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Missy’s Top Twelve Ways to Be Happy Even if 8 out of 10 people think we are recessed and depressed.

1. Eat a warm donut.
2. Bake something for someone. Unless you are like me and your baking skills stink. If you are like me, do not do this one. It will further depress you. You could tweak #1 and buy a warm donut for a friend.
3. Find a big, ugly hat and wear it. Maybe it’s a Parksdale Farms old man baseball cap like Spemma tries and fails to rock. Maybe it’s a turkey headress. But wear it proudly. It will make you smile.
4. Read Matthew 5. Let your light shine. You have one. We all do. Now go shine it.
5. Jog. Even if you look like Hospice should be running with you, it will boost your mood. I’m pretty sure this is how I look when I run, but I don’t care.
6. Play trash can basketball with a 3 year old. Then bean her with the ball a couple of times. If she doesn’t cry, your mood will soar! If she does cry, you shouldn’t do that beaning thing anymore. My daughter LOVED the dodgeball element of our game this morning and laughed like a maniac every time the ball hit her.
7. Use a soft ball in #6. Definitely use a soft ball. (Not a softball, mind you. A soft ball.)
8. Ruin a song with an operatic voice and sing it through to the end. This works better if your kids are present, subjected to the torture, and begging you to “knock it off.” It’s a mood lift regardless. But it’s better if your kids are ashamed of you as you do this. I’ve found KidzBop tunes to work perfectly for this. Also makes the kids twice as crabby to hear you ruin a perfectly good, already-ruined song. It’ll be another 15 years before they understand this. No matter. I can wait.
9. Sing a hymn at the top of your lungs. Don’t ruin this one. That’s disrespectful.
10. Sing Battle Hymn of the Republic while marching. I DARE you to feel sad after doing this one.
11. Take a four hour nap on the couch. It works.
12. Pray. This one isn’t really number 12. It’s all of them. Don’t forget this one. Sometimes I do.

Don’t believe everything CNN says if you happen to be dumb enough to follow their news (as I am). They don’t know. If they had a warm donut, a game of trash can bball, and a prayer life, they might be writing different stuff.

I shouldn’t read CNN.com. It’s my version of a soap opera. Apparently I don’t think my own life of tripping over tea parties and wiping up disgusting things is exciting enough. So I borrow trouble. The news is trouble. It either leaves me empty and desperately sad, as in the case of the father who fell to his death at a Texas Rangers game last week while his son watched (I don’t know if I’ll ever get over this one) or it leaves me furious, as in the case of poor Juror #12 in the Casey Anthony trial.

It’s a mistake to talk about the Casey Anthony trial. I know it is. People are hot as fire over this. Everyone has an opinion. Everyone is right. Except the jurors. And according to most people, they are as dumb as bricks or as evil as Jezebel. Mostly they are dumb as bricks. I don’t think that. I think they followed the rules of our court system.

They listened to the information. It looked bad for Casey Anthony. I mean, come ON, she waited 31 days to report her daughter as a missing person? Partying like it’s 1999. Stinky trunk. Oddly content behavior. No mention to anyone of her fears or worries.

Do I think she did it? Yep.

Do I know for sure? Nope.

She knows. God knows. I’m not sure anyone else does.

The jury couldn’t prove a cause of death in the child. If you can’t prove cause of death, it’s pretty difficult to paint a clear image of a crime scene and place a person there as the murderer. And they couldn’t find any real DNA to prove Anthony was there.

So the jury listened to every last detail. And they probably wanted to believe she did it and put her away for the stupid looks on her face. But at the end of the road, they weren’t sure. Because the American justice system that we’re so proud of says that if there’s a reasonable doubt, you have to acquit. And no proof of how this child died leaves a decent gap for a reasonable doubt to walk through.

But that’s not good enough for America. No, they have to take their opinions and write them down in death threats and send them to Juror #12, a 60 year old wife, mother, and grandmother who never wanted to be on a murder trial jury. She just wants to go back to her job at Publix. But she can’t do that now, because it isn’t safe to. So she has gone into hiding with her husband, stating that she’d rather go to jail than be on a jury like this one again. In ways, she is in jail. She can’t go home. She can’t live her life.

