A Baseball Story: With a Little Help from GIF

Here's the deal:

Outside my window it is dreary and drizzly and depressing for the third day in a row.  And inside my window there is a gal in her pjs who is neither wondering, nor thinking, nor pondering anything remotely deep or interesting.  The gal is actually in a bit of a cranky mood.  So the gal started playing around with GIF files and decided to perk herself up by telling you a story from the weekend.

This weekend, you'll be shocked to know, there was some baseball.  A lot of it.  Sometimes, when one finds herself sitting in the rain at her 5th game of the weekend, she becomes a little tired of the whole thing and she needs some excitement here or there.  Don't tell my people, but it's true.

And then, sometimes, baseball comes through with the excitement.  But then sometimes, woe is she, she misses it.

Apparently, the most interesting part of the weekend came at kid #2's double header.  The problem is that I had to leave kid #2's game early to get over to see kid #1's game so I missed the whole darn debacle.  But I did hear the story retold via text, phone call and face-to-face conversation, so since there are no other thoughts in my head and since I clearly have no intention of figuring out what to make for dinner tonight and most importantly because my GIF discoveries are cracking me right up, I will retell the story here with my new fun computer magic. 

There was a serious umpire issue on Sunday.  This issue resulted in much confusion and bewilderment among coaches, parents, fans, siblings and players on both sides.  From what I understand there might have been birds flying over head squawking about the most awful calls they had ever seen.

And while I missed the best parts, I should have known to stick around because I was witness to some foreshadowing when I left kid #2's first game.  As I was walking to my car, a boy on our team slid very, very safely (like by a mile) into second base and was called out. It was so far from the right call, that I took pause right there in the parking lot and was all:

Apparently, what happened next was that there were many questionable calls in the field and at the plate on both sides in Game One.  The good thing is that as the lovely and talented Mrs. C. says, we like to "Stay Classy, San Diego" so everyone behaved admirably during Game One and was all:

Game One ended on a really, really bad call, but our classy folks just took a deep breath and decided to reset for Game Two.  Before Game Two, the coaches went to their requisite meeting at the plate with the umpire who told the coaches that his strike zone would change based on the count.  A pitch that was outside the plate with less than two strikes would be called a strike, but if there were two strikes the pitch would have to be over the plate to be called a strike.  Yep, that's what he said.

So our coach was all:

And then the coach on the other side was all:

And that meant that all the batters trying to hit the ball at the plate were all:



And then a lot of the fans were all:

And then apparently there were arguments and ejections of fans and delaying of the game and all kinds of excitement and drama.  And I like to pretend that I am really bummed that I missed it all but my people know me better.  Due to the fact that I am a card-carrying member of the "I CANNOT HANDLE CONFLICT CLUB" and the fact that my husband calls me "WIDESPREAD PANIC" whenever there is controversy of any sort, had I been there I would have been all:

 So it's a good thing I missed it. 

I feel much less dreary now, so have a nice evening. 

PS I feel the need to point out that I am a HUGE fan of respecting the umpire, even when it is very, very difficult.  So difficult that one needs a brown paper bag.

{this moment): When My Little Bee Ran Out of Buzz

{this moment}:  A Friday Ritual.  A single photo - no words - of a moment from the week.  A simple, special, extraordinary moment.  A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

For more moments, go to www.soulemama.com

Becoming Little Miss Pot Roast

Most mamas who read blogs have heard of Glennon Melton's blog, Momastery.  I have referenced her here a number of times as her words are some of the most powerful I've ever read.  Many of her posts can make my heart burst with emotion and my eyes blur with tears.  I can relate to so much of what she writes, but one day I read the following on her blog and I'm pretty sure that this spoke to my soul more than any other of the profound statements she has made.

"I find it unfair and stressful that dinner time arrives every single day. I just think it's rude and presumptuous." - Glennon Melton, Momastery

"Amen, Sister." - Jennifer Skinner, in response to the above.

I believe I have hinted at my cooking issues here on the blog.  It's not a great situation, but I keep thinking I'll someday become someone I'm not.  I keep trying.  Last week, I gave it yet another shot by making chicken in the crockpot.  There is nothing like that Fix and Forget It cookbook and a crockpot to make a gal feel like she is the epitome of the Proverbs 31 woman.  Much to my great shock, Kyle, my pickiest eater, ate all of that chicken.  I was thrilled beyond measure.

Me:  "Kyle, oh my gosh!  You ate all of the chicken!  I can't believe it!"

Kyle:  "Oh, yea.  That chicken didn't have any taste, so it was pretty easy."

Oh, yes, he did.

That brings me to a piece I wrote at the beginning of the school year a few years ago.  The first day of school in September always finds me full of hope.  I look at it as my New Year's Day.  I'm full of plans for how I will become Rachel Ray or Martha Stewart.  Here's the story of one of those September days.  It's long and tedious and ridiculous, but then, so were the woes of my chicken and me.

