Mary Bernard

As if I’m not already reminded daily (with three children that go 100 mph on air, apple juice, and ten hours of sleep) that I lack much in the energy and vitality departments, I must now face my pre-geriatric reality at work.

I’ve only worked in a few offices, but I would classify garden-variety office employees into three groups:

1. the kids
2. old
3. decrepit

I know you’ve worked with the decrepit folks before. They’ve been on the job for 100 years. They’ve weathered lay-offs and restructurings. They’ve accrued six months of vacation and disappear for weeks at a time to redeem said vacation because they’ll lose it if they don’t. These seasoned veterans possess deep secrets, like where the good pen stash is hidden and how the postage machine works. Their desks are decorated with photos of grand kids in soccer uniforms. They have yard sales out of their cubicles.

The “old” guys are usually in managerial positions. In the “prime of life,” they have either found their niche in their profession or are about to make the next transition to success.

I always regarded the office old folks (about ten years ahead of me) with reverence. They were real grown-ups but had not yet checked out. They had mortgages and mini-vans. They had kids who took dance and went on family vacations. They cut the grass on the weekends.

They were—gasp!—in their forties.

So I’ve always been way below the “old” and “decrepit” categories. I’ve been one of the “kids” who sees movies on opening weekend, reads People, and could not—not even under duress—quote the Nickelodeon preschool morning line-up. I actually remember an office discussion circa 2001 where I was clueless as to who Spongebob was. Clueless. Now? I hum Spongebob songs in the shower and have a Squidward quote on my Facebook page.

At my new part-time job, I’m facing the reality that I’m an “old guy” now. Chattering about pregnancy and labor, children’s programming, and the decline of property values and home equity, I’ve moved into that category. Sadly, I’m displaying all the blandness of the “old” category without much of the “professional successful prime-of-life” aspects.

I’m working a few hours each week as an administrative assistant for a successful company that specializes in web-based training programs. I’m thinking a job at this company for someone in the tech or design fields would be a nice gig. Pleasant company. Growing company. Great future.

Naturally, the place is loaded with new grads or almost-new grads. Lots of people age 25 and under.

I try to fit in with the “kids” at the office. When they start to talk about recipes or weekend outings, I think I’m going to say something fun, youthful, and witty. Instead, most of my comments come out boring and irrelevant. Sometimes I feel like Lane’s dad in Better Off Dead as he consults a handbook of teen lingo when he talks with his son.

One day I was talking to C, a youngish professional, who sits beside me. She’s very friendly and likable. Somehow I tend to relate most of our conversations to the office where I worked before I had children. In my mind, it feels like I just left last month, when it’s been 6.5 years. So, naturally, a lot has changed. It’s actually been TEN years since I started that job.

I managed to turn the conversation that day into “Well, when I worked… blah, blah, blah,” which then became a mini-rant about the idiosyncrasies of a former boss. I was kind of in reminisce-mode-yet-so-glad-I’m-not-there-anymore-mode, while C politely nodded with a glazed-over expression. I concluded with the always-insightful and jovial, “Oh, well. That was ten years ago. 1999.”

C perked up. She said, “Wow. Ten years.”

It then occurred to me that my version of 1999 and C‘s version of 1999 were quite different.

I was beginning a great job, stockpiling bottled water and canned food for the Y2K “catastrophe,” and taking a cruise. I had already been married four years.

“How old were you in 1999?” Bracing for it. Here it comes.

“I was a freshman in high school.”

Uh-huh.

One day, I overheard the group trying to figure out another young woman’s age. They were going through how long she had been married, when she graduated from college, and so on.

Then they said, “She’s got to be ‘our age.'”

Yea. Our age. 30-ish? 30-something? Wait a second. What exactly IS “our age”?

“You know. Like 24, 25.”

And another day, office chatter turned to an Internet posting about a baby who was born at 12:34:56 on 7/8/09 (you see: the 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8, and 9, right?). Anyway, that got us talking about weird birth dates and number combinations.

