Freezer Screams

In my humble opinion, true irritation has not been fully experienced until one has been subjected to the screaming alarm of a freezer. In fact, you may not even know that your unit is capable of such an earsplitting warning, but I’m here to tell you that the manufacturers of the refrigeration system take very seriously the unsolicited thawing of one year old frozen pot roasts.

It seems as though the demise of the appliance always happens when there is not a capable spouse to be found. The same can be said for a kitchen sink leak, toilet overflow or flat tire – all occurrences that cause momentary panic because of the very few occasions a toolbox and I have ever coincided successfully.

In typical fashion, immediate phone calls are made to my husband to report the latest household travesty. In most situations, he can calmly talk me down from the edge of the roof, gently reminding me that water overflowing from the commode is not necessarily life threatening nor does it warrant helicopter rescue. There are even times helpful instruction can be received and implemented effectively if my husband is able to recognize a moment of clarity in yours truly, seizing that brief window of opportunity to direct me towards a temporary fix.

More often than not, and only if it doesn’t interfere with the examination of a patient with medical needs that outweigh my domestic ones, John races home to rescue his housewife in distress. As his truck pulls into our driveway, the clouds slowly part and the angels joyfully sing, foretelling that clean clothes will now be had for everyone because the washing machine repairman has arrived or that toilets will once again flush because the plumber has entered the building.

He can fix anything. Convenient skills learned growing up on a farm that required that he know more than the average bear. John has delivered calves, mended fences, sheared sheep, and once singlehandedly erected a large NASA-like antenna on the top of his family farmhouse, ensuring that Friday night episodes of The Dukes Of Hazard were not missed. There is very little the man can’t do, and I say that in the most biased and non-objectionable manner possible.

So imagine my consternation this morning when I made the bat call to my household hero caped in a white lab coat. Over the shattering noise of the freezer alarm, I relayed the refrigeration emergency to my husband. Unfortunately, an admission of a patient to the hospital superseded the potential damage to my eardrums, and as a result, John would not be able to make it home before the canals in my ears imploded.

“So what should I do?!” I shouted over the increasing racket bellowing from the freezer convulsing in my pantry.

“You can do this,” he replied in the kind doctor voice he often uses with folks stressing about high cholesterol. “Simply go to the breaker box and open it, which will reveal the electric panel of circuit breakers. An electrical overload has probably occurred which means that you will need to flip the appropriate circuit to reinstate the electrical flow.”

Despite all of the clatter reverberating off of the walls, I was able to hear John pretty clearly. However, I didn’t understand one word that he said. Breaker box? Electrical panels? Circuit breakers?

These are not words found in my love language and undoubtedly of no help, in the same way the words North, East, South, and West offer little assistance when driving.

“I just arrived at the hospital so I have to run. Let me know how it works for you.”

I already knew how this was going to work out for me, but I didn’t say it out loud. Somehow it looked like my day was going to involve adornment of the big, red earphones John used to wear to the Darlington Speedway when we lived in South Carolina. Complete coverage of my ears was going to be the only relief to occur for the next few hours because I was about ninety-nine percent sure that it would be easier to dig through his bag of racing paraphernalia - complete with “Peace to 3” koozie, cut off khaki shorts and half eaten bag of beef jerky - to find the cumbersome earphones rather than attempt to locate the breaker box circuit thingy.

Before placing the headphones over my ears, I realized that they were only going to exacerbate the already bad hair day I was having. Did I really need to resort to such dramatic accessories for a little quiet?

With new resolve, I laid the monstrous earphones aside, determined to find the breaker box that would silence the raucous freezer. To my surprise I found it almost immediately, opened the metal door, and then stopped dead in my tracks, my breath momentarily leaving me:



I have never seen so many black switches in all of my life. What in the world? I wasn’t trying to fly an aircraft; I just NEEDED THE NOISE TO STOP. Stat.

Fearing that I just might blow our house to smithereens with all of the manic pushing of mystery buttons, I decided that I should just spend the morning at Starbucks, waiting until John finished with the medical priorities he had chosen over a loved one’s sanity. The nerve.

But that’s when my eagle eye spotted it. In a place hidden deep behind the insubordinate freezer, I zeroed in on the plug. With a snatch that reminded me of a recent baseball catch, I yanked on the cord with more force than necessary, and the wailing of the alarm mercifully stopped.

It was finally silent.

Maybe I am more capable than I give myself credit for. (But evidently not clever enough to remove a preposition from the end of a sentence.) Maybe I am selling myself short when it comes to household mishaps that sometimes just entail more reason than skill to address. From now on, I am going to wholeheartedly try to fix things on my own rather than interrupt the busy day of my spouse and all those lovely sick people. I will take on the temperamental dishwasher, the faulty light switch, and the slow drip from the sink faucet .

And after that, I will erect humongous antennas and deliver baby calves.

