An Open Letter to Lori Alexander in Response to “Men Prefer Debt-Free Virgins Without Tattoos”

Dear Ms. Alexander,

I want to express to you first, that the entire premise of your article is off base.  It is a fallacy that as Christians we should be concerned about what “men prefer”.  We should instead be wholeheartedly focused on what Christ prefers.   Your article makes the mistaken assumption that all women are meant for marriage.  Nothing could be further from the truth.   In 1 Corinthians 7:8 Paul admonishes us that it is better to remain single for the work of the kingdom.  By not focusing on what men prefer, we can further accomplish our purpose in the Kingdom.

The bible does make it clear that debt is not a good idea, but you make the completely illogical jump that this speaks to a woman’s education.   You assert that it is worthless for a woman to obtain an education when she should be having babies.   The bible simply does not support this.  Ruth was not at home having babies when she found Boaz.  She was not in the care of her husband or her father.   She was an independent woman caring for a widow and working outside the home to do so.   Think of Lydia in Acts.  She was a seller of purple dyes.  Because of her economic independence she was able to serve the saints.   Paul did not admonish her to stop selling purple dyes and to go find a good husband, but instead praised her for her hospitality.  Furthermore, many women are intelligent enough to obtain their education through grants, scholarships or hard work, remaining debt-free.

I personally know of one of our sisters in Christ who has remained unmarried.  She went to medical school and then served in Afghanistan doing mission work.  You see, in Afghanistan women were not allowed to be doctors because they ascribe much closer to your view of the world than mine.  But, women were also not allowed to be examined by a male.  This left a great void in healthcare for these women.  If they had trouble in childbirth, they and their children would likely die.  If they had breast cancer, it was just left to fester.  God had a special place for this incredible woman’s skills, and had she ascribed to your advice, many would not have heard of the love of Christ.

Finally, can you hear the vitriol in your voice?  It shows a lack of love for the broken.   Jesus would likely have been spending more time with the sex-addicted, debtors who are covered in tattoos than the churched.   In Luke 5:31, our Lord said, “It is not the the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick.”  Unfortunately, your statements are a lot closer to the Pharisee of Luke 18:11, saying “Thank God I am not like other people- robbers, evildoers, adulterers or even like this tax collector.”  That reads shockingly similar to your article.

In closing, I would rather pursue God’s plan for my life instead of man’s desires for my body.   I would not presume to know the path that God has chosen for another, nor would I feel free to judge them without knowing the machinations of their hearts.

Sincerely,

Familydoctormom

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Conscience

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Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

As I was putting the girls to bed, Z starts crying inconsolably.   I tried the usual measures of hugging, rocking and reassuring her that she is just tired or probably ate too much candy, but it wasn’t working.

Finally, after much coaxing,  I managed to get her to explain her blubbering.

“Mom, s-s-sometimes, when my friends at school fall, I laugh,” she wailed.

I find myself bemused, waiting for her to continue.

“Sometimes, I laugh even if they get huuuuuuuuurt!”

At this point I am trying to suppress my own laughter.

“I’m a t-t-terrible person, and I can’t heeeeelp it!” she sobbed.

At this point, I explained to her that this is a natural human response, and that there is even an entire television show (America’s Funniest Home Videos) dedicated to this very phenomenon.  She looked at me skeptically and I am pretty sure she is still convinced she is going to hell for this.

Happy Father’s Day!

There once with a man, a man with a dream.  It was a dream of condiments, ample and abundant, condiments raining from the sky.  No bite of food would be consumed with out appropriate sauciness.  To pursue that great end, the man started asking for extra condiments at every fast food establishment.  Sometimes his wife thought he was crazy.  Sometimes she was embarrassed.

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Soon, there was a whole shelf in the pantry covered with plastic containers filled with other small containers filled with condiments.  The wife became enraged with the “useless clutter”.  The husband argued that this was not clutter, that it was his dream.   After much deliberation, the husband found a solution that he thought would make the wife happy.