I just happened to blurt out—from my prehistoric perspective: “Well, I went to school with a girl who was born on 6/6/66. Isn’t that creepy?”

C says, “That’s not that long ago.” (Not really sure why she said that. Maybe she could sense my mental gymnastics with carbon dating and wanted to make me feel a little better? But anyhoo… her comment led to another co-worker’s comment:)

“Yea. She’d be… let’s see.. 43 now.”

Forty-three years ago. You know. Before electricity and air conditioning and frozen dinners.

So my fortieth birthday is still more than a year away, but I can’t help being all contemplative as that milestone approaches.

My new job with the “kids” has just accelerated my timetable, that’s all.

Thursday when I picked up the boys from summer school, their teacher told me of this conversation she had with Spencer:

Spencer: When I grow up I want to be a daddy.
Ms. Teresa: Oh?
Spencer: And have gold teeth.
Ms. Teresa: Gold teeth?
Spencer: Gold teeth.
Ms. Teresa: Gold teeth? (Really confused.)
Spencer (slower): a GO-TEE!
Ms. Teresa: Ohhhhh, a gotee.

A gotee, just like Daddy’s.

Please vote in my poll on the right side of the page. If you’re reading this on Facebook, hop on over to The Writer’s Block and vote.

I’ve been reading Lindsay Ferrier’s blog, Suburban Turmoil, and this post captured my attention and affections. It resonated with me because I, too, have been there.

We women (especially Christian women) are a vicious bunch. We compare ourselves to each other, judge and condemn. Sometimes as much as we TRY to be real, we fall short. We are so caught up in our culture of “measuring up,” that we have become a facade of who we really are.

Just yesterday, I was talking with my friend Jennifer. She made the comment, “Just ‘be yourself.’ Gosh, that’s the hardest thing because it’s so hard to figure out myself!”

I posted to Lindsay’s comment section and also include it for you, below:

Lindsay and other posters,

I haven’t read every other post word for word, so forgive me if I’m repeating someone else.

Here’s the problem: We women are so caught up in comparing ourselves to each other. We feel hopelessly inadequate and when in the company of others, we can’t help but feel the pain of how we fall short (I’m speaking from personal experience here).

For Christian women, this comparison exercise takes another dimension, which is antithetical to the Gospel. But we hold to it, nonetheless. If you do x, then you are more holy. If you don’t do y, then you must have a stronger faith than I. We eventually wind up putting on all sorts of masks and facades so that we can “measure up,” either to real or imagined (human, not God’s) standards. Obviously, we feel empty and alone. And, especially, if we’re not “playing the game” and just want to be ourselves, well, then, we are quite out of place.

I have been a Christian for as long as I can remember (can’t remember a day I didn’t love Jesus) and have been an active church member all my life. I have felt the scorn of other women/other Christians for everything from working outside the home and having unruly kids in worship, to feeding my kids formula or drinking wine.

It’s all human-constructed legalisms! All of it. In the Gospel, there is liberty. I’m not meaning “any and everything goes,” as there are certainly PRINCIPLES mandated in Scripture. But, really, “There is therefore NO condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus!” It’s Jesus, plus or minus nothing.

I don’t think this will ever subside, unfortunately. We are all sinners and we are all more concerned about man’s opinion than God’s opinion. We are hopeless legalists and hunt for ways to make ourselves feel better about ourselves. Aside from the transformation that Christ empowers, we worship ourselves, not God.

The “best” we can do this side of Heaven is exposing such sin as this. You go, girl! With this post and others like it. Say what needs to be said. And celebrate who you are and what God has given you to say.

In our church, I have to say, we are a transparent group of women (and men, too). We try to be real and to embrace the body of Christ in the particular expression of it in our group.

