The Monkey on my back

No, this is not a post about my drug addiction.  It's a post about my son, who will not leave me alone so I can write this post.

He wants me to shop online with him.

He wants to be silly and entertain me.

He wants 400 pairs of shoes, and sweatshirts to match.

He was in a foul mood earlier today.  For no apparent reason.  He pouted through a trip to the National Harbor.  He pouted through a tour of the National Christmas tree (which seriously, is ug-ly).  He pouted through most of his chicken fried rice, but seemed to be revived by its greasy goodness and regained his usual joie de vivre by the end of the meal.



He is sitting here now, repeating every word I type, trying to be as annoying as is humanly possible.  


NO SHOES FOR YOU!!!


You people have no idea what I go through to blog for you.  


FOR SALE: One 12 year old boy, slightly used.  Very annoying.  Pretty darn cute.  Good dancer.  Eats like horse.  Needs beating.  Needs two beatings.  Cleans a good bathroom, upon threat of death.


Call 555-1212. 

Relationship

That's what life is about, people.  I promise you.

I reconnected today with a couple of military spouse friends I had not seen since we all lived in Germany.  I have not seen their faces since 2005, but we picked up where we had left off and ran with it.  It was a beautiful thing, and it made my day.

The life we had each lived in the meantime is what builds and tests us, what passes our time on this earth, what gives us joy and, sometimes, what we all must endure.  Between the three of us, we had

Three children born
One child graduate
Lost two mothers
Lived through breast cancer,
And a total hysterectomy
Moved nine times

The value of shared history can't be underestimated.  There is no balm better than someone who knows you.  For example: I made a desperate call to my 20+ year friend Chris on the way to this lunch date.  Me: "I set up the lunch, but now I can't remember which restaurant we're meeting at!"  Her: (laughing hysterically) "I love that about you!"

See?  Nothing better.  One of the people who knows me best on this earth wasn't even surprised that I would do such a thing.  There was nothing she could do to help, no aid to be given, but man did that phone call bring me down from the ledge.  This monumentally stupid thing didn't even phase her.  And she loves me!

Don't neglect your relationships, people.  Sure, they take effort, and time.  Just remember this: they'll feed your soul when it's hungriest, confirm your identity when you've lost it, and laugh their butts off at you when there is nothing else to be done.

The holiday formerly known as Christmas

(Pretend it's not December 27th and roll with me here, okay?)

All I want for Christmas...

is for people to use the word Christmas.


Holiday.  Isn't that a Madonna song?

As I was trying to sort through my feelings on this topic, a wild little thought spun through my brain.  This little thought, in the span of three whole seconds, compared the song Madonna (the singer) wrote to the song the woman known as the Madonna sang, concerning the great privilege of carrying and birthing and mothering the long-awaited Messiah.  (It was just a little thought, and not really the point of this post, but you can find Madonna's lyrics here, and you can find the lyrics for what is known as Mary's Song here.)

So what is the point, you ask?  I think, I think the point is this:  Yesterday, on the 26th of December, I found myself breathing a sigh of relief.  I could stop wondering who might be offended by my "Merry Christmas!" and who would return it joyfully.  I could stop, for the love of all that is good and holy, hearing that Toyota commercial that has been polluting both the television and the radio airwaves with its insipid, ridiculous lyrics.

Sigh (of relief). 

And then I went to the gym.  The instructor of the class I attended, on the day after Christmas, used the term "holiday" no less than six times, in direct reference to what had taken place the previous day.  In context, there was no other holiday to which she could have been referring.  It was so silly that I wondered if she had been dared not to say the word.  Maybe it was like that elusive $20 that convinced me to go to school one fateful day in the 7th grade wearing a garbage bag.  Someone still owes me that money, by the way.

It's bewildering.  Even at its most secular, the holiday we have been decorating, and baking, and shopping in preparation for is Christmas.  It's Christmas, people!

For the record: I'm with Mary.

Azithromycin, Physical Therapy and the Cavalry

I worried that I wouldn't have anything to blog about today.

I sat in the pediatrics office with a 14-year old man-child, watching Handy Manny and waiting to for the doctor to confirm what I already knew.  Which he did, while managing to keep an impressive distance from his patient.

We sat in the Internal Medicine clinic, waiting to see my PCM (who has retired without so much as nod in my direction), and reading the New Testament I keep in the car for occasions such as this (Luke. Can't seem to get past Luke).  After an hour, I emerged with a referral to a physical therapist, who will be tasked with helping me resolve the nagging sciatica I seemed to have received for my 40th birthday.

