10 Ways Marrying a Pastor Will Change Your Life…

I recently read a blog entitled, “10 Ways Marrying a Farmer Will Change Your Life…” and as the daughter of a farmer, it certainly gave me greater appreciation for my parents!

But I also got to thinking that being married to a pastor (which I am, otherwise this blog post would be kinda pointless) will change your life, too. Just mulling it over one evening as I did the dishes while my pastor-husband was away at a church board meeting, I thought of several ways my life has been shaped by who I married. So just for the fun of it, here’s my own list:

10 Ways Marrying a Pastor Will Change Your Life…

10. You will probably be the only person in church who reads the bulletin religiously because if you don’t take initiative to find out what is going on, you won’t have a clue because your husband won’t remember to tell you. He spends all day talking about it at work that he will assume he’s mentioned it to you.

9. On that note, you must always be ready to fill in for the volunteer that doesn’t show up. I have filled many a last-minute role to cover everything from the nursery to the coffee counter.

8. You can plan for him to be home for dinner, but don’t be surprised when he’s not. He may call and say, “I’m walking out of my office right now,” only to take an hour to make the normally three-minute trip home because someone caught him before he could walk out of the building.

7. Get used to Satan showing up at your house on Sunday mornings just about the time your husband leaves for work - typically before the rest of the family even wakes. He loves to make sure your kids turn into complete hooligans so that you lose your cool and are screaming at them the entire trip to church. You’ll spend the first 15 minutes of church begging God for forgiveness for your impatience and anger. I can almost guarantee it.

6. You will receive random gifts of appreciation in the form of food. Bread, zucchini, hot dishes – one church even offered to supplement his meager salary with a side of beef. But you will learn to be grateful for even small acts of kindness because of #5.

5. You will develop a thick skin. There will no doubt be times when you will fight the urge to punch a critical parishioner in the teeth in defense of your man. While you know he’s far from perfect, you also know he works hard, loves what he does, and does not take the job lightly – he has a calling. You will struggle with people who do not honor that.

4. You will get used to living in a fishbowl. You will know that eyes are always on you, and sometimes you will act like it and other times you just won’t care – like when your child is throwing a tantrum in the church foyer and you drag him away, kicking and screaming.

3. At that point, you will find it very handy that your husband has an office at the church. My children may or may not have spent some time-outs in it. While most families may skip church completely if the morning has gone sour, you will power through it because you never miss a Sunday.

2. If he’s out until 2:00am, it isn’t because he’s living it up with his buddies. It’s more likely he’s consoling a grieving family who just lost a loved one. My husband was even pulled away from Thanksgiving dinner once to rush to someone’s bed side. But even though you will want him home, you will understand that God needs him there.

1. You will never understand how someone can go through life without a relationship with Jesus because you’re reminded daily of how desperately people need grace and peace.We love our church family and community, and we hurt when they hurt. But in all things, God really is good.

While I was told before saying “I do”  that marrying a pastor wouldn’t come without some sacrifices, 20 years later I can say with confidence that I had no idea what I was walking into – but I am glad I’ve made the journey with this man. We’ve plodded through the valleys, but also rejoiced at the mountaintops together. While the road hasn’t always been smooth, we’ve held on tight to our commitment to each other because of our commitment to the One who brought us together.

It may have been by chance that I married a pastor. But it was no accident that I married this pastor. I love him and will have his place set at the table tonight…just in case he makes it home on time.

Forty, and Falling Apart?

I turned 40 today!! E! Gads!

As the youngest of eight children, I do know I'm still considered about age three to many of my siblings, so that helps soften the blow.

Nonetheless, the clock is ticking. It's no secret that the human body weakens or just plain deteriorates with age, and mine is no exception. Earlier this week my kids and I spent a gorgeous day at the river. The college-age population was well represented, however, so I had the misfortune reminder of what "used to be" with young women in bikinis and their I've-had-no-babies-so-my-tummy-is-still-taut-and-I-don't-eat-since-that-guy-is-so-cute-I-can't-possibly-let-him-see-me-put-food-in-my-mouth bodies.

Meanwhile, the squishy-ness of my own body has reached disturbing proportions. But then again, I'm not afraid to eat. I don't care how cute ya are.

What's bumming me out the most is that as I join the 40s club (there is a club, right? I'm expecting some membership perks, so there better be a club.) is that I'm already heading to a doctor because I'm falling apart.

Here's the deal: I've been coughing since the beginning of March. I caught a cold. I got over the cold. But Mr. Cough didn't care to leave me. He's like a leach.

So I broke down and finally went to the doctor this week. He gave me some medicine and then told me if I wasn't better by Monday, to get an appointment with a lung specialist.

Just what I want to hear as I hit a milestone birthday. I knew my body would sag and the knees would creak, but I didn't expect to have vital organs falling apart. I like my lungs. I'm sorta attached. I'd hate to have something bad happen to them.

So I ring in the ol' 4-0 spewing birthday cake from my mouth as I am coughing. But I'm pretty sure when you're old you get away with a lot of stuff.


And least that's what I'm banking on.

So here's to the big 4-0, and crumbs in your eye! Cheers!

Just One Tiny Shoe.

Oh how I wish it was just one child who lived in poverty, or was addicted to drugs, or couldn't bear to go home to an abusive parent.

But sadly, our society - my own community - is filled with them.

A few weeks ago, I was privileged to join a local agency's special event to serve families in great need by providing free hygiene products, clothes, and social services-type assistance all under one roof. I brought my daughter along and we had a fun time fitting children with shoes and clothes. We did discover the joy that comes from helping people, but we also got a glimpse of a truly different world.


As I had been doing all day, I approached a child to slip off her shoe in order to find out her size (more often than not, the parents had no idea what size shoe their child wore). I held back a gasp as I turned to my daughter and told her to grab shoes off the rack that were a whole two sizes bigger. This little girl's feet were being squeezed into shoes much too small for her. I rubbed her squished little toes as we strapped on an adorable pair of white sandals. You would have thought I'd handed her a tiara the way she lit up. We also found some sneakers in her size and I told her to wear them home. I struggled to avoid taking the tiny shoes and hide them so they would never be forced on her feet again!

