NaBloPoMo. It stands for National Blog Posting Month.  It’s a challenge in the blog world to post every day in the month of November. I did  it last year and it had me blogging through April or Mayish. And then I stopped. And I’ve missed it. Now it’s back and I am going to try it again. I think last time I posted all but three days. My hope is that this time I can make it all the way to November 2015.

Where have I been since Mayish?

I think I had a bout with depression and am just now starting to step out of it. It’s so hard sometimes to know that I am in down mode. It’s a mix of knowing and not knowing. To know that a walk or journaling or moving would make me feel better. Yet unable to motivate myself. Like lead weights keeping me pinned to the bed.  To know that eating poorly will only make me feel worse but unable to avoid the Cheetos, the ice cream, the cookies. Telling myself it’s okay not to shower when you don’t leave the house. It’s okay that there are three baskets of laundry waiting. It’s okay that there’s no food in the house, we’ll go out. Better yet, we’ll order in. It’s okay to go to bed at 7:30.

Berating myself for feeling sorry for me when there are others out there that have so much less than me. Poor health issues. Family illness. Job loss. Knowing that prayer would pull me out of this but unable to let it go. As if somewhere in me I like this feeling and am nurturing it. Comforting it. Finding it a cozy bed and feeding it it’s favorite food. I have no doubt that God thinks I’m pretty awesome but I just can’t see it. Hesitant to bring it to God because I know He will forgive, He will make me feel better. I don’t go to Him because I don’t really want to feel better. I just want to sit in my muck for one more day. And one more day. And one more day.


The hardest part this last time were feelings of failure. Self abuse. My self talk can be negative even when I am not depressed. When I am already in a bad place it seems my mind pulls out all the stops. The brief moments of confidence that peak out are quickly shot down with the ammunition I’ve stored over the years. Negativity that has been a constant companion is waiting in the sidelines. Drooling in anticipation of the next weak moment. Sensing my frail state a full on attack ensues. And wins. Taking all moments of confidence as hostages.

It’s been quite a battle.

I come out of these things shell shocked. Battle scarred and sensitive to everything. Old wounds are easily reopened. Fortunately, the pain is less and it doesn’t force me to go back to bed. To hide behind the computer. To park the car in Jewel and stuff those feelings down with pistachio muffins. To cry in the shower-daily. But the memory of where I was is still so close it scares me. I can see clearly these thoughts have no factual basis. I can move through them. I have hope that these thoughts will soon lose their hold of me. I see that God doesn’t make crap. I can say “I am not crap.” And I can sort of believe it.

As I pondered whether to blog or not I was filled with fear. There are sooooo many other bloggers out there that have deeper thoughts than me. Bloggers that have a purpose. Food blogs. Craft blogs. Family blogs. Bloggers that write with more eloquence. This overwhelms me. So I try and narrow down my wishes of what to include, of how to organize, of which direction to go. This overwhelms me even more. Eventually I am so overwhelmed that I don’t go in any direction. Back in my muck. Stagnant. In prayer the answer comes to me. Just do it. Don’t question what gets typed.

Just do it.

Here I am just doing it. I’ve started out with such an uplifting post I bet you can’t wait to see what else I have up my sleeve!

There’s a woman in church that I have admired from afar. A woman I have wanted to get to know better. Others have even said to me “Oh you and (no names please!) would get along great. You guys are so similar” I have finally gotten a little closer to her. She is all that I hoped she would be. Funny, wise, honest, vulnerable, awesome.  She has a saying, “To say hello to me is to know me.” That is where we are similar. I tend to over share. I sometimes cringe at what I’ve just said because it may have been too intimate. But yes, I share what’s going on in my head. I share my family stories. I share my struggles. I share my successes. I share my birthday countdown. I share stories about me…still growing after all these years.

I share, therefore I am.

Please come back and see what I share tomorrow…I’m usually  much funnier than this.

Make a great day people.

















And Baby Makes Three

I’m here to tell you that writing these mini salutes to my children the past couple of days has kept me close to the tissue box. I find that as I try and write this last one that I am tearing up before I even start. It seems that the baby makes me cry the most. She is associated with so many lasts.

