A-Hunting We Will Go

Thanksgiving is always a fun time of year.  I love the holidays.  I love fall weather.  I love family gatherings, drama and all.  I love to cook.  So, all-in-all, this is win-win for me.  This year, I had the added excitement of embarking on a new adventure – I joined the annual Thanksgiving hunting trip.  Ta-da!

I’ve wanted to attempt deer hunting of the past couple of years (which, I realize, seems in direct opposition to my whole “I’m not a country girl” thing).  I like learning new things and I’m curious as to what all the hoopla is about.  Between toddler duty and letting kids have their first hunts, I usually end up giving my spot up so that someone else can have a shot (no pun intended).  So, this year’s plan was “Mommy gets a deer first.”  Don’t hold your breath, kids.

We headed west Friday – locked, loaded and ready to go.  As we drove in our unusually quiet car (we only took Luke and the dog, the two younger kids stayed behind), my mind drifted back to my very first deer/hunting interaction.  It was with Gregg, of course, and even though it was almost 20 years ago, I remember it with complete clarity.

We were freshmen in college and had been “hanging out” without actually dating (whatever that means) for a month or two.  Translated, we were still too cool to make the first move, but in the “I need to impress you with how irresistible I am without seeming to try too hard.”  Gregg was at his house which, to my mind, was out in the country and I had driven over to “hang out”.  We couldn’t go anywhere because he had shot a deer the evening before and it was hanging, field dressed and ready for him to skin and quarter.  Naturally, the super cute Wonder Girl persona I had on prompted me to volunteer my services and help him out.  After all, I was dissecting stuff in Anatomy lab and pre-med at the time.  How hard could this be?  Plus, for all my insect and scorpion phobias, mammals don’t make me squeamish.  And Gregg looked as impressed as he did shocked, so I figured it was the right call.

We went out to where the deer hung and, after a brief “Aw” moment, I was ready to work.  Gregg gave me a small handsaw and began reciting very specific instructions, which I actually listened to without allowing myself to become overly distracted by his dimples.  Or height.  Or muscles.  Did I mention he was really cute?  Believe it or not, in my younger years I was way more focused and less ADD than I am now.  I blame the children for this loss.

Sorry, I digress.  See?

Instructions: I was the quarterer, which meant I had to remove the legs (if you are squeamish, you might want to skip ahead.  If you are a card carrying member of PETA, just skip this post altogether).  The method I was to use was to saw halfway through the leg tendons, twist and pull, popping the leg off.  Repeat for each leg.  Gregg did the actual skinning, and was impressively fast at it, until he got to the head/neck area – he then sat on the ground to work with more precision (obviously, the deer was hanging upside down).  This was my cue to being working on the hind legs.  Show time.

As I stated earlier, this was a time in my life where I was incredible focused and very literal.  I took the handsaw and sawed through exactly 50% of the tendons with extreme specificity.  I may have even counted fibers.  So far, so good.  I carefully set the saw down, reached up for the leg, twisted and pulled.  Nothing.  Hmmm…. I twisted a little further and pulled with more force.  Still nothing.  I repeated the twist/pull pattern with incremental increased in force for three to four more repetitions.  No luck.  The leg was still firmly attached.  And now, it was personal.  I had followed the instructions without deviating and it was not working!  My type A personality could not reconcile this, so my mounting frustration may have made me a tad irrational.  I totally forgot about Gregg’s presence and became completely immersed in the woman versus deer leg struggle for dominance.  Bring it on, Bambi! 

I raised all the way up onto my tiptoes, wrapped both arms around the leg and turned by body so that the deer leg was positioned under my armpit and lodged against my ribs.  I placed my foot on the tree trunk, braced myself and started yanking with my arms and body while shoving my foot against the tree for leverage.  I’m pretty sure there was grunting.  I struggled this way for a good minute, hair whipping wildly, tree bark flying, the deer swinging back and forth…..until, breathless, I realized two things: 1) this deer leg was no closer to coming off at this point than it had been before I started  and 2) Gregg was still there.  Oops.

I slowly turned my head and lowered by eyes to where he sat; stunned, silent, not moving at all, as he stared with wide eyes at this lunatic hanging on his deer.  After an awkward pause, he asked, “What are you doing?”  There really was no dignified response here, so I simply said, “Twist and pull.”  We learned that day that I was not strong enough for the 50% rule.  My success rate with the other legs went up exponentially when I sawed through 90% of tendons instead.

Fast forward 20 years to the inaugural deer hunt.  We dropped off our stuff, our son (he had no interest in going since the focus was not on him…so much for supporting mom) and the dog, then headed to the deer lease.  I was quite excited, although more than a little apprehensive, truth be told.  I’ve mentioned on more than one occasion how busy we are, and the holiday season only magnifies this.  While I have shot guns before, it’s been a while.  With our crazy schedules, we never got around to letting me practice with the gun I was actually going to use.  So, when Gregg handed me the gun and said, “Ok, babe, rack a round and put one in the chamber”, I just sat there blinking at him.  I mean, really.  Who did he think he was talking to?  Where would I have just picked that up as a skill?  This was probably his first red flag.  The second came as we were exiting the vehicle and I turned to him with the question, “So, where exactly am I supposed to shoot the deer?”  Nothing like waiting until the last possible minute to get the basic info.

We set off on foot across the lease and I felt pretty official in my black wool beanie, five layers of clothes, Gregg’s camouflage vest and a rifle in my hands.  This particular lease doesn’t have many deer blinds and we got there after the feeders had gone off, so the plan was to walk the lease and find deer to hunt.  This requires stealth, a good eye and quick response time.  Perfect.  Sounds like a recipe for success to me.

Still, I had promised to be a good sport and follow directions, so I squared my shoulders and soldiered on.  Gregg led the way and we wound our way throughout the terrain.  It was really fun.  There was wildlife everywhere – we saw jackrabbits and hawks and foxes, and there was a veritable cacophony of birdsong.  It was so great to spend time, just the two of us, enjoying nature and fresh air.  I almost forgot we were stalking deer.  Almost…..the gun wasn’t exactly light.  At intervals, Gregg would turn to me and do the two fingers at his eyes, then at me, then out at the clearing.  I would nod and look around dutifully.  He would motion to get down.  I would duck and squat.  He also did a whole bunch of other signs that made no sense to me whatsoever and I couldn’t begin to guess at their meaning.  I just kept nodding.  He seemed so excited to communicate in that way, I didn’t have the heart to burst his bubble.

As the sun began to set, we became resigned to the fact that this trip was unlikely to garner the result we had hoped for.  We began walking back towards the suburban.  All of a sudden, Gregg started flapping and pointing wildly while squatting and motioning for me to do the same.  Okay!  Okay!  I got it.  He duck walked/ran over to me, put his chin on my head and began speaking under his breath.  I thought this was a great trick, by the way.  I know, focus on the point.  He had spotted a doe in the field across from us.  Sweet!  I turned to look where he was pointing.  Nothing.  He pointed again.  Nothing.  Again.  Nothing.  What the heck was he looking at?  I mean, the man can’t find his keys when they are six inches from his face, but he can spot a partially hidden deer at 200 yards?  Amazing.  He told me to sneak along the fence line past the bushes and I should be able to see her.  Ok.  Got it.  So I slowly began this awkward lunge/squatty/duck-like walk along the fence while hiding behind the bushes.  It was ridiculous, and only the thought he would kill me if my laughter scared off the invisible deer kept my giggles at bay.  I stopped and stared.  Nothing.  He pantomimed for me too look through the rifle scope to see if it would help.  Oh, my gosh.  Have you ever tried to do that?  How does anyone see through those things?  Gregg snuck over to me, told me not to put the scope so close to my face or the recoil would give me a black eye (great, something new to worry about) and said there were now two deer.  Because I was having so much trouble seeing them, he would go around and see if he could “encourage” them to come towards me by making a little noise on the other side.  What?!?  Then, he says, “This means you’re gonna have to be quick, Bec.  I mean, no hesitation.  Click off the safety, get your gun up, aim and shoot.  They’ll be moving, so you won’t have much time.”  Again, who does he think he’s taking to?  It’s like he’s never met me!

