Spreading Holiday Cheer

Each year it becomes harder to convince him. Despite the joy it brings to me, the notion of posing for a picture with Santa is not embraced by Chase.

The yearly brunch we attend each holiday includes a visit with Santa and Mrs. Clause. Because of the large crowd of people that attend this event, numbers are given to each family to prevent waiting in long lines that influence monkey fits by well groomed little children.

We were fortunate enough this year to be first in line, a big score for me, but an even bigger embarrassment for Chase.

“Just so you know, I’m not sitting in Santa’s lap,” reminded my ten year old grinch, with a dramatic roll of his eyes.

“That’s fine. I really just want to get your picture. In fact, Dad and I will go with all three of you,” I responded.

Chase reluctantly followed us to the brightly decorated platform as our number was called. It was clear that he was not happy with the interaction that was about to occur. However, sacrifices sometimes have to be made in order to secure the yearly Christmas photograph.



Mary Mac visited with Santa first. Her long-winded list included a Barbie Dreamhouse and American Doll, and a variety of other surprises that will have Santa scrambling somewhat this year. Chandler was next with his efficient, precise list true to his organized personality.

To my surprise, Chase decided to participate with a very brief visit, but not of the lap sitting variety. When Santa asked Chase what he wanted for Christmas, our son leaned down close and whispered into his ear. Santa’s eyes grew wide, as he glanced in our direction with a look of trepidation.

Once our children had exited the platform, Santa motioned for my husband. Confused, and thinking that maybe Santa might be a patient in red velvet disguise, John quickly walked to his side.

“Your son had an unusual request that I thought you should know,” reported the very concerned Santa. “He says that all he wants for Christmas is to find his real parents.”

With a smile, and a slight shake of his head, John reassured Santa that our son was not currently an orphan, but could possibly be one by the end of our meal.

Chase, with the sly smile that is becoming his trademark, remarked to his dad that he had changed his mind about visits with Santa. It was loads of fun after all.

The Ordinary Used For The Extraordinary

Parental shortcomings can be a hard, prideful lump to swallow. The mistakes we will make are many, yet somehow, our children continue to prosper despite us. There are some days that my inadequacies make me stumble, leaving me with more of a feeling of clumsiness than complete and total ineptness. Providing small children cans of sprite as breakfast beverages because of the deceptiveness of the empty milk carton in the refrigerator is an example of such an occasion. Sending my offspring to school with lunchboxes overflowing with preservatives, with the misguided thought that fruit roll-ups represent one of the food groups is another.

But then there are those times where deficiencies as a parent strike fear to your core. It is those events that momentarily take away your breath, take you down to your knees, and take away any misgivings that child rearing of any sort can be accomplished on personal strength and desire alone. It is during those circumstances that I am reminded that only because my infinite insufficiencies collide with God’s infinite grace am I able to continue walking upright after close calls with my children occur.

About two years ago, my husband and I experienced such a moment involving our son, Chase. Busy, overcommitted schedules produced miscommunication between the two of us regarding an after school guitar lesson for our little boy. The details of the oversight can be read here, but in a few sentences, my husband dropped Chase off at the home where his lesson was to occur. With an emergency to attend to at the hospital, my husband pulled away from the driveway, not realizing that the house was empty. The lesson had been cancelled, information which I had completely forgotten to relay.

Realizing that he was alone, my eight year old walked toward the highway after praying that God would send him help. A kind lady would later rescue Chase and drive him to the school he attended a few miles away. Staff at the school immediately called us, but no one could recall anything about the woman who had transferred him back safely. We were never able to thank her for the kind act.

A few months ago - two years after the forgotten child episode - I was working in the front office of my husband’s practice. During an encounter with a new patient in an exam room, casual conversation somehow led my husband to mention our children and the school they attended. The patient was familiar with our school, prompting her to relay an incident that involved finding a young student from that same school walking on the side of the road. Eyes wide and jaw dropped, my husband explained to his new patient that it was our son that she had helped.

John led the woman to my work area for introductions. The woman relayed to me that at first she drove right by Chase that day, thinking that he was a neighborhood child. But something urged her to turn the vehicle around to make certain that this was the case.

