THURSDAY: Cre8iviT
STRESS BUSTING SNOWMEN
It’s the dog days of summer. You’re sweaty, you’re stressed out, you’re pooped, you’re agitated.
Here’s a solution you may not have thought of: make snowmen!
Get different sizes of Styrofoam balls at a hobby store. Get different colors of pipe cleaners that you could cut and bend into various body parts or accessories. You could use bits of fabric for a scarf, toothpicks for arms and legs, colored beads for the “buttons” on the “coat,” and whatever else you have laying around, to make your snow people unique, individual and wacky. Stick them together with toothpicks, unbent paper clips, tape or glue. Sequins are fun and yarn is always colorful. Little feathers are good, for instance, if you decide to make yours into a Las Vegas showgirl with a feathered headdress.
The point is, next time you’re at your desk or on the phone and feel the stress coming on, reach for your snowman ingredients, have fun and be cool!
Thursday, July 31, 2003
WEDNESDAY: Family Funnies
GIVE ME A BRAKE, MOM
The college student worked a 10-hour day at his summer internship, but still faced a midterm examination for his summer-school night class.
He was gunning it on an urban interstate to make it to the test on time.
All of a sudden, his brakes failed.
Fortunately, he kept his cool and was able to weave in and out of various lanes to avoid a collision. His car finally came to an exit ramp and he got it to stop with the emergency brake. He got to the university safely by downshifting and maneuvering, and ran to the test.
A little panicky, he called his parents three times during breaks of the exam. They met him at the college just as the exam got over and followed him at a very slow rate of speed on back streets to the auto repair shop.
At the end of the ordeal, his mother used the old Lincoln Theater joke:
“Other than that, how did the big exam go?!?”
GIVE ME A BRAKE, MOM
The college student worked a 10-hour day at his summer internship, but still faced a midterm examination for his summer-school night class.
He was gunning it on an urban interstate to make it to the test on time.
All of a sudden, his brakes failed.
Fortunately, he kept his cool and was able to weave in and out of various lanes to avoid a collision. His car finally came to an exit ramp and he got it to stop with the emergency brake. He got to the university safely by downshifting and maneuvering, and ran to the test.
A little panicky, he called his parents three times during breaks of the exam. They met him at the college just as the exam got over and followed him at a very slow rate of speed on back streets to the auto repair shop.
At the end of the ordeal, his mother used the old Lincoln Theater joke:
“Other than that, how did the big exam go?!?”
Tuesday, July 29, 2003
TUESDAY: Hot Potatoes
CAN THEY EXPUNGE MOM AND DAD?
Have you noticed how nobody has a “mother” and a “father” any more? We just all have “parents.” Nobody gets any “mothering,” and there’s no such thing as the skills of “fatherhood.” Instead, all we get is unisex, generic, Politically Correct “parenting.”
The shift in terms began in school textbooks, spread to the media and is rampant now that special-interest groups such as the homosexual lobby wants to get rid of the whole idea of marriage and its foundational relationship between a man and a woman who become a father and a mother.
This shifting in terminology is excused as an attempt to salve the feelings of those children who don’t have a mother and a father living in their home with them all the time, although of course, everyone acknowledges that every child has a mother and a father or had a mother and a father at one time. What this does is literally throws the baby out with the bathwater. The sacred and crucial concepts and differences between motherhood and fatherhood are slowly being censored out of children’s hearts and minds in favor of the blandly correct but essentially emotionless term, “parenting.”
What are we, mothers and fathers? Or “caregivers”? Come on, now. You can see where this is going.
Moms and dads who fondly remember the kiddie book, “Brown Bear, Brown Bear,” would be sad to learn that the climactic scene that used to read “Mother, Mother, what do you see?” now reads “Teacher, Teacher, what do you see?” apparently out of some kind of misguided Political Correctness . . . which is extremely incorrect because it is extremely insulting to that most Politically Correct group of all time, mothers.
So what to do?
Quit using the term “parent” or “parenting.” Insist that your school quit using those terms in newsletters home. If your child’s school textbooks use the terms a lot, cross them out and write “mother” and “father” in place, in ballpoint pen, for next year’s child to see. Send letters to newspaper editors and TV managers, expressing your disdain for unisex, anti-marriage terminology, and asking them to use the correct terms, “mother” and “father,” whenever possible. Use those terms yourself as often as you can.
Hey! It’s too much work, and much too important, to earn the meritorious titles, “mother” and “father,” to just sit back passively and let the thought police literally rub us out.
Go get ‘em, moms and dads. Stand up for your names!
CAN THEY EXPUNGE MOM AND DAD?
Have you noticed how nobody has a “mother” and a “father” any more? We just all have “parents.” Nobody gets any “mothering,” and there’s no such thing as the skills of “fatherhood.” Instead, all we get is unisex, generic, Politically Correct “parenting.”
The shift in terms began in school textbooks, spread to the media and is rampant now that special-interest groups such as the homosexual lobby wants to get rid of the whole idea of marriage and its foundational relationship between a man and a woman who become a father and a mother.
This shifting in terminology is excused as an attempt to salve the feelings of those children who don’t have a mother and a father living in their home with them all the time, although of course, everyone acknowledges that every child has a mother and a father or had a mother and a father at one time. What this does is literally throws the baby out with the bathwater. The sacred and crucial concepts and differences between motherhood and fatherhood are slowly being censored out of children’s hearts and minds in favor of the blandly correct but essentially emotionless term, “parenting.”
What are we, mothers and fathers? Or “caregivers”? Come on, now. You can see where this is going.
Moms and dads who fondly remember the kiddie book, “Brown Bear, Brown Bear,” would be sad to learn that the climactic scene that used to read “Mother, Mother, what do you see?” now reads “Teacher, Teacher, what do you see?” apparently out of some kind of misguided Political Correctness . . . which is extremely incorrect because it is extremely insulting to that most Politically Correct group of all time, mothers.
So what to do?
Quit using the term “parent” or “parenting.” Insist that your school quit using those terms in newsletters home. If your child’s school textbooks use the terms a lot, cross them out and write “mother” and “father” in place, in ballpoint pen, for next year’s child to see. Send letters to newspaper editors and TV managers, expressing your disdain for unisex, anti-marriage terminology, and asking them to use the correct terms, “mother” and “father,” whenever possible. Use those terms yourself as often as you can.
Hey! It’s too much work, and much too important, to earn the meritorious titles, “mother” and “father,” to just sit back passively and let the thought police literally rub us out.
Go get ‘em, moms and dads. Stand up for your names!
Monday, July 28, 2003
MONDAY: Show 'n' Tell for Parents
130
Dyslexia and Brain Research
Q. Is there hope for kids who have dyslexia?
Yes, lots of it. Brain research has made huge strides in recent years in unlocking the mystery of why some children, often very intelligent children, struggle with reading, spelling, handwriting, retrieving words, articulating words, remembering facts and so forth.
Schools can and should be making big changes in their strategies about teaching reading in the early grades based on what this neurological evidence shows. That’s because of dramatic differences in the brain patterns of good readers versus poor ones. With a few simple strategies, schools can transform a weak and struggling reader into a skilled and confident one.
How are those brain patterns different? According to functional Magnetic Resonance Imaging (MRI) scans, the parts of the brain that get the most blood when skilled readers read show that these kids are making the sound-symbol connections instantly when they see text. That means when they see the word “cat” they are decoding those three letters infinitely quickly into the three sounds those letters make, and interpreting them into a unified whole, again infinitely fast. There is coordination in their brain’s circuitry, in other words, so that they can decode text automatically and effortlessly.
However, most schools today do not teach reading with traditional phonics instruction, and kids are denied instruction in the sound-symbol connections. So those who already have less than optimal brain circuitry, who have not been taught to discern the sounds that the alphabet letters make, are stuck in word memorization mode. This is why Whole Language reading instruction methods are so ineffective for a lot of children. They don’t work.
Science points to phonics. Smart schools should follow.
Homework: Book, “Overcoming Dyslexia: A New and Complete Science-Based Program for Overcoming Reading Problems At Any Level,” by Dr. Sally Shaywitz of Yale University, a neuroscientist and physician who has worked with children with learning disorders for more than 20 years.
130
Dyslexia and Brain Research
Q. Is there hope for kids who have dyslexia?
Yes, lots of it. Brain research has made huge strides in recent years in unlocking the mystery of why some children, often very intelligent children, struggle with reading, spelling, handwriting, retrieving words, articulating words, remembering facts and so forth.
Schools can and should be making big changes in their strategies about teaching reading in the early grades based on what this neurological evidence shows. That’s because of dramatic differences in the brain patterns of good readers versus poor ones. With a few simple strategies, schools can transform a weak and struggling reader into a skilled and confident one.
How are those brain patterns different? According to functional Magnetic Resonance Imaging (MRI) scans, the parts of the brain that get the most blood when skilled readers read show that these kids are making the sound-symbol connections instantly when they see text. That means when they see the word “cat” they are decoding those three letters infinitely quickly into the three sounds those letters make, and interpreting them into a unified whole, again infinitely fast. There is coordination in their brain’s circuitry, in other words, so that they can decode text automatically and effortlessly.
However, most schools today do not teach reading with traditional phonics instruction, and kids are denied instruction in the sound-symbol connections. So those who already have less than optimal brain circuitry, who have not been taught to discern the sounds that the alphabet letters make, are stuck in word memorization mode. This is why Whole Language reading instruction methods are so ineffective for a lot of children. They don’t work.
Science points to phonics. Smart schools should follow.
Homework: Book, “Overcoming Dyslexia: A New and Complete Science-Based Program for Overcoming Reading Problems At Any Level,” by Dr. Sally Shaywitz of Yale University, a neuroscientist and physician who has worked with children with learning disorders for more than 20 years.
SUNDAY: Radiant Beams
Not As Bad As It Seems
I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.
— 2 Timothy 4:7
We spent last week in Decatur, Ill., for the national tournament of the American Fastpitch Association. Our daughter Eden — or, in the wacky world of softball nicknames, “Beamer,” “Fence,” “Centerfold,” “Peeps” or “Wolverine” — is on a really good team.
But I didn’t want to go. I would miss my home, having already been away almost all summer. I would miss the peak week in my garden, including the big honkin’ lilies just about to pop. I would miss a rare and treasured visit from my best friend from college, coming through town with her family on vacation. I would miss my 30th high-school reunion and a chance to set the world record for consecutive hours of holding in one’s stomach.
But most of all, I would miss the funeral of my 19-year-old friend and neighbor, Cara Nabity. She died of complications after a 17-hour heart surgery that was intended to buy her a big chunk of life span. She had been beautifully sure of her salvation and faced her lifetime medical challenges with immense poise and grace because of her faith.
But I was still struggling with the “why” questions. By missing the funeral, I would miss the much-needed ministration to my own heart from the funeral speakers and Bible readings about why this had to be. I would miss opportunities to help her family, my dear neighbors, get through these days. I would miss my three other daughters and holding them close in the face of this terrible loss.
Decatur didn’t exactly sound like an exotic vacation paradise, either. I figured it’d be nuclear humid and they’d have ballfields, a WalMart and a McDonald’s, which of course, they did. The Archer Daniels Midland factory was the closest they came to mountains, and miles upon miles of 7-foot corn surrounding the town had to pass for the ocean.
But to my surprise, Decatur also had a beautiful lake, nice parks, lots of fun restaurants, a great putt-putt place, a happening bowling alley, lots of shopping, a place where I could get my Luxury Nails fixed, a thriving downtown, cool fountains, and even a darling old-fashioned bandstand with evening concerts and everybody in lawn chairs in a quaint “Music Man” atmosphere.
You know how there are always those billboards outside towns that brag about their good points, urging you to move there? I figured theirs could be:
“Decatur: Not As Bad As It Seems!”
But on the day of the funeral, I was sad that I was 500 miles away from my friends. We had a game in the late afternoon, right when the funeral was going on back home. I slouched in my canvas sottball mom’s chair, cracking sunflower seeds, and worrywarting about it as the game went on.
My daughter struck out, and stomped back to the dugout with a grimace on her face – lips sucked in tight, teeth on edge. She looked like a deranged squirrel. I wanted to run my hand over those soft cheeks and under her chin to cheer her up.
Suddenly, it hit me that the Nabitys would never be able to touch their daughter’s face again.
They would never see her face again.
They could never have had the fun of watching her compete in a national sporting event, not with the congenital heart defects that hampered her so much physically.
At the hour of her death, Cara’s parents imagined her free at last, running and playing before the Lord as she could never do here on earth. It was an inspiring comfort to us all.
Just then, some kids started running back and forth on the metal bleachers. They loved the sound their sneakers made, echoing across the park. They must have been younger siblings of the other team’s players.
A mother’s voice sounded: “Cara!”
A girl of about 7, with long brown hair and a blue ballcap, with a mischievous grin and skinny legs, turned and ran right by me.
She looked just like my Cara. Spittin’ image. Running and playing, not a care in the world.
I was grateful for the little coincidence – no such thing as, of course – and wondered if the funeral really was a “celebration” of Cara’s salvation, as the family had purposed, instead of a sad and mournful event. I found out later that it really was.
But that’s not all.
The next day, I had a free hour to go downtown to find some souvenirs for our other three daughters. If I have one criticism for the Decatur Visitors’ Bureau, it’s the absolute lack of variety in radio stations. The only one I could find all week, AM or FM, was heavy-metal, hard rock. So that’s what I had been listening to in the car.
As I approached the shopping district, all of a sudden on this hard-rock station came a song you only hear on Christian radio: “I Can Only Imagine,” by Mercy Me. It’s a thrilling reflection on what it’ll be like at the moment a believer dies and sees Jesus. I found out later that two kids from our high school had sung that song at Cara’s funeral.
But here it was on Decatur hard rock radio! So unexpected, and such a blessing. My throat got tight.
Just then, in the bright sun, a white butterfly floated in front of my car, swooping and darting from right to left across the windshield, and out of sight up into the sky.
I’ve always associated butterflies with Christianity. You know, the apparent death, the metamorphosis, the beautiful new life of graceful flight.
Exactly like Cara.
She died, and that’s tremendously difficult. Her family will suffer this loss forever. The world will be a little less warm, and our neighborhood will seem incomplete. To the unbeliever, it looks really, really bad.
And yet . . . Cara fought the good fight, touched countless lives, and is with the Lord in paradise now. It’s OK. It really is.
Eyes tearing up, I pulled into the nearest parking space and bawled all through that song. I cried for Cara. I cried for her parents. I cried for myself – for the pain in the loss of such a gloriously sweet and inspiring young friend, and for the great beauty that’s often hidden in tragedy, which her life and her faith taught us all.
Mostly, I bawled for joy, for having a Savior Who knows just how to speak to me and comfort me, lift my spirits and love me, right where I am, wherever I am.
I looked up, and saw that I was parked in front of a unique store, and went inside and found lots of presents for my girls, at Christmas-in-July prices, too.
Decatur: not as bad as it seems.
Death, even a child’s death: ditto.
We got knocked out of the tournament soon thereafter, winding up 26th out of 83 teams. Not great. But not so bad.
I traced my hand down Eden’s tear-streaked face and cupped her chin, relishing the privilege of motherhood, and told her, in my elegant way, that next year they would come back and “kick bahoonie.”
When her face erupted into the radiant smile that got her the nickname “Beamer,” I saw what Cara sees now, all the time . . . and my heart did a little victory dance for us all.
When I got home, you know those big, honkin’ lilies? I didn’t miss their blooming after all. They’re in their glory: stunning in pink and white, in perfect form, complete. I’m on my way up to Cara’s house with an armful of them, right now.
