VBS: Faith, Fun AND FREEDOM...

I started this before yesterday's post, but I wasn't feelin' it. Hopefully it isn't as bad as it was yesterday...

Wow--it has been so long since I've been here--I am pretty sure that everyone went home--even the family members who felt obligated to read. I'll need to work on that, though I am not confident that I will be back for long. This summer is kicking my butt. What's that you say? It is only week number two (teehee...number TWO...I have problems!) and my children are in FULL DAY VBS this week? Yeah? Well...SO...

Speaking of VBS, I need to take a moment to give it the credit it deserves. For those of you who don't know (I'm not judging, but you are missing out--BIG TIME!), VBS is Vacation Bible School and it is the reason I am here now and not locked up somewhere scary. REALLY.

My son participated in VBS and I helped out with VBS when it was through our church in Virginia. He was about three I think when he first started. Maybe two...When my oldest daughter was old enough, she participated, too. We would rock out all year to:

"Here we are at the Great Bible Reef, with my bro-thers and sis-ters and the friendsthatImeet. Where Je-sus lovesallofus aswelove-eachother, it's the G-R-E-A-T. B-I-B-L-E. GREATBIBLEREEF..."

And the hard rock version of This Little Light of Mine (yes, there IS one...) until they were scratched up so badly ((the CDs--not my children--thought I should clarify--not so much because my children weren't scratched up, but because that would make less sense to the story I will eventually tell if I stop with all of these sidebars...) that I had no choice but to "retire" them (again--the CDs--NOT the children). LUCKILY, we sang them so frequently that a lot of the words are embedded into our brains. Our last year in Virginia were were invited to go to a SECOND VBS with Brayden's best buddy from our neighborhood. this VBS was even better for me as a mother because they FED my children lunch  before sending them home at 1:00. I'm not ashamed to admit that it was AWESOME and that my children were usually so wiped after VBS that they would immediately nap when we got home and my days were SOOOOO easy--even easier than the average day of being a stay at home mom (which is SO. VERY. EASY. According to those who do not do it. Just like TEACHING is so easy. For some who don't do it. And WAITING TABLES is so ea--okay--you get it).

So Virginia gave me my first taste of sweet freedom that VBS provided and I left there in November anxious to send my kids again. For the lessons of course. Unfortunately, VBS tends to be a summer thing--believe me--I checked. SO...after barely making it through the first seven months (and joining every MOMS/MOPS group within a fifty mile radius), VBS was in my cards again. We were invited to two and I found two others. That's right--don't judge. The way I saw it was that when I helped with VBS we loved having other people join us--it truly was the more the merrier (not the same holds true for staying at home with my children--just sayin'...) and we prided ourselves on having high numbers. I was actually helping them by sending my children. You're welcome.

The year after my VBS summer, I brought it up at my MOMS group and was not embarrassed to say that I would sign up for all of the VBSs in our area if I could find them all. People were a little wary at first and started looking around to see what other (more normal) mothers thought about my VBS theory. Why wouldn't I want to send my children to a camp where they will laugh, sing, create, exercise, and eat all day? Oh--and where they will learn a nice message to carry into our everyday lives? Why would I want to deprive them of that? More important than that--why would I want to deprive me  of that? I wouldn't.

This week's VBS has been fantastic! Brayden was home today with a belly ache, but he has truly enjoyed every other day and they are all wiped out from all of the fun they are having. I love hearing them sing their songs and try to apply the messages that they learn each day. I also love that I saw on my MOMS group's page that they now list all  of the VBS groups that meet in the valley (I KNOW--I lived in THE VALLEY--how cool is that?!)--just in case people want to bring their children. I like to think I had some influence there. I SAID I like to think it--it doesn't make it true.  I also like to think that ice cream helps in the depletion of fat. I'll let you know how that works out for me...

Six Degrees of Me

Well, this is day two of Smilegram Paper's Earth week giveaway; I hope you are all LOVING her page and entering to win. I LOVE when my friends win things. Even if I've never met them face-to-face (like my bloggy friends), I get excited just to hear that someone I like/and/or respect has won something. Probably unnaturally excited. It's the same feeling that I get when two people I know and like from two VERY different walks of life are friends on facebook. Example: A friend of mine from second grade is friends with a friend I met my first year of teaching in Charlotte, North Carolina. My third grade teacher was Mrs. Bergner (the woman DESPISED me) at Washington Hunt Elementary School in Lockport, NY (the part about Mrs. Bergner was unnecessary, but my self-assigned therapy is to talk about her hatred of me as much as possible so that I will eventually get over it. The woman was like four hundred when she taught me so I am pretty sure she is in a better place (though I am not 100% sure she is in a BETTER place. She WAS an incredibly mean woman. Just sayin'...) by now. Where was I? Oh--right--one friend from Lockport, NY and the other from Charlotte, NC.  How in the WORLD did these people meet (it wasn't through me)? What. A. Small. World.

