Thursday, August 27, 2009

Beginning band.

Philip and I were both "band geeks" in school, taking it all the way through graduation, and even taking multiple classes. I was always first chair and section leader for my flute section, playing all the solos and piccolo parts, and I took three different band classes during my senior year. I even taught lessons a couple years. Philip was a percussionist, and took two classes his senior year as well. We practically lived in the band hall - in fact, that's where we met our freshman year!

Last Tuesday, we attended a beginning band class orientation for A.J.'s grade. He's been excited about this for most of the summer, and we are definitely encouraging his enthusiasm. The students were asked to pick list three instruments they were most interested in, and then the band teacher would test them on all mouthpieces, consider their favorites, and send home a recommendation. The recommendation would be based on the strengths of the student, as well as the needs of the forming band class.

A.J.'s picks, in this order: 1) clarinet, 2) trombone, and 3) flute.

Now, my mama heart began flip-flopping at seeing his listed choices two weeks ago, and I wasn't sure how to handle things. You see, if he was truly interested in the clarinet or the flute, I didn't want to discourage him from choosing it. However, I didn't want to hype up either, thinking that he might be choosing the flute because he thought it would make me happy, or because we already have two of them (which wouldn't have mattered, as we'll be getting him a new instrument of his own anyhow, but he didn't know that). And the trombone? Well, Philip actually played that for a year before switching to percussion, and A.J. knew this, so I hoped that he wasn't picking it because he thought it was what his dad would want.

But... *quibbles* ... it's just how it is, but the flute/clarinet are generally perceived in school as "girly" instruments. At least, that was definitely the case in my schools in Texas, as well as our school in West Virginia - I can't be sure of anywhere else. There was one boy clarinet player I could remember, and cripes, he had so much fun made at him! My mama-bear instincts put up a guard the moment I saw "clarinet" on his paper.

Yes, I know that some of the world's most accomplished clarinet/flute players are men. I do. It has always irked me, as a flautist, that male players have so much more ease in playing, just by having longer fingers, and I'm sure the case is the same for clarinet players. But I also imagine that those same male players have suffered much ribbing, especially in their earlier years. And I was so nervous of how A.J. would handle the negative attention, should it occur.

At his orientation, he really perked up at seeing the baritone. He had never heard of, nor seen one, and he thought it was so much more interesting than the tuba. He still thought the trombone was pretty slick, and I was inwardly praying, "Go brass!" Not that playing a brass instrument is any easier, but because I know that A.J. doesn't have a tendency to let jokes "roll off his back," and I was so worried. While A.J. was checking out something else, Philip and I briefly discussed our concerns with his band teacher, and then left, hoping for... well, we weren't sure, really.

Over the next few class days, the band teacher tested all of the students. Today, she sent home recommendations, and we are now to begin shopping for an instrument. On A.J.'s paper?

"CLARINET"

I have been enthusiastic for him, and he is just elated to have received a recommendation for, "my first choice, Mom!" Oh, but my tummy is doing cartwheels, and my heart prays that he won't have additional challenges because of his instrument choice, but that if he does, he grows to effectively handle them. Music has been such an important part of my life, and playing an instrument has been a great joy...

I wish for that for my sweet A.J. in his new adventure.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

A Love Story Remembered.

I receive a paper newsletter from Focus on the Family. I find valuable insights for my heart, soul, and mind inside each month, but the issue from June touched me so deeply that I am still remembering it over two months later, thinking of the 'story' each day.

And I really want to share this beautiful love story. I realize that not everyone in my friends' list holds the same beliefs that I do, so I will put the long entry behind a cut. Originally, I was going to type this out myself from my paper newsletter, but when I set forth just now to do so, I found an exact online article already existed. Still, I will put it here for myself, too.

This is a love story. It is Christian, but it is, ultimately, a tale of undying love.



A Love Story Remembered


by James C. Dobson

June 2009

Dear Friends,

The Rodgers & Hammerstein musical "Oklahoma!" includes a song that asserts "June is busting out all over." Indeed it is. This is the month celebrated in Western nations as a time for love and marriage. It seems appropriate, therefore, that I share my favorite romantic story with you in what I believe to be the 350th monthly edition of my letter, going back to 1978. I think you will be touched by what you are about to read.

The year was 1934. A beautiful, young girl named Myrtle was being courted by a struggling artist who had just graduated at the top of his class from the Art Institute of Pittsburgh. He had come home again to pursue his hopes and dreams. Unfortunately, the Great Depression was underway in the United States and in most countries around the world. It was a scary time in American history, when huge numbers of people were out of work. Businesses failed, banks closed, and opportunities were few and far between. (Sound familiar?)