Wouldn’t be a bit surprised if a butterfly tagged along.
Not As Bad As It Seems
I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.
— 2 Timothy 4:7
We spent last week in Decatur, Ill., for the national tournament of the American Fastpitch Association. Our daughter Eden — or, in the wacky world of softball nicknames, “Beamer,” “Fence,” “Centerfold,” “Peeps” or “Wolverine” — is on a really good team.
But I didn’t want to go. I would miss my home, having already been away almost all summer. I would miss the peak week in my garden, including the big honkin’ lilies just about to pop. I would miss a rare and treasured visit from my best friend from college, coming through town with her family on vacation. I would miss my 30th high-school reunion and a chance to set the world record for consecutive hours of holding in one’s stomach.
But most of all, I would miss the funeral of my 19-year-old friend and neighbor, Cara Nabity. She died of complications after a 17-hour heart surgery that was intended to buy her a big chunk of life span. She had been beautifully sure of her salvation and faced her lifetime medical challenges with immense poise and grace because of her faith.
But I was still struggling with the “why” questions. By missing the funeral, I would miss the much-needed ministration to my own heart from the funeral speakers and Bible readings about why this had to be. I would miss opportunities to help her family, my dear neighbors, get through these days. I would miss my three other daughters and holding them close in the face of this terrible loss.
Decatur didn’t exactly sound like an exotic vacation paradise, either. I figured it’d be nuclear humid and they’d have ballfields, a WalMart and a McDonald’s, which of course, they did. The Archer Daniels Midland factory was the closest they came to mountains, and miles upon miles of 7-foot corn surrounding the town had to pass for the ocean.
But to my surprise, Decatur also had a beautiful lake, nice parks, lots of fun restaurants, a great putt-putt place, a happening bowling alley, lots of shopping, a place where I could get my Luxury Nails fixed, a thriving downtown, cool fountains, and even a darling old-fashioned bandstand with evening concerts and everybody in lawn chairs in a quaint “Music Man” atmosphere.
You know how there are always those billboards outside towns that brag about their good points, urging you to move there? I figured theirs could be:
“Decatur: Not As Bad As It Seems!”
But on the day of the funeral, I was sad that I was 500 miles away from my friends. We had a game in the late afternoon, right when the funeral was going on back home. I slouched in my canvas sottball mom’s chair, cracking sunflower seeds, and worrywarting about it as the game went on.
My daughter struck out, and stomped back to the dugout with a grimace on her face – lips sucked in tight, teeth on edge. She looked like a deranged squirrel. I wanted to run my hand over those soft cheeks and under her chin to cheer her up.
Suddenly, it hit me that the Nabitys would never be able to touch their daughter’s face again.
They would never see her face again.
They could never have had the fun of watching her compete in a national sporting event, not with the congenital heart defects that hampered her so much physically.
At the hour of her death, Cara’s parents imagined her free at last, running and playing before the Lord as she could never do here on earth. It was an inspiring comfort to us all.
Just then, some kids started running back and forth on the metal bleachers. They loved the sound their sneakers made, echoing across the park. They must have been younger siblings of the other team’s players.
A mother’s voice sounded: “Cara!”
A girl of about 7, with long brown hair and a blue ballcap, with a mischievous grin and skinny legs, turned and ran right by me.
She looked just like my Cara. Spittin’ image. Running and playing, not a care in the world.
I was grateful for the little coincidence – no such thing as, of course – and wondered if the funeral really was a “celebration” of Cara’s salvation, as the family had purposed, instead of a sad and mournful event. I found out later that it really was.
But that’s not all.
The next day, I had a free hour to go downtown to find some souvenirs for our other three daughters. If I have one criticism for the Decatur Visitors’ Bureau, it’s the absolute lack of variety in radio stations. The only one I could find all week, AM or FM, was heavy-metal, hard rock. So that’s what I had been listening to in the car.
As I approached the shopping district, all of a sudden on this hard-rock station came a song you only hear on Christian radio: “I Can Only Imagine,” by Mercy Me. It’s a thrilling reflection on what it’ll be like at the moment a believer dies and sees Jesus. I found out later that two kids from our high school had sung that song at Cara’s funeral.
But here it was on Decatur hard rock radio! So unexpected, and such a blessing. My throat got tight.
Just then, in the bright sun, a white butterfly floated in front of my car, swooping and darting from right to left across the windshield, and out of sight up into the sky.
I’ve always associated butterflies with Christianity. You know, the apparent death, the metamorphosis, the beautiful new life of graceful flight.
Exactly like Cara.
She died, and that’s tremendously difficult. Her family will suffer this loss forever. The world will be a little less warm, and our neighborhood will seem incomplete. To the unbeliever, it looks really, really bad.
And yet . . . Cara fought the good fight, touched countless lives, and is with the Lord in paradise now. It’s OK. It really is.
Eyes tearing up, I pulled into the nearest parking space and bawled all through that song. I cried for Cara. I cried for her parents. I cried for myself – for the pain in the loss of such a gloriously sweet and inspiring young friend, and for the great beauty that’s often hidden in tragedy, which her life and her faith taught us all.
Mostly, I bawled for joy, for having a Savior Who knows just how to speak to me and comfort me, lift my spirits and love me, right where I am, wherever I am.
I looked up, and saw that I was parked in front of a unique store, and went inside and found lots of presents for my girls, at Christmas-in-July prices, too.
Decatur: not as bad as it seems.
Death, even a child’s death: ditto.
We got knocked out of the tournament soon thereafter, winding up 26th out of 83 teams. Not great. But not so bad.
I traced my hand down Eden’s tear-streaked face and cupped her chin, relishing the privilege of motherhood, and told her, in my elegant way, that next year they would come back and “kick bahoonie.”
When her face erupted into the radiant smile that got her the nickname “Beamer,” I saw what Cara sees now, all the time . . . and my heart did a little victory dance for us all.
When I got home, you know those big, honkin’ lilies? I didn’t miss their blooming after all. They’re in their glory: stunning in pink and white, in perfect form, complete. I’m on my way up to Cara’s house with an armful of them, right now.
Wouldn’t be a bit surprised if a butterfly tagged along.
SATURDAY: FUNdamentals
For 7/26/03
COUSINS CAMP
In this day and age, it's rare to find cousins who are close, but there are few relationships that are as fun and satisfying.
To experience the joy of cousin closeness, start when the cousins are young -- or, OK, middle-aged adults if you have to -- and schedule an annual Cousins Camp. Try to coordinate it with family vacations and sports tournaments, and set it in the summertime. If the cousins mostly live in the same city, you should have very little problems setting a date.
Have it on a Saturday evening. Start at 6. Pitch a tent in your backyard -- borrow one or more if you don't have one. Everybody brings sleeping bags and flashlights. Serve kid-pleasing, simple foods like hot dogs, baked beans, Jell-O and chips.
Bring out old scrapbooks about the grandparents that unite the cousins as a family. Sit in a circle and tell stories about what has gone on in the last year.
If you have space and transportation, haul them to a swimming pool, drive-in movie, park or other gathering spot.
At bedtime, help them make S'mores -- a few marshmallows on a half graham cracker with a half Hershey bar on top in the microwave for a minute on high power. It's fun to watch the marshmallows puff up. Take them out quickly and smoosh another half graham cracker on top. Allow 47 per cousin.
At some point, the adults should retreat and let the cousin fun continue spontaneously out in the backyard, in jammies, with flashlights and giggling.
It's fun the next morning to take them out to breakfast in their jammies and then home to change and go to church together.
The relationships you build in the early years will serve them well on down the road. And you can count on that, Cuzz.
For 7/26/03
COUSINS CAMP
In this day and age, it's rare to find cousins who are close, but there are few relationships that are as fun and satisfying.
To experience the joy of cousin closeness, start when the cousins are young -- or, OK, middle-aged adults if you have to -- and schedule an annual Cousins Camp. Try to coordinate it with family vacations and sports tournaments, and set it in the summertime. If the cousins mostly live in the same city, you should have very little problems setting a date.
Have it on a Saturday evening. Start at 6. Pitch a tent in your backyard -- borrow one or more if you don't have one. Everybody brings sleeping bags and flashlights. Serve kid-pleasing, simple foods like hot dogs, baked beans, Jell-O and chips.
Bring out old scrapbooks about the grandparents that unite the cousins as a family. Sit in a circle and tell stories about what has gone on in the last year.
If you have space and transportation, haul them to a swimming pool, drive-in movie, park or other gathering spot.
At bedtime, help them make S'mores -- a few marshmallows on a half graham cracker with a half Hershey bar on top in the microwave for a minute on high power. It's fun to watch the marshmallows puff up. Take them out quickly and smoosh another half graham cracker on top. Allow 47 per cousin.
At some point, the adults should retreat and let the cousin fun continue spontaneously out in the backyard, in jammies, with flashlights and giggling.
It's fun the next morning to take them out to breakfast in their jammies and then home to change and go to church together.
The relationships you build in the early years will serve them well on down the road. And you can count on that, Cuzz.
FRIDAY: Vitamin Mom
For 7/25/03
MARRIAGE IS FOREVER
It’s very clear that divorce shatters lives. The evidence is all around.
The wish to prevcent that pain is an automatic response for mothers who want their children’s adult lives to be as happy as possible.
The common-sense solution is for mothers to teach their daughters and sons that the marriage covenant is a promise that can’t be broken – a promise that has to be kept.
That’s for their own good as well as the good of the person they promise to “have and to hold,” forever.
One way to teach your children that marriage is forever, and that they should choose their husband or wife with the utmost care and with the attitude that this is a lifelong, unbreakable commitment, is to teach them what wedding vows actually say.
Ask your minister for a photocopy of the vows used in weddings, and read over them with your child. Discuss what each segment means. Keep this copy folded in your family Bible. Your minister can supply several Bible citations for further study.
For better or for worse . . . for richer, for poorer . . . in sickness and in health . . . forsaking all others . . . kids need to know what these words mean so that they can bring them to life in their own marriages someday.
For 7/25/03
MARRIAGE IS FOREVER
It’s very clear that divorce shatters lives. The evidence is all around.
The wish to prevcent that pain is an automatic response for mothers who want their children’s adult lives to be as happy as possible.
The common-sense solution is for mothers to teach their daughters and sons that the marriage covenant is a promise that can’t be broken – a promise that has to be kept.
That’s for their own good as well as the good of the person they promise to “have and to hold,” forever.
One way to teach your children that marriage is forever, and that they should choose their husband or wife with the utmost care and with the attitude that this is a lifelong, unbreakable commitment, is to teach them what wedding vows actually say.
Ask your minister for a photocopy of the vows used in weddings, and read over them with your child. Discuss what each segment means. Keep this copy folded in your family Bible. Your minister can supply several Bible citations for further study.
For better or for worse . . . for richer, for poorer . . . in sickness and in health . . . forsaking all others . . . kids need to know what these words mean so that they can bring them to life in their own marriages someday.
THURSDAY: Cre8iviT
For 7/24/03
BIRTHDAY FUN FOR GROWNUPS
Take a clue from the kiddies. Birthdays are supposed to be fun for all ages. Try:
-- Dimestore "clings" with Happy Birthday designs and sayings are fun to decorate the birthday boy or girl's car. Sneak them on late the night before.
-- You know those car flags they make for college football fans, that attach to the windows? They make Happy Birthday car flags, too.
-- No matter if your birthday person is the CEO or an office temp, send a batch of paper party hats and dimestore noisemakers a day or so in advance to a coworker so that the whole office will engage in at least a short, zany celebration.
-- Slap a sticky note on the birthday person's back that says, "Ask me if it's my birthday," and all day long your birthday person will be delighted with how thoughtful and caring people are to have remembered.
-- Show up at lunchtime, announced or unannounced, and either share a gourmet brown bag with your honoree, or take him or her out for a nice birthday lunch.
For 7/24/03
BIRTHDAY FUN FOR GROWNUPS
Take a clue from the kiddies. Birthdays are supposed to be fun for all ages. Try:
-- Dimestore "clings" with Happy Birthday designs and sayings are fun to decorate the birthday boy or girl's car. Sneak them on late the night before.
-- You know those car flags they make for college football fans, that attach to the windows? They make Happy Birthday car flags, too.
-- No matter if your birthday person is the CEO or an office temp, send a batch of paper party hats and dimestore noisemakers a day or so in advance to a coworker so that the whole office will engage in at least a short, zany celebration.
-- Slap a sticky note on the birthday person's back that says, "Ask me if it's my birthday," and all day long your birthday person will be delighted with how thoughtful and caring people are to have remembered.
-- Show up at lunchtime, announced or unannounced, and either share a gourmet brown bag with your honoree, or take him or her out for a nice birthday lunch.
WEDNESDAY: Family Funnies
For 7/23/03
OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF GRANDMAS . . .
At the end of a hard-fought softball game with several bad calls that ended in a heart-breaking, tournament-ending 1-0 loss, the player’s mother and grandmother were waiting to leave the ballpark.
Along came a group of fans for the opposing team, the victors. One of them stopped to say graciously, “You guys were so tough to beat! You’re great! Hope there are no hard feelings. We wish you a very safe trip home.”
The player’s mother responded, “Thank you! That’s very kind of you. We hope you guys keep going and win the whole thing.”
Smiling, the victor fan began to walk away.
But from out of the 73-year-old grandmother’s mouth came this word:
“BITCH!”
She was only kidding, of course, and the victor fans probably didn’t hear her.
Probably.
Hopefully.
Prayerfully.
For 7/23/03
OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF GRANDMAS . . .
At the end of a hard-fought softball game with several bad calls that ended in a heart-breaking, tournament-ending 1-0 loss, the player’s mother and grandmother were waiting to leave the ballpark.
Along came a group of fans for the opposing team, the victors. One of them stopped to say graciously, “You guys were so tough to beat! You’re great! Hope there are no hard feelings. We wish you a very safe trip home.”
The player’s mother responded, “Thank you! That’s very kind of you. We hope you guys keep going and win the whole thing.”
Smiling, the victor fan began to walk away.
But from out of the 73-year-old grandmother’s mouth came this word:
“BITCH!”
She was only kidding, of course, and the victor fans probably didn’t hear her.
Probably.
Hopefully.
Prayerfully.
Sunday, July 27, 2003
TUESDAY: Hot Potatoes
For 7/22/03
SUSPICIONS ABOUT SNORE SURGERY
There are people spending thousands of dollars on expensive and tricky surgery to try to cut down on their snoring and save their marriages by granting their spouses a good night's sleep for a change.
Millions are being spent for devices for both snorer and "snor-ee," from doctor-prescribed extra-strength earplugs, to tapes for the bridge of the nose.
There've been plenty of people trying homespun remedies such as sewing a tennis ball onto the back of the snorer's pajamas, hoping that the side sleep that tactic will produce will be less noisy.
But eureka! There may be a tremendously easier and cheaper way to solve this problem. Stop concentrating on the snorer. Instead, focus on the "snor-ee."
I'm a case in point. For a couple of years, I've had to move to the couch several times a week because of the choo-choo train coming out of my husband at night. I got headaches and backaches from this and my normally sweet and darling personality became at times gnarly and sleep-deprived.
But on the first of July, I eliminated all caffeine and most sugar from my diet.
Eureka! Not a single time have I been bothered by his snoring, since.
Has he stopped snoring? I doubt it. But I don't really know -- because I haven't heard him all month.
Common sense tells me that when I'm sleeping more soundly because of the banishment of those stimulants from my system, the sound has a harder time waking me up.
How many millions of dollars -- and zzzzz's -- might that one tactic save the republic?
