cast on, cast off

I bet I lure a lot of knitters in with that title, huh?

Unfortunately, I'm not talking about knitting. I'm talking about arm casts. And Andrew's is about to come off - in a little less than a week.

This is particularly good, because it's beginning to look rather dingy. And I think he's weary of wearing a trash bag in the shower, and not being able to catch a baseball properly. It was nice of the doctor to provide a nice, blue cast that perfectly matches his baseball outfit, but I think we're both tired of it.

My real reason for mentioning any of this, of course, is to keep my word and spill the beans about what I wrote on his cast. None of you were brave enough to guess ... only brave enough to say "Gee, with your sense of humor, there's no tellin' what you wrote!" Ha! That made me laugh. Mostly because I realize you all thought I probably wrote something extremely funny or rude or embarrassing.

**Long pause

Ok, so maybe you were right with the rude part. I dunno what do you think? Is "Smooth move, ExLax!"  rude? 

**Longer pause

Yeah, you're probably right. But what I really wanted to write was "Roly Poly, Pell Mell, Tumble Bumble!"

Why? Because he looooooved that book when he was little. I'm positive I read it to him at least 3,486 times. And - since he truly did go roly poly, tumble, bumble, pell, mell down the hill, it seemed quite appropriate.

As did strawberry shortcake, rice pudding, and chocolate custard...........

Ahem!

However, when I told him I was going to write a portion of The Poky Little Puppy, he said, "Mom. That's too long. Ya' gotta save room for all my friends."

Psh!! Ok, fine. I see where I rank.

So the ExLax comment is what ya' get if you reject the cute comment. To sweeten things up, I did add "Love, Mom" and "Romans 8:28" to the signature.

See. I'm a great Mom.

Right? 

This is why ...... 

........ I enjoy making quilts for people I love.

big sister, little brother

By the looks of the pics, I should title this big brother, little sister! But I'm going by birth order here, not who is taller. Jessie is actually wearing tall high heels, so this picture doesn't really do Andrew's height justice. I'm three inches shorter than Jessie, so you can imagine what I look like up against Andrew. 

Sigh ...

Jessie took Andrew on a date the other night, so I'm simply posting these pictures as proof that just because babies grow up ... they don't lose their cuteness. 

Amen? 

 

You don't suppose this post had anything to do with the date idea, do you?

Nah. Me either. 

And I'm posting this one to show off for your viewing pleasure. 

they stand at the door and knock, knock, knock

To all the boys who think they love my daughter,

I know it's hard. My daughter is beautiful. She's funny, perky, supportive, intelligent, and fun to be around. And much to your pleasant surprise, she's once again ... single.

You know what that means?

What's that?

No. It does not mean that you can begin showing up on my doorstep to take her here, there, and everywhere. And no, it does not mean that you can write her love letters. Or call incessantly. And don't even try to play that "my shoulder is here for you to cry on" game. Do you really want a gal on the rebound? Stop listening to your raging, popping hormones and THINK. It's been one week since her and her fiance broke up.

ONE. WEEK. That's seven days, for those of you who are uneducated.

Now, here's what my daughter's new "single" status on facebook means. It means that she's come to the conclusion that marriage isn't for her right now. You don't need to know the reasons. All you need to do is respect them. And her. And me. And her father. And her sister. And her brother. Yes, her brother and sister. Are you ignorant to the fact that when a serious relationship starts in a family, it affects each member? We begin to love the person who (by dating my daughter) is a candidate to become a son-in-law to us. When that relationship is broken, we all grieve.

But more importantly ... is it in her best interest to start another relationship at this time (remember, we're thinking with our brains here, not our hormones)? When you flock to my doorstep, ring my doorbell, or write her letters, are you thinking of her? Do you realize that's what a healthy relationship consists of? Thinking of others first? First. As in ... before you.

Some of you may be wracking your brain, thinking, "Oh dear me, what could I do to impress Mr. and Mrs. C so that they would approve of me dating Jessica?" If that's what you're thinking, you've already failed. Because I just asked you not to knock on our door. Or maybe you're saying, "You're the mom. Who cares what you think? Jessie's a big girl, and she can make her own decisions."

You're absolutely correct, but again - you fail. Jessica does not require our approval. She's legally an adult, and therefore can do whatever she pleases. But if you were any sort of gentleman, you'd be seeking our advice and approval, just as Jessica does.

