Something for the Young People

Lately I’ve been pulling punches.  Holding back.  Trying to be some sort of bland hot cereal that appeals to everyone. No one likes that.  Spicy, at least identifies a tribe.

If you are between the ages of 15 and 23, I am going to tell you something that it seems no one else is saying. While I am by no means speaking to every person in that age group, I am addressing a trend.

Here’s the deal.  I think I can say this because I am older than the number on those black balloons at the party store. And if you ever throw me a party with the black balloons with my age on them, I will assure you, in sign language, that you are “number 1″ and walk out.  I am already “that old lady”.

I digress.

Here’s the deal.

You can do adulthood.

I apologize for my generation.  We’ve made it look awfully freaking dismal.  Except for, apparently, the alcoholism cocktails.

No wonder so many of you guys put on your snap front, short sleeve cowboy shirts, throw on one of those tiny knapsacks with a string, hop on your scooters and wander off to find yourself.

Some of you look in bars and farmer’s markets and ratty old buildings with chalkboard signs.

Some of you go to school, but have no idea what you want to do, and when you graduate, you aren’t sure you want to work.

Let me just answer that: you don’t.  Here is the disservice your education has done you.  Starting with the Dora the Explorer panties or the Avengers toothbrush, we made every non-negotiable task negotiable.  Until it looks very much like you get to choose the glory tasks and opt-out of the @#$% tasks in whatever path you take.

Sorry.  That’s on us.

Here’s how this should have gone.

Dad:  Now you’re going to brush your teeth like mom and I do.

Kid:  You’re joking!  That’s fantastic.

Dad: Yeah, because also, your teeth won’t rot out.

Kid: Man, this big boy @#$% just keeps getting better and better.


Mom: You’re too big to wear diapers.  You’re going to wear regular underwear and use the toilet like Dad and your sister and I do.

Kid: I don’t know how to do all that.

Mom: That’s why they call it potty training.

Kid: Wait, what’s ‘potty’ mean?

Mom: That’s a baby word for the commode.

Kid: So no more strangers working me over in the church nursery?

Mom: That’s the deal.  AND, when you poop you won’t have to sit around in it until we get where we’re going in the car or I get the casserole into the oven.

Kid: I’m all in.

I’m mostly not joking.

You were created to grow up.  The culture casts parents as buffoons and the child as the guru on the mountaintop.  “The wisdom of children” is simply more pressure to talk like a poet.  You aren’t supposed to be responsible for deciding Every. Single. Thing. when you are 6 or 7 years old.  When you get up in the morning when you are 7, you should pretty much know that your parents have this @#$% nailed down and all you have to do is step into the template.  There are clean clothes in the dresser and closet.  Put some on and be open to editorial revision by your mother.  Comb your hair.  Present yourself to the breakfast table and eat what magically appears there.  At the bus stop, you should find yet another hardworking adult waiting to deliver you into the classroom where your teacher has a lesson plan and doesn’t require guidance from people who don’t possess the skills she is employed to teach.  At the end of the day, give a nod to the bus driver and chuck your backpack on the entry floor.  Eat your “4 food group” approved dinner and relax for a couple of hours.  Take a bath and get in bed.

You might need a team sport or piano lessons.

But not really.

By the time you are 13, you should be able to follow the above with the exception that you should be able to make dinner.

If you are 15 and you can’t make dinner.  Call me, I will teach you how.

You can do this.  You can grow up.

Adulthood doesn’t suck.  And there is more privilege to adulthood than the beverages.

Work is not a punishment.  It’s what we are made for.

You were made to grow up.  A very wise man wrote a book before you were born that discussed the fact that we were pushing the curriculum down and adultifying kids’ clothing.  So, somehow, we interpreted this as people should be babies as long as they can be.

My generation has not allowed you to grow up.  We might teach you to do some fun skill at a really early age for our own entertainment, but as soon as you start telling us your life plan, we start digging our heels in.

“You don’t want to go to that school.”

“You don’t want to study that, there’s no money in it.”

“You are too young to choose a life partner. You are not ready for marriage.”