Jimmie was one of the millions of Americans who couldn't find a job of any type — much less one in his chosen profession. He was finally hired at a Texaco service station out on the edge of town where cars rarely came. It was his job to pump gas and wipe windshields. He earned one dollar per day. It was a humbling experience for a man who wanted to be another Leonardo da Vinci.

What was more distressing to Jimmie was his unrequited love for Myrtle. He couldn't seem to get anywhere with her. She toyed with him and treated him badly. One night when they were together at her parents' house, Myrtle was especially insulting. Jimmie was a proud man and he had finally had enough. He stared at her for a moment and then quietly got up and walked out the door without saying goodbye. It was over and they both knew it. Destiny hung in the balance that night.

Jimmie later recalled that when he was about a block away, he heard the patter of bare feet approaching from behind. Myrtle had experienced a sudden change of heart, and she was running after him. She would adore this sensitive, lanky (6-foot-4-inch) man for the rest of her life, and when he died many years later, she literally grieved herself to death. But I am getting ahead of my story.

Jimmie and Myrtle soon began talking about marriage, which seemed impossible. He hardly made enough money to feed himself, much less support a wife, and they certainly could not afford to rent an apartment. Finally, the couple decided to marry secretly and continue living with their respective parents. For three months, they maintained the charade. Not a soul knew they were husband and wife — that is, not until Jimmie was at Myrtle's parents' house late one evening, sitting together in the living room.

Everyone else in the house was asleep except for Myrtle's elderly father, who was worrying about the chastity of his pretty daughter. He sneaked out the back door and crawled onto a fence to see what was going on in the living room. There was nothing much happening by today's standards, but Rev. Dillingham was so shocked by what he saw, he nearly fell off the fence. It must have been a hilarious scene, with the old man wobbling there and witnessing what he imagined was leading to his worst nightmare. He came tearing through the front door to confront Jimmie, who informed the good Reverend that his daughter was now Jimmie's wife. Rev. Dillingham was over 70 years of age at the time, and the two severe shocks he received that evening could have been fatal. It wasn't long, however, before Myrtle's family embraced her husband as a son. Soon after, Jimmie became manager of the Texaco station, and he and his new bride were able to rent their first little apartment and begin married life together.

Have you guessed by now that James C. Dobson Sr. and Myrtle Georgia Dillingham were my father and mother? I came along two years later. I was born by cesarean section, and my mother was advised not to risk another pregnancy. That is why I was an only child. But if you think that was a liability, look how great I turned out!



The most serious problem that my parents faced in their early marital life was spiritual in nature. They had both been raised in Christian homes but weren't living out their faith. In fact, my dad had a secret that he had not shared with his wife.

He was fighting a call to the ministry. He had wanted to be an artist since he was 3, and that ambition had became a god to him. Then one day as he walked along a street during his 16th year, he seemed to hear the Lord speaking to him. It was not an audible voice, of course. But deep within his soul he knew the Almighty had addressed him. It was a simple message that conveyed this thought: "I want you to set aside your great desire to be an artist and prepare for a life of service in the ministry."

My father was terrified by the experience. He replied, "No! No, Lord. You know I have my plans all made. I want to be an artist."

He quickly argued down the impression and convinced himself that his mind had deceived him. But when he got it all resolved and laid to rest, the urge would reappear. Month after month, the nagging thought reverberated in his mind that God was asking — no, demanding — that he abandon his dream and become a preacher. It proved to be one of the greatest struggles of his life, but he shared it with no one.

For two years this inner battle went on. Then toward the end of his senior year in high school, the time came for him to select a college to attend in the fall. His father told him to pick out any school in the country and he would send him there. But what was he to do? If he yielded to the voice within, he would have to attend a college that would prepare him for the ministry. But if he followed his dream, he would go to art school. Would he obey God, or would he have his own way? It was a terrible dilemma.

One morning a few weeks before graduation, he got out of bed to prepare for school. But the minute his feet touched the floor, my father heard the voice again. It was as if the Lord said, "Today you will have to make up your mind." He wrestled with that issue all day at school. After his last class in mid-afternoon, he came home to an empty house. He paced back and forth in the living room, praying and struggling with this unrelenting demand of God. Then he suddenly turned his face upward and said, "It's too great a price, and I won't pay it!"