Shoes that fit. It's a simple thing. But a rarity amidst kids who are not even sure where they'll find their next meal.

So I went back today to this agency because I want to do more. I showed up for a prayer meeting where the director gave us her "top 10 list" of requests. Each story worse than the one before.
 
A teen desperate for acceptance, only to be dragged down by despicable insults and lies on social media.

A 14-year-old girl gone missing, possibly out on the streets or shacked up with a much older man.

A drug addict finding ways to abuse even as she's in a treatment center...and pushing her "secret" on others fighting to stay sober.


Two kids under age 10 missing since their mother was taken away by the authorities a few days ago.

These kids are fighting for survival while mine fight for the last bowl of sugary cereal. The contrast is gut-wrenching.
 
I was told a story of a young girl who came to a club meeting, and while stringing colored beads onto a string, she said, "Black, blue, black, blue...that's the color of my Mommy." ...and then blushed as she realized what she just admitted out loud for all to hear.

I cannot meet these people or hear these stories and just hope they get their lives on track someday.  Sure, I could plop back into life as usual and just be thankful for what I have. But that's like walking away from the scene of a tragic accident hoping everybody gets out okay.

It's absurd.

So I'm going to dive in again later this week and do what I can to give kids the chance to...

...know love.

...know safety.

...and know hope.

Because every child should know these things.

It shouldn't have taken a tiny shoe to remind me of it.

How I discovered my kids don't need me after all.

News flash: I'm not nearly as needed as I thought I was.

Well, some in this house may debate me on that, but I discovered my children truly can survive on their own when necessary.

Like when I am nearly comatose in bed for an entire day from influenza.

A couple weeks ago, I crawled into bed on a Saturday night not convinced I would be a functioning human being by morning. Turns out, I was right.

Since my husband was working and wouldn't be home until roughly 6pm, it meant I was still responsible for three young children. That whole, "Moms aren't allowed to be sick" thing is painfully true.

But I was. There was no picking myself up and powering through. I was down for the count. Body aches, fever, throbbing headache, coughing, congestion, sniffling, sore throat...yes, I sound like a cold medicine commercial. I really had every imaginable symptom. I didn't think it was possible.

And the EXHAUSTION. As if I had been manually plowing fields all night long. I was throwing up the white flag but the universe was merciless.

Meanwhile, I can decipher enough information coming from downstairs to realize my children are watching television in mass quantities with bowls of cereal to match. Around 2pm, I muster up enough energy to get up and stumble downstairs to check on the state of the place.

It isn't pretty.

The children have polished off two boxes of cereal, leaving a trail of crumbs and chunks from the kitchen to the family room. This includes much of it crushed and mashed into all couch crevices and cushions. The milk jug has been abandoned on the counter and something wet was splashed across the kitchen floor. I look up to see my three cherubs glued to their sixth hour of television.

Annoyed and disappointed, I ask, "Would you ever turn that thing off if I didn't tell you to?" They all turn around to face me and immediately begin to complain that there is nothing else to do...I should get out of bed and feed them...they had to take care of themselves and it's so unfair...and on and on.

As I put the now-disgusting-room-temperature milk back in the refrigerator, I motion to them to get the vacuum and start cleaning up. I also insist the television be turned off. Indefinitely.

Once the place looks a little less like Red Cross could show up at any moment, I send them to the playroom to actually be children - you know, the little people that have imaginations and actually enjoy a room full of toys? They gripe and complain as I mosey back up to my bed. At this point, my body obviously can only maintain an upright position for 6 minutes.

I vow to only arise for a catastrophe.

It's not long - or at least it doesn't seem long because I'm in and out of consciousness - when the first catastrophe presents itself. My 5-year-old hurries up the stairs in a bit of a panic.

"Mom. MOM. You have to wake up and help me. This is bad. This is real bad."

I open one eye.

"I have gum in my hair," he says.

I close my eye and mutter, "Lord, have mercy."

I manage to get up and locate the Goo Gone under the kitchen sink. Within seconds, the gum is out and my little boy is convinced I'm a genius. He runs off to play.

Or, rather, join the fray.

Apparently 'play' is going to mean 'torture and torment siblings' today. I no sooner get the covers pulled over my body when my screaming, fighting children have brought their wild animal antics into my room.

I am dangerously indifferent, so I call their father. He asks me to put our oldest on the phone and shortly thereafter, with much whining and complaining mind you, all three are headed outside to run off their energy - Dad's orders.

As soon as the last grumbling child is out the door, my muscles relax again and I drift into the sleep I desperately crave.

But I'm abruptly awakened to clomping booted feet on my bedroom floor.

Again, the little one has come to disturb the beast.

I only make out about every third word. Something about "Bad." "Caleb." "Roof." "Fell."

I shake myself awake to get more detail.

"Caleb used a chair to reach an icicle off the garage roof and he slipped and fell on his butt," he informs me. "He's crying and he needs you."

I'm a bit embarrassed to admit that the key word in that statement to me was "butt" because I quit trying to shimmy out of bed and instead asked, "You said he fell on his butt?"

"Yes."

"Good. He'll be fine. That's padded." (I realize this puts me no longer in the running for mother-of-the-year, but since I feel near death, I'm not convinced I would be alive to accept the award anyway.)

I then sent the little reporter back outside and my head hit the pillow.

I'll admit at that moment I was so weak I was searching for any reason to avoid having to throw on a coat and boots to head outdoors. Had he fallen on an arm or leg, perhaps I would have experienced greater alarm, but I figured a bump on the hind end wouldn't kill him.

I was right because he apparently recovered just fine. I never heard another word about it. In fact, I can't even be sure it wasn't all a hallucination. The illness was clearly taking over.

Fortunately, my husband eventually came home. And fed them. And let me sleep in peace. Hal. le. lu. jah.

The next morning I awoke to numerous hand-written Get Well notes from my children. I suppose they truly did feel bad that I was sick, but they also fully expected me to bounce back like a cartoon character and serve them breakfast.

What they didn't realize was that NOW I knew what they were capable of! So by the time I was finally able to resume most of my duties in the household, I determined that I do waaaaaay too much for my kids. They somehow found sustenance while I was out of commission, so they will now step. it. up.