Incidentally, I have never heard a parent say, “You aren’t ready to get a job and stop living off me.  Why don’t you go to Europe for six months or a year?”

Young adult, you are ready to grow up, get an education, enter the workforce, and discern an appropriate mate; in any order that life serves itself up to you.  One caveat:Being young is not an excuse for poor decision making.  A lot of damage has been done by the expression, “It’s easier to ask forgiveness than to ask permission”.  Yeah, that’s true.  I can repair drywall, but I can’t spackle your soul, Chickie Baby.  Use your head.

People also say, “Don’t let your life pass you by.”  Usually they mean surf and skate and have sex with people you don’t know and drink until you blackout.  No red flags there.

I think I saw this trend emerging and couldn’t speak to it and then I went back to school and met a lot of young people who do know what they want to do with their lives.  They are working hard at strenuous jobs and making commitments and following through.  It really shined a light on the prevalence of this issue in the lives of our friends and relatives.

The truth is:  You are not ready.  It’s like cliff diving.  You can’t just stand there until you are ready.  You leap and get ready in the air.

There is no perfection. There is only good.  Good takes a lot of work.  People gotta work.  I didn’t say, “Other people gotta work.”

Sometimes, you are ready and too lazy to get on with it.

It isn’t difficult.  There are no secrets.  Choose your path.  Show up for your commitments.  Don’t make excuses.  You might suck.  But.  The sun comes up tomorrow.  With new mercy.

I believe in you.













Movie Night Revisited

This evening, we watched the movie, Belle.  It’s based on a true story.  It broke my heart.  It’s a beautiful story.  It’s a victory story.  The trouble is the victory was won in 1779 and we are re-enacting similar battles, one relationship at a time, everyday.

In fact, this very evening, the local news featured a city man who strung his porch with blue lights for the holidays in support of the #policelivesmatter movement.  #Policelivesmatter seems to be a response to the #blacklivesmatter campaign which has competed since Michael Brown’s and Eric Garner’s deaths, though the news story focused only on ways one might identify with #policelivesmatter.  As my husband pointed out…  There has never been a problem with a failure to honor the fallen in the line of duty.

In the film, the beautiful thing is that everyone did what they believed was right.  The truth prevailed and wrong was defeated.  Perhaps it was a fairy tale and I should leave it at that and go to bed (it’s quite late).

I can’t.  I want to go on my face in front of the God Who Sees (El Roi.  Ya boi, Elroi.  lol.). To wrestle Him until dawn.  To demand He bless me and my family.

To meet the sunrise.

I will have to be prepared to speak to something.  I don’t want to.  When we went here, it was only to become a family, not an activist.  Hate that word.  I don’t want to be naked, again.  The only one exposed and vulnerable.  The only one being told, “You’re wrong. Let me help you understand your experience, in terms with which I am more comfortable.”

Yet, I want action.  Need healing.  God’s proof of Himself.  Sorry.  I know He owes me nothing of the sort.

I’m stiff-arming Him on the work of the call.  I have to speak.  In one relationship.  At a time. Doesn’t matter how many people are standing around qualified to initiate the same discussion.  Same credentials.

My call.  My bucket.  My waders.  My shovel.

My blog posts run cryptic.  I don’t really know why.  Probably so they aren’t specific and measurable, so someone can’t read an old post and say, “Hey!  How’s it coming on that commitment you made back in blah, blah, blah.”

I digress.

If I’m honest (are we ever really?), I know why I’m cryptic.  I write to find out what I think.  The kabillion unpublished posts are proof of that.  I publish to dare to say something scary.  I guess I rarely do.  I think I’m being avant garde and the feedback is that I’m being winsome and safe and, sometimes, even deep.  I tend to scare up the kindest readers.

I’m sorry.

I mean to say, I’m cryptic because I don’t want to identify anyone in particular because I have to do business with my self and my responses.  Not take take account of another person’s business.  I have to reckon my call to speak in a loving, honest, incisive way.  If someone recognized themselves and took offense (it’s happened), maybe they didn’t notice that I left it not with their problem, but with my responsibility.  As a child of God, I’m responsible to speak the truth in love, to those who are going a way that will hurt themselves or someone else.  No matter the potential cost to my personal comfort.