My dad had his way, and instead of going to seminary, he enrolled in the Art Institute of Pittsburgh. On graduation day, his paintings were on display with a large banner marked "No. 1" draped over them. As he walked down the aisle to receive that award, the Scripture rang in his head, "Except the Lord build a house, they labour in vain that build it" (Psalm 127:1, KJV).

For seven years, my dad lived in spiritual rebellion before reluctantly attending a revival service at their church. He and the family arrived late, and every seat was taken except those on the front row. As they traipsed in, a woman was singing a song that touched my dad's heart. Instantly, he yielded to the call.

Then the Lord seemed to say, "Son, are we going to do business again?"

My dad said, "Yes, I want Your will in my life."

The Lord spoke again. He said, "Then we'll pick up where we were on that afternoon in the living room."

My dad said through his tears, "Yes, Lord."

From that moment forward, my dad was absolutely committed to the Gospel of Jesus Christ. It carried him through all the trials and challenges of the years to come. The wonderful thing is that after my father accepted the call, the Lord gave him back his art, and for the rest of his life, he used his talent in the ministry. You can see some of his paintings in a gallery located at Focus on the Family when you visit our campus.

Here is the most incredible part of the story. Right at that moment when my dad had been desperate for a career break, the president of the Art Institute of Pittsburgh wrote him a letter and offered him a job as an instructor at the unbelievable salary of $300 per month. It was precisely what he had dreamed about since childhood. But somehow that letter became misplaced on the president's desk. The man later found and mailed it with another note saying he had wondered why my dad hadn't even done him the courtesy of responding to his offer. But by the time the second letter came, my father had grown sick of his lofty dreams and was committed irreversibly to the call of God. If he had received that letter, I would not be writing to you today.

But what about my mother? How did she receive the news that the ground had shifted beneath her? Well, she had her own little spiritual rebellion. She brazenly told the Lord there were three things she would never do. One of them was to marry a preacher. Actually, she wound up doing all three, although, technically, she married an artist. It was quite a jolt to find out that her husband was going to be a minister, and she was to be the preacher's wife. So much for dreams of marrying another Michelangelo. Once she accepted that reality and made her own peace with God, she never questioned it again. Mom served alongside Dad until the day he died, and I never heard her utter a word of complaint about it.

This couple remained devoted to each other until the tragic day of his death 43 years later. Throughout those four decades, my mom, whom Dad called Myrt or Myr-teel, built her entire life around this one man. And he treated her like a queen. He also taught me how a man should love and respect his wife. I saw their relationship "up close and personal," where it is impossible to hide the truth. What they had together was pure gold.

After committing themselves to the ministry, my parents quickly embarked on this new journey as a lowly, inexperienced pastor and his wife, a new mother, in a small, struggling Nazarene church in Sulphur Springs, Texas. It was an inauspicious beginning. I learned just how difficult their lives were from some old financial papers and various writings that I found after my mother died in 1988.



Sulphur Springs was still locked in the Depression, and many of the surrounding farms didn't even have electricity. The church consisted of 10 members, which my dad said wouldn't have been so discouraging if they had not always been the same 10! No one had any money to spare. My father received 55 cents after preaching his first sermon, and averaged $8 per Sunday for the next 52 weeks. He led 18 people into a personal relationship with Jesus Christ during those 12 months, which thrilled him. He was paid $1 for presiding over his first funeral. Dad earned a total of $492.82 during that initial year in the ministry and, remarkably, gave $352 back to the church. He and my mother lived on a small inheritance that came to them after my grandfather died in 1935. Throughout their lives together, they would give more than they could afford to the cause of Christ, and were an easy touch for anyone who appeared to be more needy than they.

What a godly man my father was. One of his dear friends was a man named Noble Hathaway. He was 16 years old when my dad went out to a dirt-poor farm where Noble and his parents were trying to hack out a living. My father knocked on the door, was invited in, and soon introduced this humble family to the claims of Christ. Every one of them became believers. Noble stuttered so badly that he could hardly talk, and yet the Lord called him to preach. He and my dad served together as best friends in ministry for many years.

Noble came to visit Shirley and me after my parents were gone, and he told us wonderful stories about them during that first pastorate. He indicated that Dad was known in the little town of Sulphur Springs as "the man with no leather on the toes of his shoes." It was true. He wore out the toes before the soles, because he spent so much time on his knees in prayer. At 24 years of age, he felt totally inadequate to lead his flock unless he spent many hours every day in prayer. The Lord must have been listening, because He blessed my father's ministry abundantly. The church in Sulphur Springs had grown to a congregation of 250 four years later, before my family moved on. I was towed along behind.