Case in point:  when my 10-year-old asked for a glass of milk a few mornings later, I handed her a glass and pushed the milk jug toward her.

She got my point. And we all learned a valuable lesson from my brush with death. (Yeah, I'm gonna be dramatic here. I am not rational when sick.) 

There are capable hands in this house, and they don't just belong to Mom.

Just One. (Entry 1)

I'm naming this blog series Just One. Why? It takes just one person to make a difference sometimes. Or just one smile can brighten someone's day. Or just one act of kindness, just one effort, just one thought can change everything.

So, on that note, I will share another one of my 'good intentions.' One evening last week I met up with some other well-meaning friends at the library. Since this is a popular hang-out in town for the homeless, we decided to approach some of these people and get to know them.

On a side note, I had no idea the library had such an extensive selection of magazines. Seriously, forget about subscribing to anything! Unless, of course, you're one of those people that must rip out the coupons or draw mustaches on celebrities. Then, by all means, buy a subscription and have at it.

As I scoped out my options, I noticed several gentlemen in a seating area toward the back of the library (by all those amazing magazines!). Two guys were plugged into their electronics, so I ruled them out after a bit of contemplation. I eyed an older guy who looked to be losing consciousness.

I sat down next to him and asked him how he was doing. Though a little confused to be approached by a stranger, he perked up quickly.

He wondered if I was a college student doing research at the library. When I told him I was nearly 40 and a mother of three, he was shocked and figured I was merely in my 20s.

I love this man.

Which also begs the question - do college students even go to the library for research anymore? Isn't everything you ever wanted to know online now? Eh, I digress.

Soon he was diving into a variety of topics. He wasn't homeless, he was just waiting for his wife to finish her garden club downstairs.

(Personally, I think when you'll drive your wife somewhere so she can spend time with her girlfriends and be willing to sit in boredom for two hours waiting for her, you're a gem. Did I mention I love him?)

Turns out my new friend Duane is nearly the same age as my Dad, with a similar take on life. He wasted no time sharing his political and religious beliefs. Even making me a bit uncomfortable speaking about the oil boom bringing in a lot of "undesirables" while two or three of those so-called "undesirables" sat in chairs within earshot.

I steered him off that stereotype faster than a parent snatches a falling pacifier.

I let him do most of the talking though. He seemed to prefer that. I learned he's been ranching for years and he's obviously proud of his son but not his son-in-law. (The term deadbeat may have come up.) He is no fan of Obama and little old widows are the most generous givers in church.

Yeah, we covered a lot of topics.

By the time I needed to get  up to leave, he seemed genuinely disappointed that I had to go. At least I cut his boredom in half.

Truth is, I think Duane was thrilled to have someone take an interest in an old guy nodding off at the library.

And I realize I don't thrill people nearly enough.

I need to change that, because it's really quite fun.

The Start of Something

Good intentions. That's my defense.

With the influx of people into my community in recent years (thank you, oil boom) comes an increase in our homeless population. Not a great reality, but a reality nonetheless.

So I've been trying to become more aware of who these people are and, if nothing else, offer a smile and a 'hi' to assure them they are at least noticed and recognized as another human being. I have observed enough human behavior that indicates we are either annoyed or downright fearful of someone with a duffle bag containing every meager possession thrown over their back. (Truth be told, they're probably more afraid of us than we are of them. For good reason.)

At any rate, I was headed to the public library shortly after noon today to retrieve some books to ward off my daughter's boredom. (She's currently grounded from play dates, so her weekends are burdened with the self-inflicted torture she calls "nothing to do.") Arriving at 12:30, I discovered doors do not open until 1pm.

Hmph.

At this point my stomach tumultuously reminded me of the time of day. Since I didn't down my usual doughnut at church this morning (score one for self-control! woo hoo!), the piece of toast I ate around 8am was obviously long forgotten so my noisy belly was getting downright hostile with me for neglecting it so. 

But then I noticed a few men outside the doors, waiting to be let in out of the cold. Though I had no 'real' proof, I suspected they were homeless based on the bags strapped to their backs and the quantity of layers they were wearing.

I couldn't help but wonder if their stomachs were in a rage of their own. I was slapped with the conviction that I can go home and choose from a refrigerator full of choices, but these men may not know when their next meal will come.

My immediate thought was to go get some restaurant gift cards to hand out, but I only had $10 in my purse and it doesn't take a mathematician to realize that's not enough to give decent gift cards to three people. I had a half an hour to kill until the library opened, surely I could just go grab some value menu items to feed them.

Off I go to the closest burger joint. As I walk into the restaurant, there are three people who appear to be making a day of it. They also fit that 'I'm carrying everything I own' description. I greet them, and they're all smiles. I catch almost a hint of surprise that someone paused to say 'hi' to them.

I proceed to the counter and order some food and three bags to separate the items into individual meals. As I'm walking out the door, a woman from this homeless trio I greeted a short time ago says, "Boy, that sure took a long time to get your order!" I shrugged it off as no biggie and said something like, "It must have taken a little longer to cook, I suppose."

I bid her farewell, and brave the cool wind to my car. I arrive at the library and offer lunch to these men only to find out they're not hungry - they've all eaten. Seems the gas station got their patronage on this chilly Sunday afternoon.

While I realize fast food offers questionable ingredients as well, I can't help but cringe a little at the thought of gas station food providing sustenance to these fellas.

Okay, I'm glad they're not hungry, but I'm a bit disappointed that I have food to give away and no takers. So I start tooling around downtown looking for anyone who might appreciate a meal. I stop and ask four others, and get the same 'I'm okay, thanks' response. (I have to admit, everyone was quite appreciative that I even offered, so at least I felt that maybe I wasn't completely off my rocker.)

Feeling a bit defeated in my attempt to help my fellow man, I headed for home. While not the intended recipients, I've got three kids who will be thrilled to chomp into a chicken sandwich and some fries.

I couldn't help but wonder if I got it all wrong. I had such a prompting to get those men some food, but I can't help but shake the thought that maybe I was just supposed to sit down and visit with that woman at the restaurant. She seemed to want to strike up a conversation. Was she lonely and seeing a smiling face gave her hope for more?

