6
October

Seasons

Isn’t life funny. There have been times in my life when I have worked so hard and been so proud of a paper or my performance on an exam or my grade report. In the classroom, I worked diligently to help move my struggling students to a higher level of achievement and felt so rewarded when they made gains. In the past, I so appreciated compliments from my peers and valued my professional evaluations.
In this season, I am proud of our Razzle Dazzle punkin! Carson and I transformed a plain orange construction paper pumpkin into this bling-bling! I am quite afraid that it isn’t all that photogenic, but it is striking in person (I actually think it kinda looks ghetto in the pic, but it truly is a sight to behold). It will decorate the bulletin board outside of her classroom, and we are tickled with ourselves! Carson ran out of the bed this morning, giddy about taking our masterpiece to school. The kitchen was quiet this morning as we ate breakfast (we try not to arouse any three year-old hornets while preparing for school), and then Carson called out in a loud whisper, “I love our pumpkin!” I must say I share her sentiments.
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30
September

I am certain.

These are uncertain times. Uncertainty seems to hang in the air like a bad odor, seems to course through our veins like a dark dye. It’s a car poking along in front of us on a road where we can’t pass. We feel trapped behind it.

And I pride myself in trying to live in oblivion by limiting my exposure to the news. I like to be able to speak intelligently about national and global affairs, but the doom and gloom is often more than I care to digest. Whenever possible I try to starve my fear’s appetite for looming disaster. I do a pretty good job, so don’t expect any riveting posts on current events in the near future. While trying to emaciate my anxieties, I am always trying to fatten my faith.

Oh no, here she goes again…

Faith is this nebulous, obtuse, abstract (yes, I know they all kinda mean the same thing – I just love them) thing that makes people think Christ-followers are straight up nut jobs. It’s true. The concept of placing faith in something outside of ourselves seems to make people uncomfortable.

It shouldn’t; we do it all the time. For instance, every morning I rush around like a crazy person getting people fed, dressed, and in the car with all the necessities for the day. There’s usually not a minute to spare, honestly. And when I put the key in the ignition and turn it, I expect it to crank. I have faith in my nine year-old 112, 000 mile Pathfinder. In nine years it has started every time I have turned the key except once (when the battery exploded – frightful). My truck and I have history; it has been very faithful. For that I am grateful. I demonstrate my faith in my truck by how I live my morning. I don’t build in extra time for car issues. I don’t have a back-up plan if my transportation fails. I know the car is going to crank. It always has. As my car gets older and more worn, I am headed for a day of disappointment. The first time it leaves me high and dry; my faith in it will take a hit and perhaps collapse all together (depending on where I am stranded, how long it takes help to arrive, and how many children I have in the car at the time).

My point is this – we all put our faith in something. Our money, the company we work for, our spouse, our children, ourselves. That’s all fine and dandy until the economy crashes, our company folds, our spouse dies unexpectedly, our children rebel, and we totally come unglued. Those things happen every day.

What are you putting your faith in?

I’ll go first, and I’ll shoot straight. My big picture faith is in Jesus Christ. Constant. Eternal. Faithful and True. His character and His promises don’t change with the Dow; He isn’t surprised by the energy crisis, and He can’t be usurped by the next President. He doesn’t worry or waver, and He is the only certainty, the only fail-safe fool-proof unshakable strength and security in the face of our uncertain circumstances.

But, truth be told, my daily little picture faith is in myself. I tend to think I can handle things quite nicely on my own. Honestly, that never turns out well. I am moody, and impatient, and I often have sharp edges. I can be insecure and selfish and undisciplined and weak. I am proud, often loud, opinionated, and bossy. Really…who would sign up to put their faith in that? I’m taking my name off that sign-up sheet (wish it were that easy…). Seriously, my truck is more dependable than I am. However, …

There can be certainty. Of that, I am certain! Are you?

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30
September

Aflame

As we were driving home from school today, I was explaining that we were all going to go to our individual places for some down time when we arrived home. Campbell hadn’t had a nap and Carson was biting her sister’s head off as soon as she climbed in the car. And I could feel myself starting to break into a momma-may-lose-it-soon sweat.

I proceeded to lay out the parameters for down time – stay in your room and play quietly. If you come out of your room, you must go to bed and nap. Then, of course, they wanted to dissect every possible scenario where it would be acceptable to leave their rooms. In an attempt to squash any ambiguity in the guidelines, I casually commented, “You may only leave your room if you are seriously injured – and there should be blood to show for it.”

Carson retorts dryly, in perfect form, “Perhaps [she really did use perhaps] if we catch on fire we can come out of our rooms.” No smile. Not a hint of laughter – just pensive exhaustion.

I played along, “Yes, after you stop, drop, and roll, you may inform me of your combustion.”

