When I Grow Up, I Want To Be -

I’m embarking on a new personal journey on this Wednesday, October 03, 2012.  After years (and by that I mean YEARS!) of saying that I wanted to write on a regular basis, I’ve finally gone and done it.  I’ve committed to writing on a regular basis. 

A friend (I hesitate to call her an “old friend” because she’s only a few months older than me!) and I have challenged each other to reserve time each week for creativity.  I’m going to write.  If you’ve ever seen me attempt to create something in the arts and crafts realm, you will understand why I choose to write.  Even if I wanted to do something crafty, my husband does not allow me to touch the hot glue gun.  In fact, I think he’s hidden it from me.  I may or may not have glued my fingers together, so he felt it was in everyone’s best interest to make it disappear.  Yes, it is possible to do that with hot glue, and yes, it hurts.  Badly. 

But I digress.  You see, from my earliest memories, I wanted to do two things.  Those two things are recorded for posterity in a little keepsake book that my Mom collected for me.  If you know my mom and me, the fact that there are any keepsakes around from my childhood is amazing.  We just aren’t “keepers.”  We tend not to attach sentimental value to “stuff,” so we just don’t think about keeping the treasures that most people hoard. 

But, Mom kept this little book for 13 years and dutifully updated it or helped me update it year after year.

It contains grade cards from every year as well as my school pictures and some pictures of my teachers.  On the front page of each grade year, Mom recorded important information like School, Teacher, Height, Weight, etc.  On the second page, there was space for New Friends, Activities, Achievements, and Awards.  But the part that entertains and yes, even stuns, me now, is the section at the bottom of the second page.

 

 This “When I Grow Up I Want To Be” section continues through sixth grade.  I guess the makers of the book figured if you didn’t know what you wanted to be by seventh grade, you were a loser.  They probably didn’t want to give anyone the opportunity to check off a “Loser” box.

First, we must make note of the blatant sexism on display.  You’ll have to forgive the publishers.  The copyright year is 1965; I launched my academic career in 1967.  Gloria Steinem hadn’t founded Ms. Magazine and the words “women’s liberation” hadn’t entered the public consciousness.  It just didn’t occur to them to offer little girls the options of Fireman, Astronaut, or even Cowboy.  I’m grateful that women like Sally Ride and Condoleezza Rice didn’t stick to the rules. 

Second, let’s examine my signature.  Not bad for a Kindergartener, if I do say so myself.  It’s actually hilarious to see how my handwriting evolves over 13 years.  You can tell in my Junior High days that I’m really ticked with my parents for not naming me something with an “i” in it so I can dot it with a heart or smiley face.  You see, kids, that’s what we did before emoticons.  We dressed up our handwriting.  We were ever so cool. 

But finally, and most importantly, do you notice the box I checked?  Mother.  At the age of 5, I wanted to be a Mother.  That was probably not unusual, but if you stick with me on this writing journey, you’ll see that checking the Mother box was the easiest step in becoming one.

But let’s look a little further into the book.  Each year, as I progressed through elementary school, I marked a different box.  First grade, I marked School Teacher.  In Second, I pulled a “write in” and scrawled “Scientist.”  Apparently, Women’s Lib had arrived at Bingham Elementary School, and I decided it was time to choose something outside of the 1965 pre-determined roles.  Good for me, Eight Year Old Self!  However, if you knew how completely laughable me as a scientist would be, you’d roll on the floor!  I’m not sure what prompted that declaration, but I’m still happy about it.

In Third grade, I didn’t mark a box.  I think I must have been taking this career choice thing a little more seriously now and didn’t want to make a rash decision.  But in Fourth grade, let’s see what I marked:

 

Yes, I pulled a write-in again.  It looks like I wrote “Writes,” but I think in my heart of hearts I was declaring to the world (and most importantly, myself) that I wanted to be a “Writer.”

 I’m guessing it began to occur to me about that time that women were good and even great writers.  I had, by then, read all the “Little House” books and had visited the home in Mansfield, Missouri where Laura Ingalls Wilder had written the books.  I can remember being somewhat surprised that books could be written anywhere:  You didn’t have to live in big, unattainable places like New York City or Paris or London to be a writer.  This was news to me.