I know it's counter-cultural, but there's a little thing we like to call respect around our house. Respect for others, but more pointedly, respect for our elders. Why have respect for our elders? Because they're older. And wiser. And (news flash!) people who have been married for over 20 years tend to know a few things about making a marriage work. If you are too proud to ask for help, adivce, and wisdom from others, you aren't good enough. And you guessed it .... you FAIL.

Have you ever heard of Voddie Bauchum?

Go ahead, Desperado. Google that.

On second thought, save yourself the typing. If you don't know who he is, then you'll have no idea what we as parents expect from someone dating our daughter, and again, you have failed.

Are you feeling tested?

Good. Because that's basically what dating is. It's a test. A test to see whether you would make a good husband, father, lifetime mate, lover, and leader of a family. And guess who administers the test? Yep, you guessed it. Mr. C and yours truly. So forget about sweet talkin' Jessie into believing you're groom worthy, or even date worthy, and thinking you've passed some sort of unwritten test. Because (another news flash!) it's not solely about what Jessie thinks. There are people who love her and are here to protect her against hormonal, raging idiots that wander in from the streets.

If being tested scares you away, good. It proves that all you would want in a relationship is the funny, and the beautiful. In other words ... you're shallow, and relying on your hormones to do your thinking.

So, farewell shallow boys. Come back in five, ten, fifteen years, when you've studied what it means to be a real husband, father, and home leader. When you've got some kind of financial ability to care for a family, and when you've been knocked around hard enough to know that R-E-S-P-E-C-T is a good and godly trait ... and absolutely essential to succeeding in life ... especially in this household (know ye not that when a person marries, he/she marries a whole family?).

Until then, we will continue to lead and instruct Jessica as well as we can into becoming the kind of wife and mother God desires her to be. We'll all do our part. You do your part. And then (and only then!) will we even be interested in seeing your ugly mug on our doorstep.

Yes, that's right. Being hot! is not a pre-requisite.

There. I've given you some hope.

Dutifully yours,

Mrs. C

it is finsihed (and a weird shopping spree)

Tada!!!!

The school room. is. finished! Uhh, minus a curtain and wall hangings. 

Yes, it's small. But it's ours, and we feel at home. The colors I chose keep us calm. You know ... so that during those schooling moments where frustrations are running high, I won't do anything drastic. Like ground kids until they're 56!

Where was I?

Oh yes. Decorating. I started thinking about what I'd like to work on next, and decided on my bathroom. Then I found http://www.become.com/. My bathroom is rather drab, and one of my goals is to get my bathroom looking perky. So when I found these floral bath towels: http://home-and-garden.become.com/floral-bath-towels I knew I needed them. Yes. Need. I neeeed towels that are off limits. Ones that just hang on a towel rack, looking pretty, but have absolutely no function or purpose at all. It's really quite imperative to my happiness.

Then I saw this double shower head: http://home-and-garden.become.com/double-shower-head but I don't want people suspicious that I may in fact take showers with, you know, someone else? Or that I have two heads. I mean, perhaps I do take showers with someone else (or have two heads), but I tend to equate these types of things with having mirrors on your canopy bed. And I'm just not sure I want to make those types of announcements. I know, I know. Such a prude.

And I really liked the idea of little shower stool: http://health-and-beauty.become.com/shower-stool. Yeah, yeah. I'm not even 40. Still, I know all too well that 60 (70? 80?) will creep up before I know it. Until then, it's for shaving my legs, because I get ... tipsy. Besides, it's much cheaper to buy it now than wait 20 years when inflation has bumped the price twice as high.

I don't know how I end up on these weird shopping sprees, and now I've gone and dragged you (drug you? have dragged you? druggest thou?) along in the process.

I'm mainly here to tell you about the school/sewing room, and will be waiting patiently for your shower of compliments (no pressure, of course).

Speaking of school ... it's time. Fairwell, my friends. I will be in that office until mid-afternoon, quilting little stars on the table runner you see, and helping Andrew with his seatwork.

One great day .... comin' up!!

my calling

I don't have a career.

And in my (almost) 21 years of marriage, I have never had a career. I've done a few odd jobs ... provided daycare for a few months, cleaned a few houses ... but I've purposely tried to focus on raising a family.

In five years, it'll all be over. My youngest will be all grown and well on his way to becoming independant.

I can't say I've never become distracted from my goal. I've volunteered too much at a few churches. I've spent too much time with friends. I've been selfish with my time. But as a whole, Shaun and I have kept our eye on the goal. The bullseye of us raising our kids, and not the school system or the babysitter.

