Too Old for Cheap Tampons

I've decided I'm too old for lots of things I used to put up with. Like cheap tampons.

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.

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.

Summer@Home: Sleepless Night

Another Sleepless Night by Janet Lavida

It's 10:40, and I can't sleep. I can't even think about sleep right now. So I think. And I write. 

Isn't it funny how two of your own kids can be so alike ... or so different. We have two distinct pairs of boys.

Pair A: Number 1 and Number 3.
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.

Pair B: Number 2 and Number 4. 
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.

You want to know what the kicker is?

Numbers 3 and 4 are the full bio-brothers. But they have nothing in common.

Summer@Home: I'm a Bad Christian

Confession: I make Christians blush.

I find this terribly amusing since I am one.

But sometimes I don't act like it. And that's a good thing. At least in my over-rationalizing mind it is.

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.

So sometimes, frankly, I identify with non-Christians more readily than Christians.  

Didn't Jesus dine with tax collectors and prostitutes?

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.

I like friends that I can laugh with, til wine squirts out our noses.

Oh, crud. I just admitted that I drink wine. (And beer. And sangria. Oh, golly, do I like a good sangria. Read all about it here.)

Does that make me a bad Christian?

Summer@Home: The Bliss of NOT Being at Home

We went on vacation this summer.

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.

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.

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."

And we were bicycling distance from the grocery store.  Hallelujah and pass the peanuts! I could go to the grocery store. By. My. Self. I'm not sure that I ever actually did. But just knowing that I could was enough.

And it was a Piggly Wiggly, no less! You can't beat that with a stick.

[Piggly Wiggly ... yet another amazing memory from my childhood! But I'll write about that another time.] 

There were two particularly memorable events from our vacation that I'd like to share.

Summer@Home: How NOT to Run Fast

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.

Which means that I'm not writing enough.

Which means that I'm frittering the summer away this year just like every other frickin' year.

I don't need the guilt, so I stopped counting.

Sue me.

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.

Summer@Home Day 26 — Can Lightning Strike Twice?

Day 26
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.

Let me explain...

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. 

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. 

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, our four-run lead had disintegrated into a tie ballgame. 

Late June in Atlanta when you're very pregnant is enough to make even the most die-hard baseball fan weary.
 

Andruw Jones

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.

At that moment I spoke words that live with me to this day. 

"Andruw Jones, If you hit a home run right now, I'll name my baby after you!"

I screamed. I chopped. I prayed.

RIP Thelma

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.

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.

It's Official. I'm Old.

Confession: I'm 41 years old.

But in my mind, I'm somewhere in the 16 - 20 range.

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.

I look at these little mini-me's, and cannot believe that God thinks I am responsible enough to raise them. That anyone thinks I'm responsible enough to raise them. I can't keep a plant alive for a month, much less children for 20+ years.

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.

That moment just hit me on Friday.

Sunday Confessional: I'm an Adult Underachiever

"Hi. My name is Marybeth. And I'm an adult underachiever."

"Hi, Marybeth." (You know you thought it, even if you didn't say it.)

If you're reading this, there's a good chance that you know me personally. That's because right now, there aren't a lot of people who read my blog who don't share my last name or DNA.

So if you know me ... if you know my life ... you probably have no idea why I see myself as an underachiever.
 
I'm a wife and mother of four boys. (Many people probably think I should stop there. I truly believe there is a special place in heaven for the mother of boys. It is quiet and clean and full of breakable things and scented candles.)