taming momma bear.

It's no secret that I can go from sweet to ferocious in 2 seconds if I think for one moment that my children are being mistreated.  I'm just not one of those moms who can embrace my kids’ heartache as a means to toughen them up.  That's been a hard one for me. I am a communicator, a fixer, a nurturer, and a protector.  

I am momma bear.  

And, my youngest cub is sensitive.  

Sensitive. Sigh. What a loaded word. 

It's a strength and a weakness. A blessing and a curse. 

But that's just one side of him. And there are very few people who get to see the rest because there are very few people whom he feels comfortable around.  He is precious, hilarious, smart, compassionate, and he's painfully shy.  And he’s sensitive.  

Well, a few times over the last few weeks I've wanted to come to his rescue.  I wanted to find the fool who hurt his feelings and rip em' a new one.  But I just heard the Holy Spirit hush me; tell me to wait.  (I really don't rip people a new one per se, but I mediate through emails or little talks with teachers, etc.)  The main point I'm always pushing with him is forgiveness, and how proud he should feel over his sparkling manners.  He doesn’t treat people badly; he has manners and character.  So he wins.  And I win because he's mine.  

Lately, he has really been surprising me with his ability to stand up for himself.  Like when a little girl gave him “tips on how to be cool;” which basically entailed him developing an entirely new personality and set of friends.  He told her he didn’t need her tips and that everyone is different.  He wasn’t even hurt over it; he mostly seemed surprised by her audacity. 

I was proud of him. 

A situation came up recently where I was concerned about him getting his feelings hurt.  I felt I needed to do some pre-damage control, however I felt hesitation and decided just to wait.  I prayed about it, and I felt like I was supposed to trust God with his heart.  After all, He loves him even more than I do.  Well, like everything God does, it went better than I could have imagined.  I saw stars in his eyes; the kind that only come out when something real special happens.   If I had gotten involved, the whole thing might have been called off.  

So, I’m officially taming the momma bear.  I mean, tame doesn’t mean sedated or buried.  It just means disciplined and slow react. 

It’s time.

safe keeping.

I came across the best interview the other day, and I wanted to post it here so I can read it whenever I want. I've had a long standing respect for the soy bomb guy. He's just as much a part of my life as the cast of Friends and the lyrics to my favorite songs.  He's just there, in my arsenal of pop culture influences.  He's one of my all time favorites.

 I remember watching this live. I was at home with Alexandria, who was about 6 months old, enjoying BobDylan's song when the Soy Bomb guy started flailing around. I was mesmerized. This was before social networking and texting, so I had to wait a few days to discuss it with my friends. Imagine that.

What I like about the interview is his wording; it's so weird yet impossibly brilliant.
I hope he gets to make a comeback one day.

The real question on people's minds at the 1998 Grammys wasn't "How did some guy with 'Soy Bomb' painted on his chest get onstage with Bob Dylan?" No, the more pressing question was, "How did this guy get to STAY onstage with Bob for almost an entire minute, before security realized he wasn't part of the act?" Bob seemed as confused as everyone else.

In a new interview with Yahoo! Music, Soy Bomb, who is a respected artist and whose real name is Michael Portnoy, explains his motivations behind that night. "Comedy is for people who have a sense of rhythm but can't play an instrument. Rhythm is for people who like to hit animals but instead stretch them over clay bowls. The art world is for people who want to be comedians and musicians, but don't like driving in vans with other males, or practicing. Soy Bomb was intended to be a simple poem, but my arms stole all the attention."

Asked if he would ever crash national television again for a performance art piece, Portnoy replied, "If the delivery of all the nation's programming were confined to just one Jumbotron in the heart of the country, I might consider occupying a few square feet in the lower right corner of the screen as a kind of living punctuation."

We assume that means yes!

beauty in the breakdown.

When I read through my old posts, I really miss being able to sit and write.

Now, most of what I say is pointless and 140 characters or less.

