Living With Big Brothers

She was playing so nicely. Independent and imaginative, Mary Mac joyfully gathered Ken for a play date with a few of her Polly Pockets. Barbie refused to participate in the fun until Ken agreed to get a haircut. She has very high standards.



Polly soaked up a few rays while Ken set up the beach paraphernalia. He is not happy that he has to do all the work. Sweat is not good for synthetic hair.




Before he finishes, Ken realizes that the pool is empty . Mary Mac leaves the room for a large cup to provide the missing water.



"Mooommmyyyyy!" Independent play is interrupted by shrieks of outrage.

"Look what they did!" More wailing and gnashing of teeth by the six year old.



Mary Mac's brother - who has requested anonymity- accessorized the tranquil pool scene with a pair of his underwear.



In a huff, Ken leaves in search of a shirt and a place for a haircut.

I Have Never Loved him More

It was touching, yet intrusive, all at the same time.

On one hand the act was thoughtful and beyond reasonable spousal expectation. On another, it proved a little uncomfortable that such personal, delicate information was retrieved in a manner that can only be seen as invasive. Some secrets a girl just wants to keep to herself.

It started with the opening of a gift. The satisfaction on my husband’s face was tangible, maybe even somewhat smug. He squirmed in anticipation as I slowly undid the wrapping paper adorned with homemade bow, an abstract concoction that only he could mastermind. While opening the box, I glanced at my spouse, who looked as self-assured as I can ever remember, and I held up the item that brought pure, unadulterated joy.

Jeans.

It really is quite sinful that a single article of clothing should invoke such happiness. My first venture into the world of denim delight occurred in the fifth grade when Gloria Vanderbilt released the fancy pants with the curious swan on the back pocket. Consequential years introduced Jordache and Calvin Klein, which I accessorized cleverly with various colors of high top Reeboks, exuding a misleading confidence in an outfit complete with the spiral perm that caused kinky hair to sprout all over my head.

I am nothing, if not a fashion icon.

During adolescent years, it was more about the brand name than the bottom fit. As a gravity fighting adult, it became about jeans that disguised, lifted, or transformed the God-given flaws I hope to find explanation for in Heaven. Reasonable priced outlets like Gap and Banana Republic assisted in this area, but I always found that their shape lasted about as long as the hamper basket remains empty in my laundry-ridden home.

But then.

Oh, then, I discovered a pair of jeans that melted away all the swiss cake rolls previously eaten, all the cheetos consumed by the handfuls, all the cookie dough devoured straight out of the package.

I was shopping with my friend Kara in a boutique that I only dared visit during the end of the year clearance sale. The sales lady followed me around the store, with a pair of jeans hanging off the crook of one arm and an evil tape measure in the other, imploring me to try on the item that she felt would transform my current look.

(In my defense, my children were very young and very needy, and the elastically challenged sweatpants I happened to be wearing were from the designer rack at TJ Maxx. Stained and worn out, but designer nonetheless.)

It seemed as though the lady had singled me out, and the other customers were beginning to notice my new tag along friend. She became more emphatic, her voice increasingly high pitched, and I had little choice but to take the item offered, mercifully ending the retail crescendo that was certain to attract all neighborhood dogs.

A little miracle happened in the dressing room. I pulled back the curtain, stepped onto a platform facing the way too truthful mirror, and time seemed to stop. Faintly, I could hear angels singing in the background.

Not only were the jeans a perfect fit, but also somehow, they had magically replaced the body that had birthed three children with the figure of someone who had not yet experienced the unfortunate shift of the coxal bone - a maternity dance I like to call the hipbone shuffle.

The jeans, as the devil would have it, were not a part of the clearance sale. I paid a kajillion dollars for denim, an impulsive purchase that was spurred on by the waistline wonder that had occurred before my very eyes.

I immediately called my husband to confess the impetuosity with which I had treated the credit card. He was very understanding, stating that he wanted me to have nice clothes, adding sweetly, “I mean it’s not like you spent a $100, is it?”

~chirping crickets~

“Joni, are you still there?”

The second mortgage I procured to purchase those jeans prevented me from buying an additional pair in the following years. I also knew that there needed to be some distance between my husband’s memory of the obscene price and the resulting heart palpitations. While John is a talented physician, he hasn’t quite mastered the skill of giving CPR to himself.

