Dear Moms,

I never had a pink nursery for my girls. Because we never learned the sex of our babies, our nursery was gender neutral, decorated in bold, primary colors with little teddy bears.

Hanging over my bold red rocking chair was a poem.

Cleaning and  scrubbing 

Can wait till tomorrow

For babies grow up

As we've learned to our sorrow... 

So quiet down cobwebs

Dust, go to sleep

I'm rocking my baby

And babies won't keep. 

In roughly 48 hours, we'll load up like Clampetts and drive to Mercer University to leave Miss Whimsy for her Great Junior Year Adventure. From there, Super Dad will continue to Atlanta to work in his mother's yard. ('Cause he's Super Son, too...)  

Me? I'll return to a very quiet and empty house once again.  Once again, I'll have plenty of time on my hands for the lively art of homemaking and the livelier one of blogging about it. 

If I had one tip to share with young blogging mommies, that poem would just about sum it up. Never, ever squander your rocking time. The intangible home you're making is eternal. The tangible one, notsomuch.

Put down the paint brush and play. 

Along those lines, my domino playing for this first week of August has doubled as daughter time. 

We rocked Whimsy Land from closet to drawers to that under-the-bed storage where she keeps the 4,728 extra t-shirts that come with a college diploma.   

Yesterday, we rocked our way to the outlet malls to replace items lost in The Great Closet Purge.  The Farm Sister came along too. That's because I always play Barbie with the Farm Sister, and the other three dolls are all grown up.  

The Duchess came too, of course. If there's anything cute left on Hilton Head Island, don't blame the two of them. They tried... 

Actually, Whimsy didn't need a lot. Much to her dismay, she stopped growing long ago. We mainly purchased things to go with what she had.  

See these paint chips? That's tip #2.

They represent the color families from the skirts we were trying to match. Carrying a handful of paint chips is infinitely better than playing a guessing game as to whether that pink or orange or green is the right pink or orange or green.

And tip #3? Mention to the nice sales clerk that you're in need of more hangers for the aforementioned skirts. She might just give you an entire bag of them.  Woo. Hoo.

So that's where I've been and why I haven't been as visible in Blog Land recently. Please indulge me. Sooner rather than later, I'll be back in the swing of things. In the meantime...

Quiet down Blog Land...

Put Pinterest to sleep

I'm rocking with daughter

And daughters don't keep. 

*****

Can I get an AMEN

 from other mothers out there?

  

Blogger Schmogger and Moving Monday

Just a quick post from me this morning since we have a big day around here.

I got a comment from Patti@ Fill My Cup with Beauty on my last post about some blogger issues.  As it turns out, I'm having some of those same problems. I had blamed Della the Demon Possessed Laptop, but apparently, the gal has been falsely accused.

photo credit

Random blogger quirks for both of us include 

1. Blogs that will not update on the homepage, leaving  you unaware of updates. One of my blogs not only will not update, it shows that it doesn't exist if I click on it. It does exist.  
 
2. Discovering that you have "unfollowed" a blog with no intention or knowledge of doing so

3. Random, mysterious blogs showing up on your followed list. Cue the Twilight Zone theme...

4. Unintentionally following yourself, like a dog chasing her tail

5. Trying to follow a blog 45 different times only to have it refuse to show up as followed.

And I have another oddball one that Patti didn't mention:

6. I had a trial blog and profile before I started Words on Wheels. Lately, every time I try to follow a blog, it comes up as that other old blog, although  I have deleted that blog. It's like it's stuck on stupid.

Can you relate to any of those problems? 

Any suggestions?

Don't tell me to ask Bloggerman. 

He doesn't exist.

In other news, we're leaving soon for what I'm forcing myself to call an adventure. (Back off, would- be burglars. We have a doberman, and she's packing an UZI. Her name is Duchess...)

The Practical One has decided to play her own game of 

Mother May I.

 It went something like this:

Mother, may I take 532 giant steps away from home?

No, you may not...

