Don't Stop Believen'

Texas Scottish Rite Hospital for Children began in 1921 with a mission to help crippled children regardless of their parents’ ability to pay.  Since the beginning, they have helped over 200, 000 children; I was one of them.  Scottish Rite Hospital is one of the most amazing places on planet Earth – and that is an understatement.  How do you begin to tell the story of a place that had such a monumental effect on your life that even 35+ years later, you remember and share the gifts and lessons learned there? Well, in the words of the King in Lewis Carol’s Alice in Wonderland, you “Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end: then stop.”

I was born in 1972 with bilateral club feet. While I've never seen pictures, it probably looked like this

 When I was born, the doctors told my parents that I would never walk because the deformation was so severe. Even thirty years later at my grandmother’s funeral, some of the nurses that had been in the delivery room with me still remembered me and even commented that they had never before seen a deformation so severe.  To those who see me today, I imagine that it is difficult to reconcile such a grim prognosis for a woman that they see leaping, chasing, and dancing through life.  How did I beat this fate?  Well, I am a talking, WALKING miracle. A miracle that was performed by God through the love and devotion of the miracle factory that is Scottish Rite hospital.

As any parent can imagine, my parents were quite distraught by the news about their first born child.  But like any parent, defeat wasn’t an option.  They were not ready to accept that I would be confined to the equivalent of a board on wheels to push myself around on or a wheelchair.  There just had to be something else out there to help us.  They began with an orthopedic doctor who did as much as he could before admitting that my case was more than he could handle. An admission that I still am thankful that he had the humility and bravery to assert.  He told my parents about a hospital in Dallas that took cases like mine – the mission impossibles.

My parents took me to Scottish Rite hospital in the mid-1970s.  Most of the fourteen surgeries they performed on me were new and untried.  I spent most of my infancy and toddlerhood in casts, operating rooms, and semi-private hospital rooms at Scottish Rite.  My parents have enough stories of me kicking off and wearing down casts to fill an entire book. 

(Not me but gives you the idea.)

(I wore and slept in these - for a LONG time. I HATED these.)

 But with each surgery, each cast, each long hospital stay, my feet began to turn and be corrected, and I could walk. Walk by myself with no casts or crutches.  By the age of nine, I had beaten the odds and had my fourteenth and final surgery on my club feet.  They weren’t perfect. They weren’t pretty. But they carried me. I could now stroll the halls of my school, perform in dance recitals, walk across the football field at homecoming, run up and down the basketball court, march down the wedding aisle, and dance at my wedding.  It was nothing short of a miracle that the men and women of Scottish Rite performed on me.

That alone should be enough. The gift of walking. It was enough; but Scottish Rite gave me more. They gave me a haven, a respite from the outside world where I was always different. And many weren’t about to let me forget it.  I was the kid with the weird, scarred up feet and corrective shoes.  As you can imagine that didn’t go unnoticed on the elementary playground.  But at Scottish Rite, I was just like all the other kids.  All of us had something “wrong” with us.  We were all in a wheelchair, on crutches, or walking with a limp or some other definite sign to the outside world that not every baby is born “perfect.”  But none of that mattered there.  We ran that place because at Scottish Rite, it was and still is all about kids. 

Staying in the hospital was like going off to summer camp. There were toys, coloring books, activities with famous Dallas residents, newspaper reporters, and a staff that just let us be kids…even when we played “ding-dong-ditch” with the elevators 50 bazillion times a day.  And being there in the early 80s, I got to play on the revolutionary and much coveted new home video game system – the Atari! It got to a point that my brothers and sister actually got jealous of how fun being in the hospital was!

But the gifts didn’t stop there.  Being at a place where the impossible was made possible, I had the gift of seeing that a whole lot of other kids had it a whole lot worse off than I. And it taught me not to wallow in self pity and above all else, I learned empathy.  I saw a girl my age that had been born with arms so deformed that she couldn’t use them. So instead she did everything with her feet.  It was amazing, and I never once saw her feel sorry for herself.  She was absolutely inspirational in her determination and spirit. But that is the attitude at Scottish Rite – everything is possible.