I’m a fortyish year old stay at home mom of three boys who are in school all day.  I live in the suburbs on a street lined with trees and mini-vans, near a plethora of grocery stores.  I have a kitchen with two ovens and a shelf full of cookbooks. I’ve got measuring cups and a Cuisinart and a seriously sharp knife.  Do you see what I’m saying?  I’m all set up.  Due to the fact that all of my parents’ friends came through for me despite how ridiculously excessive that Crate and Barrel wedding registry was, one would think that I could get it together enough to have a home-cooked meal on the table a few times a week with each food group represented.  One would think and that’s the problem.  At the beginning of each school year, I think so, too and I decide that this will be the year that I will become Little Miss Pot Roast. 
 
I have a friend who other friends and I have I have lovingly named Little Miss Pot Roast.  It is not an insult. There is great admiration behind it.  This woman always has dinner on the table.  She doesn’t make five different meals for her family of five.  Her children eat salmon and vegetables.  Her house always smells amazing.  She makes zucchini muffins and her kids don't start screaming that there is grass in the cupcakes.

Every September, I decide that I will become Little Miss Pot Roast.  Crock pots, aprons, stars next to recipes in cookbooks, parsley chopped on the cutting board, garlic sautéing in olive oil.  I will be so very June Cleaveresque.  I’ll be Betty Draper minus the vodka gimlets and repressed anxiety.  I will be serving nutritious dinners every evening and will send off my strong, healthy boys to their sports practices with fuel that only a talented and dedicated American mom like me can.   

This is the story of (one of) the days I tried to be someone I am not.  This is the day I ignored that whole “Just be yourself and focus on your special gifts” theory.   This is the story of the disastrous mistake I made when I decided to become Little Miss Pot Roast.

It was September and we were two weeks into the school year.  We had baseball practice four days during the week and games all weekend.  The night before my kids had probably eaten those round frozen peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that I hide under the whole wheat pasta in my shopping cart.   We were wide open on Thursday night.  Thursday would be the night we would sit together to eat something wonderful.  As we walked the kids to school that morning, The Little Miss Pot Roast told me about this recipe:  Beer Butt Chicken.  Well, we definitely had beer, so I paid attention. This is how the beginning of my road to failure started. 

Little Miss Pot Roast:  “I just made this fabulous dinner.  You can totally do it, I know it.  It’s so easy…takes like 10 minutes to get it ready and then you just stick it in the oven.   First, just get one of those Perdue Oven Roasters.” 
Me:  “Hold it.  I have to buy a whole new oven type thing?  Is that like a George Foreman?  Where do I get that?   Bed, Bath and Beyond?  Because I definitely have a coupon. “   
Little Miss Pot Roast:  “No, moron, that is just a whole chicken with the bones and all.”  (Ok, she didn’t say moron, but really she should have.)

You just buy said chicken at the regular old grocery store.  And guess what?  Little Miss Pot Roast said that it is so much cheaper to get a whole chicken as opposed to buying the breasts or legs or thighs or what-not separately.  She explained the whole process to me and I was pumped.  I was going to be such a good housewife:   saving money, making dinner, being perfect.   I was thinking I might just go out and buy myself an apron.   

That afternoon, I sat my five year old in front of Sponge Bob which caused him great alarm since I despise that show with my entire being.  I did the rinsing, the salting and the peppering.   I reached in and took that bag of God-knows-what out of the chicken cavity.  I opened the beer can and shoved it up there.  I cut potatoes and sprayed them with olive oil.  Oh my goodness, I was on a roll!  I stuck it in the oven and when my chicken came out, it was breathtaking.  It was brown and crispy and had potatoes all around it and darn it, if it didn’t look like it should be on the front of the Thanksgiving edition of Better Homes and Gardens!  Or better yet, I thought, “I should be on the cover of a Better Homes and Gardens, in one of those perfectly pressed 1950s dresses with the full skirt, heels and pearls, posing next to an avocado green oven with dark red lipstick and perfectly coiffed hair!” 

I gleefully set that gorgeous chicken on the table.  It was somethin’ else.  My children stared at it and I just knew that they were going to fight over who got to say grace because each of them was desperate to thank God for the blessing of their mother.  And then…then, it came to me.  Then I realized. 

I had to cut that thing. 

It was terrifying.  There were bones and tendons and fat and skin flying every which way.  I was covered in so much grease that I looked like I had dumped a bottle of Hawaiian Tropic all over myself.  It was a good thing I wasn’t wearing that Betty Draper dress.  Actually, I was wearing running shorts, a “Texas Longhorns” tank top and sunglasses on my head, not because it was sunny, but because I was using them as a headband to keep my hair out of my eyes while I performed this disturbing operation.  I had to forgo the knife and just rip parts off with both hands.  I was going to be lucky if the boys didn’t have nightmares of being dismembered by some crazed jogger that night.  One thing was certain.  After watching that horror show, my children were so disturbed that no one was touching that chicken.

