Getting What She Deserves and Growing Up

You know how you sometimes send your eleven year old daughter off on a bus full of people you don't know to Hungary for six days?

Yeah, I knew you'd understand when I told you what I did this morning.

Every year our elementary school sends the kids at the top of each class (who have straight A's or better) for a week-long trip pretty much for free. Evie's been working super hard this year to earn the right and she did it (she also won $125 in gift certificates from the mayor)! She's the only girl in her class eligible for the trip, so she had to arrange with girls (she barely knows) from other classes that she can hang with them for the week. But she's excited and I think she'll have a blast.

And all of this only a few months after I decided that we will be a "no sleepover" family. So, yeah. It is a bit of a weird situation, but after a ton of pondering, long conversations with Ev and some prayer, I feel quite good about it.

Then she'll come back home for a couple of weeks before getting on a plane by herself to cross the Atlantic and visit her cousins. My sister, Su, and brother-in-law (Tom) bought her a ticket and she's going to spend a MONTH with them. Away from us. Away from ME! How we will all survive (including my sister), I'm not sure. But I'm so excited for her.

I think this will be the Summer Evie Grew Up. I mean, she's already quite mature for her age, but after this, we'll pretty much consider her an adult, I think.

And mostly I really think she deserves to have all these experiences she's been dreaming of. I just need to figure out how to deserve my sister's generosity and bravery. (did I mention Evie's ELEVEN, and, while she's very helpful and sweet, smart and fun, she's also ELEVEN. The drama has definitely begun with her. But Su has a 12 year old daughter, so I think she has a clue what she's in for.)

I have a feeling Evie starting junior high this fall might not seem like such a huge step afterall.

[Not] For Your Viewing Pleasure

Warning! Vanity (or lack thereof) post! And possibly TMI! Proceed with caution!

Who decided they were farmer's tans? Can't we all just agree to call them people-who-wear-shirts' tans? Or something?

Or nothing? Is the reason we have a name for that kind of tan at all to distinguish those of us who have one from those who have an even tan all over? Because I personally think there should be a name for the all-over kinds of tans, as if they're the funny kind to have. Maybe, like, nudist tans. Or something.

So anyway, I don't spend a lot of time in (or out of) a bathing suit. And I don't pay to have my skin color changed artificially with or without one, either. So, naturally, I have tan lines. And, really, they're not especially becoming when I do wear something that covers less skin. But I'm kind of okay with that.

And when I do decide to wear a swimsuit, It's not necessarily going to be all that pretty, either. Not just because of the tan lines, but because I don't quite look "pretty". As a matter of fact, in recent weeks my weight has inexplicably been fluctuating about 2-4 pounds. When I don't have the extra few pounds I feel almost thinish (by my own, liberal standard, which still doesn't qualify for "pretty in a swimsuit" by any stretch), but on the days that those dear pounds decide to come back for a visit, I become much-less-than thin. They are the exact 2-4 pounds that trigger the ballooning effect that my, we'll just say "lower torso/hip area" suffers from. And I'm still going to put on a swimsuit. And I'm kind of okay with that.

And I have mentioned the veins on my leg. I had planned to never wear shorts again for the rest of my life. But now I realize I was being a bit over dramatic. When it's hot, covering your legs makes no sense no matter how much you don't really want to show them off. Capris are what I go for. And if anyone looks, they will see those lovely green and purple lines, and I apologize for that. But I'm kind of okay with it.

Because, really, I'm not putting on a show. I'm just kind of living, you know? And I know that some people are putting on a show (like the girl I saw today who had put a little too much glowing bronzing cream on her very pushed up, largely exposed, overly tanned breasts). And that's okay. Well, preferably with a little less cleavage, though. But wanting to look good is a good thing. Heck, even I want to look good! But I'm sort of okay with just living the life I love and not worrying too much about how I look while I'm doing it. You know?

I guess "kind of" are the key words... Maybe next year I'll be SO okay with it, I won't even write an entire post about it!