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He ordered squeeze bottles and began to spend his time funneling condiments from tiny packages into them.  Much to his chagrin, his wife (who he was only trying to please) said unkind things about his squeeze bottles, calling them gross and unsanitary.   He argued the benefits of being able to offer guests the perfect zesty buffalo sauce.  She remained unconvinced, until tonight when the benefit of his brilliance was experienced by the wife.

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Happy Father’s Day, my love, keep reaching for your dreams.

Transitions

For the last 3 years,  I have carried my oldest child (who now weight nearly 50 pounds) up the stairs, changed her clothes, helped her brush her teeth, and fed her cereal by hand while we watch WordGirl before I pack her up in the car and drive her to school.

Why do I feed a 6 year old who is perfectly capable of feeding herself, you ask?  Well, I asked her the same question as to why I should still be feeding her when I KNOW she can feed herself.

“Because it brings me comfort, Mommy,” was her answer.  Who can argue with that?  And, so I feed her.

Except on Wednesdays, which is Daddy’s day to do that.  Wednesdays I stay home and our youngest calls it “Mommy and Baby Bird Day”.  She gets so excited when it is Mommy and BBD.   We sleep in and cuddle, followed by some light housework, and a breakfast of pancakes and a LOT of bacon.  Then I take her to her ballet class.

Ballet class has become such a special time for her.  All of the other friends she has ever are somehow linked to her sister.  They were Z’s friend’s first, and then Baby Bird’s, but not her dance friends.   Her dance friends belong completely to her.

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When we leave dance, we go to Chick Fil-a and play date with dolls and friends.   The moms have become a special support to me as well.  It is nice to have people who understand where you are in life.

Sadly, both of the bucolic scenes above are coming to an end.  My special time with my oldest will soon be replaced by hectic mornings involving both children.  My wonderful times with the dance moms (a phrase I never thought I would utter) is about to come to a close with recital looming over us.

I know that both transitions are good.  I know that both transitions are necessary.  It didn’t stop me from weeping on the bathroom floor after I put them to bed tonight.   No one tells you how hard it is when you are in the middle of the best days of your life and you know it.

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Confusion

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Photo by Lukas Žvikas on Pexels.com

I was walking out of work yesterday with a new coworker.  She has no idea what my sweet ride looks like.  I had that horrified moment in a parking lot where I couldn’t figure out where I parked.  Except, It was a very small parking lot, and one I park in almost every day.   I was standing their stunned, unable to figure out where my car was.  Then, it came to me,  the car directly in front of me was mine.   I know you are thinking, “How could she not recognize her own car?”  My coworker gave me the same skeptical look.

Well……. there was a cloud burst at work, a brief but strong rain storm.  And….. the rain must have cleaned all the dirt off my car, and I had difficulty recognizing it without the usual dust and grime.  It looked almost like new.  Maybe I should wash that sucker more often.

 

What I Do Best

I do lots of things well.  I am a doctor, and a mother and a friend.  I enjoy cooking, crafting, sewing and gardening.  I play with my children nearly continuously.  There are many things that I do well, however;  my daughter has pinpointed one on my Mother’s day card that I did not expect:20180514_211950.jpg

I really am surprised to find out how great I am at doing dishes, especially since I NEVER do them.  In fact,  I hate doing dishes so much that I had two dishwashers installed so I can just eat on clean plates from the clean one and put dirty ones in the dirty one.  This is how much I hate doing dishes.

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At least I am as pretty as a rainbow and know how to subtract, so you know, I have stuff to fall back on.

 

Fermentation

I am driving Z to school this morning when I hear a wail of disgust emanating from the back seat, and then the odor hit me.

It seems that Baby Bird had left a sippy cup filled with juice to ferment in the hot sun for several days, and Z, ever curious picked it up and it basically exploded fermented orange juice all over her.

She handed it to me, giving me careful instructions on how to dispose of the foul substance, she was voting for complete elimination of the offending sippy cup.  I, however; have to pay for said sippy cups and elected for a salvage mission.