Happy Anniversary

I recognize that whatever words I choose today will not be enough. I understand that any description I can offer will fall painstakingly short. I accept that my mind is too feeble, my intelligence too limited, to accurately describe the way I feel at this moment and the moments to come. I simply cannot offer the justice it deserves.

Thirteen years ago today, I married my better half (really three-quarters). We were an unlikely pair, with different backgrounds and experiences, possessing just enough sense to appreciate that we were better together than apart. Never could I have imagined how the love I felt on my wedding day would cultivate exponentially, each day exceeding the one previous. I didn’t know that I could love someone else with a selflessness and intensity that surprised me then and continues to amaze me even now.

John, I am overcome with gratitude that God blessed me with you. Your love for Him is reflected in everything you do, from your love and devotion as a husband and father, to your kindness and compassion as a physician and friend.

The world is a better place simply because you are in it. You are my joy.

Joni

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. (1 Corinthians 13:4-7)

The Beach - Part 2 of 67

So we made it to the beach.

John clogged on the floorboard pedals all the way to the gulf which ended up being worth any self-imposed (this is John's word choice) anxiety I may have experienced during the very long drive. But, boy, were his calves completely worn out.....

We rented a large home with two other families we have known for years. A total of six adults and seven children under one roof made for good times and great noise. At times the activity resembled that of Romper Room which was tolerated well because the children were totally delighted and the adults totally medicated.

(Of course, I am teasing. Only a few of us resorted to sedatives to manage our busy, noise-filled days.)

Most days we were on the beach until dusk, only venturing back to the house when it was time to eat. For seven days, planning supper was not a concern as Chas, a great cook and even better friend, prepared fresh seafood for all of us that would rival any restaurant. Fried shrimp, shrimp scampi, shrimp po' boys (Forrest Gump anyone?), crab legs, fried oysters, raw oysters,grouper and blue crab made its way to our table every night making our stomachs deliriously happy and our gastrointestinal tracts working overtime.

Below are a few of our pictures of vacation joy. (Parts 3 through 67 in the days ahead)

The concentration on these determined little faces entertained us (and them) for hours. Digging holes captivated their attention for such a long time that we are currently installing a sand pit in our front yard. It's all about independent play, people :


Chase found China.

Still digging. Chandler practicing Kung-Fu moves to impress discovered Chinamen.

Nine hours later and the digging is almost complete.


Mr. Jon, otherwise known as the Bird Whisperer, working his magic. He is wearing the hat for good reason.


Mr. Chas, our resident chef and jolly fisherman.

Fishing like a Rock Star.


Anna Caroline and Kate cooling off


"Raise your hand if you think Mommy is the BEST!"


Handsome Lambdin (aka Popeye)


Lauren the Little Mermaid


The Noodle Rodeo with me and Mary Mac.


"Has anyone seen the children lately?"


To be continued....

The Beach - Part 1 of 67

Of course, there's not 67 parts to our beach vacation memories. I'm just joshin'. I think I can really only stretch it out to 45 parts. I don't want to be obnoxious.

Seriously, I took close to 200 pictures: "Look at mommy and smile! Stop squinting. I don't care if the sun is in your eyes, SMILE! I mean it. Just look happy for one more second." Just a little family enjoyment at the beach....


On the way down to Florida, we decided to break up the very long drive by stopping at a small amusement park. The children were getting somewhat antsy, and my anxiety levels were at an all-time high as I recognized a few things about my husband's driving never witnessed before in our thirteen years of marriage:

1. He drives with both feet. As in the right foot is for the gas pedal and the left foot is for the brake. WHAT?!? I glanced at him one time, during stop and go traffic, and noticed that it appeared as though he were clogging in the floorboard, using all his feet with all the pedals. Mercy.

Clearly John's Driver's Ed teacher in high school was hitting the sauce when she taught this erroneous, albeit entertaining, method of driving. John claims the habit comes from driving a tractor on his family farm. Whatever the reason - alcohol impaired teachers or John Deer thingys - blame is unimportant at this time. Just make sure you give our black Expedition a wide circle of space when you see us coming.

2. He drives with his wrist. You know, where the wrist hangs oh so casually over the top of the steering wheel. Men can get away with this driving in town, women cannot. See, we need a firm grip on the wheel so we can reach around and snatch the leg of a misbehaving child in the backseat or pick up the dropped stuffed animal that is causing the unnecessary monkey fit.

Hear me clearly when I say I cannot support wrist driving on the VERY FAST MOVING INTERSTATE. It makes me nervous and produces the aforementioned anxiety because tell me what kind of reflexes you can expect from your WRIST BONES? Cat like? I think not.


To give credit where credit is due, John manged to direct us to our destination without any auto mishaps, despite using improper form and dancing all the way across the state line.

You're the best John. (Or is it too late to give you props?)

