Not Just a Fairy Tale

A picnic lunch outside before chasing butterflies in the sunshine.

A line from a children's story?

I suppose it could be.

But it was actually my day.

Courtesy of being a mommy.
How amazing is that?

Now, Would I Lie to You?

I could lie to you.

I could tell you I am not usually uncomfortable with time. That I don't attempt to wrest the minute hands from God at most inclinations, either to wind time round or to turn it back.  I don't always care which. I could tell you that it is easy to live in any moment, never wondering what's ahead or regretting what lies behind.

Maybe I should tell you that.

But I'd be lying.

My friend, Lynne, shared this quote today because she thought it was powerful.
I agree with Lynne.

"Patience is not waiting passively until someone else does something. Patience asks us to live the moment to the fullest, to be completely present to the moment, to taste the here and now, to be where we are. When we are impatient, we try to get away from where we are. We behave as if the real thing will happen tomorrow, later, and somewhere else. Let’s be patient and trust that the treasure we look for is hidden in the ground on which we stand." - Henri J.M. Nouwen

Patience is active.
It's tasting.
     Being.
         Trusting.
               Looking.
                     Standing.

It's the now.
This moment.
This presence.
This treasure.
This ground.

I could tell you the this is what gets me to forfeit the wresting. I can't win anyway. Besides, guessing and regretting have never brought good times - not a single one.

I could tell you that now's the best I'm going to get.
For now.

I wouldn't be lying.

Cowboys, Shame Fests, and Neon Monikers

I'm copyediting four manuscripts. Right now. Which means I'm stuck at a computer screen, dividing my time into the categories of "Must Get Done" and "Must Take Break". I like the work, but it's tedious with a dose of mind-scrambling. Which means my thoughts are random.

A new and disturbing trend?

Nevertheless, we're now on the subject (nicely done, me). Why not cast a few query logs onto the fire?

 Pandora, how do you go wrong? So...so...SO wrong?

Are you attempting to Captain Obvious me into a tortured state by emphasizing what the likely entire world already knows - British people shouldn't rap? I'm quite serious and borderline rabid when I ask you, "Where did you find that song? And how did it make my playlist?" 

What is the next drop in the descent toward total humiliation? Losing a Words With Friends match by more than 130 points to our friend, Steve. I take comfort in knowing the herculean portion of self-restraint he showed in gloating next to nothing cost him considerably. Or else he's storing it for some equally herculean future shame-fest. One can never be sure.

Why, Senior Editor, do you pay me to tell you how your writers break the rules only to argue with me in email the merit of the rule? It is not my fault your authors can't actually, you know...write. It's not like I even brought up that little piece of damning evidence. It's a restrictive clause, I tell you! Commas are not optional. And "French fries" are not actually from France, you realize. Perhaps it's also time to shed your belief that the monarchy possesses a King Burger or that McDonald's is a name of Scottish high-birth. Want me to note that on your invoice?

 How is it that, despite its complete insincerity and obvious attempt to manipulate, vaguebooking still exists? I need a neon, blinking Dislike button for that, Mr. Zuckerberg. Yesterday. Sigh. I'm having such a hard time.

Is anyone else baffled as to how Cowboys and Aliens defied La-La-Like odds by containing the two most diametrically opposed lines in a one-hour segment? Let me spare you the other 1:24 and tell you. They're "What kind of man blows up another's man's cattle?" and "God don't care who you were, only who you are."

Did you know I'm the kept woman of a married man? But I'm cool with that. I mean, the married man is my husband, so reprehensibly immoral it is not. Course, if you're of the 2-x persuasion and married, you're a kept woman, too. Just so you know. Seems the "Mrs" moniker was first derived from mistress. Irony noted.

An Utterly Irrelevant But Predicatable Sense of Humor

Random. If you caught the title (how'd you miss it? It's bold. And at the top.), then you already read Urban Dictionary's definition of it.

But did you know that it is I who has made random famous? That's right. It's my art form. Or art malformed. Whichever.

