Dating My Daughter

    It’s so cliché but time really does go by way to fast.  Especially when you have kids.  Yesterday I had a sweet, little baby girl who held my hand when we walked together, thought her daddy was the ONLY man she would ever love and one day marry, and believed that I could fix everything for her.  That was yesterday.  Today I have a 17 year old, and while we do spend lots of time walking, shopping and going places together she has given up the hand holding.  She still loves her daddy more than any man right now but knows that one day God will place in her life another man to love too.  And sadly, she has learned that I’m just a mom, not super-woman.  I can band-aid a boo boo and I can duct tape the hem of her pants if needed, but she knows that even I have limits to what I can fix for her and that some things she has to fix for herself.  Yesterday I pushed her on the swings, today we drive to college pre-view days.  Time flies.

    But with all the changes in growing up a daughter, nothing, nothing starts raising the hair on the back of your neck like when she begins dating.  When my kids were born I began praying for the people they would date and the people they would end up choosing to marry and spend their lives with.  I’ve prayed for 17 years for the faceless boys that would knock on my door to take my daughter on a date.  I’ve prayed for their parents too.  I’ve actually been pleasantly surprised to see the face of some of these boys I’ve been praying for.  Proof that God hears our prayers.  Now, don’t get me wrong, I know at some time there MAY be a young man show up that surprises me, one that makes me think, “Seriously God?” but for now, Mike and I approve of the record.  So when I think about this there are some things I realize that are important to me as Abbie’s mom that these boys should know.  And in case you have a boy that wants to date my daughter, or you happen to be a boy that wants to date my daughter, these are some things you need to know about me and about dating her.

Before you date her, you’ll need to know a little bit about me… and her Dad!

If you want to date my daughter, I will try to figure out what kind of boy you are before you spend time with her.  I will ask you a lot of questions and make sure you know how special my daughter is.  When you get to know her, you’ll get to know me too (isn't that great!).  I will creep up on and stalk your facebook, twitter, instagram and any other form of communication in order to see how you talk to other people and what kind of friends you hang out with.  I don’t call it being nosy, I call it being a mom.  As for her dad, he thinks she hung the moon.  Nuff said.

Manners are manly

I know you have been taught them, so use your manners.  Not just to impress me, but when you are with her also.  If you don’t have or use manners you are not the one I’ve been praying for and obviously not God sent.  If you want to spend time with my daughter I will insist that you treat her like a lady and respect her the way you do your own mother. So open the door for her, look me in the eye when you talk to me and shake her daddy’s hand.  I shouldn’t even have to say this one BUT if your come to pick up my daughter and your pants are hanging below your underwear I am going to assume you have some sort of parasite and have lost a lot of weight.  In which case I will offer you a belt, some duct tape (that I will personally adhere to your pants and underwear myself) or I will ask that you go home and come back when your weight has increased enough to hold up your britches.   Never, ever come to my house and wait in the car for my daughter.  I want to see your face.

God and school come first

If she says she can’t go with you because she is going to church – then she is going to church, meet her there.  If her grades drop when she is dating you, you will be dropped.

The Last Words

If she chooses to spend her time with you, her dad and I expect you to protect her and keep her safe, just as if she were your best friend, your sister or your mother.  Never put her in a situation where she is threatened or feels the need to call me (she knows she can, and that would not prove good for you).

For 17 years we have instilled values into our daughter.  As she has grown up, she has added to those her own set of values.  Respect those.  That is not optional.  She is a wonderful, beautiful, loving, Godly creature who means the world to us.  You are a blessed young man if she chooses to share her time with you.  Respect that.  And while you are at it….. get her home on time.  This looks like the beginning of a beautiful relationship –  you, her and me.