I was depressed and exhausted.  I cried.  I cried over a chicken.  Why was this so hard for me?  I had a Master’s Degree for goodness sake.  Every housewife in America makes a turkey every single November, right?  Well, not everyone. 

I remembered the year I thought that I would cook the Thanksgiving turkey.   One year, when I was hugely pregnant with my second son, my parents came to visit for Thanksgiving.  I thought this would be the perfect opportunity to cook a turkey myself and still have my mom to back me up, thus preventing holiday disaster and tragic divorce which would leave me pregnant and alone with a two year old.  What happened instead was a horrific flare up of pregnancy-fat person-induced hemorrhoids and after visiting a general surgeon the day before, I spent Thanksgiving Day with my rock star husband holding an ice pack on my bum.  No cooking lesson for me.  My mom did everything and I learned nothing . . . about cooking.  I did learn, however, that a husband who would hold an ice pack on his wife’s bottom would likely not leave her over the lack of a Thanksgiving turkey. 

So on that day in September, I sat there among my chicken parts and remembered those hemorrhoids and that ice-pack-holding husband and those babies. I remembered that I was fairly organized and kind of fun and that I was good at board games.  I remembered that we were never late for practice and that most of the time I knew the score of the boys’ baseball games.  I remembered that I never complained about reading the same book over and over in funny voices and that I sang Bon Jovi at the top of my lungs with them in the car.   I remembered that I was loved for who I was and it was probably okay that I was never going to be Little Miss Pot Roast.   

Sometimes I still forget.   Like a few months ago when I saw that Giada gal on Today and I bought her cookbook.  It has really pretty pictures in it, but the only thing I’ve rushed out to the store to buy after perusing it is a box of Crest Whitestrips.  Because her teeth?  My word, they are stunning.  Then I usually remember what I learned from the day I tried to be Little Miss Pot Roast.

Number 1:  I cannot be perfect, I can just be me. 
Number 2:  I can keep trying. 
And Number 3:  Baja Fresh has an excellent carry-out menu.

Monday Daybook Which Started Sunday: April 22, 2013

Outside my window:
is the parking lot of a Starbucks in Wheaton, Maryland.  I'm becoming quite familiar with various Starbucks establishments in my region as I wait the hour and half warm-up time before Joe's games begin.
I am thinking:
that I should probably skip attending the games when my 14 year old is the umpire. I have decided that the stress the mom of the pitcher feels ain't got nothin' on the stress the mom of the umpire feels.  In any case, I am also thinking that my son is learning much more than the rules of baseball from umping.
I am thankful:
for the brave men and women in law enforcement and for my country and its good, decent, heroic people.
I am listening to:
a Van Morrison song that Starbucks is playing and lots of coffee being ordered.
I am wearing:
boots, jeans, long-sleeve navy and white striped shirt.  I'll be wrapping in a blanket out there.  It's cold again.
In the kitchen:
there is no one to be found.  All Skinners are headed to the different baseball fields today.
I am going:
to try this again, maybe?  My tummy hurts.  Like really, really hurts.  The schedule is killing me and I can't eat on the run anymore.  I need good for me stuff even if it tastes disgusting.  I'm desperate.
I am hoping:
that this unity and celebration that our country felt along with our relief Friday night will continue and that we will all look each other in the eye and lift each other up.  I know I can work on this.  Honestly, sometimes I think I write a good game and then I get that to-do list each morning and power through it with my head down like a bull in a china shop rarely looking around at all of the people, who if I might try, could become MY people.  At the top of the list this week:  Just love the people. ALL of the people.
I am reading:
Finished the The Language of Flowers!  Very good.  I just ordered Carry On, Warrior by Glennon Melton and Daring Greatly by Brene Brown.  I started Falling Together by Marisa de los Santos last night.
I Drew is wondering:
if the Watertown family who owned the boat in which the bad guy was hiding will be getting a new boat.  He has asked me this question about five times since Friday night.  I am watching closely for signs of anxiety in my children;  hoping they have not been exposed to too much of the Boston tragedy.  So far, Drew is soldiering on and will not bow down to terrorism.  He will go to school, play outside and continue to love his friends and his country with no worries, but he is greatly concerned that those nice folks in Watertown be given a new boat.  Aren't eight year olds awesome?  Little Martin Richard was eight, too, and I'm positive he was equally as awesome. Sending prayers up for Martin's family. 
I am pondering:
food, diet, schedule, meals and why my tummy hurts all the time.  Is it gluten?  Is it dairy? Is it my schedule?  Is it . . . don't say it . . .Diet Coke?
I am looking forward to:
a coffee date with a buddy tomorrow.
I am praying:
continuing last week's prayers for Boston and a grieving family, for recovery and peace to the sweet town of West, Texas and that God would help me be intentional and present.
On my Ipod:
Hold My Heart by Tenth Avenue North
A quote for today:
"Look at him.  He's wearing leaves.  I bet that cost like 50 cents." - Fashion Expert Drew Skinner on LeBron's postgame attire