At a stop light, I carefully uncapped the monstrosity and poured it out, managing only to spill a little on myself and inside the car.   Z was crying from the back seat, “What about the road mommy?” as if it would erode the very asphalt it was poured on.

We pulled up to the drop off lane where I struggled with whether I should explain why my child smelled like a sorority girl drunk on so much hooch, or should I hope that it just goes unnoticed?   I elected for the latter.  Now how to get the odor out of the car?

You Had One Job

Once every ten years, I have to recertify for my Family Medicine boards. They do not offer this testing where I live, so I had to travel to the nearest testing center. I decided to stay overnight to ensure that I would not miss my testing slot. I left my husband home alone with both girls for the first time.

I didn’t just leave him alone with the girls. I left the girls at gymnastics, and food was prepared at home and all items were laid out for the next day. Literally, all he had to do was ferry them from gymnastics to home, feed them, and put them to bed.

Did he complete these tasks? Well…. technically yes.

I should preface the next statement for those of you who don’t live in the south, it has been four months and it has rained almost every day at this point. So, he completed all his given tasks, after he decided that it would be fun to do donuts in our yard with the mini-van, getting my swagger waggon stuck in the yard.

So, while he should have been feeding babies and putting them to bed, they stomped through the house covered in mud while he had a friend help him use the tractor to pull the van out of the yard.

Dude, you had one job, and your like 40 years old. I am still shaking my head.

The Worst Mother In The World

20180424_210755.jpgI recently had the ignominious pleasure of attending my daughters’ gymnastics recital.  I don’t know if you have ever experienced any sort of children’s program, but spoiler alert, they are universally awful.  It is true, children’s plays… terrible.  Children’s music performances, dance recitals, sporting events…. all the worst.  Picture one child kicking a ball the wrong way while another picks flowers completely ignoring their surroundings.  I mean, sure they can be cute and charming, and entertaining just from the absurdity of their actions, however;  they are never a top-notch, quality performance for this ADHD mamma.

This performance was just a train wreck.  I mean the basic skills were all there, and most of the tiny performers were demonstrating their cartwheels and “sassy” poses with style.  Not my Angels.  Baby Bird became enraged that someone was “touching her”, and began to howl, forcing the teacher to hold her throughout the performance, and she absolutely refused to do her tiny flips.

Z was truly terrible at all her “skills”, but worse, she was overtly distracting to the other children.   She would come onto the floor and flop around like a fish, just long enough to be allowed to return to the waiting group where she would giggle and talk and cause generalized chaos.   I kept glaring at her and making my stern mommy face, mouthing  “no”.  She looked me in the eye and would laugh and blow me kisses while continuing her behavior.   (later I asked her why she persisted in  acting this way when she knew I was upset, and she said, “Well, you were already mad…” Way to go for broke kid.)

At the end of this atrocity during which I should have yanked them off the floor, and taken them to the bathroom for a “talking to”, everyone got medals.  Yay. Baby Bird even medaled in bars which was an event that she mysteriously did not even complete secondary to her melt-down.

Afterwards, they were so proud of their medals, and I sat them down and just told them how terrible they were at gymnastics.  I tried to explain that it was more the fact that they disrespected their teachers and classmates made me so disappointed as well as their complete lack of effort.

Later, I was talking to my husband about how hard it was to not be supportive of my children and to have to tell them hard truths and not act as if they were precious, wonderful angels just based on their mere existence.   I asked if I was the worst mother in the world.

He said, “No, the thing that bothers you is that you were acting just like your mom.”

I thought back to my mother, and a conversation we had many years ago.  I was in college, and a vocal performance and drama major.  My mother sat me down and said,  “Sweetheart, you have a really nice voice and all, but I hope you can make a living doing this, because you are going to have to move out when you finish college. You might want to consider changing your major to something with a job.”