My husband makes fun of me because I always ask people if they know OTHER people. He makes fun because it is rarely "Oh--my friend Spring Rain went to that school and would have graduated with you. Do you know her? She is over six feet tall and had pink hair at the time..." and is instead, "My cousin Joey lives in Italy--maybe you know him? He is about 6' tall and has dark hair and dark eyes...?" The thing that drives my husband so crazy is that the second scenario works more often than you would believe.

Two Februaries ago, my husband and I were at the airport bar (I love how that makes it sound like we are so worldly. I won't mention that it was when we went to the stupid Mayo Clinic. OOPS. I mentioned it. Oh well...) waiting for a connecting flight and had so much fun talking to this great couple (for my bigoted friends out there, take a breath--I don't want to send you reeling over the edge or anything...and I REFUSE to get into politics or religion today so please don't make me!) about their many travels. Both handsome gentlemen (NO NEGATIVE COMMENTS or you are not invited to play today...) own(ed) and work(ed) at a restaurant near Philly and were headed to their condo in Florida. They mentioned that they spent an entire summer in Scotland (which, I think you should know that I believe I am an expert in everything Scottish because my dear friend Kate and her husband (and the most gorgeous Godson you will EVER hope to see in your life--nope, not biased...just telling the truth...) lived on Isle of Sky for years. The funny thing is, I am no longer one hundred percent sure that it was even CALLED Isle of Skye. Was it Isle of Mann? No--his sister lives there. Hmmm...if only I had a way to research this right now...but that would take extra typing, and I HATE extra typing...What's that? Have I ever actually BEEN to Scotland? Umm...no...but knowing someone who lived there is enough, isn't it?!).

Being the self-proclaimed expert on Scotland, I offered (as I watched my husband roll his eyes--yes--I SAW you, Dave--I ALWAYS see you!), "Oh my goodness--my friends lived in Scotland--maybe you MET them!" This is when I saw these fine young gentlemen ALSO roll their eyes slightly (NOT as obviously) and exchange a look with each other. I'm sensing a theme here. I'm fairly certain that the look said, "Okay--this woman is LOOPY! Ever time we meet people, one or both of them end up being LOOPY..." At least, that is what OUR look would have said...

They tried to cover their tracks and to be as gentle as possible (they CLEARLY thought that I was certifiable. As do YOU I know...), mentioning (in a "Back away from the sharp objects" type of voice), how Scotland is quite a bit larger and more populated than some people think. I cowered, tail between my legs, while we discussed the restaurant business, medical issues and insurance issues at length. Somehow, the conversation (warily) came back to Scotland and my new friends mentioned buying jam from a croft (yep...I said "croft," because THAT is how Scottish-by-friendship I am!) in Glendale (Isle of Skye--I AM going with it because I am ALMOST certain that these names are correct...) while they were staying at a Bed and Breakfast there. I am about to LEAP out of my skin (or at the very least, my chair) because I am now almost POSITIVE that the people from whom they purchased their jam were my friends and I was quite thrilled by the fact that I could tell ALL THREE of these fine young gentlemen to SUCK IT. I don't know WHY I love that feeling so much (not the telling people to "suck it" feeling--the whole "I KNOW someone who drove on that same road..." feeling)--I just DO. I LOVE to feel like we are all connected and the more I speak to complete strangers like we have known each other for years, the  more I realize that we all indirectly HAVE known each other for years. It is especially comforting when speaking with someone fun and nice. Not-so-comforting when visiting with stupid or angry people, but I suppose every "family" has one. I'm pretty sure that the "one" in my family is me, but anyway...

It's like the six degrees of Kevin Bacon. I know that practically everyone on this planet is younger than me these days (yes, I know that statistics probably tell a different story, but if I weren't as lazy as I am I would give you the statistics of my life and show you that when I lived in Montana there were maybe three--okay--four moms that were my age in my MOMS and MOPS groups. I may have been the most emotionally immature one, but physically I was like a hundred and literally I was one of the oldest. I mean "literally" as in L-I-T-E-R-A-L-L-Y--not as in "possibly." I thought I should clarify. Again, there were MAYBE four of us even IN our thirties--it was seriously insane), but I like to hope that everyone reading this has at least HEARD of Kevin Bacon and if not Kevin Bacon, then at least the whole concept of the six degrees of separation. I COMPLETELY believe in this and feel that if we are going to uncover the six degrees, we need to communicate--loudly and frequently. Loudly so that people around you can possibly hear the names or places that you mention and perhaps jump in ("I couldn't help but overhear that you taught in Guam...") with their own information ("My sister taught in Guam for five years..."). Frequently because the more information you give people, the more likely they are going to find some connection. You know--if you throw enough against the wall, SOMETHING is bound to stick.