Signed,

Her mom

Character Flaws

    My sweet Abbie tells me if I’m going to blog I MUST be more consistent.  I’ve thought about that comment and here’s the conclusion I’ve come to:  I’m just not very consistent about many things.  It’s a character flaw.  Sadly, not my only flaw.  Gasp!  What?  There’s more you ask?  I’m just going to lay it all out on the line.  I’m terrible at being consistent, I can’t seem to get the hang of moderation, and I don’t know how to sit still, rest or be quiet.  Wow, sounds like I’m 13 years old instead of.  Never mind.  I expect one day when my kids are grown they will be telling their therapist, “You know, one day I’d leave my clothes all over the floor and she would just step right over them and never say a word.  The next day she would bolt into my room, her head spinning around, smoke coming from her ears and shouting ‘ how many times have I told you to pick up after yourself?’ We just never knew.  There was no consistency.”  And we aren’t even going to get started talking about moderation!  But here is the one that’s been on my mind and heart all week – be still.  Oh, I hate that.  I try to ignore that still, small voice that says, “Pam, come sit.  Be still.  And know that I am God.”  Ohhhhh, that is so hard!  Not the “know that I am God” part but the “be still” part.  I’m not sure why I find that so difficult, maybe I’m the one who needs a therapist!  This week, over and over I kept feeling that tug –be still- be still- be still.  So finally, I did.  I got quiet and I got still.  You know there is such peace in those moments (why the heck don’t I do that more often???).  As I sat in my favorite chair (old person alert, that’s what they do) and just listened I could feel myself being filled and renewed. 

    I think probably the only time I have been still for any length of time was when Mike was going through his cancer.  I found that my new normal then was “be still and wait”.  Wait on doctors, wait on test results, wait on treatment, wait on answers, wait, wait, wait.  And while I waited, I was still.  I was held captive at doctor’s offices, hospitals, and sometimes even my own house.  It took a while for me to settle in to it, but that was my normal for that season in life.  You want to know what was great about that?  When I was still (and most of the time empty) that was when my dependency on God was the greatest.  That was when we would meet.  God and me.  In the stillness.  And there in the stillness he filled me up and renewed my strength, day after day.  I shared this week with a friend who’s daughter is battling cancer, that those times reminded me of when the manna came down from heaven for the Israelites. God sent just enough to sustain them for the day-just what they needed.  They couldn't store it up or save it, they got just enough to get through each day.  What I find when I live like that is that it brings me to a wonderful place of dependency on the one who can really carry all my burdens, sorrows, hurts and pains, and share in my joys and blessings.  I find that I'm where I need to be - dependent on God and not on my own self (I tend to like to fix everything myself!).  So here’s the thing, now there is no cancer (THANK YOU JESUS!!) or no crisis holding me captive.  This season, right now, I have to make myself be still.  I have to make the appointment to meet Him, in the quietness, in the stillness.  I use to think a true test of one’s character was how we acted or reacted during those times of crisis, but now I’m realizing for me, maybe an even better judge of my character is how I handle myself during those “easy” times.   I think the truth is – I need to quit trying to store up my manna.  (Ouch, the truth hurts!)  I think a renewed commitment to being still and being quiet (at least during my time with Him) is in order.  I guess that would also help with my “lack of consistency” problem too.  And the whole problem with not understanding moderation, well let me just deal with my flaws one flaw at a time.  Maybe I will begin working on moderation next week – along with procrastination.  Manna, just enough for today.

Art, Band or PE?

    Friday night our friends Robb and Cassie came over for dinner.  We’ve been friends for what seems like a lifetime but really is probably only like 14 years.  Maybe it seems like a lifetime because we’ve shared a lot of special moments, or maybe because Robb was our Sunday school teacher for several years, or MAYBE because Cassie and I have the same maiden name and are convinced that somewhere way back there, we are indeed related.  Doesn’t really matter, we enjoy their company because they are always good for a few laughs. 

     The evening started with us sinking our teeth into some homemade (ok, semi-homemade) focaccia bread and fresh checca while Cassie and I prepared dinner and the guys talked about guns and Alaska and trucks and Big Green Eggs.  (I LOVE having friends in the kitchen cooking with me!)   Mike and Robb had been on a mission trip to Alaska a while back and we were still holding on to one last pack of halibut that Mike caught while on the trip (they fished AFTER they spend several days helping build a church, in case you are wondering).  I had searched high and low for a good halibut recipe but couldn’t find anything that was tempting my taste buds.  So, I thought to myself about how I wanted the meal (particularly the fish) to taste.  And with those thoughts, Cassie and I cooked together some melt-in-your mouth, slap-your-mama, halibut!  (More about the recipe later).

   So we are sitting at the table, thoroughly enjoying our meal.  And as usual, in grown-up life, our kids were mentioned.  The Wilson’s shared with us about an art project their son had done.  Cassie had a picture of the drawing and I must say--- it was very impressive!  Of course seeing such an impressive art project caused my mind to flood with memoires of my art class, circa 1976 (ouch) and I felt a need to share with my friends those special memories. 