We pulled up to the amusement park both delighted and a little worried to see the parking lot half empty.

(I had a brief flash of horror to the scene in Family Vacation where Chevy Chase FINALLY makes it to Wally World only to find it closed. A break-in and arrest ensue, all of which we would not have time for if we were now experiencing the same situation. Plus, orange is not a flattering color for me)

Fortunately, the park was open and almost empty of people. Unfortunately, we found that the emptiness could be explained by the 150 degree weather that caused hot steam to rise from the pavement. Things like shady trees and covered pavilions had not been considered in the initial planning stages of this fine development which explained the very little clothing the few other attendees were wearing. Think tops - strapless, halter, and tube. (Why will the tube top not die?) It reminded me of a few of my students.

It was hot. By the end of the day, our clothes were drenched with sweat and we smelled worse than the baby billy goats in the petting zoo. But it was so much fun. We squealed, and we laughed, and we sweated to our full heart's content. The many roller coasters with high speed turns and upside down twirls did things to my stomach that it hasn't felt since I was 8 weeks pregnant or the time I ate too many Cheetos when I was eight years old. The children and I held on for dear life, knuckles white from clenching the safety bars in front of us with a grip we hoped would defy gravity.

John held on, of course, with wrist bones dangling oh so casually over the safety bar, feet dancing over non-existant pedals.

Tomorrow, I might actually talk about our beach trip.....

Two for One

Not only was yesterday Mother's Day, but it was my 38th birthday. These two occasions only collide about every six years or so which causes a good amount of "PPP"- present purchasing panic- for my husband.

Looking from the outside in, some may think I get slighted on this buy one, get one free special occasion day, in the same way those poor calendar-challenged children who pop into the world on Christmas Day are destined forever to receive the "combined" gift. No matter how you slice that birthday cake, it will still be difficult to recognize your day as special when you have to compete with the baby Jesus. Colorful streamers, rented inflatables and themed party hats fall painstakingly short when trying to outshine the entrance of the Messiah.

My day, however, was not snubbed in anyway, as one occasion did not cancel out the other. In fact, the entire weekend was restful, relaxing and fun which are all descriptive words rarely used in a busy household with small children. Upon reflection, my combo of occasions could not have played out any better.

Here is the recap:

Friday:
I spent the morning drinking coffee with a friend and then meandered over to the Barnes and Noble next door. Please notice that I just used the word meandered. What mom ever gets to meander? Friends, I am here to tell you that not only did I meander, but I meandered WELL. I perused the aisles of books, without rush and without accompanying anyone to the bathroom, and chose four titles containing small typed words and lots of pages.

(If you love to read the way that I do, you understand then that skinny books with large printed words are an insult to those who want to immerse themselves in a good read and stay a while.All you have to do is blink at those scrawny books with letters that are too big and the story is suddenly over, leaving you $15.99 poorer and back in the real world way too soon.)

Friday night found us at the baseball field watching my oldest, Chase, play in a game that brings him, and us, much joy. When he smacked it into left field, surprising himself and the left fielder, it was all I could do not to run the bases with him, which I would have been willing to do if not wearing my favorite wedge sandals.

Saturday:
I was able to sleep late, awaking at 7:45 in the morning. To some, this may seem awfully early, but again, there are small children in my house, and if your eyes open to the morning sunshine rather than the pre-dawn dark, it is reason to rejoice. Soon after, we loaded up the SUV for another trip to the ball field, this time to watch Chandler's T-ball team.

This is the best entertainment in town and it is absolutely free. In fact, I am certain that there were those in the stands, not associated with any of the players, that came just for comic relief. Those little players, aged four through six, were so dadgum cute in their too big britches and baseball hats, it was all I could do to keep from running out on the field and hugging their little necks. These pee-wee players ran from the ball, ran into each other, and ran the bases the wrong way. One runner even left his place at second base to help the other team field the ball in right field. Precious and priceless.

Saturday afternoon, and through timing only Jesus Himself could have arranged, I had the pool to myself. My two boys were across the street playing with friends and Mary Mac was on a play date at a local park. (Maybe you didn't catch that: I WAS BY MYSELF. Glory be to God in the highest!) I read my book, laying in a lounge chair for a while and then moved to the shade of my porch. All while reading my book. BY MYSELF.

That night we went to a cookout at the home of some of our friends. There were 8 adults and 10 children, but somehow, in keeping consistent with this rare restful, fun and relaxing theme of a weekend, everyone had a great time. The children were entertained, the adults were able to have conversation, and not one monkey fit was thrown by parent or child. Are you beginning to appreciate my birthday/mother's day weekend miracle?

