Olan Mills – Beach Style

I remember as a child dreading the posed picture. My three siblings and I would not sit still, or pay attention, or even offer a smile worthy to be captured by the Olan Mills guy who desperately wanted us to say, "Cheeseburger! or "I love Scooby snacks!" It wasn’t necessarily out of disobedience, or even defiance, but rather a place of disdain for anything that made us momentarily pretend that we really were in front of a waterfall in the mountains, or leaning against a split fence out West, or that a rainbow displayed behind our backs was an actual possibility inside of a fake wood-paneled room stuffed with families trying to buy Package C.

Olan Mills, you did our family so wrong. And you didn’t really help out some of these folks either.

This is the split fence I mentioned earlier:

This is the corduroy clad professor in his study:


This cannot be comfortable:


This is just wrong on so many levels. Mr. Mills, have you no dignity?


So it is not surprising, that my children would rather have a tooth removed or a tetanus shot injected directly into their little veins than to pose for yours truly. Oh, they look joyful enough, as though they really were being agreeable, but when you find yourself saying, “If you don’t smile, you are going to get a spanking!”, then you know it is time to stop.

Notice that Chase's smile is between a grin and gritting his teeth. His irritation with me had only just begun:


"Lady, if you don't stop taking my picture, it's gonna get dicey around here."


Chandler is rolling his eyes on the inside.



"Moooommmmm, this is taking forevvverrrrrr."


"Excuse me, sir. Do you know where we might find a background that will show that dune grassy stuff growing out of our backs?"



(*Edited to add: My husband was disappointed that I chose a picture showing him with "bangs". He says that it makes him look like one of the Beatles. I said that it was more like Pee Wee Herman. He did not laugh.)

"Our evil plan worked. We wore her down."


There's nothing that quite summarizes summer better than a photo with your baby dolls in their turtle neck sweaters. The baby on the left obviously became overheated and consequently removed her baby britches.


THE END.
(I crack myself up.Pun intended.)

Diagnosis

It’s not what he expected to hear. And it’s not what I expected to see. A day that started out as ordinary for us both, but by day’s end, would be extraordinary for us all.

Yesterday was a packed full day at John’s office. After being gone a week on vacation, the patient schedule was double- booked and I had a pile of paperwork to address.

All morning long, I would catch glimpses of my husband in between each of his patients, standing at the waist-high counter outside of the exam rooms, brow knitted and eyes intense, concentrating on the diagnosis or treatment plan he noted in each of the charts.

Typically, if I need him to answer a question or clarify a matter pertaining to the business, I wait for him to finish, to complete the thought process relating to the case before him. I can tell by his mannerisms when he is about return to the exam room, and it is at these moments, that I quickly get the information I need to continue my task.

There seemed to be a lot of this type of interaction yesterday, particularly because of the workload that materialized after a weeklong absence. It was busy, and I had errands to run, appointments to make, when I hurriedly headed to the counter for one last piece of information from my spouse.

His head was down in that well-known pose of concentration, but it was the look on his face that halted my steps and the interrupting question. I glanced to the right, at his beloved nurse Kathy, who quietly shook her head, imploring me to momentarily forget the suddenly, unimportant documents in my hand.

John walked away from me slowly, shoulders slumped with heaviness familiar to all physicians, and re-entered the exam room that spilled over with despair.

I looked at his nurse, confused, but already saddened, somehow having an idea of what she was about to tell me.

“He just had to tell a patient that tests confirmed stage four lung cancer,” Kathy said in a weary voice. “That sweet patient had no idea.”

It was at that moment that the exam door opened, and my husband gradually emerged, turning towards the family following him, his damp eyes mirroring their own. Faces stunned with unsuspecting grief, yet full of affection, each family member embraced the man who delivered the devastating news.

“He prays with them,” said Kathy, softly and almost to herself.

And the little joy I could find in a situation that would forever scar this lovely family was the thought that I was so thankful that they heard it from John. Someone who could offer the direction to comfort from the same place he so often receives it.

It's Your Own Party

Our family vacation ended yesterday - July 4th - a day when all others were celebrating independence. However, the only commemoration our family of five had time to celebrate was the independence from one another after travelling in the car for nine hours.

(Oh, that’s not true. We also celebrated the fact that most traffic was headed in the opposite direction of our salt -encrusted, packed-to the-ceiling Expedition. SCORE! ).

I have never used the term family vacation when referring to this particular block of time we try to schedule once a summer. In my worn out mind, when summoning an idea of vacation, I picture fruity drinks with little umbrellas to quench your thirst, cabana boys offering iced towels for your sweaty brow, and tanned dance instructors to teach you salsa on the beach.

Or maybe that was the movie Dirty Dancing.