If only I knew how much I would miss those things now. The last time she fell asleep in my arms. The last time I made her boo boo feel better with just a kiss. The last time she came in with a fist full of dandelions. The last time I was the smartest person she knew. The last time she said “Mom, watch me.” The last time she crawled in my lap. The last time I fell asleep while she read to me. I know that sounds backwards, but in our house the kids read to me before bed and I always fell asleep to the lull of their voices. Waking only to help with a hard word and quickly dozing off again.

For the last time I was going to have a baby. I was pretty sure was in labor. I checked with my OBGYN  neighbor and she said, “No, you are much too pleasant to be in labor.” Half hour later I called the doctors office and she said, “Well, maybe, but you sound too pleasant. Go to bed and we’ll probably see you tomorrow.” Half hour later the nurse is wheeling me in and asking me how I feel. “I’m ready to push.” She chuckles and pats my shoulder. Five minutes later the nurse goes running out of my room to get the doctor. Five minutes later six nurses are prepping me for labor. Five minutes later the doctor slides in, barefoot, just in time to catch her. Ten minutes after that I am signing the paper work giving everyone permission to deliver my baby.

That is the very last time Ellen was ever involved in doing something out of order.

My last chance for legal narcotics-foiled again. At least this time I realized that I could have a plan, but things weren’t necessarily going to go according to that plan. I am really getting a good grip on this parenting thing. With this child I will surely make no mistakes.

Ellen always has a plan. She doesn’t need any help seeing it to fruition. She completes her plans pretty regularly. This is different than what I am used to…

This one gave me a run for my money. For as haphazard as I am, she is orderly. For as gray as my rules are, hers are black and white. For as much as I go with the flow, she has a thought out plan. As a matter of fact Ellen runs best when there is a plan. Don’t tell her we are going to the grocery, the park, the pool and the library and then not go to the library. She will become unglued at the end of the day when she realizes the plan has changed.

This one threw me for a loop. She did not like hair bows and dresses. No matter how hard her older sister pushed that bow on her head she would rip it out and toss it casually to the ground. She would rather play in the dirt than help make cookies. Her hair was always a little messy. She had a temper. She had meltdowns. She cried for her daddy. She followed the rules. She ratted out those that didn’t. She was brave. Logic was her MO. She is most definitely not haphazard. She is self sufficient. She needs me the least of the three. She gets in no trouble. I did not understand this child of mine. I was certain I had all the parental knowledge I needed and then…Ellen.

She has no fear of aliens. She will never make a video about pooping. She realizes the idiocy of being shocked by a dog collar.  She is not influenced by peer pressure. She has snored since she was two. It’s pretty loud. She functions best when she has rules to follow. She color coordinates her textbooks, folders and notebooks. She adores shopping for school supplies. Her pet of choice is a fish. She doesn’t cry often but if the fish’s life is in peril she’s a basket case. The loss of Steve the Trailblazer still causes her grief. She does fear going in to have her tonsils out which is why hers are the size of golf balls. All the time. Her favorite animal is a rhino.

At three, she was a fisher woman. She could yank an eight inch night crawler out of the mud and rip him into three pieces and think nothing of it. Something her mom cringed at. She loves to have a good bruise. She played lacrosse. She is not easily intimidated. She is conscientious. She loves with all her heart. But will cut yours out if you cross her, or someone she loves. She can be soft but will argue with me that it’s not true. She has her daddy’s good qualities and is a bit like my sister. But she will argue with me that that is not true either. The world better watch out.

She is in college. And likes it. If you need something done, Ellen is your woman. She studies. She is an introvert. She needs her down time. She is afraid of the police. She loves a good prison. She is studying criminal justice. There are rules there. There are guidelines for what happens if you break the rules. It is a very black and white profession. Ellen loves order and justice. Unless it is regarding her bedroom. She will now argue with me that her room is orderly. She learns by example, as in, I saw my brother and sister try it that way, it didn’t work, I won’t try that. What a concept. She is original. She prefers snow to sand. She may have an addiction to carbs. She likes things that are awkward.

She will make it using her own abilities. She finishes what she starts. I drive her crazy. Her siblings drive her crazy. Bob drives her crazy. She prefers people to be a bit grumpy rather than happy all the time. Happy all the time drives her crazy. People who hug drive her crazy.Hugs are few and far between. Little does she know this makes them more precious. She does not like emotions, nor does she like people who have emotions. I was told I could not drop her off at college if there was a chance I might cry. I did not cry while there, but I cried a good hour on the way home.