I “threw” my first board game in the lobby of that hospital.  As a kid growing up with three siblings, losing on purpose was never part of the equation.  One morning while waiting to be called back for one of my many checkups with the doctor, I was playing Connect Four with a girl close to my age. We played several rounds of which I won all.  It was during these victories that I realized that they were all hollow. While physically she was stronger than me, she was mentally deficient and didn’t have the gift of strategy and planning that God had blessed me with.  I let her win all the other rounds that we played that morning. Never had I imagined that losing could feel so good because I had discovered that day that it was more blessed to give than to receive.  I also understood that I should be grateful for those intellectual gifts because God doesn’t see “fair” the same way humans do. 

Now, one of my students has become one of the blessed thousands to be cared for by the staff of Texas Scottish Rite Hospital. When I found out that this child was going to Scottish Rite for his surgery and rehabilitation, I was so very, very happy for him. I know that even though his physical trials are and will be Herculean, he is having fun and getting to be a kid even while faced with adult circumstances. He is at the best possible place being cared for by the best possible people in the best possible environment that any kid could ever dream of.  I know. I lived it.

Crazy

I’m not a royal watcher; I really couldn’t care less about any of them. Especially Princess Di. Don’t even get me started on the over-rated, not-that-pretty, what’s-the-big-deal, ex-next-Queen-of-England. But I have to say that I have kinda liked Kate Middleton.

        I think part of it’s because she’s a commoner – or was. One of the coolest things she did was when she got married, she asked the wedding guests to donate to an anti-bullying charity. Turns out that the future Queen of England was bullied as a kid - bullied to the point of changing schools to get away from the mean girls.

        And look at her when she was a kid:

        No one would have expected this plain girl to end up with Prince William. And I still think that her wedding invites should have been printed with this on them:

“What NOW, Bitches.”

        But today I am beginning to really not like her. Maybe even hate her if this comes to pass:

Kate Middleton brings back pantyhose.

Yahoo! Shine says, “…Kate's bringing back the look for a new generation.” And, “Already, the trend has caught on in the UK, with a significant spike in nude hosiery sales since Kate's made them part of her dressing routine…”

       

       


Yeah, that’s right. F-ing pantyhose are coming back.

           And I just have one thing to say, “HELL NO.” I am NOT wearing these instruments of torture and devices of female servitude. I’m not. And I will hurt anyone who tries to make me. If you think I'm wearing pantyhose EVER again, YOU'RE CRAZY!

        Kate Middleton, I invite you to take the South Texas challenge. Come spend an ENTIRE summer here, wearing pantyhose EVERY day, and see THEN if you want to bring these implements of torment back into fashion.

        Until you do this - and survive with your sanity still in check, you and the nylon tubes of itchy and scratchy can go on back to England! Crazy indeed.

        And just to remind you of just how far we’ve come, here’s a little flashback:

Walkin' After Midnight

     It’s after midnight, do you know where your Sleep is? I don’t. He just gets up and leaves whenever he feels like it. No warning. No note. Just leaves. He’s a bitch, but he’s not my bitch. I hate Sleep.

     I can’t just kick Sleep to the curb. He’s a sexy, fickle, young boy who can’t make up his mind if he loves me or loves me not. While he’s super-hot with his Ryan Reynolds’s six-pack and his messy hair that looks like he just got out of bed, I’m tired of him and his flaky ways. He shows up at odd times and demands that I drop everything I’m doing and go with him. He doesn’t care if I’m working, driving, or needed for sex or to assist with a school project. He even bothers me AT CHURCH! He wants me, “NOW!” And if I don’t go with him when he demands, I never know when he’ll come back. And he makes me snore! Oh, I hate you Sleep – you sexy, fickle, hunk of man.