Those jeans have been with me now for over five years. While they show a little wear, the shape and function have held up remarkably well. I have tried other brands, but none have quite lived up to the performance of the miracle jeans I was introduced to on the platform years before.

The fact remains that these hips can only be tamed by the best of denim.

In the days leading up to Christmas this year, my husband began the search for the jeans that years ago had instigated renewed confidence in me and uncomfortable chest pains in him. Scientific by nature, John knew that the task before him would require a gathering of evidence to support the denim concept, including abstractions of observable phenomena expressed as quantifiable properties that he would then coincide with scientific laws that convey the relationship between said observations.

In layman terms, my husband looked carefully at the inside of the waistband to find the brand, style, and size of jeans I considered my soulmate and then located that exact pair using the World Wide Web. Eureka!

It has taken me a bit to get past the idea that my jean size is now swimming around in a brain that houses other important information like symptoms of Hypercholesterolemia and the latest stats of his Fantasy Football team. But the joy of being reunited with a pair of jeans that have mercy on my waistline inadequacies makes up for any feelings of discomfort experienced.

Really, I have never loved my husband more. Now, if he could only find me a pair of pink, high-top Reeboks.

Bird Lady

I can’t really recall the precise moment I realized that I had become a crazy bird lady. It snuck up on me in the same way my sneaky eyebrows presented themselves to me in the mirror this morning in all of their overgrown and blinding glory. How is it that one can go to bed at night, reasonably groomed and well kept, and less than eight hours later, wake up looking like Bert from Sesame Street?




Previous experiences would suggest that fondness for the fowl is somewhat lacking, and for good reason. There was the time the bird cannon-balled into my car window, and then of course, the one that invaded my home, flying manically from window to window in a manner that could only be described as not right. It’s hard to born affection for any type of creature that only exacerbates post-pregnancy struggles with incontinence.

Just sayin’.

But lately, when there are a few moments of quiet, I sit on my porch and have surprisingly found delight in the birds.



Recognizing that I enjoy them best from a distance, and taking appropriate measures to prevent them from in fact penetrating my circle of personal space, I have been able to peacefully observe and take pleasure in all of their freaky little mannerisms. (I’m not entirely certain, but I believe the very scholarly ornithologist also refers to specific characteristics of the bird as “freaky little mannerisms.”)



For instance, the hummingbird continuously attempts to mock my intelligence. Fortunately, I am secure enough in my own limited areas of academia as well as consistently remind myself that the mocker isn’t really anything more than a birdbrain.



The hummingbird is fast, flying in and out to savor the nectar sold in concentrated form at Wal-Mart. He thinks that I don’t see him - that my eyes and brain cells aren’t quick enough to catch up with his shenanigans. But take a look at this shot:



And this one:



That’s what happens when housewives are trigger happy with the camera and desperate to ignore the 8 loads of clothes that need to be laundered.

So I watch them. Sometimes with company that isn’t entirely interested.


And sometimes in company that scares my fair-feathered friends away.




But nonetheless, I embrace the notion that I have become a crazy bird lady, minus the binoculars and fanny pack filled with granola bars, bird book and pill box.

And the joy it brings me outweighs the potential ridicule from those I like to call family and friends, who right this very minute are wondering if they really know me at all.

Gummy Joy

During my twenty day absence from the land of bloggers, a few momentous occasions occurred. For starters, a pile of gray hair began to sprout all over my head, causing my colorist to cry the ugly cry at my last hair appointment.



Gray hair is a curious phenomenon that makes me wonder the exact state of God’s mind when knitting me together inside my mother’s womb. What is it about these course, curly hairs germinating on my head as thick as a bad 80's mustache that the Almighty could have remotely seen as necessary? I wonder if women from all over the world storm the pearly gates when they arrive in heaven demanding explanation for these freaky follicles as well as the reasoning behind varicose veins, stretch marks, and saggy skin.

Another occasion more pleasant to recount is the new gummy smile of my seven year old son, Chandler.



While it may appear that Chandler is sporting a hip-hop 'do rag, he is actually wearing a costume for a school report on John the Baptist.



This is Chandler's impression of John the Baptist after eating locusts for dinner:




The toothless smile of a child brings untold joy and a strong maternal desire to plant a wet, slurpy lick on the sweet, toothless face. Below is a picture of Chase in the same precious condition.God bless the USA and toothless grins:


So, see what you missed during my absence? Gray hairs and gummy smiles. And a colorist who is now in therapy somewhere rocking manically in a corner because of the hair trauma caused by yours truly.