It was some of the best advice I ever received and completely changed the trajectory of my life.  I thought about all those poor kids on the first night of American Idol and the number of times people have uttered the phrase, “Why didn’t their mamma tell them they couldn’t sing?”

I realized having the courage to tell my daughters truth doesn’t make me the worst mother in the world, but instead, maybe one of the best.

The Most Magical Place on Earth

We recently took a family trip to Disney and I was wildly excited for my children to experience Splash Mountain.  Water rides and water parks are my absolute fave and I really wanted them to have the enjoyment of this. We acquired the necessary fast passes and if you are unfamiliar, the ride is a log style ride with several small dips leading up to the anticipation of one giant plummet and splash.  We were almost at the end of the ride when it seemed to slow.

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As you can see, we were stopped long enough to take pictures.  We were stopped for a fairly long time, with these cackling vultures up above us.   These induced nightmares in my children for weeks to come.

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Don’t worry,  if you don’t want to look at those creepy vultures, children, just look at that stalagmite!  Wait, no, look away!

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And so we were evacuated from the ride….

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Enter a caption

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The back side of Splash Mountain was not so magical.

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Happy to have this commemorative picture of our family Vacay!

From The Mouth’s of Babes

20180111_201614.jpgOur family recently went out of town for New Year’s.  Generally speaking, my girls do not get to enjoy soda, but for vacation and special occasions we make an exception.

So, it was not really a surprise when at a restaurant, my five year old asked to order a Coke.   She has tasted it maybe four or five times before.   She is hooked and will take any opportunity to get her hands on her drug of choice.

After drinks arrived, she began inconsolably crying.   When we asked her what was wrong, Z said, “It doesn’t taste right!  It’s horrible.”

We assumed that maybe the syrup ratio was off or something, so my husband tasted it, fully prepared to send it back, but the look on his face said everything, as he looked at her apologetically, “I’m so sorry Sweetheart, but that’s Pepsi.”

“What’s Pepsi, Daddy?” she asked through her tears.

“It’s what some people substitute for Coke,” he sighed.

“Why would they do that?” she wailed.

“I don’t know, sweetheart, I don’t know,” he comforted.

“Pepsi is awful.”

“Yes, Yes it is.”

Truth.

 

Gratitude?

Occasionally someone will ask me if I think I am spoiling my kiddos.  I am shocked and appalled by this question.  The outrageous nature of the question, the total lack of insight into my life, I could go on.

Of course I am spoiling my children.  Most of us are spoiling our brats.  Last weekend for example,  I took my children to a child health event in our town called Babyfest and Kidfest.  It sounds like a child health event would lack pizzaz, but on arrival there were fire trucks, ambulances, police cars, bouncy houses, playground equipment and a petting zoo.

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Then we went inside and my children were instantly greeted with a swag bag to shove all sorts of free goodies inside.  They were shuffled off to play games for candy and prizes and a glass of lemonade and a cupcake was violently thrust into each of their little paws.  Oh, the humanity. They were given free teddy bears and run through a teddy bear health clinic, and then were forced to meet beloved characters.

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This is just a small representation of some of the swag they walked away with.

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After two hours of literally having free plastic toys and candy thrust into their hands and endless playing we geared up to go to lunch, at a Chick fil-A with a play yard.  While were in the car on the way to a completely child-centric lunch after leaving a completely child centric event,  my five year old looks at me and says, “Mommy, I think I’m going to need you to arrange me a playdate.  I am getting a little bored.”

Y’all, I just might choke her out.  I hope that she hasn’t learned this from watching me.  I pray every day thanking God for all that he has given me.  Maybe someday they will be grateful too.

 

 

Puke

My second born child has been diagnosed with a mitochondrial disorder called Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome.  It is a neurologic disorder and she wakes about twenty days of the month between one and five in the morning and vomits for hours, often dry heaving endlessly.  She has trouble eating and continually complains of a sore tummy.  It is better in the last two months since we have had the correct diagnosis and with the medication we have only had a couple of episodes.  So, that, along with being a doctor gives me more than an average level of experience with vomit.