I explained to her that the urging she felt was Divine response to a little boy, kneeling on his knees on the hot pavement, begging God to send someone to help him. Tears streaming down her face, the kind woman apologized for her emotion, explaining that she was overcome that God would choose her to answer a small child’s prayer. “I am just a simple and ordinary person,” she continued, with a look of slight confusion in her eyes.

I joyfully hugged her as she left, a lump in my throat at how God had used the ordinary to do something extraordinary, an act in which we will be forever grateful.

Bracing For The Future

There are a number of middle aged scenarios that could have easily influenced my reluctant approach to turning forty. Some buy sports cars in an effort to distance themselves from the worn-out minivan that carried multiple carloads of children, rotating them out of the magic marker stained passenger door like an overused turnstile . Others assume younger dress and longer hair in a last ditch effort to keep up with youthful, fresh faced cohorts who have yet to experience the evils of gravity. And then there are those who open home equity lines to buy various miracle creams and chemical peels as seen on QVC that promise to grammatically eradicate the parentheses mark between brows, the semi-colons around the mouth and the exclamation points punctuating the area around sleep-deprived eyes.

All of these things, among a litany of others, had the propensity to lead me to age-defying waters all in the name of splashing and then cannon-balling into the fountain of youth. The countdown to forty, however, would unwittingly lead me down an entirely different path. My mid-life crisis would turn out to be mid-life crooked.



I use the term crisis very loosely here because it was unknown to me that the potential for chaos was brewing along in my mouth. For my oblivious part, it never occurred to yours truly that I might chew food in a sub par manner as thighs that touch when standing clearly vouch for success in this area. My smile, while far from perfect, never scared small children or demonstrated unsightly rot; imperfections that never lessened my joy or caused awkwardness when laughing.

Dutiful visits to the dentist, brushing twice a day and flossing when I can find it - usually tied to a door knob with a Star Wars figurine dangling precariously over any choice of galaxy - resulted in a satisfactory state of dental health as evidenced by the free toothbrush and sample toothpaste awarded after each dental hygienist encounter.

So it was with a bit of surprise to receive the diagnosis that would lead me to my current predicament. At an orthodontic appointment for my son, Chandler, I noticed the metal work of a similarly-aged friend employed at the office. I commented to her that I thought that it made her look younger - words that would later mock me - and she began to tell me the circumstances that led her to the orthodontist’s chair. Concerns for crowding as the jaw line grows smaller, a condition adults experience as they age, influenced my friend’s decision to join the ranks of prepubescent teens all over town. Peering intently at my mouth, she then said the words that unbeknownst to me would distance me from my love for all things in the chip aisle:

“Why don’t you let Dr. V have a quick look while you wait on your son?”

I had already perused the Southern Living magazine in the waiting room, and played two rounds of Lady Pac Man in the game room, so I had a little time to spare for a fast inspection.

Quicker than the spin cycle on my front load washing machine, I was swirled through x-rays and tossed to and fro in a photographic session that distorted my lips in a manner that would make the Joker look handsome. Every nook and cranny of my mouth was documented making me wish that I had taken some time that morning to untangle some of the floss wrapped around my son’s bedroom door. Remnants of a strawberry pop tart would later materialize in an unfortunate photo close-up.

The end result was a similar assessment as determined for my friend, and a course of treatment was presented. The kind orthodontist gently encouraged immediate action as the crowding was only going to get worse in the future, necessitating the removal of a few bottom teeth to maintain proper dental hygiene. I flip-flopped between the choices offered until I remembered an unfortunate incident at the local Waffle House that involved missing teeth. Suddenly, the decision seemed clear.

Soon after, my mouth was outfitted with more metal than the Commandments should allow. I am now commiserating and swapping complaints with my ten year old son in similar state, sharing wax and antiseptic cleanser just like the three other mother/son orthodontic combinations reported in our region of the country.

That monumental age still looms on the horizon, but it doesn’t quite intimidate me as much, as I find myself bravely, albeit reluctantly, bracing for the future.

Besides, forty is the new thirteen.

Stuffed

The days leading up to Thanksgiving were just that – stuffed. Stuffed full of school programs, stuffed full of preparatory activities, stuffed full of various feasts that finally culminated into that feeling you try to unsuccessfully avoid after the celebratory meal arrives. Stuffed.



Let me back up a bit.

Our week began with a Thanksgiving program performed by Mary Mac’s kindergarten class. Among the many costumes to be worn for the play- Indians, turkeys, pilgrim boys, pilgrim girls – I was charged with outfitting my five year old as a pilgrim girl.

