I Sat in the Sun With a Winner...Again

Today, I Sat in the Sun With a Winner.
Again.
As we've done many times before.

But, every time I leave this winner, I think, "That was our best time!"
To her, I hear myself saying, "I know just what you mean!" again and again.

Today, we talked about text and narrative arcs
and gushed over our mutual love of the genre "memoir".
We spoke of mothering and marriage and what's ahead for the summer.
Of MLA, APA, and who-the-heck-can-figure-out-Chicago.
Of classrooms and churches and all types of friends.

But the best was just dwelling.
Thanking God for how He sent her to me...in the most unusual of ways.
And pondering how each of us should have this type of friend...
even if you find He's sent you just one.
Because mornings spent like this one create memories that linger...

if you find that you Sat in the Sun With a Winner.

In An Ideal World

When I grow old and my children grow up, they will get married and buy a house.

Hopefully, it's a big house. A nice house. One where they pick the tile and countertops, flooring, and fixtures. Where they paint the perfect color on their textured walls and maybe even match their drapes to their pillows.

And the backyard - now THAT will be a marvel indeed. It will be an outdoor living mecca of food and drink and good company, a little island of glee separate from the world where I can sit in a chaise with a crisp bottled beer and watch the grandbabies scamper about.

Yes, when I enter their homes, I shall sigh with delight for them, proud of how hard they've studied through college, found their match, and settled into domestic bliss.

Then I will jump on their couches and throw all the pillows on the floor.
I will rub peanut butter on my hands and then stroke them up and down those perfectly coordinated silk drapes.
I shall turn over the reading chairs and
empty all the dvd's (or whatever device they'll have in 2025) and add my fingerprints to their collective scratches.
Carrying huge plastic toys upstairs will be no burden of excess for I shall simply drag them along the wall, stripping the paint to the bare base.
I will swing on their banisters, toss their neatly-folded laundry from wicker baskets, scatter crumbs about the counters and every inch of their floors, and always forget to turn out any and every light I turn on inside their gorgeous domicile.
And, at the end of the day, I won't understand why in the world they should complain if there's pee on the toilet seat or toothpaste spurting within the drawer or dirty dishes shoved in far corners of rooms...

I shall simply say, "Seriously! It doesn't have to be a perfect house, does it?"

Then I'll wink and remind them of our ire swappings from their childhood...
and remark that, especially in matters of destruction it would seem,
what you sow, so you too shall reap.

But that would only happen in an ideal world.
Snicker.

A Tick of the Clock

On April 17th, Judsen Ames turned three.

3.
(!)

Birthdays make any mother reflect, to remember the nine months spent growing a baby who's slowly becoming a man. The time with our sons is short...I'm determined to squeeze every drop of joy out of the experience before Father Time wipes their slate of boyhood.

And Judd's the baby.
The last boy to reflect upon.

He wasn't our biggest baby... he missed E's record by just three ounces.

(me @ 8 months. Ack: pregnancy does NOT agree with me!)
But he arrived with the most personality of any our babies...and a perfect blend of his brother and sister.

(a really fantastic picture of my beloved, btw)

Now, from sleeping

to discovering

to eating and grinning

while growing and growing and growing some more...

his little body is catching up to his great big, funny heart.

And our blessing? Getting to come along for the ride,
one tick of the clock at a time.

Cold Cut...Part Deux

Because, with the way I feel today, I might as well use the words I once found so exceedingly perfect...

and say them again.

Word.

My title says it all.

Let the Picture Speak for Itself

We were just going to dinner.
But we were honoring a friend.

So we got dressed up.
And remembered to take a picture.

The older I get, the more words I learn.
Because I love words, I suppose.
But the older I get, the less those words can describe the depths of my love for this man.
Probably because I love him more.
Because I love him most.

So I won't try today.

I'll let the picture speak for itself.

The Sum of All Fears

"Why, you may take the most gallant sailor, the most intrepid airman or the most audacious soldier, put them at a table together - what do you get?
The sum of all their fears."
~ Winston Churchill

Powerful: I first encountered this quotation in the 8th grade when I read Tom Clancy's The Sum of All Fears with my dad. Its gravitas lies in how easily one can substitute the military categories for just about any other conjured...and the last line still rings true.

Lately, it seems that so many I care for are hanging on by the knot at the end of their "funk" rope (thanks, FDR) and they've nothing left in their arsenal but one small yet powerful weapon:
        hope in the face of their fears.

People are just people.
Doing their best, not because of their fear.
But in spite of it.
And that's a struggle we all share.

Which is why it seems not coincidental that Winston Churchill also said,
"If you're going through hell, keep going."

When I Get the Bucks Back

I'm all about Costco. Not Sam's. Costco.

Warning: This can divide or unite the Tribe of Warehouse Shoppers. Breathe deeply, if necessary.

When we lived in Alaska, warehouse shopping was a way of life for most - the cost of milk alone would pay for your membership twofold. In fact, most residents of the Last Frontier hold two club memberships: one to Costco, and one to Sam's. Ironically, we were military then so the commissary was our primary stop...but, oh my, how times have changed.

