Ivey's Mom

I have admired her story mostly from afar. The blog on which she writes is one of the first I ever visited, and the impact it made on me then still loudly resonates now.

Over the Christmas holidays, Gwen and I were introduced at an ornament swap party, and I realized that the lovely face I met in person coincided exactly with the lovely words created in print.

We both seemed to possess a similar joy, one that is usually born from a place that starts as sorrow, but evolves steadily and then more firmly, into a new condition of the heart. Our spirits seemed alike, and I knew we would be friends when she found the misguided humor in my short demonstration of how ornaments could be hung from the hooks in braces.

(Yes, I did. And yes, she did.)

Recently, Gwen nominated my blog for A Lemonade Stand award, a friendly recognition of those who turn life’s lemons into lemonade. While I am surprised that she even reads my blog – that now brings the count to a total of three – I am thankful that someone of her caliber, grace, and hard earned wisdom found it worthy of a periodic glance.

It’s Raining Teeth – Hallelujah

For a short while, they were not able to chew. Preservative-filled favorites like Oreo cookies, Lucky Charms and Cheeots were reluctantly traded in for geriatric delights like chocolate pudding, cinnamon oatmeal and flavored jello infused with unidentifiable fruit.

Already, the dietary demands dictated by adult braces eradicates any food that makes a crunching sound for yours truly, leaving me with items that can be only “gummed” and then swallowed for digestion.

Even though Chase and Chandler both unwillingly participate in the joys of all things orthodontic, they both have managed to continue eating the foods strictly prohibited by Dr.V and his ever-watchful staff. Successfully, my children bite into forbidden favorites like Doritos and Cheese Nips, maneuvering each morsel around the metal like the moms who manically wheel grocery carts around store corners when late for carpool.

I am not nearly as brave. The idea of snapping off a bracket in my mouth or causing a wire to dangle in the most unsightly of manners is enough to keep me away from the chip basket in the pantry and the waiting room at the orthodontist’s office overflowing with snickering adolescents.



This week, however, the nutritional tables have turned on two of our children. Chandler, whose entire oral cavity is encased with expanders on the top and the bottom of his mouth, as well as entrapped by an unfortunate contraption that reminds me of Silence With The Lambs, lost the final two baby teeth of the incisor family.



(Because he has become an “old pro” when it comes to losing teeth, Chandler independently wrapped up his little bundle of calcium and phosphorus in a paper towel, and then secured it safely in a ziploc bag. For most of the day, he carried his treasure around in his back pocket.

Somehow, the ziploc bag ended up next to our fireplace later that night. Unknowingly, my husband threw the bag into the blaze where we were all gathered. Stunned, three small children looked at my husband in horror, and the wailing began.

Chandler cried, my husband was heartbroken and the tooth fairies all over our land had a moment of silence.



It was not one of the finer moments in our household.)

Mary Mac was the next child to report two of her teeth missing. One fell out while she slept – she must have been dreaming about nachos – and the other at school.




Because it was a new feeling for her, Mary Mac maintained that eating could not occur. For at least one meal, she refused to chew, stating dramatically, “It huurrrrttttss. And if I eat, all of my other teeth are going to come out too!”

Clearly, we are a family with numerous dental issues.

As expected, Chandler and Mary Mac both overcame their tooth deficiencies and managed to heroically re-learn the art of consuming a package of Oreos in its entirety.

I just watched them with bitterness, and a little bit of longing, as I gummed yet another spoonful of Jello filled with sad, little pieces of fruit.

Snow Day

There’s nothing quite like impending snow in the South.



Weather updates interrupt regular scheduled television programs to bring the latest, breaking news from the worn-out, storm tracking team. With sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie askew, and disheveled hair, the Chief Meteorologist will gravely relay the forecast in a husky, sleep-deprived voice, reinforcing the seriousness in which viewers should receive the approaching snow.

