How Do I Love Thee...

One of my favorite new TV shows is "How to Look Good Naked." The premise is to help real, everyday women learn to love and accept their bodies. Though they've had a few curvy girls on there, they've also had some who looked pretty darn cute to me. I wondered what they were doing on the show. Yet they stand in front of the mirror and talk about their too-small breasts, thick thighs, and non-existant fat rolls. They say, "Who could ever think this is beautiful?" I want to yell at the TV, "What's wrong with you? Why can't you see what's really there?!"
And while I've certainly had my own body image issues, I can relate to these women in a totally different way.
They say the Bible is like a mirror. And most of my life, when I looked into it, I saw only my flaws. Weak and unlovable. Too much and never enough. "How could anyone ever love this?" And the whole time, God is yelling at my soul's TV screen, "I love you! Why can't you see what's really here?"
And lately, I can.
He loves me in the way Hillary lays with her head in my lap and tells me every detail of her day...in the way Parker comes up and gives me a long hard squeeze for absolutely no reason...in the way my husband thinks I'm so cute he can't keep his hands off me, even though I'm in my rumpled work clothes and busy cooking dinner, and my hair is all flat from a windy recess duty.
He loves me in that he gave me a friend who calls me almost every day and won't let me drift away, even though I've moved away...in the way my co-workers respect me, and my students shower me with affection...in a scripture I accidentally run across, just at the right time... and in the words of a song.
Lately, I see it everywhere. And after such a long time of being blind, it feels so good to see.

Would you, Could you?

So paranoid am I that my family might need me and not be able to reach me, that I have many electronic apron strings at their disposal. And today, they did not hesitate to use them. Before my class even ended...as we were packing up backpacks...my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I answered it (don't tell my principal) because it was my husband, and I thought it must be an emergency. It was. Right before he and his team got on the bus to travel to his game, he bent down to get something...and split his pants right down the middle. He was letting me know that he needed me to get to his game ASAP with an extra pair of untorn trousers. Before I could even hang up, my phone chimed out a little bell song...I had a text message. Hillary said, "Can U bring me & PB some food?" Sure, honey. As soon as I get these first graders on the bus, and cover up your dad's behind...you're number one on the list.
Being the Wonderwoman that I am, I managed to get to the game with Yancy's pants, a bag full of McDonald's, the T-shirt Hillary wanted, my camera (also for Hillary) and my mapquest directions... with several minutes to spare.
We won the game. (Yea! Second round of districts on Wed...barring anymore wardrobe malfunctions.) And as I was leaving the gym, Yancy said, "Would you ride the bus home with the team so I can stay and watch this other game?" I do have my limits. And he was out of favors for the day.
Now, I'm home...it's 8:15...and I've just used the last of my energy to tell you this story. I'm going to bed. And I'm turning off my ringer, texter, emailer, and ESP. You'll all have to survive without me til morning!

Eggs-actly!

Parker has found a new love - and it is fried eggs. The other morning, during one of our now numerous snowdays, he asked me if I would fry him an egg. In one of my "good mother" moments I recognized this as a learning opportunity and replied, "I'll teach you how to make it." He was game, so I got out the ingredients and walked him through it step by step. He wolfed it down in about two seconds and was ready to try it again - solo. He actually did a pretty good job. I don't think I was able to fry an egg without breaking the yolk on my second try.
He is now the official egg fryer of the household.
He even makes them for his sister. Yesterday, after savoring her breakfast specialty a la Parker, she said, "Mom, someday his family is going to thank you!"
I do what I can.
Unfortunately, his skills don't transfer to cleaning up after egg frying. You know that old proverb about giving a man a fish? I have my own version, "Give a boy an egg and he'll be full for five whole minutes. Teach a boy to fry an egg...and you'll have a greasy kitchen."