Froglets as a Compromise (continued from previous post)

So after we got back from the hospital we had a family council and decided that the rest of us would stay home and Greg would go alone to Katowice. As a "compromise" Greg said he'd take us for a half hour trip to the pond near his work before he left. So while he dug his things out from among all of our things and repacked them into a smaller suitcase I freaked the kids out with x-rays of my foot and then told them to pile in the car.

Spence waited patiently, asking me to please come and buckle him in.
Then we all got in and drove to the pond. When we got out of the car the ground was covered with what looked like flies hovering near the ground. A closer look revealed that they were tiny frogs that we had to walk very slowly to avoid crunching on. It was so neat watching the little wave of frogs hopping out of our path. Then we walked through the forest to the pond.
Evie went off on her own for a minute
but it didn't take long for Aaron to start worrying about her and go to find out if she was okay.
He was also watching out for Spencer and told him over and over, "No-no, Spence. You can't go in the water. It's too cold." (but actually there were a few swimmers just getting out when we got there)
Before heading back to the car we checked to make sure we all still had feet*. Fortunately we did. Mine are the ones with the toes exposed and the pinkie toe on the left is the one I stubbed. To you it probably looks fine (or disgusting if you're a foot hater), but to me it is ugly and deformed compared to the pinkie toe on the other foot, which I consider to be so darling in comparison.
Then we went back to the car
and played with the frogs for a minute.
Yes, that's a frog in her hand. See?

And in daddy's even bigger hand?
I seriously could not get over how cute they were. And there were tons of them. Maybe this is what everyone sees who goes near a pond the right few days every spring? Anyway, DARLING.

And then I was refreshed and ready for doing a weekend alone.
*How does one explain or justify a picture of feet?

Bent Out of Shape

One thing that bugs Greg about me is that I do way to much rushing and bustling. I far too frequently operate on "urgent" when it's not really necessary, and sometimes actually makes things worse.

"Move more slowly!" he'll say. "We really need to learn to calm down around here" he'll say.

I can't take the stairs less than two at a time. While cooking I work my way through all the bodies in the kitchen like a professional race car driver weaving through and past the competition. When my in-laws are visiting, whenever I enter a room they kind of automatically move to the edges/flatten themselves against the walls to let me whoosh past. And I wish that was more of an exaggeration than it is. I just move fast, especially when we're working on a time frame.

On Thursday morning I knew, as I breezed past Greg standing in the doorway to the kitchen, that he wouldn't like my rushing, but I had to grab the kids' lunches so they could get going and wouldn't be late for school. Heaven knows those 3 or 4 seconds I saved by running around could be the 3 or 4 seconds that made all the difference! Before Greg had a chance to get bent out of shape about my rate of motion, my toe did. Get bent out of shape, that is.

I stubbed it on the door frame. Really, really hard. And it hurt. Really, really badly. And I thought, Greg is so right. I really do need to calm down and move more slowly/carefully.

And he stood there while I wailed and cried (yes, I pretty much did. Baby.) and nary an "I told you so" escaped his lips.

As a punishment (well, natural consequence, really), instead of going to breakfast for our usual Saturday morning date, we only had time to go to the ER to see if they could fix my toe, which I'd only realized was looking extra crooked on Friday night. Then, even though I had us all completely packed and ready for our weekend trip (for church), it was too late for us to make it to the hotel before bedtime (a recipe for a disastrous hotel stay, especially with napping in the car), so Greg went on his own and I stayed home with the kids. But it wasn't all bad. Since we were all bummed we wouldn't get to go, Greg took us for a little 1/2 hour adventure before he left, and that was totally worth everything. More on that later.

And my toe is totally fine. Crooked and swollen, but apparently the crookedness is from the last time I stubbed it a few years ago. When I was rushing around to save another 3 or 4 seconds during some other life threatening crisis, no doubt.

Dry

I was hungry and, in a brave attempt to keep myself from reaching for something more delicious and fattening, I opened a pack of dried apricots to snack on. They were overly dry. Tough, in fact. Still, I did my best to enjoy them myself and put a bite of one in Spencer's mouth, sure he'd think it was like candy.

For the next hour he hummed all his songs and mumbled all his "words" and before we went out on our walk, I took the same piece of apricot out of his mouth. It was completely reconstituted.

On our walk we passed a number of thoroughly dried frogs on the sidewalk.