I am certain there are several similar congregations in Gospel-teaching, Gospel-believing churches around our city. I know you said you weren’t looking for “invitations,” but I would love to commend our church to you. We are in Bellevue: Good Shepherd Presbyterian Church (PCA). We are small, but friendly and welcoming.

Oh, and we’re a thoughtful bunch, too. We love those doctrinal debates and discussions! No fluff here. 🙂

I can say with all sincerity that I have at least a half dozen GOOD Christian women friends (all ages) in this season of life to whom I can turn with life’s hardest questions. I can be real and honest, knowing that my concerns are held in strictest confidence, and I do not feel a smidge of judgment or condemnation.

Blessings to you and your family as you navigate these difficult waters.

When my twins were born, I lost my mind.

Then, I found it again, thanks to a precious angel named Audrey.

Audrey came to my home and took care of me–uh, I mean–the babies a few days a week. Audrey would do things like wash/dry/fold my laundry (exactly the way I liked it) AND put it away before I even knew it was dirty. One day she arrived at 9 a.m. with a roast and veggies: “Hey, Mary, I’ll put this in the oven for dinner, OK?” She kept our home neat and took good care of the dog. She expertly anticipated MY every need and the babies’ every need with impeccable timing and consistency.

I really don’t exaggerate when I say that she saved my life during that first year of the babies’ lives.

Last night, Audrey got married.

I wouldn’t have missed her wedding for anything. Not even a torrential downpour on a national holiday.

Not even.

Just as we got in the van to drive the 45 minutes to the wedding (with all three kids, mind you), the raindrops started coming. No biggie, we thought. These summer showers have a tendency to pop up and move out. Plus, when’s the last time we middle Tennesseans remember rainfall on the 4th of July?

We actually had trouble seeing the road at times as we headed east on I-40. When we almost missed our exit because of the blinding rain, we decided this was no pop-up shower.

The wedding was special for many reasons:

• It was at the brides’ home
• It was outdoors
• It was a double wedding (Audrey and her sister, Courtney)
• It was on the Fourth of July
• It was my precious Audrey’s big day!

Rain did not fit in with this picture.

We got there and had to wait in line for the valet. All the valets were soaked from head to toe. We dropped off the van and carefully made our way (read: jumping over puddles and still managing to sink my sandal heel in mud) to the humongous tent. It was kind of bizarre because people were already sitting at the tables, which had obviously been set for the reception. We tried to figure out where to sit, what to do, and finally took a seat at an empty table near the back of the tent.

We decided that perhaps the original plan was to have the ceremony under a beautifully-decorated arch then the people were to move under the tent for the reception. But Plan B dictated that everybody and everyTHING begin under the tent.

The ceremony had to be postponed about 20 minutes because the cars were so backed up. Finally, at 7:20, the ceremony began.

My kids did surprisingly well, despite it was really their bedtime. Seth was a bit grumpy. He had fallen asleep on the way there. I whispered to him, “Look! There’s Ms. Audrey and her sister. Aren’t they beautiful?” He looked over the crowd and said, “All I see are princesses.”

And they did look like princesses. They were gorgeous. The bridesmaids were gorgeous. The decorations were gorgeous.

The ceremony was rather brief. I couldn’t see a thing, except the faint outline of one of the bridesmaids. Every now and then the rain would let up and you could almost hear the guests let out a sigh and a prayer: Maybe it’s stopped? But in a few minutes, we’d hear another roar of thunder and the heavy pitter-pat on the tent. Then, you could hear the ripple of the whispers, “Here it comes again!”

It really was quite a mess. I just felt for Audrey and Courtney and their parents. I know they had had visions of kissing in the sunset while their guests enjoyed fireworks on the grass in the gentle breeze.

Alas, it was not to be.

One of the highlights for me was the port-a-potty. I actually had rehearsed the whole bathroom thing in my mind: where will we go potty? In the poolhouse? Surely not inside the house? Oh, please, no, not one of those gross, chemical, green boxes! Of course I think about this because I have three kids.