We like our freedoms. And, by Sister Sassyfras, we’re entitled to them all. Those freedoms are protected by a justice system, among many other things. This jury gave up weeks of their lives to sit and listen and discern the facts of this case. When they didn’t return the verdict that we were certain was the right one, a whole bunch of people began making death threats.  That makes  a heap of sense, doesn’t it?

That’s not the justice system. That’s a lynch mob.

To Juror #12, on behalf of America, I am very sorry.

Today is Beloved’s 5th birthday. When I have more energy, I will offer up the sordid glob of details regarding Small Child Bowling Parties. Oh, the carnage. For now, I will stick with the sweeter side of things.

My Dearest Light,

Tonight you are sleeping in your brother’s room, while your oldest brother is at camp. You and Mama’s Boy have always been little peas in a quirky little pod. We call you the twins. I very much enjoy watching you two together.

Today marks the 5th anniversary of your entrance into a world that was certainly darker before you got here. Your name means light and you are one. You have always been one. I don’t think I do a good enough job expressing to you all the things that make you special. It is easy to look around at the other three kids in the house and wonder what makes YOU stand out. What makes YOU every bit as lovable and fabulous as they are.

Though words are somewhat cheap, I will at least try to tell you just a few of the things that make you special and then I will let the pictures speak for all of us.

When you walk into a room, the room is energized. Your eyes smile like no pair of eyes I have ever seen. You are not usually the one telling the jokes, but you are the best audience for a comedian of anyone ever. You cackle at Mama’s Boy’s jokes even when I don’t want you to. (We shouldn’t always encourage the bad ones, you know.) Your laugh is, hands down, my very favorite sound on earth. There is a tenderness in your brown eyes that I could drown in if I were a fan of drowning. You are free with your words and your praise. And though I sometimes don’t want to know what everyone thinks of me, your honesty is one of the best things in life.

You were sent to save me in a darker time of life. You were sent to save all of us. And you have. I am thankful daily to the God who made you so wonderful. And I’m thankful also to you.

I love you every day. Every hour. Every moment.

Happy Birthday.

mommy

We are way off schedule around here. We were out until 10:30 last night with fireworks. The kids slept this morning until almost 9 (unheard of, I can assure you with documentation). Then, we brunched, which threw off the meal schedule. I received an important phone call from my unpaid editor and talked for awhile to her about the ebook that has not progressed much in the last 4 days. At 2, we looked up and realized we were still looking like we had just rolled out of bed and we hadn’t yet fixed lunch. So we fixed lunch, made orange sherbet/orange soda floats, did not improve our appearances at all.

We finally left the house at 3 to go run errands. At 5 we were back and doing this and that when Mama’s Boy said, “Mama, I want to talk to AG. Can we call him?” I said, “No, buddy. He doesn’t have a phone this week. We aren’t supposed to call him.” Mama’s Boy was not to be deterred that easily. “But Mr. Jay has a phone. And we know his number, too. So call him. Ask to speak to AG.”

Oh dear. By this point, I could tell we were not just having a passing “I miss my brother” conversation. We were entering crisis mode. I sat down on the stairs with him and pulled him up into my lap as he crumpled into huge, mournful sobs. Over and over again he said, “I miss AG. I want him to come home now.”

I know, boy. I do, too. Come HOME. 5 minutes ago. Stupid summer camps.

Just kidding.

This scene both filled my heart and broke it all at once.

I did what any mother in my position would have done. I bought his happiness with a $1 bag of dark green army men from DEAL$. It worked. I’m sure AG would have preferred it take something more exotic or expensive. But for my sake, I’m glad it didn’t.

So tonight we took young Spemma to church with us. As we were sitting on the pew before church began, she ruffled Mama’s Boy’s hair and basically messed it up. And then a three way conversation commenced. The conversation was between Spemma (18), me (40), and Melissa (38).

