Health

Health is in. It's the thing to do. I see people jogging even when the temperature plummets to below freezing. My gym is always crowded. Half the commercials I hear on the radio are about diets. Even I, a long time hater, recently succumbed to the lure of jogging. Then I broke my ankle. Now I suffer.

I was recently given a pamphlet that listed symptoms of living in health. I admit that I scoffed a little as it was given to me. I know the symptoms: Not suffering from frequent heart attacks, eating oatmeal, saying no to candy, missing out on all joy, looking mad. See - I am clearly an expert.

So, I was a little surprised when I read the list:

frequent, overwhelming episodes of love
frequent attacks of praise
feelings of gratitude for life and the people in your life
seeing people as companions, not as competitors
contented feelings of connectedness with your family
playful and joy-filled attitudes
being awake to life
enjoying the moment
loss of the need to be right all the time
loss of need to worry
loss of interest in arguing
loss of interest in being critical

According to these standards, I have a lot to learn from my dog.

Grandpa's Car

My daughter just got her school permit which enables her to get behind the wheel of a real live automobile and drive away without any supervision. None. She must drive only to school, and she must drive alone, but drive is what she does. DRIVE! Like a grown up.

So, as responsible parents, we gave ourselves the job of finding the best car for her. We found it in my grandpa's driveway. It is old. It is big. It is made out of pure metal with no plastic located anywhere. Perfect.

When your daughter hears that you are giving her a car, she is delighted. When she hears it is grandpa's old car, she is less delighted. I haven't even told her yet that I am looking to have a boy repeller installed.

My grandpa was full of wisdom when we went to pick up the car.
"Makenna, cars are dangerous," he told her. "Don't race. I did that, and it was stupid."
"I won't Grandpa," she promised.
"And don't throw things at cars when they drive past you."
"Did you do that, Grandpa?"
"I did."
"Why?"
"I was being mean."

So, that's all cleared up.

Privileges

I cannot recommend breaking your ankle. I must sit with my foot elevated. I must ice. I must not walk around like a normal person. I must not do the cha cha. I must not kick a soccer ball. So many restrictions.

The kids are taking turns doing the laundry and carrying the clean, dry clothes to me because I am capable of folding. The kids are cooking. The husband is doing the shopping. 

The first two days would have been bliss if I hadn't been so painkillered up that I thought I was in a Disney musical. It was a lovely musical where animals spoke and real hearts were in the shape of hearts.

I have to admit that I have done some off limit activities while nobody was looking. I usually end up falling. Yet I persist. I try to be good, but I can't. The dishwasher taunts me. It sits there loaded with clean dishes, and I am unable to resist. I must unload. I am a robot at this point and have no choice. 

Just as I was using one crutch to stabilize myself on tiptoes so that I might kick the bad leg out behind me in effort to reach the top shelf, I was discovered. 

"Mom!" Emery shouted as she grabbed my arm and drug me to the couch. "You are NOT supposed to be doing that!"

"Do you know you have amazing strength for such a tiny girl?" I asked.

"I'm sorry," she responded, "but I am going to have to take away your privileges." She grabbed my crutches and walked away, leaving me stranded on the couch. Helpless. 

Privileges revoked.  

Love To Cry

The boys are gone. The oldest girl is gone. This weekend is all about me and my baby girl. Who is 11, but will always be my baby girl.

Since I am ordered to sit with my foot elevated, she made the homemade pizza. It was excellent. A cheesier pizza has never been created.

Then she said she wanted to watch a movie that would make her laugh. She picked Little Women. That movie never fails to turn me into a blubbering mess of tears. Since we are used to sharing the couch with six people, we sat smashed against each other, holding hands, and sobbing into each other's shirts. The movie lead us through anger, joy, fear, and intense sorrow. It left us splotchy-faced wrecks of girly emotion.

"Remember when I said I wanted to watch a movie that would make me laugh," Emery said. " I guess what I really meant was that I wanted to cry. Sometimes I love to cry! Let's watch home movies from when we were babies so we can cry some more."