Oh, no. This port-a-potty was AMAZING! It was actually nicer than the half bath at our old house. Seriously. It was a little trailer-looking building with three little rooms. I took Seth in. The potty had air conditioning and music playing over a loud speaker. The potty was a real one with water and flushing mechanism (no gross blue chemicals). There was a pretty floor and pretty walls. The counter was large enough to accommodate a bag and the basin was one of those new bowl-types with a sleek, silver faucet fixture. I’m telling you. It was comfortable and attractive. My kind of port-a-potty.

The food (full dinner spread) smelled incredible, but with cranky kids and all the bad weather, we opted to leave. We ran through some sprinkles and got to say hello to Audrey. As we made our way to the van, we overheard Audrey’s mom talking to the guy in charge of the tent. I heard her ask, “How much water will this tent hold?”

Apparently, there was some discussion of the cars getting stuck in the grass/mud combination and we had to creatively “meet” our van at a location other than the drop-off point, which was down the driveway a bit.

As I was expressing my feelings for Audrey and Courtney and what must be disappointment, my realistic husband reminded me: “You know. This really doesn’t matter. What matters is that they are married. In the end, they are married.”

Yes, they are. Congratulations and best wishes!

Today we went swimming with our friends.

Half-wet and half-dry, in cover-ups and bathing suits, I decided that before we went home, we’d make a QUICK trip to our branch library. I had requested some Scooby-Doo videos and REALLY wanted the boys to watch them when we got home. I was hoping to wrap up preparation for my Bible study and really needed the children distracted for some uninterrupted time.

So, after the swim, we dry off enough that we aren’t dripping wet. On our way to the library, we drive through the pharmacy window and drop off a few bottles of meds that need refills.

I get three suckers (one for each child) at the pharmacy window and hand them out to the kids.

Next, we arrive at the library.

Please keep in mind that my three videos are already on the hold shelf with my name on them. Walking from the front door of the library to the hold shelf is no longer a distance than walking from the front door of a McDonald’s to the counter.

We walk in (well, OK, slightly barrel through the front door) and loudly shuffle to the hold shelf. I’m constantly “shushing” the kids as they are screaming about Scooby-Doo and such. I know we are a lovely sight in half-wet clothes with matted hair. I know I look particularly beautiful!

So, we grab the videos and proceed to the self-checkout line. I give each kid a video to scan (they like to hear the beep). I quickly scan my card and type in my PIN.

“Ma’am?”

“Ma’am?” Is she talking to me? I look up. Oh, yes she is.

The librarian is leaning across the desk to the self check-out lane.

“Yes?”

“For the future. Suckers are not allowed in the library.”

What? Suckers? Oh, right. I quickly take inventory of the sucker usage by my kids. Susanna’s is almost gone. Seth’s is in his mouth. Spencer doesn’t have one.

“Oh. I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

“No food or drink in the library. And ESPECIALLY suckers. They tend to get everywhere.”

“OK. Sorry.”

And then I think I got madder and madder standing there, scanning Scooby-Doo movies because:

1. We were in the library for ALL OF two minutes. Seriously.
2. I was beside the sucker-using children the entire two minutes.
3. I know food and drink are not allowed. Had no clue about candy. Really. If you don’t want candy in the library, you need to make that clear. I do not consider candy (or gum) “food” or “drink.”
4. I could understand this woman going out of her way to reprimand me if we had brought a picnic spread inside or my kids were running around unsupervised sticking their gooey suckers everywhere, but that was totally not the case.
5. I can’t help but think her reprimand had a little something to do with our disheveled and somewhat noisy entrance.

So, prideful rebel in me just might pack a few suckers in my purse next time I’m heading to the library.

I’m just sayin’.

My husband Chris is so insightful on matters of theology. I love that you can sense the passion in his writing. He posted these thoughts on his Facebook page. But since he doesn’t have a blog, I’ve stolen his post for a guest spot on mine. Enjoy!

