tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10811346897017232332024-03-13T17:09:11.860-05:00The Waiting RoomKristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13958595063617429849noreply@blogger.comBlogger78125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081134689701723233.post-82735235251774845552015-09-10T22:04:00.000-05:002015-09-10T22:05:33.232-05:00When your favorite becomes your frustration<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-V5Db0ub2dDU/VfJA6xDddHI/AAAAAAAASRw/zIuwoJL7gaw/s1600/20150116_145345.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-V5Db0ub2dDU/VfJA6xDddHI/AAAAAAAASRw/zIuwoJL7gaw/s400/20150116_145345.jpg" width="400" /></span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">I love fall. To me, fall is perfection. Not only does it contain two of my favorite holidays, but it brings with it the sound of crunching leaves, a reason to pull out my boots, and most of all, and I cannot stress this enough, it brings the end of summer. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Growing up in Montana, ending summer was not so important, but living in Texas for the last 19 years, ending summer is akin to receiving a pardon from hell. If you've never moved from a state where the average high temperature in the summer is 85 with a low of 40 to a state with an average high of 102 with a low of 85 with equal parts humidity and scorch your feet, you may not be able to grasp how much I look forward to the end of summer. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">God understands. He made sure that I was born on the first day of fall, and the only day of the year I look forward to more than the end of summer is my birthday. Amen and hallelujah.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Any of you who have been around my blog know that I struggle with health issues, the most prevalent of which is migraines. While I've been able to identify and control a lot of the triggers over the past decade, the one I can't do a thing about is the weather. Every time there is a shift in the barometric pressure, my head spirals out of control. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So as much as I hate Texas summers, they are actually the best time of year for me migraine-wise. No rain, no cold fronts, no migraines. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A few days ago, I woke up with not just a migraine, but with swollen joints aching so badly I wasn't sure I'd be able to get out of bed. This happens to me a couple times a year --a doctor thinks it might be the early onset of RA -- or it may just be my body telling me it doesn't want to get out of bed. Who knows? All I knew was it meant the weather was probably changing, and sure enough, rain and a cold front came in two days later, and as I type another cold front is on its way.<br /><br />I should be ecstatic. After a week of temperatures over 100 in September (which is ridiculous even for Texas), the forecast showed a high of 85 this weekend. That means fall was finally on its way! My mind should be planning outdoor activities for the family this weekend, because after being trapped inside for three months, we cab finally spend a weekend outside without roasting. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But instead, I've spent the week in bed, lying there in pain, cursing the weather and cursing my body. After months of feeling better I was once again relegated to bed, with even the simplest task draining me of energy. Instead of enjoying the sound of the raindrops on my window, they pounded into my head, making it throb worse. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">My favorite season had become my biggest frustration.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Some of you may be struggling with something similar.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Maybe it's not your health. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Maybe it is grief. You are about to walk through your first holiday season without your loved one, and that holiday that once was your favorite has now become a dreaded time for you.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">You just sent your child off to college, and your home, which was once filled with their laughter and dirty socks is now too quiet, and you aren't sure what to do without them. Your favorite place has now become somewhere you don't want to spend your time. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Your marriage is struggling and that relationship that once felt so safe and secure now feels like it is faltering. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It is a horrible feeling to find yourself hating a thing or a place or a time that you once cherished, because somehow it feels like two losses. And that is where I found myself this week. And the more I hurt physically, the more I began dreading the thing I loved.</span><br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And then God whispered this verse from Isiah 61 into my soul: <span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;">To all who mourn in Israel, he will give a crown of beauty for ashes, a joyous blessing instead of mourning, festive praise instead of despair. In their righteousness, they will be like great oaks that the LORD has planted for his own glory.</span></span></blockquote>
<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>The only thing I focused on during this pain is ashes, and I forgot the beauty</b>. I forgot that even during the days with pain, even some days where I don't make it out of bed, the leaves will still change colors, painting a beautiful landscape. I forgot that my sweaters will come out of the attic and I will wrap up in them, finding comfort in their softness. I forgot the joy that will fill my heart every time I hear my kids giggling as they jump in leaf piles and the love that will fill my soul with every pot of my grandmother's homemade soup I make. I forgot that even if I'm stuck in bed, I will smell the crisp fall morning air because we will turn the AC off and open the windows.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And don't even get me started on the new fall TV line-up.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #001320; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: #fdfeff; line-height: 20px;">The good news, my friends, is that when we our favorite becomes our frustration, <i>we </i>don't have to try to fix it. God may not change the situation. He won't make it summer in Texas last forever --- please no -- nobody wants that! But He will give me a joyous blessing instead of mourning, festive praise instead of despair, and a crown of beauty for ashes. </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #001320; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: #fdfeff; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #001320; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: #fdfeff; line-height: 20px;">And he will do the same for you.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #001320; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: #fdfeff; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #001320; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: #fdfeff; line-height: 20px;">And with those promises, my favorite can be my favorite again. </span></span></div>
Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13958595063617429849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081134689701723233.post-88204794315551973682015-07-16T18:20:00.001-05:002015-07-16T22:47:51.534-05:00Why I'm not cheering for the Cowboys this year, and I hope you won't either<span style="font-family: inherit;">There were a few things my daddy taught me early on. If there's food on the table, you bow your head and thank God. If there's a river, you can fish. And if it's football season, you cheer for the Cowboys. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In states like Montana, most people choose the closest NFL team to call their own, so I spent my childhood surrounded by Broncos and Seahawks fans. But because my daddy grew up in Texas, he was a born and bred Dallas Cowboys fan, and he raised me with the same devotion. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I learned the basic rules of football before I learned to read and I learned them sitting on the couch with my daddy watching Tom Landry's team. He taught me that true fans don't give up on a team, even when they are 1-15. I learned the sweet success of three Super Bowl championships. Eventually I moved to Denton, Texas right down the road from Texas stadium. My wedding colors were silver and blue and I seriously considered naming my firstborn Emmitt, even if it wasn't a boy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--D7bHW4or40/Vag5HFDdodI/AAAAAAAARcM/pn0HObx3-uI/s1600/cd0ymzcznguwzdbhnduynddiytjhm2yyzthlmtjjotqwyyznpwi3n2yxy2mxnwezmdvkzjczzje1zmjkyzq0odc1mduy-e1425553860532.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--D7bHW4or40/Vag5HFDdodI/AAAAAAAARcM/pn0HObx3-uI/s1600/cd0ymzcznguwzdbhnduynddiytjhm2yyzthlmtjjotqwyyznpwi3n2yxy2mxnwezmdvkzjczzje1zmjkyzq0odc1mduy-e1425553860532.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">AP</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But this year, after 38 seasons, I won't be rooting for the Cowboys, because right now, I can't even stand to look at them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In March, the Cowboys <a href="http://www.nfl.com/news/story/0ap3000000479847/article/greg-hardy-dallas-cowboys-strike-oneyear-contract">signed Greg Hardy to a one-year contract</a> after<span style="background-color: white; color: #222221; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"> <a href="http://www.nfl.com/news/story/0ap3000000469450/article/panthers-greg-hardy-has-domestic-violence-charges-dismissed">domestic violence conviction</a> left him sidelined in North Carolina for all but one game. Unlike the Ravens' owner, who we can assume didn't know that Ray Rice beat his then fiance until a <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2014/09/09/sports/football/ray-rice-video-shows-punch-and-raises-new-questions-for-nfl.html">video</a> emerged of him knocking her out cold on an elevator, Cowboys' owner Jerry Jones had full knowledge of Hardy's conviction and still opted to sign a contract with him. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222221; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222221; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Perhaps worse than that, in the midst of the inevitable backlash, Jones sent his daughter, </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">Charlotte Jones Anderson, to comment on the signing. </span></span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 16px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">“</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">We don't believe in throwing people away,” Anderson told the </span><a href="http://www.dallasnews.com/sports/dallas-cowboys/headlines/20150322-cowboys-charlotte-jones-anderson-on-greg-hardy-we-don-t-believe-in-throwing-people-away.ece" style="background-color: white; color: #6e8dcf; line-height: 22.3999996185303px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><em>Dallas Morning News</em></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">. “The experts have told us it is far better to provide a way out, coupled with educational and rehabilitative services and therapy. That does more to protect the victim and prevent future violence than a zero tolerance policy. We have to trust the advice of the experts. I embrace that.”</span></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Having not spoken with Ms. Anderson myself, I can't say for sure which experts she is quoting, but I worked for <a href="http://www.safehaventc.org/">SafeHaven of Tarrant County</a> at the time Hardy was signed. It is the only domestic violence shelter in Tarrant County, home of the Cowboys, and I can say for sure no one from the Cowboys organization reached out to us. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">While it is true that batterers can and should seek help (<a href="http://www.safehaventc.org/get-help/help-for-batterers/">SafeHaven provides such a program</a>), no amount of education or therapy can break the cycle of abuse unless the batterer admits he is at fault, <i>because abuse is not about hitting. Abuse is about power. </i>And Greg Hardy has all of the power. From the moment he threw his girlfriend onto a stack of guns, put his hands around her neck and threatened to kill her, to the day he signed a contract with the Dallas Cowboys, to this week, when he won his appeal, <a href="http://profootballtalk.nbcsports.com/2015/07/15/decision-on-greg-hardys-next-step-coming-any-time-now/">reducing his ten-game</a> suspension to four games.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And every time he puts on the Cowboys Star, the owners and coaches are telling him that what he did is okay. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And so are we.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">When the Ray Rice video surfaced, it gave domestic violence a face, and America was outraged. The NFL assured us that things would be different. More education and stricter penalties. But eventually the rage faded, and with it, the NFL's resolve to stand by victims of abuse faded as well.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So I'm making my own stand. And for a team whose fan base is America, I know it won't mean much. Jerry won't miss my minuscule contribution to his bottom line. But it matters to me, and that is the most important thing. My daddy taught me that too.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">1 in 4 women will be abused in their lifetime. If you or someone you know is being abused, go to <a href="http://thehotline.org/">thehotline.org</a>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span>Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13958595063617429849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081134689701723233.post-47430397002575794572015-06-22T15:47:00.001-05:002015-06-22T15:59:12.295-05:00A letter to my husband the day after Father's DayDear Richie,<br />
<br />
Well, I blew it. Yesterday, while the Internet exploded with sentimental pictures of daddies and daughters dancing at weddings and selfies of fathers and sons fishing and drinking beer, my Facebook sat silent.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-j0l9zKI2gw4/VYhwonFa2SI/AAAAAAAARZA/H0TSYY0jCUs/s1600/daddy-daughter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-j0l9zKI2gw4/VYhwonFa2SI/AAAAAAAARZA/H0TSYY0jCUs/s200/daddy-daughter.jpg" width="181" /></a></div>
It's not for a lack of pictures. Just this week our tweenage daughter rolled her eyes in disgust as I forced her to snap a picture with you at her fifth-grade promotion ceremony.<br />
<br />
There are so many events in our kids' lives worthy of photos. I should know since there are over 900 photos sitting on my phone right now (which is probably why it's crashing). It's easy to want to show up for those events. They are cute and (usually) rehearsed, and you generally know what's going to happen next.<br />
<br />
Most of parenthood is not like that. At least not in our family. Life is messy. Sometimes it's completely insane and other days it's pull your hair out monotonous. The thing that makes you such an amazing dad is that you don't just show up for the well-rehearsed, photo-worthy events.<br />
<br />
You show up every day. In all things, big and small, you are there whenever we need you. And it turns out, we need you a lot.<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>You get the kids up, fed, and ready for school every morning, which I would compare to herding cats, but that would only be a fair comparison if you had to convince a cat to wear standardized dress. What you do is much harder.</li>
</ul>
<br />
<ul>
<li>You talk me off the ledge when one of the kids has a bump or a bruise or a low-grade fever and I'm convinced they've developed a life-threatening tropical disease that I may or may not have read about on Web MD.</li>
</ul>
<br />
<ul>
<li>After working all day, you stop at the grocery store to pick up a bag of limes that our daughter needs for her science fair project on "how much acid is in your food". </li>
</ul>
<br />
<ul>
<li>You take the kids trick or treating even though it means you will miss game 7 of the World Series. </li>
</ul>
<br />
<ul>
<li>You clean up the puke.</li>
</ul>
<br />
<ul>
<li>You always open the door for me and pull out my chair. These are the things that will show our daughter how men should treat her. That and cleaning up the puke.</li>
</ul>
<br />
<ul>
<li>You learned how to speak Minecraft.</li>
</ul>
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kY5iYqfp-j4/VYhwlx36RRI/AAAAAAAARY4/V_Mjzupj09A/s1600/family%2Btrash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kY5iYqfp-j4/VYhwlx36RRI/AAAAAAAARY4/V_Mjzupj09A/s320/family%2Btrash.jpg" width="230" /></a><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Every night, you ask our kids what the best part of their day was, and listen as they tell you stories of winning awards and eating the cheesiest nachos in the world. And every night you pray with them, tell them you love them and kiss them goodnight.</li>
</ul>
I know these are not the most glamorous parts of fatherhood. And some days, they may seem unimportant and small. But to me . . . to us, they are more than important. They are the things that show our kids that not only are they loved, they are adored, by the man they call daddy.<br />
<br />
And one day is simply not enough to tell you that we adore you too.<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Kristen<br />
(and Little Princess & Little Man)<br />
<br />
<br />Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13958595063617429849noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081134689701723233.post-22008044041226548442015-05-28T09:40:00.003-05:002015-05-28T10:17:57.403-05:00The ten best things about best friends: A.K.A. How to survive middle school<br />
My daughter starts middle school next year. I'm not going to lie, saying those words makes me want to throw up in my mouth a little bit. My middle school years brought stereotypical grief. The mix of braces, freckles, a spiral perm, first chair spot in band and desire to be smart combined with my lack of athletic ability made me quite an ugly duckling. And like every ugly duckling, what I wanted more than anything else was to be a cheerleader, or the female middle school equivalent of a swan.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nGffOMzhX7k/VWcqj7X_hhI/AAAAAAAARQw/9styP9P2x8Q/s1600/20130928_192507.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nGffOMzhX7k/VWcqj7X_hhI/AAAAAAAARQw/9styP9P2x8Q/s200/20130928_192507.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
But unlike the fairy tale, even after the glasses, the braces, and the spiral perm faded away, I didn't turn into cheerleader. I simply grew up to be a slightly taller band nerd with contacts and straight teeth. Some of this is attributed to the aforementioned lack of athletic ability, but some of it is because I have never really liked hanging out with large groups of girls.<br />
<br />
I've always been the type that has had a small group of close girl friends as opposed to a gaggle (I'm finding it amazing how many bird metaphors seem to work when talking about girls). I'm incredibly blessed to say that even though I've moved across the country, my two best friends now live within an hour of me. Women that have known and loved me for two and three decades, not because I am perfect, but despite the fact that I am so far from it.<br />
