tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42449740329880987852024-03-13T08:42:50.750-07:00Domestic Diva DisasterMy house was clean and my children were perfect ... yesterday.
Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4244974032988098785.post-89366378994661729432018-05-01T17:42:00.003-07:002018-05-01T17:42:51.998-07:00Please Visit My New Blog: Life in Avoid<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">When we moved into inner-city Atlanta, I started a new blog: Life In Avoid. Here's my email signature:</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="color: #000066;">++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++</span></b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i>What happens when a suburban white mom uproots her family and moves into the 'hood? Find out in </i><b>Life in A<span></span>void: Ordinary Life in an Extraordinary Place.</b><i><br /><br /><a href="http://blog.lifeinavoid.com/" target="_blank"><b>http://blog.lifeinavoid.com/</b></a></i></span></span></span></span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i><br /></i></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i>Transitioning from Suburban Mom to Urban Missionary. </i></span></span><i>One crazy-ass step at a time.</i></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="color: #000066;">+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++</span></b></span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #000066;">So
if you like what you see here, grab a cup of coffee and join me in
Avoid. BTW: To understand the name of the bog, start with the first
post: <b><a href="http://blog.lifeinavoid.com/2015/06/i-live-in-avoid.html" target="_blank">I Live in Avoid.</a></b></span></span></span><b><span style="color: #000066;"><br /></span></b></div>
Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4244974032988098785.post-61977859649685081732015-03-27T12:11:00.003-07:002015-03-27T18:47:01.669-07:00Like a Thief in the NightQuestion: Are all children just natural-born thieves? Does everyone's house get burgled on a regular basis ... from the inside?<br />
<br />
In this house, nothing is sacred.<br />
<br />
No. Thing.<br />
<br />
Not pencils. Not toys. Not food. ESPECIALLY not food.<br />
<br />
I was not prepared for the amount of food young boys can eat. Teenagers, yes. I buy lunch meat, cereal, and milk by the truckload for the teenagers. But that's so typical, it goes without saying. No one was ever surprised by how much a teenage boy eats. <br />
<br />
But it ain't the teens that are killing me.<br />
<h4>
It's the minions. </h4>
They are 9 and 10, but they eat like 15 and 16. And it's not like I starve them.<br />
<br />
<i>They have hot breakfast at least 3-4 times a week.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>They have a morning snack at school.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>They have a good-sized lunch.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>They have a snack in the afternoon. Frequently multiple snacks.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>They have a <strike>good</strike> filling dinner every night.</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIFR-DW4YC1MQrqeHBRpAzmVBb2oTVMddx83buiuDc3tV91bFp1IM-7WmvUEvMx3uYMaDhXKGXYyLxuRqlPYTlN0r8sTlEg33ETxLmMJdtePQ_TMJTiKrr_NzEOUtI8B1DLjErgqy7hP60/s1600/Minion_Banana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIFR-DW4YC1MQrqeHBRpAzmVBb2oTVMddx83buiuDc3tV91bFp1IM-7WmvUEvMx3uYMaDhXKGXYyLxuRqlPYTlN0r8sTlEg33ETxLmMJdtePQ_TMJTiKrr_NzEOUtI8B1DLjErgqy7hP60/s1600/Minion_Banana.jpg" height="187" width="320" /></a></div>
But apparently that's not enough. Granola bars have a shelf life that can be calculated in hours. I buy about three bags of those Cutie oranges every week. We go through a dozen yogurts in the blink of an eye. And the bananas ....<br />
<br />
<i>Oh my — the bananas! Don't get me started on bananas.</i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
</div>
<br />
But it's not the eating that bothers me. It's the sneakiness.<br />
<br />
Every now and again, I'll go comb through their room, and what do I find?<br />
<br />
Orange peel on the bookcases.<br />
<br />
Granola bar wrappers in the pillowcase.<br />
<br />
Candy and cheese stick wrappers under the bed.<br />
<br />
An empty bag of marshmallows in the closet.<br />
<br />
Squished juice boxes under the chair. <br />
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
So we decided to get sneaky right back.</h4>
We recently purchased a new wireless security system for the rental house we're moving into and the house we are building. And we decided to give it a test. In the kitchen.<i><b> [Insert devilish laugh here.]</b></i><br />
<br />
We warned the kids ... we set up a camera on top of the kitchen cabinets that was pointed at the pantry door. They know it's there. And I have to admit, it seems to have cut down on the renegade snacking.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">But then we took it up a notch. We put an alarm on the pantry door. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj97wmZeBVRmpybDY7RXV0i44nJ0dCUauiR4Gpz25Jtm8uccd9U4fSoO05sfa5DiOd_pxpvqvhjDK3aowG-0kNd4oPoybUXevfCKR2hNUav3yU2w9tNHeaj4Zr2UfGs3z7hSKeiAi4cYGBu/s1600/Pantry+Alarm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj97wmZeBVRmpybDY7RXV0i44nJ0dCUauiR4Gpz25Jtm8uccd9U4fSoO05sfa5DiOd_pxpvqvhjDK3aowG-0kNd4oPoybUXevfCKR2hNUav3yU2w9tNHeaj4Zr2UfGs3z7hSKeiAi4cYGBu/s1600/Pantry+Alarm.jpg" height="400" width="225" /></a></div>
The first night we armed it, we didn't tell the kids. At about 9:30 ... <i>loooooooong after bedtime</i> ... the alarm was tripped. Loud beeping came from the kitchen. My phone buzzed with the notification. Herb's phone buzzed too. We looked at each other and giggled.<br />
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
BUSTED!</h4>
Enter a wide-eyed nine-year-old.<br />
<br />
"What were you doing in the pantry?"<br />
<br />
"I thought I heard <b>you guys</b> in there, so I came down to see what was up."<br />
<br />
"No way, kid. Not buyin' it."<br />
<br />
"No really! I thought I heard you!"<br />
<br />
"Good try. Back to bed."<br />
<br />
As he walked away, I heard him mutter, "An alarm ... on the pantry. No way."<br />
<br />
<i><b>Yes way.</b></i> <br />
<br />
But you know what? I bought a box of granola bars the other day. It's still there, on the shelf, where it's supposed to be. <i>And there are still granola bars in it.</i><br />
<br />
Maybe ... just maybe ... I'll stop going to the pantry and reaching into a box to find out it's empty. I'll stop going to make a recipe that chocolate chips and find the bag missing. And maybe one day ... a banana will turn brown.<br />
<br />
A mom's gotta have hope, right? <br />
<br />
Eat well,<br />
<h4>
DDD</h4>
Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4244974032988098785.post-89117426093672102972015-02-08T06:26:00.000-08:002015-02-08T06:32:51.187-08:00Why I Hate FacebookYesterday a friend had posted on her page that her daughter had
requested one of those necklaces with two parts. You keep one half and
give the other half to your <span style="color: orange;"><i>Best Friend!</i></span> She gave the other half to her
brother, who gladly put it on. She was proudly gushing about how close
they are, how they really are best friends, and how one day the other will volunteer to be a live brain donor so they can not only be best friends, but also think <i>the exact same thing at the exact same time.</i><br />
<br />
<i>[OK. That last part was false and just a little snarky.] </i><br />
<br />
When I read posts like that, I'm jealous. I soooo want this for my
boys. But at this point in their lives, I'm be lucky if they are
speaking to each other at the end of each day. There is absolutely nothing wrong with her being happy that her kids love each other. There is nothing wrong with her saying so on Facebook.<br />
<br />
I'm. Just. Freaking. Jealous.<br />
<br />
So .... last night after I read the post, I commented:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyiluFB0_j5uGg-rRBlsgGFL8Rp-D3DlfNRbQPcBlEuB5O7Zn8ziXOdLPdiQP4GWZ2TIOMG3EcOXgDjS3sth6Cp0QCbsFIRSGAFDFoJ3Li9Ne0tw5FCpykbwvI7W4lOnnk50l6_dIGyFXq/s640/blogger-image--211854357.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="158" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyiluFB0_j5uGg-rRBlsgGFL8Rp-D3DlfNRbQPcBlEuB5O7Zn8ziXOdLPdiQP4GWZ2TIOMG3EcOXgDjS3sth6Cp0QCbsFIRSGAFDFoJ3Li9Ne0tw5FCpykbwvI7W4lOnnk50l6_dIGyFXq/s400/blogger-image--211854357.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Fast forward to this morning.<br />
<br />
<i>[Sunday confession: Herb is out of town with the minions. Sandy spent the night away because he was up half the night working on a school project. So I'm alone in the house on a Sunday morning. Even though I woke up early this morning, I read a novel and drank a cup of coffee instead of doing my quiet time. Then I got on Facebook ostensibly to check on good news from a girl in my boys' school who is fighting cancer, but instead I clicked on my news feed.]</i><br />
<br />
Oh, goody! More people had comments on my friend's post about her kids who are <i><span style="color: orange;">Best Friends!</span></i> I'm sure others are also bemoaning how their kids should be cage fighting instead of in elementary school. Let me postpone my quiet time again to read these comments, which are sure to assuage my fears that my children will end up on Jerry Springer or Dr. Phil.<br />
<br />
<h4>
Stupid, stupid, stupid.</h4>
<br />
Some comments:<br />
<br />
<span style="color: orange;"><b><i>"Good raising!"</i></b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: orange;"><i><b>"That's called good parenting and Christ in the center!"</b></i></span><br />
<br />
<h4>
Crap, crap, crap. </h4>
<br />
If kiddos who love each other and buy necklaces declaring that they're <i><span style="color: orange;">Best Friends!</span> </i>have <span style="color: orange;"><i>Good raising!</i></span> does that mean that my kids are the result of bad raising?<br />
<br />
If sibling harmony is the result of <span style="color: orange;"><i>Christ in the center!</i> </span>who's at our family's center? Satan?<br />
<br />
*sigh*<br />
<br />
Excuse me while I go eat banana pudding for breakfast ... in bed ... and finally do my quiet time. After which, if I still feel like a crappy parent, I may pop onto Amazon and see if anyone makes a necklace appropriate for my boys. Perhaps one that says...<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: purple;"><i>"I barely tolerate your existence, and would probably choose to never be in your presence again if we were not genetically bound together and live in close proximity. Until such time as I am self-sufficient and of a majority age, I will continue to harrass you, beat you, call you names, make fun of you in front of your friends, blame you for things I have obviously done, and in general make your life a living hell."</i></span></blockquote>
<br />
I'm sure someone makes that, right? <br />
<br />
<h4>
DDD</h4>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4244974032988098785.post-67643824227898074142015-01-11T14:24:00.000-08:002015-02-08T06:28:19.427-08:00How I Met Your FatherEvery day, in living rooms and cars around the world, children ask, "Mommy, how did you meet Daddy?" Of course, this is after the idea that Mom and Dad have not <i><b>always</b></i> been Mom and Dad has sunk in. Which usually takes a few years and several conversations and a great deal of confusion. I mean, after all, our entire existence is tied to theirs, right?<br />
<br />
<i>Riiiiiiiight. </i><br />
<br />
<i>Anywho....</i><br />
<br />
Well, I'm recording this for posterity, and for my children. And for all those people who have asked to hear our {crazy, weird, ironic} story.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<i> </i><br />
When I was a single mom, I hung out at church with the "Mid-Singles" instead of the "Young Singles." Even though I was only 30, I felt more at home with the middies because when you're a single mom and small business owner, you don't necessarily have a lot in common with fresh-faced recent college grads who still have their first "real" job.<br />
<br />
So that fateful afternoon, I was at a Mid-Singles social with my four-year-old son Sandy. You know: cookout, volleyball, the usual schtick. A bunch of parents and kids of varying ages and some never-marrieds. I have two distinct memories from that day:<br />
<br />
<h4>
1. There was a tacky guy there who brought a date.</h4>
Seriously? A date? To a singles function? How tacky! If you already have a boyfriend/girlfriend, please don't bring them to a singles function. We singletons are not interested in your already-coupled-up bliss, thank you very much. Go to some restaurant with low lighting and a wine list and leave the rest of us alone. It also relieves the desire to make fun of you behind your back. And hate you just a little. <br />
<br />
<h4>
2. There was a really obnoxious kid. </h4>
I'll say it at the outset: I suck at volleyball. And baseball. And tennis. And just about all sports. But (occasionally) it doesn't stop me from playing. For whatever reason, this day, I played. And I sucked.<br />
<br />
<i>Status quo: Intact.</i><br />