She had a breakthrough episode the other night and when I went to wake her sister for school, I found my three year old asleep, hugging her “vomit bucket” which was pretty full of puke.  I had some mixed emotions about this.   I was sad as a parent that she didn’t call for me, and that she is so used to this at three years old, that she didn’t wake me.  But the part of me that has gone with very little sleep over the last three years did a secret dance of celebration.  It was a milestone akin to potty training in most homes.

Then, her older sister got some sort of bug a few days later.  About one in the morning,  Z leaned over and puked squarely on top of her sister.  I was thinking to myself that this was going to go badly with one kiddo puking and the other crying, but I was pleasantly surprised that Baby Bird has had enough experience with puke to know that this is no emergency.  In fact, she slept through it as I changed the sheets, and took the bazillion toys from her bed, and threw them all in the washer.  She slept through me wiping vomit off her face with a wet wipe.

She was completely nonplussed the next morning when I told her she had to take a shower because her sister threw up in her hair.   When she asked me about her toys, I told her, “Your sister vomited on them too.”

“My sister puked on my toys?” she wailed.  She was pretty upset about that.  Glad she is gaining a handle on this vomit problem.  On the up side, if someone can puke in her hair, and she can sleep through it, and just be mildly annoyed the next day, I’d say she’s half way prepared for college, so there’s that.

You Know You’ve Done it Too…

I was hanging out with friends the other night, you know, like you do.    We had enjoyed dinner and brownies, and we were all talking.  About this time, Baby Bird, my 3 year old approached to tell us something.  I scooped her up onto the table.  I couldn’t help but notice she had a giant hunk of brownie hanging from the tip of her precious curls.  I yanked it out of her hair, and did not have a napkin handy.  So, I did what every loving mother would do, I popped the brownie from my daughter’s hair into my mouth for ease of disposal.   One of my guests queried incredulously, “Did you just eat chocolate from your child’s hair?”

Oh Wow… how do I answer that one?   I am getting the vibe that I just did something in public that (although everyone has done in private) should be done in private.  What could I do but just own all that chocolaty deliciousness?

So I replied, “Yeah, I didn’t have a napkin (like that is going to excuse me eating food particles from my child’s hair).”  Come on people, for reals,  like you have never played, “Poop or Chocolate?”  We have all played that game.  It wasn’t something from the floor.  I knew  I had just given my child a brownie.  The odds were ever in my favor on this one, so I defend my actions and it was delicious AND I would do it again.

 

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Strep, Love and Vomit

I am experiencing the phase in life that many parents of young children know all too well.  My children are ALWAYS sick.   Two weeks ago the entire family enjoyed a good old fashioned case of strep throat courtesy my four year old.  This week it was pink eye.  In between was perhaps the worst of all.

I went downstairs to check on my babies and could smell the foul aroma wafting out of their room, through the hallway and into the playroom (it seriously filled like 2000 square feet of space).  Any physician worth their salt can instantly identify that smell.  It was rotavirus.

I carefully investigated to determine who the culprit might be.  It was Baby Bird, the two-year old.  After lifting her unconscious body, it became immediately apparent that she had soiled her entire backside and the bed.  I plucked her out of bed and placed her on a towel in the bathroom.  In an emergency, the best thing to do is to call for help, so I leaned out into the hallway to yell for my husband.

Big Mistake.  Huge.

By the time I lean back in, Baby Bird has woken up and is spewing forth like a tiny Linda Blair.  It just keeps coming. Did you know that a twenty-four pound baby can hold up to a gallon of vomit?   Me neither.   It was on the floor, walls, my clothes, her clothes, in our hair, everywhere.   We put her in the bath and I set about cleaning up the puke when suddenly my husband, who is a sympathetic puker by the way, starts yelling for me as she starts puking in the tub and there is just so much puke.  Did I mention puke?