A verse for today: 
"The only thing that counts is faith expressing itself through love." - Galatians 5:6b
One of my favorite things:
Love for Texas

A few plans for the week:
doctor's appointments, a much needed car wash, baseball practices and games, Bible studying, flower planting and dear God, please no need to watch the news at all?  Please . . . a regular, boring, week?  I'll take it.
A peek into my day:
Lots of laundry and from the piles I sorted early this morning it looks like the Skinner boys pulled out every piece of Boston love from their closets that they could find last week.

 

Daybook idea from www.thesimplewomansdaybook.blogspot.com/

{this moment}: The First Baseball Player I Ever Loved

{this moment}  A Friday ritual.  A few photos -  a few words - from the good ol' days.  Simple, special, extraordinary moments.  Moments I want to pause, savor and honor.

Happy Birthday today to my first love, my daddy, who also happens to be the strongest man in the world.

Cutie Pie, 1950ish 

Elvis ain't got nothin' on this kid

 

 Top Row - 3rd from the left

Legend has it he could catch the ball with his eyes closed

 

Longview High School 1958

My Favorite Shortstop Ever

 

Happy, happy day, Dad.  I love you from the heart of my bottom.

 

For more moments, go to www.soulemama.com

Faith? Good. Hope? Good. Love? The Greatest.

It's a been a rough week, people. 

I've heard so very many heartbreaking prayer requests this week.  As believers, we seek comfort in praying and we seek comfort in scripture.  I gotta tell you though, this week, comfort has been hard to find. Weeks like this can leave a gal who has way too many words floating around in her head in search of more words - better words - words that will bring wisdom, words that will bring explanation, words that will bring understanding.   And it can leave her coming up empty.

Writing helps me sort things out most of the time.  I started to write yesterday.  I started to write last night.  I started to write this morning.  I clicked the computer closed again and again.  The sorting wasn't happening.  Too many questions of what to say, how to say it, what to do, how to help.  And no answers.

As I drove around yesterday, my Ipod shuffled to a song by Third Day.

"Give me something that I can believe and then I'll share it with the world for everyone to see.
Take away the darkness, all the pain and sadness.  I know it's You that put this light inside of me.
I believe in faith that's strong and I believe in hope that carries on. I believe these things and more.
But most of all, most of all, I believe in love."

I know the basis of this song to be 1 Corinthians 13 which I've heard countless times in my life.  Mostly, it's read at weddings, so I associate it with joy and romantic love.  I've thought of it as a happy, celebratory verse for exciting, hopeful occasions.  This has not been a verse I would think to ponder during a week when I am praying for a disappointed young student, a devastated grieving wife and a nation terrorized by evil.

Guess what?  I didn't get that verse at all.

I think perhaps it is the perfect verse to study when we are faced with tragedy.  We, who profess assurance in our beliefs?  We, who search after God in the study of the Bible?  We, who believe in hope and peace which transcends understanding?  We want to believe that our faith and our hope will be easily accessible when we are trying to comfort a friend, trying to make sense of inexplicable evil, trying to urge a child not to give up on his dream.  But sometimes, frankly, faith and hope are not so easy to find.  Even for this card-carrying-totally-in-the-tank-for-Jesus Christian woman, those two can be elusive at times.  They might not be lost, but they might be buried deep when we face the darkness and pain of the grieving.  So then, what are we to do?

What do we think when that young man who has scratched and clawed his way through classes in pursuit of a certain school has his dreams postponed again?  Do we pull from Jeremiah, reciting:  "For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."?

Maybe.  Faith in His plan?  Sure, that's good.

What do we say to a young wife whose family is crushed by sudden loss?  Do we pull from Thessalonians relaying that "we do not grieve as those who have no hope."?

Maybe.  The hope of eternal life?  Sure, that's good.

What do we make of a nation terrorized on one of its most beautiful days in one of its most beloved cities?  Do we throw out Romans 5:3 pleading our people to "rejoice in our sufferings because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character and character, hope."?

Maybe.  Perseverance?  Character?  Sure, those are good.

Faith.  Hope.  Good.

But, love?  Love is greater. 

Maybe, at least in the beginning of sorting through the muck, we don't have to be wise.  We don't have to show how strong is our faith.  We don't have to profess our hope.  We have to remember that which is greater.

He FIRST loved us.  First, we just love.

It's freeing actually.  When we look into the eyes of raw pain, love isn't only the greatest to give, it might be all we have to give.  It is most certainly, the easiest.  It comes the most naturally in times of tragedy.  It might not seem like enough. We'll feel we need to do more:  bake a casserole, send flowers, donate money, write our representative, quote ourselves silly with the Bible.  But what if we just can't do that at first? 

