Good times around the table.

Sometimes it was fancy.
Mostly, I remember it being "good".
And to a little girl, that simply means I recall the experience as pleasant and secure; my whole family, -mom, dad, and us four kids, gathered around our metal early 70's table with its vinyl-covered chairs, for the family dinner.

Fish sticks.
Hot dogs.
Fried potatoes.
Chicken legs.
Homemade soups.
Cabbage and noodles.

The meals had to feed six mouths on a single income and I must say, my parents did it well.
Well and young (there were four of us kids by the time my mom was 23).

It was a different time back then.
A beautiful, wonderfully different time.
How I lament that my children cannot enjoy the same freedoms and care-free summer days that I was able to. If you've ever seen the show, "The Wonder Years," you will have received a somewhat realistic glimpse into my childhood. So much of what I loved about it is just not possible for my kids today, due in part to a world with less defined boundaries, greater criminal activity, and waaaay less children being made to play outdoors in fresh air and sunshine. Sigh.

But thankfully for my family and I, one thing has not changed.
The family dinner is still a time of gathering us together, a time which I hope my children will someday recall, much like I do, as pleasant and secure.
It's our time of connecting, debating, sharing, laughing and praying. And it's those last two, laughing and praying, that I would like to illuminate for just a moment.

Yesterday, as we all gathered around the family dinner for prayer, my youngest son (age 4) began.
"Dear Lord, thank you for this beautiful day and for our food that mommy made.
And thank you for my man purse."
(enter raised eyebrows from mom and dad before the smack of clasped hands over gaping mouths could be heard, as we both tried, and failed, to hold back the laughter that had begun to rise from within.)

But it wasn't over just yet...
Our older son, age 9, piled on.
"And dear Lord, thank you for my food too, and please don't let there be any staples in it."
That did it.

"BAAHAHAHAHA!" :D

The whole family broke out in a fit of laughter, right in the middle of prayer time. And I have to believe that God, too, was laughing. You see, it's true. We have been finding staples in the food this past week or so. To be more specific, *I* have been finding staples in my food.
Why?, you ask?
Well, let's just say that I've been known to come up with a half-baked idea on occasion. Apparently, this past week was just such an occasion, where it occurred to me that in the absence of a bag-sealing clamp, I could simply fold and staple freezer bags before placing frozen items back in the freezer. So, I stapled my frozen fruit bag and a corn bag as well.

Brilliant, yes? ;)

"NoooOOOo."

And right you are. It's a definite no. Because when I carefully re-opened those stapled bags (and I was careful, honest to goodness), apparently those little metal guys torpedoed into the food and hid out until I found them during my meals (hey, at least it was only me who paid the price for my poor choice).

And did the kids take notice?
Clearly, that would be an affirmative yes, as evidenced by my older son's staple prayer (to be known as just that, THE STAPLE PRAYER, from this day forward).

Can't you just hear him as he and his own family gather for the family dinner someday (and oh, how I pray that they too will have that wonderful privilege).
"Kids, did I ever tell you about the week where your grandmother kept discovering staples in her food? Yeah, she did. I don't recall the details exactly, but I could almost swear it had something to do with a man purse."
THE END!

Live wise in Him!

~Toni~

Charlie Brown christmas tree

"Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown."
It's a good thing that show is so very endearing to me because I am officially the recipient of my very own Charlie Brown tree.
Complete with needles that fall off every time you touch a branch.
That would be LOTS of falling needles.
And 40 fingers touching them no matter how many times we explain it. "Now, now. If you continue to touch those limbs, we're going to opening gifts on Christmas day beneath the Christmas stump, not the Christmas tree because there simply won't be any tree left to speak of."
Seriously, it's that bad.

Our December schedule looks like a football team's play book right now. There are scribbles and scratch-outs, lines and arched arrows all OVER the page. Add eraser marks, pencil ins, and lots and lots of sloppy handwriting (including mystery abbreviations) and, well, welcome to December at our house. Please, do grab yer self a wassail but then step out of the way before someone plows you over on their way out the door in a mad rush.

IT'S NOT SUPPOSED TO BE LIKE THIS! (I know this, btw. I'm just yelling it to my own self in case I haven't heard me say it one of the 23 other times I've yelled it.)

Tree hunting was done on Monday the 6th. Couldn't be rescheduled for any reason except a rainy downpour. And it didn't rain. But it was 19º (all together now, "Brrrrr!")

We arrived at our favorite tree farm ready to make a quick weather-spurred decision, then planned to hurry into the Christmas cabin where the kids always look forward to choosing a candy cane from the decorated tree, and delight in sharing cups of hot cocoa.
Always in the past,that is.
Not this time, uh hem.