<br />
I took a break from playing to go get a drink. While pouring my diet Coke, a kid sidled up to me. Maybe 3 - 4 years out of diapers. But old enough to know better.<br />
<br />
Him: "You aren't very good at volleyball, are you?"<br />
Me: "No, not really."<br />
Him: "Well .... maybe you shouldn't play."<br />
<br />
<i>Me: (silently) "Who is this obnoxious child, and what crappy parent does he belong to?</i>"<br />
<br />
Fast forward a couple of months to August.<br />
<br />
A girlfriend of mine holds her birthday dinner at Joe's Crab Shack. I have Braves tix for Sandy and me that afternoon. She assures me that it's OK to bring Sandy to the dinner, so that's cool. I planned to go home and shower and change after the game because to me Braves game = tanning opportunity. I was wearing no makeup and a tank top and shorts. But the game ran long and leaving Turner Field quickly is ... well ... impossible. So I ended up going directly to dinner, sweat and all.<br />
<br />
As I stand outside the restaurant talking to a (different) girlfriend, Sandy suddenly bolts into the parking lot towards another kid and his dad.<br />
<br />
Sandy: "Ian!"<br />
Ian: "Sandy!"<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcj4ySKqgPvFlAMniK8mBJzjTTC7wmeH_QiE7FnWNxMSEmclCWwyisbujEa6akk8vhrGcAGkxzQX0AiCkFNNgwbrsqaPCyp9UOf3yJ8pA2DKBpprN4IkvTdFg7nXhtmkz-4zeXRHsKvB1e/s1600/1930086_119218935609_1460680_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcj4ySKqgPvFlAMniK8mBJzjTTC7wmeH_QiE7FnWNxMSEmclCWwyisbujEa6akk8vhrGcAGkxzQX0AiCkFNNgwbrsqaPCyp9UOf3yJ8pA2DKBpprN4IkvTdFg7nXhtmkz-4zeXRHsKvB1e/s1600/1930086_119218935609_1460680_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Herb and Ian (left side), Sandy and me (center)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
What the heck? I turn to my friend and ask her who the dad is. Our kids apparently know each other, so ... um ... if I'm supposed to know the dad, I'd really like to find out before I embarrass myself.<br />
<br />
Name doesn't ring a bell, so I'm pretty sure we don't know each other. But it's obvious the kids do. All through that dinner, I'm talking to my friends trying to figure out who the good-looking dad is and where Sandy and Ian may have met. Little do I know, Ian's-dad is at the other end of the table asking his friends about me. <br />
<br />
And the rest is history. I married the tacky guy, and the obnoxious kid is my son.<br />
<br />
Next to the word "Irony" in the dictionary, there is this picture:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCL0GEarlNgg3jmIFkt5B3quDz17NExQRs3JeyD3c6l6efBFIIfHYnzO0WSJBAbTIn-_PkuFvGmLlCTCAlHk-o3aBxctjsiN04xCvby8N5xp9us2UvZ0exJ7Gb1gRdpA2OXXOBqCLXgPcl/s1600/10560567_10204806678635096_918034072458063966_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCL0GEarlNgg3jmIFkt5B3quDz17NExQRs3JeyD3c6l6efBFIIfHYnzO0WSJBAbTIn-_PkuFvGmLlCTCAlHk-o3aBxctjsiN04xCvby8N5xp9us2UvZ0exJ7Gb1gRdpA2OXXOBqCLXgPcl/s1600/10560567_10204806678635096_918034072458063966_o.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ian, Jordan, Herb, Joshua, me, Sandy - 12 years later</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4244974032988098785.post-32915079443737701792015-01-01T14:51:00.000-08:002015-01-12T08:36:18.978-08:00She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not<i>[Herb asked me to post this. I wrote it for the <a href="http://gardenandgun.com/" target="_blank">Garden & Gun magazine's</a> <a href="http://gardenandgun.com/article/good-dog-canine-inspiration" target="_blank">"Good Dog" essay</a> contest and apparently did not win as I never heard anything. But when Garden & Gun published <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Good-Dog-True-Stories-Loyalty/dp/0062242350" target="_blank">a book of "Good Dog" essays</a>, I gave Herb this essay as a "P.S." to the book. The little essay that G&G forgot. Now I share it with you.]</i><br />
<br />
<style>
<!--
/* Font Definitions */
@font-face
{font-family:"Courier New";
panose-1:2 7 3 9 2 2 5 2 4 4;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;}
@font-face
{font-family:Wingdings;
panose-1:5 2 1 2 1 8 4 8 7 8;
mso-font-charset:2;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:0 0 65536 0 -2147483648 0;}
@font-face
{font-family:Cambria;
panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;}
@font-face
{font-family:"Helvetica Neue";
panose-1:2 0 5 3 0 0 0 2 0 4;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;}
/* Style Definitions */
p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal
{mso-style-parent:"";
margin:0in;
margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:11.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:"Helvetica Neue";
mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria;
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:"Helvetica Neue";
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}
p.MsoListParagraph, li.MsoListParagraph, div.MsoListParagraph
{margin-top:0in;
margin-right:0in;
margin-bottom:0in;
margin-left:.5in;
margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-add-space:auto;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:11.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:"Helvetica Neue";
mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria;
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:"Helvetica Neue";
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}
p.MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst, li.MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst, div.MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst
{mso-style-type:export-only;
margin-top:0in;
margin-right:0in;
margin-bottom:0in;
margin-left:.5in;
margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-add-space:auto;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:11.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:"Helvetica Neue";
mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria;
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:"Helvetica Neue";
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}
p.MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle, li.MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle, div.MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle
{mso-style-type:export-only;
margin-top:0in;
margin-right:0in;
margin-bottom:0in;
margin-left:.5in;
margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-add-space:auto;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:11.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:"Helvetica Neue";
mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria;
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:"Helvetica Neue";
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}
p.MsoListParagraphCxSpLast, li.MsoListParagraphCxSpLast, div.MsoListParagraphCxSpLast
{mso-style-type:export-only;
margin-top:0in;
margin-right:0in;
margin-bottom:0in;
margin-left:.5in;
margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-add-space:auto;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:11.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:"Helvetica Neue";
mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria;
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:"Helvetica Neue";
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}
@page Section1
{size:8.5in 11.0in;
margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in;
mso-header-margin:.5in;
mso-footer-margin:.5in;
mso-paper-source:0;}
div.Section1
{page:Section1;}
/* List Definitions */
@list l0
{mso-list-id:1808351804;
mso-list-type:hybrid;
mso-list-template-ids:-1952835528 67698689 67698691 67698693 67698689 67698691 67698693 67698689 67698691 67698693;}
@list l0:level1
{mso-level-number-format:bullet;
mso-level-text:;
mso-level-tab-stop:none;
mso-level-number-position:left;
text-indent:-.25in;
font-family:Symbol;}
ol
{margin-bottom:0in;}
ul
{margin-bottom:0in;}
-->
</style>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ9L8HpbIu7D6N2eP2ON9pOd8TcYz9wjmJ3m2MpWR26hPjiZGEH3EdYka97oizo0uLLegE7lnv6OVKHQyEFJj5fYX-1Y31O_4bMkaf-P-zoOXLjgBgrrc9LdOLNqdTeQC4sLPHjM2YfC2U/s1600/Titan+in+glasses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ9L8HpbIu7D6N2eP2ON9pOd8TcYz9wjmJ3m2MpWR26hPjiZGEH3EdYka97oizo0uLLegE7lnv6OVKHQyEFJj5fYX-1Y31O_4bMkaf-P-zoOXLjgBgrrc9LdOLNqdTeQC4sLPHjM2YfC2U/s1600/Titan+in+glasses.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Titan and I had a love/hate relationship. This started
almost immediately because I felt like I was sold a completely fake bill of
goods when we chose him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /></div>
<h4 class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Promise #1: </b></h4>
<h4 class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">“Dogs and
cats really do get along.”</b></h4>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My husband promised me that Titan would get along with my
seven-year-old tabby cat, Belle. I believed him. He was wrong.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h4 class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Promise #2: </b></h4>
<h4 class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">“He’s already
big for a Dobe. He won’t get any bigger.”</b></h4>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Titan was 75 pounds when we got him. He topped out at 105.
Honestly, the name should have given him away. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was a rescue dog, so we didn’t know anything about him
but an approximate age (2 ½) and that he was found wandering around Gwinnett
County, a suburb of Atlanta. He was taken in by Doberman Rescue, and lived in a
loving home with several other Dobes waiting for a forever family. He was my
Christmas present to my husband in 2003.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fSc7s5ckbzwRhLepWtDyyeHRFIXgMYl6Pehm77KNAthetUMMnVHO11U9U5dKrvI0lYZOsCrQu1OnbOBG_SqJzk6vkCu0fafUOPKvBzGcZerFEvv7rUMy-fZWs_khAcSrGMCZV-JosTg7/s1600/Titan+and+Joshua.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fSc7s5ckbzwRhLepWtDyyeHRFIXgMYl6Pehm77KNAthetUMMnVHO11U9U5dKrvI0lYZOsCrQu1OnbOBG_SqJzk6vkCu0fafUOPKvBzGcZerFEvv7rUMy-fZWs_khAcSrGMCZV-JosTg7/s1600/Titan+and+Joshua.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was pregnant with our third boy when we adopted Titan. Our
baby Joshua was born the following summer. Herb loves to tell the story about
how Joshua and Titan bonded one day when Joshua was about nine months old. Joshua
was teething and crawled around looking for something to chew on. Titan’s
un-cropped ear fit the bill. It was silky and floppy and just the right size
for a baby’s mouth. Herb and I walked into the living room, and Titan gave us
this pitiful look that simply said, “Help?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So if Titan was so gentle and sweet, where did the “hate”
part of love/hate come from? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh, dear. Where
should I start?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Titan’s bark registered on the richter scale, and the
barking got bad when people came to the door. Or walked by our house. Or
breathed in our general direction. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was worst when Herb wasn’t at home and I was. Did I mention
that my husband travels for work? So I’m at home… alone…a lot. My nerves were
frayed a good bit of the time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Titan also seemed to reserve his mischief for me. </div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>He ate my slippers, but never touched anyone
else’s. </div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>He ate a loaf of bread and 16 hamburger buns off
the kitchen counter as I was preparing for our youngest boy’s first birthday.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>He ruined my very first Coach handbag because he
smelled a package of Oreos in it. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(Ok, so
it was a total Coach fake bought from a street vendor in Shanghai, but that’s
beside the point.)</i></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>His favorite trash can to turn inside out was
the one next to my side of the bed.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>The night he chewed on the bone from a smoked
pork roast, I let him out to get sick every 15 minutes from 2 a.m. – 5 a.m.
Everyone else slept right through it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil7cJIX2Zo9XUOJJDQ2X0nejek6PPYch8OTBOZdO1ZJJ5fmsUIBjg2B2MdfbiJaWvTjLn5EAICMOf5QNWaULunmV1QkExrepwgfCgBVeFHPd7z_tNjMe3l3xCy7J7-bJZrbHgwegeLOnT2/s1600/Belle+in+sink.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil7cJIX2Zo9XUOJJDQ2X0nejek6PPYch8OTBOZdO1ZJJ5fmsUIBjg2B2MdfbiJaWvTjLn5EAICMOf5QNWaULunmV1QkExrepwgfCgBVeFHPd7z_tNjMe3l3xCy7J7-bJZrbHgwegeLOnT2/s1600/Belle+in+sink.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Belle hiding in the sink</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the worst was his relationship with my cat. Herb ended
up in the emergency room on December 26 — two days after Titan moved in — from
the bite he got from Belle when he tried to force them to be in the same room.
Titan had tried to eat Belle. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You think I’m kidding.