You know how after the rain you see dried worms everywhere? It's like that where we live, but with these cute little frogs. We have some living in our backyard (not the dried up ones) and we do our best to keep them watered and happy so we don't find them one day, flat and crispy, in our garage as we have in years past.

As we continued down the street we came to a scattered pile of unused matches on the sidewalk. I stopped and thought for a second. It's been very hot, dry and windy and these matches seemed like an accident waiting to happen. I started to rub them one-by-one into the ground with my flip flops to wear off all the phosphorus (looked it up). As I did it, I explained to Aaron that one of the matches could light and start a fire. Or some kids could come and take them and start a fire.

Aaron knew that kids don't play with matches so I had to explain that some kids do dangerous and bad things like play with matches. I told him that if a fire starts in your house it could spread and all your toys can burn, your clothes and your bed. You would have no place to sleep etc.

Aaron listened carefully and was thoughtful for a minute after I ended my lecture. Then suddenly he looked up at me with worry in his eyes and said, "And Spencer's toys! Spencer's toys could get burned and he wouldn't have anything to play with!!" He was very disturbed. Probably for his whole childhood he will never play with matches for fear that Spencer's toys might get burned.

Tough apricots, dead frogs, and fire hazards.

And one frazzled lady.

I've been feeling kind of dried out lately, too, in case you couldn't tell from the past couple of posts. Not enough healthy food and exercise, not enough planning and meditating and taking meaningful time for myself to feel put together, and not enough time drinking the Living Water.

I am working on rehydrating myself, but it would kind of be nice if someone could just stick me in their mouth, go about their business for awhile and spit me out, a new and improved Lisa.

No, that wouldn't be nice, I guess. Not literally. I'll just work on it myself, one snack, morning walk, and scripture session at a time so I don't end up as unpalatable as the apricots, as unbecoming as the frogs, and as fear inducing (or explosive) to good children as the matches.

Hidden Treasures

I'd like to "find wisdom and great treasures of knowledge, even hidden treasures". There's just something so appealing about that promise.

So I'm going to finally try to follow the Word of Wisdom, or its spirit. Moderation in all things. Or, not really. Moderation in some things and abstinence in others. So, for me, this is about complete forbearance. Adapted to the capacity of the weakest of all saints. (that's me)

In order to find that wisdom and those hidden treasures, I am going to reveal some hidden treasures of my own with my family:

The caramels are on the baking chocolate shelf,
the Oreos are in the school snack box and
the chocolate covered orange sticks are in the fridge.

I'm not gonna eat them anymore. Neither snack on them throughout the day when I should be eating fruit or yogurt, nor sneak nibbles here and there while making dinner. Or every time I enter the kitchen.

Because I desire wisdom.

And to stop this steady approach to the weight I told myself I wouldn't ever reach again. "No zeros before the decimal," I said. (We're a half a kilo away. Or maybe a whole kilo now, thanks to Fast Sunday.)

But mostly for the wisdom. That's a better treasure than having the figure I want. And I'm seriously NOT being sarcastic. But between keeping (my interpretation of one aspect of) the Word of Wisdom, Fast Sundays and the promise quoted at the beginning of the post, I'm going to be incredibly attractive in both mind AND body.

I can't wait.

Quickly! Turn Me Upside Down!

It doesn't happen very often, but some days I just spend a lot of time thinking about the things I can't stand about myself. And

1. I think about how poor I am because I get so tired of bathing children and doing the entire Before Bed Routine at the end of the day when I'm already all mothered out, and my husband almost never does it.

2. I listen to Aaron stomp his feet and declare that he "doesn't like the stupid (insert noun)". He makes angry faces and sometimes screams and is a total grouch. Then he has to stand facing the wall because he said one (or more) of his favorite bad words (hate, stupid and shut up).

3. Evie and David bicker and annoy each other and seem to have absolutely no positive feelings for each other. Even after the long discussion we had on Saturday about how we're all playing on the same team and should be encouraging and supporting each other, which they seemed to totally understand and agree with.

4. Spencer wiggles and giggles and generally makes changing his diaper an extremely frustrating minute and a half, no matter how seriously I tell him to stop or even if I get mad.