When I first found out I was pregnant with number three it was a shock. I was not going to have three children. God once again laughs at my plans. I did not have an appreciation of the gift she would be. As my last baby I held her more. I let her sleep in my bed more. I let her get a way with more. I let her do more. I appreciate her lasts more because they are my lasts too.

Ellen is the child that made me grow up. Ellen is the child that is the least like me. Ellen is the child that I strive to be more like. Ellen is my last teacher. The least patient teacher. The most difficult teacher. Lessons I won’t soon forget. Partly because she won’t let me. I adore my baby girl. I am so proud of her strength and perseverance. I envy her ability to stay on the straight and narrow. I admire the way she confidently chooses a path, goes for it and stick with it. I will always strive to be more like her. I love her, my last little.






Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice

I remember being pregnant with my second child. To say I did not do well as a pregnant woman would be an understatement. Physically I was fine. I gained little weight. I did not suffer morning sickness. But emotionally and hormornally? Watch out. I pretty much hated everyone unless they were offering food.

Being pregnant with the second baby was different than being pregnant the first time. This round I had someone to share the excitement with. Instead of laying in bed alone wondering if that was gas or a baby kick I had a second opinion. Being pregnant as a married woman was more accepted than being ‘a young girl in trouble.’ Now I was ‘glowing’, having baby showers, people were exclaiming in anticipation how round my belly was instead of trying not to notice that the impending birth would soon be upon us.

Around the eighth month I started thinking I had made a mistake. I really did not enjoy labor. I was afraid of the pain. I could usually calm myself down with the fact that soon this huge lump would be removed, I would no longer suffer indigestion, I would not be uncomfortable sleeping, eating, coughing. I would not have to pee constantly. And that irritating little foot that was always jammed under my ribs would be removed. And I was asking for drugs three days in advance.

I also felt sorry for this new little one. I already had a beautiful bouncing baby boy. How could I ever possibly love another child as much as I loved him? I just couldn’t see loving this one as fully as I loved the first one.

March 5, 1991. Here she comes and I got the drugs. For me, this meant that I could actually rest between labor pains. It also meant I had brief conversations with the seven dwarves…narcotics are a good time. When she arrived we looked at her and couldn’t decide what to name her. We had a couple names picked out but I think her birth certificate was blank for a whole day. We named her before we left the hospital. Emily Lucille and somewhere along the line she became Emmer.

Once again, I am at a loss as to where to start the story of this one.

She cried a lot more than the first one. She was the apple of her daddy’s eye which is funny because now when people describe her they point at her and say “Apple.”  then point at me and say “Tree.” Sometimes sour, sometimes sweet, sometimes pithy, sometimes rotten.

I was confident that raising this one was going to be a breeze. I mean I already had one and he is six years old and  still alive. How hard can a girl be?

For the most part she was a little easier. She did not give me half the worry the first one did but she has her own claim to the gray hairs on my head.

Bob calls her a little butterfly. She flits around the house spreading joy and laughter. Alighting here but moving on quickly. She is as laid back as they come. Nothing ruffles her feathers. She truly practices acceptance and tolerance of all things. Her name easily could have been Grace for it is what she offers everyone.

She had a pretty bad horseback riding accident. Broke her ankle, dislocated her shoulder. Was in the hospital for about a week, laid up in bed for a week more and in a wheel chair for a few weeks after that. I could see how much pain just sitting up caused. While she was still in the hospital the nurse came in and needed to change the sheets on the bed. All I could do was sit and watch as my baby (she was almost a teenager) grimaced through every painful movement.  When the nurse was done Emmer looked at her and said thank you. All I wanted to do was choke the woman for putting my girl through that and yet my Emmer was just grateful.

Again, as a parent, I was in awe of what she was teaching me.

She was happiest when her socks, hair bow and outfit all matched. Throw in a pair of high heels and she was ecstatic. While flipping through old photos she looks, points and exclaims “I loved that dress!” In preschool they had a mock Thanksgiving dinner with the parents.  All the children had little place mats that said “I am thankful for________.” The children filled in the blank. As I walked around the table and looked at everyone’s place mats I noticed most had a reference to parents. “I am thankful for my mom and dad.” “I am thankful for my family.” I am thankful for Mommy.” Then we found Emmer’s. “I am thankful for my Snow White dress.” It was apparent that this was a girly girl who knew the importance of a good outfit.