Fancy Dance Joy

John and I attended a fancy dance Saturday night. Below is our posed, prom picture minus the coordinating corsage and cummerbund.



It was fun to give the sweatpants a rest for the evening, even if it did mean prancing around in high heels and supportive undergarments. Although, I didn’t really prance -it was more like a wobble- but I managed to stay upright and “tucked in” all the same.

Each year this event centers on a particular theme. Cirque de Soleil was the clever motif this time with colorful decorations and talented performers throughout the ballroom. There was even a “statue lady” that was eerily fascinating. This woman, dressed in all white head to toe, would pose in various places – among the crowd, in the foyer, on the buffet table- and not move a single muscle, or blink a solitary eyelash.

It was creepy and kind of cool, and I spent ENTIRELY too much time watching her to see if she would move. Place to place I would follow her- nonchalantly of course, like a giraffe in wobbly heels- to try to figure out how she could be so still.

(I mean, WHY would I do this? So what if she moved? What was I going to do – announce to the crowd: “Attention everyone! I caught the statue lady in a momentary twitch! You may now go back to your dancing.”

Interestingly enough, I was joyfully able to observe her when it appeared as though there were something stuck in her throat. My keen eye caught her clearing her throat, but it was very subtle, even under my investigative and discerning watch.)


The evening was a long one, but a lot of fun, although the next morning my feet were still in the shape of very pointy triangles. I also noticed what seemed to be permanent creases around my midsection where suspension of circulation from my BFF, Spanx, occurred the night before.

However, it’s nothing a good pair of sweatpants and comfy slippers can’t immediately fix.

The Almost Perfect Product

Every once in a while you stumble upon a product that makes you wonder how you ever survived before. You keep waiting for it to malfunction, proving that your trust was premature and your faith in all things manufactured misaligned, but consistently it performs above all expectations. Life is never quite the same again and you find yourself scanning the shelves for back-up supplies in the same frantic manner Y2K fanatics scavenged bottled water, Vienna sausages and Energizer batteries.

One unfortunate aspect of this life-transforming product is the name given to it by the brilliant scientists who labored intensively over the intrinsic functionality and design. I can’t support the appearance of the final result, wondering why in the world one would smear the reputation of such a fine product with such a ridiculous name, but also admit in a way that is clearly conflicted, that I am beyond JOYFUL with its perfect and long sought after function.

The product? Hairspray.



The name on the side of the can is obnoxious, and LARGE, and screams to the other nosy shoppers checking out your grocery cart that your intention in buying this product is to secure BIG SEXY HAIR. It’s rather embarrassing, and not exactly accurate, considering that my only true desire is to tame the unruly “Bon Jovi Concert hair” God blessed me with to make Himself laugh.



(Blessed is obviously a term I am using loosely. If not properly contained, my hair has the potential to grow exponentially throughout the day, resembling this:



A blessing? Not so much.)

Finally, I have found a hairspray that minimizes the “bigness” and corrals all of the frizzy hairs that are begging to escape and terrorize others. This product recognizes frizzy as evil, killing it instantly and without remorse. And to top it all off, I don’t end up looking like an Aqua-Net NUT with stiff hair that doesn’t move for days on end.

So, to disguise any embarrassment the product name brings me, I typically conceal it under a box of tampons- curious eyes scanning over my grocery cart stop dead at the word Kotex – or make John buy the hairspray. (Not really, but I do plan on making the friendly suggestion tonight.)

A couple of days ago, Chase walked into my bathroom as I was fixing my hair and noticed the hairspray I was using.

“That’s kind of an inappropriate name on that can, don’t you think?” asked Chase, my wise and “more mature than his mom” son.

“I know, Chase. I love the hairspray but need to figure out a way to do something with the name,” I sheepishly replied. “For now, just don’t look at it.”

(I know, OUTSTANDING parental advice. Just don’t look at it? For heaven's sake.)

A few hours later, I discovered that my nine year old, clearly concerned about my inappropriateness, had taken care of the problem for me:



Enough said.

Take Down

Each day, when waiting to pick up my oldest son, my youngest two children jump out of the car to play in a large grassy area with some of their school friends also suffering through the dreaded carpool wait that has been known to send worn out moms straight to the rubber room in the nearest psyche ward.

(If someone knows of a pick-up and drop-off system at a school that doesn’t cause parents to gnash their teeth together and ruin all remaining enamel, please detail your plan in a comment. Our local dentists thank you in advance for your willingness to help.)