</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We had a baby gate at the bottom of our stairs ostensibly
for the children. Only the gate went up before the baby was born, when our only
children were 6 and 8, and stayed up for eight years. The gate was necessary to
keep Titan and Belle apart. If the gate was open, Titan would hunt for Belle. I
use the word “hunt” purposefully. He once ripped apart the mattress on a
trundle bed trying to get to Belle who huddled underneath it, literally fearing
for her life. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was six years before someone finally suggested to us that
Titan really did see Belle as food. He was a rescue dog. He had wandered the
streets for who-knows-how-long. He probably ate small, furry animals to stay
alive. Maybe … just maybe … he really saw Belle as his next meal.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the spring of 2011 we found out that Titan had bladder
cancer and a mass in his spleen. We didn’t know if the cancer had spread
elsewhere, but the doctor suspected so. After long, agonizing, tear-filled
discussions, we decided not to operate or do chemotherapy. The doctor said the
cancer probably wouldn’t take him; the mass in his spleen would. It could burst
tomorrow or it could burst six months from now. But that’s what would probably
take Titan from us. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We debated what to do about our summer vacation. Dogs were
not allowed. We decided to board Titan with the vet, so if anything went wrong,
the doctor would be right there. If we left him at home with a dog sitter, no
one we knew would be able to move a 105-pound Doberman if the need arose.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It happened a week after we left. I had just dropped off our
13-year-old with his dad in Chattanooga. He was leaving vacation a few days
early to attend football camp. On the way back to our condo in Sevierville, I
got the call from the vet. Titan was lethargic. He couldn’t stand up. It took
two men to get him out of his crate and into the examination room. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Did we have enough time to get back?” No. He wouldn’t last
another 5 hours. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I thought about Sandy…. He was back in Atlanta by now. I
called my ex-husband to speak to him. Titan was dying. He was the only one in
town. Would he be willing to go to the vet’s to be with him when she put him
down? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You don’t have to,” I remember saying. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He paused. “No, I want to.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTaRSt3WkdFNGSiYs5ItN6bxul_X-fbwZ8XH1lLWfQqezH5LgNAPCSeYnU6Nd-Twz58Lx89M09DKPllE7yb4NRoztBQOwui5iyKN2JRqMMWHm1E9Tgcqwf19G3G4u31EzRnD4yz1Vf2XOs/s1600/Titan+Marker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTaRSt3WkdFNGSiYs5ItN6bxul_X-fbwZ8XH1lLWfQqezH5LgNAPCSeYnU6Nd-Twz58Lx89M09DKPllE7yb4NRoztBQOwui5iyKN2JRqMMWHm1E9Tgcqwf19G3G4u31EzRnD4yz1Vf2XOs/s1600/Titan+Marker.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a>His father drove him to the vet, where Titan lay motionless
on the examination table. When Titan saw Sandy walk in, he lifted his head a
little. When Sandy put his hand on the table, Titan lifted his paw and put it
on Sandy’s hand. Sandy cried.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We did a three-way conference call: Herb back with the other
three boys at the condo, me from my cell phone on the side of the highway, and
Sandy at the vet’s. We were all “there” when Titan passed, but only Sandy got
to hold his hand. He still says it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After Titan died, the house was quieter. We could leave food
out again. But the kitchen floor was messier. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(You don’t realize how much a dog cleans up after four children until
he’s not there to do it.)</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I didn’t really know I loved Titan until I realized I
needed another dog. For me. The best way I could show Titan that he was loved
was to recognize that he left a dog-sized hole in our family that needed to be
filled. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We have Brenna because I finally realized that I loved
Titan. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8BaAACXcGkA_UX38TIXwEFz0xbJq5jUlRajl3xmS_aeNF0qFnreiejq9K5gV1WdhZRhvczYqCsdYVBgSwTwKQjvjJs8Cqd4jCCZ8wS43HSr51F9ampUMtIbMNR2aBzcg41Rcrq0ssAvUd/s1600/Brenna+and+me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8BaAACXcGkA_UX38TIXwEFz0xbJq5jUlRajl3xmS_aeNF0qFnreiejq9K5gV1WdhZRhvczYqCsdYVBgSwTwKQjvjJs8Cqd4jCCZ8wS43HSr51F9ampUMtIbMNR2aBzcg41Rcrq0ssAvUd/s1600/Brenna+and+me.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4244974032988098785.post-61379531444458786362014-12-26T19:42:00.001-08:002015-01-12T08:36:35.349-08:00Apologies to My MotherMoms put up with a lot. And I'm not saying that because I am one. I'm saying that because I have one. Sometimes, it's only in retrospect that we see what little buggers we were growing up. Every once in a while, when I am unselfish enough to let my kids get what THEY want instead of me getting what I want, I am reminded that my mother went through this also.<br />
<br />
Although far more often than I do.<br />
<br />
So I'm starting a list. A list of things I got mad at my mom for, when it turned out she was right.<br />
<br />
A list of things she warned me about, but I did anyway.<br />
<br />
A list of things she didn't get to do or have so I could do or have what I wanted.<br />
<br />
So here goes.<br />
<br />
<h4>
#1 — Cleaning for the cleaners.</h4>
<h4>
<a name='more'></a> </h4>
Mom, you were right. You do have to clean the house before the cleaners come. How many times did I stomp my foot, roll my eyes, and otherwise try to make you feel like a complete, blithering idiot for thinking that we needed to clean up before the cleaners came.<br />
<br />
Dear Lord: Can I please have the money back that I have wasted over the years by having cleaners come when the house looked like a tornado went through it?<br />
<br />
<h4>
#2 — <i>No Sex Please, We're British</i></h4>
That is in italics because it is the real name of a real play. A really bad play as I do recall. But my dear, suffering mother (and father) passed up seeing <i>Amadeus</i> on stage while on a trip to London because my teenaged brother and I didn't want to go. We bitched and moaned until they gave in and went to see what we wanted to see.<br />
<br />
About a year later my mother dragged me, kicking and screaming, to see <i>Amadeus</i> the movie. I think the phrase, "I'll be damned if..." was part of that very short conversation.<br />
<br />
After the movie, I looked at my mom and said, "That movie was awesome! I loved it! Thanks for insisting I go!" The look of total, unrelenting fury on her face haunts me to this day. <br />
<br />
<h4>
#3 — Oh, Horrors!</h4>
On that very same trip, my mother passed up something wonderful, I'm sure, to take me to Madam Tussaud's House of Horrors and Wax Museum in London. The fact that they ever took me anywhere other than McDonald's after that trip is truly one of the wonders of the universe.<br />
<br />
However, I do still have the picture of my head superimposed on a stake next to a guillotine with the caption, "I Lost My Head at Madame Tussaud's!" My parents even framed it for me. <br />
<br />
<h4>
#4 — 17 Is Too Old</h4>
When I was in 8th grade (and not yet 13 years old), a senior asked me to the Homecoming Dance. I went with him, not because I liked him. I went because a <b><i>freaking senior</i></b> (I hardly knew) asked me to <b><i>Homecoming</i></b>, and I wanted to go dammit! <b> </b><br />
<br />
<i>[Insert petulant foot stomping here.]</i><br />
<br />
My Mom said I would regret it.<br />
<br />
She said it would be awkward. <br />
<br />
She said I wouldn't have a good time.<br />
<br />
Fast forward to the night of the dance. I'm slow dancing, but in my head I'm thinking up excuses so I could get the heck out of Dodge. I faked a really early curfew and walked in the door a mere hour and a half after I left. <br />
<br />
When I walked past my parents' bedroom, I just said, <i>"Not a word. Not a single word." </i>And I went to bed.<br />
<br />
She smirked a little. I felt it.<br />
<br />
<h4>
#5: Take two aspirin and call me in the morning.</h4>
Before going to bed, I should have taken something for the hangover you warned me I would have after the DTD Christmas Party
my first year in college.<br />
<br />
Yes, I had a mom who
really was cool enough to know that I was going to drink cheap champagne
and loved me enough to want me to not want to die afterwards.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidLKocicYE0pEXpfD6npAPan4crPjNqPFCna7n8R91NXoLkJZ0qY54OaUcE62tFiaZsQda5XkDw5G97UP3k1xu010yvawOoZvhzMMhEHH9YsW1v0FlKca3nTftCpIi1lY46prPcncf_PLl/s640/blogger-image-1445532608.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidLKocicYE0pEXpfD6npAPan4crPjNqPFCna7n8R91NXoLkJZ0qY54OaUcE62tFiaZsQda5XkDw5G97UP3k1xu010yvawOoZvhzMMhEHH9YsW1v0FlKca3nTftCpIi1lY46prPcncf_PLl/s640/blogger-image-1445532608.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<h4>
#6: Get On With It</h4>
My Mom has been telling me for years that I should write more. That I've been wanting to write a book or a newspaper column since I was little, so why the heck haven't I done it yet? I'm 43 years old, for goodness' sake. She says my writing reminds her of Erma Bombeck — one of my favorite authors when I was growing up — and when I'm feeling cocky and way too self-confident, I kind of agree. <br />
<br />
For Christmas this year, she hunted down a copy of Erma Bombeck's <i>Families — The Ties That Bind ... and Gag</i>. <i><b>An inscribed copy. </b></i>The inscription says: <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>To Mary, You are on every page. Love, Erma Bombeck</i></blockquote>
Now, Erma Bombeck died in 1996. Yet my mother tracked down a copy that she had inscribed to some Mary she met at some point. Then she added a message of her own:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Erma and I agree: Get on with it.</i> </blockquote>
<br />
Thanks Mom.<br />
<br />
For the kick in the pants and more, I owe you.<br />
<h4>
DDD </h4>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4244974032988098785.post-20001255883468009702014-11-25T09:23:00.001-08:002015-01-12T08:37:00.950-08:00Let's Get Serious: Ernest<i>[I know my blog is usually funny. But every once in a while, I need to get serious. This is one of those times.]</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ernest came into our lives when he panhandled outside the
Georgia Pacific building downtown. Herb would try to help him out when he saw
him. At first food only, never money. Because in our white, suburban eyes, people who said they were hungry
but would only accept money were suspect. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But whether it was a hamburger or a pair of socks Ernest was
always pleased, always happy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTz3JSye0YHs0ty7g2zSjJfTylaFyWIC-xa7pF_HP1sHD1bZcaeJnfdRKvvkYoa-Ppzw-KdOsgiBNwTk_p07Z_KRUeIs3ZmUYCsLomXRsPxNrlsRjbrWcX2ONAR3_h5a5vHScxG_CyoZVa/s1600/Ernest+at+NHood+Party.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTz3JSye0YHs0ty7g2zSjJfTylaFyWIC-xa7pF_HP1sHD1bZcaeJnfdRKvvkYoa-Ppzw-KdOsgiBNwTk_p07Z_KRUeIs3ZmUYCsLomXRsPxNrlsRjbrWcX2ONAR3_h5a5vHScxG_CyoZVa/s1600/Ernest+at+NHood+Party.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After Wayne Gordon preached a message at Perimeter Church
entitled, “Who Is My Neighbor?” Herb and I looked at each other and felt a tug
from God. A call to minister to people in a depth of poverty we could not
understand. Not knowing what to do and not ready to move the ghetto as Gordon
had done, we felt stuck. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then Ernest was laid heavily on our hearts. We may not be
ready to help change a city, but there is a person we know of who could use
help. We drove downtown and sought him out, unsuccessfully at first. Then he
reappeared outside Turner Field after a Braves game. He lived in a
dirt-floor room with no running water just a block away from that temple to
baseball, at which I have been known to worship. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Over the years, we befriended him and his common-law wife
Denise, visited him in his home, and helped meet immediate needs whether it was
clothing or food or rent money. Or just a hug. Always a hug. We also prayed for him, took him to church, and
reiterated to him that even in his circumstances there was a God who loved him
and Savior who died for him and had a plan for his life. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv_gjrw45SJK7sDpbZZ4Akfm5W-3SOPe_nwIbLZT0Okeg1fupToEts3i0zvc_ZLbxWi8xuarcxUwWpH-131A57mRDJbBG3ISsDV-zX7kAEENsJFbPLzmn4OY0dahHLYfN1I8oEQT2WvbL9/s1600/Ernest+Hanging+Out+at+Home.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv_gjrw45SJK7sDpbZZ4Akfm5W-3SOPe_nwIbLZT0Okeg1fupToEts3i0zvc_ZLbxWi8xuarcxUwWpH-131A57mRDJbBG3ISsDV-zX7kAEENsJFbPLzmn4OY0dahHLYfN1I8oEQT2WvbL9/s1600/Ernest+Hanging+Out+at+Home.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
