Throwing Knives and Shooting Stars

If you give a boy your debit card...
He's going to ask to order Ninja Throwing Knives.

If you order the knives,
he's going to ask you for the throwing stars to go with it.

When the items arrive,
he'll want to practice his Ninja skills.
Even if it's raining outside.

The rain will remind him that he needs his Muck boots.

Which he will wear to retrieve the knives that missed the large plywood target and fell in the mud.

The muddy knives and stars will probably make him holler up the stairs to his mom to bring him a big glass of water and an old dirty towel.

Seeing his mom, he will say
"Hey, mom...You wanna watch me throw?"

Which will cause his Mother to put off doing laundry and grab her camera.

And chances are,
if you let your mom take pictures of you Throwing Knives and Shooting Stars,
she's probably going to write a blog to go with it.

Patrons of the Arts

It's been a long time since a Friday night meant dressing up and going out.  Ok, Friday night has never really meant that for me... I get a lot of basketball-track meet-what's for dinner-empty cupboard-overflowing laundry basket Fridays.
But tonight, I put on my fancy shirt and some heels that are ridiculously uncomfortable and Hubby and I pretended to be patrons of the arts.

Wait...we do feed, clothe, shelter, and insure an Artist...so I guess that counts.  Right?
Did I say patrons?  Perhaps I meant parents.
Anyway, we headed to the art show where Hillary's collage was on display.

Hubby and I walked around slowly, taking in all the serious artwork in a thoughtful and sophisticated way, and pretending we understood the deep meaning of the more abstract pieces.
Hillary mingled with the tatooed, pierced, edgy-coiffed artists.

Parker did what any 15 year old little brother would do in this situation...
babysat our purses while playing games on his ipod.

Hubby and I  hung around, eating fruit on toothpicks and listening to various young people play piano, until awards were handed out.  Hillary didn't win anything, but enthusiastically cheered as friends and classmates were honored.
And then it was time for us old people to go home.
But not before I made Hill snap a few pics...

Little Brother got to stay and hang out with the Artist and her friends.















While Hubby and I ended our evening with popcorn and our DVR at home.  People in their 30's can only take so much excitement, ya know.
We have two weeks to rest up for the next big college event...Jazz Choir concert.  I've gotta find my dangly earrings...

Simply Sunday

This Easter was different from years past.
We didn't color any eggs.  I didn't buy a new dress.  And I didn't know any men who had been growing their beard out since January so they could be Jesus in a cantata.
This year things were simple.
It was just me and Hill, so we put on our cute shoes and went to church, where she sang with the worship team and then we sat (quite literally) cheek to cheek on the packed pew.
Then we came home and took pictures of ourselves.
And shared a bag of Dove chocolates.
And put on jeans and went to lunch with my sister and her boyfriend.
And then, we made an impromptu trip to the nearest starbucks.  Just because we wanted to.
It may not have been traditional, but it felt a lot like a holiday.  After all, there were a lot of little every-day blessings.  And often, that's how I see and feel God...in the laugh of my child...in the company of my sister...in the taste of a good cup of coffee...in the peaceful quiet of looking out the window at the rain falling on my woods.
So, I am thankful in my heart as I celebrate this Holy day which also happens to be just a simple Sunday.

First Act

Parker recently made his debut as an actor in the school play.  It was called Promedy, and his character was the Drama kid who was in love with the Cheerleader.  I sat in the second row and took illegal photographs.

He was cool and confident, even when he had to ad-lib through a few forgotten lines.  He projected his voice like a pro.  And in the end, when he finally got the girl, he looked WAY too comfortable with his arms around her "pretending" to dance.
Is this really the same kid who literally chased my car in the school parking lot during his first grade year because he didn't want to stay there "by himself"?  The same kid who would cry because "people were looking at him"?  The same kid who called us to come pick him up at midnight the first three times he tried spending the night with a friend?
That kid was afraid of a lot of things.
But he lived and he learned and he kept doing things that scared him.
And now he's a young man who knows he has what it takes to try out for the team...to stand up to peer pressure...to put on stage make-up and star in the school play...to be the main character in the Story of His Own Life.
I can't wait to see how it ends.  But for now, I'm enjoying the show.