Why is this so important, you ask? I have absolutely no idea, but it FEELS important to me, so can that just be enough?

I could have been a Calligrapher

There is someone living in my basement. No...it isn't my Great Aunt Edie and I'm not talking about my mouse (EVER. I am NOT TALKING about my MOUSE EVER.)It is someone with opposable thumbs. I know this because on the oh-so-rare occasion that it is silent in my house--bahahahahahahahahahaha--sorry--that whole "silent" thing really made me laugh--I hear a toilet flush or a door close. When these things happen I pause for a moment, then think that I am happy that at least SOMEONE flushes the toilet in this house and then I move on to whatever I was doing prior to the door closing or toilet flushing, which in this case, was "talking" to you. One of these days someone is going to come bursting through the basement door at me, expecting a fight, but I'm pretty sure I will continue typing. Unless it is one of my children so-help-me...but they are still too young to try to skip school. Right? And surely I would notice--right? Well, the school would certainly CALL me--RIGHT?! It had BETTER be the polite ghost of some dead relative or I am going to be P-I-S-S-E-D.

 So anyway, I dropped Addison off at school this morning and one of the dads (Yes, DADS. They parent, too (unless I am in a pissy mood and feel like bashing them)--in this case MUCH better than I do!)handed me a calligraphied (I don't care if I spelled it wrong because I haven't USED or THOUGHT of the word since the sixth grade when I was thinking abouut making it my career. Yes..."calligraphying" as a career. Of course, I could probably make MUCH more than I'm making right now with my master's degree that is buried beneath old bibs and burp cloths and I'm PRETTY sure that "Calligrophy" school would not have cost FORTY THOUSAND DOLLARS...) envelope with Addison's name and a sweet sticker on it.

Sidebar: On MONDAY. Of this week. I brought in chicken-scratched-dollar-store invitations (that didn't even MATCH!) to Addison's birthday party that is SATURDAY. THIS Saturday. The sweet child with the calligrophied envelope? December 17th. You know--enough time for people to plan and RSVP--oh and to buy their present for Toys 4 Tots because the sweet little girl (who NEVER complains when HER mother combs her hair or asks her to wear clothes that MATCH. Or clothes THAT FIT.) has enough toys (WAIT 'til they see MY house!) and wants to help needier children instead. The beautifully typed invitation was quite clear on the directions unlike my invitations that may or may not have had a phone number OR an address.

I. SUCK. I do--I know I do, but I can't stop myself from sucking (get out of the gutter--THAT stopped long ago...)! This is such a great idea for next year (which we all know I will be lucky to give ANY of my kids parties next year (a lot of you know the July birthday/Halloween celebration story of '09--those who don't, it's pretty much JUST like it sounds!)and several of my friends are just as good as this dad (okay, I'm just gonna say it because we ALL are thinking it--DADS included--this was ALL the mom, right? Unless the mom is like ME so the dad has to make up for it...INTERESTING. Of course, there is always OUR situation: the mom is like ME AND the DAD is like ME. It doesn't make for a good birthday planner, I'll tell you that!). Regardless, I'd better make damn sure I RSVP by the correct date. Now WHERE is that invitation...?

I LOVE my Children!

