10 mistakes

About a month ago, while looking through my sons weekly school papers, I came across a sign up sheet for a special parent night at his school. Topics to be discussed were test anxiety, self esteem, attendance issues, and a few others. Trying to do my best to help my chickadees I signed up, wrote the date on the calendar, notified the Hubs and lined up my daughter to babysit, as it fell on scout night.
To be completely honest, I dread school functions. I enjoy meeting the teacher, and seeing the art work, I just have this constant fear that I will trip and fall in front of everyone, including my children's classmates and teachers, or do the dreaded toilet paper behind my shoe march, and end up on the Christmas party gag real. The T.P thing hasn't happened to me yet, and so I figure that my lotto ticket is almost up on that one. Simply put, I am in perpetual fear of making a mistake.
I find that I often make the mistake of becoming impatient with my own children's mistakes. While a juice spill is not the end of the world, the fact that my 2 year old tries to make an art project with the juice I am desperately trying to clean up is some days just too much. Funny looking back, but in the moment, not so much.
The dreaded Thursday rolled around. It was busy as most Thursdays are, homework, dinner, a broken tooth thrown in just for fun, you know how it goes. As I drove up to the school, the parking lot that is usually overflowing on parents night, was almost empty. "Oh no, I must have written down the time wrong," once again beating myself up for a small mistake. With a quick call home to double check that I was indeed in the right place at the right time, I parked and entered.
The meeting had already begun and I quietly found a seat. Discussions carried on about end of grade exams and how to deal with the anxiety that exists in children who, make good grades all year, but are somehow convinced that they will be held back. They went on to something they call "school refusal". Yep folks, they finally have a name for the "syndrome" that caused me to cry each and every day from K5 to 10th grade. Unfortunately they do not know the exact cause or solution and so that too will have to go on my handy "when I have time for therapy" list, along with my dread of parents night, and my constant quest to find clothing to match the school decor, so that on parents night I can just blend and disappear.:). The moderators would begin another topic and some of the parents would chime in with questions or replies. I sat quietly on my stoop watching, listening, and taking note to call my mom about the school refusal thing. At some point the Assistant Principle jumped into the conversation and honest to goodness completely changed the way look at things.
He said that he had a poster in his office that reads,"I must make at least 10 mistakes today." Simple thought right? I find it rather profound.
We all make mistakes. Sometimes they are little mistakes like spilling juice, writing the wrong date on the calendar, or washing the new red socks with my husbands khaki work pants. Then there are the big ones, hurting someone we love, forgetting to pick the kids up at school( my tickets up on that one too, which is why my calendar is really messy). No matter the size, we all make them, and most times it seems that we beat ourselves up for the little as much as we do the big. It is easy to fall into a world where we focus on our own shortcomings rather than look at the fact that we try really hard to do the right thing.
By the time I arrived home it was jammie and bed time and so I didn't have a chance to share this new found insight with the kidlets. Friday afternoon the buses brought them home and they were ready to start the weekend. As I began to tell them of the newest house rule their faces carried looks of dread. I'm sure that thoughts of new chores were rolling around in their noggins. "From now on" I began as my little boy held his breath and my sweet girl winced,"We have to make at least 10 mistakes per day, now if you can't it's o.k., but you have to at least try." They looked at me, having no idea where this came from, or if I had actually said what I had intended. Deciding that it might be better to just accept it, rather than alert me to the fact that I may have misspoken, they went in separate directions to begin their two days of relaxation.
We are all settling into the new regime. I have thought of getting a dry erase board so that we can list all of the silly things that we do, it might be a bit to hard in the beginning, and so it will wait for while. I ask the kids daily if they have met their quota. Yesterday upon my son's arrival home I asked him how many mistakes he had made and he announced, grinning,"None". Not ten minutes later, he spilled salsa on the counter and inside the bag of tortilla chips. Thankfully, my two year old budding artist was with the grandparents, or we would have had quite the fiesta. As we cleaned up the mess he apologized. I told him that it was no big deal, and reminded him that last week I let the little one put a bar of soap in the fish tank and just this morning, I forgot to feed the cats. See how it works?