Anyhow, when small children are involved, it is a stretch to label it as a vacation. In fact, at times it can seem like downright work , introducing the much used phrase that I rolled my eyes at as a child: “ I need a vacation from my vacation.”

Until now, our family summer jaunts to various beaches could only be considered family TRIPS. Those with ongoing needs outnumber the adults who can fulfill said ongoing needs. Sunscreen, and ultimately saltwater, sting little eyes, hunger is followed by dire thirst, and bathroom needs interrupt the five minutes of tranquility found in the beach chair that will sit empty and isolated in the sand for the majority of the day.

But not this year.

We have mercifully entered a stage that honestly comprises a true vacation. Sleeping late and staying up later. Do-It-Yourself breakfasts, leisurely lunches, and laidback dinners. Endless hours of playing in the ocean trailed by the same amount of time playing in the sand. Adult participation no longer a necessity or a high commodity demand, but instead a non-committal addition children could function with or without.

For the second year, we vacationed with two other families that effortlessly meshed with our own. Similar temperaments, humor and personalities contribute to half of the formula that makes this vacation a success, while the other half is the repetition of this very simple statement both out loud and in one‘s thoughts on various occasions during the seven day stay: “It’s your own party.”

For instance, one person may want to sleep on a blown up dolphin in the pool (Sabrina) while another prefers to nap in the sand(Jon). Whatever floats your boat (get it?!), it’s your own party.



One child wants to make pizza,


while, another wants to mimic the cuisine of I-Carly with spaghetti tacos. It’s your own party.



A few of our crowd preferred to hunt crabs in the dark night:


While a few others waited for the crabs to come to them:


Waiting or hunting, it's your own party.

Some want to eat their snacks out of their own hands while others want to feed the birds off of their own heads. Do what you want, it’s your own party.



Vacationing males may want to get down while getting jiggy with it:


Vacationing females may want to shake it like a Polaroid picture. Either way, it’s your own party.



One child rides a wave bigger than he could have ever imagined.


A few others only ride waves in their imaginations. Nonetheless, it's your own party.

Some like to stand upright when tossing and catching the football,



While others (Tricia) go for the dramatic diving catch. No worries, it's your own party.


Some like to use sunscreen as protection from the harsh rays, while others pile on sand for unique, yet quasi-sufficient coverage. Whatever, it's your own party.



Sometimes, it feels a little more comfortable watching the waves from the shoreline.


And other times, its more fun to approach the waves with wild, joyful abandon. Calmly or wildly, it's your own party.



THE END.

End? Get it? Never mind. You can go ahead and click on the red box in the corner.

Remember, it's your own party.

How You Know It's Summer - revisited

I created this list last summer, and am surprised that these truths still stand after a year. There is no greater joy than timeless statements, facts and information that prove eternal, despite the time period or generation in which they are found.

Maybe that's why I love the Bible so much.

Wait a minute. Maybe this list could have been included in the Word. Maybe tucked away in the ambitious description found in Proverbs 31, which might help us like that woman a little more.

Oh, I kid. I would never support such blasphemy.

(Or how about as a small blip in the book of Psalms? I could re-write it as a poem? Anybody?)


You Know It’s Summer When:

1.Suppertime is random as well as the food you serve. Five thirty one night, seven thirty the next. Well-balanced meals become off-balanced meals, sometimes in the form of pure additives and preservatives. (There are vitamins in preservatives, right?)

2. The mommy is joyfully the last to awaken and usually it is to a poke in the forehead rather than the beep of an alarm.

3. Your children’s attire chosen for the day resembles that of fugitives, but you are too hot and too unconcerned to put together anything remotely resembling precious.

4. A highlight of the day is retrieving the mail. You watch for the mail truck like a child watches for the ice cream truck, and you begin to seem borderline creepy and stalkish-like to the unsuspecting mailman.

5. You crave barbecued anything like a pregnant woman craves pickles and a glimpse of her swollen ankles. Suddenly everything tastes better grilled and topped with a little barbecue sauce including deviled eggs, mashed potatoes, and summer squash.

(I’m kidding about the mashed potatoes.)

6. Your calls to your husband at work increase ten fold. Highlights of The View are surprisingly not received warmly from your spouse even if the segment on bikini waxing was highly informative.

7. You see canning jars at the local grocery store and for a brief moment consider canning vegetables for the upcoming winter. That is, until you remember you don’t know how to can and wonder how canned vegetables can be better than the miraculous “steam in the bag” vegetables found in the frozen section. Not to mention that it is tough to get the daily summer dose of preservatives in fresh vegetables.

8. You reluctantly put on a bathing suit for ALL to see, all in the name of taking your children to the local pool, even when normal, every day modesty prevents you from allowing family members (or friends for that matter) to EVER see you in your undergarments.