We sat in the pharmacy, surrounded by carriers of every communicable disease known to man, waiting for our number to be called.  It was mind-numbingly boring, and we entertained ourselves by posting updates to my Facebook page via text message.  The estimated wait time when we arrived was 42 minutes.  Sixty-five minutes later, to the amusement of hacking sickos all around, the boy stood up and yelled "YESSSSSSS!!!!!" as they called our number.  Seventy-five minutes later, we stepped out into the biting wind with drugs in hand...

only to discover that I had locked the keys in the car.

Which I will never, ever live down.

It was 12:30pm.  We had arrived at the base at 8:30am.  We were starving.  I considered crying but decided it was too much work.  Instead, we found the information desk and pleaded for help.  This is what came to our aid:

...and this is what they did:

...and somehow, at least in the eyes of a 14-year old boy, it was alllll worthwhile.

Right now at my house..

...there is a 12-year old boy wearing a stocking cap and purple soccer socks pulled up over his sweatpants, running around the house shooting squirrels (with a pellet gun) from windows and saying things like

"I really feel like a Jamaican.  You know?"

Any old thing

One of the beauteous parts of blogging is that you get to write about any old thing that enters your mind.  It's brilliant for people with scattery brains, not unlike my own, that are always flying from here to there and rarely alighting on a single thought long enough to complete it.

It (blogging) legitimizes the Bunny Trail Thinkers among us, whereas most of the other things in life simply do not.

For example:

When you wait four days for the fireplace repairwoman to come at 2pm on Thursday, and then talk to her at 2:05, telling her that a late arrival is no problem because you have no plans to go anywhere in the snow, and then forget all about it by 4:40, when you leave the house for just a quick dash to the store for more good chocolate to finish your Christmas toffee, without your cell phone, and miss her calls at 4:44, 4:46, and 4:48.

When Canvas on Demand responds to your email request to send two identical (Christmas gift) canvases to two different addresses by telling you that you need to call the company to confirm those addresses, and then you think about calling them sixty different times during the course of six days, but never do (because you always think about it during the closing prayer at church, or while driving the car, or in the middle of spin class) until you suddenly get an email that says they have shipped, both to the same address.

These.  These  neither encourage nor affirm a brain like mine.

However.  Sitting down and telling you all about it is good for my soul.  For that, I am thankful.

Bragging rights?

I'm done shopping.*  I wrapped nine of the boys' gifts over the weekend, and placed them under the tree.  Unfortunately, those nine comprise all of the boys' gifts.  We've officially entered that depressing phase of parenting where the gifts desired are so expensive that what used to be a morning-long free-for-all has now been reduced to a wham-bam-thank-you-and-now-I'll-take-my-expensive-electronics-to-the-corner-and-be-antisocial-ma'am event.

Or, we're very near that.  I still have a few tricks up my sleeve.

Somewhere along the winding road of my childhood, my mother stopped putting tags on Christmas gifts.  I choose to think that it was a predetermined course of action in a war against particularly bright children who could touch and feel and shake and guess the contents of everything under her tree, but we'll never know.  At some point in the not-too distant past, I decided to employ this strategy to deter the exceedingly bright children who can touch and feel and shake and guess the contents of everything under my tree.

It drove them crazy.  And I mean crazy.  They were furious.

The Wonder Hub and I, we loved it.  We loved it so much that we developed variations on the theme.  One year he put numbers on packages.  The children spent hours trying to break his code, which was nothing more than this:  three digit numbers for the youngest, four digits for the middle, five for the oldest.

They were furious.

We, of course, loved it.

So this year, with three measly gifts apiece, I was at a loss.  In the end, I wrapped each child's gifts in a particular paper, which I knew they would easily figure out.  Except.  Except that I threw in one little twist that would throw them for sure.

Yes, this is how I do it.

Martha, eat your heart out.

It was such a great twist that five days later, after I had wrapped the WH's gifts (and one, little tiny additional gift per boy, 'cause I'm a sucker), I couldn't, for the ever-loving life of me, remember which wrapping paper belonged to which kid.

I sat on the floor in front of the lit tree, touching, feeling, shaking.  No clue.  What's more, I couldn't remember the twist.  What exactly had I done?  It was so breathtakingly brilliant that I just couldn't pull it from the dark recesses of my brain.

Sigh.

In the end, I unwrapped and re-wrapped every. single. gift.

And then I put tags on them.






*for Christmas, not forever, dear husband.

Decorating with boys, Part II

  These are the feet of the nutcracker men...the nutcracker men I told the boys I didn't have room for and asked them to put away.  Away, it would seem, is a subjective term.  To be fair, we had an extra boy on decorating night, and I'm pretty sure this was his stunt.