I don't miss being sad or feeling misplaced, but I miss the heightened feelings that went along with it. The only way I can explain is to compare it to how good you feel when a headache goes away.

You-don't-know-how-good-it-feels-to-feel-good-until-you-feel-like-crap-for-a-little-while.

The last season was the hardest ever, but it was also incredibly beautiful.

I struggled more than I ever have, but I was overwhelmed with grace.

I cried more than I thought humanly possible, but just the same, the beauty of the foothills, or the valley, or the fall leaves glowing would make my heart feel like it might explode out of my chest.

Today, I had a "me day," I sat alone and did nothing. It was just alright; it left me wanting something more.

I remembered my old back yard, my afternoons in the hammock looking at this tree.

It always looked like a dancer to me. A dancer who was reaching out, and It made me want to reach out. God gave me beauty for ashes at every turn.

The struggle I experienced made me a better person.

I embraced the pain, and journaled all the lessons it brought.

So, my question is, now what?

I'm in such a happy place, just breathing deep.

But I'm kind of bored.

I miss the revelation and sometimes I even miss the tears.

The only crying I do is on my emoji keyboard. (holler)

Truth is, there's something about being an emotional basketcase that is slightly redeeming.

It's just the fluidity I guess.

No walls, nothing bottled up.

You actually might pray for the ability to bottle something up, but you can't.

It's just all overflowing at the surface, coming out whether you want it to or not.

I wouldn't want to be like that again.

But from someone who's lived to tell, I can wholeheartedly say, there's beauty in the breakdown.

So, this long, weird, rambly mess of a post is just reminding myself to not stop reaching out.

To always seek the Lord, crisis or not.

I want to be that oak, dancing in the afternoon breeze, all for his glory.

To all who mourn in Israel, he will give a crown of beauty for ashes, a joyous blessing instead of mourning, festive praise instead of despair. In their righteousness, they will be like great oaks that the LORD has planted for his own glory. Isaiah 61:3

Well, Christmas was wonderful and fun.

It was the first time that we traveled as a family since our overnight trip to orlando for Matthew's birthday last year. We needed it, too.

Sometimes, driving across the state line is worth it just for the wonder of returning again. No matter what, there's no place like home.

I've been a little sad that December is already over, I wish it could stay just a little bit longer.

Don't get me wrong, I'm happy for the new year, but I always wish the festivities hadn't gone so quickly.

I've realized, during my pondering on the matter, that celebrating is just being intentional.

I want more of that in my everyday life. I thought I had invented an original tagline if I ever opened a cupcake shop, it was, "because every day is a celebration," (but cupcake girls had the same original idea.)

Everyday is a mini celebration, worthy of good meals and laughter. The world outside can say what it will, but inside the four walls of my home is a haven. Dim lights and music at night, impromptu dance parties, baking cookies. In whatever way we chose, we can celebrate and create days our children will remember.

That's how I want my life to be.

I'm packing for family Christmas in South Carolina.

I'm excited, my kids are bouncing off the walls.

Meanwhile, my heart is heavy.

I haven't been able to stop thinking about Eric, his family, and everybody else who loved him.

My heart goes out to his regular customers; after all, he's made their coffee for six years.

That's a special bond, too.

And considering that Eric had perfected the art of retail conversation, I am confident that his customers will feel the void.

I'm just so sad, and I don't know what else to do than to write about it.

This will be the first time in six years that Eric and I won't exchange texts on Christmas, so I'm going to write him a letter instead.

Dear Eric,

Well, friend, this sure isn't getting any easier. I'm trying really hard to pull from your humor and not be so sad. Carlos and I have laughed hysterically several times, just sitting on the bed remembering you. And I keep sending Michelle "remember when Eric, ...?" texts. I can't help it, it's just the way I'm processing all this. We are all in shock, but I think you always knew you'd die young. I'd hush you whenever you'd say it, but you knew.