Snow in Georgia is as rare as balmy days in Vermont. It just doesn't happen much and our regional response and state preparation makes the Boy Scouts of America look downright lazy. The ONE snowplow owned by our small town is brought out from its place of hibernation, an enigma that brings out the city officials who stand nearby, grave looks on their faces and with fingers crossed, praying the engine will turn over at least once.

The local media exploits our unfamiliarity with winter storms further by going so far as to name our grievous weather - "Snowstorm 2010" or, if competing networks are battling it out for publicity, "Black Ice: The Slick Killer in Your Neighborhood". It becomes questionable as to whether you will ever be able to leave your home again, convincing even reasonable folks that bread and milk must be purchased NOW or cereal and toast might not be enjoyed until early Spring.

Emergent trips to the grocery store cause traffic jams, resulting in exaggerated impatience and short tempers in the overflowing parking lot. My own trip ignited a small flare-up with another lady when I unknowingly pulled into a parking place she had been eyeing from two rows over. (Who knew?) The lady wheeled around the corner – on two wheels, I might add – just as I parked into the coveted place that apparently did not belong to yours truly.

Shooting me the evil eye punctuated with an unfortunate hand gesture, the woman found another space just a few moments later. As I walked to the entrance of the store, I noticed that as timing would have it, my new friend and I would reach the front doors at approximately the same moment.

Uh-oh.

Trying to lighten the moment, and believing that a little humor alleviates most awkward situations, I smiled at the woman and cheerfully said, “Wanna race to a shopping cart?”

She did not think I was funny. She did not want to race. And because I am of great courage, I hid from her in Kroger.

The impending snowstorm resulted in school closings in our area, bringing great joy to the students in our community. Meticulously sodded lawns were shredded to Bermuda slaw as ambitious children attempted to sled down hills peppered with maybe an inch of snow. Those who experienced the most downhill success were the lucky kids that owned tricked-out sleds with four wheel drive, helping them to better glide through the icy snow mixed in with the mud made of Georgia red clay.



You have to appreciate our enthusiasm, albeit somewhat dramatic and just a little misguided. Snow is a big deal in the South.



Our children were thrilled with the snowflakes that finally materialized in the empty sky that had teased them all week. As it began to accumulate, our offspring quickly gathered as much snow as their cold little hands could handle, hoping to form the snowman they wanted to build.



Unfortunately, there was not quite enough, but collection of some of Frosty's parts were stored lovingly in my freezer.



The brief storm was pretty while it lasted, creating a winter wonderland that is rare around these parts. It didn’t quite live up to the expectation or the hype, but the folks in my community were on alert, well informed and fully prepared.

We have the milk and bread in bulk to prove it.

Mary Mac Goes Bowling

College Bowl games for those in Georgia are like the black jack tables for those in Vegas, just not as frequent or as likely to attend a Gamblers Anonymous Meeting.

As soon as lights are untangled and Christmas trees decorated, men race to their over sized televisions to engage with the emphatic experts from ESPN Sports Center. Pencils in one hand and Bowl Game schedule sheets in another, careful selections are made according to the advice and endless drone of the sportscasters born with an abundance of words and questionable taste in sweater vests.

The winners for thirty-three games are chosen, each team circled with hair-on-the -chest confidence, and then presented with bold certainty to the friend acting as temporary bookie for a group of comrades hoping to prove supreme insight and wisdom in the college football arena.

My husband participated in this activity with a circle of friends - all respectable and mostly law abiding – for a small wager of twenty dollars. The group numbered around thirty, with a cash prize of $500 for first place and $150 for second, with the added bonus of yearlong bragging rights that accompany said esteemed accomplishment.

This year, our two boys – ages 8 and 10 – asked my husband if they could take part in the competition.

(As an aside, notice the inappropriate use of the word “competition”. It erroneously implies that my under aged children could possibly be playing in a wrestling tournament or a swim meet or a tennis match, rather than participating in the ILLEGAL GAMBLING ACTIVITIES that could land us all in the pokey.)