This time, we were pointed in the direction of the white spruce trees. Turned out there were only two (count 'em) acceptable possibilities and I use that "acceptable" word ever so lightly. Thing is, it was waaaaay too cold to get picky. Then again, "Honey, let's walk back to that corner where we usually find our tree."

"Whaa??? You want us to walk all the way back into the next field? But,....it's f-a-r-r-r," groaned my hubby, teeth chattering.

Why yes it was far.
I'm not heartless. I do listen to reason.
You don't think I'd make my kids take a 10 minute walk in the frigid 19º temps just to find the "perfect" tree, do you? Goodness, no.
Why, I let the youngest ride on the tree cart. ;)

After a very long and cold stomp through the evergreens in the next field, I concluded that, "Yep, you were right. Should have went with one of the two beauties we saw up front."
Hubby's eye began to twitch just a little. I'm sure it was just the cold, not like I was plucking on his last nerve at that point or anything.
"Oooo...kaaaay. Let's all hike back to the front and decide on one of those trees," I announced.
(insert exaggerated sighs and the sound of angry boots a stomping.)

We cut down our "beauty" and headed for the processing area to have the loose needled shaken off and the branches wrapped in twine. While the young man loaded our tree into the back of hubby's pick-up, we took the kids into the cabin for their treats.

"Nope, don't have any hot cocoa. I only make that on the weekends."
Me, surprised, "Oh. So,...you don't have any cocoa then today?"
The cabin attendant, gathering I didn't get it the first time, replied.
"That's right. No cocoa. What with today being Monday and all, and me only serving cocoa on the weekends."
The kids frowned.
I might have growled.
I definitely blushed (not that you could see it from behind my wind-whipped cheeks).
The kids quickly chose a candy cane (no doubt fearing they needed to move quickly before it was decided they were only available on the weekends as well).

And since our December schedule is so full, we not only had to get our tree on the 6th, but it also had to go up that day as well. By the time we got around to stringing lights, it was 7:30pm. Now, this is usually a major project in our house. Uh, nope, not this year. I didn't string those lights on, so much as I lassoed a tree because within 10 minutes, they were ALL on (however they landed). As the kids began to put ornaments on the tree, I began to hear the undesired "ping ping" of needles dropping. Lots and LOTS of needles dropping.

"Oh for crying out loud. This tree is dead."
We've never had a dead tree for Christmas.
Well sure, all live trees are technically dead once you cut them down.
But I'm talking Smokey the Bear assigning a fire hazard rating to our Tannenbaum.

Deader than dead, dead.

There was a significant drought here in central Indiana this year. I think this tree was on the long end of a short root because clearly, it's hurting.

And the worst part of all? When they twined it, a very large bough snapped at the bottom of the tree (which has never happened). We wanted to remove another bough to compensate before placing it in the tree stand, but that would have left us with a very lopsided tree. So we opted to just get it into the stand "as is" and deal with its flaws. Only,...

Since we didn't remove the additional bough, the trunk wouldn't slide into the tree stand properly. Instead, the large, low bough pushed the tree into a bit of a recline. The result? Not an equilateral triangle, I assure you (which, btw, is the desired shape of a good Christmas tree). No, ours would be more like a right angled triangle, not so attractive if you know what I mean. And just in case you don't know what I mean, take a little look-see, would ya? Trust me, the photo doesn't do it justice.



Isn't she a beauty? Don't feel bad. I don't think so either.
Good thing this season isn't all about the tree. God came near and Jesus is Emmanuel, God with us and we celebrate His birth together with all believers everywhere. Now that is reason to rejoice.
Have a blessed Christmas filled with love, laughter, and the peace that passes all understanding.

Live wise in Him!

~Toni~

DEFLATED

When I was 12 or 13 years old, my sister and I decided that we weren't willing to wait any longer to get noticed. The "associated press" images in the newspaper always intrigued us. We wondered aloud together, "Aw, look at that dog cooling himself down in a kiddie pool in Iowa." Or, "Those kids are having a blast playing jump rope in Atlanta." We couldn't figure out how one gets to enjoy the notoriety of "associated press" image status, and since we knew nothing of the interworkings of a newspaper, we came up with our own plan to get noticed ourselves.

"You call the Chronicle Telegram and tell them there's a kid out walking a rabbit on a leash."
"I don't want to call. You call."
"I can't call. I'll be walking the rabbit."
"Oh. Okay. Heeeeey, wait a minue. Why can't *I* walk the rabbit?"
"Because it's my rabbit, silly. And besides, they'll listen to you better because you're younger and it'll sound cute to them."
"Oh, yeah. That's true. But,...why should I do all the work if you're the one who'll get to be in the paper?"
(Got me there.)
"I'll tell you what. You just call, and then you can join me on my rabbit walk and we'll both get in the paper."