Maybe I messed it all up. Maybe God just wanted to get me to that restaurant - not for three bags of food, but to notice her. 

I’m a slow learner when it comes to life lessons, let me just state that right here, right now. And I’m naïve. There. I said it. I must accept the fact that I'm not going to grasp the needs of my community within an hour or two.

So I'm launching an idea - a project of sorts - to open my mind, my heart and my resources to the needs around me.

I want to do more than just take up space on this earth.

So I'm going to strive to become a better citizen, a better reflection of the One who gives me purpose. Maybe – gasp – attempt to be worthy of the calling¹. (Sure, I'm a little slow on this - 39 years into it and I'm just grasping the fact that there's more purpose to my life than just keeping three offspring alive.)

So follow along on my journey if you're so inclined. I will document my progress (let’s hope it’s progress) right here on my blog.

++++++++++++++++++++++

 

¹ Ephesians 4:1-6: "...live as people worthy of the call you received from God. Conduct yourselves with all humility, gentleness, and patience. Accept each other with love, and make an effort to preserve the unity of the Spirit with the peace that ties you together. You are one body and one spirit, just as God also called you in one hope. There is one Lord, one faith, one baptism, and one God and Father of all, who is over all, through all, and in all.”

More Than a Trophy

Maybe I’m getting too sentimental in my “old” age, but this year’s Super Bowl turned into a bit of a “Cry Bowl” for me.

The announcer begins with an introduction of Sandy Hook’s elementary chorus. The camera pans the group as they sing a few bars, and naturally, the tears well up in my eyes. That wound is still so fresh. The sight of those children – excited and smiling – well it was a poignant example of our country’s resilience.

It was enough to make this Super Bowl partier cry.

As the game moved ahead, the media did their part to accentuate the competitive dual between brothers. 

The fact that the head coach of each team grew up together with Mom probably frequently scolding, “Don’t throw that ball in the house!” made it a little tough to root against either one of them. When a videographer zooms into Mom and Dad seated in the arena a rush of emotions overwhelms me.

These are their boys!

I’ve got boys. I know the competitiveness that can rip them apart and the unshakeable love that brings them back together.

Both teams can’t win. One of their boys will be undeniably crushed after that game. As I stared at Mom Harbaugh, I couldn’t help but think of all the times I’ve had to console a child who, despite all their hard work, didn’t achieve their goal.

In a Huffington Post article about the parents’ role in their sons’ pinnacle game, Dad Harbaugh admitted they got a taste after a Niners loss at Baltimore on Thanksgiving.

Here’s an excerpt from that article describing the parents’ post-game experience:

After leaving an office in the stadium where they watched the game — in private and emotionless — the first locker room they walked past was that of the Ravens.

"We've all experienced that excitement of victory-guys jumping up and down, the smile on John's face. They were just ecstatic. ... Then you realize that you're not needed here," Jack said. "You walk across the hall, and you went into the 49ers locker room and you walked and you saw the players walking about — that look in their eyes, that look of not being successful and coming up short. We opened up a couple doors and finally saw Jim all by himself in this room, just a table and a chair. He was still in his coaching outfit. His head down in his hands and you looked into his eyes and you realized that this where you're needed as a parent.”

"Where you're needed." Ugh.

It was enough to make this Mom cry.

If the game itself wasn’t turning me into a blubbering pool of tears, a few well-placed commercials certainly would.

Enter a two-minute Jeep ad honoring returning servicemen and women. 

Come on, now. Pass me the tissues...AGAIN.

Family meals… a dog waiting to be walked… a lonely wife. And suddenly a framed portrait of a soldier comes into focus. 

“You’ve been missed,” Oprah says.   

Throw in some heart-wrenching music and you know what you get.

It was enough to make this American cry.

Surely this would be the end of all my gushing. I was running low on tissues, for heaven’s sake.

But nope. The big daddy of them all was still on the horizon, unbeknownst to me.

The late Paul Harvey’s hypnotic voice grabs me. “And on the 8^th day…”

Gulp.

God said, "I need somebody strong enough to clear trees, heave bails and yet gentle enough to yean lambs and wean pigs and tend the pink combed pullets...and who will stop his mower for an hour to mend the broken leg of a meadow lark. So, God made a farmer!

It had to be somebody who'd plow deep and straight...and not cut corners. Somebody to seed and weed, feed and breed...and rake and disc and plow and plant and tie the fleece and strain the milk. Somebody to replenish the self-feeder and then finish a hard days’ work with a five mile drive to church. Somebody who'd bale a family together with the soft strong bonds of sharing, who'd laugh and then sigh...and then respond with smiling eyes, when his son says he wants to spend his life "doing what dad does". So, God made a farmer!

It was enough to make this Farm Girl cry.

So I’d just like to offer my congratulations to the people who made this year’s Super Bowl a memorable one. Honestly, not even a week later and I don’t recall the score of the game. I don’t remember which call was unjustified and which player took the hardest hit.

What I vividly remember is how the world saw those few hours as an opportunity to grab my heartstrings and tug.

Hard.

But when you’re simultaneously reminded of what it means to be a caring citizen, a comforting Mom, a proud American, and the humble daughter of a farmer – that’s worth far more celebration than a tall, shiny trophy any day.

Tape your ID to your head. Please. Just do it.

Seriously, America. Grow up and be responsible.

Tomorrow is Election Day. But apparently that is just a suggestion.

Because a bunch of us are getting a free pass to take our sweet time to get our vote counted.

Here's what I read in a recent article about waiting for election results:
"Virginia typically has been fairly fast at counting ballots. But there's a new voter ID law in the state that could complicate things this year. Voters who don't bring identification to the polls still can have their ballots counted if they produce ID by Friday. If the race in Virginia is super tight, it could come down to those provisional ballots. On Election Night, no one will even know how many of them are out there."

To that I say, "WHAT?!?!"

Let me get this straight. So Virginia-ites can go trotting to the polls, vote, and then slap their heads as they say, "Oh! I forgot my ID! I'm sure I can get it to you by Friday. That's good, right?"

