What I Will Do

What I will do

Is take a deep breath

A calming, soothing,

Long suffering breath

I will pick up the pants that are never picked up

And put the junk back in the junk drawer 

And toss out the 4 empty shampoo bottles

And realize that this will never change

I will pick up and put away and toss out

And love these folks that I share my life with

These messy, irritating, wonderful, darling folks

Raising Second Hand Kids

I grew up on hand me downs and thrift store clothes, and it was always a good thing.  New clothes to me are new clothes to me, regardless if they weren't brand new from the factory.  I still feel that way as an adult, which is why half of my work skirts are from the thrift store.

My kids don't mind either.  My son looks for vintage ties to add to his collection and he found a pair of dress shoes that fit his idea of perfection.  My daughter has shopped for shirts, and dresses, and costumes and while she won't let a piece of second hand silverware pass her lips, she loves to find the perfect outfit at the thrift store.

I was shopping by myself the other day, and I thought I might just scope out the racks of dresses.  I've had an idea of upcycling a maxi dress into a skirt, but I didn't see a pattern I loved.  I did find a gorgeous black lace sheath dress that I thought would be perfect for my daughter for homecoming.  She wasn't there to give approval, but for $5, I was willing to risk it.

It's the best $5 I've ever risked.

She loved it and looked unbelievably awesome in it!

The same day I brought her dress home, my son returned home from work, triumphantly holding up an old metal phone sign for his room that he had salvaged from the dumpster.  I've never been more proud!

A No Good, Very Bad, Totally Rotten, Day

First thing this morning, after I put my ankle wrap on and slipped into flip flops, I tripped as I climbed the stairs to wake the kids.  Tripped, broke my flip flops, and hurt my hurt ankle.  Okay, shake off that bad start and think happy thoughts.

As I'm trying to get to work on time, I realize that I don't know where the car keys are.  My son drove it last and likely the keys are somewhere in his room.  Or in his pockets.  Maybe he has them right now?  I'll take the truck.  Not the usual truck, which is out of gas, but my son's truck, the '66 I have never driven before.  I handle it just fine, only grinding the gears once, when disaster strikes.  The passenger door swings open and one of the packages I'd planned to zip down to the post office at lunch, falls out into the road.  I quickly pull over, but not quickly enough.  The car behind me has run it over a little.  And as I watch, the next car drives right over it.  I run out and pick up the box, and as much of the loose packaging as I can and get back to the truck.

I'm late, and feel a little like crying, but I am a big girl and I straighten my spine and go to work.  At lunch, I drive the devil truck down to the post office, and mail off my undamaged boxes and reminded myself that the door opening could have been worse: I had a total of 6 boxes that could have fallen out.  I get back into the truck and it doesn't start.

It is out of gas.

Okay, that's okay.  I will walk home, and find the car keys and it will be okay.  As I start to walk, it starts to rain.  I pull out my trusty purse umbrella, only to remember (as it fell down onto my head) that it doesn't stay extended.  It's only a 10 minute walk home, but it is 10 excruciating minutes because my ankle is hurting worse with each step.  I eat a quick pb&j sandwich (comfort food at it's finest) and I call my sister to beg a ride.

Before we go back to work, we get a mocha.  Things are looking up.  It's got no where to go but up, right?

My husband calls on his way home to tell me the drivers seat in the family car has gone from being slightly hinky to totally jinky and a bolt that holds the seat to the cab has snapped off.

At that point I said this is God's way of telling us we should go out to dinner.

I must have been right, because this pizza is the best I've ever eaten!

The Pews At The Front

What is it about the pews at the front of the church that make them unappealing to most of the congregation, myself included?

I know from a childhood spent in the second row, it's very hard to look around when you are up front.  Everyone behind you knows the exact moment your attention wanders. It is impossible to casually look over your shoulder to check the clock at the back of the sanctuary.

I know those things shouldn't matter: I am not at church to catalog what everyone is wearing or to make sure my one hour of church service is dutifully time stamped.  Those empty front rows bother me.  We are crammed into the back of the room, as if we are afraid to sit too close to the front.

And yet, I try to imagine myself moving from my usual half-way back pew, and I can not.  Mostly because my attention does wander, sometimes, and I like knowing only about half the people in the sanctuary will be aware it.

I'll be staring at the other half.

Bite Off More Than You Can Chew

Within the first week of moving into our 100 year old house, my husband tore this out of a magazine and taped it to our fridge, where it has stayed taped for the last eight years:

It will probably stay there, exactly like that, until the paper turns brittle with age and falls apart on its own, to remind me that I may have cried every day of that first week, wondering what on earth we had gotten ourselves into, but we kept on chewing and it is now a quirky house I want to grow old in, and have the kids pack us up out of and move us into a nursing home.

There is another possibility for that bite that is too much.  As the great Frank Sinatra says, in my favorite song of all time, he ate it up and spit it out.  Because you know you're going to get that awful piece of unidentified meat that you chew and chew and chew and holy smokes, it's the worst gristly bite in the known universe, and frankly, you've got to spit it out.

Use your napkin.  It's totally okay with me.

This post inspired by TangledLou's invitation to party as an audience!

Raising Midnight Kids In A Sunset Town

This small town I was born in and love and adore and choose to move back to and raise my kids in, is not where my kids feel destined to reside.  It's a shocking idea to me. I can't remember a time I didn't desire this town and all the family history nestled in the heart of it.

But, my goal for my kids has always been for them to find their dreams and go for it.  I knew, way back with that first half formed prayer that this newborn baby would love life to the fullest, that what made my life grand might not be what makes his and her life grand.

They have bigger dreams and the bright lights of the city gives fuel to their drive.

I know I'm going to cry when they take off, but by golly, I'm going to bursting with pride too.  Look what this Sunset Town Mom has helped shape!

Two of the best Midnight Kids around.

Wishes And Horses

I am going to turn my wishes into horses,
And ride them to the finish line.

Someday the horse will be a rip snorting bronco,
And I will be counting down the longest 8 seconds of my life.

Someday the horse will be a broken down old nag,
And I will get off and lead it on with promises of carrots and apples.

Someday the horse won't be a horse at all but an ostrich or a rhino or a sloth,
And I will decide to take a rain check on that particular horse.

I am going to turn my wishes into horses,
And ride them to the finish line.


Inspired by prompt #5 at Mama's Losin' It!

And linking up with Papa is a Preacher for TidBits Thursday.