As the school year starts once again in a few weeks, I've been reminding myself of our goal to stick it out until the end. Homeschooling a teenage boy can be God's #1 tool for sanctifying me. But I've come to realize that it's worth every second. I don't want to raise a kid that blends in well with the crowd. I want to raise a kid that sticks out because of his unusual, but healthy dose of character. A boy whose Christian beliefs have taken root and have changed the way he looks from other kids.

Of course it's not just homeschooling that keeps me home. I know without a doubt that all the laundry, cooking, cleaning, and loving my husband would go out the window if I were to pick up a career and run with it. I'm simply unable to physically keep up with working outside the home. Granted, that may be because of my health issues. But that simply strengthens my resolve to be a keeper of the home. I know my limitations, and I am simply reminding myself of them as I step into another year of homeschooling.

My limitations are something I've learned to embrace, and not fight against. And if that means less money, and thereby windows without frilly curtains, driving a few clunkers, and limiting our eating out ... then so be it.

I know I'm doing the right thing ... my life's calling.

How 'bout you? What is your life calling? Are you sure of it? Do you rest in knowing you are in the right place, doing God's will for your life, even if all the little details aren't what you'd like them to be?

goose bumps and air shows

Are you ready for some more pictures!? I hope so! Because we went to an airshow to see the Thunderbirds a few days ago, and I want to share my favorite pics with you.

It's been years since I went to an airshow, and I thought I was in for a day of long waits, wickedly hot weather, and a lot of misery for an hour and a half of sheer terror. Ok, not sheer terror. Sheer excitement? Big, honkin' goose bumps? Maybe all of the above. Because when those planes unexpectedly fly right over my head, I have all sorts of sensations go through me!

Anyway, here are my favorite pics of the day (you may click on any of them to enlarge)....

This is what teenage boys look like approximately two seconds after one has flown overhead. :-D

It was very cloudy, which  made taking photos a bit of a challenge ...

Hewo, wittle piwot. I see you!

Father/Daughter moment here. I love this pic.

 

We got to talk to one of the pilots. JUST KIDDING. This is my guy. I'm sure he's cuter than any of those pilots anyway ...

The rest of these are photos of people I have never seen before in my life. But they were interesting to me, so I snapped away. I know ... I'm a freak.

Little cowboy. Future pilot? Hmm. He'd have to be ok with switching hats.

That's it! If the Thunderbirds or the Blue Angels ever come your way, be sure to go enjoy the show. It's free, just like the goosebumps.

the pitcher

The Titans and the Rattlers were in the top of the third inning. Rattlers were up to bat, with two outs, and the pitcher was working hard to make it a third. The score was one to nothing, Titans on top.

It was the first game of a single elimination tournament. Schedules were tight and time was limited. As a result, the pitcher’s warm up time was cut short. After the first inning, his arm felt a tad strained, but not bad enough to be voluntarily benched. Besides – he knew the team needed him. By the top of the third, he had thrown a few wild pitches as a result of the strain - two of which made contact with the batters.

The batter took a few practice swings while the pitcher readied himself to throw once more. The pitcher raised the glove and ball above his head to begin his windup. His left foot stepped backwards. Then the glove came forward, and rested on his chest for a moment. His left knee came up, he stepped towards home, reached back, and threw hard.

At first, it looked like it would be a strike, but it quickly veered inside, and SMACK! It hit the batter.

The third batter of the game.

The umpire told the batter to take his base, and the Rattler’s coach began making his way out to the field. He approached the ump, and said “That’s the third time he’s hit someone this game. They need to take him out.”

The Titans fans were unsure whether the request was a rule or a preference. They watched as the umpire walked toward the Titans coach. Then the coach and ump made their way to the mound, removing all doubt from the spectator’s minds.

The Titan’s best pitcher . . . the one the team counted on . . . would have to step off the mound.

The pitcher slowly handed the ball to the umpire. With his shoulders and head hung low, he headed towards his alternative position of third base, receiving a few pats of understanding and forgiveness from his teammates along the way.

But the pats were little comfort. He had let his team down in the most important game of the season. Nevermind that the the ump made a bad call on the second batter he supposedly hit. That batter had swung on that pitch. The ball had hit the bat, not his hands. Although the Titans coach tried to reason with the ump about that call, and convince him to not count it, there was really no use arguing about it. It was what it was.

The next batter was on his way up to bat. The game would go on, regardless of the pitcher’s feelings or the coach’s lobbying.

And that’s when it happened.