  The cranberry wreath.  The cranberry wreath that was smashed into the last remaining inch of the Christmas tote, where it was transformed from a circle to a square, and where it shed not a small number of cranberries.  If I had an ounce of Martha within me, I would do something, anything to help it along.  I won't.

 Random strings of lights, which can be found throughout the house, randomly.

And last, but not least, the coveted Sponge Bob lights, which were a gift from my brother years ago and which always go to the fastest, sneakiest boy.

Two things

First, and foremost:

Cookies, Round Two

Success!

Again, Chai-Spiced Snickerdoodles.  Soooo worth the do-over.

AND...

 

Snow in Virginia.  Photo of my deck, taken this morning.  Many of you labor today under heavy shovels while wrapped in multiple layers.   Me?  Not so much.

Karen v. Mornings

It's my dad's fault.  I tell him all the time.  Growing up in South Dakota, sleeping in a freezing cold basement (well, except for that year after the Window Incident when my bedroom was upstairs) with 47 blankets piled on, wishing that I was Laura Ingalls so that I could have a hot potato, or brick, or whatever she had tucked into the foot of her bed, has ruined mornings for me.

That, and the fact that they come so darn early.

Why I'm not a food blogger

I love to cook. And bake.  I couldn't cook a thing before I married the Wonder Hub and I found myself responsible for the well-being of not just one four-year old (who would happily eat anything wrapped in a tortilla), but three hungry male-children, and one fully-grown man.

I learned quickly, the way only a person with a captive audience can.  There are stories about excruciating dinners those first six months or so, but I won't tell them today.  Or possibly ever.

My favorite food blogger is Ree Drummond, aka My New BFF.  I read her blog daily, and cook her recipes, on average, four times a week.  Recently, she posted these cookies, from food blogger Jessica, of Bake Me Away.  I asked Jessica if she thought I could make these ahead of time and freeze them, and she pointed me to yet another food blog for direction.

So, armed with the recipe and good advice, I started prep.  Unfortunately, I started prep at that magic hour when children (who have already eaten half the contents of the fridge) are hungry and for the safety of life and limb, dinner must be underway.

I mixed my spices first, eyes rolling back in my head as I ground the cardamom pods.  Glorious.  I made the batter in the way I do, which is to put dry ingredients together before dealing with wet.  I set dry aside, tried to talk a kid into helping, made someone take the dog out, hugged a kid, put rice in the rice cooker and veggies under the broiler (I'm not making mention of the main course, because it came out of a box in the freezer and isn't very impressive), fed the dog, talked on the phone, mixed wet ingredients together, and set the table.

THEN, I put the dough in the fridge for it's mandatory one hour chilling, and ate.  After one hour had elapsed and I had rolled little balls of dough and covered them in the spice mixture (glorious), I popped them into the freezer.

Where I forgot about them.

Until this morning, when I reached in for something or other and got excited and decided to bake just three to see what I could see.

Which was this.

Which, upon closer examination, was this:

Which caused me to walk backward in my memory to the moment I added the baking soda.  Which was not there, in my memory.  Which would explain why my Chai-Spiced Snickerdoodles are flat and crispy.

Which, as you can well imagine, is why I am not a food blogger.

Decorating with boys

I'll ask you in advance to forgive my photography skills.

I'm a writer, people.  The only reason I include pictures is that I have been made aware that there are certain types of brains that neeeed more than a good font to be fulfilled.  I hereby dedicate every lousy picture I will ever post to those particular brains (you know who you are).

So.  One of the best things about me is my houseful of boys.  I birthed one, married another and was thereby (ridiculously) blessed with two more.  Let me just tell you that

I LOVE A BOY HOUSE.

Don't be silly.  I don't love everything about it.  Namely:

1. bunched up stinky socks
2. toilets
3. neanderthal table manners
4. body odor, body noises, and jokes about body odor and noises.

When it comes to decorating for Christmas, however, I'm thrilled.  Let me show you why.

This is our first Christmas as a family, 2002.  We had married in June and immediately moved to Germany.  Combining households makes for a ton of ornaments, and rather than sort his past from mine, we let the kids go for broke. I loved this tree, cut from our landlord's lot. I remember the shocked looks on Harold's and Petra's faces when they paid a visit. It does look a little bit like Christmas exploded, doesn't it? They stared open-mouthed, while we stood by, proud as peacocks. When we returned the visit we saw their orderly tree, decorated respectfully with a few wooden ornaments. I was witnessing a major culture gap, but I didn't care. That, my friends, was a happy tree.