Last time I checked, when a person wants to leave the country they have to have a passport. The DAY they leave.

There is no, "Oh, you forgot your passport? Just be a dear and get it to us sometime when you get back, 'kay?"

Nope. Guess what? No passport? No leave-y the country.

But for an event that people have anticipated for FOUR YEARS and been reminded of CONSTANTLY for months through television ads, direct mail and yard signs galore...nope, that could possibly still not ring a bell that it is election day and they need to remember their ID.

You gotta be kidding me.

Now maybe the race in Virginia will be a landslide and those amnesia-stricken voters won't matter anyway, but I still don't think they should be allowed to have three extra days to show ID.

You have to be an adult to vote.

So if you're not adult enough to remember the most basic thing possible when you head to the polls, then someone should pull your "adult" status. Go back to Kindergarten and learn that "Everything I needed to know I learned in Kindergarten" list. I'm pretty sure, "Know your name and be able to prove it" is on that list somewhere.

I already suspect this election will come down to a handful of votes and there will probably be recount after recount to slow down the actual declaration of a winner, but it really shouldn't be because the American people are forgetful.

So, do me a favor, Virginia-onians. Go pick out your clothes for tomorrow and put your ID in the pocket. Right now. Go do it. Because I don't want to be waiting for results on Friday evening because you just didn't get around to showing that ID on time.

It's nearly as ridiculous as hanging chads. And nobody wants to go there.

The Alien at My Gym

One thing I love about the time of day I go to my gym is that it is primarily full of other stay-at-home moms or dads, and a few sprinklings of the senior citizen sort. You don't generally see the women scantily clad with flawless make up and hair due to emptying a can of hair spray prior to stepping onto a stairmaster, or the guys who survey the room for said hair-sprayed woman.

Honestly, when someone actually walks in that doesn't look like they had to peel their preschooler off their leg or is following doctor's orders to build some bone mass to ward off osteoporosis, they stick out like a sore thumb.

That's why I have a real issue with a certain someone now invading my work out time.

I don't know where she came from. I don't know if she ever eats (pretty sure she doesn't). And if I'm being brutally honest, I wouldn't mind knowing the name of her surgeon.

Frankly, her body is flawless. Abs of steel. Cut arms. Firm derriere. Thin, toned legs. And of course, the, um, well, you know.

Now I don't have any real issue with her looking that good other than the fact that I'm just incredibly jealous, but naturally I'm telling myself she likely has not given birth so we're not on even playing ground anyway.

My real issue is that she shows up out of no where.

Now had she been coming to the gym for years and started out as a pudgy gal and worked her tail off to get in the kind of shape she's in, I would be cheering her on and obviously inspired.

But no.

She just shows up one day this summer and looks amazing.

I NEED some before and after pictures, sweetie.

No one should just appear out of thin air looking like that. We want to see the blood, sweat and tears it took to get that way.

Otherwise it just appears completely unattainable. Like she was plopped down to earth just to taunt the rest of us with our jiggly tummies and cellulite-dotted thighs.

I meet women at the gym all the time that are working really hard to stay in shape, have more energy to keep up with their kids, and hopefully look at least "pretty good" in that new top they just bought.

If you're going to crash our workout party looking like a spandex model, have the common courtesy to give a little back story. Tell us you used to weigh more than your car, but then you hit the gym and watched the fat disappear.

Something to give us hope.

Something to make us believe that maybe, just maybe, we could at least get close to what you have attained because you're really not that different from us.

Right now I have no reason to believe you are anything more than an alien - sent here to torment us.

Have some mercy and call the mother ship. But do leave the name of that surgeon before you go...

McDonald's Day Spa

I've been suckered.

Suckered into empty calories, weight gain and not even any fun doing it.

Yesterday my children had their regular dental checkup. Since I have to tell them at least six times to brush their teeth before they actually do it every morning and night, I am always dumbfounded elated when they actually slide off the dentist chair with a "no cavities" report.

This appointment was no exception. Only thing is I forgot that in the past when they got a clean bill of health, I rewarded them (truly it is to celebrate my own ability to escape a brush with financial death via outlandish dental rates for fillings).

I was at a loss as to what the reward should be - but my daughter rattled off things I'd done for them in the past and I had little to no recollection of these fine rewards. But they probably happened. There's only so much available space in my brain for memory nowadays, so some information doesn't make the cut.

Since it was Wednesday, the obvious choice was "Waffle Cone Wednesday" at TCBY. Okay, so we waffle cone it.

Then upon returning home I discover there is a YMCA Family Picnic in the evening - complete with hotdogs, drinks, bouncy playsets, games and prizes.

I tell my kids about it and my son says, "Oh! That could have been our reward!"

Rats.

Really wish I had reviewed my calendar earlier.

Then after seeing the forecast for today, I was trying to rack my brain for activities we could do that would not involve having to be outdoors in 105 degree heat, but also avoid the fighting and screaming that naturally occurs between my children when they must stay home and (heaven-forbid) share space.

When a friend made mention of going to McDonald's playland this afternoon, I thought that was genius. An indoor playground seemed perfect.

Of course you don't get in without buying something first, so I caved to ice cream cones.

Only to open the door of the play area and gasp.

Guess what? McDonald's play area is NOT climate-controlled.

That's right. McDonald's now offers a sauna experience.

Seriously thought I may pass out.

All I could think of was how I'd been SUCKERED again.

There I am: ice cream running down my hands, shoes sticking to the floor, and aghast at the temperature in that room.

So we wolfed down our ice cream milk and the kids started to play.

Within five minutes my oldest son looked like he just came from running 40 minutes on the treadmill. Sweat drenched his shirt and hair.

Disgusting.

We didn't stay long for two reasons:

1) I left an air conditioned home for this? Foolishness.
2) My children were more interested in watching the large television screen than playing.

Guess what? We have a TV at home, too. And it's not in a sauna.

We pile back into the van and head home.

So while my kids watch television, I mope at the annoyance of ingesting high-calorie treats TWO DAYS IN A ROW all in the name of summer.

I know, I know - you're thinking, "Geez, Max. No one was holding a gun to your head to order yourself those treats."