It didn't work. Apparently, God said, Yes, you may, and in the lawn game of life, God trumps Mother. We're leaving this morning. I have packed my shiny red kodak, and I'll be searching for some sunshine.

Would you like to know where we're going?

No, you may not...

Yet.

Wearing the funny hat

It wasn't the first time she's worn the funny hat,

 and it won't be the last...

 But I'm pretty sure it will be the one dearest to her heart.

It has been four wonderful years...

But it's time for the Practical One to put on the funny outfit.

We spent a long weekend in Macon leading up to the festivities on Saturday afternoon.

And then, far too soon,

the music began
and the names were called...

The conferring of degree to the College of Liberal Arts

And then to the Stetson School of Business...

Because this was a family affair, you see. We had two graduates,

The Practical One and The Professional Princess.

They are first cousins

And you know that term best friend for life?

They invented it.

Someday I'll yak all about that.

A kiss for the Duchess...

And hugs for dear friends.

Don't let the smiles fool you...

It was a tearful weekend.

Because no matter how they try to camouflage it with words like

commencement,

 It still feels an awful lot like good-bye.

*****

Congratulations to our college graduates.

Look out, world...

Oh, my aching...

Somehow, I managed to give birth to The Odd Couple.

The Practical One is Felix. She can’t deal with clutter or filth. To deal with stress, she likes to clean. She generally requests that bins be sent her way the week before finals and de-stresses her way to a perfectly organized farewell.

 Meet Oscar

Musta been da debil…

That was then...

This is now.

I was assured that those were not the same flowers, and I believe her. I had some doubt, however, when I discovered remnants of a piñata whacked in October abiding under the bed.  

Obviously, we had to clean as well as pack.

We bagged and boxed in bins and baskets. Dad deconstructed shelves in the hallway while Whimsy cleaned surfaces and I pushed dirt across the room and fluffed up dust bunnies with a Dirt Devil which lived up to its name.  I had considered giving those little gadgets as graduation gifts this year.

I’ve reconsidered.

We finally borrowed a Bissel 3-in-1 which did the job sufficiently and returned the room to its original glory.  Just consider that a product endorsement.

All the while, we loaded.

Up and down the hall

Up and down the steps

                                         

I felt the need to photograph each set because I woke up that morning determined to be annoying. That’s what the husband said, anyway, when he asked if I had come to load or to blog. Since marriage is all about compromise, I told him that he could load, and I would blog. I’m cooperative like that.

He took away the camera.

We loaded in silence since fellow dorm dwellers were still in the midst of finals and a gag order was in place in the hallways.  This made the work all the more tedious. Personally, I find a little yakkity yak makes any job go faster. Don't you?

Instead, I entertained my brain by counting footsteps.  I counted 178 steps between the door of the room and the door of the car, 44 of which were stair steps. Times twenty.

And I figured that any 49er who lugged a freshman year 3, 560 steps and 880 stairs deserved some pralines and cream ice cream.

And that’s exactly what he got.

Then the mover, the blogger, and the sophomore headed home again, Super Dad in one car, and mother/daughter in the other.  Just in case you’re wondering, it is entirely possible to rehash a royal wedding for two and a half hours and still have more to say.

We pulled the cars across the front lawn and unloaded them into the living room because that was my plan.  Plus, her bedroom is on the second floor.  

I’m calling that pile Bad Bart.

Come Monday morning, I'm giving that varmint 24 hours to get out of town.

Or there will be a showdown. 

Until then, we'll just rest our legs and enjoy.

So...
What about you?
Are you more of a Felix or an Oscar?

Practically Grown

You may have noticed that I rarely if ever post on Sundays. I basically set my Sundays apart to  rest from almost everything, even blogging. Besides, I'm too busy grazing around the family table to waddle to the computer.

But sometimes, a date is so ingrained in the calendar that it practically demands a yakabout even if it does fall on Sunday. Sometimes, a date is practically impossible to ignore.

Today is such a day. Care to guess why?

It's April 10th, one of my favorite days of the year. It marks the anniversary of the day that I began The Great Mommy Adventure, the birthday of my first born daughter, The Practical One.