9. Every time you glance in the mirror you see a multi-colored ring around your lips because you can’t seem to stay out of the children’s Popsicles.

10. You realize the enormous amount of “summer grooming” that has to take place after the ongoing neglect that has occurred during the school year. Appointments attended for highlighting the hair, pedicuring (I’m sure this is a word) the toes, and waxing the eyebrows begin with your “specialist” saying, “So exactly how long has it been since your last visit?” After wiping your eyebrows out of your eyes, you lie, and say just a few weeks.

That's how you know it's summer.

I Didn't Deserve You, But My Children Did

I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. Years ago when we first met, I was wild and flighty; you were steady and so sure. My faith was on shaky ground, your feet were planted firmly. Two people could not have been more opposite, but by the grace of God, ended up with everything in common.

I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. You never left my side during those unremitting hours of newborn terror. Neither one of us was all that capable, but your encouragement and confidence led me through those sleepless nights and fearful days when I was paralyzed by inadequacy. I became a good mom because you were a great dad.

I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. You were immediately engaged and enamored with each of our children. It was an instant bond that came as natural to you as breathing, as instinctive as the beat of your generous heart. You simply could not get enough of them. Your patience and your pride allowed for endless rounds of patty-cake and peek-a-boo, then transitioning into hours of UNO and playing catch in the yard.



I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. You are a gifted and compassionate physician, with patient burdens I cannot comprehend. Your workload and schedule demands all of you, but you have never given in. Starting your day extra early and working through lunch, you make it home for dinner with your family, and then tuck each child into bed with a heartfelt prayer, knowing that you will be up to midnight to work on charts that fell second place to your children.

I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. The way you look at our children cannot be manufactured or contrived, a mixture of love and wonder, amazement and joy. I never tire of watching you watching them. School performances and awards, ballgames and recitals, you always sit in the seat beside me, squeezing my hand with tears in your eyes, still in awe that you are allowed the moment.



I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. You are my closest friend, my most trusted confidante. My love for you defies available words and still stuns me at its overwhelming capacity. The children unabashedly adore you, look up to you, and want to be just like you. And the dog thinks you’re the best.

I didn’t deserve you, but my children did.

Happy Father's Day,
Joni

This Is How You Know...

...that your seven year old really loves baseball.

Crazy Women....The Only Kind I Know

There used to be a song I listened to in college, a song that somewhat encompassed the females I called friends, girls who were funny and spontaneous and gifted with lots of personality. And a little crazy.

Not cuckoo crazy or straitjacket crazy or even snakes in the head crazy. It was a kind of crazy that demonstrated more courage than sense, more carefree than careful. This song would play, and I would catch the eye of one of my compatible comrades, and with more off-key singing than the law should allow, we would join in on the lyrics as though the words were written with us in mind.


Crazy women.....they’re the only kind I know.
Crazy women....keep me running for the door.
Crazy women...I guess they’re all the same.
Crazy women...got my foolish heart to blame.

Many years after college and graduate school, I would occasionally hear the song and smile – and sometimes grimace – at the memories provoked by the much loved tune. Life barely resembled the former, even with intermittent glimpses provided by yearly reunions with the NOGS and sporadic shopping trips with friends from South Carolina. A momentary break from domestic responsibilities and calendar driven demands that allowed a brief visit to the days when we were ungratefully young and gravity not yet the kryptonite to select parts of our bodies.

Don’t misunderstand me, days are fulfilling and exactly what I have always imagined my life would be, but also completely opposite of a time when I answered to the outrageous whims that would direct me to the next adventure.

Courage has eventually been replaced with good sense and carefree transitioned into careful. A natural progression of adulthood when there are others who live out the consequences of decisions considered and made, actions pondered and fulfilled.

Traveling back from the beach last week, after a trip with Martha and Mandy and the seven children between them, I surprisingly heard the song once again. Before it had always reminded me of fun, crazy days before the delightful arrival of offspring. But in a slight moment of clarity, I realized for the first time, that the crazy is still there, it just now includes, and is most likely caused by, my children.

Who, but crazy women, minus their capable and quite sensible spouses, would take 10 children to the beach, vacationing under the same roof, praying that everyone still likes each other at week’s end?


Who, but crazy women, would ask the wide-eyed hostess for a table for thirteen, fully expecting and not caring that drinks would be spilled, service would be slow, white pants would be stained, and meals would be half-eaten?










Who, but crazy women, would hunt crabs close to midnight, wielding oven mitts and plastic buckets, capturing squiggly-eyed crustaceans, all while squealing louder than the youngest child?





Who, but crazy women, would tip-toe to the third floor porch, only speaking in hushed tones and wild hand gestures, so that those who can identify us as a parent would be unable to find us?

Who, but crazy women, would seek out the fountain in the town square, encouraging their energetic children to frolic and splash to their heart’s content, only for the sake of pure, adolescent joy?