I understand that. I take full responsibility - well, almost - for my gluttony.

I really need to work on that.

Meanwhile, I'll go back to my policy of avoiding McDonald's at all costs, and scheduling dentist appointments on days when we're doing something fun anyway.

And maybe my waistline will find its way back to where it belongs.

Job Satisfaction

I just returned from a week-long trip to Orlando, Florida. While the trip was a welcomed retreat from the daily grind, it also made me appreciate the roles I play as mother and writer.

Because there are a lot of rotten jobs out there.

It could be argued that I am simply not wired to be employed by the service industry, but here is a list of a few jobs I witnessed this week that I am incredibly grateful never made it on my resume:

1. The security guard on the airport tram. While the work is probably incredibly easy and was probably even kind of fun the first 30 times the tram scooted along the track, by the end of the day I would be so sick and tired of going back and forth on a little train car that I would very likely come home and burn my copy of "The Little Engine That Could."

2. The golf-cart driver at the hotel. In the same vein as #1, this job would be excruciatingly monotonous. He or she drives a golf car back and forth between the hotel and the parking garage. Tips are probably minimal and the urge to for once take a new route - maybe barreling through the picturesque bushes in front of the hotel - would probably overcome me. I'd be fired so fast.

3. A concierge. I think the boredom alone would kill me. As I walked by and saw the woman behind the counter leaning against the wall, twirling her hair with her head cocked to the side, her nonverbals screamed, "I am so bored I may crawl onto this counter and fall asleep." Any job that leaves me staring at the clock waiting for my shift to end does not appeal to me in the least.

4. Vendor at a major league baseball game. I commend the ones who at least try to make it fun and develop a little whistle or chant to sell their goods, but at the same time they have to haul this heavy tub packed with ice and glass bottles up and down, up and down, up and down, collecting crumpled, dirty bills from a variety of - shall we say 'colorful' - customers while annoying everyone else with their loud shouts of "BEER HERE!" My back ached just watching them traipse all over those stadium stairs. If I had that job, I'd pray for a line drive to strike me in the head and knock me out of my misery.

5. Security guy at a major league baseball game. If that isn't the dopiest-looking job I've ever witnessed. Sure, I suppose it gets interesting if anyone starts a scuffle or attempts to run onto the field. But there was nothing of the sort happening and so the extent of their job was to sit on the edges during game play and at the change of innings, walk out onto the field to stand boldly as if they were just waiting to take someone out. Personally, I thought they looked silly walking out the field. I didn't get the point of that. It almost appeared as if they wanted recognition for being there at all. Just stay by the wall, dudes. We know you're there.

6. The guy who picks up garbage off the beach. To be honest, I am a little envious of his handy-dandy pick-up tool. I wouldn't mind one of those myself. And there's something to be said for having a job on the beach, but since beach go-ers are apparently synonymous with litterbugs, the job is intense. The beach is a mess. That's right, beach bums: you ARE bums for trashing the place. Find a trash can for crying out loud. I felt particularly sorry for the guy since the night before there must have been a fireworks party so he had a considerable amount of additional debris to pick up. That would make for a long, hot day.

7. Virtually any restaurant server in a tourist trap like Orlando, Florida. That's customers from around the world - speaking every language known to man - plopping down in your section and you're hoping against hope that you don't interpret something wrong and mess up the order beyond repair. And contrary to what one would think, vacationers are not always relaxed and easy-going. Nope. Not the job for me.

8. The cabana staff. In theory, this sounds great. Poolside. Probably good tips. Relatively simple - just deliver foods, drinks and towels, right? But when the heat index is 102 and you're wearing a thick polo shirt and khakis, it loses its appeal quickly. How they resist the urge to go dive in the sparkling pool waters is beyond me. I don't know how I would handle that temptation when sweat is dripping steadily off my body. Not well, I suspect.

Now there were a couple jobs I observed that I would deem quite a privilege. For instance, the elevator voice lady. I want that job. I might mix it up a bit, though. Instead of the general, "Going up" -  I might put it in the form of a question: "Going up?" Maybe make them think a little - that maybe, just maybe, they'll feel they need to respond or they may end up going down.

Also, I wish I could say I designed an airport. Not that I want to put in those kinds of endless hours, but to have a brain that could actually make sense of that kind of complex information would be pretty awesome.

But hey. It's good to be home. Because my "work" gave me three huge hugs when I walked through the door.

Now that's job satisfaction.

You just don't know.

It's Mother's Day. But you knew that. Hallmark, Dairy Queen and every department store in the mall told you.

Repeatedly.

Moms have a tough job. It comes with no job description and yet you're responsible for at least one other human life.

And while many of us would not be where we are, or who we are, without the influence of our mothers, I caution those who jump to the conclusion that children are the way they are because of those mothers.

Not every child who is successful in life had an encouraging mother who taught a strong work ethic.

Nor did every child who is a mess have a mother who refused to discipline or didn't try to raise her child well.

I was bothered by some comments made by a mother about a fellow mother this morning. A young child - not more than three or four, probably - acted defiantly. The woman asked him to pick up some crayons that dropped on the floor to which he replied with an emphatic "No! I don't have to!"

The woman was appalled, and immediately determined this child was not disciplined by his parents and was likely the result of a parent who puts her child in daycare and then feels too much guilt at the end of the day to properly discipline and correct the child's behavior.

Uh. Say what?!

Important to note is that this woman is the mother of three very mild-mannered children. Are they that way because she disciplines so well herself, or is it merely their personality and she's never had to deal with a strong-willed child in her home? I suspect it's a bit of both. This woman's children are respectful and show tremendous character. I commend the parents for raising them toward that goal.

But I don't commend her for passing judgment on one of our own...we're moms, and ladies, we've GOT to stick together.

I mean, don't we all try our best to raise our children to be helpful, kind, honest and respectful?

But can't we all agree that this work is a lot easier with some children than others?

I don't know the circumstances of that little boy who refused to pick up his crayons, but I would guess virtually everyone has watched a child of that age test authority in a manner such as this.

Frankly, she could have been talking about my child. Typically, he is pretty good about following instructions like that, but he also likes to throw a 'tude on occasion, and I'd be pretty heartbroken to think someone automatically labeled him as "undisciplined" because of it.