All time stood still, as that pitcher made the long walk from third base to first base, where the batter he had struck stood with one foot on the base, one on the field. You could almost hear a pin drop, in spite of the park being crowded.

Nobody heard the exact words of the pitcher. But his body language told them that he was offering a sincere apology.

Silence hung in the air.

When the apology was accepted with grace and forgiveness, the Rattler’s fan club broke the silence with a round of applause, showing their appreciation of the pitcher’s good sportsmanship.

The pitcher simply jogged back to third base, put his glove back on, slapped it, and positioned himself to play ball.

———————————————————-

As that pitcher’s mother, I can honestly say that I’ve never been more touched, more thankful for, or more humbled by my own son. My eyes had welled up with tears when the umpire took the ball from him. My heart ached because I knew how bad his ached.

But when he treaded that seemingly long, humble road from third to first, my heart flip flopped. My thirteen year old son was making one of the best decisions he would ever make. He was choosing to be humble in a world that incessantly tells him to be proud, to stick up for himself. My heart pounded louder and harder, and more tears came to my eyes as I realized he had made this apology on his own accord, with no prompting from anyone but the Holy Spirit.

As it turned out, the Titans lost the game.

But somehow, it didn’t matter. Because ultimately, my son had won bigger than he had ever won in his life.

I love you, Andrew. Thanks for making this Father’s Day one that your dad and I will never forget. For doing what’s right. For setting an example to your teammates. And for honoring and glorifying the name of your Heavenly Father.

the gift of goosebumps

Last night, I sat in my purple, frayed lawn chair as I watched Andrew pitch a seven inning game. The sun was out, the mountains in the background were unbelievably beautiful, and my son was having an awesome game. I didn't think it could get any better.

It was the first warm game of the season. But if you've ever experienced Colorado weather, you know it can change in a flash.

The weather remained calm, the wind kept its distance, and it seemed everyone was having the time of their lives. But then the sun went behind the mountains. It was still pleasant enough, and to most folks, it was a relief from the glaring sunshine.

But I shivered and slipped my fleece jacket on, and wondered if I'd eventually need the other three jackets or the wool blanket that I faithfully bring to each game. If the wind picked up, or clouds began to roll over the top of the mountains, I would eventually don each and every winter good I brought, and wish for more.

I continued watching the game.

"Who would have ever thought I should have brought a jacket?" I heard a shaky voice behind me say.

I turned to see an old lady sitting four bleachers up. I'd never seen her before. I later came to realize that she was likely our catcher's grandmother. She was quite thin, with stark white hair. Even though it was warm when she arrived, she wore a long sleeve sweat suit and tennis shoes.

I knew then that we possessed a common trait - the inability to stay warm.

I stole another glance at her. Her body was arched over, arms and legs crossed to keep the warmth in. Her smile was broad, revealing a road map of wrinkles as she watched her grandson catch my son's pitches.

I smiled too. But my smile quickly turned upside down and I felt a pang of guilt. After all, I was sitting comfortably with my jacket butttoned up to my neck, two jackets resting on the back of my chair, and a wool blanket under my toosh. Not to mention my husbands jacket lying on the ground next to me.

I'm too shy, I thought.

Chicken!

I ignored the accusation and went on watching the game. The wind picked up a bit. I shivered, and again I remembered the lady behind me.

I stole another glance at her.

Still hunched over. Still cold. Still smiling.

I couldn't stand it any longer. I hate being cold, and I knew it happened just as easily to her as it does to me. Everyone else seemed warm and comfortable. I was the only one who knew how she felt. And I was the only one who could help her.

I pryed my sorry, shy tooshy off the purple, tattered lawn chair, and grabbed a jacket that I was sure would completely cover her. I slowly made my way up the bleachers, trying to stay out of people's view of the game. I wrapped the jacket around her shoulders, and said, "I can't stand to see you over here shivering when I have all those jackets just sitting there waiting to be used."

I made sure the jacket was snug.

She smiled at me, and the lines in the map grew deeper.

"Thank you so much. I should have thought to bring something for myself."

"Well, you're new here," I assured her. "I've learned to come prepared, even when the weather is beautiful."

She seemed happy with that response, and even happier that she could sit and watch the game, goosebump free.

I, however, was not goosebump free - a gift given to me not by the weather, but by her pricelss look of gratefulness.

How far you go in life depends on your being tender with the young, compassionate with the aged, sympathetic with the striving and tolerant of the weak and strong. Because someday in your life you will have been all of these. ~George Washington Carver

You cannot do a kindness too soon, for you never know how soon it will be too late. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

first shave

I remember my first shave.