I'm known for the tendency to rabbit-trail to parts equally impertinent and ridiculous, winding in some erratic and (kind of?) neurotic circle that changes from a spherical to ovular to elliptical before becoming a full-on egg of nothingness but drivel... Wait. What was I talking about?

My friend, Steve, paid me one of my finest compliments regarding just this subject. In truth, he was probably cutting my smarts and deriding my "get-it"s. Paying me a compliment makes me feel better. So there it is. While observing a confused listener try to muddle through the mess of my storytelling, he calmly tilted aside and whispered cuttingly encouragingly, "Just stay with her. She'll eventually bring you back 'round." An optimist, that Steve.

Today was a day of random. Probably because I'm exhausted. Like, 23rd mile of the marathon, exhausted. (Never run a marathon). As in 13k feet of the climb, tapped. (Never scaled a 14er.) Tired makes me testy. And, as it turns out, random.

Why won't my car seat conform to my every ridge and contour the moment I sit in it after The Man drives? Why can't I ever get it to be the same way it was? Car makers claim they do it in their finest models, but forward and up just aren't enough directional help. How about the tilts and the pedals and the whole bootie-contour factor? Where's that? I believe I can revolutionize the driving world with my plan. I possess absolutely no engineering abilities. I know nothing of tabs or buttons or levers or memory chips. I can't even draw a decent stick man. Still, my plan could revolutionize the driving world...if it weren't for all of that, I mean.

I passed by the nail salon in Wal-Mart (WM. Ugh.) where I noticed the clients were all old ladies. Watching a soap opera. All that was missing was a red rocking chair and a neon sign flashing "Cliche" above it.

Crystal Light has added two new flavors to their faux-drink repertoire: Appletini and Margarita. The first is as noxious as its leaded cousin. The second is not half bad. Mocking may commence in 5. 4. 3. 2...

The elderly are far more dangerous on the roads than the teenagers. Better arrogant than completely unaware. Maybe. Probably?

I can never remember if the road's called Woodmen. Or Woodman. Is it a name? Or one guy? More than one guy? This plagues me when Google or Mapquest requests that I clarify. That's just cruel of them.

Those blasted plastic cups are shoved to the back of the shelf again. Who is doing this?! I've interrogated inquired of The Other Four, but all claim innocence. Mayhap there be naughty elves who creep into our homes come the witching hour to inject menace into our everyday lives. Perhaps it is they who nudge that table leg just-so to the left, ensuring your toe will stub or your shin will bang. Not before they steal socks, move keys, or shove those glasses to the back of that shelf I can't reach, mind you. But likely after they've shifted my car seat.

Just to poke fun at me.

But that's only because naughty elves have utterly irrelevant but predictable senses of humor.
Random.

This Test Is Timed

For most, birthdays are about the happy-in-the-now and the giddy-of-ahead.
No rearview mirror to be found.
Except for when those birthdays belong to our kids.
Then my neck's a'cranin' to yesteryear.

I guess looking back makes the "right now" all the richer.
Lights the ahead in even brighter hues.
Because these little ones are it for me.
I'm a wife. A teacher. A friend. A leader. A sister. A daughter. And a follower of Christ in all six.
But a mother: now that's the role that has changed my world.
Perhaps it is the role that changes the world.

However you slice it, I look backward. To cherish the present. To appraise the future.
But a three foot package in the today makes me reconsider.

The tip of that hourglass to this day four years ago brings me to Judsen Ames. I love his story. I love him. Sounds obvious, no? It's still true, though. I really love him. More deeply every minute.  I mean, I grew him. GREW him!

And ahead I looked when first I held him, pondering what would make him laugh; who would make him cry; what dreams he'd dream and falls he'd fall. I guess I thought about how I'd keep growing him. Changing him.

But when I look behind, I see that it's him who's changing me.
From little...

 to bigger ...

 and biggest still...

He may be little, but he packs a powerful love punch.
On which I'm a little drunk.
Which I suppose makes him the better barometer of time.