Me: Hey. You are messing up his Robert Redford hair.
Spemma: Who is Robert Redford?
Me: What?! Who is Robert Redford? Come ON.
Me again: The Natural?
Spemma: The What?
Me: Oh, forget it. Horse Whisperer? No, you wouldn’t know that one.
Melissa: Oh, he was in a broadcast news movie with Michelle Pfeiffer somewhat recently. She might have seen that one.
Spemma: I don’t know who Michelle Pfieffer is, but I did watch a broadcasting movie one time.
Me: Oh, for crying out loud. You don’t know who Michelle Pfieffer is either?
Melissa: I’m going back to my bench where I don’t feel so old.

Sheeeeeee.

Appropriate speech has long been a topic of conversation in my house. Pretty much since they could spit out the uncouth potty humor, we’ve been laying the tracks for a Polly Pure vocabulary. There are many areas in which I am not as prudish as I should be. In this area, you can probably call me a prude.  The potty humor thing I’m still working on. We don’t have it completely rooted out just yet, mostly because I have laughed one time too many at the wrong thing.

I’m a firm believer that you are what comes out of your mouth. James tells us that we shouldn’t have blessing and cursing coming from the same mouth.  Ephesians 4:29 says “Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen.”

I try to imagine Jesus having a conversation with a pal. I just bet he didn’t say the Aramaic equivalent of “crap.”  I just really don’t think he did. He didn’t hop around the line of what’s okay and what’s not like he was on hot pavement. And if He was pure in speech and action, I’d rather not make up excuses for myself. I’d rather get as far away from that particular line as I can.

With kids, this comes up constantly. Today, it came up a whole bunch. I have no idea why they were all magnetically attracted to this topic today of all days, but since it has been a running theme, I’m just going to blog about it.

Here’s our basic philosophy about speech.. As odd as it may sound, I think of it in terms of the public school behavioral system: Green, yellow, and red. We log potential vocabulary words by color. Red words are the definite ‘no, you don’t’ words for us. I would put “crap” in the red category, even though I said it as a teenager and I’ve already typed it here twice. If it would make my granny blush, it’s a red word. My 4-yr-old has twice today said “darn it” in fake frustration. I don’t know where she heard that and she doesn’t seem to recall, either. But for a 4-yr-old, “darn it” is Red. My rules, not yours. Do with it what you will.

Considerably more ambiguous is our list of Yellow words. Yellow words are words that I don’t let my own kids say but many of their very nice friends ARE allowed to say. “Oh my gosh” goes on this list. They are not allowed to say that because from more than 8 feet away, “gosh” sounds like “God” and I just don’t want my kids throwing that around. But I can name at least 40 people right now who say this and have no issue with it. I wouldn’t pick that fight. I won’t judge. But because of the controversy, the potential misuse, and my own feelings, it’s yellow and you don’t talk yellow in this house. I would also throw ‘stupid’ on the Yellow list. Adults and teenagers use it and know how to handle it. A 4-yr-old calling something or someone stupid just sounds sassy and presumptuous. Give yourself about 12 years and then Stupid to your heart’s content, little one. Again, this is my rule. Don’t try to talk me out of these. This is subjectivity. There’s no point in fussing.

Finally, we have Green words. Green words rock and the kids can say them as much as they like. ‘Love’ is green. ‘Please’ and ‘thank you’ are green. A few other green words or phrases are as follows:

Would you please accept this $100 bill?

May I do chores for you, Dear Mother?

Let’s talk about Jesus.

Yes, Ma’am.

Can we sit on a bean bag chair and read while classical music plays softly?

So you get the idea. And this entire exchange is the conversation I had with my 4-yr-old today right after she spat out a very emphatic “darn it” with a smile sloppily glued across her face. I gave her the Red/Yellow/Green run down, emphasizing that we stay on GREEN as much as possible. And then I had to run back in the house to grab Todd’s wallet for him. Beloved and Snug were in the car, strapped in, and I could hear Beloved beginning her rehash of my speech as I was running back into the house.  She was lording it over Snug, because suddenly she had become the Green Speech Expert. When I returned, I heard,

“And ‘tree’ is okay. And we can say ‘flower’, right Mama? And ‘grass’ is good. Annnnnnd, ‘yard.'”