     It’s Insomnia that is my true friend. I know he’s kind of old, graying, and a bit of a pain, but he’s there every night. There with me and my Droid to hang out and read useless Yahoo! articles about Lindsay Lohan, the Kardashians, and waitresses who give dating advice (which I don’t need because I’m married). He enjoys watching FOX News with me on the couch at odd hours of the morning. He is reliable, steadfast, and will not leave me no matter how hard I try. Insomnia and his Herculean strength can stand up to Benadryl, Lunesta, and multiple glasses of Merlot. He is not a fair-weathered friend; he’s there, after midnight, walkin’ with me to the potty, and he accompanies me all the way back to bed and stays with me, so I won’t get lonely. Insomnia, he’s a snuggler!
Insomnia is fiercely jealous of Sleep. I know this because any time Sleep comes around, Insomnia kicks his ass. Yes, he protects me. Insomnia loves me; Sleep only pretends to love me.
              
     This is why I’m officially dumping Sleep and taking up with Insomnia. Yeah, Insomnia and I are going to have a great future together. My life will be so much more stable and safe because I’ll know what to expect. I can accomplish so much more with Insomnia than I ever could with Sleep. I will bake, clean, give myself regular manicures and pedicures, and the Power Points that I will create for my classes will be amazing. I could even write a book! Yeah, life with Insomnia is going to be great.
               
     Wait a second. Is that Sleep over there washing my minivan without a shirt? Why, yes, it izzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

If We're Not Back in Love by Monday

We love our kids, but sometimes we need a break from them to remember why. And since absence is supposed to make the heart grow fonder, my honey and I went on a mini vacay – sans children. An opportunity for us to also remember why we love each other when the kids are not around. Our chosen exotic locale? Austin.

        First on the itenary? Ikea. And after Google Maps took on us on a wild goose chase ending at the Austin Chronicle’s office (WTF?), we finally discovered that it is actually located in Round Rock. Once we got there, I wet my pants like an excited dog. That place was AWESOME! Furniture, fixtures, and fuzzy rugs! Kitchenware, officeware, even toys for the kids! Acres and acres of all things home!

        Later, we checked into our hotel, and the STRANGEST thing happen to me. When we first got there, I looked like this:

 

        Upon checking in, I caught a glimpse of myself in the lobby’s mirror, and I had transformed into this:

        Why is it that men think checking into Hyatt Regency magically transforms women into Ginger Legsbehindmyhead? I’m still the same, boring, minivan-driving lady you left the house with. So, we had that discussion AGAIN, and he put the swing back in the suitcase and sent the midgets away.

        It was this evening that I actually found my new love – Fogo De Chao. It was EXACTLY what I think heaven is going to be like – people walking around with skewers of red meat and slicing off pieces directly to my plate. I enjoyed multiple food-gasms and am leaving my husband for this guy:

        The next day, we did some shopping on south Congress, and my brother gave us an insider tour of the capital building. We did the Sixth St. thing with some great friends ending up at our favorite, Pete's Piano Bar. But mostly we just enjoyed each other’s company without the interruption of our offspring.

        It was a great repose and break from the demands of parenthood, and we are now back in love with our four little brats.

Sunday Morning Coming Down (Sunday, July 10, 2011)

My sweet husband, with the help of a carpenter friend, made for our family this beautiful table.

           Using his own two hands, he transformed rough pieces of pecan into a haven for our family. It is nine feet long and sturdy. It is not fancy and has no intricate detailing. In fact, it has no carving or detailing at all. It is big, well-built, and strong. It is beautiful in its simplicity and functionality. Tucked up under this pecan Polaris are two matching benches to seat our family and the future of our family. Both made by my sweet husband.

We love this table because it is perfect for our lifestyle. It is where homework is completed, Playdough is molded into pretend hamburgers and snakes, Hot Wheels become real life race cars, and occasionally, we eat on it. We’ve even had mass celebrated on it. It is the central station of our home.

It is also symbolic of what we hope to be to each other - supportive and accommodating without flashy, overt details screaming out to be admired. In other words, no resounding gongs or clanging cymbals. Because after all, we, like our table, really are just here to serve a purpose, not be admired or praised for doing what we are supposed to do - support and hold up a place of communion and refuge for ourselves and others that happen into our space.

