tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1349871104902268882024-03-14T02:27:17.641-07:00Finish WellThoughts of a woman pondering beginnings, endings, and how to get from one to the other.Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.comBlogger44125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-134987110490226888.post-32746989249179980022014-02-03T03:00:00.000-08:002014-02-03T10:29:22.320-08:00Would I Trade Places?<br />
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The other day on the radio, the morning hosts posed a question:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
"Wives, would you trade places with your husbands?"</div>
<br />
OK. I had to think about that question for about 2.5 seconds. And since I'm ADHD I had seven other, completely unrelated thoughts during that time.<br />
<br />
Both of us have similarities in our jobs:<br />
<ol>
<li>We both work an unmanageable number of hours per week.</li>
<li>We both rarely get praise or recognition for the amount of hard work we put in by the people we do the most work for. </li>
</ol>
But that's kind of where the similarities end. <br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><b>More About His Job</b></span><br />
<ol>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYGhVuAN-QeZ7MweVOA9MUsoxMEmEYtlVs0LOQj2a5-mF6lay1qqi23qwPJ3T02ntevl-hIRP7mDNaggcPThouqLHiK7tid5DIBk8zD_DNgmQThjpzaNg_RJmPhk8BiRqkL2hVdidlX9k/s1600/US+passport.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYGhVuAN-QeZ7MweVOA9MUsoxMEmEYtlVs0LOQj2a5-mF6lay1qqi23qwPJ3T02ntevl-hIRP7mDNaggcPThouqLHiK7tid5DIBk8zD_DNgmQThjpzaNg_RJmPhk8BiRqkL2hVdidlX9k/s1600/US+passport.jpg" height="320" width="266" /></a>
<li>He travels about 75% of the time to places like London, Tokyo, and Chicago. He is Diamond level with Hilton Hotels and Platinum level with Delta Airlines. </li>
<li>He gets to stay at nice hotels with Executive Lounges that give you free drinks and snacks in the evening. <i>Good morning, Mr. Edgecomb! Good evening, Mr. Edgecomb! Of course I can take care of that for you, Mr. Edgecomb!</i></li>
<li>He gets to eat out in restaurants where people cook your food, bring it to you, and then clean up after you leave.</li>
<li>He doesn't have to make his own bed or take out the trash because someone else does it for him. </li>
<li>No one barfs on his bedroom rug and looks to him to clean it up.</li>
<li>If he is traveling over a weekend, he can do cool things like go to the theatre or sleep in.</li>
</ol>
<b><i>Note: Right now he is in Tokyo for 10 days...</i></b> <br />
<ol>
</ol>
<span style="color: blue;"><b>More About My Job</b></span><br />
<ol>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_9_WvpqjISY33sjlWw_5J2OONN0U05lfOLsrMS3WBS0Cqywlv-xfqpxp-k2qkFcH6sUraU9HP5HXIT2tlyr-EG-4WHBVXhYoLq-pArFZMGbHA68LNHtVjXuXD-74ZwjtevydCykeR-Ao/s1600/IMG_5459.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_9_WvpqjISY33sjlWw_5J2OONN0U05lfOLsrMS3WBS0Cqywlv-xfqpxp-k2qkFcH6sUraU9HP5HXIT2tlyr-EG-4WHBVXhYoLq-pArFZMGbHA68LNHtVjXuXD-74ZwjtevydCykeR-Ao/s1600/IMG_5459.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a>
<li>Due to aforementioned travel, much of the time I am a single mom — to 3 boys (currently at home) from age 8 - 16.</li>
<li>I am also a Scout den leader — although I didn't sign up to be one — because my husband isn't there to do it.</li>
<li>I love to cook, but eat smoothies, eggs, and leftovers more than anything else because most of the time it's just not worth it when you're only cooking for kids who are OK with eggs. Again.</li>
<li>I make the kids do their homework, practice their instruments, and eat their veggies. And I get the pleasure of frequently being told that I am hated because of it.</li>
<li>I have to break up sibling fights a dozen times a day. Or at least tell them to go outside because I don't want to hear it. </li>
<li>I have a before-bed list of chores and tasks that takes about 30 minutes or more because I'm the only person here to do it most of the time.</li>
<li>I'm responsible. <i>(As in: If a kid is sick, I'm responsible. If a kid needs disciplining, I'm responsible. If that cat pukes on the rug, I'm responsible.)</i> </li>
<li><i><b>Oh, and I also have a part-time job. </b></i></li>
</ol>
So, back to the original question:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
"Wives, would you trade places with your husbands?"</div>
<br />
My answer:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Not just no. Hell no!"</span></b></i></div>
<br />
Because if I want to talk to my kids, I don't have to calculate time zone differences.<br />
<br />
Because Skype is cool, but live is cooler. <br />
<br />
Because you can't snuggle with an iPad.<br />
<br />
Because sometimes I <i><b>w<span id="goog_118286193"></span><span id="goog_118286194"></span>ant</b></i> eggs, and I don't have to figure out if the hotel restaurant in Tokyo can make them just the way I like them.<br />
<br />
Because one "I love you Mommy!" coupled with a hug can cover a multitude of sins.<br />
<br />
Because if I'm having a bad day, I have friends I can call to cry or laugh together. Or dump my kids on.<br />
<br />
Because, as much as I complain about them, I don't have to miss sports games, recitals, class parties, or teacher meetings for work.<br />
<br />
Because my bed is better than any hotel bed.<br />
<br />
Because I don't have to decide ten days ahead of time what I'm going to want to wear ten days from now. <br />
<br />
Because I will never be downsized out of my job. Not for a long time anyway.<br />
<br />
Because the amount of responsibility he carries on his broad shoulders is more than I can imagine.<br />
<br />
Because I know that even if international travel were all it's cracked up to be ... and it's not ... that he'd rather be here doing this.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW73bmBqIN29AB4IJjPlG7azJyeSJUWYu11sVMDA161J0d4euHzvvnPUt-6mH2v7zTSVkVPWdRDmyBBd8wfEh236dvhd1moQQYhcONp-e-9_vIdwQ-0jIyZ23-DcSgjOcwPGH_c28lync/s1600/IMG_1475.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW73bmBqIN29AB4IJjPlG7azJyeSJUWYu11sVMDA161J0d4euHzvvnPUt-6mH2v7zTSVkVPWdRDmyBBd8wfEh236dvhd1moQQYhcONp-e-9_vIdwQ-0jIyZ23-DcSgjOcwPGH_c28lync/s1600/IMG_1475.JPG" height="320" width="239" /><i><b></b></i></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b><br /></b></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>Disclaimer: This does not mean that, given the opportunity, I wouldn't like to get a few more stamps in my passport. Nor am I forfeiting the right to complain about my job to anyone who will listen. I mean, let's be real guys.</b></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Finish Well.<i><b> </b></i></div>
Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-134987110490226888.post-5158460694505439452014-01-31T11:49:00.002-08:002014-01-31T11:50:28.963-08:00Five-Minute Friday: Family Heroes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGFdMhndvv63cnXy0YLo9g0z5ZMszvuh5fOL-M8P_EaQ6Ln8FAoKy4d0TQ_S7Wvmu9TEUGGnvrjt0rTdpoKEZhCXmaRHl697JafO5v3DAr_g8CfHa_KxbW5R2of5v-NZffYeVuMhuhSck/s1600/5minutefriday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGFdMhndvv63cnXy0YLo9g0z5ZMszvuh5fOL-M8P_EaQ6Ln8FAoKy4d0TQ_S7Wvmu9TEUGGnvrjt0rTdpoKEZhCXmaRHl697JafO5v3DAr_g8CfHa_KxbW5R2of5v-NZffYeVuMhuhSck/s1600/5minutefriday.jpg" /></a></div>
[Today's one-word writing prompt: Hero]<br />
<br />
<i>A Hero Ain't Nothin' But a Sandwich.</i><br />
<br />
Raise your hand if you got that one.<br />
<br />
<i>OK. I got that out of my system. </i><br />
<br />
I know with all of the snow and ice and crap that's been going on in Atlanta recently, you think I'm going to write about the cop who handed out coffee and granola bars to stranded motorists on the highway. Or the hotel worker who walked three miles in the snow to get a non-paying guest (i.e., lobby squatter) who had just had open heart surgery the medicine he needed. Or the man who walked five miles to be with his child who was stuck at school.<br />
<br />
But I'm not! <i>(Hey, wait a minute. Didn't I just?....)</i><br />
<br />
After that obvious stuff passed, I was thinking about everyday heroes in my own family. So I just want to give a few shout-outs.<br />
<br />
To my mother who didn't kill me when they took me to London when I was 11, and I made her skip something really lovely and educational to take me to Madam Tussaud's Wax Museum and House of Horrors. That's an afternoon of your life you will never get back. I'm sorry.<br />
<br />
To my dad who melted Hershey chocolate for me after I had my tonsils out when I was 8. Is that cool or what?<br />
<br />
To my niece who is a kick-ass single mom of two little minions, yet manages to cook more than I do (and better), have a wicked garden, and still have a raucous social life. At least it looks that way on Facebook. <br />
<br />
To my husband who once had to hold a bowl for me to vomit into while I was ... um ... doing other things. TMI, I know. But you guys just have to know what I've put this man through.<br />
<br />
There are plenty of others, but I'm out of time. That really isn't the image I wanted to leave you with. Sorry 'bout that.<br />
<br />
Finish Well.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-134987110490226888.post-14207734694141632382014-01-27T03:00:00.000-08:002014-01-27T03:00:00.596-08:00Holidays Make Me Feel Incompetent*<i>* Stolen from Jana Anthoine</i><br />
<br />
I just took down my Christmas tree.<br />
<br />
I admit it. My Christmas tree was up until Wednesday, January 22. And if carpet cleaners had not been coming to try to get red gel food coloring out of Jordan's new bedroom carpet, it would probably still be there.<br />
<br />
If my tree were alive instead of completely, utterly fake, it would have looked like this:<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeoB7hCqn6FZefMMSNVXvveQ2HZI5gjpW7J9y38aW_Apf8uB1uWDwy0WwMPR8MunjIEiXXardXQxk7mSo6ofl9OcOyhX2gjJYfoAJZr0-hCvUr6m2kTE_K29n-DTaewsAp2ROXrogsAAs/s1600/dead+chrsitmas+tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeoB7hCqn6FZefMMSNVXvveQ2HZI5gjpW7J9y38aW_Apf8uB1uWDwy0WwMPR8MunjIEiXXardXQxk7mSo6ofl9OcOyhX2gjJYfoAJZr0-hCvUr6m2kTE_K29n-DTaewsAp2ROXrogsAAs/s1600/dead+chrsitmas+tree.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
Which is why we have a fake tree, by the way. Too many years of <b><i>that</i></b>.<br />
<br />
Why, pray tell, was my Christmas Tree up until the 29th Day of Christmas? <br />
<span style="color: purple;"><b><br /></b></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: purple;"><b>Excuse #1: I need hubby's help to take it down, and he travels. </b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<b>That's a lie.</b><br />
<br />
When it finally did come down, he wasn't there. He was in Chicago. I took the ornaments off, boxed them up, and then Joshua and Sandy took our Christmas tree apart and took it to the basement.<br />
<br />
And I certainly don't need his help to take down the Santa Claus flag which is <b><i>still </i></b>hanging by the front door.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: purple;"><b>Excuse #2: I didn't put it up until late, so I'm still enjoying having it up. </b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<b>That's a lie, too.</b><br />
<br />
I was cursing that tree by the time it came down.<br />
Cursing every time the cats knocked an ornament off and the dog ate it.<br />
Cursing every time I went to bed with the lights still turned on. <i>Yes, we were turning the lights on right up until the end. </i><br />
And cursing when I thought about what you thought when your kids came home and said, <i>"The Edgecombs still have their Christmas tree up! Why did we have to take ours down three weeks ago?"</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
And it also doesn't explain why I had to take down my Halloween flag to put up my Christmas one<i><b>. Doh!</b></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: orange;"><b>WARNING: </b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: orange;"><b>ADD MOMENT COMING</b></span></div>
<br />