Needless to say, this plan was not successful.  I never did see the deer.  Maybe they flew away…..Christmas is coming, you know.

Walking back to the car, we each spent a few minutes in our own thoughts.  I was a little disappointed, but still had fun.  My main concern was that this had to be the most boring hunting trip ever for my husband.  The man has been hunting his whole life.  He doesn’t even rifle hunt anymore, preferring to use a bow.  Here I am, candidate for Clueless Hunting Rookie of the Year.  Gregg was walking a few feet in front of me.  He paused for a moment, turned, and said, “I can’t tell you how happy I am that you came along.  It means so much to me that I got to share this part of me with you.”  I felt my heart lift, my spine straighten and my face break into a smile.  As he turned to keep walking, he casually tossed out, “And you look really cute in that hat.”

Victory!!  As far as I’m concerned, this hunt was a roaring success.  Any time a good-looking outdoorsman walks away from an empty-handed hunt with a smile and a compliment, noticing your adorableness, you’ve won the day.  After all, isn’t that what we all hunt for throughout our lives?  Aren’t we tracking down people and occasions that leave us feeling loved and beautiful and worthwhile?  We equip ourselves as best we can to find positive reinforcement and incidences and individuals that are able to celebrate our relationships over our results and our company over our competence.  This is why community and friendship and sisterhood are so important.  We were created to embrace them…and each other.  So celebrate that every opportunity you get, and even stepping outside of your comfort zone won’t feel so daunting, I guarantee it.  It makes a cold, intimidating hunt much more enjoyable.

Getting to watch him walk around in front of me in his jeans was just a bonus.

Solidarity, sisters.  The hunt is on…..

Tradition....tradition!

This past week or so, I’ve been thinking a lot about the concept of tradition.  Probably because we have been immersed in the phenomenon known as Wurstfest….and the holidays are looming over us.  Before we go any further, for those of you not from around these parts, let me elaborate on the ‘fest.  Wurstfest is an amazing local festival that occurs every year at this time.  It’s a crazy, fun, popular, tradition-soaked German ten-day salute to sausage and giant party, complete with carnival rides and polka music galore.  Yes, you read that correctly.  Ten days of sausage, sauerkraut, polka and lots of beer.  The men who are the host/workforce of this event bear the coveted title of “Opa” (getting in to this group is no small feat….it may actually be easier to join the CIA), and attend/party/run the show dressed in lederhosen, vests and hats.  Their wives/girlfriends don dirndls for the week.  Locals and tourists alike show up in droves, many also dressed in variations of traditional German garb.  Others simply choose creative expression in the form of crazy hats, hair pieces or random costumes – I personally witnessed a guy dressed as Miley Cyrus (not from her modest period) and someone who was quite convincing as Thor.  To my knowledge, neither of these two are of German heritage…..

                                                                 Gregg and I doing our "wurst"

People line up throughout the grounds, eager for potato pancakes, sausage-on-a-stick and deep fried everything.  Tents are crammed full of revelers ages eight weeks to eighty years, bouncing and clapping along to polka music.  You haven’t lived until you’ve heard Bon Jovi’s “Livin on a Prayer” done as a polka.  Or “Amazing Grace” performed through a beer bong.  I kid you not.  It’s epic.

So, the idea of tradition has been swirling around in my head.  Naturally, the soundtrack to Fiddler on the Roof has also been stuck in there.  If you have no idea about this reference, stop reading now and get to googling or you-tubing.  Seriously, people.  Make sure to check out both “Tradition” and “If I Were a Rich Man”.  Typing this out has just cemented those songs in my brain for at least two more weeks.  The irony is not lost on me that I am singing songs from a Jewish musical while discussing a German festival……

Rabbit trail over…back to traditions.  I started musing over traditions – those well-known and those particular to our family or background.  It’s still football season, so my mind wandered down a predictable path, since when I think football + tradition I get images of Texas A & M.  No, I am not an Aggie.  But even I know what a custom-heavy university that is.  Plus, I visited once.  Several of my good friends at PT school received their undergraduate degrees there, and one of them had a younger brother attending, so we took a road trip in order that I find fulfillment in the whole Aggie experience, complete with midnight yell practice.  Let me talk you through this experience as a non-Aggie, because it’s very different than the experience of the natives.

 First, I didn’t know any of the cheers/yells/whatever you call them…..and everyone else did.  Not knowing the yells = not knowing the movements, which means I didn’t know when to shift my weight.  As a result, I fell off the bleachers approximately every ten seconds…..for 30 minutes.  Who needs step aerobics?  Second, this group is very particular about who is allowed to point their fingers in which direction while whooping.  I got so confused by the rules (and nervous to invoke whatever curse inappropriate pointing brings), that I basically just clasped my hands together the whole time.  Finally, and perhaps the most fun part that no one warned me about, is what happens after the last yell ends.  I’m standing there, hands clasped, falling off the bleachers in a regular rhythm, when all stadium lights go out.  Silence and darkness ensued.  WTH?  No warning, nothing to prepare me.  About the time I began to suspect some sort of alien abduction, people start flicking on lighters.  Seriously? 

Let’s pause for a moment, lest any younger readers become confused.  I am aware that, at this point, no one uses lighters any more.  I know you all have cell phones for this purpose.  Believe it or not, we did not have cell phones at that time.  And the few that were in existence didn’t have lighter apps…..or LED screens…..or a battery charge that lasted longer than two hours…..and they were too heavy to hold for any length of time.  Stop laughing.

So, lighters.  This added to my already heightened sense of unease on many levels.  It’s weird.  Only certain people were lighting them.  And I believe I’ve mentioned my hair situation on more than one occasion.  This much hair with that many open flames is not a good plan.  Ever.

We have many unusual traditions in my family as well, seeing as how we are a blend of Armenian, American and German.  Holidays are the best, because we have a veritable smorgasborg of fun activities.  We do everything from the hidden pickle in the Christmas tree to Santa letters/cookies/gifts to Christmas Eve pajamas to the Wishbone Game (it’s an Armenian thing). We join our friends and family at Wassailfest and the tree lighting. 

As funny and out there as many of these stories and traditions are, I love them all.  Okay, not all, but I love the concept.  They give us a sense of history and belonging and self.  They remind us of events and emotions past, and give us a feeling of continuity.  It’s comforting to know that generations to come will experience the things we experienced and share the memories of our youth.  I look forward to seeing my children do the things I did as a child, and to watch their anticipation of the activities they love the most.  The memories and stories entertain us, and help us cope on the holidays when we miss those who are no longer with us. 

So, share, please.  I’d love to hear about your favorite (or least favorite or weirdest or most memorable) traditions.  Leave me a comment…..I’m always looking for a good laugh or great idea.  You can even tell me your favorite song or scene from Fiddler, if you’d like.

On the other hand….

Solidarity, sisters.  Tradition flows through us all.