<br />
Women get a bad rap. Much is written about how competitive we are, how gossipy and vindictive. We talk about mean girls (let's face it -- that's why we hate middle school), who grow into mean women, who make us hate ourselves and each other.<br />
<br />
But as I read over a series of unrelated texts from my two best girls, I started thinking about what my life would be without them, and I simply could not. Not because I didn't want to, but because it is quite impossible.<br />
<br />
<b>Here are ten things that I think make best girl friends amazing.</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>These will shop with you and tell you not to buy the outfit that you just love, because even though <i>you</i> are gorgeous, that dress does <i>not</i> flatter your hips.</li>
<li>They know all of your high school and college and boyfriends and the damage they have done, and that sometimes it still hurts even 20 years later.</li>
<li>They understand the complicated relationship you have with your mother.</li>
<li>When you call in a panic because you went back and bought the outfit they told you not to buy and that now you have nothing to wear to your husband's work dinner, they immediately bring over the three back up outfits they had waiting because they knew you were going to buy that outfit the minute you tried it on.</li>
<li>They tell you, "I hate your boss too." And they mean it.</li>
<li>They sit with your husband in the waiting room while you have the lump in your breast biopsied. They fill out all the paperwork, because they are the one who know what you are allergic to, how many drinks you <i>actually</i> have in a week, and the date of your last menstrual period.</li>
<li>They don't care how messy your house is.</li>
<li>They call, not text, when you are upset, and let you cry for five minutes on the phone before you say, "I'm okay now," and hang up.</li>
<li>They support every crazy diet that you decide to try, all the while telling you how absolutely beautiful you are exactly the way you are. And they mean it.</li>
<li>They don't care how messy your life is.</li>
</ol>
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Fsjc-6Uu4Pk/VWcm2f9MfhI/AAAAAAAARQQ/r7uPJcK3LKI/s1600/three-birdies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="96" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Fsjc-6Uu4Pk/VWcm2f9MfhI/AAAAAAAARQQ/r7uPJcK3LKI/s640/three-birdies.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="640" /></a>My daughter asked me if middle school was going to be hard -- the friend part, not the academic part-- and I told her as long as she had a couple of really good friends, she was going to be just fine.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
So we can't all be cheerleaders. These three birdies are doing just fine.<br />
<br />
I want to hear from you? What is the best thing about your best friend? What would you add to this list?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13958595063617429849noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081134689701723233.post-83891298064921086302015-04-27T18:51:00.002-05:002015-04-27T18:51:31.741-05:00Mac and cheese theologyRemember the <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=1%20Kings%2019:11-12">Bible story</a> about Elijah where he was running from Jezebel, hiding in a cave, when all of the sudden he hears a voice tell him,<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=1%20Kings%2019:11-12"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;"> “Go out and stand on the mountain</span><span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-9399A" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-9399A" title="See cross-reference A">A</a>)" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;"> in the presence of the </span><span class="small-caps" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant: small-caps; line-height: 24px;">Lord</span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;">, for the </span><span class="small-caps" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant: small-caps; line-height: 24px;">Lord</span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;"> is about to pass by.”</span></span></a></blockquote>
So Elijah goes and he waits. A wind comes and shatters the rocks, but no God. An earthquake shows up, but no God. Fire, but no God. Finally, comes a whisper and in that whisper, who shows up, but God.<br />
<br />
My whole life I've thought that this story meant that if I wanted to hear God I needed to be quiet. I needed to "<a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Psalm+46%3A10">Be still and know that He is God.</a>" I needed to stop waiting for God to send me a billboard and be content for a still small voice to nudge my spirit.<br />
<br />
I think maybe I got it wrong.<br />
<br />
Because today, I'm pretty sure God spoke to me through mac and cheese.<br />
<br />
I know what you're thinking. How good was that mac and cheese? Let me stop you right there, it was pretty amazing, but the fact that I poured two entire bags of shredded cheese into one pan of melty goodness did not cause the spiritual awaking.<br />
<br />
Like Elijah, my last few weeks have been a mix of running for my life and hiding in a cave. It seems odd that in this day and age one can do both, but the fact that I work from home actually uniquely suits me for such a task.<br />
<br />
My friends and frequent readers know that my health is a;ways somewhat of an enigma, but my body decided to kick its defiance into high gear three weeks ago with what we thought was the stomach flu, until ten days and ten pounds later when I still couldn't keep food down. My doctor was sure it was my gallbladder and sent me for an immediate sonogram. Gallbladders are irritating, but seem to be a somewhat useless and easy to fix, so I wasn't worried. A sonogram, MRI, and what I can only describe as a two hour long CAT scan where I got to watch 60 pictures of most of my organs, have all showed that my gallbladder is a-okay. Unfortunately, I'm still having all the symptoms that every doctor, nurse, and man on the street are sure indicate that my gallbladder is not a-okay.<br />
<br />
We are among the fortunate that have health insurance, and I feel extremely blessed to be in this group. And once we reach that $7500 deductible, I am sure they will practically be giving away things like sonograms, MRI's and two hour CAT scans. But right up until that $7500 deductible, they are a bit pricey.<br />
<br />
Oh yeah, this week, I leave the comfort of a monthly paycheck.<br />
<br />
At the beginning of the year, God was nudging me to cut back on work, spend more time with my family, and finish my book (coming soon, pre-order yours today! Just kidding mom, you can't order it yet, please don't try). I wasn't ready to give up the security of a monthly paycheck. God and I had a heart to heart, and as happens very frequently with these talks, God didn't speak as loudly or convincingly as I did, and I won. He should definitely consider using the earthquake, although I'm sure I could have found a way to argue against that as well.<br />
<br />
Fast-forward to this week, last paycheck on the way, handing my credit card over for a new $300 medical bill every two days, still in pain, and praying that the food I eat doesn't come right back up and every meal.<br />
<br />
Replace the word "cave" with "bedroom" and "Jezebel" with "reality" and I'm pretty much a modern day Elijah who is running from reality and hiding in my queen size bed.<br />
<br />
At times like this, the good Christian in me knows that I should open up my Bible and seek God's face. I should crank up the praise and worship and get in my prayer closet on my knees. But I'm sad and I'm hungry and nauseous (I don't even know how this is possible, but it has been my constant state of being for the last three weeks), and I think I might fall over if I stand up from a kneeling position because of low blood sugar. Plus, and I can't state this enough, I really don't want to and watching Netflix is so much easier. I convince myself that if he had the option, Elijah probably would have watched Netflix to distract himself from being hunted by a crazy murderous queen.<br />
<br />
After church yesterday, I crawl into bed with my husband and put my head on his shoulder. We are both weary from our last month. And it isn't just this month. We've buried three grandparents and two family friends this year and we recently received more news that is devastating to our family. I rest my head on his chest and both of us sigh with the understanding that we need a break from our lives. Just a little while.<br />
<br />
I hear the alert on my phone that tells me I have a text message. I pick it up and it is the bank telling me that a $224 charge from Costco has cleared. I contemplate not telling Richie, because even though neither one of us wants to admit it, finances are stressing us out. While my phone is in my hand, I check my email, which I have been trying not to do on Sundays.<br />
<br />
But there it is.An e-mail from God. His name isn't in the subject line nor is he listed as the sender. It is an offer to consult on a project from a colleague. Nothing big. Not a steady gig. Certainly nothing to replace the paycheck I am losing.<br />
<br />
I put my phone down and tears stream down my face, which these days in our house is not a good sign. Richie was instantly concerned, so I explain that God had just sent me an email.<br />
<br />
"We are going to be fine," I tell him. "I've been so concerned about finances. I know that stopping this job is absolutely the right thing to do and that God is going to provide. He does every single time, but every time we've paid a medical bill, I've just freaked out. And then, all the sudden, right when I needed it, God sent this email, and I knew that everything was going to be okay."<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iBg-oOBqnmQ/VT7K8RpZmCI/AAAAAAAARGk/6aJgkqrEdII/s1600/20150427_181610.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iBg-oOBqnmQ/VT7K8RpZmCI/AAAAAAAARGk/6aJgkqrEdII/s1600/20150427_181610.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;"><i>Yep, this is the actual pan of mac and cheese!</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Fast forward to ten o'clock this morning when, for the first time in a month, I am hungry. I know that doesn't sound like a big deal, but when you haven't been able to eat and every kind of food, even chocolate cake, makes you sick, trust me, it is a big deal. And at ten in the morning, I can think of nothing except my grandma's mac and cheese. So at ten o' clock in the morning I make a giant pan of mac and cheese and proceeded to eat a big old bowl of it. And for the first time in a month, I don't get sick.<br />
<br />
Hallelujah!<br />
<br />
One of the people we lost last year was my best friend's husband. She continues to amaze me by how much she places her faith in God in a million ways every day. Some days when she is having doubts I remind her that God didn't bring her this far to let her fail.<br />
<br />
Today, God reminded me of that. And I swear to you He whispered it right through that mac and cheese.<br />
<br />
He didn't bring me to the top of this mountain to push me off. He brought me here to show me the sun. So even though it is rainy and dreary outside, tonight I am going to eat another big old bowl of mac and cheese and I am going to soak in the sun.<br />
<br />
I invite you to do the same. Because caves are okay, but mac and cheese is way better.<br />
<br />
<br />Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13958595063617429849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081134689701723233.post-48101047248271074582015-02-25T21:23:00.004-06:002015-02-25T21:23:51.061-06:00Probably the best sandwich related career advice I've given my kidsMost nights before bed the kids and I watch <a href="http://www.wheeloffortune.com/">Wheel of Fortune</a>. I consider this to be quality time as Wheel of Fortune contains all of the components of an educational activity; spelling, critical thinking skills, and the perils of excessive wheel spinning which often lead to bankruptcy. But tonight, Wheel of Fortune surpassed even my expectations as it presented me with a teachable moment that could quite possibly change the course of my children's lives. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
During a commercial featuring someone dressed as a sandwich, I looked at my daughter and said, "That's why you go to college -- so you never have to be the guy who dresses up as a sandwich."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WFaloklJEls/VO6OlGXgstI/AAAAAAAAQBo/plYqpIE7UVI/s1600/ADULTsandwich.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WFaloklJEls/VO6OlGXgstI/AAAAAAAAQBo/plYqpIE7UVI/s1600/ADULTsandwich.jpeg" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
<div>
My very wise ten-year old daughter replied, "I can't even dream why someone would <i>want </i>to be the guy who dresses up as a sandwich. I'm going to college." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It would have been easy to end the conversation there, but that isn't the kind of parent I am. I'm the parent who goes deeper. I'm the mom who is intentional. Remember, I'm the one having Wheel of Fortune time with my kids.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Anna, you can be anything you dream. Unless your dream is to be the guy who dresses up as a sandwich. Then it's time to get a new dream."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
That's the point when my son walked in the room. He had been brushing his teeth, you know, because it was a commercial break and he didn't want to miss any quality Wheel of Fortune time. How was he supposed to know that life changing conversations were happening during the two minutes (okay, minute and a half . . . okay, who are we kidding, 45 seconds) that he was fighting gingivitis? Thankfully, his big sister, understanding the gravity of the wisdom I had just imparted unto her, laid it out for him.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Ryan, you can be anything you dream. Unless your dream is to be the guy who dresses up as a sandwich. Then it's time to get a new dream." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"What? I want to be the guy who dresses up like a sandwich! How do I do that? Cool!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I would like to say that his enthusiasm for dressing up like meat and bread is because he is six, but the truth is, my children are just different people. Really different. Anna is always going to dream of high achievement and the fastest way to get there by following all the rules and Ryan is going to dream of ninjas and light sabers and who would win in a ninja verses light saber battle. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So as a firm believer that college is a better career path than life as a PB&J, how does a parent encourage their children to follow their dreams while still pushing them to be all they can be (I apologize to the Army for the copyright infringement)?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
To answer this, I don't have to look any farther than my own mom. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
One of the first things I ever remember my mom telling me went like this: "You are going to grow up, graduate high school, go to college, graduate from college, fall in love, get married, and have a baby. In that order." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It seems my son takes after me in the dreaming category. I didn't really ever dream of college. I dreamed of being a country singer, Ms. America, a hairdresser, and the first woman President of the United States -- in no particular order. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Even though my mom was determined for me to go to college, she never discouraged any of those dreams. When I wanted to sing, she encouraged me to sing in the choir at school and at church. She let me cut the hair of every Barbie I owned. She didn't ever put me in pageants, although in hindsight, I probably need to thank her instead of fault her for that.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But she kept pushing college. She and my dad told me they would pay my way wherever I wanted to go and that I should pursue a degree in whatever interested me. It didn't matter to my mother what my degree was in, only that I had one. When I was 17 and wanted to be a hairdresser, my mom calmly told me that if I graduated from college and still wanted to be a hairdresser, she would be my first customer. And I believe she would have been.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This belief was confirmed when after six years my brother graduated college with not one, but two degrees, and then decided he wouldn't use either of them. Instead he took a year off to be an actor, something which he never studied. He was completely broke, and my mom was completely dumbfounded, but still my parents drove from Montana to Texas to watch him every chance they got and bragged about him in their Christmas letters. Oh, I'm sure my dad got an earful from my mom at night, but to us, she was nothing but supportive. And eventually, my brother gave up being an actor and found his calling teaching music and theater using his degrees.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Ironically, my brother was the child who always knew exactly what he wanted to do. Growing up, he was the one with the clear dream, much like my daughter. And me, the child who didn't want to go to college? I started using my degree before I even finished. I got an internship at 20 and have been in the same career for 19 years. And I have loved every minute of it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So what was the secret? My mom didn't diminish my childhood dreams. She never told me they were silly or that I was silly for having them. But when she sent me to college, she expanded my capacity to dream bigger, and when I did, I found what I was really meant to do, and for that I'm ever in her debt. Although the first woman president is still on the table.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's a tricky business, parenting. Especially when you have kids with big dreams and even more when those big dreams don't match yours. If my mother taught me anything it's that you have to let your kids be who they are and follow their dreams, unless their dream is to be the guy who dresses up like the sandwich. Then it's time to get a new dream. </div>
<div>
</div>
Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13958595063617429849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081134689701723233.post-38284194603277234442014-12-08T22:34:00.000-06:002014-12-08T22:41:57.512-06:00Waiting . . . .Today kind of sucked. I really wanted to write something more poetic or even just more thoughtful, but I don't have it in me. In fact, I kind of feel like curling up in my p.j's and having a good cry. And maybe some ice cream. <br />
<br />
But advent is stopping me.<br />
<br />
Until yesterday, I didn't really know what advent was. Apparently, it is waiting with candles. Oh, and for someone to show up. It is waiting with candles, and in the Christian tradition, for Christ to show up. More specifically, it is the four weeks before Christmas where you wait, and light a candle each week, and, as I learned yesterday, read long passages about how sometimes, the waiting sucks.<br />
<br />