      When I was in middle school (called Jr. High School in Florence, Alabama) you had a choice.  You could choose to take art, band or PE.  I chose the least of those three evils, which is why I have an “art project” memory.  I did not choose band because:  1. My parents refused to pay for an instrument; 2. The only attempt I ever made toward anything musical was piano lessons in 2^nd grade.  Best I remember that lasted about 3 weeks. And 3. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.  Seriously.  I like to sing and I enjoy my own singing but it has come to my attention over the years that not everyone else enjoys my “special” voice like I do.  So based on those reasons, band was not for me.  Next up – PE. 

   Quite possibly the only thing worse than my singing ability is my athletic ability.  When I was in 6^th grade my parents thought it would be a good idea to sign me up for rec basketball.  Why?  Why would you sign up a short, chubby girl for basketball?  I have never enjoyed running, I don’t like to sweat and I’ve never, ever been over 5 feet tall.  Now I don’t know if this memory is completely accurate but this is how I remember it.  For this particular league, they didn’t count points during the third quarter so guess who ALWAYS got to play during the third quarter?  EVERY short, chubby girl!  Not one of my fondest childhood memories.  I don’t even remember if I ever scored a point (let’s pretend I did).  Of course, I’m sure it greatly helped my self-esteem when at the end of the season the family was so complimentary of how I had “slimmed down”.   I’m seriously laughing as I type this.  Really, what were Ken and Ruth thinking?  So, as you can see, PE was also not a choice for my Jr. High elective.  And that left me with art class.

    I’m sure it crossed my mind, “How hard can an art class be?”  This is how I remember it going down….. We had to choose an animal and make a paper mache’ replica of it.  I chose a dog.  I remember having 4 long balloons for the legs, a large oval one for the body and a round one for the head.  I applied paper and all that gooey stuff until my balloons were well wrapped.  Oh, and did I mention that in addition to not liking to sweat, I HATE to stick my hands in gooey, messy, glue-like stuff.  Alrighty.  By the end of the day, the paper mache’ dog had dried enough for me to take home and finish.  Mom and I went out and bought white fur to attach to the dog so he would be a cute, soft, sweet-looking pup.  What I didn’t anticipate was that as the balloons dried some of them would shrink, but I covered my dog in fur anyway.  The next morning, mortified, I went to school with my white furry dog.  Some of the leg balloons had shrunk so none of the legs were the same length.  The body balloon had also shrunk but the head had not.   And somehow, his body was more square than round.  Looking back now, maybe a basketball career would have been the best choice.  It’s ok.  You can laugh.  I’m laughing too.

   So that was the dinner table topic on Friday night.  Fortunately for me, Mike, Robb and Cassie redeemed me by saying that although I may not have excelled in Art, Band or PE, our meal was OFF THE CHARTS!  I’m thankful for a husband and good friends who love you even when they know your ugly parts. 

Our dinner menu:

     Roasted pear salad- Anjou pears stuffed with craisins, blue cheese and walnuts.  Baked in a marinade of apple cider, brown sugar and port, served on top of spring mix and drizzled with a dressing of olive oil, fresh lemon juice and a couple tablespoons of the marinade. (recipe of Barefoot Contessa)

    Halibut – salt, pepper and pan seared in a hot pan.  Remove from pan.  Brown diced pancetta in same pan.  Add a couple tablespoons of butter and fresh squeezed lemon juice. (recipe from my head)

   White cheddar cheese grits with chives – cook grits in water and half and half.  When done, add butter, white cheddar, fresh chives, salt and pepper. (recipe from my head)

  Focaccia bread with checca – roll out pizza dough (I use the one from Publix’s deli).  Brush with olive oil and use fingers to make indentions into dough.  Bake in 425 degree oven for 5 minutes.  Remove from oven, top with fresh chopped rosemary and sea salt.  Return to oven until nicely browned.  Checca- diced tomatoes, garlic, FRESH basil, olive oil.  Serve with bread. (recipe similar to California Pizza Kitchen)

 Dessert -Cassie’s chocolate pound cake topped with cherry compote, fresh whipped cream and chocolate shavings.

The Big 5-0

  My friend Kendra and I started a bible study together a few weeks ago.  Maybe it’s not so much we are doing the bible study together as we are doing life together.  We meet at my house, talk about our weekly chapter in “Having a Mary Heart in a Martha World” and we talk about life.  While the book is good, doing life together with an accountability partner is better.  The other day we were talking about “The Three Deadly D’s of Destruction”, distraction, discouragement and doubt and how Satan uses those things to bring us down.  

