Very Superstitious, Writing's On the Wall . . .

So have I mentioned Little League baseball at all?

The little man and his team will play Game 3 of the All-Star tournament tonight.  If we win tonight we move to the 9/10 Virginia District 16 Championship.

But, shhhhhh.  The Championship is the game which cannot be named.  Because in the baseball world the only game that anyone must discuss is the next game.  We do not look ahead lest the sky falls and the whole thing goes down the toilet because OH MY GOSH.  BITE YOUR TONGUE.  YOU'RE JINXING IT!!

If you are unaware, baseball is a game full of superstition and rituals.  In my years as a baseball mom, wife and fan, I have heard of numerous curses and various routines meant to ward off the ire of the "Baseball Gods".  The Red Sox and The Curse of the Bambino?  The Cubs and  The Curse of the Billy Goat?   Joe Skinner and the "No, of course, I can't get a haircut!  Are you insane?  I'm on a hitting streak!"?

There are major league players - grown up adults - who eat the same thing before each game.   Some will avoid stepping on the foul line on the way to the field.  There are those who refuse to wash their pants or shave their beards.

And I find it hilarious because as I continually remind my people,  we are fully in the tank for Jesus around here.  We are a people of faith, for Pete's Sake.  This is all a bunch of bunk.  As believers of a God fully and completely in control, we don't believe in that nonsense.  None of that makes a whit of difference. 

And yet.

I generally keep myself in the same seat if we're winning and if things go wrong I change positions.  This is a picture of me at an AllStar game in 2011 when Husband was coaching and Joe was playing.

Don't I look like I'm just having a blast?  I feel the need to point out that things were actually going very well at this game.  Which means I likely stayed exactly in that position for six innings.  I think my hand started to cramp up.  To be sure, I was reciting Joshua 1:9, Phillipians 4:13 and Luke 1:37 consistently in my head.  But, it can be easy to fall in to the superstitious stuff.

And my husband?  The man God chose for me?   A man of faith.  A man who reads the Bible just about every night?

I'm going to give you a little slideshow of Coach through the years and see if you might notice something.

This is Husband during his first run as manager of the All Star Team in 2010.

Here he is in 2011.

2012 . . .

2013 . . .

He didn't coach in 2014.

Now, boys and girls.  The league gives the coach a new shirt each year.  Coach can wear whatever shorts he chooses.  For those of you who haven't clicked away (because WHY have we just scrolled through four photos of a baseball coach??), if you are an expert in baseball superstition you will notice that in 2013, we seemed to have lost the off-white shorts.  All of the teams were very successful.  All of them got to the championship game.  In 2010 they didn't win, but it was the first time our league had won more than a couple of games in the tournament, so honestly we all felt like those kiddos were world champions that year.  The 2011 and 2012 teams won the district championship.  2013's team was a great team and we were looking for a three-peat.  That team perhaps had some of my favorite boys in all the world playing on it.  We were incredibly proud of their run.  They found themselves in the championship, but fell short in that final game.

Fell short.  So to speak.

Dear Lord.  WHERE were the off white shorts in 2013?  Had I thrown them away?  Did they fall apart in the dryer and disappear into the vent?  Did someone from another league come into my house and steal those shorts right out from under us?

Look, you crazy, superstitious whackjobs.  The 2014 team won the district championship without Coach Skinner or his shorts.  Let's get a grip.

But, just in case.  Here we are in 2015.  THE SHORTS ARE BACK, folks.  The hem is coming out.  They have strings hanging from them.  I really hope they don't fall off of Coach in the middle of the game.

Now, Brothers and Sisters in Christ,

Let's pull ourselves together, 'kay?  We do not believe in a pair of old, nasty shorts.  We believe in the heart and guts of our players.  We believe in a God who loves us and cares about those boys - yes, He cares about baseball, because He cares about them.  He's got the whole thing under control.  And win or lose, He loves all the players in all the leagues in all the whole darn world.

Alrighty?  Are we all set now?  Because I gotta go.  I have to wash those shorts.

The Best Idea I Ever Had

Well, it's January 7, 2015 which is crazy because if you would have told me when I was in elementary school that by this year I would l live in a house without a robot maid and a flying saucer car, I would have said, "Well, then, who needs it?" 

What is crazier though is that I wake up today having been married for 20 years.  And I swear it was only yesterday that I was a 25 year old girl, poofing up her hair and slipping on her white dress and veil, who had really NO IDEA what she was doing.  NO IDEA AT ALL.  Somehow that young girl just trusted that it was a good idea though.  Somehow she just walked down that aisle without a doubt in her mind.  It's really phenomenal to me.

Because the thing was that I had so many ideas when I was younger that I jumped on without a doubt in my mind.  Like the time I was a freshman in high school and had the grand idea to pretend that I wasn't terrified of horses because I really wanted to go on a date with that senior.  I got so scared that I started to walk backwards and tripped over a saddle and never ended up on the horse anyway. Or that great idea I had when I put blue eyeliner on the inside of my lower eyelids and bright purple eyeshadow on my lids.  I shouldn't have done either of those things on their own much less at the same time.  Or that time I thought that perming my waist length hair was a fabulous plan.  Or that time in college when I thought it was a perfectly fine idea to partake in the "trash can punch" at that fraternity party.  For the love, y'all.  It was mixed up in a TRASH CAN,

Hey, young little 25 year old me.  It's true that you had some really bad ideas.  There were so many times that you had really no idea what you were getting yourself into and you did those things anyway.  And that day you walked down the aisle at Perkins Chapel in Dallas, Texas, even though you thought you were sure, you really couldn't have known fully that this wouldn't turn out to be a colossal mistake either.

Except that I think you knew down deep that God had promised you this kind of man and that He had led you to him.  So when you started down that aisle, even if you didn't know for sure, God knew.  He knew for sure that one day you would wake up 20 years later without a robot maid or a flying saucer car and without flowers and romance and googly eyes every minute of everyday, but with a sure knowledge of one thing:

The knowledge that meeting that guy at the end of that aisle and saying, "Yes, I do." was the best idea you had ever and would ever have for the rest of your life.
 

Happy Anniversary to us.

{this moment}: When I knew exactly what kind of Dad he'd be

{this moment}:  A Friday ritual.  A single photo (or two) - no words - of a moment from 15 years ago.  A simple, special extraordinary moment.  A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

Happy Father's Day Weekend to my man and to 

the Strongest Man in the World.

Visit www.soulemama.com for more moments.