Then I think about

1. How I'm terrified of being a nagging wife so I rarely ask Greg to do the things that we seem to have established (non-verbally) are my responsibilities. (and there are a hundred other reasons why it's not his fault). Instead I just sit around feeling sorry for myself and my terrible lot in life.

2. How often Aaron sees me get frustrated or annoyed with something small when I should really just fix it and move on.

3. How often I forget to be positive and encouraging to my kids when trying to help them overcome their little faults, but come across as critical or annoyed instead.

4. The few times in a row that I tickled and played with Spencer just before or after changing a diaper, even though I knew I would pay for it later when he wanted to play before/during/after every diaper change.

And I realize that I've created all these monsters. And I think even more about how I sick I am of me.

Then we get out of the house and when we cross a street I help Aaron walk his bike and he says, "I can do it, but thanks, mom, for helping me." And when we pass a little store he asks if we can go get an ice cream. When I say no he says, "But you only have to buy it for one guy: for me!" And I smile.

And my phone rings and Greg says he has a question for me, "Tell me what you think about this: When the kids come home from school we go for a picnic. Just you and me."

And I think that's a great idea. And I think I'm going to pull out my scriptures*, for goodness sake, and start being more like the person I want to be instead of thinking about how different I am from her. I'm gonna smile this frown away.
*A very real key to my happiness and one that I forget about waaaaay too often and just read a quick chapter before bed instead of actually studying.

Modesty is Relative

That's me letting orange rolls go to waist so they don't go to waste.

Would you ever look at a t-shirt like that and think that it was immodest? Neither would I. Even if it was on someone who was in possession of a tiny bit of cleavage, it would still be quite decent. Not immodest. At least that's what I thought when I bought them (I have a purple one, too). It turns out that they are, though.

See, when you have a toddler some seemingly innocent items of clothing become much less modest. A neckline that seemed very reasonable on the hanger at the store becomes extremely revealing later when it is on your person and little hands grip it and use it to pull up onto your lap. It also doesn't provide enough coverage the twenty thousand times a day you have to lean over and use both hands to clean up a mess, help a child get out of a precarious position or stick a Baby Einstein video in the VCR.

Then there are the shirts Evie likes to buy for herself. She bought a hot pink long sleeved shirt that completely covers her: neck, stomach, arms. Very modest. But Greg doesn't like it because it has a picture of a cartoon owl on it with enormous cartoon eyes. The placement of the owl and its eyes is not bad. I think it's an innocent shirt. Still, it's not Greg's favorite.

I remember back when Greg and I were just friends we would go swimming at the Campus Plaza swimming pool and he once told me that he didn't like my (totally modest, maybe a tiny bit high cut, but not bad) swimming suit. It was royal blue with lime green stitching and a lime green "Body Glove" embossed across the chest. He told me he doesn't think girls should wear things with words in that area. Whatever is written there it might as well just say, "Guys Look Here!!"

I don't buy shirts like that anymore, but I still think he's a little overly sensitive. Unless a shirt is tight and/or a woman is particularly buxom, I don't see much wrong with it.

Then one day Ewelina told me that she found a shirt she wanted to buy. It was just like a shirt her best friend had, but with a different picture. It was a fitted gray tee with a picture of a banana on it. "A banana!" she said. It reminded me of the days when I was about exactly her age and loved things that were random and weird. I, too, would have loved to have a shirt with a picture of a banana or a cloud (like her friend's shirt) on it. Funky, cool, cute.

So she bought the shirt and showed it to me. Super cute cut, very long tee. Big, yellow, old comic style half-peeled banana on the front. "Cute!" I thought.

A little while later I realized that I didn't really like that shirt. I went upstairs and showed it to Greg and asked what he thought about it. He didn't like it a lot more immediately than I didn't like it. He said he really didn't think she should wear it. I totally agreed. I was the lucky one who got to explain this all to her. While it's not strictly immodest, it kind of falls under the same category (i.e. inappropriate (or not quite appropriate) clothing)

So now we have a bunch of new standards. Is the shirt toddler-proof? Does it contain any offending words symbols, pictures or colors? Are the non-offensive words, symbols, pictures or colors located in an appropriate area of the garment? Are we a thousand percent sure that nobody would ever think anything but the very most virtuous thoughts when glancing in our direction while we are wearing this item of clothing?