“What are we suppose to do if our head catches on fire? Stop, drop, and roll won’t really work then.” I suggested a headstand and then thought better of it. A flip. A flip would still involve a roll. And so it was settled…

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29
September

Puzzled.

The other day Campbell and I saw a tractor driving on the road. She was fascinated by that and wanted to know where it was going and what it was going to do when it arrived. I explained that it was probably going to a field to get the ground ready to grow some crops. “Crops?” she asked.

“Yes, crops are foods grown on a farm like corn and beans.”

“Crops?” she asked again.

“Yes, farmers grow crops.”

“Like for your feet?”

?

And then it occured to me that she was saying Crocs. No wonder she kept asking…

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24
September

House of Style

My submission for the September Style issue of She Magazine:

I like brown – and black – even when they’re not really “in.” In fact, I have so many brown t-shirts that my friend started calling me Brownie (Get it? My name’s Cookie….Brownie, uh, anyway…). I think that makes me predictable and boring – not stylish. I am symmetrical; I like to match. I like to super match. I’d love to be hip and get my nose pierced, but I’m just not. On a good day, I might throw on one of my four favorite pairs of jeans, chunky heels, a t-shirt (yep, brown or black), a sizeable belt and maybe a jacket or vest. I always wear the same shade of the same brand of lipstick (Spice Sachet, thank you very much) regardless of the season, and I use the same purse well into the wrong season. Contrary to the wardrobe rules of my fashion-forward spouse, if an article of clothing has short sleeves it is spring, summer, and fall attire here in South Carolina. If there are long sleeves, it is a winter garment; I don’t care what color it is! I think the issue is more a lack of creativity than a lack of courage, but my style is more than my unimaginative apparel.

An ice-cold 20 ounce Diet Pepsi is my style. Zumba at the gym is my style. Jack Johnson, fresh air, a good book, good friends, good food, a nap, and laughter are my style. I can wear them well.

Carson, on the other hand, takes seriously her sense of fashion as a six year-old. She creates ensembles in which all color groups are well represented, and they inflame my matching sensitivities. I do my best to allow and encourage her expression whenever possible, but she is aware that our styles are different. In fact, we were recently shopping in the shoe department in Target. We struck up a conversation with the nicest sales associate, and I was conveying my disbelief at the resurrection of jelly shoes. Who knew that even they, the most grievous of fashion offenses, would enjoy a new day? The sales lady proceeded to enlighten us on the current trends as reported by one of the morning shows; matching was no longer cool. O horrors, I thought. Apparently it is much more chic to couple different colors and complementary textures. As we wrapped up the morning show recap and parted company, Carson looked up at me with a justified expression and said, “See, Momma, that’s my style!” I had to give it to her, so – as it turns out – my daughter is fashion-forward too. She describes her style as funky and comfortable, and she is in to bling and dazzle and sparkle and shimmer and glitter and glow and pink. She owns ninety-seven tubes of lip gloss (not really) and has far more purses than I do.

Junie B. Jones is her style. Stuffed animals and The Magic Schoolbus are her style. Chick-Fil-A, a dance tune, her cousin – Lily, any surprise, Kit, and playing school are her style. They are part of her groove.

Campbell, as a three year-old, is not too focused on fashion yet. But she has had one shoe preoccupation: her clearance Target-version UGG boots. During the cooler months she wore them with everything, even dresses. During the summer she has sported them with cut-off jean shorts that were too short a long time ago and a Mickey Mouse t-shirt. Our morning decisions revolve around whether she’s feeling one ponytail or two that day. She has shown some minor interest in piercing her ears, but her parents are implementing stalling tactics for the next couple of years on that one.

Cuddling with her two favorite blankies is her style. Dora and her ladybug umbrella and big-girl cups and popcorn are her style. She digs cutting with (safe) scissors, and she can rock some corn on the cob. Her favorite things are her finest accessories.

Now the husband brings some highly contested fashion regulations that I often balk. I treasure his opinion, but I’m not sure I trust his rules. I take them with the proverbial grain of salt. He creates uniforms within his clothing options that he cycles through every week. Once a shirt is married to a pair of shorts, there is little chance a different grouping will occur in the future. Chris prizes his Olukai flip-flops, his cheap but current jeans, and his clubbin’ shirts (even though we don’t club). He was voted Best Dressed in his high school class; maybe I should reconsider my dismissal of his advice.

Clemson football is his style. Edging our driveway and encouraging our grass are his style. Good running shoes, bodies of water, pineapple casserole, and old school headbands are his style. They suit him.

So, there it is. There’s not that much style in our house; at least not in the way we dress. Who knows, maybe the year of brown will roll around again before too long. We’re a fairly predictable pack of Cawthons, each with our own quirks and preferences. High fashion or not, that’s just how we roll…

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