Another time where I should have just said "Fine."

My husband was injured at work last week. And while it was a very dramatic accident, he's come out relatively ok. He is hobbling around with a cane right now and is at home where I can keep him safe.

The other day when my sister said, "How are things with you being at home, Jeep."

He replied, "Not bad at all," .

And so I felt it necessary to add in this little fun fact, "I get to give him sponge baths, so it's not bad, not bad at all."

And that's been a funny joke that I've shared a few times with friends.

It always gets a laugh.

Except for tonight.

My father-in-law called and said, "So how are things?"

And I did my little joke.

Met by silence.

Then my father-in-law speaks up and says, "I'm just here on the phone with your mother-in-law and Nan (my husband's grandma)."

I hear a little voice in the background say, "Hello, dear."

Oh dear.

Grandma heard the sponge bath joke.

That's bad.

That's bad all over.

Tae Kwon Do you know where you are?

My eldest wants to take Tae Kwon Do.

No problem.

Like any good mother would, I call the local Tae Kwon Do place. We live in a small town so I google the number and call the one place that's in town.

"Ma'am, you can come and observe a class any night of the week. Monday to Thursday between 5-6 pm."

Great! I take a quick look at the address off of google: 2212 12 Ave, memorize it and hop in the car with my girl.

And we drive down to 12 ave.

The Industrial section of town. We cruise up and down the street looking for our Tae Kwon Do place. My gut gives me this vibe that the gym ain't in the Industrial Park.

I vaguely remember being at a rummage sale at a church that was holding a Tae Kwon Do class. I head over to the church in hopes that I am just confused.

No one is there.

No activity is happening.

Everything is still and silent.

Back in the car to answer the questions of my bright 8 year old who wants to know why I didn't write down the address.

I ignore the question.

I stop a young man with scraggy hair on the street. My desperate voice asks if he knows where it is.

"Uh, yeah, go to the end of this street, turn right at Queen's Hotel, it's on your left."

Perfect! Finally a youth of the community leads the way for an elder member.

I follow his directions. I drive up and down the street three times.

My upstanding youth has now become a little punk, in my eyes.

It's no where to be seen.

I drive home.

I call the number on my google screen and find out from Courtney, the receptionist, that they are right by the Salvation Army.

I am convinced I'm blind because I drove past the Salvation Army three times and saw nothing.

The next day we head out at the same time because Courtney says, "We'll be there."

I google the address, write it down and head out.

We drive down to the Industrial section. And since there is no Salvation Army at that end of town, I drive down to the other end of town. I drive up and down that street and see nothing.

My brain is truly puzzled...until I think about how our local town and the nearest big city are part of the same Tae Kwon Do club.

And then I remember that the one in the big city is right next to a Salvation Army.

And then I realize I've been an idiot and depended on Google a little too much.

On a whim, I drive over to the church and what do I find?

Yes, that's right.

A Tae Kwon Do class, in session, like it is every Thursday night.

Because I, yes I oh-brilliant-mother-that-I-am had Googled and called the wrong Tae Kwon Do club and drove around trying to locate it in my town.

I think this is a new personal low in the "Oblivious to the Obvious" portion in my life.

Sigh.

How NOT to look like a band member of K*SS

Welcome to Not Me! Monday! This blog carnival was created by MckMama. You can head over to her blog to read what she and everyone else have not been doing this week.

So here is a little tutorial for all you ladies...

Step One: Do not apply this right before you go to church

Step Two: Do not sing this song and cry as you worship your Saviour

Do not worry, you do not end up looking like this:

Step Three: Afterwards, do not greet other members of the congregation without first looking in the mirror or asking your spouse if it your face looks ok.

Do not wonder why people are looking at you funny.

Do not laugh hysterically when you go to the bathroom and finally see yourself in the mirror.

Do not do that.

I would never do that, though.

Because I don't laugh hysterically!

Cry Me a River to the Tune of Kumbaya

The first women's meeting I ever went to should have been entitled, "Kumbaya, my Lord."

I was nineteen and, of course, I knew everything.

It was my time to become one of the "women".

I was really excited about attending. I dressed up and did my hair and got ready to mix it up with the ladies. I made my first dessert...ever! (Yes, I was one of those nineteen year olds who knew everything...except how to cook).

And when I got there all the ladies turned out to be women in there 30's,40's and older.

I reasoned with myself that it was ok to be the youngest because, after all, I did know everything and maybe I could help these women out.

I spied one lady in her early thirties. She was running the sound board...off in the far corner. I scrambled next to her.

"Can I hang out with you back here?"

She gave me a pitying look. "You got dragged here, didn't you?"

I bit my lip. "Not exactly. I was just told that I was expected to be here. My deciding to come feels like I had some say in it."

She smiled and shrugged. "Well, at least the food will be good."

"It's dessert only, I thought."

Which, as I thought, was a waste of time for women in the their thirties and up to have a dessert only party since it will only invoke a conversation full of salacious oohing and ahhing over recipes and then the inevitable 'moment on the lips, lifetime on the hips' conversation.

Even though I knew this, I still made a cherry cream cheese/ heavy cream/ whipped cream/ enough cream to make your hips disappear completely kind of cake.

Which, as I came to understand, is what you do as a woman. You make incredible food, fill your face and then say you shouldn't have.

One could almost start saying "Fiddledeedee" as well, but I think that stopped sometime during the early 1900's.

Anyway, we came, we saw the food, we inhaled it and moved on.

Then came the sharing time.

Or as I liked to call it, 'the pull out your fingernails and pluck your eyelashes for fun' time.

As the first woman shared her story, I was thinking, "That's great, lady. I'm glad that happened to you....25 years ago. But what is God doing today?"

