sixth grade than on the ACT in high school."

I cut a deal with the boys. They all wanted to go to the airsoft store, and I bargained with "no complaints" in getting my nails done. My guys poured over the cases of pricey "big boy toys" while I questioned the owner on the validity of "hunting people." "It's just like video games, Mam." he snipped. "Not exactly, but ask my children just how many video games we have," I retorted. Tater obliged from across the room, "Exactly none." The man looked incredulous- a house with three real boys and no video games? Proposterous!

My sons easily kept their "no complaining" vow at the nail salon as they sat glued to the gigantic HDTV showing of car crashes.

Funny how I always end up in the garden working with beautiful nails.

Update: Buck drove to "rescue" a sobbing six year old Pooh Bear from her sleepover. She didn't think night could be so DARK!

St. Patrick's Breastplate

I arise today

Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,

Through the belief in the threeness,

Through confession of the oneness

Of the Creator of Creation.

I arise today

Through the strength of Christ's birth with his baptism,

Through the strength of his crucifixion with his burial,

Through the strength of his resurrection with his ascension,

Through the strength of his descent for the judgment of Doom.

I arise today

Through the strength of the love of Cherubim,

In obedience of angels,In the service of archangels,

In hope of resurrection to meet with reward,

In prayers of patriarchs,In predictions of prophets,

In preaching of apostles,In faith of confessors,

In innocence of holy virgins,

In deeds of righteous men.

I arise today

Through the strength of heaven:

Light of sun,

Radiance of moon,

Splendor of fire,

Speed of lightning,

Swiftness of wind,

Depth of sea,

Stability of earth,

Firmness of rock.

I arise today

Through God's strength to pilot me:

God's might to uphold me,

God's wisdom to guide me,

God's eye to look before me,

God's ear to hear me,

God's word to speak for me,

God's hand to guard me,

God's way to lie before me,

God's shield to protect me,God's host to save me

From snares of devils,

From temptations of vices,

From everyone who shall wish me ill,

Afar and anear,

Alone and in multitude.

I summon today all these powers between me and those evils,

Against every cruel merciless power that may oppose my body and soul,

Against incantations of false prophets,

Against black laws of pagandomAgainst false laws of heretics,

Against craft of idolatry,

Against spells of witches and smiths and wizards,

Against every knowledge that corrupts man's body and soul.

Christ to shield me today

Against poison, against burning,

Against drowning,

against wounding,

So that there may come to me abundance of reward.

Christ with me,

Christ before me,

Christ behind me,

Christ in me,

Christ beneath me,

Christ above me,

Christ on my right,

Christ on my left,

Christ when I lie down,

Christ when I sit down,

Christ when I arise,

Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,

Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me,

Christ in every eye that sees me,

Christ in every ear that hears me.

I arise today

Through a mighty strength,

the invocation of the Trinity,

Through belief in the threeness,

Through confession of the oneness,

Of the Creator of Creation.

It is said that St. Patrick would pray this prayer morning like putting on God's Breastplate. It's one of my favorites.

Some things hit me square in the funny bone. The news story expounded upon during NPR's Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me Saturday, had me laughing out loud, almost to the point of tears.

Here's why.

Apparently, somewhere in California the solution to an overpopulation of squirrels is not a match to the good old boy Tennessee tradition of huntin' 'em down and eatin' 'em for dinner. In fact, the compassionate California resolution of too many squirrels involves catching the females and injecting them with birth control hormones. Now that's got to be easy to keep track of, and tax money well spent. The comedians on Wait, Wait held me in stitches as they spouted, "Those squirrels are out of control with sex and need a good stern talking to."

"When the girl squirrels were interviewed about the problem they stated, 'We have a real problem with storing our pills in trees and forgetting where we've put them."

"Next the state will distribute teeny tiny little pamphlets titled Straight Talk about Nuts."

Thanks for the good laugh NPR.

Today.....

Buck: Hypothetically, what would a 41 year old woman want for her birthday?

Me with an indignant expression on my face: I don't know. You'll have to ask someone who is 41. I'm only 40, and don't you forget it, buster.

Coincidentally and surprisingly, my birthday is coming up, and I don't know what to ask for. Suggestions anyone?


Later

Pooh Bear urgently called me out to her fairy garden (which amounted to a bunch of dead flowers and lush green weeds, some ominously spikey) to show me she'd broken her flower necklace this afternoon. Walking outside into the lovely warm yard, I was inspired to drag out my loppers and prune the bushes gone wild beside the house. By the time I was finished chopping, my roommate from college might have said, "You've just snatched those bushes bald-headed". This improvement, of course, led to my utter dissatisfaction with the state of the terribly neglected and unkempt beds, so I weeded and raked out leaves as well. As a result of my compulsive nature, my main flower beds were ready for mulch before sundown.

