Underdog

[Before I begin I have to preface this entry with the following.  I am not a John Grogan wannabe.  I am not about to begin a career in dog blogging. However, my dog is the star of this next story.]

The 4^th grade was an iconic year for me.  Seriously.  I got this free piece of advice from my teacher which was: “Follow your gut.” She was giving a lesson in basic instructions on how to do your best on a test with multiple answers.  However, I did not know this advice would be superlative in my adulthood, motherhood, and pethood.

I introduced the idea that my family might be ready for a dog to the Engineer about 18 months before we got our dog.  Knowing that he was keen on the idea of a Boxer, I conceded to that notion.  It took about two “Everything Boxer” books and one trip to Petsmart for a close encounter for me to realize that a boxer was cute, big, and slobbery. (Those first two characteristics are indicative of my dog, the last was a deal breaker). 

The Engineer saw my hesitation as a way to halt the dog idea.  What he wasn’t aware of is that I had already thought a boxer was not the dog for us.  My idea of the perfect dog is and always will be… a Labrador Retriever. No offense boxer owners. There’s just something about them I find irresistible and the AKC agrees with me. Well just look at her:

So you already know we ended up with a yellow lab pup. That whole story has been told. What you don’t know is how extensively and relentlessly I researched the breed.  I knew more about what to expect when expecting a Lab than what I did with any of my children’s impending arrivals!  I combed through book after book after book.  I heard the nightmare stories about labs who ate drywall, diamond earrings, and stole dinner right off the table!  Nothing deterred my mission. I had become the expert (so to speak) of the Labrador. That made me the “ideal lab parent”… right???

I am considered by today’s standard to be a “strict parent.” I believe in rules, respect, and the philosophy that I am the mom and I am the boss. I am no different with my dog.  If I am unable to keep an eye on her or if someone is not interacting with her she is in her kennel.  Otherwise she will do naughty things.  The Engineer has a split parenting personality.  His kid-parenting beliefs are basically the same as mine; his pet-parenting standards are not.

I was away from home and visiting family.  Nala stayed behind on this trip. I knew that the Engineer would allow her to do things that I NEVER allow such as: chewing on sticks in the house, sitting on the furniture, and roaming freely throughout the home. The first two of those things BOTHER me, the last CONCERNS AND WORRIES me (for both my dog and my stuff). 

I got back from my trip and my 6 month old; 50 pound baby was not acting “right.”  Lethargy (in labs particularly), is a red flag, and the hacking and gagging sound she was making was even more alarming. Then she puked. I took her to the vet.

The vet’s office is an interesting place.  It’s kind of like taking kids to the public playground. And while I know that no parent will admit to doing this, I will for the sake of my story. Everyone looks at everyone’s dog and immediately there is a stigma.  You have the “kids” who  are low risk that lay around and do nothing (bulldogs), the persistent ones who ask a million questions all in a row (jack russells), the bullies (pit bulls), and the precarious. Generally, my dog’s breed is put into that last category, and I am here to say it fits.  

Here’s where my 4^th grade lesson comes in…. my gut told me that my mischievous dog ate something she shouldn’t have.  The vet told me she had an upper respiratory problem that she needed some antibiotics, very pricey prescription dog food, and to call the next day.  I was assured that there was “no way this is foreign object or obstruction.”  $150 later, I was on my way home with the dog.

The next day, Nala puked, and puked, and I went back to the vet. This time I had a different doctor, and he agreed that my concern about her having eaten something was “unlikely.”  What was more likely was that my dog had what is commonly known as “kennel cough.”  With another prescription for another antibiotic and now an anti-vomiting medication I walked out to pay another $150 bill. The receptionist then freaked out nearly jumping over the counter saying “You need to get back into a room. Your dog is highly contagious if she has kennel cough.”  He may as well have said that Nala had the black plague because the other pet owners went into shock and disgust as Nala and I headed back into a room with our tails between our legs.

She really was no better the next day. Days later the Engineer took her out for a mini-walk.  It was then that the mystery would be solved. My dog threw up again.  This time something came out.  Guess what it was?  A pair of my underwear. 

The next day, the Engineer informed me that another pair of underwear came out of my dog.  And the third pair, well, I had that pleasure. 

While you’re laughing hysterically let me point something ironic out to you.  I wear whatever Wal-mart sells.  I’m not a high-end-for-the-rear-end minded type of consumer.  These 3 pair of underwear (in my mind), had cost me $300 and ricked my dignity.