If we have to muddle through one day or even one minute at time, we can just start with love.  I think that the more just plain, ol' love we give, the more faith and hope will just bubble up with it.  Love will be enough.  It has to be.  That's why He said it. 

Faith, hope, love.  All good.  But, the greatest of these is love.

Just love.

A Before and After Prayer-filled Daybook: Monday/Tuesday April 15/16, 2013

This Daybook started Monday afternoon around 4:30 pm and ended just this morning.  God Bless You, Boston.

Outside my window:
Starbucks parking lot.  I have an hour here before Joe's baseball game starts.
I am thinking:
about a family from our baseball community who tragically and suddenly lost a young husband and father last week.  Joe played on a team with their boy a few years ago and we were not extremely close friends, but this community is a tight-knit group and all of us are feeling their pain and loss. 
I am thankful:
for women who lift each other up, who don't know what to say and don't know how to fix, but who always and with certainty know how to show a mighty and ferocious love.
I am listening to:
a woman interviewing with someone for a job at the table next to me.
I am wearing:
jeans, white top, navy and blue striped scarf and sandals.  By the look of the clouds, I'm going to need to grab Joe's sweatshirt and change shoes before the game.
In the kitchen:
I left Kyle in charge of dinner.  Yikes.
I am going:
to get my eyes checked again tomorrow.  I can't see a darn thing.
I am hoping:
that the news out of Boston isn't as bad as it seems it might be.  Boston is one of my favorite cities in the entire world.  My hubby took me there in January of 1993 when we first started dating and I couldn't understand a thing anyone was saying and it was 40 below zero and dark at 4:00 pm, but still I fell in love with Boston.  I love the people, the shopping, the baseball, the history and did I mention the PEOPLE?  The South has a reputation for being warm and welcoming.  I have found Boston to be just that.  Good Will Hunting is my favorite movie of all time and I could listen to that accent all day long. (Don't get too puffed up there, Coach C.)
I am reading:
The Language of Flowers by Vanessa Diffenbaugh.  Almost done.
I am wondering:
how I could have spent the entire day in the laundry room and still not have it all done.
{finishing up here on Tuesday morning and unfortunately finding that the Boston news is worse than I thought yesterday afternoon)
I am pondering: 
1 Corinthians 13:13.  Faith, hope, love.  I've heard this verse a gazillion times and I'm not sure I fully understood it until I heard stories this weekend of women coming to the aid of their shocked and grieving girlfriend and as I am watching the country heap love and prayer on Boston.  In the face of horrific grief, love might be all we can find.  More on this later, I think.
I am looking forward to:
justice for the people responsible for this unfathomable tragedy.
I am praying:
for a grieving family and for their friends who are mightily trying to take the pain away, for Boston and for a broken, troubled, evil world who needs Him desperately. 
On my Ipod:
Cry Out to Jesus by Third Day
A verse for today:
"Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness;  for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words." -Romans 8:26
A quote for today:
"When I was a boy and saw scary things on the news, my mother would always say 'Look for the helpers.  There will always be people helping.'  To this day, especially in times of disaster, I always remember my mother's words. and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers - so many caring people in this world."-Mister Rogers
A few plans for the week:
more than enough baseball and lots of prayer . . . so very, very much prayer.  I'm afraid there will never be enough prayer.
One of my favorite things:
Boston

Daybook idea from http://www.thesimplewomansdaybook.blogspot.com/

{this moment}: Hey, Ump!

{this moment}:  A Friday ritual.  A few photos - no words - of a moment from the week.  A simple, special, extraordinary moment.  A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

 

 

 

For more moments visit:  www.soulemama.com

Throw Back Thursday: Sibling Day Circa 1972

 

The Founding Members of "My People"



A Healthy Serving of Vegetables with a Side of Guilt

I suppose the fact that glossy magazines at the grocery store check-out can make a regular gal feel really inadequate is pretty well documented.  I struggled with serious body image issues throughout my teens and twenties.  I also had a pretty serious magazine addiction.  Obviously, my determination that the size of my jeans and the fact that I, in no way, resembled Cindy Crawford were directly related to my worth was a more complex problem than the magazines themselves.  In any event, I grew up a little, God healed me a little and I learned that who I was had very little to do with whether or not I looked like the gal on the front of Vogue. 

I cannot lie and say that I don't care about that stuff though.  I still worry about how my jeans fit. Many days, I feel better when the scale shows me what I want to see and feel like a failure when it doesn't.  But, I don't compare myself to cover girls anymore.  I've come a long way, baby.  I try to focus on finding my worth in the places inside of me and how I treat the people outside of me.  The truth is though, that I love clothes and shoes and make up and purses.  Love it all.  And though I don't have as much time for magazines as I used to, I do stock up on them occasionally, especially during vacation.