Sitting in the carpool line today without my cell phone, MomAgenda or current issue of Southern Living Magazine, I passed the time by observing a phenomenon I’ve never contemplated before. It involved about a dozen little boys, all in the age range of four to six, and they were all doing the exact same thing repeatedly. They never changed direction once during this time period, never stopped to ask each other if maybe they wanted to try something different, or even considered that what they were doing might be monotonous.

It wasn’t necessary. They were perfectly content and altogether full of joy to continue their chosen task of tackling each other. One little boy would tackle one friend, jump up and then tackle another, while the previous fellow tackled would recover, look around and then find someone new to pounce upon. Over and over for a solid twenty minutes, this continued until the carpool line started to move.

It was the darndest thing.

They weren’t playing football, or a made-up game or even emulating Friday Night Smack Down with cool names like Super Krazy Kindergartner or The Freaky 4K Foo Fighter. They were simply tackling each other simply for the pleasure of well,…tackling.

(As a side note, if you have a little extra time or this post has bored you silly, check out this site. You enter your name and it provides you FREE OF CHARGE a wrestling name to replace your own. My own name converted is DEAR NINJA, which is a little puzzling, unless letter writing skills in between the ropes is considered frightening to one’s wrestling opponent.)

Watching these boys tackle one another demonstrated yet again how VASTLY different boys are from girls, men are from women. Although somewhat of a tomboy growing up, it never occurred to me to tackle another girl, not when the school bully purposely tripped me up at the skating rink while trying to demonstrate backward skating skills or as an adult, when a spiteful lady wheeled into the parking space I was patiently waiting for even though proper signaling with my blinker was CLEAR TO ALL IN VIEW.

But maybe we’re missing out on something fun. Those little boys exhibited pure delight today, and were having a ball. Unabashed happiness found in one simple act.

So maybe I’ll try it. Next time I’m with my bible study group or at lunch with a friend, I’ll square my shoulders, put my head down and go straight for the tackle. I’ll let you know how my Dear Ninja Maneuver is received.

Random joy

The photographs below are random, but then again, so are the daily occurrences in our house. Sometimes life is just completely full, which can present a problem if your energy level is running about half empty. Concerted effort is necessary in keeping up with the energetic children in my household - and of those from others - but no amount of weariness at weeks end can negate the random joy they bring.

Why mommies of young boys should consider sedative supplements to their daily vitamin intake:

The garden spider the boys caught a few days ago...with THEIR HANDS.

The bulb looking thing to the right of the cage is the sack of tiny baby spiders laid by the mama spider. This sack originally was attached to the spider's bottom and one I erroneously thought was part of the spider's permanent anatomy. Much to the delight of the neighborhood boys it was laid a few days after capture, igniting a flurry of questions about the female parts of spiders. ("Gosh, mom we thought that was her BOTTOM. Her babies came from her BOTTOM? Did your babies come from your BOTTOM? What do you mean we have to ask dad?")


Why can't they swing normally? Whatever happened to the old school method of pumping one's legs while sitting in the seat correctly with hands firmly attached to the rope, all while humming a fun vacation bible school tune? Why must it be an adolescent stunt show that threatens broken bones and frantic visits to the emergency room EVERY TIME? My heart rhythms haven't been normal for about five years now.

(Notice the tennis shoes strategically placed above)





Oh, the joy of boys.

And sedatives.

Lean WAY back

Today, courses for fall semester began. Technically speaking, the first day of class was this past Tuesday, however that day doesn’t really count (although I imagine the Dean of Education sees it differently) considering that the only content presented was the riveting material found in my syllabus.

It is an enthralling outline of events to expect, and word on the street is that my students have difficulty putting it down. In fact, you may have spotted them at Starbucks, reading quietly in a corner, fully engaged in the wordiness provided by yours truly, wondering to themselves, “How in the world does she do it? I’ve never encountered anything as compelling or fascinating in my entire Generation Z existence.”

Student learning outcomes, assessment measures and policies on academic integrity may sound like a big BORE, but from the moment you read the paragraph under Purpose of the Course, you, too would be hopelessly hooked.

Lecturing was to begin today, and I wanted to ensure that I allowed plenty of time to review my notes and gather scattered thoughts. Sometimes - as a result of the many years of parenting - my brain can come across as somewhat fragmented. Those fragments can be expressed either in intelligent forms as when speaking of Principles of Specificity, or in unintelligent forms such as random words from songs of High School Musical.