During a recent family conversation, several topics were discussed such as – North Korea, the civil unrest in Iran, the economy – you know those upbeat topics we love to chat about at the dinner table! Anyway, the one theme that seems to rise to the top of these conversations is the “end times.” When is Jesus coming back? Is it soon? The common Evangelical sentiment is yes, these are indeed the “last days.” However, I believe we are not taking this question far enough. Yes it may be the end, not of the world, but of America as we know. We see government getting larger and larger, our politicians becoming more inept and corrupt, and our economy and energy being at the mercy of foreign nations.

So what does this mean? It means nothing more today than it did yesterday or the day before that. God is on His throne and Jesus is not waiting to see the nukes fly across the sky to “rapture” His Church. Believe it or not, the Church was thriving and growing across Asia almost 2,000 years before America was settled by the colonies. The early Church was also facing torture and persecution the likes of which the American Church has never seen in its proclamation of the Gospel. Did I say Gospel? I’m sorry – forgive me – I assumed the American church proclaims the same Gospel as our early church fathers. Well, we don’t do that so much here anymore. We proclaim prosperity, positive thinking, and how to better one’s self and throw in a couple of Biblical references and mention “God” enough to sell the message as “Christian” and call it “ministry” instead of commerce.

So what am I getting at here? The return of Jesus Christ is not dependent on the safety and security of America. The Church is thriving and growing in the underground churches of numerous other nations that are openly hostile and violent towards followers of Christ. American Christians often assume that America is somehow the lynchpin of God’s redemptive purposes or a Theocracy that is central to carrying out God’s will, neither of which is Biblically or historically sound. I believe it is because the role of the Church in America has become so watered down in attempts to be “relevant” that we have abdicated our role in the arts, science, medicine, economics, and government. Where the Church leaves a void, in comes the government and the fallen culture to fill in the gaps.

Can we accept that if America as we know it somehow ceased to be that Jesus Christ would still be sovereign and the Gospel would continue to go forth? How then should we live? We should live, work, and rest in the fact the we have been in the “last days” since Christ’s Ascension and have endured World Wars, a Great Depression, the Holocaust, and many other catastrophes in this world and the Church has remained. Jesus said the gates of Hell shall not prevail against His Church. Do we believe it? Can we persevere as American Christians and pray for our leaders to repent and lead with wisdom and integrity rather than stockpiling our homes for doomsday and watching the skies for His return? The race is not over so let’s not give up while the great cloud of witnesses spurs us onward. In always looking for “the end”, we Christians sincerely miss the work God has for us here and now.

I’m not sure, but I may explode within the next few days.

During the last 24 hours, I have logged some time working 3 of 4 of my part-time jobs. I am writing/editing, doing bookkeeping/admin work for church, doing admin work for PureSafety, and marketing Melaleuca products.

Oh, yeah, and I have a full-time job of wife and mom.

Chris and I decided that we would work really hard to get on our feet and tackle our debt in an effort to reduce some of the financial stress.

I love doing all of of my jobs. But some days there’s just not enough of me to go around, to meet the deadlines, to keep all the knowledge sorted in the brain, to drive here and there.

We are grateful for the extra work. GRATEFUL. And I really enjoy it. I just need a few more hours in my days.

~~~

As if I didn’t have enough going on, I’m also teaching our Ladies’ Bible Study this summer. Yikes! Yikes! and Yikes! This is something I’ve wanted to do for ages, so on one level I am thrilled. On another level, I’m scared to death. I’m humbled (and properly so) as I remember the verse that says:

Not many of you should become teachers, my brothers, for you know that we who teach will be judged with greater strictness. James 3:1

Sobering.

Also, I’m writing my own study (you didn’t expect me to take the easy route, did you?). It’s all about the centrality of the Word in women’s lives. We are looking at all the distractions and deceptions of our culture and how we Christian women open ourselves to being swept along with the culture primarily because we neglect the Word of God.

Prayers, please!