Sheesh.

We sure know how to make things difficult around here.

Ode to the Period

I used to take you for granted;
You were just sort of there.
I used you countless times a day,
No gratitude did I bear.

But now I see your value.
I understand your worth.
While many consider you optional
I'm mourning because of your dearth.

And maybe I've made a mistake
by trying to write this in rhyme.
Because in this type of writing
I use you improperly half of the time.

But in other types of writing
You are the only one
Of punctuations marks, common and lesser used,
that keep sentences from over-run. (ning each other)

It's really very simple:
A tiny little dot
To separate my sentences
And make reading less headache-fraught.

Maybe it's about the order,
Organization and proper pace,
But judging by how my house looks
Those values don't hold a high place...

So I guess it's more about talking;
I'm pretty good at that.
I want to be read just the way that I sound
Not a jumble of words to fall flat.

I wish more people could understand
The service that you provide.
You're free, and you want to be used and loved
Statements happily you will divide.

But I must admit, you're a character.
I think that's your biggest flaw.
With limits on numbers of symbols we use
Your end of the deal is raw.

But still, I will never abandon you!
You mean too much to me.
You're worth every space that you take on the page,
As important as A, B or C.

note: this "poem" is the perfect example of exactly how poor my understanding of the usage of punctuation is, but the period? I'm pretty confident in my usage of that one. Dear, dear period.

Give It Up For A Wonderful Husband

I used to be a wearer of heels. Not like every day or anything, since it wasn't really such a big thing back then, but I almost always wore high heels to church. I always felt so feminine, so sophisticated, so much taller than usual.

I used to dance, too. Oh, how I loved to dance. I would dance and dance and dance at any opportunity. As a teen I was a highly skilled dancer of the Bobby Brown and a hundred other moves (the names of which escape me now, thankfully) that made younger teens, and some humble older ones, crowd around me and my sister at tri-stake dances for lessons on how to look as awesome as we did on the dance floor.

Oh, how I loved to dance. I gave up most of those specific dances that immediately shout "EARLY NINETIES!!!" when I went off to college (because by then it was almost mid-nineties and those dances were so last season), but I still loved to dance. There were few things that made me feel more happy and free than moving to music.

But one of the things that did make me feel more happy and free was when I was hanging out with my friend Grzegorz. Man, I loved that. So much so, in fact, that I thought it would be worth it to give up some of the things I loved for the privilege of hanging out with him for the rest of ... ever.

I don't wear heels anymore. Grzegorz is not a fan. Although I may have felt feminine and sophisticated (and taller) in them, he thought it just looked awkward and impractical. Bye-bye, pumps. (I did get to wear them for my brother's wedding a couple of years ago and learned that it's just like riding a bike: if you haven't done it for ten years, you're bound to be rather wobbly at it.)

I don't dance in public places anymore. My enjoyment of dances and the frequenting of dance clubs came to an abrupt halt. Grzegorz doesn't dance. I don't go dancing without him. The end.

And I'm okay with that. Of course there are times I resent it a tiny bit, but only when I forget that it's worth it. So worth it. What was that definition of sacrifice? Giving up something good for something better? Yes. That's just exactly how I would define my "losses". Something good for something WAY better.

Throw it Away so it Doesn't Go to Waist

Just after Easter we kept hearing on the radio about a campaign to keep people from wasting food. They encouraged people not to buy more than they need, gave tips for things to make with various holiday leftovers and talked about how people who throw food away are worse human beings than those who don't.

You probably won't be surprised that I'm going to share my thoughts on the matter. First a disclaimer: I try not to waste food. I plan menus before I do my weekly shopping so I know pretty much exactly what I will need and pretty much always end up using it all. I don't pile my kids' plates high with food that they won't eat, but give them tiny little portions that they must finish as a minimum but they can go back for more if they want. If I make something that we'll have leftovers of, I make sure it will be enough leftovers to have for another entire dinner so it doesn't sit and go bad in the fridge. When it's a popular dinner, this occasionally means telling everyone, "no, you can't have any more, it's for dinner tomorrow."