So, for about 45 of my 50 years, I wanted to be a mother.  And for about 40 of those years, I wanted to be a writer.  Eleven years ago, I became a mom.  Can I call myself a writer now?  I don’t know.  I probably won’t make it official until I see my name on the cover of a book, but with this blog, I’ve started down that road.

What do you think this girl would say to me now?  (I mean after she said, “When the photographer says, ‘Lean a little more to the right’, don’t do it,” what would she say?)

 

 

 

 

Crack Me Up

I’ve been feeling like a cracked vessel lately.   

I have a pretty tough outer shell.  I developed quite a veneer when I handled injury claims for a major insurance company.  After you’re called every name in the book (often in multiple languages), you get pretty tough.   

I’m a leader in women’s ministry.  I don’t get called names, necessarily, but recently, I found out that some people weren’t too happy with me.  My outer shell started to crack a bit. 

In fact, I’ve cracked quite a lot this summer, it seems!  But I’ve discovered something about those cracks:  They are there by God’s design.  I’ve worked pretty hard in the past at closing up those cracks with emotional Bondo as quickly as possible.  But God showed me something that made me leave them be. 

I recently came upon 2 Corinthians 4.  I’ve read it many times before, but just as Scripture is wont to do, I read it with new eyes.  It says, in 2 Corinthians 4:6-10: 

⁶For God, who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,” made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Christ.

⁷But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.  ⁸We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; ⁹persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.  ¹⁰We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body.  

This Scripture tells us that we have this treasure, this Light of Jesus, inside us.  And it refers to us as “jars of clay.”  If you were to put a light inside just any old jar of clay, you wouldn’t be able to see it.  (Remember the story of Gideon?  The fighting men with Gideon kept their lights inside clay jars until they snuck up on the enemy.  This gave them the element of surprise when they broke the jars.) 

But if you put a light in a jar with a few cracks, the light seeps out of those little fissures and can be seen by anyone in the room.  The more cracks, the more light shows through.  God was telling me, “Stop slathering on the glue!  Let those cracks remain.  They are how other people see my light through your earthen vessel.” 

So, this Jar O’Clay is doing just that.  How do you like the new crackle finish?  I hope it’s illuminating.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Really, Dude? Really?

The M&I of BBMI, Ink., play in a 10-and-under kid pitch baseball league.  It’s part of the parks and rec department of the little town where they go to school.  We’ve played in this league for five seasons and have found it to be mostly family-friendly and not too serious. 

Most of the parents and coaches are there for the fun of it and use it as an introduction to baseball for their kids.  We all learn the rules with them (like no more than six runs per inning, no dropped third strike, sliding into home is required when the catcher may have a play, etc.).

Before the kids could hit the ball out of the infield, we’d get distracted by the right fielder (who shall remain nameless but resides somewhere near me) as he busted a move to the music he heard in his head.  The Hustle came to mind as he danced away his boredom.  Since the kids have grown and the hits are harder, the outfielders actually have to pay attention and chase balls now and then.

Last night, I witnessed something I’d only heard about.  Something that I thought only took place in big-city leagues where “tournament teams” play every night till all hours of the morning.  The home plate umpire was utilizing a very large strike zone.  I don’t think this is uncommon in the early stages of kid pitch.  If they didn’t use a generous strike zone, every kid would walk.  These rookie pitchers have a hard time getting it close to the plate without beaning the batter. 

Blue was calling the same strike zone for both teams.  He was very consistent, to say the least.  The coach on the other team didn’t say a word when his pitcher got the liberal zone, but when our team batted, Dude took umbrage.  Well, maybe outrage.  He complained in the first inning.  The umpire ignored him.

In the second inning, Dude called time out and walked toward home from the third base coach’s box.  The umpire calmly walked to him and had a quiet conversation.  I’m assuming he explained that arguing balls and strikes is not acceptable and the game resumed.

In the third inning, Dude complained.  Loudly.  Again, the ump walked down to the coach, had a calm conversation, and then showed the “gentleman” the gate.  I tried not to clap, but I did anyway. 