Love is more than comfort.

Worth the work.

And the wait.

















Three Thought Thursday

I keep trying to write three posts and I think the ideas are conjoined .  Because this blogging thing is like giving birth.  In five years, this post won’t vomit on the couch, but otherwise….  I digress.

In no particular order, I’ve been thinking this:

The poetry is there.  It’s there in the sh*t days.  It’s there in the drudgery.  It’s there in the “WHEN YOU HAVE A NOSEBLEED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, GET ME!!! DON’T LEAVE THE BATHROOM LOOKING LIKE SOMEONE WAS KILLED IN HERE!!!”

It’s there when you are fried from stress and worrying about your kids.  Roaming the house with your insomnia for companionship, you look out the window at your ugly little neighborhood robed in peace and, at long last, quiet.

When you fight back.

When you surrender.

When your love looks like hate.

And you love something you should hate.

Life is simply lyric.

Whether we think so or not.

The next thing is this:

There is a trend in our area to make your homeschoolers take a 5th year of high school if the parent and the Independent Study Program administrator agree it would be a good idea.  To me this is like flunking your senior year.  A few months ago, a couple of moms tried to get me to hold my daughters back.

NO FREAKING WAY.  They will turn 18 a week after graduation which makes them among the youngest of their class, but it isn’t as if they are a whole year ahead.  Their credits will be completed.  I couldn’t, in my right mind, come up with an excuse to make them stay longer.


Sure.  I want them to stay.  I’m a mom and I’m supposed to feel nostalgic and resistant at the same time.  But that isn’t a sign something is wrong.  It is a sign something is very, very right.  They are designed, like the birds and fish and bears and stuff, to mature.  Grow-up.  Launch out on their own.

They need to find work they love. They need to fall in love and get married and finish the last of that box of wine during a power outage and 9 months later give me a grandbaby.  I’ve earned her (Mickey won’t enter this discussion, but allows that all grandbaby girls will be issued a baby cheerleader outfit upon arrival).

And last:

Chatting with the therapist, I bemoaned that I was opposite of someone who is the “my kids speak four languages, play the musical instruments of dead cultures, and the governor calls them for advice” homeschool mom.  She pointed out that could be a way of keeping busy so you don’t have to think about relationships.    It could be true, because girls our age were taught to build a resume (Look out!!! French Club President, coming through!!!), so colleges and our peers could rank us.


It healed my lonely soul.  I’m still growing in who I always have been, which really never was that.  I can stop measuring myself by the unit used to measure another kind of creation.  I can stop comparing apples with asparagus.

God has given me the desires of my heart.

For these three things, I am deeply grateful.






And the Trees of the ‘Hood Shall Clap Their Hands

This is the tree…


This photo doesn’t capture the fullness of its beauty.

Throughout the year, I forget to be grateful for my home.  Because I’m wretched, that way.  I could be more specific, but I don’t need to rehearse my ingratitude.

So throughout the year, the tree is insulted by the neighbors’ dogs.

Then comes Autumn.

The tree rejoices profoundly.  In reverence and honor and worship, it puts on the most radiant complex colors.   I can’t even describe it and it seems my camera is a bit stumped, as well.

My tree makes the little troubles with the house worth it.  We all agree.

Gratitude is a color.




“You will indeed go out with joy and be peacefully guided; the mountains and the hills will break into singing before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands.”

It’s Not the Shoes

They say you never miss things until they’re gone.

My professors said,”You’ve got to do something about this anxiety.”  And, “Let something go.”

I chose to let the laundry go.

Friday morning, I had no clean underwear.

On Tuesdays, the girls are supposed to do laundry.  They did.  Theirs.  They left it in all stages of the process.  I backtracked through the mashed in the basket to wrinkle., the left in the dryer to wrinkle, and the mildewing in the washer.  I found not more than a half dozen items belonging to other family members in three loads of laundry.  The mildewing washer load had a single pair of my underwear but I didn’t have time to re-wash and dry them.

There are two options, as it was 8:03 and I had to be out the door by 8:10:

1) Re-wear the dirty ones.