Girl time. Nothing else even compares.

Illegal Surprise

I should have known that taking my family to the police department was risky.

We recently had the opportunity to participate in a class designed to enlighten teenagers to the importance of community involvement and social work. Although it was at the police department, it was not designed to be a one way trip.

The kids were supposed to bring one item that symbolized themselves and one item that symbolized their family. Trying to get a family of six out of the door with all their items for sharing while on crutches is an exercise in chaos. It is like trying to organize a tornado. On crutches. Therefore, I never pre-approved, or even noticed, what items the kids had selected.

The feeling was a little intimidating as police officers, school officials, and social workers gathered us into a circle. I relaxed a little as the sharing began and even felt pretty good as my family began its turn. Josiah brought a Livestrong bracelet because our family is flexible and strong. Makenna brought a deck of cards because our family has a lot of fun together. But then Drake took his turn.


He reached innocently into a bag and pulled out AN ILLEGAL EXPLOSIVE! He said his family was loud and fun, so he brought a firecracker. Although entertainment through the means of pretty mini explosions is illegal in our state, he probably could have gotten away with bringing a sparkler or even a small bottle rocket. But what my son called a firecracker could barely be held with one hand. Apparently he found this item while playing in the woods, thought it was glorious, and stored it under his bed. I was torn between claiming no knowledge of the identity of this strange boy and just renting him a jail cell.


It was a close call, but I got to keep my son.

Postal Terror

Our mailman - He puts up with a lot.

We first realized the extent to which he suffers when we had a house full of college kids we know who were home over Christmas break. As we talked in the living room, Emery suddenly stood straight up, much like a dog responding to a dog whistle, and said, "Oh! It is time to go scare the mailman!" We all stared in confusion as we watched her run to the row of bushes by the side of the driveway and crouch down. We all crowded around the window and saw the mail truck slowly pass her and stop by the mailbox just past our driveway. As the mailman focused on gathering envelopes with our address on them, Emery snuck quietly and crouched just below the window in his door. He reached to open the mailbox, and Emery struck. She jumped up, screamed, and contorted her face into something monstrous.

From inside the house we heard the terrified postal shriek and watched mail fly around inside the truck.

Everyone in the house laughed until they cried as I tried to decide if I was embarrassed or impressed.

I was unloading groceries from the back of my Jeep when I heard the familiar shriek again. I considered crawling into the back of the jeep and hiding, but I faced the music and turned around. I was surprised to see the mailman laughing and chatting in a friendly manner to my scary daughter.

"Everyday I remind myself that this is the street where that sweet little girl scares me, but I am never prepared for her. She gets me every time!" he told me as he drove away.

"How often do you scare him?" I asked.
"Well," she explained, "I don't want to do it everyday because then he would grow used to it and it would stop scaring him."

I think I am impressed.

Nasty Walnut

I hate jogging. I know people who jog, and they amaze me.

I have a husky. And what I mean by that is that I have a puppy with boundless, inexhaustible energy who destroys things when he is not utterly worn out. Also, it is October and 80 degrees. These two facts compel me to take that puppy on walks.

I love walks. Especially walks in glorious weather. But when I walk with Arrow, my husky, we jog. He was meant to pull a dogsled. I have no doubt he could do so without even trying. So we jog. We also chase squirrels. The me part of we has no choice in this matter. We chase them up trees.

The first day he took me for a jog I thought I was going to die. We went half as far as I usually go on a walk with my compliant, gentle puggle, and I was so sore that evening that I walked like a granny. But, we've had a string of beautiful days, so the last time he took me on a jog things went much better. I went farther than I planned, and, even when we turned around to head home, I felt pretty good. In fact, I felt pretty proud. I was smiling, my hair was blowing in the self created breeze from my brisk pace, and I was confident that I would make it home well before the collapse in the grass and cry state hit me. Except for occasional dashing off of the bike trail into the woods to tree a squirrel, we were jogging like real joggers.