            It is on Sunday mornings that we draw most on this slab’s strength. All six of us converge with our coffee, milk, biscuits, bacon, and newspaper, fighting over who gets the comics or sports section first, being careful not to disturb Dad’s organized stack of black and white and read all over, letting him deem who gets what. We discuss what we’ve read and explain what is not understood. We discuss what the week has given and challenged us with and what lies ahead for the coming seven days. My sweetheart and I answer challenging questions such as, “Which is stronger – fire or outer space?” or “Why are Storm Troopers so bad at shooting with laser guns?” or “What would happen to the earth if everyone was really fat like Santa Claus?” Challenging indeed.  Then, up and off to church.

And just like the table, the memories connected to it will be priceless family heirlooms.

Stand By Your Man

The hubby and I are leaving today for a mini vaca - with no children. (No, I will NOT come back pregnant.) Yesterday, I went shopping for HIM. Here's what I got for HIM:

What a lucky man to have such a thoughtful - hot ass babe - as a life partner!

I'll be out for a few days. Enjoy my absence?

Mama Tried

What is intellectual curiosity?  I mean, I KNOW what it means. I know kinda how to do it. But what IS it? In other words, what does dictionary.com say? Actually, nothing. It took me to Ask.com which means that even THEY (you know the smarty-smarts at dictionary.com) don’t even know what it means.

Shirley, from Yahoo! Answers says it means, “you want to know more than the basics or the common knowledge; you want to LEARN so you (and maybe others) can benefit from the knowledge; something to challenge you and make you think about problems and issues, and how to communicate with others about those issues and possibly resolve them.” And Shirley was voted as having the best answer. (Well, she was the only answer, but hey…)

Merriam Webster (mother freakin’ MERRIAM WEBSTER)  didn’t have an answer either. It tried to break the phrase into the two words and define them individually. Uh, I can do that, and I’m not even a Webster.

So, I turned to the internet’s supreme and most entertaining source – urbandictionary.com. I clicked and held my breath because I wasn’t sure just exactly what I was going to get. (Anyone who has visited this website before knows whatI’mtalkinbout.) Well, after being distracted – briefly – by suggested entries such as intellectual blue balls, intellectual douchebag, intellectual grabass, and my new self-appointed title, Intellectual Badass, I found it defined there as, “A desire to learn more about a person, or a thing, or a way of life.”

OK, this is the one I like. Short, sweet, and easily understood to the ADHD freak-show that I am. Sorry, Shirley, but you lost me with all your WORDS.

I am, then, intellectually curious. I like to know lots of stuff. I wonder about lots of things. How did we ever live without Wikipedia, Yahoo! (Sorry, I don’t Google, I Yahoo! It’s just way more fun to say. YahoooooOOOooo!), and Netflix streaming documentaries about the Shakers, Polio, and the Planet Earth (all of which I have watched)? I know a lot of stuff about a lot of stuff. Except sports which is what keeps me from being the ULTIMATE Trivial Pursuit partner. I even DVR Jeopardy and watch a bunch of them all in one sitting. Just soaking up the intellectualness. I like learning stuff about stuff. Except sports.

What can I say? I’m gifted.

But my real quandary is not what intellectual curiosity is – duh! My real quandary is how to get others, or more specifically, my two oldest (11 and 12 year old boys) to be intellectually curious.

I’ve tried museums but I get all stressed out when instead of marveling at how ancient people lived or how jellyfish can function without a brain, they are more marveled by their brother’s loud and nasty fart that sets off a giggle-fest that eventually draws me in. I do make them read AND talk about it afterwards, but that too ends in someone farting and me becoming angry at their lack of awe and interest in the literary qualities of the novel that has entertained generations of young boys before them. And documentaries? Yeah, tried those, too. It was the best naps they EVER took. But at least there was no farting.

I gave up. I have given birth to Dumb & Dumber! Larry, Moe, & Curley! Jackass Parts 1, 2, AND 3! I am not going to be the mother of the next Senator, CEO, or, even, Angus Young. I am a failure. I will apologize to their future wives and explain that MAMA TRIED!