You know what's great about the Internet? I can Google "For Better or Worse Christmas Cartoon" and one of my favorite cartoons of all time pops up:<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpgRFhSqQ7Zx_XxNpdZIr04SoE7ietcbov_AZF8vfpT5TfnFIkAdknjse1GnhM0C1SmHqxMe-7ux552u-z0QF3YiVJiQrQdgj9mBDkOxyDdbvliIEQLkEyCaf20F6C-Fku3P2XFgoJ7cI/s1600/For+Better+or+Worse+Christmas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpgRFhSqQ7Zx_XxNpdZIr04SoE7ietcbov_AZF8vfpT5TfnFIkAdknjse1GnhM0C1SmHqxMe-7ux552u-z0QF3YiVJiQrQdgj9mBDkOxyDdbvliIEQLkEyCaf20F6C-Fku3P2XFgoJ7cI/s1600/For+Better+or+Worse+Christmas.jpg" height="197" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: orange;"><b>Back to our regularly scheduled program.</b></span></div>
<br />
My mother did special things for all major holidays and made it look easy. Maybe that's why this cartoon resonated with me. It's what moms are supposed to do. We create magic half a dozen times a year (not including kids' birthdays) without breaking a sweat.<br />
<br />
Well guess what? I sweat.<br />
<br />
And I curse.<br />
<br />
And I never make it look easy.<br />
<br />
<b>So holidays make me feel incompetent. </b>Like I'm not a good mom.<br />
<br />
But wouldn't I be a worse mom if I gave my boys an unrealistic view of what holidays should be? To let them grow up thinking that adorably-decorated cookies in eight different flavors just <i>appear</i>? That everything magically goes up on time and comes down on time with no effort expended whatsoever?<br />
<br />
So I'm being incompetent for my kids. And my future daughters-in-law. <b>On purpose.</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<i><b>That's my story and I'm sticking to it. </b></i><br />
<br />
<br />
<i><br /></i>
Finish Well.<i><br /></i>Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-134987110490226888.post-47468525376615646422014-01-25T14:41:00.000-08:002014-01-25T14:42:12.186-08:00Five Minute Friday: The Best Laid Plans<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGFdMhndvv63cnXy0YLo9g0z5ZMszvuh5fOL-M8P_EaQ6Ln8FAoKy4d0TQ_S7Wvmu9TEUGGnvrjt0rTdpoKEZhCXmaRHl697JafO5v3DAr_g8CfHa_KxbW5R2of5v-NZffYeVuMhuhSck/s1600/5minutefriday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGFdMhndvv63cnXy0YLo9g0z5ZMszvuh5fOL-M8P_EaQ6Ln8FAoKy4d0TQ_S7Wvmu9TEUGGnvrjt0rTdpoKEZhCXmaRHl697JafO5v3DAr_g8CfHa_KxbW5R2of5v-NZffYeVuMhuhSck/s1600/5minutefriday.jpg" /></a></div>
[This week's one word writing prompt: Visit. And I know it's Saturday. I've gotten over it. So should you.]<br />
<br />
This week I was reminded of a memory that's not one of my favorites.<br />
<br />
When I was in middle school, my parents and I traveled to Richmond, VA, to visit my father's father who was dying. When Senior summons Junior and The Third because his doctor says he's not long for this world, you come. <br />
<br />
We went to the Masonic Retirement Home to see him. Papa Stu was a Mason? How did I not know that? My parents told me that until he retired there, they weren't aware either. It's incredible how much you learn about someone right before they die. I suppose it's one of life's ironies. <br />
<br />
It was good to see him. To say good-byes and reminisce as much as you can with someone whose memory and hearing are both failing. As I looked back and forth between my father and grandfather, I tried to envision Dad thirty or forty years hence.<br />
<br />
<i>Would I be bringing my children to a stiflingly hot retirement home room to visit? </i><br />
<i>Would my mom be there, or would she have passed already? </i><br />
<i>What would we learn about him in his final days that had remained hidden for most of his life?</i><br />
<br />
But in another of life's ironies our visit was cut short. My mother's father passed away unexpectedly in Thomasville, NC.<br />
<br />
I collapsed into tears.<br />
<br />
<i>Where was his final visit? </i><br />
<i>Where was his gathering of the children and grandchildren? </i><br />
<i>Where was his chance to say good-bye?</i><br />
<i>What was his secret I never got to learn? </i><br />
<br />
Papa Stu hung on until well into my college days. When he finally did succumb, I was abroad and didn't even know it had happened until weeks later.<br />
<br />
But that's another story for another day.<br />
<br />Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-134987110490226888.post-74969140329643005782013-12-16T03:00:00.000-08:002014-01-25T15:26:52.683-08:00Too Old for Cheap TamponsI've decided I'm too old for lots of things I used to put up with. Like cheap tampons.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9gD51QPn-dTlAJ3p3fh_pUGskIvUsMBHpi1Nr7BgL-zg37Ehvw3AcD2v2Sy3xmPm-3sZ5Gc56bsgiLwvzakHTgf5-DBez2x0icrQerkw_pNpZT86gYljzPFfgt3Njm8wONXCxi7Q2xSc/s1600/Tampax.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9gD51QPn-dTlAJ3p3fh_pUGskIvUsMBHpi1Nr7BgL-zg37Ehvw3AcD2v2Sy3xmPm-3sZ5Gc56bsgiLwvzakHTgf5-DBez2x0icrQerkw_pNpZT86gYljzPFfgt3Njm8wONXCxi7Q2xSc/s1600/Tampax.jpeg" /></a></div>
<br />
Early on in my adult life, I learned the lesson that just because my parents could afford to provide me with clothes from Talbot's, it doesn't mean that at age 22, I could continue to do so.<br />
<br />
<i>That discovery was made during a very embarrassing trip to Talbot's to return about $600 worth of clothes I couldn't afford. Lesson learned: look at the price tags. Mama ain't here to do it for me any more.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
My thrifty stage began that day and lasted about the next 15-20 years. I bought clothes at consignment shops and Target. I shopped sales. I bought store brands. I clipped coupons. And this wasn't necessarily because I didn't have the money for more or better. After a while, it just became a habit. I learned to like other things more than Talbot's.<br />
<br />
Like not having debt and having savings.<br />
Like private school and high school sports.<br />
Like being able to pay a hospital bill when it comes due. <i>And Lord knows we've had a lot of those lately.</i><br />
<br />
But I'm getting old, dammit. And I'm starting to realize that some things just aren't worth compromising on any more.<br />
<br />
Today I declare it publicly: I deserve Tampax.<br />
<br />
There are other things that growing older has taught me not to compromise on.<br />
<ul><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4FnYZz7WfzzUj5rXhahzWlNWD0GIt8VI4ZocW4NIUZ-v0ojwWL-MTV3kGyy9ghD5zoMHQD-ZmfpLwym7fantgub0jbjfXWoI9GHTCYLPGX1l16s9E45TNXFN8gwMYrZvf5DQ1EDxQY8s/s1600/moleskine.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4FnYZz7WfzzUj5rXhahzWlNWD0GIt8VI4ZocW4NIUZ-v0ojwWL-MTV3kGyy9ghD5zoMHQD-ZmfpLwym7fantgub0jbjfXWoI9GHTCYLPGX1l16s9E45TNXFN8gwMYrZvf5DQ1EDxQY8s/s200/moleskine.jpeg" height="187" width="200" /></a>
<li><b>Notebooks</b> — Moleskine notebooks ... oh my. Don't let me start waxing poetic about that. My eyes roll back in my head and I get tingly running my hand across a page of a Moleskine notebook.</li>
<li><b>Shoes</b> — My feet have told me under no uncertain terms that if I cram them into one more pair of cheap, fake leather pumps, they will go on strike.</li>
<li><b>Ice cream</b> — Clark Howard — the man who will go to a Costco in Mexico city for the $1.50 hot dog and Coke — only buys fancy, full-fat ice cream. Who am I to argue?</li>
<li><b>Pencils</b> — Ticonderoga, baby, all the way. </li>
<li><b>Soap</b> — Last month I suffered through the last of a bottle of Great Value body wash. <i>Compare to Olay!</i> I did. It didn't. </li>
</ul>
<br />
<div>
And it's not a matter of money. It's a matter of enjoying life now and not waiting until later. I used to buy a pint of Ben & Jerry's and keep it in the freezer, testing my willpower to see how long I could stand not eating it.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Until the day I opened the pint and it had gone bad. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Life's too short to waste good ice cream. Or use cheap tampons. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Finish Well.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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<div>
<br /></div>
Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-134987110490226888.post-5023221143653384872013-12-13T03:08:00.000-08:002013-12-13T03:10:02.593-08:00Five Minute Friday: Kissing the Face of God<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I am currently enamored with the Christmas song, "Mary Did You Know?" Here is a link to the song if you're not familiar. It's worth a listen.<br />
<br />
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<br />
What has captured my thoughts is the line, "And when you kiss your little baby, you've kissed the face of God."<br />
<br />
What could that have felt like? To kiss the actual, physical face of God? And to have it disguised as a child?<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b><i>Did she know?</i></b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<br />
Could she comprehend? If not, when did the pieces fall into place? At that first miracle at the wedding in Cana? At what point did she really know what ... or whom ... she was dealing with?*<br />
<br />
But what occurred to me the other day is that <b>I kiss the face of God every day.</b> Every time I kiss my children ... every time I kiss my husband ... every time I kiss the top of one of my children's friends heads ... I am also kissing God.<br />
<br />
We are God's sons and daughters. Adopted, yes, but no less family. No less kin. No less image-bearers.<br />
<br />
I wish I remembered that more when my kids are fighting. Or disobeying. Or procrastinating. Or pouting. Maybe that's my Christmas wish for myself this year. Don't see them as little bickering gremlins with a crappy attitude.<br />
<br />
Look into their eyes, smile, and kiss the face of God.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>[*Note: Bad grammar. I know. Get over it.]</i>Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-134987110490226888.post-43508597047576220092013-12-06T10:30:00.000-08:002013-12-13T08:53:33.156-08:00Five Minute Friday: Good-bye Hair<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcUYp7U-fzinf_EJ3yj4-ehEGonk4mgnYmZVANI7qpS1SV10eDWlcR5XF5xkq9CFQWfLlmLAvQTsBjYrcps6XfUKZ0lDycbXI0KerKllmF31Q91VfgjTeY72F8YQChJ9fTGUo0lxZTqYw/s1600/5minutefriday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcUYp7U-fzinf_EJ3yj4-ehEGonk4mgnYmZVANI7qpS1SV10eDWlcR5XF5xkq9CFQWfLlmLAvQTsBjYrcps6XfUKZ0lDycbXI0KerKllmF31Q91VfgjTeY72F8YQChJ9fTGUo0lxZTqYw/s1600/5minutefriday.jpg" /></a></div>
{Today's 5 Minute Friday word prompt is "reflect."}<br />
<br />
Last night, I spent quite a while looking back through photos of me over the last three years. Not because I entirely enjoy seeing myself in photos. I honestly despise a lot of them. My skin is blotchy, my weight see-saws between Hot Mama and "crap, another pair of pants I can't breathe in." And I have made a few (well....more than a few) really heinous fashion faux-pas over the years. I am frequently Ann Hathaway from <i>The Devil Wears Prada </i>before her Stanley Tucci makeover, sans the onion bagel.<br />
<br />
But I was looking back through these pictures because I'm cutting my hair off today for the first time in about three years. Three years ago, my darling husband asked me to grow out my hair so he could see what it looked like long. Because then it was really short.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivhyphenhyphenrz83mWD1NWYT9nqcny6dzhYNnnZ_0GtTtD1UYp0jbAzvGTTvZdVhebGwX41B9OOZHxOymyb8PCoI7FWsEhp6qVcE7tYz06Yf6vutHElCZiUs4ZyuTUdVX07XMKMehnYGlsX863Dyc/s1600/200908+Reunion+with+Joshua.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivhyphenhyphenrz83mWD1NWYT9nqcny6dzhYNnnZ_0GtTtD1UYp0jbAzvGTTvZdVhebGwX41B9OOZHxOymyb8PCoI7FWsEhp6qVcE7tYz06Yf6vutHElCZiUs4ZyuTUdVX07XMKMehnYGlsX863Dyc/s1600/200908+Reunion+with+Joshua.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
So I did. I kinda wanted to see it, too.<br />
<br />
So it grew.<br />
<br />
And it grew.<br />
<br />
And it grew.<br />
<br />
Until now it is longer than my hair has ever been in my life. But you know what I discovered?<br />
<br />
<i><b>Long hair is a lot of work! </b></i>At least mine is.<br />
<br />
<b></b><br />
<a name='more'></a><b>It gets tangled.</b> Massive "oh my gosh I'm going to be bald when I get out of this shower" tangles.<br />
<br />
<b>It takes FOREVER to dry. </b>(I once dried my hair part way in the morning, put it in a braid at some point in the afternoon, slept in the braid, and when I took my hair down in the morning, parts of it were still wet! Seriously?<br />
<br />