We're All Too Busy: Be Well

People, I'm so busy.  Just soooo busy.  You've just no idea.  Except I know you do.  It's so incredibly annoying to hear, isn't it?  I don't have time to sit down.  I don't have time to chat with a friend.  I don't have time to run today.  I don't have time to blog anything new today.  Blah, blah, blah.  We're all too busy, girls.  Every single one of us.  We're doing important things, generous things, loving things.  We're taking care of people, sometimes the people God gave to us and sometimes other people on top of our own people.

We've heard it a million times:  we have to make time to take care of ourselves.  Today I'm not going to preach on exercise or eating right or getting a pedicure or reading a book or quiet time with God.  All those are great things, but instead due to the fact that as of yesterday, the world as we know it will turn pink for 31 days, I'm going to re-post the story of when I was late on a check-up and late on a mammogram - when I had pushed it aside too many times and found myself  in a blue gown in a radiologist's office four days before Christmas.

It's Breast Cancer Awareness month.  You're going to see it everywhere.  You can wear pink and you can run in a race and you can donate money, but first, make the time.  Tell your sister and your best friend to make the time.  I know you're too busy.  Don't be annoying.  Call now.  Before you read this.  Look, we know I'm long-winded.  It's going to take you a sweet forever to read this rambling post, so if you have time for that, you have time for your children's mother, for your husband's wife, for your brother's sister, for your parents' daughter.  Call now. 

IT IS WELL

I sat in the waiting room in that stupid blue gown. with stupid blue flowers on it.  With the stupid ties that you can't even get to unless you have arms that are six feet long.  I tried to read an article on Christmas recipes in the Better Homes and Gardens with the stupid, smiley lady on the front. I was feeling like every single thing was stupid.  Most especially, me.  Me.  Who had pushed me aside.  And in the pushing, had perhaps pushed the mother of three boys aside.  The wife of one man aside. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Two days before, I had felt that little knot.  A little bitty bump.  I had been waiting for this.  Preparing for this.  I had thought a lot about a day like this.  I had read articles and books on this.  I'd listed all of the family history:  maternal great grandmother, maternal grandmother, paternal grandmother, mother.  But not me, not yet.  I'd even seen the genetics counselor and the fancy schmancy breast surgeon at the state of the art breast imaging center all the way downtown in DC because yes, there is a history.  But, I was a responsible, educated woman and I would keep on top of this.  I had warned friends.  Don't miss a mammogram.  Don't miss a physical.  Don't miss the self-exam.  And I didn't. 

Until I did. Until I forgot or just kept pushing it farther down the calendar because you know, it's all been just fine and there are kids' appointments and baseball practice and school assignments and all. When I felt the little, bitty knot, I realized.  I was six months late on the mammogram.  Three months late on the physical.  Stupid.

It was 5 days before Christmas.  I called the doctor and talked to the nurse. 

Probably fine, she said, we can probably wait until after the holidays.  Let me just check your chart. 

Well, I know what happens when they check my chart.  Even though I have been perfectly healthy, she'll see the history.  If I'm looking directly at the nurse, there is an eyebrow raise.  I pictured the eyebrow on the nurse on the other end of the phone.  Wait for it . . .

Um . . . ok, it is probably fine.  I can fit you in in 30 minutes though. Can you come in now?

The doctor checked me and wasn't worried, but said I should go get a mammogram so that I wouldn't be doing the superfreak over the holidays.

So there I sat in my stupid blue gown after the mammogram, four days before Christmas.  In-laws on the way into town.  Presents to wrap.  2nd grade party to attend.  Dinner party that night.  The nurse had told me to just sit there and she would show the films to the doctor and she would probably come tell me to get dressed.  She was just so very, very nice.

She came back and said not to get dressed quite yet, we needed to do the mammogram again.  So they did it again.  Didn't hurt the first time.  This time?  Oh.my.word.  Then, she told me to sit and she'd show the new films to the doctor and then I could probably get dressed and go.  She was just so very, very nice. 

My phone chimed with a text from a friend.  It was the day of her son's surprise birthday party.  It was messy and cold and rainy out and we texted back and forth about whether or not the boys would mind playing outside.   The conclusion was no need for indoor activities. Boys + Cold + Mud + Football = Perfect Party.    I couldn't tell her where I was.  Planning a birthday party today?  Cancer survivor herself?  No, not her.

My phone chimed with a text from my mom.  She was listening to a Christmas CD I had sent and cooking up a feast for my cousins and their families for a Christmas celebration that night. I couldn't tell her where I was. Planning a Christmas party today?  Cancer survivor herself?  No, not her.

My phone chimed and it was my husband.  He texted me that he was just on his way to work, unless I needed him.  I had thought about not telling him where I was, but I had told him before I left.  No big deal, I had told him, just regular stuff.  I texted back that I was fine. She was just about to come back and probably tell me to get dressed and go home any minute. 

Except that she didn't.  She came back and said not to get dressed yet.  They just needed to do an ultrasound.   She was just so very, very nice.

My husband called right as they were calling me back again.  I told him it was fine.  Just an ultrasound next.  We were all about ultrasounds.  It's just that this one was not the look at that little baby type of ultrasound.  I told him that it was just fine and my voice didn't crack until I told him that it was just that I wished the nurse would stop being so very, very nice.  Still, as always, my unflappable, calm husband didn't say he was scared.  Didn't tell me not to worry.  All he said was,

You know what?  I just remembered I need to come over there because I have a couple of jokes to tell you.

And I could hear that car making a u-turn.

My husband sat in the chair beside me while they did the ultrasound and I tried to imagine that this ultrasound would be like all those other happy ones.  Ones where we saw a baby's strong heart beat and where we dutifully looked away when they told us to, so that we wouldn't know if that strong heartbeat belonged to a boy or a girl.

I still wasn't able to get dressed and go home though.  They sent for another doctor to come look at the ultrasound.  And I prayed the prayer that I see everyday as I walk down the hall in my house.

And I realized that I wasn't stupid.  I realized that I wasn't in control.  I realized that even if I had not missed the mammogram, there might be something there.  I realized that my guilt and my shame were misplaced here.  I realized that if that little bitty bump was what I feared it would be, that it wouldn't mean that I was stupid or lazy.  I realized the only thing that mattered in that moment was that I should trust that He knew what the outcome would be and that the He with the big H would be with me, just as sure as the fact that the he with the small h was there with me trying to come up with another dumb joke.

