Today I was having lunch with a friend. I was in the middle of a story in which I was seriously questioning the judgment of another mother and basically ridiculing a child when our food arrived and my friend offered to bless it.
I paused in the telling of my story while she prayed. Then she said something that hit me like a freight train. My sweet friend prayed, "May You be glorified by our conversation here today." Ouch. Seriously, double ouch.
Christian friends are a blessing. Now, my friend was in no way trying to redirect our conversation or to let me know that I shouldn't be saying what I was saying. But, God used her simple prayer to remind me that every moment of our conversation matters. And everything I say matters.
I have always struggled with a wild, loose, crazy, often mean, sometimes biting, sometimes downright vicious tongue. I so want to get control of my mouth. And that means I need to give God control of my heart.
"For the mouth speaks what the heart is full of." Matthew 12:34
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
For My Boy
Once there was a boy. He was a tall, super skinny, long haired, brilliant rock star poet. He was passionate about everything.
Once there was a girl. She was the sheltered, sweet, quiet small town type. She was cautious about everything.
One day the passionate boy convinced the cautious girl to be brave. He taught her how to love.
Soon the boy and girl were married. They were set to conquer the world.
The boy gave up his long hair and provided for his family. The girl grew to love him even more.
The girl gave up her teenaged figure and gave him children. The boy grew to love her even more.
As the years passed, things happened to the boy and girl. They fought, they made up, they grew in mind and spirit, they learned that life is hard and life is wonderful, they welcomed babies and cried over babies lost.
The boy and girl learned that life goes fast, that teething babies and graduations and accidents and intentions are all just flashes, dreams that grow a little blurry with time. And they determined that they would love every moment.
Sometimes, if you drive past their tiny house at night, you can see the passionate boy and the cautious girl dancing with their children. They are happy. Love lasts, they say. And it does.
Once there was a girl. She was the sheltered, sweet, quiet small town type. She was cautious about everything.
One day the passionate boy convinced the cautious girl to be brave. He taught her how to love.
Soon the boy and girl were married. They were set to conquer the world.
The boy gave up his long hair and provided for his family. The girl grew to love him even more.
The girl gave up her teenaged figure and gave him children. The boy grew to love her even more.
As the years passed, things happened to the boy and girl. They fought, they made up, they grew in mind and spirit, they learned that life is hard and life is wonderful, they welcomed babies and cried over babies lost.
The boy and girl learned that life goes fast, that teething babies and graduations and accidents and intentions are all just flashes, dreams that grow a little blurry with time. And they determined that they would love every moment.
Sometimes, if you drive past their tiny house at night, you can see the passionate boy and the cautious girl dancing with their children. They are happy. Love lasts, they say. And it does.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Housework is Hazardous to your Health
Especially if you live with me.
Saturday started out like any other day. The kids were playing. I was working around the house, trying to maintain the picked-up-ness of the day before. Chad was working on the computer, and I was happy that things were fairly orderly around here. But, I kept noticing every time I walked through the kitchen that there was a definite stickiness to one area of the kitchen floor. Normally I might have ignored it, saved it for a later time, chalked it up to life with little kids. But on Saturday I was in the zone. I was on top of things. I was SuperMom. So, I got out the Swiffer Wet Jet and I absentmindedly cleaned the sticky area of the floor, thinking that I would do the whole floor later in the day. I sprayed it, mopped it, and headed to my room to start on another job. Literally two seconds later I heard a loud thud and a pained cry from Sawyer. If you're a parent, you know how you feel when the cry has that certain pitch that tells you he's hurt. I ran toward his room, thinking something must've fallen on him or who knows what. Then I heard a commotion in the kitchen.
I stepped across the hall just in time to see Sawyer lying on the floor writhing in pain and screaming with his hand on his head (that loud thud must've been his head hitting the floor) and Chad falling for what seemed like forever, immediately grabbing his leg, saying it was broken. Later I laughed about what a comical scene it really was. I can picture me mopping, walking away, Sawyer running in and going down, and Chad running in and going down. Chad was running to rescue Sawyer after I had sabotaged his run through the house with my mopped floor. But, I got Chad, too. Just like that. Two birds with one mop, you might say.
My favorite way to picture the scene is sort of Scooby Doo-like. Chad and Sawyer, in one place, looking at each other with wide eyes while their legs spin under them before they finally land with a crash. All because of housework.