Smiles.
Deal.

And our little plan worked like a charm. We went outside in the chilly rainy weather (yes, we planned this gig on a rainy day) and proceeded to walk my French Lop rabbit on a leash down the sidewalk. Not 15 minutes later, along came the photographer and snap- snap, he took a few shots of us, got our names, and was on his way again. Ah, so proud.

Imagine our sheer delight when our photo ran on the front page of section B a day or two later.

Now imagine our major let down when, on the front page of section A, we saw the neighbor kid from across the street, huge photo I might add, smiling away. Apparently, after the photographer snapped a shot of us, he also got a shot of her playing outside in the rain. How convenient for her that we made the phone call that got HER on "the cover" (hmmmf!) All that plotting and planning and don'tch know it, we were living life on the "B" list in the shadow of the neighbor kid. Clearly, pride does come before a fall.

Romans 12:3 For by the grace given me I say to every one of you: Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought, but rather think of yourself with sober judgment, in accordance with the faith God has distributed to each of you.

Live wise in Him!

~Toni~

Let's laugh with Tim Hawkins

If you're not familiar with Tim Hawkins, he is a Christian comedian and homeschool dad who was homeschooled himself. He is also, imho, hilarious! Enjoy.

Live wise in Him!

~Toni~

The Patch

Cool alert!
My parents came to town for a visit last week and we took them to the coolest pumpkin patch EVER. Seriously, if I could hand out a cool award (as if my vote meant a dang thing) why, I'd walk right past Beth Moore (who is truly soooo cool) and I would crown the owners of the Proverbial Pumpkin Patch as the coolest. Heck, I'd give 'em sashes too. And that's BIG folks, because really, who passes up Beth Moore? ;)

So why the award for the pumpkin patch people?
Check this out.
They place laminated leaf-shaped tags on every. single. pumpkin.
In the entire patch.

And do you know what was on those leaf tags?
A verse from the book of Proverbs.
On every single last pumpkin.
Of course, they get bonus points in my book for being a homeschooling family who is teaching their children all about running a family business as well. In addition to the pumpkins, they're selling homemade potpourri and baked goods too, taking pie orders for Thanksgiving.

This was our first time to this patch. It was a good 20 miles from us, but sooo worth the drive since I absolutely love being in the country and they were definitely out in the middle of nowhere (or so it seemed).

We had seen their sign from the main road, "U-pick, 5 miles south." Okay, 5 miles is a bit of a hike off the main road, but it was a beautiful, balmy fall day filled with lots of sunshine so we thought, "Why not?"

The first time we got lost was when the more traveled country road made a 90º turn to the left and we either had to stay on it or take the less traveled gravel road that continued straight. We decided to knock on a door and ask.
"Naw, I don't think the family down that stone road planted this year, so you'll want to head that'a way. Patch is 3 miles on up."

Now, my parents were following us in their car, which just so happens to have a good paint job (deduce what you will about my van's paint job based on that comment). And after 3 miles had long come and gone, there was still no sign of a pumpkin patch. We again stopped and asked a man on his riding lawn mower (stop #2).
"Aw, yeah. Just cross over the ce-ment ("SEE-ment") bridge, then second stone road on your right."
Okay, will do.
My parents followed behind us, good paint job now on the stone road.
Swell.

That road twisted and turned and switchbacked us all over the place, then ran along a good couple hundred acres of corn. Still, NO pumpkins.
Through the rearview mirror, we saw my dad stop and ask a farmer in a combine if he knew where the "U-pick" pumpkin patch was.
His reply?
"Uh,....nope." (stop #3)

Alrighty then.

On we drove, until I saw a farmer talking with a neighbor. We had all but given up, but I figured we'd been driving around in circles for the better part of an hour, so what could it hurt? One more inquiry (stop#4).
"Sir, can I ask you...."
"Ma'm, are you a pie maker?"
"Whaa? A pie...me,..make,...no. Noooo, I'm not a piemaker...Why???"
"Well see, now that's a pity because I got more squash out back than I could possibly eat. I mean, I eat squash and we love it too. Squash pie, roasted squash, squash soup, and........you don't make pies? Too bad. I was gonna give you some of that squash."
"Well now, wait a minute. My mom makes pies and she's right behind me. And,...we do eat lots of veggies and I could make other things with squash."

Weeell, he gave my mom and I at least 10 butternut squash each, in addition to the biggest squash I've ever seen, the cushaw squash. Oh my! It's a good 2 feet in length and as round as a socker ball in circumference.


