The More the Messier...I mean, Merrier ;)

Senior Prom. Our last one of the "girly" variety. And what better way to celebrate than to get three girly girls together.

Satin and sequins.

Shoes and shimmer.

Patience and precise primping....

Three various sized curling irons and cups full of bobby pins.

Pretty girls all in a row...

Now for the earrings...

and a little perfume.

And the obligatory posing for pics...

and they're off!

And I am left with wet towels and hot curling irons, spilled make-up and the fading echoes of music and giggles.

My bathroom will never be the same.

And, thanks to my girly girl...neither will I!

Senior Year for Dummies

Why isn't there a manual for surviving Senior Year?

If you need to plan a wedding, you can find an entire wall of books in the book store laying all the steps out in front of you...from invitations to honeymoon. Or better yet, hire a wedding planner to take care of all the details FOR you.

If you are having a baby, there is a sea of advice available. Complete with charts to tell you what to expect week by week.

If you want to know how to tie a tie, make a bomb, cook Roasted Leg of Lamb, or talk dirty to your man, all you have to do is Google it and there are waves of websites to guide you.

So why do I have to flounder through Senior Year when there have been hundreds of thousands of parents who have done it in the not so distant past?

Aren't things like buying yearbooks, shopping for prom dresses, taking senior pictures, and filling out the FAFSA universal? At least in America?

Seriously - I want a spreadsheet. With dates. I want to check things off.

So until I find the Frustrated Parent's Guide to Planning and Implementing the Senior Year (or write it), I guess I will have to just depend on my gut instincts, sporadic notes from the school, and the helpful suggestions from friends who have been down this road before.

If The Shoe Fits

I came home from work and shed the day...

I knew I had to go to Hillary's Wildcat Chorus Club variety show later, and I wasn't sure what to wear. So I texted her. "Can I wear jeans to the show?" "Sure," she replied. So I put on comfortable jeans and a long-sleeved tee. I thought I looked presentable enough.

But when Hillary got home she took one look at me and her face said it all. What I was wearing would not do. I sent her into my closet to pick something out for me. And I went about my business of checking off my to-do list as quickly as possible...laundry, supper, pay a bill or two. When I finally got around to getting dressed, I found this on my bed...

I laughed because this was so "Hillary". Shiny jewelry and high heels. But I put it on and fluffed my hair. Because she thinks I can pull it off. So if the high heel fits, I guess I'll wear it!

Wasted Knowledge

So we were in the car the other day, and our conversation meandered onto the subject of...well...poop. Don't look so surprised, it happens all the time in our family. There are really no subjects that are off limits. It's always been that way.

Anyway, Hubby was sharing a little TMI (too much information) about his recent trip to the public restroom, and Hillary started laughing. Hysterically.

And while I, too, often find him amusing, this wasn't really THAT funny.

But then she said, "Mom, do you remember..." laugh, wipe tears, try to breathe..."when I was little..." gasp, laugh again, hold tummy... "and I used to ask you...where poop came from?" dissolving again into giggles.

Of course I remembered. Hillary was an inquisitive child and always asking me questions about one thing or another. And I was the kind of mother who explained, in as much accurate detail as was age appropriate, every answer until she was satisfied.

"Remember how I asked you that, like, ALL the TIME?"

Yeah. Still not funny.

"And you finally got tired of it and said, 'Hillary, you KNOW where poop comes from. I've told you 10 times. Now I'm tired of explaining poop."

Umm. I don't remember that part, but ok, if she says so.

"Well, I did know where poop came from. But I just loved hearing you explain it."

What?

"You just sounded so....smart! And you knew EVERYTHING. I just loved hearing you explain things. So when I couldn't think of anything else to ask you, I would ask you about poop!"

Wow.

That explains a lot.

Like why my kids have asked me things I couldn't possibly know. And not easy stuff like 'why is the sky blue'. (It has to do with the way the light reflects off of particles in the air...) No my kids asked me 'Why did they name a boy's private part 'penis'?' or 'How do you say "the monkey is picking his nose" in Swahili' or 'Where does poop come from?'

But I don't mind, really. I kind of like it that my kids think I'm smart. I want them to know that its ok to know a lot of stuff about a lot of stuff. As a child who went to the "gifted" program in elementary school, I got a lot of flack for always being the first to raise my hand, busting the curve on tests, and being the teacher's pet. I wasn't always sure it was cool to be smart. So if my children grow up thinking smart is wonderful, then I will not correct them.

Because even knowledge about waste is never...

um...wasted!

I Love That!

I watched in awe as my manly-er by the minute son ran toward the high jump bar, thick ropes of muscle showing in his calves, and vaulted himself over 5 feet in the air. This was his first meet of the year, and he was very pleased with himself. He strolled back toward the fence - oozing a new-found confidence.

And hugged his mama with those long sweaty arms.

I love that!

And later, in the car, we jammed to his homemade cd. Which included everything from Eminem to Jack Johnson to Metallica. His taste in music is wide and wonderful.

I love that!

And I love that he knows weird random facts about everything from whales to peeps, and comments on my driving like an 80 year old man, and explains the rules of whatever sporting even I'm being forced to attend at the moment.

He is such a unique person.

And I Love That!

Beautiful Truth

Recently I've been working to confront the lies whispered to me in my crib by the enemy of my soul. Lies like "I am alone" and "I have to be perfect". As always, my family is part of my healing. So this morning after my shower and dressed only in my "unmentionables" I came to my husband with a black marker and asked him to write a message on me. Something to tell me he loved me. Concrete words in black and white that would register with my brain's tendency to believe what is written down...and would stay put all day reminding me of what is true.

I lay still as he gently wrote his message in careful block letters across my tummy...

U R SO BEAUTIFUL

Hot tears streamed down my cheeks as his words, like a poultice, pulled the pain from my heart and out my eyes, healing me just a little. And a tiny part of my soul started to believe him.

Later, as I dried my hair in the bathroom mirror, the Beautiful Truth peeking out above my waistband, Hillary came in to borrow something.

"Who wrote on you?" she asked.

"Your dad," I said. "I asked him to."

Then we exchanged a small smile because he had put two L's on the end of the word 'beautiful'...which only made it more perfect.

And I was glad that she knew that, while it's impossible to find a perfect man, it IS possible to find a loving, gentle, strong, and patient one. And I hope she holds up every guy she ever dates to the standard of her father...and her Father.

Because, in truth, his message and His message are one in the same.

I am BEAUTIFULL! And never alone.

And that is the truth...

Play That Funky Music...

I was in my usual spot in the kitchen (loading the dishwasher) when Parker and his friend from next door burst in smelling of outside and excitement. They were laughing and talking, but Nate's eyes lit up when he saw me. "Hey, I've got something for you," he said excitedly. "You will LOVE it. It's from the 90's!"

Well, that's a given, right?

At least he has me in the correct decade.

He handed me a black box. "I was digging through some stuff in my dad's garage and I found this."

I think it's safe to say that dad has his own memories of the 90's.

I opened it up to find dozens of cds. Ace of Base...Motley Crue...Vanessa Williams...Janet Jackson...Boys II Men...and a PlayStation game.

"You can copy these if you want," Nate offered.

I didn't bother to tell him that Yancey's mom probably has all these and more stored away in her shed. I just smiled and put one in my kitchen cd player.

And Nate was right, I DID love it. It's amazing how the lyrics came right back to me. And the memories with them. Those "old" songs pulled my husband right into the kitchen and we were singing out loud and 'bangin our heads'.

The boys went on to their hide-out building and wii playing, but I played that funky music all night long!