And then another lady started. "Well, it all started in 1978..."

That was twenty years ago!

I quickly did the math as I counted up the thirty women in the room.

30 women times 15 minutes of prattling on about things you all know about each other...I quickly realized that I was going to be here until my mid-thirties.

I didn't understand why a women's meeting was just everyone sitting around, sharing what God had done but no transparency as to what God was doing.

Why weren't we praying?

Why weren't we making a plan to help someone who needed it?

Why were sitting around just telling our troubles and filling our faces?

I know what you're thinking.

You're thinking, "This is the part where Diva learns that sometimes women just need to talk it out no matter how cyclical it sounds. This is when God shows up and bursts that prideful bubble that doesn't have an ear to hear or a heart to understand. This is where I need to grab some Kleenex because we're about to be dosed with a big load of Truth."

Well, in the words of my nineteen year old self, "Uh, you'd be wrong."

None of that happened.

In fact, after that one event, I have reluctantly gone to three other women events.

So I find that God's sense of humour is tickling me that my first speaking event is going to be at...

you guessed it...

a women's conference.

Somehow, there seems to be a ring of humble pie in here.

A cherry cream cheese/ heavy cream/ whipped cream/ enough cream to make your pride disappear completely kind of pie.

I'll let you know how it tastes.

Blame it on Milli Vanelli...they wrote a song about it...or did they?

Marion: "My god! Have I taught you nothing?"
Liza:"Yes mother, you have taught me nothing."

Another soap opera worldview I adopted in my past was blaming my mother.

Shock and awe! I know, I seem so innocent.

But then, so did Liza Colby.

At one point in life (and it was after my teen years), I blamed my mother for e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g.

It wasn't really fair to her because:

1. She was a single parent and she should have only gotten 50% of the blame. But my dad had died and there was no one else to parentally blame (stay tuned to see how I used his death as a crutch)

2. It's never fair to blame your mother...only convenient because it's a universal truth that we all want to blame our mothers, hope that we aren't exactly like them but pray that we can make lasagna the same way they did

3. She did her best, not that I cared whenever I pulled out the "it's my mother's fault" card, but she did do her best

Marion:"The last innocent words you uttered were ga-ga-goo-goo!"

OK, so I admit to blaming my mother. I have had no halo above my head.

But why did I blame her.

Why does anyone blame?

I'll tell you the cause of pointing my finger at my Mom.

I blame Adam.

Yep. Adam was the one who started it all.

When God confronted him with his sin of disobedience, Adam said, "It was this woman you gave me."

And since Adam, the blame game has been going around.

I blamed my mom for all sorts of things.

Some of my favourite reasons were used to resolve the following issues:

1. I was being lazy ...because my mother never taught me to do anything

2. I was arrogant...because my mother told me I could do anything

3. I had temper tantrums...because my mother never stopped me from having them at an early age

Here's the thing.

In the above list, it doesn't matter what my Mom did do, didn't do or tried to do. I didn't care about my mother. I cared about covering my own failings. Mom's can be a convenient quilt at times to hide behind.

And in blaming her, I distanced myself from the potential of a close relationship with her.

Blame only does one thing...it hurts everyone.

As I mature in Christ, I have come to learn one thing.

I and I alone have sinned against God alone.

No one else will stand with me when I stand before my Maker.

Not even my mother.

No one else will be there to account for my deeds. It will be some serious one on one time with me and the Father.

God doesn't want me to cast blame. He wants me to surrender all the fear of my shame to His capable hands. All the shame that would say, "You won't love me God if I admit to this...so I will deny it."

He wants me to rest in His love.

Be secure there and know that His love is enough.

That what Jesus did for me on the cross is enough.

Love is enough.

Love is patient and kind...and never casts blame. It holds up the truth.

And the truth is: My mom did the best she could, I made a lot of mistakes, Jesus loved me enough to pay for those mistakes, I am forgiven. That's the whole truth.

Well, that and...I can't make lasagna like my mother.

But that's not my fault

...or is it?

Flashback Friday; Stop touching my bum!

My brother and I had a lot of fun teasing each other as teenagers.

My bro has an incredible sense of humour. It is ridiculously funny. And he's the only grown man I know who giggles. He giggles until he cries from laughing so hard. Because that's just how he is.

When we were teenagers, we liked to drive my mother crazy.

Particularly in the grocery store.

I think she used to call us, "Hooligans" but I'm not sure because we were too busy giggling to hear her.

One of our favourite tricks was to see how much we could embarrass each other and keep a straight face while doing it.

Point in case, the fateful time Jesse spotted me at the end of the grocery aisle and bellowed, "Good news, Allie! I found the ex-lax you were looking for. I didn't know what kind you wanted so I picked up regular and extra strength for you. Which one do you want?"

I would look at him at the end of the aisle. And then I'd look at the old man who was looking at me, the young couple who was still holding a can of soup yet staring at me and the other three people in the aisle who gave me their full attention to get my response.

And I, after being embarrassed beyond belief, would mumble something unintelligible.

Until...I would catch him with my mom in one aisle and call out, "Jess, come quick. The jock itch cream you need is on sale in aisle four. Quick, there's only three bottles left and I know you need lots."

To which, my mother would then race out of the aisle muttering something unintelligible while the other shoppers backed away from my brother in case what he supposedly had was catching.

My mother swore she would stop taking us shopping with her. Especially when we started in on the need for triple ply toilet paper and hemorrhoid creams.

It was all in fun. Truly, Mom, it was.

And then there was the time my mom did leave us in the car as she went grocery shopping. She made good on her threats.

But we managed to find a way to make our own mischief. You would think a 17 year old and a 14 year old would have something better to do.