The Practical One was born 22 years ago on a Monday afternoon. Outside, the rains were driving and the winds were raging.  We could have named her Stormy Gale, had that kind of a name passed muster with the Duchess.

 It didn't.

It didn't matter anyway, because I was completely oblivious to what was going on outside. From where I sat, there was nothing but sunshine. The girl has been lighting up my life ever since. 

We call her The Practical One because she has always been a bit on the serious side. She was given the grace gifts of intellect and compassion...

...a listening heart and a helpful spirit...

And in this mom's unbiased opinon, a great loveliness as well.

I thought she might use her gift of intellect to provide for Good Old Mom in her old age, and I mentioned as much to God.  I suggested a geriatric dentist... or maybe a plastic surgeon.

But noooo.

She's getting a degree in psychology.
Maybe she'll become a therapist.

I report. You decide.

So Happy Birthday to my very Practical Daughter.

 No matter what you grow up to be,

 you will always, always be my little girl.

Many daughters have done nobly, but you excel  them all.

Charm is deceitful, and beauty is vain,

but a woman who fears the LORD, she shall be praised.

~Proverbs 31:29-30 NASB

Back in the Saddle Again

I've had a bad case of cyber laryngitis this week for a variety of reasons. You see,  I'm still dealing with that whirly swirly circlet at random times when Della gets moody.  Plus, I've been stressed out  trying to wrap up my current teaching stint. The combination left me uninspired and pouty. 

That's the way I roll sometimes. I blame the hormones. At 49, you get to blame the hormones for everything.

Or so the husband says...

But this morning, I'm back in the saddle again, and I mean that very literally. Believe it or not,  we're in Macon again. Sitting in a hotel room... again. This week, however, it has nothing to do with cherry blossoms. It has everything to do with daughters, particularly one daughter who is celebrating a birthday.

Care to guess which one?

We may not be the most logical parents around, but what we lack in logic, we make up in love. After a long week on the road, the Man of the House rolled back into town around 6:00 last night only to do the quick change into his Super Dad suit and head back the same way he had come.

With his faithful side kick, Mighty Mom, tagging along.

We made the decision to road trip back to Macon because the daughters are too busy this weekend to come home  and we're pathetic.  We're sneaking in a birthday breakfast before they start their busy day.  This is the weekend of Mercer's annual Dance Marathon to raise money for the hospitals of the Children's Miracle Network.

Both daughters are involved. In fact, one of them is an organizer.  Care to guess which one? It isn't the birthday girl.  She'll be there with bells on, however, because this event is tailor made for her.  The kid was born with  boogie shoes. From the time she was able to walk, she has chosen instead to dance.

Time and place made no difference whatsoever.  The instant she heard the strains of a beat, those tiny hips started moving, followed quickly by the shoulder shimmy and head bob.  Bystanders would point and giggle. Big sister would try her best to hide behind a grocery cart and whisper, "Mommy stop her." 

Of course, I never did. More often than not, we just created a conga line for two.
It's a wonder Big Sister never needed therapy.

By now, you've probably guessed that our birthday girl is none other than Miss Whimsy.  She turns 19 years old today. How that happened, I do not know.

I could swear she was 5 just yesterday. 

Inconceivable.

So Happy Birthday to my Miss Whimsy. I hope the rest of the day is every bit as wonderful as you want it to be. And today, just as always, I hope you dance.

Sister is an Action Verb

Oh, I know that’s contrary to the dictionary, but it’s the truth. “Sister” is no more a noun than “Mother” is. No, being a sister is not merely something that you are; it’s something that you do.

And big sistering has a connotation all of its own,

one which The Practical One understands well.

That’s why she was a bit frustrated last week when logistics threatened to create disappointment in Sister Land. Monday was Senior Honor’s Night, and although she wanted to attend, she was scheduled to work 2 ½ hours away in Macon on both Monday and Tuesday.