<b>It's impossible (for me) to style.</b> The last trim I got was six months ago and the girl that blow-dried my hair did a magnificent job. It was straight and neat, and curled up at the ends just the right way. I watched her very carefully to see how she did it so I could do it at home. When I mentioned that to her, she said, "Oh, I don't think you could ever do this at home. Your hair is too long and thick and you can't really reach the back."<br />
<br />
It was also the first hair cut I'd ever had where I had to stand up because the chair got in the way. And that was six months ago!<br />
<br />
But I digress...I was talking about photos. Those three years of photos (of me) reminded me of a lot of wonderful things that happened during that time. And I can remember when they happened in part because of how long my hair was.<br />
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<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
When I looked at pictures of when I first started growing it out, I saw
pictures of Jordan lying with me on a gurney in the hospital when I had
my stroke.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Medium-length hair was the Christmas when we wore PJs to church because Christmas Day fell on a Sunday. It was also the Christmas when we, in a moment of total parental insanity, adopted three cats and one dog.</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Medium-long was Sandy starting high school. <i>(See Thelma back there in the driveway? Hi Thelma!) </i>And it was being back in the hospital ... again.</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
And now it's long. Really-dang-long. And this was five months ago.</div>
<br />
And after today ... it won't be. I still haven't decided how short it's going to get. You'll have to tune back in for that. But I never thought that something as simple as a haircut would cause me to shed tears over my family and how much we've done.<br />
<br />
Wonder what we'll do while I grow it out again?<br />
<br />
In the meantime, comment and let me know how short I should go.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-134987110490226888.post-49519312778560009452013-11-22T10:20:00.000-08:002013-12-13T08:54:39.355-08:00Five Minute Friday: INTO the Mouths of BabesWhen my son Jordan was born, Herb looked at me and asked how Sarah Bernhardt and I ever had a child together. I thought maybe his mouth just looked big because the rest of him was so small. We took to calling him "Peanut" because he was tiny ... and refused to put on weight.<br />
<br />
But the gi-normous mouth remained. It and the stuff he has put in it became the stuff of family legend. <br />
<br />
Jordan — my "failure to thrive" baby — the one who would eat and not gain weight to the point where the doctor said instead of milk he thinks I produced cloudy water —is now an off-the-charts linebacker of a kid. He passed his older brother in height and weight about 2-3 years ago and hasn't stopped growing.<br />
<br />
Let's look at his dietary history and see if we can figure out why...<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
<b>Urine:</b> When Joshua was potty training, we kept one of those plastic training potties in the kitchen. One day when Joshua got up, Jordan stuck his finger in and tasted before I could stop him.<br />
<br />
<b>Insects</b>: He found a dead fly on the window sill in the living room. Next thing I know, Joshua comes screaming into the kitchen..."Jordan just ate a FLY!"<br />
<br />
<b>Crayons</b>: Jordan went through a stage where he would chew on crayons. I got so sick of it that one morning I served him crayons for breakfast.<br />
<br />
He sat down at his place, and I put a plate in front of him with four crayons on it. He looked at me. I looked at him.<br />
<br />
"I'm having crayons for breakfast? I want a bagel."<br />
<br />
"Well honey, you insist on treating crayons like food. Every time you color, you eat your crayons. So I just give up. For breakfast you have crayons."<br />
<br />
He sat there for a minute, and I walked into the laundry room. After a minute I hear a quiet voice ask, "Do I have to eat the paper?"<br />
<br />
"No honey. You can unwrap them."<br />
<br />
I swear to goodness, he ate all four crayons. But he did unwrap them first.<br />
<br />
When he was done, I asked, "How was your crayon breakfast?"<br />
<br />
"OK, I guess. But I'd rather have a bagel."<br />
<br />
He never ate crayons again. But he eats just about everything else.Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-134987110490226888.post-76579535964360128172013-11-15T07:44:00.000-08:002013-11-15T09:28:12.765-08:00Five Minute Friday: The Beautiful Ugly<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCuI1RQamMevYDfVKax6xjn03q_hdcJ0iRgXD92q-r3VwVvBcBWllQRZMIaMbGbkCPDQw3PqvvNaD2aNc9WP1tno_hVKOMfqkzPXtmO4qqnKMTqIwHX0JD1lA3_wrnYsBABEFfW070D48/s1600/Cherry+Tree+Graft.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCuI1RQamMevYDfVKax6xjn03q_hdcJ0iRgXD92q-r3VwVvBcBWllQRZMIaMbGbkCPDQw3PqvvNaD2aNc9WP1tno_hVKOMfqkzPXtmO4qqnKMTqIwHX0JD1lA3_wrnYsBABEFfW070D48/s320/Cherry+Tree+Graft.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This isn't our tree, but it's pretty darned close.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We have a cherry tree in our front yard. It's a very strange tree and is, frankly, kind of ugly. The people who lived here before us were avid gardeners, and they did some lovely things in our yard ... which we have promptly destroyed with four boys and two dogs ... or taken out to make room for baseball, swingsets, and a vegetable garden.<br />
<br />
But this weird, ugly cherry tree remains. Apparently the previous owners tried to graft together two different types of trees. One is "upright" — meaning that the branches to up and out like most trees do — and one is "weeping" — meaning that the branches kind of droop. I don't know what was supposed to happen when you grafted together these two trees, but I'm pretty sure this ain't it. <br />
<br />
We have half a tree that grows up, and half a tree that droops toward the ground.<br />
<br />
The branches on one side are straight, and the branches on the other side are twisted. <br />
<br />
Half the tree blooms white, and half the tree blooms pink. (That's a really weird sight to see.)<br />
<br />
But then last year our little ugly cherry tree surprised us. It produced cherries.<br />
<br />
Lest you say, "Well, duh. That's what cherry trees do," let me say that we have been in this house through 11 springs and summers, and it wasn't until last year that our weird schizophrenic tree produced cherries.<br />
<br />
Why now? I don't know. But it show me in a very real, tangible way that something beautiful and sweet and unexpected can come out of a whole bunch of ugly.<br />
<br />
[The term "The Beautiful Ugly" is from Ann Voskamp's book <a href="http://www.aholyexperience.com/one-thousand-gifts-book/" target="_blank"><i>One Thousand Gifts</i></a>.] Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-134987110490226888.post-28278081265795320982013-10-01T03:00:00.000-07:002013-11-17T18:31:50.614-08:00Summer@Home: What I Learned, Part 2<style>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">In addition to what I learned about stuff ... what I could do without, and what I really missed ... I learned a lot about relationships and the people around me.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0.1pt 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="color: purple;">PART 2: What I learned about relationships</span></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
<span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>I learned that help can come from places you don't expect.</b></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">There's
a clique in my neighborhood. I'm not really "in" it, but I'm not
exactly "out" of it either. My kids don't go to the neighborhood
elementary school. They don't play tackle football at the local park, which
seems to be the thing to do. None of them goes to my church. So I've always kind of skirted the edge of this
group of women who have a lot in common with each other, but not necessarily
with me. </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">But
that doesn't mean that when I needed them, they didn't come through. One gave
Sandy countless rides to and from football practices. Several ran to the
grocery store or would even text me from the store: "I'm here! Do you need
anything?" They brought meals and returned books to the library.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">One gentleman in the neighborhood — the father of a friend of mine — drove Joshua and Jordan to school for two weeks while Herb was traveling. My across-the-street neighbor and I got to know each other a lot better, and we even did a Bible Study together this summer.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
learned that my neighbors have got my back just because that's who they are. I hope I get to return the favor.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">...And from places you do expect, but you're still blown away.</span></b></span></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I don't know what I would have done without my in-laws in town. They moved here in late January, and I went into the hospital on February 10. If that's not God's timing, I don't know what is. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSh14CdL3UOFy0L7o1mgOipqmH7E36AKFiTUnsq6-PuIVno3YstBiG0x1xgr5PJVuHMExs8SLNH42FS7KzS5xuXQ3RXtGqTx0_MiWH63TsrmiEi3EXfmhE6GcJHJywzMFMV6GzEw8D7w0/s1600/1270605_10202138862541361_459055725_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSh14CdL3UOFy0L7o1mgOipqmH7E36AKFiTUnsq6-PuIVno3YstBiG0x1xgr5PJVuHMExs8SLNH42FS7KzS5xuXQ3RXtGqTx0_MiWH63TsrmiEi3EXfmhE6GcJHJywzMFMV6GzEw8D7w0/s400/1270605_10202138862541361_459055725_o.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Or without the loving moms at <a href="http://perimeterschool.org/" target="_blank">Perimeter Christian School.</a> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Or my close friends.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Or my mom, who was getting over her own illness. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Or my amazingly wonderful, sacrificial husband, who probably endangered his job to serve me.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">(And even my ex-husband.)</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">They drove my kids to school, home from school, to dentist's appointments, violin lessons, camps, the library, and everywhere they needed to go. They took me to the grocery store, and bought my groceries for me. They drove me to my kids' games, school meetings, and concerts and home again afterwards. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">My in-laws learned the geography of this area out of necessity, and probably a lot quicker than they would have otherwise. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Most everyone who knows me ended up serving me in one way or another. And that has helped me grow in humility and thankfulness. Again, I hope to return the favor.<b><br /></b></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>I learned how much of my talk time with my
kids comes in the car.</b></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">When
I'm with my kids in the car, there aren't a lot of options for what to do. And
generally, they're fresh from something: school, sports practice, music lesson,
or a friend's house. So it's good talk time. I can ask them what they did or
what's going on, and they will generally tell me. I found that when they rode
home with someone else, they had that conversation with someone else. So when
they got home, they were ready to move on. I missed a lot of the details of
their lives that way.</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQgKpK6BYnfzkzXuDcoxhrKaifHPOcrFi5t8lF6FVJp_sSaSgecDTLYGCmZmPqjg_Lu70cgId6xJbi3hQMfTieXdlPCMy_2HdEF5Y-_8KfyiOZsG0J3AskYyyDoXH5w6M-06voDAW7YLk/s1600/IMG_5770.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQgKpK6BYnfzkzXuDcoxhrKaifHPOcrFi5t8lF6FVJp_sSaSgecDTLYGCmZmPqjg_Lu70cgId6xJbi3hQMfTieXdlPCMy_2HdEF5Y-_8KfyiOZsG0J3AskYyyDoXH5w6M-06voDAW7YLk/s320/IMG_5770.JPG" width="240" /></a><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">But
the biggest loss, I found, was car talk time with my teenager. There's
something about rides in the car that makes a teenager OK with talking to you.