I am so waste conscious, in fact, that I go to great lengths to ensure that we never have to throw out cookies because they've gone stale. I'm always careful to have all baked goods eaten by the next day. Yes, this sometimes means that I personally have to be eating cookies/cake/muffins all day long, but that is a price I'm willing to pay. When people write in a recipe that the cookies "stay good for 3 days in an airtight container" or something, I'm always thinking how much more careful I am not to waste than that person, who tempted fate and almost let the cookies go bad.

Still, I've never quite understood the "think of all the starving children" thing. Yes, there are children who are starving, and that's terrible, but to a kid it's probably like the equivalent of telling a grown woman to apply her make-up liberally because there are plenty of women in the world who don't have any make-up at all.

I agree we should be grateful for what we have and use it wisely, but how does my not leaving any crumbs help the person in Africa who wishes he had crumbs? (I so wish it could somehow)

I have seen people, stuffed to the point of splitting their pants, clean their plate because they didn't want to waste any food. Isn't it more of a waste to force yourself to gag food down when you neither need nor want it?

I've mentioned before what a fan Greg is of capitalism. About all the "don't waste" talk, Greg said, well, the truth is, one of the best things you can do to help those who don't have enough food (besides donating to food shelters etc.) is to buy more food than you need." He then proceeded to explain and, while I can't remember what he said, I do remember that it made perfect sense, so if you have a better brain than me, or were raised under communism and now have an affinity for capitalism, it may make sense to you, too. (I just asked him and he said that it's about the economy and how when people buy more stuff it's better for everyone. So yeah, that makes sense. And is pretty elementary, which tells you what kind of brain I have.)

Well, I'm not going to go out and buy twice as many groceries as I think I'll use, but the next time we eat out and I have more food than I can eat, but not enough to take the rest home, I'm going to leave it on the plate and let them throw it out. Because there's one other argument for throwing food out sometimes: I'd rather waste it than let it go to waist.

Weird

Things that I think are weird:

That Greg and I rented and watched Green Zone without knowing it. Greg went to get The Bourne Supremacy and the DVD had no title on it, just a picture of Matt Damon and the case was clear. We watched and I briefly wondered why Jason Bourne was now Roy Miller hunting WMD in Iraq and how so many bad words got into a PG-13 movie. Seriously, it wasn't until the next day when I looked up the movie and found that the synopsis didn't match the movie we watched. I was glad because I really had hoped Jason would find out more about his history and was confused that he hadn't. (duh)

That Poles serve ice cream on a plate, and I've seen them eat it with a fork before (I think Greg's mom once asked me if I wanted a fork or spoon with mine, or maybe my memory is exaggerating the weirdness of this). There is a chance that this is more Greg's family than all Poles. I will have to ask around.

That the facial cleanser I use, which is all things organic and earth friendly, comes in a plastic tube. Just kidding. That's understandable, but the wooden lid that made it look so enticing to me turns out to be absolutely unnecessary, and therefore a complete waste of natural resources. I only thought about this when the wood cracked and the regular plastic lid beneath was revealed. (because I totally fell for the marketing trick: it has wood, therefore it's natural and earthy, therefore it is good. Duh again.)

The length of some little boys' eyelashes.

That the packaging on a kid's drink bottle had "SUFER" printed in big, happy bubble letters. I'm not sure if they put an F on accident where they meant to put a P or if they left out the other F.

That a word that makes little American boys giggle can be found on products and even used as company names in Poland because in Polish it means "luck".

The Biology of Motherhood and a Question of Opinion

The girls in one of my English discussion classes (two 16 year olds) are pretty much everything I hope my Evie will be. They're responsible, thoughtful, hard-working and fun. But they hate biology. I tell them that this is a tragedy. Biology is awesome and interesting, I tell them. I also tell them a lot of other things. Anything I want. This week I will tell them about EFY in Germany and that they're totally invited.

