Please help me I'm falling....

..into the Holidays!!!

I am one of the anti-Christmas rebels. I will not think about, shop for, or otherwise plan Christmas until after Thanksgiving. I detest the sudden forests of metallic decorated trees in retail centers across the nation--in September. I abhor the radio stations which switch to holiday music on November 1st ("Because Christmas should mean a little more!" SPARE ME!). I leave my mums, pumpkins, and corn stalks in my garden long past Veteran's Day--and refuse to string lights on my bushes until December. I don't care how much warmer it is three weeks earlier.

but wait.

Imagine my surprise at finding myself poring over cookie recipes, planning my shopping excursions, thinking about holiday decor, digging out teh ADvent books adn candles, even looking at travel plans; all in the single-digit days of November. What is wrong with me???? Who stifled my Scrooge? Who reformed my Grinch? What sinister plot has been set in motion to prevent me from my 5-days-before-Christmas annual holiday meltdown?

Don't get me wrong--I have not actually ACCOMPLISHED any holiday-related tasks as yet. It's going to take a lot more than just a whimsical sugarplum or two dancing through my head to push me that far in the other directions. But even so, this is a major divergence from normal. Perhaps I am having a personal Epiphany. Maybe this is a sign that I have evolved to the level of Martha Stewart readiness, by-passing the frantic hype and moving toward self-actualized holiday enlightenment. Maybe this is the year I find myself able to experience Advent as a journey to the celebration of God's most blessed gift to man--a Savior for us all.

'Tis the season! After all, the whole thing started with a miracle, didn't it?

Every family has one, don't they?

Most of you know I have four children: the loves of my life, a delightful mix of their father and me. Each has his/her own special talents and gifts, quirks of personality which make them stand apart from the others.

Occasionally, however, a quirk becomes a totally confounding issue, and I suddenly find myself out of parenting ideas. This has been the week. What do you do when you don't know what to do? My prayers have thus far been met with resounding silence. I admit to being slightly hard of hearing, having failed miserably in transcending elementary prayer to achieve subliminal enlightenment with the creator. God has not yet positioned in front of my eyes the flashing, neon, directional child-rearing map I seek. I'm waiting....

How can one sweet, charming, intelligent young lad suddenly create a maelstrom of grades, detentions, meltdowns--while remaining sweet and charming (well, most of the time)? I can sit with him and see that he gets the concepts, and understands the theories, so where are we losing it?

There will be meetings with teachers, counselors, administrators. We will throw around ideas, talk about important concepts like individualized education, differentiated learning methods, personal growth plans. I know the school wants him to succeed as much as we do, so we're all on the same team. My child will continue to assert that the teacher doesn't like him (his words are much stronger). I will continue to let him know that he is infinitely lovable. If this particular teacher does not click with him, what a tremendous loss for her--but homework must be done, tests must be passed. I have no doubt we will be able to turn him around, because this is one smart kid.

But Lord, if you could hurry up with that neon missive, I would greatly appreciate it!

Life is fragile, handle with prayer

My life did not flash before my eyes. The words I spoke were not "Hail Mary" or "God save us." In fact, my children tell me they knew something was wrong simply because of of my tone when uttering the profound "Oh, shit!" Apparently that is a common harbinger of bad situations in my household. I should probably work on that.

I had a few seconds in which to watch the car behind me smash into the rear of my car. There were no squealing tires, no honking, no last-minute attempts to swerve. I was a sitting duck, and she didn't even slow down. There was a sudden jolt, the crashing of glass, and then the frantic voices of the five children in the back of my car. I can say with assurance when God reaches down and wraps a protective arm around a car full of precious cargo, He does not loudly announce Himself. But there is no doubt that He was right there in the midst of the chaos. He was in the face of the first person I saw when I looked up--blessedly the familiar face of Traci, another mom from school, and the two men who helped to get our front doors open. He was in the face of the nurse who helped me herd the kids out of the car to safety, of the EMT'S, the medics, the police officers, the ambulance drivers, and the many people who came to help not only me and my kids, but the driver of the other car and her baby. He was always there, and will always be there, even if I say "Oh, shit!" instead of something more reverent.

As far as I know, all involved were relatively unhurt. We kept a few squads busy in the minutes following the accident, but all my passengers were home and doing fine by bedtime. I pray the mother and baby from the other car did as well. That is the important part.