Maybe it's because you aren't looking each other in the face. Maybe because
it's more casual. After all, you're in the car going to somewhere or coming
home from somewhere. It doesn't seem like such a big deal to talk then because
it's not the <i>purpose</i>. Transportation
is the purpose. Talking is just a bonus.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
missed the rides home from sports practices or games. I missed the rides to and
from youth group. In a house full of people, sometimes the only one-on-one time
we had was in the car. I did learn to compensate somewhat. I'd stay up to be available
to him when he got home from a game, even if it was at midnight. I'd sit with him
while he ate his leftover dinner, or go up to his room and check on him while
he was doing his homework. I sent lots of texts, and probably got kind of obnoxious about it. But when you don't have the regular opportunities to
talk, sometimes you have to manufacture them. </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
<span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>I learned the importance of girlfriends.</b></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">One
of the things I missed the most when I couldn't drive was seeing my
girlfriends. I missed being in a discipleship group. I missed hanging out at the
church bookstore with one of my good friends while Joshua was in ballet. I
missed taking my kids to class play dates — when the moms got the opportunity
to talk and bond — instead of just arranging a ride for them. I arranged a lot
of rides with wonderful, servant-hearted women, but I rarely had the
opportunity to talk to them or spend time with them. That made me feel very isolated.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">But
I also missed the divine appointments. Seeing someone in the halls at school or
at the library or a baseball game. It's incredible how much I missed those
chance encounters. Not having them made me feel even more isolated.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So what am I doing about it? I'm in a discipleship group with four other moms of young boys at Joshua and Jordan's school. I'm doing a 40-day prayer challenge with another group of women. I'm back hanging out at the bookstore during ballet. I'm doing carpool ... and loving it! (I never thought I'd say that!) And maybe I'm overdoing it to compensate, but it feels <i>good</i>. <i>So good.</i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: purple;"><b>So that's what I learned. </b></span></span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">How much of it will stick? All of it, I hope. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguvvGE2a9adHz63BJMH2jJPk2XVjmlPnhV9ELZhqe0FjJCOl6_WrNmFUH_r5Oi5FDZkNq6nC2SyluLodhxjYS9kHz9jZziIF4JL4F1rI-7f4dp9EjjGW7tEoBGdjI7IyFMBaEPFoMifds/s1600/1378097_10202238616635151_960725394_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguvvGE2a9adHz63BJMH2jJPk2XVjmlPnhV9ELZhqe0FjJCOl6_WrNmFUH_r5Oi5FDZkNq6nC2SyluLodhxjYS9kHz9jZziIF4JL4F1rI-7f4dp9EjjGW7tEoBGdjI7IyFMBaEPFoMifds/s320/1378097_10202238616635151_960725394_n.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: small;">I hope I look for ways to serve those who served me. On my first day driving, I was blessed to take two friends' kids home from school. On Wednesday, I had a car full!</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I hope I stay thankful for everything I can do, and everything that has been done for me. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I hope I always have a group of girlfriends around me for inspiration and accountability. <i>And fun! Don't forget fun!</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I hope I never stop talking with and listening to my kids ... wherever we are. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I hope I remember how to do more with less. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Oh, and I hope I can keep my car clean. But I doubt it.</span></span></div>
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Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-134987110490226888.post-51445598915194171572013-09-30T06:00:00.000-07:002013-11-17T18:32:13.418-08:00Summer@Home: What I Learned<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_jq3RxBAdoqtzBHTVGA6Pg7SQmRy2VopdD4BYr1jo-vlXgsw0Dsa34f9v5wBrm4jPCJ5yF6H0Vg5oKkgBb0SCIIoLTKQlT9y-GrMQ6SD6xe8CKDSksgr4I2KwOhZ9GerxwxVK-k-xWZ8/s1600/Summer%2540Home+Logo+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_jq3RxBAdoqtzBHTVGA6Pg7SQmRy2VopdD4BYr1jo-vlXgsw0Dsa34f9v5wBrm4jPCJ5yF6H0Vg5oKkgBb0SCIIoLTKQlT9y-GrMQ6SD6xe8CKDSksgr4I2KwOhZ9GerxwxVK-k-xWZ8/s1600/Summer%2540Home+Logo+1.jpg" /></a></div>
People keep asking me, "When are you going to write the 'what I learned' blog?" It actually started before the driving restriction ended. They seem eager to hear how I was changed by seven months not being able to drive.<br />
<br />
I actually started writing this post a couple of months ago. But I got a ways into it and realized something:<br />
<br />
I won't know what I've learned until it's tested.<br />
<br />
When you are in school, you can sit in a classroom every day, read the assignments, do the homework. But until the test comes, you can't really separate what you've learned from what you've merely been present for.<br />
<br />
It's the same way with my seven months of no driving. I could tell you about the experiences I had while not driving. But I can't really write about what I learned — how it changed me — until I'm back in the driving world. Until it's tested.<br />
<br />
There's a part of me that thinks that two weeks in is still too early. I don't yet know what will migrate from short-term to long-term memory. But I'm tired of people asking, so here goes.<br />
<br />
I'm not going to explain all of them at once because this would turn into more of a dissertation instead of a blog. So I'm splitting my lessons learned into two groups:<br />
1. My relationship with stuff.<br />
2. My relationships with people.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: purple;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>PART 1: My relationship with stuff.</b></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: purple;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b></b></span></span></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="color: purple;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b> </b></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #38761d;"><b>I learned how to do without, and I learned to plan backwards.</b></span><br />
When I could go to the grocery store any time I wanted, I would make menus with this thought primary: What do I want to cook this week? Anything we didn't have, I could run to the store and get.<br />
<br />
When you don't get to choose when you go to the grocery store — or when you are relying on others to do your shopping for you — you plan backwards: What do I have to work with? Then, if necessary, you fill in the gaps.<br />
<br />
I also learned to improvise, get creative, and make things instead of buying them. <a href="http://finishwell.blogspot.com/2013/06/summerhome-day-25-making-ghee.html" target="_blank">Like making ghee. </a><br />
<br />
This lesson was tested almost immediately. Right after I started driving, it was Greek Day at Joshua's school. He wanted to dress up like Poseidon. <i>(Joshua's current obsession is the Percy Jackson and the Olympians series. Percy is the half-blood son of Poseidon.)</i> After determining — not surprisingly — that I am not crafty enough to make a trident, I searched online for one. I found that they were available at Party City. Great! There are three Party City stores near us.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfth-xLr2Qysv0TxLh-lmQqqZ2McUVpsv57BHaGBz6Eju3oy4vOc55YX5dXyOp5FUjl-xPAnVHARE10FuzWuPach9qhYAiKKhgEEmNAv-Fmk9baheBdvqYGIsXyN5Iwx0-lQiu9b22Lbo/s1600/photo-10.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfth-xLr2Qysv0TxLh-lmQqqZ2McUVpsv57BHaGBz6Eju3oy4vOc55YX5dXyOp5FUjl-xPAnVHARE10FuzWuPach9qhYAiKKhgEEmNAv-Fmk9baheBdvqYGIsXyN5Iwx0-lQiu9b22Lbo/s320/photo-10.JPG" width="320" /></a>At the first one, we found a trident, but not Poseidon's trident. This one was actually more like a devil's pitchfork and was red, not gold. We bought it, but I was determined to find the gold one. I had already planned in my head how to hit a couple of other Party City locations the next day when I stopped myself. <i>"What would I have done if this had happened just one week ago?"</i><br />
<br />
I would have made do.<br />
<br />
I would have taken a can of gold spray paint that we had in the basement and made my red devil's pitchfork into a gold Poseidon trident.<br />
<br />
So that's what I did. This lesson, apparently, stuck. <br />
<br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"><b>I learned that my car is "my space" sometimes more than my home is. </b></span><br />
I have a black and white tote bag that lived in <a href="http://finishwell.blogspot.com/2013/05/rip-thelma.html" target="_blank">my car, Thelma, back when she was with us</a>. (Specifically, it is an <a href="http://www.thirtyonegifts.com/catalog/category/22/" target="_blank">organizing utility tote from Thirty-One</a>.) It held all of my automotive necessities:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb2kSeqG2pIG8uzIm4FOkWpteAsXA0LrsNBCi3MKTaTjbY6xjwODb4n2O4KS_fqNaRYhHnSeufKN_jFYiuAeMFx32V7yrwkLvX_D0Vl5jXLBY5jFhimDyzDoYRWaPSsJq-H53Rix6uJHo/s1600/photo-9.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb2kSeqG2pIG8uzIm4FOkWpteAsXA0LrsNBCi3MKTaTjbY6xjwODb4n2O4KS_fqNaRYhHnSeufKN_jFYiuAeMFx32V7yrwkLvX_D0Vl5jXLBY5jFhimDyzDoYRWaPSsJq-H53Rix6uJHo/s320/photo-9.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<ul>
<li>pens and pencils</li>
<li>granola bars</li>
<li>carpool signs</li>
<li>a notebook</li>
<li>a book</li>
<li>magazines and catalogs</li>
<li>a stack of note cards and envelopes</li>
<li>my plastic bag of gift cards and restaurant coupons</li>
<li>a reusable grocery bag</li>
<li>empty Starbucks coffee bags. <i>(Did you know that if you buy Starbucks coffee at the grocery store and bring the empty bag to an Sbux store, you can get a free tall drip? Who knew?)</i></li>
</ul>
In other words, all of the "stuff" I might need when I was out and about or found myself alone in the car with some time on my hands.<br />
<br />
When I stopped driving — and particularly when Thelma died and we had to clean her out — suddenly my black and white tote bag had no home. I can't tell you how many times I would be out and need something in that bag. But it wasn't there. I didn't have a car that was mine, so I had no place for my stuff. It was very disconcerting, and frankly, made me cry more than once. <br />
<br />
My car is like my office. Yes, other people may come and go from it, but the bottom line is, it's my space. And I like it that way. My black & white bag is perched on the passenger seat next to me where it belongs, and I am happy that way. (And because my car is new and relatively unused, it's so <i>clean</i>! I can hardly stand to touch it, I want it to stay that way so badly.)<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ </div>
<br />
<i>Tomorrow, I'll discuss how not driving affected my relationships with people. I might even post the list of things I learned that I started writing back in June. It's kinda funny.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-134987110490226888.post-38142485659708155652013-09-11T08:15:00.000-07:002013-11-17T18:32:29.188-08:00Summer@Home: I Remember...On September 11, 2001, I took my son to daycare like many working moms, then came home to begin my work day. I remember walking past my bedroom door when the phone started ringing. It was my sister, which was not unusual.<br />
<br />
"Where does Stuart work?"<br />
<br />
Now <b><i>that</i></b> was unusual. No hello. No how are you doing. Just straight to the point ... where does our brother Stuart work?<br />
<br />
"I don't know. In Manhattan somewhere. Why?"<br />
<br />
"Turn on your TV."<br />
<br />
"Stace...what's going on?"<br />
<br />
"Just turn on your TV."<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
<br />
When I turned it on, the Twin Towers were burning. I don't remember details ... like whether both towers had yet been hit. If one of them had already fallen, or if they were both still up. Those images and the ones I was glued to for the hours, days, and weeks afterwards are all melded together until I can no longer remember what was live and what was Memorex.<br />
<br />
What I do remember was panic. Stuart had moved into a new office recently, and I honestly couldn't remember where it was. It <i>could</i> be in the World Trade Center. He could also possibly be visiting a client in the World Trade Center.<br />
<br />
I had to find Stuart.<br />
<br />
"Stace, I'll call you back. I've got to find him."<br />
<br />
I called his cell. No answer.<br />
<br />
I called his home. No answer.<br />
<br />
I called his wife's cell. No answer.<br />
<br />
Panic.<br />
<br />
I drove to Sandy's school and checked him out early. I wanted him nearby where I could see him and touch him and hold him. <br />
<br />
Finally, we heard back. Stuart's office was in Midtown Manhattan, not in Lower Manhattan near the World Trade Center. But he wasn't in Manhattan at all that day. He was off the island at a meeting.<br />
<br />