After a bazillion towels, a gallon of bleach, some plastic bags, and several days of reflection, I have come to one very important conclusion: Thank the Good Lord for Puke.

I have so many reasons to thank God in this situation.

  1. I have a wonderful husband who was willing to help me with my sick child.  Many women are in this parenting thing all alone.
  2. I had an almost endless supply of towels to clean up after my child and a totally endless supply of clean, fresh water.   I just think about some poor woman living with her toddler in a grass hut somewhere.  I am sure they have rotavirus in grasshutistan.  This poor lady doesn’t have an endless supply of clean fresh linens and clean fresh water to take care of their child.  Heck, they do not have enough clean fresh water for their child to drink probably.  Look at me with all my clean fresh water and towels.
  3. Being a doctor,  I had a readily available supply of nausea medication to medicate my child with.   I didn’t have to make the choice to blow this month’s budget in order to take care of my sick child.
  4. I have wonderful people willing to help me with my sick child while I work that I can implicitly trust with her care.  Did you see where I said people?  As in several.  As in several people that I can trust with my sick child.   Some people have NO support like this in their life.

So, yeah, I think I am pretty lucky with this stomach virus thing.  It could be a lot worse and is for many.  Thank you Lord again for your goodness in showing me how great I have it. wp-1486785740138.jpg

 

Defiance

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Recently it was one of those beautiful late days of summer where it is still warm and sunny enough to swim and I took the girls to the pool to play date with their best buds.   After a lengthy swim, my two-year old wanted a snack and demanded I take her puddle-jumper off to enjoy her goldfish crackers.  After a lengthy stay in the sun, Baby Bird decided she wanted to get back in the pool.

“Ok, but you have to put your puddle-jumper back on,” I explained.

“NO! I do it!” she loudly replied.

“No, Baby Bird, you have to put in on, you don’t know how to swim,” I patiently intimated.

“NOOOOOOOOOOO!  I DOOOOOO IT!” she wailed.

This is when I thought to myself that this may be an excellent learning opportunity for Baby Bird.  Natural consequences friend, natural consequences.

I stood back and said, “By all means sweetheart, YOU do it.”

Confidently, Baby Bird approached the pool stairs.   She strutted her stuff down, one, two, three stairs, and then confidently strutted herself straight under the water and sunk like a rock.

I was standing right nearby and snatched her up and out of the pool in seconds asking, “Do you see now why you need your puddle-jumper?”

“Uh-huh,” she sputtered.

Since then, I have thought about my relationship with God.  I wonder how often I am standing there like a toddler with my fists balled up screaming, “I DO IT!”  I wonder how often he stands by and lets me suffer the natural consequences of my actions.   I am so grateful he is always standing by to pick me back up when I sink to the bottom.

The Roman Road

My husband and I were big fans of the show “How I Met Your Mother”.   On one particular episode, Barney’s friends were going to surprise him by introducing him to his childhood hero, The Karate Kid.  Barney is bitterly disappointed when confronted with Ralph Macchio insisting that he is not The Karate Kid and the movie is really about Johnny played by William Zabka.

If you have ever actually seen The Karate Kid, you will know that Johnny is the bully from the rival dojo who “sweeps the leg” to injury Ralph Macchio’s character.

This describes perfectly how I felt yesterday afternoon watching my eldest play.  We has just come back from church and Z was playing with her stuffed animals.  She placed Spot, her favorite animal in “jail”.   I asked her what Spot had done to land himself in the clink.

She replied, “He didn’t do anything wrong, Mommy.  He was just telling people about Jesus.”

Then she stage whispered conspiratorially at her sister, “Baby Bird, if you tell people about Jesus, they may not like it, and you may end up in jail.”

True words kid, true words.

However;  I find it really disturbing that playing out this scenario, my daughter picked for herself the role of Roman Centurion rather than Early Church Martyr.   I think she may have come down on the wrong side of history on this one.