Snowday

I try to be a "glass half full" kind of girl. I try to see the good in things. In harder times I search for the blessings and lessons that can be learned. That being said, I also tend to be a worrier.Last fall I passed a church marquee that read,"A heart filled with faith has no room for fear". It spoke to me and I have since carried it in my heart. Some days I find myself repeating it over and over again. These times can be unpredictable. Bad things happen. I find it a comfort to know that my life ,and the lives of those I love, are in my God's hands. I pray that while they are away from me, He will protect them, and bring them home safely at the end of the day. My human heart still worries. Weeks are filled with work and school. Weekends arrive with lists of activities and errands, all of us running in different directions. I find myself hoping for one day to just, be. All of us together in the same place. Even if we aren't involved in the same activity, just together, in the same walls. I tend to enjoy the days when there is no schedule, no chore that can't be put off for one day.
This weekend we were blessed with two such days.
Friday evening my sweet came home with the announcement that we were expecting snow. Saturday came with a cold rain, us shuttling here and there on various errands. Yesterday morning we woke, again to rain with a few white flakes tossed in for good measure. I find that my heart still jumps when I see the first snowflakes. They dance around the sky and drift here and there. It is magical for this girl who grew up in Florida. For a short time thereafter, my adult mind drifted to calculating the number of snow days left until Spring Break is snatched away. Three as of yesterday. By 10am the rain was replaced by clots of snow, falling heavily to the ground. As the hours ticked by, the sky became thick with snow. The mountains disappeared, and the earth became a crisp white. The roads were covered by the time the news ticker began to announce school closings. Bedtimes were changed, and excitement mixed with my ever sensible children letting me know that while they were very glad to have a day off, this had to be the last, because they really need a Spring vacation.
The snow continued through last night and into this morning. A blanket of crisp white snow lay outside along with wind chills in the single digits. My husband was the first to wake, enjoying the quiet of the house, and exchanging phone calls with his friends concerning road conditions. By the time I planted my feet on the floor he had a fire going in the wood stove. The boys played happily in the living room while I shuffled sleepily to my favorite coffee cup. My sweet girl was the last to be seen and we spent part of the morning giving ourselves pedicures. Cherished time for me, as I know that much to soon she will be off on adventures of her own. My husband announced that he would be staying home as the roads were too dangerous. I find that I love his sensible side.
Today was spent all together. Each of us doing as we pleased. We ate what we wanted, dressed as we wanted, played and did just as each of us wanted. It was the day I needed. The day I had asked for. Sometimes I dread the snow, it can be inconvenient, but rather than look at it from this perspective, I choose to see it, as I believe it is, a gift. Soon enough we will be back to school and work, errands and chores. Today though, my God gave us a day together, to just stop, and be.



As side note, school has just been cancelled for tomorrow as well. Hopefully it will be the last for winter, but you can bet that this summer I will be praying for rain.:)

I Walk the Lines(and carry them proudly)