   I shared with Kendra how I was having a hard time with my up coming birthday.  It’s a big one.  Fifty.  There, I said it (don’t they say that admitting the problem is the first step to recovery????).  Fifty just kind of snuck up on me.  I mean seriously, where did all those years go? And truth is, I LOVE my life, just where I am.  Well, not entirely true, I might love it more if I were sitting at a little bistro table somewhere on the Amalfi coast, wearing a floppy sun hat, large sun glasses, cute little dress and some  strappy designer shoes.  Oh and of course an over-sized bag to match.  Ok, sorry, I might have gotten a little distracted--- so no where else I’d rather be and certainly no one else I’d rather be, this is true.  So what makes facing the number 50 so difficult?  At first I thought it was a vanity problem.  I thought it was just that I wanted the energy and the look I had in my thirties.  Then I took a long hard look in the mirror, and honestly, I kind of like what I saw.  Oh sure, there are a few more wrinkles and what I like to refer to as  “large freckles” but I believe that behind that façade is a little more wisdom and a little more character than I had in my thirties.  I know that God is developing that with time and with years, and hopefully He’s still working on it and this is not all the wisdom I get!.  As Kendra and I were talking about the deadly d’s, I was reminded how Satan would love to use something like a number (50) to distract me.  To discourage me.  And to bring doubt about where I am and who I am.  So no more!  I say let’s celebrate (as long as I’m home in bed by 9)!  Bring it on!  The big 5-0.  Whoo hoo!  Now, let’s don’t get crazy.  I don’t want a big party (too tiring) or surprises (bad for the ole heart) or most definitely I don't want it to be like when I turned 40 and my "hilarious" neighbors showed up at my door dressed like the grim reaper  AND, I woke the next morning to find my yard decorated with 40 crows.  Interesting..... what’s funny at 40 doesn’t seem so funny at 50.  Anyway, I’ve decided to embrace this new era of life!  Live it fully, just as I have the last 49 years.  I’ve also decided to come up with a list of exciting things that I think happen ONLY when you turn 50.  So here goes.  

       LIST OF EXCITING THINGS THAT HAPPEN WHEN YOU TURN 50

1.  Friends say I can sign up for AARP.  Hmmm, encouraging.
2. My doctor told me I can get a discount at Captain D’s.  Not sure how that is going to work with the “lowering of my cholesterol” he told me to do.
3. Apparently there is also a discount on coffee at several establishments.  Bad news - I don’t drink coffee.  Good news - they would probably card me when I asked for the “senior” discount.  I’m liking it. 
4.  At 49 you are the oldest person in the middle age group.  At 50 you are the youngest person in the older age group. 
5.  I can wear BIG earrings, bright lipstick and jeggings.  At 50, people will  just say, “bless her heart, she’s old and doesn’t know any better.”  Truth is, I know better, I just don’t care what people say.
6.  I can talk as loud as I want, laugh at my own jokes (um, ok I’ve been doing that one for a while), embarrass my kids (maybe I’ve been doing that one for a while too), sing the wrong words to songs, and use hashtags on Facebook. #mykidshatewhenidothat

    Well,  I’m seeing that this list can just go on and on and on!  Look at that, I’m already loving being 50 and I’m still just 49.  Who knew?  But seriously friends, maybe the real reason I was having a problem with turning 50 is because I’ve loved the last 49 years (Well, except for those few year in the early 80’s.  Let's not go there.).  When I mentioned this to Kendra she looked at me puzzled and said something to the effect of “If the last 49 years have been great why would you think God would stop blessing you now?”  Hmmm,  AND  that my friends is why you have an accountability partner.  Someone who can see the truth and speak it to you when you can’t see it.  Maybe I couldn’t see because of my distraction, my discouragement and mostly my doubt.  Truth is, God doesn’t look at me and see a number, a wrinkle, a little flab or a foggy memory.  He sees a heart.  And at (almost) 50, I know my heart is in the right place.  It’s a heart hungry for Him and His wisdom.  It’s a heart with miles and experience on it that I wouldn’t trade for anything.  It’s a heart that’s been bruised, torn and broken over the years. But it’s also one that’s been patched by the greatest healer of all, and it makes quite a beautiful tapestry.   So I say --- bring on Saturday.  Because life is good, yes life is indeed good, even at 50.