Relief.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqppPRoDvw2XSX8k4tAT_1_idOl9KLGZ1Omgplbya7tovhrVkJIuOD7AgaEvMnVDXUX3cTrbQZ6wKd5anmpixi7Pesl3NYBkz89zcBr_zElKz3dullqj4WdUsUlGjSk1KFQvCZiezgPr8/s1600/Sandy+at+memorial.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqppPRoDvw2XSX8k4tAT_1_idOl9KLGZ1Omgplbya7tovhrVkJIuOD7AgaEvMnVDXUX3cTrbQZ6wKd5anmpixi7Pesl3NYBkz89zcBr_zElKz3dullqj4WdUsUlGjSk1KFQvCZiezgPr8/s320/Sandy+at+memorial.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sandy at WTC Site, December 2001</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I realize that I was only one of thousands ... maybe millions ... trying to track down a loved one that day. I also know that there are thousands of families who did not get to breathe that sigh of relief within hours. Or even days. Or ever. Including Stuart and his wife, who lost a dear, dear friend that day. They had to go to his apartment to get a hair sample from his brush to aid in identifying his DNA.<br />
<br />
I can't imagine.<br />
<br />
Our lives were altered that day. There will forever be "before 9/11" and "after 9/11." I know we'll never go back to "before." But I pray that some day we will be able, as a country, to remember without reliving. Remember without fear of repeat.<br />
<br />
Just ... remember. And be somber and thankful that there has not been another "before and after" in our lifetimes. <br />
<br />
<span id="goog_969546824"></span><span id="goog_969546825"></span><br />
<br />
<br />Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-134987110490226888.post-40864853320608014832013-09-05T20:07:00.000-07:002013-09-11T08:15:52.043-07:00Summer@Home: Sleepless Night<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitORxaPdhCf1rupCKAnQu-l_v9yJbMXoLnQiPiFA_MiC07gE-4USj0QjOtECMm28PNOH5hG4VtLgLGEbXhX09RESpqPGRKtgWADmHKIjoyVWy6Of-TZUKFa0xFndlxsEP0CByG90jod20/s1600/another-sleepless-night-janet-lavida.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitORxaPdhCf1rupCKAnQu-l_v9yJbMXoLnQiPiFA_MiC07gE-4USj0QjOtECMm28PNOH5hG4VtLgLGEbXhX09RESpqPGRKtgWADmHKIjoyVWy6Of-TZUKFa0xFndlxsEP0CByG90jod20/s320/another-sleepless-night-janet-lavida.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another Sleepless Night by Janet Lavida</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i>It's 10:40, and I can't sleep. I can't even think about sleep right now. So I think. And I write. </i><br />
<br />
Isn't it funny how two of your own kids can be so alike ... or so different. We have two distinct pairs of boys.<br />
<br />
<b>Pair A: Number 1 and Number 3.</b><br />
Dark hair, thin as a rail, very little temper to speak of, but passive aggressive. Will look you in the face and tell you what they know the right answer is ... then turn around and do the opposite.<br />
<br />
<b>Pair B: Number 2 and Number 4. </b><br />
Blond hair, blue eyes, and solid as rock, both of them. And a temper ... whoa Nellie! Do they both have a temper. If I had a nickel for each time either one of them has said they hate me (or I hate them) or I'm the worst mom in the world, I'd be relaxing on a beach somewhere with a piña colada in my hand.<br />
<br />
You want to know what the kicker is?<br />
<br />
Numbers 3 and 4 are the full bio-brothers. <i>But they have nothing in common.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
It's the two pairs of "half" brothers who are alike.<br />
<br />
And the ones with tempers? You guessed it. Their common parent is me.<br />
<br />
<i><b>Me.</b></i><br />
<br />
Is that where this anger comes from? Have I somehow genetically passed it on to them? Are they so hot tempered because I am hot tempered? Is it nature or nurture? <br />
<br />
I don't know. But I wish I did. Because tonight was a doozy.<br />
<br />
And the worst part was, it happened in front of my mom.<br />
<br />
She's here for a week to drive me around while my Herb is traveling on business. So she had a front row seat for the fight of the century. Only I didn't really fight back. I just let number 4 sling it at me, kept my cool and stood my ground. But that made number 2 angry at number 4 for being mean to me, and made him mad at me for taking it.<br />
<br />
And when it was over, I wanted nothing more than to just go crawl in a hole and cry. I wanted to be alone. <br />
<br />
But I couldn't.<br />
<br />
I couldn't because I still had to be mom to three kids, whether they wanted me to be or not.<br />
<br />
I couldn't because I still had to be a daughter to a mother who didn't know quite what to do with what she had just seen. <br />
<br />
But Mom's finally going to bed. So I'm writing. And crying. And wondering how I'm going to get any sleep. Or face her in the morning.<br />
<br />
It's gonna be a long night.<br />
<br />
Finish Well.Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-134987110490226888.post-36250737839649411262013-08-09T03:44:00.001-07:002013-09-05T20:08:34.167-07:00Summer@Home: I'm a Bad Christian<i><b>Confession: I make Christians blush.</b></i><br />
<br />
I find this terribly amusing since I am one. <br />
<br />
But sometimes I don't act like it. And that's a good thing. At least in my over-rationalizing mind it is.<br />
<br />
I have many dear, amazing, wonderful, godly, funny, sweet Christian friends who have been Christians all their lives. Who have never known a life of debauchery and deep personal sin and been heartbroken over it. That is not to say they haven't had struggles. I know they have ... struggles I'm not sure I could handle. Struggles they could only handle because of their faith. But our life stories, while they ended up at the same place, had very different paths.<br />
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So sometimes, frankly, I identify with non-Christians more readily than Christians. <i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>Didn't Jesus dine with tax collectors and prostitutes?</i><br />
<br />
Kind of like when I was under 30 and a single mom. I identified more with the "mid-singles" group at church than I did the "young singles" group. While my age classified me as one, my life didn't.<br />
<br />
I like friends that I can laugh with, til wine squirts out our noses.<br />
<br />
<i>Oh, crud. I just admitted that I drink wine. (And beer. And sangria. Oh, golly, do I like a good sangria. </i><a href="http://finishwell.blogspot.com/2013/07/summerhome-bliss-of-not-being-at-home.html" target="_blank"><i>Read all about it here.)</i></a><br />
<br />
Does that make me a bad Christian? <br />
<br />
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<a name='more'></a><br />
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I sure hope not.<br />
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And does it make me a bad Christian that I tend to gravitate to other shady ladies like myself? If we were in Catholic school, we'd be the ones rolling up the waistbands of our skirts to shorten them once we left the house. Or putting on makeup in the bathroom. Or hiding <i>Cosmo</i> inside our Church History textbook.<br />
<br />
Instead, in our adult world, we're just the ones joking that we should be able to bring alcohol to our kids' Saturday baseball games. <i>(You know, I've been told that beer in a water bottle really does look like lemon-lime Gatorade.)</i> And we joke about the noises men make and the messes our kids make and laugh at people who take everything too seriously.<br />
<br />
But some of these black sheep of the Christian faith are also some of the most godly women I know. They will drop to their knees in a heartbeat to pray for someone who needs it. They will bring a casserole or a bottle of chardonnay, whichever is needed more at the moment. They have held me while I cried and peeled me off the ceiling when I was so mad I could spit.<br />
<br />
Many of us became Christians as adults, so we have a past. A real, live, ugly, dirty, messed-up, sinful past. But you know what? It makes it easier to sympathize with other people who live ugly, dirty, messed-up, sinful lives now.<br />
<br />
<i>A man fell in a deep hole and could not get out. He called out to someone passing by to help. The man heard him, and jumped down into the hole with him. "Why did you do that? Now we're both in here!" "Because I've been in this hole before, and I know the way out." </i><br />
<br />
When my kids make big mistakes, I hope it will make them feel a little better when I can look at them and say, "Wow. That sucks. But it will get better. I know, because I did the same thing, and it got better."<br />
<br />
It pray it will give them hope.<br />
<br />
Not just hope that they can make mistakes — that they can <i><b>sin</b></i> — and be forgiven. But hope that the adult Christian life isn't a plain vanilla life in which you will never watch another rated R movie or tell an off-color joke or even just laugh at one. You can be a Christian adult and still be fun. And funny. And sexy. And just a little bit dangerous.<br />
<br />
Because my girlfriends are a hoot. ALL of them. Even the sinners. <i>But now I'm being redundant.</i><br />
<br />
Finish Well.Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-134987110490226888.post-42267041428740987642013-07-30T12:48:00.003-07:002013-08-08T19:55:08.511-07:00Summer@Home: The Bliss of NOT Being at HomeWe went on vacation this summer.<br />
<br />
To many people, that's not a monumental statement. However, we don't actually go on vacation very often. We visit family at their homes. Or we visit family homes when the owners are not there. But I can only count three real vacations we've been on since Herb and I were married just over 10 years ago. This year was one of them.<br />
<br />
Our oldest, Ian, is going to college in the fall. So honestly, we don't know how many more of these "everyone is here together at the same time" vacations we're going to have. So we splurged and went to Hilton Head Island for a week. It was my favorite vacation spot when I was growing up. I had so many fond memories of Hilton Head that I wanted to share it with my kids. <br />
<br />
One of the things I didn't really expect was how freeing it was for me to be on vacation with the family. Other than the drive up and back — which Herb had to do on his own — it was easy for me to forget that I couldn't drive. For the most part, when we went anywhere, we were all going together. No disappointments for the kids from hearing, "I'd love to take you, but I can't because Dad's not here." <br />
<br />
And we were bicycling distance from the grocery store. Hallelujah and pass the peanuts! I could go to the grocery store. <b>By. My. Self.</b> I'm not sure that I ever actually did. But just knowing that I could was enough.<br />
<br />
And it was a <a href="http://pigglywiggly.com/" target="_blank">Piggly Wiggly</a>, no less! You can't beat that with a stick.<br />
<br />
<i>[Piggly Wiggly ... yet another amazing memory from my childhood! But I'll write about that another time.] </i><br />
<br />
There were two particularly memorable events from our vacation that I'd like to share.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
<b>Memorable Event 1: Gregg Russell</b><br />
If any of you have vacationed at Hilton Head before, you likely have heard or heard of Gregg Russell. He has been performing concerts under the big old oak tree in Harbour Town for 37 seasons. That's right. The same Gregg Russell that I listened to when I was a kid is still there.<br />
<br />
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Herb, Sandy, and I got to sit under the oak tree and hear Gregg sing, just like I did when I was young. Joshua and Jordan also got picked from the audience to come up on stage and sing a song. I don't remember if Gregg did that when I was a kid, but it was sure a hoot this year! <br />
<br />
It was more a case of Jordan wanting to go up, and knowing he had a better shot if it was a duet. Two girls will sing together on stage, no problem. But getting two boys is a different show entirely. Jordan's no dummy.<br />
<br />
Gregg caught on really quickly to the fact that Jordan, though the younger, is the heftier of the two...<br />
<br />
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<br />
It was a truly magical night. The rain threatened, but did not materialize. We ate ice cream under the stars afterwards with one of Sandy's friends from home who happened to be there at the same time. And I got to relive some really wonderful childhood memories.<br />
<br />
<b>Memorable Event 2: Things Not to Do on Vacation with Teenagers</b> <br />
This is going to be short, because I'm going to embarrass myself.<br />
<br />
DON'T drink two pitchers of frozen sangria while waiting for a dinner table. I don't care if the wait is an hour and half long at 5:30 p.m. (Only at Hilton Head in July...)<br />
<br />
DON'T realize on the spur of the moment that your oldest child can now be a designated driver and order another round at dinner.<br />
<br />
DON'T decide, after said pitchers of sangria, that it would be fun to see how much you can embarrass your teenagers by...<br />
<br />
1. Almost falling out of your chair laughing after you order grimp and shrits.<br />
2. Kissing your spouse at the dinner table. ("No, they won't throw us out. See, I'll prove it to you...")<br />
3. Assuming that everything you say and do will go over your younger children's heads.<br />
4. Almost paying the teens to take a walk on the beach after literally throwing the little ones in bed when you get back to the house.<br />
<br />
'Nuff said.<br />
<br />
Finish Well.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