This anecdote about my dog is silly I know.  But believe it or not I have found a way to weave some theology in this tale.

 My pursuit to become whatever it is that God is calling me to has not come without some major, minor, and some secretive criticism, but I know that I know that I am obeying what the Father is telling me to do. I have heard it all when it comes to my academic pursuits from “You’re not cut out to be” and “What kind of major is that?” and the famous “You’ll never make any money,” etc., etc.  

Those thoughts are sometimes well intentioned people who care about me and want me to consider other options because they worry about me.  But their “options” are just as useless to me as the antibiotic was for my underwear eating canine.  I have tried them and/or pursued them.  Those quests have left my soul as dry as the Sahara and my self-esteem so low that an ant couldn’t crawl under it.

Here’s my bottom line (pun intended). The vet shouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss my theory about my dog.  On the same note, neither I nor anyone else has the right to dismiss the plans of God just because they are “unlikely” or because the follower is an underdog.

“As each one has received a special gift, employ it in serving one another as good stewards of the manifold grace of God. ¹¹ Whoever speaks, is to do so as one who is speaking the utterances of God; whoever serves is to do so as one who is serving by the strength which God supplies; so that in all things God may be glorified through Jesus Christ, to whom belongs the glory and dominion forever and ever. Amen.” 2 Peter 4:10-11

Chipper...

Today's entry is dedicated to the optimists of the world. I myself, am not included in this category of people.  I tend to stress, plan like a maniac, and make contingency plans because I "know" how things work. 
I am coming to redefine what I previously (and might I add prematurely) judged the optimist to be.  My less than flattering sobriquet for "optimist" was "unrealistic."  I then determined myself to be a realist and decided that those choosing not to see things as they "are" as having their heads in the clouds.

Here's a shocker... I married a supreme optimist. The Engineer is excellent at keeping his cool in arduous circumstances.  He handles difficult people with grace and plans around failure rather than planning for the shortcomings of others.  Perhaps the best picture I can paint with words is describing the ultimate test for me... the (dare I admit it).... pessimist.  An amusement park.

For lack of a better vocabulary I will just say that I tend to freak out. First off, my mind goes directly to the prospect of having a missing child. If possible, I would become a magnet and put metallic t-shirts on all three of my children in order to keep them safe, secure, and by my side. The Engineer is fine with the older girls walking beside him, while I insist they have a firm grip to one adults hand.  I go to a theme park packing Dramamine, antiseptic, and disposable toilet seat covers. The Engineer takes his wallet.  And the list goes on...

For a long time I wondered 'Can there be anyone out there as happy go lucky as my husband?' And well this search led me to my main story and character for this blog... yes. Yes there is a person who is probably even more the optimist than my husband.  That person is my sister-in-law "Malger."   Below is a picture of her dressed for work on Halloween.  She being a physical therapist decided to be "Wonder PT."  This is just a small piece of evidence displaying her personality type.   

 Quick name explanation.  My brother married a Melanie.  I have a sister named "Melanie."  A long time ago I decided that while calling someone "Sister Melanie" was appropriate in a church setting it made for a confusing family dynamic. Her maiden name was Alger. So, "M" + "Alger" = Malger. 

Malger married my oldest brother "Mr. Noodle" (I will explain that name later).  My brother is... well... he is a Sullivan.  We Sullivan's tend to like things to be in an orderly, structured, routine fashion. Even more important is the idea that cleanliness is next to godliness (and yes, I am aware of this not being scripture).  I have 8 siblings and we are (for the most part) all pretty much the same in this regard.

Malger is an experimenter, an adventurous soul willing to do things I believe are sometimes borderline insane.  I don't really mean "insane" but wild.  Here's a case and point story for you all at home:

My family has simple tastes in food.  We like good old southern cooking with the same good old recipes that have always been used.  A recipe is a plan and remember my kind likes plans. And ones that we know we like that have withstood the test of time.... we aren't too forgiving with newfangled and exotic food.

One evening, Malger decided to bake.  Cookies.  And I'm talking Malger-style cookies. Not your Granny's cookies.  These cookies had an unusual ingredient list. Well... really there was 1 unique ingredient.  Salted potato chips. 

Okay I get it... sweet meets salty.  Hmm.... 

The Saint and I drove up to Malger's house to taste the fresh outta the oven batch. When biting into the cookie The Saint was her usual saintly self stating "Oh that's different" and "it's not bad."  Then there was my response.  I was reluctant to try the cookies, but I was assured that both Mr. Noodle and Magler's mom, "Pegster," had tried and not hated this concoction. 