Our children grew up knowing and loving Ernest. They loved on him without pretense or self-consciousness. God bless children who
don’t know any better than to jump with abandon into the arms of the homeless.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He had family in Cincinnati he hadn’t seen in decades. We
encouraged him to get in touch with them. To go back. To reconcile. He was
sober now and had been for years. And although he was old, he was physically
able to make the trip. But he was practically homeless, had no teeth, a bad
knee and a bad heart, no identification, and no opportunity to bathe or wash
clothes regularly. He wasn’t ready. <i>Sometimes the devil that you know wins. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But not long after Denise’s death, God changed his heart and
his mind. He asked if the offer to help get him back to Cincinnati still stood.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
“Yes, brother! You bet it does!”</h4>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We located his family and made sure they were ready to
receive him back and understood his situation. We reached out to our friends
and family and total strangers. Through the generosity of many, we were able to
help him regain some of the dignity that alcohol and illness and poverty had taken
from him. A new set of dentures. A new pair of glasses. New clothes. A haircut. A few days living in
our home getting cleaned up and fed and loved on. A neighborhood party and a
trip to the zoo. And then … he was ready to go home. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhL8j3aB3AxJeENzSW6gpQML0V7ImMhyphenhyphenOfLDjYw50mjnvA9tlDVU-OS3Sn5CtkqaKJp0XxFpPwKQTuLHqIguMu46n0nrLsHngX5D-6WtTu3-vIsdfDP-DEOgk9y2nATtap7kecrxJtSp47/s1600/Ernest+at+Bus+Station.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhL8j3aB3AxJeENzSW6gpQML0V7ImMhyphenhyphenOfLDjYw50mjnvA9tlDVU-OS3Sn5CtkqaKJp0XxFpPwKQTuLHqIguMu46n0nrLsHngX5D-6WtTu3-vIsdfDP-DEOgk9y2nATtap7kecrxJtSp47/s1600/Ernest+at+Bus+Station.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We took Ernest to the Greyhound bus station on May 23, 2009. It was early in the morning, and the boys went in their PJs. (Again, no pretense or self-consciousness. God love 'em.) But by the end of the day, he was home with his family, celebrating. Over the next
5 years, he reconciled with his wife — the mother of his children — and got to
hold his grandkids. He lived in an apartment with his mother. He was able to
re-establish his identity and get the Social Security benefits he needed. We
kept in touch, and it was always a joy to hear his voice on the other end of
the phone line. We were so blessed to know that he lived his final years in
relative peace and comfort. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ernest crossed over Jordan on Thursday. We know that he is
walking without pain, basking in the glory of a Savior who never gave up on
him. We grieve that we never made it up to Cincinnati to see him again. But we
are grateful that God used us in his life … but more importantly used him in
ours. To open our eyes to a side of life — and a side of Atlanta — that we
didn’t know and couldn’t understand without walking alongside someone who lived
and breathed it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
Thank you, Ernest. Rest in peace, brother, until we meet
again. </h4>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhltUFf-Se6-VM_H0IzdbAsipyvwLm3NDF1iv4zdIRQG0QlDrnLicFhi__SElC4pgHM7fAhJ_DbjJdg5jRh8csfX3KB82wLT-1zd0lav2zJQG0WyPiWOuCdMHUsbJACIeYgKTfM2ElJcbwS/s1600/Ernest+New+Clothes+and+Glasses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhltUFf-Se6-VM_H0IzdbAsipyvwLm3NDF1iv4zdIRQG0QlDrnLicFhi__SElC4pgHM7fAhJ_DbjJdg5jRh8csfX3KB82wLT-1zd0lav2zJQG0WyPiWOuCdMHUsbJACIeYgKTfM2ElJcbwS/s1600/Ernest+New+Clothes+and+Glasses.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:DocumentProperties>
<o:Template>Normal.dotm</o:Template>
<o:Revision>0</o:Revision>
<o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime>
<o:Pages>1</o:Pages>
<o:Words>555</o:Words>
<o:Characters>3169</o:Characters>
<o:Company>Chemistry Communications, Inc.</o:Company>
<o:Lines>26</o:Lines>
<o:Paragraphs>6</o:Paragraphs>
<o:CharactersWithSpaces>3891</o:CharactersWithSpaces>
<o:Version>12.0</o:Version>
</o:DocumentProperties>
<o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
<o:AllowPNG/>
</o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves>
<w:TrackFormatting/>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>
<w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>
<w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
<w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/>
<w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/>
</w:Compatibility>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276">
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<!--StartFragment-->
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4244974032988098785.post-81477237245242169782014-11-19T07:23:00.000-08:002015-01-12T08:37:12.648-08:00I'm a Halloweenie<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-wkD42ScphiAWXX6R-1OeHP51yPZocQBh0GRPQub5-YZeHN7VXQOPWhH1YegWtHm4_Hr7YoxMpErTtvf0R1igGkkde_Tf-Gphn1Evvkk72JSyLW-QZRVuhBnKFlK7Z0IA9xFQDHRPMkZP/s1600/Halloween+2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-wkD42ScphiAWXX6R-1OeHP51yPZocQBh0GRPQub5-YZeHN7VXQOPWhH1YegWtHm4_Hr7YoxMpErTtvf0R1igGkkde_Tf-Gphn1Evvkk72JSyLW-QZRVuhBnKFlK7Z0IA9xFQDHRPMkZP/s1600/Halloween+2014.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Getting ready to TorT in the 'hood.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I don't know why I have such an issue with Halloween. I loved Halloween growing up. It was probably my favorite holiday after Christmas. My mother always dressed up like a witch, complete with her front tooth blacked out. She made up special bags with extra candy for my best friends when they stopped by. And my birthday is November 1, so I always had cool, Halloween-themed parties. Frequently friends would come over after trick or treating and spend the night if it happened to be on a weekend. (More on that later.)<br />
<br />
[Side note: It was during these trick-or-treating years that I learned to like Special Dark chocolate bars. Back in the day there were not 20 million types of fun-size candies to hand out, so the Hershey's Miniatures bag was a staple. If you liked Special Dark, you could end up with a ton of extra candy without even having to trade for it. Win!]<br />
<br />
As an adult, do I love Halloween still?<br />
<br />
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
Um... Not so much.</h4>
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
I'm not exactly sure when Halloween lost its luster. But I have been giving this a good bit of thought, and it comes down to these facts of adult life:<br />
<br />
October 31 is generally cold. <i>(Like it was this year.)</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>And sometimes it rains. </i>(Like it did this year.)<br />
<br />
And it's more often than not on a school night. <i>(This year it was Friday. Yay! It was also the final home football game of the season, and I have a varsity player. Crap!)</i><br />
<br />
And it's hard to walk around the neighborhood drinking a beer and mingling with the other parents and be at your house handing out candy at the same time. <i>(I hate it when a "slacker parent" desire conflicts with a "good parent" requirement.) </i><br />
<br />
So here is my brief plan for improving Halloween and making it more adult-friendly. Because let's all admit ... Halloween ceased to be about the kids a looooooong time ago.<br />
<br />
[Side note: I'm all about process improvement. If you want to see my plan for <a href="http://blog.domesticdivadisaster.com/2014/05/its-may-lets-make-deal.html" target="_blank">improving the last month of school, click here</a>.]<br />
<br />
<h4>
<span style="font-size: small;"><b>1. Make Halloween the first Saturday in August.</b></span></h4>
It's still warm. You can have a regular dinner at a normal time and still have the choice of trick-or-treating in the daylight or dark. School is (generally) not in yet. It's still warm. It will always be on a weekend. It will not overlap with a home high school football game. And it's still warm. (Did I say that already?)<br />
<br />
And it <br />
<h4>
<span style="font-size: small;"><b>2. Carve watermelons instead of pumpkins.</b> </span></h4>
Or cantaloupes. Or honeydews. You can actually eat it when you're done. Bonus! Leave the pumpkin in the can where it belongs. <br />
<h4>
<span style="font-size: small;"><b>3. Have teenagers hire themselves out as candy hander-outers.</b></span> </h4>
First of all, it keeps them from trick-or-treating which, let's face it, they're too old for. If your age ends with "-teen" you're too old.<br />
<br />
With a teenager firmly planted at the house, parents can walk around and socialize, and candy gets handed out. Really, it's a win-win. This year I left a basket of candy on the porch and also carried a bag of candy around with me. So if you came to my house, you got candy. And if you saw me on the street and you had a particularly cute costume or if I was already on my second beer, you probably got to double-dip. <br />
<h4>
<span style="font-size: small;"><b>4. Make eating candy and then putting the empty wrapper back in the bag a universal punishable offense.</b></span></h4>
<br />
They
may not realize it, but this makes it much harder for their parents to
look in the bag and see what is actually there and ripe for stealing.
Not. Cool. This could be implemented even if Halloween stays on October 31 if we parents will band together and make it happen. Just do it!<br />
<br />
<b><i>Who has other ideas for improving Halloween? Post a comment and let me know! </i></b><br />
<br />
<br />Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4244974032988098785.post-75656035607928113282014-11-12T05:46:00.000-08:002015-01-12T08:37:28.525-08:00Throwing in the Towel ... LiterallyMy husband cleaned up the minions' rooms last night. He got tired of them saying their room was clean and, frankly, it looking kind of clean-ish at first glance, only to find that looks can be deceiving.<br />
<br />
These are the clothes that he found under beds, inside bedside table drawers, stuffed behind furniture, etc. [Important Side Note: We washed every stitch of their dirty clothes over the weekend. Or so we thought.]<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi60SnEn5SqVd3swxgPTO7cZFCfgJvEeLPlxVMj2H46xIMRHwoyWdF7lsvcYy6QvLRtmIBLYCjrSHFpq5rNiefc2JFgkdBNDtLB3v3Z9I7ugDId6XOWWl3oytgk4YUraa97W4wTdSvAE-8x/s640/blogger-image--1807838319.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi60SnEn5SqVd3swxgPTO7cZFCfgJvEeLPlxVMj2H46xIMRHwoyWdF7lsvcYy6QvLRtmIBLYCjrSHFpq5rNiefc2JFgkdBNDtLB3v3Z9I7ugDId6XOWWl3oytgk4YUraa97W4wTdSvAE-8x/s320/blogger-image--1807838319.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<i>Clean?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Dirty?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>A lot of each?</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinWXZsQTR2CCZsdRu6vFdW3M7SdveW1S3zrbdAzoMYoKqwwFa61-P-RRX1g6-nor4Yn2aPqDcVvMqukUCLd4xSpg4vetwc5g0o1Fm4-BUaBQNdYPaqAmndXaUX2lwhgQCUtUDcov9GyFz0/s640/blogger-image-1993873917.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinWXZsQTR2CCZsdRu6vFdW3M7SdveW1S3zrbdAzoMYoKqwwFa61-P-RRX1g6-nor4Yn2aPqDcVvMqukUCLd4xSpg4vetwc5g0o1Fm4-BUaBQNdYPaqAmndXaUX2lwhgQCUtUDcov9GyFz0/s320/blogger-image-1993873917.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
Boys, if you're ever wondering why you don't have any socks, or at least don't have socks that match, this is why.<br />
<br />
<i>[By the way, the white one with the B on it is not ours. If your child has been to our house or if our child has been to yours, it ended up here. Please claim it.]</i><br />
<div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Rl6a-9KwujXfqxFHEOfBed7Kw_-GSgSpbchFf2ghKv5s_Dbms2XiwtMn1SsI27J0s8oCkJfTKbr67gNQNk_uWZWTjGs4i2UtvdeXEJSYzFLJ3uNBNhFz7aG98Y-6KgfrPCnEEw8f9Oc1/s640/blogger-image--1398296427.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Rl6a-9KwujXfqxFHEOfBed7Kw_-GSgSpbchFf2ghKv5s_Dbms2XiwtMn1SsI27J0s8oCkJfTKbr67gNQNk_uWZWTjGs4i2UtvdeXEJSYzFLJ3uNBNhFz7aG98Y-6KgfrPCnEEw8f9Oc1/s320/blogger-image--1398296427.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And, seriously? Bathing suits? It's the middle of November. I know it's Atlanta, but our neighborhood pool has been closed for six weeks. I'm not stupid.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5lXcwMkdAIMFk-sqlyzl7NBMgPstbPQp3BP6tmwxl7bMe7OcdUOei0_z48PXhTRROJasUNuc0k42xhOUOP3xlrP_M41ZvpqFN0FFzAaqNOTH_KLwZBOuXXyGhWrWdKhMbLGPxTZcGfVr7/s640/blogger-image--611296633.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5lXcwMkdAIMFk-sqlyzl7NBMgPstbPQp3BP6tmwxl7bMe7OcdUOei0_z48PXhTRROJasUNuc0k42xhOUOP3xlrP_M41ZvpqFN0FFzAaqNOTH_KLwZBOuXXyGhWrWdKhMbLGPxTZcGfVr7/s320/blogger-image--611296633.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
And these are school uniforms. Remember: we did laundry over the weekend. This pile was collected on Tuesday. <i><b>While their Tuesday uniforms were still on their stinkin' little bodies.</b></i><br />