But no. No, we did not.

It all started as the windows began to fog up. I was writing something crazy about my brother on the window and he said, "I'm going to unroll the windows a bit before someone thinks we're fogging up these windows for the wrong reason."

I threw something at his head.

And then it began...

My brother, ever mindful of doing things at the exact right moment, waited until a middle aged couple was walking past. And then...ever so loudly, in a defensive voice says, "Stop touching my bum!"

He quickly ducks down as the couple turn and look and see...me.

Me, myself and I.

My brother pokes his head up and says, "Stop it!"

The couple shakes there head and gives me a look before walking off.

I throw something at my brother's head.

Several years later, I was staying with an elderly couple.

They had a dog named Duke who ate all my chocolates but he wore a bandana around his neck and looked so cute that I would forgive him.

I was forever telling Gerry about my family and all the crazy things we would do. Gerry had a great sense of humour and would love the antics my brother and I got into. We would laugh and then he'd tell me stories about his family.

I worked at a TV studio that was across town and I had to ride the bus to get there. One day, Gerry offered to pick me up from work as he would be on that end of town that day. I was very grateful to escape the bus ride and eagerly accepted the offer.

Ah, a chance to get home early!

But wouldn't you know it...rush hour and an accident left Gerry and I stuck in the middle of downtown on the busiest street. We were wedged in between people and cars as we waited to make an exodus out of the traffic jam.

As we were at a complete stand still, Gerry tried to cheer me up about not getting home early. I wasn't having any of that-- I remained in a bit of a pout.

So, to my shock and awe, in the middle of this busy street, Gerry, my 69 year old friend, unrolls his window and yells...

you guessed it...

"Stop touching my bum!"

I think I threw something at his head.

When you don't have a square to spare...

I got this email today and I just had to share.

Enjoy!

When you have to visit a public toilet, you usually find a line of
women, so you smile politely and take your place. Once it's your turn,
you check for feet under the cubicle doors. Every cubicle is occupied.

Finally, a door opens and you dash in, nearly knocking down the woman
leaving the cubicle. You get in to find the door won't latch. It
doesn't matter, the wait has been so long you are about to wet your
pants!

The dispenser for the modern 'seat covers' (invented by someone's Mom,
no doubt) is handy, but empty. You would hang your purse on the door
hook, if there was one, so you carefully, but quickly drape it around
your neck, (Mom would turn over in her grave if you put it on the
FLOOR!)

Down with your pants and assume 'The Stance'. In this position, your
aging, toneless, thigh muscles begin to shake. You'd love to sit down,
but having not taken time to wipe the seat or to lay toilet paper on
it, you hold 'The Stance.'

To take your mind off your trembling thighs, you reach for what you
discover to be the empty toilet paper dispenser.

In your mind, you can hear your mother's voice saying, 'Dear, if you
had tried to clean the seat, you would have KNOWN there was no toilet
paper!' Your thighs shake more.

You remember the tiny tissue that you blew your nose on yesterday -
the one that's still in your purse (the purse around your neck, that
now you have to hold up trying not to strangle yourself at the same
time). That would have to do, so you crumple it in the puffiest way
possible. It's still smaller than your thumbnail.

Someone pushes your door open because the latch doesn't work. The door
hits your purse, which is hanging around your neck in front of your
chest and you and your purse topple backward against the tank of the
toilet.

'Occupied!' you scream, as you reach for the door, dropping your
precious, tiny, crumpled tissue in a puddle on the floor, while losing
your footing altogether and sliding down directly onto the toilet
seat.

It is wet of course. You bolt up, knowing all too well that it's too
late. Your bare bottom has made contact with every imaginable germ and
life form on the uncovered seat because YOU never laid down toilet
paper - not that there was any, even if you had taken time to try.

You know that your mother would be utterly appalled if she knew,
because you're certain her bare bottom never touched a public toilet
seat because, frankly, dear, 'You just don't KNOW what kind of
diseases you could get'.

By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so
confused that it flushes, propelling a stream of water like a fire
hose against the inside of the bowl and spraying a fine mist of water
that covers your bottom and runs down your legs and into your shoes.

The flush somehow sucks everything down with such force and you grab
onto the empty toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged in
too.

At this point, you give up. You're soaked by the spewing water and the
wet toilet seat. You're exhausted. You try to wipe with a candy
wrapper you found in your pocket and then slink out inconspicuously to
the sinks.

You can't figure out how to operate the taps with the automatic
sensors, so you wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper towel and
walk past the line of women still waiting.

You are no longer able to smile politely to them. A kind soul at the
very end of the line points out a piece of toilet paper trailing from
your shoe. (Where was that when you NEEDED it?)

You yank the paper from your shoe, plonk it in the woman's hand and
tell her warmly, 'Here, you just might need this.'

As you exit, you spot your hubby, who has long since entered, used and
left the men's toilet. Annoyed, he asks, 'What took you so long and
why is your purse hanging around your neck?

This is dedicated to women everywhere who deal with any public rest
rooms/toilets (rest? you've GOT to be kidding!!).

It finally explains to the men what really does take us so long. It
also answers that other commonly asked question about why women go to
the toilets in pairs. It's so the other girl can hold the door, hang
onto your bag and hand you Kleenex under the door.

Anyone relate?

I fought the Pilates ball and the ball won!

I love doing Pilates.

I love video workouts.

I walk with my kids for exercise too, but we all know that you don't get your heart rate up walking with your kids unless you have a runaway stroller on your hands.

So I do Pilates. On DVD.

I *heart* Pilates. I love the slow breathing, the calm movement, and the soothing stretches. It's all so slow. S L O W. S L o w

Pilates has a bit of a trick to it and the trick is the breathing. It's almost the opposite of how you normally breath doing exercises. But once you conquer the breathing, you feel it. Oh, my friends, you feel the burn the very next day.