We returned to the car last night to retrieve personal effects. Not pretty. It absorbed the impact well--bless you, Toyota!--without passing it on the the passengers. The lift gate is a sad shadow if its former self, the window blown outward, the side panels buckled forward. The front end of the other car, now sitting right there in the same lot, fit completely and squarely into mine, and came out looking a lot the worse for it. We were all very fortunate.

I am amazed at how fuzzy my recollection is of the whole accident. It's funny how little details stick out, but nothing quite fits together. I like to think I keep my head in a crisis, but I probably overestimate my ability to stay level when my kids and my riders are personally involved. So to all the people who stopped to render aid, thank you. To the medical and professional personnel who were there in a heartbeat sorting everything out, thank you. To the compassionate nurse who stayed with me and the children, bless you for being the calm in a storm.

Saying thank you to God seems woefully inadequate, and we've been doing quite a lot of that lately. But thanks and praise are all I have, and that is enough.

Anniversary musings.

Today Chad and I celebrate 21 years of wedded bliss. Any married couple will tell you that even the most blissful of marriages is not always butterflies and rose petals, right? But it isn't about the destination, it's about the journey--and a journey without twists, turns, and detours is nothing but a boring highway drive. I much prefer to stand side-by-side, knowing I face whatever comes along not alone, but with the man God chose for me. Happy Anniversary, Chad. You will always be the best husby there.

People commonly say "Where did the time go?" when referring to the passing of years. I am having a bit of trouble wrapping my mind around 21 years, probably because my mind is still clinging to being 29 years old (my roots, wrinkles, knees, back, and all those parts affected by gravitational pull are significantly more realistic, but I've never been able to control my mind). But I can look around me now and tell you where the time went. The time went to building a marriage, building a family, building a life. Fours kids, three houses, two dogs, countless cars, five jobs, several schools, a few graduations, tuition payments and many, many friends later, the journey still continues and time marches on! There have been great successes, and epic failures. There has been laughter, joy, disappointment and sorrow. We have made good decisions and bad decisions. We've clung to what's important while struggling to see past the roadblocks to what lies ahead.

I would not want to go back and do it again. There are regrettable choices, but changing those would change the outcomes which shaped where we are today. I would not trade one moment of the last 21 years for a promise of smoother sailing. This is the path God guided us on, with all its pitfalls, and I rest secure that He has it all under control. I am grateful every day that, even when the steamroller of life is wreaking havoc on my wedded bliss, the man holding my hand is absolutely perfect for me. He is all that I am not, calm to my chaos, dark to my light, sun to my moon. Together, we are a team to be reckoned with, bound together by a love which grows deeper with each shared day. God knows what's going to be thrown at us, so he gave us each the perfect complement to deflect the bad and embrace the good.

My thanks to Rich Mullins for one of my favorite songs, which sums it up very well.

Doubly Good To You

If you see the sun rising gently on your fields
If the wind blows softly on your face
If the sunset lingers while cathedral bells peal
and the moon has risen to her place

You can thank the Father for the things that He has done
And thank Him for the things He's yet to do
And if you find a love that's tender, if you find someone who's true,
Thank the Lord, He's been doubly good to you

If you look in the mirror at the end of a hard day
and you know in your heart you have not lied
and If you gave love freely, if you earned an honest wage
And if you've got Jesus by your side

You can thank the Father for the things that He has done
And thank Him for the things He's yet to do
And if you find a love that's tender, if you find someone who's true,
Thank the lord, He's been doubly good to you.

Too much of a good thing

Have you ever heard the saying "You can't have too much of a good thing"? I've been pondering that thought this morning. Try putting together a definition of "too much" and "good" and see what you get.

It all started on Sunday when I wanted to wear a top I had recently purchased. I remember seeing the bag in my bedroom. I don't remember ever taking the top out of the bag, but I am certainly not foolish enough to trust my memory. This is the same system which allows me to call my children by a label sounding something like "Erikbeccawillflitwhoeveryouare!!!" At any rate, I started what I thought would be a simple search of the likely landing spots in my room. Three days later, I have yet to find that piece of clothing, but I have unearthed a ridiculous amount of everything else!