Beautiful Disaster

It never goes well for me when my husband is out of town.  I know that sounds like a very dramatic statement, but it is a true one.  Everything that can go wrong generally does when he is travelling.  Reference the School Days blog and you’ll get an idea of what I’m talking about.  My life is generally random and a bit of a disaster, but the intensity increases when I’m temporarily a single mom.  Last week was no exception.

Gregg was gone the entire week, so naturally life at the Greebon house exploded.  Let me break it down for you.

Monday:  I actually got up and moving and got the boys to school without drama or tardiness, so I felt pretty good about things in general.  We had celebrated Emry’s fourth birthday over the weekend (insert nostalgic face here….my baby is not a baby anymore), so were all in a state of more-than-usual exhaustion coming out of the weekend.  Other than dragging a bit, though, we survived the day pretty well, even though Emry refused to answer me if I didn’t address her using her full title….she informed me that I may call her Four-Year-Old-Emry from this point forward.  Hopefully, this is a temporary phase.  My children have short names for a reason…..  Luckily, it rained all day, so while we got soaked during grocery shopping, this meant soccer was cancelled and I only had to scramble to one sport practice that night (This is Texas, people.  We do not cancel football practice.  Ever.).

Tuesday:  I got everyone to school on time and got to all of my patients.  Ironically, I had an incredibly heavy caseload, so was cramming in more than my usual number of patients.  Plus, it was a week where I had to work later, so balancing child care was like planning military ops.  Still…doable.  I got home to meet my mom and let the boys into the house before leaving again for late patients and this is where things started to fall apart.  On my way home, I had noticed that my stomach was unhappy, but didn’t pay much attention.  Until I got home.  Then, I had to pay attention.  It took about 20 minutes for me to figure out there was no leaving the house again.  Let’s hear it for the tummy bug!  In true fashion of my determination to be positive and strong, I pep talked myself into looking at it as a weight-loss aide and forged ahead with dinner/bedtime/etc. (in spite of all three kids repeatedly telling me how terrible I looked – not the most compassionate crew, here).  I started feeling better about midnight, so figured my mind over matter methods worked.

Wednesday:  Until I woke up with pink eye….again.  While it was nowhere near the case from before (those of you who’ve been with me from the start may remember the Pink Eye blog…that was a fiasco), it’s still pink eye – itchy, inconvenient, contagious pink eye.  I resigned myself to cancelling more patients, no make-up, extra hand washing and dosed myself silly with eye drops (which I still had from the previous bout…score!).

Thursday: I woke up, clear-eyed and ready to go….hustling kids out the door, ready to cram patients into every nook of my day.  I had pick-up and drop-offs set for all kids….my wonderful dad was helping get Emry from pre-school and meeting boys off the bus.  We were set.  Ha!  Apparently, pink eye isn’t the only contagious factor.  While picking up the princess, my dad’s car died, stranding them at her school.  Who knew bad luck was communicable?  I won’t bore you with the details of the mad scramble to work around this issue.  Just know that everyone survived and made it home eventually.  That evening, I had worship practice, which was perfect.  Goodness knows my soul needed a healthy dose of music and Jesus by then.  Feeling much revived, I headed home afterwards.  As I approached the train tracks on the road home, I noticed a rapidly-approaching light coming towards me from the side and a louder than usual train horn (is it called a horn on a train?  Whatever…you know what I mean).  The railroad arms were up, but I had the nagging feeling that the train was closer than usual (visibility is bad right now due to construction and piles of materials and dirt everywhere).  Right before I got to the tracks, I slammed my brakes on.  Thank goodness, because the warning arm came crashing down as the train went flying by in front of my car.  I sat there with my mouth open, heart pounding, thinking, “Well, that would have just topped my week off beautifully.” 

Friday:  I decided there was no need to push my luck.  I can take a hint.  So, I cancelled all of my plans to leave the house before I had to work (and make up the visits I had missed earlier in the week).  It was all for the best – this place looked like a bomb had gone off in it and needed some serious cleaning/organizing. My precious friend, Jen, came over to watch kiddos for me while I worked.  She told me (in a rather sheepish tone) that she spent the entire drive over to my house praying that nothing bad would happen to her since she was helping me out.  It seems I am developing a reputation as a bit of a jinx.

After I was done with patients, the kids and I had a Friday Fun Night, complete with breakfast for dinner and old school movies – the original Ghostbusters never gets old.  And it’s a great family film, all things considered.  Except for the scene where Dan Akroyd has the dream/haunting with that blonde ghost.  You remember the one to which I am referring?  I didn’t, until the last minute….so I started yelling, “Everyone cover your eyes!  Now!! No peeking!  No peeking!” until it was over.  Luckily, my kids were shocked enough by my manic vehemence to obey.  When the movie was over, we all got up to dance to the credits (this is somewhat of a tradition in our house).  Drew kicked off the dancing with disco moves (He was inspired by the movie Disco Worm.  I don’t recommend it.  Really, it’s one of the worst movies I have ever seen…..and we’ve gone through a Free Willy 1-4 obsession here).  Still, who doesn’t love to disco?  So, we all joined in.  We did the Saturday Night Fever moves.  We did the Hustle.  We even did the whole hands in front of the knees crossing over while you wiggle your knees in and out, yelling, “wacca wacca” (which is not actually disco, but fit the mood – please tell me some of you know which dance move this is).  Emry was hysterically cute as she tried to coordinate all of her limbs in this new phenomenon.  I was so caught up in the moment and teaching her this new skill as a family that I called out, “Come on, everybody!  Shake your knee balls!”  This would be a ridiculous statement from any grown woman, but considering that my degree and career are centered around a heavy knowledge of musculoskeletal anatomy, it was just pitiful.  And caused each of my children to freeze in their tracks, staring at me with varying expressions of consternation.  It also caused our sweet practically adopted sister/nanny extraordinaire, Ashley (aka Pledge Ashley to the Saucy Six) to collapse to the floor, doubled over in laughter, hitting her head against a bar stool on the way down.  The jinx strikes again.

I lay on the floor, gasping for air and snorting with laughter (she was fine – the stools are cushioned).  There was popcorn everywhere.  Dinner dishes were piled on the counter and syrup coated half of my kitchen.  Eighties music was blaring from the television.  I looked through tears of mirth at the flushed faces of my children and the disheveled state of our home…..and it was beautiful.  Because these are the moments they will remember.  They don’t see the mess.  They don’t care that half of my to-do list didn’t get done (okay, two thirds….whatever).  They don’t worry about the balls I dropped all week.  And in that moment, neither did I.  The credits dancing lives on.  Drew has taught his soccer team the phrase “knee balls”.  Emry has been practicing her new moves. We all have another memory of laughter and bonding to hang on to. 

So, I’d say the week ended up an overall success.

That’s not to say I won’t be prepping for Threat Level Orange next time Gregg leaves town.  I know the odds are not necessarily in my favor here.

Solidarity, sisters.  Every thorn has its rose.

In an additional note:  I arrived at a patient’s house this morning and after I had entered the house and was seated on the couch with my patient’s sibling climbing all over me, the adorable young mom informed me that my toddler patient had just fallen asleep, but she could get her in a minute.  She was thinking about calling the doctor because her little darling had a horrible case of pink eye in her left eye, and it was spreading to the right one. 

Oh, for the love………

Ready, Set, Think about it.....

As a general rule, you can tell where I am emotionally and/or mentally by my reading material.  I love to read, and I will read anything and everything I can get my hands on.  At any given time, I am in the midst of two to three books and a magazine or blog following.  I prefer actual books, but my Kindle is impressively full.