Really, Dude?  Really?  You really think it’s necessary to argue balls and strikes?  In a league made up mostly of third and fourth graders?  What is this teaching our kids?  That authority figures get it wrong most of the time and it’s okay to make a fool out of yourself in public over a BASEBALL GAME?

I was mortified for the man, for his kid, and for their team.  I was also concerned that our boys might be traumatized by the whole thing.  After the game was over, our coach mentioned the incident in his post-game pep talk (we won, by the way).  The kids’ reaction:  “He got thrown out?  When did that happen?”  I guess they were too busy PLAYING a GAME to notice.  They were probably doing The Hustle at the time.

Really, Dude, you should really learn The Hustle.  It would add years to your life.

So Minty!

Yesterday, for my birthday, The Hubster and M&I took me out to brunch.  We went to Yia Yia’s, one of my favorite places for brunch buffet.  It was magnificent!  I had a banana for dinner, if that tells you how much I ate!

Those of you who have been to a restaurant with BBMI, Ink., will not be surprised when I tell you that Isaac excused himself from the table to visit the restroom.  More than once.  Yes, even at age 10, my boys are still fascinated by public restrooms.  I’m wondering if their teachers battle this urge all day at school.

They’ve asked that we install a urinal in their bathroom at home.  “That would be so cool,” Max said, “especially if we could get the kind that flushes itself!”  Because we tend to have flushing problems here at home (and I’ll leave the rest to your imagination), we’re taking it under serious consideration.

As we were leaving the restaurant to begin our 20 minute trek home, we all visited the facilities.  The Hubster came out chuckling.  He pulled me aside.  “Does the Ladies Room have mouthwash and little cups on the counter for everyone to use?”  It does.  Yia Yia’s apparently feels responsible for its patron’s breath as they exit, so they provide what appears to be Scope on the sink vanities.  How thoughtful!

“Isaac thought it was soap, so he’s been washing his hands with it,” The Hubster continued.  It was in a pump-top dispenser, so I guess that makes sense.

When we got in the car, I asked the I-man, “So, you’ve been using mouthwash to wash your hands?  Didn’t you notice the mint smell?”

“Yeah, but I just thought it was mint soap.  Well, anyway, my hands will have good breath for the rest of the day.”

I guess that’s always a good idea, especially if you’re like me, and tend to talk with your hands.  Maybe I’ll try the new Scope hand/mouth soap/wash.

Kari and the Swimsuit

I come from a long line of storytellers.  We love to regale our listeners with a good tale that is ripe with humor and irony.  If that humor is self-deprecating, it’s even better.  My Grandpa Pearlie could tell a tale that would have you laughing and crying and begging for more.  We’d throw him a little bait:  “Grandpa, remember that time you took a walk with Harry Truman…” and he’d be off like a long-distance runner, spinning a yarn that you were pretty sure was true.

Pearlie’s storytelling talents are alive and well in his great-grandchildren.  My niece, Kari, told us a story just recently that was very Pearlie-esque.  Okay, maybe not the subject matter (bathing suits – I don’t think Grandpa owned one!), but the delivery was spot-on.  Kari gave me permission to re-tell the tale here, without changing any names.  That’s a true Herndon storyteller hallmark, if ever I’ve seen one.  I’ll try to do her justice.  

Kari and her sister, Mitzi, decided to take Mitzi’s boys to their local YMCA pool.  Now, before we can proceed, I have to describe Kari.  Think of me.  Now think of the antithesis of me (at least physically) and you have Kari.  She’s tall.  In fact, she’s downright statuesque, come to think of it.  She teaches Selah Yoga classes at the very Y they were about to visit.  In her spare time, she does P90X with her cute husband.  Suffice it to say, she’s fit.  I’ll stop there, but you get the picture.  Or, you could just look at this picture:

Kari decided that none of her current swimsuits were Y-appropriate.  After all, the name of the Y is the Springfield FAMILY Y (caps necessary) and she didn’t think any of her bikinis were family-friendly enough for her employer’s pool.  Honestly, she’s probably never been to my Y’s pool in the summer.  Her bikinis would have been considered granny suits there, but that’s a different blog.