I grew up, as many children do, completely oblivious to the world around me. I played happily, ate heartily, slept sweetly, and sang, well singilly (yeah, I know that's a stretch). I went about my days knowing that whenever I needed something it would be provided, having no idea how hard my parents worked to provide it. When I had a nightmare, I would creep softly into bed next to my Mother and would fall immediately into a deep slumber. If I had a scrape or a bruise, the pain would be magically kissed away. If I happened to be at my Father's house, Betadine would not only be used to clean the wound, but also to paint funny faces or sweet "I love yous" on my leg. I thought it was the coolest thing in the world, and while it may have contributed slightly to my hypochondria, it is a fond memory of my childhood. My sweet Step-Mother would say, if it met certain criteria, that it would be added to the "Bruise Book", a book which I never have seen, but would feel a sense of pride for accomplishing an entry and surviving. If said boo-boo occurred while my Mother and Step-Father were on duty, it would be bandaged snugly by Mom while Jimmy, a strong man from the mountains of West Virginia, would give his own home remedy suggestions, such as putting turpentine on it. Mom would chuckle and deny his requests, and while I would never suggest that this might be a good idea, he lived a good long life still using those same home remedies.
As I grew up, and became more aware of this world, there were times that I would take notice of something that I would not understand until I, myself, became a Mother. I would come home disappointed, or sad, and as I would tell one of them of the unjust offense, I would notice a new and unknown expression wash over their face. It was a look that I did not understand. When I tried out for cheer leading in the 6th grade and didn't win a spot on the squad, my mother's tears mixed with my own as we drove home. I could not understand why it was that she was crying along with me.
Now I am grown and very much aware of the world around me. It took my becoming a parent to understand my own parents. Their hearts were breaking for me, just as mine does for my children. My own life now mirroring theirs. I know now that where there are wrinkles, there used to be none, and that while some can be attributed to the Florida sun, many are the scars they chose to carry for me so that I could grow and leave behind the pains of childhood.
I now understand what it means to watch as a daughter journeys from childhood into the life of a teenager. I walk the line between holding on too tightly and letting her spread her own wings. She looks ahead to college. For her it can't come quickly enough, and she runs ahead, her eyes on the horizon which holds all of her dreams. I kneel and pray, as I watch, because I can see the cracks in the sidewalk that could cause her to stumble. This girl who, just yesterday it seems, stood dressed as a mermaid and sang ,"Part of Your World" in her elementary school talent show, and never missed a beat. She has known since she was in the fifth grade, just what she wanted to be when she grew up, and has not deviated from it since. This amazing creature who can at one moment be so sure of herself and yet, when given an assignment to list her top ten best features, could only come up with three. I felt my own face this time, take the same shape my parents had so many times. I watched her looking back quizzically, her eyes asking mine what this new expression was. My heart was aching for the fact that she cannot see what I see. I could make a never ending list of her good qualities, and I tell her often of them, at the same time knowing that she will not understand until she becomes a mother herself.
It is the same for my sweet son, who, upon arriving home just yesterday was not himself. I asked how his day was and he replied that it was fine. My mothers heart knew different. An hour or so passed until tears filled his eyes and began trickling down his precious face. This boy who's imagination carries him to lands where he will protect his home and the inhabitants with a light saber, and where houses are made of Lego's, had a broken heart. While he and his newest crush sat next to each other on the bus ride home, he was taunted by the other boys. They do not see what he sees in this girl. Again I walk the line, and search for the words to explain how important it is for us all to follow our own hearts and not what is defined as important by others. This will be revisited many times through his life, and while next time he may not fit on my lap as he does now, I will take him once again into my arms, with the same expression on my face and do my utmost to comfort and explain. He will once again look into my own eyes questioning why they are filled with tears.
I find comfort in the time with my youngest, still at an age where the worst of boo-boos can be soothed away with a kiss. I carry his pain long after he has forgotten the tears.
I pray that one day my children will become parents,not because it is what is expected, but because I know that only then will they feel their own expression change, tears filling their eyes, and will finally understand what it is to love something so deeply that you would carry their scars and proudly wear them as a badge of honor. My children will once again look into my eyes and find the same expression I see now when I look at my parents in the presence of their own children and grandchildren. It is no longer a look of the need to carry a burden for me, although I am sure that still comes at times, but instead a look of pride, and of knowing that I finally understand what it means to walk the line and proudly carry the scars.