 I have some staples - pages of recipes and quotes or interesting facts cover the fridge along with my children's artwork/homework/sports schedules/grades/pictures...it's a veritable nightmare for the feng shui community.  There is no peaceful space in my kitchen.  I generally have books scattered by the bed and bathtub - you'll always find titles about child rearing (because, let's face it...none of us actually know what we're doing), spiritual growth or inspiration (I have no illusions about my ability to survive without celestial help), relationships (shout out here to Stormie O'Martian's The Power of a Praying Wife - I purchase it often because I keep giving it away, and I need to keep a copy....some days the only way not to kill your spouse is with divine intervention) and various professional articles (gotta stay on top of my game there).  When I am overly tired or overwhelmed, I delve into the area of mindless romance or fantasy - sometimes you need to escape and not think too hard.  When I am looking for some extra entertainment or adventure, I'll pull out a great mystery or crime nail biter - for these I look to James Patterson or J.D. Robb.  I love novels with strong, funny, independent characters, male or female.

So, I'm sure you are waiting with baited breath to read what my literary ambience is these days.  Well, the thing is....I'm a bit discouraged at my lack of progress towards the whole Fit by Forty thing.  Which means that my house is currently littered with fitness and health publications.  I have got this stuff everywhere, as though by looking/reading/touching these magazines and books I will magically transform due to osmosis.  I stare at the cover models in envy, wondering why I can't pull off that look, and making reassuring comments to myself about their trainer budgets, personal chefs and air brushing.    I devour the articles, inspired anew with easy-to-do fitness routines that take just ten minutes three times throughout your day!  And the recipes...oh my!  They even print the quick on-the-go snacks and dinners interspersed with pieces on affordable meals for gals on a budget.  There are vegan versions and vegetarian versions and substitute chicken for every meat on the planet versions.  Side note - this is hard for me because I don't really like chicken.  Shocking, I know. 

Then I turn to the page with the heading, "Hollywood's Best Bodies", and I am alternately discouraged and determined anew.  Ok....enough whining.  Let's find some recipes and a workout program and get cracking.  I can do this.  Oh....this particular article named Gwenyth Paltrow and Jennifer Aniston.  I know you were holding your breath in anticipation.  You may now exhale.

So, I see a picture of a cool looking treat and decide to start my journey.  It's a recipe for roasted cherries with cocoa mocha granita.  Sounds pretty fabulous, right?  And it's in Health magazine, which means it has to be healthy and likely low-cal.  I am the ultimate target consumer for these people.  Prep time is only 15 minutes.  Bake time is only 15 minutes.  Freeze time is one hour.  Okay, no big deal.  I just have to plan ahead.  I'm not sure what granita is, but the picture looks like brown sugar with cherries on top, so surely it's edible.  I started going down the ingredient list.
Cherries - check
Sugar - check
Lemon juice - check
Kirsch - what??
Seriously, what the heck is that?  I have no clue, not even the faintest guess.

Why is it that these recipes always have that one ingredient (sometimes two) that is impossible?  It's either really odd or difficult to prep or hard to find (you know, the foods that are only sold in organic whole food stores that ship from a specialty grower in Oregan) or is in season the first and third Thursdays of April.  Don't they know that working moms in Texas want a chance to be skinny, too?!?!  I need ingredients I already have around the house, or can at least find at HEB.

FYI: Kirsch, or kirschwasser (German for "cherry water") is a clear, colorless fruit brandy traditionally made from the double distillation of morello cherries.

Thank you, Wikipedia.

I don't even want this stupid treat, now.

I flipped past the recipe section, disgusted, and found a promising article.  A late night snack can actually help you sleep better, and, according to the doctor spokesperson for the American Academy of Sleep Medicine, we should eat 30 minutes to an hour before bed for optimum relaxation and restful sleep.  Score!  This is my kind of study.  I went on to read more, riveted.  The best snack includes complex carbohydrates.  Even better!  Permission to eat carbs!  So, she suggests cheese and whole wheat crackers or almonds and a banana.  What?  That's not a nighttime munchies snack!  Who even eats like that??

Probably Gwen and Jen.....which may go a long way to explaining why they have documentation worthy figures and I don't.  Hmmm....

Because, honestly, this stuff only works if you do it.  I can lament from now until the end of days about how my abs don't look like the Shape cover girl of the month or why my thighs aren't shrinking at the rate I want them to or at the unfairness of my scale's harsh honesty.....but if I refuse to follow the programs, recipes, routines and expert advice, none of this will ever change.  Forty will come and go and I will be disappointed and depressed at my lack of goal attainment.  Yes, the media darlings have trainers and chefs and seemingly unlimited funds.  However, they still put in the work and shut out the calories.

Last year, I lost a tremendous amount of weight through a strict nutrition program, complete with vitamin shots, bi-weekly appointments, weekly check-ins with a nutritionist and food journaling my 800 calorie/day diet.  Along the way, I had comments or questions from other women about what I was doing, and the odd comment about "doing it the easy way" or "cheating".  Excuse me, sister, but there is nothing easy about 800 calories/day.  It sucks.  And it's hard.  And it works.....but only if you do it right, with determination and accountability.  Is it sustainable?  No way.  The maintenance program is, but (say it with me) only if you follow it.  So, I am paying the price for falling too far off the wagon.  But that's on me.

Because anything we hope to accomplish in life takes action.  Yes, we need to find our motivation.  Yes, we need to discuss our options and plan of attack, getting advice and setting a course.  But if we never leave the finish line...if we never take that first step, and then keep putting one foot in front of the other.....we'll never move towards our goal, much less accomplish it.  There is no "easy way".  There never has been, at least not for anything worth fighting for and accomplishing.

Don't believe me?  Check the books, beginning with the greatest one ever written.  The instructions are clear - don't just listen to the Word, do what it says (James 1:22), because faith without deeds is useless to the point of being dead (James 2:20-26).  For the more secular minded, you'll still be hard pressed to find any tome that doesn't say the same thing.  Until you get up and get going, you don't move out of the place you're in.  And the perfect plan only works for those who bring it to life and apply it.  Period.

So, I'm actually cooking the healthy recipes I read and/or pin.
I'm hitting the road for my much accursed runs.
I'm sticking to an earlier schedule for bed time and kitchen closing.
I'm watching what I put in my mouth, mind and heart....fitness isn't just about the scale, my lovelies. 

But there's no way I'm shopping for kirsch.  The buck has to stop somewhere.

Solidarity, sisters.  Women of action can change the world (along with our well-being).

Pigskins and Prayer Time

I am a football fan.  I am.  Not in a crazy, overly fanatic, I-know-all-the-stats-and-history-of-the-game kind of way....but I do enjoy the game. This phenomenon is probably good fodder for the whole nature versus nurture argument.  I was raised in West/Central Texas in the era of Friday Night Lights. Yes, my friends, the movie and television show are pretty accurate in their depiction of that culture.  The high school I attended (shout out to my Central High School peeps) was a huge rival of Odessa Permian (the FNL team, for those of you who may not know), and I was there in their Time of Greatness.  I'm talking football game attendance of 50,000+....for high school....in towns that only have a population of 80,000-90,000.  It's about 90 miles from San Angelo to Odessa, and when we travelled to away games the road was peppered with orange and blue balloons tied onto stakes placed in the ground at 1-2 mile intervals.  No joke.  Can you even imagine how long it took the parents to make that drive?  That's some dedication.