Told us he planted 3 plants last year and got just 4 squash off them, then planted 4 plants this year and got 77. Ha!
We promptly thanked him for our bounty gift and were on our way again, with yet another set of directions.
"Cross over two ce-ment ("SEE-ment") bridges, then take the second stone road to your left."

Sheesh, those country folk were fond of their ce-ment bridges and stone roads.

Well, gourd-man was a dang genius, I tell you, because there it was. After many miles on gravel and a good four stops for instructions (not to mention trunks full-o-squash), we finally found the Proverbial Pumpkin Patch.

Our kids carved their pumpkins this evening as we told them how being a Christian is a bit like carving a pumpkin.

"God picks you from the patch,
brings you in, and washes all the dirt off of you.
Then he cuts off the top and scoops out all the "yucky stuff", sin.
He removes the seeds of doubt, hate, greed, etc.,
and then He carves you a new smiling face
and puts His light inside of you to shine for all the world to see."

Matthew 5:15
"You are the light of the world. A city on a hill cannot be hidden."

Live wise in Him!

~Toni~

If the shoe fits...

"Aw, c'mon, Sir. The friendship seat's not that bad."
"Friendship seat? Why would you call the middle seat a friendship seat?"
Becauuuse. You have 3 hours and two strangers on either side of you. By the time you get to your destination, you might just have two new friends."

And so Hubby's day began. If you've seen the reality show AIRLINE, then you've gotten a pretty good glimpse into his work days. Always something. And his hard sell on the "friendship" seat should have been a clue that perhaps it was going to be one of...those days.

As he worked the crazy pace of the ticket counter (less help, more work these days), he couldn't help but notice the bits and pieces of what appeared to be packing material of some sort, scattered here and there, all over the floor behind the counter.



"Cleaning crew's gonna have a good time with that," he facetiously thought.
Weird thing was, it seemed there was more and more of the mysterious packing material on the floor as the morning passed.
Or was he just imagining that.

Later into his shift, a friend and co-worker inquired, "Why are you walking like an old man?" He gave some passive response and continued to shuffle through his day. And here is where I must take you back, so like me, you can choke on your bagel as you laugh and laugh. :D

See, way back in 2004, we were living on 3½ acres in northern Ohio. My husband was working at Hopkins International and life was routine. That is, until the day we got the call that changed our lives. My husband's airline was pulling out of Cleveland. Just like that, we had to put our dream home on the market and prepare to move away from family and our hometown.

My husband first went to Chicago and commuted home to see us on weekends until he could transfer out of there. Finally, he got a position in Indianapolis in the summer of 2005 and we were all reunited here in November 2005. We had spent a total of 14 months apart.

During his time in Chicago, I was soley responsible for packing our belongings, getting our house show-ready for open houses (with a then 5 year old, 3 year old and 2 year old under foot), and eventually making arrangements for our move to Indy. I packed a little at a time, labeling and moving each box to the basement until our move.

We rented an apartment when we arrived in Indy, to give us time to learn the area and find the right place to live. In June 2006, we were finally in our new home. And that's when I unpacked all the boxes that had been sealed up as far back as July of 2004.

All except one.

One box had been overlooked by me when I placed it in a crawl space with holiday decorations, under our stairs. I found that box the other day and began to sort through its contents. Most were trinkets from a curio cabinet back in the old house. But a few personal items were also in there. A few ball hats, purses, and, "Oh, look. Honey, remember these shoes? They're not heavily worn. In fact, they look pretty darn good for being in storage the past 5 or 6 years. Try them on."

He did, and they fit perfectly.
"Wear them tomorrow. For old time's sake. After all, they're classic and in good condition."
"Why not!", Hubby responded.
And wear them he did.

Um,...ut uh!
Not such a good idea after all.
Because as it turns out, wearing shoes that have been in storage for 5 or 6 years, no matter what the appearance, is apparently a bad idea.

A
really
really
really
bad
idea.

Remember that packing material my Hubby saw all over the ticket counter floor?

Uh huh, well.

It was actually the soles of his shoes, literally breaking up and falling off bit by precious little bit. Over the course of his work day, bigger and bigger pieces (let's call them hunks) began to fall off.
Work a little, drop me some sole. Work a little, drop me some sole.

At one point, he was walking from the gate to the counter and he punted something. That's right. His toe actually kicked something into the air.
It turned out to be a large section of the shoe sole near his toe and he actually sent it flying.

I. kid. you. not.
(we interrupt this story to allow for a quick potty break, because if you're laughing as hard as me right now, then I know you have to go.)