I held the cookie, examined it, smelled it, and finally put it to my mouth.  Trying not to be a child and take only a nibble, I decided to be "fair" and eat a normal sized bite.  When she asked "Whaddaya think?"  I did what I do... I told the truth.  Brutally.  "You know what go good with this Malger?"  I asked.  "A hot cup of dirt."  The Saint turned red and began laughing, and in the distant background there was Pegster laughing too.  I now believe that they were laughing in complete agreement and at my expense for having tasted such thing. Somehow after my opinion came out so did the truth from the other unfortunate tasters: FAIL MALGER!  EPIC FAIL.

Lesson: Take chances in life... but know the limits.  NEVER PUT POTATO CHIPS in cookies.

Before I get too much criticism for being overly critical let me say the following.  I did not dash Malger's baking career.  In fact, she has left the cookie arena and cornered the market on doing cakes.  Her most recent creation was a "Family Game Night" theme for my nephew's 6th birthday:

Pretty good, eh?  Yeah despite the cookie debacle, I am happy to report that Malger has bounced back to her chipper self and is able to create cool, creative, and chip free cakes. And they taste just like cakes should. 

So... back to my point.  There are always going to be optimists.  I am never going to be one of them.  But I have learned something.  Neither The Engineer nor Malger are unaware of failure.  They are willing to try something new and brave. While they may seem
haphazard to the "realist" they possibly see life more realistically.  Clear as mud, right?  Let me explain: 

While I continue to maintain that failing to plan is planning to fail... it's not at all "realistic" to count on failure in every situation and expect to be happy at the end of the day.  And while we may not be happy all the time God created the emotion because happiness is a part of living. Every day given to us is an opportunity to find joy in the journey.

"A joyful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones." Proverbs 17:22

God doesn't want us to take ourselves too seriously. And I think kids are a perfect example of God's sense of humor. My daughter Megan once told me "God is a funny guy because He made the duckbill platypus and that's one crazy looking thing."  Google it... and I betcha you'll crack a smile. And if that doesn't work... make a batch of potato chip cookies. 

Looking on the bright side and not for the pitfalls.

Gross Anatomy ... Lessons with my Nephew

I may get a lot of nasty responses from this post because I am going to discuss kids and bathing. WARNING: BODY PARTS WILL BE DISCUSSED in this blog. Proceed with CAUTION. And I don't know how the rest of the world does things, but when my kids are little they generally like to bathe together. 

Now my nearly 7 year olds have passed what I believe is the acceptable threshold for company in the tub, but  I thought that my 2 year old Miss Fabulous had another 2-3 years left of un-awkward bath times left in her.  WRONG!

My nephew who is almost 3, whom I refer to as "Brutus" is just that... a brute.  His size and personality fit this identity.  Brutus and Miss Fabulous always have wonderful adventures together and sometimes the best adventures happen at bath time.

Now mind you my kids don't see my nephews all the time. We live almost 4 hours away, but when they reunite during visits they are inseparable. Another useful fact is that my girls are rarely around boys. 

On a recent visit, Miss Fabulous and Brutus had  enjoyed a fun filled day of activity and messiness and I needed to bathe them.  Two birds one tub.  Simple and innocent... NO.

Brutus took to the water like a fish, and Miss Fabulous had to dip her toes in first to make sure the water was the appropriate ratio of not too hot, not too cold prior to entry.  Once in the tub both were sitting and I grabbed bubble bath and toys.  

It was at this moment that Miss Fabulous tilted her head sideways and precariously looked at Brutus in a whole new light.  She unashamedly pointed "there" and asked him "Hey.... what's thaaat?"  I won't get into the whole conversation of what Brutus told her because I don't know where the ethical lines are with kids and body parts.  But long story short he stood up and explained that "that" was something that he "pecked" things with.

And that was the day I decided boys and girls should never bathe together. No matter how old or young. Now please... don't get too offended or outraged... I look at this situation 3 ways.

(1).  Lesson learned for me: answer a question before my 2 year old nephew gives his version.

(2).  Teach kids about different body parts... young (preferably before they can speak).

(3).  Be glad that Izzie got the version she did, because the Twins heard a variation on the playground in Pre-K and were afraid to eat hot dogs for a month.

Oh and I guess here's an extra:

(4).  Don't take it too seriously.  At the end of the day... you sometimes have to laugh at the uncomfortableness that happens in life.