To tell you the truth, I have been searching for awhile for a way to prove that my normally mediocre housekeeping is best for our family, and after the doctor looked at Chad's x-ray and said, "Yep, it's broken," I realized I may have finally done it.
Incidentally, Sawyer's head was fine. He has a remarkably hard head, apparently. One thing I know for sure is that future mopping in the Edgington house will be delegated to Chad. Either that, or we're going to have to invest in some "Caution: Wet Floor" signs.
Saturday started out like any other day. The kids were playing. I was working around the house, trying to maintain the picked-up-ness of the day before. Chad was working on the computer, and I was happy that things were fairly orderly around here. But, I kept noticing every time I walked through the kitchen that there was a definite stickiness to one area of the kitchen floor. Normally I might have ignored it, saved it for a later time, chalked it up to life with little kids. But on Saturday I was in the zone. I was on top of things. I was SuperMom. So, I got out the Swiffer Wet Jet and I absentmindedly cleaned the sticky area of the floor, thinking that I would do the whole floor later in the day. I sprayed it, mopped it, and headed to my room to start on another job. Literally two seconds later I heard a loud thud and a pained cry from Sawyer. If you're a parent, you know how you feel when the cry has that certain pitch that tells you he's hurt. I ran toward his room, thinking something must've fallen on him or who knows what. Then I heard a commotion in the kitchen.
I stepped across the hall just in time to see Sawyer lying on the floor writhing in pain and screaming with his hand on his head (that loud thud must've been his head hitting the floor) and Chad falling for what seemed like forever, immediately grabbing his leg, saying it was broken. Later I laughed about what a comical scene it really was. I can picture me mopping, walking away, Sawyer running in and going down, and Chad running in and going down. Chad was running to rescue Sawyer after I had sabotaged his run through the house with my mopped floor. But, I got Chad, too. Just like that. Two birds with one mop, you might say.
My favorite way to picture the scene is sort of Scooby Doo-like. Chad and Sawyer, in one place, looking at each other with wide eyes while their legs spin under them before they finally land with a crash. All because of housework.
To tell you the truth, I have been searching for awhile for a way to prove that my normally mediocre housekeeping is best for our family, and after the doctor looked at Chad's x-ray and said, "Yep, it's broken," I realized I may have finally done it.
Incidentally, Sawyer's head was fine. He has a remarkably hard head, apparently. One thing I know for sure is that future mopping in the Edgington house will be delegated to Chad. Either that, or we're going to have to invest in some "Caution: Wet Floor" signs.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Bankets, Dinks, and God
Yahoo! I'm back in business! I missed you, little blog. Kudos to Chad for deciding to become a computer genius and fix our old computer. Let the blogging commence...
My son is almost three. Like most three year olds, he loves calling out from his bed at bedtime to ask for various things. Sometimes I am patient when he does this and sometimes I'm not. This is how the first few minutes of bedtime usually sound:
"Mama, I need a dink!"
"Mama, put my banket on me!"
"Mama, I want Pooh!"
"Mama, I need a dink!"
Until finally I warn him that this is the LAST drink, and it's time for him to go to sleep. When I say this there is usually silence. Sometimes he goes to sleep and I don't hear a peep until the next morning. But, there are nights when he just can't bear the thought of going to sleep and being alone and he has run out of things to ask for. On those nights I hear:
"Mama, I want you."
Such a sweet and simple request. He doesn't really know what he wants at this point--he just knows he needs me in some way. He must have me, and you can bet that when I hear those words I don't waste any time getting in there to hug my baby.
When this scenario unfolded a few nights ago, I was sitting on the couch thinking about what had just happened, and it dawned on me that I had just witnessed a picture of my relationship with God. How often do I ask for everything else that I think will make me happy? He hears:
"God, give me another baby."
"God, make Adelade well so she won't miss her class party."
"God, make me a better (wife, mother, friend, cook, housekeeper, money manager)."
I can just picture God waiting to hear those words that are so pleasing to His ear:
"God, I want you."
When I acknowledge that I don't know what I want or what will make me happy, when I reach the point where I can say that all I really know is that I want and need and crave God, and I'm too weak to do anything on my own, He will really show me his power. I pray that I can be more like a little child calling out to his mama. I want you, God.