 When the movie Friday Night Lights came out, Gregg and I saw it in the theater.  When it was over, and he was asking my opinion of it, I pointed out that while I enjoyed the movie a lot (and I really did), it was not historically accurate.  Odessa Permian lost in the quarter finals that year...they went on to win State the following year.  He looked at me, perplexed, and asked, "Who are you?  How do you even know that?".  Bobcat football, my dear.  It's a powerful thing.  In spite of my heritage as  first generation Texan (and first generation American on my mother's side), the power of the Football Belt rings true.  Plus, I paid a lot of attention to this sport during high school.  I really liked dating the cute boys who populated the field......

Despite my enthusiasm for football (and its players), neither my husband nor myself were thrilled when Luke began expressing a desire to play this game.  I also happen to work with injuries for a living, and Gregg had a very short, very painful football carrier (it ended with the shattering and pinning back together of his left arm).  To say we were hesitant about this choice is an understatement. 

Being good parents and not wanting to squash our child's athletic dreams, we did what any mature, loving set of parents would do.  We started making up rules.  Not a chance before you turn ten.  You have to complete certain physical requirements ( we created a whole workout and checklist with fitness goals and everything - yes, I know we're crazy).  You have to play a season of flag and stick with it.  Mandatory attendance at both summer football camps (relax, they were only two hours in the evening for a week each).  Every time we thought we'd worn him down, he persevered.  It was actually pretty amazing.  He's only ten years old.  Think of what this tenacity means for the future!

Sorry, I digress.  Back to football.

It came time to sign up for the fall tackle season, and we had to relent.  With more than a little trepidation (and really long conversations with the head coach, assistant coaches, friends whose kids played and the Man upstairs), we signed him up to play.  I must admit, by this time I was much calmer.  I think I've mentioned Luke's stature before.  Here he is (the one in the black shirt)....

He's standing by two of his teammates....and they are average-sized kids.  He looks like this next to 90% of the other players on any given team.  The other 10%, he towers over by just half a helmet.  There's a kind of security to watching this game when your kid is the biggest one on the field. 

And he loves it.  I mean, really loves it.  The child has found his sport....and he comes alive when he is out there.  Thank goodness.  Can you imagine if I had to spend this much time and energy watching him golf?

This past Saturday was our first game.  We had some scrimmages, and I had gotten to see him in action, but Saturday was when the season began.  So, of course, we were scheduled to play last year's division champion team.  All of the kids and coaches were a bundle of nerves.  I won't even attempt to describe the tension pulsing off of the parents.  It's not even about the game itself, or the competition....not really.  It's about wanting your child to have fun and feel joy and experience success.  I know that sounds crazy, but...that's parenting, right?

The game was a nail biter.  Both teams are talented and tough and well-coached.  Both teams had impressive plays and costly mistakes.  Going into the last few minutes of the fourth quarter, we were tied 6-6, and they had the ball, first down, on their ten yard line.  I was pacing and cheering and praying....I couldn't sit still, or stay under the canopy we had to protect is from the 122 degree heat.  Luke was playing defensive end.  The ball was snapped, hand-off was faked, and the quarterback held on to the ball as he ran behind his two lead blockers.  All of a sudden, Luke came flying up the side.  He shoved the tight end out of his way, barreled through the full back and tail back (splitting their block) and hit the quarterback, taking him down behind the line of scrimmage.  It was beautiful.  The sidelines erupted, grown men jumping and yelling, players stomping....and no one was louder than Luke's dad.  I turned, stunned into silence and immobility (which is saying a lot) as before my eyes, my Type B, laid back, always put together and generally reserved husband completely lost his mind.  I watched, transfixed, as he transformed into a jumping, screaming, arms wildly waving lunatic running along the sidelines.  I really expected him to take flight at some point, he was leaping so high, yelling, "Yeah!  Yeah!  That's my boy!".

He turned and caught my eye, and before I could move shouted, "Did you see that?  Did you see that play?  That's it!  That's exactly what we teach defensive ends to do!!  That right there!"  At junctures, he was actually pounding his chest with a fist.  It was fascinating.  He continued, oblivious to my shocked expression, "Tight end? Bam (making a shoving down motion with his hands)!  Full back?  Bam!  Tail back?  Bam!"  His euphoria knew no bounds.  I can honestly say, it is one of my favorite mental images of him now.

Luke was heading back to the line of scrimmage for the next play, a bounce in his step after the hoopla and helmet-slapping of his coaches and teammates.  I could feel his smile, shining through like the sun, reaching out from behind his helmet.  He went on to make another big play, helping to put us into overtime, and then yet another huge block after that.  We won in overtime, and I don't know that I can accurately do justice to the images of us as parents doling out high fives and hugs as we rejoiced. 

I may not survive the season.

As I laid on the couch later that afternoon - dehydrated, hoarse, exhausted and exhilarated....I kept replaying the game and its highlights in my head.  I couldn't help but picture Gregg over and over again, as he vaulted through the air, cheering.

And I had a thought..... 

Is this how Heaven looks when we get it right?  Does God illuminate His kingdom with the brilliance of a proud father's smile as He gives a fist pump or two?  I can only imagine His joy when we read the playbook He so graciously gave us, and then successfully put His word into practice.  When life brings up obstacles and blocks our way...and we find the strength and courage to knock those things aside, does He take to the air with a resounding "Yes!"?  Does He recount the play-by-play with pride?
Anxiety?  Bam!
Relational stress?  Bam!
Depression?  Financial worry?  Insecurity?  Bam!  Bam!  Bam!
I smile at the thought of my heavenly Father saying, "That's my kid!" on the occasions we let nothing detour us as we charge forward to tackle the challenge or goal that is our destination.

How He must delight in our smiles and sense of accomplishment as we dust ourselves off and jog with renewed vigor to rejoin the game known as life, continuing on after our moment of success.  We may screw up the next play, but that's okay.  Our moment in the sun is there for us to remember, providing encouragement and inspiration.

We need to be sure and hang on to that. 

Solidarity, sisters.  It's all about how you play the game.

Let's Roll

Twelve years ago, these words took on a new meaning, morphing from an innocent slang statement casually tossed out in social and sports settings to a profound declaration of courage, strength and American heroism.  September 11, 2001 began innocuously enough, a day like any other.  It didn't stay that way for long. 

It's amazing, isn't it, how the days that change the course of history often begin as ordinary days with nothing to distinguish them from the days before.....until something does. 

It was five days before my first wedding anniversary.  My children weren't even a thought, yet.  I was a new PT, a new wife, a twenty-something young American woman at work, getting ready for my first patient and thinking ahead to what the hours would bring.  I had no idea, when I picked up the phone to answer the call from my co-worker across the way that her request to turn on the waiting room TV would show me the most horrific sight of my life.  I watched in slack-jawed shock as the second plane crashed into Tower Two of the World Trade Center.  I tried to absorb the complete travesty of the images before me, and couldn't.  I listened to news stories pour in, as people ran screaming and crying down the streets of Manhattan.  I watched smoke and dust engulf these images.  Then, I listened as breaking news announced another plane had crashed into the Pentagon.  And then another had smashed into the field in Pennsylvania - we would later learn it had been bound for the White House.

Images and memories from that day are forever burned into our hearts and brains.
Flames engulfing the towers.
The tiny figures leaping from the heights to plummet hundreds of feet to the buildings and pavement below.
Hundreds of New York City firefighters and police rushing into the rubble to perform their duties and rescue the victims therein, only to become victims themselves when the building collapsed on top of them.
People running, running, running as they tried to escape the horror all around them.

It was the most devastating attack on U.S. soil since Pearl Harbor.
It happened in our lifetime. 
And the world would never be the same.