For 7/22/03
SUSPICIONS ABOUT SNORE SURGERY
There are people spending thousands of dollars on expensive and tricky surgery to try to cut down on their snoring and save their marriages by granting their spouses a good night's sleep for a change.
Millions are being spent for devices for both snorer and "snor-ee," from doctor-prescribed extra-strength earplugs, to tapes for the bridge of the nose.
There've been plenty of people trying homespun remedies such as sewing a tennis ball onto the back of the snorer's pajamas, hoping that the side sleep that tactic will produce will be less noisy.
But eureka! There may be a tremendously easier and cheaper way to solve this problem. Stop concentrating on the snorer. Instead, focus on the "snor-ee."
I'm a case in point. For a couple of years, I've had to move to the couch several times a week because of the choo-choo train coming out of my husband at night. I got headaches and backaches from this and my normally sweet and darling personality became at times gnarly and sleep-deprived.
But on the first of July, I eliminated all caffeine and most sugar from my diet.
Eureka! Not a single time have I been bothered by his snoring, since.
Has he stopped snoring? I doubt it. But I don't really know -- because I haven't heard him all month.
Common sense tells me that when I'm sleeping more soundly because of the banishment of those stimulants from my system, the sound has a harder time waking me up.
How many millions of dollars -- and zzzzz's -- might that one tactic save the republic?
MONDAY: Show 'n' Tell for Parents
For 7/21/03
Pedophile Watch
Q. You hear so much these days about teachers and other school employees sexually abusing children and teenagers. Surely the schools are doing careful background checks on new hires. But what can parents do to keep these people out of school jobs and block their access to our children?
If it were easy to prevent crime, our court systems wouldn’t be clogged and our jails and prisons wouldn’t be jammed. And sex crimes are among the most difficult crimes to prevent. There are many ways people who prey on children get hired by schools: they may be longtime employees hired before background checks were instituted, emergency hires whose records haven’t caught up with them, or perhaps they have been under suspicion a number of times but have evaded full detection and arrest and just been passed from school job to school job once things get too hot for them.
It seems daunting to try to stop this. But you’re right: parents and taxpayers need to be involved in improving school hiring, retention, evaluation and disciplinary methods for school staff in order to assure the highest degree of safety for kids that is possible.
Go to your school board and volunteer to serve on a committee to review your district’s policies and procedures. Share data from researchers such as Charol Shakeshaft of Hofstra University, who contends that 15 percent of students will be sexually abused by a member of school staff during their school career, yet only around 6 percent of these cases are ever reported, much less prosecuted.
Gather data from private-sector security professionals to analyze your district’s screening policies, including finding out how far back checks go and what jurisdictions they cover. In districts with teacher or staff shortages, it’s important to find out if people can begin work pending results of a background check. That’s a common way pedophiles “slip through the cracks.”
Build community trust by educating others in this critical area.
Homework: Article, “Sex Abuse Scandal: The Predator in the Classroom,” Good Housekeeping, May 2003, p. 152.
For 7/21/03
Pedophile Watch
Q. You hear so much these days about teachers and other school employees sexually abusing children and teenagers. Surely the schools are doing careful background checks on new hires. But what can parents do to keep these people out of school jobs and block their access to our children?
If it were easy to prevent crime, our court systems wouldn’t be clogged and our jails and prisons wouldn’t be jammed. And sex crimes are among the most difficult crimes to prevent. There are many ways people who prey on children get hired by schools: they may be longtime employees hired before background checks were instituted, emergency hires whose records haven’t caught up with them, or perhaps they have been under suspicion a number of times but have evaded full detection and arrest and just been passed from school job to school job once things get too hot for them.
It seems daunting to try to stop this. But you’re right: parents and taxpayers need to be involved in improving school hiring, retention, evaluation and disciplinary methods for school staff in order to assure the highest degree of safety for kids that is possible.
Go to your school board and volunteer to serve on a committee to review your district’s policies and procedures. Share data from researchers such as Charol Shakeshaft of Hofstra University, who contends that 15 percent of students will be sexually abused by a member of school staff during their school career, yet only around 6 percent of these cases are ever reported, much less prosecuted.
Gather data from private-sector security professionals to analyze your district’s screening policies, including finding out how far back checks go and what jurisdictions they cover. In districts with teacher or staff shortages, it’s important to find out if people can begin work pending results of a background check. That’s a common way pedophiles “slip through the cracks.”
Build community trust by educating others in this critical area.
Homework: Article, “Sex Abuse Scandal: The Predator in the Classroom,” Good Housekeeping, May 2003, p. 152.
Back from vacation!
SUNDAY: Radiant Beams
Not As Bad As It Seems
I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.
— 2 Timothy 4:7
We spent last week in Decatur, Ill., for the national tournament of the American Fastpitch Association. Our daughter Eden — or, in the wacky world of softball nicknames, ''Beamer,'' ''Fence,'' ''Centerfold,'' ''Peeps'' or ''Wolverine'' — is on a really good team.
But I didn't want to go. I would miss my home, having already been away almost all summer. I would miss the peak week in my garden, including the big honkin' rubrum lilies just about to pop. I would miss a rare and treasured visit from my best friend from college, coming through town with her family on vacation. I would miss my 30th high-school reunion and a chance to set the world record for consecutive hours of holding in one's stomach.
But most of all, I would miss the funeral of my 19-year-old friend and neighbor, Cara Nabity. She died of complications after a 17-hour heart surgery that was intended to buy her a big chunk of life span. She had been beautifully sure of her salvation and faced her lifetime medical challenges with immense poise and grace because of her faith.
But I was still struggling with the ''why'' questions. By missing the funeral, I would miss the much-needed ministration to my own heart from the funeral speakers and Bible readings about why this had to be. I would miss opportunities to help her family, my dear neighbors, get through these days. I would miss my three other daughters and holding them close in the face of this terrible loss.
Decatur didn't exactly sound like an exotic vacation paradise, either. I figured it'd be nuclear humid and they'd have ballfields, a WalMart and a McDonald's, which of course, they did. The Archer Daniels Midland factory was the closest they came to mountains, and miles upon miles of 7-foot corn surrounding the town had to pass for the ocean.
But to my surprise, Decatur also had a beautiful lake, nice parks, lots of fun restaurants, a great putt-putt place, a happening bowling alley, lots of shopping, a place where I could get my Luxury Nails fixed, a thriving downtown, cool fountains, and even a darling old-fashioned bandstand with evening concerts and everybody in lawn chairs in a quaint ''Music Man'' atmosphere.
You know how there are always those billboards outside towns that brag about their good points, urging you to move there? I figured theirs could be:
''Decatur: Not As Bad As It Seems!''
But on the day of the funeral, I was sad that I was 500 miles away from my friends. We had a game in the late afternoon, right when the funeral was going on back home. I slouched in my canvas sottball mom's chair, cracking sunflower seeds, and worrywarting about it as the game went on.
My daughter struck out, and stomped back to the dugout with a grimace on her face – lips sucked in tight, teeth on edge. She looked like a deranged squirrel. I wanted to run my hand over those soft cheeks and under her chin to cheer her up.
Suddenly, it hit me that the Nabitys would never be able to touch their daughter's face again.
They would never see her face again.
They could never have had the fun of watching her compete in a national sporting event, not with the congenital heart defects that hampered her so much physically.
At the hour of her death, Cara's parents imagined her free at last, running and playing before the Lord as she could never do here on earth. It was an inspiring comfort to us all.
Just then, some kids started running back and forth on the metal bleachers. They loved the sound their sneakers made, echoing across the park. They must have been younger siblings of the other team's players.
A mother's voice sounded: ''Cara!''
A girl of about 7, with long brown hair and a blue ballcap, with a mischievous grin and skinny legs, turned and ran right by me.
She looked just like my Cara. Spittin' image. Running and playing, not a care in the world.
I was grateful for the little coincidence – no such thing as, of course – and wondered if the funeral really was a ''celebration'' of Cara's salvation, as the family had purposed, instead of a sad and mournful event. I found out later that it sure was.
But that's not all.
The next day, I had a free hour to go downtown to find some souvenirs for our other three daughters. If I have one criticism for the Decatur Visitors' Bureau, it's the absolute lack of variety in radio stations. The only one I could find all week, AM or FM, was heavy-metal, hard rock. So that's what I had been listening to in the car.
As I approached the shopping district, all of a sudden on this hard-rock station came a song you only hear on Christian radio: ''I Can Only Imagine,'' by Mercy Me. It’s a thrilling reflection on what it'll be like at the moment a believer dies and sees Jesus. I found out later that two kids from our high school had sung that song at Cara's funeral.
But here it was on Decatur hard rock radio! Impossible! So unexpected, and such a blessing. My throat got tight.
Just then, in the bright sun, a white butterfly floated in front of my car, swooping and darting from right to left across the windshield, and out of sight up into the sky.
I've always associated butterflies with Christianity. You know, the apparent death, the metamorphosis, the beautiful new life of graceful flight.
Exactly like Cara.
She died, and that's tremendously difficult. Her family will suffer this loss forever. The world will be a little less warm, and our neighborhood will seem incomplete. To the unbeliever, it looks really, really bad.
And yet . . . Cara fought the good fight, touched countless lives, and is with the Lord in paradise now. It's OK. It really is.
Eyes tearing up, I pulled into the nearest parking space and bawled all through that song. I cried for Cara. I cried for her parents. I cried for myself – for the pain in the loss of such a gloriously sweet and inspiring young friend, and for gratitude for the great beauty that's often hidden in tragedy, which her life and her faith showed us all.
Mostly, I bawled for joy, for having a Savior Who knows just how to speak to me and comfort me, lift my spirits and love me, right where I am, wherever I am.
I looked up, and saw that I was parked in front of a unique store, and went inside and found lots of presents for my girls, at Christmas-in-July prices, too.
Decatur: not as bad as it seems.
Death, even a child's death: ditto.
We got knocked out of the tournament soon thereafter, winding up 33rd out of 83 teams. Not great. But not so bad.
I traced my hand down Eden's tear-streaked face and cupped her chin, relishing the privilege of motherhood, and told her, in my elegant way, that next year they would come back and ''kick bahoonie.''
When her face erupted into the radiant smile that got her the nickname ''Beamer,'' I saw a little bit of what Cara sees now, all the time . . . and my heart did a little victory dance.
When I got home, you know those big, honkin' rubrum lilies? I didn't miss their blooming after all. They're in their glory: stunning in pink and white, and so fragrant. I'm on my way up to Cara's house with am armful of them, right now.
Wouldn't be a bit surprised if a butterfly tagged along.
SUNDAY: Radiant Beams
Not As Bad As It Seems
I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.
— 2 Timothy 4:7
We spent last week in Decatur, Ill., for the national tournament of the American Fastpitch Association. Our daughter Eden — or, in the wacky world of softball nicknames, ''Beamer,'' ''Fence,'' ''Centerfold,'' ''Peeps'' or ''Wolverine'' — is on a really good team.
But I didn't want to go. I would miss my home, having already been away almost all summer. I would miss the peak week in my garden, including the big honkin' rubrum lilies just about to pop. I would miss a rare and treasured visit from my best friend from college, coming through town with her family on vacation. I would miss my 30th high-school reunion and a chance to set the world record for consecutive hours of holding in one's stomach.
But most of all, I would miss the funeral of my 19-year-old friend and neighbor, Cara Nabity. She died of complications after a 17-hour heart surgery that was intended to buy her a big chunk of life span. She had been beautifully sure of her salvation and faced her lifetime medical challenges with immense poise and grace because of her faith.
But I was still struggling with the ''why'' questions. By missing the funeral, I would miss the much-needed ministration to my own heart from the funeral speakers and Bible readings about why this had to be. I would miss opportunities to help her family, my dear neighbors, get through these days. I would miss my three other daughters and holding them close in the face of this terrible loss.
Decatur didn't exactly sound like an exotic vacation paradise, either. I figured it'd be nuclear humid and they'd have ballfields, a WalMart and a McDonald's, which of course, they did. The Archer Daniels Midland factory was the closest they came to mountains, and miles upon miles of 7-foot corn surrounding the town had to pass for the ocean.
But to my surprise, Decatur also had a beautiful lake, nice parks, lots of fun restaurants, a great putt-putt place, a happening bowling alley, lots of shopping, a place where I could get my Luxury Nails fixed, a thriving downtown, cool fountains, and even a darling old-fashioned bandstand with evening concerts and everybody in lawn chairs in a quaint ''Music Man'' atmosphere.
You know how there are always those billboards outside towns that brag about their good points, urging you to move there? I figured theirs could be:
''Decatur: Not As Bad As It Seems!''
But on the day of the funeral, I was sad that I was 500 miles away from my friends. We had a game in the late afternoon, right when the funeral was going on back home. I slouched in my canvas sottball mom's chair, cracking sunflower seeds, and worrywarting about it as the game went on.
My daughter struck out, and stomped back to the dugout with a grimace on her face – lips sucked in tight, teeth on edge. She looked like a deranged squirrel. I wanted to run my hand over those soft cheeks and under her chin to cheer her up.
Suddenly, it hit me that the Nabitys would never be able to touch their daughter's face again.
They would never see her face again.
They could never have had the fun of watching her compete in a national sporting event, not with the congenital heart defects that hampered her so much physically.
At the hour of her death, Cara's parents imagined her free at last, running and playing before the Lord as she could never do here on earth. It was an inspiring comfort to us all.
Just then, some kids started running back and forth on the metal bleachers. They loved the sound their sneakers made, echoing across the park. They must have been younger siblings of the other team's players.
A mother's voice sounded: ''Cara!''
A girl of about 7, with long brown hair and a blue ballcap, with a mischievous grin and skinny legs, turned and ran right by me.
She looked just like my Cara. Spittin' image. Running and playing, not a care in the world.
I was grateful for the little coincidence – no such thing as, of course – and wondered if the funeral really was a ''celebration'' of Cara's salvation, as the family had purposed, instead of a sad and mournful event. I found out later that it sure was.
But that's not all.
The next day, I had a free hour to go downtown to find some souvenirs for our other three daughters. If I have one criticism for the Decatur Visitors' Bureau, it's the absolute lack of variety in radio stations. The only one I could find all week, AM or FM, was heavy-metal, hard rock. So that's what I had been listening to in the car.
As I approached the shopping district, all of a sudden on this hard-rock station came a song you only hear on Christian radio: ''I Can Only Imagine,'' by Mercy Me. It’s a thrilling reflection on what it'll be like at the moment a believer dies and sees Jesus. I found out later that two kids from our high school had sung that song at Cara's funeral.
But here it was on Decatur hard rock radio! Impossible! So unexpected, and such a blessing. My throat got tight.
Just then, in the bright sun, a white butterfly floated in front of my car, swooping and darting from right to left across the windshield, and out of sight up into the sky.
I've always associated butterflies with Christianity. You know, the apparent death, the metamorphosis, the beautiful new life of graceful flight.
Exactly like Cara.
She died, and that's tremendously difficult. Her family will suffer this loss forever. The world will be a little less warm, and our neighborhood will seem incomplete. To the unbeliever, it looks really, really bad.
And yet . . . Cara fought the good fight, touched countless lives, and is with the Lord in paradise now. It's OK. It really is.
Eyes tearing up, I pulled into the nearest parking space and bawled all through that song. I cried for Cara. I cried for her parents. I cried for myself – for the pain in the loss of such a gloriously sweet and inspiring young friend, and for gratitude for the great beauty that's often hidden in tragedy, which her life and her faith showed us all.
Mostly, I bawled for joy, for having a Savior Who knows just how to speak to me and comfort me, lift my spirits and love me, right where I am, wherever I am.
