So You Think You Can Dance

Hillary has always been a dancer.
When she was little, she would turn on her music (via her indestructible Fisher Price tape player) and gyrate and jump til she was completely out of breath. Her moves consisted mostly of jumping quickly from foot to foot, throwing her arms wide, and then slicking her hair behind her ears, just to start all over again. And, being the proud mama I was, I would clap and cheer and video it all.
And now that she's tall and willowy, every move she makes seems set to music. And she picks up new dances with ease.
I guess she doesn't get it from her mother.
Just last night, I was putting cookies in the oven, she was perched on the counter top, texting and talking all at once, and Parker was turning up the music (because it's never quite loud enough). I closed the oven door, potholder in hand, and got the sudden urge to try my hand (or butt as the case may be) at "popping". I loosened up...planted my feet...put my hands on my knees...and shook my booty. Parker said nothing, but moved behind the safety of the bar. Hillary glanced up from her texting.
"Is this how they do it?" I asked, now jumping slightly with my calves and succeeding at jiggling not only my "junk" but my upper arm fat as well.
"Is that how they do what?" she asked skeptically.
"You know...that dance. I've seen people do it."
She raised one eyebrow and said, "I've never seen anybody do that!"
Nevertheless, I kept at it, watching my reflection in the glass patio doors and trying different methods. Hillary proceeded to laugh herself off the countertop and into the floor.
I have to admit, I've never been known for my rhythm. During one high school dance, a group of well-meaning African American friends circled me, determined to "get Fonda her groove on." And they gave it a good go. But they weren't miracle workers and eventually admitted defeat. Hillary, being young and optimistic and ignorant of past failed attempts, gamely suggested I try something easier...like a dance with actual steps.
As luck would have it, it was time for the cookies to come out of the oven. So the dancing stopped and the eating began. And thank goodness...my calves were cramping and my fat was starting to hurt.
I guess I'll stick to baking and leave the dancing to her.

Walk this way

I miss my kids.
As they get older, they have a way of finding things for themselves to do that don't include me.
As I write this, Hillary is off on an adventure with some girl friends. They drove two hours away to eat at a famous restaurant that throws your food at you. Although, she did text her dad that the main reason for the trip was to scope out cute waiters...and theirs is NOT. Oh well.
And Parker is in another state, traveling and visiting relatives with his grandparents. And loving the fact that he's the "only child" for a while, I'm sure.
But the silver lining is that, with no one in the house but me and Yancey, we can take the time to snuggle a little longer. Then have coffee on the couch. And take our morning walk.
How luxurious to spend hours a day in focused conversation with a man who loves me.
So as hard as it is to watch your kids grow up and leave the nest (even for short, trial flights!) I'm glad that God is helping me learn to walk this way.

Empty beach...full heart

My sister and I arrived at the beach early this morning. We wanted to beat the heat, and the tourists. No matter how many times I've seen it, the ocean never disappoints. The blues and greens..the crashing white foamed waves...the soft wind and the deceptively friendly sun. As I walked along the edge, looking for shells for Cassie, I noticed a small boy and his mom building a sand castle. I smiled, remembering the castles I've built (or watched be built) with my kids. Being here without them has been different. Every time I see a dolphin I want to turn and say, "Look, kids!" When we ride in the boat with Stewie (the dachshund) standing guard with his long chocolate ears flapping in the wind, I want to laugh with them. But they are living their own life back home. Marching in the Fair Parade, going out with friends, and visiting grandparents. And I will see them in a few days.
So I sit here on the beach. It's empty except for an old man with a metal detector, and a mother and child building a small city. And I smile and thank God for all the memories I've been allowed to collect over the years. Each one as beautiful and as different as the shells Cassie is picking up. And my heart is full.

Hmmm

Yes, that is a firecracker in a slingshot.

As creative and daring as this trick is...I fear it could give new meaning to the old phrase, "Look, ma, no hands!"

Engineer in the Making

An old piece of siding, a patio table, a firework, and a lighter...just imagine what the boy could do with a roll of duct tape!