Do not be afraid.  Do not be afraid.  I am with you in the waiting room with that stupid blue gown.  I am with you in the mammogram room.  I am with you in the Ultrasound room.  I will be with you wherever you go.

That day everything checked out fine.  They were just being thorough (and so very, very nice.)  Last week, I saw the fancy schmancy breast surgeon and he said everything looked fine to him, too.  I made the appointment to come back again in a year even though it is all the way downtown.  I walked out of that DC office so full of gratitude and peace that I had tears streaming down my face when I paid the parking attendant.  And it was not only because I was fine this time.  Because next time it might not be.  I fully expect to walk out of that office some day with the news that it is not just fine.  And then, it might not be fine, but it will be well.  It will always, always be well.  Because He will be there today, tomorrow and next year.  Wherever I go.

Send up a prayer today, people.  A prayer of gratitude, a prayer of hope, a prayer of knowing that He will never, ever let us go no matter what.  And . . . go get your mammogram, okay?

A Little More Love for Dads

Baseball madness continues in full force as the All-Star Season gets underway here in CrazyTown.  Since all of the daddies in our lives deserve a little more than one day of love, I'm pulling from last summer, copying and pasting my wrap up from last  year's All-Star Season which was less about baseball and more of an "Ode to Daddies".

Our AllStar run for the state championship is over.  We lost in the semi-finals which means we went farther than our league ever has before.  And suddenly, it's over.  So, I have to write something to conclude it...because, well, because I just do.  Practice and games and husband/coach being gone a lot have taken up six weeks of our lives.  I tried to think what stuck out the most as I stood back and watched this summer.  I was not a parent this time, so I watched a lot of other parents and I noticed something contrary to what we read about a lot these days in our culture.  We read a lot about some crazed youth sports fathers out there.  We read ridiculous stories of fights and arguments.  I even saw an article that mentioned police being called to Little League game because two "adults" couldn't handle the pressure of watching little people throw a ball around.  Since school let out I have watched countless baseball games and therefore, I've watched a lot of daddies watching countless baseball games, so I thought I'd mention a thing or two about some gentlemen that you won't read about in the newspaper.

First of all, I'll say that I am a big fan of mommies.  We have our own way at the ball field.  We set up our chairs with our umbrellas and foot rests.  We lay out blankets with toys and snacks for our younger children.  We joke about the travesty it is that most ballplayers wear white pants.  We jump out of chairs and run for ice when a player gets hurt.  We paint our children's numbers on our cheeks. 

The daddies...they are a little different.  I watched a lot of dads watching their boys have the opportunity that so many little ball players will never get and of course, that so many daddies didn't get growing up.  I watched how different they can be from the moms.  I noticed how a boy going up to bat might only look to one other person besides his coach.  He might just steal a glance outside the fence and lock eyes with his dad.  I watched how a dad would give an encouraging nod or a positive word.  I watched how sometimes a dad would move down to the very end of the fence away from the crowd when his boy was up to bat.  I listened as some dads shouted silly phrases to the players to lighten the mood in a pressure situation, not only to their own kids, but to others as well.  Some men jumped high out of their chairs and smacked hands against the fence and high fived and hugged each other when we heard "Strike three" or saw a ball sail over the fence.  Some just stood still, shook their heads in disbelief, grinned big and didn't say a word.



I also watched these talented and determined children and wondered what kind of men they would become.  I hear a lot of chatter about "kids these days" and it's usually not positive.  I think the future is bright here.  These boys have a ways to go yet, but based on the families I was around these past few weeks, I see quite a few kiddos on the right track.  The tournament officials complimented them on their class, their sportsmanship in the nine games they won and the dignified way they faced the crushing defeat of their final game.  These little boys looked so strong and big and confident on the field in their uniforms.  They walked tall and focused from the dugout to the plate.  I watched an 11 year old  pitcher throw a two-hitter in the biggest game of his life as if he was playing wiffle ball in the backyard.  I saw our smallest kid hit the ground after being hit by a pitch and then, pop back up and get himself down to 1st base as quickly as he could.  I saw kids make ESPN-worthy plays, give a quick fist bump to the teammate nearest them and hustle back to their positions to be ready for the next play.


Truthfully, sometimes they weren't all smiling.  These boys expected big things from themselves.  When they made mistakes, their coaches didn't yell;  they only encouraged.  I  never heard a dad shout disappointment.  Could've happened, I guess.  I was in line at the concession stand for a Diet Coke once or twice.  But honestly, I only saw the boys expect too much of themselves.  They weren't looking to be heroes, but they were determined not to let their teammates down.  I stood back and watched as a boy as tall as his father blinked back tears after he had struggled in a game.  I watched that father wrap that boy up in a bear hug and sway him back and forth, whispering support and love in his ear. (And I watched that same boy hit two balls out of the park the next day...coincidence?  Maybe, maybe not.)

There is a dad that wasn't there.  I never met my husband's father, but I have looked to the heavens and thanked him many times over for the man he raised.  He was a West Point graduate.  I am told he was serious and reserved, but with a dry sense of humor that could border on goofy at times.  Hmmmm...I know someone like that.  In our quarterfinal game, we were in the last inning with a 9-0 lead.  My husband, as a coach, is of the mindset that it ain't over 'til it's over, but I saw his shoulders relax and I saw a bit of a grin on his unflappable face.  I looked up at the sky and gave a wink to my father-in-law.  I have a feeling there was a cheering section in heaven this week.  I have a feeling when we won that game that there might have been a subtle fist pump, a wide smile and a gleam of pride in a father's eye up there.  I have a feeling that though we couldn't hear his voice, there was yet another daddy saying, "'Attaway, kid.  Nice job, son."

Father's Day Words

"I know my God, that you test the heart and are pleased with integrity." - 1 Chronicles 29:17

Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there today and to my dad, my husband, my brother, my father-in-law on Earth and my father-in-law in Heaven and to many, many other men I know.  I believe our God is well pleased.  Thank you for being men of integrity and honor and humility.



We are off to the baseball field and the golf course today, so I've copied and pasted from last year below.  Have an great day, guys!

(REAL) Men in the House:  Happy Father's Day

I wrote this waaayyy back...back when the Tiger Woods scandal broke.  Back before I knew how bad the scandal would become.  I was frustrated that every time my kids turned on the TV, this is what they heard.  They have also heard about all kinds of other indiscretions and crimes by athletes since then.  I am aware that athletes aren't the only ones who fall and make mistakes.  I am aware that many regular old guys and gals around the neighborhood hurt their families and tarnish their reputations and they aren't reported by CNN.  I am immensely grateful that the mistakes I make won't make it to newspapers, tabloids and television reports. 