I looked up, and saw that I was parked in front of a unique store, and went inside and found lots of presents for my girls, at Christmas-in-July prices, too.
Decatur: not as bad as it seems.
Death, even a child's death: ditto.
We got knocked out of the tournament soon thereafter, winding up 33rd out of 83 teams. Not great. But not so bad.
I traced my hand down Eden's tear-streaked face and cupped her chin, relishing the privilege of motherhood, and told her, in my elegant way, that next year they would come back and ''kick bahoonie.''
When her face erupted into the radiant smile that got her the nickname ''Beamer,'' I saw a little bit of what Cara sees now, all the time . . . and my heart did a little victory dance.
When I got home, you know those big, honkin' rubrum lilies? I didn't miss their blooming after all. They're in their glory: stunning in pink and white, and so fragrant. I'm on my way up to Cara's house with am armful of them, right now.
Wouldn't be a bit surprised if a butterfly tagged along.
Sunday, July 20, 2003
SUNDAY: Radiant Beams
MARTHA STEWART, I AIN'T
Now unto him that is able to keep you from falling, and to present you faultless before the presence of his glory with exceeding joy. . . .
— Jude 24
I was late for the preschool carnival. I had made the cake for the cakewalk but hadn't had time to make the fluffy marshmallow frosting.
The smart thing would have been to pick up store-bought frosting on the way. But ohhh, no. Mine had to be homemade, the hard way.
With one child attached to my left shin and the other child swinging from the chandelier, with spilled juice on the floor collecting enough dirt to resemble the dots on a map of the United States, with the dog barking and the phone ringing and the potted plants gasping their last because they hadn't been watered since the Reagan years, or maybe it was Jimmy Carter . . . I started to make the frosting.
Only then did I remember that one of the beaters was missing, and had been since maybe Jerry Ford.
Have you ever tried to make fluffy frosting with just one beater? You can't beat it. Literally. It wasn't fluffy. It wasn't even frothy.
It was gloppy.
I spread the frosting out on the cake, anyway. It ran down the sides and pooled on the plate.
I scraped it back up onto the top again. It ran down the sides and pooled on the plate.
We were late. I strapped the kids in the back seat, put the cake on the seat beside me, spatula in hand, and laid scratch.
At every red light, I scraped the frosting back up onto the top of the cake. By the next intersection, it had run down the sides and pooled on the plate.
When we arrived at the carnival, I thought of creating a diversion, like starting the clown's hair on fire, so nobody would see me walking in with my Pool of Cake.
When the carnival ended, more than 200 cakes had been joyously selected. But there was one left over, strange, lonesome and gloppy. Nobody was willing to claim it, including me.
OK. So Martha Stewart, I ain't. But then again, I've been reading the paper lately. Maybe I'm glad.
But it's not easy to be a domestic loser. My cleaning supplies all have cobwebs and expiration dates in the 1990s. On those rare occasions when I would take out the vacuum, the dog would give a start: ''What’s THAT?'' My carpets look like they have intricate patterns, mostly from exuberant food-as-confetti capers by Madeleine Mufasa McGoo, age 3, but if I squint I can picture them as the solid colors they used to be.
Cooking is often an adventure, and a painful one. I've had to jackhammer frozen desserts out of the molds into little shards instead of beautifully-molded shapes, when an hour out of the freezer they were still concrete-solid for some mysterious reason.
I once served ice-cold BBQ beef out of a rented chafing dish, mystified by why it never heated up and by the funny smell. Too late I discovered that I'd mistaken the lid for the bottom of the serving dish and set them up upside down. The heat never got anywhere near the food, and the sterno melted the plastic handle that was supposed to be sticking up, not down. Barbecued Plastic . . . mm, mm, good.
I once delayed Thanksgiving dinner until 10 p.m. because the little red dealie hadn't poked out of the turkey yet. Yes, it had, hours before. We just couldn't see it. I had put the turkey on the pan upside down. We literally had to hold people's faces out of their plates and slap them awake so that they could eat.
It goes on. I have motel soap in the guest bathroom, overstuffed storage cabinets that NASA scientists use for fusion experiments, and a corncob for a shoe-stretcher. Why do I have a corncob for a shoe-stretcher, you ask? Simple. I lost the other one.
But hey. I may not have grace and style, but I've got my consolations.
One of our daughters went to one of those fantasy birthday parties that you can't believe exist outside of those fancy Martha Stewart magazines. You know: a cast of thousands, a gorgeous home, pony rides on the front lawn, carnival games, a professional magician, mother-daughter matching outfits, a three-tier cake, party favors from Neiman-Marcus. . . .
I came home, cleared the junk off a chair, slumped in it, and spilled my guts to my husband about what a loser I was and what a bad housekeeper and lousy cook and disorganized mess and boy, I could never pull off a party like that without a three-alarm fire or a few broken limbs.
He scratched, belched and went back to his paper.
But then here came little Jordan, the daughter who had attended Mrs. Perfect's birthday party. She had overheard my tirade. She brought me a note with crooked, backwards letters in teal-blue crayon:
''How r u dog? U r the bess mom. Love, Jordan.''
I'm a ''dog,'' huh?
But I'm the ''bess''?
I may be far, far, far from perfect, but I was ''dog'' just fine after that.
Martha Stewart . . . eat your heart out.
MARTHA STEWART, I AIN'T
Now unto him that is able to keep you from falling, and to present you faultless before the presence of his glory with exceeding joy. . . .
— Jude 24
I was late for the preschool carnival. I had made the cake for the cakewalk but hadn't had time to make the fluffy marshmallow frosting.
The smart thing would have been to pick up store-bought frosting on the way. But ohhh, no. Mine had to be homemade, the hard way.
With one child attached to my left shin and the other child swinging from the chandelier, with spilled juice on the floor collecting enough dirt to resemble the dots on a map of the United States, with the dog barking and the phone ringing and the potted plants gasping their last because they hadn't been watered since the Reagan years, or maybe it was Jimmy Carter . . . I started to make the frosting.
Only then did I remember that one of the beaters was missing, and had been since maybe Jerry Ford.
Have you ever tried to make fluffy frosting with just one beater? You can't beat it. Literally. It wasn't fluffy. It wasn't even frothy.
It was gloppy.
I spread the frosting out on the cake, anyway. It ran down the sides and pooled on the plate.
I scraped it back up onto the top again. It ran down the sides and pooled on the plate.
We were late. I strapped the kids in the back seat, put the cake on the seat beside me, spatula in hand, and laid scratch.
At every red light, I scraped the frosting back up onto the top of the cake. By the next intersection, it had run down the sides and pooled on the plate.
When we arrived at the carnival, I thought of creating a diversion, like starting the clown's hair on fire, so nobody would see me walking in with my Pool of Cake.
When the carnival ended, more than 200 cakes had been joyously selected. But there was one left over, strange, lonesome and gloppy. Nobody was willing to claim it, including me.
OK. So Martha Stewart, I ain't. But then again, I've been reading the paper lately. Maybe I'm glad.
But it's not easy to be a domestic loser. My cleaning supplies all have cobwebs and expiration dates in the 1990s. On those rare occasions when I would take out the vacuum, the dog would give a start: ''What’s THAT?'' My carpets look like they have intricate patterns, mostly from exuberant food-as-confetti capers by Madeleine Mufasa McGoo, age 3, but if I squint I can picture them as the solid colors they used to be.
Cooking is often an adventure, and a painful one. I've had to jackhammer frozen desserts out of the molds into little shards instead of beautifully-molded shapes, when an hour out of the freezer they were still concrete-solid for some mysterious reason.
I once served ice-cold BBQ beef out of a rented chafing dish, mystified by why it never heated up and by the funny smell. Too late I discovered that I'd mistaken the lid for the bottom of the serving dish and set them up upside down. The heat never got anywhere near the food, and the sterno melted the plastic handle that was supposed to be sticking up, not down. Barbecued Plastic . . . mm, mm, good.
I once delayed Thanksgiving dinner until 10 p.m. because the little red dealie hadn't poked out of the turkey yet. Yes, it had, hours before. We just couldn't see it. I had put the turkey on the pan upside down. We literally had to hold people's faces out of their plates and slap them awake so that they could eat.
It goes on. I have motel soap in the guest bathroom, overstuffed storage cabinets that NASA scientists use for fusion experiments, and a corncob for a shoe-stretcher. Why do I have a corncob for a shoe-stretcher, you ask? Simple. I lost the other one.
But hey. I may not have grace and style, but I've got my consolations.
One of our daughters went to one of those fantasy birthday parties that you can't believe exist outside of those fancy Martha Stewart magazines. You know: a cast of thousands, a gorgeous home, pony rides on the front lawn, carnival games, a professional magician, mother-daughter matching outfits, a three-tier cake, party favors from Neiman-Marcus. . . .
I came home, cleared the junk off a chair, slumped in it, and spilled my guts to my husband about what a loser I was and what a bad housekeeper and lousy cook and disorganized mess and boy, I could never pull off a party like that without a three-alarm fire or a few broken limbs.
He scratched, belched and went back to his paper.
But then here came little Jordan, the daughter who had attended Mrs. Perfect's birthday party. She had overheard my tirade. She brought me a note with crooked, backwards letters in teal-blue crayon:
''How r u dog? U r the bess mom. Love, Jordan.''
I'm a ''dog,'' huh?
But I'm the ''bess''?
I may be far, far, far from perfect, but I was ''dog'' just fine after that.
Martha Stewart . . . eat your heart out.
Saturday, July 19, 2003
SATURDAY: FUNdamentals
SLIP ‘N’ SLIDE FOR BIG KIDS
Most kids enjoyed a wet and wild ride on a long, yellow Slip ‘n’ Slide on hot summer days. You know: you laid out a long sheet of plastic that hooked up to the garden hose, and water sprinkled the whole path. You’d take a running start and do a belly flop on the plastic, sliding all across your yard.
Rats! And then you got “too old” for fun like that.
Nonsense!
If you have teenagers or not-too-rickety adults who want to have fun and cool off, head for your barn or garage and collect an armful of plastic tarpaulins. Lay them out, hose them down, get some good pools and puddles built up, and then hook up a sprinkler to keep your “run” continuously doused.
If you’re wacky, you can have a shaving cream fight first, and then use the empty cans as “bowling pins.”
OK? Back ‘way up, now . . . take a running start . . . and you know the rest.
SLIP ‘N’ SLIDE FOR BIG KIDS
Most kids enjoyed a wet and wild ride on a long, yellow Slip ‘n’ Slide on hot summer days. You know: you laid out a long sheet of plastic that hooked up to the garden hose, and water sprinkled the whole path. You’d take a running start and do a belly flop on the plastic, sliding all across your yard.
Rats! And then you got “too old” for fun like that.
Nonsense!
If you have teenagers or not-too-rickety adults who want to have fun and cool off, head for your barn or garage and collect an armful of plastic tarpaulins. Lay them out, hose them down, get some good pools and puddles built up, and then hook up a sprinkler to keep your “run” continuously doused.
If you’re wacky, you can have a shaving cream fight first, and then use the empty cans as “bowling pins.”
OK? Back ‘way up, now . . . take a running start . . . and you know the rest.
Friday, July 18, 2003
FRIDAY: Vitamin Mom
MONEY TALK
You teach a child how to catch a ball, thread a needle, iron a shirt and bait a hook in order to get ready for adult life. But some parents may overlook one of the most important practical areas that kids need to know about: money and investing?
Start with the proverbial piggy bank and a dollar in change. Help your child count out the savings and pay 5 percent interest each week. Make a chart or use a small notebook to help your child keep track of the earnings and watch the sum grow from that original dollar “investment.”
As your child accumulates gifts and allowance payments, and begins to earn money around the neighborhood with odd jobs, mowing and babysitting, expand his or her “banking” system until savings have reached more than $100. At that point, you may consider asking your bank if there are free programs for young savers, and take your child there to visit with a banker and open a savings account.
By the start of high school, a child who has handled personal finance so far can handle a checking account with a debit card, as well as the mandatory savings account for college and beyond.
There are lots of good websites with information on money management for kids. Thanks to www.thinkglink.com for these:
www.fleetkids.com
www.strongkids.com
www.zillions.org
www.savvystudents.com
www.kidsmoney.org
www.kiplinger.com
www.msgen.com
MONEY TALK
You teach a child how to catch a ball, thread a needle, iron a shirt and bait a hook in order to get ready for adult life. But some parents may overlook one of the most important practical areas that kids need to know about: money and investing?
Start with the proverbial piggy bank and a dollar in change. Help your child count out the savings and pay 5 percent interest each week. Make a chart or use a small notebook to help your child keep track of the earnings and watch the sum grow from that original dollar “investment.”
As your child accumulates gifts and allowance payments, and begins to earn money around the neighborhood with odd jobs, mowing and babysitting, expand his or her “banking” system until savings have reached more than $100. At that point, you may consider asking your bank if there are free programs for young savers, and take your child there to visit with a banker and open a savings account.
By the start of high school, a child who has handled personal finance so far can handle a checking account with a debit card, as well as the mandatory savings account for college and beyond.
There are lots of good websites with information on money management for kids. Thanks to www.thinkglink.com for these:
www.fleetkids.com
www.strongkids.com
www.zillions.org
www.savvystudents.com
www.kidsmoney.org
www.kiplinger.com
www.msgen.com
THURSDAY: Cre8iviT
FOR LITTLE BOYS AND GIRLS BLUE
For a midsummer night’s dream for your favorite little boys and girls, help them make a kazoo band.
Save toilet-paper rolls. Cover with scraps of colorful wrapping paper. Cut four-inch squares of waxed paper. Place over the ends of the tubes. Secure with rubber bands.
The child should be able to blow, hum or say “ooh” into the “horn” and make a neat sound.
Experiment with different lengths, such as paper towel rolls or wrapping paper rolls.
Help them brainstorm other ways to musical instruments out of household odds and ends: the proverbial oatmeal canister as a drum . . . tissue paper over a comb to hum on . . . sandpaper over blocks of wood . . . as many as your nerves can stand!
FOR LITTLE BOYS AND GIRLS BLUE
For a midsummer night’s dream for your favorite little boys and girls, help them make a kazoo band.
Save toilet-paper rolls. Cover with scraps of colorful wrapping paper. Cut four-inch squares of waxed paper. Place over the ends of the tubes. Secure with rubber bands.
The child should be able to blow, hum or say “ooh” into the “horn” and make a neat sound.
Experiment with different lengths, such as paper towel rolls or wrapping paper rolls.
Help them brainstorm other ways to musical instruments out of household odds and ends: the proverbial oatmeal canister as a drum . . . tissue paper over a comb to hum on . . . sandpaper over blocks of wood . . . as many as your nerves can stand!
Wednesday, July 16, 2003
WEDNESDAY: Family Funnies
MY MOM, SCIENCE BOMB
The glory years of parenthood are when the kiddies are really, really young. Then they don’t ask you any questions you can’t handle.
But now, at 3, Maddy has crossed the line. Last night in the car, she asked, “Mom? Are germs circles?”
As soon as I graduated from college, my brain was immediately disinfected of all facts such as that.
I was about to turn to my time-tested strategy, which worked with the older three: “Gee, Honey, why don’t you ask your Dad?” but was saved by the sudden appearance of a guy on an apple-green motorcycle in an apple-green helmet in the lane next to us, which, thank goodness, distracted her long enough to forget the question.
MY MOM, SCIENCE BOMB
The glory years of parenthood are when the kiddies are really, really young. Then they don’t ask you any questions you can’t handle.
But now, at 3, Maddy has crossed the line. Last night in the car, she asked, “Mom? Are germs circles?”