Books are good. We want to encourage our children to read. Everyone in our house enjoys relaxing with a good book. Chad, in fact, relaxes with good, bad, ugly and completely pointless books on a regular basis. His $5/bag Library sale finds yield both treasures and crap, in about even measure. But we have read them, and they're still here. On the nightstand, on the dresser, on the shelves. Sure, a few are worth keeping, but how many will I ever read again?

Socks. Necessary, functional, good clothing. We all have socks. I have a dozen or more pairs, some for work, some casual. The kids have various cute and funky socks, others for hiking or sports. And then, on top of my dresser, is the sock basket from hell. This is where all the rejected, dejected, disenfranchised socks end up. I do not know where they go. I think they are swallowed by the washer, or the dryer, or the corners and closets of the rooms from which they originate. But I cling to the survivors, thinking surely their mates will come eventually in one of those happy-ending reunions played out between the soldier and the ever-faithful lover who believed in his return.

shoes. shoes are good. I have shoes from the Eisenhower administration. THAT is not good. I wasn't even born during the Eisenhower administration. They need to go.

Suitcases. And I include duffel bags in this collection. I keep these under my bed. Entire generatiosn of dust bunnies have taken their yearly holiday greeting card pictures in my carpetbag collection which rarely moves. We have a couple faves, and the rest just take up space. I actually have a suitcase full of duffel bags. How crazy is that? Why do I have them?

I could go on, but you get the idea. The idea of wading through everything I've unearthed is absolutely exhausting. It's one of those task which will send couds of dust flying. It will require boxes, and decisions, and an inordinate amount of time I rarely have in lump supply. I know even when I finish this room, I have only to go to the next to find the same situation. Then there is the question of what to do with said boxes once they are full and ready to be heaved. Why would anyone want all this stuff I once considered good, and came to realize is more hindrance than help?

Sigh. I just want my top. Where the heck did I put that thing?

Harvest Time

There is something about September. The days, no matter how hot, take on a different hue. The sun is at a new angle, hinting at the cooler air to come, and the sky is a sparkling blue. Even clouds have more personality, more texture. It is a month of random clothing changes. The morning jeans and sweatshirts quickly give way to summer's comfort as the sun warms the day to remind us it is still summer. Let the sun go down, though, and suddenly Friday night football games, bonfires, and hot tea are perfectly acceptable.

The calendar pushes past Labor Day, the kids are well settled back in school, and the morning mist takes on the crispness and clarity which speaks to something in my heart. I hear the call of a bountiful harvest, and feel a need to savor the earth's abundance by "putting up" for the long, cold months ahead. On Thursday, the pull to the Farmer's Market was strong enough to override everything else on my to-do list, and I found myself wandering from one tent to the next, discussing the merits of Roma's, Beefsteaks, and Pink Posy heirlooms, sampling the tart sweetness of a Damson plum, delighting in the velvet fuzz on the perfect southern peach. There were peppers, still a few zucchini and yellow squash, and just the beginnings of field squash, pumpkins, and the first crunchy apples of the season. I came home with boxes and baskets and bags, my mind delighting in the plans for salsas and sauces, jams and jellies, relishes and sweet baked treats. My heart was lighter, anticipating the sparkling rows of jars, the sun catching the jewel-toned treats and sending their rainbow prisms dancing onto the walls like fairies in a grand parade.

The annual rite of preserving and canning used to be one of necessity for those whose toil was the only way to nourish a family through a harsh winter. Now, we have modern manufacturing to bring almost any food from farm to processing to table. Sure, I can run to Kroger on any cold, gray January day and find shelf after shelf of tomatoes, or beans, or pears. But when I take a Mason jar from my pantry shelf, and pop the seal on the labor of love from my own kitchen, I not only get the fresh taste of a Kentucky summer, but I think a whole lot of harvest sunshine drifts out of that jar and right back into my heart.

The Estrogen Factor

I can remember several years back, when I did a stint assisting in preschool classrooms. I loved the work, and I adored watching those little people when they adopted a "big people" stance. The differences between the boys and the girls was unmistakable. The girls were more affected by emotion, drama, and a distinct ability to dredge up a memory from last week if need be. They whined, cajoled, pitted one against the other, declared undying devotion, and ended the year the best of friends. The boys, on the other hand, would clash briefly, shrug, and move on.