<br />
So where did these uniform clothes come from? There are two pairs of shorts in there. Last week was below 40 degrees every morning. They wore long pants all week. Old, dirty uniform pants. Some still had underwear attached. <i>Ewww!</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAjA4coY1wcM0EbcS8wxjYttSfZWato8kN0nHpUZJgShLKQkoPjzUsaH2jUTeD1FxHOZp3mdABngoHznOqAup4d34DmhmlHKebWxyh_nJRKEF8DQNPkjEqtvyn0KMl2GdTjCHEnAw-JwUr/s640/blogger-image-1019788265.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAjA4coY1wcM0EbcS8wxjYttSfZWato8kN0nHpUZJgShLKQkoPjzUsaH2jUTeD1FxHOZp3mdABngoHznOqAup4d34DmhmlHKebWxyh_nJRKEF8DQNPkjEqtvyn0KMl2GdTjCHEnAw-JwUr/s320/blogger-image-1019788265.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
[Side note: This is the pile of candy wrappers that I pulled out of uniform pockets. My apologies to their teachers if this was consumed at school.]<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
So I'm throwing in the towel. And the underwear. And the shorts. And the uniform. And the PJs. I'm going back to doing their laundry, neatly folding it, and putting it away.<br />
<br />
Temporarily.<br />
<br />
Because this is the laundry that I washed and sorted by child into different baskets over the weekend. <i><b>It's Wednesday, people!</b></i><br />
<br />
It hasn't even migrated to their rooms, much less their drawers.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXGRe2AzrDk-7JXfN8nN4r-3r7wfc_SOyGUYtTHO2tA_epT6hlTwq0UdYSF41ofqUaR0smmpTlaiOuQtOSk22QKMibhov_eeQX9iLNve6Mcug8fIgFI_-tB4Lr7tSTl6M1OSG3VlYI_Ro5/s640/blogger-image--831008474.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXGRe2AzrDk-7JXfN8nN4r-3r7wfc_SOyGUYtTHO2tA_epT6hlTwq0UdYSF41ofqUaR0smmpTlaiOuQtOSk22QKMibhov_eeQX9iLNve6Mcug8fIgFI_-tB4Lr7tSTl6M1OSG3VlYI_Ro5/s400/blogger-image--831008474.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
They will stand at the bottom of the stairs and dig through the baskets to find what they need.<br />
<br />
They will be six inches from the basket and ask where their bath towel is. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<h4>
<span style="font-size: large;">And. I. Let. Them.</span></h4>
</div>
<br />
But, lest they think they're getting the better end of this deal, oh no, no, no. Kitchen floors will be washed. Toilets will be scrubbed. Dishwashers will be unloaded. Floors will be vacuumed. Cat litter will be scooped. And this will be above and beyond the chores they are already expected to do as members of this family.<br />
<br />
There will be no free ride. And no free laundry either. Frankly, I win either way. Either they get sick of the extra chores and ask to take back doing their laundry and they actually do it this time. On time.<br />
<br />
Or I keep doing it, and they keep doing the jobs I loathe.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuVypuw1UyXLKICRPOR9wis4iCPv5mE7NcU6JT9tn0znSHuiq2Fu19b0GG9yeZSQGf9z8SxnbpQ6JNNsHm9exhYWBEQA7Jpf32ZzO6pRx652XycyCYB7bAwcoc0MANuU3Y_Vnvs53VxIse/s1600/keep-calm-and-laundry-on.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuVypuw1UyXLKICRPOR9wis4iCPv5mE7NcU6JT9tn0znSHuiq2Fu19b0GG9yeZSQGf9z8SxnbpQ6JNNsHm9exhYWBEQA7Jpf32ZzO6pRx652XycyCYB7bAwcoc0MANuU3Y_Vnvs53VxIse/s320/keep-calm-and-laundry-on.png" width="274" /></a></div>
<br />
<h4>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">DDD</span></h4>
<br /></div>
Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4244974032988098785.post-42136803650013578002014-09-27T03:00:00.001-07:002015-01-12T08:37:40.738-08:00Big Brothers RockI don't know if you've been following the story about Hannah Graham
on the news. She is a second-year student at the University of Virginia —
my alma mater.<br />
<br />
<i>[I say "is" intentionally. I will continue to say "is" until I know for sure otherwise.]</i><br />
<br />
She went missing two weeks ago — Saturday, September 13 — after leaving a house party. Alone.<br />
<br />
I don't know all of the details of Hannah Graham's disappearance.<br />
I don't know why no one went with her when she left the party.<br />
I don't know how long after her 1 a.m. text saying, "I am lost" her friends alerted someone in authority.<br />
I don't know how she ended up with a stranger on the Downtown Mall.<br />
<br />
Some of these things may never be known unless and until she is found alive.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9fE4oUGQ8Of5VFRIdV8eV3_ej8EXDvYnggWBkDwSro_FVMa0hQaBI_HwxCfRPNFGi-vHrVFGWe7RnVCqhkCK_uaCoDiULVx1rlfYDpNPj-68gBV4kX3QzoQF_PAYYD9Im-j0pf3AL5Ly0/s1600/Hannah+Graham.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9fE4oUGQ8Of5VFRIdV8eV3_ej8EXDvYnggWBkDwSro_FVMa0hQaBI_HwxCfRPNFGi-vHrVFGWe7RnVCqhkCK_uaCoDiULVx1rlfYDpNPj-68gBV4kX3QzoQF_PAYYD9Im-j0pf3AL5Ly0/s1600/Hannah+Graham.jpg" height="320" width="247" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
What I do know is this: alone is dangerous.</h4>
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
A friend of mine posted this on Facebook:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>This is the clearest lesson that I was able teach [my girls], given the recent
video footage and details of the events leading up to the abduction of
Hannah Graham. PLEASE teach them this! Not every person looks out for
their best interest, as they are so accustomed to their parents doing.
Every young person, male and female alike, needs to be aware that even
the best of friends WILL leave you alone at a party, not monitor your
drinking, not notice that you're missing, not drop what they're doing to
come get you, not accurately gauge danger, not alert your parents or
authorities quickly enough, etc. The selfish years are called that for a
reason. You are angels among an evil world. Be aware and responsible.</i></blockquote>
<br />
My
sorority, <span style="color: #cc0000;"><b>Chi Omega,</b></span> recognized that alone is dangerous. And that alone
and intoxicated is worse. That is why Chi-O had an account at a local
cab company. If a sister had been drinking and needed a ride home, they
could call and charge the ride to the House. No questions asked.<br />
<br />
But
the thing that I just remembered ... the thing that made my heart rise
up in my throat ... is something my brother did for me when I first
started school at UVA. He took me by his fraternity house during
orientation week and introduced me to some of the guys there. He had
graduated two years prior and came back a lot for football games, so he
still knew a lot of people. And they knew him.<br />
<br />
When I wasn't around, he gave them a talking to that I only heard about because someone heard it and told me later.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"You
see that girl there?" he said. "That's my sister. I want you to
remember her. If she comes by here, you take care of her. You make sure
she's OK. And if she leaves, she doesn't leave alone. You walk her back
to her dorm. Make sure she gets there safely. If anything happens to her
after being here, I will hold you all personally responsible." </i></blockquote>
<br />
That one act spoke love to me in a way I had never heard it from my brother before. Or, perhaps, since. <br />
<br />
It
is our responsibility — all of our responsibility — to let our loved
ones know that they are not alone. Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually.
In their grief. In their celebration. In their stress. In their joy.<br />
<br />
God
placed us in families. In communities. In sororities and fraternities
and dorms and neighborhoods. So we would not be alone. <br />
<br />
Because alone is dangerous.<br />
<br />
I think I'll go call my brother. <br />
<br />
<h4>
Peace,</h4>
<h4>
DDD</h4>
Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4244974032988098785.post-49752831983104173602014-09-26T10:40:00.000-07:002014-11-12T05:47:09.793-08:00My App-alling LifeRecently my youngest, Jordan, had a hissy fit. A good old-fashioned throwdown over his Kindle. Or, rather, over the fact that he no longer had his Kindle.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
You see, he had gone into my bedroom — without asking permmission — looking for a charging cord. Instead of asking for help, he decided to unplug my iPhone cord and take it to his room to see if it would work.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It didn't. And he never bothered to return it.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So when he was informed that he would not have his Kindle for a while, he lost his ever-lovin' mind. Bless his heart. </div>
<div>
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
<br /></div>
<div>
Keep in mind, he had just gotten his Kindle back after a two-month break. He'd had it back for less than a day. We tell our kids frequently that we are very concerned about how important electronics are to them. If you are willing to lie, cheat, or steal — or go into Mommy's room without asking and take a charging cord —for something electronic, then that thing plays too large a role in your life. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>"You have a Kindle you can use and charge whenever you want!"</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>"You have a computer and an iPad and an iPhone!"</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>"You use electronics whenever you want, and you don't have to ask anyone!"</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>"When you make a mistake no one takes your Kindle away!"</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's true. As an adult, no one takes my Kindle away when I make a mistake. An yes, I work from home on my computer so the kids see me using it a lot. But why does Jordan think that electronics are so important to me?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
That got me thinking ... how much of my life have I turned over to a gadget? How much of my time do I spend interacting with a thing with a hard drive instead of a person with a soul? Or even a pad of paper and a pen?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<h4>
I am typing this on an iPad. </h4>
<h4>
Don't judge me.</h4>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So I made a list of the parts of my life that I have digitized. Here they are, in no particular order:</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1GcxiVnzdDB_cYpgvL_yk8ySqCR5eGwUWPwvuXA6CkIhbdHY7FHhFdcuVZd1I1stpXQRnXh1ArdxjB88AHqzWUkZezh1XVm5Q2r82RA0tPpGHUihxO3BymspFC9aUfvjhSvpJ5grNf6dW/s1600/electronics.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1GcxiVnzdDB_cYpgvL_yk8ySqCR5eGwUWPwvuXA6CkIhbdHY7FHhFdcuVZd1I1stpXQRnXh1ArdxjB88AHqzWUkZezh1XVm5Q2r82RA0tPpGHUihxO3BymspFC9aUfvjhSvpJ5grNf6dW/s1600/electronics.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
<ul>
<li>Books (about 50% on Kindle)</li>
<li>Grocery list (use an app)</li>
<li>Calendar (use an app)</li>
<li>Work (uses multiple apps or programs on multiple devices)</li>
<li>Music and radio (use multiple apps)</li>
<li>Email (duh)</li>
<li>Texting (double duh)</li>
<li>To Do List (use an app)</li>
<li>Taking notes at church (use a notes app AND a Bible app)</li>
<li>Bible study/devotional (sometimes use an app)</li>
<li>Cooking (half of my recipes probably come from apps or websites)</li>
<li>Movies (frequently stream)</li>
<li>Baseball (app to watch or listen to games)</li>
<li>Even our TV is hooked up to a computer.</li>
</ul>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And this is just what I could come up with in the waiting room at the orthodontist's office.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<h4>
Oh. My. Gosh.</h4>
</div>
<div>
No wonder my kids see me as always plugged in. I am! Even when I'm doing something supposedly electronics-free ... like cooking dinner ... I frequently have my work computer or iPad sitting on the kitchen counter because I'm in the middle of a conversation with someone about something. Or I'm streaming music. Or watching a rerun of <i>Everybody Loves Raymond.</i> (I love Raymond.)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><i><b>I sit with an iPad on my lap at church for goodness' sake! </b></i>And this is right after telling my 16yo to put his phone away because we're in church.</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
OK, kids. I get it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Next up ... what to do about it?</div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
But can I get a little credit?<br />
<br />
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
I made my list on paper. </h4>
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
With a pen.</h4>
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
Baby steps, y'all. </h4>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
<div>
Ciao!</div>
<div>
DDD</div>
Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4244974032988098785.post-35163093578701507112014-09-01T10:18:00.000-07:002014-11-12T05:47:23.023-08:00Your Body Told MeThere are lots of things about parenting that aren't in the handbook. I mean, if there were a handbook. And even if there were, some things just wouldn't be in it.<br />
<br />