I grew up in church, if you know anything about me you know this is not a "I went to church on Sundays" kind of sentence. This is a "I was in church more than I was in my kitchen" kind of sentence. I <i>grew up</i> in church. But I don't ever remember <a href="http://mckinneychurch.com/watch-listen/current-messages">celebrating advent</a>. We've been at <a href="http://mckinneychurch.com/">our current church</a> for 12 years. I don't ever remember celebrating advent, until this year.<br />
<br />
I'm 38. That's a lot of years of not ever celebrating something. <br />
<br />
Apparently until exactly when I needed it.<br />
<br />
If you talk to my mother, she may disagree that I didn't need a lesson in waiting before now. I'm not, by nature, a patient person. In fact, I am extremely impatient. I frequently open the microwave when there are only 3 seconds left. I have always unwrapped my presents before Christmas morning and then carefully re-wrapped them and placed them back under the tree (although I place the fault for this squarely on my mother for putting the presents under the tree before Christmas). I finish my husband's sentences, because I always know what he is going to say, and I rarely have time to straighten all of my hair, so there is always one little section that is still curly.<br />
<br />
But the place I have been most impatient in my life has been my health. In fact, my health issues were the reason behind this blog. I coined The Waiting Room title after spending hundreds of hours in literal waiting rooms and thousands more in metaphorical ones.<br />
<br />
My health issues have been random, to say the least, over the past decade, including several surgeries and more than one diagnosis that included the words, "Well, I've never actually seen this happen on a real person before . . ." But the most frequent and debilitating issue that has plagued me is chronic migraines. <br />
<br />
My dad and brother both get migraines, and since they are genetic, it isn't unthinkable that I would get them as well, but I had never had one until after I stopped nursing Anna. During my first migraine, I made Richie call my dad, because I was sure it was an aneurysm and I would going to die right then. I had never felt such intense pain, and I recently gave birth. In the ten years since then, I would estimate I've spent well over 2,200 days with migraines (I just actually did the math and it is depressing). <br />
<br />
I know your first instinct here is going to be to send a comment that is something to the effect of, "I have migraines and I've tried XX" or "I have a friend who has migraines and she tried XX and it worked great for her." I promise you that I've tried it all. I've eaten and not eaten everything. I've tried prescription and herbal. I've done chiropractic and even acupuncture (yep, needles in the face). If there is a medicine on the market, I have taken it, shot it in my veins, snorted it (yep), or rubbed it into my feet.<br />
<br />
I don't tell you this to make you feel sorry for me. In fact, even though I still get them a few times a week, they are actually better now than then have been in years. Even so, I am impatient. Every time I read a verse or hear a sermon about how God heals, I wonder why I am still sick. I can't help but ask God why my time in the wilderness is so long. What else could I possibly have to learn here? I know I should be thankful because there are so many people who are so much worse off than me. I should have so many days where I count my thousands and thousands of blessings instead of focusing on this trial.<br />
<br />
But today, was not one of those days.<br />
<br />
Today, my precious little boy had <i>his</i> first migraine. And today my heart is broken. Because as many times as I have prayed for my own healing, I have also prayed that this cup would be spared from my children. And I cannot stand the thought of him bearing this burden.<br />
<br />
So tonight, as I was pondering drowning my sorrows ice cream and p.j.'s, I thought about advent. About waiting with expectation for Christ. And I thought about <a href="http://mckinneychurch.com/watch-listen/current-messages">yesterday's sermon.</a> How we were reminded that even in the midst of waiting we could find joy. <b>Because our joy is not found in our emotional state, it is found in who God is. </b><br />
<br />
And so even though today, I am devastated, God is still on the throne. He is still good. He is still faithful. He is still wise. He is still powerful. He is still in control. And He is coming.<br />
<br />
And that is why tomorrow will be better.Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13958595063617429849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081134689701723233.post-6171958269104201192014-08-27T13:56:00.001-05:002014-08-27T13:56:22.164-05:00Waiting for the third day of schoolI love back to school time. Always have. I'm a total nerd that way. When I was a kid I would spend an hour in the school supply aisle searching for the perfect black pen. I grew up in a generation before a 75 bullet list dictated whether we put college or wide ruled paper in our Trapper Keeper. And it wouldn't have mattered if I had a list or not, because even at age seven I knew better than to write with a blue pen.<br />
<br />
So while some people have chosen to complain endlessly or skip social media altogether rather than be bombarded with first day of school pictures this week, my inner nerd is rejoicing.<br />
<br />
This is the one time of year that everyone not only talks about school, but is excited about it. For one glorious day, people unite in their genuine and visible support of education.<br />
<br />
My Facebook feed lit up with adorable pictures of kids holding creative signs written on chalkboards with their grade-level and teacher's names. High school seniors posed holding their first day of kindergarten picture. Teens posed in front of the same tree where they had stood each year to show their growth. The creativity was endless!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FhuO7M_hqkY/U_4lfDEXDfI/AAAAAAAAMKY/mNZbRNOEiPc/s1600/first-day.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FhuO7M_hqkY/U_4lfDEXDfI/AAAAAAAAMKY/mNZbRNOEiPc/s1600/first-day.jpg" height="320" width="303" /></a></div>
Being in public relations, you would think my creativity extends to these types of situations. It absolutely does not. My kids' back to school pictures are taken holding a piece of white copy paper I grabbed from the printer and drew on with a Sharpie. I did draw a somewhat decorative border, so I should probably get bonus points for that. Also, I put them in front of a tree every year. Unfortunately, since it is a crepe myrtle tree, it gets cut down every year, making it completely useless for tracking growth.<br />
<br />
With pictures complete, I, like so many other parents, drove the kids to school and walked them to their classes. And at the end of the day we sat down and debriefed about every detail of their day. After a home cooked dinner, and a mountain of district and campus paperwork, I bragged about their amazing day on Facebook, we said our prayers, and prepared to do it all again.<br />
<br />
I went to bed Monday night with the hopes that this year would be amazing. The Facebook pictures and back to school <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RwlhUcSGqgs">pep talks</a> and <a href="http://www.tuckertechtalk.com/2014/08/baby-got-class-back-school-parody/">parody songs</a> had once again filled me with the optimism that only a new school year provide. I was prepared to be a better mom this year. To limit screen time to an hour a day. To volunteer more. To make a healthy breakfast every morning. To complete homework before it was due. To make healthy lunches in the shape of <a href="http://stephanieklein.com/2012/08/kids-lunch-ideas/">cartoon characters</a>.<br />
<br />
And I was on track too. Until yesterday morning, which, if you are keeping track, was exactly the second day of school. The kids had been awake for about 90 seconds and I was just heating up breakfast when I heard our daughter yell, "Mommy, the toilet is overflowing!"<br />
<br />
I'm sure there have been times when we could have had a conversation with our children about how many times to attempt to flush a clogged toilet, and the best times to have that conversation would have been anytime except at 6:37 a.m. on the second day of school. The very day when I woke up confident that Tuesday would be as smooth as Monday had been, kids smiling and laughing as we all sat down and ate a healthy and balanced breakfast. Based on the amount of water on the bathroom floor, we have never had this conversation and I am guessing our daughter flushed the toilet at least six times, leaving us standing in two inches of toilet water.<br />
<br />
Richie plunged, and we sucked up water as the kids ate their somewhat less healthy pancakes on a stick and I tried to calmly explain why you need to call mommy or daddy after one flush, <i>before</i> the water goes everywhere.<br />
<br />
As calm as I tried to be, the flooded bathroom set the tone for the rest of the morning, from battles over the new toothbrush that spins and how long you actually have to brush your teeth and if you have to use toothpaste (a conversation I would have preferred any other time than while mopping the newly dried flooded bathroom floor) to the last minute lunch that didn't get packed thanks to the flooded bathroom, as I literally pushed the children out the door, my heart sank. One day. We made it one day before it all fell apart. It wasn't going to be our super year after all. It was just going to be another year of mid-night trips to Walgreens to buy poster board for a project we just found out was due in 8 hours, peanut butter and jelly for dinner, and me mumbling in frustration under my breath because the kids can't find their shoes and we are running 15 minutes late.<br />
<br />
But then something happened. My kids came home at 3 o'clock and told me about their day, and as they did, their eyes lit up with that back to school glow that I had just a day before. As I listened to my daughter tell me about the science experiment her class was doing tomorrow, and my son tell me about his new kindergarten buddy, the disappointment of the morning started to fade and I realized I had the power to help keep this momentum going or to stop it dead in its tracks.<br />
<br />
I had the power.<br />
<br />
And so do you.<br />
<br />
Believe me, I get it. The third day of school is not as exciting as the first day, and the 30th is not as exciting as the third. It's tough. Managing work and a family and a marriage is draining, and single parents, I don't even know how you are still standing at the end of the day with all that you are juggling! And the farther we get into the school year, the more difficult it becomes. Homework gets harder, extracurricular activities require more time, there are tests to take, bullies and boyfriends to contend with and it feels like Thanksgiving break is never going to get here. That new school year feeling fades and you are left to navigate all these realities, and sometimes that means standing in two inches of toilet water.<br />
<br />
So take this momentum that you have right now, today, and let's push forward together. Let's keep posting pictures of our kids doing great things at their schools, be it public schools, private schools, or home schools. Let's encourage our kids and encourage each other. Let's give teachers and administrators our undying support and gratitude, not just on the first day and the last day, but every single day in between. Let's get involved and stay involved in our kids' education, by volunteering in our schools and by working with our kids at home.<br />
<br />
This week, right here, right now, this is as good as the feeling gets for education. Let's keep it going, no matter how deep the water gets.<br />
<br />Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13958595063617429849noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081134689701723233.post-44852112441567930192014-08-18T18:52:00.001-05:002014-08-18T18:54:50.349-05:00The motherhood dizzy spinI've been thinking for a while about how to best describe motherhood. Here's what I've come up with.<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mbZoxc_KLVs/U_KAQw4vyUI/AAAAAAAAL68/xRG7L7A9S7U/s1600/dizzy-bat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mbZoxc_KLVs/U_KAQw4vyUI/AAAAAAAAL68/xRG7L7A9S7U/s1600/dizzy-bat.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a><br />
My analogy of motherhood is that game you play between innings at minor league baseball games which I have learned is called Dizzy Bat. Essentially two people put their heads on a bat,spin around ten times and then try to run to first base as fast as they can; you are totally disoriented, you look like a drunken monkey, who is also uncoordinated and unable to perform even the simplest tasks, and there is a 90% or better chance you will fall flat on your face.<br />
<br />
At least that has been my experience.<br />
<br />
So why do it? Well, also similar to Dizzy Bat, we are hopeful that if we win the race, there will be a prize waiting for us at the finish line. Only in the game of motherhood, instead of a Bob's Chicken Shaker t-shirt, we are hoping to win a productive citizen who at adulthood calls, texts, or holograms us at least once a week (by the time our kids are grown, Richie is sure the Star Wars technology will be available), gives us a grandchild or two, and picks out a nice home for us when the time comes.<br />
<br />
The problem is, that between the time you put your head down on the bat and start spinning (which I guess in this analogy would be conception), and the time you get to first base (which ironically has nothing to do with conception in this particular analogy), no one is handing out report cards on how well you are completing the motherhood task.<br />
<br />
Well, except for everyone. <br />
<br />
Similar to the screaming fans in a baseball stadium, as soon as you announce you are having a baby, everyone you know, and a surprising amount of people you have never met, begin chiming in on exactly how you should raise said baby. We got advice on everything from breastfeeding to discipline strategies, feeding and sleeping schedules, when babies should wear hats (all the time, even in August in Texas -- this advice came from Richie's grandmother and was followed exactly due to my deep desire to stay on her good side, because there are some people whose good side you should always stay on). As our daughter got older, we got advice on if and when we should have another baby, which when you think about it is both odd and kind of awesome in a creepy way, since essentially what this boils down to is people telling you to have unprotected sex, which is exactly the opposite of what everyone in your life has been telling you right up to the point where you start talking about having babies.<br />
<br />
Like every new parent, we were overwhelmed, exhausted, and terrified that would make a mistake that would irrevocably scar our baby for life, like painting the nursery the wrong color or listen to AC/DC instead of Baby Einstein. So when people gave us advice, we listened. We read books. We scoured the Internet. We subscribed to magazines. We took classes.<br />
<br />
Here's the problem with the onslaught of advice. For every expert that told us to let the baby cry it out there was another one that told us to rock the baby until she was 3. For every person that told us to introduce carrots first, another person told us our baby would never eat carrots if we didn't introduce pears first. Use a pacifier. The pacifier is Satan's tool of death. Do not use under any circumstance. Public school's are the only way to go. The only thing worse than pacifiers are public schools. <br />
<br />
As if being sleep and shower deprived while living on a steady diet of cold chicken nuggets and Baby Einstein for six month isn't enough to make a person crazy.<br />
<br />
You would think it would get easier as our kids got older but my kids are 10 and six now and the advice hasn't slowed down, it has just changed topics. Now people tell us which middle school our daughter should attend and more importantly which she should by all means not attend and how much Minecraft is appropriate in one day. Could our daughter be lactose intolerant? Should we do the HPV vaccine? How many kids do you invite to a kindergarten birthday party? What do you do when someone is bullying your kid? Really, more Minecraft?<br />
<br />
Spin, spin, spin.<br />
<br />
The thing about being a mom is just when you get one stage figured out, it's over. I got really good at mothering a six month old just in time for my daughter to be a year old. Right when I mastered parenting toddlers, I didn't have one any more. And on and on it goes. And no way God would send me two children that had anything in common except their eye color and last name. If I had sat down and programmed the DNA for my children they could not have looked more alike and been more different, meaning none of the mad parenting skills we mastered on that race we've started with our daughter are the least bit useful on the second go around with our son. That would make me look less drunken monkey and more like I have some clue what's going on. What's the fun in that?<br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: #666666;"><i>But the real problem with all the advice we got is this, even though there are a million experts out there, none of them are experts in raising </i>our child<i>. </i></span></b><br />
<br />
Once we figured that out, it gave us the freedom to take the advice that worked for our children, pass on the advice that didn't, and raise our kids the best way that we knew how. Don't get me wrong, I don't do it perfectly. This system requires a lot of trial and error and I still second guess my parenting choices more often than not (read: Every. Single. Time.). But understanding that my children are a unique blend of my husband and I and a dash of something that is completely their own, and that God has called Richie and I to be their parents for a reason has given us the freedom to listen politely whenever people give us advice, and then to walk away, discuss it together, and decide what works best for our children without guilt, (except for the hats on newborns. This is a non-negotiable).<br />
<br />
So to all of you moms who are scurrying to first base, in a blur of gold fish, crayons, diapers, and that two day old sippy cup you are praying doesn't have milk in it, swirling by you in a dizzy spin, hear me when I say, you are doing an awesome job. That child in there, you know the one -- looks just a little bit like you when she wrinkles her nose or when he raises his eyebrow -- that child is going to be just fine. This stage he is going through right now, not sleeping, not eating, not talking, talking all the time, hitting, biting, being bullied, not reading yet, hates school, hates his sister, hates daycare, loves daycare which breaks your heart because you just went back to work, you are going to figure it out and no sooner will you master it than it will be over. You are the very best person for this job, no matter what any book, blog post, other mom,<i> your </i>mom, well meaning friend, or expert says,<span style="color: #666666;"><b> because you are the expert on <i>your child</i></b></span>. <br />
<br />
Trust me when I tell you this, because I may not be an "expert", but I have spun right next to you <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eW4vEQt2fZU/U_KFWXIqR_I/AAAAAAAAL7I/EqZDVQSV_7o/s1600/20140412_140137.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eW4vEQt2fZU/U_KFWXIqR_I/AAAAAAAAL7I/EqZDVQSV_7o/s1600/20140412_140137.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: #a64d79;">Me and my beauties!</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