No, I do not have a mustache. Although, I know women who do.

I mean my first leg shave. I was young (but hairy). My father's nickname is Hair Bag, and well ... you draw the conclusion.

The day was a scorcher (yes, we have those in Colorado). My brother's and I went to the pool for an afternoon swim. They were decked out in their manly trousers, with uber hairy legs and arms. I was decked out my turquoise one-piece - with uber hairy legs and arms. It was straight. It was black. And it was long.


Still, I was just a little girl, at the age of eleven. What did I care about shaving legs?


None at all, until that day.


Peer pressure and relentless teasing will do strange things to pubescent kids. Some go so far as to get wild piercings or not eat, putting their health and the sanity of their parents at risk. Fortunately, the only thing at risk here was some wiry leg hair, and my pride.


Later that day, I asked my mom if I could shave. I didn't have a razor, and even if I did, I'd be afraid I'd cut myself and then she'd be mad at me when I bled all over the carpet and didn't ask for permission. Mom liked us to ask permission for everything. Even if we wanted to eat a few snack crackers.


Still, Mom was pretty observant. She knew my father was half monkey and that I had inadvertently inherited the trait, even though my chromosomes cried for different circumstances. She agreed to let me shave, if I promised I'd be careful, clean the razor, and keep up the shaving once I started.


"It's gross when people have already started shaving their legs and don't keep up with the task," she scolded me like I had already committed the offense.


No problem, Mom. I think the man jokes were enough to keep me shaving every day until the day I die.


My first shave consisted of opening a pack of new razor blades, and inserting it into the old fashioned razor. With fear and trepidation, I ran the new razor across my scrawny, hair infested legs.


Oooouuuuuchhhh!!!


With more fear and trepidation (and wisdom), I lathered up my scrawny, less hair infested legs and proceeded. One hot water heater of water later, I began to look like a model (or so I hoped). Silky, smooth, white skin came shining through. Afterwards, I dabbed some of Mom's Johnson & Johnson baby lotion on.


I was a new creature.


One that couldn't be laughed at and referred to as an ape. One that was just like her peers, which so often becomes an adolescent's goal.


I guess for men, it's different. Having ugly, wiry hair is cool.

Studly.

Bursting with testosterone.

It  means you've reached the pinnacle of manhood. In womanhood, it means that you've reached the pinnacle of cooeyness.


I'll be the first to say that Andrew does indeed have a (slight) need to shave. And he didn't shave because of any teasing, or peer pressure. No, he shaved out of a pure desire to be a studly man. Like his dad, his new brother-in-law, and his brother-in-law to be.


You may have gathered that from the sparkle in his eyes.




Even so ... whatever you do, son, don't care too much about what other people think. Care what God thinks about you. Be a God pleaser, not a man pleaser. The kids at the pool, they only care about making you look small so that they can look big. God cares about what's best for you.


Perhaps the hard school of knocks is the only way a kid can learn these things. But if you can at all learn a thing or two from your mom, let this be one of them.

Colossians 1:-9-14


For this reason we also, since the day we heard it, do not cease to pray for you, and to ask that you may be filled with the knowledge of His will in all wisdom and spiritual understanding; that you may walk worthy of the Lord, fully pleasing Him, being fruitful in every good work and increasing in the knowledge of God; strengthened with all might, according to His glorious power, for all patience and longsuffering with joy; giving thanks to the Father who has qualified us to be partakers of the inheritance of the saints in the light. He has delivered us from the power of darkness and conveyed us into the kingdom of the Son of His love, in whom we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of sins.


~Brenda, the clean shaven mama on the Prairie

big, but not too big to blow bubbles

Andrew is getting rather ... shall we say ... large. At five foot, eight inches tall (at age 13), he not only towers over me (at five foot three), but he shows no signs of slowing down. I've threatened to stop feeding him if he doesn't put a stop to it, but as teenagers tend to be, it goes in one ear and out the other.

However, five foot eight and thirteen does not automatically mean that you are too big for a little bubble blowing. And really ... who is? I love to blow bubbles like these:

And so does Andrew ... but please notice that this is a mega bubble tank. Because he's too big to be blowing bubbles out of those little baby bubble bottles.

Of course, it always turns into a game of combat with teenage boys. It's very important that we attack those killer bubbles!

I'm glad I was not a bubble on this day.

~Brenda, the bubble buster's mama on the prairie