2) Go “Commando”.

I will not burden your imagination with my decision.  Suffice to say, I find these alternatives difficult to rank in order of relative psychological comfort.

Today, I had the opportunity to attack the laundry problem, and was distressed to find:

–Mickey might have gone to work naked on Friday.  Which might be pushing “Casual Friday” beyond reasonable limits on a regular week, but this week he was supposed to have a meeting with the Bishop of the local diocese.  Lord, have mercy; Christ, have mercy.

–Marcus took a different approach.  Though I hadn’t done any laundry since last week, there were only three pair of his underwear in the laundry.  I decline to speculate on all that this implies.  I was however able to do an entire load of laundry consisting almost entirely of socks and underwear.


1) Have you ever searched for your favorite underwear on an important day?  This can either mean a day when you expect great things, like your birthday; or it can refer to anticipated stress, like a big exam.  Of course, you have.  The right underwear make a difference.

2) Do you have special underwear for different purposes? Of course, you do.  The right underwear make a difference.  For example:  When you exercise, there are some underwear that make you feel really sad.   Also, don’t even try to wear those five year-old Hanes Her Way under that prom dress.  And I assume you understand that you aren’t under any circumstances to wear the prom underwear to a meeting with the Bishop.  Of course, you do.  There is a right place and a right time.

3) There are some people who do not wear underwear.  This is a lifestyle choice and in no way my business to judge.  If this describes you, do you know that you aren’t to tell me about it?  Of course, you do.  Again, no judging, but I think “no underwear” people are missing out.

Awhile back, the time came to have a little more in-depth talk with the girls about romance and relationships.  It was sort of strenuous.  Like herding cats.  For those of you young parents who think “the talk” happens once, I wish you all the best.  That has not been my experience. When we were done, we went shopping for cute underwear.  Sound weird?  Of course, it does.  My point to them, then (and I need to remember it myself) was that you feel special for yourself.  Respect yourself and treat yourself well.

When I was about 15, I started shopping for high end underwear.  Mom made no comment. I was in 9th grade; P.E. and I had broken up years before.  It was the eighties, and we all dressed like bankers for high school. I wasn’t buying them to show anyone.  They worked just as well as the ugly  ones. I wasn’t buying them to communicate an identity– grandmother, skank, athlete.  I was buying them to celebrate- “This is not for boys, of which I am not one.  Oh, and by the way, I feel pretty powerful.”

The right underwear is a powerful thing.  Clark Kent knows.

It’s not the shoes.









Emergency Preparedness: An Accidental Guide

God, in His infinite grace hasn’t meant my family to weather a power outage of longer than 1.5 hours duration.  In His mercy, he has understood us in our weakness.  Because He has promised not to send a temptation beyond what we can bear.  An hour and a half seems to be all He’s willing to trust me with.  And that’s fine with me.  I have nothing to prove in this regard.  On the occasions of the extremely short term outages we have experienced, I have found the following to be true:

1) The husband’s first task is to report directly to the refrigerator and open it in search of a snack.  “We can’t go hungry the whole time the power’s out.” (It has been three minutes.  It might be 6 hours.  Either way, YES WE CAN.)

2) The husband/dad’s covering the task of ensuring we lose a refrigerator full of food, frees the girls to run down the battery on any and all mobile devices and electronics.  “There’s nothing else to do.  We can’t watch Netflix.”  Lest you worry that we saddle our kids with all the responsibility.  Dad joins them as soon as he finishes his snack, bleeding the last pulse out of that iPhone battery.

3) When all batteries are run down enough that no charge is lasting to sunrise, that’s the time to change for bed.  It’s important, especially to the girls, to dress attractively.  Eyelet camis and co-ordinating shorts remind us that summer is never too far away, and help us stay in touch with the falling interior temperatures.

4) Meanwhile, someone should find all the candles and light each and every one.  Because we can’t watch TV, but we can read.  Like Abraham Lincoln before us, we are going to destroy our vision and use up all the candles. When bedtime comes we’ll navigate the house in total darkness.  Tripping over the shoes and backpacks will be fun.  Thank God we left them out.  Everywhere.  All the time.