All day long, his shoes were falling apart underneath him and he was powerless to stop it. You know, I haven't met an airline customer service agent yet who hasn't given the stapler a smack or two to hold a loose hem in place until needle and thread could ply the fabric. But no stapler was going to fix this mess. No tape either (agents use that for dog hair removal from their uniforms, lol.) No, this one was a disaster of the first magnitude.

So there my poor Hubby was, shuffling along, all day long, just like a little old man to keep what remained of his soles intact.
Don't believe me?
Alrighty then, see for yourself (and notice the big toe section that is gone from the right shoe).



So the moral of the story is, the next time you have a bad day, I would encourage you to think about the day my husband's shoes fell apart. Then stand on your own two feet in confidence and see your glass as half full. Because it truly is. Thee end!
(btw, I most certainly did get my husband's permission to tell this story. His sense of humor is every bit as warped as mine so, after we laughed ourselves silly over it, he agreed that I can tell it "to the world." ;)

Live wise in Him!

~Toni~

Live wise in Him!

~Toni~

The stuff botched plans are made of.

Family vacations.
The stuff that botched plans are made of! ;)
Be ready for the unexpected, even for a change in plans if need be.

Let's backtrack so I can tell you how this Disney vacation came to be.
Sometime late last winter, perhaps January or so, I came across some info on the web about Disney giving out free park entry tickets in exchange for community service. Curious, I checked into it further and discovered that one of the options in my area was to remove invasive weeds (Garlic mustard, to be specific) from a prehistoric woods less than 5 minutes from our home. "Hmmm?"

Dh agreed it would be a great way to help our community and help our single income family enjoy our next vacation as well. Win, win.
So I signed us up for the first weekend in May.
It rained the night before and it was gray, chilly, and overcast the day of.
But it wasn't cancelled and we found ourselves wandering amid the mud and thick forest floor of weeds in search of the dreaded garlic mustard.
Three hours and 5 dirty family members later (Brandon was too young), we were on the official "free tickets" roster. Woohoo!

After many months of anticipation, our big travel day finally arrived. We had to awaken the children at just after 4am (ugh!), but they're seasoned stand-by travelers at this point so they know the routine.

• Get up immediately.


• Get dressed, brush teeth and hair.


• Keep your crabbies in check.

A humongous black pullman suitcase, standard carry-on green pullman, requisite "Going to Grandma's" pink suitcase (even when not going to Grandma's), green toiletries carry-on, 6 carry-on jackets, carseat, booster seat, a purse, 2 bags of flight snacks, 4 children, 2 adults (and a partridge in a pair tree). Finally in the van, we were on our way.

We boarded the shuttle bus from the employee parking lot and that's when the "incidents" began. We all sat down on the available bus seats (after storing the ridiculous load mentioned above). The children sat on a 3 seat space, making room for the last child to try to sit down, who happened to be Reece. Okay, some of you newer readers don't know much about my Reece yet, but let me just say, he's the child blog entries are born of (the surface is merely scratched HERE.) ;)

"Heeey! Where am I supposed to sit?"
"Honey, they're making room for you. Sit down."
"But,...there isn't any room."
"Yes, they're making room. Sit down, please."
(Panic setting in) "But that's only a three seater and there's FOUR kids."
"It's fine, honey. Please sit down."
Overwhelmed and frustrated with Mom's clear lack of clue, Reece burst out into tears, plopped himself down on the floor right in the middle of the bus aisle, and pleaded tearfully, "I don't waaaant to sit on the floor."

Gulp!

Suffice it to say I dealt with the "incident", adding him to the other children on the seats and we were ready to move forward. The next bump came during boarding. We had our tickets scanned and were just through the boarding door, a family of six, bleary-eyed children staggering to and fro while dh and I struggled to keep them out of the way of other boarding passengers. I casually said, "Everyone's got their jackets, yes?"

"NO!"
Times two.
Sigh.

Now dh was a salmon, swimming upstream against the steady flow of passengers to retrieve our A.W.O.L jackets, which he believed had been left at security (gulp again!) Thankfully, they were abandoned in the boarding area so he quickly grabbed them and rejoined our somewhat disjointed party.

We arrived in Chicago with a two hour lay-over, plenty of time to use restrooms, grab a coffee, and to perhaps read a chapter of An Echo in the Darkness (book 2 of Francine River's Mark of the Lion series, which I cannot recommend enough. The historical setting of scripture will vividly come alive to you as Francine astounds you with the richness and depth of the characters she has written.) The dream was nice while it lasted.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I have some news and it's not good news."
The aircraft's reverse thruster valve was not working. In any other airport, it wouldn't have been a deal breaker, but for John Wayne aiport (unique runway and noise reduction dynamics), it was a no-go item.
Praise God, though.
Another aircraft was being traded out.
No cancelled flight.
Just an additional 3 hour wait.
Yes, 2 hours (original layover) plus 3 hours (delay) equals a FIVE hour layover.
"Bet I'll get that chapter in now." ;)
Thankfully, dh tracked down the employee lounge, which was very large and spacious. We found a quiet area to sit down and read while the children played puzzles and read books that were provided.