In less than ninety minutes, the landscape of our existence changed forever. 
Because someone with hate in their heart and envy in their blood unleashed their poison on mankind.

Nearly 3,000 fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, grandparents, children, aunts, uncles, friends, wives, husbands and loved ones lost their lives that day. 

A generation lost its innocence.

A nation lost its security.

But only for a while.  Before long, out of the ashes, the tales and details of bravery and brotherhood began to rise.  How can we remember this day without mention of the brave passengers and crew of Flight 93?  Their calls to loved ones, their reactions and determination to act upon learning of the other planes, their majority vote to rush the terrorists and thwart their plans no matter the cost, their phone calls and voice mails to loved ones, some ending in statements of needing to hang up because it was time to run at the front of the plane......who can ever forget Todd Beamer and the message he left for his wife with the GTE supervisor before joining his fellow patriots with the charge, "Are you guys ready?  Okay, let's roll".

In the aftermath, we clung together as a people on our knees and wept, then held to each other as we started to rise.  Regardless of race, religion or politics, age, gender or education, socioeconomic status or sexual orientation, we were united - one nation, under God, and, for a time, indivisible. 

On this day, may we never forget any of it.  May we remember what it felt and looked and sounded and smelled like to live through a defining hour.  May we know that in every terrible season, there is an opportunity for greatness.  And that our Father watches and holds us, assuring His children that despite the world's troubles, He has overcome them and will triumph with us in the end (John 16:33).

Solidarity, sisters.

Celebrate School Days, Come On!

We made it through another first week of school!  We were on time every day, had paperwork signed and turned in before deadlines, remembered water bottles and last-minute school supplies and only experienced one major debacle, which involved confusion on the bus home -> missing boys for a while and a stern e-mail and face-to-face meeting between myself and the transportation department.  Since that mistake was actually on the part of the school district, it doesn't count against us, so we're in the black this year.  Wahoo!

Anyone else this excited about the beginning of the school year? 

I'm not sure I can adequately express how ready I was for the routine and days not spent lounging about the house to commence.  The last two weeks of summer vacation nearly killed me - or led me to commit unacceptable acts upon my offspring.  The day before school started they actually tore through the house like a tornado, destroying everything in their path while trying to maim each other.  It was incredible, really.  I've never seen anything like it.

That evening, we laid out clothes, packed backpacks and had a motivational speaking session about our goals for this year and how much they have all grown and how proud we are of them and go get 'em, Team Greebon!  Most of this was done by my husband as my boys sat sullenly (Drew) or glaring (Luke) and Emry cried because she didn't want to go to pre-school the next day.  What was I doing during this reluctant pep rally?  I'm so glad you asked!  My contribution was to dance around the house while singing Kool and the Gang's "Celebrate" over and over.  No joke.  I couldn't stop - it was like a compulsion.  I knew it wasn't helping the situation, and that I was poking the proverbial bear.  I just didn't care.  The relief I felt overshadowed everything else.  Mom of the year, here.

The first morning went well - I even cooked breakfast, which will probably not happen again until the last day of school...don't judge me.  The two youngest kids were in great moods (hallelujah) and Luke was quite possibly in the worst mood I have ever seen him in.  Awesome - let the pre-teen years begin.  When I asked him what he was thinking, his reply was, "I'm thinking we should have pulled my wisdom teeth out earlier in the summer."  Oh, that.  I guess I should be fair and point out that he had his wisdom teeth cut out and two permanent teeth pulled the Friday before, so was still really swollen and somewhat sore, not to mention limited in his diet.  So, basically, he started fifth grade looking like a really tall, angry chipmunk.  Oops.

All things considered, it was a pretty great first week.  Especially if we compare it to last year's first week.  What a fiasco that was!  Here's a summary:

Someone who either doesn't have school-age children, or really hates his wife (or ex-wife) decided to schedule my husband's company's National Sales Meeting week the first week of school.  Which meant that I was on single mommy duty the first week.  Normally, that's not too bad a week to have full duty, other than daddy missing the photo ops and trying to get everyone where they need to be and get myself to work on time as well.  Okay, so it's not the best timing...

Still, I was determined to plaster a smile on my face, don my Superwoman cape and show everyone how it's done.  Naturally, this meant that all hell was going to break loose.

Two nights before Gregg left, I was awakened to a scratchy, scrabbly sound coming from the direction of our bedroom dresser.  This sound persisted for most of the night, but of course would stop every time we turned on a light.  It was incredibly frustrating.  Finally, Gregg sighed, squared his shoulders, and pronounced his verdict - we had a mouse.  Excuse me?  EXCUSE ME???  Needless to say, I sat up shaking the rest of the night.

Gregg purchased some mouse traps and sticky paper and set them everywhere in hopes of catching said mouse before he left.  I cannot emphasize enough my stress and displeasure at this situation.  I don't do rodents.  Period.  I spent the day tiptoeing around the house and peering under everything, while avoiding walking into my bedroom alone.  I procrastinated at bedtime and pleaded with Gregg to sleep with the lights on.  He alternated between amusement and annoyance throughout the ordeal.  He started saying things like, "It's just a mouse, Bec.  Not a mountain lion.  A mouse."  All things considered, I might have preferred a mountain lion.  They have a harder time hiding inside a house!

That night, I was again awakened to the sounds of tiny tap dancing along my furniture.  As the sun rose, my heart sank with the realization that our traps had failed (the little sneak had snagged the bait, but escaped with it) and I had to face this situation alone.  For the next five days.  The first week of school.

My dad came over with more traps, this time the old-fashioned snap traps, and we set them throughout the house.  I sat up well into the night, watching television (goodness knows I wasn't going to be able to sleep), waiting for the "snap!" that would indicate this creature had been caught.  Nothing.  Nada.  Zip.  This had to be the smartest mouse ever born.

First day of school madness ensued in the morning as we ran around trying to get everyone dressed, combed, cleaned and packed up.  Luke was chasing Emry in her then-favorite game of "catch me to dress me" and I was tying Drew's shoes with one hand while stirring pancake mix with the other.  In the midst of all this tumult, a shot rang out - "SNAP!".  I froze, turning my head in slow motion.  Many words and phrases were running through my mind.  The only one I can print is "Are you kidding me?!".  NOW?  In the middle of all this noise and movement?!  Now, the mouse decides it needs a peanut butter breakfast snack?  Oh, yes.  Not only did it decide to go for the gold and set off the trap at the most inopportune time ever...it didn't even have the good manners to do it correctly.  Instead of having the trap snap down on it's neck as planned, the trap caught it by the hind leg.  How did it even do that?  Was it backing up to snag the bait with its foot?  Was it showing off for someone - hey, check me out...I can grab food without facing it!  So, at this point, much to my shocked panic, there is a mouse trying to run across my living room floor while dragging the trap holding its leg behind it. 

This was too much for me to handle.  Superwoman or not, everyone has their limits.....and this was mine.  I promptly began screaming for Luke.  Yes, my friends, in my hour of need, I reached out at the top of my lungs for my nine-year-old son to come rescue me.  I'd love to explain this with some profound mother-son relationship lesson and psychology babble about giving him opportunities to develop as a man and provider/hero/leader/etc....but that would be lying.  I just flipped out.

My little hero came running, and among my shouted instructions to be careful and grab the edge of the trap furthest away so as not to get bitten (I did retain some semblance of mothering instincts), he brought it to the trash bag I was holding open with my arms fully extended away from my quaking body.  After a short arguement about releasing the mouse back out into the wild vs. putting it in the trash bag (you can guess who won that one), it was over.  I managed to pull it together enough to take pictures, make it to school on time and walk everyone to their respective classes.  Barely.