Whether ahead or behind, now or then, birthdays are where they all collide,
   bound together by love for one little guy,
      standing the test of time.

Blue Plate Forecast?

Wouldn't it be nice if the mapping of your life was like a weather segment?
I know, I know: your "What the ?!" is my "I've got it all worked out in my blond-follicled cranium!"
So I'll lay it out for you.

As I was catching the noon news today (one step away from The Blue Plate Special that I am), the standard grammar-crushing, suave-you're-not weather fellow came on to tell me what my climatic future holds - or doesn't, depending on the roll of the tropospheric dice around here.

Anyway, the ridiculously quaffed little gent boasted "It's Springtime! Thunderstorms Return This Week!" I soon felt myself nodding along, mentally categorizing the days into jacket/no jacket, flip flops or socks, hair down or tied back to prevent face-lash (dang Colorado zephyrs!). When along came The Big Thought: Wouldn't it be nice if the mapping of my life was like a weather report?

Not surprisingly, that grand pondering came just about half-time in the segment and - alas! - I figured any possible fruit was long gone. Until I checked the website and discovered the summary. Shazam! And, yes, I copied it just for you.

Weatherwise, this will be an interesting week. It starts with more clouds and areas of fog overnight tonight. Keeping Tuesday morning's lows in the 30s/40s. After the fog thins, there's a 20% chance for showers and thunderstorms Tuesday afternoon and evening. The further south and east you are, the more likely the storms will be. Wednesday will feature a repeat performance of "fog early/storms later". Winds will increase Wednesday night, as another cold front approaches, then moves through first thing Thursday morning, leaving the rest of Thursday breezy and cooler, with isolated PM storms. Temperatures will continue to fall on Friday, with breezy winds in the afternoon. At the moment, your weekend looks breezy, with at least a 20% chance of showers Saturday, a 30-40% chance on Sunday, and a lingering 20-30% chance on Monday.

 Now, what if it had a little life rewrite? Maybe something like "People-wise, this week's gonna' suck. It'll start with that nasty little comment you won't realize you made out loud until that coworker scarfing down the garlic chicken asks what you mean by tic-tac moment. After the yelling dims, there's a 40% probability you'll clip that guy's bumper because you were too busy talking on your Blue Tooth to notice he stopped - in the middle of the street. Avoid the lines at Target during peak afternoon hours on Wednesday: your efforts to squeeze in that little errand will make you horribly late to the carpool line. Energy levels will continue to fall on Thursday when you realize you're not yet done with that work project due tomorrow...and the dog just barfed all over your bed. At the moment, the weekend looks promising - as long as you RSVP 'nay' to that dinner (the shrimp turns out to be bad) and avoid Saturday hurling and Sunday retching. Look forward to a new week holding some lingering yuck, but not too bad considering the 7 days just behind you."

Why not that, I ask you?

Yet, I know it cannot be.
So I turn the channel.
I've got a Blue Plate Special to hit.

Diarrhetics and Titivate: A Must Read?

You, meet Good Book.

Good Book, meet you.

Now, snobs of the highest literary order (of which I believe I am one) will typically tell you there there's no true good book since the term "good" is an empty term spent by relativists. And those who watch all five of the Fast and Furious movies in a marathon sitting.

My nose in the air hasn't quite reached such heights. Give me an hour or two, and I'll work on it. Yet, I do believe in a good-old-fashioned good book. (See? I just used the dry little noun accessory twice. Twice!)

While I'll admit to believing in the implausible term (I also bought tickets for the Loch Ness and Bigfoot Belief Trains, mind you), I confess I haven't the foggiest notion as to how to define it. I mean, what makes a book, in fact, good?

If history - my mere 17 years of adulthood being all I've got to mortgage here - has shown me anything, it's that preference is everything. How else could we explain the greatest debates of our history? Consider good versus evil. Science or nature. TP: Under or Over?