My son is almost three. Like most three year olds, he loves calling out from his bed at bedtime to ask for various things. Sometimes I am patient when he does this and sometimes I'm not. This is how the first few minutes of bedtime usually sound:
"Mama, I need a dink!"
"Mama, put my banket on me!"
"Mama, I want Pooh!"
"Mama, I need a dink!"
Until finally I warn him that this is the LAST drink, and it's time for him to go to sleep. When I say this there is usually silence. Sometimes he goes to sleep and I don't hear a peep until the next morning. But, there are nights when he just can't bear the thought of going to sleep and being alone and he has run out of things to ask for. On those nights I hear:
"Mama, I want you."
Such a sweet and simple request. He doesn't really know what he wants at this point--he just knows he needs me in some way. He must have me, and you can bet that when I hear those words I don't waste any time getting in there to hug my baby.
When this scenario unfolded a few nights ago, I was sitting on the couch thinking about what had just happened, and it dawned on me that I had just witnessed a picture of my relationship with God. How often do I ask for everything else that I think will make me happy? He hears:
"God, give me another baby."
"God, make Adelade well so she won't miss her class party."
"God, make me a better (wife, mother, friend, cook, housekeeper, money manager)."
I can just picture God waiting to hear those words that are so pleasing to His ear:
"God, I want you."
When I acknowledge that I don't know what I want or what will make me happy, when I reach the point where I can say that all I really know is that I want and need and crave God, and I'm too weak to do anything on my own, He will really show me his power. I pray that I can be more like a little child calling out to his mama. I want you, God.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Computer Woes
Our laptop bit the dust. This was almost a year after I spilled an entire glass of water on it. Does it take a year to really kill a computer? I guess if you want to put it through a slow, painful death.
So, my blog has been non-existent. Hopefully soon we'll get another one and I can resume. I actually really miss it.
But, I wanted to update anyone who might drop in to see what's new. Although, Mom, I guess you already knew about the laptop. I know that my one or two other readers have just been on pins and needles.
Until technology is once again my friend...
So, my blog has been non-existent. Hopefully soon we'll get another one and I can resume. I actually really miss it.
But, I wanted to update anyone who might drop in to see what's new. Although, Mom, I guess you already knew about the laptop. I know that my one or two other readers have just been on pins and needles.
Until technology is once again my friend...
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
New Series
I've decided to start a series on my blog called "Awesome Experiences and Mediocre Moments." The posts as part of the series will be experiences from my life that are significant to me in some way. I don't know how often I'll post something new in the series--let's just be laid back about it, okay? If the stories end up being an experience in boredom, I will discontinue the series with little or no notice! But then, how can you tell if you're being boring? And, isn't blogging the ultimate outlet for the self-obssessed, so do we ever find ourselves boring? But, that discussion is for another day.
So, here is installment #1: The Coach who made me HATE Running
I wish I were a runner. I mean, I dream about putting on a little tanktop and shorts with fancy running shoes, taking off down some desert road Forrest Gump style, the wind in my hair, my heart beating in perfect rhythm with the sound of my feet on the pavement. Unfortunately, when I actually do run I can't hear my feet on the pavement over my extremely loud, scary sounding gasps for oxygen. I can run about a block before it's all over. I think I have a mental block about it, and I can trace my running issues back to one coach. To protect her identity I'll call her Coach X.
Now, Coach X had a notorious desire to punish kids though sports that was known far and wide. She was tough, a little mean, and had zero tolerance for non-athletic types. You can imagine where that left me on her list of least favorite students. I was very near the end, right behind the girl with the clubfoot and right ahead of the blonde on crutches. I was introduced to this coach on the first day of school in the fifth grade, when she arrived at PE sporting her short red shorts and extra white t-shirt, whistle dangling around her neck and pencil tucked behind her ear. She didn't smile. She never smiled, and she turned little terms of endearment into sarcastic jabs, like this:
"Well, you're never going to get in shape if you don't bring your tennis shoes to class, sweetheart!"
"I'll tell you one thing, darling, you are getting a zero for today, and on top of that you're not getting rid of those extra pounds!" or
"Listen here, precious, you are going to run lines today until you vomit, and after that you're going to run some more!"