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Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-134987110490226888.post-62603245160494454912013-07-24T10:01:00.000-07:002013-07-30T12:50:39.661-07:00Summer@Home: How NOT to Run Fast<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
First of all, I apologize for wimping out. I've stopped counting the days of my Summer@Home because it just served to remind me that there have been too many days between posts.<br />
<br />
Which means that I'm not writing enough.<br />
<br />
Which means that I'm frittering the summer away this year just like every other frickin' year.<br />
<br />
I don't need the guilt, so I stopped counting.<br />
<br />
Sue me.<br />
<br />
Anyway, one thing I have been doing this summer is attempting to get back into shape. After my little "episodes" got under control and I got my sea legs again, I decided to start running. So, not wanting to take it slowly or anything, I signed up for the Peachtree Road Race.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
<br />
<i>[Side note: This is not unusual for me. When I graduated from college I moved to Texas, sight unseen. I'd always wondered what Texas was like ... probably after too many episodes of </i>Dallas<i> ... so I moved there. Most people probably would have done a long weekend, I guess.] </i><br />
<br />
On July 4, after some pretty decent training, I ran 6.2 miles with 60,000 of my closest friends down Peachtree Road in Atlanta. It was unusually cool, and I ran with my friend Jana who has never run it before. A grand time was had by all.<br />
<br />
And then I sat on my bum for the next three weeks. And drank frozen sangria. (If you are a Facebook friend, you know what that leads to!) And ate chocolate and chips and pizza. <br />
<br />
And I felt like crap.<br />
<br />
So today I decided to sign up for the <a href="http://runrocknroll.competitor.com/savannah" target="_blank">Savannah Rock-n-Roll Half Marathon</a> on November 9. Right after my 42nd birthday. <br />
<br />
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I needed a goal. A reward. A trip. And the very real possibility of public humiliation.<br />
<br />
<b>How NOT to Run Fast</b><br />
So back for the topic of the day, "How NOT to Run Fast." This is how I thoughtfully prepared for today's "get back in the saddle and get serious" run. Use these tips yourself if you want to run slow and feel like the walking dead.<br />
<br />
1. Stay up until 11:30 the night before.<br />
2. Wake up at 5 a.m.<br />
3. Drink nothing but coffee all morning.<br />
4. Realize at 10:30 that it's getting dangerously close to 80 degrees, so you'd better get a move on.<br />
5. Realize at 10:31 that you've been awake for 5.5 hours and have had nothing to eat.<br />
6. Suck down a bowl of Wheat Chex.<br />
7. Forget to change into your real running clothes. <br />
8. Strap on your running shoes that are still muddy from the Peachtree Road Race post-race mud party at Piedmont Park from three weeks before. <br />
9. Don't take a water bottle. Or even drink any before you leave the house.<br />
10. Listen to the <i>Big Chill Soundtrack</i>, which I now remember is full of slow songs and depressing songs about cheating and breaking up.<br />
<br />
Don't say I didn't warn you.<br />
<br />
Finish Well.Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-134987110490226888.post-87982738520352052712013-07-10T06:17:00.000-07:002013-07-24T10:02:46.303-07:00Summer@Home Day 44 — Meet Diane<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
<b>Day 44</b><br />
Yesterday evening, I bought a car. You may be thinking, "That's an odd thing for a person who is legally prohibited from driving to do." <br />
<br />
You see, my car died a little while back. <a href="http://finishwell.blogspot.com/2013/05/rip-thelma.html" target="_blank">You can read her obituary here</a>. Thelma was a good girl and served our family well. But when she breathed her last on the side of Highway 9 in Roswell, we knew that it was not in our future to try to resuscitate her. Again. So we had her towed to No Longer Bound where she is now a member of their <a href="https://www.nolongerbound.com/industries/cars4recovery/" target="_blank">"Cars for Recovery" </a>program.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoK3NbQMJDMfPLoBq-SPHmc5Ci6JTPIBu9_eJbXuY0xMT7RdMHJp3X5LeAO4HtkrQ_pMTQE_mBCMquhhyxaIPs1a1-YuZxRFV0SojNO9jBs0RZn5DukCHYxhiM3_0f_RUdG6uYxbCu-6A/s1600/IMG_4096.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoK3NbQMJDMfPLoBq-SPHmc5Ci6JTPIBu9_eJbXuY0xMT7RdMHJp3X5LeAO4HtkrQ_pMTQE_mBCMquhhyxaIPs1a1-YuZxRFV0SojNO9jBs0RZn5DukCHYxhiM3_0f_RUdG6uYxbCu-6A/s320/IMG_4096.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
But we leave on vacation on Saturday, and not too long ago it occurred to us that we would need to rent something to drive. Thelma had always been our go-to girl for family trips. Just last summer we drove to Maine and back with all four boys, our dog, five bikes and three kayaks. Herb's sedan just wouldn't cut it, even with just the boys and dog. So we rented a minivan. <i>For more than $500. </i><br />
<br />
I almost cried.<br />
<br />
Five hundred dollars to rent a car I didn't want? I mean, heck. I couldn't even write it off as an extended test drive. I've decided I'm an SUV girl, not a minivan girl. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.) But that $500 could be put towards a car I really <i>did</i> want.<br />
<br />
That pissed me off just a little.<br />
<br />
OK. More than a little.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
So we started car shopping. And shopping. And shopping. I'd read so many car reviews and spent so much time on AutoTrader.com that I started to itch in weird places and developed a nervous tic. <br />
<br />
But yesterday, unexpectedly, the planets aligned. The dealership we popped into almost on a whim had the exact car I wanted for significantly less than I dreamed we could possibly get it for. Hallelujah!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiza1leml8phUNFeDk0UGxA_kMZFqheggy9Fy79rz8fMREgnb_WtszrGpyIwC0P61DwXiV8CPrHqH2WSTMVDOABtXtc-IkK4Bc3tj9Fl2Xnqo5JKm5HkHImSOAETUVK6e2pBKhnrqBVHxk/s1600/Meet+Diane.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiza1leml8phUNFeDk0UGxA_kMZFqheggy9Fy79rz8fMREgnb_WtszrGpyIwC0P61DwXiV8CPrHqH2WSTMVDOABtXtc-IkK4Bc3tj9Fl2Xnqo5JKm5HkHImSOAETUVK6e2pBKhnrqBVHxk/s320/Meet+Diane.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
So ... meet Diane. As in "A little ditty ... about Jack and Diane." Herb's car is now Jack.<br />
<br />
She's a lot prettier than Thelma was. But in the same way that the teenaged Diane from the John Cougar song is prettier than I — a 41-year-old who's had three c-sections. Diane is fresh and new, but immature.<br />
<br />
Unlike Thelma, she doesn't know what it feels like to be thrown up in, peed on, written on in Sharpie, shedded on, cursed at, or abandoned on the side of the road. But she also doesn't have the years of love and care that gives one the strength and fortitude to take what our life will sling at her.<br />
<br />
She has a lot of learning to do. Friends of mine have told me that Diane's sisters have aged well and matured gracefully. I hope that her bloodline runs true. <br />
<br />
She's got some pretty big shoes to fill. <br />
<br />Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-134987110490226888.post-58343060284515912732013-06-22T20:38:00.000-07:002013-07-10T06:18:54.981-07:00Summer@Home Day 26 — Can Lightning Strike Twice?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_jq3RxBAdoqtzBHTVGA6Pg7SQmRy2VopdD4BYr1jo-vlXgsw0Dsa34f9v5wBrm4jPCJ5yF6H0Vg5oKkgBb0SCIIoLTKQlT9y-GrMQ6SD6xe8CKDSksgr4I2KwOhZ9GerxwxVK-k-xWZ8/s1600/Summer%2540Home+Logo+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_jq3RxBAdoqtzBHTVGA6Pg7SQmRy2VopdD4BYr1jo-vlXgsw0Dsa34f9v5wBrm4jPCJ5yF6H0Vg5oKkgBb0SCIIoLTKQlT9y-GrMQ6SD6xe8CKDSksgr4I2KwOhZ9GerxwxVK-k-xWZ8/s1600/Summer%2540Home+Logo+1.jpg" /></a></div>
<b>Day 26 </b><br />
Words should be measured carefully before they are spoken. Frequently you do not know their import until it is too late. Once said, they cannot be unspoken, no matter how much we wish it were so.<br />
<div>
<br />
<i>Let me explain...</i><br />
<br /></div>
<div>
When I was pregnant with my now seven-year-old, we went to a Braves game. Now, you must understand that I am a huge Braves fan. Obsessive, some would say. Given the opportunity I would rather be at Turner Field than just about anywhere else. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
However, in this particular instance it was a day game in late June. I was six months pregnant, and I was ready to go home. We were on the right side of a 4-0 shutout going into the eighth, so it looked good for an on-time departure. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Until the Orioles scored in the top of the 8th. And then three more times in the top of the 9th. By the bottom of the 9th,<a href="http://espn.go.com/mlb/recap?id=250625115" target="_blank"> our four-run lead had disintegrated into a tie ballgame. </a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Late June in Atlanta when you're very pregnant is enough to make even the most die-hard baseball fan weary.<br />
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGFYB9uHtBMnWlhXFzN-DPArR7-_SOIAc2io1g7SJXH02ghmGdzEW7t3gkIHunKgUy5cb5cO4pAWflOUY2QHsEgI3B389KDOFAoa2Er-v_sWwr4yGQAYK6sKvIlXTUDzFNoqIQsRnbI98/s1600/andruw-jones.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGFYB9uHtBMnWlhXFzN-DPArR7-_SOIAc2io1g7SJXH02ghmGdzEW7t3gkIHunKgUy5cb5cO4pAWflOUY2QHsEgI3B389KDOFAoa2Er-v_sWwr4yGQAYK6sKvIlXTUDzFNoqIQsRnbI98/s200/andruw-jones.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Andruw Jones</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Andruw Jones led off the inning, and the fans in the stadium rose as one. He was still in his prime and a force to be reckoned with at the plate. He and the longball were well acquainted. Exactly the person you wanted at bat at a time like this. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
At that moment I spoke words that live with me to this day. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>"Andruw Jones, If you hit a home run right now, I'll name my baby after you!"</b></span></div>
<div>
<br />
</div>
<div>
<br />
I screamed. I chopped. I prayed.</div>
<div>
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>Crack.</i> </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Roar.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Fireworks. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Crap.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I turned to my husband and tried to get his attention. He was ecstatic, jumping up and down with the crowd. He hasn't noticed yet that I was silent and perfectly still. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Herb. Herb! HERB! Look at me! I think I just named our baby."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Huh?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I explained my hastily spoken words. We looked at each other, and shrugged. It was decided. Jordan Andruw it would be. Or maybe Jordan Andrew. That was still to be discussed. But the middle name that we had been agonizing over for months was decided. </div>
<div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTWtX6KEoXeLf188RD9dpYDwRcMfdx0jYuYL5yaM2VLHYjaNyUY1s57tnERyhgV-896b4GVYdhv-erZVUBl0vIDgpL1gI27s6QL-QD3vRkWvYl_K4DKX62IRspTuhbomVfA68HHRYekEQ/s1600/Joey+T.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTWtX6KEoXeLf188RD9dpYDwRcMfdx0jYuYL5yaM2VLHYjaNyUY1s57tnERyhgV-896b4GVYdhv-erZVUBl0vIDgpL1gI27s6QL-QD3vRkWvYl_K4DKX62IRspTuhbomVfA68HHRYekEQ/s200/Joey+T.jpg" width="133" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joey Terdoslavich</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>Now, back to the title of this post. Why did I question whether lightning could strike twice?</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I am in the car right now, typing this with my thumbs. We just watched the Gwinnett Braves come from behind to beat the Syracuse Chiefs in the bottom of the ninth <a href="http://www.milb.com/news/article.jsp?ymd=20130622&content_id=51501604&fext=.jsp&vkey=recap&sid=t431" target="_blank">on a walk-off home run by Joey Terdoslavich</a>.<br />
<br />
<i>Oops. I did it again.</i> <br />
<br /></div>
It could be worse. I could have promised to use his last name.<br />
<br />
<i><b>Editor's Note: I am not pregnant. I am not trying to get pregnant. At this point in my life, I don't want to get pregnant. In fact, I have surgically taken steps to ensure that I would not get pregnant again, and my husband witnessed it. But I am just a little bit nervous right now. Stay tuned....</b></i>Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-134987110490226888.post-22515896662115735952013-06-21T09:30:00.003-07:002013-06-22T20:38:40.856-07:00Summer@Home Day 25: Making Ghee<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_jq3RxBAdoqtzBHTVGA6Pg7SQmRy2VopdD4BYr1jo-vlXgsw0Dsa34f9v5wBrm4jPCJ5yF6H0Vg5oKkgBb0SCIIoLTKQlT9y-GrMQ6SD6xe8CKDSksgr4I2KwOhZ9GerxwxVK-k-xWZ8/s1600/Summer%2540Home+Logo+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_jq3RxBAdoqtzBHTVGA6Pg7SQmRy2VopdD4BYr1jo-vlXgsw0Dsa34f9v5wBrm4jPCJ5yF6H0Vg5oKkgBb0SCIIoLTKQlT9y-GrMQ6SD6xe8CKDSksgr4I2KwOhZ9GerxwxVK-k-xWZ8/s1600/Summer%2540Home+Logo+1.jpg" /></a></div>
Day 25<br />