I assured her that she wasn’t committing family treason by missing the program. I reminded her of other supportive road trips. I reminded her that she would be home for The Big Event on Friday. But in her world, big sistering outweighed practicality, and she was feeling like a fumbler. So she worked through lunch, borrowed a car, and planned to make 5 hour round trip just to surprise Little Sister on a special night.

I saved her a seat in the auditorium and waited, knowing fully well that I would not enjoy one second of that evening until she was safely next to me. I’m ashamed to admit it, but where traveling daughters are concerned, I am the Great Faithless Wonder. I begin the clock watch about fifteen minutes before any estimated time of arrival. Ten minutes after it, I am convinced that all late daughters are lying in a ditch somewhere...bleeding. And that’s exactly how I phrase it to the husband.

It annoys him.

By the time the program was ready to begin, Big Sister was well beyond the ETA, and I was well convinced of the ditch incident. I fidgeted and clock-watched and door-watched and finally pestered Super Dad to  check on her whereabouts.

He refused. Apparently, he didn’t see the wisdom of sending a message for her to return, while driving… in a hurry…in the rain… to report that she was traveling safely.

Yeah. It sounds kind of dumb to me when you put it like that too…

So I waited without update, eyes glued to the doorway to see which daughter would make the appearance first. It was the graduate. She marched down the steps and gave the grin to Team Whimsy, completely unaware that Super Sister was on the way.

From that point forward, the rest of the parents might have been watching an honor’s program, but I was watching a tennis match. I glanced at the stage… and then turned my entire head to the door… then back to the stage… then to the door… then stage…then door…then stage…

And it was at that moment that I saw Big Sister enter the building. Actually, I didn’t see her. What I  saw was the look on Little Sister’s face when she saw Big Sister enter the building. She blinked her eyes, and then her head followed a figure moving across the back of the auditorium.

Then, she looked out at me with that grin. 

Oh, how I wish I could have gotten the shiny red Kodak to cooperate!

Unfortunately, all of my pictures from the evening look like this.

I blame those energy efficient curly bulbs.

So Big Sister made it to my armpit and smiled proudly whenever her sister’s name was called. I’ll risk losing Mommy Points by saying that Miss Whimsy fared well that night, but the Big Sister Award  went to The Practical One.

And when I said so, Miss Whimsy replied:

Marcia. Marcia. Marcia.

Because Little sistering has a connotation all of its own too.

Just ask my big sisters.

Countdown: Operation Graduation

No more classrooms. No more books. No more teachers’ dirty looks….

I finished my last day of teaching, and I have three days to laser point my focus squarely on what really matters, more specifically who really matters.

And that would be Miss Whimsy and her upcoming graduation.

A few more graduation gifts need to be purchased for her male friends. Celebration party plans need to be perfected and brought to fruition. Pictures need to be taken as we set yet more historical markers along Senior Road. Last things...

In my blog absence, I packed the last breakfast basket for that 30 mile country commute. Rushing to get myself ready, I stopped to give my last hug and my last wave from the front porch as she headed out for her last official day of school.

Super Dad stood in the driveway and snapped these shots for me.

Thus redeeming himself from a 13 year old photo flop which occurred when this little girl of ours started kindergarten.

Yes, I've posted this picture before. I posted it again because, well....it's cute.

In a twist of irony, I “taught her way in” to school and came entirely too close to teaching her out of it. You see, when Miss Whimsy started kindergarten, I decided that it was an appropriate time to hang up my apron and return to the classroom. I thought this prudent because there was an opening for a middle school English teacher – my specialty - in the small Christian School which the girls attended. Surely, I reasoned, I could help with income and tuition while not missing the moments a mere walkway away, right?

Wrong. I missed the most important moment of all.

I spent the last week of my preschool mom era elbow deep in preplanning.  I also failed to remember that my presence in my own classroom on that first day of school was critical. Rather than walk my little peanut head kindergartener to her room and take our traditional first day of school picture with the teacher, I had to delegate that task to Super Dad and report to my own room to help my own students make their own first day of school memories.

