For those of you who have read my blog before, it might not surprise you to know that, as a mom, I'm pretty much a goof ball. It should not come as a surprise to you (as it would not to my children), if you were to see me dancing down supermarket aisles or hear me talking in a thick foreign accent of questionable origin.
About a month ago, we were at a pizza parlor that had gotten one of these fancy, new, electronic-type jukeboxes. It could instantly access nearly any song by nearly any artist. It had touch-screen operation at toddler level, and Levi was... well, he was like a kid in a pizza parlor with a jukebox. After a while, the kids convinced me to put a dollar in the jukebox. This gave us 3 credits, which we assumed was three songs. However, we found out later that most songs were 2 credits. In fact, it appeared to us that every song was 2 credits. This wasn't entirely true though, and I'll tell you how we found out that there were, indeed, one credit songs. After we listened to Run by George Strait, we were trying to decide whether or not to get 5 ones for one 5 so that we could get another 2, 2 credit songs when we heard techno music begin to emanate from the jukebox. We looked over to see that Levi had managed to touch-screen his way to perhaps the only one-credit song on the jukebox... Sexy Chick by an artist named "D. Ghetto". Imagine the surprise on our faces as the lyrics, "I'm tryna find the words to describe this girl without being disrespectful..." reverberated from the box with almost deafening pitch. (As if those lyrics, in and of themselves, aren't oddly disrespectful.) These lyrics were then followed by the chorus that consisted entirely of 6 words repeated ad nauseum, and I am loath to repeat them. However, in order for you to get the full picture of this Christian family of seven (two of whom are toddlers) sitting in a local pizza dive listening to Sexy Chick, you must know that the words to the chorus were several variations of the 6 words, "da** girl you's a sexy chick". When the chorus started, my husband looked at me, and we tried not to roar with laughter. The ridiculousness of yet another blog-worthy situation did not escape me - or as D. Ghetto might say, "exscape me". (By the way, he's a white guy with blonde hair named Dave Guetta who looks, frankly, a little like Keith Urban to me.)
Well, you can't keep my kids from dancing - no matter how tacky the song. They have their mother's "west-end rhythm" as my mother always called it. Mark was leaning over the table talking to one of the kids, and I was behind him - enjoying the kids dancing and ardently hoping they weren't listening too closely to the lyrics, as I could picture the moment the phrase "you's a sexy chick" might make its appearance in the 2's and 3's Sunday School class. This is when I couldn't hold it anymore - I had to get down with my bad self. Consequently, in the tackiest club groove I could muster, I did just that. I danced... boy, did I dance. I did so in complete silence, so that Mark wouldn't turn around and mess up my groove. The kids were watching me in stunned silence, as were (I found as I turned around) the waitress and three cooks... who were the only other humanoids present at that juncture. I watched myself in the mirrored wall, and I hate to brag, but I think I did mothers of 5 everywhere a little justice that night. When the kids told Mark to turn around, I stopped immediately. He asked what was up, and I showed him my best moves, and he said slowly, "You did that in front of people?" I said, "Yeah, why?" Then he laughed nearly uncontrollably. I wasn't sure if I should be flattered or insulted. However, I know one thing, I was glad I had joined my kids in a few moments of uninhibited F-U-N!
I guess there are indeed one-credit songs - or at least one. I guess you can't charge 2 credits for a 6 word chorus - one of which is a swear word, and after studying contractions with the girls for several weeks, I'm pretty sure that "you's" does not count as an actual word. As a side note, I can't imagine the woman who is flattered by this utterance. This took me back to a few weekends ago. I attended an event with my husband at a nice restaurant. The D.J. approached me and asked if he knew me. I said, "I'm not sure." He then sat down across from me, completely ignoring the presence of my hulking husband, and began to grill me about my whereabouts for the past 15 years - trying to guess how he knew me. The Pièce de résistance of this man's repertoire came when he asked me if I "hung out in the bars" in Oregon. I replied, "no", and then he asked how old I was. When I replied that I was 32, he said, "Oh, I thought you were younger than that." (As if I'm OLD now? He was at least in his mid-40's.) Men? Clueless? Nah... the only thing that made it more amusing was when I turned to my husband after the D.J. left to see smoke coming out of his ears. He later told our son about this guy's lame pick-up lines and said that he was about to pound the guy's face, which made me feel all the more flattered until my husband said, "Yeah, but then I noticed that he was hitting on all the girls the same way." Aw, honey... I feel so special. Anyway, again this left me wondering what manner of woman would find the bars question and a virtual age slam attractive.