Walk the halls or eavesdrop in the bathroom of any middle school, and you will find the same situations, multiplied exponentially. I don't know how students at these ages find the capacity to learn anything, what with their minds so saturated by the daily struggle of keeping the emotion boat from capsizing. It continues into high school and college, where the fights are bigger, the results more devastating, the psyches more fragile, and the environment made utterly dysfunctional by a wicked social caste system capable of knocking the most promising and confident young woman to her knees with one wrong wardrobe choice. Young men resist being dragged into a fray which is totally foreign to their thinking.

One hopes, as we become adults, that we move toward supporting and deepening our relationships with each other. We put the high drama and nonsense behind us, and look for ways to lift each other up. In many ways, we do break free of the crap. We are moved to reach out in compassion to those around us, ignoring the separation of work and leisure. We move beyond boundaries and borders to help those who may be strangers to us, out of a sense that it is the right thing to do. We develop a sisterhood, finding women who make us the best we can possibly be, who stand beside us thick and thin. Blessed indeed is the woman who, like me, can identify a few women we can call day or night, for whom we would mutually drop anything at any moment. Friendship among women is a deeply emotional bond. Those are true treasures in life, and women do that in a way men can only envy.

But any person who works in an office of women will tell you the dark side of estrogen is right there under the surface. One breach in the armor, and all hell breaks loose. When the drama is at its peak, and emotions are bouncing off walls like a light show in a house of mirrors, when gossip, rumor and sniping are the order of the day and bitchiness is the language of choice, you can be quite certain that a group of women are the primary players in the three ring circus. While we may not always like or condone this behavior in ourselves, when it happens--we get it. And the men around us are still standing at the sidelines shaking their heads.

The good thing about this gender-related quirk, if you will, is that it is not a constant. We can't maintain this level of conflict for long, so we find ways to get through it. Occasionally, all we need is a good bitch session--blow some steam, and the pressure eases. But we are strongest when we can focus our energies on improving that which fans the flames. We are catalysts for change. Good things come out of it: greater understanding, fairer policies, closer ties, new approaches and solutions to old problems. If at times there are painful endings, they open doors to other pathways. When the dust settles, we all brush ourselves off, proclaim our solidarity, and stand again as friends. And the men come back out of hiding.

Vive le difference!

It's the call no wife or mother wants to get. I was one of the lucky ones-the voice on the other end of the line belonged to my husband, not a police officer, doctor or nurse. Chad started out with "I'm OK." Clearly, that was not entirely true. When you're calling from the ER half drugged on Vicodan and waiting for the xray report, "OK" is a relative term. But a few words of explanation and we both knew just how lucky we were. The morning commute could have ended in unspeakable tragedy. Instead, time and a good surgeon will have him back to normal in several weeks.

I don't ride motorcycles. I have been a passenger on occasion, but all in all I leave that up to Chad, and his riding companions. He's a smart rider. Helmet, leather, gloves--all standard gear. On this particular morning he was on is way to work--not exactly a leisurely, picturesque journey across the countryside. Crossing over the Ohio River, limited shoulder room, rush-hour traffic, and suddenly the lead car slams the brakes and those following react in kind. Faced with the option of colliding with the car in front of him and taking a chance on his flying skills, or laying the bike down and hoping his landing was soft, he opted for the ground path. 50 feet of sliding later, when things stopped spinning, it was a good choice.

The Concours is scratched up but fixable. Helmets can be replaced, as can leather jackets. The knuckles of the gloves are pretty much gone, and he has one very odd burn on his right hand that seems to have been cauterized immediately by the heat of the friction. Bruises appear daily, and I have serious suspicions that the lump on his ribcage should not be there. Chad aches in muscles he didn't know he had. The fractured clavicle is the biggest hurdle, but an excellent orthopedic surgeon will address that on Monday, and therapy starts next week.

My mind frequently goes to what could have been. I try not to let it stay there. The what-ifs are too terrifying to dwell on. I am indebted to the Newport EMT's and police officers, and to the driver who stopped in time to avoid hitting a fallen biker, jumped out of his car and stayed on the scene. I extend sincere thanks to the St. Elizabeth Fort Thomas ED staff for their care and concern. We have been touched by so many people reaching out in kindness to help with whatever we may need.