After a brief search, she found an old one piece suit.  It was her lifeguarding suit she used 16 years ago.  She decided to wear it.  Now there are two questions we need to address here.  First, you ask, why does she still have a bathing suit that is 16 years old?  It makes perfect sense if you know Kari’s maternal heritage.  Think “Hoarders.”  Back up a few degrees on the packrat scale and you’ve got my sister-in-law’s family.  They keep everything, including old swimsuits. This is something we Herndons watch in wonderment.  We are the antithesis of these species.  My latest thrill is watching the trash guy haul off my full-to-overflowing recycling dumpster every two weeks.  I love to throw stuff away.  Keep a swimsuit for 16 years?  Unheard of in my upbringing.  Par for the course in Kari’s world.

Our second question would be:  How in the world did she get in to it?  Who amongst us can wear a swimsuit he or she wore 16 years ago?  Anyone?  I didn’t think so.  But that just shows you Kari’s fitness.  Mitzi said Kari’s words were something like, “Hey!  I found an old one-piece from when I was a life-guard in high school!  It still fits so I think I’ll wear it!”  You men may not understand the gravity of that statement but any woman reading this would do the exact same thing if she could.  It’s just a matter of principle to a female.  And a matter of gravity, come to think of it.

Kari did notice that the seat was a little saggy and the fabric felt “a little tacky, somehow sticky and strange” but that didn’t stop her.  They had two little boys to take swimming and away they went without hesitation.

When the boys got into the pool, the lifeguards told Mitzi and Kari that they had to have adults with them in the water.  “No problem,” thought our fearless Kari, and in she jumped.

Apparently, Lycra/Spandex does not age well.  As soon as she hit the water, Kari began to feel a strange tugging and pulling.  The elasticity of the suit was somehow dissolving in the chlorine-laden water.  It was pulling tighter and tighter across the front and the saggy seat was now filling with water and floating behind her.  She looked at her sister:  “Mitzi, what’s wrong with this suit?” 

I think Mitzi’s eyes must have told the story.  Because Mitzi’s mouth couldn’t.  Her upper respiratory system was too busy convulsing with laughter.  (In fact, as they told us this story on Mother’s Day, fresh tears were pouring out of our eyes, and air was gasped as Kari told the tale with Mitzi chiming in with details.)

That day in the pool, when she finally stopped laughing/crying, Mitzi gasped, “It looks like body paint!”  The fabric continued to pull tighter and tighter in the ship’s bow while billowing up in a red train at the stern.  Kari decided the best place for her to stay was underwater in the deep end.  She hovered neck deep while the boys and Mitzi played nearby.  “Aunt Kari,” the boys would call, “come play with us over here in the shallow part!” 

“No thanks, boys.  I’ll just stay over here for now.  I’m having fun, aren’t you?”  Who wouldn’t think it was fun being a part of a really warped science experiment? 

When it came time to leave, Kari wasn’t willing to merely climb out of the pool.  She was a little worried about what might be revealed and who would be reveling in it.  The girls decided the best solution was a towel.  Between giggling fits, Mitzi extended a beach towel arms’ width at the top of the pool ladder.  Kari quickly climbed out and wrapped the towel around all the important parts. 

So far, she has received no letters of complaint from the Y and she’s still teaching Selah.  We’re praying no children were traumatized by the sight of a grown woman in a 16 year old swimsuit.  I just hope everyone forgot their swim goggles that day…

Kari’s Herndon heritage took over.  The swimsuit is now in the trash.  And the story will be repeated for years to come.

School Lunch

When my kids ask me to come to school and have lunch with them, my initial reaction is always a conversation in my brain that goes something like this:  “Quick, Self!  Think of an excuse that will get you out of this!  You’ve got cleaning to do!  You’ve got the great American novel to write!  Anything!  Think, Woman, Think!”  But the answer that comes out of my mouth is more like:  “Okay, I’ll be there.  What do you want me to pick up?”