and will likely trip over my own feet and fall spectacularly ungracefully into you sometime along this journey, so I know what I'm talking about here. <span style="color: #666666;"><b>More importantly, trust yourself, because you have taken a spin around the bat and are running this crazy race in a world full of spectators. And mommy, if they are sitting in the seats yelling at you, they ain't got the courage, the strength, and the all out awesomeness to be out there doing the Dizzy Bat race with your baby. </b></span><br />
<br />
Because the thing about motherhood is, even though you may have a face full of dirt when you get there, there will be a pretty beautiful prize waiting for you at the finish line.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13958595063617429849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081134689701723233.post-15853777697969300482014-07-09T21:08:00.005-05:002014-07-09T21:08:47.979-05:00What's in a name<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--UNLBhmuoCo/U73rKYk998I/AAAAAAAALLA/Kg7lFmYnHx8/s1600/grandma+ruth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--UNLBhmuoCo/U73rKYk998I/AAAAAAAALLA/Kg7lFmYnHx8/s1600/grandma+ruth.jpg" height="320" width="234" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Your people will be my people and your
God my God."</span><span style="background: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> ~ </span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Ruth
1:16</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
Growing up I wasn't fond of my middle name. Truth be told, I hated it. I went to elementary school in the 80's, well before Biblical names became trendy. Also, my brother was fond of equating the name with the sound of a dog barking, or
the sound of throwing up. Or the sound
of a dog throwing up. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Starting somewhere around fifth-grade until high school graduation, I denied having a middle name at all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My birth certificate contradicted me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It clearly states that my name is Kristen Ruth
Walker. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I come from a family of strong, stubborn,
passionate women and Ruth Huddleston is no exception. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She raised six kids one of whom she had to bury far too young, something a mother should never have to do. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She was thankful for what the Lord blessed her with, even during those times when it seemed she had very little to be thankful for. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She could
fry anything and she did. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When you came to her house, you never left hungry and God help you if you wore your hat at the dinner table. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She
loved Jesus and would tell you so unashamedly and frequently. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She loved her
family. And there were a lot of them to love. She loved them even when they hurt each other, and even when they hurt her. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When you argued with her, you should probably prepare to be wrong, even when you were pretty sure you were right. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She prayed
for people she knew and for people she would never meet this side of heaven. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She believed God would answer. Every time.</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">Grandma Ruth went home to be with Jesus today. </span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I couldn’t be more proud to share her name.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13958595063617429849noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081134689701723233.post-49518837564905409022014-01-14T11:19:00.001-06:002014-01-14T11:19:44.634-06:00What if our New Year's resolutions didn't suck?On Sunday night our community group got met for the first time in 2014. As most people tend to do when congregating for the first time since the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4evzVCPXbc0" target="_blank">ball dropped</a>, our conversation turned to goals and resolutions for the upcoming 365days -- make that 353.<br />
<br />
Our group is made up of married couples ranging in age from mid-20's to mid-50's. Some have kids, some don't. Some have been married for decades, some only months. So you would think our New Year's resolutions would be as varied as the people in the room.<br />
<br />
But they weren't.<br />
<br />
Everyone said they needed to eat better, exercise more, and lose weight.<br /><br />
Before you start throwing statistics at me that <a href="http://www.cdc.gov/obesity/data/adult.html" target="_blank">99% of the country is obese</a> and 97% of us need to eat less bacon and exercise more, let me just stop you right there and agree. Healthy eating is a good thing. Exercising is a good thing. Bacon is a good thing and no amount of research is going to change my mind on that.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9JLgSzvTlk4/UtVwMtxBcsI/AAAAAAAAGy8/WUgVCzFKX3E/s1600/2242405890_1044cea3f0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9JLgSzvTlk4/UtVwMtxBcsI/AAAAAAAAGy8/WUgVCzFKX3E/s1600/2242405890_1044cea3f0.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> Photo Courtesy of <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/laurelfan/">Laurel Fan</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But hear me out. In addition to Sunday night's meeting, I've hung out with no less than four other women since the New Year started (yeah, I have friends! Okay, mostly they are relatives,) who have said exactly the same thing. They need to lose weight.<br />
<br />
And I'm right there with them. In fact, I have a line of supplements on my counter right now that I started for that exact purpose. And I can tell myself it is because my cholesterol is creeping higher than I'd like, but if I'm honest it is because my thighs are creeping wider than I'd like.<br />
<br />
There's nothing wrong with wanting to lose some weight. Nothing at all. Nothing wrong with looking in the mirror and saying, "Dang, that's one sexy woman!" But here's the thing, sitting in that community group on Sunday and hanging out with my family and friends these last couple of weeks, all I have seen are a group of incredibly beautiful women. The irony being that the only woman I ever see that I think needs to lose weight is me. And I'd bet that every other woman in the room feels exactly the same way.<br />
<br />
I have a nine year old daughter. Somehow she got a recessive gene for long skinny legs, so right now I have to cinch her pants as tight as I can. But someday she might hit an awkward stage where she hates her body. Who knows, she might hate being tall and skinny (imagine that!). How can I possibly tell her she should love her body no matter what when she constantly hears me telling myself how much I hate mine? <br />
<br />
I think maybe our New Year's resolution to lose weight doesn't suck because we are eating rice cakes while everyone else is eating brownies.<br />
<br />
I think it sucks because we are trying to lose weight to feel good about ourselves when what we really want to resolve is to feel good about ourselves no matter how much we weigh.Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13958595063617429849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081134689701723233.post-65109335140163220072013-09-27T16:29:00.000-05:002013-09-27T16:29:07.515-05:00Waiting to be a TexanAlthough I was born in Montana, I guess you can say I'm a second generation Texan. My dad was born in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Loraine,_Texas" target="_blank">Lorraine, Texas</a>, which according to Wikipedia has a population of 656, but according to my memory of a drive through we did one family vacation I recall having a population of closer to 85. <br />
<br />
This year marks the first birthday I've celebrated more years in The Lone Star State than I celebrated in Big Sky Country, which in my estimation makes me as close to a Texan as I'm likely to get. When people ask me how I got to Texas from Montana I tell them I came here to go to college.<br />
<br />
When they ask me why I stayed, the answer is simple; When you marry a Texan, there is a pretty good chance you are going to stay right here in Texas.<br />
<br />
I'm not complaining. Texas has been good to me. But it truly is like no other place on earth, and that's exactly how Texans like it. I come from a state that has a lot of pride, and a city with even more. But Texas. Well, it takes pride of ownership to a level that is, well, completely Texan.<br />
<br />
Here are a few things this Montana girl has learned in the last 18 years.<br />
<ul>
<li><b>Friday Night Lights is no joke.</b> Texans love few things as much as high school football. Until you experience your first Friday night game where literally two entire towns are crammed into the stadium cheering on their teams, you can't fully appreciate what this means. When I say everyone, I mean everyone, from babies who were born earlier that morning to 93 year old men who played on that same high school field seven decades ago, to the band, the cheerleaders, even the kids who couldn't care less about football but are there because if you live in a small town, there is literally no place else for them to go. There is a reason they keep making movies, television series, and writing songs about it. It is that good. <br /><br /> </li>
<li><b>We make you pledge to be here.</b> As of this moment, I know of no other state that makes you pledge allegiance to their state flag after pledging allegiance to the US flag. This really messes up kids who move here from other states, but not nearly as bad as it messes up adults. I love sitting in public meetings where adults have to say the <a href="https://www.tsl.state.tx.us/ref/abouttx/flagpledge.html" target="_blank">Texas pledge</a>. Many lifelong Texans forget the words (partially because the legislature changed it in 2007), but for transplants, it is like asking them <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jofNR_WkoCE" target="_blank">What Does the Fox Say?</a> (Yep, I stand by that reference).<br /><br /></li>
<li><b>The flag can, and does, go anywhere. </b>While we might make you pledge allegiance to the State flag, it certainly doesn't mean we revere it. However, I will say this, Texans sure do love their flag. This is evide<a href="http://i1.cpcache.com/product/462567560/texan_flag_womens_boy_brief.jpg?color=WhiteRed&height=460&width=460&qv=90" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://i1.cpcache.com/product/462567560/texan_flag_womens_boy_brief.jpg?color=WhiteRed&height=460&width=460&qv=90" style="cursor: move;" width="200" /></a>nced by the fact it appears on pretty much everything. And I do mean everything. Purses, earrings, garage doors, shower curtains, koozies, underwear. Now, maybe I am wrong and there are a bunch of people walking around with the Iowa state flag on their unmentionables, but to in my estimation, Texas is unique in its love and complete and utter disrespect for its flag. Fun fact: Texas is also the only state that has written into law that its flag can fly at the same height as the United States flag. Just another fun way we like to tell the US Government that they are not the boss of us.<br /><br /></li>
<li><b>Everyone has an opinion about A&M. </b>Love them or hate them, Aggies are as engrained in Texas culture as Dairy Queen. For my Montana friends who are reading this, many Texans feel about Aggies like we feel about North Dakotans (note: Texans do not understand why North Dakotans are stupid. If visiting me, replace "ND" with "Aggie" in all jokes). After 18 years, I am slowly starting to come around to the idea that A&M may be a legitimate university and not, in fact, a cult like I have long believed. However, this belief is questioned every time someone "whoops" at a funeral, wears their class ring over their wedding ring, or cancels class because a dog barks. Actually, I'm okay with that last one.<br /></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>You can chicken fry anything.</b> Before I lived in Texas I mistakenly believed that the only thing that could be chicken fried was chicken. This is not true. It turns out anything can be chicken fried. Steak, pork, eggplant, even chicken. Yes, I know. Other states would probably just call that "fried chicken." Nope. It is "chicken friend chicken." It is a completely different dish! I personally don't do a lot of chicken frying because in my house it generally ends up with all the windows open, smoke alarms blaring, and pizza delivery. However, I have learned that in a capable Texans hands anything that starts with the words "chicken fried" is smothered in white gravy and completely delicious. Bonus points if it is somewhere on a blue plate special.<br /><br /></li>
<li><b>Texas is freaking huge.</b> This doesn't seem like a big revelation, but this is coming from a girl who grew up driving across the state of Montana for fun and frequently drove across Wyoming, which is not only a large land wise, but includes some sort of space-time vacuum that turns minutes into hours and hours into decades. So for me to say that I get bored driving across Texas is actually a big deal. That is because you can drive 15 continuous hours and still be in the state. In the middle of the state. With like 8 more hours until you see a border. It is ridiculous. Also, although my husband swears there are pretty parts somewhere in the state, the scenery is not great. I do enjoy the fact they put the population on the city limit signs. <br /> <br /></li>
<li><b>People are genuinely nice.</b> Texas is full of genuinely nice people. My best friend Kathy visited me a few years ago and we took the kids to a park near my house. A dad was there with his kids and we started chatting. Turned out he graduated from the same high school as my husband just a few years apart. We sat and talked while the kids played. When he left my Kathy looked at me and said, "Do you know him?" I told her I had never seen him before. She explained that living outside of Detroit for so long she had gotten used to being wary of people. Kathy her family ended up moving to Texas a couple months ago and she has said more than once that she is still getting used to how friendly people are here. It's true, Texans are just good people.<br /><br /></li>
<li><b>Don't mess with Texas is more than a catch phrase.</b> It is a way of life. People might make fun of Texans for their boots and the cowboy hats, or their sports franchises or politicians, but the thing about Texans is that they wear those things as a badge of honor. The Texas drawl, and yes sir and no ma'am, the high school football, and <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/sportsroses/homecoming-mums-and-garters-ideas/" target="_blank">homecoming mums</a>, big hair, Texas flag welcome mat, belt buckles, and cowboy boots with tuxedos, those are the things that make Texas Texas. Because being Texan is about being proud of who you are and where you come from, no matter what anyone else thinks. <br /></li>
</ul>
Because if you're really a Texan, you never ask anyone else what they think anyway.<br /><br />
Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13958595063617429849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081134689701723233.post-80839297756370451912013-08-26T12:57:00.002-05:002013-08-26T12:57:26.719-05:00Waiting for kindergarten<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Sz4tHdfZ-I4/UhuQefN1qUI/AAAAAAAAD5k/-3TVy63Qcbg/s1600/ryan-_kinder1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Sz4tHdfZ-I4/UhuQefN1qUI/AAAAAAAAD5k/-3TVy63Qcbg/s1600/ryan-_kinder1.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a>This morning I did what thousands of parents across the country did. <b>I dropped my baby off at kindergarten.</b> My baby. The little boy that I am positive I brought home from the hospital only a moment ago and only minutes ago was rocking to sleep in his little footie pajamas. Today I packed him a lunch, watched as he hung his dinosaur backpack in his locker while I choked back a tear, (okay sobs) as I left him in the care of another woman.<br />
<br />
This isn't the first time I've dropped one of my babies at kindergarten. Our daughter started fourth-grade today, and to tell you the truth, seeing her with the kids she started school with five years ago, some of who are as tall as me, broke my heart almost as much.<br />
<br />
<b>But there is something about the day you take your last baby to kindergarten that is a unique kind of heartache. </b><br />
<br />
Because he is our youngest, sending Ryan to kindergarten feels like a chapter in our lives has ended. Like he needs me just a little bit less now.<br />
<br />
<b>Except that couldn't be less true.</b><br />
<br />
Our kids' school is amazing. Their teachers are amazing.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eTBzzpbr2zw/UhuQd3MeEvI/AAAAAAAAD5c/hGLXWiMGjBE/s1600/r-and-t_sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eTBzzpbr2zw/UhuQd3MeEvI/AAAAAAAAD5c/hGLXWiMGjBE/s1600/r-and-t_sm.jpg" height="132" width="200" /></a>But, their job is to teach my kids reading and math. Their job is to teach my kids English and science. <b>Their teachers' job is to cultivate their love of learning by helping them explore art and music and technology and leading them as they run and jump in PE and check out books in the library.</b> <br />
<br />
Their teachers' job is not to be their parents.<br />
<br />
<b>That is still my job.</b><br />
<br />
And yet, from 8 a.m.-3 p.m. from Monday - Friday, in addition to teaching reading, and history, and foreign languages, and band and choir, and art, and algebra, and biology, and government and special education, and economics, thousands of teachers across the country will teach students how to be kind and generous. They will teach them how to work together. They will help teach them how to make good choices. How to listen. How to follow rules. They will help them understand the consequences of not following rules.<br /><br />They will comfort them when they get hurt. Or when someone hurts them. They will protect them.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Qd1iJFicOp8/UhuQ5EFRPVI/AAAAAAAAD5s/1RJXmaTseLo/s1600/a-4_sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Qd1iJFicOp8/UhuQ5EFRPVI/AAAAAAAAD5s/1RJXmaTseLo/s1600/a-4_sm.jpg" height="200" width="164" /></a>I know there are people who may not believe this, but thousands of teachers have been praying for their students all summer and will continue to pray for them all year.<br />
<br />
<b>But as parents, we can't check out once school starts.</b> We can't let teachers take the burden, not only of teaching our kids, but of raising them as well. I am so thankful for dedicated educators who value character as much as knowledge. But that doesn't abate me of my responsibility. With everything our kids have to navigate these days from extra-curricular activities, to bullying and social media, I can't imagine a time in history when it has ever been more important to be plugged to our kids' lives.<br />
<br /><b>Understanding the heartache that comes with sending your baby to kindergarten, people begin asking you if you are okay about six months before the first day of school. </b>With that in mind, I've been collecting advice from moms and dads that I think are doing an outstanding job of raising great kids (including my parents, who I must say raised two pretty awesome kids).<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Here is a collection of some of the best advice I've heard for staying involved in your kids' lives:</b><br />