Today, I took my girls to my rheumatologist appointment with me... partially because I enjoy their company, and partially because I'm not sure whether or not he's a little creepy. He complimented me on a 14 pound weight loss, which I couldn't help but be proud of, showing off my muscles to the girls as he turned his back to us. As they grinned at me, a thought occurred to me - a thought that scared the daylights out of me, for some reason - "I'm the only mother that God gave them." The reason it scared me was that, and I can't believe it never occurred to me before, I am the female role-model for my daughters... the person whom they are most likely to emulate. I am IT for them... for lack of a better word. I can't live only like I want to live, but I have to live how I want them to live. For instance, I value a sense of humor intensely. I feel this way, because I think it helps a person to deal with life's ups and downs... especially the downs... easier. In fact, if on our first date my husband hadn't blurted, "We don't like those guys in Iowa. We beat 'em up and throw their skates in the crick," (referring to men who roller skate semi-professionally), we likely wouldn't be married today. I want my girls to laugh and to make others laugh. However, like most fun-loving people, I have a tendency not to consider all the feelings involved before I blurt a punch line. That is overt selfishness on the part of the chronically silly... I'll take the risk of hurting others if it'll make people laugh. If it's possible to have an epiphany of all the things I want to be and don't want to be for the benefit of my progeny in .2 second, I had it.
My husband marvels at the capacity of my mind to be in 10 different places at once... I am If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. In fact, Sunday morning in the car, I brought up a friend's ailing grandmother, another friend I was having dinner with that night, cabinet latches I had ordered, and about 5 other totally unrelated (in his mind) things during a 10 minute car trip. He finally said, "I'm having a tough time following you. How do any of these things match up?" I said, "What things?" He then proceeded to list back to me all the things I had talked about in the last 10 minutes. I was astounded... for one thing, that he had been listening, two, that he could remember what I had said, and three, that I had said all those things aloud. I said, "Well, they were all connected in my mind somehow." Austin mumbled from the back seat, "Men are waffles, and women are spaghetti." (I got him that book for Christmas 2 years ago, and he read it cover to cover. Now he's a virtual relationship therapist.)
This blog is full of bunny trails that I'm honestly having difficulty pulling together. In conclusion, as I looked at my mother's nose, my sister's nose, and thought of my nose the other night, I noticed they are all three virtually the same... as are my children's noses. I glanced at my mother's mom and dad and noticed that neither of them had the same distinctive pug nose we had. I asked my mom, "So where'd our noses come from?" After thinking about the question (wondering why I asked), she responded, "Great Granny. It's her nose." Of all people... great grandma's nose. How did her nose skip a generation and then proliferate throughout almost a dozen grandchildren and great grandchildren? Whose nose was it before it was hers? The point? What traits of mine will show up in the next generation... or 3 generations from now? What trait of mine will proliferate in a seemingly random way? Will it be something I will be honored to see? A life lived for Christ? A compassionate spirit? A passionate heart? I hope they have a sense of humor, but I would be deeply saddened if that's all they got from me.
A dear friend of mine lost her grandfather a few months ago and lost her 95-year-old grandmother today. As I reflect on the sadness of these events, I am met with one happiness... that her grandparents left a legacy of love of God, love of family, and deep and lasting commitment to both. Without these, they would be entering a time of despair with barely anyone beside them. As it is, however, they have God, and they have one another... all to lean on in difficult times.
