Mama Like Mine

So today we're listening to the blues. Aidan doesn't normally take in this musical style but since he was a passenger in my car he had no choice. I had the radio on the Des Moines station I like. Anyway, there's this song with the lyrics something like, wish everybody had a mama like mine. These words over, and over. Wish everybody had a mama like mine.

Aidan lets it go for a while and finally gets indignant.

"Mom, this song is just weird," he says. I chose not to explain to him the other meaning of the word mama.

"Why would people want someone banging on pots and pans to make people clean their room and do their chores?" he asks.

All this in the car while his mama is driving to pick up his playdate at his playdate's gramma's. Then take his playdate to his playdate's mama's to get his overnight clothes. Agree to also invite over the playdate's brother. Who informs Aidan's mama that he will not be staying overnight and will need a ride home later in the evening. (Think that may get delegated to big daddy.)

This mama told her baby that he's in charge of breakfast, sheets, and entertainment. But's there's only one mama lifeguard and so you all know from where I am blogging.

Thanks much for coming over! It's so nice to read your comments and know that you're out there.

With love, Terri

Hum Drum Motel

If you're in it, you want to check out. If you're out of it, you want to check in.

I'm pre-press proofing a book by a pastor who died of ALS (Lou Gerig's disease). His sister, my friend, has compiled his writings from his final 2 1/2 years of living. It's fairly remarkable and I hope one day you will all have a chance to read it. It's like love letters to his congregation. Love letters to his life, which he wishes could be just ordinary.

Like the soldier on a tour of duty. One who is paralyzed by an accident. A long term hostage. Loosing one you love. Any kind of suffering. Terminal change makes you long for the ordinary. And it also seems to make you love so much more deeply. You can't help but to throw away all petty politics of everyday relationships. When you are facing death, that's what you do. You open up to the sunshine of pure love, whereby your only wish is to make it better for the other person. Yet you long to be ordinary.

Lately I'm noticing that my 12-year-old daughter's facebook status reports that she's bored. Boredom. More boredom. Bored again. Mostly I think we don't have any right to be bored. Yet, in a way I'm bored too. When you have everything you need, life can become rather hum drum.

I can't help but to think back when Bob was sick. One day when the full force of his illness revealed itself, our whole marriage flashed before me which then happened on a daily basis. As if the arc of our time together was coming to a close; and it was so sad. Yet we became most grateful for our shared experiences. Actually, we both started feeling a soulful connection to everybody, even strangers. Still we wanted so badly to just be normal again. Bob's fantasy was to drive to the grocery store and buy a box of cereal. Hum drum sounded so good. I also didn't want to loose that intensity of relationship.

Yet you do. One day Bob refused to be spoonfed, as if he didn't even know that I'd been spoonfeeding him for months. On the way to normal. Recovery. Back to lovely, splendid hum drum which transforms into daily boring hum drum. Until something else happens which brings you to other kinds of intensities. Some people are amazing at living passionately everyday no matter what. Be present with their loved ones. Evaluate their lives. Write up their bucket lists and have at it.

By now I've grown rather attached to the author who will die tomorrow as I finish the book. Yet his words live on forever for those who are lucky enough to get a hold of them. The obvious truth is that we will all die tomorrow, or the next day, or whenever. Yet our passions and intensities live on forever.

Check out of the Hum Drum Motel. Or if you are suffering, I pray that soon you may check into it.

O my goodness, this is what happens when I blog too late in the evening. Good night, friends. Thanks for coming over.

With love, T

Truth to Kansas City

Hello everyone, I hope you are all having a fantastic Sunday. We are in good 'ol Kansas City on a mini-vacation. A traditional Speirs Embassy Suites holiday -- swim, happy hour, TV, workout, cook to order omlette -- with a good dose of amusement park. Seven rollarcoasters tomorrow.

Kansas City is about three hours from Des Moines. Thanks to the magic of backseat electronics driving is more pleasant these days. No more need for Dr. Phil. Except Bob may wish for Dr. Somebody as he has to put up with a wife who challenges interpretations of Biblical truth.

"Give me one, just ONE example," Bob's wife says to him. "One example of a so-called traditional marriage in the Bible. One man, one woman, and all that. Don't quote me scripture -- give me an example."

That's her recent quest. Biblical truth on ever evasive family values.

Just another fun-filled vacation. Aren't you glad your wife is not like Bob's? He does pretty good, though. I'll give him a gold star for patience and the rolling off the back. As usual, he doesn't get ruffled by much.

"Solomon? No. Abraham? No. David? No. The Disciples? No. Jesus? No. Paul? No. Mary, mother of Jesus? Huge no." All the way to Kansas City. "I'm not against one man, one woman. I just don't see how the Bible mandates it. Who came up with that idea?"

Oopsie doo. Time for bathroom break. Bob is so happy for this brief but necessary separation.

Another topic. We gave each child a small vacation stipend to spend however they wish. Thus avoiding the never ending buy me this, buy me that. Working like a charm. Amanda doesn't want to spend any of it. She's suddenly become cheap. In the first hour Aidan has spent half of his allowance on a giant wooden pencil that really writes (photo). We haven't figured out how it will be sharpened.

Thanks again to Ox and Angus for house/cat sitting. One day I'll tell you more about these brawny football players turned kitty lovers who take care of the compound when we're gone. It all started with their anger management program. . .

You are all the best and I thank you for coming over. Goodnight!

With love, T

Free Parking for Farrah

In the Mercy Hospital parking lot there are a whole lot of spaces reserved for cancer patients. First couple times there I'm thinking how sad it is for cancer patients. Next couple of times I'm thinking how annoying it is that I can't find a parking spot. Today I realize, hey, *I'm* a cancer patient and pull right on in and park.