So from now on the adventures of Brutus and Miss Fabulous will remain OUTSIDE of the bathtub and in full wardrobe.  In the end... this opened the door to teaching Isabelle about the Genesis story, and importantly... THE VALUE OF A GOOD FIG LEAF.

"Now these things happened to them as an example, but they were written down for our instruction."
1 Corinthians 10:11a. ESV

Laughing and learning on this adventure in motherhood, and taking all of the above into account.

Are You There Blog?? It's Me, Mary.

Long time no blogging. That has been due to a computer problem which I am glad to say is now fixed (obviously). Now I have lots of back logged blogs, (can I just call them "back blogs"), that are ready for pictures and publishing. So when you see a number of them being posted all in one day... don't worry I still have a life, but my obsessive nature will not allow me to patiently post them one at a time. I want to get life moving FORWARD.

UPDATES... UPDATES... UPDATES!

Are you wondering how my summer "list" is going? Well... my backhand springing is on hold indefinitely. My hair is still growing (hoping to cut and donate soon), my nephews did in fact come for a week long visit, and my SIL finally had the newest nephew (Carter) aka "Carter Cat." All of these things will be discussed in further detail in the back blogs, I promise.

So I am in "today" mode and want to talk about my dog "Nala." She's an almost 7 month old yellow Labrador retriever with an unabashed ambition for living. "Nala-girl" (as she is often called), has been an awesome dog and an awesome responsibility. Most people hear me say I have a lab an immediately say "Oh, you have a Marley."  My answer is simply... yes and no.

She doesn't eat dry wall, she doesn't have an attraction to poodles, and she is fairly well mannered (she is afterall, still a puppy).  Nala does likes to chase birds, and she thinks every dog is ready to play. Like most pets, she has officially made her place as part of the family.  So much so that I think at times she believes she's human...

What most people don't know about Nala is that her name could have easily been "Therapy" instead. I have always wanted a dog to join our family (specifically a Labrador).  In retrospect, I believe only God knows why.

It took a little more than a year to get The Engineer on board. After reading every imaginable Lab book, checking out breeders, and finally begging he caved.  We were set to bring our puppy home somewhere in the January/February range. Then October came and a stick surprisingly turned blue, and I knew the puppy pipe dream had ended.

We coasted through November and sailed to December 22. Ultrasound day.  That's the day my world stopped turning and I was scheduled for surgery just after the Christmas holiday passed. Coincidentally 12/22 was the same day Nala was born.  In an attempt to cheer me up my husband said "If you still want to, we can get the puppy."  To which I did not respond. To be honest, I really didn't care.

By mid-January I was physically better, and started to entertain the idea of the little yellow fuzz ball moving in.  Just two days before the "1 month later" mark my sister called to let me know that my grandmother had died in her home.

We committed to getting the only female yellow puppy shortly after. 

So now it should be no surprise as to why my dog named "Nala" is jokingly referred to as "Therapy."  She provided me with distraction from the disaster. 

To say the least she is everything I had hoped for (and LOTS more).  She is now a stealth 47 lbs of canine craziness.  And just like everything else that happens in life she is a lesson.

Here's a story to help me explain myself:

Once, Micayla fell off her bike and gashed her knee wide open. Blood, tears, panic, and crying sang in perfect 4 part harmony in seconds. However, I had a means to end it all. Not a band aid, not a kiss, but a dum-dum lollipop.  Opening that strawberry sucker did not end the bleeding or the hurt but it calmed the calamity.  Distraction.

I think God challenges us in the hurt and broken places that life takes us. One of the wonderful things about the way we are created is our ability to feel pain but have the capacity to see outside of it. Sometimes that seems impossible. I know for me in that moment it was completely impossible. That's when God distracts us.

Most of the time the word "distraction" carries a negative connotation. I'm happy to report there is an exception.  Sometimes we are busted open, bleeding, crying out to God to "fix it" and He pulls out a "lollipop" to take our minds off of the situation.  LESSON: While God CAN supernaturally fix anything... He knows it's sometimes better for us to refocus elsewhere and begin healing on our own.

James 1:2-4

“Dear brothers and sisters, when troubles come your way, consider it an opportunity for great joy. For you know that when your faith is tested, your endurance has a chance to grow. So let it grow, for when your endurance is fully developed, you will be perfect and complete, needing nothing." (NLT)

Sometimes distractions are a good thing. And they may just be the hand of God presenting an opportunity.
 
Thankful for lollipops, my puppy, and divine distraction. And a fixed computer.

Laughter Through Tears...