But biology really is awesome. Although I know where my students are coming from. In 10th grade I hated it, too. My teacher sat at the overhead projector and wrote notes for us to copy all class period, every class period. Extremely boring. But then I moved on to AP Bio. With Mr. Margve. Oh, Mr. Margve was the best. He looked like he was wearing one of those fake nose and mustache thingies, only without the glasses. (as a matter of fact, my AP US History teacher was his good friend/rival, and they always played jokes on each other like Mr. M would send a dissected rat as a gift to Mr. T in the middle of class and Mr. T dressed for Halloween with a nose and mustache--glasses removed--and wearing a nametag that said "Mr. Margve".)

He had a passion for biology. He drew pictures on the board and used jokes and grand arm gestures. He made the floor of the lab into gigantic cells with paper parts so we could learn about transcription and other cellular functions by physically making it happen ourselves. I loved it all and remember much of it. I don't believe I have ever used terms like knee cap, shoulder blade, collar bone, or thigh bone, thanks to Mr. Margve. (patella, scapula, clavicle and femur for me, thanks!)

I think that is why I am so deeply in love with this song. I have an affection for biology anyway (up to the most basic college level. :) and it's a true geek song, sung by a true geek. I don't claim to be a geek AT ALL, but one who can appreciate geekiness, when properly expressed.

(as a side note, I think of the term "geek" and in smaller measure "nerd" to mean one who is overly excited about and interested in science or technology or other brainy things (with or without the social ineptness. For this reason I have never quite gotten it when people call themselves Harry Potter geeks, or worse, Twilight geeks. I am still trying to convince myself that the term can also apply to anyone who is knowledgeable about or interested in most anything, and that it doesn't necessarily have to be intellectual. (I always remind myself of how Annette tells us that language evolves and sometimes people use a term improperly enough that it becomes an actual definition, and that maybe that's the case here.)

This song is delightful (to me), the perfect balance of tackiness, catchiness, humor and just all around geekiness. I have it running through my head pretty constantly since Melancholy Smile linked to it the other day. You should really watch it, just in case it brings you as much joy as it brings me. You will learn exactly why slightly more than half of everything your children are is thanks to you. A Biologist's Mother's Day Song:



And now, a question of opinion.

I have never wanted to advertise on my blog. I have only ever wanted my blog to contain things that I personally want and choose to have on it. But now I have a dilemma.

A friend of mine (or two) has written regular, Melissa-esque blog posts that sounds exactly like her and are things that I know she would write about. They're just normal blog posts. Then at the end you read that the post was sponsored. And you think, what? Wasn't that Melissa? Yes. That was definitely Melissa. I enjoyed the post exactly as I would have without the sponsorship note at the end.

So this is a new and awesome way to monetize your blog and I'm thinking that I might want to try it. But I don't want it to feel like I'm not being real or something. But I figure, if a song about biology can inspire a post (however lame) about my AP Bio teacher, why not just let an advertisement inspire a post? For example, Melissa had one sponsored by a clothing company and she wrote about how terrible her own wardrobe is. I could write a post about my wardrobe (couldn't any woman?) and it would be just as real and natural as writing any other post that was triggered by something I saw or heard.

At least I think. But I'm just wondering, not to ask your permission, but I'm just curious as to how you feel about that? Have you read posts sponsored by Broadcast Bloggers ads? Does it feel weird to you? Wrong? Do you care?

Because I've never cared if people I like have their sidebars plastered with ads (I've seen some people complain that they don't like it), but this new way to monetize, while being slightly more in your face, is also a good way to get ideas for blog posts (I think, I still don't know exactly how it works) and still write from your own brain and heart, but also make some money (which some people are rather in need of, from what I understand...)

Anway, do you have thoughts? I mean, on the subject of this type of monetizing?

Sincerely, Lisa

:)

For Life

"Doesn't this muesli look so good?" I said, holding up the unopened box and pointing to the little window that revealed the freeze-dried berries and granola inside. While Evie and David agreed that it looked delicious I made fake-but-sincere sobbing sounds.

"It's cereal, mom." Ev said, with the sound of eye rolling in her voice.