Book boasting is no crayon of a different box. Of course, that won't stop me from dropping a diarrhetic in your soup if you dare claim Jane Austen is just another empty-minded Victorian who cottons to flights of romantic whimsy. That's right. I said diarrhetic.

For me, The Good Book better refer to The Bible or else be that needle-in-the-haystack find of crackerjack wit and content that titivates my brain while tickling m'funny bone. No short order of pancakes that.

And it should be a bit zany. Off the wall. Original without trying to be. For instance: let's say there was some guy. We'll call him A.J. Jacobs. And let's say Jacobs, although Ivy League (cough-cough, Brown University) educated, feels by the ragged age of 35 that he's "slipping in a slow slide of dumbness". Let's mix in that, to stave the steep of said slide, he decides to read the entire 32 volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica in a humble quest to become the world's smartest man. Oh, but we mustn't fail to add that he writes about the adventure...one alphabetized musing at a time. Now what sort of book would that make?

A freakin' hysterical one, that's what.

It just so happens that it also titivates the brain while tickling the funny bone. Must make it good, then.

Want the full course and not just some lame appetizer? Okay, have another bite.

"Glyndwr: A district in Wales. Please buy a vowel."
"dance: In a tribe of Santa Maria, old men used to stand by with bows and arrows and shoot every dancer who made a mistake. The perfect way to raise the stakes on American Idol."
 "Absalom: a biblical hero, [who] has the oddest death so far in the encyclopedia. During a battle in the forest, Absalom got his flowing hair caught in the branches of an oak tree, which allowed his enemy, Joab, to catch him and slay him. This, I figure, is exactly why the army requires crew cuts."
 "Mann, Horace: In his final speech, the educational reformer told students: 'Be ashamed to die until you have won some victory for humanity.' Good wisdom. I have to remember that."

Told you it was titivating.
Go read it.
It's good.

Violent Outbursts of ...

A violent outburst, as of emotion or activity.

The dictionary lists it under tornado, but what it really means to reference are those two week or greater tapes of manic wonder called school breaks. You may mark the seasons by turn of leaves, fall of snow, springs of love, days of dog...I classify them by length of break. Round these here parts, breaks are a violent outburst, as of emotion or activity.

For a solid introvert, the flurry of sudden, well, presence in the house is overwhelming enough. Add to it the near-cataclysmic proportions of bickering, screeching, whining, and all-together nerve-breaking bouts of "I'm boooooored!", and you've got me on the verge of forced escape to a happy any other place.

Then again, sometimes the rays of pre-parenting world break on through. Back then, I thought every moment with the kiddos would be one of eye-opening candor. Of wondrous appreciation. Of almost obsessive observation.And what do you know?

When we're in the eye of the tornado (say, Day 7), we get away. On a getaway. (Get it?) They've become (to invoke a criminally overused adjective) epic in our family's fun album. Yeah, yeah, we grin and giggle. Is it so surprising to admit those are the moments labeled "best 'uns" in the album? But better than best are the ones where we learn a thing or two - or 20 - about each one of the wee ones to whom we gave life, love, and even last name.

We worry about what a child will become tomorrow, yet we forget that he is someone today.  ~Stacia Tauscher

Even when freshly washed and relieved of all obvious confections, children tend to be sticky.  ~Fran Lebowitz

 

Creative play is like a spring that bubbles up from deep within a child.  ~Joan Almon

 

 A three year old child is a being who gets almost as much fun out of a fifty-six dollar set of swings as it does out of finding a small green worm.  ~Bill Vaughan

 He didn't tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it.  ~Clarence Budington Kelland

All women become like their mothers.  That is their tragedy.  No man does.  That's his.  ~Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest, 1895

Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero.  ~Marc Brown

Dad, your guiding hand on my shoulder will remain with me forever.  ~Author Unknown
 

I find that a great part of the information I have was acquired by looking up something and finding something else on the way.  ~Franklin P. Adams

What good is having someone who can walk on water if you don't follow in his footsteps?  ~Author Unknown

 To us, family means putting your arms around each other and being there.  ~Barbara Bush