...and the Oscar goes to...Matt Kenseth

My sweet husband, Brian, grew up in North Carolina. His weekends were spent with his family at the Asheville Speedway. Family road trips took him to Darlington, and Charlotte. NASCAR is in his blood, and he could most likely tell you the winner of the Daytona 500 from the first race to the most recent.
I, on the other hand grew up in Florida, and from the first time I had control of the remote, have been an awards season junkie. I would stand in front of my stuffed animal collection and make my Oscar speeches thanking each and every one of them for their contribution to my fame. I would look forward to awards season as much as I do Girl Scout Cookie season now. The closest I have ever come to being a sports fan was a two year stint as a middle school cheerleader. Rather than discussing the game, we would discuss how unfair it was that our uniform skirts had to reach the top of our knee, while the Catholic girls were allowed much shorter, and more flattering skirts. The church elders didn't seem to understand, or care, that the length of our skirts was unflattering. (What I would give for my seventh grade knees.)
My husband is a fan of the Giants and the Yankees. Rusty Wallace was his man until he retired.
I have, many times tried to understand sports. I thought it would be fun to be a sports wife, but would get caught up in how I looked in my jersey and forget all about the game.
One day, in the beginning of our relationship, I picked my then four year old daughter up from pre-school. As we pulled out of the parking lot, she said emphatically,"I hate Jeff Gordon, he wears pantie hose." I really didn't know where this came from, but I had an idea.
I tried my best not to laugh out loud and replied,"Sweetie we don't hate anyone, we don't even know the man."
Later that evening when Brian came over for dinner, I told him of her earlier announcement. To this day I wish I had a picture of his expression. A sense of pride washed over his face, and I honestly think there was a tear in his eye. He still denies having given her the line, but I hold onto my suspicion.
For a time we had a delightful #2, Rusty Wallace, Miller Light, bar mirror hanging in our bedroom. The look on my sweet man's face when he brought it home was akin to the look the father has in,"A Christmas Story", when he opens the leg lamp. Mine, I am sure, was closer to the mother's. Sadly the mirror didn't match the decor when I redecorated the bedroom while he was out of town, and it ended up under the bed, and now resides in a closet.
When Dale Earnhardt was killed in the 2001 Daytona 500 my beloved mourned. We watched the memorial service together. I think it was one of the first times I saw him cry. His childhood hero, "The Intimidator",was gone.
I knew how he felt, as I had mourned when Michael Landon had passed away. I am not making a joke. I was huge fan of "Little house on the Prairie".
I will never forget the day I came home and asked ,"Hey honey, do you know how NASCAR got it's name?"
He went into the historical overview, almost killing the moment.
"Nope,"I replied,"There were two rednecks watching a race and one turned to the other and said, 'Hey, that's a naaaaiicecaaaarrr'." I broke into hysterics, while he stood stoic, realizing for the first time that he was in love with a woman who might never truly accept his passion.
His love of sports and my love of awards season have coexisted happily for many years now. There was a hiccup during the last Superbowl, which we mistakenly watched together. As he watched happily, I interrupted with,"Why is the grass two different colors?"
"I don't see it," he replied, eyes not deviating from the game.
"Do the winners stay and party in Tampa" I asked innocently.
"Not sure," was his answer, not wanting to encourage this behavior,"I think they hop on a plane and party when they get home."
My final question of the night was this, "Do they have a private plane, or do they fly commercial?"
He reply was short, quick and exasperated,"Honey, I really have no idea, now do you want to go into the living room or shall I?"
Last night, though, the two worlds collided and while, surprisingly, the earth did not stop, something was forever changed.
It just so happened that second race of the year,the Auto Club500, was slated to begin at 5, the exact same time as the red carpet coverage. Feeling that it was slightly unfair to take over the kids t.v. for dresses, I passed and decided that surely the race would be over by the time the actual ceremony began. No such luck.
With the children tucked safely into bed, I settled in, ready to watch the Oscars. The big kahuna. The one we wait all year to see.
My husband had the same idea, sort of. Softly he climbed into bed, and quickly the channel was changed to FOX.
"But, I stammered, it's Oscar night".
"Sorry, it's chair night for you."(he actually said something much nicer, but it hurt just as much.)
He was right after all. Thursday he let me have the bedroom for, what I like to call,"McDreamy night". He had also worked all day on the computer and cooked dinner. I had to let him have the bed. As much as it hurt, it was only fair.
And so it began."Honey it's commercial, can you switch it for me?"
We watched as Penelope Cruz won for something. Remember, we were on the other channel.
"click" and we were back to the races.
"You know," my husband began," In 2010 racing season is going to be year round". He had a glimmer in his eye, which either meant that there was only one more year until his life would be perfect, or that he enjoyed crushing his adoring wife.
"I guess we had better start saving for the out building and a new t.v."I replied.
The t.v. beeped and words began to scroll across the bottom of the set.
"Penelope Cruz wins Best Supporting Actress, Vicki Christina Barcelona."
"OK," I thought to myself, "this could work. Ooh look, another commercial".
We watched as more nominees were announced.
"Honey, I haven't ever heard of any of these movies,"my sweet dumpling spouted.
"They are shorts, I think, that's beside the point."
click
At some point Jr.'s engine was running hot and out of the race he went. At approximately 10:25 p.m. eastern time, Matt Kenseth took the checkered flag, my man tossed the remote my way, rolled over and immediately began snoring.
"It's Oscar time," I yawned,"At least I will get to see the big ones."
I set the timer on the remote for thirty minutes, thinking inaccurately that it wouldn't go on past 11. I rolled over, covered up and got comfy, ready to watch in peace. I watched as the Best Original score and Song were introduced. I watched them dance and sing. I watched as the awards were given and the speeches made. A commercial break came with the announcement that, upon their return, they would announce Best Actor, Actress and finally Best picture. I rolled to my side and closed my eyes as the room went dark and I heard a click. As sure as the world the timer had worked right on schedule.
"It wasn't meant to be,"I thought to myself and calmly began my nightly prayers.
So, next February, if you happen to pass buy the house and see a blue light flickering out of the window of a tiny barn in our yard, come knock on the door. You may find me in a ball gown happily sipping champagne along with the celebrities. As you approach, however, use caution. If the roar of the engines can be heard through the night air, it may be my dear sweet, watching the race in his boxers under his carefully hung Rusty Wallace mirror.