You were a mix of a child at heart and an old soul. You had a depth about you, I always felt like you genuinely cared about me. You were fiercely protective over us girls whenever creepers came around, or hard times fell. I'm sorry for the times I was unkind to you, that store was sometimes like a pressure cooker, and you often got the brunt of it.

Because I know you'd want to know, I got the boys each a 3DS for Christmas.

I miss you, buddy.

-me

then space began to toll.

I felt a funeral in my brain,
and mourners, to and fro,
kept treading, treading, till it seemed
that sense was breaking through.

And when they all were seated,
a service like a drum
kept beating, beating, till I thought
my mind was going numb.

And then I heard them lift a box,
and creak across my soul
with those same boots of lead,
then space began to toll.

As all the heavens were a bell,
and being but an ear,
and I and silence some strange race,
wrecked, solitary, here.

And then a plank in reason, broke,
and I dropped down and down--
and hit a world at every plunge,
and finished knowing--then--

-Emily Dickinson

my friend...

Today I got the kind of call that nobody wants to get.

My dear friend and former co-worker, Eric, had died.

He was standing on his feet one minute, collapsed the next.

At first, I was obviously in shock.

I felt the need to go outside, I don't know why.

It just felt like it was too much energy for my little house to contain. I needed to breathe.

I called my friend, Michelle, and we talked for a while.

Michelle, Eric, and I all worked together, and we had a special bond.

I came back inside, and that's when the tears hit.

That's when I realized that I'd never see my friend again.

What followed next was a lot of sobbing, and telling Carlos my long list of reasons why I loved Eric so much. Carlos happened to know and love Eric as well, so he just listened and nodded his head while I rambled on.

I know I probably sounded like I was over explaining, that's probably because Eric and I were unlikely friends.

But what y'all have to know is that my Starbucks family kept me going during a very hard time in my life. They were a gift to me. Sure, we had our own blend of dysfunction, but what family doesn't?

Eric was a 20-something gamer, proud to be born on halloween.

He was the most hilarious, intelligent, awkward, tenderhearted guy.

He'd tell me things like "every time I watch an action hero movie, I ask myself if it's an ok movie for your kids to see." He never steered me wrong, either.

He'd give my kids video games he didn't want anymore even though he could have traded them in for money.

Once, I dropped my car keys into a trash can of rancid whipped cream and other disgusting things, and he went in after them.

He was an old fashioned southern gentlemen.

He'd never give any of us girls a hug because he was afraid he'd "accidentally grab our boobs."

He'd throw himself into a violent wall hug to avoid any inappropriate contact when he's go around the corner at the same time as anybody else.

He would occasionally get off the mountain dew and it would result in the "fun bobby" affect.

Theres a thousand funny, happy, sweet memories that I have of Eric.

I will cherish them forever.

Rest in peace, Eric.

And from the bottom of my heart, thank you for being my friend.

I love you.

Christmastime is here.

I love Christmas.
I love the soft glow at night when
the tree is lit, and it's chilly enough to wear flannel pajamas.
I love baking for my kids, and listening to Christmas music.
The crafts that come home from school, delightfully exploding in glitter.
(this year, from my last remaining elementary aged child.)
When the kids get out of school for break, and the freedom in the air is palpable.
It's magic. Pure magic.

We're going out of town next week for Duke family Christmas.
I have a vision in my head of it going perfectly.
If that's a pipe dream, I don't want to know; not yet.
I just want to breathe and take it all in, but somehow it always ends up being more work than anyone could ever imagine. With meals, cleaning, entertaining kids, it ends up being mostly like the opening scene of home alone- where everyone is secretly wishing their family would just disappear.
But I love it, though.

I'm happy for the new year.
I have a few simple resolutions tucked away in my heart.
I feel like I'm on the edge of glory in many ways.
I feel like I'm getting better every year.
That's just how Christmas makes me feel.
Perhaps that's why I love it so much.