I learned one of those things from my son's violin teacher. Miss Keiko has no children of her own, but has raised a lot of violin students. Some have been with her for more than a decade. When they go off to college, they still talk to her. She loves that.<br />
<br />
Enter Joshua. He started taking lessons with her when he was four years old.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT5M-_Bb6kei-KM_fsJhHNIyIpir2o7s1Ev6TMG-lKSFdcoM-WpVoE34r0LSZUCsWoQk6qs8Y0qQX0mE2vSrOCYedayvrR_3lojf6vxeq03G9z3tP6UtbtaWBnf_Lj6QIXfj6KykaXkjDD/s1600/Joshua+starts+violin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT5M-_Bb6kei-KM_fsJhHNIyIpir2o7s1Ev6TMG-lKSFdcoM-WpVoE34r0LSZUCsWoQk6qs8Y0qQX0mE2vSrOCYedayvrR_3lojf6vxeq03G9z3tP6UtbtaWBnf_Lj6QIXfj6KykaXkjDD/s1600/Joshua+starts+violin.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joshua, age 4, at violin with Miss Keiko</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
When he was four, her biggest challenge with him was keeping him vertical. He would roll around on the floor, interrupt her constantly, and participate in this stream-of-consciousness conversation that he can really carry on entirely by himself. I don't know where he gets it...<i>Oh, look! There's a birdie!</i><br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
He's now 10 years old. He still takes violin, and not a lot has changed. Well, he doesn't roll around on the floor as much. But other than that, not a lot has changed.<br />
<br />
And Miss Keiko has patiently taught him to be a wonderful violinist and student of music.<br />
<br />
And she's taught me some very important things about being a parent. But particularly, about being Joshua's parent.<br />
<br />
You see, she has a timer to remind her when a lesson is over. Many times, she has been in the middle of something with Joshua when the timer started to chirp. But she would just turn it off and keep on going.<br />
<br />
But at the lesson in question, I never heard the chirp. A few minutes before it was to go off, she did her usual "end of lesson routine."<br />
<br />
<i>"Ok. Rest position. Put your feet together."</i><br />
<br />
"But the lesson's not over. The timer didn't go off."<br />
<br />
<i>"I know. But the lesson is over. Rest position." </i>She said this very sweetly, but firmly.<br />
<br />
"How do you know the lesson is over?"<br />
<br />
<i>"Your body told me the lesson was over."</i><br />
<br />
Joshua looked confused. But I understood.<br />
<br />
He was done. Stick a fork in him, done. His body had stopped listening to her, which meant his mind probably had several minutes earlier. She had the wisdom to know that had she continued, the lesson would have ended poorly. But by stopping now, before it got ugly, everyone was still in a good mood, and violin was still a good thing.<br />
<br />
I wish I did that more often. I'm not as good a student of my children as I should be. I don't listen to their bodies (or even their voices) as much as I listen to my own wants and needs. Far too often, I press on with a task or activity long past the point where it is productive. (As I write this, I am sitting in the hallway while the two minions are doing a complete room dump and organization. We'll see how this goes.)<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY9NCxDPp5BDzr5tQmkc6uvD2S1YaHo16wgDRA9oXDZX0OsfwZ3zPzjltAnqtoKhT92F9KkmMQqIt5IMETmhJax_oZtSWXtXucuFuSqfRzeJUEyJ9Bd974i0yG6__vAFA2tAKg3BxckLCB/s640/blogger-image-567406035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY9NCxDPp5BDzr5tQmkc6uvD2S1YaHo16wgDRA9oXDZX0OsfwZ3zPzjltAnqtoKhT92F9KkmMQqIt5IMETmhJax_oZtSWXtXucuFuSqfRzeJUEyJ9Bd974i0yG6__vAFA2tAKg3BxckLCB/s640/blogger-image-567406035.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joshua, age 10, "cleaning" his room</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div>
<br />
<div>
But sometimes — like today, I'm sure —I just need to quiet myself and listen to their bodies. Sometimes they have a lot to say.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Ciao!</div>
<div>
DDD</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4244974032988098785.post-81198597777330726982014-08-25T09:42:00.001-07:002014-11-12T05:49:01.218-08:00I. Must. Read.I love to read.<br />
<br />
This is no secret to anyone who knows me. In fact, there were years upon years growing up when my Wish List for Santa was a list of books. Or, to make it easier on him, a gift card to B. Dalton would do. I'm flex that way.<br />
<br />
But as I grew up, got married, had kids, my opportunity to read has dwindled. But a few years ago, I decided to reclaim reading.<br />
<br />
You see, I was having trouble falling asleep at night. I simply could not shut my mind down. I couldn't stop thinking about never-ending to do lists. Questions ran through my mind like so many stock prices on a ticker tape.<br />
<br />
<i>Did I remember to turn the coffee maker on? </i><br />
<i>Was there money in our teenager's lunch account?</i><br />
<i>Did Joshua practice enough violin this week to be able to fool his teacher tomorrow? </i><br />
<i>Why Jordan would think it was OK to put a dead snake on the kitchen table? (More about that one later.)</i><br />
<br />
You know ... day to day stuff like that. <br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
I never had trouble before. Why was I having trouble now? Then it hit me. Movies, baseball and music. Before Herb and I married, I would fall asleep to a movie I'd seen dozens of times before or, if God was smiling on me and it was baseball season, an Atlanta Braves baseball game.<br />
<br />
I had also spent many years listening to music as I fell asleep. I got to the point where I could tell you which song would be the last one I would hear before drifting off.<br />
<br />
(Just FYI: When I was listening to the <i>O Brother, Where Art Thou?</i> soundtrack at bedtime, it was during "Hard Time Killing Floor Blues." My favorite song was "I Am a Man of Constant Sorrow," so I would fall asleep immediately after it ended.)<br />
<br />
But Herb requires silence to fall asleep. Complete and utter darkness and silence. So my TV watching and music listening had to stop. And with nothing to replace it, my mind just kept going long after my body shut down.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAnQJDRtnESYaEb05rwRVI_20fwHiWUJsLLNg1agUy-MI1Z045yG117bU-sIV_8d19Yd1Y91sMJ0CdH9w98C6dvQLw8l_2V4DTFWk0WKzVlYaMmtIMcDerJD3-nA3Olo6HP0-KajudtAD7/s1600/reading-in-bed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAnQJDRtnESYaEb05rwRVI_20fwHiWUJsLLNg1agUy-MI1Z045yG117bU-sIV_8d19Yd1Y91sMJ0CdH9w98C6dvQLw8l_2V4DTFWk0WKzVlYaMmtIMcDerJD3-nA3Olo6HP0-KajudtAD7/s1600/reading-in-bed.jpg" height="253" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Until I started reading before bed. All of a sudden, I could sleep again. Oh joy! Not only have I rediscovered my favorite thing in the world, now I <i>have</i> to do it! Every night! Or else! <br />
<br />
My new-found sleep technique has been an on-again, off-again source of consternation between my
husband and me. At bedtime, I know that
he is just waiting on me, and that puts pressure on me to wrap it up quickly. He is waiting on me, and I am waiting until that magic time when I have
read enough to shut down my mind, knowing that elusive sleep will come. And I know that some part of him was wondering if I was just trying to allow some of my pre-marriage, night-owl tendencies to break through.<br />
<br />
Can you imagine my joy when I found an article on the Internet that backs me up? (And you know, if it's on the Internet, it must be true.) It starts out just talking about how good sleep is the best way to recover after a workout. Then it goes on to give tips on <a href="http://www.active.com/running/Articles/The-Single-Best-Way-to-Recover-Faster-From-Workouts.htm?cmp=291&memberid=159692544&lyrisid=44047184&email=marybeth@edgecombfamily.com&gender=F&dob=19711101+00:00" target="_blank">"Sleeping Like a Pro:"</a><br />
<br />
1. No screens within an hour of bed.<br />
2. Use blackout curtains.<br />
<i><b>3. Read a fiction book for 30 minutes before you go to sleep.</b></i><br />
4. Easy on the coffee.<br />
<br />
Wait ... what was that #3? Read? Before bed? And read fluff, no less?<br />
<br />
Holy cow! It's not just me! I have an article from a trainer that proves it. And if it's from a trainer <i>and</i> on the Internet, then it's practically gospel.<br />
<br />
I am falling asleep fairly quickly and easily with regularity now. <br />
<br />
And my husband is jealous. Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4244974032988098785.post-81995425923321087162014-08-06T03:00:00.000-07:002014-11-12T05:49:18.268-08:00"We Make a Lotta Rules"My son looked contemplatively at his lunch today. Then he spoke slowly and thoughtfully.<br />
<br />
"We make a lotta rules, don't we?"<br />
<br />
I stepped out of the laundry room cautiously. I did NOT want to have this conversation right now. You know the schtick. The conversation bout how rules are important, especially when running a house full of boys, a dog, four cats, and assorted other critters and kids.<br />
<br />
About how God gives us rules to help keep us safe and help us make wise choices.<br />
<br />
And about how parents are charged with doing the same for our children.<br />
<br />
So I decided to tread cautiously.<br />
<br />
"What do you mean, buddy? How do we make a lot of rules?"<br />
<br />
"Well..."<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUl5Tox6OEUGr2qV9cSptFBZn26fr02ZWZ6Q8GurSikovwC9JQK7spCKsOcz50EZXQnSkBrL4MmuSPrfPJQ7goRABf1xfLoT0P4SE5Ee_5IvogVkeSW8SA8_6o5zzBOnyvy8gvbKGcFBV3/s1600/Titan+in+glasses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUl5Tox6OEUGr2qV9cSptFBZn26fr02ZWZ6Q8GurSikovwC9JQK7spCKsOcz50EZXQnSkBrL4MmuSPrfPJQ7goRABf1xfLoT0P4SE5Ee_5IvogVkeSW8SA8_6o5zzBOnyvy8gvbKGcFBV3/s1600/Titan+in+glasses.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Titan, RIP, after his swim in the neighborhood pool.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
He hesitated.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
"We took Titan to the pool and he swam in the water. Then they made a rule about no dogs at the pool.<br />
<br />
"And Joshua took his ant farm to school for show and tell, and he dropped it, and it broke. Then they made a rule about no pets for show and tell.<br />
<br />
"Our family just makes a lotta rules."<br />
<br />
I laughed out loud and kissed his head. "You're right, hon. We do make a <i><b>lotta</b></i> rules."<i><br /></i><br />
<br />
<i>From the mouths of babes.</i><br />
<br />
Wonder what new rule will be made after we bring part of our bee hive to school for insect day?<br />
<br />
Ciao! <br />
DDDMarybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4244974032988098785.post-15944885516057796392014-05-16T07:00:00.000-07:002014-11-12T05:49:35.124-08:00It's May: Let's Make a DealLast year, Jen Hatmaker wrote an amazingly wonderful blog post about being <a href="http://jenhatmaker.com/blog/2013/05/30/worst-end-of-school-year-mom-ever" target="_blank">the Worst End of School Mom Ever.</a> By taking off the mask and revealing this about herself, all of the rest crappy May Moms have breathed a sigh of relief, given each other the knuckle bump of solidarity, and aired our End of Year dirty laundry to one another.<br />
<br />
It has truly been cathartic.<br />
<br />
The one thing that Jen's post did not include was a true remedy for this problem. Therefore, I have a deal to propose. It's a deal between teachers and parents. And if necessary, we can get school administration involved. <i>But let's do what we can to keep them out of it, shall we? This can be our little secret.</i><br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
First, in case you haven't read Jen's post, some background...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>How Awesome August Becomes Monstrous May</b></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb5XJXTblNv12oUQYFBlbbcG-9GJFNClFXKI4JaObhXlua-74eDdbHs9uvklZwFSC3k2AVfv8Z3a08hcxlkvjX99UMIeB-njRdc-f3MY8fCAH_T7uud_GJh0XmcxGYZSQBq80VVZf7n6rp/s1600/Bento+Lunch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb5XJXTblNv12oUQYFBlbbcG-9GJFNClFXKI4JaObhXlua-74eDdbHs9uvklZwFSC3k2AVfv8Z3a08hcxlkvjX99UMIeB-njRdc-f3MY8fCAH_T7uud_GJh0XmcxGYZSQBq80VVZf7n6rp/s1600/Bento+Lunch.jpg" /></a></div>
I think we can all agree that in August, we as parents ROCKED. We packed cool lunches, we signed things with legible signatures, we diligently checked homework and backpacks, and we quizzed our kids on spelling words and math facts. I'm going to call this August Me. <br />
<br />
But it's May. August Me is gone.<br />
<br />
MIA.<br />
<br />
Dead. Or at least in hiding. <br />
<br />
August Me skipped town somewhere around April 25 when we had Shakespeare Day (with costumes) and Colonial Day (with costumes) in different grades on the same day.<br />
<br />
With both hubby and I as parent volunteers. In costumes.<br />
<br />
After that, the last few drops of August Me were spent and I had nothing left to give for the last month of school. I still look like August Me on the outside, but the inside I'm all May. If you look deep inside, you might see a few dried drops of glitter glue and a balled up napkin that says, <i>"Love you Buddy! Have a GREAT Day!"</i><br />
