HE LIKES IT, HEY SUCKAAA!!! December 6, 2011

Can’t believe it!  I made cookies from a diabetic recipe I found on the internet, and my 7 y/o son is in love.  They contain sugar, butter, chocolate chips, flour, and oh ya, 1 cup of shredded zucchini!  Haha!

In yo FACE, Picky Eater!  Mama’s slippin’ in some veggies, now!

I win! I win! 7 years of arguing about eating your veggies… You didn’t even detect them in the BATTER! Oh, new doors are opened to me, and you’re not even gonna know what hit you. You’re going to be healthy in spite of yourself! Ahhh, I’m tearing up a little bit with this triumph. I feel so mean, so good, so victorious, so…. so… I win! I win!

Haaaahhh… I just had to get that out. *sniff*

A Grateful Update August 19, 2011

Yesterday was one of those days that sticks with a person.

Carson was climbing the tree in my parent’s backyard yesterday while we were all enjoying some pool time with Jen Altig and Sarah Sykes (and respective children).

He started with an, “Owwwowwwowww!…” and then began the blood-curdling screams that stop a parent’s heart.  In my case, they stop the parent.  I froze.  I was in deep thought.  ”He’s really hurt.  That’s a real scream.  What’s wrong?  He’s not that high.  Is he stuck?  Is there a beehive up there?”  It all happened in a split second, but everyone else had started moving.

I’m still not exactly sure what actually happened up there, but when I reached the tree, blood was pouring out into a puddle at my feet.  His back was to me, so I couldn’t immediately identify the source.  And I never would’ve guessed this. I unhooked him from the forked branches by lifting him a little higher, and when I set him down I finally saw it.  Part of me wanted to pass out, part of me wanted to throw up… the skin was folded back, with fat attached to it, hanging open and bloodied.  I couldn’t think.  I called out to Jen, a nurse, who was already standing there, calmly asking me to get a towel.

Ok., you made it to the funny part.

He wasn’t crying, only screaming.  And now he was yelling, “I”m going to die! I”m going to die!”  Jen was assuring him he would not be dying today, wrapping his arm and asking me if I had a first aid kit.  A what?  I don’t know.  Do we?  Is it yellow?  Would it be in the bathroom? The garage?  The car?

She said I would need to take him to Thunderbird’s E.R..  ”But I don’t have time!”, Carson yelled, “I’m think I’m going to die!”

“You’re not going to die!”

“Yes, I am!”

Jen wrapped his arm in gauze, wrapped a clean wash cloth over the top of that, and taped it snugly for the ride.  My contribution:  I thought he should have a shirt on, because I’m a Mom, and felt weird about him being shirtless in public.  So I found a tank-top and popped it down over his head, and threaded his good arm through the hole.  Apparently, if even one nipple is almost covered, I feel like modesty has been served.  Aubrey was in his bed looking for a comforting animal to take with him to the hospital and, in true journalistic form, she grabbed her diary and a pencil.  I have a camera phone.

Oh, this was to be a well. documented. event.

As I hung up with Justin in the car, I told Carson his Dad would be meeting us there.

“To watch my death?” He asked.

When you walk into an E.R., it’s like being the next contestant on a show. Everyone stares, sums you up.  I knew we were being mentally triaged by those who had already been sitting there for hours, to see if they would still hold their place or drop back.  We had to be a sight.  A little boy with blood running down his leg (punctured in the tree; I hadn’t seen that one, yet), a wash cloth taped to his arm, and a cock-eyed shirt bunched up at his neck, a woman with his blood on her, and a little girl with wild curls, scribbling in a book as she walked.  As soon as blood was spotted, the harried, one-woman-admittance-show pointed and shouted, “Is that blood?!?”  I expected lights. Sirens.  Security. Thankfully, we were taken back immediately by a very nice guy to whom Carson, with big, honest eyes quietly asked, “Am I going to die?”

He was a trooper.  And I’m not just saying that because I’m his Mom.  The team that was working on him were commenting to each other.  He was serious.  After his arm had been x-rayed, his doctor, a P.A. and a tech came in to tell him they were going to start working on his wounds.  ”So”, he asked, “did you get the results of my x-rays, yet?”  They all stopped and smiled and looked at each other.  ”Yes”, the doctor said, “we did.”  ”So, no fractured bones, then?” Carson asked.  Another round of smiles. “Nope, no fractures, buddy.”

Even on Morphine and Ketamine, he was awake for the last 70% of the procedure. He had a P.A. sewing up his leg, two techs assisting, one nurse administering the drugs, the doctor working on his arm, and his mother leaning over them all to take pictures with her phone.  (I admitted it was creepy, and all but the very honest Tech named Nick were quick to argue that it was normal. Nick agreed it was indeed, creepy.)