And, who, but crazy women, after assembling 20 preservative rich meals, applying 60 coats of sunscreen and responding 180 times to the word “Mommy, would still find themselves smiling when it was all over?




Crazy women. They’re the only kind I know.

Yet Another School Year

With the onset of baseball madness, and the chaotic activity that ensued from said madness, something miraculous occurred. A phenomenon that could only have materialized from the distraction caused by cleats with caked dirt and uniforms with red clay stains, and schedules that ate away at any remaining minutes that might be considered my own.

The event? All of my children graduated from one grade level to the next without the usual histrionics and overreaction from yours truly. No drama, no emotional outbursts. I didn’t even take to bed, distraught that my little ones were one year closer to calling my nurturing abode their second home.

(I don’t even recognize myself anymore. Wicked baseball, see what you have done to me?)

My oldest is a rising 5th grader. Clever and quick witted, very few can make me laugh out loud like this quirky little ten year old.



Recently, we were walking to the car after dining at a local restaurant, when I noticed that Chase was wearing his baseball cap somewhat cock-eyed.

“Chase, your hat is crooked,” I told him.

“No, this is the way I am wearing it now. I’m GANGSTA,” was his absurd reply.

“Oh really?” I continued. “ What is it about your starched, short sleeved polo shirt tucked into your even more starched khaki pants that would remotely suggest you roll gangsta-style?”

And without missing a beat, Chase responded, “I’m a new kind of gangsta. I’m a gangsta with manners.”

For the entire trip back home, we were subjected to a type of free-styling rap sung by Chase that I can’t possibly imitate or do justice, but here is a small excerpt of the “lyrics” created by my ten year old gangsta:

(Get a beat in your head, feel the groove and then imagine a pre-pubescent voice rapping the following:)

I’m a gangsta with manners, ‘cause I put my napkin in my lap.
I’m a gangsta with manners, ‘cause I say yes sir and no ma’am.
I’m a gangsta with manners, ‘cause I chew with my mouth closed.
I’m a gangsta with manners, but for you, I’ll open the door.

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My middle child, Chandler, is a rising second grader. He is obscenely smart – and I say this in the most biased manner possible – stunning us on a daily basis of concepts he has learned, or desires to learn. He is a thinker and a dreamer, but also somewhat of a perfectionist in his daily approach and mode of operation. Chandler especially wants to please his parents, his teachers, and most recently and most importantly, his coaches.



Early on in the baseball season, Chandler was just starting to get the hang of all the nuances and rules of baseball. One particular game, he found himself playing third base with runners on first and third and one out for the inning. I watched Chandler’s face, imagining the wheels in his brain turning over the many scenarios and possibilities the next batter could bring, when suddenly, in almost Rain-Man like fashion, he blurted out across the field to his coach and for all in the stands to hear:

“HEY COACH! I’M GONNA NEED A LITTLE INSTRUCTION HERE!”

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My baby, my five-year-old daughter, Mary Mac, will begin kindergarten in the Fall. Just typing that sentence makes me week in the knees, a little short of breath and momentarily dizzy.



(Or it could have been the rush of sugar I just experienced when swiping a S’mores pop tart off of my child’s paper plate which we refer to demurely as our “summer plates”. No wonder my children streak through the house like tasmanian devils after breakfast.)

Sassy and so smart, daring and so dramatic, Mary Mac embraces each day looking for the adventure it will bring. She loves school, loves her teachers even more, sobbing uncontrollably in the car ride home each of the years she has experienced a school day that was her to be her last, in true Mary Mac form.

Last day of 3K:

“WAAAAHHHHH. I’ll never see Mrs. Jones ever, ever, never again! Waaaaahhhhh!!! She will be gone forever and I am going to be sad FOREEEVVVVVERRRR!!!.”

Last day of 4K:

“WAAAHHHHH! I’ll never, ever, in my whole life and in the whole universe be able to see Mrs. Edwards again! WAAAAHHH! She won’t remember me but I’ll remember her and that’s not fair because I’m going to miss her FOREVVVERRR! WAAAHHH!!

Oh, she brings me joy. Aggravation, and a whole lot of dramatics, but she definitely brings joy.

So another school year is behind us, and because of baseball, I barely felt the impact. My lip only quivered a little when final hugs were given to teachers on the last day of school, the teachers crying more than the students.



My heart only raced a little when I took the final picture of each child with their school friends, smiling with ecstatic grins that are mercifully unaware of the speed in which time passes.








And my throat only constricted a little, at the reminder that God has only gifted them to me for just this short period of time - barely a blink of my wrinkled eye-and that while they are mine, I will fully inhale them with deep, lingering breaths and then slowly and purposefully exhale with all love, laughter and joy.