Time and space do not permit me to tell the entire story of the intervening years, except to say that the love affair between these two devoted people continued uninterrupted for more than four decades. But all too quickly, it ended. There, within my mother's diary, we found her account of my father's last full day on earth. He had suffered a massive heart attack 80 days before, but seemed to be recovering. He had recently been released from the hospital and was enjoying life to the fullest. Nevertheless, Mom lived in terror that her husband would suddenly be taken from her. She would not let him out of her sight for fear he would be stricken again. He chafed a bit under this scrutiny, but usually yielded to his wife's anxieties. This is what she wrote to the memory of her husband exactly 12 months after his death.



My precious darling. One year ago today you spent your last day on this earth. One year ago we spent our last night together. I have recalled our concluding activities throughout this day. You wanted to go to the shopping center to take your daily walk, although I thought you really wanted to look at the fishing rods. We window-shopped for a while, and then you said, "Myrtle, you have to let go of me. Let me be free to go in and out of stores by myself . . . just to wander about free and alone." I took your arm and said, "Go where you want, but let me go with you. Just let me walk beside you." You shrugged and allowed me to tag along for a while. For nearly three months I had been with you constantly. I seemed to know that you were to be taken from me suddenly, and I wanted to be there —perchance I could do something to keep you alive. But a few minutes later you said, "Look down this long mall. You can see to its end. I want to walk down there and back again."

With that, I relented. But wouldn't you know, you took an escalator to one of the upper floors of the mall, removing you from my line of sight. Frantically, I finally found you coming toward me with a grin on your face. You took me to a furniture store on the third floor and showed me a new chair that you had selected for my Christmas gift. It was your last day. Your last big fling.


The following afternoon my father suddenly crossed the chilly waters of death. This is how Mother described his passing:

On Sunday, December 4, 1977, you dressed early and then went downstairs to sit in your chair. I spent the morning upstairs. I wonder what you did those two hours. I know you read your Bible . . . what else? If I'd come down, you would have talked to me about it. Later we went to Bud's house [their nephew] in Kansas City. You looked so handsome in your sports coat and beige slacks. I sat saying nothing, just watching you manipulate your long arms, legs and body. You held the baby . . . not too gracefully . . . since it was never easy for you to hold an infant. At the table, you sat by me and told a funny story about us. You prayed, and then gently, quietly, leaned toward me. Then your head and arm touched the table. They laid you on the floor. Bud breathed for you. He said you smiled once . . . your only sign of life.

What did you see? Where did you go? My only comfort is that your last act on this earth was to lean toward me. You had said in the past, "When I'm sick I know you'll do everything possible to make me well. You'll know what to do . . . who to call." I know I kept you alive again and again. But, my darling, I couldn't save you this time. You went so quickly. I wanted to be near you, but they wouldn't let me. Others were trying to save you . . . but you slipped away.


The years that followed were marked by indescribable grief and loneliness for my dear mother. She simply could not cope with his passing. Her writings during those painful years are devastating to read today. I sat on the floor after her passing and wept as I read and comprehended, perhaps for the first time, the depths of her love and the agony of her loss. These are her words:

One day I realized that he did not exist anymore. His name was removed from the church register. The bank took his name off our checks. Our home address was rewritten to include only my name. His driver's license was invalidated. He was no more. Then I recognized that my name had changed, too. I had been proud to be Mrs. James C. Dobson Sr. Now I was simply Myrtle Dobson. I was not "we" any longer. I became me or I. And I am alone. He was my high priest. Inside I'm broken, sad, stunned, alone. My house has lost its soul. He is not here!


Shortly thereafter, some disturbing physical symptoms appeared that resulted in a five-day stint in the hospital as a medical team searched for a diagnosis. Two physicians then visited her bedside to say, "It's not your physical ailments that are destroying you, Mrs. Dobson. It's your grief and sorrow. And they will kill you if you cannot release them." She couldn't do it. She never did. She loved too deeply, and her life was too entwined with her man to ever extricate herself from his memory. Soon, she would be diagnosed with Parkinson's disease, followed by a long, slow decline.

Some would see a contradiction between Mom's inability to harmonize her dependence on God with her emotional and romantic needs. I do not. God was the author of my mother's love for my father, and He melded the two of them into "one flesh."

I do not believe the Lord blamed her for those deep longings for my dad and the life they had shared together. Remember that Adam enjoyed the company of the Creator in the cool of the day, yet God pronounced his situation "not good" and crafted a human companion to meet his needs. In Mom's case, she called her specially designed companion "Jimmie."