<ul>
<li><b>Talk about stuff.</b> </li>
<ul>
<li>Ask open ended questions, especially with older kids. Don't give up if you get a one word answer. Start with kids' favorites like, "Who did you sit with at lunch?" or "What did you play at recess?" </li>
<li>Talk about anything and everything when they are young. Let them know that nothing is off the table. Talking about crushes on boys when they are 8 will make it more likely they won't keep things from you when they are 16.</li>
<li>Take any opportunity to use teachable moments. Watching a movie where the main character treats his best friend badly, use that moment to ask your kids how that made his friend feel or if there has ever been a time when someone in his class made him feel like that. </li>
</ul>
<li><b>Do homework <i>with </i>your kids.</b> </li>
<ul>
<li>Even just a few minutes a day shows interest.</li>
</ul>
<li><b>Volunteer!</b> </li>
<ul>
<li>Check your campus/school district website for opportunities. If your kids are at an age where they are embarrassed of mom and dad find opportunities to volunteer in different areas of the school (making copies in the office, shelving books in the library).</li>
</ul>
<li><b>Sit down and eat.</b></li>
<ul>
<li>With busy after school schedules, try to make at least one night a week where sitting down to eat dinner<i> isn't</i> optional. Even if you just order pizza, have everyone sit around the table and catch up. Having a "no technology at the table*" rule helps establish that this time is a priority for everyone. *This rule goes for mom and dad too!</li>
</ul>
<li><b>Know your kids' friends, both real and virtual.</b></li>
<ul>
<li>With the constant onslaught of social media sites it is hard to keep up, but knowing which sites your kids are on, and who their friends are is key. A good rule of thumb is to make sure you are following your kids and your kids' friends. <a href="http://socialmediatoday.com/pammoore/1568906/5-golden-rules-keep-children-safe-social-media-infographic-staysafe" target="_blank">Check here</a> for the Five Golden Rules of Keeping Kids Safe Online (<i>it is from the UK, but still good information</i>). </li>
</ul>
<li><b>Keep an open house. </b></li>
<ul>
<li>Invite your kids' friends over and make your house the kind of place kids (and teens) want to hang out. Your house doesn't need to be fancy. In fact, sometimes being kid-friendly means just the opposite. It means it's the kind of place where being loud and spilling on the carpet or breaking something isn't cause for alarm. </li>
</ul>
</ul>
<div>
What are your best tips for staying involved during the school year? Whether you are starting school or have a few more years to snuggle in footie pajamas, I hope your year is blessed.</div>
Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13958595063617429849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081134689701723233.post-81410716588800920512013-08-21T17:02:00.003-05:002013-08-21T17:02:54.540-05:00Toasting with Water - What really matters.It seems like television has been overrun with reality TV. Whether it is dropping people on a <a href="http://www.cbs.com/shows/survivor/" target="_blank">remote island</a>, <a href="http://abc.go.com/shows/dancing-with-the-stars?CID=google_SEM_UU_1&K_CLICKID=cr119877" target="_blank">celebrity dancing competitions</a>, <a href="http://www.tlc.com/tv-shows/toddlers-tiaras" target="_blank">toddlers acting like they rule the world</a> or <a href="http://www.mylifetime.com/shows/dance-moms" target="_blank">parents acting like toddlers</a>, people can't seem to get enough of watching the glory and the misery of others.<br />
<br />
But more often than not there seems to be a lack of reality in reality TV.<br />
<br />
Take for instance those<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Category:Wedding_television_shows" target="_blank"> reality wedding shows</a>. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WGVG0HgNncM/TblB6-zcyCI/AAAAAAAAqhQ/fpV4wEULtPs/s1600/wedding-dogs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WGVG0HgNncM/TblB6-zcyCI/AAAAAAAAqhQ/fpV4wEULtPs/s1600/wedding-dogs.jpg" height="134" width="200" /></a></div>
You know, like when you see one wedding where and one thing after another goes wrong. For instance, <b>The Singer</b> shows up at the rehearsal and has learned the wrong song and <b>The Maid of Honor</b> and <b>Best Man,</b> who have had an on again off again relationship are currently off again and are barely speaking. And then the night before the wedding <b>The Groom's</b> fun-loving but slightly crazy <b>Mexican Cousin</b> shows up and takes<b> Him</b> and <b>The Best Man</b> out to some <b>75 Year Old Hippie's</b> apartment where they drink rum and listen to old jazz LP's to 4 a.m.<br />
<br />
On the wedding day the <b>Sound Guy</b> doesn't show up and all of the sound equipment is locked up and all of the wedding music is pre-recorded until <b>he</b> walks in dramatically two minutes before the wedding is supposed to start and <b>The Minister</b>, who is also <b>The Father of the Bride</b>, sends him running to the balcony with the CD of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pachelbel%27s_Canon" target="_blank">Pachelbel's Canon</a> while <b>The Brother of the Bride</b>, who is supposed to walk <b>The Bride </b>down the aisle, is tap dancing outside the bride's room in an effort to stop crying because <b>The Photographer</b>, who was also two hours late, is yelling at <b>him</b> because his eyes are completely bloodshot and ruining all of the photos. During the ceremony, the unity candle refuses to light and takes nearly the entire song, which has now become a duet to hide the fact <b>The Singer</b> just learned it six hours ago. Somewhere in the back of the church <b>The Bride's</b> <b>Uncle</b> (hailing from West Monroe, LA before Duck Dynasty made it cool) is in his overalls on camera saying, "A Catholic boy is marrying a Pentecostal girl in a Baptist church. There's gonna be a rumble."<br />
<br />
Fast forward to the reception where <b>The Band</b> is over two hours late and <b>has also locked up the sound system</b>, thereby denying the use of any music or microphones and leaving the room in <b>dead silence</b> until a group takes to the dance floor with an <b>acoustic version of the chicken dance</b>. The champagne runs out long before <b>The Couple's</b> toast, so they opt to toast with punch. <b>No punch.</b> So they <b>toast with water</b> directly from the <b>water fountain in the hotel hallway</b>. <b>The Photographer</b> has an emergency and has to leave to go pick up his son so the couple has to move up their <b>first dance</b>. Before <b>The Band</b> arrives. Their <b>Bridesmaid</b> sings a stunningly beautiful rendition of From this Moment. Acapella. As she hits the last note, <b>The Band</b> walks in. The <b>Best Man</b>, whose on again off again love affair with whiskey is currently on, is sufficiently drunk by the time of the toast and the words "<b>The Groom's</b> <b>Mom</b> grabbed my a**" somehow make it into the toast. The <b>Father of the Bride</b> dances his first dance<b>. Ever. In. His. Life</b>. When the Father/Daughter dance comes on. <b>The Bride</b> has chosen "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/My_Girl_%28The_Temptations_song%29" target="_blank">My Girl</a>." They walk on the dance floor. The Band instead plays the <b>Longest Mexican Waltz</b> known to man. It lasts <b>at least 27 minutes</b>. At some point all of <b>The Groom's Aunts</b> begin stuffing dollars in the <b>Father of the Groom's</b> pants, who has taken a turn singing with <b>The Band</b> (one of whose leaders happens to be the aforementioned <b>Fun-Loving but Slightly Crazy Mexican Cousin</b>).<br />
<br />
At some this particular wedding becomes so bizarre, so unrealistic, I turn to my husband and say, "Reality TV is so scripted," at which point he would normally look up from Twitter where he would be checking the Rangers score, agree with me and go back to Twitter.<br />
<br />
However, since this is <i><b>our wedding </b></i>video, he looks up for a little longer. And smiles.<br />
<br />
Fourteen years ago today, Richie and I experienced what I can only say was a complete and utter disaster of a wedding. I hardly cannot think of one thing that <i>didn't</i> go wrong.<br /><br />Well, I can think of one thing.<br /><br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kNh-TBhRayU/UhU14FVNvBI/AAAAAAAADzA/QY9_jZJEdJg/s1600/blur.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kNh-TBhRayU/UhU14FVNvBI/AAAAAAAADzA/QY9_jZJEdJg/s1600/blur.jpg" height="168" width="200" /></a>I married the right person. <br /><br />As I look back on the last fourteen years I can say <b>our lives have been a lot like our wedding</b>. We have made a lot of plans and had a lot of grand ideas about what our lives, our jobs, our homes, and our kids were going to look like. And like our wedding, <b>very rarely have things turned out exactly like we have planned</b>. But like our wedding, <b>most of the things that don't turn out like we plan don't really don't matter in the long run</b>.<br />
<br />
Some days we toast with champagne and some days we toast with water straight from the tap. In plastic cups. With a sick kid. Watching <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0457510/" target="_blank">Nacho Libre</a>. On our anniversary. <br />
<br />
<b>But we are in it together. </b><br />
<br />
And I can honestly say, I wouldn't change a thing. About our wedding or our life. <b>Because when you choose the right person it doesn't matter what song you're dancing to, just as long as you keep dancing. </b>Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13958595063617429849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081134689701723233.post-53981691204261953232013-06-15T16:42:00.004-05:002013-06-15T16:43:23.500-05:00Waiting for the Grass to Grow<br />
Growing up, I made a lot of assumptions about my dad.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--YF-kaYGxB0/UbzRKlaVZfI/AAAAAAAACGg/F-N-PtmAqcU/s1600/a_and-pops.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--YF-kaYGxB0/UbzRKlaVZfI/AAAAAAAACGg/F-N-PtmAqcU/s1600/a_and-pops.jpg" height="163" width="200" /></a>Our house sat on a corner lot with a yard large enough for a baseball diamond in the back yard, a volleyball court on the side, and a basketball court in the driveway. We also had the metal death trap swing set - you remember the ones that your parents didn't set in concrete so the legs came out of the ground and you swung with giant rusty screws just waiting to jab someone's leg as they ran by. We also had a trampoline (no safety net), a tether-ball pole, a concrete slab where a playhouse briefly stood, a wood pile, and a deck under which we stored a largish swimming pool used one summer, a wagon, a few hoses, and several sprinklers. <br />
<br />
With all of these options, you would think my brother and I would never lack for things to occupy our time. And the truth is, we never did. But we rarely occupied our time playing sports, flying kites, or swinging. It was more likely you would find us and four or five of the neighborhood kids digging a hole to China (wrapped in tin foil so we didn't burn once we reached the center of the Earth of course). On another day we might host the Olympics, using screwdrivers as javelins and broom handles as foils. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zxQ7bJN2eHs/UbzRKsmI4LI/AAAAAAAACGk/kGfa4cBampU/s1600/r-and-pops.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zxQ7bJN2eHs/UbzRKsmI4LI/AAAAAAAACGk/kGfa4cBampU/s1600/r-and-pops.jpg" height="320" width="283" /></a>We took things apart, buried them, lit them on fire, broke them, lost them, and crashed them. Very rarely did we use anything for its intended purpose and never once did we fill in a hole.<br />
<br />
Our childhood left my dad's yard full of holes, his tools broken or buried in the yard, and his cars wrecked more than once.<br />
<br />
It wasn't until I visited my parents' house with my own kids that I noticed my dad's was the most beautiful yard in the neighborhood. The sand volleyball court was now covered in lush grass. Flowers grew where the dog used to run, and the newly re-furbished deck overlooked a backyard free of holes where my kids ran barefoot from sunrise til sunset.<br />
<br />
I always assumed my dad just didn't care what his yard looked like.<br />
<br />
But the truth is, he loved his yard. He just loved us more.<br />
<br />
Now that I'm a parent I look back and see similar sacrifices my dad made for my brother and me. Whether it was playing with, breaking, and losing the tools from the most organized garage you have ever seen, the hours he spent untangling our fishing lines while never once getting to cast his line, or letting us sunflower seeds in the car he just finished cleaning, everything my dad did told us that we were more important to him than cars or tools or grass.<br />
<br />
Now retired, my dad is a full-time grandpa, or Pops as we call him. Today I watched as the ice cream cones he made his five grand kids dripped down their chins, onto their legs, and somehow into my son's hair.<br />
<br />
They were sweaty, sticky, covered in sand, and in heaven.<br />
<br />
Because their Pops cared more if they were happy then if they were clean.<br />
<br />
And I hope my kids assume that I do too.Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13958595063617429849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081134689701723233.post-52680845769406558522013-05-17T14:11:00.001-05:002013-05-17T14:11:46.388-05:00Waiting for the Senior Slam<b>I'm old.</b><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MykwijKLyco/UZZ_umnsS9I/AAAAAAAAByU/_LcbBMKQ4Pw/s1600/a-and-k2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MykwijKLyco/UZZ_umnsS9I/AAAAAAAAByU/_LcbBMKQ4Pw/s1600/a-and-k2.jpg" height="159" width="200" /></a></div>
This is not a realization I've come to lightly, nor am I looking for a groundswell of comments hellbent on convincing me I am still in my prime. I am not elderly. I'm not even a senior citizen, although I'm not going to lie, I wouldn't mind being able to order that Senior Slam at Denny's every now and then. And I know the saying goes that you are only as old as you feel. But I don't just feel old. Everything from my DVR to my refrigerator confirms that the youth in my rear view mirror is farther than it appears.<br />
<br />
Here are a few examples:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>All shorts and skirts are too short. This is true for kids, teenagers, 20 somethings, and especially everything in my closet. </li>
<li>You can often hear me say, "This morning on <i>The Today Show</i> . . . " I haven't started calling it <i>The Today Program </i>yet. I think that happens when I get my AARP card.</li>
<li>If I miss the early showing of a movie, not only do I refuse to wait for the late showing, I simply opt to wait for the movie to come out on Redbox.</li>
<li>Weather is a main topic of conversation. </li>
<li>I no longer worry about not being taken seriously in my career due to my youthful appearance. </li>
<li>Dying my hair is no longer just for fun.</li>
<li>I can name approximately one out of every ten songs on a rock, alternative, or pop radio station. This is generally because that is the same ratio of retro songs played by those stations.</li>
<li>I frequently use phrases like, "You're sitting to close to the t.v.," "You'll poke your eye out," and "Because I said so," with no irony.</li>
<li>Being carded has gone from an insult to a complement.</li>
<li>My Cosmo magazine with headlines like, <i>30 Ways to Please Your Man, </i>has been replaced with a Food Network magazine with headlines like <i>30 Ways to Cook Chicken.</i></li>
<li>I carry Tums in my purse to eat after meals that are too spicy, too greasy, have too much dairy, come from fast food restaurants, are eaten too late at night, are too big, or sometimes just contain food. If I'm with a 20 something crowd, I pretend the Tums are gum and chew them for a few minutes. If I'm with a 30 something crowd, I hand them out like candy.</li>
<li>Every cosmetic I own has the words "anti-aging" or "wrinkle" in it. Sadly, I also still have products with the words "acne" in them. This is the work of a cruel God.</li>
</ul>
<div>
I'm not complaining. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Being old has its advantages. My car insurance is less expensive, my husband is legally bound to wake up with me every morning, and I am much wiser than I was a decade ago. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I look at my life, my husband, my kids, and even my thighs, and to be perfectly honest, I love being 36. Tums and all. </div>
Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13958595063617429849noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081134689701723233.post-298254436548947572013-05-04T13:49:00.000-05:002013-05-04T13:49:08.308-05:00Waiting for My JediBuried within the blogs documenting trials of motherhood, chronic illness, and my crazy life, last year on this date, I wrote a <a href="http://lifeswaitingrooms.blogspot.com/2012/05/waiting-for-force.html" target="_blank">blog post</a> to help my fellow brides navigate marriage to a Star Wars geek. It turned out to be one of my most read blog posts of all times, leading me to believe that people married to Star Wars geeks are in deed looking for a community of support, love, advice, and above all, humor.<br />
<br />
And so, on this Star Wars Day, I bring to you my second annual post for all of us --male or female--living life with a Star Wars Fanatic.<br />
<br /><b>Things to Teach Your Kids to Say to Drive Star Wars Fanatics Crazy</b><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hxD-FzJbzkw/UYVXJ-xWBjI/AAAAAAAABuI/H4kMIip9rNE/s1600/star+wars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hxD-FzJbzkw/UYVXJ-xWBjI/AAAAAAAABuI/H4kMIip9rNE/s1600/star+wars.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
- My favorite part was when they melted Hans Solo from the wax.<br />
<br />
- I like that pointy eared Spock guy.<br />
<br />
- What do you think the O.B stands for in O.B 1? Maybe he was the first Outstanding Battler or something.<br />
<br />
- Darth Mal's costume is way cooler than Darth Vader's.<br />
<br />
- Why can't Luke just marry Princess Leah? He really loves her.<br />
<br />
- I like the movie with the Ewoks the best.<br />
<br />
- I really don't understand why everyone thinks the graphics were so great in the original movies.<br />
<br />
- I want to be Jar Jar Binks for Halloween.<br />
<br />
Happy Star Wars Day. And as always, May the Fourth be with you.Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13958595063617429849noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081134689701723233.post-24937466013739056142013-03-07T22:00:00.000-06:002013-03-07T22:00:00.454-06:00Waiting for Unconditional Love<a href="https://b0950d229f-custmedia.vresp.com/853d18be49/unconditional%20chickens.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="199" src="https://b0950d229f-custmedia.vresp.com/853d18be49/unconditional%20chickens.jpg" width="200" /></a>All of my life I have heard about unconditional love.<br />
<br />
This love without conditions, without bounds, or repercussions, without debt. This is the love that we should search for. This is the love we should give. <br />
<br />
That of all the loves in the world, unconditional love is the one that is most sought after, most highly valued, and most rare.<br />
<br />
I have lived my life believing that unconditional love is rare because people rarely stop being selfish enough to offer another person love without expecting anything in return.<br />