The advantages of membership are plenty, but some are bigger than others:

1. I get some bucks back for my spending.
2. They issue coupons for their items.
3. Generics are excellent and nearly always cheaper.
4. The bakery is absurdly delicious! (Hmmmm....which one doesn't belong?)

As you can see, where shopping is concerned, I'm cash driven.

Anyhow, they have one more policy that makes my "I'm on a budget, people!" heart go pitter-pat: they price adjust. Like Target. But bigger...as all things are in the warehouse world.

A month ago, we bought a Norton package. For 50 bucks. Craig saw it went on sale online. So I took my receipt back.

And left with 25 more dollars in my pocket than when I came -
which I promptly spent on a birthday gift for a friend, a new shirt for Elijah, a "You're 3!!!" present for Judsen, and a $5 lunch for me and that same tot.

See...I can make a buck stretch. With coupons. And sales. And time spent.

Especially when I get the bucks back.

I Like My Odds

I'm at a point in life where I'm more interested in letting it go than hanging on to it.

I'm warmed to know so many of my friends from high school are married to the loves of their lives.

I'm excited that Blue Bell ice cream really is pretty good - it wasn't just spin.

I'm proud of those I'm proud of...and they know who they are. I tell them every chance I get while I'm wondering how I got so blessed to find them.

I'm happy to be in love and happier still to know it's real.

I'm far more intoxicated by the praises of life than by the complaints against it.

I'm less for random emotion and more for solid thinking. (Okay, that's not new. But still important.)

I'm celebrating a friend at a party tonight. Just because she was born.

And I spent the afternoon playing with my youngest son and marveling at his tiny body which, to him, could leap a tall building.

If all of life were a Facebook wall, I'd be hitting Like way more than Dislike.

I have found perspective.

Which wasn't all that hard to do actually.

It's holding on to it that's the challenge.

But if my progress so far is any indication...
well...
I like my odds.

Ten Dollar Box of Doughnuts

Here are just two of the many seriously-raucous lingual licks Urban Dictionary readers offer as definitions of Spring Break:

1. A week where all the dumb kids go to Cancun and all the level headed people get to relax.
2. A week in which one does not wear pants.

As a former collegian, I relate to these definitions.
(I said relate, people, not represent.)

I mean, I went to Iowa State...how could you not?
(If you don't know what I mean, Bing Veisha. Then dumb kids and no pants will take on a whole new meaning.)

These days, Spring Break looks far different from behind the specs of a 34-year old. The Happy Dance of no early lectures, two-hour exams, finals, and book buys has been replaced by a new dance centered around just one question: "What will we do to fill two weeks? And how can that remind me of what I'm fighting for?"

Usually, we take a family getaway - one during Spring and one during Fall. But, with so much going on this summer, we decided to breathe a bit this March. Instead, we took a mini-staycation (and you know how we love those!), we hit the Y for pool-play, and spent a day in Denver...because what's the point of living a mere hour from the Mile-High if you never seize the chance to breathe shallower?

We started the day in Lone Tree - the nearest port to dock for some sugary delectables of doughnut delight.

First came the hats (too soon, they won't find these cool anymore
so pictures were a must).

Then came the caviar of fat and sugar...

So. So. So. Good.
I even brewed a coffee to take with me in my go-carrier...because what's the point of a morsel without its brew?

Apparently, Judd eats his Kreme's like his cake...icing first.

My "quick, figure it out" skills reached a new level when stir sticks became impromptu knives. Hey, it worked. And makes for quirky art.

Always reminds me of what I'm fighting for...

and why they're worth our time.
Our love.
Our unfailing devotion.

And a ten dollar box of doughnuts.

Just to Be Clear

Just to be clear, I didn't write this.
But I wish I had.

Monday's word of the day on Urban Dictionary (LOVE!) was...

Fauxpology

When a person makes it sound like they are apologizing when, in fact,
they are just shifting the blame or using twisted logic to argue their
way out of responsibility for their actions.


Noun. Who's verb form usually begins with, "Well, I'm sorry you think that's true, but..."

If you have no idea to what this definition is referring, you're a hermit.
Or a toddler pre-language.
Or serially guilty of this particular offense.

Regardless, it's rude. And small. And tacky.
Let's not do it.

Just to Be Clear.

For One More Year

Last night, Jess and KJ came over to watch the final game of March Madness 2011 (which Grace pointedly remarked is finishing...in April. Love that little mind.)

In any case, I seemed to remember writing about the NCAA tourney last year...
and pulled that excerpt up.
Re-read it.
And found that it's truer today than it ever has been.

So, I'm doing a first: I'm re-posting a blog entry.

Or, rather, re-linking it...as we say goodbye to March Madness.

For one more year.

Duly Noted

Daily, weekly, monthly.
Or moment by moment.
I've never known heroism to be faceless.

By the nature of their gravitas, the men, women, and even children who supersede the norms of self-sacrifice haves faces heralding honor in the face of fear.

No matter your stance, political or otherwise, on the state of nuclear power, there is irrefutable fact of radiation leakage in Japan.

And this article reports on the faces of the heroes confronting it.

Let their acts of courage - and they price they'll likely pay - be duly noted.