Yesterday I headed out on vacation a few days ahead of my husband.
I left with 5 of my kids and both my grandkids and an extra kid here or there.
Let me just say that on FB, I’m always agreeing with posts about kids and screen time and limitations – – but put me behind the wheel in a Suburban packed like a sardine can and all bets are off. It’s cell phones for everyone. Otherwise I have to bring my referee whistle and threaten to pull the car over every 19 minutes.
Have you ever found yourself reading through those sappy slideshows online? You know the ones, where they take a 400 word story and dice it up so that you click through page after page looking at pictures while your heartstrings are pulled?
I kind of hate those stories. I want them to get to the point before I’ve clicked through thirty pages. However, once I’ve made it through five or six, I feel I’ve committed myself. I need the ending.
Last week, my ten-year-old daughter rode with me to get her brother a new birth certificate. I have no idea where the original is. Out of seven kids, I’ve never lost a birth certificate. My only thought is that we used it for football registration when he still played youth football, and somehow it ended up in the wrong place.
But I spent weeks searching through everything and I couldn’t find it to save my life. Ironically, the missing document belongs to Tucker. And he’s the one child who needs everything to be ordered perfectly.
I remember when I was like that. All my paperwork was neatly filed and there were never dust bunnies under the couch. I’d say somewhere around 2003, my orderly nature started to crash and burn, exactly when Tucker was born. But it didn’t completely crash and burn until I added four more babies to the mix. Read the rest of this entry
I have a few ideas floating around in my head. Posts I’d like to write, pictures I’d like to take, projects I’d like to finish, but they’re all just stuck as ideas in my head. And why? Because I wanted to be a real writer.
What’s the mark of a real writer? Well, getting paid, of course. So, two years ago, when a job writing and editing fell into my lap, I jumped at the chance to “work from home.”
Work from home! Those are words few people truly understand. Clearly, my husband and kids don’t quite get it. I know this because I’m constantly asked what I did all day. Here’s the only advantage to working from home: You don’t have to brush your hair. Well, make that two advantages: You don’t have to wear pants, either. Read the rest of this entry
I’ll never forget the year the challenger fell. I was in the 6th grade. Everyone was talking about the teacher who was going to the moon. And our classrooms tuned in that day, to watch history in the making.
Of course we weren’t at all prepared for what we saw. 10-9-8-7 clouds of smoke started to bellow at the base of the rockets. 6-5-4-3 anticipation was building. We’d seen space shuttles before. It wasn’t amazing that we were sending someone to the moon. 2-1-blastoff. It was amazing that we were sending someone “normal” to the moon.
She wasn’t an astronaut. She was a teacher. With students our age. One minute and thirteen seconds later, tears flooded my eyes.
I picked up this book at a thrift store somewhere- because I liked the title.
Every Monday Matters!
There once was a woman named Lucy Stone. She grew up in Massachusetts with eight brothers and sisters. I’d like to believe living in a house with so many kids taught her that women and men are equals.
Her parents took on abolition.
Lucy was smart, driven, and a rebel in her own right.
At 16 years old, she went against her parents wishes. Did she run off and get married?
No.
Did she hide behind the shed and smoke a little weed?
Again, no.
So it wasn’t sex, it wasn’t drugs, and rock and roll wasn’t around just yet. Then exactly how did Miss Lucy rebel?
Life in a house of mostly boys is far different from life in a house of all girls. Trust me, I know.
I grew up with 5 sisters. We fought over curling irons, hairspray, and mirror time in the morning.
We didn’t plan elaborate gags against each other.
But the tides definitely turned when I became a mom. I blame my mother-in-law.
Seriously, I’m not just being a jerk… It really is her fault. See, I used to shield my children from anything that wasn’t rated G. Then I sent the kids for their first week with their grandparents.
Guess what they watched? Yep… Jackass. So, as the years passed by and our family grew, so did the practical jokes. It’s Johnny Knoxville’s fault. He just had to make a show where everyone is constantly formulating an evil plan.
Once, Tucker gave Trenton some chocolate before school. Trenton gladly ate two pieces.
Unfortunately, they were squares of x-lax. It wasn’t until a few years later that Tucker owned up to his prank, and Trenton finally knew why he spent that day running to the bathroom.
I saw a hoodie online yesterday that totally reminds me of my son Tucker. It said “if you can’t play nice, play football.” He grinned from ear to ear when I told him about it.
Some people think football is life or death, but to my son, it’s even more serious than that.
In fact, we just received the wall decal he wants to take center stage on his bedroom wall. It’s a quote.
It certainly fits my son, because everyday he pushes himself a little harder. This morning he had the battle scars to prove it after the epic game the Tigers played last night.
This picture doesn’t do those bruises justice.
I know it’s not cool to boast, but every once in a while it’s ok to be proud of ourselves. Today, I’m feeling like I finally accomplished a dream of mine.
When I was a kid, I was a straight A student. I was a band and debate team nerd. I dreamed of going to college and having an incredible career. My step-dad used to joke that I was going to be a professional student because I excelled in school. I think he imagined me getting degree after degree until I had myself a PhD.
I even thought about going Ivy League. I had the grades. But I didn’t have the money I needed and if I’m being brutally honest with myself, I didn’t have the determination to make my dreams a reality.
The 19 year old me was burned out. I was so tired of trying to be the perfect student and the perfect daughter and the perfect sister and the perfect friend that I beat myself up way too much anytime I made a mistake. Read the rest of this entry