There are too many stories about her to list here. She was THE girls' coach at my school, so I had her every year from fifth to eighth grade. Let me just briefly guide you through my experiences with her. She gave a kid a nosebleed once while administering coproral punishment. I got a piece of glass in my foot one day during fifth grade and she demanded that I not cry. When she taught math (her second favorite way to torture people), questions from the class were considered an indication that we weren't paying attention to her flawless instruction.
All of this background information leads me to the reason for my aversion to running. There are two issues, really. One is the fact that when I was in junior high this coach forced everyone to run track. That's right, track. We're talking individual events, in front of crowds of people. She carefully chose the heats for her best runners, and then just stuck the rest of us wherever there were spots. So, I was usually bringing up the rear (I mean, WAY bringing up the rear) in the fastest heats. I was the kind of runner who was trying to finish races while people were already walking across the track on the way to the concession stand. Picture 7th grade me, weaving around people, saying, "Excuse me, pardon me" as I try to get to the finish line. Okay, maybe it wasn't quite that bad. But, it was bad. This was junior high humiliation at its finest. My poor parents were at every track meet, cheering me on while I crawled across the finish line.
The second issue revolves around one day in the seventh grade when my mother made a call to the coach, asking her to let me sit out of PE. I arrived, innocently enough, and was informed by the coach that my mother had called. Then she had me sit in the bleachers and gathered around all of the seventh and eighth grade girls and announced:
"I want all of you to know that because of Melissa Clark you are going to run for this entire hour. Get on the line."
And she proceeded to run those poor girls until they were half dead while I sat mortified on the bleachers.
Is it any wonder that the thought of running puts me in a tizzy? Maybe my subconscious conjurs up some skewed picture of Coach X in my brain everytime I take off, and my body can't handle the mental pressure.
But, it's probably more likely that all of my slandering of Coach X here is just a jumbled and confused collection of memories from a kid's perspective that have no bearing on who the lady actually was or how she conducted herself.
So, the next time I get in the mood to go for a run, I should try changing my perspective. "This one is for Coach X!" I should think to myself because she spent so many years "building my character." She is probably still out there somewhere, teaching kids to hate sports. But, I bear no ill will. After all, it's not like she made me hate shopping or going to amusement parks. Running I can do without, and when some great urge to run comes over me in the future, I can go to the backyard with my kids and run in circles until we get the giggles. No hot running outfit or fancy shoes or desire to win races required.
So, here is installment #1: The Coach who made me HATE Running
I wish I were a runner. I mean, I dream about putting on a little tanktop and shorts with fancy running shoes, taking off down some desert road Forrest Gump style, the wind in my hair, my heart beating in perfect rhythm with the sound of my feet on the pavement. Unfortunately, when I actually do run I can't hear my feet on the pavement over my extremely loud, scary sounding gasps for oxygen. I can run about a block before it's all over. I think I have a mental block about it, and I can trace my running issues back to one coach. To protect her identity I'll call her Coach X.
Now, Coach X had a notorious desire to punish kids though sports that was known far and wide. She was tough, a little mean, and had zero tolerance for non-athletic types. You can imagine where that left me on her list of least favorite students. I was very near the end, right behind the girl with the clubfoot and right ahead of the blonde on crutches. I was introduced to this coach on the first day of school in the fifth grade, when she arrived at PE sporting her short red shorts and extra white t-shirt, whistle dangling around her neck and pencil tucked behind her ear. She didn't smile. She never smiled, and she turned little terms of endearment into sarcastic jabs, like this:
"Well, you're never going to get in shape if you don't bring your tennis shoes to class, sweetheart!"
"I'll tell you one thing, darling, you are getting a zero for today, and on top of that you're not getting rid of those extra pounds!" or
"Listen here, precious, you are going to run lines today until you vomit, and after that you're going to run some more!"
There are too many stories about her to list here. She was THE girls' coach at my school, so I had her every year from fifth to eighth grade. Let me just briefly guide you through my experiences with her. She gave a kid a nosebleed once while administering coproral punishment. I got a piece of glass in my foot one day during fifth grade and she demanded that I not cry. When she taught math (her second favorite way to torture people), questions from the class were considered an indication that we weren't paying attention to her flawless instruction.