Getting There

This was a usual Sunday morning, with us scrambling to get out the door so we could make it to church on time. We piled into the car and started down the road in the light rain. Yancy turned on the windsheild wipers...and they half-heartedly made one swipe, then one just gave up and the other one went totally crazy and shot off to the side - sticking out from the side of the car like a broken wing. One look at Yancy's face and I was laughing. I made an unappreciated joke about our car being an injured bird, flying in circles, while he whipped off into a gas station and jammed the offending wiper back down into place. This isn't his first go-round with these wipers. They quit on me last week when I was trying to get home through the snowstorm after school let out early. I had to keep stopping and wiping off the windsheild with my gloves. So when I got home, he worked on them for a few minutes and pronounced them fixed. Guess not.
Fortunately, it didn't rain very hard, and we made it to church and back without futher incident.
But that's not the end of the story...
Hillary quickly changed clothes and scarfed down a grilled cheese, so she could get back to the church by 1:00 for Fine Arts practice. Meanwhile, Dad was on the internet, trying to figure out what to do about the wipers. She grabbed her stuff and the truck keys and went out the door. About a minute later my cell phone rang. "Mom, tell Dad to come out here. I'm stuck!" Hillary had parked the truck at the top of the driveway, kind of in the yard, the night before, and now her wheels were buried in soppy mud. Dad to the rescue.
First he tried pushing from the front while Hillary tried to back up. Then he tried pushing from the back. Then he made Hillary get out and they both pushed from the front...rocking the little black truck back and forth, back and forth...succeeding only in settling the truck deeper into it's muddy grooves. Barefoot, and still in my church dress, I yelled helpful suggestions from the front door. I guess he didn't hear me.
After no success with putting things under the wheels, digging with a hoe, and making Hillary sit inside the truck and rock as hard as she could while he pushed, he came in the house to get his phone. His new plan was to call our friend who lives half a mile away to come pull him out. Never mind our next door neighbor who has his own earth-moving business and has all kinds of large, powerful machines parked 50 feet from our stuck truck.
Hillary was getting later and later. I didn't want her to drive herself in the rain with faulty windshield wipers, so I drove her to the church. Luckily, it was only misting - and I had RainX. When I got back the truck was back in it's regular parking place where it belonged. "Did Thompson come pull you out?" I asked. "No," Yancy replied gruffly. "Our neighbor must've seen us out the window and came over to help." Hmmm. Why didn't someone think of that one before?
I think this was a learning experience for all involved. I learned that I should've married a mechanic. Hillary learned not to park in the yard after a hard rain. And hopefully, Yancy learned that it's okay to ask our neighbor for help. Perhaps we haven't "arrived"...but we're getting there!

A Limmerick that makes Scents

There once was a mama who tried
with her cologne soaked son to abide.
But the smell was so strong
that she couldn't stay long
and her nose found a safe place to hide.

I "do"

I had to go to a teaching conference this weekend. It was scheduled for me months ago, long before I knew Basketball Homecoming was on the same weekend. When I found out, I was a little disappointed because it meant I would miss the fun festivities, and Hillary dressing up for the dance. But this isn't her first time, and she is 16...I figured she didn't really need me.

By happy accident, I got home several hours before I was supposed to. Hillary called my phone and asked me where I was. When I said I was at home, waiting on them to get there, she got so excited! "I'm so glad you're home! Now you can do my hair!"

I was never the girl who did other girls' hair at slumber parties. That was my best friend, Kelly. She could make-over anyone. She did our hair...she did our make-up...she put us in her clothes. I always felt like I wasn't that great at doing my own hair, much less someone else's. After I grew up and got funtional at making my own appearance presentable, I wasn't that confident about dressing up my real-life baby doll, Hillary. Even then, she had her own style. She liked to dress funky and put her own hair in a pony tail. There was one time when I learned to french braid, and she sat patiently for me a few times while I pulled her wispy thin hair into a passable braid. But I loved her individuality and thought that meant I should stay out of it.

Since she's become a teenager, I've somehow become her favorite hairdresser. For last year's homecoming (where she was nominated for a court position) I spent hours curling her hair, piece by piece all over her head. She loved it so much she asked me to curl it like that every day for the next week.

This time, she wanted a pony-tail, swirled around like a bun, with spunky pieces sticking out everywhere. With the 5 bobby pins we scrounged from around the house, a rubber band, and two kinds of hairspray...we managed it. She was thrilled with it. And I am thrilled with her. The way she loves me makes me feel special and important. Do I love being Hillary's mom? I do.

The Gamer

Parker is a gamer in every sense of the word. He loves to play basketball, but also loves video games, computer games, and board games. Ever since he was 2 and we played Cootie Bug for the first time, he's been hooked. It's one of the things we've always done to spend time together. I think he likes playing with me because, as a non-competetive person, I usually let him win. Not his dad. From tic-tac-toe to tiddlywinks, Yancy gives it his all. He says if the kids win against him, they'll know they really won because they were good and not because he let them win.
Whatever.
Anyway, when Parker came to me this afternoon and said he was bored (after spending at least an hour on the deck, stripping the twigs off a branch, sanding it with Dad's electric sander, and sharpening the end to make his own arrow) I suggested we play a game. It's been a while since it's just been he and I - with time to play a game. I told him to go pick out a game while I finished some work I was doing. He came back with Monopoly. Okay, so I guess this isn't going to be the 20 minute quality time I thought it would be. I looked at my list of things to do...considered asking him to change games...then thought 'what the heck' and headed to the kitchen table, leaving my list behind.
I laughed so much! He's such a character...trash talking and trying to cheat...but in a cute, mischiveous way. One time he rolled a 6 and a 4...then promptly moved his piece 11 times. "Hey!" I protested "You rolled 10 - not 11." He gave me a dimpled smile and said, "Can I just keep it?" Of course I let him.
I actually ended up winning (the first time I've ever beat him at Monopoly), but it was probably because, after an hour, we had to count up our cash and property assets and end the game. I'm sure with another 20 minutes he would've had me. So for now, I'm the Monopoly Queen! But I feel a re-match coming on real soon.