~~~

Today we met some friends for a little swim time in their neighborhood pool. We had fun, and the kids did great. I really can’t believe that I’m taking all 3 to the pool now by myself. Whoa! What a difference a year makes. Anyway, today, I was pulling Spencer around on a noodle and he asked, “Mom, could Jesus swim?”

How cute is that?

I said, “I don’t know.”

What I should have said was, “He didn’t have to. He could walk on water.” But Chris was like, “Of course he could swim. He made the water.”

But I’m like, “I don’t know. In his humanity, swimming would have been something he would have had to learn. Humans aren’t born knowing how to swim. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t.”

What do you think?

~~~

I totally have some strong opinions about Jon and Kate and the debacle their marriage and impending divorce have become. I think the biggest lesson for us here is to be careful, lest we, too, are led astray by whatever sparkles and catches our eye.

My sense—and this is only my rather uninformed opinion—is that her constant berating pummeled her poor husband to a shell of a man. Instead of responding as he should have, he rebelled and did, indeed, commit indiscretions. The two of them are now so far past preserving the integrity of the marriage that their relationship is irreparable.

Sadly, I don’t think either cares much. I don’t sense either has much to lose by being divorced. They will still go on with their show, their speaking engagements, traveling, and book deals. By now, the fame and money have outfitted them with nannies and bodyguards and housekeepers. Heck yeah—this “new arrangement” is preferable to actually living together, turning off the TV cameras, stopping the cash flow, working on the marriage, actually being at home with 8 kids all day, and dealing with the mundanity of ordinary life.

Of course, the children are the victims. I fear that once all of this blows over—whether it’s within the next few months or few years—the relationships between parents and kids will be forever altered. I think Jon and Kate mostly see the effect on themselves. My concern is they are not really evaluating from a “big picture” view because they really don’t want to say goodbye to the fame and the money.

I am declaring an all-out war on:

Why? Oh, I don’t know. Just to make my own disheveled self feel better, I suppose.

See, I’m forever plagued by living in limbo. Some days I live in the Land of I’m OK With Me and some days I live in the Land of I’d Really Like to Be Like You.

I leave the house for preschool in no makeup, hair in ponytail, Target tee shirt with stains and holes, feeling OK. Like, I know I look rough, but, hey—this is me. This is me in the morning. With 3 kids. And a dog. And 4 part-time jobs. This is me. Sweaty and hot. Most likely forgot (yes! I ACTUALLY forgot!) to brush my teeth. This is me. I’m not a morning person. And it was all I could do this morning to get kids out of the house.

(Is there something wrong with me???)

And then I arrive at preschool in the Land of the Beauty and Perfection at Nine in the Morning.

Helllll-ooooo! It’s preschool, people.

Yes. I’ve been assaulted with these comparisons to the other Munchkin Moms since Susanna began Mother’s Day Out at 18 months old. I thought it was the unwritten rule that we moms stick together with our sleep-deprived expressions, sweat pants, and stinky morning breath—because, you know, we forgot (yes! actually forgot!) to brush our teeth.

Lincoln Navigators aside (because I drool over any vehicle that features a driver-side back door), these moms—in my estimation—were pretty much close to perfect.

I remember Michelle. Long, sparkling blonde hair (yes, it really did sparkle) and the sweetest voice. Her disposition matched her hair. She was cute-pregnant. Not beached whale-pregnant but round basketball/glowing-pregnant. She was the toddler mom who wore a smile and impeccably placed mascara everyday, all day. She always smelled nice. And her clothes matched. And her nails were painted.

And then there was Erika. That’s Erika Page, former “One Life to Live” soap opera star who is married to country singer Bryan White. Only in Nashville do your kids take naps next to the country star’s kids. Erika’s little boy and my two boys were in the same class. Erika had had two babies, but she was a size 2—well, OK, maybe a size 4. Her beautiful, long black hair never seemed to get in her way or become drenched with sweat in the 90-degree heat. She, too, was beautiful. But not fussy-beautiful. Oh, and her lashes looked like perfectly placed spiders, but not the scary kind. Just the kind of spiders women hope their mascara produces.