As they worked, he answered their questions about dinosaurs and what he had learned in school that day. (“Stuff I already know” was his answer.  Punk.)

When he was all stitched up the team wished him well and complimented him on his bravery.  The doctor gave us some parting information and as they filed out of the room, Carson called out, “Thanks, guys!”

And I feel grateful, too.  Grateful it wasn’t worse.  Grateful Jen was there when it happened.  Grateful for my husband and parents’ presence in the hospital, grateful for a team of people who were very comforting and kind to him, and grateful that he says he feels good today.

An Update on the Maladjustment of My Inner Hippie August 12, 2011

If you feel a draft where ever you might be sitting, don’t panic… it’s me.  Coming up for air.  School has started in our home – under duress – because we are now under the umbrella of K12 Online School.  August 3rd seemed a reasonable date to them, and Summer break came to a screeching halt.  Clearly, I am a Type-B teacher, and when it comes to task-mastering, I take my cue from  ’Ramone’ in the movie “Cars”… “Looow and slow!”

I think I must fall into the Hippie category of homeschooling Moms.  I’m happiest searching the garden for bugs, taking the light rail to concerts downtown, sketching nature, waiting for our hair to grow… and we’ll stuff a little Math and Reading in there as well, to please The Man.  (Justin)

This year, some Type-A Educational Fascists have taken over, and we are elbows deep in hours of Math, Language Arts, Foreign Language, Science and History.

My favorite subject?  Art.  Sigh.

The kids seem less daunted than their Mother, plowing through it all like champs.  Other than Aubrey referring to her first subject of the day as “Evil Math”, they appear to be adjusting happily.  I, on the other hand, feel like a peaceful flower-child being dragged out of Woodstock by Nixon’s aides.

On a happy note, my parents are two states away, so skinny dipping commences at 9pm tonight.   I did attempt to notify them, (even hippies can appreciate proper protocol regarding possible nudity on another’s property) but Mom cut me off saying, “Don’t care! … just add chlorine.”

Visiting with July July 1, 2011

A brand new month.  Very exciting to me!  Although I am not particularly fond of July’s weather (excepting the Monsoon thunderstorms), I do very much love the activities of summer; swimming/floating in the pool, chilled watermelon with salt, camping or playing up North, tossing a ball at the Prescott Courthouse, homemade ice cream, a more relaxed schedule… I could go on!

Here is an excerpt from one of my very favorite children’s story books called, “The Story of May” by Mordicai Gerstein.  It is a story about the months and actually begins in “April & May”… April is May’s Mother, waking her up to show May how to “scatter wildflowers, how to welcome returning birds, and how to make cherry and apple buds swell and blossom.”  May wanders off too far, and meets her Aunt June and learns that her Father, December, lives at the end of the year.  The book chronicles her journey as she learns about her family (the other months), their specific attributes, and how she makes her way back to her Mother, April. 

This book captures the essence of July in a masterful way:

“May could hear music, and as she climbed, it became louder and wilder.  At the top, in the middle of a field of young corn, she saw an immense, red-faced man in overalls.  He sang loudly, and with a hoe he conducted an orchestra of katydids, bees, crickets, and birds.  Buzzing, chirping, and warbling, they warmed around his huge straw hat.

“May!” he shouted through the din. “Gosh, you’ve grown!  Do you like our song?  I call it ‘A Summer Day.’”

“I’ve never heard anything like it”, said May.

“Why, thank you.  Let’s have a snack and go for a swim.  I’m your uncle July.”

Singing with May on his shoulder and a gigantic green watermelon under his arm, July made his way out of the field down to a wide, sandy beach.

“What’s that?” asked May, pointing to the ocean.  July laughed and set her down on the smooth wet sand.  The foamy surf tickled May’s toes like kittens’ tongues.  July showed her how to float and swim.  Then May and her uncle sat in the sun, eating watermelon and spitting the seeds into the sea.”

Next month, I’ll introduce Grandfather August… he’s a laid-back fellow.

I’m in the mood to celebrate uncle July!  I’m going to put one, for-sheer-fun, purposeless activity on the calendar every week this month… something we can only do because it’s summer.

This week:  A gimme… 4th of July BBQ & Fireworks.

Fighting Pencils…Not Terribly Useful. June 16, 2011

Said of Jesus:

“And God heard his prayers because of his strong desire to obey God at all times.” – Hebrews 5:7b (TLB)

Because of his strong desire to obey God at all times.