Then I called the exterminator.  Gregg was not in agreement on this decision, but I informed him that she who has to deal with the vermin gets to pick the method by which she does so.  End of discussion.

Throughout that week, two more mice were caught and disposed of....but not by me, since the professional was on the job, so that helped.

The second day of school, I received a call from after school care that Luke had fallen and scraped his knee.  It seemed like overkill to call for such a minor injury, until I got there and saw that he had a rock embedded completely in his knee....I mean, to the kneecap, flush with the surface.  When I dug it out at home, his leg looked like I had use a small melon baller on it.

The fourth day of school, I received a call that Drew was in the nurse's office because a fellow student had thrown mulch at him and his eye was red and hurting.  A quick trip to the eye doctor revealed a scratched cornea and need for a contact bandage to prevent further damage.  Voila!

And yet, we survived that week and school year.  And I was still beyond ready to start a new one.  Because, no matter how much chaos and craziness and calamity we experience during the busyness and bustle of our full agenda and timetable, the boredom and disorganization brought on by the end of summer vacation is bad enough to drive us back to the grind of routine. 

Plus, it's 137 degrees here.  Bring on the fall.

Solidarity, sisters.  There's a time for every season.  Except for one with mice...there's never a time for that.

When Bison Pounce

The week before last was a really rough week.  I mean, knock me on my butt and reduce me to crawling through its last two days rough.  Nothing tragic happened, at least not to me and my immediate family.  We managed to avoid emergency situations, for the most part.  Everyone is well except for some allergy situations here and there.  I think I just ran out of steam.  You know how that happens sometimes?  You just run out of gas before you make it to the week's end, so everything seems harder.  That was me that week.  I confess my fallibility to you all.

Of course, it wouldn't be worth mentioning if there weren't a few calamities.  So I'll share.

Monday:  Monday evening was one of those rare times when the women in our family got to do something together.  I was joined by my mother, mother-in-law, sister and niece (who is visiting from Virginia Beach for the first time in three years...we are thrilled!) for some girl time, and we had a ball all together at a (wait for it) jewelry-making craft night.  I know!  Me...at a craft night!  And still, no Armageddon.  Who knew?  On the way home, we noticed a rather horrible sound coming from under the car.  It basically sounded like I was dragging a robot down the highway.  I'll just throw it out there: this is not a good sound coming from any vehicle.  Looking back on it, this may have been a mini-Armageddon result of my presence in the craft universe.....  The general consensus was that the sound probably had something to do with my brakes, and since those are a rather necessary component of safe driving, we would need to get them looked at tout de suite.  Fabulous.

Tuesday: So, Tuesday had the added chaos of trying to get my car to the shop, juggling schedules and drivers to do so.  Which meant, beyond the inconvenience and stress of that venture (why does car stuff always create such tension?), I got to drive The Bus.  Let's pause for a moment here for a full description, lest I deprive you of a full mental picture.  The Bus is the name for our (and by "our" I mean my husband's) hunting/fishing vehicle.  It is a 1997 Chevy Suburban with a trailer hitch/tow package, windows that may or may not work, a door handle that opens when it feels like it (other times, it requires praying for the afore-mentioned window to open so you can roll it down to open the door from the outside) and a 3rd row that has been removed to make more room for fishing gear, rifles, air soft guns, bows, kayak paddles, life jackets, ammunition, the dog, ropes, bungee cords and any other spare guy paraphernalia he could ever hope to need.  In the event there ever is a zombie apocalypse, this is the escape vehicle we need to run for.  As long as the zombies can't run too fast (it sometimes has acceleration issues).  Or work a door handle, since the doors don't actually lock...... 

In addition to all of this loveliness, this car is filthy.  It is full of dirt and dust and old peanuts and dog hair.  So, naturally, it smells like dog....and fish....and boys.  Driving it always puts me in a less-than-fabulous mood.  This morning was no exception.  Especially since it was a home health day, meaning lots of car time.  And it's August....in South Texas.....and the air conditioning went out.  And to further improve my mood, Gregg calls out, "Oh, hey, babe....while you're out today, it would be a good idea if you could find a few minutes to run by the DMV.  The license tags expired in April....of 2012.  And the inspection is out, too.  I'd hate for you to get a ticket."  Would you, now?  Would you hate that, honey?

Frazzled and frustrated, contemplating my ridiculously full day and muttering dire threats under my breath at the result should I get pulled over, I made my way into the car, loaded all of my therapy gear, tablets, paperwork and drinks and drove out of the driveway.  I stopped at the light at the entrance of our neighborhood and my water and energy drinks both promptly flipped out of the wrong-sized cup holder, spraying the entire contents of my front seat and floor board with liquid.  I immediately did what any self-respecting professional grown woman would do in my shoes and burst into tears.  It was only 8:15am.  The rest of the day pretty much followed suite, seeing as how I was driving around in 100+ degree weather with no air conditioning.

Wednesday: The car was still in the shop.  My brake pads were totally worn down and some other jargon about something undercarriage, blah, blah... Translated - drive The Bus some more and spend lots of money on car repairs to get my car back.  Great.  It was also my last day at the outpatient clinic in San Antonio, which meant tons of paperwork, wrap up all loose ends, say goodbye to a staff I adore and patients I love and load up my entire office into the car on my lunch break.  Do you have any idea how heavy medical reference books are?  I worked a nine hour day, then sat in I-35 traffic (again without air conditioning) watching the thermometer on the car read 105. I began to seriously contemplate a move to Montana at this point.  I looked almost as good as I smelled by the time I got home to greet the house full of people there, since it was our church small group night.  You know you are disgusting when even your dearest friends wipe their hands off after patting you on the back.

Please know that I am well aware that I am venting, and that none of this is truly tragic.  My kids are healthy and well fed, our home is safe and comfortable, our loved ones are fine, we both have jobs, we live in an amazing time and country......I know these things.  I even know what a blessing it is to have another vehicle to drive when one breaks down.  I'm not that clueless or spoiled.  Sometimes, it's just really hard to pull it together and find that focus when walking through the beat down.  Until, something gives you perspective in a new and refreshing way.

Enter Thursday:  I got my car back!!  I have never been so grateful for working windows and doors that lock and cup holders that actually hold cups and air conditioner and vanilla-scented fabulousness.  Even the consult with the oral surgeon to talk about pulling two of Luke's teeth which turned into a decision to pull two teeth and cut out four wisdom teeth, increasing cost and recovery exponentially (and making me start praying immediately, since he is so incredibly sensitive to sedation.....no matter what they give him, it's the Excorcist vomiting extravaganza in our house after any procedure) was less daunting.

Friday: Was busy, at least at first, since I had to cram in more patients and a couple of meetings, then race to gather things for river time with yet more visiting cousins.  As much as I love having family here, and as thrilled as we are to have nieces and nephews to spoil and play with....it's been non-stop.  We have been on hyper-tourism and playtime schedule for about a month, and the exhaustion factor is getting to be a big one.  My kids are so off schedule and off-kilter, they don't know if they are coming or going.  Gregg took them to the river so I could make my last meeting and grab the food we would grill that night.  I had promised to pick up one of Drew's friends who had invited him for a sleep over, so made that quick stop on the way.  I climbed into the car after chatting with his mom and we were off.