So it was that as Spring Break approached, I filled up my cart with about six magazines.  I bought the Allure and the Glamour and the People, but also threw in the Good Housekeeping.  No fear of that one making me feel too bad.  I mean, my grandmom had a subscription to Good Housekeeping.  Or was it Redbook?  Same thing, right?

In any event, GH is not one of those that I figured would do a number on my self-esteem.  Recipes and house-keeping tips and this and that, right?  Then I saw this:

 

Well, thanks so much, ladies.  Y'all might as well have shown up in size 0 lace undies and a 34 quadruple D bra with flawless, airbrushed skin to tell me how pathetic I look. 

Let's get this straight.  We are to look at this article and determine whether or not we are thoughtful or self-absorbed or boring based on what some group of women whom we do not know decided that they perceived about a hypothetical group of women whom they do not know?  Are you kidding me?  Women have a tendency to judge the heck out of each other anyway. We get enough judging from real people that we run into in our real lives.  We do not need to wonder about how some random person in some random study perceives us, whether it's based on our haircut or our earrings or our dress size or what we serve for dinner.

I get the gist here though. Serving our families nutritious food is, unquestionably, the right thing to do.  I understand that.  News Flash, GH:  We know we're supposed to serve vegetables. We know we're supposed to limit screen time.  We know we need to stay out of the McDonald's drive through.  We know we are supposed to recycle and put on sunscreen and exercise.

Maybe I just took this too personally because I read it in the bathtub on Sunday night after a weekend of ten baseball games for three children.  I had a massive headache and could not wrap my pounding brain around dinner.  I had thrown together a grilled cheese sandwich and some pretzels for one kid and begged my husband to grab Moe's tacos on the way home from the ballpark for the other two.  Guess what?  Not a vegetable to be seen.  Not even that wanna-be vegetable called iceberg lettuce on the tacos.  I did not feel less loving.  I felt TIRED.  And then suddenly, I was reading that some group of people perceived me as boring and self-absorbed.

(Perhaps if the study by Cornell found that a hypothetical baseball mom from Texas who sits down at the computer, writes about her suburban life, whines about how cold it is in Northern Virginia and posts pictures of her kids three times a week is perceived as boring and self-absorbed, I wouldn't be arguing.  To that I would have to say, "Well, you have an excellent point there, ladies.")

Friends, how about you look to your people to find out if you're loving or not?  How about these folks:

Your husband?
Your parents?
Your friends?
Your co-workers?
Your children?*

*Depending on the day, I might take that last group's perception with a grain of salt, since I'm certain that my boys consider me much more loving when I grit my teeth once a year and take them to the Cici's Pizza buffet which they LOVE.  The mere mention of that place makes me shudder.

Here are two more for your list:

Yourself and your God.  How about we look real honestly into our own hearts with the help of the One who knows us to our very core?  With His guidance, we are capable of knowing whether or not we are loving or boring or self-absorbed.  We might need to search our hearts, we might need to do some work in there, we might need to ask His forgiveness and then forgive ourselves and we also might need to pat ourselves on the back. 

I believe the Psalm reads:  "Create in me a clean heart, O God." and not "Create in me a clean heart, O anonymous women from a Cornell University study."

Search your heart with Jesus.

Those women from that study?  Um, no.

Ain't nobody got time for that. :)

SUNNY Daybook: April 8, 2013

Outside my window:
It's sunny!  It's 70 degrees!  It's full of stuff making my nose and eyes run!
I am thinking:
about the fact that I have been spelling toilet wrong for a really long time.  I have it written on my list today because we have an issue in the boys' bathroom which is more serious than just your garden variety issues that come with boys and toilets. (of which there are many, by the way.)  On my list, I spelled it toliet.  And that looks right to me, but it is clearly wrong.  And I am thinking this:  "Which is more embarrassing? The fact that I have been misspelling toilet for years or the fact that I am spending a ridiculous amount of time writing about toilets on my blog?"
I am thankful:
for that bright yellow, glorious, warm, shiny sun.
I am listening to:
lots of baseball pants swishing in the Super-Duper-Heavy-Load cycle of my washing machine.

I am wearing:
black Nike running shorts, white Nike Top and a green and white Columbia windbreaker.
In the kitchen:
I just finished a massive grocery store run and I need to figure out if all those food groups could just jump out of those bags and become something my boys will eat. 
I am going:
to run OUTSIDE with short sleeves and no gloves.  See ya later, treadmill.
I am hoping:
that the Zyrtec will kick in because I have been "bless-youing" all over the place and it is getting old.
I am reading:
The Language of Flowers by Vanessa Diffenbaugh, still.  I know it seems like maybe this book isn't that great because it's taking me forever to read it, but it is good.  It's just that I don't read until I get in bed and then I get through about a paragraph and a half before I'm asleep.
I am wondering:
how hard it must be to be the pitcher's mom all the time.  My boys very rarely pitch.  Joe was brought in to pitch late in the game yesterday.  Thanks to good pitching before him, he only had to throw one pitch.  I almost puked.