My mother's writings continued throughout the long months, including this note I found on a simple yellow pad:

People have told me the first year was the hardest. It's been one year and three days since you died, and tonight I am frantic with longing for you. Oh, dear God. It's more than I can bear. The sobs make my heart skip beats. I cannot see the paper. My head throbs. The house is lonely and still. Visions of you have been as real as if you were here and had not left me. Today, I thanked God for letting an angel watch over me. But how desperately I missed you!

It is very cold outside. Last night a sleet storm covered the earth with ice and then froze into a solid crust. The streets are slippery and dangerous. I hate it. It makes me feel blue, frightened and alone. I dread the winter to follow. It will last for three more months.

I moved into the smaller bedroom today. I wish you were here to share that room with me. There are precious memories there. When I was ill four years ago, you prayed for me in that bedroom during the midnight hours. You lay on the floor, agonizing in prayer for me. We both knew the Spirit was praying through you. Later, the Lord led us to a doctor who helped me find my way back to health. Oh, how I loved you. I love your memory today.

Benji [my father's little terrier] misses you, too. He sits on the bed with ears pointed upward. His eyes are fixed on the stairs. Sometimes he growls. Sometimes he barks loudly. Sometimes he walks to the head of the stairs and stands motionless, as if he expected someone. He is puzzled by your absence.




In 1980, my mother moved to Pasadena, Calif., to be near Shirley, the kids and me. She found solace in the Bible in those years and seemed to struggle to her feet, momentarily. For example, she wrote in her diary on December 10, 1980, that the Lord had given her a Scripture in the middle of the night. One of the verses she loved was as follows:

I tell you the truth, you will weep and mourn while the world rejoices. You will grieve, but your grief will turn to joy. A woman giving birth to a child has pain because her time has come; but when her baby is born she forgets the anguish because of her joy that a child is born into the world. So with you: Now is your time of grief, but I will see you again and you will rejoice, and no one will take away your joy (John 16:20-22, NIV).


My mother obviously held tightly to these promises of God throughout her final years of struggle, especially those relating to eternal life. They are precious to me, too.

Because of those promises of life beyond the grave, my parents' love song did not end in tragedy. It concluded with a shout of victory. The wretched disease that held my mother captive soon lost its paralyzing grip on her mind and body. The tubes and bandages and medications fell aside, and she was swept into the loving arms of the Savior. You can be sure my father was there to meet her on that day, too. I know he embraced her in one of the great reunions of all time. And they will be forever with the Lord!

Now, why have I told you about my parents' great love for one another? It is because on June 13th of this year, they would have celebrated their 75th wedding anniversary, had they survived. How I wish that could have been possible. From another perspective, however, I think they celebrated the occasion anyway in the Great Beyond. They are no longer experiencing suffering, or tears, or disease, or pain, or loneliness, or grief, or separation, or death. Their spirits are free, never again to be shackled in a fallen world. The beauty and grandeur that they are enjoying today cannot be expressed in human terms.

My parents are waiting now for the arrival of the rest of our little family on Resurrection Morning. We will be there. I promise you that. We will be there.

Do I, you might ask, really believe in this "hope of glory" beyond the grave for those who have been covered by the blood of the Lamb? You can be certain that I do — with every fiber of my being. I have banked everything of value to me on the certainty of that promise. Isaiah laid it out for us in unmistakable terms: "Your dead will live; their bodies will rise. Awake and sing, you who dwell in the dust! For you will be covered with the morning dew, and the earth will bring forth the departed spirits" (Isaiah 26:19, HCB). What a magnificent promise for us all.

I draw comfort today from the fact that I closed out my years with my mother and father with no regrets nor bad memories to be suppressed. There were no bitter words, no wounded pride, nothing for which to apologize or seek forgiveness. Nothing transpired between us but mutual love and appreciation. How sweet is their "presence" in my mind.

It was my pleasure to share "a love story remembered" with you this month. I will admit that I was very emotional when writing this letter, because of the precious memories it evoked. Perhaps you found it relevant to your own family as well, whether regarding your parents or another loved one. I chose to write about this true story in hopes that it would help inspire greater commitment and devotion within marriages. Marital harmony is still possible today, even when a man and woman come together as imperfect individuals. Genesis 2:24 tells us that it is God's plan for a man to leave his father and mother, and to be joined to his wife as "one flesh." I know there are those of you reading these words who are struggling to make that union a reality, but I urge you to give it priority. If you and your spouse are having those difficulties, I pray that you will find divine healing from the Creator of families.