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We went back over her Sunday School lesson emphasizing that it is a noble thing to be persecuted for your faith, but I am not sure at four she is ready to appreciate this truth.  I did hear her tell her sister later, “You might end up in jail for it, but you should probably tell people about Jesus anyways.”

At least this is a step away from being the jailer.

 

A Letter to Boogie

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Dearest Boogie,

I remember the day you came into our lives.  You crept so timid, and hungry into our back yard.   I thought you were a puppy because you were so small, and I thought you were brown because you were so dirty.     We fed you and cleaned you and you became part of our family.

I remember you first trip to the vet when they said, “She has heartworms.  It is going to be expensive to treat,” and we said, “FIX THE DOG.”

Remember the trip to the Grand Canyon with Mommy and Daddy?   Not every dog gets to go to the Grand Canyon.     We took you with us everywhere and I will never regret that time spent with you.

I remember your second trip to the vet when they reminded us that you could get pregnant, and we said, “FIX THE DOG.”

Remember all the things you destroyed?   Those three sets of blinds weren’t too bad, but that garage door was expensive.  How did you eat the wiring out of the wall?  I don’t know how you destroyed a metal panel from your kennel, but you managed handily.  Oh, and thanks for destroying the curtains, downstairs door and carpet at mom’s house.   That was a nice check I had to write.

That is nothing compared to your capacity to hoard hidden foodstuffs.  Remember taking that whole loaf of garlic bread off the counter?  You hid it in Daddy’s closet and he called it your “Strategic Garlic Bread Reserve”.  That wasn’t quite as bad as the time I had a ten pound sack of raw chicken thawing in the sink and came home to NO chicken.    I found raw cutlets shoved under pillows and in laundry hampers for an unfortunately long time.     I was really amazed that you learned how to open the dishwasher so you could use it as a ladder to the countertop.  You were such a smart dog.

Remember how we loved you SO much that two people who swore they would never have children decided to give it a try.    Dearest girl,  I owe my second and third baby to you.   I know there were times that you were a little jealous, but you were such a good big sister.   I love how even when you were dying that you insisted on doing the stairs every night to put them to bed.

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Thank you for sticking with me through both pregnancies and cuddling me at night.   You got up with me every time I had to pee or throw-up and went with me to the bathroom.  I will never forget that kindness my love.

Remember the first time your pancreas flared six months ago?   They said, “We can give her medicine but it is going to be expensive,” and we said, “FIX THE DOG.”

I will miss giving you belly and face rubs.   I will miss feeling your beautiful silky ears.     Remember how you inspired Dr. Pepper to get his own dog and LuckyPup instantly fell in love with you and thought you were his mommy?   I don’t know how I am going to tell LuckyPup about this.   I still haven’t told your sisters.

Remember that phase before having human babies when Mommy wanted to dress you up all the time?  You were so tolerant.

You were our first baby and Daddy’s first dog, and I am pretty sure you were the best dog in the world.

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I am sorry that when they told me yesterday that it was liver cancer, that I couldn’t answer, “FIX THE DOG.”   I am sorry if you suffered a moment longer than necessary because mommy wanted to spend more time with you.   I am sorry that it has been hard for you to eat and drink for the last few days.  We just wanted to spend a few more moments with you, precious girl.  I will always appreciate that couple of days where you felt good and chased the gator like a pup and played with me again.

I know my father in heaven and I will see you again sweet puppy.  Say hi to Papa and Sammy Short Legs Daddy and all the people we love and miss.    I will be with you someday.

 

Love,

Mommy

Turnabout is Fair Play

It has finally come to the point that we have to watch what we say and do around Z because she will now loudly voice embarrassing personal information in public.   For example, a couple of weeks ago, we were on our way to her ballet class and I had pneumonia.   I started coughing, so I took a drink of my soda, and got to coughing so hard that I had to pull over and vomit.  When we got to dance, Z loudly announced to the class,  “Mommy was drinking and had to vomit out of the van on the way over her.”   Awesome kid, thanks for that.