All this to say, I struggle tremendously when people pass judgment on moms. Early on in motherhood, I had a dear friend who taught me a fantastic mantra when witnessing what we may deem as an unfit mother.

You just don't know.

You just don't know what other moms are dealing with in the midst of trying to raise those kids.

Yes, I mean the 4-year-old who still has a baby bottle in her mouth.

Because what you don't know is the little girl battles sensory issues something terrible and that bottle is the one thing that mom can use to calm her sweet soul.

Or the child who is climbing the walls and refuses to sit still.

Did you know his Dad was laid off and had to take a job where he's on the road 6 days a week? His mom is doing all she can to keep the home together, and her child has his own way of coping the loss of Daddy.

Certainly there are cases where a little more effective parenting could make a difference, but I refuse to be the one to be judge and jury in it.

Because you just don't know.

We moms have the hardest job on the planet. Some days we deserve a pat on the back and others a slap in the face, for sure.

We're not perfect.

Our children are not perfect.

So the second you think yours are superior to mine, or I think mine are superior to yours, that's when we've failed our children most of all.

So today, I join in the chorus of "Happy Mother's Day, Mom." Here's to the next year - a year I hope is full of encouragement and love from other moms. Because while we just don't know all of your circumstances, we do know the sacrifice, joy, heartaches, frustrations and total satisfaction that comes from turning a tiny baby into a functioning adult, with hopefully enough sense to clean up what they dropped.

I'm no Generic brand.

I need to update my resume.

In the last 24 hours, I discovered skills I didn't know I had.

First of all, I laced up my rollerblades. Yes, you read that correctly. Me. On rollerblades. It was bold, I know. But that's how I roll.

Okay, sorry. I couldn't avoid that perfect pun.

My kids are perfecting their own blading skills, and pleaded for me to join them. Since the last time I recall zipping around in my rollerblades was prior to motherhood, let's just say it isn't like riding a bike.

There's a reason moms don't typically do this activity. Mainly, because we don't want to die. We know our kids need us, so we avoid these high-risk endeavors. That and we prefer boo-boos to be remedied with a simple Sponge Bob band-aid. Rolling into oncoming traffic because the single, worthless brake will only catapult me backwards as I skid to my doom...that's beyond Sponge Bob's capability.

But after a couple "refresher courses," I'm making significant improvement. I'm even venturing a little closer to the end of the driveway. But not much. It slopes down there, ya' know. I prefer not to flirt with danger.

Since I'm resembling more Tonya Harding than Nancy Kerrigan (And yes, I realize I dated myself with that reference), I set the wheels aside to take on my next assignment.

Fashion designer.

Hey, quit laughing. I realize my typical jeans and fleece pull-over attire don't exactly scream "fashion model" but that just shows how little you know. I'm pretty sure if I was filthy rich I'd be dressed to impress. See, the only thing between me and a perfect closet is a whole lotta green. At least that's what I'm telling myself.

But when someone invites me to forget the price tags and put something together, apparently I do okay. I've volunteered to model outfits from a local clothing store for an event next week. Today I stopped at the store to select my wardrobe.

Of course in my head, this looks a lot like the scene in Pretty Woman when the manager and all the salespeople and are doting on me, having me try on hundreds of clothes as they feed me chocolate.

In reality, I walked in and the woman that was supposed to help me disappeared to the back room for an uncomfortably long time. When she reappeared, she said, "How about black and white?"

Now, if you know me, you know I like color. Reds, oranges, pinks and blues - I'll wear it all, sometimes at the same time. I don't particularly enjoy dressing like a generic cereal box, but I didn't think I had a lot of say in the matter.

Little did I know how little they'd know. Yep. They showed me some racks, and I was on my own. I started putting things together, adding punches of color with a scarf or a belt. And they LOVED it. I got rave reviews.

Who knew I missed my calling? I'll be auditioning for "Fashion Star" tomorrow.

But that's not all. Not only am I a budding fashionista, I am a dancing marvel.

Well, kind of. At least dances good enough for a 3rd grader.

My daughter is performing in her class talent show in a couple of weeks. She and a friend want to cut a rug to a little Bella Thorne-Zendaya mix. But they need choreography.

Her friend came over after school today to practice their moves. They've been practicing at recess all week. But once they run through it once in my house, they determine their moves are hideous. They want to start from scratch.

"Mom! You have to help us!"

My "You've got to be kidding me" facial expression was promptly ignored.

Before I knew it, I was choreographing three minutes of the hippest, hoppiest (I lost all credibility with that lame dance terminology, didn't I?) of my life.

Who knew watching my friends practice for dance team tryouts in high school would come in handy 20 years later?

And yes, my daughter is going to sport some moves direct from that 20-year-old routine. Don't judge me! I was forced into this job against my will and had to shoot from the hip.

Ooh, wait a second. That might make a good dance move. Let me write that down.

Considering most days are classifed a success if the dishes get done and the computer doesn't crash, this was a pretty productive day!

Homemade Girl Scout Cookies: A lesson in futility.

Some things simply need to be left to the professionals.

In my case, those professionals are the Girl Scouts.

I had a hair-brained idea this week to try my hand at making homemade Girl Scout cookies. Yes, I saw the recipes on Pinterest so I foolishly thought they were do-able.

Foolish. Foolish. Foolish.

But I love Thin Mints and Samoas and the thought of being able to make them myself seemed too good to be true.

And it was.

Oh. My. Goodness.

Admittedly, my first mistake was trying to assemble and bake two kinds of cookies at the same time. Thinking I'd be saving time by having ingredients and the mixer all out at once only proved to frustrate me more trying to coordinate the cooking, cooling and baking times.

I started with the Samoas dough. Easy enough. Basic shortbread, really. But I didn't have a cookie cutter shaped like a donut, so I had to improvise with a small glass and the opposite end of a frosting piping tip. But I kept getting dough stuck in that tip so had to fish it out with a fork every time. It got rather obnoxious.

Once those were in the oven, I started the Thin Mints dough. The recipe tells me to "knead the dough slightly to help keep it together." What a joke.