When I first met Bob he was in a bit of trouble. I was in the living room, on my knees praying. Asking God if I was the right person to help this man. Was I strong enough to give him what he needed? Emmer came down and asked what I was praying about and when I explained that this man needed some help, some saving, and I was wondering why God had sent him to me she looked at me and said, “Maybe God put him in your life not so you could help him but so he could save you.” So Emmer, Bob is your fault.

Wise beyond her years that one is.

This one can make me laugh until I cry. She makes me rethink my judgmental ways. She forces me to look at people with no preconceptions. She encourages me to be more carefree. She takes risks. She is loyal. She makes no sense. She takes fashion risks…can you say  ‘zebra pants’? She has bad luck with cars. She makes funny videos about pooping. She has an affinity for gingers. She prefers Starburst over chocolate. She wants a puppy, not a kitten, but she’d take a kitten. She once sat in the car for two hours after watching an alien movie because she was afraid of being abducted. She has not been abducted but does think it could possibly happen. She will miss Matt when the aliens take him back.

She is the peacemaker in the family. She quickly defends or offers comfort to the sibling that I am yelling at. She forgives easily. She does not remember transgressions. She never holds a grudge. She apologizes. She wants to make everyone happy. And she pretty much does. She is haphazard. She is a little messy. She often makes the same silly remark about something at the exact time that I do. She sometimes cries when this happens.  She is the apple. I am the tree. She still has great fashion sense. She has a very artistic eye. She can decorate. She can paint. She can take great photos. She breaks out in song…often. She does not allow me to dance to rap music. She is the reason we have a neurotic, nail biting, skittish border collie.  She doesn’t do math well. But, she wanted a horse. You need five acres of land per horse. She was a whiz at calculating how many horses you could have on 187 acres of land.

She left me for a boyfriend. I sometimes wish he would send her back to me but a happy daughter far away is more important to me than a sad daughter here at home. I left my own mom for a boyfriend. I did not realize at the time the bittersweet feelings that kind of leaving brings. As moms we raise them all to leave.To make their own lives. To be happy, to love, to be loved. And yet when we are successful and they do go we wish we hadn’t been so eager for them to test their wings. As a matter of fact I sometimes regret giving her wings.

And once again, as with the first born, I am back to wishing I could do it over again, change some things along them way. Do things better. I wish I could slow it all down instead of willing it to go faster. I can only go forward. I can only tell her now that I love being her mom. I love her. I love her as fully as I love the first child. I am so proud of her. She is my Mem. She is my apple and miss her often.

Now if only she AND the boyfriend would move back to Illinois. Oh, and call me!








Lucky Number 13

Today I celebrate thirteen years of sobriety. When I tell people I am a recovering alcoholic they have questions. Here are some of them and how I answered.

How did you get to the point of realizing you had a problem?

Nothing was more important to me than my next drink. Where it came from, when it would be, what it would be. My entire day revolved around that thought. Watching the clock. Playing games about the ‘appropriate’ time to have the first drink of the day. Rationalizing that if five o’clock was okay then certainly four thirty would be fine. Thinking that these kids, or this person, or this chore, or this thing was keeping me from drinking. Resenting these roadblocks. Conjuring up elaborate plans on how to sneak a sip. Sending my husband on errands so I could drink without interference. Picking fights so he would leave and I could be alone with my vodka/tequila/wine.

How much did you drink?

I drank a lot but I lied about it to everyone. Even myself. I would decide that a shot at three o’clock was crazy, but a half a shot was probably okay. So I’d pour a half a shot that was really 3/4 of a shot.  Then I’d pour another to drink in forty five minutes. My rationality was that when I drank that second one It would only equal one shot. In reality, I have had a shot and a half. In reality, I never waited forty five minutes.

I would drink a beer with a friend without them knowing I had primed myself with a few pre-beer shots. I would have margaritas with my spouse but pour extra tequila in mine. There was a sick power in knowing that I was pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes. When I told my (then) husband that I was an alcoholic he exclaimed, “No you’re not, I drink the same amount as you.” Ha! Win! I was pounding down three shots in the kitchen to your one shot with me. Ha! I have alcohol hidden in the basement. Where’s yours? Ha! I only TELL you this is my first shot of the day when the truth is, I’ve been drinking for three hours.