I am pondering:
how much better of a human being I can be if I am able to be in the sun a little, run a little, write a little, sleep a little and pray a lot.  If I check the box on those things I can show so much more than a little love to my people.  And the greatest of these is love, is it not?
I am looking forward to:
the new movie about Jackie Robinson coming out this weekend. 
I am praying:
for warrior children and the doctors and parents of pediatric cancer patients.  We attended a charity event Saturday night to benefit Children's National Medical Center.  The room was full of hope and inspiration and love for children battling cancer.  (There was a table that was also full of cupcakes and I might have had two.) God bless the Hahne, Switzer, Rupp and Orne familes and so many, many others.  Fight on, warriors.  Heaven is flooded with prayer for you.

On my Ipod:
I heard THIS SONG by Need to Breathe yesterday.  Awesome song.
A verse for today:
"Cast all your anxiety on Him, because He cares for you." -1 Peter 5:7
A quote for today:
"We cannot be sinless but we can sin less"-Mrs. Faye from my Bible group. 
One of my favorite things:
watching them play.

A few plans for the week:
urging math practice, planning dinners for the crazy schedule, lots of Bible study catch-up, baseball, baseball and more baseball, Joe's umping this week, Little League Opening Day and being out in the sun!!!
A peek into my day:
His mercies are new everyday.  Hallelujah!

Daybook idea from http://www.thesimplewomansdaybook.blogspot.com/

{this moment}: Get your game face on, Swaggalicious

{this moment}:  A Friday ritual.  A single photo - no words - of a photo from the week.  A simple, special, extraordinary moment.  A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

For more moments visit www.soulemama.com

Opening Day Archives: Baseball Ready, Ladies!

I sat through my first baseball game of the season last night.  It was about a million degrees below zero and the wind was blowing so hard that I felt sure that some flying monkeys and a wicked witch were about to show up in centerfield.  Which means I just lied.  I sat through about two innings and then I ran to my car and cried.

Despite the arctic April we're having and even though our official Little League Opening Day is still a week and a half away, the Skinners have jumped on the crazy train that is baseball season around here and I am trying really hard not to call in a prescription for anti-anxiety meds.  I have nothing in my head right now except for schedules and carpool plans, so I'll pull from the archives again, and bring you this from last year.  Put me in, Coach!

YOU MIGHT BE A BASEBALL MOM:
and you might need a special party, because in my world it is only a small handful of days until Opening Day and that is cause for great celebration and periodic bouts of panic. Let's see...Have you ever:

1. Noticed that flip-flop tan line and then realized that was actually a mix of baseball field dirt and sunscreen permenantly staining your recently pedicured feet?

2. Decided to splurge on the large Diet Coke before the game because it was a Thursday and you remember that the Port-A-Potty is always cleaned on Thursdays?

3. Realized that the Port-A-Potty people didn't show and started whimpering on your way to use it, then broke into a full-out tantrum when you had to go in?

4. Got your Pottery Barn Bed and Bath catalog and instead of picturing your own bathroom remodel, imagined those monogrammed towels and accessories in the Port-A-Potty at your local Little League field?

5. Had a number of 40ish year old men, who are not your husband, walk through your laundry room to get to the garage to get a beer to drink during the Little League Board Meeting while your bra (your very small sized bra) was hanging to dry?

6. Not been able to pass off said bra as your pre-teen daughter's because YOU DON'T HAVE A DAUGHTER?!

7. Yelled at your son, "Get your head in the game!" after he made an error and then realized that it wasn't your son that made that error? Yikes.

8. Thought your husband's head was going to come right off his body when your son actually did make an error?

9. Prayed to God something like this: "I know, dear Lord, that there are tsunamis, earthquakes and starving children, but if it is Your will, could you please, oh please, oh please, could You just get my boy on first base safely in anyway that You possibly can? And could You please, oh please, oh please keep my husband's head from exploding if he doesn't happen to get there safely? Thanks much. Amen."

10. Stomped over to that obnoxious other team's side to give that mom a piece of your mind, then in this order:
1) realized that she was slightly scarier than Robert DeNiro in Cape Fear with as many tattoos.
2) glanced down to make sure your running shoes were tied tight.
3) real-quick-like, muttered something under your breath.
4) hustled your 5 foot 2 inch self back to the bleachers safely next to the biggest dad on your team.

11. Got tired of waiting for the game to start, so took it upon yourself to yell, "Balls in, comin' down", from your fancy schmancy Costco chair with umbrella, bottle opener, foot rest and cooler.