Realistic moms identify personal limitations early on in their parental careers. Among my own smorgasbord of weaknesses that include skills lacking in baking, ironing and concern for dusty baseboards, the real kryptonite to my desire to be considered capable domestically is anything that has to do with needle and thread.

I can’t mend. I can’t sew. I can’t even replace buttons whose glaring absence causes my husband to button dress shirts haphazardly. And truth of the matter is I don’t really want to master any of these skills. In the same way, I don’t want to learn to change the oil in my car, vacuum the debris at the bottom of the pool or clean leaves from the gutters of our home. There simply is no interest.

In a half-hearted attempt to improve on in an area that is glaringly apparent to others, I travelled to Michael’s, a local arts and crafts supply store that produces light-headedness every time I enter. Standing in front of various colors of felt, buttons, glitter and fabric glue reminded me again that this is not an arena in which I excel. It also reminded me of the many reasons I appreciate the world wide web and I quickly left the store to order my sweet girl’s costume from the internet.



If you squint your eyes just right, Mary Mac’s costume might be considered of the homemade variety. It was the made in China sticker on the back of her right shoulder, however, that gave it away.

In my experience, liberty can be found in the recognition and acceptance of one’s limitations. Now if only the internet could offer some assistance with the ironing and baking.

A few days later our family of five travelled to Atlanta to see the Rockettes perform at the Fox Theatre. Before the show, we took the children to a somewhat fancy dinner in the hotel where we would later spend the night.



Upon entering the restaurant, we quickly noticed the absence of any other children. With a whispered reminder to each of my three to use their nicest manners, we were seated at a table covered in hundreds of pieces of fine china and crystal goblets. (Not really, this was just the prophesied picture in my head that would not let me enjoy the fantastically set table.)

To my surprise, it wasn’t the silverware, the lit candles, or even the huge crystal goblets filled to the rim with carbonated sprites that gave our children trouble. It was the menu that would cause each of them distress.

“Rabbit?” Mary Mac read off of the menu, her eyes as big as the bread plate to her left. “People eat little bunnies in this restaurant?” she asked me.

Before I could respond, Chandler located another furry animal on the menu that set his gag reflex in forward motion. “Lamb?! Someone cooks a baby sheep in a pot back there in the kitchen?” he said loud enough to make a lady sitting at the next table turn to stare at our incredulous brood. I silently prayed that my children would not notice the fur still draped around the curious woman’s shoulders, causing a full-blown rescue attempt by three animal loving adolescents.

“If this is such a fancy restaurant,” Chase piped in, “then why are they making everybody eat animals from a barnyard?”

My husband began a prolonged discourse on the culinary delicacies of the menu items in question, but was met with defiant resistance by our three children who count Charlotte’s Web as a favorite movie. During John’s diatribe, I motioned for the waiter, asking quietly for a children’s menu that hopefully contained the preservatives to which our offspring were accustomed.

Distraction is a key tool used in our household, so I began a game of “I Spy Something Fancy” to divert attention away from sautéed baby animals. Although the unfortunate fur collar of the neighboring lady was inevitably sited, causing momentary alarm and drama, we were able to successfully convince our children that it was the remnants of a mean, scary wolf that rightfully earned its swift demise. Folks at PETA would not be amused.

After a delicious meal that included hotdogs with a side of macaroni and cheese, our children momentarily forgot the offensive entrees as we headed across the busy street to see the Rockettes perform.





The show was unbelievable, bringing us all early Christmas joy. It ended with a live nativity scene that showcased the wise men, shepherds, and others in a demonstrative state of worship that brought goose bumps up and down my arms. Even the camels, donkeys, and sheep seemed to be captivated by the glorious baby that would forever change the world.

A tap on my shoulder briefly brought me out of the reverence I was experiencing. I turned to see my ten year old son, Chase, with a light and wonder in his eyes that caused my own to mist over. He motioned me to lean closer, and then tenderly whispered into my ear, “ I hope those restaurant people across the street don’t find out about these animals. They might just end up on their menus.”

And then the tears were real, as I belly laughed until I cried.

Joy of Giving

He has been saving his money for months. Almost a year ago, my ten-year-old son began carefully putting away allowances earned for chores; squirreling away money generously received as gifts. With an eye on a few items that were sure to bring him great entertainment, Chase patiently waited for the day to come that would declare it time to spend his stash.