How did you know you were an alcoholic and not just a heavy drinker? How did you know you weren’t a normal drinker?

Normal drinkers don’t have to hide the fact that they are drinking. They don’t make up stories about how much they’ve had to drink. They don’t drink large quantities alone…every single day. They don’t take an inventory of the liquor cabinet and panic when there is only one bottle of wine left for the evening. The best part of the day does not revolve around alcohol. You don’t wake up thinking, I only have to get through a, b and c and then I can have my wine (or vodka, or gin or whatever is left in the pantry.)

Normal drinkers don’t have empty gallon bottles in their recycling bin every week. There shouldn’t be an empty gallon of vodka and tequila, plus five of the BIG wine bottles plus twelve empty beer bottles in your recycling bin…every week. Normal drinkers don’t feel the need to bag some of the empties and put them in the garbage can so the neighbors couldn’t see what was really in your recycling bin.

Normal drinkers would look at ‘large quantities’ above and think that an entire bottle of wine is not a large quantity, it is. One bottle of wine is SIX servings. Four ounces is a serving of wine. WATER is eight ounces per serving, not wine. One ounce is a serving of hard liquor. Measure it!

I could justify drinking more and earlier if I had a bad day, if I got bad news, if I was depressed, if there was a tragedy. If bad things were going on I rejoiced. Now I had an excuse to drink. I could defend my drinking with “you don’t know what I’m going through.” “This will make me feel better.” “I need this drink to get through this.” Whatever this was. A burnt dinner, a sick child, an injured child, a death, a birth, a bad grade, a ticket, a trophy and the list of excuses to drink is endless.

When was your turning point?

I read a book, “Drinking, A Love Story.” Several light bulbs went off in my head while reading that book. Her description of her love of alcohol was similar to mine. She says somewhere in the book that if someone thought her drinking was over the top she stopped hanging out with them. She found new friends to drink with. She’d rather give up a friend than give up alcohol. At the time that made sense to me. And that scared me. I mentioned to my mom that I thought maybe my drinking was getting out of hand and she agreed. My mom agrees? Once that little kernel of doubt got into my head I couldn’t get it out.  I think it actually made me drink more temporarily. I thought if I have to give this up I better get all I can in before I call it quits.

How did you stop drinking?

Here is the story of my last drink. My hand was forced. Day to day beyond that first night I had to do it one day at a time. One hour at a time. One minute at a time. One second at a time. With my fingernails clawing at the side of the sink to just. Get. Through. This. one minute without a drink. With tears. With AA. With doubt. With a sponsor. With God. With fear. Lots of fear.

Drinking took over my whole life for many years. I did not like the woman I was back then. It was tough work. It was not fun but today, when I look in the mirror, I like the woman I see. I am no longer ashamed. I no longer feel out of control. I love my life. That is priceless.

Snips and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails

I was twenty one, living with a boyfriend in Kentucky. And my period was late.

I did not have a doctor so the boyfriend drove me to the clinic where I took a test that came out positive. The nurse was very nice and offered me pamphlets regarding abortion. I was scared witless. I had absolutely no idea what I was going to do but I for certain knew I was not going to do that.  Carrying the weight of the world in my belly I walked out of the clinic and gave my boyfriend the news. He said, “I will pay for you to fly home.”

Now THAT is a phone call I hope never to receive. “Mom? It’s me. I’m okay. But I’m pregnant and I have to come home.”

I won’t go into the angst of being a single pregnant woman. Nor the hardships of moving home under ‘not the best circumstance’ because this is a happy story about a tow headed blue eyed baby that, despite our rocky start I loved before he was even born.

He arrived on February 2, 1985 in a snowstorm. Already I was learning that kids change the plans you make. My plan was to have pain medication. The baby’s plan was to get into this world quick. Too quick for me to reap the benefits of narcotics.

The first thing I remember about that boy was the fact that he liked to sleep. The nurses kept flicking his feet to wake him up and we’d wipe him down with a cold wash cloth so we could feed him but he soon went back to sleep. Like all other babies  he did not sleep through the night for a couple of months. Like all first time parents I longed for the night that he did so that I could get a full eight hours of much needed sleep. Again, my plan versus how things really played out. The first time he slept through the night was a night that I didn’t sleep a wink because I kept getting up to put my finger under his nose to make sure he was still breathing.