Another trick to Pilates is to do the exercise on the workout ball. First of all, the ball requires that you pay more attention to your muscles and breathing. And we all know: I need to pay more attention (to life in general, but here especially).

Here's my story. It all starts with a new DVD.

We start with familiar moves. Moves I know all too well. And I don't need to follow Jennifer--the girl on the DVD whose been crammed in the back and is doing moves for those who can’t keep up who want to do variations of the exercises.

And it begins...

Ok, now stand up with the ball behind you. Put the top of your right foot on the ball behind you and roll the ball back with your foot.

Oh, this is new.

Breathe deep and as you exhale, making little circles with the ball.

Wha-??

My son comes up and hugs my leg.

Not now, son.

--your foot is in front of your knee. You don't want to hurt it--

Wait, wait. Go back, who's going to get hurt?

That's right. Now breathe deep. And repeat.

Repeat what? I don't know what's going on here.

(My son understands repeat as he comes up and hugs my leg. Again.)

Now one more time--

I haven't done it the first time--

That's it. Now come to a standing position.

I decide to put my boy into a bouncy chair and continue my routine. We're on the floor now.

Now for some abdominal work. Place the ball on your head.

Easily done.

Inhale to start and exhale and go down one vertebrae at a time as you lie down.

I'm back in my groove.

Now, keeping the ball on your head, arms by your ears, come up to a seated position.

Um...easier said than done.

If you are finding difficulty, follow Jennifer.

Heck, no!

And now for our final move, the Mermaid.

Oh, this is new.

From a seated position extend your legs sideways and bend them. Then cross your ankles. Put one arm over the ball...wonh-wonh-wonh-wonh. You should look like this:

Mermaid - Pilates Stretch

_{by Peter Kramer, courtesy of Kolesar Studios, (c) 2006}

(Only your supporting arm is on the ball and your legs are extended a bit more. Imagine it. You can.)

This feels like a good stretch.

We're going to roll up onto the ball.

Wha-?

I look to Jennifer to guide me but she's still getting into position. Slacker.

Now with control, roll up onto the ball.

I roll up the ball.

And then I keep going up. Up, up and away and I roll over, legs splayed, arms flailing as I fly to the other side of the room.

I'm sprawled on the floor, the ball leaving me as it rolls away. My daughter, who is sitting on the couch points out, "That's not how they do it on the video, Mama."

I laugh. "Nope. It's not quite like that."

And exhale.

I exhale.

If you are doing this exercise for the first time, follow Jennifer.

Oh, shut it!

How To Succeed in Getting Lost Without Really Trying

I had the fortunate opportunity to go to the BIG city this past weekend. Yes, the BIG city. The BIG city that requires four lane traffic and sometimes six lanes, possibly eight but I can't count that high. Here's my observations on traveling the highways.

1. Print off a google map.

2. Find a friend to explain the map. The map means nothing unless someone can say, "Remember we went to the Starbucks at this spot."

3. Start the car and lock the doors. You are, after all, in the big city. And while you haven't heard of any carjackers jumping in the cars at a stop light...lately...you don't want to become a statistic.

4. Memorize in your head the "signs" to watch for. (You'll cross this street, you'll see this exit and then watch for the big green sign)

5. Imperative: TAKE 'THE GREEN SIGN' EXIT

6. Happy Ending

6a. If you have been foolish enough to think that there is a big green sign coming up that reads, "Take this one! This is the one you want. That's right, merge into the lane. Great job!" Then you are a fool. If this is the case, here's what you do.

7. Drive an immensely long way to the next exit. Caution: Pay attention that it's coming. Berating yourself at loud volumes causes you to lose focus.

8.Turn the old bus around and head back to your exit of choice.

9. Inhale deeply as you approach the exit. This time you won't be decieved. This green exit is INDEED the sign you are waiting for.

10. Merge! Success is yours.

11. Panic, meltdown, scream at the top of your lungs and freak out in the two seconds you have to decide which fork you take: North or South.

12. Expletives almost slip from your mouth as you realize that you have once again chosen your own adventure and taken the wrong direction yet again.

13.Repeat steps 7-10

14.Unless...when you take the exit you realize that you forgot to factor in that you were previously going east when you took the wrong exit and so you should take west. But you've taken east and you find yourself completely and utterly back at 6a.

15. Fight tears off.

16.Promise yourself you will never, never come to the BIG city again.

17. Unroll the window and yell at the highway, "You will not defeat me." Don't shake your fist, as other motorist take that personally.

18. Take calming breaths. And pray, pray,pray.

19. When approaching the exit obey the voice of Holy Spirit. Because when He's says go right, He's absolutely right. And even though you are fairly certain you are to go left, trust Him when He nudges and says go right.

20. Praise the name of Jesus! The Holy Spirit has once again got me where I needed to be and I've taken the right exit.

Hmmm...kinda like life,eh?

If your nose is running...catch it!

So, I was coughing up blood the other day.

A teacher once told me, "Always make your opening statements lure your audience in."

I'm not trying to do that here...although, you have to admit, it is an effective opening.

I've been mulling this post in my brain for a while now and trying to phrase it in a less than dramatic way. But since I am a self-proclaimed redeemed diva, drama still follows me around. This story is no different.

It all started with a ride to the big city. I had a typical morning of getting my kids in the car and as I hurtled down the main highway at 110 km/h...ok, I was going 6 over at 116 km/h...I started coughing. Only something was different about this cough...there was blood.

And then--stop reading if you have a queasy stomach or are pregnant and tend to get queasy--I could feel blood running down my throat. Lots of it.