Merry Christmas, y'all.

Thanksgiving menu. 2011

• oven roasted turkey from honey baked ham (I just couldn't do a real turkey this year)
• steamed green beans with almonds
• corn casserole
• sweet potato soufflé
• garlic mashed potatoes
• glazed carrots
• rolls
• apple crumb pie with vanilla ice cream.

God is great, God is good;

Let us thank him for our food.

By his hands, we are fed,

give us Lord our daily bread

Amen.

can the child in my heart rise above?

I realized today that it's the end of November.

That prolly explains why there was a line at the post office and christmas carols on the easy listening radio station.

(By the way, easy listening has suddenly become the cranberries, REM, U2, depeche mode, etc. And Classic Rock is now Pearl Jam, Lenny Kravitz, Red Hot Chili Peppers, etc.)

I've been hoping that November would go slow, so I won't have to turn 37 that soon.

THIRTY-SEVEN.

That just sounds gross.

Y'all, I feel old.

Ok, I'm being a little melodramatic, but I really am kinda bummed.

The truth is, I don't even feel like an adult.

I've never booked a vacation.

I have no money in savings.

I text more than my 14 year old daughter.

I'm a freshman in college.

I still get zits.

I dance in my car (to the easy listening station.)

My dad says I'm a late bloomer just like him; I think he might be right.

So, my question is, does age matter?

I think a wrinkly neck and smile lines makes it seems like it matters, but it doesn't.

It only matters if you're old in your heart, and I'm not.

I'm so, so young.

And it's just getting better.

Except for the wrinkles, but that's what botox is for.

because it's really sad when people die.

A very dear friend of my family died this week.

I haven't seen him in a few years, but his presence was a staple in my childhood.

They were friends like people don't seem to have anymore.

They lived down the street; they came over for dinner for no special reason.

His kids were like my own siblings.

He was the kind of guy that was quiet, but he smiled with his eyes and you instantly felt the warmth of his heart.

He was gentle and kind, and I'll never forget him.

The worse part for me, it's a reminder that parents are mortal.

We are all mortal.

A few times this week my mind has drifted away to losing a family member.

That's a extremely dark place to be, but it's inevitable.

I hate death.

I hate funerals.

As Matthew put so eloquently at age 3,

"It's sad when people get old because some people think it's really sad when people die."

You're right, Matthew.

And I'm definitely one of those people.

"To me, fair friend, you never can be old,

for as you were when first your eye I eyed,

such seems your beauty still."

Shakespeare sonnet 104

hello.

Hello from the whirlwind that is my life.

It's after seven in the evening, but it feels like 4 o'clock in the afternoon.

I love days like this.

Days when you aren't just waiting for it to be bedtime for the kids, days when dinnertime sneaks up and nobody is even hungry.

I feel so proud of myself, and I figured I might better write about it before that changes.

I just feel like I'm balancing everything ok right now, and that makes me happy.

As you might know, I'm taking online classes.

I've set aside 3 wekly allotments of time and that is when I do school.

Last semester, with the novelty and slight paranoia, I felt like it ruled my life.

I spent almost all of my home-time obsessing over essays or discussion questions.

I didn't take any cues when I was losing focus that it might be time for a break.

I would get so strung out with mental exhaustion that I wasn't even being productive.

It wasn't that I had a lot to do, I was just really slow. And obsessive. And consumed.

Now, I give myself the appropriate amount of time to complete my work and that's it.

I guess I'm learning how to work with myself, getting my grove, enforcing limits on myself.

The expression "work smarter not harder" comes to mind.

The kids are doing amazing in school. I am really proud of them.

The have gone into a school that is approximately one year above grade level in all subjects.

Math is really the only challenge for my middle schoolers, but that is getting better with some tutoring.

They really impress me when it comes to social skills and just being nice people.

Something that I think is just as important as being well educated.