As soon as I graduated from college, my brain was immediately disinfected of all facts such as that.
I was about to turn to my time-tested strategy, which worked with the older three: “Gee, Honey, why don’t you ask your Dad?” but was saved by the sudden appearance of a guy on an apple-green motorcycle in an apple-green helmet in the lane next to us, which, thank goodness, distracted her long enough to forget the question.
Tuesday, July 15, 2003
TUESDAY: Hot Potatoes
ARE THEY REALLY MARRIED?
The new push toward redefining homosexual relationships as equivalent to traditional marriage has a side twist:
It is revealing the hypocrisy of many people on the nature of adultery.
“Adultery” is defined as voluntary sexual intercourse between a married person and someone other than his or her legal spouse. Most everyone agrees that immorality should not be legally sanctioned, and that adultery is immoral.
That’s a key reason why many people oppose “tolerance” for what is being called “gay marriage.” There’s no way someone of the same sex can ever be truly a “legal spouse” and therefore, homosexual relations are fated to always be defined as adultery, and immoral.
Those who realize this say, “Well, even if the government changes course and allows it, people who get into gay marriages won’t be REALLY married.”
That may be so. But the situation illustrates the fact that lots and lots of other people aren’t REALLY married, either, if you look at it.
The truth is, once you make a marital covenant before God, “to have and to hold,” you are bound by that for life. Every second, third and subsequent marriage constitutes adultery. There’s no way around it.
You can get a divorce for cause, and then live celibate for the rest of your life, and gain God’s forgiveness and favor. But you can’t really remarry, if your ex-spouse is living, and repeat those promises again. It’s a one-shot deal.
People who don’t see anything wrong with serial marriage with the opposite sex – second, third, fourth and subsequent marriages -- have no moral foundation beneath themselves to object to the phony “marriage” with the same sex – which is the same thing: sexual sin.
To be frank, people in remarriages whose ex-spouses are still living are living in sin, just as much as people who are shacking up are living in sin, and people who are entangled in homosexual acting out are living in sin, with or without a government “marriage” license to do so.
For more, see the Webb Ministries e-book, “Till Death Do Us Part,” by Joseph A. Webb, on:
http://webbministries.tripod.com/titlepage.htm
ARE THEY REALLY MARRIED?
The new push toward redefining homosexual relationships as equivalent to traditional marriage has a side twist:
It is revealing the hypocrisy of many people on the nature of adultery.
“Adultery” is defined as voluntary sexual intercourse between a married person and someone other than his or her legal spouse. Most everyone agrees that immorality should not be legally sanctioned, and that adultery is immoral.
That’s a key reason why many people oppose “tolerance” for what is being called “gay marriage.” There’s no way someone of the same sex can ever be truly a “legal spouse” and therefore, homosexual relations are fated to always be defined as adultery, and immoral.
Those who realize this say, “Well, even if the government changes course and allows it, people who get into gay marriages won’t be REALLY married.”
That may be so. But the situation illustrates the fact that lots and lots of other people aren’t REALLY married, either, if you look at it.
The truth is, once you make a marital covenant before God, “to have and to hold,” you are bound by that for life. Every second, third and subsequent marriage constitutes adultery. There’s no way around it.
You can get a divorce for cause, and then live celibate for the rest of your life, and gain God’s forgiveness and favor. But you can’t really remarry, if your ex-spouse is living, and repeat those promises again. It’s a one-shot deal.
People who don’t see anything wrong with serial marriage with the opposite sex – second, third, fourth and subsequent marriages -- have no moral foundation beneath themselves to object to the phony “marriage” with the same sex – which is the same thing: sexual sin.
To be frank, people in remarriages whose ex-spouses are still living are living in sin, just as much as people who are shacking up are living in sin, and people who are entangled in homosexual acting out are living in sin, with or without a government “marriage” license to do so.
For more, see the Webb Ministries e-book, “Till Death Do Us Part,” by Joseph A. Webb, on:
http://webbministries.tripod.com/titlepage.htm
Monday, July 14, 2003
MONDAY: Show 'n' Tell for Parents
SUMMER WRITING 'REPS'
Q. Since most teachers agree that many students regress a little bit in their schoolwork over the summer, what are some ideas for helping a child polish writing skills away from school?
Excellent course of action. Writing is, first and foremost, thinking. For many children, especially thoughtful, quiet, gifted ones, the school setting is not conducive to the thinking that goes into fine writing. The peace, quiet and freedom of summer writing pursuits, with lots of chances for practice, or “reps,” are perfect ingredients for the concentration, imagination and perseverance that it takes to craft words, sentences, paragraphs and entire pieces with quality.
Depending on your child’s age, you could suggest:
-- Summer Word Jar. Encourage your child to come up with new vocabulary words that he or she comes across: swimming, baseball, fort, barbecue, flippers, recreation . . . learn from life! Your child can write these on slips of paper and fill a jar. When it’s full, give a prize or special outing.
-- Postcards. Buy a bunch, stamped and ready to go. Encourage your child to correspond with grandparents, friends, or send reports home from summer vacations.
-- Kitchen Newspaper. Buy a spiral notebook. Label it as your family newspaper: “The Jones Gazette.” Tie string to a pen or pencil and tape the other end to the notebook so that it’s always handy. Leave it out on the kitchen counter or table all summer long. Everyone should write whatever’s on their minds in it: “Watched the three baby robins in the nest outside the bathroom. Mom pre-chews the worms and bugs and then just spits it out into their open mouths. Ewww!”
-- Plays. Invite your child’s friends over to write and produce a play. It may take several play dates to prepare. They should write the “script,” plan costumes and some kind of a set. Have the other kids’ families over for the presentation.
Homework: For high-schoolers, try a paperback writing guide for grownups such as “How to Write It” by Sandra E. Lamb.
SUMMER WRITING 'REPS'
Q. Since most teachers agree that many students regress a little bit in their schoolwork over the summer, what are some ideas for helping a child polish writing skills away from school?
Excellent course of action. Writing is, first and foremost, thinking. For many children, especially thoughtful, quiet, gifted ones, the school setting is not conducive to the thinking that goes into fine writing. The peace, quiet and freedom of summer writing pursuits, with lots of chances for practice, or “reps,” are perfect ingredients for the concentration, imagination and perseverance that it takes to craft words, sentences, paragraphs and entire pieces with quality.
Depending on your child’s age, you could suggest:
-- Summer Word Jar. Encourage your child to come up with new vocabulary words that he or she comes across: swimming, baseball, fort, barbecue, flippers, recreation . . . learn from life! Your child can write these on slips of paper and fill a jar. When it’s full, give a prize or special outing.
-- Postcards. Buy a bunch, stamped and ready to go. Encourage your child to correspond with grandparents, friends, or send reports home from summer vacations.
-- Kitchen Newspaper. Buy a spiral notebook. Label it as your family newspaper: “The Jones Gazette.” Tie string to a pen or pencil and tape the other end to the notebook so that it’s always handy. Leave it out on the kitchen counter or table all summer long. Everyone should write whatever’s on their minds in it: “Watched the three baby robins in the nest outside the bathroom. Mom pre-chews the worms and bugs and then just spits it out into their open mouths. Ewww!”
-- Plays. Invite your child’s friends over to write and produce a play. It may take several play dates to prepare. They should write the “script,” plan costumes and some kind of a set. Have the other kids’ families over for the presentation.
Homework: For high-schoolers, try a paperback writing guide for grownups such as “How to Write It” by Sandra E. Lamb.
Sunday, July 13, 2003
SUNDAY: Radiant Beams
Our dear young friend Cara Nabity has an MRI tomorrow; please pray for a helpful outcome, and pray that she has not suffered any neurological damage and will rebound soon. We are thankful for a few hopeful signs, but she is definitely not yet out of the woods. Pray for stamina and encouragement for her parents, Steve and Lynette. Thank you so much. -- S.
--------------------------------------------
Luxury Nails
Whose adorning let it not be that outward adorning of plaiting the hair, and of wearing the gold, or of putting on of apparel; but let it be . . . the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of God of great price.
-- 1 Peter 3:3,4
The thrill of gardening . . . de agony of de fingernails.
Mine looked like those of a person who had just climbed Mount Everest with her bare hands. The fingers looked like 10 miniature elephants' legs. I couldn't hang around piglets; one look at my fingers and they'd think I was their ma.
I've always had fat hands and stubby nails. Our wedding photographer had tactfully suggested I bury my fingertips in my bouquet for the obligatory shot of our shiny new wedding rings. It looks like I was trying to palm the bouquet like a basketball for a celebratory slam-dunk.
But I'd never done anything about my Siberian potato farmer hands because I'd always thought long fingernails were something for a Lady of the Evening. The closest I come to that is once a week, when I haul the garbage cans out.
Plus, I've had a thing about too much jewelry and self-adornment ever since my collegehood days.
One of my more scholarly friends was doing a sociology report, so I volunteered to help. We gathered each weekend night at the front staircase of our sorority house. All we had to do was watch girls leave for outings and dates. We literally counted how much jewelry and accessories each one had on – headbands, earrings, necklaces, bracelets, watches, rings, pins, scarves, ankle bracelets, toe rings, jangling charms on their purses, and so on. From those numbers, we projected whether she had no boyfriend, was in the process of fishing for one, had one just about on the hook, had one hooked and was now reeling him in, or had already had the fish fry.
Then we checked out our hypotheses in casual conversations with roommates and so forth. It was uncanny. The more flashy, jangly jewelry they had on, the farther away from the reeling-in stage they were. They reminded me of elaborate fishing lures: live bait, literally.
It was the same thing with their makeup and fingernails. The fancier they were, the harder they were fishing.
In reaction, I kind of went the other way on the adornment stuff. 'Way too far. And so I wound up with hands like the singer of ''I've Been Workin' On a Chain . . . Ga-aaaaa-aaaaang.''
But now, I was an aging matron with fat, stubby hands, and the fear of being thought vain or trolling for guys was long past. Anyway, as a Christian, how could I represent a perfect, beautiful, all-powerful, all-loving God to the lost if my hands looked like The Craw from a horror movie?
Then one day, a friend said artificial nails make your hands and thus your whole person look slimmer.
Slimmer? As in not so fat? Forget the Christian duty. I was hooked.
I went whole hog, with Chinese mandarin-length nails. I listed fun ways to use them in my exciting, jet-setting life: stylishly removing a label from a milk jug for recycling . . . creating fear and dread in my teenagers post-curfew by the ominous sound of my nuclear-length nails drumming on the countertop as they try to sneak in . . . burying my forefinger deep into the flesh of the hulk beside me at night when the Snoring Index reaches the Danger Zone.
Of course, the very first day, things did not go well. I had an elegant French manicure with those snazzy-looking white tips. I was driving a carload of women to another city for a bridal shower. Casually, I applied some hand cream to my driving hand.
Well, there was some kind of a wacky chemical reaction. The hand cream acted like furniture refinisher on the surface of my lovely luxury nails. The acrylic bubbled up instantly like a deranged waffle and slid around on my fingertips. Eek! It’s a wonder we didn't plunge into a ditch.
I fumbled for a tissue and tried to wipe the nails smooth again. But in those few seconds, the acrylic began to re-set into a permanently deranged waffle that was now also hard as a rock. Consequently, scraps of tissue were stuck in the gooey mess.
My left hand looked like the albino Bride of Godzilla. At the shower, I kept my arm at my side and fingers curled in the whole time. It was awkward to hug the bride-to-be with only one arm; I hope she didn't think I was halfhearted or something.
By the following Monday, though, everything was fixed and back to Luxury Nail status.
That lasted about two hours. Our daughter's softball team had requested my signature cookies, Oatmeal Scotchies. The afternoon's agenda was to whip up a triple batch. Whistling as I worked, I took the huge bowl of dough over to the cookie sheets, popped the first batch into the oven, and then looked down . . .
. . . to see that one big, long, thick, elegantly French-manicured index fingernail had been completely chipped off.
Had it been hit by the powerful whirling beater? Was it on the countertop? The floor? Or elegantly adulterating my signature Oatmeal Scotchies?
Kids enjoyed those cookies because of the crunchy oatmeal. But someone was liable to get a really, REALLY crunchy one. I had to act.
So we had the specter of 45 pounds of sticky, gooey Oatmeal Scotchie dough being pressed through a strainer with a perplexed woman’s bare hands, nine out of 10 of which were elegantly French-manicured while the remaining one looked like the finger of a Siberian potato farmer.
Moosh! Moosh! Moosh! Nothing.
I chopped up the 24 cookies from the first batch, too.
Never did find the dad-blamed thing. Couldn't be sure it wasn't in there. Had to throw the whole batch out.
That's the way the cookie crumbles.
Oh, I still have Luxury Nails. They're pretty. But they're a lot shorter than the first set. I've learned to live with them without driving into a ditch or making anybody choke. So far.
Call it ''Vanity With Sanity.'' Maybe Siberian potato farmers aren't really cut out to be glamour girls. But we can have fun trying.
Our dear young friend Cara Nabity has an MRI tomorrow; please pray for a helpful outcome, and pray that she has not suffered any neurological damage and will rebound soon. We are thankful for a few hopeful signs, but she is definitely not yet out of the woods. Pray for stamina and encouragement for her parents, Steve and Lynette. Thank you so much. -- S.
--------------------------------------------
Luxury Nails
Whose adorning let it not be that outward adorning of plaiting the hair, and of wearing the gold, or of putting on of apparel; but let it be . . . the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of God of great price.
-- 1 Peter 3:3,4
The thrill of gardening . . . de agony of de fingernails.
Mine looked like those of a person who had just climbed Mount Everest with her bare hands. The fingers looked like 10 miniature elephants' legs. I couldn't hang around piglets; one look at my fingers and they'd think I was their ma.
I've always had fat hands and stubby nails. Our wedding photographer had tactfully suggested I bury my fingertips in my bouquet for the obligatory shot of our shiny new wedding rings. It looks like I was trying to palm the bouquet like a basketball for a celebratory slam-dunk.
But I'd never done anything about my Siberian potato farmer hands because I'd always thought long fingernails were something for a Lady of the Evening. The closest I come to that is once a week, when I haul the garbage cans out.
Plus, I've had a thing about too much jewelry and self-adornment ever since my collegehood days.
One of my more scholarly friends was doing a sociology report, so I volunteered to help. We gathered each weekend night at the front staircase of our sorority house. All we had to do was watch girls leave for outings and dates. We literally counted how much jewelry and accessories each one had on – headbands, earrings, necklaces, bracelets, watches, rings, pins, scarves, ankle bracelets, toe rings, jangling charms on their purses, and so on. From those numbers, we projected whether she had no boyfriend, was in the process of fishing for one, had one just about on the hook, had one hooked and was now reeling him in, or had already had the fish fry.
Then we checked out our hypotheses in casual conversations with roommates and so forth. It was uncanny. The more flashy, jangly jewelry they had on, the farther away from the reeling-in stage they were. They reminded me of elaborate fishing lures: live bait, literally.
It was the same thing with their makeup and fingernails. The fancier they were, the harder they were fishing.
In reaction, I kind of went the other way on the adornment stuff. 'Way too far. And so I wound up with hands like the singer of ''I've Been Workin' On a Chain . . . Ga-aaaaa-aaaaang.''
But now, I was an aging matron with fat, stubby hands, and the fear of being thought vain or trolling for guys was long past. Anyway, as a Christian, how could I represent a perfect, beautiful, all-powerful, all-loving God to the lost if my hands looked like The Craw from a horror movie?
Then one day, a friend said artificial nails make your hands and thus your whole person look slimmer.
Slimmer? As in not so fat? Forget the Christian duty. I was hooked.
