Genious or Quirky?

My husband wants me to be able to tell stories about his quirkiness after he dies in 80 years. I figure that since I have difficulty recollecting details of people, events, conversations, books, or what have you, I should probably write them down now so later I could show the great-grandchildren without leaving anything out.

Tonight, hubby and I had a date, which are rare occasions due to the fact that we have 3 children and having to search out a baby-sitter who wants to keep 3 children is a hard find in these parts. We had a very romantic outing to The Shoe Station, Old Navy, Gap, El Vaquero (Georgia's lame attempt at good Mexican food), 10 minutes in Wal-Mart, and finishing off at Elements to hear a friend play some good music.

We arrived at our friends gig at about 8ish, where we ran into our friends fan club (his mom, dad, and grandmother), who had the staff of the coffee shop turn the couch around so hubby and I could have front row, comfortable seats during the show. I ordered the drinks, one sixteen ounce Americano with a shot of hazelnut for Ben, and one sixteen ounce english toffee latte with extra foam for me, and two pounds of whole bean espresso roast to indulge my latte habit at home. The drinks were good, the music was fantastic, and the cafe filled up quickly. So quickly, I might add, that the temperature in the joint reached 90, possibly 95. All of a sudden, we were surrounded by a large group of 45 or so people (all younger, except for the fan club). At this point, my quirky man begins to panic, and he's ready to either ask the owner of the cafe if he has any liquor to add to his Americano, or to high-tail it outta there. I had to inform Ben that the people were not there to see him, and that everything was going to be okay. The caffeine from the espresso infused water, and the heat from his drink caused him to break out in a sweat. Those two things combined caused him to fidget on the couch like a fish flopping around on a boat deck. He made it through the first set, and at intermission, grabbed my arm and pulled me out of place with my feet scurrying to catch up. As my body hit the balmy 89 degree temperature outside, we both felt instant relief, and began to cool.

I decided then and there that this would be one of those memories I'd like to share when we're old and gray (although the gray part seems to be coming a little sooner than expected for me.)

So Sorry

I announced to my family yesterday that we have a new family rule.

NOONE is allowed to feel sorry for themselves, for any reason, ever.

It sounds rather simple just like that, but the enforcing of the rule is going to take a large amount of creativity, another large amount of discernment, a larger amount of follow-through, and quite a bit of humor.

I began the discussion after the announcement by telling the children that there are people in this world that are born with disabilities, whether they be blind, deaf, legless, armless, you get the point. Yet others encounter hardships related to health, or loosing a loved one. I gave clear examples of people whom they have met to illustrate the point that if anyone deserves to feel sorry for themselves, it would be people who face their limitations every time they look in the mirror. I then asked them to tell me if they knew whether or not our friends felt sorry for themselves. Guess what? They don't. They take what the world sees as disabilities, limitations, immense suffering, and they overcome it. So why do we, when we don't have life altering issues occurring in our lives, decide that we are ungrateful for what we have that we demand to be self seeking?

I so want my children to grow to be overcomers. To take the difficult things they face everyday and determine to not allow those things to have the power to prevent them from becoming who they are meant to be.

I want that for me too.

The first day of the new family rule went well. I crunched the back end of my car into someone else's, and didn't feel sorry for myself at all.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

I woke up on Sunday with the left side of my throat a bit tender. As the week wore on, my right picked up the soreness, and little by little, this vile invasion of my throat brought me to the point of tears.

I am not one to complain very often of pain, and in my opinion, I have a very high tolerance for it. The pain that resulted from this infection in my throat comes in second to the rupturing of my fallopian tube a number of years ago. So, I don't think that I am stretching the intensity of my most recent illness at all; I know pain.

Anyway, this really isn't about me. It's about my darling 2 year old.

She came to bed with me the night that the pain was at it's peak. What this child did next, completely amazes and blesses me. Little girl ministered to me for an hour. She stroked my hair, kissed my cheeks, prayed for God's medicine on my throat, and spoke words of comfort over me. "You be okay, you be arright." "It okay, Mama, Jesus put his medicine on you."

I am thankful for this infection because I have been given a glimpse of who my Mighty Abby is going to be. My heart overflows.

Moving...

... I wish. It's been one of those types of weeks for me and mine, and sometimes, I daydream about some other part of this country that I could call home. I've never lived in the Midwest, or the Northeast, but even then that doesn't seem far enough. I think I'd prefer Alaska, or even better, Hawaii. Maybe even back to Europe.

Ahhh, daydreaming is so much better than reality.