Fast-forward eight Christmases, and you'll notice a little more reserve, a little more style from the decorators (who have full license throughout the house).  But notice if you will...

a dozen angels, each unwilling to set out on her own.  When questioned about his tactic, the decorator shrugged.  When encouraged to spread the love to the rest of the tree, he declined.  I thought later about moving them myself, but quickly decided not to.  Who wants a perfect, symmetrically decorated tree?  Not me.  I'd rather have a crazy one, decorated with love.

My Race

It's daily, that's for sure.

Sunday, it involved getting up early(ish) to take care of the morning routine and then putting on breakfast and Christmas carols and (after earnestly apologizing to several people for being such a royal grouch) decorating the Christmas tree as a family before showing up one-half hour late for church (while thinking we were on time).

Today, it has involved morning prayers muttered while still in bed, and not much else.

Tomorrow, it might be one of those days.  One can only hope.

About me (aka The World's Longest Post)

God made me to write.  In my parents' basement, in the Black Hills of South Dakota, there are boxes of purple and yellow (depending on the year and which was my favorite color) notebooks.  The are filled with the large, loopy handwriting of a young girl, fully aware of her destiny, having been called to it at the tender age of seven by Harriet the Spy..

At least I think it was Harriet the Spy.  I've always attributed the quote

"A writer writes.  Always."

to Nanny Golly, but I just Googled it and came up with Throw Mama from the Train, of all things.  Let's just say, instead of me following a rabbit trail around the internet for 30 wasted minutes, that Larry took it from Louise Fitzhugh, who kindly gave it to me.

So.  I started blogging in 2006, when my husband was in Iraq.  A girlfriend, the kind who knows you like the inside of her favorite fleece jacket, had been bugging me to start a blog.  My repeated questions were these:  Who cares what I have to say? Why can't we just talk on the phone?  Her repeated response was this: You'll be surprised at the support network you'll find.  Just give it a try.  When I finally caved, my first post was this dorky attempt to give in without really give in.

Sunday, October 29, 2006

Clicker

My great fear is that blogging will be the next automatic garage door opener. In Las Vegas, we never even have to see our neighbors, much less talk to them. We drive up to our houses, click a button, pull into the garage....and then what? Go see if the real estate market is continuing its downward spiral for Bob next door? Check on the visiting grandchildren of Mary across the street? No. We hit that clicker again and close ourselves off from the world. Now, with blogging, I don't have to talk to my friends, I can just read their latest posts. Sure, I know everything that is going on, down to the last detail and complete with color photos, but can we maintain relationships this way? Relationships require effort, work, TIME. Your world is only as big as the people who inhabit it, so my question is this: Will blogging broaden my world, or is it one more step towards automating my life and closing the door behind me as I step through it alone?

Posted by Karen at 10:26pm 

That first post unleashed something in me.  I couldn't stop blogging.  It was therapy in my desert experience.  It got me through my husband's deployment.  I reconnected with college girlfriends.  I made new friends, and I mean the real kind.

I was so addicted that when we left Las Vegas on a month-long sojourn to our new home in Alabama, I started a blog called The Exodus, in which I transcribed each day's events as the children related them to me.  Hilarious.

Both of these blogs, White Walls Forever: The Life of an Air Force Wife, and The Exodus, were not really for public consumption.  In 2009, I decided to start another blog that would, I imagined, detail my Walk.  The web address is karen-bloggingforjesus@blogspot.com, and after sixteen or so attempts, I titled it Running the Race (from Hebrews 12).

It's kind of stinky.

Ok.  It might be really stinky.

The problems are these:  In the other blogs, I had written to my girlfriends, in my Girlfriend Voice.  In this one, I didn't know who I was writing to, or what voice I should use.  When I wanted to post about what I'd read in my Bible, or what I'd learned in a sermon, I doubted, not my theology, but rather my ability to share that theology.  And then.  Then there were the days when I didn't feel theological.  There were the days that I fought with my husband, yelled at my children, whined, complained, grumbled, cried.  Which left me wondering, What do you write on a Jesus blog when you aren't feeling particularly close to Jesus?  So I wouldn't write anything.  Which left me wondering, Do I look like some weird perfect Jesus girl because I only write about the times I feel close to Jesus?

It was torture.

It was always with me, whether I wrote or didn't, and I was rarely happy with it.

So.  Here we are.  Blogger has graciously added Pages to its format (which seem more like Tabs to me, but whatever), and has thereby inspired me to start yet another blog.  A blog for public consumption.  Written in my Girlfriend Voice.  With Tabs for my various and sundry moods.

I promise that I will not (always) write this much in one post.  You have my word.