I know that the stores are considering it “long gone” and are breaking out the grill kits and cheesy greeting cards to prompt all consumers to purchase something for their “Dear old Dads” for Father’s Day, but I want to talk about Mother’s Day.  Rather, my Mother’s Day 2011.

Mother’s Day has always been complicated for me. To be brief, my own mother was a living combination of “Mommy Dearest” with “Mother Gothel” from “Tangled.”  So, the concept of giving my mom a card, some flowers, accompanied by praise and adoration just never came easy to me (or any of my 8 siblings).

 

There are two people I could always celebrate.  One is my oldest sister who I refer to as “The Saint.” That title has been earned.  She did everything for me when I was a child from giving me medicine to buying me my first bike.  She managed to love me during my adolescence despite the mood swings and awkward changes I was going through.  She gave me my first car, watched me date, and when I needed a mother most… she didn’t abandon the 17 year old girl pregnant with twins.  She didn’t call me names, or tell me what a disappointment I was, and never yelled.  She helped me to graduate, encouraged me to continue with dual enrollment through a local community college, and was there when two little munchkins were born September 15, 2004.

I’m fairly sure that my Grandmother, “Wise One,” is who taught The Saint everything she knows.  She is the second person I celebrate on Mother’s Day.  She sewed countless amounts of clothing for me, including some killer dress up costumes.  She really meant that her house was my house. When I was there I was climbing trees, rolling down grassy hills, collecting buttons, and learning the value of a good creaky porch swing. Nearing her 80’s she still managed to pick me up from school and take me to work when I didn’t have a car, (and continued to drive until she started chemotherapy).  She babysat my girls while I went to school, and taught them how to “play pretty.”

 

To encompass what The Saint and Wise One mean to me I will say this: my children made me a mother, but these two women made me a better mother.  I only hope I can give this same gift to my children. 

The night before Mother’s Day 2011 I was sobbing on my couch because I knew that it was going to be a hard day.  Death had been an all too familiar face in the past few months which had robbed me of a new mothering journey, and caused me to bid farewell to my beloved Wise One.

Mother’s Day 2011 I was sick as a dog, but my kids and husband took such good care of me.  I was showered with homemade gifts, an anthology of Third Day albums (my most favorite band of all time), and lots of “I love you Moms” and “Thank you” seemed to be set on repeat.  Even the sadness and illness were not going to ruin the day.

I could finish this post up right now, give you a little scripture, and maybe brighten your day.  But I can’t do that.  Writing this has been taxing.  I have stopped and cried, and then sobbed. And I would guess that reading this could be taxing. Anyone who knows me at all knows that I can’t let you cry without making you laugh.  So here’s the rest of Mother’s Day 2011…

By the late afternoon I was feeling a little better but my husband “The Engineer,” was exhausted from being both mommy and daddy.  I knew we needed milk for cereal the next morning, so I got into “regular clothes” and made the journey to Harris Teeter. 

Upon entering the store I noticed that all of the balloons, cards, and flowers were completely ransacked. Two little puny, pathetic floral arrangements wrapped in plastic were all that remained (and to be honest they looked like leftovers from whatever fell off the truck).  I saw two men rush towards the arrangements: one “Young Buck” a 20 something guy, and the other a haggard looking 50+ year old.

 Young Buck dashed in front and grabbed the better of the 2 arrangements which sported two roses, a carnation, greenery, and baby’s breath. Mr. Haggard was left with the 2 carnations, a single tiny rose bud, and baby’s breath. At that moment I felt sorry for the older guy because upon picking up the flowers, he shrugged and breathed a sigh of relief all at once.  I knew exactly what he felt like:  disappointed with the results, but glad to have something in hand.

In the express lane I was surprised to see Mr. Haggard was behind me. Young Buck was long gone, and I could tell Mr. Haggard was in a hurry.  I checked out as fast as I could. As soon as I got to the door Mr. H was right behind me.  We both stopped to let the cars pass before heading to our respective vehicles.  It was here that Mr. Haggard made his fatal flaw.

Standing there while the cars went by, I checked to make sure I got a gallon of Organic whole milk and not the “regular” milk.  I was relieved to see that I got it right. When I looked up I saw Mr. Haggard pull the floral arrangement wrapped in plastic towards his face and begin to light a cigarette. The plastic was soon ignited and the flowers were on fire.  I watched him frantically throw them to the ground and stomp on this arrangement.

 

Now… if you’re not laughing check your pulse… you might be dead.