A week ago, Chase was invited on an outing to Atlanta with a friend; a trip specifically planned to visit a renowned outfitter’s store having its once a year sale. As an aficionado of the outdoors, this provided unexpected opportunity for my son to stretch those meticulously saved dollars in a manner that surpassed original intentions.

He gathered the weathered dollars from a hiding place known only to him, and excitedly left our home that morning with adolescent thoughts of all of the treasures he would purchase. Chase had been steadfast and deliberate, and for a year, fought off the temptations impulse buying can bring. With eyes persistently on the goal, the time had come and the prize would finally be his.

Except his prize was not to be.

Chase returned later that afternoon with a bounce in his step and a light in his eyes that declared the shopping excursion a huge success. His joy only enhanced my own, as I waited for him to show the items that had brought on such delight. Motioning me into the privacy of his bedroom, with a furtive glance towards his dad, Chase closed the door behind him and then slowly opened the bag containing his purchases.

A worried expression crossed his face and Chase said, “Mom, I spent all of my money. I hope that’s okay.”

“Sure,” I responded. “You’ve been saving for a long time and it makes me happy that you were able to finally buy what you wanted.”

An infectious grin spread across his face, the kind that showcased every orthodontic-covered tooth, and I found myself smiling with an anticipation that matched his own.

With great pride and deliberation, Chase opened the hand that every once in a while still wants to hold mine, revealing a very expensive utility knife, an object that caused me to pause uncertainly.

“That’s a great knife, Chase, but probably something we would rather you own when you are older,” I reluctantly responded, knowing that my comment had the potential to extinguish the light and joy in his eyes.

Saying nothing, he pulled out the second item, this time a small saw, the kind used to cut down small trees or the hamburger meat yours truly sometimes forgets to thaw.

“Really, Chase,” I continued, a little alarmed at the pint-sized Paul Bunyan looking slyly back at me. “Unfortunately, we’re going to need to talk to your dad about these purchases. I’m afraid you’re just not old enough.”

“That’s probably not a very good idea,” he said with a laugh, “Considering that I bought both of these for him. And he’s PLENTY old enough.”

It took me a moment to connect the dots of what he was saying, attempting to reconcile the large sum of money he had been saving with the generous gifts bought for my husband.

“Remember how Dad lost his favorite knife a few months ago? When I was at the store, I saw this one and just knew that it would be perfect for his birthday. And the saw? I just figured it would be a great bonus. Not to mention that maybe he could teach me how to use it if it doesn’t cause you to freak out too much,” he finished with a smirk that made me laugh out loud.

“It’s perfect, Chase. I know he will love both. But, you don’t have any money left now.”

“It’s not a big deal,” he said with a shrug of his generous shoulders. “I’ll just save up again for the stuff I wanted. Unless, of course, it’s near your birthday, mom.” The look on his face once again reminded me why the love I feel for him at times is a physical ache.

There was no hesitation in his purchases. No thoughts of how the money could have been better used on personal desires or of the amount of time it would take to restore his former financial status. A pure intentioned act that spoke volumes of the love he feels for his dad, a micro-sized example of the way our Father feels about us.

Sacrificial giving to family, to church, to those less fortunate, that’s the place true blessings are born. Manifested in the form of time given or money spent, the delight derived from the sacrifice so succinctly reveals the condition of the heart.

Chase’s act was lavish, selfless, and instinctive, a fitting portrayal of the person he is becoming on the inside.

Even if the outside occasionally resembles Paul Bunyan.

Grooving at the Magic Kingdom

We couldn’t help ourselves. The gravitational pull was too great, the appeal too large to resist. The joy it previously brought to our family was so beguilingly tempting that we were compelled to attempt a repeat, particularly since our children are still at that teetering age where they think we are laughing with them and not at them.

(Oh, how I kid. We don’t snicker at them behind their backs. We totally do it out in the open.)

Packed methodically and so carefully into our suitcases, like the finest of vinyl china, the Elvis jumpsuits survived baggage handlers to make their debut at the Not So Scary Halloween Party held at Magic Kingdom. Black hair spray, glittery golden scarves, and more fringe than the law should allow magically transformed our children from Walt Disney World tourists to pint-sized versions of the king.