I wish I had that.  I have a strong desire to be a favorite of His; a strong desire to be used in a mighty way by Him; a strong desire to enjoy the benefits of his constant power and holy presence…

I even have a strong desire to obey Him a great deal of the time.

But, “at all times”?

That feels too hard.  It sounds to me like life might get punctuated with dullness broken up by moments of agony.

Punctuated.

Yesterday, I read an excerpt from an interview with Mother Teresa published in March of 1980 in McCalls magazine.  Entitled, “I’m a Little Pencil in God’s Hand”, the article was showcasing the work that Teresa was doing in Calcutta. 

“She wants no credit for it, however, claiming she is only an instrument in God’s hand.  In a disarming note, asking me not to dwell upon her person, she said, ‘No one thinks of the pen while reading a letter.  They only want to know the mind of the person who wrote the letter.  That’s exactly what I am in God’s hand – a little pencil.  God is writing His love letter to the world in this way, through works of love.’

The journalist goes on to say, “Somehow, the love letter, as written by her pencil, is easier to read.”

How absurd to think about one’s pencil fighting him as he tried to write!

O God, that I would have a deep desire to obey You at all times!  I want to be used to write Your love letter to Your world.  Punctuate my life with whatever is needed, so that I might be an easy read for others.

Where I’ve Been, and Where I Am. May 27, 2011

Hello to all.  It has been a long time since I have posted anything about anything, and frankly, this feels unnatural and stiff!  I still don’t know if I have anything to say of worth. 

Last November, my Grandma Phelps became very ill, and, after many ups and downs, passed away last month on the 13th.  As I told a friend yesterday, it seems my “Give A Darn” is broken.  Nothing seems very worth writing or sharing.  Every thought seems private and uninteresting. 

Maybe I need to get used to this new feeling and just operate in spite of it.  I don’t have a name for it, but it crops up when I’m doing the most mundane and normal things.  Translated from emotion to words, it says, “Who gives a darn about laundry?”  Or, “Why do you care about dishes?”  Or, “Does it really matter?”

Don’t get me wrong, I am at peace; but it feels strange to talk about kids and homeschooling and daily annoyances in the light of such a staggering loss. 

Letting her go has changed me as much as having her as a mentor shaped me.

December 25, 2010

So, maybe this entry will be about my Grandmother.

Although she and I spent many hours giggling over the silliest stuff, the only funny thing I’ve been able to recall since her death was a moment we shared the day before. 

She was extremely restless, and not able to lay down because of the pressure of the fluid in her lungs.  She sat on the edge of the bed, hour after hour, exhausted, dozing in and out, jerking herself awake and just generally feeling miserable.  We had packed pillows around her to help her rest her back against them for support and maybe sleep for a few hours, but it seemed she could only sleep if held by the person sitting next to her. 

She and I chatted for a couple of sentences, and then she dozed off.  In just a few moments, she jerked back awake and, with grammar that would cause my former elementary teachers to re-examine how they spent their lives, I said, “It’s okay, Grandma, I got you…”

“Okay.” She said.

(Pause…)  

“Whad’d you get me?”

I laughed out loud!  So there you have it, my gift for receiving, brought to you by Elizabeth Phelps…  Smiling, I said, “Ummm, I got you… (looking around the room)some… water.  Would you like some water?” 

“Yes!”  She said it with the same delight as though I’d offered her a cherry sno-cone.

Giving her a sip of water suddenly became a sacred act; the most basic and fundamental nurturing of another human being, and in that moment,  I was the most privileged person on this earth.

That was our last exchange.  Shortly after that, it was decided that she needed to be medicated to give her poor body some rest, and she slipped away from us the following afternoon. 

So, that’s what’s happening here, amid laundry and dishes and schooling and planning our Summer and facing the days, months and years ahead without her.  But I know that this is the way it is supposed to be, and she would absolutely expect me tend to the business of  laundry.  And dishes.  And dinner.  And Summer.   

Here I go.

Life Lesson Found in an Unlikely Place December 16, 2010

I was recently asked by a friend, “Why does it seem that every Homeschooling Mom has a Blog?”.  We laughed, but the question caught me up short, and I didn’t have an answer for her.  In fact, it strikes me as ludicrous… why on earth would we add to our time at the computer when, to be frank, blogging doesn’t naturally fit well into anyone’s life?  It is a discipline. 

But why would anyone discipline themselves to publish their thoughts and opinions? 

As I have mulled this question over for a few days, I find myself wanting to write about it.  (My first clue!)  Blogging seems to me to be a very lonely venture.  It is akin to propping a mannequin across the table at Starbucks and pouring one’s heart out to it.  Insecurity produces indecision, and I will wonder if anyone will hear me at all.  I need to ask myself, “Why should it matter?”.