<br />
You see, August Me had fresh stashes of all things artsy craftsy. She wrote little notes to her kids and put them in their lunch boxes. She remembered things, and she cared.<br />
<br />
But at the end of April, she hit the road, Jack. <br />
<br />
This was evidenced in all its pathetic reality this morning.<br />
<br />
My 8yo's class was supposed to wear navy shirts to school today. Simple. I am the Class Mom for the class, so I knew this. The original email about this went out weeks ago. I sent a reminder on Sunday. And another one yesterday.<br />
<br />
Whose kid do you think showed up with the wrong shirt?<br />
<br />
Um......<br />
<br />
Like I said. May Me is an empty shell of what August Me once was.<br />
<br />
So here's my proposition. In recognition that by May, teachers also are spent, kaput, and wiped out — <i>they just hide it a lot better</i> — let's all agree to the following. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>In the last month of school, teachers will not...</b></div>
<br />
<b>1. Require the children to come to school in costume.</b> Or in matching colors. Or coat and tie. Unless the costume is "Typical American 3rd Grader" we stand completely firm and united on this one. It's a deal breaker.<br />
<br />
<b>2. Assign creative projects.</b> No dioramas of a Colonial village, wood carvings of the Santa Maria, or models of the Roman Coliseum made out of sugar cubes. Cutting paper dolls out of construction paper is acceptable if it is done in the classroom, not at home.<br />
<br />
<b>3. Assign research projects or papers.</b> Book reports are fine, as long as the report requires no parental working knowledge of said book. Unless it's <i>Goodnight Moon</i>, because we probably still have that one memorized.<br />
<br />
<b>4. Schedule field trips that require parent chaperoning.</b> Have the Reptile Guy bring the python into the classroom. <i>We're totally OK with that.</i> In August we might have preferred the snake be behind protective glass, but hey, it's May. In May, anything goes.<br />
<br />
In exchange, we as parents agree not to hold teachers responsible for teaching anything new in May. Let's just call May "National Review and Recess Month."<br />
<br />
<i><b>Do we have a deal?</b></i><br />
<br />
We stand united as parents and with our children's teachers who are AWESOME all the time. But let's be honest. We are all counting the hours until summer when we will recharge our batteries by having peanut butter sandwiches and Cheetos for lunch every day for three months.<br />
<br />
When we will refresh our souls with chlorinated water.<br />
<br />
When we drop our kids off at camp knowing that when we retrieve them in the afternoon, there will not be a list of assignments to complete before arriving back the next day.<br />
<br />
And in August, we will be AWESOME again.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgagWCOj6dhNQYwVWmj86EOSS0vG4_jY75IayXFSYeDv45gDykXz4aHOWvFlDfKRArPAMemwcc0wlDWKcu44KC-LXVmwExTXsGuN8hmRB3oqo_UwVIU9vFn0Htc46C7XLcCSSltLUO1mD-H/s1600/Keep+Calm+Last+Day+of+School.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgagWCOj6dhNQYwVWmj86EOSS0vG4_jY75IayXFSYeDv45gDykXz4aHOWvFlDfKRArPAMemwcc0wlDWKcu44KC-LXVmwExTXsGuN8hmRB3oqo_UwVIU9vFn0Htc46C7XLcCSSltLUO1mD-H/s1600/Keep+Calm+Last+Day+of+School.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4244974032988098785.post-29706804349293802022014-04-29T07:49:00.000-07:002014-11-12T05:49:53.063-08:00It's Da' BombThursday evening was earth-shaking at our house.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Literally.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My youngest had been out with his dad at a Beekeeper's Club meeting and got home just before 9pm. Older bro was already in bed. In bed, but not asleep.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Younger bro walked into their shared bathroom to get ready for bed and closed the door. Seconds later...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: purple;">BOOM!</span></span></span></h2>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I come racing out of the kitchen and yell up the stairs. "Jordan? What WAS that??"</div>
<div>
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /></div>
<div>
"A bomb, Mom."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"A bomb? What do you mean a bomb?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I mean ... a bomb."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I had to go upstairs and see for myself what destruction he hath wrought. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What I saw amazed even me. The mom of dead snakes in the kitchen was blown away. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The bathroom ceiling was covered in little white stalactites, hanging on for their little lives.* <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">After a moment just staring, I managed to spit out a few words.</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"What...is...that?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"A bomb. A baking soda and vinegar bomb." Apparently the bomb was also stuffed with toilet paper.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"JOSHUA! Get out here!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"It wasn't me, Mom, it was Jordan!" </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"He's been gone all night. Try again, mister!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Well, yes, I made the bomb, but he exploded it!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So the next two hours was spent cleaning the bathroom. Not me. Them. Oh, and did I mention there was also blue tempura paint on the floor and counter and, therefore, on our new hall carpet? And during said cleaning session, they managed to clog and overflow the toilet, which also resulted in a broken ballooney-thingamajig inside the tank? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2VFz0qZogIYK4I3tq0jqDXzohhFblyXF4WNrJ_gs7DMwyYSoOmx7IRg9RAa0JuLSRzsRbDd5hnLxOW44Z_HqXuDhG8ul5JRed1MvYxKCkK-4jUVr642m8dNx4hOx8UzJFwEVGl464rN32/s1600/photo+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2VFz0qZogIYK4I3tq0jqDXzohhFblyXF4WNrJ_gs7DMwyYSoOmx7IRg9RAa0JuLSRzsRbDd5hnLxOW44Z_HqXuDhG8ul5JRed1MvYxKCkK-4jUVr642m8dNx4hOx8UzJFwEVGl464rN32/s1600/photo+3.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQX7JsP6gjyb0ikYDytLNQhCN4dVhzP3CPAoR6aXqgE4cyeYKI_xgPryFRjUzFjxo0cO3hUpFKdxdxPtxJT0w3X3KVGEp6-gOaDPf5baiILOpwCgeZXmW8GgA73iZ08K3gXvTdps5qNw2r/s1600/photo+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQX7JsP6gjyb0ikYDytLNQhCN4dVhzP3CPAoR6aXqgE4cyeYKI_xgPryFRjUzFjxo0cO3hUpFKdxdxPtxJT0w3X3KVGEp6-gOaDPf5baiILOpwCgeZXmW8GgA73iZ08K3gXvTdps5qNw2r/s1600/photo+1.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBP_c-XqGuYfmdVi9dFFK2pxESBvCJcJau_b64o89WJ9v5JU4D1QGjilevqx4nW3m7zb-qCugLgIbkPROFUtAfQISHIw_nsPLxIoDaoCIzC-85vzfK7dCf-y08xbOXxvXGryWljusMDeNV/s1600/photo+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBP_c-XqGuYfmdVi9dFFK2pxESBvCJcJau_b64o89WJ9v5JU4D1QGjilevqx4nW3m7zb-qCugLgIbkPROFUtAfQISHIw_nsPLxIoDaoCIzC-85vzfK7dCf-y08xbOXxvXGryWljusMDeNV/s1600/photo+2.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a> I wish I had had my wits about me enough to take pictures right away. But these show what was left after about an hour of scraping the ceiling with a broken towel rack. (It was the victim of a totally different tour de destruction.) Joshua climbed to the ceiling and scraped down the cling-ons and Jordan cleaned them off the floor as they fell. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Now, I have to admit, we kind of bring this sort of thing on ourselves. We have four boys, and Herb is a really great boy dad. So we occasionally explode bombs in the back yard or shoot potato cannons or climb trees to make homemade zip lines from bungee cords. We generally encourage crazy outdoor stuff. But, for the most part, it is <i style="font-weight: bold;">outdoor</i> stuff. There have been plenty of projects gone awry that have messed up walls, carpet, paint, bedding, and furniture. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But this bomb ... inside our house ... was the last straw.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Our weekend camping trip was canceled. Hubby and I just had no more energy to expend on these little hellions. In his book <i>Bringing up Boys</i><b style="font-style: italic;">, </b>Dr. James Dobson says that the parents' primary job up until the age of 13 is to simply keep the boys alive. But I have one query: </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>Are we supposed to protect them from themselves ... or us? </i><br />
<br />
<i>[Note: Stalactite: hanging down, as in hanging on tight. Stalagmite = reaching up, as in trying to grow with all their might. At least that's how I learned it in elementary school. Some things stick.] </i></div>
Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4244974032988098785.post-83181847272392255572014-04-09T08:22:00.000-07:002014-11-12T05:50:07.899-08:00Mastering the Silent ScreamLast night I learned how to execute the perfect silent scream.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0lBaGjYZvu31sWk3iR7GgZedMn3pXYATGl6GMTw0-eYx0WwhEb2ZFaO1OBcDqQ5Ei7Uj3GGErgEwHFGutPe-is5PZ-xfHfzJTxaHj9JGLoc3IyXfMGYlQNO8uwnPD9_PLn-LL7GzsOqCU/s1600/Wrestling+with+God.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0lBaGjYZvu31sWk3iR7GgZedMn3pXYATGl6GMTw0-eYx0WwhEb2ZFaO1OBcDqQ5Ei7Uj3GGErgEwHFGutPe-is5PZ-xfHfzJTxaHj9JGLoc3IyXfMGYlQNO8uwnPD9_PLn-LL7GzsOqCU/s1600/Wrestling+with+God.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Art credit: unknown</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It's not that hard, really. Just watch your child's heart break, then lie on the floor next to his bed and wrestle with God without waking your child. <br />
<br />
You see, I have a sweet, funny, kind, loving, tender-hearted 8 1/2yo boy who wets the bed at night. He had no problems learning to stay dry during the day, and actually did that quicker and earlier than any of his brothers. But he struggles with nighttime mightily.<br />
<br />
For the longest time, he was OK with it. Not embarrassed. It was just a part of his life. They made pull-ups in his size, so obviously he wasn't alone. We've tried several times before to fix it, to no avail. Alarms, hormone replacement, a half-hearted attempt at chiropractic care. Nothing has worked. So we continued to wait.<br />
<br />
But with two weeks of sleep-away camp looming in July, he decided he wanted to get serious about it over spring break. It's just the two of us at home for 10 days, so I've been sleeping on his floor in a sleeping bag, waking him when I hear him stir at night so he can go to the bathroom. Each night before bed, we give this problem over to God and ask for his help. For him to help Jordan wake up, stay dry, or both. <br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
<i>First night ... success!</i><br />
<i>Second night ... one accident ... but we're cool with that.</i><br />
<i>Third night ... success! </i><br />
<br />
After some additional research, we expanded our scope of possible root causes and started attacking all of them at once. I don't care which one works, as long as one of them does. So in addition to me sleeping on his floor, he's now taking magnesium supplements, taking a hormone replacement medication that worked for one of his brothers, and back at the chiropractor's.<br />
<br />
<i>Fourth night ... disappointment.</i><br />
<br />
Last night was the fifth night. When Jordan stirred for the first time five hours after going to bed, I woke him to go to the bathroom. Too late. Change clothes. Change sheets. Back to bed.<br />
<br />
It was then ... on his floor at 3 a.m. ... that I mastered the silent scream. I lay next to his bed and, like Jacob, wrestled with God. I cried. I screamed. I pleaded. I really wish He had been there physically so I could pound on his chest. I know this is a small thing in the grand scheme of things. In a world of war, death, and disease, is bedwetting really such a big deal?<br />
<br />
To Jordan it is. And I brought God into it for him. And so far, in his eyes, God's not there.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b><span style="color: purple;"><i>Why, God? Why can't you do this one thing to shore up the faith of a child? His faith is so young ... so new ... so fragile. You could win his heart forever with this one, small thing. He's not Paul who pleaded with you to remove the thorn from his side. He is not a mature believer, strong in the faith. He's just a kid. </i></span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: purple;"><i><br /></i></span></b>
<b><span style="color: purple;"><i>Give it to me, God. Make me incontinent. Give me a disease. Give me anything ... just take this from him. </i></span></b></blockquote>
But so far, He has chosen not to. Last night, in the midst of my silent hissy fit, I thought I heard from God.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><b><i>Stop grasping, child. Stop trying to fix it. You can't fix it. Only I can. Stop. Be still, and know that I am God.</i></b></span></blockquote>
