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Interrupting the Shame Tape

As I almost hit that deer earlier this fall, my oldest son screamed from the back seat. It was a baby-like squeal similar to other sounds he makes. This is done for no articulated reason. I sense he is wishing to remain a child and cute in addition to trying to be funny.
Because he has a prefrontal cortex more closely resembling a cat than an adult human, he makes poor decisions about what is appropriate for his age and what might be humorous. The cuteness has dissolved into a blend of pre-adolescent awkwardness and obnoxiousness.
He has developed the habit of growling, hissing, cooing like a baby, or my favorite—doing all three at once. To say that it annoys me is to say that I need air to breathe. I am desperate for the day he finally stops, and I fear it will never come. And, no, I won’t miss it when it’s gone just like I still don’t miss the diaper stage or the tantrum stage.
Inappropriate Behavior All of this may explain, though not justify, why on that early morning driving throug…

Everyday Habits

A few days ago, we almost hit a deer. That's pretty common on country roads, but this time I felt it was a closer call than others. This deer emerged from our left side, and it seemed inevitable we would collide as it leaped across the highway. In a rare moment of good instinctual driving, I steered into the opposite lane and pumped on the brakes. It turned out to be the correct choice. We just missed the deer by two or three feet. If I had not swerved and hit the brakes, we would have crashed for sure.

Driving in All the Wrong Ways Frankly, as a new driver all those years ago I was just plain bad at driving, plus I was not responsible for keeping everything up to date. My dad loves to tell about the time he was teaching me to drive a stick shift on a country road, and I ran over a culvert. In addition, in my teens and early twenties, innumerable officers pulled me over for such offenses as an illegal u-turn, outdated stickers, suspicion of drunk driving (my dad sat in the back sea…

We Interrupt Our Normal Programming . . .

Dear reader,

My purpose today: I need your help!!I am looking to up my blogging and need help shifting gears.

First, if you are one of my few but growing number of readers, why do you read my posts? What is it that makes you click on the blog posts I share on Facebook? (If it is because we are blood, and you feel obligated to click and pretend to care, then that's okay so let me know.)

Second, what do you wish I would write about? Are there topics I could cover to help you in any way or solve a problem? 

Finally, what suggestions do you have for a new Blog name and/or web domain? I don't want to go too much into why I am thinking of changing my current domain, which is (Job 26:14). Just know that I plan on it unless someone convinces me otherwise.

The domain name and title are dependent on why people (almost all women) read what I write. Obviously, I am not entirely sure why I have the readers that I do (with bare minimal marketing thus far), but I can make s…

Please Just Don't Be a Serial Killer

I am a single mom. That sentence holds a lot of weight for me. I feel its heaviness, its sin and sadness and shame. However, I do not associate all of that loaded statement as a painful burden. Perhaps it is blind confidence or irrational optimism, but I feel my job, and the fact that I do it alone during 95% of my week, is monumental and heroic. It may be that egoism plays a part in the latter assessment.

Nonetheless, I will admit my heroism leans more toward the Iron Man or Dare Devil side of the spectrum. I can be a real jackass, and this is not conducive for parenting two boys, especially when you’re going solo. Every Tony Stark needs a Pepper Potts, but not everyone gets one.

Indeed, I am alone. There is no one there late at night to tell me to get over the pee on the bathroom floor because it’s normal my kids to take a leak everywhere but actually in the toilet. There is no hand on my side as I lie in bed crying and cussing about my child’s hurts and awkward efforts to fit in at…

To Hear One More Laugh

We buried my grandmother in July. The photo above is my last of her. I took it to show family members who needed to know she was feeling better on this particular day. These final weeks were spent in the hospital — well over a month of needles and meds and ups and downs. On this day, I happened to be up on the 3rd floor with her, and so my dad, ever her companion, took the chance to stretch his legs. On his return, he brought back coffee for each of us. Meema was so happy about it; nonetheless, I didn't put this photo in her slide show at the funeral. When someone has suffered a chronic illness like congenital heart disease, you don't want to show them at their worst. Now, after over a month, I don't know if it is her at her worst. Perhaps it is her best. The pain and the discomfort at the end made her so mad, and sometimes not like her usual self, but in this photo, her hair may be sticking out a bit, but I can see the beginnings of a smile as she laughed at me for takin…

In Praise of Noses on Screen Doors

When a smell of freshly turned earth or the fiddle in an 80s country song plays on the radio, I sometimes travel back to long drives with my mom and sister. Across highways and sailing past cotton fields and mesquite trees, I remember distant storms and in my ears, an Alabama tune plays, “Sometimes her morning coffee’s way too strong, and sometimes what she says, she says all wrong.”

I spent hours on these trips simply staring out the window. I used my time to think and create stories, a whole helluva lot of them. They were never written down.  The same thing happened at bedtime as I lay awake waiting for sleep to overtake me. Boredom did not scare me. What looked like idleness from afar was my mind burning through dreamt up novels, screenplays, bits of essays. I remember being initially aghast when I heard the old saying, “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.” Doing nothing on the outside meant stories on the inside.

I understand the fear of loafing more now. Afterall, I mother two b…