I pretty much panicked at this point and thought, "What in the world is going on?" I took a few deep breaths as I heard my girls start laughing in the back. Keep it together, I told myself, your reaction is going to determine how worried your kids get. A few, deep calming breaths between coughs and I started to feel a little more sane.

Suddenly, a fountain of blood burst forth from my nose. Then blood started gushing everywhere and all I could see was red. Well, red and the highway sign saying to slow down. It might not sound like much, but seeing the "SLOW DOWN" sign was the straw that broke the camel's back. I couldn't handle pressure like that. Bleeding profusely and obeying traffic laws?! Too much stress.

I panicked.

I eventually did manage to slow down and then picked up the phone. Blubbering, I left a weepy message for my husband on his voicemail. I managed to choke out a message between sobs. "Honey, it's me. I'm coughing up blood and there's blood everywhere. I'm going to emergency. I just thought I'd let you know. Please don't worry." (Seriously, gotta love how I leave a horrific message and end it with please don't worry. I might as well said, "Hey, the earth's going to explode in 4 hours, do you still want roast beef for dinner? Lesson to observe here: panicking causes ludicrous statements to be said.)

I called someone to come and meet me at ER so that they could watch my kids for me. I call 911 and told them my situation and they asked many questions which were really the same question all verifying that I wasn't dizzy and felt safe enough to drive the 5 minutes to ER.

I get to the ER and my bleeding nose and bloody coughs have stopped. My shaking hands haven't. I gather my courage and my children and walk measured steps to the ER. I tell my story to the ER nurse.

She looks at me through 5 inches of plastic window plastered with WASH YOUR HANDS, PREVENT SWINE FLU posters, "It sounds like it was a bleeding nose."

"Yes, I know that. However, my doctor has been doing all sorts of blood tests on me this past week since I got my yearly physical and is trying to determine the cause of--" I trail off. She doesn't care. She just responds with, "I understand. I just would hate to have you sit here to find out it's just a bloody nose. There is a four hour wait."

Right.

I mumble something about going to see my doctor across the street (why is it when we are in the midst of crisis that we lose all faculties of privacy and just blab every thought out loud?)

I gather my dignity and my children and walk over to the clinic. I try to refrain from telling the nurse at this desk too much. It just comes off as suspicious and she raises her eyebrows at me (why is it in the midst of crisis that we lose all faculties of openness and clam up like a...clam?)

I have an appointment with the doctor in twenty minutes.

My friend comes in the door. "How did you know I was here?" I hadn't called her and told her.

"Oh, the ER nurse said you mentioned something about walking to a clinic. I figured it be this one. " (thanks God for redeeming unnecessary out loud thinking that took place when I lost all ability to think clearly)

My phone rings. It's Jeep. "I'm on my way. And so is Pastor Todd."

"What? Why?"

"Because you're coughing up blood!" I hear the tension, the desperation, the worry in his voice. Didn't I tell him not to worry.? Now, I scared him. My big, strong man is worried and driving like a maniac to get to me.

"Where are you?" I ask.

"Just reaching the SLOW DOWN sign outside of the city."

I update him on all that's going on, even though I still don't know what's going on.

My name is called. I sit in the doctor's office and I look at the the grey checks on the linoleum. I feel fear rising in my throat. I choke it down and say, "God has not given me a Spirit of fear, but of power, love and a sound mind. Jesus, please help me, I need a sound mind. Thank You for being here with me. I know that You are with me even in the most horrible situations. Thank You for your presence."

I sit quietly and listen for His voice. I hear Him say He loves me, that He hasn't left me and then I hear Him say, "It's ok to cry."

So, the dam releases and I have a good cry with Jesus at my side.

And then I feel all better and I suddenly know that no matter what the doctor says, no matter what the results, Jesus will be glorified. He will be glorified because I will praise Him and declare Him worthy of all honour and glory and praise no matter what comes my way.

So tears turn to singing and I find myself singing this song (Atonement)

Well, it turns out that it was...

(drumroll)

a nosebleed! Apparently they are common in the dry west!

My husband took time off work, my Pastor came in the midst of a busy day and my friend left work to watch my kids...all because of an overactive imagination that encountered a bleeding nose while traveling down the road at high speeds.

I felt so embarrassed. Exhausted. Tired. Emotionally Drained.

And loved.

Overwhelmingly so.

Everything I do (I do it for you)

"Mom, why are you making those snacks?"

"Because," I answered my soon-to-be-seven-year-old, "I want Daddy's day off to be super special. And he likes these."

I mentally added that these would also silence any cries of 'I'm hungry' on our 2 hour car trip and would save us money in the long run.

But then I got thinking, those are also reasons that I am doing this for him. He works hard, my man does. And on his day off when we are spending it the way he likes to spend it most--in the mountains--he deserves to not hear any whines or cries...or have to spend any money on sugary snacks from Mac's.

And suddenly the song Everything I Do (I do it for You) by Bryan Adams came into my head. You know, the one from Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. Come on, it wasn't that long ago.

Anyway, I thought about the lyrics, "I'd fight for you, I'd die for you." Yep, that's my man. "You know it's true...everything I do...I do it for you."

Yes, I do know it, Bryan Adams...or maybe Robert "Mutt" Lange...whoever wrote it. I do know it's true. Especially when I clean the toilets or make the bed each morning.

Fast forward half an hour and a lost pair of shoes later, I yell...(cough, I mean)...gently sing-song my children into the car and buckle them in all nice and snugly.

I come back into the house and look at my man.

"I need a hug."

I go to my safe place in his big, strong arms and lay my head against his chest until I relax and all the madness of trying to get ready for an enjoyable day leaves my body. I decide to have a good attitude. For him. He needs a relaxing day off, not a nagging wife.