Tomorrow I plan to weed the garden spot for my sugar snap peas. My garden lies in a horrible state after my abandonment in the heat and distraction of last summer.

Ahh, the life of a mundane blogger.

I quietly snuck away from the dinner table when I was quite certain noone was watching. I crept into my bathroom and drew a seriously hot bath. I carefully placed two favorites of the many books I'm reading on the edge of the tub. I considered lighting candles, but was afraid the scent might draw attention to my secret location. I tested the heat of the water with my left foot to be sure I wouldn't be scalded but tingling hot. I eased myself down into the tub, closing my eyes. I took in several deep breaths till I felt relaxation. I let the first silence of my day overtake me. It was a beautiful time. I dried my hand and reached for a book.

I know you know what's coming. Yes, a knock, "Mommy, are you in there? Girls can take baths together, right? Don't you want some company?"

A masked disappointed, "Hummm" was all I could manage, which of course Pooh Bear took to mean, "Come on in. The water's fine. I'd be ever so lonely without you."

From that moment on, perfect silence was abandoned. Pooh Bear shed her clothes, put on swim goggles, and jumped in with a splash beside me. I heard endless chatter of swim team, mermaids, Jesus walking on water, manatees, sharks, sleepovers, friends, and dance class.

I have to ask myself, "How much longer will the girl even want to take a bath with me or even fit in the tub with me?" There is coming a day when modesty and self conciousness will kick in, but I still have a little precious girlhood left to spend with her. I hope to never preserve quiet at the cost of intimacy with my daughter.

A New Way to Remove a Splinter

Here's the drill. One of my children announces, "I have a splinter and it HURTS, Mom." I ask, "Do you want me to remove it?" The child inquires in return, "Will it hurt? How will you do it?" My answer never changes, "Yes, it will hurt. I'll dig it out with a needle for you." Usually, I do not hear about the splinter again. The child's body either absorbs it, or the splinter makes its way out before my child would ever dream of me poking around their fingers or feet with a sharp instrument.

Not so today. Wise One came to me and shocked me by saying, "Mom, I'm ready for you to dig this splinter out. It's killing me."

I pulled out a bowl, filled it with warm soapy water, and asked Wise One to complete his language arts with me. Once he completed his page of past participles, he bravely asked, "My fingers are all wrinkly. Does that mean it's time?"

"Not just yet, Sweetie. I'll be right back." I collected Peace and invited him with me into Pooh Bear's pink room. "Pooh Bear, Wise has to get a splinter out, and I was wondering if I could allow Peace to entertain Wise at the expense of your Pretty Ponies? What I mean is, may Peace make big fun of your toys to help keep Wise's mind off the needle digging into his skin?" Pooh Bear's eyes became wide, but she agreed nonetheless. Usually, I won't tolerate my boys taunting and teasing one another with her "girl things" as it makes her madder than a wet hen and meaner than a snake. I strongly suggested she stay out of the room as her ponies where about to be ridiculed, but I think curiosity got the best of her.

My entourage followed me to my bedroom where I procured a needle from my sewing box and then into the homeschool room, where Wise One waited in fear.

"Oops. I forgot the tweezers and clippers. Would you bring them, Peace?" Peace, the resident comedian, reappeared quickly with the cutting board and a rather large knife in his hands. Wise One let out a nervous chuckle while Peace handed me the tweezers and clippers hidden in his pockets.

"No watching me, Wise, and get to work Peace." Peace knew just what to do. He drew out Pooh Bear's Pretty Ponies from behind his back and began asking, "Wise, why would a pony have goofy antennae and wings? How in the world can an animal as heavy as a pony possibly be a butterfly? Who ever heard of a pink horse with yellow hair and stars for eyes? What's up with this chariot? Are butterfly ponies supposed to ride when they could just fly? Is it some sort of pinky girly parade?" Once Peace exhausted the Pretty Pink Butterfly Pony Parade, he began to draw his own version. Instead of the standard pony heart shaped tattoo, he crafted human body hearts on his horse. Then he drew the horse on fire, and so on. Pooh Bear started to object, especially to the burning pony, but then she joined in with, "Make real stars in it's eyes like from outer space." They were having so much fun, laughing, I'm not sure Wise realized I'd finished.

"Here's the culprit of your pain." I held out the tiny sliver I'd excavated from beneath his epidermis.

"Huh" he mused and returned to the artwork he and his brother were creating.

I smiled with contentment.