Of Fathers, Sons and WeedEaters

Parker has been mowing since last summer. But until his latest growth spurt, he was still too small to handle the weedeater. Finally, Dad decided it was time for him to take that next step to manhood. He told Parker to get his old clothes on and get ready to weedeat. A few minutes later, I found Parker on the back porch, waiting for his dad. One look at his face had me asking, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." he clipped as he swung too hard on the porch swing.
I waited.
"I'm not too happy with Dad right now," he finally continued.
"You don't want to learn how to weedeat?" I asked.
"Yeah, I do. But he's not going to help me. I know he's just going to say, 'Get that whole yard done' and then he's gonna go inside and play an Xbox game while I do all the work."
Hmmm. This would be one of those times that Mom becomes the oil that smooths the friction between the grown man and the growing man.
While there have been times that the man of the house sat on his couch-throne and handed down work orders, I knew this wasn't one of them. So I gently explained that we might be having company that evening and that Dad wanted to build a bonfire and that I knew Dad was planning to stay outside with Parker and teach/supervise the work. The mood lifted just a little.
Dad did come outside and patiently explained the details of trimming a lawn well. And once he got started, Parker must've enjoyed the work. When he ran out of string, Dad told him he could just stop where he was and they would finish the next day, but Parker insisted that he needed to finish 'this one corner'. So Dad taught him how to re-string the machine, then stood back and watched while Parker struggled to start it. I would have stepped in (I was already worried about his arms being tired) but Dad just waited...giving Parker time to fail or succeed on his own. And when the weedeater sputtered to life, Dad looked at me with a proud see-I-told-you, and Parker beamed.
I'd say it was a job well done...for all of us!

wHOLE-ly conTENTed

In an effort to grab some quality family time this summer, we decided to pack our tents and our relatives and camp out for the 4th of July weekend.


And not only did we have FUN, we also learned some important lessons.

Like how to put up a tent (times 3)...

That your camping neighbors appreciate it when you keep the lid closed on the vault toilet...

How to split wood....

How to make popcorn and coffee over an open fire...

And how to jump a dead car battery.

But some of the most memorable lessons happened away from the campground. On our final morning there, it started to rain. Due to some lightning and some anxiety and some leaky tents, we spent a good part of our "sleeping" time in our vehicles. Finally, it was decided that we should drive into town to grab some breakfast while we waited out the storm. We squeezed into two cars and caravaned to town. As we neared the fast food restaurant my husband looked over and said, "We're going in, right?" I just stared at him. HE might be going in with his shorts and tshirt and hair that never has to be combed...but MY bedraggled, stinky, matted hair, racoon-eyed, shoeless, bra-less, pj-wearing self was absolutely NOT getting out of that car. He was lucky I was willing to ride through the drive-thru with him. (Let it be known that I will do a lot of things for a hot cup of coffee in the morning.) Fortunately, with my parents in the car, we out-numbered Hubby 3 to 1 and the consensus was "We are not going in." But as we pulled into the parking lot, my father-in-law pulled his SUV into a parking spot. We couldn't believe it! "Are they going in?!" We pulled up beside them as he rolled down his window and said with a somber face and voice, "We are not going in." Our whole car erupted with laughter! Apparently they had been having the same conversation!
We made it through the drive-thru, waited a considerable time for our bags of food, and headed back to camp. Lesson #1 - Always check your order before you leave the parking lot. Not only had they neglected to give us ketchup, but Yancy and Hillary had ordered cinnamon sugar biscuit holes which had been put in the bag with no icing to dip them in. Apparently this was Hubby's last straw. Back into town we flew.
When we arrived, he went straight to the counter to resolve the issue while I darted into the bathroom (the allure of a flushing toilet overriding my pride). When I came out, I saw my large husband, feet planted, finger pointing, deep voice booming "..so will you PLEASE give me another one!" I pretended I didn't know him and headed to the car, all the while thinking, "Lady, he might be saying the word 'please' but he is NOT being polite!" He entered the car triumphantly, 3 small containers of icing in hand. Apparently, restaurant policy is one icing per order - regardless of whether said order is a 6 piece or a 12 piece. But Yancey's policy is one container per every 6 biscuit holes. And they had already caused him considerable trouble that morning...and manager or no, by golly, he was getting his icing! And the final lesson of the day - Never, never come between a large, hungry, sleep-deprived man and his cinnamon sugar biscuit holes dipped in icing.