I DO NOT HATE MY CHILDREN. I LOVE my children. They make me crazy and try to hurt me physically on occasion, but I still LOVE them. MORE THAN LIFE. No, I'm not trying to convince myself, nor am I trying to convince YOU, I've just been told that what I deem to be funny may not actually be construed as funny. Who knew?! Oh, right. I did. But I supposedly didn't care. Yet here I am CARING again... But, really. I don't take ANYTHING that people say literally and I'm pretty sure that after "knowing" me for five minutes (or sentences), it's pretty obvious that I use hyperbole and poor metaphors to...engage my readers. Also, I pretty much spew out ANYTHING that comes to mind, feel quite adamant about it and then change my mind five seconds later. These...quirks...are probably what led me to all of the stories in the first place! That said, I am sorry that some of you are still appalled that I used the "H" word to describe my feelings about my children at that particular point in time. Let's get something straight--I would NEVER TELL my children I feel that way about them (though they all seem to have my sense of humor so they would more than likely KNOW that I didn't mean it...except for the boy. He tends to be a bit literal, but occasionally he surprises me...). In fact, I tell them I love them so often, they are actually a bit cocky about it at times. All three of them have been known to say, "But you love me too much to be angry, Momma..." at one time or another in their lives, and they are usually correct in that assertion. USUALLY. I AM guilty of commiserating about my "H" word of them with my husband when we are both exhausted, to other moms (who probably think I'm an awful parent, and to anyone who is nice enough to forage through my blog. I bet some of you even think that if I hadn't written (or THOUGHT) about my horrible feelings, maybe there wouldn't have been a hospital visit. Like maybe God is punishing me or something. I agree that God is punishing me at times (I really ticked Him (or Her?!) off when I was younger), but I don't think it's because I wrote mean words or spoke mean words about my children. I don't even think He would punish me for writing or saying mean words about my parents (though I'm P-R-E-T-T-Y sure my mother would!). I think that we need to say (or write!) our feelings aloud so that they lose power. If I sit and stew and pretend like I'm NOT upset that my children jump on me and torment me in the middle of the night or the fact that they are sassy and defiant on a regular basis, I am sure to explode one day on some unsuspecting stranger. Or even worse, I will explode AT my children instead of ABOUT my children. Also, for the longest time I thought I was the only one going through so many things. When I finally realized I wasn't alone, I got angry at those who pretended like they never endured the turmoils of parenthood. It would have been SO MUCH EASIER had I known that I wasn't crazy. For those things at least--we all know I'm a bit CRAZY in general, but that will be addressed eventually. I then decided that I would tell others--EVERYTHING--so that they would know that there are people out there going through the same things--sometimes worse--and THAT will hopefully keep them going. There was a time when I thought that this parenting thing had defeated me. I still have some days like that--where I'm R-I-G-H-T on the edge...Talking about and writing about these things isn't only (what I deem to be) helpful to others who may also be teetering on the edge, it is cathartic for me and pulls me back to solid ground. or at the very least, solid...ER?! ground. I was at the Rheumotologist a few weeks ago and he had Rachel Ray on in the waiting room. Kelly Ripa and...her husband Mark...C...(I'll get back to his last name when I think of it!) were on and I heard Rachel ask, "Do you have a favorite child?" to which Kelly responded (without hesitation), "ABSOLUTELY we do! Every parent has the ONE child they will save in a fire!" I was called in during her response, so I didn't get to see where they would go with that, but I found it to be HILARIOUS! Do I believe that Kelly and Mark would REALLY give up their other two without a thought? No. Just like YOU shouldn't believe that I hate my children. Not that I profess to be as funny as Kelly Ripa, (IMAGINE the number of readers I would have THEN!), but parents need to be able to laugh and use hyperbole to get through...well, PARENTING! CONSUELOS. Mark CONSUELOS. I really seem to give dads second billing, don't I?! I even always say "We are going to my Mom's house," or "...Dave's Mom's house..."and "...Dave's Aunt Peg's house.." and even though she died in 2001, "My Nonnie's house..." up until my children were born and it was FINALLY "Papa's beach house..." because they LOVE to visit my Papa and if I told them we were going to my Nonnie's house they wouldn't know WHERE we were going since they never met her! My point? I DON'T KNOW! Oh--the fact that I don't give dads enough credit. My DAD, DAVE'S DAD, DAVE'S UNCLE BOB...I'll work on that! SO...please stop thinking that I am a horrible mother for using the "H" word when describing my occasional feelings toward my children. INSTEAD, think I'm a horrible mother for telling my daughter (after she asked no less than fifteen times while I was on hour THREE of trying to finish reading an article in the paper) that yes, she COULD put syrup on her potatoes simply because I didn't feel like getting up to heat them up. ("Mom, can I have syrup on my potatoes?" "NO. You MAY not put syrup on your potatoes." "PLEASE MAY I put syrup on my potatoes?" "No, you may ABSOLUTELY NOT put syrup on your potatoes." Pause while she visits the potatoes and I reread the same line for the eleventh time. "But Mom, I LIKE syrup on my potatoes." "I imagine you do, SINCE YOU ASKED FOR IT, but you may not put syrup on your potatoes." "But MOM..." this went on for eleven or twelve more times until she came back with "OOOHHH well, FINE. Then could you AT LEAST (I need to have a chat about the use of the words "AT LEAST" in my house on another day) heat the potatoes up in the thingamabobber...hahaha...just kidding...microwave for me?! They are cold..." Pause. Try to finish sentence. Can't do it. Pause. Sigh. "Fiiiiiiiiine! You may have syrup on your potatoes." Without even LOOKING at my husband, I laughed and told him to shut it as he said, "Maybe not your FINEST parenting moment," and I'm wondering what WAS my finest parenting moment? I am CHOOSING to believe that there are SO MANY, it's hard to think of just one. And THAT is what denial does to a person.