Just yesterday I stopped to move a turtle to the other side of the road (because I am a great person, right?) and the turtle peed all over me.   When we arrived at our play date, Z proclaimed,  “A turtle just peed on mommy.  See that water?  It isn’t water.  It is PEEEEEE.”

So, turnabout is fair play.   Recently, Daddy had a birthday.  Z was given a donut at school for a treat.   She brought it home in a plastic bag and it looked a little weird.  When Daddy got home,  she brought it to him and said, “Happy Burfday, Daddy.  I save my donut for you, but I licked the sugar off so it won’t be too sweet.”    Very thoughtful kiddo.

And perhaps the worst ever happened two nights ago.  I was cleaning the back porch and I look out and both the girls are playing in mud.  It was adorable, except it hadn’t been raining in the last few days.   I said, “hey girls, where did you get that mud”.

“I made it with my pee,” Z proudly declared.

As I am staring at my children, horrified, Baby Bird squawks, “I play in PEE MUD!”  while holding her muddy hands up in the air.

Baths were had by all.  And by baths, I mean they were hosed off in the yard.

So, you see dear daughter, turnabout is fair play.  You have your pee story and I have mine!

The Worst Dairy Queen in the World- A Review

I haven’t blogged in some time, but something finally persuaded me to break my silence.   First,  I must disclose that I am not really a Dairy Queen fan, and my husband unabashedly LOVES Dairy Queen.   Recently we were on the way back from Nashville and had the distinctive pleasure of visiting the worst Dairy Queen in the world.

The worst Dairy Queen in the world is located right off of beautiful I-40 at exit 108.   We stopped in on a Saturday afternoon and it was completely empty.  I thought this looked promising because we were in “Off peak” hours and no one was there.  Boy was I mistaken.

First, as we tried to place our order, the clerk seemed puzzled by exotic items that we tried to order such as: burgers and fries.   I politely inquired as she was struggling, “Are you new?”    She replied with a confused, “No, I’ve been here for four years.”     This was not confidence inspiring.

We sit down and wait on our food.   The initial order gets literally every item we ordered wrong.    I sent it back…. 3 times.     I am not talking about small errors.  I am talking about Not. Even. Close.    Fortunately, they eventually got fries for the kiddos .  Z and Baby Bird declared this the “Best Restaurant Ever”.

At this point, my husband and I have been waiting over 30 minutes for our burgers.   The kiddos are asking for ice cream (face palm).  By now, we are in peak dinner rush and the place is full of customers (none of which actually have food).

Hubby and I start taking bets as to whether the drive thru is any faster.  He decides to go through the drive thru to get some ice cream for the kids in hopes that it will be faster.

About the time he starts through the drive thru, they actually bring our burgers.   Now, the kids are clamoring to go to the outdoor play area.   The outdoor play area is giant concrete pad with two tables.  It resembles a prison yard.  I take the girls outside to play and await ice cream.

My children start playing”dinosaur” with some children in the play yard while I struck up a conversation with their mom “Tina”.   Tina is hugely pregnant with three other children already in tow.  Wearing a tiny tank top, and sporting multiple questionable tattoos, Tina has not received her food either.

Amber informs me that it is no surprise to her that the service is bad.  She apparently went to high school with the manager, Amber.  She told me that half the time she gets take out there and has to call and tell Amber she is on her way back over because they screwed up her order, again.

“And these people want us to pay them fifteen GD dollars and hour?”  Tina asks, “I don’t think so.  They don’t deserve that.  They aren’t like those folks at McDonalds in Lexington.  Those people hustle.”

At this point it has been about fifteen to twenty minutes since my husband entered the drive thru.  He calls me and informs me that there are still three cars in front of him.  Unfortunately it is one of those drive thrus that is built so there is no possibility of escape.    Below, is the pictures of my daughters trapped in the Dairy Queen prison yard waiting on ice cream.

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Just one short hour after our arrival, my husband was enjoying his Dairy Queen burger while driving home.

 

 

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