Despite my distain for cigarettes I knew I needed to help this poor guy.  I picked up some of the leaves and a sprig of baby’s breath here or there along with the remaining carnation.  I tried to aid him in “arranging” this mass of awful. When he asked me “Does this look okay” I muttered out “Well… it’s really the thought that counts.” He thanked for my help but said he had to throw those “*EXPLICATIVE* flowers away.”  After explaining that he’d “been everywhere looking for flowers” he headed back into the store.  He decided to buy some fruit instead.

My encounter with Mr. Haggard was the 2^nd brightest spot in my Mother’s Day 2011. First of all, who couldn’t see this scenario as hilarious?  I mean, I didn’t laugh in the guy’s face, but once I got to the sanctuary of my minivan I let out the most uncontrollable burst of laughter.  I believe this is exactly what I needed.  And I think God knew that too.

Secondly, I have to admit the last few months I have felt like all my dreams were dying. As silly as it may sound this trip to the grocery store resuscitated my hope.  The back to back hardships my family and I have had to endure have posed enormous challenges.  But we are weathering them all together.

Mr. Haggard taught me a valuable lesson: don’t let your plans die just because of circumstances, do your best to change them.  When your flowers burn up… buy fruit.  So… with all that I’ve shared this post I don’t think I need to explain my scripture choice.  I think that this passage is loud and clear and needs no further inference:

O DEATH, WHERE IS YOUR VICTORY? O DEATH, WHERE IS YOUR STING?" The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law; but thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. Therefore, my beloved brethren, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that your toil is not in vain in the Lord.

1 Corinthians 15:55-58

Here’s to Father’s Day!

You Can't Get to Heaven on Roller Skates...

So I was in Target and I *gasp* bought nothing for my kiddos and something for myself that was not a “need.”  In compliance with “the list” I decided to purchase rollerblades.  I am the proud owner of a light blue and gray pair of Schwinn’s. 

When I was a kid I loved roller skating at the Rainbow Skating Rink in Elkton.  I can still hear the music, see the disco ball, and envision the limbo stick coming out to challenge everyone to know how low they could go.  Then there were the pimply faced boys sitting in the booths trying to look cool, and girls who had stolen their moms’ makeup and perfume trying to act like they didn’t notice the boys.

While I had friends on both sides of the rink, I was not there to socialize, I was there to skate. For me, there was nothing better than being a 13 year old girl who could skate backwards, and being the roller-hero to the onlookers (aka the “little kids”).  While some were looking to steal kisses in the corner, I was hoping to show off a new “stunt.”

Then it hit me: my kids just got roller skates for Easter! I could show them that I was still that cool “hero.” That trip down memory lane plus the anticipated thrill and awe of my adoring children played like a slow movie and triggered me to shell out the $38 for the skates.  I merrily threw the box into the cart and cavalierly breezed by the helmet and pads department.  

Almost immediately I got home, opened the box, and put on the skates.  With my husband home for lunch, I had a full audience including my youngest daughter Isabelle, and faithful pup Nala.

Here’s what I learned: turning and stopping are now “stunts” that are much harder at 24 years old than when I was 13.  What I should’ve done is heeded my own advice about the importance of safety and helmets as my daughters did:

Let me be brief: I wiped out. Only once, but man it hurt. My husband giggled and my two year old ran to me as if I were on fire and she was the water to halt the flame.  “Are you okay Mommy?” she asked as she gently rubbed my back, and then she said “I’m sorry you got hurt. You should be safe.” Yikes!  She was right! I should’ve been safe, I should’ve been smart, I should’ve worn a helmet.

“For God did not give us a spirit of timidity (of cowardice, of craven and cringing and fawning fear), but [He has given us a spirit] of power and of love and of calm and well-balanced mind and discipline and self-control.” 2 Tim 1:7 (AMP)

I’m so glad that God gave me a courageous spirit, but sometimes I forget to balance that with “self-control.” And I have the evidence to prove it:

I discovered that the bruised leg comes with a matching ego after my big girls got home and asked me what happened. Their eye rolling and “good grief” responses gave me the Leroy-Jethro Gibbs (http://ncis.wikia.com/wiki/Leroy_Jethro_Gibbs) smack to the head that I needed.

But I think it’s important for my kids to see my mistakes and explore my wounds. My hope is that maybe they won’t make the same ones that I do (or did).  I can say this: my daughters have not complained one bit about wearing helmets and pads since my debacle!

Glad that God always teaching and forgiving me, and that my leg is not my cranium!