I need to be more purposefully discipling my girls into relationship with the Giver of a life worth living. He not only formed me with His hands, He breathes life into my lungs and makes my heart beat for Him. He is inventing me, and I need not hide it behind whit and humor.
About a month ago, we were at a pizza parlor that had gotten one of these fancy, new, electronic-type jukeboxes. It could instantly access nearly any song by nearly any artist. It had touch-screen operation at toddler level, and Levi was... well, he was like a kid in a pizza parlor with a jukebox. After a while, the kids convinced me to put a dollar in the jukebox. This gave us 3 credits, which we assumed was three songs. However, we found out later that most songs were 2 credits. In fact, it appeared to us that every song was 2 credits. This wasn't entirely true though, and I'll tell you how we found out that there were, indeed, one credit songs. After we listened to Run by George Strait, we were trying to decide whether or not to get 5 ones for one 5 so that we could get another 2, 2 credit songs when we heard techno music begin to emanate from the jukebox. We looked over to see that Levi had managed to touch-screen his way to perhaps the only one-credit song on the jukebox... Sexy Chick by an artist named "D. Ghetto". Imagine the surprise on our faces as the lyrics, "I'm tryna find the words to describe this girl without being disrespectful..." reverberated from the box with almost deafening pitch. (As if those lyrics, in and of themselves, aren't oddly disrespectful.) These lyrics were then followed by the chorus that consisted entirely of 6 words repeated ad nauseum, and I am loath to repeat them. However, in order for you to get the full picture of this Christian family of seven (two of whom are toddlers) sitting in a local pizza dive listening to Sexy Chick, you must know that the words to the chorus were several variations of the 6 words, "da** girl you's a sexy chick". When the chorus started, my husband looked at me, and we tried not to roar with laughter. The ridiculousness of yet another blog-worthy situation did not escape me - or as D. Ghetto might say, "exscape me". (By the way, he's a white guy with blonde hair named Dave Guetta who looks, frankly, a little like Keith Urban to me.)
Well, you can't keep my kids from dancing - no matter how tacky the song. They have their mother's "west-end rhythm" as my mother always called it. Mark was leaning over the table talking to one of the kids, and I was behind him - enjoying the kids dancing and ardently hoping they weren't listening too closely to the lyrics, as I could picture the moment the phrase "you's a sexy chick" might make its appearance in the 2's and 3's Sunday School class. This is when I couldn't hold it anymore - I had to get down with my bad self. Consequently, in the tackiest club groove I could muster, I did just that. I danced... boy, did I dance. I did so in complete silence, so that Mark wouldn't turn around and mess up my groove. The kids were watching me in stunned silence, as were (I found as I turned around) the waitress and three cooks... who were the only other humanoids present at that juncture. I watched myself in the mirrored wall, and I hate to brag, but I think I did mothers of 5 everywhere a little justice that night. When the kids told Mark to turn around, I stopped immediately. He asked what was up, and I showed him my best moves, and he said slowly, "You did that in front of people?" I said, "Yeah, why?" Then he laughed nearly uncontrollably. I wasn't sure if I should be flattered or insulted. However, I know one thing, I was glad I had joined my kids in a few moments of uninhibited F-U-N!
I guess there are indeed one-credit songs - or at least one. I guess you can't charge 2 credits for a 6 word chorus - one of which is a swear word, and after studying contractions with the girls for several weeks, I'm pretty sure that "you's" does not count as an actual word. As a side note, I can't imagine the woman who is flattered by this utterance. This took me back to a few weekends ago. I attended an event with my husband at a nice restaurant. The D.J. approached me and asked if he knew me. I said, "I'm not sure." He then sat down across from me, completely ignoring the presence of my hulking husband, and began to grill me about my whereabouts for the past 15 years - trying to guess how he knew me. The Pièce de résistance of this man's repertoire came when he asked me if I "hung out in the bars" in Oregon. I replied, "no", and then he asked how old I was. When I replied that I was 32, he said, "Oh, I thought you were younger than that." (As if I'm OLD now? He was at least in his mid-40's.) Men? Clueless? Nah... the only thing that made it more amusing was when I turned to my husband after the D.J. left to see smoke coming out of his ears. He later told our son about this guy's lame pick-up lines and said that he was about to pound the guy's face, which made me feel all the more flattered until my husband said, "Yeah, but then I noticed that he was hitting on all the girls the same way." Aw, honey... I feel so special. Anyway, again this left me wondering what manner of woman would find the bars question and a virtual age slam attractive.