Strutting through the main entrance with as much cool as available to adolescents, our trio impersonated quite well the aurora of Elvis Presley and delighted in the immediate spotlight. Cast members flocked their way and Disney characters sought them out, an ironic role reversal from the previous day’s experiences. “Who’s your daddy now,” I heard Chase smirk under his breath, after giving yet another high five to a Disney Princess, this time a smiling Cinderella, who had snobbishly withheld affection in an earlier encounter. No wonder her only friends were stinky ol’ mice.



Young or old, furry or smooth skinned, Southern or Midwestern, when Elvis is in the house, people respond. Even to grade school imitations.




A dance party was held for all of the costumed attendees, an event that captured hours of our children’s attention. They grooved. They shuffled. They showcased dance moves that bewildered even me. Swiveling their hips in a manner that would have enraptured even the most unaccommodating hula hoop, the trio of Elvis’ got down in Disney town in such an animated and inhibited fashion that my uncontrollable laughter later re-introduced my abdomen to its long lost muscles.





Eventually the heat overcame the attention, and one by one, my darling Elvis’ melted back into their former selves, like a summer popsicle slowly evaporating down to the nubby stick. Chase, my oldest, was the last to succumb to the temperatures, protesting up to the very end with sweat pouring down his face, that the sauna-like atmosphere didn’t bother him one bit, that he had one more dance left in him, as he milked out his final fifteen minutes of Disney World fame.



It’s been a few months since our trip and the Elvis costumes have been packed away. Sadly, our three children will soon reach an age that finds them choosing a tooth extraction over participating in an outing that displays matching outfits with their siblings.

But I've still got a little time left. Maybe one last public excursion remains before my trio becomes appropriately appalled. Perhaps just long enough to make plans for the outfits they will wear to the Christmas Eve Services at our Presbyterian church.

Amish Christmas, anyone?

Halloween in November

What better time to share Halloween pictures than a time when most are focusing on Thanksgiving? At least that’s the shaky logic I’m offering in order to feel better about the tardy nature in which I seem to be approaching family memories.

I feel confident that I could be on top of family memory preservation and family story recollection if the path towards the computer weren’t so obstructed by my, well, ...family.

It seems we have been so busy with the making of memories that I have haven’t been able to keep up with the recording of said memories. I really must talk to my family about this unsettling trend. How am I to be engaged with the blog if I am so engaged with them?

With the passing of each hour, the cruel clock in my head reminds me of the minutes that will never again be mine. I want to capture various moments in picture and words but also don’t want to confine my children’s recollections of me. Do they consider the photo lens of my camera as an extra feature of my face? Will they remember me as someone with one eye shut, the warped photographic version of Popeye, searching for that perfect shot that promises to encapsulate the memory?

I want to dutifully record without being robbed of the occasion. I want to document their joy but without the separation that threatens my own. And selfishly, I want to use my camera to remember it all but not at the cost of sacrificing the moment.

So the posts may be a little late. But I’m praying my children think that I’m right on time.

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Chase taking a moment to summon forth all of his creative juices:



I could lick this face it is so cute:


What a pumpkin looks like after it catches the swine flu:



Miley Cyrus:



The Blues Brothers or Amish children. Feel free to choose:



Neighborhood Party:



Little girls dressed up as SASSY:


July 4th pictures coming soon.

Not really. : )

Good Time By All

When you are an eight-year-old boy, it is a guarantee that a good time will be had by all when the following occurs:

You run like your mama is chasing you:



You tackle like your mama isn't watching:



You quarterback a play by saying, "One 'ssippi, two 'ssippi , HUT!!" And all understand you.



You kick without worrying about nearby windows.




You smile in a way that convinces your parents to accept that it really is great to be eight.





For Chandler, there is no greater joy than gathering a few of his buddies for a game of flag football. Forget rented inflatables or hired entertainers or ponies that travel in an agonizingly slow circle. Nothing says celebration for him like a worn-out football, some freshly cut grass and a few of his favorite friends.





A penalty for excessive celebration caused this team to have to take it back to the trampoline. (Georgia fan anyone? Anyone? Hellooo....)



Halftime Show:


Stadium Fans:





It's true. The rumors circulating are correct. What you might have heard was accurate and right on the money: Eight really is great. And a good time was had by all.



Even by Chandler's mama.