One consequence of not driving is that I'm at the mercy. Of whom or what varies from day to day. Sometimes it's my schedule ... or someone else's. Sometimes it's circumstances (<a href="http://finishwell.blogspot.com/2013/06/summerhome-day-6-stranded-at-publix.html" target="_blank">like getting stranded at Publix</a>). And sometimes it's a craving and a recipe.<br />
<br />
Um... a recipe?<br />
<br />
Yes. A recipe. <br />
<br />
You see, I love Indian food. Samosas. Chicken Tikka Masala. Lentil Soup. Things made with goat and curry and ingredients I can't readily identify.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Sing with me now ... These are a few of my favorite things!</i></div>
<br />
But I don't really dare trying to make anything that exotic at home. I'm a Nervous Nellie when it comes to cooking ethnic foods. I figure there's always something the recipe isn't telling you, that I would know instinctively if my name were different. But I'm one of "you white people" as one of my Indian friends calls me. So I feed my cravings at various Indian restaurants in the area.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgFIQOwLEtjiw9NYl9GEcIWdujssFS-dhcUaq-SCkJshmlH_EatRUbUAPojWRToiG4coWvYo67UnCNLHSoRRl0U-QmRcIrZ3L7mj__uYSjuuRK8Ez_VfR_BFPZHROVrF9Mr69SRlK4NoE/s1600/Chicken+Tikka+Masala.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgFIQOwLEtjiw9NYl9GEcIWdujssFS-dhcUaq-SCkJshmlH_EatRUbUAPojWRToiG4coWvYo67UnCNLHSoRRl0U-QmRcIrZ3L7mj__uYSjuuRK8Ez_VfR_BFPZHROVrF9Mr69SRlK4NoE/s200/Chicken+Tikka+Masala.jpg" width="200" /></a>A few days ago I logged onto <a href="http://allrecipes.com/">AllRecipes.com</a> and I saw this:<br />
<br />
Their featured recipe was <a href="http://allrecipes.com/recipe/curry-stand-chicken-tikka-masala-sauce/detail.aspx" target="_blank">Curry Stand Chicken Tikka Masala</a> in all its day-glo organge glory. Five stars out of five, based on 111 reviews.<br />
<br />
<i>Side note: The reviews are always my litmus test. If I'm looking at two recipes and one has 5 stars based on 500 reviews and one has 5 stars based on 2, I'll go with the 500. Call me a sheep. I don't care.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Do I dare? </b><br />
<br />
<b></b><br />
<a name='more'></a><b> </b><br />
It's on AllRecipes.com for goodness sake. More than 100 people with names like ChickHipster and Rosie_Tosie had made it and loved it. Could I, Miss White Bread herself, make Chicken Tikka Masala? Let's check the pantry.<br />
<br />
Lo and behold, I had all of the ingredients except one: ghee. Or, as we Anglos call it, clarified butter.<br />
<br />
Now, "Before Summer@Home" me would have just hopped in the car and gone to <a href="http://www.cherians.com/" target="_blank">Cherians</a> to buy some ghee. But I can't do that. I put out a Facebook post asking if, by some strange coincidence, anyone I knew had any sitting in their fridge.<br />
<br />
"Easy to make!" said people with names like Stacie, Sheri, and Catherine. "Just make it! Check Martha Stewart's website for directions." <i>(Like anything Martha Stewart does is easy. Seriously?)</i><br />
<br />
But I did it. I made ghee, and it <b>was</b> easy. I even made some extra for the next time the craving hits. <br />
<br />
The point is this: Sometimes hopping in the car and heading to the store <i>isn't</i> the best alternative, even if it's the easiest. We ate yummy Chicken Tikka Masala for dinner, and had leftovers for lunch. And I learned how to make ghee. <b><i>And no one had to do anything for me.</i></b> <b><i>I did it for myself. Thank you, Lord!</i></b><br />
<br />
Maybe being home is teaching me a thing or two.<br />
<br />
Finish Well.Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-134987110490226888.post-3566108519141642912013-06-08T20:27:00.003-07:002013-06-21T09:32:38.507-07:00Summer@Home Day 12 — Not Stranded Anywhere<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_jq3RxBAdoqtzBHTVGA6Pg7SQmRy2VopdD4BYr1jo-vlXgsw0Dsa34f9v5wBrm4jPCJ5yF6H0Vg5oKkgBb0SCIIoLTKQlT9y-GrMQ6SD6xe8CKDSksgr4I2KwOhZ9GerxwxVK-k-xWZ8/s1600/Summer%2540Home+Logo+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_jq3RxBAdoqtzBHTVGA6Pg7SQmRy2VopdD4BYr1jo-vlXgsw0Dsa34f9v5wBrm4jPCJ5yF6H0Vg5oKkgBb0SCIIoLTKQlT9y-GrMQ6SD6xe8CKDSksgr4I2KwOhZ9GerxwxVK-k-xWZ8/s1600/Summer%2540Home+Logo+1.jpg" /></a></div>
<b>Day 12</b><br />
I haven't driven since February 10 due to a medical condition. Many days I have felt trapped in my own house. There have been days I not only didn't go anywhere ... I didn't step outside. <br />
<br />
Today was not one of those days, although it easily could have been.<br />
<br />
My husband left for Maine today. Our oldest is graduating from high school on Sunday — long story as to why I'm not going, too — so I'm at home with the other kiddos for 48 hours and no wheels. Did we sit around the house all day?<br />
<br />
Nope.<br />
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<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEXVf7xHpnRPtYgh2QJPc5l-NrXmhgBuBrMrgMZuMCkMtMX4-J31-MqgFw2DfXVDP6CW_Q0nMnTldIFVFO4AWtUjt2rw4iD0PE1gvrX6Wpp4PmOC_72u4g1573rWoaPxsD8xWmaSvmqVw/s1600/Running+Feet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEXVf7xHpnRPtYgh2QJPc5l-NrXmhgBuBrMrgMZuMCkMtMX4-J31-MqgFw2DfXVDP6CW_Q0nMnTldIFVFO4AWtUjt2rw4iD0PE1gvrX6Wpp4PmOC_72u4g1573rWoaPxsD8xWmaSvmqVw/s1600/Running+Feet.jpg" /></a></div>
10:45 a.m.: I walked six miles on the Big Creek Greenway with a friend and our combined three young boys.<br />
<br />
2:00 p.m.: My ex gave my boys and me a ride to our older son's baseball game. (South Forsyth beat their arch rivals, Lambert High. Sandy pitched the first three innings, and his friend since age 4 pitched the last three. I love that!)<br />
<br />
4:45 p.m.: After Joshua's discipleship group leader picked him up to head to a sleepover, Jordan and I hit the neighborhood pool.<br />
<br />
5:30 p.m.: While at the pool, other friends joined us, and invited us to go out with them to dinner.<br />
<br />
8:00 p.m.: After dinner, we walked to a new neighbor's house and delivered cookies that Jordan had made for them. Jordan stopped off at another friend's house to play for a while on the way back.<br />
<br />
9:00 p.m. Finally, we each grabbed some ice cream and settled in for a Mommy/Buddy movie night.<br />
<br />
10:30 p.m.: Jordan just crashed. I will not be far behind him. But first, I had to marvel at how this day of my Summer@Home was very much <i>not</i> a day at home. Thanks to wonderful friends, we ran ourselves ragged today. <br />
<br />
I don't know how much more of this resting at home I can take!Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-134987110490226888.post-62889247909646128182013-06-03T14:43:00.002-07:002013-06-08T20:31:00.889-07:00Summer@Home: Day 6 — Stranded at Publix<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_jq3RxBAdoqtzBHTVGA6Pg7SQmRy2VopdD4BYr1jo-vlXgsw0Dsa34f9v5wBrm4jPCJ5yF6H0Vg5oKkgBb0SCIIoLTKQlT9y-GrMQ6SD6xe8CKDSksgr4I2KwOhZ9GerxwxVK-k-xWZ8/s1600/Summer%2540Home+Logo+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_jq3RxBAdoqtzBHTVGA6Pg7SQmRy2VopdD4BYr1jo-vlXgsw0Dsa34f9v5wBrm4jPCJ5yF6H0Vg5oKkgBb0SCIIoLTKQlT9y-GrMQ6SD6xe8CKDSksgr4I2KwOhZ9GerxwxVK-k-xWZ8/s1600/Summer%2540Home+Logo+1.jpg" /></a></div>
<b>Day 6</b><br />
Have you ever been stranded somewhere? It's a pretty helpless feeling. To have somewhere to go, but no way to get there?<br />
<br />
Yesterday, Day 6 of my Summer@Home, I got stranded at Publix. Not on purpose, but kind of out of necessity. You see, grocery shopping these days is a "do it when you have the opportunity" kind of thing. The trips are not always planned. Sometimes the opportunity just kind of pops up, and you run with it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
This means that I constantly need to have:<br />
<ul>
<li>a running list of what we need</li>
<li>an idea of what my week looks like so I can anticipate things that aren't yet on my list</li>
<li>an idea of what is already in my fridge.</li>
</ul>
I had the first two things covered yesterday when it turned out that I could go to Publix. (I'm always a little vague on the third one.) Herb was taking the little people to Cub Scout Camp and stopping back at the house to get our teenager to take him to his church youth group. Hooray for me! Leisurely trip to the grocery store!<br />
<br />
<i>It's the little things that make my day.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Error #1:</b> I did not grab my wallet as I ran out of the door.<br />
<b>Error #2:</b> I did not immediately run back inside when I realized this. Herb said he'd just give me his debit card.<br />
<b>Error #3:</b> I did not verify that Herb, in fact, <i><b>had</b></i> his debit card with him.<br />
<br />
We realized Error #3 when we got to Publix. No worries. Herb said he'd drop my wallet off to me after he took the kids to Cub Camp and before taking Sandy to church.<br />
<br />
<b>Error #4:</b> I assumed that nothing would happen to delay him.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOS6SlSEhzvfwhn_DbOfDFMu4kT_WPkT-3uu9-5G-NHHwj-MsfkOSe-HD9KVJZehvKq5xThp-eirCpkAw7pYY6ihpHxEQU3OJVrUaptq4PTfLDiRUe2ACuTRcIOJ55FCqdz_njEGpEhL4/s1600/Zyliss+ice+cream+scoop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOS6SlSEhzvfwhn_DbOfDFMu4kT_WPkT-3uu9-5G-NHHwj-MsfkOSe-HD9KVJZehvKq5xThp-eirCpkAw7pYY6ihpHxEQU3OJVrUaptq4PTfLDiRUe2ACuTRcIOJ55FCqdz_njEGpEhL4/s200/Zyliss+ice+cream+scoop.jpg" width="200" /></a>A nasty thunderstorm started while I was in Publix. I was oblivious, of course ... high on the freedom of walking the aisles, shopping for frivolous things like a new ice cream scooper. (Zyliss, pink handle, $9.99. A splurge, I know.)<br />
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Herb, however, was stuck in a holding pattern at Cub Camp. They wouldn't allow the kids to exit the cars while there was so much lightning going on. This meant that he was going to be late getting back to pick up Sandy to take him to church. Stopping by the grocery store was going to make him even later.<br />
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<b>Decision Time:</b> Was it more important to get Sandy to church on time, or for me to get my wallet?<br />
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I decided to let Sandy get to church on time. Heck, I knew they were already going to be late. I just didn't want them to be any later. I've been the high school kid who walks in late to a group event and had everyone turn around and look at you. As an adult, we might not see it as a big social faux pas, but to a teenager it is.<b><i> I get it.</i></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji0atGEI6DAXUpzV6_ZQWah1zrYorZ7pwUwkWRHE1eKYWeHxC92ucH3otK1q6oDxjEF1F-LXH8NFAUFMc-bnovZTx1S7pS5T15sQUB_4B0nCFIODinboCtvc2U6SX0SXaD7bslj9xH9G0/s1600/woman+at+picnic+table.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji0atGEI6DAXUpzV6_ZQWah1zrYorZ7pwUwkWRHE1eKYWeHxC92ucH3otK1q6oDxjEF1F-LXH8NFAUFMc-bnovZTx1S7pS5T15sQUB_4B0nCFIODinboCtvc2U6SX0SXaD7bslj9xH9G0/s1600/woman+at+picnic+table.jpg" /></a>So there I was, at Publix, full basket of groceries, no money, and at least 45 minutes to kill before my wallet and my ride would arrive. Pre-driving restriction, this would have made me mad. Or exasperated me no end. I might have said some not-nice things in my head. But Driving Restriction Me has learned to go with the flow a little more.<br />
<br />
I parked my buggy behind the customer service counter and went outside. I sat at a picnic table, listened to the Braves game live on my iPhone, and watched the rain. My mother-in-law heard of my plight and came to pick me up. But not before I got to hear the end of the game. (Braves won, 6-3 over the Nationals.)<br />
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Sometimes, being stranded is not such a bad thing. <br />
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<br />Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-134987110490226888.post-56233187345256292392013-05-31T08:54:00.000-07:002013-06-03T14:45:11.129-07:00Summer@Home Day 3: UPS Drivers, Beware!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_jq3RxBAdoqtzBHTVGA6Pg7SQmRy2VopdD4BYr1jo-vlXgsw0Dsa34f9v5wBrm4jPCJ5yF6H0Vg5oKkgBb0SCIIoLTKQlT9y-GrMQ6SD6xe8CKDSksgr4I2KwOhZ9GerxwxVK-k-xWZ8/s1600/Summer%2540Home+Logo+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_jq3RxBAdoqtzBHTVGA6Pg7SQmRy2VopdD4BYr1jo-vlXgsw0Dsa34f9v5wBrm4jPCJ5yF6H0Vg5oKkgBb0SCIIoLTKQlT9y-GrMQ6SD6xe8CKDSksgr4I2KwOhZ9GerxwxVK-k-xWZ8/s1600/Summer%2540Home+Logo+1.jpg" /></a></div>
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<b>Day 3</b><br />
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My friends are coming to my rescue in various ways during my Summer@Home. My dear friend Cathy invited Joshua and Jordan to join her boys for tennis lessons and do all the driving. [Shout out to Cathy! Lifesaver! Doin' the happy dance!]<br />
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Yesterday, I was able to break from work and go watch, which was a treat. I'd never seen either of them play. I was surprised at how naturally it came to them. They were doing quite well, and it was just their second lesson. And I got to sit in the shade, sip iced tea, and chat with other moms. Heaven...<br />
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But when we got home, I almost died laughing. And I soooo wish I'd taken a picture. But outside our garage door, it looked something like this:<br />