There are a million billion ‘mommy blogs’ out there. How I wish I had been blogging back when my children were little.  I think what a great gift it will be for those kids to be able to get a true idea of what their days were like. I wish I had written letters to them on each birthday with a little synopsis of the year. All the cute things they did, all the trouble they got into. Something tangible that showed how much I loved being their mom.

As I sit here and try to summarize twenty nine years with this boy I realize it can’t be done. I realize there are so many little things and so many big things and so many in between things that I could never do justice to our story together. There are good things, bad things, funny things, sad things. Books we read, jokes we shared, arguments we had. Successes, failures.  One picture after another of what our lives together looked like flashes before my eyes and I find I cannot get them all down in writing for a mother’s day tribute to my first born.

This child has given me the three scariest moments of my life. His conception, my sobriety and watching him leave with the army recruiter. This child made me grow up. This child made me cry. This child made me laugh. This child had spiky hair, listened to heavy metal, brought the police to our house…more than once, shocked  himself with a dog collar…on purpose…and then asked to do it again. This boy put Elmer’s glue in his hair…again, on purpose…as a styling product. This boy wore camouflage before it was in style. This boy allowed me to know the vice principal at the middle school on a first name basis. This boy loved his cat, loved his Papa, loved his blanket.

This boy went to Iraq. This boy came home. He lived in his car. He painted polka dots on the dog. He faked his own death while babysitting for the girls; there was lots of blood. He’s afraid of aliens. He’s been abducted by aliens. He’s worried they’ll be back for him. He loves funny cat videos…only if they are horizontal. He “made me cool”. He made me crazy. He makes me crazy. He made me love like I never loved before. He made me proud.

I sometimes wish I could do so many things over with him. Go back to the little tow-headed boy days. I think, as all parents do, when they are all grown up you miss them. But, you can’t go back. Only forward. I can only let him know that I love being his mom. I loved spending my life with him. I love him. I am proud of him.

There’s a book that makes me cry every time I read it. It sums up being the mom to a boy perfectly. It’s called Love You Forever by Robert Munsch. If you need a gift for a new mom of a boy this is it. It repeats this line and I said it often to my little boy. I don’t say it out loud much these day but it still applies.

“I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living my baby you’ll be.”

Now if only he would call me more often….






Being a Mom

In honor of Mother’s Day I will be writing all about being a mom this week.


As a mom I cannot get enough of my babies crawling into my lap for a little snuggle. Stroking the soft fuzziness of the hair on their little heads as they nod off to sleep is one of the great perks of being a mom. Sleeping babies are so precious. As a mom we take these special moments and savor them. If I had known how quickly they were going to grow up I think I would have spent an extra minute watching them snooze, or spent a few moments longer in bed reading with them.

I often wonder what I laughed at before the entered my life. What a boring life it was before them.

I will admit that sometimes I do remember the quiet peaceful times.  There are negatives to being a mom. For one, I do not appreciate being woken up in the middle of the night. I wish they could clean up after themselves. I do not like bruising my foot on some small toy left (purposely?) in my path.  Sullen expressions while I’m talking to them. Ignoring me when I am calling them for dinner, or snack. I’d like to be able to read their minds. To know what makes them do the things they do.

One minute they are affectionate. The next they are snapping at me. I can never predict their moods. Begging for attention or stalking away with indignation. This moment angry with me for a crime I do not yet know that I have committed, the next moment they are bestowing me with affection, following me around the house, begging me to stop and spend just one minute with them.

They act like they don’t really need me. And yet when I get home they are right there talking my ear off, trying to tell me about their day while asking me to make them dinner. Their desire to spend time with me at all, however few and far between these moments are, is what lets me know that they do love me. I just wish their timing on when they loved me would line up with my agenda. But that is not a luxury for moms. When it finally does become a reality, when we finally get some time to ourselves, ironically we wish they were young and demanding again.

It never fails. As soon as I sit down to get something done on the computer they come in and plop right down. Ready for some quality time.  Interrupting my ability to do what I want in order to give them what they want. I sometimes think they have radar and know when I have shut a door to get some privacy. No sooner does the latch click when I hear the pitter patter of little feet and a shadow appears under the door and they wait. As if by shutting the door I have offended them. Hurt their feelings. Abandoned them.  They bang on the door impatiently expecting me to invite them in for some quality time together. And I usually do.