12. Found that your younger children think that the batting cage is their own personal playroom during game time?

13. Wished you could find a padlock for that batting cage? (I'm kidding...just during the game.)

14. Channeled your inner Martha Stewart and created a "Ladies Fit tee" out of that boxy team jersey with some craft scissors and ribbon?

If so, then you need to invite all those mommies like you to your house for a Little League Season Kick-Off party for Moms....(or Soccer or Lacrosse or Just Because You're an Awesome Person party) because let's face it, that calendar is filling up quickly and before you know it you're going to be sitting in the parking lot while your toddler sleeps, drinking a Gatorade that you found in your son's bat bag and chomping on a bag of Twizzlers you lifted off your kid and HEY LADY, YOU DESERVE A PROPER PARTY! Plan it now and let's play ball, people!!!!

PS All of the above are true stories and not only from my own personal life. If you are from my local little league and you think I might possibly, could be, by chance referring to you or someone you know (yes, I'm looking at you, the lovely and talented, Mrs. C., Mrs. M., et al), no worries. I will deny, deny, deny.

Tuesday Daybook: Spring Break Slideshow April 2, 2013

 

 

 

 

 

Outside my window:
it's dark and early and still cold.
I am thinking:
about a Spring Break so very full of blessings:  sleeping late, fishing, cheering UVA baseball and basketball, playing air soft gun wars, watching as the children of two old friends become great friends, too, boys vs. girls board game showdowns, big kids still little enough for dyeing eggs and indulging their mommas' Easter traditions, laughing until I can't breathe, and the greatest of all:  a church filled with voices singing the Hallelujah chorus to celebrate the risen Christ.
I am thankful:
for the absolute truth of the healing and redemptive love and hope that the resurrection of Christ gives to us.  Last Easter there were many concerns weighing heavy on my heart causing me fear and despair.  As I wake up a year later, I am absolutely convinced of the power of prayer and of the grace of our God who holds all of us and those we love in His powerful grip.  So very, very thankful.
I am listening to:
the coffee pot gurgling.
I am wearing:
black and white pjs.
In the kitchen:
chocolate chip waffles.  These kids are going to be so unhappy when they have to wake up for school.  They'll need a little bribery today.
I am going:
to try to get all three of the baseball schedules into my Iphone calendar today.  It might be an all day task.
I am hoping:
to be more patient, more loving and more giving to my kids and husband.  Spring Break gave me rest and a renewed spirit.  They need better from me and they deserve it.  Spring sports can bring chaos, but this home should bring calm.  I'm going to pray really, really hard and hope God will help me out with this one.
I am reading:
The Language of Flowers by Vanessa Diffenbaugh, still.  NCAA basketball got in the way of my reading time. 
I am wondering:
if you want to know what happens when you gave up sugar and then your friend from Birmingham, Alabama visits and she really wants to go to Trader Joe's because they don't have Trader Joe's in Alabama?  Well, first, Easter Sunday comes and the sugar fast is officially over.  Then, THIS HAPPENS.  And also THIS HAPPENS.  And then THIS HAPPENS.
I am pondering:
the dinner debacle that baseball season brings.  What to eat, when to eat, how much to eat before practice, how much after? 
I am looking forward to:
Spring?  Maybe, could it, perhaps, possibly, in ANY WAY, PLEASE show up sometime this week?  I'll be content if it gets here by the weekend as all three boys are playing in the same local baseball tournament.  I'll be racing between fields and some sunshine will be much appreciated.
I am praying:
prayers of thanks for my friend, Lori and her sweet family who visited from Alabama and spent Easter with us.  If two 44 year old gals can still laugh so hard that their tummies hurt over stuff they did together over 25 years ago, while their children look at them like they've lost their minds, that is some good stuff, people.  Someone better thank the good Lord for that kind of friendship and that kind of love and I do.
On my Ipod:
Redeemed by Big Daddy Weave.  Oh, how I love this song.
A verse for today:
"My Father, who has given them to me, is greater than all, no one can snatch them out of my Father's hand." - John 10:29
A quote for today:
"I don't know about you, but I'm feeling 22" - Taylor Swift
One of my favorite things:
Feeling 22 or 17 again or something like that.  There is possibly a video floating around of two old cheerleaders with remarkable memory performing some cheers for their children on the dock at Lake Anna.  I have no idea who they are, but rest assured, they did not attempt any stunts or jumps. 


A few plans for the week:
practices, dentist appointments and scanning the closet for a dress and heels for this wonderful event.  If you are in the area, come on, people!  I'll be racing in late from a baseball game, so if you see me, please tell me if I didn't get all the baseball dirt off of myself.
A peek into my day:
It is the birthday of my 2nd favorite baseball coach in all of the world, who also claims to be the most devoted male fan of The View from Behind Home Plate.  If you know Coach C., please wish him a happy birthday!

Daybook idea from http://www.thesimplewomansdaybook.blogspot.com/