Every day I thank God for having his hand on that motorcycle, for guiding Chad along that highway. I will forever be grateful that the voice on the other end of the phone belonged to the one person who holds my heart in his own, and on this day, by the grace of God, he could say "I'm OK."

Do you have your piece of Pink?

Today, it's about Longaberger. Specifically, Longaberger Horizon of Hope pottery; but it's about a lot more than that! Read on.

Did you know Longaberger Woven Traditions pottery is the most popular pottery in the U.S.? We're in more homes than any other brand. That could be because our quality is unsurpassed. Vitrified to be durable, it is oven, microwave, dishwasher and freezer safe. Restaurant quality, but beautifully crafted in colors and styles to complement any decor, you simply will not find a better pottery. It is practically non-stick, and beautiful enough to be your formal dinnerware. It's the only pottery you will ever need.

So what does pink have to do with anything? let me tell you a bit about our Horizon of Hope Campaign. Every year, Longaberger develops a special product line to support the American Cancer Society. Through the sale of these exclusive baskets, pottery and accent pieces, we have donated more than $14 Million dollars to the ACS!!! In doing so, we have reached millions and millions of women with the message of education, support, and HOPE! It's something that has been a source of pride for me as a Longaberger consultant. For every Horizon of Hope product sold, Longaberger makes a donation, and I am matching that donation dollar for dollar.

This year, my favorite Horizon of Hope piece is our 9x13 Baking dish. This gorgeous, functional, perfectly-sized baking dish is a great choice for everything from frozen desserts to baked lasagna. It will be the dish you turn to again and again. It's not likely to match the dishes in your kitchen, and that's the whole idea! When you see that dish, and it's delightful pink hue, I want it to serve as a reminder. It's a reminder from me, from a friend. Is it time to schedule your mammogram? Have you done your monthly breast exam? Is there someone you know going through treatments or battling illness who could use a quick note or call of support? Have you done something for YOURSELF lately--something to renew your spirit? This one dish, a simple 9x13 baking dish, is pink enough to catch the eye, trip a memory, and start something wonderful! It's the perfect gift for a daughter going off on her own, for a new bride, a sister, a mom, a friend, wrapped with love in a message of HOPE!

So, where's your piece of pink?

www.longaberger.com/eliseseibt

Birthday Cakes and Teenagers

My baby boy turned 13 yesterday. That's rather humbling. I don't think of Will as a teenager yet. He has spent his first 13 years clinging precariously to the very bottom line of the growth charts. I do not expect Basketball to be his ticket to a college education. But sit and talk to him a while, and underneath that cute, freckled, mildly hyper exterior you'll find a delightful old soul. He honors the talents God has given him, even if it takes him out of the mainstream. He's quirky. He's funny. He's sensitive.

Will marches to the beat of his own drummer. In fact, I think Will stays up nights figuring out new percussion lines to life. Sometimes his rhythm line is too loud, rather overpowering everything else. Sometimes it is way too fast for me to keep up. But always, it is an original composition. You could say he is my favorite--about 25% of the time. I try to be an equal opportunity favor-er.

Birthdays for teenagers no longer mean trips to Totter's Otterville or party hats or treat bags. Preferences move to laser tag, or bowling, or music in the garage and a group of kids just hanging out and eating everything in sight. No longer do I need to drag out the decorating colors to frost up Mickey Mouse or a favorite super hero. I'm not sure I miss those days, and yet I can't bring myself to part with the Wilton Pans depicting Winnie the Pooh or the Tazmanian Devil. This year, he honored his dad and chose the Summertime favorite: Texas Sheet Cake.

I have no idea if this cake truly originated in Texas. Wherever it came from--GENIUS! My sister-in-law makes the best I have ever had, so I'll share her recipe. Basically a large brownie with killer icing, nuts optional, it is one giant artery clogging insulin rush of chocolate deliciousness. And for those folks who aren't chocolate lovers (pour lost souls--you know who you are), I'll share the white version as well.

Happy Birthday, young man. In case I don't remember to tell you every single day of your life, you are a special kid, and I love you!!!