<br />
It's hard, unconditional love. That's why it is so rare.<br />
<br />
That's what I've always thought.<br />
<br />Until last night.<br />
<br />
I hate surgery. This is not news for anyone who knows me or who has ever read my blog before. There is a longer story here, but that isn't what this post is about. So the short version is, I had a surgery. I had complications. It is five weeks later and I am still in a lot of pain. More actually than I was before.<br />
<br />
And the kids are home on Spring Break.<br />
<br />
Our kids are four and eight, and with only the three hours a day they are home on school days they can make our house resemble tornado wreckage. Give them five full days and a mom too sick to get off the couch and referee, I guarantee, Hazmat would come if I called. Actually, Hazmat may not be enough.<br />
<br />
Since my most recent surgery, my husband of 13 years has kept our world running. In addition to his full time job, he is doing laundry, grocery shopping, shuttling to choir practice, homework checks, getting kids showered, making lunches, and is pretty much all around awesome.<br />
<br />
This week, his birthday week, my goal was to get the house cleaned up and ready for him since I knew he had a long day at work. Unfortunately, I felt way too awful to do any of it. That, plus the kids spring break activities, meant he walked into a disaster area last night after waking up at 5, skipping lunch, and working late.<br />
<br />
He came in, kissed me and the kids, and started to work. First the kitchen, knowing that dishes piling up in the sink drive me crazy. Then cleaning counters and the floor. Then on to the laundry, vacuuming, picking up toys, putting things away.<br />
<br />
I moved from the couch to the bedroom to lie down - a migraine now added on to the sinus pain - but mostly I needed to cover myself up from the guilt I felt watching my husband, who I knew was exhausted, cleaning our house.<br />
<br />
Out of unconditional love.<br />
<br />
As I lie in our bedroom with my eyes covered listening to him playing with the kids after working all day and then cleaning our house (and I was pretty sure he still hadn't eaten), I had this thought. Maybe unconditional love isn't so rare because it is hard to give. Maybe it is so rare because it is difficult to receive. <br /><br />When we receive unconditional love, we are telling that person that it is okay for them to do something for us or give something to us simply because we are who we are. And I don't know about you, but I know that deep down inside me I have major insecurities that scream out "I'm not worthy of anything from anyone" without me doing something for them in return. Because I know <i>exactly who I am.</i> I know <i>exactly what I've done </i>and <i>what I think</i>. I have to live with myself every minute of every day. And that girl that I know, she <i>doesn't really deserve for you </i>to unload the dishwasher without me at least making the bed for you in return.<br />
<br />
But that's the thing about unconditional love. Last night as Richie did something so wonderful for me and our family, I laid there in bed feeling incredibly guilty, which since it was an act of unconditional love, I shouldn't have. I should have rejoiced in it. I should have felt so blessed by this man that God has given me who loves me and serves me unconditionally. I did feel incredibly blessed, but I still had the guilt.<br />
<br />
And the guilt is because I am not okay with the woman in the mirror. And until I can truly look deep inside myself and accept that I am a flawed woman. That I am a woman that was born into sin, that has been saved by the grace of God and that his grace covers me, and therefor I am worthy of unconditional love, from my Father and from my husband. Until I can do that, I will never be able to fully receive unconditional love.<br />
<br />
Not from God.<br />
<br />
Not from Richie. <br />
<br />
And it's a shame, because Richie even cleans bathrooms. <br />
<br />
So I really need to work on this one.<br />
<br />
Because I hate cleaning bathrooms.Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13958595063617429849noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081134689701723233.post-81124203522947187382013-02-08T16:45:00.002-06:002013-02-08T16:45:31.715-06:00Waiting to Move a MountainI am the one percent.<br />
<br />
Not in a good way.<br />
<br />Not in the "I just won the Powerball," way. <br />
<br />
Not in the "She is definitely good enough to go to the WNBA," way.<br />
<br />
Sadly, not even in the, "Yes, I want to sign you to a recording contract. Here, I'd like you to meet Reba. You will be singing a duet with her at the CMA's," kind of way.<br />
<br />
I am the one percent of people for whom the pharmaceutical companies have to put the "<i>rare but call your doctor immediately if</i>" list of side effects on that pamphlet when you get your prescriptions. I'm am the one percent of people for whom doctors have to take a class in medical school called, "<i>you will probably never see this, but just in case you ever have a patient named Kristen Escovedo, here is a bunch of weird stuff you will need to know</i>." That title is wordy, I know. The short version is just <i>Vedo Weird Medical Stuff 1010</i>.<br />
<br />
I am <i>that</i> one percent. I'm the girl whose appendicitis didn't show up on three separate CAT scans. Whose surgeon says, "I've seen appendicitis that didn't show up on a CAT scan before, but I've never actually opened someone up, looked at an appendix and thought it was completely healthy, taken it out, and had it show up as appendicitis. That is a first."<br />
<br />
He clearly didn't take <i>Vedo Weird Medical Stuff 1010</i>.<br />
<br />
I'm the girl whose ovaries get fused together in the middle of her abdomen after a hysterectomy.<br />
<br />
I'm the girl who starts having contractions at 20 weeks for no apparent reason. Goes to the hospital 13 times, and every time has nurses and doctors just cock their head and say, "Umm, I'm not sure what's going on here."<br />
<br />
I'm <i>that</i> one percent.<br />
<br />
I'm the one percent of people who gets migraines five times a week (which isn't that uncommon) and doesn't respond to any of the migraine medicines (more uncommon). In fact, many of the migraine medicines make my migraines worse (there it is!).<br />
<br />
So after eight years of migraines and trying every possible combination of medications that dozens of doctors could possibly conceive of -- after a while, I think they just walk into the sample closet, close their eyes and grab random boxes-- I decided to go a different route -- I'm having surgery.<br />
<br />
First thought; I'm having my brain removed. There have been times during a migraine when I considered it, and believe it or not, in several countries they are doing surgeries for migraine relief where doctors remove a nerve in your brain. This gives you some insight to how desperate I am when I'm contemplating flying to Germany to have a nerve taken out of my brain to get a little relief.<br />
<br />
But no, this is a sinus surgery. It turns out, as with most things, I am in the small percentage of people whose passageways to the sinuses are virtually non-existent. A CAT scan of my sinuses revealed I have a deviated septum (not unusual). I also have very narrow passageways, (a little more unusual). As I looked at the CAT scan the doctor pointed out these two large "pods" that were blocking about 90% of my already deviated, narrow passageways. I said, "Are those little circle things that are blocking the way bigger on me than they are on normal people?"<br />
<br />
To which he replied, "Normal people don't have those."<br />
<br />
There it is.<br />
<br />
So, I am having surgery to open up the passageways to my sinuses in an effort to, you know, be able to breathe. <br />
<br />
The doctor has informed me that this is no silver bullet. It <i>might</i> help my migraines, because it will greatly reduce the constant sinus pressure I feel. Plus, it should help me be able to sleep, since I will be able to breathe for the first time in my life.<br />
<br />
But he isn't promising a miracle.<br />
<br />And that is what I've been telling myself since I scheduled the surgery three weeks ago.<br />
<br />Because I am the one percent.<br />
<br />And because I hate surgery.<br />
<br />
But then something happened this week. God showed me that I pray too small.<br />
<br />
Let me give you an example. For almost a decade, I've been praying (figuratively) for God to make a way for a friend of mine to navigate their way over a mountain. This week, God answered that prayer by picking up the the mountain and moving it. <br />
<br />
For the last month I've been praying that God would give Richie and me some direction in a particular situation. I've been trying to be quiet and listen for that still small voice. Yesterday he answered with a bullhorn.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://farm3.staticflickr.com/2773/4309800866_78bcccf9db_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://farm3.staticflickr.com/2773/4309800866_78bcccf9db_n.jpg" /></a>I pray too small.<br /><br />I forget how big God is.<br />
<br />
I forget that he made the world in six days. I forget that the wind and the waves obey his voice. That he holds the very universe in the palm of his hands. <br />
<br />
I forget that he can move the mountain.<br />
<br />
I forget that he can heal the migraines.<br />
<br />
Even for the one percent.<br />
<br />
<br />Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13958595063617429849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081134689701723233.post-70356051578768785432012-12-18T12:01:00.002-06:002012-12-18T12:01:19.307-06:00Waiting for It to Get EasierI didn't want to write this post. A lot of people with better thought out arguments or more researched opinions have already written this post. The news has shifted. Parents who held their children more tightly this weekend quickly pecked them on the cheek this morning as they fell back into the routine of packing lunches, checking backpacks for homework folders, and chastising kids for messy rooms making it impossible to find matching shoes, glasses, gloves, or scarves.<br />
<br />
Most of us are ready to move on with our lives.<br />
<br />
We are still sad.<br />
<br />
We are still angry.<br />
<br />
When we stop and think about the 26 people killed, more specifically, the 20 children killed, we can't help but be over come with emotion.<br />
<br />
So mostly, we are ready to stop thinking about it.<br />
<br />
And I didn't want to write this post.<br />
<br />
But here I am. Computer open. Typing. Maybe because the little four year old boy playing on the floor makes it impossible for me to forget that 20 families are staring at floors in their houses that are void of toys that just last week they were cursing about tripping over.<br />
<br />
Maybe it is because I spent 13 years working in school districts, writing crisis plans, and training school administrators what to do in case of various emergency situations. Like if a shooter enters the building.<br />
<br />
Maybe it's because I am one of those parents who held onto my children extra tight all weekend and then gave my daughter a quick peck on the cheek as I sent her off to her third-grade class this morning.<br />
<br />
Maybe it's because I keep hoping if I look at this in a different way, if I think of it from a different perspective, if I read enough blog posts, or see enough motivational pictures or scriptures, if I hug my children enough times, or if I just stop and mediate, it will get easier.<br />
<br />
Easier to understand. Easier to swallow. Easier to make sense of something so senseless. Easier to keep believing in a God who is good and who is big enough to stop someone from walking into an elementary school and shooting 26 people, 20 children, but who did not.<br />
<br />
It isn't getting easier.<br />
<br />
In fact, the more I look at it, the more I think about it, the more I stare at my four year old, the harder it is to understand. The harder it is to make sense of anything.<br />
<br />
The harder it is to believe.<br />
<br />
Weeks like this challenge my faith. They send me running to God screaming "Why?" and "How could you?" and "Where were you?" "CHILDREN!"<br />
<br />
Weeks like this leave me filled with disdain for some of my fellow man and grace and mercy for others. Weeks like this all of the sudden make me think of all of the other injustices in the world; places where children die due to lack of drinking water, genocide, AIDS. Most days I don't give any of these things a second thought. I flip past any news stories or specials, because come on, they are depressing. And they are oceans away and have no direct effect on my life.<br />
<br />
But this week, when I'm questioning everything that is good in the world, I question all of these things. <br />
<br />
And I question God.<br />
<br />
And I wait for a voice that sounds like James Earl Jones (because that is what I assume the voice of God sounds like), but the voice never comes.<br />
<br />
God doesn't tell me why.<br />
<br />
But He does remind me (in a whisper, not a JEJ voice), that He doesn't have to.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Job 38:4-18 (New Living Translation)</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="versetext" id="job38-4" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="versenum" style="font-weight: bold; margin: 0px 3px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;">4</span> "Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth? Tell me, if you know so much. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"></span><span class="versetext" id="job38-5" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="versenum" style="font-weight: bold; margin: 0px 3px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;">5</span> Do you know how its dimensions were determined and who did the surveying? </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"></span><span class="versetext" id="job38-6" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="versenum" style="font-weight: bold; margin: 0px 3px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;">6</span> What supports its foundations, and who laid its cornerstone </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"></span><span class="versetext" id="job38-7" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="versenum" style="font-weight: bold; margin: 0px 3px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;">7</span> as the morning stars sang together and all the angels <a href="" name="a"></a>shouted for joy? </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"></span><span class="versetext" id="job38-8" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="versenum" style="font-weight: bold; margin: 0px 3px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;">8</span> "Who defined the boundaries of the sea as it burst from the womb, </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"></span><span class="versetext" id="job38-9" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="versenum" style="font-weight: bold; margin: 0px 3px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;">9</span> and as I clothed it with clouds and thick darkness? </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"></span><span class="versetext" id="job38-10" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="versenum" style="font-weight: bold; margin: 0px 3px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;">10</span> For I locked it behind barred gates, limiting its shores. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"></span><span class="versetext" id="job38-11" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="versenum" style="font-weight: bold; margin: 0px 3px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;">11</span> I said, 'Thus far and no farther will you come. Here your proud waves must stop!' </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"></span><span class="versetext" id="job38-12" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="versenum" style="font-weight: bold; margin: 0px 3px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;">12</span>"Have you ever commanded the morning to appear and caused the dawn to rise in the east? </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"></span><span class="versetext" id="job38-13" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="versenum" style="font-weight: bold; margin: 0px 3px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;">13 </span>Have you ever told the daylight to spread to the ends of the earth, to bring an end to the night's wickedness? </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"></span><span class="versetext" id="job38-14" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="versenum" style="font-weight: bold; margin: 0px 3px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;">14</span> For the features of the earth take shape as the light approaches, and the dawn robed in red. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"></span><span class="versetext" id="job38-15" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="versenum" style="font-weight: bold; margin: 0px 3px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;">15</span> The light disturbs the haunts of the wicked, and it stops the arm that is raised in violence. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"></span><span class="versetext" id="job38-16" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="versenum" style="font-weight: bold; margin: 0px 3px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;">16</span> "Have you explored the springs from which the seas come? Have you walked about and explored their depths? </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"></span><span class="versetext" id="job38-17" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="versenum" style="font-weight: bold; margin: 0px 3px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;">17</span> Do you know where the gates of death are located? Have you seen the gates of utter gloom? </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"></span><span class="versetext" id="job38-18" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="versenum" style="font-weight: bold; margin: 0px 3px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;">18</span> Do you realize the extent of the earth? Tell me about it if you know!</span></span></blockquote>
I didn't really like His answer. I don't ever really like it when God reminds me that He is God and I am not. But it did remind me that even if I didn't like the answer, He was still God. He was still in control. He is still here.<br />
<br />
It reminded me of all the times when I was a little girl and other kids were mean to me. My dad would come home from work and I would climb up into his lap and tell him how awful my day was. Then, with tears in my eyes, I would tell him, "It just isn't fair daddy."<br />
<br />
And he would wrap his arms around me and say, "No, baby, it isn't."<br />
<br />
And that's exactly what I told God. "Someone walking into a school and shooting twenty-six people, twenty of them little children, God, it just isn't fair."<br />
<br />
And as He wraped His arms around me, I heard Him reply, "No it isn't, Kristen. No, it isn't."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/iOufqWodFNo?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13958595063617429849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081134689701723233.post-28671690790236207592012-12-06T22:11:00.001-06:002012-12-06T22:11:10.334-06:00Waiting for a Little More Crazy<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-biW7r9c99PA/UMFhwdfzcjI/AAAAAAAAARM/3rYNCCcE_z4/s1600/tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-biW7r9c99PA/UMFhwdfzcjI/AAAAAAAAARM/3rYNCCcE_z4/s320/tree.jpg" width="191" /></a>I've always loved <span style="color: #274e13;"><b>Christmas</b></span>.<br />