So I handed the camera to the dad with careful instructions, and he took on the dual task of photographer AND videographer for the special day, emphasis on the latter. You see, there was, and still is, no toy that Super Dad enjoys any more than his video camera.

And Stephen Speilberg was in his element. We have her getting into the car. We have her getting out of the car. We have the sisters walking hand in hand across the parking lot … and the grand entrance into the classroom… and the yakkity yakking it up with the teachers…

He did remember to snap this picture of her sitting in her first desk and opening her shiny new pencil box to begin her first assignment. It’s a bit blurry because we have the matching video… taken simultaneously.

Well, of course...

And then, we have this.

Notice anything different?

Yes, this would be the traditional second day of school picture. Apparently, in the midst of his Oscar making cinematography, what he didn't take was the traditional first day of school picture with the teacher. It was supposed to match the photo that I took of The Practical One wearing the same dress at the same event.

I was planning to frame them together…

Instead, they live in The Box.

The next year, I hung up the teacher bag and put back on the apron.

And so I devote these next three days to making memories. And to making sure that those memories are adequately chronicled in The Princess Diaries with my shiny red Kodak.

Because Super Dad recently replaced is rickety old video camera with a shiny new toy... and I really don’t want to have to call the principal on Saturday morning to stage a day after graduation picture.

Stay tuned...

Role Reversal

Today, seniors with good attendance records were given the choice of either participating in Senior Field Day or staying home from school. We decided to let Miss Whimsy make the decision and weren't really surprised when she (and her friends) decided to take the day for their leisure.

Unfortunately, I still had the cats to herd in that 5th grade classroom. So I headed off to school, coffee mug and breakfast basket to go, and I told her that I would be home around lunchtime.

When I returned to the kitchen...

tired and hungry enough

 to pig out and wreck the diet...

I found this note on the refrigerator.

So I did...

And and I did...

And I found this...

A ginormous salad, made almost completely

with veggies from the garden...

Just waiting  for me.

She's a good kid, with such a fun spirit about her.

And she totally gets  me.

Of course, then, she asked if she could meet her friends for lunch instead of spending the day with dear old Mom.

I  felt a just  little buttered up.

But it made me laugh... 

So of course, I let her go.

 Big Sister scored a A in Sisterhood 101 this week too. When my brain is functioning, I'll yak all about it.

The Morton's Salt Girl

Miss Whimsy wears glasses.

Actually, she wears contacts, but she has glasses.

Half inch coke bottle lenses in stylish black frames.

She’s as blind as a bat.

And I am ashamed to admit (but I will of course) that she needed those glasses long before she actually got them. I received a big fat “F” on that particular Mommy Test. I thought that she was faking.

Now, in my defense, The Whimsy was a well known faker. We had to keep a suspicious eye on any headache, tummy ache, or fit of dizziness for the ulterior motive. That was the first reason that I suspected fraud. The second was timing. This eyesight lamentation appeared to be in direct response to her  friend's new pair of eyeglasses.

 A beautiful pair… with little kittens on the side… or so it was reported to me. Repeatedly.

So I figured that the issue at hand was not at all about the eye sight but about the fashion statement.

I told her to sit near the chalkboard and squint.

Some months later, our local Service League volunteered to do eye examinations at our school, and Miss Whimsy was delighted to report that she was given “the note.” Her teacher phoned that evening, and she said, "Now Debbie, I think you should take her to the eye doctor, but you should probably know that she was handing out high fives as she emerged from the examination room. I have a strong hunch that she failed that test deliberately."

So I took her to the ophthalmologist, and I whispered to him that what we had was a  possible case of  fashion fraud of the copycat kind. He assured me that they had ways of sorting truth from fiction.

And they did. Miss Whimsy, he reported, was in dire need of spectacles.

At the end of the examination, the doctor looked at me and laughed. “I’ve been doing this for many years,” he said, “and I have never seen a kid so excited about a pair of eyeglasses.”

So we picked out a pair... with little kittens on the side. She was delighted.