Blessings to you and yours. May your own love story be one that your children will remember tenderly.



James C. Dobson

(online article found here)

Monday, August 24, 2009

Montana dumplings.

I've had chicken, veggies, and gravy simmering in the crockpot all day, and it smells so delish! I'm fixin' to add the dumplings in just a few more minutes. Yummy dinner in an hour!

Meanwhile, I have to take a moment to confess how much I really do love Hannah Montana, the Movie. And the TV show, but especially the movie. I'm a sucker for Disney channel shows, and this one is no exception. No, I'm not in love with Miley Cyrus, but I do love the character on her show, and I love all of her amusing counterparts as well.

I watched the movie myself last night, but the boys have been watching it this afternoon. It'll wrap up just in time for dinner, but I'll probably have "Boom-de-clap-de-clap" stuck in my head for hours afterward. ;-)

Saturday, August 22, 2009

MCR = FTW!

Once again, Coca-Cola Rewards are awesome, and I'm so appreciative of all the folks who contribute to our collecting!

Last week, I was entering a Sprite® code. Now, I have no way of knowing whether that particular cap is from a bottle we drank, from my neighbor, or from a kind soul that [info]mostcurious might know (ll codes that are currently in my 'to-be-entered' stash), but I entered it just the same.

And won an instant prize - a $50 online VISA gift card!

I had held onto this prize for a little while, wondering how best to use it. The only caveat with a prize gift card is that when you use it online, you have to be very careful not to go over the amount ($50), or the transaction will be declined. So I pondered it and kept it stashed.

Last weekend, I cleaned out Jack's closet, removing a 28-gallon tub of clothes he had outgrown and giving it away. It took hours for him to try on every stitch of clothing, and I wasn't able to then do the same cleaning-out ritual with A.J. in his room before bedtime. But we worked on it for a few hours today, and we got his closets squared away as well. I had been back-to-school shopping two weekends ago, and I had bought almost three times as many clothes for A.J. as Jack (because they are both August babes, and Jack is able to wear all of A.J.'s hand-me-downs in the appropriate seasons), but even still - once his closet was cleaned out of too-small clothes, he was left with a gap in his fall/winter selection.

11 long-sleeved shirts/hoodies, as well as one dressier sweater (for church or school concerts)... and that's it - yikes! He was also very sad about having to pass on some of his beloved shirts, but I promised him that we would go shopping soon just for him, to 'beef up' his warmer gear.

*enter online VISA gift card*

Just a bit ago, in decluttering my desk, I had an idea: why not use the card for a few more shirts for A.J.? So I went online, did some shopping, and in about five days, A.J. will now have a box arriving with five more shirts (three henleys & two hoodies). And the total transaction was $46.92 - not too shabby!

I don't feel bad about wasting/losing that little bit online, and A.J.'s closet will be in better shape. WIN!

ETA: Even better, I just used up a bit more on LJ Virtual Gifts. Now I can toss the paper, knowing that I'm only missing out on 13 cents from the original $50. :-)
I have an intense headache. :-(

Thursday, August 20, 2009

*bubbles*

I believe I'll go take a bubble bath now, thanks.

You can only handle so much excitement, you know.

This morning, Philip took the boys to school on his way to work. I wasn't scheduled until 11am, so it was my one chance to sleep in. I took it.

Until 10am, that is. Then my cell phone rang, and it was the store, needing help with the daily bookwork. *sigh* So I got up, got ready, and popped in early to straighten things out.

It was a mild lunch. We had stormy weather for a bit of it, and the rushes are always down in those conditions.

Once getting home, I changed into jammies again. I'm just feeling... off, somehow. Philip was already home by that point, and I lounged in the recliner chair in the living room. He picked the boys up, and then we all watched the Disney channel for a bit. I dozed a while, then finally moved to the bedroom for a more proper nap.

Philip woke me at 7:30, wondering what to make for dinner. *sigh* By the time I had gotten up to pee and wandered to the kitchen, he was making fish sticks and fillets. If I'd left things alone, that probably would've been it, too (balanced meal?), but I jumped in, adding cut-up tomatoes, lima beans, corn, and broccoli cheddar pasta to the plates.

Now it's bedtime for the boys, and I'm still kinda tired. And that, my friends, is my exciting day for today.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

The Mustache Men.