My little boys' walls are covered with posters of professional athletes.  I am resigned to the fact that they will continue to look to athletes as heroes and role models.  I know that it's easy to jump from admiring athletic accomplishments to admiring the whole person.  I know that I found that I, an adult woman, who knew that Woods was just a regular human being who could make mistakes like anyone else, was crushed by this news at the time.  This was my take years ago and I feel the same way now.  Looking to sports figures as heroes will happen.  I hope that I can reign in my boys'(and my) expectations, teach them lessons in human imperfection, consequence, repentance and forgiveness and show them that someone, who is not perfect, but is very worthy of their admiration, is right in front of their eyes.

From 2009:
First, of all let me say this:  Tiger Woods and his wife and his family are none of my business.  The fact that I, a stay-at-home mom in the suburbs, is even taking time out of my day to think about this, much less write about it, is a sad commentary not only on our celebrity-crazed, sports idol-worshiping, media-frenzied culture, but also, it is a sad commentary on me.  I am a wife and a mom with a busy job taking care of three little boys.  I know that I am not supposed to look to Tiger Woods or any other person I don’t know as a moral example.  But here I am writing about Tiger Woods.  So here goes.

Seriously, Tiger?  Seriously?  You, too?  I thought you were above it.  I really did.     I painted their rooms “little boy blue” and I wouldn’t have even cringed about tack holes and masking tape and crooked posters of you.  You worked hard.  You were serious.  You weren’t in the tabloids.  You did charity work.   You married a girl before she was pregnant and had two beautiful babies. I cheered for you every single time, no matter how many championships you had already won.   I thought you were such a classy guy.  You deserved to win again and again.  I know, I know:   I don’t really know you.  I’ve been duped by the whole celebrity worship thing.  But, seriously, Tiger?  You, too?

I know that you are human.  I know that humans make mistakes.  I know that this mistake shouldn’t cancel out the good you have done.  I know it’s not my right to judge you.  But, guess what?  I do make judgments everyday.  I’m a mom who is making judgments about what TV shows my kids watch, what music they listen to, which books they read and which people they spend their time reading about.  Now you are everywhere in the news and not for your golf game.  I am truly, truly sorry about that for you.  I’m sorry for your wife that you won’t be able to deal with this privately…not without some crazed woman like me who has gotten herself all wound up writing about this rather than planning her family’s dinner tonight or a million other things she needs to do.  Not without some group of 40something wives blasting you to their friends on Facebook.  We are the least of your problems and frankly, you are the least of mine. 

Let me just say, that kids will always look to athletes as role models.  My boys are athletes, so it’s going to happen.  That can be okay, but regular, old (Dads and) Moms, like me, we have a job to do.  We’ve got some men to raise: men of character, men of bravery, men of strength, men of God.   And we need someone to “man up”.  And we need to know where to look for that someone.  We mommies need to be careful when our boys are  looking to someone on TV or on a sports field that we don’t know to help us out.  We need to look around a little closer to home.   

So my job is to be my boys’ mother and to help them find out what kind of men they should be.  When we look for someone to “man up” in my family, we don’t need to look far.  I bet you don’t either.  When my 11 and 9 year old boys wake up at 6:45 am every single morning with eyes barely opened and bodies dragging down the stairs, they will continue as they do every single morning to turn on SportsCenter.  That is just something that is going to happen.  Now I will have to ask them to change the channel again and again whenever SportsCenter turns away from centering on sports and instead goes down a different road.  We’ll take the Tiger Woods poster down for now and while we’re at it, let’s go ahead and put that Rothlisberger jersey in the giveaway pile.  We will explain that sometimes these big, strong men that we see on tv act like confused little boys.  We will explain that we all have faults.  We will remind them that these athletes don’t have to answer to us, but that in our family we must answer to each other and to God.  We will ask them to remember that we never did know these people. 

I will remind them (and me) that we do know a real man. We don’t have a giant poster of him that we tore from a magazine.  He didn’t play college ball, but spent a lot of time in college taking his grandmother to play golf.  He gets up in the morning and puts on a suit and tie and goes to a job that doesn’t pop up in a lot of little boy dreams.   He doesn’t wear a jersey.  Well, sometimes, he does, but it generally has “George’s Pizza Joint” or some other such Little League sponsor written across the back of it, rather than his name.  He hits baseballs into a net squeezed into a suburban garage among skateboards and sleds and a lawnmower.  He teaches little boys about lining up and shaking hands at the end of the game.  He urges them to share the basketball and not to gloat about winning.  If one of his sons forgets to thank his coach after practice, said son owes him 20 push-ups.  He works hard and he loves Jesus.  Looking for someone to man up? We don’t need a poster. We’ll look around our house and I’ll bet you can too.  There is a man here and his name is Dad.
 

Happy Anniversary to Virginia and Me..

I have lived in Virginia for 21 years today.  Here's the post I wrote last year on my 20th year here.  Thanks for having me, Virginia.  I love ya.


I have made it fairly clear that I am from the great state of Texas and that I am quite proud of being a Texan.  We are rather obnoxious that way.  I love my Texas and I will always be proud, but today I'm going to write about a different state...a state, that sadly, I probably could not have found on the map, when I was growing up.  I mean, in my defense, that state of Texas takes up so much darn room on the map, you know, and it really does take forever to drive out of the state because it's so darn big, so we really can't blame that on my geography teachers.  It's just that lots of times we don't care so much about the rest of the country.  Like I said, we're obnoxious like that.  For example, I found this floating around the Facebook pages of my Texas friends (and maybe on my own page) on Texas Independence Day:

See, just a little obnoxious.  But, today, May 16, 2012, I have lived in the beautiful state of Virginia and right outside the beautiful city of Washington, DC for 20 years.  My mom and I rolled into town on this day in 1992 in my little white Volkswagen Cabriolet.  I was the child who never went away to sleepover camp, who barely ever made it through a one night slumber party and here I was driving across the country to get this dream of Washington, DC out of my system so that I could just get back to Texas to settle into my life.  My brain was filled with my degree in Government from the University of Texas and my heart was filled with visions of convincing the majority of Americans that one of my very favorite Texans, George H.W. Bush, should stay in the White House.  The plan was for me to stay for 6 months and watch this man be re-elected.  Both of those things didn't happen, but then, to be honest, I was stuck way down on the totem pole at the job I got at the Republican National Committee, so really it wasn't my fault.  In fact, I was so far down on the totem pole that I wasn't even in the basement of the RNC.  You had to push B2 on the elevator to get to the office large mail room where my desk corner of a table was.  So I was effectively below the basement and couldn't possibly have had anything to do with losing the election of 1992.  Still, I cried like a baby on Election Night anyway and felt like I had let down the entire country.  I was also sure that we were all going to you-know-where in a handbasket since President Bush was going back to Texas and Bill Clinton was going to be our President. Even more surprising to me was that apparently, I wasn't going back to Texas with President Bush because there was someone else working on Floor B2 at the RNC.  I thought he was awfully cute and funny and I was pretty sure that I could not leave and let him live his life without me in it.  So basically, I found a lot of things in Virginia and in neighboring Washington, DC.  I found a lot of things that I didn't plan on finding.