 

 What is more fulfilling to a blogger; the process of working through thoughts and feelings, or the affinity with people who have worked through the same things, and the feedback received from them?

I am going to give an indelicate analogy that only my closest friends have been privy to.  It is truly disgusting, so I warn you that you may want to stop reading now if you are sensitive to the less-than-polished correlation…

I make no apologies if you keep reading….

I knew you’d stay with me.

In 2000, I had my first experience  building a church for a small border town in Mexico.  It was also my first experience with latrines.  I’ll be okay if it ends up also being my last.  For me, it was indescribably strange to sit down on a hole with a toilet seat thrown over it, knowing I was actually 10 feet in the air.  Here comes the weird part:  Not hearing anything.  I know what’s happening on my end, but I can only presume upon the laws of gravity to piece together what’s happening 10 feet below.  It was disorienting… but not enough to keep me from coming back!

I believe that all bloggers, no matter where we are in our lives, are motivated to continue in part for this reason:  Working through the equal parts of wonder and insecurity through writing is very therapeutic.  For me, as an inexperienced home schooler, my new life is a daily marvel to me.

So, what is more important to me?  Disciplining myself to sit down, process through and document the changes and challenges in my life, or living a very daily life but only posting the things I think will be real crowd-pleasers to grow my readership?

In other words, is the act of using the restroom more important than hearing the splash?  I think it is, and so did Cyril Connolly:  “Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self.”

And all the writers said… “Amen.”

Labor & Delivery: Babies & Holidays – Same Dif. November 24, 2010

I think everyone should take a Lamaze class… the breathing exercises alone make it worth the cost.  The ability to breathe deeply when panic threatens to overwhelm us is a valuable life-skill.   But then there are times when our tricks to stay relaxed fall woefully short.

In April of 2008, I was privileged to be present during the labor and delivery of an honorary sister in my life.   As Jen used every strategy from the Bradley classes to corral and tame the contractions being fed by Pitocin, her husband, Kurt, and I watched  helplessly.  He was great; massages, ice, encouragement… but in reality, there was very little we could do to ease her pain.  At one point, my favorite point, he asked, “Is there any place you are feeling particular discomfort?” , intending to massage the muscles for her. 

“Yes -” she grunted, mid-contraction – and with more than a hint of grouchy, ” – MY UTERUS!”  I wish I had an audio clip, because it loses a lot in the typing…

Not to compare Thanksgiving Eve to an induced delivery sans pain medication, but, well… I’m just sayin’.

I need more than deep breathing.  I need to remember these years.  Gather my roses for December, or something like that.  When I am old and wrinkled, fighting with Medicare, greeting people through the door at Wal-Mart because Social Security is gone and I can’t afford retirement, and my kids are busy with their own families, I want to have peaceful memories of the ‘Tender Years’.  I want to remember with all of my senses, what holidays smelled like, what I felt, tasted and heard.  I want to remember how it felt to hug the people I loved the most as they came into my home.  By the time I’m on Medicare, it will have been a long time since I held them.  How do I get through The List while keeping my mind on “Record”? 

“You will keep in perfect peace him whose mind is stayed on you:  because he trusts in you.” Is 26:3 (AKJV)

Good air in, bad air out…

Elizabeth’s translation:  He cares.  I can trust Him.  He cares about my centerpieces.  He cares about my schedule.  I’m not being egocentric.  Philippians 2:13 promises that it is God who is working in me both to want what He wants, and to complete the task He has given me. 

I get tripped up when I don’t believe that He cares as much as I do.  It’s hard to trust Him to help me accomplish all the items on The List when I forget that He has everything to do with WHY I desire to do them part! 

I can do this.  Without yelling at my kids for the next 2 days while I stare at my list.  You will keep in perfect peace him whose mind is stayed on You.  Without expelling the loud sigh I have honed to a fine art to express my pent-up suspicion that I’m working harder than anyone else at the moment. You will keep in perfect peace him whose mind is stayed on You.

I don’t have a degree in Bible, but I think God is promising to give me perfect peace if I focus on Him, and not on The List. 

All I have to do is push Record.

Nights at the Brown Table October 29, 2010

My family and I have begun to attend a Thursday night Bible Study at the home of Jeff and Ronda Allaway.  Their ministry is frontline and hardcore.  Their mission is to reach drug addicts, guys who think they’re too tough for Jesus to handle and girls who believe they’ve passed the point of No Return.   They are relentless in their pursuit of people who have given up.

I give you that background because I think I’m going to be sharing a lot about what I’m learning there, and I’m going to be referring to them as PJ (Pastor Jeff) and Ronda. 