(I don’t understand it fully, but it is quite possible that I may look at you intently in the middle of conversation and sing/say, “You gotta getcha head in the game. Getcha, getcha head in the game…” My apologies to those who have no idea what I am talking about. Go ahead and click the mean, little red box in the corner because I can’t see how this will get any better.)

Speaking for two and a half hours, all under the guise of appearing smarter than my collegiate audience can be a difficult task. It can be particularly trying when just thirty minutes prior, all attention and concentration had been directed towards convincing a four year old that Cinderella underwear WAS a good choice because the Snow White underwear was not clean, and yes, you have to wear clean underwear to school, and no, I don’t care if the seven dwarfs get mad.

(Big breath.)

This morning, I gathered my textbooks and laptop and walked to my car, salivating over the skinny vanilla latte that was sure to assist my personality lacking sunshine and giggles at seven in the morning. Opening the car door, I noticed that the driver’s seat was in an odd position, leaning completely backwards, clearly the result of some child either playing pretend or attempting to hide from me. (I have since reprimanded John for such behavior and he promises never to do it again.)

I sat in the seat, attempted to make the necessary adjustments, all to no avail. The seat would not sit upright regardless of the number of times I pushed, pulled, and then spat upon the seat levers. (Mr. Ford, you will not be receiving a Christmas card from our family this year due to the manufacturing of seats that only small children can operate.)

It became evident that the seat was not going to cooperate, and that I would have to drive to school in its current state. (At least until my last class of the day expired and I could drive directly to the FORD place for an immediate trade-in for something that offered FUNCTIONING seats.)

All the way to work, I drove in a leaned-back position, head barely peeking over the steering wheel, looking like the GANGSTA adjunct professor that I am. I was feeling all FLY until I almost ran over a curb and then a pedestrian because the heels of my shoes could barely reach the pedals. The gangsta life, I now understand, is a dangerous one.

I made it to school without additional mishaps, except for the minor occurrence of scaring the colleague I parked adjacent to and inadvertently startled when popping up from my sleep position in the driver’s seat. Whassup?!

Students arrived to class, and I opened my mouth to spew academics all over drowsy headed freshmen. However, and as you may have already suspected, instead of presenting scholastic pontification peppered with facts and insight, my words manifested themselves into a long-winded RAP, free-styling from an inner hidden hip-hop soul that would make Busta Rhymes slap his mama. (Please see note)

(Note: the paragraph above may have been exaggerated, embellished or misrepresented for the purposes of bringing extra joy. All other occurrences are actual events and should not be tried at home)

WORD UP.

Don't Mess With Texas

My trip to San Antonio was unbelievable and I am exhausted by the pure joy. I haven't quite gathered my thoughts on all that I learned, or wrapped my head around the atmosphere I experienced, but know that the minute the neurons in my brain start firing properly again, you’ll be the first to know.

(More accurately, you'll be the second to know as I have been talking about the weekend nonstop to my husband since I arrived home yesterday. I know that his ears hurt when he left for work this morning, but he’s a doctor, and I’m certain there is some sort of ointment or pill to soothe the ear injuries caused by a wife who talks too much and in run on sentences, all while hand motioning emphatically.)

Until then, here are a few photos from my weekend:

Wendy, Emmy, me and Mandy:

I tried to make my hair really big in Beth's honor but the weather would not cooperate. Texas was so hot that the air singed the ends of my hair and eyelashes the moment I stepped out of the cab.


Here is a photo taken with Amanda Moore Jones, the oldest daughter of Beth Moore:



As I was walking towards Amanda, she looked me straight in the eye and with a bright, familiar smile said, "Hey Joni! How are you?"

While I did respond to her - and in a way that showcased my true, inner DORK which I imagine is not surprising to anyone - it took 4.8 seconds to do so. During those 4.8 seconds, which caused irreparable damage to the aforementioned neurons, the following thoughts rapidly raced through my mind:

-How does she know my name?
-She must know me!
-Wait, the only way she could know me is if her mom has mentioned me.
-Beth Moore mentioned me?!
-That means she must read my blog.
-If she reads my blog, then she knows that I think that she’s my best friend.
-Which means, that she wants to be my best friend too, if she mentioned me to Amanda.
-I AM BETH MOORE’S BEST FRIEND!