Was it God telling me to stop sleeping on the floor, stop waking him, stop the supplements, stop the drugs, stop the chiro adjustments? Because then, when it happens, there will be no doubt that God was behind it?<br />
<br />
Or is this just a tired mama imagining things?<br />
<br />
I haven't given the supplements, the hormone replacement, or the chiro time to work, so I'm really not surprised that they haven't. To throw in the towel now seems premature.<br />
<br />
But what <i><b>scares</b></i> me is stepping away, and putting it entirely on God's shoulders. God gave us medicine and doctors and counsel for a reason. They're here to help. But am I trying to substitute them for the Great Physician? <br />
<br />
But what scares me more is this:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>If I step away and put it entirely on God's shoulders ... what if he shrugs? </b></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>What will that do to my child's faith? </b></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>And what will it do to mine?</b></i></div>
<br />
DDD<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4244974032988098785.post-53583841238005891872014-04-04T03:00:00.000-07:002014-11-12T05:54:14.005-08:00April Fool's Day: Room Mom EditionSometimes I can be downright mean.<br />
<br />
I'm the Room Mom for my son's second grade class. Each week, I send out a "Week at a Glance" email letting the parents know what's going on in the classroom and school that week. I will sometimes put due dates for projects, etc. But that requires me to be aware of them first, so that usually doesn't make it into the email.<br />
<br />
But this past week it did:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB4PwgwoRsfpuUJo73R70Rr-n7QkNerNRNNN0MmFFgXaSRmUhNpAvwhYBgnER4Agwoawxm4x2Fohkt1q7XGH5rizmxCEfZn9aCn2Isby27RjNRJSI1zLRnWH6Ye3ZlkJJBWr2FstKfDK9I/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-04-03+at+3.14.26+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB4PwgwoRsfpuUJo73R70Rr-n7QkNerNRNNN0MmFFgXaSRmUhNpAvwhYBgnER4Agwoawxm4x2Fohkt1q7XGH5rizmxCEfZn9aCn2Isby27RjNRJSI1zLRnWH6Ye3ZlkJJBWr2FstKfDK9I/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-04-03+at+3.14.26+PM.png" height="127" width="400" /></a></div>
Note the April 1 entry.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
<br />
You have to understand that teachers at <a href="http://www.perimeterschool.org/" target="_blank">our school</a> (bless their hearts) love two things more than anything else: projects and costumes. Every topic they teach involves either a costume (parents often included) or something that involves glue, construction paper, twigs, cotton balls, wood, paint, and occasionally power tools.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Kv3NuZnmgOGeG4VXuu1nbPzQqTZDsSBI8oLZXWSLnA_fhJReLODvNdSGvZ7qv3Ba1droBINwrlYw2sthJ1UyAmT_Hj5zDqbaVtyX8p9VCa4duU-2hhtCl9ZUAvZ0U17T2P7l8xLiuwDN/s1600/IMG_3325.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Kv3NuZnmgOGeG4VXuu1nbPzQqTZDsSBI8oLZXWSLnA_fhJReLODvNdSGvZ7qv3Ba1droBINwrlYw2sthJ1UyAmT_Hj5zDqbaVtyX8p9VCa4duU-2hhtCl9ZUAvZ0U17T2P7l8xLiuwDN/s1600/IMG_3325.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shakespeare Festival 2012</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Soon after the email went out, the flurry of responses began hitting my inbox.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>What is this model <span class="il">globe</span> thing? I have no idea what that is. </i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>I don't know anything about <span class="il">Shakespeare</span> model? Are they doing at school? We never got a handout or anything!! </i></span><br />
<br />
<div>
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Uh, what <span class="il">globe</span> theater project???!! I didn't have any paper describing that!</i></span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="color: blue;"><i>I was not aware of a <span class="il">Globe</span> Theatre Project?</i></span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="color: blue;"><i>uhhhh….the build a model <span class="il">globe</span> theatre project??? I don’t know what that its. should I? </i></span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Can u send me a pic of the instructions? [Name withheld to protect the innocent] told me she didn't have the instructions for the <span class="il">Shakespeare</span> costumes. I wasn't worried about that. But I guess the theater project was included too! </i></span></div>
<br />
Then I ramped it up: <br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: magenta;">It seems that some people didn't get the handout. It was assigned last week. They're supposed to build a model <span class="il">Globe</span> Theatre using approx 1000 toothpicks. Crazy huh? It only takes about 3-4 hours to do if you build it on the base of a cardboard box. </span></i><br />
<div class="yj6qo ajU">
<div class="ajR" data-tooltip="Show trimmed content" id=":3ya" role="button" tabindex="0">
<i><img class="ajT" src="https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/images/cleardot.gif" /></i></div>
</div>
<br />
As the parents got freaked out, I'd let them in on the joke ... one person at a time. The responses varied from "Oh that's awesome! Great prank!" to ... well ... not quite so enthusiastic. But everyone had a good attitude. Some even found humor in it...<br />
<br />
<span style="color: magenta;"><i>Glad you're not mad!</i></span><br />
<i><br /></i>
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Well I did wake the baby so I could get to hobby lobby before <span class="aBn" data-term="goog_1278945093" tabindex="0"><span class="aQJ">3 pm</span></span> pick up , then got in a car accident at state bridge because baby was crying and I was so flustered.... </i></span><br />
<br />
One dad even pranked me right back, and I fell for it completely.<br />
<br />
Just in case anyone from the class is reading this, I fully expect some sort of payback.<br />
<br />
Let the pranking begin!<br />
<br />
Toodles,<br />
DDD <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4244974032988098785.post-75043543246391358692014-03-31T07:10:00.001-07:002014-04-10T09:35:45.139-07:00While The Cat's Away...Sunday night is date night at our house. Hubby and I don't always go out, but we do set that evening aside to do something together ... even if it's reading in bed and going to sleep early. Which really is heavenly.<br />
<br />
But last night, we went out. Like, to a movie and everything! Like grown-ups do! And because we have a 16yo, we didn't even have to get a sitter. Woo-hoo! Life is goooood. <br />
<br />
Note to self: When leaving a 16yo boy in charge of two additional boys, be specific in your instructions. <b><i>Be very specific in your instructions.</i></b><br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
Our instructions:<br />
1. There are leftovers in the fridge. Make sure to eat dinner and please include a fruit or vegetable.<br />
2. Jordan needs to finish painting his canoe for a school project. <br />
3. Lights out at 8pm. After all, it's a school night.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOVitEceoDdyhPyu03601nLw8elIbt9_T8i4ZSodZ32qnv6Ba_E_bVz69dNS6KGsURoxzCcEf78Tij4nx9c9m0uoPHDiti01jkTgaYH_pZJMeMdPxZ961q12w2FtzR2PFyNTI29q0BrgmV/s1600/mice+playing.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOVitEceoDdyhPyu03601nLw8elIbt9_T8i4ZSodZ32qnv6Ba_E_bVz69dNS6KGsURoxzCcEf78Tij4nx9c9m0uoPHDiti01jkTgaYH_pZJMeMdPxZ961q12w2FtzR2PFyNTI29q0BrgmV/s1600/mice+playing.jpeg" height="260" width="320" /></a></div>
What actually happened...<br />
<br />
<b>1. They ate, but I hesitate to call it dinner. </b>As best I can tell from looking at the trash and the dirty dishes, for dinner they had:<br />
<ul>
<li>Popcorn</li>
<li>Ice cream</li>
<li>Thin Mints</li>
<li>Chocolate milk </li>
<li>Veggie Chips (According to 9yo, this fulfilled the "vegetable" requirement. Honestly, I think the popcorn did a better job of that.)</li>
</ul>
<b>2. The canoe was painted with tempera paint (poster paint).</b> Shame on us for forgetting to leave the correct paint out and kudos to them for at least finding something to use.<br />
<br />
<b>3. They watched March Madness. </b>Until what time, I don't really
know. What I do know is that 9yo's light was on in his bedroom until the
garage door went up, when it very quickly flicked off. That was at about 9:30. And when Herb went upstairs to ask 8yo if he wanted another coat with the correct paint, he was also wide awake.<br />
<br />
So ... was it worth saving $30-$40 on a "real" sitter?<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: purple;"><i><b>Heck yeah!</b></i></span></span> </div>
<br />
I'm in favor of more brother bonding time, even if it means less nutrition and sleep. This is the stuff that memories are made of.<br />
<br />
But the 16yo will be vacuuming all the chips out of the living room carpet today. Lesson learned.<br />
<br />
Ciao!<br />
DDD<br />
<br />
<br />Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4244974032988098785.post-34266203037964576422014-03-27T06:24:00.000-07:002014-04-10T09:36:06.479-07:00Finishing Finish WellI started a blog two years ago that ... well ... never really went anywhere. At the time I thought I was at this major personal and career crossroads. Therefore, I decided that I needed to wrap up a bunch of things before setting off on my new adventure. So I started a blog to chronicle the journey, called <a href="http://finishwell.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Finish Well.</a><br />
<br />
Let's just say that life intervened.<br />
<br />
And nothing got finished. <br />
<br />
So I've decided to lay <a href="http://finishwell.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Finish Well</a> to rest and start afresh.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
<i>[Side note: Where do old blogs go to die? Do they just sit out there, wasting away, covered in Internet dust? I don't want to delete it and lose some pretty decent writing and family history. Must ponder this.]</i><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgztv1WWO0QSpJHe8avafl_0DPBnzZF442HFjzAIrHN3OrG1nrLlT4dR6geY7X_NvIShzMlTsoHVPRXkj6S81agXBd6AuZ2R7u615b0PE3L7JJHoi9p236XqlDNULXKg2ZxmJK0trk8HZSj/s1600/Domestic+Bliss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgztv1WWO0QSpJHe8avafl_0DPBnzZF442HFjzAIrHN3OrG1nrLlT4dR6geY7X_NvIShzMlTsoHVPRXkj6S81agXBd6AuZ2R7u615b0PE3L7JJHoi9p236XqlDNULXKg2ZxmJK0trk8HZSj/s1600/Domestic+Bliss.jpg" /></a><b>Why Domestic Diva Disaster?</b><br />
People keep telling me I'm funny when I talk about my house and my kids. And, frankly, we are pretty funny.<br />
<br />
In a twisted, cautionary-tale kind of way.<br />
<br />
So I decided to play to my strengths. Focus the blog on what I do best: writing about what I do worst.<br />
<br />
Welcome to <b>Domestic Diva Disaster</b>.<br />
<br />
I'd like to be Martha Stewart or anyone on DIY network ... but I'm not.<br />
<br />
I'd like to be June Cleaver or Carol Brady ... or even Claire Huxtable ... but I'm not.<br />
<br />
I'm more like a cross between Roseanne, The Odd Couple (both of them), with just a dash of <i>Cheaper by the Dozen</i> thrown in for good measure. (The new one, not the old one. As in: the eggs flying, frog jumping, teacup breaking, all while trying to write a book one.)<br />
<br />
So I'll be using this space to make fun of myself and talk about my crazy family. <br />
<br />
But in the meantime, here are links to a few of my favorite posts from Finish Well in case you missed them. Taken together, they give a pretty decent picture of my everyday life.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://finishwell.blogspot.com/2012/02/from-start-to-finish.html" target="_blank">From Start to Finish</a>: The post that started it all.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://finishwell.blogspot.com/2012/10/lifes-little-interruptions.html" target="_blank">Life's Little Interruptions</a>: What happens when I decide to chronicle just what I do in a typical work day. Warning: Contains explicit vomit references.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://finishwell.blogspot.com/2012/07/t-minus-18-hours.html" target="_blank">T Minus 18 Hours</a> (aka The Domestic Diva Disaster goes public): The one with all the gory "before" pictures from cleaning my office.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://finishwell.blogspot.com/2013/09/summerhome-sleepless-night.html" target="_blank">Sleepless Night:</a> Not gonna make the highlight reel at the end of my mothering career.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://finishwell.blogspot.com/2013/05/rip-thelma.html" target="_blank">RIP Thelma</a>: Saying good-bye to a feisty old broad.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://finishwell.blogspot.com/2013/07/summerhome-day-44-meet-diane.html" target="_blank">Meet Diane</a>: Saying hello to my new girl.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://finishwell.blogspot.com/2014/01/holidays-make-me-feel-incompetent.html" target="_blank">Holidays Make Me Feel Incompetent</a>: Self explanatory.<br />
<br />
Welcome to the jungle!<br />
<br />
<i>DDD</i>Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0