Everything I do (I do it for you).

Ten minutes later we settle into the van and my man and I promise each other that today we leave our life and all the bills, undone jobs and laundry at the house and we're not going to whine (me) or complain (him). We are going to enjoy each other.

Heading out of town my husband decides to fill the van up with gas. We go to pull in but there's a biker dude parked in the side that we need for our gas tank. So my husband pulls around.

It's advertised as a Full Service station so I offer my husband a snack while I get to the business of eating my lunch--spaghetti with black bean salsa. (Hey, I can only prep ahead so much and some times you gotta eat on the run).

The advertised service man is slow to come.

We notice that the biker dude with his BMW bike and beautiful blonde girlfriend are waiting for the service attendant, as well. I exchange a quick look with him as I open my spaghetti. He looks cool with his black leather jacket around his neck in that James Dean, rock-n-roll sort of way.

I swirl my spaghetti with my fork, thinking, "He really has that James Dean cool guy look down."

I take a bite and my eyes meet his steely, steady gaze.

No word of a lie.

It.

Is.

Bryan.

Adams.

Bryan. Adams.

And I have spaghetti hanging out of my mouth.

Out.Of. My. Mouth.

Spaghetti that I made so that my husband wouldn't have to spend his hard earned money on a lunch that we had to spend time wasting ordering because I hadn't prepared enough to cook ahead.

Spaghetti that I made, may I remind you, to save him time and money.

Because everything I do ....well, you know!

Idle Party Chat

Confession: I'm not any good at party chat.

I like good, down to earth talks, so the light stuff is not something I'm good at it. It's usually filled with my fake laugh and awkward statements.

Yesterday, I was at my friends housewarming--great party, Co and Mar--and saw different people that I haven't seen in awhile. People that I know but don't really know.

Top five moments of the night:

5. Verbatim, my conversation with Heidi ( a woman I know, but don't know):

me-Hi, it's Heidi right?

her-Yes.

me-I'm Holly. I don't know if we've ever formally met.

her-Yes.

me-Oh. Well, I wasn't sure. It's good to see you again.

her-Yes.

me-Yes, it is.

her-(just staring at me)

me-(desperate to fill the silence and salvage a 'quickly-becoming-awkward-conversation'): You're very pretty.

Someone else-Hey Holly, how's it going?

me- (thinking) Thank you Jesus! Rescued again.

Exit with flourish.

4.I offer Hiedi a drink.

Then someone comes up who I haven't seen in a long time and we get talking and I get distracted. I suddenly remember to get Heidi a drink. I ask her what she would like, and she says "Wine".

There's a problem:no wine opener at this home (it is, after all, a new house party. Boxes are still in the basement and needing to be unpacked).

I look at Heidi and say, "There's no wine opener...so, the pop's over there...."

Heidi looks at me and says....(you guessed it): "Yes."

3.To every Spanish speaking person there I say, "Hi, I'm Holly. I think we met at the Canada Day BBQ at Zaoul's house. (Martha stands behind each person shaking her head "no").

Apparently, I only met three Spanish speaking people at the Canada Day BBQ and I have just asked over 6 Spanish speaking people if they were there...and none of them were.

2. Zaoul arrives at the party and I come up to him and give him a hug and ask him how he's been. He looks at me and says,"Who are you?"

1. Co and Mar invited Josh Fritz and friend Colin McInnes to come and play Spanish guitar at the party. It's a nice touch having live music at a home warming.

Anyway, I couldn't hear very well and thought the other guitarist's name was Paul, not Colin. So when Josh takes a break, and Colin keeps playing, "I stick my fist in the air and shout, "Go Paul!"

My husband, Jeep, and Mar's sisters look at me.

Jeep asks, "Who's Paul?"

I point at the guitarist and say, "He is."

And oh, how everyone laughs!!!

The party was a lot of fun.

I did connect with some really amazing people (Hey Natalie, the scrapbook pages I mentioned are here: For Corrina).

Zaoul later recognized me once he realized I was with Jeep and that Jeep was wearing glasses now.

Colin never heard me call him Paul, even though the story was told several times :)

... and I ate soooo much good food.

I love parties--idle talk and all.

Learning to ski

Hard to believe, but true...I live close to the Rockies and had never learned how to downhill ski until this past Christmas.

Here are actual photos of my adventure.

Look,lovey, no hands!

Getting tips on how to stop

Me and Jeep before our ride on the chairlift

Oops!

This time I actually slide right off the hill and landed in the ditch

This one I actually fell up a hill. hard to explain. So much fun though!