-Oh, no.
-I am wearing a name tag.
-That is how Amanda knows my name.
-I still have not responded to her greeting.
-She is beginning to look frightened of me.
-Quick. Think of something to say.

So, of all the normal, less scatterbrained ways I could have responded, I chose to say the following:

“Your blog is NICE.”

That’s it.

Not, “ Hello, it’s nice to meet you too.” Or “I love your mom’s bible studies. Please ask her to call me.” Or even, “You have great hair.”

(Seriously, who describes someone's blog as NICE?!)

Nope, I say only those four words and then continue to look at her IN SILENCE which causes her to glance toward the bodyguard who is supposed to protect her from all us crazies in wedge heels and walking shorts. Fortunately, my friend, Mandy, steps in to rescue me from the AWKWARDNESS, asking, “Would you mind if we took a picture?”

Oh, I wish it weren't true.

We also got the opportunity to meet Travis Cottrell (LOVE HIM) and I was able to momentarily behave as though I had some sense. I think it was because the body guard was giving me the evil eye.



(Dorothy, Coiffed and Joiner, it was a privilege and an honor to experience the weekend with you. The three of you bring me so much joy!)

Mom Agenda

In a previous post, I mentioned an impenetrable and complex method of organizing the many papers sent home from school that I have copyrighted and creatively named: The Three Ring Binder System. I have one for each child that currently houses all the very important papers that should not be stuffed in drawers or thrown away like the children’s artwork when they are not looking.



(For the record, I do collect and have even framed some of the paintings and drawings completed by my children. However, if I held onto every paper touched by a crayon, marker or paintbrush, our house would make the yard in Sanford and Son look like it belonged in the pages of Southern Accents. )



Admittedly, after only a few days, these binders bring untold delight. But, that was before I stumbled upon this genius calendar developed just for the multi-tasking moms who find themselves feeling a little bug-eyed and out of sorts due to dismal disorganization.

Notice the sleek, professional design.


This section displays the whole month:


And another that details your week. At the bottom there is a section for each child which can be used to keep up with the various activities, homework assignments and individual events for each day of the week. (Sadly, there are only four slots available. If you have more than four children, know that you are in my prayers.)



Oh, but this sassy little mom agenda doesn’t stop there:



Yep, that’s right. At any point in the day, I can reach for my calendar and be well informed of all of the international holidays. Because in Georgia, we keep up with that kind of thing.

Also, if you’ve ever wondered why the banks ARE ALWAYS CLOSED, this page may offer some insight:



If for instance, I needed to make immediate notes concerning, say, FASHION or MUSIC – because I am hip like that - there is a place available to do so in my new calendar.


Or say I needed to keep up with the short list of restaurants in town, and whether or not the wait staff complains and WINES while offering such service, space is generously accommodating for those kind of remarks.



Oh, Mom Agenda, you bring me such joy. Where have you been all of my life?

Olympic Differences

I love the Olympics. I love the competition, I love the patriotism, and I love the background stories. And the Chinese? I love them, too.

The other night I was transfixed by a special interest story that followed two American softball players into a Chinese spa. The scenario was odd in nature (and stature) and reminded me of Will Farrell in the movie, Elf, minus the green tights and pointy shoes. It never occurred to me until that very moment that I come from the land of giants, which means, if you’re from the U S of A, you are a giant too.

(I worried for those Chinese women in the salon, wondering if they were going to throw out their backs while giving pedicures to feet that were as big as the owner’s body.)

It did make me wonder about what the Chinese must be thinking about their giant visitors from America. Our customs and traditions are vastly different, and none as distinctly opposite as compared with those practiced in the South. After researching a bit more about Chinese customs and traditions, I compiled the list below detailing the differences in cultures between the Chinese and the Southern’ese.

(The following customs and greetings concerning China were taken from a website called ChinaTeach. However, the customs and greetings pertaining to the South is bonus joy from me to you. )

Greetings:
IN CHINA:
“When meeting for the first time, a handshake is the most common greeting. But even a handshake can be a different experience in China. First of all it may be held for a longer time than Americans are used to and sometimes it may be in a flimsy manner. In order to show special respect, such as to elderly people or government officials, a slight bow might be given.”

IN THE SOUTH:
Flimsy handshakes are frowned upon in the land of Dixie unless one is a female in the age range of eighty. In the event one lingers during the shake, it is considered an immediate invitation to engage in arm wrestling or competitive thumb war. Bows are only utilized during deer season.