Mothers of Sons

   I am mother to both a daughter and a son.  The relationship with each child is completely different.  Each one of my children bring something different to the table, and to my life.   My firstborn was a daughter.  We were thrilled to be having a little girl.   My only sibling is a sister so I figured I knew what was ahead with raising a girl.   During my second pregnancy, we found out that the baby was going to be a boy.  My emotions were mixed about this.  I was thrilled that we would have the best of both worlds with a daughter and a son, but at the same time I was scared, because I had no idea how to raise boys!  Boys are loud.  And dirty.  I was not use to loud and dirty.  Anyone who has ever been pregnant will tell you that with pregnancy comes much advice by others.   The one thing I heard people tell me over and over was that the relationship between a mother and son is like no other, and  I have found that to be very true!

   Not to long ago a friend stopped me and shared with me a story about her son.   He had been the butt of a cruel joke by his classmates.  She shared how hurt her son had been and knowing her son, the story caused me pain also.  It bothered me that this young man was so heartbroken, but what pained me even more, was how hurt this mother was for her son.  I thought about her all afternoon and prayed for her that evening.  Today I’m thinking about another mother who must have bore much pain watching her son.  I thought about Mary, the mother of Jesus.

   Mary was not very old when she found out she would be carrying the Messiah.  Not just a normal, loud, dirty boy,  no – THE MESSIAH!  Whoa, there’s a shocker for you.  She was probably somewhere between the ages of 13-15, she was unwed, she was poor and by all appearances, she did not look the part of the one to carry the Savior of the world.  God saw in Mary what others could not.  He saw a young woman who was full of faith.  I sometimes wonder what God saw in me when he decided he wanted me to raise a son.  Did he see someone he could trust to raise up a boy to become a strong Christian man, a Christian father, a Christian leader?  Am I doing the job God called me to do when he gave me a son?

   In the bible, once Mary gives birth to Jesus we don’t hear much about them until Jesus starts his ministry.  I can’t help but wonder what those years were like between his birth and his ministry.  Was Mary experiencing doubt that she would ever get him raised and out of the house?  Did she ever have to tell him to pick up his sandals and robe?  Did she teach him to pray or did he just know how?  Did she teach him compassion and generosity?  Did she cry when he fell and skinned his knees?  Did her heart break when he told her that one of his playmates was bullying him?  Did she become weak in the knees knowing what was to become of her beloved son?  How does a mother watch as her son is beaten, bad mouthed  and crucified?  I can’t begin to imagine the pain of that one mother!

   As a mother of a son, I have been entrusted with a huge responsibility.  It is my job as a mother to teach my son and provide him with the knowledge to become what God intends for him to be.  One day he will leave my home and I will have no more chances at teaching him.   When that day comes, will I know that I’ve done my job as a mother?  Will he know what a Godly woman looks like because of the example I put before him?  Will his faith grow because he saw mine grow?  I love my son.  When he laughs, my heart laughs louder and when he hurts, my heart hearts deeper.   So what gets us through when our heart hurts so incredibly bad for our son?  Just like Mary, I think it is our faith.  My son, like hers, belonged to God before he belonged to me.  He is a gift from God that I will only have for a certain amount of time.  I have to keep the faith that the work God started in him, He will see through.  I have to keep the faith that God is in control of Michael’s life and I am not.  He knows Michael’s pains and sorrows and He will use them to His glory.  My days as a mother to Michael are numbered and I must use my days wisely and prayerfully. 

   I wonder if Mary knew all the things Jesus would do as a man?  Did she know he would heal the sick, raise the dead and give sight to a blind man?  I have no idea what Michael will do as a man.  I pray daily for him and for myself as I mother this boy, this gift.  And please don’t misunderstand and think Mike doesn’t play a HUGE roll in parenting both Michael and Abbie, but I’m talking specifically from a mom’s point of view here.   I pray that God shows me how to teach Michael and how to lead him from a mothers stand point.  Michael will leave me one day and his decisions will be his own.  It was never my job to control who or what he becomes.  My job was to mother him, love him and pray him through.

My Gift.

    Mary’s life was very different from mine but the one thing I share with Mary is that we are both the mother’s of sons.   A special gift and one I’m honored that God gave me.  I’ve messed up with Michael more than once and I’m sure I will miss the boat again at some point, but as a Christian mom I know who’s got my back!  I find great comfort in knowing that when I drop the ball, God’s grace covers me, and Michael.  Michael is no Messiah, not even an angel most days, but he’s mine even if it is for a short period of time.  Here’s to praying that I get it right!  :)