A Toast

I come from a big family. It is larger due to the fact that we tend to adopt people. Friends, girlfriends and boyfriends. In this family, once your in, your in. It is a good thing. We don't do this because we want to take over the world or start a cult, it's just that once we love someone, that someone really has to work hard to make us un-love them. It hasn't happened yet, and to be honest I don't know that it ever will. I like it this way. There are more points of view, more hugs, more loved ones there to rally around us when we need it and for us to rally around them in their times of need.
One of these people with whom I share actual DNA is my big brother. Growing up, he was always just the big brother, and I was the stinky little sister. I'm sure that I drove him crazy most of the time. I remember one time trying to make him respect my stuffed animals (my dearest friends) and not understanding why in the world he would ever feel the need to throw one of them. Such disrespect.
In our pre-teen years we would have squabbles just as my own children do these days. He would get upset that my long dark hair had once again clogged the shower drain, and he would in turn be upset that I had danced on his, oh so cool water bed with my friends during a sleepover. He was still my big brother.
To this day I can remember the fear that took over my body while I sat in the backseat of the car, while following the ambulance that he was in. The neighborhood boys were playing football in the street and he and one of his opponents hit head on at full speed, my brother flew through the air landing straight on the top of his head. The seizure that followed resulted in the trip in the ambulance. I can't at this time remember exactly what I was thinking, but I do remember feeling the need to be at the hospital at all times.
The following year or so were sometimes difficult. He had mood swings which were attributed to the injury sustained in the football accident. To this day I can bring up something that he does not remember at all. I didn't realize at the time how difficult it must have been for him, and to this day I do not know what he went through. The frustrations he must have felt are unknown to me and for that my heart breaks. I was just the teenage girl who drove him crazy. For a while he dated my best friend. This came in handy at times and at others were difficult. But they were as in love as any teenage couple could be.
As I side note, that same girl is still one of my dearest friends. I treasure her as much as ever.
During this time my brother and I became confidants. And while we weren't as close as we are now, those years as much as any before or since helped shape up into the adults we are today.
When my daughter was born, he was in North Carolina before I left the hospital. On the trip home from the hospital he introduced me to the music of the Indigo Girls and Van Morrison. It's funny now to look back and think that the very same music that I hadn't heard before, could now be the soundtrack to my life.
He is the father to the very best nephew ever born to anyone. This boy brings me joy that I cannot put into words. He makes me laugh until I cry, and I love him every bit as much as I love my own children.
Now we are adults and while you would think that our relationship should be grown up as well, to be honest it isn't at all times. Every once in a while I will receive a text message that, if sent by anyone other than him, would result in my never speaking to them again. Usually it says something like," Hey stinky what's up", and in return I will send one that says, "Nothing goober, what's up with you." Once in awhile they become more colorful, but I am trying to keep this blog p.g. rated, and so that is all I am sharing for now.
His last visit to North Carolina was for the memorial service of our beloved Step-Father. Mom and Jimmy married when we were still young children and so in many ways it was like saying goodbye to another father. It was so hard for me and I know for him as well. I cannot put into words how it felt for him, when I became overwhelmed, to simply put his hand on my shoulder. He was once again, as he always has been, my big brother. We were there to comfort each other, this time as adults saying goodbye to a parent, instead of mending a bruise.
Today is his 35th birthday, and just this afternoon while checking to see if I had any comments on my last blog, I noticed that I had a "follower". Excitedly I clicked to see just who it was. As it loaded I thought to myself,"Who could it be? My Dad? I know that he has been reading my posts, or maybe it was one of my FB friends." No, My follower was of course my big brother. He was there rooting for me when I didn't even know that he knew I had started this blog. My big brother who has been next to me through every step in life. The big brother I adore and wouldn't trade for anything in the world.
So HAPPY BIRTHDAY BIG BROTHER...
I hope your dreams take you to the corners of your smiles, to the highest of your hopes, to the window of your opportunities, and to the most special places your heart has ever known.
I love you always and forever, your stinky little sister, Anneliese(panapizza)