Sunday morning we went to church and then to a Mother's Day brunch. This brunch can be somewhat on the formal side, and has the potential to cause more apprehension than relaxation on the behalf of parents. But, with God as my witness, the following truthfully occurred:

1. Everyone drank from glasses without plastic straws, and not one drop was spilled.
2. No one fell out of their chair, including my husband, John.
3. No one turned to the patrons at the next table and said, "Excuse me. I just burped."
4. Outbursts of songs were kept to a minimum.
5. I ate my lunch at a pace that was not rushed, and not one person ate their lunch while sitting in my lap. This too, includes my husband, John.

That afternoon I opened my gifts, separated meticulously into piles identified as Mother's Day and those designated as Birthday, while eager, joyful faces watched my every move as I delighted over each present. They couldn't contain their excitement, announcing the identity of each gift long before the paper was actually removed.

"Mom, when you remove that bow, you're gonna love the diamond cross daddy bought you."

"Isn't is so neat how daddy hid the Braves baseball tickets way down in this basket?"

"That box doesn't look like it has a credit card (gift certificate) in it, does it?"

Nope. Not slighted one little bit. In fact, I'm counting down the years until the next combo occasion emerges on the calendar. It's a two for one deal not to be missed.

John, Chase, Chandler, and Mary Mac - you continue to be my absolute joy. I love you!

Mommy

Trophy

This morning I found the object below lovingly placed on the the mantle in my bedroom. (It has since been removed. But, oh, how I appreciate his home decorating ambitions.)


This is a fancy trophy received by my husband at a benefit luncheon that involved shotguns, which is considered somewhat normal in the south. It occurred at a skeet shoot followed by barbecue followed by an awards ceremony. This particular ceremony deemed John's team the first place winners which awarded him a shiny trophy for shooting the most clay targets.

A grown man.

With a spanking new, cobalt blue trophy.

Trophies received by my nine year old:


Trophy received by my 40 something husband:

(minus his coveted Mr. Commerce High School trophy that we regrettably lost in the move)

At first I was uncertain of the occasion for the trophy. Upon first glance at the fellow on the top of the trophy one might think it was for a tug of war winner or even a pole vault champion. Glancing closer at the face of said fellow,you can't help but notice the goggles. Maybe it is for the man who exterminated the most bugs?


But alas, (Yeah, I just said alas. Feel free to click the mean little red box in the corner)it is an award for most accurate shooter. Good for him. I am proud. It brings me joy.

I would like a shiny trophy. In fact, I can think of several occasions that might support the notion of a trophy:

Multi-tasking Queen of the Carpool - I can pay bills, make dentist appointments and reach any item dropped on the floor of the backseat all while waiting in the carpool line at school

Quickest towel folder in the Southeast -My hands are like a blur, I tell you.

Fastest sprinter in the grocery store- I am especially quick when I have on my running shoes. I have been known to leave skid marks on the floor because of my speed.

Unfortunately there does not seem to be a market to promote these types of endeavors with an appropriate embellishment on a small, wooden stand, but I was able to locate a few trophies that may just recognize some of my dynamic feats:

In recognition of constantly running around in circles:


An award acknowledging this perpetual state I found myself in after the first few months in a new town:


Acceptance of this lovely bobble-headed trophy as part time teacher and coach, full time parent and cheerleader: (The likeness of the unwashed pony tail for two days is UNCANNY)


And finally, a prize for a memorable visit to McDonald's which secured this highest of honor:

Is this what it means to be a trophy wife?

I Had A Good Thing Going

I don't always notice the details. Sometimes the little things escape me. At times I find myself in a perpetual state of distractedness, somewhat like the absent-minded professor juiced up on estrogen, midol and Hi-C punch.

A few nights ago I was reminded that I don't always approach my surroundings with eyes open wide - in fact, it's more like brain closed shut.

My husband and I were reading in bed until we were ready to succumb to the exhaustion a full day can bring. I laid my book on my side table, snuggled under the covers, and proceeded to watch John get out of bed, walk around to my bedside table, turn off my lamp, return to his side of the bed, turn off his lamp and settle beneath the duvet.

I couldn't contain my surprise and asked him, "Why did you just get out of bed to turn off my lamp on my side of the bed?"

He responded, "I have been turning your lamp off every night for as long as I can remember."

"What?! Why would you do that?" I laughed.

"Well," he replied, "I could tell you to turn off your own lamp but you would claim that I am closer, which I am not. Or you will say that I am already up, which I am not. Or that you are already asleep, which you are not. So rather than traveling down that irrational path of make-believe scenarios, I choose to simplify our nightime ritual. I turn off your light."

I just HOWLED! I laughed and I snorted until my stomach remembered it still had muscles. Knee-slapping, joyful tears streamed down my face as I thought about all the nights this sweet man turned out my light while in his head he must have been thinking, "I cannot believe I am doing this..."

Since then, and especially now that I have been enlightened (sorry), I am left to my own devices regarding my own personal lamp. Such a shame. I had a good thing going.