5) It’s important to notify the utility services company.  In our home, this task is delegated to Dad/Hubby. “But I hardly have any charge.” Then in 45 minutes, protocol dictates that he second guess himself and do it again.  Just in case the recorded confirmation that he got the first time was in error.  Then go find the wife/mom and reassure her that they got it the second time.  Even though they got it the first time.

6)  You’ll want to gather everyone around and talk at length about all the things you can’t do.  No TV, computer, coffee, popcorn, showers, or flat ironing hair.  Of course, conversation should also include speculation as to the extent of the outages in terms of both geographic area and number of households affected.  To these imaginary numbers, should be included conjecture as to the cause of the outage.  Downed power lines, squirrel in the transformer, ice, storms, a stoned man stealing an ambulance and running it into the pole on which the transformer is mounted.  The possibilities are endless. Take advantage of this opportunity to fixate on the misery.

7)  It doesn’t require hot water to take a night time pain reliever.  (Contrary to what my kids might say.  Water in this primitive state is still potable.  The absence of ice will not create a health hazard. Neither will the lack of exposure to a tea bag.) Depending on how much is left in the bottle, you might see to it that your pain is relieved by administering the recommended dosage to your spouse and covering them with enough blankets to keep them warm and blissfully unconscious until power is restored.  If there is not enough for both of you and a decision has to be made, take it yourself.  He is on duty managing both the crisis and the emotions surrounding the technological deprivation.  Your children will sleep on their own with nothing to do.  Until the interior temps drop below 72F degrees.  Then you are gonna need to call in an expert.


I am participating in Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop and






Table Manners and the Grace of God

Yesterday, I made my confession where table manners is concerned.  It’s shocking.

You raise them up.  Maybe, say, you homeschooled.  All along you thought it was about the way school is done in a world where there are no wrong answers (I wouldn’t let my kid become an astronaut under the circumstances).  Eventually, they get big and recalcitrant and you wonder.

Right now.

I’m just about back in square.  I was a little sideways for awhile.

The table manners.  They don’t play three musical instruments.  They don’t speak three languages.

They can dance.  One can rap.

I wanted a picture perfect.  I got a tear-stained, snot-smeared, spit-fragranced struggle.  And a rapper.  They are probably geniuses, but will openly admit they knew it was two against one.  Their test scores will get them into community college (which is freaking fine with me because it’s free.  Free.).  We get sideways looks because their future plans aren’t pre-med, pre-law, pre-vet, pre-professional.  They aren’t looking at schools that can beat the local university in football.  Never mind the Ivy League or the full ride scholarships in piano, voice, or engineering.

Two weeks ago, their friend told them their mother needed to get with it.

Because I’m trying to get into a better school?  Nope.

I’m about to break it down in terms even a kid who isn’t majoring in bio-medical engineering can understand.

Get in.

Sit down.

Shut up.

Hold on.

I’m gonna tell you this, and I don’t want any arguments.  Well, I probably wouldn’t know how to move forward without arguments.  So.  Whatever.

I’m pretty sure one or more of my daughters was diagnosable with one or more of: ADHD, ODD, or RAD for most of their childhoods.  These people are adopted.  All of those are more prevalent in adopted kids; as are the 7 Core Issues – loss, rejection, grief, identity, guilt/shame, intimacy & relationships, and control/gains.



They are probably not diagnosable today.

I’m not claiming credit for anything.  I’m probably more like that person in the movies who plants their feet and ducks their head and lets the firestorm hit them full force.

It has been that ugly.

A year ago, I was rejoicing in the tremendous treasure that our lives are.  We are alive.  Healthy.  Enthusiastic.  Their teachers llurrrve them.  We enjoy each other.  We laugh, pray, shop, and gossip together.  We fight over clothes, chores, and school work.  I felt the full affirmation of God that we are where we are and it was just okay to be us.  On that day in May when Emma came home and told me someone had asked why she didn’t aim higher, I was shattered.  I let it drain away my joy.  Every place I look, there is a kid whose homeschooling family has lifted him or her up to super achievements.  And here we are, just in the middle. There is no way to describe this to anyone that’s going to make much sense.  I’ve experienced God’ pleasure.  Why worry about the opinions of a bunch of people?  Is that anyone’s worry but mine?