Conspiracy Theory Anyone?

I thought I would take this time to introduce you to a different side of myself. Some of you may already know her, but to others, well, here she is.
Most days I live in the world of real things. Things that are backed up by good, strong evidence. Things like,oh let's say, inertia. You know, the kind of stuff we learned all about in elementary science class. (Thanks Mr.Woodberry). Some other time I will go into just how we experienced the law of inertia firsthand. It's a good story and includes illustrations, but I am getting off subject. I include my faith in this class of things that are real. I have tons of proof and will share this in another post as well.
This other me, or I should say, part of me, is conspiracy theorist. The world in which we live is full to the brim of the unexplained. Sasquatch, El Chupacabra, Swamp Ape... I could go on and on. UFOs could be on either list. They are not proven to exist, but try telling that to the 6 year old me who, while on a visit to New York, saw a strange light in the sky. My brother and I were convinced that we saw a UFO and told everyone in the house about it. I don't really remember what they said, but it was most likely something like, "Cool, really, o.k. it's bed time." Little did they know that it would be all over the newspaper the next day, and we thought we were the coolest. All that to say, you never know.
Yesterday I found a new and mysterious thing to ponder. It was errand day, which of course included a trip to the dreaded superstore. You know the one. I know, I know, I shouldn't shop there, because it is evil and taking over the world, and someday I will regret it. I actually did regret it, but not for the reasons you may expect. As I carried my 2 year old through the doors and grabbed the first over sized cart I came too, I realized that it might be best to stop first in the ladies room.
Now I must go back just a couple of steps.
The lighting in our bathroom at home is not what you would call high tech. I have always thought that possibly, someday, I would trick the whole room out with the mirror surrounded by lights, but that is on the same list as, oh, I don't know, a swimming pool, so for now we have lights that will just have to do. There is adequate light, in that I haven't ever gone out with lipstick on my ear, but little did I know just how inadequate it was. For the past month I have looked in the mirror and found new deeper crows feet. I have also realized that it was time to take care of my roots, but I went on with life and tried to put it off for as long as possible.
Fast forward back to the superstore. Now, it didn't seem that the lighting was that incredible when I walked in. It wasn't like some places you go where you actually have to feel for the stall door. (I never have understood why restrooms need ambiance, but that too is a discussion for another day.) The lighting was well, adequate, and when I say adequate I mean so far beyond adequate that I could see every single pore on my face in addition to each and every grey hair. I literally gasped at my appearance. I was one of those women. I was just sure that the other shoppers had taken one look at me and thought, "Oh that poor little boy. I can't believe she makes him shop with her looking like that!" I half thought that as I walked out, the host for Extreme Makeover (not the home edition)would be there waiting to whisk me away. I realized that it was not only time to take care of my roots, but oh say 2 months past time. I hoisted little man up to my hip and grabbed my 10 sizes too big cart and we made a bee line for the hair color aisle.
As I grabbed the box of super ultra gray covering dye, and checked my list to be sure that something else could be bumped for a day or so, it hit me. I don't think that they light those rooms to make it easier for shoppers. If they wanted to do that they might, say, bring the diapers down a shelf or two so that I don't have to climb like a monkey to grab the last remaining size 6 Pampers. They don't do it for ambiance either. I honestly think that they do it for pure unadulterated shock value. I am nearly convinced that they do it so I will run screaming toward the very aisle I didn't even need to visit before I entered that fateful room. Then as I was leaving the aisle I would pass the perfectly placed, newest and best Botox in a box that they are selling for $50, forgetting that I still needed bread, milk and three story high diapers. This would of course implement the need to split my order, paying with cash and the handy bank card, which now opened another method of payment therefore affording me the bottle of red (I'm no longer talking about hair color folks) that I so richly need and deserve. And why is this vino so richly deserved? Because with wrinkles and roots like that, I must have a very hard life.
Now this all may sound a bit like an over dramatic tangent. You could just attribute it all to lack of dedication to beauty on my part. Maybe it isn't a conspiracy at all, but instead just brilliant marketing. I would do more research, but the thought of asking my hubby to check out what his pores look like under the lights is as daunting as the thought of the looks I must have been getting from the other shoppers. So for now, friends it will have to remain a mystery. Investigate if you will, but be aware, it will cost you a cartload.