My main motivation for saying yes most of the time is quite simple.  I know the day is coming, very quickly I’m sure, when I will no longer be asked.  I don’t think my kids consider me cool now, but I haven’t hit the pariah stage that all parents breach when their kids turn 12 or 13.  You know, the “Drop me off a block away, Mom.  I’ll walk…” stage.

I’ve actually considered that the real reason my boys want me to come to school is not so that I can have lunch with them.  No, I’ve always assumed it was so I could bring lunch to them.  There are a few fast-food places between our house and the school and they get to pick which one shows up with me at school.  And, since we all expect full disclosure here, I really don’t want to eat whatever the school cafeteria is serving up either, so a sandwich from Subway or a burger from Sonic works just great for me, too.

I’d always assumed that was their motivation until today.  As we sat at our special “visitors table” in the lunch room, I noticed the school lunch of the day was pizza with a side of frozen yogurt.  And, honestly, it looked pretty good.  I said to M, “Wow.  You’d rather have Sonic than that?  It looks pretty good to me.”

His answer floored me.  I haven’t been able to think of much else since.  “Yeah, but it’s not you.”  I had him repeat it, because even with these new-fangled hearing aids, I wasn’t sure I was getting it straight.

“That school lunch isn’t you, Mom.  I’d rather have Sonic with you.”

I’ve never had a hamburger and limeade that tasted so good.  Who knew that a mother’s heart could be melted right there in a school lunch room…  Heck, the Wicked Witch of the West has nothing on me.  Don’t mind that steamy puddle of mush.  It’s just me.

The Deodorant Story

I wrote the following for a newsletter I help edit for our church's Women's Ministry.  I decided to share it with a "wider audience" here.  Hope you don't mind the re-run!

I have ten year old boys.  (They are the “M” and “I” of BBMI, Ink, in case you were wondering.)  God uses them almost daily to teach me life lessons and truths about Him.  Such was the case a few weeks ago.  As we stood in line at a church luncheon, my senses went on full alert.  About the time my nose detected the distinct aroma of Old Spice deodorant, my eyes discovered white marks on a boy’s shirt.  (I’ll not tell you which one; he deserves to remain innocently anonymous.)

“Oh, man,” I said to him.  “You got deodorant on your shirt this morning when you pulled it over your head.  Maybe we should try to get that off…”  Then I discovered a shocking fact:  The white mark wasn’t just in a small spot on his shirt.  It ranged from the hem, all the way up the side seam, through the arm pit area, and down to the cuff of the sleeve. 

They were masterful, perfectly drawn lines.  Yes, I say, “they” because he’d accomplished this artistry under both arms!  White stripes on a red shirt.  I couldn’t leave well enough alone, so of course, I asked, “What happened?  Did you do this on purpose?”

His reply makes perfect sense if you are a ten year old boy:  “You told me to put on deodorant before we left.  I already had my shirt on and I was in a hurry so I just put it on the outside.”

It’s hard, but you have to suppress the giggles that often come with motherhood and discipline.  So that not everyone in line would know what was going on, I tried to quietly explain to him that deodorant goes on our skin.  That’s how it works.  The Hubster, much more science-minded than I, began to expound on the chemical reaction that occurs when sweat and deodorant mix and why it’s called “antiperspirant.”  The glazed look we got from the boy led me to interrupt The Hubster’s discourse and say, “Just don’t do that again.  You have to put the stuff where it belongs for it to work.”

Believe it or not, I got a spiritual lesson from the Great Old Spice Debacle.  As I was studying the Bible in the weeks that followed, God said to me:  “Are you just painting this stuff you’re learning down your sleeves and all over the outside of your clothes?  Or, are you putting it where it will really work:  on the inside?”  You see, for God’s Word to make a difference in my life, I have to apply it correctly.  I have to allow it to interact with my soul’s chemistry.  When I allow this to happen, my heart and my mind begin to change. 

What are you doing with the stuff you’re learning these days from God’s Word?  Is it changing you from the inside out?  Or, are you merely painting it on the outside because you don’t have “time” to let it do its chemistry?  Apply it according to the directions: “I have hidden your word in my heart that I might not sin against you.”  (Psalm 119:11)