Well, the newness eventually wore off. She has been wearing contacts for years, but periodically, she sports the specs, more for the fashion statement than anything else.

Now, you might be wondering what set me off on my ramble this morning...

Well, it's this:

Today was our first rainy school day since Easter, and it's kind of miserable out there. But when Miss Whimsy opened those blind eyes, the first thing that she said was, “Is that rain?” And she hopped out of bed, giddy with excitement. She showered and dressed and skipped down the stairs with a big goofy grin and twinkling eyes.

As we closed the door on our goodbyes, Super Dad just shook his head and chuckled. And he said, “I never saw a kid so excited about a pair of eye glasses.”

I giggled back because I knew exactly what he meant.

Only today, it was a new pair of these:

Rain boots...with little whales on the side.

And that's one of the 4,726 reasons that I love the kid. When life gives her showers, she puts on her happy boots and dances in the rain.

A Whimsical Birthday

Today is Miss Whimsy’s 18th birthday. Where did the time go?

I started the celebration by croaking out the Happy Birthday song and delivering French vanilla coffee to her in bed. She was her usual morning grump for the first few minutes. Yep. Nothing much has changed since that morning 18 short years ago. Even then, she was a bit of a pain and made the grand entrance at glacial speed. I don’t sweat it. She eventually descends from the Turret Room on time and cheerful.

Who wouldn’t be cheerful at 18?

We won’t have the official family celebration until next week when the college girls come home for Easter, but the birthday girl doesn’t mind. She’ll get to spend this auspicious evening with friends.

Growing up, she didn’t have a “friend party” every year. When our girls began arriving, my sister and I agreed that we would celebrate family- style for most of their birthdays and help each other throw festive friend occasions every few years.

The sister was (and still is) my faithful partner in crime, the perpetual Ethel to my Lucy. Someday I’ll yak all about her. Ethel and I loved to put together theme parties. We make a pretty good team. I concoct a notion, and she figures out a way to bring it to fruition…under budget. We repeated each theme party four times for our collective princesses. By the time Miss Whimsy came along, we had reached the near pinnacle of penny pinching party perfection.

Not surprisingly, their first theme was the fairy princess party. We made little purple capes for each princess to wear over their dresses and crafted jeweled tiaras to go along with them. Now, those were the pre Hobby Lobby days when crafting wasn’t nearly as easy or fabulous as it is today. Grandpa made magic wands, all glittered up for the occasion.

We pilfered appliance stores for boxes, which we faux bricked to transform our porches into fairy castle walls. They ate pink food and sipped pink punch, and we played “Pin the Crown on the Princess” on a huge painted display that I had made at school using the trusty old opaque projector. We hunted in the lawn for little silver crowns ... which we made… by cutting, shaping, painting, and glittering dozens of empty dooters.

A “dooter” is familyspeak for empty toilet tissue and paper towel holders… so named for the “doot doot doot DOOOOOT” sound that Lucy and Ethel make when they blow them like a bugle. The Dooter is a multi- purpose do more of the highest degree, second only to the empty coffee can.

Lucy and Ethel hosted other parties too, but I’ll have to leave them for another time.

Because today, I’m focusing on the big 1-8, and I still have some things to do.

The birthday girl had to start this one with her breakfast on the go. She got her favorite chocolate muffins. Now, normally, I wouldn’t get mommy points for sending her off to school all sugared up, but this is her birthday. Therefore, I get a pass. She gets strawberries too because those are her favorites. And we pinked up the basket. Pink remains the official birthday color in Princess Land.

Super Dad headed out early this morning to put some of these along the 30 country mile commute.

 It won’t really be a surprise since we’ve done it before, but it’s our own silly version of a Burma Shave Birthday.

We recently added this simplification courtesy of The Duchess.

These weighted little sign holders were made out of (what else?) empty cans, PVC, and Quik Crete. Perfect for those places where a lawn sign is too stubborn to stand.

Wish we had thought of that many yard signs ago. 

Kids and birthdays. Just another favorite way of making memories. What are yours?