To be honest, this photo might be from West Virginia (but had I not moved to Virginia, I surely would never have traveled to West Virginia.)

In Virginia, I found four distinct seasons.  I found an autumn where the leaves changed to colors that I had only seen in a crayon box.  I saw some of the most beautiful sights I had ever seen, just driving down the street.  I found spring and summer at Lake Anna where it was green and peaceful and perfect.

Drew thinks deep thoughts at Lake Anna

I found winter, even though I didn't want to find winter.  I have listened to the TV reports during many winters when the weather anchors are breathless with excitement over the pending "storm of century". I am usually breathless with claustrophobia when those reports start. But, when I take a peek outside, I know it is beautiful. Even if I don't admit it often, I kind of like it when the world stops and my people are all snug together. (but only for a couple of days, max)

In Virginia, during those evil post-naptime hours of 4:00pm-6:00 pm, I found an alley full of mothers with young children.  We would plop ourselves in our lawn chairs and watch our little ones play with community tricycles, scooters, fire trucks and plastic balls.  I found friendship, understanding, laughter and support as we all worked through being in the trenches with young babies and toddlers together.

Snow Fort (Mommy took this picture by stretching her arm out the front door)

In Virginia, I found a job teaching 4th grade which happens to be the grade in which the Social Studies curriculum focuses on Virginia history.  I found Monticello and Mount Vernon.  I found Atlantic beaches and ridges and valleys and the Blue Ridge Mountains.  I found that in minutes I could be walking on the Civil War battleground of Bull Run and that 8 US Presidents were born here.  It was pure joy for a history/government nerd like me.
 

Mount Vernon, Home of George Washington

In Virginia, I became a part of my husband's family who had known tragedy and loss and as a result of that pain had not lost their hearts, but had grown bigger ones.  They treat everyone as a member of the family, no matter their genetics or bloodlines.  The term "step-this" or "step-that" is never used.  This family has been drawn together simply by love and compassion and they have loved me and welcomed me.  I am blessed by them.

In Virginia, I hit my knees on a bright, sunny September day in 2001 and asked Him to spare the man I had found here.  I begged His mercy as I heard rumors and reports of destruction and death just down the highway from me.  I felt guilty and grateful as my husband made his way through the traffic of downtown DC and back to our home and our family in the Northern Virginia suburbs.

In Virginia, I found that God threw lots of my plans out the window.  President Bush was not re-elected and I did not go back to Texas.  I found that God brought me a powerless job in the basement of a building in the most powerful city in the world and He sat me next to a Virginia boy:  a boy who would take the elevator all the way up to B1 where the vending machine was and would get me a Diet Coke just about everyday;  a boy who would help me to build a home in a state in which I never imagined I would stay;  a boy who would help me to build a life full of three more Virginia boys and blessings in abundance.  In Virginia, I found that God's plans are always better than my plans.

PS.  Dear Texas, You know what else I found out?  You know, Sam Houston?  1st and 3rd President of the Republic of Texas, US Senator from Texas, Governor of Texas and Iconic Hero of Texas?  He was born in Virginia.  So, you might just hold on to your cowboy hats because at least one of my little Virginia boys still might make a splash in the great state of Texas...just wait :)

It is Well

I sat in the waiting room in that stupid blue gown. with stupid blue flowers on it.  With the stupid ties that you can't even get to unless you have arms that are six feet long.  I tried to read an article on Christmas recipes in the Better Homes and Gardens with the stupid, smiley lady on the front. I was feeling like every single thing was stupid.  Most especially, me.  Me.  Who had pushed me aside.  And in the pushing, had perhaps pushed the mother of three boys aside.  The wife of one man aside. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Two days before, I had felt that little knot.  A little bitty bump.  I had been waiting for this.  Preparing for this.  I had thought a lot about a day like this.  I had read articles and books on this.  I'd listed all of the family history:  maternal great grandmother, maternal grandmother, paternal grandmother, mother.  But not me, not yet.  I'd even seen the genetics counselor and the fancy schmancy breast surgeon at the state of the art breast imaging center all the way downtown in DC because yes, there is a history.  But, I was a responsible, educated woman and I would keep on top of this.  I had warned friends.  Don't miss a mammogram.  Don't miss a physical.  Don't miss the self-exam.  And I didn't. 

Until I did. Until I forgot or just kept pushing it farther down the calendar because you know, it's all been just fine and there are kids' appointments and baseball practice and school assignments and all. When I felt the little, bitty knot, I realized.  I was six months late on the mammogram.  Three months late on the physical.  Stupid.

It was 5 days before Christmas.  I called the doctor and talked to the nurse. 

Probably fine, she said, we can probably wait until after the holidays.  Let me just check your chart. 

Well, I know what happens when they check my chart.  Even though I have been perfectly healthy, she'll see the history.  If I'm looking directly at the nurse, there is an eyebrow raise.  I pictured the eyebrow on the nurse on the other end of the phone.  Wait for it . . .

Um . . . ok, it is probably fine.  I can fit you in in 30 minutes though. Can you come in now?

The doctor checked me and wasn't worried, but said I should go get a mammogram so that I wouldn't be doing the superfreak over the holidays.

So there I sat in my stupid blue gown after the mammogram, four days before Christmas.  In-laws on the way into town.  Presents to wrap.  2nd grade party to attend.  Dinner party that night.  The nurse had told me to just sit there and she would show the films to the doctor and she would probably come tell me to get dressed.  She was just so very, very nice.