<br />More specifically, I've always loved <span style="color: #274e13;">Christmas trees</span>. Maybe it's because I'm from Montana and there we just call them trees. <br />
<br />
Many of my fondest memories of choosing a Christmas tree revolve around my brother, my dad and me <span style="color: #274e13;">wandering through a series of evergreen trees</span> while my we tried to come an agreement on a tree that not only Jason and I approved of, but that my dad, who apparently had better spacial sense than we did, figured would fit into our living room. This took some doing, as my brother and I are both perfectionists when it comes to choosing the perfect tree. There is a certain symmetry that must exist on at least three sides, along with a deep green color, and branches sturdy enough to hold lights (the <b><span style="color: #073763;">old fashioned giant</span> - <span style="color: #38761d;">one goes out</span>, <span style="color: #134f5c;">we all go</span> <span style="color: #0b5394;">out</span></b>- lights), garland, ornaments, and at least <span style="color: #7f6000;"><b>four boxes of tinsel</b></span>. Basically a tree had to be able to hold a family of giant possums on each and every branch to stand up to the kind of decorating it would be subject to at our house.<br />
<br />
The biggest argument came down to size. It went like this. We would find the perfect tree and my dad would (patiently) explain that our house did not have 35 foot ceilings, and as much as he would like to climb 28 feet up the tree to cut off the top seven feet, he was neither a lumberjack, nor crazy, and we were going to have to pick another tree. This usually went on for about two hours before we finally found one that was closer to twelve feet, which was still five feet to tall, but doable.<br />
<br />
I honestly didn't even know they made such a thing as <span style="color: #45818e;"><b>artificial trees</b></span> until I came to Texas to attend college. If I would have known most 95% of the state had <span style="color: #45818e;"><b>fake Christmas trees</b></span>, I probably would have ended up in <span style="color: #0c343d;"><b>Michigan.</b></span> As the years went on, I continued to defy the artificial tree racket in Texas and buy a real tree each year. But something happened to my <span style="color: #274e13;"><b>tree trimming tradition </b></span>the farther I got from home. I stopped stringing popcorn, and the garland disappeared completely. My ornaments became color coordinated, and I couldn't even tell you if they make tinsel anymore. My last semester of college, which happened to be the one year I lived by myself, I stood back and looked at my finished tree and thought it was the <span style="color: #4c1130;"><b>most beautiful tree I had ever seen</b></span>. Mind you, this was before <a href="https://www.facebook.com/index.php?stype=lo&lh=Ac80eHmgV1bnEl9m" target="_blank">Facebook</a>, before <a href="http://pinterest.com/" target="_blank">Pinterest</a>. I'm not even sure if <a href="http://www.marthastewart.com/" target="_blank">Martha Stewart</a> was a household name. But I had created this amazing tree, perfectly symmetrical, and not just the tree, but the placement of the ornaments. <span style="color: #4c1130;"><b>The colors and lights</b></span> (not the outside kind), were all coordinated and just stunning if I do say so myself. And I do.<br />
<br />
I <span style="color: #990000;"><b>loved</b></span> that tree.<br />
<br />
Then I got married.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><b>To a Texan</b></span>.<br />
<br />
A Texan who did not understand <span style="color: #990000;">my love</span> of real trees. Our first Christmas I had to make the dreaded call to my father telling him that....we had.... bought....an....artificial tree.<br />
<br />
To this day it is the only time my dad has hung up on me.<br />
<br />
But still, Richie and I made our metal and plastic tree as beautiful as you can make a, you know, metal and plastic tree. By that time, <span style="color: #38761d;"><b>adding ribbon to your tree had become in vogue</b></span> and someone made us an amazing bow to top the tree. We started a tradition of decorating our tree in a different theme each year, to reflect that year in our lives, or you know, just because. When <span style="color: #274e13;"><b>UNT</b></span> went to the <span style="color: #4c1130;"><b>New Orleans Bowl</b></span> the first year (oh, how long ago), we did a <b><span style="color: #4c1130;">Mardi Gras tree </span><span style="color: #274e13;">with masks and feathers</span></b>. The year our daughter was born the tree was <b>adorned in all <span style="color: #f4cccc;">pink</span></b>.<br />
<br />
And then something else happened.<br />
<br />
Our <span style="color: #ea9999;"><b>daughter</b></span> grew into a toddler.<br />
<br />
She wanted to help <b><span style="color: #274e13;">decorate the tree</span>.</b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: #990000;">My tree</span>.</b><br />
<br />
If you have small children or if you have ever seen a tree decorated by small children you know how it goes. First, you put up all of the ornaments that can break, which by this point are most of them, because you have been collecting all of these awesome ornaments for years. Then, you start handing the small child all of the unbreakable ornaments, which he or she proceeds to hang.<br />
<br />
On the same branch.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><b>Every single ornament.</b></span><br />
<br />
On the same branch.<br />
<br />
It doesn't matter if you encourage the child to move to the <span style="color: #274e13;"><b>other side of the tree</b></span>. It doesn't matter if you pick up the child and physically move the child to the <span style="color: #274e13;"><b>other side of the tree </b></span>or hold the child up so they can reach a high branch. It is as if the child is drawn to that one and only branch. So every ornament the child touches gets put on that branch.<br />
<br />
Interestingly, if you have two small children, they will both be attracted to the same branch. I'm not sure why this happens, but it is true. I have seen up to five children all hanging ornaments on the same branch.<br />
<br />I give props to <span style="color: #0b5394;"><b>artificial trees</b></span> on this point. Thanks to their titanium innards, their branches hold up to the barrage of ornaments much better than real trees. We have seen it go both ways, as Richie and I came to an agreement in order to save our marriage, which is I get a real tree every three years, or on years when I have a baby.<br />
<br />
Once you have children, not only are all of the ornaments bunched up on one branch, but the small children (we now have two), start bringing home "ornaments" they made at daycare, preschool, kindergarten, church, in the back yard, during nap, and anywhere else they have a hook, some paste, and some clay type substance. I think we have one that is made of used bubble gum and a paper clip that one of the kids tried to pass off as a shooting star.<br />
<br />
So as the kids started "helping" decorate the tree, I did what every proud and loving mother does; I waited until they went to sleep and <span style="color: #274e13;"><b>re-decorated it</b></span>. I re-distributed all of the ornaments, moving the less desirable ornaments to the lesser viewed side and using ribbon to hide some of the imperfections. The kids don't notice. The tree looks great.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #274e13;"><b>Everyone wins.</b></span><br />
<br />
This year is a <span style="color: #38761d;"><b>real tree</b></span> year in the Escovedo house (every third year - not a baby year) and to my credit, I let the kids pick it (with just a tad of guidance). And can I just say, it must be in their genes, because they picked an amazing tree. And they are getting the hang of decorating too. They are eight and four this year and I am to the point where I am starting to enjoy reminiscing as I look at the decorations made in kindergarten and <span style="color: #990000;"><b>Santa pictures</b></span> from prior years.<br />
<br />
As I sat last night with the Christmas lights on I looked at the tree and then down at our daughter my heart was so full as I said to her, "I think you did an awesome job. I really think this is our most beautiful tree yet. What do you think?"<br />
<br />
Long pause.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iUUtRrFdqLk/UMFhsQ6p9sI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/8lF78MTa3TM/s1600/ornament2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iUUtRrFdqLk/UMFhsQ6p9sI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/8lF78MTa3TM/s200/ornament2.jpg" width="119" /></a>"Anna, what do you think? Do you not like the tree?"<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><b>"It's not that I don't like it. I just think there is something missing mommy."</b></span><br />
<br />
"What? What is it? What do you think is missing? Does it need more lights? Ribbon?"<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><b>"Hmmmm... It just needs....I don't know. Well, it needs more <i>Ryan</i>. It needs <i>a little more crazy</i>. It just doesn't quite look like, well, <i>us</i>."</b></span><br />
<br />
As I looked at our beautiful, symmetrical, color coordinated tree, I realized she was <b>absolutely right</b>.<br />
<br />
<b>It didn't look like us. </b><br />
<br />
We are <b>not</b> symmetrical, nor <b>are we ever color coordinated</b>. We are, well, a <b>little more crazy</b>.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A4eyYWuHmUo/UMFisdAQ3SI/AAAAAAAAARU/EollHktzkI4/s1600/ornament1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A4eyYWuHmUo/UMFisdAQ3SI/AAAAAAAAARU/EollHktzkI4/s320/ornament1.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="191" /></a><br />
So tonight, she and Ryan got to work fixing the tree. Out came the<span style="color: #990000;"> </span><b><span style="color: #990000;">foam, scissors, tape</span>, </b>and<b> <span style="color: #990000;">markers</span></b>. I watched and they worked carefully <b><span style="color: #274e13;">putting together ornaments</span></b> that just a year ago I would have hidden in the back, but tonight I let them <span style="color: #274e13;"><b>proudly hang right in the front</b></span> where everyone would be sure to see them. <br />
<br />
Because thinking back on my <span style="color: #274e13;"><b>childhood Christmas trees</b></span>, the joy in my memories is not because they were perfect. <br />
<br />
It was because they had a <span style="color: #660000;"><b>little more Kristen</b></span>.<br />
<br />
They had a <span style="color: #274e13;"><b>little more crazy</b></span>.<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xYFRkTz78M0/UMFkDG5gdtI/AAAAAAAAARk/EsnuUs2JLQc/s1600/ornament3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="187" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xYFRkTz78M0/UMFkDG5gdtI/AAAAAAAAARk/EsnuUs2JLQc/s200/ornament3.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
I won't have imperfect trees forever, so you can bet your elves I am going to enjoy <span style="color: #bf9000;"><b>every bubble gum shooting star ornament</b></span> while I can.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #274e13;"><b>Turns out, they are priceless.</b></span>Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13958595063617429849noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081134689701723233.post-52564227405594473152012-09-16T23:55:00.005-05:002012-09-17T09:45:45.359-05:00Waiting to spout fangs<div><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Saturday morning, a miracle happened. After three and a half months of grueling Texas heat, a cold front blew through, bringing rain and temperatures cool enough for us to give our AC a much needed rest and open up the windows.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">As the cool air blew through the house, the kids played in the back yard squealing with delight, and I could almost taste fall. <br /><br />Right up until that invisible hammer grabbed what I can only assume was a tent stake or railroad tie and jammed it under my right eyelid and directly up into my brain.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And just like that, my perfect Saturday became a migraine Saturday. But unlike most migraine days, this one came with an amazing revelation. As a quickly wrapped a blanket around my head and ran for the back bedroom to shield my eyes from the hideous light of the day star I was all of the sudden struck with the similarities between people suffering from chronic migraines and vampires.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://englishemporium.files.wordpress.com/2011/06/vampire-fangs-w-red-lips-iclip.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="http://englishemporium.files.wordpress.com/2011/06/vampire-fangs-w-red-lips-iclip.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I realize comparison may seem like a stretch for some of you, so cut me some slack and hear me out. If you have never experienced a migraine or aren't closely related to someone with chronic migraines, this post probably isn't worth the next five minutes of your time. But, if you are like me and have 3-5 migraines a week, or if you are like my husband and have to live with someone with <a href="http://www.headaches.org/education/Headache_Topic_Sheets/Migraine" target="_blank">chronic migraines</a>, keep reading. If you have seen as many doctors as I have, you've probably heard stranger diagnoses.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Chronic Migraineurs Vs. Vampires </b></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><i>A completely non-scientific study completed while lying in a dark room after taking migraine medicine in the middle of a migraine. Results should in no way be substituted for actual advice from real doctors or real vampires.</i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><b>Sleeping Habits</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Both migraineurs and vampires prefer to sleep in dark, cold, quiet places. On most days, both creatures will shield their eyes from the sunlight at all costs. While they are sleeping, they prefer not to be disturbed. In fact, disturbing either a migraineur or a vampire while they have retreated to their dark, cold quiet place could very well unleash an unpleasant monster on the unsuspecting victim.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><b>Social Habits</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Both migraineurs and vampires tend to feel most at ease when they are around their own kind. I believe this to be true because it prevents them from having to make excuses for or lie about who they are. And every one around them understands that they may look fine at one minute and at the next they may disappear completely. Also, among their own kind, it isn't considered rude to back out of a commitment at the last minute due to unforeseen circumstances.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><b>Sensitivities</b> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">While the two creatures do not display sensitivities to the same items, both creatures can be completely disarmed by items that one would find quite simple to make or acquire. For instance, vampires are thought to be sensitive to garlic, holy water, crosses, and wooden stakes. Migraineurs, on the other hand, can be taken out of commission by the scent of perfume or a candle. Caffeine, chocolate, weather changes, artificial sweeteners, and the big one, red wine will also completely knock out a migraineur for as long as 48 hours.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><b>Looks</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Vampires are frozen at the age in which they were created, so some get to keep the good looks of the prime of their lives while others are stuck in a pre-pubesent body and still others would have been ready for the retirement home. But their bodies become perfect specimens of whatever their age.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I can only speak for myself, but I have had chronic migraines for 8 years and I look like I've aged about 20 years during that time. Many days I could pass for one of the undead - although probably more in the zombie than vampire category. So chalk one up for the vampires in the win column in this particular category.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><b>Lifestyle</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">If recent <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1099212/" target="_blank">teen movies</a> and <a href="http://annerice.com/Bookshelf-VampireChronicles.html" target="_blank">Ann Rice</a> books are to be believed, vampires have the option of leading a rather long and normal life (now that Abraham Lincoln is no longer tracking them). They do, however, have to continue the nasty habit of drinking blood in order to survive. And I am both ashamed and proud to admit I have not seen all of the Twilight movies, but I think they may have some type of werewolf issue to work out. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Migraines, on the other hand, are not life threatening, although they are, I content, life altering. This is especially true when they are chronic, which means you get more than a few headaches a week and your headaches prevent you from normal function. So, we too must partake in our own nasty habits, including regular doctor visits, trying new medications, as they are continually releasing new preventative and abortive medicines for migraine sufferers. There are also plenty holistic options out there including acupuncture (kinda vampiric), neuro-massage, and herbal therapy. Make sure you let your doctor know any new treatments that you start.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><b>Going back</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">There are a few books I've read and movies I've seen where <a href="http://annerice.com/Bookshelf-BodyThief.html" target="_blank">the vampire wants to become mortal again</a>. I've never met a migraineur who doesn't want to give up his or her migraines. And like their undead friends, most migraineurs will pay almost any price to get there. That is why we try any new drug, any new treatment, this herb that helped our cousin's hairdresser's friend, yoga, green tea, etc.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And if I ever meet some clear skinned, shiny eyed man who promises me my migraines will go away if I just drink a spoonful of a thick red substance, you better believe I would think twice about it*. And after you've had a tent stake pounded into your eye for 13 days, throwing up until your stomach is so raw you have nothing left to throw up, so you just lie on the bathroom floor waiting to die, you would think twice about it too.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Because getting rid of the migraines would be amazing.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">But having fangs. Now that would be epic.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">*<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Before all of my sweet Christian friends get angry, know that this post was written in good fun. I don't actually believe in vampires. I don't desire to become a vampire, and I am not teaching my children that they should wish that vampires would come make mommy's head feel better. This is my sense of humor, otherwise known as my coping mechanism. I think when God allows us a time of suffering, he also allows us a time of laughter. I've been sad long enough. Time to laugh.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13958595063617429849noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081134689701723233.post-49475493766710429492012-09-10T23:33:00.002-05:002012-09-11T11:07:02.161-05:00Waiting for God to Show Up<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eqzaJxU8Wbo/UE67DAQy1_I/AAAAAAAAAQc/k7sgC9WfV7Y/s1600/Desert+Landscape.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eqzaJxU8Wbo/UE67DAQy1_I/AAAAAAAAAQc/k7sgC9WfV7Y/s320/Desert+Landscape.jpg" width="320" /></a>I don't know the average times each person hits rock bottom during his or her life. For me, it's been just a handful. I would guess that is probably below average.<br />