For a moment, I thought maybe she had misunderstood me and taken the Green thing entirely literally, but then she threw in “stop sign” and broke the pattern of shrubbery and all things photosynthesis.

In my thinking, forcing them to Go Green in their speech grows a more solid and robust vocabulary. I do allow creative substitutes. The under-14 set is  not allowed to say ‘stupid’ but I more than encourage some creative synonyms. How about ludicrous, obtuse, unintelligent, or thick-headed? Why say something borderline like ‘good golly’ when you can say ‘sweet sister of a howler monkey’? That’s much more interesting.

At least I think so.
And it’s my blog.
If you are feeling a little Yellow around the edges, may I recommend WordPress.
Or just go green.

🙂

1. It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.  Really? Honestly, that sounds worse to me. You could take that to a more physical level and translate it to, “It is better to have eaten the fatty sausage and thrown it back up than to not have eaten the fatty sausage.” I just think skipping the whole deal is better, if you can’t keep the whole deal.
2. There are no calories in Cheetos if you eat them standing up and 3 or 4 at a time…10 times a day.
3. Repeat #2 with Double Bubble. Ugh. I sent the bucket to work with Todd.
4. Teenagers are pains in the honk. Maybe YOU are the pain in the honk. Ever think of that? I’m planning on my teenagers being fabulous and wildly entertaining. If they are not…if they are in juvie hall for vandalizing and smoking airplane glue…I will discontinue this blog and strike this statement from ever existing. Because you can easily do that with the Internet, you know. Surprised you didn’t know that.
5. Staying up and staring at a paragraph for 30 minutes is better than sleeping. Go to bed, Dummy.

On that note, I’m going. So much to say, but it will have to wait at least another 6 hours. Love to all.

Yeah, you do.  You KNOW you do. The whole world does.

If you don’t have Bieber fever, then maybe you like tap shoes and kindergartners. And if you don’t like tap shoes or kindergartners, then maybe you appreciate utter cuteness. If you don’t appreciate utter cuteness, just turn and walk away. You won’t be happy here today.

The Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Gray of this video are InformiJR and LittleFallsAlot (indian name). They do a fabulous job here.

Nothing I could post today could hold a candle to this, so take it away, guys…

My entire life I have wanted to be a writer. It is really all I ever wanted to be. I remember being 9, in Miss Upchurch’s 3rd grade class, and being assigned to write a story. It was my favorite assignment ever. I thought about it all the way up the hill from the bus stop to my house on Marston Road. And I announced to my mom that afternoon that I wanted to be a writer.

I never changed my mind.

I did have a stint in late high school where I thought I wanted that writing to be journalism. I took a journalism class. I even did some work on the yearbook. None of that made me happy. Drew Hansen made me happy. Until I figured out how extremely antagonistic and annoying he was. How many times can you start a conversation about genocide with high school students? Really, Drew. You should have been drawing social security in the 11th grade. It declined to the point where there was no bright spot to Journalism I anymore. And following that little train wreck, I planted my feet firmly in the creative writing camp and I am still standing here today.

For this reason, I love my blog. I can yammer on about things that are mostly true, but discuss them in ways that make other people wonder what fumes I might have just walked through.

But I currently have a project I am trying to win that is taking most of my time and all of my creativity. If I pass with the people who matter, I would be a writer for real. And that would be cool.

I will try to keep this baby fed, too. Just not quite as daily as before. Sometimes a baby just has to cry it out at night…right?

There was an Old Woman who lived in a shoe. She had so many children she didn’t know what to do. She gave them some broth without any bread, then whipped them all soundly and put them to bed.

That‘s what I’ve been doing wrong.

Feeding them like kings, not whipping, and letting them stay up past 6:30. I shall try the Old Woman’s approach tomorrow. Because I have most certainly become her.

I’m going to bed. Tomorrow feels like a big day.

G’nite.