I went whole hog, with Chinese mandarin-length nails. I listed fun ways to use them in my exciting, jet-setting life: stylishly removing a label from a milk jug for recycling . . . creating fear and dread in my teenagers post-curfew by the ominous sound of my nuclear-length nails drumming on the countertop as they try to sneak in . . . burying my forefinger deep into the flesh of the hulk beside me at night when the Snoring Index reaches the Danger Zone.
Of course, the very first day, things did not go well. I had an elegant French manicure with those snazzy-looking white tips. I was driving a carload of women to another city for a bridal shower. Casually, I applied some hand cream to my driving hand.
Well, there was some kind of a wacky chemical reaction. The hand cream acted like furniture refinisher on the surface of my lovely luxury nails. The acrylic bubbled up instantly like a deranged waffle and slid around on my fingertips. Eek! It’s a wonder we didn't plunge into a ditch.
I fumbled for a tissue and tried to wipe the nails smooth again. But in those few seconds, the acrylic began to re-set into a permanently deranged waffle that was now also hard as a rock. Consequently, scraps of tissue were stuck in the gooey mess.
My left hand looked like the albino Bride of Godzilla. At the shower, I kept my arm at my side and fingers curled in the whole time. It was awkward to hug the bride-to-be with only one arm; I hope she didn't think I was halfhearted or something.
By the following Monday, though, everything was fixed and back to Luxury Nail status.
That lasted about two hours. Our daughter's softball team had requested my signature cookies, Oatmeal Scotchies. The afternoon's agenda was to whip up a triple batch. Whistling as I worked, I took the huge bowl of dough over to the cookie sheets, popped the first batch into the oven, and then looked down . . .
. . . to see that one big, long, thick, elegantly French-manicured index fingernail had been completely chipped off.
Had it been hit by the powerful whirling beater? Was it on the countertop? The floor? Or elegantly adulterating my signature Oatmeal Scotchies?
Kids enjoyed those cookies because of the crunchy oatmeal. But someone was liable to get a really, REALLY crunchy one. I had to act.
So we had the specter of 45 pounds of sticky, gooey Oatmeal Scotchie dough being pressed through a strainer with a perplexed woman’s bare hands, nine out of 10 of which were elegantly French-manicured while the remaining one looked like the finger of a Siberian potato farmer.
Moosh! Moosh! Moosh! Nothing.
I chopped up the 24 cookies from the first batch, too.
Never did find the dad-blamed thing. Couldn't be sure it wasn't in there. Had to throw the whole batch out.
That's the way the cookie crumbles.
Oh, I still have Luxury Nails. They're pretty. But they're a lot shorter than the first set. I've learned to live with them without driving into a ditch or making anybody choke. So far.
Call it ''Vanity With Sanity.'' Maybe Siberian potato farmers aren't really cut out to be glamour girls. But we can have fun trying.
Saturday, July 12, 2003
SATURDAY: FUNdamentals
BASS-ACKWARDS GOLF
This one would take some cooperation from a golf course, but for a nine-hole couples’ event, nothing is as much fun.
Invite everyone to come dressed “backwards.” It’s hilarious to see belts buckled at the back, shirts on backwards, boxer shorts worn over regular shorts – even a bra stuffed with tube socks and worn backwards under a backwards shirt.
Set up tee stakes a distance off the greens, and sink putting holes into the corresponding tee boxes with flags. The tee boxes won’t putt as nicely as regular greens, but they’re do-able.
The game should be a best-ball scramble: everybody tees off, and the group chooses the best tee shot of the four. The other three pick up. Then all four hit again from that spot, and on it goes into the cup – which won’t be on a green, but on a tee box.
Give everyone one mulligan to use sometime during the round.
Record everyone’s handicap and adjust scores accordingly.
Set it up as a shotgun start and run the foursomes on the course backwards. So if your foursome start on Hole No. 3 – teeing off from near the green and shooting toward the tee – then you progress to Hole No. 2, and on around the full nine.
Top off the evening with a backwards dinner. What else? Breakfast, of course! And give prizes to the top three foursomes. No, not the best-shooting ones – the ones with the WORST scores!
BASS-ACKWARDS GOLF
This one would take some cooperation from a golf course, but for a nine-hole couples’ event, nothing is as much fun.
Invite everyone to come dressed “backwards.” It’s hilarious to see belts buckled at the back, shirts on backwards, boxer shorts worn over regular shorts – even a bra stuffed with tube socks and worn backwards under a backwards shirt.
Set up tee stakes a distance off the greens, and sink putting holes into the corresponding tee boxes with flags. The tee boxes won’t putt as nicely as regular greens, but they’re do-able.
The game should be a best-ball scramble: everybody tees off, and the group chooses the best tee shot of the four. The other three pick up. Then all four hit again from that spot, and on it goes into the cup – which won’t be on a green, but on a tee box.
Give everyone one mulligan to use sometime during the round.
Record everyone’s handicap and adjust scores accordingly.
Set it up as a shotgun start and run the foursomes on the course backwards. So if your foursome start on Hole No. 3 – teeing off from near the green and shooting toward the tee – then you progress to Hole No. 2, and on around the full nine.
Top off the evening with a backwards dinner. What else? Breakfast, of course! And give prizes to the top three foursomes. No, not the best-shooting ones – the ones with the WORST scores!
SATURDAY: FUNdamentals
BASS-ACKWARDS GOLF
This one would take some cooperation from a golf course, but for a nine-hole couples’ event, nothing is as much fun.
Invite everyone to come dressed “backwards.” It’s hilarious to see belts buckled at the back, shirts on backwards, boxer shorts worn over regular shorts – even a bra stuffed with tube socks and worn backwards under a backwards shirt.
Set up tee stakes a distance off the greens, and sink putting holes into the corresponding tee boxes with flags. The tee boxes won’t putt as nicely as regular greens, but they’re do-able.
The game should be a best-ball scramble: everybody tees off, and the group chooses the best tee shot of the four. The other three pick up. Then all four hit again from that spot, and on it goes into the cup – which won’t be on a green, but on a tee box.
Give everyone one mulligan to use sometime during the round.
Record everyone’s handicap and adjust scores accordingly.
Set it up as a shotgun start and run the foursomes on the course backwards. So if your foursome start on Hole No. 3 – teeing off from near the green and shooting toward the tee – then you progress to Hole No. 2, and on around the full nine.
Top off the evening with a backwards dinner. What else? Breakfast, of course! And give prizes to the top three foursomes. No, not the best-shooting ones – the ones with the WORST score!
BASS-ACKWARDS GOLF
This one would take some cooperation from a golf course, but for a nine-hole couples’ event, nothing is as much fun.
Invite everyone to come dressed “backwards.” It’s hilarious to see belts buckled at the back, shirts on backwards, boxer shorts worn over regular shorts – even a bra stuffed with tube socks and worn backwards under a backwards shirt.
Set up tee stakes a distance off the greens, and sink putting holes into the corresponding tee boxes with flags. The tee boxes won’t putt as nicely as regular greens, but they’re do-able.
The game should be a best-ball scramble: everybody tees off, and the group chooses the best tee shot of the four. The other three pick up. Then all four hit again from that spot, and on it goes into the cup – which won’t be on a green, but on a tee box.
Give everyone one mulligan to use sometime during the round.
Record everyone’s handicap and adjust scores accordingly.
Set it up as a shotgun start and run the foursomes on the course backwards. So if your foursome start on Hole No. 3 – teeing off from near the green and shooting toward the tee – then you progress to Hole No. 2, and on around the full nine.
Top off the evening with a backwards dinner. What else? Breakfast, of course! And give prizes to the top three foursomes. No, not the best-shooting ones – the ones with the WORST score!
Friday, July 11, 2003
FRIDAY: Vitamin Mom
CHILDHOOD ESSENTIAL: FINGERPAINTING
You know you’d rather not. You know it makes a mess. But you know it’s an absolute necessity for your child to get into fingerpainting at least once in those early years.
Summertime provides the optimal setting: outside near a garden hose.
If you have a washable plastic picnic table or other washable child’s table surface, you can skip the shiny paper and just let the little one have at it, hands on, on the table.
It’s a great opportunity to talk with your child about colors and how to mix different ones, and shapes, and all the different textures you can form with fingers, sticks, sponges and whatever else is at hand.
Swimsuits are a must, and clean-up is easy: just hose ‘em off.
It’s fun to give a child a tube of soap paint, too, which is a sort of fingerpainting for the skin, also followed swiftly by a hosing off.
If you’re REALLY a cool Mom, you’ll let your young one decorate YOU with the soap paint, and hose YOU off.
That’s the fun and freedom of fingerpainting: every experience with it is a work of art in itself.
CHILDHOOD ESSENTIAL: FINGERPAINTING
You know you’d rather not. You know it makes a mess. But you know it’s an absolute necessity for your child to get into fingerpainting at least once in those early years.
Summertime provides the optimal setting: outside near a garden hose.
If you have a washable plastic picnic table or other washable child’s table surface, you can skip the shiny paper and just let the little one have at it, hands on, on the table.
It’s a great opportunity to talk with your child about colors and how to mix different ones, and shapes, and all the different textures you can form with fingers, sticks, sponges and whatever else is at hand.
Swimsuits are a must, and clean-up is easy: just hose ‘em off.
It’s fun to give a child a tube of soap paint, too, which is a sort of fingerpainting for the skin, also followed swiftly by a hosing off.
If you’re REALLY a cool Mom, you’ll let your young one decorate YOU with the soap paint, and hose YOU off.
That’s the fun and freedom of fingerpainting: every experience with it is a work of art in itself.
Thursday, July 10, 2003
THURSDAY: Cre8iviT
INSTANT GARDEN STRUCTURE
Everybody's landscaping looks the same. At least, it tends to be that way in many neighborhoods. One of the reasons is that people tend to choose easy-care, low-maintenance bushes and flowers that all look the same, and beyond plants, their garden repertoire extends perhaps to a stone or two, and that's about it.
Now, we don't want to wind up with a flock of pink flamingos or, heaven forbid, one of those infamous little African-American jockeys. But there are ways to give your garden a touch of class and individuality for very little money.
One of the best: recycle an old chair, either one of your own or a find at a garage sale or junk shop. A child's rocking chair is just about perfect. Peeling paint in a pretty color is actually winsome, so don't worry about having it be in pristine condition.
All you have to do is put a pot of flowers on the seat of the chair, preferably with colorful, cascading flowers or ivy, and place the chair in an unexpected place in your yard.
Presto! It's casual . . . it's spontaneous . . . it's interesting . . . and it's cheap.
INSTANT GARDEN STRUCTURE
Everybody's landscaping looks the same. At least, it tends to be that way in many neighborhoods. One of the reasons is that people tend to choose easy-care, low-maintenance bushes and flowers that all look the same, and beyond plants, their garden repertoire extends perhaps to a stone or two, and that's about it.
Now, we don't want to wind up with a flock of pink flamingos or, heaven forbid, one of those infamous little African-American jockeys. But there are ways to give your garden a touch of class and individuality for very little money.
One of the best: recycle an old chair, either one of your own or a find at a garage sale or junk shop. A child's rocking chair is just about perfect. Peeling paint in a pretty color is actually winsome, so don't worry about having it be in pristine condition.
All you have to do is put a pot of flowers on the seat of the chair, preferably with colorful, cascading flowers or ivy, and place the chair in an unexpected place in your yard.
Presto! It's casual . . . it's spontaneous . . . it's interesting . . . and it's cheap.
Wednesday, July 09, 2003
WEDNESDAY: Family Funnies
STARTING PARENTHOOD WITH A BANG
A young couple expecting their first baby in a few weeks were poised at their respective bathroom sinks at 7 a.m., getting ready for work.
All of a sudden, BANG!
An extremely loud noise, like an indoor thunderclap, sounded in the front of the house.
Turns out a neighbor had left his minivan in the street momentarily to go get something in his house, but forgot to put it in "Park." The vehicle rolled down the young couple's steep downhill driveway and smashed into the house -- bashing in a wall of the new nursery that the couple had just spent hours rewallpapering.
The crib was on the other side of the room, but still . . . the soon-to-be-parents were glad the baby wasn't in it yet and that the crash came (ahem) prematurely.
STARTING PARENTHOOD WITH A BANG
A young couple expecting their first baby in a few weeks were poised at their respective bathroom sinks at 7 a.m., getting ready for work.
All of a sudden, BANG!
An extremely loud noise, like an indoor thunderclap, sounded in the front of the house.
Turns out a neighbor had left his minivan in the street momentarily to go get something in his house, but forgot to put it in "Park." The vehicle rolled down the young couple's steep downhill driveway and smashed into the house -- bashing in a wall of the new nursery that the couple had just spent hours rewallpapering.
The crib was on the other side of the room, but still . . . the soon-to-be-parents were glad the baby wasn't in it yet and that the crash came (ahem) prematurely.
TUESDAY: Hot Potatoes
DRUGS AS A MEANS OF SOCIAL CONTROL?
You hear about schoolchildren being placed on drugs such as Ritalin, ostensibly to help them learn, but there’s a hushed impression that it was really to get them to control their behavior so that they would stop disrupting the classroom.
Now there’s the same kind of feeling about a recent U.S. Supreme Court ruling that held that it is OK for the State to drug a criminal defendant in custody to make him or her able to stand trial. This forced medication is permissible if other measures have been tried and fail, if the drug is likely to work, and if the drug is medically appropriate. However, some in the medical community believe that the drugs that would be given in this situation are designed to suppress a person’s rebelliousness and make him or her compliant – not too different from the Ritalin situation in grade schools.
The case in the Supreme Court involved a dentist who has been in jail for six years awaiting trial on Medicaid fraud charges. Ironically, if he is convicted, the maximum jail term for his offense is three years. However, the government contends he is delusional and unable to stand trial.
Ironically, the dentist was the one who did the forensic work on the bodies after the fiery confrontation at Waco involving cult leader David Koresh. The dentist has said he thinks the government is to blame for the fiery deaths.
Read more about it on www.newswithviews.com and see the June 21, 2003, article by Mary Starrett, “Welcome to the Gulag.” The reference is to Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s prize-winning book about living in the Soviet work camps in Siberia, “The Gulag Archipelago.” In it, the same drug that forms Ritalin was given to the adults in camp as a stimulant to make them work harder. Paradoxically, in children, the drug has the opposite effect and is thought to allow some children to focus.
DRUGS AS A MEANS OF SOCIAL CONTROL?
You hear about schoolchildren being placed on drugs such as Ritalin, ostensibly to help them learn, but there’s a hushed impression that it was really to get them to control their behavior so that they would stop disrupting the classroom.
Now there’s the same kind of feeling about a recent U.S. Supreme Court ruling that held that it is OK for the State to drug a criminal defendant in custody to make him or her able to stand trial. This forced medication is permissible if other measures have been tried and fail, if the drug is likely to work, and if the drug is medically appropriate. However, some in the medical community believe that the drugs that would be given in this situation are designed to suppress a person’s rebelliousness and make him or her compliant – not too different from the Ritalin situation in grade schools.
The case in the Supreme Court involved a dentist who has been in jail for six years awaiting trial on Medicaid fraud charges. Ironically, if he is convicted, the maximum jail term for his offense is three years. However, the government contends he is delusional and unable to stand trial.
Ironically, the dentist was the one who did the forensic work on the bodies after the fiery confrontation at Waco involving cult leader David Koresh. The dentist has said he thinks the government is to blame for the fiery deaths.