What Dreams May Come

As I may have mentioned in my last post, I am not anywhere near what you would call "computer savvy". Four months ago I thought the fact that I could attach pictures to an email was exciting. The farthest I dared venture into cyberspace was to print off the weekly coupon from my favorite craft store. Sounds boring right? Not for me (see earlier post). And so with this latest turning of the leaf, I have finally ventured into these new places and back to some old as well.
In addition to starting my own blog this week, I also ventured into the world of Facebook. My computer savvy daughter has been at me for the longest time to enter this new realm. I, in my age and lack of free time, could only think that if I am on the computer longer than say, the five minutes it takes to download and print said coupon, the laundry would surely grow to reach the ceiling and dinner would not be on the table until the pajamas were on. Also the fact that the thought of seeing classmates from high school gave me immediate hives.
Slowly I crept, in went my name, the name of my high school("Why in the world did they want that?", I thought to myself) finally, I completed the information page and went on, and the most amazing thing happened. People that I used to know started popping up. Up came a name I recognized, and I quickly realized that I should have pulled out the yearbook for this. I knew my best friend from childhood would be there, and just as she did throughout our teenage years, would help me through this new and scary phase. But as I clicked on her to be my "friend"(of course she would be first) another and then another name from my past. And it kept going.
With each new face or name, would come a memory and soon I was transported back into the days of side ponytails and weekly sleepovers. Back to when my friends and I would sit and dream of the life that would come. Would we really marry doctors and lawyers and live on the same street. Would we be rich. Another face, and I was 16, driving and singing to Trisha Yearwood. I still hear those songs and remember exactly what I was wearing the first time these same friends and I went out, with me behind the wheel. The wind through our hair and excited butterflies in our bellies. We thought that we were all grown up. We were the women that we would be forever, and nothing would change it. Nothing would ever hurt, we had no fear. We would go on just as we always had, loved ,well fed, and our worst day would be the day that our bangs wouldn't sit just right. Of course times weren't perfect, there were tears , but mostly from unrequited love or not having just the right thing to wear. Old memories of good times with even better friends.
And then slowly, my mind came back into focus, I was no longer sixteen, but in my thirties, and the dreams of a teenage girl were replaced by new dreams. Dreams, not of who my husband would be or what he might look like, for I am married to my soul mate and I know his face and every expression that comes with it, even with my eyes closed. Now instead of dreaming and giggling with my girlfriends, although we still do every chance we get, I dream with him, about what will come in the future. Will our children be doctors and lawyers? It doesn't matter half as much as whether they are happy and fulfilled. Will they live close, or will we travel to visit? Again, it does not matter because I hold them in my heart and would travel the globe if it gave us time together. And I realized, as I have so many times before, that the life I am living is far better than anything I could have imagined at 16. The love is deeper and more grand.
Who knows what will happen in the future. That is in the Lord's hands. But I am excited to see what dreams may come.