She came back and said not to get dressed quite yet, we needed to do the mammogram again.  So they did it again.  Didn't hurt the first time.  This time:  Oh.my.word.  Then, she told me to sit and she'd show the new films to the doctor and then I could probably get dressed and go.  She was just so very, very nice. 

My phone chimed with a text from a friend.  It was the day of her son's surprise birthday party.  It was messy and cold and rainy out and we texted back and forth about whether or not the boys would mind playing outside.   The conclusion was no need for indoor activities. Boys + Cold + Mud + Football = Perfect Party.    I couldn't tell her where I was.  Planning a birthday party today?  Cancer survivor herself?  No, not her.

My phone chimed with a text from my mom.  She was listening to a Christmas CD I had sent and cooking up a feast for my cousins and their families for a Christmas celebration that night. I couldn't tell her where I was. Planning a Christmas party today?  Cancer survivor herself?  No, not her.

My phone chimed and it was my husband.  He texted me that he was just on his way to work, unless I needed him.  I had thought about not telling him where I was, but I had told him before I left.  No big deal, regular stuff.  I texted back that I was fine. She was just about to come back and probably tell me to get dressed and go home any minute. 

Except that she didn't.  She came back and said not to get dressed yet.  They just needed to do an ultrasound.   She was just so very, very nice.

My husband called right as they were calling me back again.  I told him it was fine.  Just an ultrasound next.  We were all about ultrasounds.  It's just that this one was not the look at that little baby type of ultrasound.  I told him that it was just fine and my voice didn't crack until I told him that it was just that I wished the nurse would stop being so very, very nice.  Still, as always, my unflappable, calm husband didn't say he was scared.  Didn't tell me not to worry.  All he said was,

You know what?  I just remembered I need to come over there because I have a couple of jokes to tell you.

And I could hear that car making a u-turn.

My husband sat in the chair beside me while they did the ultrasound and I tried to imagine that this ultrasound would be like all those other happy ones.  Ones where we saw a baby's strong heart beat and where we dutifully looked away when they told us to, so that we wouldn't know if that strong heartbeat belonged to a boy or a girl.

I still wasn't able to get dressed and go home though.  They sent for another doctor to come look at the ultrasound.  And I prayed the prayer that I see everyday as I walk down the hall in my house.

And I realized that I wasn't stupid.  I realized that I wasn't in control.  I realized that even if I had not missed the mammogram, there might be something there.  I realized that my guilt and my shame were misplaced here.  I realized that if that little bitty bump was what I feared it would be, that it wouldn't mean that I was stupid or lazy or too busy.  I realized the only thing that mattered in that moment was that I should trust that He knew what the outcome would be and that the He with the big H would be with me, just as sure as the fact that the he with the small h was there with me trying to come up with another dumb joke.

Do not be afraid.  Do not be afraid.  I am with you in the waiting room with that stupid blue gown.  I am with you in the mammogram room.  I am with you in the Ultrasound room.  I will be with you wherever you go.

That day everything checked out fine.  They were just being thorough (and so very, very nice.)  Last week, I saw the fancy schmancy breast surgeon and he said everything looked fine to him, too.  I made the appointment to come back again in a year even though it is all the way downtown.  I walked out of that DC office so full of gratitude and peace that I had tears streaming down my face when I paid the parking attendant.  And it was not only because I was fine this time.  Because next time it might not be.  I fully expect to walk out of that office some day with the news that it is not just fine.  And then, it might not be fine, but it will be well.  It will always, always be well.  Because He will be there today, tomorrow and next year.  Wherever I go.

Send up a prayer today, people.  A prayer of gratitude, a prayer of hope, a prayer of knowing that He will never, ever let us go no matter what.  And . . . go get your mammogram, okay?

Should I Fall Behind, Will You Wait for Me?

Post Valentine's Day sappiness has my mind swirling and my fingers itching to write truth.  This condition has brought me to the free WiFi at Panera with an urgent need to keep it real here at The View Behind Home Plate and then to offer you a song from The Boss.  Huh?

Stay with me.

I go back and forth on Valentine's Day.  I think it's a beautiful thing that somebody just made up a day to celebrate love and relationships.  I also think it's a really annoying and manipulative thing.  Looking at Facebook and Instagram I noticed not only my own declaration of love for my Valentine, but lots of other professions of love, photos of flowers and candy and lots of red and pink and gushing.  It kind of makes me swoon and gag all at the same time.

Looking back over my posts in the last few weeks, perhaps all that Valentineness got to me because I noticed that I featured some glowing love and admiration about my marriage and my man.  About how I'm so lucky he puts up with me.  About his patience and his humor and all that good stuff.  And I'm not lying.  All the things I say about him and us are true . . .most days.  I do think we have a good marriage.  For example, when we saw Lincoln a few weeks ago when I was whispering questions to him to clarify all the gaps in my Civil War knowledge, he would whisper back all the answers.  And though he didn't technically ask me, I was able to whisper to him that the guy playing the Vice President of the Confederacy was the same guy who played Kelly in Bad New Bears.  Teamwork at its finest.

I'm not painting a fictional picture.  But perhaps I'm painting only part of the picture.  Maybe I'm painting the bright colors and not the muted, background colors.  In this blog, I can pick and choose what I want to share, but I have a responsibility to my family to be careful.  I can throw myself under the bus all day long, but I don't have that right with my people.

Still, truth and purpose have become very important here.  I have seen too many people twist truth with a manipulative and deceitful purpose in mind or even just in the name of denial.  One of the purposes of this blog is for my children to understand something significant and truthful of our life, about the lives of their parents, about the life we all five share as we grow up together.  I don't want them to go into marriage thinking that it's all laughter and light and Bon Jovi concerts. 

It has also come to my attention that this blog has found some purpose in letting some women (and a handful of men) know that we're all more alike than we are different.  If you can't take something relatable from this blog as a mother, as a woman, as a spouse or simply as a human being walking along with all the other human beings on God's Earth, then what's the point?

So here's some truth:

A couple of weeks ago, my husband and I were asked to participate in a interview on relationships at church.  We were one of a number of married couples asked to share some thoughts on our beginnings and what we had learned along the way.  The idea was sort of like the final scenes of When Harry Met Sally and our interview was to be videotaped and shown to the congregation as part of a sermon series in the next couple of weeks.

I was honored and flattered and a little nervous that we were approached, but I thought we were a pretty solid couple and we could handle it.  Ahem.