But, there was a walnut. It had fallen from a tree and hidden itself on top of the concrete. So, I should have seen it. But, I was smiling proudly at my puppy. We were rocking it!! We were glorious!! WE WERE JOGGING!! So, I stepped on the walnut. That freaking walnut was the size of an orange.

Then the collapse in the grass and cry state hit me. Suddenly and powerfully. I hit the ground. I released the leash and didn't care. I actually cried out loud like a school kid. When I am hurt I have two reactions: rip things or squeeze things. Arrow must know this about me because after a short moment of running free, he returned and laid down next to me. I squeezed him like an accordion. He didn't care. He could pull a dogsled with no effort.

I was far from home, so I eventually stood up and hobbled in the general direction of my house. I walked like a crazy drunk, and finally knew it was hopeless. I called my husband 100 times.

I've never been more happy than when he found me crying hysterically in the grass by the side of a road.

So my proud moment of accomplishment turned into an adventure in which I broke my ankle, wound up in a cast and on crutches and am restricted from activity for 6 weeks. But my dog is fine.

Next time we go jogging I think I will do so from a sled.

Flinging Moles

I am not a fan of dead, soggy animals. I love swimming all summer long in my own backyard, but dead critters are a definite drawback.

Yesterday I came home and moaned when I saw a mole floating, dead, in the shallow end. I put the net on the longest pole money can buy and held it from the very tip top. I cannot stress how important it is that I do not come in contact with dead moleness. I got the mole into the net, and climbed onto my deck. Since my deck is much higher than my driveway, I planned on just tossing that soggy guy right from the net at the end of the very long pole, over the driveway, and into the bushes. However, at that exact moment Mike drove into the driveway and got out of the car.

Because I had no desire to hit my husband in the face with a soggy, dead mole and because I don't always think things through, I shouted, "MOLE FLINGING!! DUCK!"

It may have been the extra energy I used to shout out a warning. Or it may have been a sudden gust of wind. Whatever it was, that soggy, dead mole flew through the air as if it were a feather. It flew over Mike's head, over the bushes, over the fence, into my neighbor's backyard, and onto my neighbor's grill.

That happened.

Of course I instantly threw my body to the deck floor and army crawled into my house, leaving Mike to take the heat from the neighbor I call Hitler, because that is how nice he is. Also, he wears a Hitler mustache, which should not be allowed.

"How necessary was it," Mike asked after stomping into the house awhile later, "that you loudly proclaim that you are flinging moles just before leaving me standing alone?"

I admit, the man raises a valid point.

20

October 4.

The day of my wedding. When I look back on it now, I am astounded at how much I did not know. When I said I do, I thought the most stressful part of being married would be planning the wedding.

I think twenty years of marriage is something to celebrate.

My marriage has brought me romantic trips to Costa Rica and Hawaii. Long bike rides. Deep conversations. Teamwork. Someone to take care of me when I am sick or tired. Laughter. Lots of laughter. A soul mate. A different perspective. A full heart. A true companion.

Arguments that made me want to spit. Differences of opinion that seemed insurmountable. And agony that ripped the breath from me.

There have been times I was certain beyond any doubt that our marriage was over. There have been times I wished our marriage was over. But, always, there was just a little something to fight for. Sometimes that little something was no more than a small hope of friendship. Sometimes it was pure desperation and the stubborn hatred of giving up. Sometimes it was four small faces. And as we struggled and worked, that small little something would grow.

We have painted our life with the most vibrant of colors. At times, we wielded a dark crayon of hard work and tough conversations. Other times, we chose the bright crayon of playful dates. We used the pretty crayon of truthful and encouraging words, and we took the ugly crayon of harmful comments, broke it, and threw it away. But, when I step back and look at the picture we have made, the only thing I notice is an old brown cross.

The brilliance is almost blinding.