But then one day, I walk into their bathroom. (It was on a dare from my husband.) Anyway, I walked in and saw, sitting on the shelf above the toilet, a BOOK. Now, granted, it was DC Comic’s Encyclopedia, but it was a BOOK. And it had the word Encyclopedia in it. I took it down and began reading some of it and realized something glorious. Hidden there in the pages of brightly-colored images of tights-wearing men assisted by young boys and very politically incorrect images of women, I found classical, highly-intellectual literature – ok, glimpses of literature. These superheroes’ stories mirrored the tales of mythological heroes and heroines such as Zeus, Poseidon, and Hermes. Great epic tales of good and evil were being retold through Superman, Aqua man (Yeah, I know he’s the lamest of all the supers.), and Flash. Good ol’, classic Greek mythology was right there wearing spandex and a cape. Not that they knew it. Not that they cared. But it was there.

My heart sung. My boys were reading mythology – sort of. There was some hope for them yet. The seeds of intellectual curiosity were being sewn, and when it was time for them to read Greek mythology –you know, for a grade and stuff - they would get it. They would connect it to something they already knew. So for now, their form of intellectual curiosity is not the same color, shape, or smell as mine. And that is ok. I’m just going to go have a glass of wine and celebrate my SUPER victory for today.

Conan O'Brien visits DC Comics.                                

After the Fire Is Gone

My four-year-old daughter is a drama queen. This is a new phenomenon for me because I had three boys first, and they just break shit. While that it is frustrating, you can just clean things up and move on. In other words, there’s an end.  But this drama thing, it’s new for me. It never ends, and it’s whiny.

        Case in point: Every time my daughter is bathed in her nether regions by anyone other than herself, she screams and freaks out like she was just cleaned with acid, “My pee pee’s burning!” 

It’s NOT burning, and if it is, it’s not THAT bad. It’s not like she’s being bathed with Goop or Gojo; it’s 99.9% pure – Ivory soap. But, apparently, the drama queen code dictates that she must carry on and on until: A.  I let her sit in the bathtub with mermaid Barbie, or B.  I threaten to beat her. I usually choose B.  Then, accusations of, “You haaaaaate me.” Or “You don’t love me.” are tossed around. From her - not me. I don’t care if SHE hates ME. I’m your mama, not your friend.

        The other night this issue came up and I had a “great idea.”

“Hey, V, do you think ice cream might make your pee pee stop burning?”  All wailing and gnashing of teeth stops on a dime, and she says, “Yes.” Her eyes brightening at this brilliant idea.

I know what you’re thinking, “Ice cream won’t make her pee pee stop burning. Only penicillin can do that.” Or…  “You are setting a bad precedence; don’t reward whining with ice cream.”

Well, before you judge, let me explain that this was after I had been laid up for way too many days with tonsillitis and my sweet husband had been doing EVERYTHING. And dealing with V at the end of a long day makes one REALLY understand why God made them so cute – so you don’t kill them. I was trying to be helpful. I called one of the older brothers in to make it for her, and Daddy’s off the hook. She got her mint chocolate chip, and just like that, the fire was gone.

        Well, just like you knew would happen, her freakin’ pee pee burns ALL THE TIME NOW. She stubs her toe, “My pee pee burns.” Dora is over, “My pee pee burns.” It’s raining outside, “My pee pee burns.” She sneezes, “My pee pee burns.” The mail arrives, “My pee pee burns.”  The stock market takes a dips, “My pee pee burns.” Yeah, you get the idea.

       

My child is a f-ing genius. Takes after her mother.

Fightin' Side of Me

I read the Declaration of Independence (DOI) today. Yes, the one written by Thomas Jefferson and signed in 1776. I’m sure that I have read it before at some point in my educational career – formal and otherwise – but I couldn’t remember.

The only part I could remember was, “Four score and seven years ago…” Wait, that’s not right.

“We, the people, … in order to form a more perfect union…” No, not that either.

“We hold these truths to be self-evident…” Yeah, that’s the one. “…endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.”

Quick aside: One of my favorite movie quotes is from The Pursuit of Happyness and spoken by the main character, Christopher Gardner, “It was right then that I started thinking about Thomas Jefferson on the Declaration of Independence and the part about our right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. And I remember thinking how did he know to put the pursuit part in there? That maybe happiness is something that we can only pursue and maybe we can actually never have it. No matter what. How did he know that?”  I love when books, movies, speakers, friends, strangers, or my kids make me think about something that I think I already know in a totally different way.