This past year country singer and Cast Away star Lari White‘s daughter was in preschool with the boys. That was kind of fun, snapping pics side by side at the Christmas program with Lari White. I don’t remember bumping into her much in the parking lot or hallways. But I’ll go ahead and say she was impeccably dressed and beautifully made-up at 9 a.m., since I’m in my world of Perfect Moms and generalizing and all. (I really just wanted to ask her what Tom Hanks is really like.)

And now, I’m haunted by K (I won’t disclose her name here). She looks like she’s 18. Long blonde hair. I’m sure it won’t surprise you to know that her mascara, also, gorgeously enhances her lashes. Her waist is smaller than my six-year-old’s. Surely, the Barbie doll was modeled after her. When I see her, I really just can’t help but stare. I’m sure I kind of stand there with mouth agape, as I analyze the technique behind the beautifully-placed pink eye shadow.

Will I ever be free from my tendency to compare myself to others? Just when I think I’m making progress in this area, a Lincoln Navigator pulls up in the preschool parking lot and some movie star mom jumps out wearing size 6 jeans. She’s got two beautiful black spiders on her eyelids.

The only thing on my eyelids are beads of sweat.

God, help me.

If you like curry and/or Indian food, give this dish a try! It’s from the Crockpot lady’s website. The author of this website vowed to use her crockpot everyday of the year in 2008. Well, she did, and she blogged about it everyday. I love her blog.

Tonight we had her dish, and Chris loved it. The flavors were very good, and the veggies gave a nice texture and taste … PLUS we ate things we usually don’t eat and I would never dream of throwing together (chick peas, sweet potato, eggplant). Trust me, it’s good. Susanna even loved it (well, OK… she just ate the chicken, but she liked the flavors).

If you’re looking for something new, cook this one.

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I’m so hot. It’s been in the mid-90s today with the heat index near 100. I don’t think our A/C has stopped running all day. The thermostat has consistently read 78 or higher, even with all the ceiling fans going. I hate being hot. I hate being sweaty. I love having the A/C cranked low and being cool. The worse thing, I believe, is sweating all night and waking up with sticky wet hair and p.j.s. Anyway, it’s hot.

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I did like at least 8 loads of laundry today (washed/dried/folded–almost put away). I can’t remember the last time I was able to do back to back laundry. Every tablecloth/sheet/towel/mattress cover was dirty PLUS the normal stuff. I think I have one more load then I’ll be caught up to where the only things dirty are the clothes we’re wearing. I love that. And I enjoy it for about 24 hours before the piles start forming again. I feel like I’m always fighting with the laundry and the laundry always wins. (It taunts me and giggles and cackles at me from the recesses of the laundry room…)

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Pondering today the meaning of the biblical call to being my husband’s helper. It’s been a LONG time since I’ve really meditated on that role and what it looks like in my life. This post got me thinking along those lines.

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Every once in awhile I come up with a really brilliant idea. Well, I have to say that my idea to hire my 12-year-old next door neighbor to be a Mommy’s Helper for the summer has been one of my best to date! Angie has now come over two weeks. We have her schedule mapped out for the summer, which amounts to one day/week for about 4 hours each visit (there’s a few weeks she’s out of town). I pay her $5/hour for playing with the kids, watching them, helping them with whatever they need help with, doing crafts, reading, and so on. I’m at home working, so close by if she needs something, but I’m getting stuff done! She gets some great hands-on babysitting experience. The kids absolutely love her, and she’s so great with them. She’s very mature, very conscientious. I am just so thrilled with our arrangement and look forward to a long babysitting relationship with Angie.

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