Now let’s turn that around. What happens when I want  some quality time with them?  They have something better to do. I can call out to them but my voice echoes in the empty rooms. They are no where to be found. They have abandoned me.

I occasionally get upset with the callous way they treat me but in the end an affectionate leg rub, a meow of gratitude, a purr because I’ve scratched in just the right place, seems to wash away my hurt feelings. Hacked up fur balls, destroyed curtains and dirty litter boxes are forgotten. Forgotten because I can think of nothing else but the numbness in my legs from sitting in this position for so long. Sitting for so long that I can’t feel my toes but I won’t move. I don’t want to disturb their peaceful slumber.

Such is the fate of being a cat mom.






God Can Speak Using an Irish AND a German Accent

For some reason a man with a German accent has always…um…intrigued…me.  

I have heard German spoken and I don’t think it is particularly a pretty language. It sounds very harsh to me and does not flow romantically like French nor does it run rapidly off the tongue like Spanish. It sort of sounds like hammering. It’s blunt. 

But the accent…I just love it. I like how the and comes out undt. I like the w’s pronounced as v’s. And it makes me smile when the s sounds like sh.

If you say ‘That girl is a very sweet and funny one.’ It would sound like ‘Dat gurl ish un very shveet undt foony vun.’

Bob knows that if he wants to get my toes to curl he need only speak a couple of sentences with a German accent. He has a joke that he tells about Lufthansa airlines that never gets old to my ears. Although sometimes when he tells it it can be turned into a sort of Irish/Indian/Polish/German accent. Not quite the same effect for me but his effort is always appreciated.

Telling this joke is granted to put me in the mood. (Undt der mooed – Undt being interchangeable with in undt and.)

I once read a short story by Mark Twain called “That Awful German Language“. It made me laugh so hard that the tears rolled down my face. According to Twain, it is not an easy language to learn. As an example let’s use the word ‘air’. In France it is aire. In Spain it is also aire. In German it is Luft. And yes, it is capitalized. This is my own example, Twain’s are much better.

Let’s try it in a sentence.

Love is in the air. (English)

Amor en el aire. (Spanish)

L’amour est dans l’air. (French)

Notice that you can pretty easily translate these on your own because the words are similar to ours. Now let’s look at it in German.

Liebe liegt in der Luft.

Hmmm….Not one word is like any of the words in the other three languages. For me, I can look at a book written in Spanish or French and can pick out a few words that I know the meaning of and could possibly get in the ball park regarding the topic. Not so if it were in German. It is an awful language, but the accent…

I heard someone with an authentic German accent speak yesterday and I can’t get the words out of my mind. I am often perplexed when God doesn’t answer my cries for help. I am always humbled when He answers them in His time, not mine. 

I have a friend and her last name is Freund. Freund is German and it means friend (isn’t that ironic?) She is not German, she is Irish and has an Irish accent. Irish is another accent that I adore-and apparently so do lots of others because she has a story about having a run in with the police, while being beverage happy, and getting out unscathed…I’m certain it was the accent–I must remember this the next time I need to get out of a situation with the po po.

Daph uses the word delightful in her sentences when she speaks. Her laughter is contagious. And she laughs alot. She laughs at her self. She laughs with joy. She attracts friends like flies to honey. She is delightful. I haven’t known her long but she greets me as if we were family. She plays the harp. She teaches spin. She is in my bible study and her rock solid relationship with God is what this post is about.

Daphne is married to Walter. He speaks with a German accent. To sit and listen to them talk back and forth would be like candy for me. I don’t care what the topic, just say stuff.

I know this seems an odd post. Let me explain without really explaining. Mein Freund (my friend-for those of you that haven’t been keeping up) has been on my mind for the last week. I do not want to share her sadness here, but I could not keep it in any longer. Grace has shown it’s beautiful face in Daphne. God has been so present in the lives of her and her family and for the life of me I cannot figure out why I got to witness it. 

I struggle in my walk with Christ on a daily basis. 

I cry out why.

He answers by showing me how.

And this time He spoke to me in an Irish AND a German accent.

How lucky am I?









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