A side note about this little man - he is truly one of my favorite people on earth.  We'll call him G, and I would do this story a disservice if I didn't take a brief moment to describe him.  G is a blond, blue-eyed cherub of a seven-year-old who is full of enthusiasm and joy.  Everyone is his best friend!  Every day is the best day ever!  Any time I cook or prepare food when he is around, it's his favorite!  You get the picture.  He also has this amazing way of enunciating everything he says and speaking in a sort of booming voice, so when he's with us, I always feel like he's about to burst into the Gettysburg Address or quote from a State of the Union speech.  Some day, this kid's got to run for office.  Added to that, you never know what he's going to say, which I love, since I often never know what I'm going to say until it starts to come out.  See why he's my favorite?

So, G and I are in the car and he starts talking immediately (of course), opening with, "Have you heard of Yellowstone?"
Me: As in the park?
G:  Yes!  That's the one!
Me: Yes, I have heard of that.
G:  Guess what?  We're going camping there next summer! 
Me: How cool!
G: Yep!  And we've started watching DVDs to study about it.  Guess what?  You can NOT feed the wildlife.  I mean, not at all.  You have to be very careful and not mess with the animals there.
Me: I see (thinking to myself that his parents are geniuses.  Knowing what I do of him, they probably need to spend a year drilling Yellowstone safety into his head).
G:  There was this guy who ran into some bears, and he got so scared, he just kneeled down.  Right there in front of them!  He couldn't even run!
Me:  Did that help?
G:  Nope.  They attacked him anyway.
Me:  Oh my.  I guess bears don't respond to genuflecting?
G:  Uh-huh.  And, you know what else?  There was this older gentleman, and he walked right over to this tree where there was a bison grazing....you know what a bison is, right?
Me:  Yes, I do.
G:  Okay, good.  Well, anyhow, he got too close, and this bison....it just jumped right on him!
Me:  The bison jumped on the man? (starting to get a clear mental image)
G:  Yep!  It jumped right on him!
Me:  Well, now there's a bad day, huh?
G:  It sure is!
Me:  Things did not go well for him.
G:  No, they did not (in his politician's voice)

At this point, I almost ran the car off the road.  I started off giggling, then quickly escalated into full scale laughter, complete with tears.  I honestly don't know what was funnier - the mental image of a huge bison jumping onto some hapless elderly gentleman (picture Jack Lemmon in Grumpy Old Men and that trampoline-jumping bison from YouTube), G's enthusiasm and hand gestures while telling the story, or his solemn assessment of the situation in his Senator's voice.  Then, he looked so puzzled at my inability to pull it together and control my laughter.

I now have a new standard.  From this point forward, any time someone around me (or someone who is me) declares they are having the worst day ever or complains to excess about how rough a day is, I believe my response will be, "Really?  Did a bison jump on you today?"

Because that would be a bad day.

Solidarity, sisters.  It's all about perspective.

On being a PT

It occurred to me the other day that I have yet to write about my job…as in my actual profession.  For those of you who don’t know me personally, it may come as quite a surprise that, in the real world, I have a career….as opposed to sitting around in the river every day drinking a variety of cocktails while blogging about the hilarity that is my life.  Shocking, I know.

I have what is arguably one of the best jobs ever.  I’m a pediatric physical therapist.  I spend my days jumping around, playing and interacting with some of the coolest kids on the planet.  They are interesting and beautiful and challenging, and I have spent the past 14 years being blessed and humbled and taught by them and their families.  I can treat adults, and do, on occasion.  But I prefer to treat children, and am much better at it.  I’ve worked in every setting of pediatric therapy – NICU, inpatient, outpatient, home health, schools and ECI.  It’s the perfect fit for me.  I’ve decided to list why, for your reading pleasure.  Let’s do this job application/interview style, shall we?

My strengths:

1.       High energy/tons of movement

2.       Very animated and dramatic

3.       Humor – pretty much everything has the potential to be funny in my world.

4.       I love people.  I really love kids.

5.       Mercy is in my top three spiritual gifts.

6.       I can sing anything – and by that, please don’t think I am bragging in and American Idol “you can sing the phone book” way.  I mean I literally can sing my way through an entire conversation.  Or day.  I’m like a walking musical.

7.       I can dance anywhere.  Please reference above note about singing.  Same rules apply.

My weaknesses:

1.       Math – my lack of skill in this area is as legendary as it is frightening.  In this job, I never have to count past ten.  No lie!  We get to ten, I say, “Next set!” and we start again.  Plus, it’s kids.  Half of them skip six anyway.  It’s perfect!

2.       Computer skills – beyond e-mail and documentation software, I don’t have to function much in this area.  Thank goodness, because I’m really bad at it.  I bought a new laptop the other day, and about halfway through the sale, the very nice Best Buy employee who was helping me just stopped asking questions about features and software additions.  I think he got tired of watching me blink at him.  And he was running out of non-awkward ways to move on and skip over my lack of intelligent responses.

3.       Issues with distractibility – I don’t know that we need to elaborate on that one.

In the true manner of a successful job application, we’ll stop there.  Note how many more strengths than weaknesses I have.  Yes, I do remember Resume 101.

I’m in the process of changing from an outpatient clinic to home health as we attempt to calm our schedule a little (ha!) and give me more flexibility and time with kids (and writing).  So, my last several weeks have involved ridiculous amounts of paperwork as I wrap up all documentation and bang out as many evaluations and re-evaluations as humanly possible before my last day.  It is killing me.  I cannot sit at a computer and type this much on forms and specific software! I signed on for a gig that involves lots of movement and bursts of explosive energy.  There are not enough meds or meditation techniques out there to set me up for success in this area.  How do people in office and administrative jobs do this day in and day out?  If I wanted a career that involved copious paperwork, I would be a lawyer.  Then, I would expect this kind of screen and writing time.  Plus, I’d make a lot more money.  And get to shout out cool phrases like, “You can’t handle the truth!” at random intervals.  How awesome would that be?

It’s not that I don’t like to write.  Hello….aspiring writer here.  It’s just that report after report of medical data and terminology is so boring.  It’s a pretty universal fact that the best PTs (especially in pediatrics) tend to have the not-so-best documentation.  I must be amazing. 

Did I mention the part about how I sing my way through a work day?

There are actually days where my co-workers will kick me out of the documentation room.  Apparently, they don’t need my original soundtracks during their note writing time.  To each her own, I guess.

All levity and complaints aside, though, I have to take a moment to send out my love and admiration to all the mothers and fathers and siblings and grandparents and family members and loved ones who have a child with special needs and abilities in their lives.  I don’t care if that child is 2 or 82…..kudos and compliments to all of you.  You walk a path that few can fathom and even fewer can shine through, and you do it with grace and dignity and laughter and love, even on days when the laughter is quieter than the tears.  I am honored that you have let me treat your children over the years.  They fill my heart and bless my life.  I am a better person for knowing you, your stories, your triumphs and frustrations.  It is my privilege to work with you and walk with you, to laugh with you and cry with you.  You humble and inspire me.

My healer’s heart and artist’s soul are so grateful for a role that fits me like this one.  I can combine my strengths and weaknesses into work that overtly matters and makes an obvious difference.  It is a calling and a ministry.  It is passion and talent and giving of myself wholly into what God has put me here to do.  I don’t always do the best job seeing His plan.  I lose my clarity more often than I’d like to admit.  I flounder and fluster and fret way more than I should.

Then I remember how clearly I see this area of my life, and it reminds me of His promise….that I have a purpose and He has a plan.  Every day.  Every way.  In every aspect of my existence.  All I have to do is listen.  And follow.  As do we all.

Solidarity, sisters.  Just breathe.  We’ve got this.