But back the DOI…

I, like everyone else, was familiar with the Life, Liberty, pursuit of Happiness line, and thought that that was all there was to it. But after reading it again with older, wiser eyes, I saw some equally heart-stopping gems in there. I’m now going to share some of them with you; maybe, I can be one of those friends/strangers that gets you to think of something in a different way. (Excuse me while I don my cape.)

1.  “… Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed…”

These guys just said out loud – to the king of the most powerful empire in the world - that NO MAN is or ever has been given the right from God to rule over other men. AND the only way than any Government - which is instituted by MEN - can have rightful power over me or my fellow countrymen is – IF WE LET THEM because we are the governed. Each of US is given FREE WILL by God therefore making US rulers over OURSELVES, and only WE can give that power to ANYONE else.

Whoa. That’s some deep shit, man. Give me a second to soak that up, man. That concept works in soooo many different parts of my life.

2.     “…whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it…”

So then, I have a RIGHT to alter or abolish (By any means necessary?) ANY government that becomes destructive of my Life, Liberty, and pursuit of Happiness. OK, well I want to alter and abolish the stupid law in Texas that has been destructive of my right to buy beer and wine before 12:01 PM on Sunday. It’s in the DOI – look it up!

Another aside: If I get a note from the priest saying that I’ve already been to church that day, can I go ahead and buy my bottle of Merlot?

3.     “And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the Protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.”

OK, this one is my favorite. First of all, I love the phrase “Divine Providence.” I wasn’t exactly sure what the phrase meant, so I looked it up. St. Thomas Aquinas (That’s right, I just said St. Thomas Aquinas.) defined it as, “care exercised by God over the Universe, His foresight and care for its (the Universe’s) future.”  Jefferson was talking about God, but doesn’t “Divine Providence” say so much more than just God? It says that God was not only with those Founding Fathers then, in that exact moment when they were telling England to kiss their asses, he was going to be there in the future of America, too.

The other part of this excerpt that I love is that they pledge their “sacred Honor.” Those are the last two words of the DOI – “sacred Honor.” When I read this, I almost started crying; it took my breath away. Not just honor – SACRED honor. Like it was all holy and stuff. Honor isn’t something we talk about much anymore. I think many of us value it, but we don’t TALK about it. What is it exactly? I looked it up and found various definitions that were all very adequate and technical. But honor is one of those words that has EMOTION attached to it. Maybe that’s why we don’t use it much; it carries SO MUCH in its five little letters and silent “h.”

Basically, honor is having a code, a moral code, by which you live your life and make daily decisions. It’s what keeps us from stealing from the elderly and disabled. It’s the silent partner in life that whispers to us, “Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.” Or “It’s not between you and that guy; it’s between you and God. Keep doing what you know is right.” So, it is sacred, honor.

And these 56 guys pledged it - PLEDGED it - to each other, to their fellow countrymen, to me, to whomever is reading this, and to the future of the UNIVERSE created by God. America - a place where anyone can come and be guaranteed Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.

So, don’t start runnin’ down my country, hoss, because if you do, you’ll be walking on the fighting side of this East Texas redneck, Thomas Jefferson, John Hancock, Josiah Bartlett, Matthew Thornton, William Whipple, Samuel Adams, Elbridge Gerry, John Adams, Robert Treat Paine, Stephen Hopkins, William Ellery, Roger Sherman, William Williams, Samuel Huntington, Oliver Wolcott, William Floyd, Francis Lewis, Philip Livingston, Lewis Morris, Richard Stockton, Jonathan Witherspoon, Francis. Hopkinson, John Hart, Abraham Clark, Robert Morris, Benjamin Rush, Benjamin Franklin, John Morton, George Clymer, James Smith, George Taylor, James Wilson, George Ross, Caesar Rodney, George Read, Thomas M’Kean, Samuel Chase, William Paca, Thomas Stone, Charles Carroll of Carrollton, George Wythe, Richard Henry Lee, Benjamin Harrison, Thomas Nelson, Jr., Francis Lightfoot Lee, Carton Braxton, William Hooper, Joseph Hewes, John Penn, Edward Rutledge, Thomas Heyward, Jr., Arthur Middleton, Thomas Lynch, Jr., Button Gwinnett, Lyman Hall, and George Walton.