They will graduate under the sideways looks of all those close enough to us to wonder why we didn’t aim higher.

Higher than hoping to have a whole healthy family.

And not to see their food when they chew.

By the grace of God.









What Kind of Jerk Disappoints Someone Wonderful Who’s On Their Side Even Though We’ve Only Just Met?

I dedicate today’s incredibly long blog post title to Carrie @ A Sassy Redhead.

Me.  I’m that kind of jerk.  Well, I’m not yet, but in my heart I know the truth.  And I’m a little broken on the inside; I can’t leave things alone.  I have a burning need to get it all out in the open.  Which is tragic, and probably unhealthy, but compared to say…hoarding… wait, no…


What neither none of my readers knows is that in the last few months we have stopped attending the church we had been with and started going to another.  It was a good decision and had to do with God’s leading.  We are still “new” in the new church, and stand in a weird kind of gap between belongingness in one community and another.  If we had joy or tribulation, with whom would we celebrate or on whom would we lean.  That’s not a big deal most days, though it crosses my mind.

Most days, though, are just a different kind of lonely.  It’s an honest loneliness.  No longer pretending that we have relationships of a Sunday morning to get us through the week; calling the resident expert on gardening or preventing divorce and going it alone the rest of the time.  Feeling lonely, but never being able to say there are no friends.  This new kind is born of actually not knowing anyone you can call for lunch or coffee.  Do they drink coffee?  Are they home?  Do they eat?

Do they laugh?  Are they real?

Do they already have all the friends they need?

I digress.

Shut up.

At any rate, a few weeks ago, I happened to have a conversation with a fella from the new place. He might have let slip that my daughters are too pretty for a boy to ask out.

Sounds like a strange thing to say.  Trust me.  It wasn’t.  The guy is the real deal.  His friends are his testimony.  I might lay blame on some medications, but his ability to say what he wants to say is more together than mine, so… NOPE.

So anyway, it wouldn’t leave me alone.  For days.

Then I realized why.

Several months ago, I wrote a blog post about my #whitegirls and their #raciststatuses.  My husband’s best friend’s daughter busted me out for racism on a Facebook page that she didn’t know if I would see, but she knew all who knew her would see.  So what I am about to say will go in that file.  That is to say, the “racial-microaggression-isn’t-real-because-shut-up-Maggie” file.

Before you start squawking…

We have a friend who is bi-racial like they are.  She’s talked to me at length about growing up between cultures.  About white friends being grounded for accepting a ride home from school with her.  About broken relationships.  Things were going well, until he told his mom he wanted to marry her.  About the black kids not accepting her citing her easier lot because she wasn’t thought of as black.  Except by those white kids’ moms.

No big deal.  One bitter young single woman is just like another.  Nope.  This one started college at age 17 because she graduated high school early.  She speaks 3 languages fluently and is model beautiful.

She wasn’t bitter; she was just telling her story.

Another highly esteemed woman of color and I go out to coffee sometimes.  I’m missing her these days of grad school and home school and choose-a-school.  She was more forthcoming. She is older and more experienced.

And now, I see.

It’s not going to be because of race.

It’s going to be because they aren’t serious enough.  They laugh too loud.  They don’t come from a good enough family.  Their goals aren’t aiming high enough.  It’s going to be because,”We want you to wait until you’re older to think about those kinds of things.”  (If it’s about the table manners, God help me, I’ve tried.)

I can’t enter into another person’s heart.  But here in the “Stars and Bars” South, we can always accuse the other person of being the one with the problem.  Is it possible to be proud to be from here and not have our racism metastasize?

Yep.  It totally is.

One day, I’ll be ready to tell the truth to this one guy, who all he does is go around loving life and people, because he appreciates the precious value of every moment.

But for right now, I’ll let him go on thinking it’s because they’re beautiful, fiery and unafraid.

He doesn’t need to know.

And I’m hoping to be wrong.  This time I really want to be wrong.