Public Behavior:
IN CHINA:
"The idea of saving face (both one’s own and that of others) is strong in Chinese society. Frankness or abruptness, especially in offering criticism of any kind, is to be carefully avoided. People are generally reserved, quiet, refined, gentle and friendly. They respect a person who is friendly and who carefully avoids hurting the feelings of others. Loud, untactful or boisterous behavior is usually regarded as very poor taste."

IN THE SOUTH:
These types of Chinese restrictions in behavior render a Southerner unable to communicate. Reserved, quiet behavior is observed only when Dale Earnhardt’s name is mentioned (peace to three) or in moments of silence related to the King. Maximized decibels are ordinarily used by those from the South and on more than one occasion, Chinese eardrums have been blown out of the ear canal with a single, “HEY YA’LL! HOW’S YOUR MAMA AND THEM?”

Visiting:
IN CHINA:
"Guests wait for the host’s directions as to where each person is to sit around the table. For more formal banquets, there are very specific rules as to who is to sit where around the table. Conversations often concern the food, how it was prepared, what the ingredients were, and where they were obtained."

IN THE SOUTH:
Most often dinner occurs on trays in front of a wide-screened TV. On race days, talking is not permitted until there is a commercial break or Danica Patrick emerges in her hip-hugging jumpsuit. Food preparation is not discussed as the process is always the same: you shoot it, you skin it, you fry it.

Eating:
IN CHINA:
"Chopsticks and a soup spoon are common eating utensils. Food is not passed around the table, but remains in the center. The host usually chooses the food for his guests and serves it to them from the central dishes on the table. It is acceptable to reach for food and if a little is spilled on the table cloth it is looked upon as a festive sign of abundance."

IN THE SOUTH:
Takeout delivered from restaurants like A Wok On The Wild Side, will often provide chopsticks with their meals. Southerners stab the chopstick through the center of the egg roll to take a bite, leaving one hand free to monopolize the remote control. It is acceptable and expected that the ingredients of one’s plate will end up on the abdomen area of the threadbare undershirt worn to dinner, although the dark dress socks accompanying said shirt remains unaffected.

Dining Etiquette:
IN CHINA:
"At a restaurant, the Chinese host always expects to pay. The guest may also politely offer to pay but should not insist. Business is not usually discussed while eating. If a toothpick is used, the mouth should be covered with the other hand. Napkins are not common, so it wise to always carry a handkerchief or a pack or tissues. Eating food in a public place, i.e. while walking down the street, can also be seen as somewhat impolite."

IN THE SOUTH:
Business is only discussed if threatening someone to mind his or her own. Food can be consumed in parking lots of a variety of stadiums or from a lawn chair in the bed of mama's truck. The bottom of one’s t-shirt can suffice for a napkin, but it is considered impolite to use that of a friend’s. It is also commonly accepted to retrieve errant food particles from one’s teeth with a toothpick, displaying proudly those large remnants that are particularly impressive. After digging is complete, the toothpick remains in the mouth to savor and appropriately appreciate the lingering aftertaste of KFC.

And so it begins...

Determined to maintain some sense of control over the gazillion pieces of paper that will come home from school this year, I bought three-ring binders for each child to organize the collection of items received from each class.

The three binders in various fun colors bring untold joy, delighting me in a way that is almost unhealthy. Releasing my three-hole punch from its holster, I attack loose pieces of paper from backpacks in a similar manner I swat at the fruit flies the local Kroger sent home as a bonus with my cantaloupe.

Ask me for a class list for a particular child and I will dazzle you with my cat like reflexes, flipping open a notebook to the exact spot requested. Need the classroom schedule? My hands are a blur as I thumb through to that section almost as quickly as I find 2nd Corinthians when challenged to Bible Sword. Disorderly documents are not going to happen on my watch, because this year, WE WILL BE ORGANIZED.

Or so I thought.

Driving to school this morning, we suddenly realized that Chase forgot to complete the previous night’s homework. The assignment was minimal, requiring that he bring a handful of leaves to school for a project. On my recommendation the day before, as I am an ALL STAR PARENT, I told him to enjoy playing outside with his friends and then grab the leaves needed for the assignment the next morning. (My notebooks were APPALLED.)

That plan was clearly flawed as we found ourselves the next morning at a busy intersection without the required leaves. Turning around for home would guarantee a tardy, and arriving to school without the assignment screamed of DISORGANIZATION.

