I
started this blog for several reasons.
One, I hoped God could use me to bless someone (anyone) else. Okay, maybe trying to bless others was
slightly ambitious for someone of my average standing and intelligence. At the very least, however, I wanted to share
my ramblings in the hopes that someone out there somewhere might find something
in my writing that makes them smile, or relate, or let go of some of their
guilt, or even for just a tiny little second think about Jesus and what he did
for all of mankind when he died on the cross to provide the ultimate gift of
grace. Again . . . perhaps a bit lofty.
The
second reason I started this blog was because there is a circus that puts
Ringling Brothers to shame going on inside my brain seven days a week, and I
need to put all the clowns and acrobats and lions and tigers and bears, oh my,
into some kind of organized rings. You
know, so I don’t end up jumping off a high wire one day.
Reason
number three is really two reasons, or more accurately, two people.
Their names are Charlie and Libby, and one day, after they have passed
the season of listening to everything I say (that’s actually so far gone it’s
barely worth mentioning) and the season of questioning everything I say and the
season of resisting everything I say and the season of hating everything I say,
they might come back around to being curious about what I have to say. I realize we are decades from this, and the
truth is, it might not ever happen, but a girl can dream, right? A mom has to believe her children will, at
some point, mature enough to understand their mother did the very best she
could. And since I quickly outgrew the
art of scrapbooking after spending enough money to redo my kitchen (dammit)
documenting every moment of my children’s first few years of life, I have
resorted to blogging in the hopes that I am recording something of importance
for Charlie and Libby to have in the future.
So,
since this blog is supposed to be providing my offspring with proof that their
mom didn’t only think about whatever it is they think I’m thinking about, we
are going to talk about life today. And
folks, God is very, very, VERY good, but sometimes, life is very, very VERY
gross. We’ve had some serious gross
going on around here.
Not
sure if you read the rambling I wrote a couple months back about Charlie’s
first email? As I’ve previously
mentioned, the smart bloggers can insert a link for past blogs in a spot like
this, but I have yet to learn how to do it, so if you haven’t read that
particular rambling and would like to, it’s called ‘A First To Remember.’ Basically, it was about the jubilation my ten
year-old child felt at the beginning of fifth grade when he sent his very first
email – let’s just say it was unexpected.
I mean seriously, who knew sending emails could make a little boy giddy?
Here’s
the gross part. Sit down if you don’t
have any kids over the age of five, because this is heartbreaking and you will
need the support of a very soft couch or chair of some sort when you realize
this is where you are headed. I have
sent my sweet, precious, adorable son an email EVERY SINGLE MORNING since the
day he squealed like a little girl after sending his first email. That was on August 14th. Today is October 22. That means I have sent Charlie a loving
message (along with a Bible verse) for sixty-nine straight days. Now, would you like to know how many emails I
have received from him? Go ahead . . .
take a guess.
ZERO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Zip. Nada.
Nothing. Zero emails from my only
son. He has not responded even ONCE in
over two months. No ‘Thanks, Mom’ or
‘Hope you have a good day too, Mom’ or ‘It’s so nice of you to think of me
every single morning for sixty-nine straight days, MOM!!!’ That’s totally disgusting.
Ready
for more gross?
We
aren’t stomach bug people. The last
stomach bug to hit our family was almost six years ago on the Disney Cruise,
where, let’s face it, the CDC would have a field day. Have you ever been on a Disney Cruise? There are a thousand kids with runny noses touching
everything they see all contained within 300 yards. Libby was the one to get the stomach bug on
the last night of our Disney Cruise, and she was up all night utilizing a
state room trash can held by her mother. Still, she was only two years old at the
time. I may remember that night well,
but as she clearly demonstrated last Friday at 3:30 am, she doesn’t.
What
I’m trying to say to you is this . . . you should include stomach bug protocol
on your list of important items to routinely discuss with your children. Put it right up there with fire safety and
stranger danger, my friends. If you
don’t, you will end up with a child who has forgotten the appropriate places to
vomit when she gets the stomach bug, and you will wind up cleaning every
spindle and step on your staircase at four o’clock in the morning. And then all over again for several hours the
next day, because there are a lot of places you miss when it’s dark and you’re
half-asleep. Oh, and you will need to
call a carpet cleaner too, for that brand new runner you just had
installed.
So
gross.
There’s
more grossness, if you dare.
Ever
had a colonoscopy? Good times, folks, really
good times. I don’t skip meals. I rarely go more than a few hours without
eating. I consider it not only essential to good health, but also to my happiness
and, as you’ll soon agree, my ability to parent. When you are having a colonoscopy on Tuesday
morning at 9:00 am, you have to stop eating after Sunday dinner. You can have clear liquids on Monday, because
apple juice and chicken broth are so incredibly appetizing when you are
starving, but that’s it. Did I mention I don’t skip meals?
By
10:00 am on Monday, my head hurt. By
3:00 pm, I had done every possible activity I could think of to keep my mind
off my growling stomach. By 6:00 pm, in
the middle of the drink two entire liters
of the most disgusting liquid ever created cleansing phase of the super fun
colonoscopy prep work, I wanted to give up and vow to never ever have a
colonoscopy. EVER. By 9:00 pm, I could barely walk, and sitting
down? NO. NO. FREAKIN’. WAY. By
7:00 this morning, I told my eight year-old daughter I was going to bop her in
the head with her hairbrush if she didn’t stop fussing about the bump in her
ponytail, and y’all, I wanted to do it so bad I’m not sure how I stopped
myself.
And
that’s how a colonoscopy works people.
Trust me, the tube inserted in the hole not intended for such intrusions
was the best part of the whole process.
I didn't mind that part a bit. Heck, I was off in propofol dreamland with doctors watching over me who
clearly knew much more about the stuff than those who gave it to Michael
Jackson. And when the probing was done
and I woke up, I could eat.
So
that’s it. That’s our latest gross,
documented for my children to read when they decide their mother might have had
something worth saying after all, even if it was just the normal, messy, gross stuff
of life. Because what this mama really
wants her children to discover (if they ever do grow up and dive into her many
ramblings), is that in the normal, messy, gross stuff of life, there is always goodness.
There
is the son who might one day remember how his mom sent him an email every morning
reminding him she loves him.
There
is the daughter who got to spend the day in her pajamas watching movies on the
couch, while her parents attended to her every need.
There
is the husband who drove four hours home from a work trip to be there to take
his wife to the hospital for a simple procedure.
Yes
. . . there is always goodness . . . because there is ALWAYS a good God.
May you not have too much gross in your lives this month, friends, and may you always
find the good in the gross when you need to. 