All of this background information leads me to the reason for my aversion to running. There are two issues, really. One is the fact that when I was in junior high this coach forced everyone to run track. That's right, track. We're talking individual events, in front of crowds of people. She carefully chose the heats for her best runners, and then just stuck the rest of us wherever there were spots. So, I was usually bringing up the rear (I mean, WAY bringing up the rear) in the fastest heats. I was the kind of runner who was trying to finish races while people were already walking across the track on the way to the concession stand. Picture 7th grade me, weaving around people, saying, "Excuse me, pardon me" as I try to get to the finish line. Okay, maybe it wasn't quite that bad. But, it was bad. This was junior high humiliation at its finest. My poor parents were at every track meet, cheering me on while I crawled across the finish line.
The second issue revolves around one day in the seventh grade when my mother made a call to the coach, asking her to let me sit out of PE. I arrived, innocently enough, and was informed by the coach that my mother had called. Then she had me sit in the bleachers and gathered around all of the seventh and eighth grade girls and announced:
"I want all of you to know that because of Melissa Clark you are going to run for this entire hour. Get on the line."
And she proceeded to run those poor girls until they were half dead while I sat mortified on the bleachers.
Is it any wonder that the thought of running puts me in a tizzy? Maybe my subconscious conjurs up some skewed picture of Coach X in my brain everytime I take off, and my body can't handle the mental pressure.
But, it's probably more likely that all of my slandering of Coach X here is just a jumbled and confused collection of memories from a kid's perspective that have no bearing on who the lady actually was or how she conducted herself.
So, the next time I get in the mood to go for a run, I should try changing my perspective. "This one is for Coach X!" I should think to myself because she spent so many years "building my character." She is probably still out there somewhere, teaching kids to hate sports. But, I bear no ill will. After all, it's not like she made me hate shopping or going to amusement parks. Running I can do without, and when some great urge to run comes over me in the future, I can go to the backyard with my kids and run in circles until we get the giggles. No hot running outfit or fancy shoes or desire to win races required.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Move Over, Heidi!
I am working out. Actually, I have been working out fairly consistently for about a year, and since I don't look like a supermodel yet I can only assume that if I weren't working out I would be morbidly obese. This is what I tell myself.
A few weeks ago I started doing 30 Day Shred, which is the brainchild of Jillian Michaels, "The Toughest Trainer on TV." I imagine it's a pretty comical sight, me on my living room floor, making caveman-type noises while I struggle to get through the 20 minute workout. Jillian makes comments along the way like, "You have to tell your body what you want it to do!" and I try! I really try to tell my body, "Don't let this cheesecake I'm about to eat put any weight on me!" But, it doesn't listen. Thus, the grueling workouts.
I have gotten stronger, though. I can actually feel muscles in my arms, which is a rarity for me. I have no idea why Chad laughs when I ask him to feel of my biceps. Or why he makes fun of me when I can't open a pickle jar. Baby steps to that supermodel body, right?
Then I have to deal with the actual supermodels. You know the ones. The Heidi Klumes of the world who have a baby one week and model underwear the next. Would it kill her to wait a few months, just to make us all feel better?
But, I'll stick with it. Not working out now just makes me miserable. Almost as miserable as I am during the 20 minutes on my living room floor. Just you wait, Heidi. I am 33 years old, and I'm well on my way to not becoming morbidly obese!
A few weeks ago I started doing 30 Day Shred, which is the brainchild of Jillian Michaels, "The Toughest Trainer on TV." I imagine it's a pretty comical sight, me on my living room floor, making caveman-type noises while I struggle to get through the 20 minute workout. Jillian makes comments along the way like, "You have to tell your body what you want it to do!" and I try! I really try to tell my body, "Don't let this cheesecake I'm about to eat put any weight on me!" But, it doesn't listen. Thus, the grueling workouts.
I have gotten stronger, though. I can actually feel muscles in my arms, which is a rarity for me. I have no idea why Chad laughs when I ask him to feel of my biceps. Or why he makes fun of me when I can't open a pickle jar. Baby steps to that supermodel body, right?
Then I have to deal with the actual supermodels. You know the ones. The Heidi Klumes of the world who have a baby one week and model underwear the next. Would it kill her to wait a few months, just to make us all feel better?
But, I'll stick with it. Not working out now just makes me miserable. Almost as miserable as I am during the 20 minutes on my living room floor. Just you wait, Heidi. I am 33 years old, and I'm well on my way to not becoming morbidly obese!
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