We’re really not a bunch you want to mess with. We all love our country and believe in the right to bear arms.

Just like any good redneck should.

Sunday Mornin' Comin' Down

I’m one of those people that goes to church every Sunday. Every Sunday. Every. Sunday. I’m Catholic – a practicing Catholic. This means I HAVE to go to church every Sunday. NOT going is a sin - breaking a commandment. The third one to be exact. Thou shall keep holy the Sabbath. The Catholic church says that means, “Go to Church!” So, I do. And, yes, I take all four of my kids. And I have since the very first one was born. No, it hasn’t always or ever been easy – just getting all six of us fed, dressed, and out the door is a monumental task. No, I don’t always, “Get something out of it.” No, I don’t always want to go. No, I don’t think those who don’t go to church every Sunday are going to hell. This is just something that is very important to ME.

        I don’t go only because I’m afraid of hell, brimstone, or breaking commandments. I have a feeling God has more to keep up with than tallying whether or not I make it every single, solitary Sunday AND each Holy Day of Obligation.  There are a couple of different reasons I go every Sunday.

First of all, I go because I SHOULD. I go to mass each week for the same reason that I make myself watch Saving Private and Band of Brothers at least once a year – respect, remembrance, and realization that there is something bigger than me. Someone gave everything they had for me. That’s heavy stuff and something I take very seriously.

Every time I walk into the church – usually late – with my husband and kids, I feel that I am offering each of my babies and my marriage to God. By going to mass each week, I am doing this over and over, saying to God each time, “Thank you for this. None of these souls are mine; they are yours. Thank you for trusting me with them. Help me do this right because I canNOT do it by myself.”

        Also, I like the homilies (sermons to you Protestants). When there’s a great priest – which our parish has been very blessed to have – I learn something new or am reminded of something pertaining to my relationship with Christ and others. Yes, there are many Sundays that I don’t get to hear all or any of the homily, but if I’m not there at all, I won’t even get the CHANCE to hear a message that God has sent just for me. Just like today’s message was about expectations – ours of God, God’s of us, ours of each other, ours of ourselves. Do I expect too much of myself or not enough? What about my husband? Sometimes I think I expect WAY too much of him. Being married to and living with me is a big and not always enjoyable or rewarding task. I have been thinking about these expectations – off and on – for the past five hours. Had I not been at mass to hear that message, I would not have even considered this reflection. Hopefully, this reflection will cause me to be a better wife, mother, teacher, friend, daughter, and sister.

        Last of all, I like getting gussied up, but about once a week is all I can handle. Church is the perfect excuse to do this. And the greatest part about it is that I only HAVE to wear my fineries about an hour. If it’s constricting and uncomfortable like most fineries can be, I know I don’t have to stand it very long. But the best is when the whole family is gussied up, and we have a great experience (ie. Neither I nor my spouse have had to “take anyone to the restroom.”). We all leave church feeling a bit “high,” load into the minivan, and I look at my sweetheart and say, “What do you want to do for lunch?” Which is code for, “I’m feeling lucky – let’s take this party to a restaurant.” And we go let someone else cook and clean up after us. And the rest of the day has this dreamy and contented vibe to it.

        Yes, I always look forward to another Sunday morning coming down.

                                                                         Easter Sunday 2011

One Piece at a Time

My husband and I are kinda lazy asses who don’t like spending time outside in the South Texas heat unless there’s crawfish, live music, and/or beer involved, and even then, A/C is preferable. This fact, mixed with the god-forsaken drought and the ridiculous amount of sand I’ve found in the mother-lovin’ clothes DRYER, has forced our tight-fisted asses to ante up and install a sprinkler system. Dragging water hoses around ain’t happenin’ anymore.  Last week, the geniuses who have figured out how to make more money in a week than I do in a month by digging in the dirt put ‘er in.

Well, we have a dog. Actually, a dog-goat. That bitch (not a curse word here) chews up everything. We made her a dog bowl out of a five-gallon pickle bucket. Bitch chewed it up so bad it wouldn’t hold food – in other words, it was no longer an f-ing bowl. So last night, she chewed the cover off of the valve box cover thingy for the new sprinkler system. Chewed it the f*** off. Bitch is tearin’ my shit apart one piece at a time.