The stuff just crumbled. Worse yet - the recipe indicated to put it in the freezer for 15 minutes prior to rolling it out.

So it doesn't take a rocket scientist - or even an amateur chef - to surmise this dough was going to break apart when you tried to cut cookies from it. Cold, hardened, crumbly. Oh yeah. That just screams success in the kitchen.

Again, I didn't have a small round cookie cutter, but the recipe advised using a bottle cap - like from a small orange juice - to cut the cookies.

I had no orange juice. I had Powerade. Close enough.

But it was impossible to pull the dough out from the cap without it falling apart, so soon I was hacking away at that plastic cap with my kitchen shears to put a big enough hole on top to push my finger through and loosen the cookie from the top.

Although then I just managed to poke a hole in the center of every cookie. Aargh!

So with my kitchen shears in hand, I chopped and wrestled that cap some more. Orange plastic shards flying everywhere.

What a mess. But that's hardly the worst of it. I scan my kitchen.

Dough bits are EVERYWHERE.

My kitchen counters have a thorough dusting of powdered sugar and cocoa powder, the floors are littered with crumbs and since I'm darting to and fro, I've managed to smoosh chocolate bits with my feet into the floor.

Really glad I didn't get a chance to clean the floors yet this week. I try not to get down on myself about the mess, vowing to make mopping top priority tomorrow.

I eventually get the hang of the Thin Mints cookie cutting, when I realize I have to put things on hold and go coach my son's 2nd Grade basketball team at the Y.

I can't even begin to believe it is nearly 4:00 and I'm still putting these cookies together!

Hubby is away at a conference all week, so I have to pinch-hit for him as coach. You're probably asking yourself, "Why would she choose today to take on this baking project?" Good question. But I really did not expect this to be an 8-hour project! That, and I think I must thrive under pressure so I unwittingly put myself in these situations.

It's the first practice of the season, I've never coached anything, ever, and I've got 11 highly energetic 7 & 8 year old boys to corral and teach the fundamentals. And I'm pretty sure I have chocolate streaks on my shirtsleeves and cocoa in my hair.

I welcome the diversion from my disaster in the kitchen, but I cringe at the work I have left to do when I return home.

Practice comes to a close - it went pretty well, I think. But I'm more than happy to relinquish the reins to my husband next week!

After filling the bathtub for my boys and sending my daughter to shower, it's back into the kitchen I go. I finish all the baking and move onto the toppings and assembly.

This is when deep regret enters my brain.

Nothing is more irritating when I'm cooking then to have a faulty recipe. The ratio of coconut to caramel for the Samoas is completely off. I have way too little caramel, yet enough coconut to feed Skipper for a week. Well, maybe not Skipper. That scrawny Gilligan, for sure, though.

Not only does this grave detail make mixing the two futile, but I don't have nearly enough caramel to spread on each cookie in order to make the topping actually stick to the cookies. Not to mention that the assembly is so tedious that I have to repeatedly reheat the caramel to spreading consistency.

But guess what happens when you continually heat caramel?

It turns hard as a rock, that's what.

So not helpful.

I'm at a loss so I walk away from this train wreck and move on to the Thin Mints.

They are ready for dipping in chocolate. Again, faulty recipe translates to more frustration. I did not make nearly enough chocolate to coat all the cookies.

Maybe the recipe author knew how impossible cutting cookies from that dough is and figured I'd give up half-way through and chuck the remaining dough. Little did she know I have stamina and would fight that dough to the death! The only chance of that chocolate coating sufficiently covering each cookie is if I had, indeed, only made half of the cookies!

I grumble and give in to melting more chocolate. It still isn't enough - I'm about 7 cookies short - but by this time I'm so thoroughly exhausted I opt to toss the un-coated cookies into a ziplock and put them in the freezer. Maybe I'll feel the urge for a Thin Mint in July. I'll melt more chocolate then.

My attention now goes back to those horrific Samoas. Bottom line: I need more caramel.

As the only adult in the house with three children in bed, a trip to the grocery store is not an option. Then it dawns on me that I can make caramel from brown sugar!

I scan the internet for a how-to and soon I'm making my own caramel. I think I'm a genius until this also fails miserably. It's just a runny mess that has no adhesiveness to it whatsoever, so again I'm left with clumps of rock-hard coconut and caramel that refuse to stick to my cookies. Meanwhile, this runny caramel is turning my shortbread cookies into soggy, crumbly circles of goo.

I'm near tears, but am committed to finishing. I do the best I can with what I have to work with and just hope the final step of chocolate dipping and drizzling will somehow remedy the situation.

All hope is lost when I discover the amount of chocolate sauce the recipe produces only gets me through about 3/4 of the cookies.

I refuse to care.

I leave it all on wax paper to set, loosely cover it with plastic wrap and admit defeat. I'd deal with it in the morning.

It takes me nearly as long to clean up my counters and load the dishwasher as it did to make those dreadful cookies! It doesn't help that I have bowls and kettles caked with hardened caramel and chocolate sauces. For a split second, I consider tossing everything in the garbage and buying new in the morning.

I quickly realize it's insanity - brought on by impossible girl Scout cookies reproduction - talking and I snap back into the real world. I'll just let them soak. For a long time. A reeeeally long time. Like until my husband comes home and he can clean them. (insert devilish laugh here)

By morning the verdict is in. I have pretty decent Thin Mints, but certainly not quite Girl Scout Thin Mint caliber. And definitely not worth the effort when I could have just given the girl at my door earlier in the week four bucks and saved myself the trouble.

The Somoas? A complete and utter disaster. Soggy shortbread. Teeth-breaking coconut and caramel. And even odd-tasting chocolate...that never really set very well. But I have two storage containers full of the little mishaps. At this point, I'd have to pay someone four bucks to eat them.

So do yourself a favor. Learn from my mistakes.

Support your neighborhood Girl Scout and buy her cookies. No messy kitchen. No frustration. No entire-day-sucking prep. At $4 a box, it's truly a steal. At some point - maybe when I realized my caramel was overcooked - I would have paid 70x that for someone to put me out of my misery.

Although I probably could have just thrown one of those Samoas at my head for the same effect.