For two and a half hours, the testosterone in my home sat mesmerized by the ESPN pre-bowl telethon that even Jerry Lewis would be unable to sustain. Discussions about picks in relation to quarterback match ups and the strategies behind each team’s defensive coordinator, peppered intermittently with tutorials on point spreads, caused the eardrums in my head to rumble in warning that actual implosion could occur at any moment.

Mary Mac, our precocious five year old, wandered in and out of the living room during the many hours spent in pre-bowl purgatory, with little interest in the information being given but beyond indignant as to why she was not included.

After a while, our daughter expressed the unfairness of it all, using phrases like, “You’re hurting my feelings for EVER AND EVER in the whole universe,” and when that didn’t work, “But I LOVE football. It’s my FAVORITE! I love it more than baby dolls, and animals and cheetos and Dora the Explorer and ...”. This commentary, with real potential for an infinite ending, promptly garnered receipt of a college bowl sheet from her worn-down dad.

With a raised eyebrow, and a disapproving facial expression that wordlessly communicated to my husband that families who gamble together do not stay together, I left the room, pondering the competitiveness that had infiltrated our Jesus-loving household.

The tournament deadline approached and John turned in all four College Bowl sheets to his buddy, including the one decorated haphazardly with flowers, a heart, an angel and a cross. (Oh, Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.)




And then the games began.

From game one of the college football bowl series to game thirty-two, Mary Mac maintained a position of either first or second place. For eighteen days straight, our daughter held a top position, earning her a chance at the $500, which would be decided by the National Championship game between Alabama and Texas.

The irony of the situation is that out of all of the adult men participating in this “activity”, the championship game would determine if the winnings were to be distributed either to our flower drawing five year old, or her fierce competitor, an eight year old boy "G".



Let that sink in for a moment.

Two children, with an averaged age of 6 ½ years old, both with sets of parents demonstrating little regard for the law, would duke it out for the title and the big payoff.

During the game, G's mom, "L", sent me the following good-natured message:

Dear G (copy Joni),

I would like some UGGs, some new jeans, maybe a scarf...just something to make me feel pretty. Would you like to go out somewhere nice to eat? Or maybe we can start planning a trip to Disney! Whatever you want:) I am so glad I am your mommy. I am sure that Mary Mac is fine with $150. She can buy her mommy something really nice too! Roll Tide!

Love,
Mommy

Alabama , G’s pick, decidedly beat Texas, Mary Mac’s pick, awarding the eight year old first prize of $500 and $150 to our little girl.

I sent the following message to G’s mom:


Dear G,

Congratulations!

I think that our mommies should homeschool us next year.....in Vegas.

Love,
Mary Mac


This was her response:


Dear Mary Mac,

Will you marry me? I think we would make a wonderful team!

Love,
G


To which I replied on Mary Mac’s behalf:


Dear G,

The answer is yes. I think that you are really cute.

Let's confirm this arrangement by sharing our assets now. $325 to you and $325 to me.

Looking forward to our next date at the NCAA Basketball tournament. I'm using my "eenie, meenie, minie, moe" method again when filling out the bracket.

(Don't tell the daddies- they will steal my secret.)

Love,
Mary Mac


With her $150 winnings, Mary Mac joyfully informed me that she plans to buy an American Doll, visit Disney World and purchase a plane ticket to the North Pole.

I tried to explain to her that she didn’t have enough money for all of these items, that the College Football Bowl games were really not that lucrative, that it would be unreasonable to expect it could somehow support a kindergartner's lifestyle.

That’s why this weekend we are introducing her to Black Jack.

Pioneer Woman

There is no doubt that I should be embarrassed for myself. I am well aware that the behavior I am about to describe is not considered normal, admirable or in any way cool.

Yet, lacking genuine shame for my conduct, and accompanied and encouraged by a similar thinking/acting good friend, I am quite certain I would do it again.