We babysat Catherine and John on Friday evening for a little. When Heather and Shane came to pick them up, we gathered up their belongings, said our goodbyes, and off they went to load up in their car. At that exact same time, Philip had stopped by the house on his security patrol, and after popping inside, he walked to the front door and asked me, "Why is there a mustache on the ceiling?"

...

... excuse me?!

...

I'm sure my bewildered look instantly told him that I didn't have the faintest idea what he was talking about, so he led me into the dining room, pointing up at the jamb between that room and the kitchen. First, I almost jumped - it looked like there was a gigantic black caterpillar hanging above my head. But Philip reached up and pulled the sticky mustache off, and then we walked to the door and out to the driveway just in time to catch Heather and Shane as they were about to leave. Philip yelled, "Shane, you forgot your mustache!" and the two of them began laughing. I guess Shane had hidden it, and was curious to see how long it might take us to find. (If it had been just me, probably a loooooong time!)

And then the boys wanted to play with it for a while, each modeling the new mustache. It was hilarious, and I had to take a few pictures. :-D


Mustache Men - A.J.

Mustache Men - Philip Mustache Men - Jack
The Mustache Men.


Later, on A.J.'s way to bed, he kissed me goodnight, then piped up, "Oh, Mom, I put your Coke in the office on the desk for you, too." We'd all been watching the Disney channel together in the living room, but I usually do get on the computer once they're in bed and Philip's gone, so it was a kind, thoughtful move on his part. I put him to bed, followed by Jack, and then I got comfy in my office chair. Probably ten minutes later, I reached over for my can of Coke...

... AND JUMPED AND SCREAMED! That little twerp, he had wrapped the fuzzy mustache around my can, and I hadn't noticed! He came running from his bedroom, and I was laughing by then. I explained that he had gotten me GOOD, and then he was laughing so hard he was on all fours! He said Jack had known about the prank too, but by that time, Jack was far into snooze-ville already.

Oh, that mustache. :-}

F...

As if I needed another time-suck, I've found one that's just hysterical. No thanks to [info]welfy for this link, as I'll never get caught up with anything now. ;-)

F My Life

Hilarious!

Knitty love!

Look what was waiting for me in a box from [info]mostcurious when we returned from vacation:

Goodies from Catherine waiting for me at home


She sent me a ton more Coke codes, another little collectible bear-in-tin, and handmade knitted socks in 'Slytherin' yarn - how cool! And the socks were a perfect fit and are so soft and warm. I'm wearing them right now, in fact. ;-)

Handmade, knitted socks from Catherine.
SOCKS!


Seriously though... don't my feet look just so happy? :-)

Cheesecake and brownies and salad, oh my!

It's college season, and that means that several of our peeps at work are heading off for the year. It's my tradition to make a special dessert for anyone leaving, and last week I took in both Patric and Chad's requests.

Chad wanted cheesecake, and that's easy. It feels like I make those all the time. My springform pan is really starting to fritz though (it won't hinge-lock, therefore it's not a tight seal), and while it was baking, I called up my Pampered Chef® consultant and ordered a new one. I made two cheesecakes, and I gave 1.5 of them away, saving just three pieces for us (Philip doesn't like cheesecake). Chad received half of a cheesecake, and it was a TON on the plate. And even though I cut the cakes into eight pieces, they were still too large and too rich to eat in just one sitting - eep! Chad yummed his cheesecake up with strawberry topping, but I like mine plain, thank you.


Classic Cheesecake.


Patric requested Brownie Cookies, which I'd never heard of before. I feared that he would only enjoy a family recipe - "Gram's Trusty Brownie Cookie" - or something of that ilk, but he promised me that anything I came up with would be wonderful and appreciated. So I set about researching recipes. In the end, I settled on a super-rich recipe: Double Fudge Brownies, and then I added three types of chocolate - Hershey's® Special Dark™ (one of those really large bars), a tin of Godiva® Dark Chocolate Pearls™ (about the size of my palm), and NestlĂ©® Semi-Sweet Chocolate Chips (half a bag). The batter was very thick to work with, and when I scooped out the dough, it looked like I was serving up chocolate ice cream!

Close-up of the scoops.
Close-up of the scoops.


And the final result, which the author suggests pairing with an ice-cold glass of milk:

Brownie Cookies.
Brownie Cookies.


I also made up a batch of Snickers® Apple Salad for Allison. It wasn't her last day, but I have a ton of leftover Snickers bits, and it's so easy to make. I ate a small serving of it, and Philip liked it enough for two bowls' worth, and then I took the rest to work for her to have. I believe she claimed her tastebuds were dancing. ;-)

And now Dan has requested me to make Butterfinger Brownies for him, and also a girl in the National Office has agreed to do a payroll item request for our store, but only IF... and she was very clear on this... I agree to make Peanut Butter Cup Brownies and mail them again!