Read more about it on www.newswithviews.com and see the June 21, 2003, article by Mary Starrett, “Welcome to the Gulag.” The reference is to Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s prize-winning book about living in the Soviet work camps in Siberia, “The Gulag Archipelago.” In it, the same drug that forms Ritalin was given to the adults in camp as a stimulant to make them work harder. Paradoxically, in children, the drug has the opposite effect and is thought to allow some children to focus.
Monday, July 07, 2003
MONDAY: Show 'n' Tell for Parents
POWER4KIDS READING INITIATIVE
Q. We hear a lot about educators and businesses trying to do things to help kids who struggle in school. But what about parents? What, if anything, are they doing to help?
Plenty, especially a few high-energy, high-income, high-determination parents whose own children have suffered at the hands of ineffective and downright inept public and even private education.
A prime example: Ron and Cinthia Haan of San Francisco, whose Haan Foundation for Children has funded key research into what kinds of reading remediation works for at-risk, academically-behind children. They are funding nationwide trials in schools in which some children are given an hour a day of intensive remediation using the techniques that reading experts know are best – systematic, intensive, explicit phonics – while “control” children are given the school’s customary remediation services. Both groups of children will be tested before and after the school year.
The Haans, whose two grown children struggled with learning disabilities, believe the results will show that traditional phonics instruction works best. Under their program, more and more teachers will be trained in how to teach with phonics, since very few in the nation know how now. Power4Kids schools across the land are expected to receive No Child Left Behind federal funding because they are using the techniques that are known to work.
The Haans say that the main reason 20 million out of the 52 million schoolchildren in this nation can’t read very well has nothing to do with the children or their parents – but is because they are not being given the right kind of reading instruction.
Amen!
“The ultimate goal of the Initiative is to ensure that our nation’s children succeed academically and not waste critical developmental years in programs that provide minimal or no results.”
Again I say, amen!
Homework: Read about Power4Kids and how you can help on the Haan Foundation for Children website: www.haan4kids.org
POWER4KIDS READING INITIATIVE
Q. We hear a lot about educators and businesses trying to do things to help kids who struggle in school. But what about parents? What, if anything, are they doing to help?
Plenty, especially a few high-energy, high-income, high-determination parents whose own children have suffered at the hands of ineffective and downright inept public and even private education.
A prime example: Ron and Cinthia Haan of San Francisco, whose Haan Foundation for Children has funded key research into what kinds of reading remediation works for at-risk, academically-behind children. They are funding nationwide trials in schools in which some children are given an hour a day of intensive remediation using the techniques that reading experts know are best – systematic, intensive, explicit phonics – while “control” children are given the school’s customary remediation services. Both groups of children will be tested before and after the school year.
The Haans, whose two grown children struggled with learning disabilities, believe the results will show that traditional phonics instruction works best. Under their program, more and more teachers will be trained in how to teach with phonics, since very few in the nation know how now. Power4Kids schools across the land are expected to receive No Child Left Behind federal funding because they are using the techniques that are known to work.
The Haans say that the main reason 20 million out of the 52 million schoolchildren in this nation can’t read very well has nothing to do with the children or their parents – but is because they are not being given the right kind of reading instruction.
Amen!
“The ultimate goal of the Initiative is to ensure that our nation’s children succeed academically and not waste critical developmental years in programs that provide minimal or no results.”
Again I say, amen!
Homework: Read about Power4Kids and how you can help on the Haan Foundation for Children website: www.haan4kids.org
Sunday, July 06, 2003
SUNDAY: Radiant Beams
HELPFUL, HELPFUL HUSBANDS
Likewise, ye husbands, dwell with them according to knowledge, giving honour unto the wife, as unto the weaker vessel, and as being heirs together of the grace of life; that your prayers be not hindered.
-- 1 Peter 3:7
I used to do the checkbook reconciliation. I hated it. Then my husband discovered that, for the previous six months, I had written ''FRUSTRATION ADJUSTMENT'' and said our total was whatever the bank said our total was. He took over the checkbook. It has balanced to the penny ever since.
Isn't incompetence wonderful?
I used the do the picture hanging. I hated that, too. Then one day, he got a load of me pounding a five-inch, 16-penny nail into the thin drywall to hold up a little, bitty picture. Hey! It was handy, so I went with it. Well, from that day forward, he has had the picture-hanging around here nailed, and nailed right.
I used to consider myself a computer whiz, since I have been using one for many years. He bought me a new printer for my home office, a supportive gesture. But the first day I needed to use it, with an important client coming over for a meeting, I couldn't get it to work. I fussed and fiddled and speed-read the manual. As the client was coming up the walk, I called my husband in a fit of pique: ''You bought a piece of junk! How'm I supposed to get this thing to work?!?'' As the doorbell rang, I saw that the printer WASN'T PLUGGED IN . . . minor detail . . . but in my best martyr tone told my husband, ''Oh, well, never mind, I'll try to fix it SOMEHOW.''
It's a tactical error, in my opinion, for a wife to be too good at the practical arts. It's a lot more fun to luxuriate in ditz-osity, get out of doing things you don't really want to do or are icky and technical, and build your husband's self-esteem in the process.
Works for me!
My mother was my model. When she was a newlywed, she didn't really want to get up early and cook my dad a big breakfast. So she fried the eggs and bacon the night before, put them in the fridge, and sleepily got up seconds before he did to warm them up. After three mornings of rubber, he announced that he would go out for breakfast from that point on.
Worked for her!
Competence, ladies, simply doesn't pay. I know a young wife who's one of those superwomen with an important job, a beautiful new home on a lake, and besides all that, she's seven months pregnant. Well, after a long day at work and a long commute home, she was busy whipping up a barbecue dinner for 10 because her husband had invited his team from work and spouses to come see their new home.
Surprise! Several of them brought their children unannounced, and one brought his great, big, mean dog.
No matter! She was able!
The husband took all the adults out on the boat. The pregnant wife stayed home to whip out the dinner, babysit the unexpected kids and keep a wary eye on the dog.
Sure enough, just as her husband and all their guests came whooshing by in the boat, waving gaily, and sped off, she turned to see that the great, big, mean dog was attacking THEIR dog . . . a normally meek black lab. The fur was flying.
She had no choice. She was the only thing that stood between their dog and the Grim Canine Reaper. So she did what any pregnant wife would do: she got in there and broke up the dogfight.
Competence, schmompetence. That was scary. Guess what boat captain was in the doghouse over THAT one?
But then again, husbands can get in trouble even when they try to help. Take my friend who came home from the doctor with bad news: she was sick. She was supposed to take it easy and go on medication.
Well, her husband exclaimed that from that moment on, he would take charge of all the cleaning, if she would just continue to cook.
She rejoiced. He went upstairs to vacuum for the first time in their marriage; she started dinner.
I can't remember exactly what happened, but somehow, she got herself trapped in the kitchen in some sort of a pickle. I think her hand got stuck in the garbage disposal at the same time the dishwasher overflowed onto the floor, a grease fire erupted on the cooktop and she had to go to the bathroom really bad.
''JOHN!” she shouted toward the upstairs. ''JOHN! HELP ME! COME QUICK!''
But all she heard was the vacuum, buzzing merrily.
She yelled louder:
''JOHN! COME DOWN HERE AND HELP ME! PLEASE! I NEED YOU!''
Just ''rrrrrrrrrrrrrr.''
She summoned all her strength for a mighty last blast: ''JOHN! IT'S AN EMERGENCY! PLEEEEEEEEEASE!!!''
She thought he was being cruel, denying her help, and forcing her to stay in that ridiculous position.
Turns out he had decided he was too cool to just vacuum, and so he had gotten his headphones cranked up, and was rockin' out to the tunes while he worked. He even did a little dancing up there.
Then he came downstairs and beheld what had befallen.
You guessed it: that's the last time HE's been up for helping around the house.
Hmm. Maybe these men are catching on to us.
HELPFUL, HELPFUL HUSBANDS
Likewise, ye husbands, dwell with them according to knowledge, giving honour unto the wife, as unto the weaker vessel, and as being heirs together of the grace of life; that your prayers be not hindered.
-- 1 Peter 3:7
I used to do the checkbook reconciliation. I hated it. Then my husband discovered that, for the previous six months, I had written ''FRUSTRATION ADJUSTMENT'' and said our total was whatever the bank said our total was. He took over the checkbook. It has balanced to the penny ever since.
Isn't incompetence wonderful?
I used the do the picture hanging. I hated that, too. Then one day, he got a load of me pounding a five-inch, 16-penny nail into the thin drywall to hold up a little, bitty picture. Hey! It was handy, so I went with it. Well, from that day forward, he has had the picture-hanging around here nailed, and nailed right.
I used to consider myself a computer whiz, since I have been using one for many years. He bought me a new printer for my home office, a supportive gesture. But the first day I needed to use it, with an important client coming over for a meeting, I couldn't get it to work. I fussed and fiddled and speed-read the manual. As the client was coming up the walk, I called my husband in a fit of pique: ''You bought a piece of junk! How'm I supposed to get this thing to work?!?'' As the doorbell rang, I saw that the printer WASN'T PLUGGED IN . . . minor detail . . . but in my best martyr tone told my husband, ''Oh, well, never mind, I'll try to fix it SOMEHOW.''
It's a tactical error, in my opinion, for a wife to be too good at the practical arts. It's a lot more fun to luxuriate in ditz-osity, get out of doing things you don't really want to do or are icky and technical, and build your husband's self-esteem in the process.
Works for me!
My mother was my model. When she was a newlywed, she didn't really want to get up early and cook my dad a big breakfast. So she fried the eggs and bacon the night before, put them in the fridge, and sleepily got up seconds before he did to warm them up. After three mornings of rubber, he announced that he would go out for breakfast from that point on.
Worked for her!
Competence, ladies, simply doesn't pay. I know a young wife who's one of those superwomen with an important job, a beautiful new home on a lake, and besides all that, she's seven months pregnant. Well, after a long day at work and a long commute home, she was busy whipping up a barbecue dinner for 10 because her husband had invited his team from work and spouses to come see their new home.
Surprise! Several of them brought their children unannounced, and one brought his great, big, mean dog.
No matter! She was able!
The husband took all the adults out on the boat. The pregnant wife stayed home to whip out the dinner, babysit the unexpected kids and keep a wary eye on the dog.
Sure enough, just as her husband and all their guests came whooshing by in the boat, waving gaily, and sped off, she turned to see that the great, big, mean dog was attacking THEIR dog . . . a normally meek black lab. The fur was flying.
She had no choice. She was the only thing that stood between their dog and the Grim Canine Reaper. So she did what any pregnant wife would do: she got in there and broke up the dogfight.
Competence, schmompetence. That was scary. Guess what boat captain was in the doghouse over THAT one?
But then again, husbands can get in trouble even when they try to help. Take my friend who came home from the doctor with bad news: she was sick. She was supposed to take it easy and go on medication.
Well, her husband exclaimed that from that moment on, he would take charge of all the cleaning, if she would just continue to cook.
She rejoiced. He went upstairs to vacuum for the first time in their marriage; she started dinner.
I can't remember exactly what happened, but somehow, she got herself trapped in the kitchen in some sort of a pickle. I think her hand got stuck in the garbage disposal at the same time the dishwasher overflowed onto the floor, a grease fire erupted on the cooktop and she had to go to the bathroom really bad.
''JOHN!” she shouted toward the upstairs. ''JOHN! HELP ME! COME QUICK!''
But all she heard was the vacuum, buzzing merrily.
She yelled louder:
''JOHN! COME DOWN HERE AND HELP ME! PLEASE! I NEED YOU!''
Just ''rrrrrrrrrrrrrr.''
She summoned all her strength for a mighty last blast: ''JOHN! IT'S AN EMERGENCY! PLEEEEEEEEEASE!!!''
She thought he was being cruel, denying her help, and forcing her to stay in that ridiculous position.
Turns out he had decided he was too cool to just vacuum, and so he had gotten his headphones cranked up, and was rockin' out to the tunes while he worked. He even did a little dancing up there.
Then he came downstairs and beheld what had befallen.
You guessed it: that's the last time HE's been up for helping around the house.
Hmm. Maybe these men are catching on to us.
SATURDAY: FUNdamentals
TEAM GOLF
A fun couples' golf idea for nine holes is to tell everybody to dress up as their favorite team. Give no more guidance than that. You may have a lot of people who come simply wearing some of their favorite sports regalia, or you may have people who come dressed creatively as salt and pepper shakers, two Belgian horses complete with blinders, or Charlie's Angels.
When they arrive and tee off, take pictures of all the costumes, and wind up with a pizza party or other casual meal.
TEAM GOLF
A fun couples' golf idea for nine holes is to tell everybody to dress up as their favorite team. Give no more guidance than that. You may have a lot of people who come simply wearing some of their favorite sports regalia, or you may have people who come dressed creatively as salt and pepper shakers, two Belgian horses complete with blinders, or Charlie's Angels.
When they arrive and tee off, take pictures of all the costumes, and wind up with a pizza party or other casual meal.
Friday, July 04, 2003
FRIDAY: Vitamin Mom
INSTILLING LOVE FOR COUNTRY
Fourth of July festivities offer ample opportunities to teach kids about America’s greatness and unique status in the world as a beacon of freedom.
When you’re sitting around the family picnic table, take a moment to ask each family member what they love best about America.
Even if the children’s answers are as simple as “good food” or “pretty mountains,” there is wisdom to be found.
Older family members will help teach about our nation’s values with answers such as “everyone is allowed to be an individual” and “we really do celebrate diversity and are strengthened by it.”
You know you’ve done your job as a mother when a smart-alecky teenager, who didn’t want to answer the question, says, “What I love best about America is . . . the Fifth Amendment!”
INSTILLING LOVE FOR COUNTRY
Fourth of July festivities offer ample opportunities to teach kids about America’s greatness and unique status in the world as a beacon of freedom.
When you’re sitting around the family picnic table, take a moment to ask each family member what they love best about America.
Even if the children’s answers are as simple as “good food” or “pretty mountains,” there is wisdom to be found.
Older family members will help teach about our nation’s values with answers such as “everyone is allowed to be an individual” and “we really do celebrate diversity and are strengthened by it.”
You know you’ve done your job as a mother when a smart-alecky teenager, who didn’t want to answer the question, says, “What I love best about America is . . . the Fifth Amendment!”
Thursday, July 03, 2003
THURSDAY: Cre8iviT
LOW-CAL PATRIOTISM
Everybody loves the Fourth of July, everybody gets together for a fun picnic, but everybody’s watching their weight, bigtime.
What to do?
Instead of a rich and fattening dessert that’ll weigh everybody down and make them fall asleep before the fireworks, get creative with a low-cal dessert decked out in red, white and blue.
You will need:
Clear plastic cups, 8- or 12-ounce
Angel food cake, broken up into small pieces
Sugar-free red Jell-O
Sugar-free vanilla ice milk or frozen yogurt, well-softened
Strawberries and blueberries
Real whipping cream
Powdered sugar
Set aside half of the cake pieces, but toss the other half in sugar-free red Jell-O.
Now let’s build our desserts! Layer in each cup:
1. A few red cake crumbs; press down with an empty cup.
2. About a half-inch, or one blob, of softened ice milk or fro-yo
3. A handful of blueberries
4. A few white cake crumbs
5. A handful of strawberries
6. Another blob of softened ice milk or fro-yo
7. A few more red cake crumbs
8. Top with whipped cream, with a little powdered sugar added
9. Garnish with a few quartered strawberries and blueberries
Freeze. Enjoy! Have fun! It’s the American way – not “weigh.”
LOW-CAL PATRIOTISM
Everybody loves the Fourth of July, everybody gets together for a fun picnic, but everybody’s watching their weight, bigtime.
What to do?