Texas Sheet Cake
1 cup margarine or butter
1 cup water
5 tbsp cocoa
2 eggs
1 tsp vinegar
1/2 cup buttermilk
2 cups sugar
1 tsp vanilla
2 cups flour
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
Melt butter in saucepan with water and cocoa. Bring to a boil, cool. Meanwhile, mix eggs, sugar, vinegar, buttermilk and vanilla untill blended and smooth. Add chocolate mixture, stirring until blended. stir together dry ingredients and add to mixture, blending well. Batter should be smooth. Bake in lightly greased cookie sheet at 400 for 20 minutes.
Frosting:
Bring 1/2 cup butter or margarine, 5 tbsp cocoa and 6 tbsp milk to a boil. While still warm, add 1 lb confectioners sugar, 1 tsp vanilla and 1/2 cup chopped walnuts (optional). stir well, pour over and spread onto cooled cake. frosting will harden as it cools. I tend to use a bit more conf. sugar.

White Texas Sheet Cake
1 cup margarine or butter
1 cup water
2 cups sugar
2 eggs
1/2 cup sour cream
1 tsp almond extract
1/2 tsp vanilla
2 cups flour
1 tsp salt
1 tsp baking soda
Melt margarine in water, bring to boil. Remove from heat. beat eggs, sugar, sour cream and flavorings together. Add margarine/water mixture. Stir in dry ingredients. Bake at 375 in lightly greased cookie sheet 20-22 minutes. cool.
Frosting: bring 1/2 cup margarine and 1/4 cup milk to boil. Remove from heat. Stir in 1 lb powdered sugar, 1/2 tsp almond extract, 1 cup walnuts, pecans or peanuts, chopped (optional). Pour over and spread on cooled cake.

Chattin' about tattin'

Ponder the tattoo. Any tattoo. Comes in all shapes, sizes and colors. Lately, tats have been popping up in my peripheral life with some regularity, which has me debating myself with no clear winner.

Let me say off the top that I have no idea what my reaction will be if a dear one of mine comes home newly inked. I'd like to think I'd handle it with grace, acceptance, and calm. Yeah, right. But my questions is not so much 'How could you DO THAT?" Rather, I'm asking "Why?" Even putting aside the pain (and let's be straight--it hurts!), and ignoring the cost ($50-$75 an hours? Wow, I chose the wrong career), what makes a person decide to take the tattoo plunge?

Right now, my oldest speaks of permanently declaring her love for her adored summer camp on her ankle for all the world to see. OK, not my favorite idea, but it could be worse, right? A friend's college-age son came home with quite the artistic rendering on his calf, depicting his natural passion for snow-capped peaks. His consequences were pretty dire. My nephew recently made a lifetime witness of his belief in the Lord, right across his shoulder blades. Quite the piece of art. Is Philippians somehow more socially acceptable than Harley Davidson? One young acquaintance, in the interest of family peace, is saving to have her newly acquired brand removed. Heck, even my mother-in-law saw the need to have her eyelids tattooed with lifetime liner.

I've heard interviewers say tattoos can make or break a candidate's chances for employment, visible body art being a distraction in the workplace. Honestly, if your staff is that easily distracted, I'm thinking a bit of Ritalin in the water cooler might be in order. But I can also see where two candidates of equal, or perhaps not even equal, skills might be treated differently if one has an inky snake coiling up his neck. A friend pointed out to me that the very people getting the tattoos today will be the folks doing the hiring in15 years. Will it all even out?

Tattoos were once linked to bikers, sailors, fighters, guys who wanted to show they were tough, wild, outside the boundaries. In more recent years, tats have become a more mainstream expression of, what? Personality? Maybe. But that little butterfly on your breast which looks perfectly cute on a 36C, may lose some impact after gravity makes it a 42long. Later in life, will that permanent sentiment still hold the meaning for you that it did when it was applied? I'm all for showing creativity, but unless you wield the ink gun you are nothing more than a canvas for someone else's talent. Do people find them sexy? Endearing? Profound? I can't find any of those qualities in the Dale Earnhardt memorial I saw recently on a bicep in Louisville. In 60 years, will nursing homes be filled with Octogenarians displaying unidentifiable blobs of ink?

I come to no conclusion. I don't think I'll run out and celebrate my upcoming birthday by having a basket "tramp stamped" on my lower back. But hey, if that's what trips your trigger, who am I to judge? I can't even declare a winner in the tattoo debate when I'm my own opponent!