Five hours and an expensive airport purchase of two bananas later, we were on our way again.
I sat with our two youngest, dh with our two oldest.
Cierah, our third child who (how to say this nicely?) is a bit absent-minded happy-go-lucky, needed to use the restroom during flight.
Being on an aisle seat, she hopped out and headed to the back of the aircraft.

I instantly knew it wouldn't go well as dh and I, on a previous trip, found even ourselves confused by the newer bathroom doors being installed on some aircraft. They are folding doors as opposed to hinged doors, and we've made complete fools of ourselves seen so many people struggle to figure the doors out. So sadly, I knew Cierah wouldn't succeed.
But then it got worse.
MUCH worse.

She didn't stop at the bathrooms, but rather staggered into the rear galley.
Oh no!
As fate would have it, no flight attendants were back there at thet time.
And, as fate would also have it, I was stuck in a seat belt in my center seat, my tray table down, with both my coffee and my 3 year old's apple juice can on my tray.
And Cierah's drink was left on her tray on the aisle seat next to me.

I looked back and saw Cierah happily staggering from the left side of the tail section to the right and back again.

And again.

And again!

Panic set in as I realized the only doors to attempt opening back there were the emergency exit doors.
"Folks, we've got ourselves an incident. Please place your mask over your own face before assisting your child."
How I feared what was going to happen next.

"HONEY! HELP!
I'm stuck.
She's staggering.
The emergency exit doors.
The bathroom.
It's Cierah, mind you.
GOOOOOOOO!"

A bit of drama? Okay, sure.
But it freaked me out none-the-less.
I'm happy to say that no evacuation slides were launched at 35,000 feet at the time of this blog writing.

As the kids munched on bags of dry cereal and fruit snacks, I figured it was time dh and I ate the bananas we had purchased in Chicago for the flight.
"Honey, let's peel those bananas now."

"Sure thing.

Or not.

You've got to be kidding me.

I forgot to grab them when we bought lunch for the kids in Chicago."

"Huh? Did you pay for them?"
"Yep. And they're still sitting on the counter where I paid."
Swell.

Nothing left to do but dream about a meal in Anaheim while I settled 3 year old Brandon in for some dreams of his own. And settle he did.
He slept the rest of the 3 hours, while I pretty much lost all circulation to my arms, thighs, and,....never mind. Suffice it to say I had phantom parts until the blood returned when he finally sat up in his seat again.

Safely on the ground in Orange County, we claimed bags and rental car without incident, then made our way to our hotel, where we quickly checked in and changed into shorts and tees for the wonderful California weather that awaited us.
A friend had given us a gift card for Fat Burger, which was so very generous of her. We purposed to use it for our first meal in CA. I quickly programmed Nellie the Scab and we were on our way.
Only,...
"We don't accept that here. You have to use it at corporate."
I felt bad because we had already placed an order for a family of 6.
We apologized, the counter clerk was gracious, and we made our way to "corporate", where the gift card was readily accepted.
Thanks so much, Holly. YUM!

Had to laugh, after our day of faux paus, when we saw a business sign that read, "MAINLY POTTERY, PLANTS AND THINGS. AND MOOSE MUSEUM."
Um,....okay.

So, Family vacations.
The stuff that botched plans are made of.
But you know, I really think God uses that time to teach us lessons about ourselves.
About being open to change and and new direction.
About being in the moment.
About seeing our glass as half full (because it truly is).
About treasuring our time with our loved ones because the change that we must learn to be open to, will come along in our families sooner than our hearts feel ready for.
Isn't it soothing to know that we are loved,treasured, and saved by faith in Jesus Christ who never changes, who is the same yesterday, today and forever.

Hebrews 13:8 Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever.

Live wise in Him!

~Toni~

SLUG BUG!

Do you play Slug bug?
Or maybe it's called Punch Buggy in your family.
In our neck of the woods, it's definitely Slug Bug.

It all started about three months ago, when we were driving down the road and I spotted a Volkswagon Beetle. I gave my husband the requisite punch on the arm and yelled, "Slug bug!"
Somewhere from the back rows of the van was heard , "Mom, why did you just punch Dad? And why did you yell that?"