Today, I took my girls to my rheumatologist appointment with me... partially because I enjoy their company, and partially because I'm not sure whether or not he's a little creepy. He complimented me on a 14 pound weight loss, which I couldn't help but be proud of, showing off my muscles to the girls as he turned his back to us. As they grinned at me, a thought occurred to me - a thought that scared the daylights out of me, for some reason - "I'm the only mother that God gave them." The reason it scared me was that, and I can't believe it never occurred to me before, I am the female role-model for my daughters... the person whom they are most likely to emulate. I am IT for them... for lack of a better word. I can't live only like I want to live, but I have to live how I want them to live. For instance, I value a sense of humor intensely. I feel this way, because I think it helps a person to deal with life's ups and downs... especially the downs... easier. In fact, if on our first date my husband hadn't blurted, "We don't like those guys in Iowa. We beat 'em up and throw their skates in the crick," (referring to men who roller skate semi-professionally), we likely wouldn't be married today. I want my girls to laugh and to make others laugh. However, like most fun-loving people, I have a tendency not to consider all the feelings involved before I blurt a punch line. That is overt selfishness on the part of the chronically silly... I'll take the risk of hurting others if it'll make people laugh. If it's possible to have an epiphany of all the things I want to be and don't want to be for the benefit of my progeny in .2 second, I had it.
My husband marvels at the capacity of my mind to be in 10 different places at once... I am If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. In fact, Sunday morning in the car, I brought up a friend's ailing grandmother, another friend I was having dinner with that night, cabinet latches I had ordered, and about 5 other totally unrelated (in his mind) things during a 10 minute car trip. He finally said, "I'm having a tough time following you. How do any of these things match up?" I said, "What things?" He then proceeded to list back to me all the things I had talked about in the last 10 minutes. I was astounded... for one thing, that he had been listening, two, that he could remember what I had said, and three, that I had said all those things aloud. I said, "Well, they were all connected in my mind somehow." Austin mumbled from the back seat, "Men are waffles, and women are spaghetti." (I got him that book for Christmas 2 years ago, and he read it cover to cover. Now he's a virtual relationship therapist.)
This blog is full of bunny trails that I'm honestly having difficulty pulling together. In conclusion, as I looked at my mother's nose, my sister's nose, and thought of my nose the other night, I noticed they are all three virtually the same... as are my children's noses. I glanced at my mother's mom and dad and noticed that neither of them had the same distinctive pug nose we had. I asked my mom, "So where'd our noses come from?" After thinking about the question (wondering why I asked), she responded, "Great Granny. It's her nose." Of all people... great grandma's nose. How did her nose skip a generation and then proliferate throughout almost a dozen grandchildren and great grandchildren? Whose nose was it before it was hers? The point? What traits of mine will show up in the next generation... or 3 generations from now? What trait of mine will proliferate in a seemingly random way? Will it be something I will be honored to see? A life lived for Christ? A compassionate spirit? A passionate heart? I hope they have a sense of humor, but I would be deeply saddened if that's all they got from me.
A dear friend of mine lost her grandfather a few months ago and lost her 95-year-old grandmother today. As I reflect on the sadness of these events, I am met with one happiness... that her grandparents left a legacy of love of God, love of family, and deep and lasting commitment to both. Without these, they would be entering a time of despair with barely anyone beside them. As it is, however, they have God, and they have one another... all to lean on in difficult times.
I need to be more purposefully discipling my girls into relationship with the Giver of a life worth living. He not only formed me with His hands, He breathes life into my lungs and makes my heart beat for Him. He is inventing me, and I need not hide it behind whit and humor.