Annual thyroid cancer check up today and I'm happy to report that all's clear. (Papillary carcinoma still gone.)

All's clear is a great thing to hear from your doctor. Good labs to back it up. Thank you, dear blood test.

I got the easy cancer, as I say. Still, of course I said yes when they asked me to head up a team at the upcoming Cancer Relay for Life, July 10. Be aware that I will probably hit you all up for a donation, even though we don't have a name yet for our group. Amanda is rooting for Team Supercalafradulisticespialidotious. (How in the world do you spell that?)

In memory of Farrah Fawcett, who just passed away today of the same kind of cancer of my dear friend Paula, who is doing spectacularly. They got the hard cancer. I got a free parking spot. And in honor of all of you who have your own stories of "walking in the valley of the shadow of death," which I used to think was rare. Silly me. This walk is so very common. Hense all the parking spaces. And just think about people who take public transportation.

Thanks for coming over. Take good care.

With love, T

The Anti-Lunchable

In case you're wondering what is wrong with American diet it is high fructose corn syrup, the ultimate evil of processed food. A staple in our so-called grocery stores.

It simply doesn't digest, and what does digest is pure sugar. Try this at your next campfire -- see what happens when your marshmallow falls into the fire. The dog gone thing doesn't burn. It turns into a miniature molten lava volcano and implodes over and over. When we make schmores at our house, I rejoice in every lost marshmallow.

Wouldn't it be great if they sent peace corps workers from, say, Honduras or some other un- processed country to teach us how to eat real food, instead of the fake stuff. Send us foreign food specialists. Small scale development workers. United Nations staff. International non profit experts. Missionaries. Anybody. . .just save us from our bad "food." Give me a cow and I promise to give my neighbor its calf. Chicken's are legal in Des Moines.

Aidan loves those lunchable things. I hate them, but I let him eat one about once a month because it is such a source of pure delight for him. Since I no longer ask why; I ask what is it about the lunchable that he loves; besides the inhuman amounts of sugar and salt; besides the fact that it has no actual food in it.

I think the reason he likes it is because of the little compartments with portions of variety. It's like those tricky cereal boxes with a toy inside. Bad food company. Bad. Bad.

I can do that. I am now marketing the Momchable. A cute lunch with a variety of the healthiest stuff that Aidan can bear. Raisins. Fiber One bars. Juice. Baked chips. Peanut butter and jelly. And one teeny, tiny piece of candy. A small batman figurine. A short mad lib.

It was a big hit, I'm pleased to say. The only snafu is that the week's worth of teeny, tiny candy's are all gone and neither my daughter nor my husband are fessing up. Any judges out there?

As you can see, I have a big beef with what is passed off as food. Thanks for letting me get this off my chest. More to come sometime later. Really, what I wanted to do is to share the little victory of the Momchable, because Aidan asked for another one for tomorrow.

Aidan also noticed how I cooled off in the pool with a late night beer. Not a lot of nutrition in that bottle, I suppose, but that's another subject.

Thanks so much for coming over. Take care.

With love, T

The Process of Sermon Writing

Or at least how it works in our house. It's Friday. Countdown to hour zero, which is 5 pm Saturday.

Two-three piles of books on the kitchen table.
Another pile on the computer desk.
Bob huddled around the keyboard.

The first line is written. Hurrah!

The kids and I bustle around. TV's on. Pizza's in the oven. Cats get a meaty treat. All the dreams for the weekend are proposed. Let's go to a movie. Can I have a playdate? I want an all day shopping trip with Mom. Is it a good day for a sleepover? There are two of them, one of me, and none's of Bob. He's writing a sermon which means he's really not here. That man sitting at the computer is an optical illusion.

Paragraph two is done. Congratulations!

It's dark and time to go for a night swim. The towels and a glass-o-wine are gathered; we head to the backyard. Aidan splashes it up because he is a fish. Amanda and I are poolside with our respective electronics. That part is pathetic. In between my e-mails I throw dive sticks in so the resident shark may attack. When throwing dive sticks you must put them all in one hand and not do any kind of dorky song and dance routine prior to the lob. All done. Pack up. Return to the house.

Paragraph three is done. Great job!

Me: Your sermon is coming right along. What's your topic?

Bob: O just something from the Bible. No biggee. [Bob has learned the hard way to never give me any leverage to offer sermon suggestions.]

Amanda: You know mom could write that in about 15 minutes.

Bob: I know. Hey. . .is there some sarcasm in here?

Don't worry, it's all in good fun. And though it may be true that I could write up a sermon in about 15 minutes that doesn't mean that anyone would want to hear it. My theological thoughts are rather *out there* if you will.

So there you go. This comes with much love and gratitude for the people of St. John's and the many ways their generosity is shared with us. Not to sound all pastor's wife nicey nice, but it's the truth. This past week we even got invited to see a band at El Bait Shop, the drummer and his wife being friends from church. See Truth Be Told on myspace.

Now off to another cup of quiet coffee before Camanda and Demand wake up with their Saturday dreams -- all which require me to be double present. Bob's not here, mostly huddled around the keyboard on paragraph five. About six hours to go.

Thanks for coming over to the charmer blog.

With love, T

Um, we have a situation here

Imagine if you will, the scene in this picture accompanied by the sentence, "Um, mom, we have a situation here." It is a must-scene every time Aidan swims.

*Every time.*

A faux emergency that involves the derriere. Nine-year-old perfect. Most times he assumes this position while climbing out the pool ladder.

"Um, mom, we have a situation here. I think you better call the ambulance."

And yes, I did ask for permission to blog about this which was happily granted.

Now you know all the reasons why my son sleeps past noon. It's summer. He's a kid. And he loves night water.

Um, we have a situation here.

Goodnight everyone. Wish you could join us for a starry sky swim.

With love, T