<br />
The first time it happened I was 15. My first love broke up with me, and of course I was devastated. I survived it as well as any 15 year old survives heartbreak; a lot of Bon Jovi, raw cookie dough, and hours on the phone with my girlfriends (this was pre-text era).<br />
<br />
Two weeks later, he attempted suicide. He took a bottle of some kind of pills and put a knife through his stomach (the details were kind of fuzzy). All I knew was he was in the hospital and I couldn't see him. Oh yeah, and that my name was in the suicide note.<br />
<br />
I know sometimes people say in crisis situations time stands still. For me, days played out in fast forward. First seeing the school counselor, then a therapist my mom took me to, non stop headaches, constantly throwing up, seeing a doctor who thought perhaps I had a brain tumor so he ordered a CAT scan. Turns out it was just stress.Writing endlessly in the journal that I titled Suicide 101 (as suggested by the second therapist). Skipping class to sit in the band hall and cry. Then going home to cry more. <br />
<br />
Then one night, sitting in church (my dad being a pastor, I spent most of my nights in church), having absolutely no idea what had been sang or said, I just walked out. Our sanctuary was on the second floor and I walked down the stairs aiming for the biting January air. It was freezing, but at least I would feel something besides this pain and guilt that left me struggling to breathe. I got as far as the bottom star and completely collapsed. Exhausted from not sleeping, my body listless from lack of nourishment, drowning in guilt. And so angry. So I did what anyone filled with anger would do. I started yelling at God. "Why? What is the point of all of this? I have done nothing for the last 15 years but what I thought you wanted me to do. I have gone where you wanted me to go, stayed away from things I thought were wrong. I have shown compassion. Loved. I have believed in you. I have loved you. So why the hell is this happening? Where are you right now?"<br />
<br />
And then, God showed up.<br />
<br />
I couldn't see Him. No Charlton Heston voice filled my ears. In fact if any one would have walked down those stairs, all they would have seen is a 15 year old crying her eyes out. But all of the sudden I was crying in the arms of my Father. I had no answers. I had no miracle. But He showed up. And eventually I walked back up the stairs and into my life.<br />
<br />
The next time it happened was a few years after Richie and I got married, and we decided to try to start a family. We had an easy (and fun) time trying to get pregnant and it happened quickly. We were almost through our first trimester (12 weeks) when we went in for our first sonogram. As I lay on the table, I could see the doctor's cheerful disposition begin to change as she searched for our baby's heartbeat. She kept looking, but there was no use. She told us our baby had probably stopped growing at about eight weeks.<br />
<br />
But I hadn't had any symptoms of a miscarriage, I told her. I had no bleeding, no cramping. Nothing. This can't be right. She couldn't be right. I could see the baby on the screen. There had to be some mistake.<br />
<br />
But there was no mistake. There was no heartbeat. And we would have no baby.<br />
<br />
Rock bottom this time turned out to be our bathroom floor. The door locked with me sobbing hysterically and Richie on the other side pleading with me to open the door and come out. I told him I couldn't. I just knew that somehow I had killed our baby. Something I ate, something I didn't eat. An exercise I did or didn't do. Vitamins I took. The ones I didn't take. The cross country car trip. We had our sono too late. I wasn't sure how, but I was sure I killed our baby. And I was sure God let it happen. So I started yelling again. Where the hell was He? If He loved me, if He loved our baby, why did He let this happen? God if you are here, why don't you want me to be a mother? Why did you let my baby die? Why don't I even have the strength to get up off the floor?<br />
<br />
And just then, He showed up. <br />
<br />
He cried every tear with me there in that tiny bathroom. He assured me that my pain was neither in vain nor was it foreign to Him. He knew exactly what it was like to lose a son. His heart was breaking with mine, but He knew that I would survive this pain, no matter how deep and raw, because He would not let me fail. And eventually, He pulled me up off the bathroom floor and back into my life. <br />
<br />
My most recent visit to the bottom of the rock pile was last weekend starting with a trip to the Emergency Room. Surprisingly that was not my low point. The low point came almost a week later after an insurance mix up and some communication challenges with doctors and medication changes left me with nothing to treat my migraines. The combination of withdrawing from one kind of medication to start another, while at the same time catching a cold from the kids and constant nausea preventing me from eating for a week -- that wasn't even enough to knock me down (it gets harder to knock you down the more often you are there, I think).<br />
<br />
But at some point I realized, even when the insurance and doctors got it all straightened out, I would be right back where I started. It's like I'm patching a bullet hole with a band-aid. I am not getting better. I spent four days telling myself what a horrible mother and wife I am. How all of this must somehow by my fault. Well meaning friends and family often say things like, "Have you tried this herb?" or "Maybe you should cut out chocolate or try acupuncture?" And it isn't that I don't appreciate suggestions. It is just that what I hear them saying is "This is your fault," "This is your fault," "<b>This is all your fault</b>."<br />
<br />
This time, rock bottom looked like a lot like a bench. I decided to go for a walk Sunday night. However, since I hadn't eaten in four days, I only made it about a block and a half to the front of our neighborhood. Luckily there was a bench to sit on since that short walk left me feeling dizzy and nauseous. As I sat there, once more yelling at God (perhaps when I am at rock bottom, I find it necessary to yell in order to make sure He hears me). And then, I waited for Him to show up.<br />
<br />
He didn't.<br />
<br />
I walked back to the house in the throws of despair and drowning in self inflicted guilt ( See the pattern of guilt. Guilt from the suicide. Guilt from the miscarriage. Guilt from the health issues..) Maybe <i>this really</i> was all my fault. Maybe <i>I had</i> done something so wrong that God was no longer going to show up when I was desperate.<br />
<br />
I got home just in time for the kids to go to bed. Both claimed stomach aches, and I was too tired to argue, so I let them climb into bed with me. Their sweet little bodies pressed up to mine, soft even breaths, and the smell of pineapple shampoo still in their hair, I took a deep breath and wouldn't you know . . .<br />
<br />
God showed up.<br />
<br />
"My child," He whispered. "If you wouldn't have been so hurt all those years ago when your friend tried to take his life <i>you would be tempted </i>to take your own life when your physical pain gets unbearable. Instead, I know, without question, that no matter how much physical pain you face in this life, suicide is not an option for you because you understand the devastation it leaves on the other side. And these babies you're holding in your arms. The ones who bring you so much joy. The ones you would give your own life for. You never would have known them if their sibling hadn't come home to live with me until you join us someday.<br />
<br />
I am still here.<br />
<br />
I know you don't understand the trials.<br />
<br />
I know you are angry.<br />
<br />
And I know you wish your life was different.<br />
<br />
But there is work to be done here. And it can only be done <i>by you</i>. In <i>this time</i>. <i>Exactly</i> as you are."<br />
<br />
Wherever you are today. If you are on a high mountaintop or if you are standing (or lying face down like me) at rock bottom, God is there. I know some of you reading this don't even believe in God. That doesn't mean He isn't there. We are never going to understand suffering. Instead, we have to rely on God's character and believe it when He says, "<span class="text Jer-29-11" id="en-NIV-19647">For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the <span class="small-caps" style="font-variant: small-caps;">Lord</span>, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." Jer 29:11</span><br />
<br />
<span class="text Jer-29-11" id="en-NIV-19647">Keep waiting and I promise, He will show up. </span>Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13958595063617429849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081134689701723233.post-26244002602266930912012-08-27T18:29:00.002-05:002012-08-27T18:29:19.903-05:00Waiting for the first day of school<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TbbfdCC7K6k/UDv_bJMr2xI/AAAAAAAAAQI/PiJObx0N5A8/s1600/DSC00254.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TbbfdCC7K6k/UDv_bJMr2xI/AAAAAAAAAQI/PiJObx0N5A8/s200/DSC00254.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<div>
I love the first day of school. Always have. When I was a student I was always excited.<br />
<br />
As a administrator, I was always amazed.<br />
<br />
Most people think that all people who work in education get summers off. But really, it is one of the busiest times of the year.<br />
<br />
Administrators work to open new campuses or update older ones, debate the merits of standardized dress and bell schedules. New staff are hired and trained. Existing staff are trained. Computer systems are updated. Crisis plans re-written. We make sure we have processes in place to handle every new federal and state regulation.<br />
<br />
Sometimes it seemed like we will never be ready in time. I recall years when we were opening new campuses and two days before school started there were still construction fences and port-a-potties in the parking lot.<br />
<br />
One of my former superintendents always said, "Rain or shine, those kids are coming on the first day of school, and we will be ready."<br />
<br />
He was always right.<br />
<br />
There is a sort of standing joke amongst school PR pros that the goal of the first day of school is not to lose a kindergarten student. And I can assure you, if you watch the news tonight, some district out there lost one. Of course they didn't actually lose a student. A student got on the wrong bus, or rode home with a friend when he was supposed to walk. And the student was unaccounted for for about 30 minutes. <br />
<br />
It happens to at least one district in the area every year.<br />
<br />
And every year, the story you see on the 6 p.m. news on the first day of school is about the lost kindergarten student.<br />
<br />
So let me tell you the first day of school stories you won't hear on the news tonight.<br />
<br />
Over four million students showed up at one of the 1,265 Texas public school districts this morning. <br />
<br />
Hundreds of thousands of parents were late to work this morning because they took the time to walk their students to their classes indicating a promise of involvement in their student's education.<br />
<br />
Teachers, who have spent hundreds of dollars out of their own pocket and hundreds of hours of their own time preparing for today, welcomed every student with warm smiles and open arms.<br />
<br />
Principals who spent the entire summer carefully orchestrating class lists and master schedules had to completely redo their hard work because parents waited until the first day of school to register their kids. Instead of begrudging those parents, each student was welcomed to their new classes with the same affection as the kids whose parents registered last spring. <br />
<br />
Hundreds of thousands of students ate their first hot meal in months. Meals carefully planned and prepared in school cafeterias across the state.<br />
<br />
Students who don't speak English were welcomed by teachers who are trained especially to make sure each of these students is successful.<br />
<br />
Counselors, administrators, teachers and parents sat in conference rooms for hours crafting individual education plans to ensure the success of students with physical and learning challenges.<br />
<br />
Librarians opened students' eyes to the wonders of Shakespeare, Dickens, and Harry Potter.<br />
<br />
Senior citizens, business leaders, and community members signed up to mentor and tutor students who might need a little extra help.<br />
<br />
Thousands of students started, not only their first day of high school, but the first day of college classes, giving them the opportunity to graduate four years from now with a high school diploma <i>and</i> a college degree or certification.<br />
<br />
Fifth-grade students started projects that bring history, science, and math to life.<br />
<br />
Custodians made 50 year old campuses look brand new.<br />
<br />
Maintenance workers responded to calls about AC units, broken locks, and mosquitoes. <br />
<br />
The teachers who we always hear are "teaching to the test" spent their entire day, teaching <i>to their students</i>. <br />
<br />
Elementary principals spent half of their day consoling kindergarten students and the other half consoling kindergarten parents.<br />
<br />
High school bands prepared for competitions.<br />
<br />
Pep rallies were planned. For <i>academics</i> as well as athletics.<br />
<br />
High school counselors helped kids plan for college. <br />
So did middle school counselors.<br />
So did kindergarten teachers.<br />
<br />
At 9 p.m. tonight, thousands of teachers will just be leaving their
classrooms because they want to make sure tomorrow is as special as
today. <br />
<br />
Across the state today, something <i>amazing</i> happened. Over four million students, representing every ethnicity, religion, country, income level and ability level were excited about learning.<br />
<br />
Because parents, teachers, administrators, librarians, child nutrition workers, custodians, and bus drivers told them <i>they could learn</i>. And by learning, they could achieve their dream.<br />
<br />
And with that, hundreds of thousands of dreams were born, cultivated, and achieved.<br />
<br />
So when you hear about that kindergarten student who got on the wrong bus, take a minute and think about all the stories you didn't hear today.<br />
<br />
<i>And be amazed.</i><br />
<i> </i> <br />
2012-2013 is going to be fantastic. </div>
Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13958595063617429849noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081134689701723233.post-55742134690077096302012-08-21T10:54:00.001-05:002012-08-21T10:54:53.826-05:00Waiting for 57 more<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-n8CfnAnXd-c/UDOt8YOaJSI/AAAAAAAAAPk/FEyyXxQtZXk/s1600/wedding_kiss2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="136" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-n8CfnAnXd-c/UDOt8YOaJSI/AAAAAAAAAPk/FEyyXxQtZXk/s200/wedding_kiss2.jpg" width="200" /></a>I've made a lot of bad decisions in my life. But today I celebrate the one I got right. </div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
Today I celebrate the 13th anniversary of the day I promised to share my life with my best friend.</div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
That wast a great day.</div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
This one is even better.</div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
Today there is no white dress. No veil. No line of people with presents (although I'm not opposed to that). No buffet. No champagne toasts. Not even a cake.</div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
Instead there is laundry that needs to be put away. Bills that need to be paid. Bathrooms that need to be cleaned. Kids screaming at each other and occasionally at me. There is left over pizza. Kool-Aide. Rice Krispy Treats.</div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
But today there is 13 years of laughing at our own private jokes. 13 years of learning new things about each other. 13 years of bringing our two families together to make one. 13 years of arguments. 13 years of apologies. 13 years of forgiveness. 13 years of saying I love you every night. 13 years of saying I love you every morning. </div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
13 years ago, we promised to love each other through better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health. </div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
Over the past 13 years we have learned that while we might like the times when we are better and richer, and healthy, we learn more, love more, and cling to God and each other far more tightly when we are poor and sick. When things are worse, sometimes we are better.</div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-frYrgrf1X6o/UDOuPLlKMEI/AAAAAAAAAPs/tE9l7xP5-TI/s1600/s_4413.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-frYrgrf1X6o/UDOuPLlKMEI/AAAAAAAAAPs/tE9l7xP5-TI/s320/s_4413.jpg" width="213" /></a>I have learned that when I am impatient, Richie has enough patience for both of us.</div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
When I an weak, Richie is strong enough for both of us.</div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
When I lose faith, he shares his.</div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
When I want to give up, he takes my hand and refuses to let go. </div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
When I don't like the woman I see in the mirror, he wraps his arms around her and calls her beautiful. </div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
When I think I can't possibly love him any more, I see him dancing with our daughter, playing tickle monster with our son, or bringing home the groceries I didn't manage to buy.</div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
Our wedding day was perfect. </div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
But today is better. Because today I know that we keep the promises we made to each other. Today I know that I will never again be without a best friend, a confidant, a lover, an encourager, or a man who would gladly lay down his life for me. </div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
And as we celebrate 13 years of life together, I know he still has another 57 years before his contract is up for renegotiation. </div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
And I can't wait to see what I will know then.</div>
Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13958595063617429849noreply@blogger.com2