I attended my first study there on Oct. 14, and realized quickly this was going to be a place that allowed for serious change in my life.  Ronda leads the women in a way that is infused with humility and kindness, and I find myself wanting to be like her when I finally grow up.  She has a warm and quick smile; she is beautiful and … nice.  Has anyone else noticed how hard pure niceness is to find out there?

For whatever reason, that dining room table is the common ground on which women from every kind of background are able to feel accepted and acceptable, to both give and receive love and encouragement, and to be inspired by the stories and the lives of the warriors seated next to and across from them.

Last night we talked about using, “That’s just who I am!”, as an excuse to avoid doing the work of change.  Ronda asked us to share how we used to be compared with how we are now, and although I didn’t verbalize mine (we’d have been there til midnight!), the stories of redemption were deeply moving.  Whether we spoke or not, we were all able to relate to one another.  We all had pasts that included short fuses, hardened hearts, desperate acts that stemmed from deep, unmet longings, and hearts frozen with worries and fear.  Listening to these women describe the raw power of the Holy Spirit to transform them from the inside-out was pure worship. 

Some traits are easier changed than others.  I am not at all the same person I was – and can see huge change just in the last 2 years!  But there are still those areas — areas I fiercely protect as “mine”.  They are what I still run to for comfort; the comfort of knowing that I am in control, and there is no fear of being asked to let those areas go.  Jesus and I both know that, though I’ve told Him many times that I’m giving them over to Him, my fist is as clenched as a drowning woman’s hold on the rescue rope. 

Though He created heaven and earth and everything in it with just His words, He will not force my hand to open.  He will wait patiently for me to trust Him enough to open my fingers and offer to Him whatever needs healing. 

In the meantime, though, He loves me enough to lead me to a dining room table filled with women who have, though trembling, opened their hands to Him and are still reeling with shock that He took their offering and made it a place of power in their lives. 

Funny; when we have control over something we feel we cannot live without, it becomes an area of weakness – but we are comforted by the fact that at least we have control!  When HE has control over it, the fear goes away and what used to be our Slave Master is now an area of great strength. 

Only Jesus can do that.

Nights at the Brown Table.  Things are gonna change…

Homeschooling – Patch Free October 12, 2010

Week seven.  Day two.  But whose counting? 

The first weeks of anything new can be the hardest.  Quitting smoking comes to mind.  

I was determined to quit smoking before I became a parent.   My personal stereotype was a wrinkly woman with stringy hair, bad breath, summer teeth (sum’mer yellow, sum’mer missing) and a station wagon with no air-conditioning transporting 2 sweaty kids in the back.  My apologies if you are a Mom who smokes, but this was my image what life would be like if I didn’t quit before I had kids.  And it’s my blog.

I digress.

 As a last resort (I had tried cold turkey and the gum) I chose the patches. My quit date was June 9, 98.   All was well for the first few days, (and by ‘well’ I mean I hadn’t actually succumbed to the almost constant fantasies of slapping complete strangers, and the people I worked with were spared what I was thinking about them) but then I developed a skin allergy to the adhesive on the patches.  The directions advised me to allow 3 days before I put a new patch on the same square of skin.  By 5 days in, I realized that I was NEVER going to be able to put a new patch on ANY piece of skin that had already hosted the Square of Death. 

Angry 2×2 inch red, itchy  welps covered my upper arms and shoulder blades.  The directions also advised keeping the patches at least 6 inches from my heart.  I’m not trying to show off my mad geometry skills, but that restricts a 12 inch diameter of real estate on a 63-inch-tall individual.  Plus, to aide the nicotine transferance from the patch to the blood stream, ‘thin’ skin should be used, which eliminates the legs.  Subtract 42 more inches.  Okay.  35 more inches. 

I digress.

Anyway, by the end of week 2, I had pretty much used up most of the 16 inches I had left as an option, and I was covered in 14 2×2 inch red, swollen, itchy squares.   I even resorted to placing them on my … lower… hips.  Not pleasant. 

I even remember using a fork to scratch my back at a restaurant during a business lunch the moment the agent excused himself for the bathroom. 

I itched all the time.  Every minute of the day was filled with a low-volume discomfort that gave me opportunity to constantly evaluate whether the sacrifice was worth it.  Every new minute, every evaluation reinforced that it was.  It was worth it. 

That brings me back to week 7, day 2.  I survived the first weeks.  I survived the low-volume hum in the background, questioning whether this was something I could do well.

The truth is, what I thought would be constraining has been very freeing.  The effort has been worth the change.  No strangers have been slapped, the itching is past, and a peaceful routine has been established.

And it has been worth it.