NaBloPoMo November 2014


Here, Hold My Tea. Watch This.

My brain’s broke.

My passion for my call is… um…  er… diluted.  Or something.


Or something.

Maybe a little depression.

They’re seniors.


They’re about to be grown.

Do you realize that when I started blogging, they were 8th graders?


Everyday of my life, I go back and forth with “good people” v. “academic thingy things”.

I failed to attain to the academics I planned.


They worked with a young woman this summer, who, if she was there when I picked them up from work, would speak blessing over me for my brilliance in producing such amazing people.



I mean, I love them with my life, but I see them from this side.

They say that we tend to compare our blooper reel with everyone else’s highlight reel.


Did I do it?  Or did I fail?

Can I make up for lost time in one school year?

Or should I just focus on the boy and write off the losses I feel, that no one else credits?

Today, we went from volleyball practice and to a field trip.  To the place with wall to wall trampolines.  All three kids had a blast.

And so did I.


They have never seen me off the sidelines.

And they ignored me completely today.

At the end, I was looking around for a free trampoline for one more jump.  Seriously.  I don’t know what got into me.  Or, well, yeah, I do.  I’d paid full money for half the time.  I was going to jump until the last moment.

I digress.

I was looking around.

A child appeared.

“Who were you looking for?”

“Nobody.  I was looking for a trampoline.”

And she was gone.

I guess she didn’t ignore me after all.

I guess she took a little break from mooning over ALL THE MANY, MANY, MANY BOYS.

Is it enough that delightful adult co-workers find them delightful?

Or have I failed, in that they aren’t going to Harvard?

Would they have done if they’d have gone to traditional school?

Or is that just not their way?

One is decided on a college major.  The other hasn’t.  And there is no way in God’s green earth that we or anyone else can convince her that she doesn’t need to know what she wants to do for the rest of her life RIGHT NOW.  Because she wants to do everything RIGHT NOW.

Just a moment.

Before it’s over.

Before they’re finished with school and moving out into the wide world.

Just one more leap.

Just one more laugh.

Just one more look.

They don’t seem to be paying any attention.

But maybe they are.

One last adventure.  All together, but each enjoying our own experience.

Here.  Hold my tea.  Watch this.




Informed Consent

In the reading for my classes, there has been mention of informed consent, in terms of research study’s responsibility for letting participants know what’s up with the study, their part in it, any risks, and what they may expect in terms of an expression of gratitude… cash?  a warm handshake?  a giftcard to the side show freak superstore?

Informed consent.

Life has been calling my name.

Last night, I got in late.  It was a little past ten.

Shut up.

I almost changed my fb status to:


But I didn’t.

OK, I gotta let you know I just realized, how much flackbook subs in for actually living.  I mean, I knew, but it just took my breath away.  And don’t start with me.  We aren’t adopting.  No one is graduating.  We aren’t moving.  THERE IS NOTHING TO UPDATE IN MY LIFE.  “Washed the car.”



I digress.

I was talking about how I am using informed consent today.

So a gal and I exchanged blog names over a bagel and decaf.

The blog has been calling my name.  I’ve been telling myself I didn’t have time.  I have been telling myself the truth.

Everything has been calling my name.

I am up to my tramp stamp* in stuff to do.

No end in sight.

But this morning, I have looked back at the last year and a half on the blog.

God said, “See.”

I said, “Yes, thank you.”

There is where I track the wound, the treatment and healing, the return to the field of play, and the victory.

He whispered back that he wants to hear it too.

It’s not supposed to go by the wayside for birthdays and Father’s Day and volleyball and driving people to work who refuse to practice driving.  Not even for a clean house.

It’s a gift to me.

He offered it back to me.

The downside, is that I have to make it fit in with all the rest.  Discipline.

Just letting me know what’s involved before I agree to participate.

Informed consent.

The purpose, the risks, the payoff.

Let’s just be honest.

If I move my foot, He always gives more than I can enjoy.

Sort of like the promised land.

A battle to possess.

A taste of milk and honey.

The call to dance to His song in the night.




*I don’t have a tramp stamp.  I think I’m funny.


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