First day of school.

Last Wednesday was the first day of school for my boys, and I can't believe it's already been a week since! My goodness, how behind I am!

A.J. is in the 6th grade this year, and I still shake my head at this, finding it impossible. How is it that he is already in his very last year of elementary school? *weeps* He has been placed in Mr. Loomis' class this year, and we are all very excited about the changes that his first male teacher may bring. This is his teacher's first year at the school, but he's no young'un: he's a retired Air Force officer with four grown children and eight grandchildren! He seemed very nice the evening we met him before school began, and I hope for good things this school year. From the get-go, he received props: for the first time in all A.J.'s school years, his items were labeled with "A.J." - not "Aaron," as usual. Success!

(As a child who never went by my first name, I can tell you what a monumental difference it makes to feel like a teacher actually CARES about you enough to get your chosen name down correctly from the very beginning.)

Jack is now in 2nd grade, and this is a bit easier to digest. After all, we kept him back for an extra year of preschool many moons ago (I'm sure some of you remember the tears involved in making that decision!). He is so bubbly, so confident, and so very excited about life in the 2nd grade. He snagged Ms. Wiebers for a teacher, and what a blessing - we are already very familiar with her from our church, as she is one of the most involved participants in the childrens' ministry! She had already labeled all his things (lunch card, desk, etc.) with 'Jack,' and that's a big plus from the start (usually things have 'Jackson' on them, and we only say that when he's in trouble!). She had also already heard his preference, and she gave him an orange-colored lunch card... WIN! The night before school started, she gave each student a large 'test tube,' asking them fill it with "something about their summer." Jack was ecstatic to pick something from our huge vacation and share with his class!

And now, on to pictures! :-)

A.J.
A.J., the big 6th grader.

Jackster
Jack-a-roo, the bouncy 2nd grader.



Obliging me for a few more pictures once at school Here's to another fun year!
Here's to another fun year!

At pick-up at the end of the day
At pick-up at the end of a great first day.

Jack's 'test tube.'
Jack's 'test tube.'


(Filled with a seashell from our vacation, Jack was to use his 'test tube' for Show'n Tell. However, his teacher explained that the tubes are not really 'test tubes' at all - they are 2-liter bottles. They are shipped to the factory in this smaller size, then blown into shape, and later filled with cola. Neat! Neither Philip nor I had ever seen/heard that before!

Now... I've seen a large handful of "first day" pics over on FaceBook, but not over here. I wanna read the stories that go with the pics too, people! Get writing! *cracks whip*

This just in...

So I'm sure many of you already know this, but...

man! FaceBook is a huge time-suck!

I can't forget that LJ is my first, my true online love. This is where my memories are written, where I first "met" a large portion of even my FB friends.

I need to be here more.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

A slice.

Do you want to know one of my very favorite things about our vacation?

The silly "self-portraits" that Philip and I took together most places we visited. They're not focused well, the lighting is always off, our heads are crammed together, and you can never see whatever picturesque thing we're standing near...

but they are ours. They are us.

And I love them. :-)

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

More important than I'd imagined, it is.

I twisted today just a smidgen, placing a gallon of poppyseed dressing to the side, and scrrriiiittttttchchch!

My bra broke.

While out in the open, I wasn't really in a place to properly "inspect" it, so I felt around a bit, lifting my girls and making sure that I still had some support. I knew something was wrong, but I really thought maybe a side stitch or something had ripped.

Until I came home, shed my shirt, and looked in the mirror:

(°/ (°)


^^ That's a visual of my boobies up there, by the way. ^^

God blessed the female population when he gave the idea of underwire to the inventor. Yes indeedy, it does a job! (I'd pondered and questioned it's real function before, you see...)

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Meet-the-Teacher.

This afternoon is the last day of summer break for the boys. We'll be headed to "Meet-the-Teacher(s)" in an hour, and then tomorrow is their first day back to school.

How do I have a sixth grader and a second grader already?!

I can't wait to see what they decide to wear tomorrow. I took them on a big clothes-shopping trip a day or so after we returned home from vacation, and they have tons of new digs. For the first time I can remember, they're both picking out their own outfits for the first day.

*crosses fingers for no major clashing*

My guys are just getting so very, very big!

Thursday, August 6, 2009

Home!

We're finally back! We extended a day or two while gone, but we've finally returned!