So it was out there. My kids had no clue about the Slug Bug game and it was high time they learned. We covered the basics with them and from there, it was every man for himself.

"Ah, such a fun and simple game," you're thinking, right?
W. R. O. N. G.
It has become something...more.
A game of outwit, outplay, outSHOUT!

For instance, the other day, I found myself writing down the official rules.
Writing them down, folks.
That's serious, I tell you.

Standard Slug bug siting? 1 point.
Convertible Slug bug? 2 points.
Purple Slug bug? 3 points.
Convertible purple Slug bug? 5 points.
Clown car? 3 points.
Purple clown car? 5 points.

********(Clown car)********

And few other rules too:

• If a parked Slug Bug is called for points, no player may recall said Slug bug again in its parked location on the same day.


• If you call a Slug bug or clown car in error, you are docked the number of points you would have gained for the call.

We actually consult these rules.
"And the judges say..."
Sheesh!

We sometimes drive through a little town nearby called Danville. We've deemed this town, "Slug bug capital of the world" because we have spotted no less than 2 Slug bugs (and as many as 5) every time we pass through this town. What cracks me up is that we ALL know there's a yellow Slug bug parked outside a certain business there. As we come up the hillside approaching that business, 6 heads and 12 eyeballs strain to be the first to spot the yellow bug. Husband has an unfair advantage, as his driving position gives him a slightly earlier glimpse than the rest of us. And try though I do to use my head as an impeding device (leaning fully into the windshield to try to block his vision), he always manages to spot the Slug bug just a split second before the rest of us.

It's evolving too.
It now involves strategy.
We bring our game faces with us.
Like today. We were driving down the road when Cierah, our 7 year old, stated with excitement, "Okaaaay, let's spot us some Slug bugs."
Simultaneously, her dad and I enlightened her.

"Honey, you lost advantage."
"Huh???"
"You lost advantage."
"Oh," smiling, pausing, and then,"What does that mean?"
"It means you shouldn't tell anyone when you're looking for Slug bugs, because it reminds them to look too, which makes it harder for you to score."
"OooOoh! I get it now."

At the end of the evening, Hubby stopped at the grocery store and ran in to pick up a few items. As we made our way home, I caught a glimpse of him, eyes attempting to scan side to side without detection. My voice filled with fierce competitiveness (which I naturally tried to downplay as gentleness), as I uttered, "Uh, excuse me. For the record? You don't own the game because I'm looking too."
Dh laughed so hard at not only being busted, but also at the knowledge that we've all become die-hards in the game of Slug bug.

Still don't get that we're serious?
Then consider this.
My three year old was putting on his vinyl night pants over his underwear tonight, when his eyes widened with what appeared to be pure joy as he victoriously exclaimed, "SLUG BUG!"

Uh huh.

He was claming it.

1 point for the Slug bug on his vinyl pants. :D

Psalm 118:24 - "This is the day the LORD has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it."

Live wise in Him!

~Toni~

Ist es ein glockenspiel?

A few weeks ago, we attended our first local highschool football game. Hubby knew one of the teens playing the xylophone and he quickly pointed him out, telling me the kid was belting out a tune on the "glockenspiel."

Now, Hubs and I are constantly making one another laugh so I was sure he was just having fun with the name of the instrument, by deeming the xylophone a "glockenspiel." It did make me smile and that was that. At least until the next day, that is.

The next day while at work, Hubs was talking to a co-worker's boyfriend. Said boyfriend's teen daughter plays in the very band we had watched the night before, so Hubs chatted about the performance with her father.

When he got home, he was a bit,...well,...horrified? He began.
"Honey, did you know that the xylophone isn't really called a glockenspiel?"
"Huh? Whadda you mean?"
"I meeeean,...when I told you that Levi was banging on the 'glockenspiel' at the football game, did you know that it wasn't really a glockenspiel?"
Perplexed, I responded. "No. I thought you were just goofing around trying to make me laugh. Why?"

His look suddenly became a bit mortified as he continued.
"When I called it a glockenspiel, I was serious. That's what I thought it was. And when you didn't tell me otherwise, I had no reason to believe Levi was playing anything but a glockenspiel."
"Uh huh. I'm not following. What's the problem?"
"The problem is, I told H's boyfriend that Levi was playing the glockenspiel at the game last night, and do you know what he said?"
Me, a little concerned for Hubby now, "Uh, no? No, I don't. What did he say?"
"He looked at me kind of odd and said, 'You mean the....xylophone?'" A bit more tensely now, Hubby continued. "Honey, did you know it wasn't a glockenspiel and that it was in fact a xylophone?"