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Only one big honkin' box contained a <b>12' trampoline.</b> <i>[Note: Our boys broke ours. Split the bouncy thing right down the middle. That's what comes from letting 290 pounds of kids bounce on a 140-pound-limit trampoline. What was I thinking when I bought that?]</i><br />
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Another one contained <b>four boxes of cork placemats and a large book</b>. It was marked heavy. <i>[Interestingly, the trampoline was not.]</i><br />
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The next contained <b>four cases of Friskies canned cat food</b>. Or "kitty crack" as we call it. It, too, was marked heavy.<br />
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The last, from <b>Bath & Body Works</b>, was not heavy, but marked FRAGILE.<br />
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Will my UPS driver ever speak to me again? I have the sudden desire to bake him cookies and make lemonade. I feel like I have to make amends.<br />
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Because until yesterday, it didn't occur to me how much my purchasing patterns have changed over the last 3 months. It is a rare week ... heck, a rare day ... that the big brown van does not pull up to our house and send the dog into a raging conniption fit.<br />
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I cannot just pop into the store for cat food ... so I buy it a month at a time via mail order. We never run out.<br />
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I have many toiletries, toilet paper, and other necessities automatically shipped at set intervals as well.<br />
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I buy their school uniforms online. I buy their music books online. I buy my clothes online. I buy as much as humanly possible online. Amazon probably rues the day they told me that if I joined <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/prime/signup/videos/ref=nav_prime_join" target="_blank">Amazon Prime</a>, I could get two-day shipping for free. I definitely get my money's worth on that.<br />
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By the way, the little people have even learned to shop online. I overhear them looking at some such toy or costume and invariably, one of them will ask, <i>"I know it's cheap. But is it Prime?"</i>Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-134987110490226888.post-2286317652207181622013-05-28T18:39:00.001-07:002013-05-31T09:56:58.431-07:00Summer@Home - Day 1<br />
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<b>Day 1</b><br />
My summer at home has officially begun. School let out five days ago, so most people might consider that the official beginning of summer. But for me, summer began today — the day my husband went back to work in the office and I stayed home.<br />
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If you don't know me, you may not realize the significance of this. I have not driven since February 9, 2013. On February 10 I had the first of a series of fainting and dizzy spells that occurred multiple times a day for a month until my doctors were able to get a partial diagnosis and find medicines that would help. I passed out for the last time on March 13, so I am not allowed to drive again until I have gone six months without an episode. September 13 is my magic date.<br />
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So with school out, and my husband back at work, I'm starting a new — albeit short — phase of my life. At home. All day. Every day. All...summer...long.<br />
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Showing His divine sense of humor, and just in case I was thinking about cheating, God decided to call my car home a couple of weeks ago. So even if I wanted to, I couldn't hop in my car and take an illicit jaunt to the grocery store or ice cream stand. <br />
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I am truly stuck.<br />
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Kill me.<br />
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But I went out to dinner last night with a friend who has been in my place. In fact, she was there last summer. She has occasional seizures, and each time she has one, she can't drive for six months. She had a seizure on June 20, 2012, so she spent most of last summer at home, her third at home stint since she got married. She had several words of wisdom for me:<br />
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<b>1. Don't expect your husband to fill in all the gaps. </b><br />
Herb has been working from home at least part-time for the last 3.5 months, but it was time for him to go back to the office. He needed it, his employer needed it, and his clients needed it. Don't think that his idea of a good time is going to be driving you to 20 different appointments all day Saturday.<br />
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<b>2. Find a teenager to be your chauffeur. </b><br />
It will make you feel good to pay someone else to take you where you need to go instead of relying on friends or husband or in-laws over and over.<br />
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<b>3. Make goals of what to do with your extra time. </b><br />
As much as it sucks to be at home constantly, not being able to go somewhere every time the thought pops into your head you will give you more free time. Plan ahead of time what to do with it.<br />
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Hmmm...sounds like I need to find some things to start ... and then finish ... by the end of the summer.<br />
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So my Summer@Home journey has begun. Strap on your seat belts. It's going to be a bumpy ride. Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-134987110490226888.post-57149174334537634252013-05-16T18:10:00.000-07:002013-05-31T09:58:02.040-07:00RIP Thelma<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span id="goog_1142201505"></span><span id="goog_1142201506"></span>I'm not a car person. I don't really care that much about what I drive. I've only bought one new car in my life that I really cared about: a 2000 VW Passat Wagon. I was a single mom, and it was the first car I'd ever bought on my own, with my own money, without having to check in with anyone. I loved that car in a way that was not entirely natural.<br />
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I traded in my beloved Passat in 2005 to get a 2000 Suburban with 66,000 miles on it. Herb and I were expecting Jordan — boy #4 — so a third row became a necessity. It was a sacrifice I was willing to make. But I cried a little.<br />
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Over the last eight years, we have put another 150,000 miles on Thelma. (We named her Thelma when Herb got Louise, 1985 Mercedes diesel sedan, who came pre-named. Kind of like a rescue dog.) Until I stopped driving three months ago, there were not many days in the last eight years that I did not sit behind Thelma's steering wheel at some point.<br />
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Thelma suited me. When you've got a house full of boys, having a car you can bang around without freaking out was a blessing.<br />
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But today, Thelma breathed her last. We had actually already decided
that it was time to replace her. The repairs she needed were going to cost more than she was worth. We were already doing the car equivalent of
shopping around for Assisted Living facilities. Or a cemetery plot. But she was still alive
and kicking until this afternoon.<br />
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Herb texted me from the side of the road while waiting for a tow truck, saying that he thought Thelma was pissed off at us. He was kidding, but I think he may be right.<br />
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I wonder. Did she know that she was being
replaced? Was her blown alternator today really a suicide? Or was she
really flipping us a three-ton bird, as if to say, "I'll go out on my terms, you ungrateful wench! Not
yours!"<br />
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I don't know. But I do know that she'll be missed. We have created so many memories in Thelma:<br />
<ul>
<li>Her "christening." ('Nuff said.)</li>
<li>Bringing Jordan home from the hospital, my tiny little peanut.</li>
<li>The year Herb gave me my "1GR8WIF" license plate for my birthday.</li>
<li>Joshua throwing up all over me in the parking lot of the Atlanta airport (which necessitated me changing clothes completely, in the car, older boys standing guard holding up beach towels).</li>
<li>Joshua throwing up an entire Varsity frozen orange on the day that Herb's stepfather had a heart attack (which necessitated a house call from Onsite Mobile Detailing so that we could get on the road to Florida).</li>
<li>Driving home from a road trip to Maine with four boys, one dog, five bikes, and three kayaks. No one threw up.</li>
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She also had a lot of scars with stories, much like her owner.<br />
<ul>
<li>The crushed second-row stereo control panel, courtesy of large, heavy boxes of bookcases from Ikea that were not properly restrained.</li>
<li>The crushed roof rack from when we squeeled into the parking deck of the hospital in Richmond, forgetting that the Thule was on the roof. It was our fifth anniversary, and Joshua was bleeding all over the back seat, unbeknownst to us, about to get seven stitches in his forehead. </li>
<li>The broken sunroof which was duct-taped shut after too many leaks. Yes, we are the Clampetts. </li>
<li>The gash over the front right wheel well made by a guy who opened his
car door into our car in the parking lot before the Styx/Yes/REO Speedwagon concert. He gave us beer. We called it
even. </li>
</ul>
We pray that the men over at No Longer Bound will revive you, and that you will rise again to bless someone else.<br />
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I will always love you, Thelma.<br />
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Please don't stay mad at me.<br />
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Finish Well.<br />
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<br />Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-134987110490226888.post-53174587713164991732013-01-28T02:00:00.000-08:002013-05-29T08:35:45.659-07:00It's Official. I'm Old.Confession: I'm 41 years old.<br />
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But in my mind, I'm somewhere in the 16 - 20 range.<br />
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I can go to the grocery store, walk out with several bags of groceries that I paid for with a piece of plastic, and marvel that they let me do it. I feel like I've gotten away with something.<br />
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I look at these little mini-me's, and cannot believe that God thinks I am responsible enough to raise them. That <i>anyone</i> thinks I'm responsible enough to raise them. I can't keep a plant alive for a month, much less children for 20+ years.<br />
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I remember what my sister said about the moment she realized she was old. I was driving my car to the mechanic's, and she was following behind me to bring me home. She said that when she looked through her windshield at me, be-bopping along to some music on the cassette player (her words, not mine) she decided that she was old. If she was in sixth grade when I was born ... and I was now driving my own car ... that would make her ... oh, never mind. In her mind, she was old.<br />
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That moment just hit me on Friday.<br />
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I went to the dentist for a crown.<br />
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It was the first sign to me that my body was betraying me. Breaking down.<br />
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I mean, I've had medical issues before. In fact, I had a stroke two years ago. But the doctors kept saying how abnormal it was for me to have a stroke, how young women my age just don't have strokes. Heck, they brought residents around to observe me. So every time I heard a doctor say, "You're too young!" it just reinforced my belief that I couldn't possibly be getting old.<br />
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Then I broke a tooth. Not from an accident or injury or even a particularly sticky caramel. Just plain old wear and tear (and quite a bit of nighttime grinding, I've been told).<br />
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Wear and tear. The stuff that's not covered by a warranty or insurance. The stuff that just happens as a result of years of use and the passage of time. It happens to old things.<br />
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So what's next, huh? A new hip or knee? Should I toss out my Lucky Charms and replace them with Grape Nuts? (Or maybe not. I've already got one crown.) And perhaps I should drink my OJ with a shot of Metamucil.<br />
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Crap. I am getting old. <br />
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Pass the bran muffins. <br />
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Finish Well.<br />
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<br />Marybeth Edgecombhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16707644389740541692noreply@blogger.com0