Stormy Weather

It stormed last night.
Off and on throughout the night, I would wake to rolling thunder or the pulsing strobe light of lightning.  Never one to be particularly afraid of storms, I just snuggled deeper into my blankets and went back to sleep.
It wasn't until this morning, with weak sunlight filtering through the gray clouds, calm and quiet, that I realized what had changed.
Through all the pounding of storm, there had been no pattering of feet.  No Daughter whispering "Mom, can I sleep with you?"  No Son stealthily sneaking into bed on the other side, wordless.
All grown-up, they had both slept through it...or at least been unafraid enough to let the storm roll over without chasing them out of their comfortable covers.
I thought I would be sad, for a moment.
But then I smiled.  Because when all is said and done, what I really want is for them to be able to weather their own storms.
And, of course, I still have their Father, who will never be big enough to sleep by himself ;)
So I roll over and go back to sleep.

"Weather the storm"  ~ to be all right despite experiencing serious problems or great difficulties

10 Good Minutes

I hate mornings.
I hate them so much that I shower in the dark.
And I always crawl back into bed, wet-headed, for a few more minutes of not-morning-yet.
This morning, when I got back in bed, snuggled on top of my memory foam and beneath my heavy blankets, I pressed my body against Hubby's broad solid back.  My legs curled into the curve of his.  It was Peace and Comfort.  I gave myself over to 10 more minutes.
And I thought to myself, "No matter what else happens today, I've already had 10 Good Minutes."

Tonight, after a day full of ups and downs...dentists and decisions...I crawled back into bed.  Parker was already comfortably ensconced at the foot of the mattress, watching an old movie on tv.  Clint Eastwood chased some guy in a 70's suit, shooting and missing.
"Oh please," I couldn't help commenting finally, "what are the chances that he would knock down an antenna with that shot?"
Parker informed me it was a powerful gun and could easily sever a metal pole.
"But who could HIT it?" I insisted.
To which Parker replied, "Let me ask you one question...(and here he morphed into a gravely voice)...Are you feeling lucky?"
I just blinked.
"It's Dirty Harry!" he continued.  "Come ON..."
I laughed.  I laughed until tears leaked out of my eyes and stress leaked out of my body.

No matter what else, if you can start a day with 10 Good Minutes and end it with 1 Good Laugh, I'd say it's a day well-lived.

The Artist

This is what it's like to live with an artist...

It's having your furniture rearranged to get just the right light.

It's being persuaded to participate in a Project...even if it means climbing on TOP of the piano and lying down so the photographer can set the focus and then climbing back DOWN again so she can switch spots with you and then pushing the button on her camera without moving it.  And repeating this process 15 times.

It's celebrating when the Artist gets a straight A on the finished project even though the teacher says she doesn't like giving A's because art is never "perfect".

It looks so much cooler in person...but you get the idea.

Living with an Artist means being jolted out of a deep sleep by what sounds like gunshots, only to find out that the Artist is just bursting paint-filled balloons in the basement storage room below you because she has to finish her self-portrait by tomorrow.  (No forms allowed - abstract)

It's never being able to throw anything away because it might be useful in creating, inspiring, or displaying some kind of art in the future.

It's finally seeing the bigger purpose that all those little clues throughout the years pointed to.  The little girl who saved used styrofoam cups and picked up pebbles and sticks from EVERY single place we happened to visit was just practicing to be the Artist who sees hidden potential in the mundane.  

Living with an Artist is frustrating and unpredictable and just so much FUN!  It has definitely added beauty to the canvas of my life.  I wouldn't change a single paint-filled balloon.