Glancing to my right, I spotted the solution to our dilemma.

I pulled into the parking lot of a CVS pharmacy, Chase jumped out of the car and I nervously watched as my son gathered leaves from a puny tree and a sticker bush to complete his assignment.

So the situation begs, have the notebooks failed me, or have I failed the notebooks? Do tell.

The Summer Activity Well Has Run Dry

This is how you know it's time to go back to school:



And this:



What first grader wouldn't race with joy to the classroom of this energetic and creative teacher? My children used to be impressed with the polka-dotted lettering I could do for them on their folders. Now, I've gotta learn the whole squiggly-line letter thingy to secure further admiration.

Game on, Mrs. Davidson.

Tag

My very funny friend Georgiamother tagged me with the following questions. I wish I were more fascinating, but the truth is I'm extraordinarily ordinary.

What I was doing 10 years ago
- Fulfilling our role as DINK’s (double income, no kids) I still have no idea what my husband and I did with all of our money and all of our time.

- Trying to get pregnant for the first time. We were on month ten and found ourselves often humming the song Mr. Roboto (Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto, domo...domo . By the way, these are Japanese lyrics which translate to Thank you very much, Mr. Roboto. Just in case you could use a little trivia joy)

- Viewing God with a religious point of view rather than one that was relational. He would soon fix this in a way I would never forget.

- Playing golf with Amy and Kevin, tailgating with Jon and Tricia. Maybe that’s where our time and money went….


Favorite snacks

- Black pepper potato chips from Target
-
- Cheetos (It ain’t easy being cheesy)

- love/hate relationship with Swiss Cake Rolls (They look as though they should taste better than they do. What’s up with the greasy after taste that lingers for hours? Are they made of lard?)
-

To Do List

- Where do I begin?

1.Get control of a few renegade hairs in my very thick eyebrows. If you see me in real life, and they are rudely pointing at you, I apologize.

2. Address the pile of laundry that is starting to stiffen from neglect and who knows what else.

3. Pick out a new refrigerator before the malfunctioning light inside the door causes it to combust into a million little pieces. It is clearly from the 1950’s. It doesn’t shut properly and pours icicles on the floor when the freezer door opens. Any takers?

4. Make dentist appointments for the children. I am reluctant to do so as I am afraid that my sugar loving Chandler is going to have more cavities. Do they make dentures for a six year old? (All-star parenting at it’s best.)

Jobs I Have Had-

1. Camp Counselor/Tennis Instructor ( I didn’t know how to play tennis at the time. Campers learned to juggle tennis balls instead)

2.Teacher

3. Domestic Engineer – nurse, teacher, laundress, housekeeper, cook, chauffeur, psychologist, referee

4. Adjunct Professor

Places I have lived
- Georgia

- South Carolina

–back to Georgia
(Don’t get out much, huh?)

Bad Habits

- Saying, “Here’s the thing…”

- Losing my keys, cell phone, hairbrush, only to find them minutes later IN MY HAND

-Drinking too much coffee and too many diet cokes. I would like to hug the person who discovered caffeine. But I also would like to slap them.


5 Random things people might not know

1. I can sing every word to every song on the following mega hit movies: Grease, Footloose, Coal Miner’s Daughter (yeah, you read that right).

2.I thought Leif Garrett was a hunk when I was an adolescent and even wanted my hair to look just like his.

3. To quote Beth Moore, “I am a rabid (not avid) reader. I read anything I can get my hands on, even finishing books that begin sorry and end even sorrier

4.I can spin a basketball on my middle finger for a freakishly long time

5. My house is clean, but my car is a DISASTER.


Cd's I would want if stranded on an island

My CD collection is not only embarrassing, but also terribly dated. I would, however bring my IPOD which is pretty current in a dorky, late 30’s mommy kind of way.

What I would do if I was a Billionaire
- Support tons of missionaries, church planters, and Christian schools.

-Buy the rights to the books of author Eric Tolle, stopping distribution immediately, so he and Oprah can stop tricking folks.

- Take the Rick Warren approach of tithing 90% and living off of 10%. (It seems like those who come into large sums of money always end up on some talk show explaining how they blew it all and ended up destitute and homeless. BUT they were able to take a fabulous cruise with 40 of their long lost cousins.)


So that's my list. JMom, Mom of Eleven, Operation Motherhood, if you haven't already played, consider yourselves now IT.

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?