Instead of a rich and fattening dessert that’ll weigh everybody down and make them fall asleep before the fireworks, get creative with a low-cal dessert decked out in red, white and blue.
You will need:
Clear plastic cups, 8- or 12-ounce
Angel food cake, broken up into small pieces
Sugar-free red Jell-O
Sugar-free vanilla ice milk or frozen yogurt, well-softened
Strawberries and blueberries
Real whipping cream
Powdered sugar
Set aside half of the cake pieces, but toss the other half in sugar-free red Jell-O.
Now let’s build our desserts! Layer in each cup:
1. A few red cake crumbs; press down with an empty cup.
2. About a half-inch, or one blob, of softened ice milk or fro-yo
3. A handful of blueberries
4. A few white cake crumbs
5. A handful of strawberries
6. Another blob of softened ice milk or fro-yo
7. A few more red cake crumbs
8. Top with whipped cream, with a little powdered sugar added
9. Garnish with a few quartered strawberries and blueberries
Freeze. Enjoy! Have fun! It’s the American way – not “weigh.”
WEDNESDAY: Family Funnies
DERANGED IDEAS FOR CAR TRAVEL WITH CHILDREN
The in-car DVD wasn't working. The books had all been read. The coloring book was spent. The Thomas the Train toys had long since choo-choo'ed under the seats.
With 200 miles to go and a cranky, travel-worn toddler in the car, what to do?
Easy. Put a teenager in the front passenger seat and give her a set of flat felt dolls from the felt storyboard that every toddler should have, if for no other reason than to pass the time during those last 200 miles of a long car trip.
The teenager then places each doll, in turn, in front of the air conditioning vent, going full blast. After a long and hilarious set-up, complete with falsetto dialogue and soap-opera dramatics, the teenager lets go of the felt doll.
It zooms and curls in the air, landing in funny places such as the top of Daddy's golf hat or upside down on the console. People in passing cars cross themselves and speed away as they behold the hysterical laughter and flying dolls in your vehicle.
You can spend $1,000 on toys. You can drug 'em. You can wear earplugs.
Or you can bring along a set of fifty-cent felt dolls on your next car trip, and survive those last 200 miles.
It's worth a shot.
DERANGED IDEAS FOR CAR TRAVEL WITH CHILDREN
The in-car DVD wasn't working. The books had all been read. The coloring book was spent. The Thomas the Train toys had long since choo-choo'ed under the seats.
With 200 miles to go and a cranky, travel-worn toddler in the car, what to do?
Easy. Put a teenager in the front passenger seat and give her a set of flat felt dolls from the felt storyboard that every toddler should have, if for no other reason than to pass the time during those last 200 miles of a long car trip.
The teenager then places each doll, in turn, in front of the air conditioning vent, going full blast. After a long and hilarious set-up, complete with falsetto dialogue and soap-opera dramatics, the teenager lets go of the felt doll.
It zooms and curls in the air, landing in funny places such as the top of Daddy's golf hat or upside down on the console. People in passing cars cross themselves and speed away as they behold the hysterical laughter and flying dolls in your vehicle.
You can spend $1,000 on toys. You can drug 'em. You can wear earplugs.
Or you can bring along a set of fifty-cent felt dolls on your next car trip, and survive those last 200 miles.
It's worth a shot.
TUESDAY: Hot Potatoes
ARE RFID CHIPS 'THE MARK OF THE BEAST'?
There's an excellent article explaining tiny RFID chips which are about to explode onto the scene everywhere as security, inventory and surveillance devices no bigger than the period at the end of this sentence. Read more on Security Focus:
http://securityfocus.com/columnists/169
RFID tags are tiny microchips that run on radio signals that can be read by an RFID transceiver. It's the same techology used to make those "lost and found" chips placed inside the bodies of pets or on many types of credit cards. It's being used to track everything from airport luggage to employee theft, and is hailed as the driver for the cashless society that many people expect is soon to come.
The European Central Bank is planning to embed RFID chips in the euro, supposedly to combat money laundering and counterfeiting. Many people think the redesign of American currency a few years ago was to pave the way for embedded chips. Observers point out that the chips would allow the government to track money exchanges from person to person or from person to business, destroying the anonymity of cash transactions, and increasing government surveillance over private purchasing decisions.
With RFIDs placed in your clothing, tires and any number of other goods that surround you, your behavior and movements can be tracked and recorded.
Lastly, there's an RFID chip for the human body called the VeriChip. It's designed to go under the skin and can be read from four feet away at the present time, but that distance could be greatly expanded as the technology matures. For now, it's sold as a way to keep children and Alzheimer's patients safe, with the embedded chip, currently among the biggest in its class at 11 milligrams, but still tiny enough to go beneath the skin.
That raises the specter of the fulfillment of the warning about "The Mark of the Beast" from Revelation 13:16-18:
"And he causeth all, both small and great, rich and poor, free and bond, to receive a mark in their right hand, or in their foreheads: and that no man might buy or sell, save he that had the mark, or the name of the beast, or the number of his name. Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six."
Note how this Biblically-prophesied mark is to be "in" a person's body, not on it.
What to do? Keep watching. It would be tremendous if voters would flood Congress with demands to outlaw the RFID tags for human use, and demand that other types of users must notify customers if there are RFID tags in their products tracking their whereabouts or actions. There also should be a way that consumers can disable the tags if they wish and not be controlled or tracked if they do not desire.
And who would?
ARE RFID CHIPS 'THE MARK OF THE BEAST'?
There's an excellent article explaining tiny RFID chips which are about to explode onto the scene everywhere as security, inventory and surveillance devices no bigger than the period at the end of this sentence. Read more on Security Focus:
http://securityfocus.com/columnists/169
RFID tags are tiny microchips that run on radio signals that can be read by an RFID transceiver. It's the same techology used to make those "lost and found" chips placed inside the bodies of pets or on many types of credit cards. It's being used to track everything from airport luggage to employee theft, and is hailed as the driver for the cashless society that many people expect is soon to come.
The European Central Bank is planning to embed RFID chips in the euro, supposedly to combat money laundering and counterfeiting. Many people think the redesign of American currency a few years ago was to pave the way for embedded chips. Observers point out that the chips would allow the government to track money exchanges from person to person or from person to business, destroying the anonymity of cash transactions, and increasing government surveillance over private purchasing decisions.
With RFIDs placed in your clothing, tires and any number of other goods that surround you, your behavior and movements can be tracked and recorded.
Lastly, there's an RFID chip for the human body called the VeriChip. It's designed to go under the skin and can be read from four feet away at the present time, but that distance could be greatly expanded as the technology matures. For now, it's sold as a way to keep children and Alzheimer's patients safe, with the embedded chip, currently among the biggest in its class at 11 milligrams, but still tiny enough to go beneath the skin.
That raises the specter of the fulfillment of the warning about "The Mark of the Beast" from Revelation 13:16-18:
"And he causeth all, both small and great, rich and poor, free and bond, to receive a mark in their right hand, or in their foreheads: and that no man might buy or sell, save he that had the mark, or the name of the beast, or the number of his name. Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six."
Note how this Biblically-prophesied mark is to be "in" a person's body, not on it.
What to do? Keep watching. It would be tremendous if voters would flood Congress with demands to outlaw the RFID tags for human use, and demand that other types of users must notify customers if there are RFID tags in their products tracking their whereabouts or actions. There also should be a way that consumers can disable the tags if they wish and not be controlled or tracked if they do not desire.
And who would?
MONDAY: Show 'n' Tell for Parents
KIPP SCHOOLS: OLD IS NEW, BUT SO FAR, IT WORKS
Q. What are the KIPP schools, and are they really a marvelous miracle?
The 15 “Knowledge is Power Program” middle schools around the nation, serving low-income children, have indeed posted amazing results. The KIPP academy in Gaston, N.C., raised the percentage of fifth-graders who passed the state reading exam from 59% to 100% in just one year. Results like that have attracted another 17 more schools set to open this fall as KIPP charter or contract schools.
But the KIPP program is not really a breakthrough. It’s a sad commentary on the state of modern-day education that the principles that are working so well at KIPP schools are really the old-fashioned, common-sense, paper-and-pencil educational ways of the past:
-- High expectations for each child, made crystal clear.
-- Lots of careful monitoring of individual progress.
-- More learning time and less wasted time.
The KIPP schools stick to the basics and lay a solid foundation of academics and self-discipline so that the 5th-through-8th graders are much better prepared for high school and college. The school day is usually eight hours instead of six or so. Summer school is required. Teachers are given a cell phone and students are encouraged to call them at home at night with homework questions. There is zero tolerance for work left undone. Teachers make home visits and parents sign contracts promising to back up the school. A point system for good behavior lets kids pick out goodies at a school store. They also are rewarded at year’s end with a big trip to celebrate.
Even though 83 percent of the students are poor enough to qualify for free or reduced lunch, their performance on standardized tests is blowing out their age-peers in public schools still mired in the “progressive” philosophies of Whole Language and Whole Math, instead of solid, basic academic development – the “old” way.
Funding for KIPP programs has come in large part from Don and Doris Fisher of GAP store fame, who made a $25 million gift.
Homework: See www.kipp.org
KIPP SCHOOLS: OLD IS NEW, BUT SO FAR, IT WORKS
Q. What are the KIPP schools, and are they really a marvelous miracle?
The 15 “Knowledge is Power Program” middle schools around the nation, serving low-income children, have indeed posted amazing results. The KIPP academy in Gaston, N.C., raised the percentage of fifth-graders who passed the state reading exam from 59% to 100% in just one year. Results like that have attracted another 17 more schools set to open this fall as KIPP charter or contract schools.
But the KIPP program is not really a breakthrough. It’s a sad commentary on the state of modern-day education that the principles that are working so well at KIPP schools are really the old-fashioned, common-sense, paper-and-pencil educational ways of the past:
-- High expectations for each child, made crystal clear.
-- Lots of careful monitoring of individual progress.
-- More learning time and less wasted time.
The KIPP schools stick to the basics and lay a solid foundation of academics and self-discipline so that the 5th-through-8th graders are much better prepared for high school and college. The school day is usually eight hours instead of six or so. Summer school is required. Teachers are given a cell phone and students are encouraged to call them at home at night with homework questions. There is zero tolerance for work left undone. Teachers make home visits and parents sign contracts promising to back up the school. A point system for good behavior lets kids pick out goodies at a school store. They also are rewarded at year’s end with a big trip to celebrate.
Even though 83 percent of the students are poor enough to qualify for free or reduced lunch, their performance on standardized tests is blowing out their age-peers in public schools still mired in the “progressive” philosophies of Whole Language and Whole Math, instead of solid, basic academic development – the “old” way.
Funding for KIPP programs has come in large part from Don and Doris Fisher of GAP store fame, who made a $25 million gift.
Homework: See www.kipp.org
Wednesday, July 02, 2003
SATURDAY: FUNdamentals
FOURTH OF JULY PAPIER-MACHE
One of the neatest projects for a family or group of friends to make together would be to make a “porch sculpture” to celebrate America’s Independence Day.
Choose an American icon – the flag, George Washington’s face, Uncle Sam’s hat, Mount Rushmore, the Statue of Liberty – and get a picture of it.
Buy lightweight chicken wire at the hardware store, the kind that can be easily wrapped around itself, pulled and punched into three-dimensional shapes, and serve as the “skeleton” for your artwork.
For simpler artworks, use inflated balloons, crumped newspaper, empty cardboard tubes or anything else you can part with as the structure.
Cut long strips of newspaper, paper towel, old gift wrap, tissue paper, construction paper or whatever else you have on hand.
Mix one cup of water to every quarter-cup of flour. The mixture should be thin and runny. Stir into five cups lightly boiling water. Boil and stir for two or three minutes. Let cool until it’s comfortable to put your hands in it.
Pour the paste into a shallow tray or tub. Dip strips in paste. Paste strips over the form. Add as many layers as you like, modeling the form with your fingers as you go.
A thick project may take a couple of days to dry.
Paint with tempera paint.
Set your sculpture out on the porch a couple of days before the Fourth. Don’t forget to take a picture!
FOURTH OF JULY PAPIER-MACHE
One of the neatest projects for a family or group of friends to make together would be to make a “porch sculpture” to celebrate America’s Independence Day.
Choose an American icon – the flag, George Washington’s face, Uncle Sam’s hat, Mount Rushmore, the Statue of Liberty – and get a picture of it.
Buy lightweight chicken wire at the hardware store, the kind that can be easily wrapped around itself, pulled and punched into three-dimensional shapes, and serve as the “skeleton” for your artwork.
For simpler artworks, use inflated balloons, crumped newspaper, empty cardboard tubes or anything else you can part with as the structure.
Cut long strips of newspaper, paper towel, old gift wrap, tissue paper, construction paper or whatever else you have on hand.
Mix one cup of water to every quarter-cup of flour. The mixture should be thin and runny. Stir into five cups lightly boiling water. Boil and stir for two or three minutes. Let cool until it’s comfortable to put your hands in it.
Pour the paste into a shallow tray or tub. Dip strips in paste. Paste strips over the form. Add as many layers as you like, modeling the form with your fingers as you go.
A thick project may take a couple of days to dry.
Paint with tempera paint.
Set your sculpture out on the porch a couple of days before the Fourth. Don’t forget to take a picture!
FRIDAY: Vitamin Mom
OVERSTIMULATING POP AND CANDY
Did you know there are 128 milligrams of caffeine in a half-cup of M&M’s, ‘way over the recommended maximum daily intake of 100 milligrams?
Did you know there is lots of caffeine in chocolate ice cream, many colas and orange sodas, vitamin waters and energy drinks?
It’s hard to tell, since manufacturers don’t have to put caffeine content on labels. That seems wrong, since caffeine is a powerful stimulant. Kids and teens – and all of us, for that matter – should be careful not to overdose on caffeine in any form.
Consuming too much of it in a day has been linked to anxiety, insomnia, tension, even nausea and upset stomach. When a food item is heavy in both carbohydrates and caffeine, it’s almost certain to upset your child or teen’s mood and behavior.
Adults have a pretty good idea of how even a small cup of regular coffee each day can shoot too much caffeine into the bloodstream. On average, a small cup of regular drip coffee has over 100 milligrams of caffeine.
So a youngster having two cans of pop and two kinds of chocolate candy in a day is likely to be ‘way, ‘way over the sensible limit.
Check out the caffeine content of your child’s favorite treats on a search engine, or see:
http://www.holymtn.com/tea/caffeine_content.htm
OVERSTIMULATING POP AND CANDY
Did you know there are 128 milligrams of caffeine in a half-cup of M&M’s, ‘way over the recommended maximum daily intake of 100 milligrams?
Did you know there is lots of caffeine in chocolate ice cream, many colas and orange sodas, vitamin waters and energy drinks?
It’s hard to tell, since manufacturers don’t have to put caffeine content on labels. That seems wrong, since caffeine is a powerful stimulant. Kids and teens – and all of us, for that matter – should be careful not to overdose on caffeine in any form.
Consuming too much of it in a day has been linked to anxiety, insomnia, tension, even nausea and upset stomach. When a food item is heavy in both carbohydrates and caffeine, it’s almost certain to upset your child or teen’s mood and behavior.
Adults have a pretty good idea of how even a small cup of regular coffee each day can shoot too much caffeine into the bloodstream. On average, a small cup of regular drip coffee has over 100 milligrams of caffeine.
So a youngster having two cans of pop and two kinds of chocolate candy in a day is likely to be ‘way, ‘way over the sensible limit.
Check out the caffeine content of your child’s favorite treats on a search engine, or see:
http://www.holymtn.com/tea/caffeine_content.htm
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