Where there is smoke, there's fire

So, the fire department dropped by my house the other day.
In my quest to multi-task (cook a meat loaf, pack boxes, paint cupboards, renovate, etc) attention to important details have completely slipped my mind.
A few nights ago, I cooked lasagna. A delicious, aromatic lasagna that had spilled all over the bottom of the oven while it cooked. I forgot to clean it up.
Fast forward to the next day, I was making a meat loaf. I stuck it in the oven and went to the living room to move some of the growing garbage piles to the outside so that we could go through more of our stuff and...throw it away.
As I walked up the steps into my kitchen, I saw smoke streaming out of an element.
"Odd."
I approached the stove and saw flames dancing around inside the stove, reminiscent of the early Sunday school felt board productions of Shadrach, Meschach and Abed-Nego and the fiery furnace.
"Very oddd. "
I walk over to my pantry and grab the fire extinguisher and the baking soda. I'm debating which one to use when I think "wait a minute...if I open the oven door, I will only add oxygen to the fire. That would not be good."
I call 911. I really just want to know whether or not I should use baking soda or the fire extinguisher.
I'm calm. I'm fine. I'm relating details to the 911 operator.
I tell her that the fire looks like it's burning itself out. She puts me on hold as she talks to the fire department.
I'm calm. I'm fine. I smile at Anne whose taken the intiative to get herself and her baby sister dressed to go outside in case things get out of hand.
The operator comes back on and says,"Ok, ma'am. They are on their way."
"They're what?"
"They're on their way."
SNAP. Lose it. Complete and total meltdown. I started crying and freaking out.
So weird. When things are in crisis, I'm fine. When help is on the way, I'm not. Strange.
Anyway, those boys move like lightening. I only have the chance to hang up the phone, check the oven and see that the fire has indeed burned itself out, pace the floor twice and usher the girls to the door just in time to see the fire department pull up into my yard.
The team leader is in full dress and I yell from my doorway, "it's out". He makes a gesture to the men who are unloading from the truck to stop.
Everyone stops.
The team leader and another man come into the house and ask me all sorts of questions. They look at my stove and tell me a few options I can do if this should ever happen again. I look out the window and see the other 5 crew members piling back into the truck (they all had their masks on and full gear), I watch the kind captain in his full outfit talking me through the situation and I look at the meat loaf that has no chance of survival.
The captain says, "...just flip the power switch off if it happens again."
And I burst out crying.
Both men give me a hug.
I apologize profusely but they tell me it's ok. They tell me that this is their job and they are here to help and it doesn't matter that the fire went out before they got here. It wasn't a waste of their time. They just wanted to be certain that my girls and I are safe.
I blubber some more and cry into the firemen's coat. Apparently my emotions are on a delayed timer and they come out after actual events take place.
The fire chief suggest I go show the girls the firetuck--he probably could sense that I needed to be outside after I snotted all over his coat.
I bring my girls to the truck. Thank the men profusely. They all eschew it and say they are just doing their job. Two of the fighters show Anne and Brie the truck and give them each a teddy bear. I take a picture on my cell phone and text Peter: "Guess who's here? The fire department." To which he quickly text back" What's going on?" I let him know we're ok and that he's not going to believe this one.
I've collected some pretty embarrassing moments in the time we've been married, but really this one takes the cake, the prize trophy and is worth a T-shirt that reads "Someone who loves you nearly burned the house down and ruined dinner."
At any rate, we were fine. The firefighters were awesome. These men are really amazing people. And I can't thank them enough for their kindness and staying with me until I felt ok and empowering me with the knowledge of what to do should this ever happen again. They assure me that this is their job and I did the right thing by not opening the stove door and giving them a call. Off they go...everyone of them heroes in my eyes.
I'm calm now. I'm fine now.
soon after, Peter gets home, gives me the biggest hug and whispers the words that I so desperately need to hear, "Baby, I'm taking you out for dinner."

Gentle words meet with a sense of humour

Proverbs 15:4 Gentle words bring life and health; Griping is discouraging.

That verse was today's devotion lesson for my girls. I'm doing a new thing with them called "A Person of Excellence...". And for the next little while we are focusing on the fact that a Person of Excellence honours and respects others. This week's feature is kind speech. (I'm using Instruction in Righteousness to help me with the scriptures and stuff --http://www.doorposts.net/instruct.asp)
It was a fun lesson this morning and we practiced saying gentle words to each other or imagining different things to say to other people. I was told that I was the "beautifullest Mommy and the bestest one."
Then comes the afternoon...I have a lady over to discuss some things about homeschooling. SuperGirl practices her manners and invites the lady in and says that it's nice to meet her.

Gentle words.

The girls play and prance around us while we talk about homeschooling, our passion for our kids and integrating life and learning and all the possibilities available to us as we walk down the road of home education. SuperGirl politely asks me for honey in her tea, makes a fuss about someting then apologizes for her attitude.

Gentle words.

My guest and I flit off the track we're suposed to be on and start swapping stories of life and dreams and Christmas traditions. We share a mutual laugh over Missie Moo's sudden appearance and announcement "I'm naked. I like it!"
I quickly dress my streaker, and settle down for more cozy conversation,gentle words and a cup of warm vanilla tea.

SuperGirl springs up from no where and says, "Mom, why is that lady fat?"
Rude words.

Rude words!

Horrifyingly, embarrassingly rude words.

If I had a button that would open my floor and swallow me whole, I would have been pressing it like a panic button to end all panics!

I quickly put away my lukewarm tea and stood up from my lopsided couch. Hauling Anne by the hand, I brought her over to our "A Person of Excellence" poster sheet.
I had her repeat Proverbs 15:4 "Gentle words bring life and health; Griping is discouraging."
SuperGirl, when you asked that question, did you bring life and health to that lady?"
SuperGirl's eyes were wide. "No." She looked down at the floor.
"What did your words cause?"
"Um...Discouragement."
"Yeah. What should we do to make it right?"

SuperGirl nodded her head with the knowledge of what to do and then promptly went back to our guest and apologized for speaking rudely. Gentle words.
As my guest accepted SuperGirl 's apologies, SuperGirl said thank you.

Gentle words.

I sank back into my seat and summoned the courage to look my guest in the eye.
With a twinkle in her eye, she tilted her head and said, "Well, I'd answer her question but we'd be here a long time!"

Ah, gentle words.

If I had a blog, this would be my post

Back by popular demand--the email I wrote to friends about a race gone bad. This email was the birth of my actual desire to write a blog.
Hope you enjoy.