Every once in a while, I am reintroduced to the impulsive and somewhat uninhibited side of my personality. Maturity and life experiences coupled with adult responsibilities have managed to keep that aspect of my person within appropriate boundaries, but every so often, the outrageous overcomes the respectable.

Sometimes an idea is born because it makes me laugh. When that idea is shared with a friend who also sees the humor involved, then it has good potential to catapult into reality. Such is the event that occurred when Mandy and I began to plan an Atlanta day trip to a cookbook signing by Pioneer Woman, Ree Drummond.

Pioneer Woman – known as P-Dub to her closest friends – is a renowned blogger that garners over a million and a half visitors each week to her website. Mandy and I have been following this blog for over a year, and like most harmless internet stalkers, feel as though we know her well. So well that we are certain she would like us as much as we like her.

Surely.

Pioneer Woman lives on a ranch in the middle of Oklahoma that starts nowhere and ends nowhere, and is married to a real live cowboy with real life cowboy/cowgirl children. They entertain guests from all over the country in a renovated lodge on their property, riding horses, cooking fabulous dinners, and singing songs around the campfire.

(I may have made up the part about the campfires but I like the notion of it so I’m going with it.)

Discussing our upcoming trip to Atlanta, my friend and I were talking about how great it would be if somehow we could get ourselves invited to Pioneer Woman’s lodge. She would have so much fun with us! We would be her new best friends! We would be invited back again!

Talking ourselves into this new friendship that was pre-destined to happen - unless she’s Baptist and doesn’t buy into the whole pre-destination thing – we realized that our only real obstacle to visiting P-Dub’s homestead in Oklahoma was an actual invitation.

So, like most well-mannered Southern women with more grace than guts, we invited ourselves in a very subtle, and entirely distasteful way.



(The T-shirt reads on front: Please find me Lodge worthy. Lodgeapalooza 2010. And on back: Team P-Dub.)

(Know that I can feel your embarrassment for us.)

I’m not sure who actually came up with the t-shirt idea. Mandy would say that I did; I’m claiming it was totally her. Regardless of responsibility, we both clearly participated in the wearing of said t-shirts.

Lacking the time, and obvious good taste and sense to have shirts professionally designed, we were left with the tried and true iron-on transfers that screams to all who can see that we are clearly amateurs.

(The instructions for the transfers were VERY misleading, erroneously stating that it was a "fun activity for all girls and boys." It was not. Sadly, a black sharpie had to be used for some of the lettering that spontaneously fell to the floor. )

Entering the bookstore where the signing was to take place, we suddenly lost some of the bravado that influenced our bold t-shirts. It dawned on us that we were grown women, with seven children between us, donning T-SHIRTS that asked another grown woman if we could come stay at her house.

Really. Really? What were we thinking?

We quickly buttoned our coats, falsely reassuring one another that it really would be best to do the big t-shirt reveal when we met Ree in person. So for 45 minutes, we stood in line, coats fastened to our necks, like we were waiting in line to get on a ski-lift rather than in line to have a cookbook signed.



As we inched forward in line – 3 more people, 2 more people, 1 more left – we became even more nervous that we were going to be received as the freakshows that we really are.

Eyes wide, and pen in hand, the Pioneer Woman took us in as we walked toward her in all of our homemade glory. Her look seemed to say, “Really. Really? What were you thinking?”

She good-naturedly laughed at our shirts, but did not issue the coveted invitation. She did, however, instruct a traveling companion to take our picture which we thought might end up on her website.



It didn’t.

And we didn’t.

And thus the sad end to our little escapade.

But we went down trying, even if a little of our pride went with it too.

All is not lost, though. I’m sure there is another joyful adventure just waiting around the corner. Not to mention that I still have four iron-on transfers remaining.

Paula Deen, anyone?

They Didn't Make It

Their intentions were honorable. Their joy of 2009 complete. Holding out 'til midnight a little more ambitious to reach.

Here's to a well rested and joy-filled 2010!