                                                             The Dog-Goat (not a pitbull)

Redneck mother’s solution? Hot wing sauce, Tabasco sauce, jalapeno powder, and cayenne whipped together in a paste to be spread on said valve box cover thingy. Puttin’ the fire to ‘er. Take that, bitch.

She’ll probably like it. Goats’ll eat anything.

Gloom, Despair, and Agony on Me

Being sick sucks. One of the worst parts is that you really never know HOW you get these germs. All you know is that you make a trip to church, the gas station, HEB, or the Wal-Mart, and the next thing you know, you’re carrying around a pack of germs like a Coyote running illegals in an tractor-trailer up Highway 59 towards Houston. You know something’s in there, but you really don’t know many details about the passengers and how exactly they got in there. All you know is that you gotta get rid of it before it all goes bad, real bad.

I have had tonsillitis for the past seven days. Seven mutha freakin’ days! I’ve been lying around the bed thinking, “Gloom, despair, and agony, on me!” Only thing keeping me from looking like an extra from that Hee Haw skit was a jug and a couple of hounds. And for a woman who loves, LOVES to talk and a mother who yells at her kids, this has been hell. Not only have I not been able to talk, I haven’t been able to eat or drink without the sensation of swallowing 6666 white hot branding irons. (Tiny branding irons; otherwise you’d choke on them.)

That’s right, no beer or wine for seven days. That has been the worst part, especially the last couple of days when the virus was like that guy at the party who wouldn’t leave no matter how loud you yawn or how many times you mention that you have to get up early in the morning. (Dude, all the food and beer is gone. Go home.) All I could think about in the evenings was a drank! But that is over and tonight I will make up for lost time, topping off this evening with a cold longneck. Just the way dignified rednecks should.

But as it is with all things in life, there is an upside…actually more than one.  First of all, I haven’t had to do any housework the past seven days or deal with any kids because of my contagions. This has put everything on my sweetheart, and I have had learned to appreciate how well I married. Another great side-effect? Weight loss! I’ve lost at least five pounds. You know that stubborn five pounds that won’t go no matter how much you think about exercising or talk about giving up your evening wine because it’s just empty calories? Well, thank you very much, tonsillitis virus, you saved me all that rigmarole.

No more gloom nor despair. It’s just, “Yay, me.”

Up Against the Wall Redneck Mother

                I am an Up Against the Wall Redneck Mother. What exactly does this mean? This title, not necessarily the song itself, describes this stage in my life – an almost-40-year-old wife, mother of four, and hot-ass babe. OK, so the first three were true.

                I’m up against the wall, the clock, the grindstone, gravity, and the speed limit. I have a husband, four kids, work, and have aging parents and a bunch of other people that expect stuff from me. I am very busy, but it is a joyful busy – most of the time. While I complain about my life, I can’t imagine it nor would I have it any other way.

I am a redneck. I have to say redneck because my husband gets offended when I call myself white trash. Apparently, redneck is a much nicer way to introduce your born-and-raised-in-Northeast-Texas wife to people. Thank you, Jeff Foxworthy. You have made redneck acceptable in polite company. Although I’m a redneck, I’m not racist, homophobic, or an Evangelical. I don’t drive a truck, listen to country music on the radio, or decorate with camo, horses, tractors, or the Texas or Confederate flags. And, I hate NASCAR; it’s boring.

I’m a mother. I have been a mother since January 1999. I have four kids – three boys and a girl. Ages: J 12, G 11, W 6, V 4. After their father, they are the loves of my life, but they are also some of the biggest pains in my ass. They and their antics – purposeful and accidental - make me laugh until I almost wet myself. They also stun the shit out of me – in good and bad ways and cause me to be so mortified that I pray for an opening in the Witness Protection Program. There is so much joy and pure humor in motherhood that I can’t help but sharing it because I’m a joy-spreader.

So, this is how and why I am an Up Against the Wall Redneck Mother. Thank you, Ray Wylie Hubbard.