I have to say, I started laughing soooo hard. I totally thought Hubs was just up to one of his attempts to make me laugh at the game the night before. I don't recall ever learning that there was an instrument called the glockenspiel, so I didn't question it when he tossed it out to me at the game. And since I didn't question it, Hubby, who truly believed the instrument was called a glockenspiel (thanks in part to my not questioning it, coming full circle here), went to work and identified it as such to his co-worker's boyfriend. HA!

I'm happy to say that Hubby has been nearly fully redeemed in that the two instruments, the xylophone and the glockenspiel, are very similar. Both have tuned bars laid out in a fashion resembling a piano keyboard. But the xylophone's bars are wooden, while the glockenspiel's bars are metal. Oh, the silly moments that life presents as opportunities for laughter. I hope you find pause for such a moment or two in your week as well.

Live wise in Him!

~Toni~

Cat scratch fever

Life is its own maestro, traversing through the seasons with wonderful symmetry and rhythm. In Ecclesiastes chapter 3:1-8, we are given a beautiful word picture of this rhythm that God has affixed to our very lives. I could dedicate this entire post to that passage, how much I love it and why. But today, I want to bring attention to just one little part of it. The part where I identify with a God who granted laughter.

In fact, verse 3 reads;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

With that in mind, I'd like to share with you a story from my childhood. It's one that makes my husband laugh every time he hears it. And in all seriousness, I do believe a little holy "dancing" was involved as well. It goes like this...

When I was a little girl, maybe 4 or 5 years old, our family pet was a beautiful cat named Nero. Now Nero wasn't just any ol' Tom cat. Nero, as his name suggests, was a most distinguished and prominent cat. He was a big beautiful Chocolate Burmese.

One day, my Mom decided that Nero needed a bath and she promptly petitioned my Dad to "volunteer" for the job of cat washer. Dad was not at all convinced Nero needed bathing, nor was he thrilled about his part in it. But not wanting to drag out the inevitable (Nero was going to get a bath once Mom set her mind to it), he reluctantly agreed.

A bath was drawn in the tub upstairs, then Dad gathered boy Nero into his arms and made his way into the bathroom. Mom, who followed closely behind, decided that it would be a good idea to close the bathroom door, "just in case Nero tries to escape."

After all, cats don't like water (uh hem).

It was assumed that all would be well, that Dad would place Nero in the shallow warm water of the tub and quickly bathe him, what with cats not liking water and all (uh hem).
The task would take but a few minutes, the cat would be clean, and Mom would be blissfully happy.
Uh hem!!!

Ah, but it was not to be. For on that day, in the next few seconds after Mom had closed the door,...it. all. went. something. like. THIS.

We could hear the cat screeching angrily, as if ready to engage in an all-out cat fight. And we could hear Dad screaming some unintelligible jargon, clearly suggestive of an unforseen struggle with the cat.

Mom, in a wave of confusion and quick thinking, thought it would be best to grab hold of the door handle with both hands, "just in case the cat tries to get away." After all, Nero needed that bath. The next few moments were a blur of Mom hanging on to the door handle with all her might as the cat howled and screeched from behind it, along with Dad, who was bellowing and yowling himself.

Just
what
exactly
was
going
on
behind
closed
doors
anyway???

Finally, Dad was able to yell a single sentence coherently.
LET! GO! OF! THIS! DOOR! NOW!!!"

I could see the confusion on Mom's face. The moral dilemma. Should she open the door in response to the frantic command given by her husband? Or should she see to it, mission completed, that Nero stayed inside until his bath was finished?

As quickly as she had furled her eyebrows, the decision was made. Deciding in favor of Dad's command, and with one giant step backward, Mom let go of the door handle and out he flew, angrily hissing.

With the cat on his back.

The thin white cotton undershirt that all men wore back in the late 60's was somewhat shredded. And Nero was hanging on for all he was worth. And Dad's back looked like a favorite scratching post. Oh my, did he ever have the parallel line scratch marks to prove it too.

For days after that, I recall that his back was painted with mecurochrome, a nasty red liguid that basically singed the germs out of minor cuts and scratches. Today, it would probably just be the equivilent of pouring Tabasco sauce directly onto a wound. Yeow!

So there you have it.
The story that makes my husband laugh heartily every time he hears it.
He and my dad are very close and always have been. Always laughing at with one anotherso I guess it's all good.

After all, God did author that we should laugh in due season.

I'll close with a conversation that took place in our house yesterday.
Reece, age 8, while reading a science library book, inquired of me, "Mommy, what do plankton eat? I know many sea creatures eat plankton, but....what do the plankton eat?"
Brandon, age 3, quickly chimed in. "He eats cwabby patties, then he plays wiff his mom."

Live wise in Him!~Toni~