The night before the interview a little bump in the bliss happened here.  The smoke alarm went off in the house.  It was a battery issue.  It was 3:30 am.  It was just a tad cranky in our home, sweet home.  Let's just say that we were not our best selves at 3:30 am listening to incessant beeping and looking for batteries.  There were words and hurt feelings and pouting and snappiness.  After the beeping stopped, I took my hurt feelings and my pouty self and stared at the ceiling telling myself that we just weren't up to this relationship interview.  Who did we think we were saying "yes" to that request?  We had no business sitting in front of that camera.  I was awake for two hours going back and forth. Should I cancel? Were we just going to be scowling at each other the whole time? Would I be able to come up with a single kind word or encouraging comment? If we did go through with it, did I have enough concealer to cover up the dark circles under my eyes and that zit that I could feel was about to make its film debut on my chin?  I was pretty sure that when we sat down in the church office and the camera starting rolling, we would look very similar to these two:

But, I took a deep breath and I prayed for God to give me rest and give me words.  And He did.  We did fine, I guess.  I'm not sure my words were funny or interesting, but they were true.  He said some nice things, too.  I'm not sure they won't just edit us right out of that videotape.  But we did sit closer together at the worship service afterwards.  And I did I decide that I didn't need to hold on to my hurt or my anger whether it was justified or not.  And yes, the 3:30 am incident was one incident.  But when two people are bound together for 18 years in one house with children, schedules, work and malfunctioning smoke alarms, one-time incidents can pile up.  Anger and resentment and hurt can fester and grow until we don't remember the simple, mundane occasion when they first took root.
 
Then I thought of THIS SONG: If I Should Fall Behind .  When I heard it the first time, about a year ago, it conjured images of couples walking through very tough, tragic circumstances.  Often when we consider the act of forgiveness we imagine huge indiscretions and mistakes.  When we admire couples who have stood the test of time, we applaud them for working through suffering and disappointment together. 

This is the thing - not for all of us, but for a lot of us.  We have been blessed to not have had terribly difficult circumstances befall our marriage.  We haven't faced abuse or betrayal.  We haven't suffered the trials that accompany employment loss or illness.  We haven't ever discussed separation or even spent more than a day or so being angry.  But we do - the both of us - fall behind.  We can disappoint each other.  We can dismiss each other's feelings.  We can be too quick to anger and too slow to grace.  We can be impatient and nagging and snappy.

Our marriage is good, but it is not perfect. I think it's like a lot of marriages.  I don't know how to give advice on marriage, especially those that are suffering very serious challenges.  I just know that in my own relationship, I will fall behind.  And so will he.  I know that I will lose my way and so will he.  Perhaps we aren't suffering a huge blow to our marriage that causes us to fall so far behind that a common walkway seems miles away.  We might be suffering only those little mundane annoyances that cause us to take a few steps back here or there.

I think that what God wants us to do is to be aware that those little steps back can add up.  If one of our hands should slip away, if one of us should fall behind, He wants the other to wait.  And in the waiting, we must work really hard to find the grace and forgiveness that welcomes the other back in stride.  Somedays it is easier than others.  Somedays and for some couples it might get to the point that it becomes practically impossible. If we don't want to get to that point, perhaps we have to practice.  We drive our kids all over town to practice shooting baskets and running bases and swinging clubs and bats.  We have to practice in our relationships, too.  Practice doesn't make perfect, but maybe it will help one of us not fall too far behind the next time.  And maybe it will help the other not have to wait so long for our love to catch up, so that we can walk forward together again.


PS.  If you didn't listen to the link, HERE IT IS AGAIN.  When Steve and I were first dating I told him that I wasn't all that big of a Springsteen fan.  I think he almost pulled the car over and told me to get out.  I'm a fan of this song.  Big fan.  Huge.

PPS.  Oh, and I picked the one with Italian subtitles because I'm very worldly and sophisticated like that.  Unless, that's not Italian.  Then, I'm just a moron.  You can be the judge.

{this moment}: In Which Tommy & Gina Turn 40ish . . .

and in the blink of an eye, Tommy doesn't work on the docks anymore, they moved to the suburbs and have an SUV and three extra people holding on to what they got.  That livin' on a prayer idea worked out just fine.

{this moment}:  A Friday ritual.  A single photo of a moment from the week.  A simple, special, extraordinary moment.  A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. - Soulemama

{this moment}: Shout Out to My Main Man

{this moment}:  A Friday ritual.  A single photo of a moment from the week.  A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. - Soulemama

According to the boys, their dad has not appeared in a {this moment}.   I'm quite sure he was fine with that.  Today, though, he deserves a shout out especially because on Sunday night his legendary patience and tolerance will be tested as it always is when Bon Jovi rolls into town.  He will likely give me this look more than a few times while I scream and sing at the top of my lungs and jump up and down and yell at him, "LOOK!  There he is!  There he is!  Right there!" 

PS I will not let your secret out, but Richie Sambora has got nothin' on you.  You play a wicked air guitar, my man.

Happy Weekend, people!

Ski Trip Recap: Part One: It's not 1996 Anymore

Perhaps y'all might find it curious that I haven't written a Winter Lovin' post since I wrote a post about the things I love about Summer HERE and about Fall HERE.  Or perhaps you haven't given it a second thought because you don't occupy your days wondering what drivel I might write about on this here blog. Ahem.

The thing is that my feelings toward Winter lean heavily toward hate strong dislike.  But, I'm in the business now of counting gifts.  So when I see something like this,

I am going to clench my teeth and open my eyes wider.  I'm going to look hard because I am quite the big, fat, whiny-pants during the months of January to March/Aprilish around here. And being that I've been here for twenty years, it's pretty much time to cowboy up and find me some winter things to add to my list. Plus that 11 degrees was one week ago and today it's 60 degrees so at the moment, I'm feeling like winter ain't all that bad.

I've decided that a good place to start with Winter Lovin' is to re-cap our family snow ski adventure over the MLK holiday weekend to Wintergreen,Virginia because well, you know, it involves snow and winter.  Now, my Texas people:  maybe you aren't as dumb as I am or maybe you aren't as snobby as I am, but when I moved here I didn't realize people really snow skiied outside of Colorado, New Mexico and Utah.  And those of us who have only skiied "out west" as they call it in these parts, tend to be a little snooty-patootie about it.  And if you are me you just go all the way and imagine you are Picabo Street.