The Devil Disguises Himself as a Racing Official

I entered my first race ever. So excited. I tried to remain calm and fold laundry this morning to offset my nervous energy. I have always wanted to enter a race, but I just have never gotten around to doing it. Can't think of why, but it is one of those things you put off doing with the hopes that "some day" will arrive and you will find yourself in a race.
Well, my "some day" arrived when a friend suggested I enter the "Run For the Pumpkin" race. She knew I didn't have a car, and that this race would be starting close to my home. It made sense that this should be my first race.

Fast forward to race day. My oldest daughter has a cold, so I decide to bring only my baby girl with me and the one seat stroller. I think grand thoughts of how I am being a wonderful mother and inspiring my daughter at the tender age of 11 months to make physical activity a part of her life. These thoughts carry me down the sidewalk and to the race location.I arrive early--I don't want to miss my first race. I go to the registration booth and I pick up my number. My own number: 1756! I'm so excited! This number will be scrapbooked and forever saved in my memory.
I settle down on the grass and watch as different running clubs warm up. I watch as everyone stretches. I suddenly start to feel small as all these young college girls go by kicking their legs in front of them as they limber up for the race.I feel my mouth go dry as I watch a group of college guys show off their warrior body paint and their calf stretches. I should go home, i think.
I tell myself I can't do this and what was I thinking-- taking my precious 11 month old out to a place where young men look like savage Bravehearts and young college girls are prancing around in their underwear.
I overhear a girl say that she isn't used to running on uneven ground.
Uneven ground? What is this?
I politely ask her what she means.
"The race is on the grass."
I think to myself "I am so glad I brought the one-seat stroller and not the double stroller. I don't think I could push my double stroller up the hill." I should go home.

I look around at everyone. They all look like racers. The majority have the cool running sunglasses on--I have my plain glasses on. Surreptitiously sneaking up on me is that old "highschool feeling". You know the one, the one where you feel like everyone is looking at you because you don't fit in. I'm thankful for my husband's baseball cap. I pull it low over my eyes and wish that he was here with me.
The race official announces that the race is about to begin. I make my way to the back of the start line. It only makes sense-I'm the only one with a stroller to push. Hey, wait, I am the only one with a stroller--I should go home.
A woman in her twenties smiles at me and asks,"Hey, are you running with your stroller?"
I nod. "Well, probably more like a brisk walk. It's on grass and I don't know how well my stroller will take the hills."
She looks at me, "Wow. Good for you."
I look at her. And the thought slowly enters my mind, "Yeah, good for me. I'm doing something I've always wanted to do, but never made the time commitment to do. I'm not hiding behind any excuse--especially the excuse of :I have kids, I can't do that. I'm trying something new. I feel out of place. I feel like I don't belong but that's all a part of doing something new. Good for me. I should stay.
The gun goes bang. And everyone takes off. I knew I would be last, but I wasn't prepared for how last. I watched as all the runners leave me, kicking up the fallen autumn leaves as they race towards the first corner. I feel every eye stare at me as I venture out my first steps. I keep my eyes forward as I push my stroller with my sleeping daughter inside.
I watch as the runners move quickly up the hill and then down again. I am rounding my first corner, I climb the hill, putting effort into my stroller making sure it gets up the hill. I approach the crest of the hill and I am confused about the flag markers.I'm not sure who is giving directions--don't people wear anything official? I ask someone standing in a group of people where to go. The people tell me down the hill. I start down the hill and then I meet the devil.
The race official who started the race comes running at me with his clipboard and half shouts, "Lady, get off of the course. There's a race happening here!"
"I'm in the race," I reply.
He looks over his shoulder and sees my 1756 number backing up my statement. "You're in the race? You shouldn't be in the race with kids, lady. This is a running race." And he takes off.
My eyes blur over with tears. I should go home.
I head down the hill as parents and teachers and coaches shout out encouragement to the runners coming behind me (Apparently, the directions I was given interfered with the race. I wasn't supposed to go down the hill). I wait on the sidelines as the runners go by. I feel the stares of the coaches, parents and teachers. I wait for a break in the running and I cross the trail.
With everything I have, I try to hold back the tears. And then I spot my friends who are entering the next race. A tear falls--now, I'm publicly humiliated and have to see my friends.
Well, it all unravels rather nicely--the way most situations unfold. My friends, being the wonderful people they are, don't make me feel small and stupid. They vow to kick the "devil's" butt should he try and tell them anything about not running with their kids. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned--especially if that a woman is a mother.
I vent to my friends and then calm down. I go back to demand my money refunded and to give the organizers a piece of my mind. A piece of my humiliated mind which is too emotional to really get the barbs in that I want.
The volunteer, who doesn't deserve a bawling out, gets one because she is the only one at the table. She tries to console me and apologizes. "I'm sure the racing official was stressed out."
Hey lady, I'm sure the guy is a lot of things, I can think of many right now, but there's no excuse for being rude to me.
The lady in charge comes back and apologizes--is it sincere? Who can tell. In these situations, apologizing is what you are supposed to do...and anything else to make a person feel better.
"Did you get a T-shirt?" she asks me.
"No."
"Let's get you a T-shirt."
Yeah, let's! That's just what I want. A visual reminder to be worn throughout the coming year that will forever remind me of this most humiliating experience. Yes, do give me a size medium.
My friend, who suggested the race, apologizs for the bad experience. I love her dearly for her optimism and tell her that this is an experience I won't soon forget.

I walk towards home. I suddenly understand the saying, "I'm so mad, I could spit nails." I'm mad. Mad at the racing official devil, but mad at myself. I had just quit my first race. My first race. My first chance to cross the finish line as 1756 will not happen. I let some "official's" comments stop me from finishing my first race.The realization of this was the almost as devastating as crying in front of my friends.
Oh well.

I'm sure I will race again...someday. For now, I've been there, done that and, unfortunately, got the T-shirt.