My not-so-empty nest

Several friends and relatives are packing up the last of their children and shipping them off to college this year. It is amazing the difference in approach from one to another. Some have been practicing for empty-nesting for so long that the departure of the last child is but a hiccup on the radar. Some are pragmatic--this is what we worked for for 18 years, and we've got to let them fly. Still others are devastated by the thought that their work as parents downshifts significantly, while their prayers multiply exponentially as they watch their child go off on a grand adventure. It's hard to relinquish control. It's hard to not have your finger on the pulse of your child's activities, not to share the daily laughter and head the crises off at the pass, not to be there until parental presence is requested. I did that a few years ago, some days more successfully than others. He's doing just fine without me. I will do it again next year, this time with a daughter. That will require a different set of skills than my son did, without a doubt. In fact, with two still in grade school, my empty nest sits on the far horizon. Tempus Fugit. My day will be here before I know it. And when it comes, I hope I have learned a thing or two from all the fine people who walk this path before me!

We are in the dreaded back-to-school holding pattern. This is when I get my grade school supply list out, and the ranting begins! Those of you who know me well may have heard this before--feel free to move on.
Small portions of virgin timber forests are felled every year just to meet the demand for an asinine amount of paper each of my students requires. Having to buy 4 three-subject notebooks and 3 additional one subject notebooks, plus binders, filler paper, folders. Really--how many subjects do we have? Why will one good organizer with appropriately supplied filler paper not suffice? Why must we force our children to juggle all this paraphernalia, when teaching them the valuable skill of organizing with minimal supplies would be so much more beneficial in life? Don't even get me started on buying paper towels, kleenex, ziploc bags and baby wipes. That's a whole 'nother day's boil-over. I finished my shopping today, and so I can reduce heat and simmer my incredulity until some kid comes home the first week of school with additional demands which didn't make the list. It's a never-ending process. I understand that my tuition and "yearly fees" do not cover most supplies, but I will forever believe that a reasonable review of the supply list would reveal some pretty gross excess.



OK--done for now. I feel better.

This blog thing, it amuses me. I enjoy writing. Always have. Every English teacher I ever had, including the dreaded Dr. Mary Roberty (whom I adored), told me I should write. Every standardized test I ever took told me English Composition was my forte. It's only natural then, that I should choose nursing as a career, thereby bypassing my one and likely only claim to fame.



Maybe that's why I'm intrigued by blogging.



I enjoy reading the blogs of others. I have friends who are brilliant in their daily postings, sharing their hobbies, families, kitchen skills, their fascinating lives. I love it! makes me feel as if they are sharing coffee at my kitchen table instead of miles away. I know people who are so down to earth I want them to adopt me. Some speak the language I happen to be struggling with at that very moment, and give me something to hold on to. Some shoot for profundity, miss the mark, and provide me with my laugh for the day. Yes, I admit I laugh at that which is supposed to be completely life-changing. Think Mary Tyler Moore and Chuckles the Clown, minus the poignancy. Whatever their writing style or subject, there's always a good reason to read.



But why write? Who would read the wandering threads of my overworked and underpaid mind? I am hardly ready to produce the great American novel. My life is much more in line with the latest Marvel comic book than it is with Atlas Shrugged. I am Erma Bombeck in a Tolstoy world. What I do every day is a bit mundane. I care for the little people (well, not so little anymore) to whom I gave birth. I care for the big guy I married. I try to care for far-away parents, which involves a lot of prayer and worry and general feelings of helplessness. I care for patients at work, and thank God daily for the great people who share that task. I care for my customers, and try to tend to my Longaberger business with whatever time I can devote. I care about the volunteer activities on my plate at the moment. But who wants to read about it?



I recently attended a sales convention where one of the presenters mentioned starting a new blog for her business. Really, I can't think of this as a business proposition. I will end up sharing way too much unrelated drivel. But I'd like to share a bit about Longaberger, too, because it has been a part of who I've become for ten years now. It's hard to separate it out from the rest of my life. So, you'll see baskets and pottery crop up as well. Often, I think, you'll see pieces of just me. I will try very hard to use correct grammar, but any mistakes are to be considered artistic license. I will make every attempt to spell check accurately, so as not to annoy my fastidious friends. And if no one reads, I think the writing will be cathartic. Maybe that's the whole point, after all.