My husband lived "out west" for awhile and he can handle himself on skis, too, so the last time we went skiing, we did so with no small measure of confidence.  The problem is that the last time we skiied together was about 17 years ago.  We had been married for barely over a year and we went to Vail and Beaver Creek in Colorado.  We skiied the black slopes and took pictures of each other speeding down the mountain.  We were young and athletic and beautiful, despite my Rachel from Friends haircut. We thought we were pretty much it.  But, we weren't very smart apparently because all of those killer pictures of our sick moves on the mountain?  I have none because the film apparently was not accurately loaded in the camera.  Not one photo.  Darn you, 1996.

So when we strolled into Wintergreen last week, we found that besides the fact that we are seventeen years older now, there is another new phenomenon happening on the ski slopes of America.  All the cool kids snowboard these days.  And they are WAY cooler than we are.  The fact is that we weren't the hotshot young skiing couple anymore, we were just old-schoolers who were weighed down not only with a mess of children, but with two skis and ski poles, items which seem to soon be headed for life in a museum next to those tennis racket snowshoes.  Husband told me he knew exactly how he would handle this new fact.  His plan was that each time he passed a dude with a snowboard, he was just going to cock his head toward the guy and say the coolest thing he could think of, which he decided would be:

Word.

Which means that every time I passed a snowboarder whether he said anything or not, I laughed really hard. So hard that I might have snorted.

I don't think Picabo Street snorts when she laughs.

There is something else that happened.  I found my old ski pants in the back of my closet and threw them in my suitcase before we left.  The last time I wore my ski pants was 1996, but I was pretty sure that they would still fit.  The good news, I guess, is that they did still fit.  But you see, I forgot one important fact about 1996.  Y'all, let us think back to one of the mysteries of fashion in the 90s.  We wore the waistband of our pants a tad bit higher back then, as Kelly Taylor from 90210 demonstrates here.

 

 

If you don't get the gist, let me give you a closer look at what my ski pants looked like (minus the acid wash) :



It was not pretty.  I think my husband might have laughed so hard that he did the snort thing, too.  So, the moral of the story is that it doesn't matter if you can fit into the pants you wore in 1996.  Don't get all high and mighty and proud of yourself. Trust me. You don't want to do it.

Anyway, I did find my way to the ski lodge shop and bought myself some new ski pants with a waistband which hit me somewhere below my rib cage.  The difference in 2013 was that the guy in the ski shop had to read the size written on  the tag for me because I neglected to bring my reading glasses to the slopes with me. *sigh* 

Things started looking up when I ordered an adult beverage later that day and the 17 year oldish girl behind the counter asked for my ID.  Maybe it really was still 1996?! I almost hugged her, but told her that I left my ID with my reading glasses in the car.  So, she called her manager over to see if she should serve me anyway.

The manager looked at me, looked at her and I promise you . . . she snorted.

I left with one adult beverage and  the recognition that it is 2013. I did not spend my time on the black diamonds, but stuck to the greens with my kids who are learning how to shred on snowboards, not on skis.  We had a blast and in a future post, I'll share a gazillion cute pictures of my kiddos because I'm obnoxious like that.  But for today just this photo.  I like you, 2013, and I've definitely got something to add to my list of a thousand gifts that involves winter.  I'm totally stoked that seventeen years later, I still get to jump on that ski lift and ride high above the slopes, swinging my skis back and forth next to the coolest dude on the mountain.

Word.

Eighteen

Eighteen years ago, we had quite a party.  It was a fun start to a fun life. Thanks for asking me.  I'm glad I said yes.  It's working out pretty well, don't ya think, my best buddy? 

 

I love you more today than yesterday and less today than I will tomorrow. 

 

Happy Anniversary, Mr. Skinner.

Big, Fat Losers

This is what went down while I was mixing up the homemade whole wheat flaxseed infused waffles toasting up the Eggos this morning.   There was an argument among two boys about SportsCenter.  Shocking.  I know.  The dilemma was surrounding the immensely crucial matter of who actually dunked the basketball in that clip from the Celtics game.  One says Rondo, one says Joseph.  Back and forth, back and forth.  With my head-splitting and ears-burning, I gripped the counter and stared at those waffles willing myself not to scream something like the following:

"Hey, maniacs.  ONE of you is WRONG.  ONE of you is going to feel really embarrassed when you realize that you were arguing like this was the most important matter under heaven and you were WRONG.  ONE of you is always wrong.  Sometimes it's the big one and sometimes it's the smaller one.  Over time, I'm pretty sure that there has been an equal amount of wrongness between the both of you.  I also would like to point out that you are both equally ANNOYING.  So, you might want to cut your losses right now and ZIP IT!" 

I didn't say anything though because for some reason I had iron will and self-control this morning. Or maybe I was just too tired from staying up and watching Parenthood and crying about how Kristina's mom won't come to be with her for her chemo treatment and stressing out about the really bad relationship choices that both of Sarah's kids are making.  The apple doesn't fall far apparently.  Keep your clothes on, people.  Anyway . . .

Suddenly, one of my geniuses realized that it is 2012 and there is a little maneuver that is called REWIND IT.  And guess what?  Suddenly, there was silence except for one barely audible, "oh" and then another barely audible, "oh".  The guy who dunked the basketball was a 3rd party . . . some guy named Jeff Something.  And then there was a moment of pure joy for mom . . . that moment when your pompous little jokers realize that they are BOTH BIG, FAT LOSERS!  HA! and I didn't have to say a word.

Only slightly better than my happy dance, was that was that there was no more arguing and somewhere I think they might have learned a lesson.  Maybe, not one that will stick, but still.  They both started laughing.  I fully expected the guy who said "Joseph" to start a second argument saying that he was more right and/or less wrong than his brother due to the alphabet and all.  It didn't happen.  They went off to the bus together, two big ol' losers, walking side by side, in all their loser glory. 

And that little moment of tranquility and love in the Skinner home reminded me of this genius article I read a few months ago called "Marriage is for Losers".

The writer states: 

"If marriage is going to work, it needs to become a contest to see which spouse is going to lose the most and it needs to be a race that goes down to the wire."

He points out that this concept is wholly counter-culture.  It's actually a bit anti-American and, don't get me wrong, I DO love me some America.  But within our homes and within the space between two people perhaps there is a great deal more to gain when we let ourselves be open to lose.  It's completely radical and sounds crazy coming from a gal who will just as soon pull the plug on the TV as let someone beat her at Jeopardy.  It's also perfectly genius and imperative to the health of pretty much any relationship, but most definitely a marriage relationship.  Read it HERE and then send it to your spouse.  Then let's join my two oldest sons and go out today and be the best big, fat losers that there ever were.