Yeah. She should talk. Just a few mornings before she told me about a horrible dream she had. She volunteered to go back to the Millar's house to get something. She said it felt so weird being in that now-empty place. She walked slowly around and stopped in front of the picture of Ellyvan, drawn in marker on the living room wall by 4 year old Max. She almost cried in the telling of this dream.

Yesterday Aaron kept including Max in his listing of our family members using toys, "This one's Evie, this one's Dad, this is Spencer, this one can be Max and this one is David."

The Millars, our American friends have moved back to that country. The muesli was from a box of goodies they brought us from their kitchen as they packed up their home (there were also boxes of toys and Christmas decorations!).

We got to celebrate one last holiday with them the day before they left. We had an Easter egg hunt in a nearby beech tree forest. It was fun and warm and almost all the foliage was on the ground-- the dried brown leaves of yesteryear. Those and lots and LOTS of dry sticks and branches making what I'd imagined would be a beautiful stroll through a green springtime wonderland more of a crunching hike through a monotone (brown) obstacle course, but it was still fun.



In fact, anything we did with the Millars was fun. Holidays, FHE, having church at our house, yummy dinners and treats. Fun! But I never cared as much about what we did as the fact we got to spend time with them.

Because those guys are awesome. They share their history so openly and it wasn't always about major athletic achievements and (practically)perfect families. Those have been some of the blessings that have come to them because of their awesomeness. They have been through a LOT and, instead of taking the easy road and using their crises as an excuse to take whatever road THEY want, they've let their trials shape them into really good people who try to do what the Lord wants them to.

This includes being where he wants them to be and I know that they were supposed to come to Poland, in part to be a blessing for our family. I'm so grateful they came. I'm so grateful for their sweet, super sweet little boys. Baby Oliver of the squishy cheeks and beautiful blue eyes and friendly Max and his desire to help and knack for always saying the right and cutest things. Once he asked the blessing on our food and after he said "amen" he looked up and saw that Spencer was starting to climb up the stairs so he quickly closed his eyes and folded his arms again and asked for Spencer to be safe while he's playing on the stairs. Seriously sweet boy.

Ryan sets such a good example wherever he goes. When his volleyball games are on Polish TV the commentators (announcers?) refer to him as Ryan Millar and/or the "sympatyczny Amerykanin", the nice/friendly/likable American. He smiled more in one game than any other player probably in all the games combined. He's funny and kind and looks for ways to share the important things he believes. Awesome.

Then there's Suzanne. What can a person say about THAT lady? She is such a loving and encouraging mother and a sympathetic and helpful friend. She always has something she's read recently that she draws on for strength for herself or shares to strengthen others. I love it. I want to be like that. She's seriously beautiful, but not at all intimidating because she is just so real and open and friendly. Love her. Such an example of a woman of faith.

I'm grateful for the Millars and that they came and provided an extremely welcome break from feeling isolated and so far away from people who understand me. And I love that, even after having only had them as "neighbors" for about a half a year, they are now lifelong friends. That is something you don't get every day, and better than gold.

Sometimes

Sometimes moms forget to buckle their little boys into their strollers. The reason for this might sometimes be that the mom knows in the back of her mind that the child won't try to climb out and is too old to slip out. However, because the mother might normally buckle the child in anyway, it might also be partly due to forgetfulness.

In cases when this happens (or rather doesn't happen--the buckling, I mean), there are few surprises less welcome than, when the child has been peacefully sleeping in said stroller for some time, the stroller suddenly begins to slow, there are dragging sounds and then, unexpectedly, the sandal of the sleeping child appears near the mother's feet, coming out from under the back of the stroller. And however much the mother might hope he isn't, the child might still actually be wearing that sandal.

Yes, sometimes mothers run over their own children with their strollers, and the little ones sometimes get scratched up noses and chins.

But sometimes small children are far more traumatized by the sound of water popping in hot oil on the stove all the way across the kitchen of an evening than they were earlier in the day when their mother ran over them with with the stroller.

I will leave you to think about what an amazing imagination I have to come up with such a hypothetical.

Seriously, despite his VERY rude awakening, he needed only a good hug and some gentle wiping of his face and he was happy as ever. I, however, needed to hug him a little longer, and again every time I looked at his face for the next few hours. And he was hysterical over the sound of the oil popping.