Kids Do the Darnedest Things

Kids Do the Darnedest Things

 Mr. 4-Ever was out of town so
I was alone watching the tornado’s swirling formations on the weather channel

when sirens started blaring their warning.
Outside, the sky was greenish gray and there wasn’t a wisp of wind.
Almost simultaneously, a text notification beeped on my cell phone.

A tornado warning had been issued and my house was in its path.

Suddenly, the back door banged open and
Eli, my firefighter son, burst in calling loudly,

“Mom!
Mom!
Where are you?”

“I’m in the office, Eli.
What are you doing here?”

“Mom, I heard the warning on my scanner and
I came over to be with you in case you were scared.”

Before I could even get the
Aww, that’s so sweet of you
out of my mouth, he started issuing directives. 

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Remembering the First Day of School

Now an empty nester, I watch the school bus drive by my house filled with other mother’s children. While I do like my french fry & debris free car, a refrigerator from which food does not mysteriously disappear, and the peace and quiet that comes with this season, I’m reminiscing about the first day I took my oldest to school. This 20 year old bittersweet memory seems like yesterday. Maybe you can relate?

The wind blew hard today; it was a sign of the times.
A change of season in the weather and in our lives.

schoolbus sign

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Burning Coals and Great Rewards

Do you have anyone in your life that’s a handful?
You know, really irritating?
Downright challenging?
Yeah, me, too.

One of my fathers-in-law was a cop.  He bragged about riding motorcycles year-round in the ‘60s. “Heck, yes, (except he didn’t say heck) it was cold. We’d wrap our legs with newspaper as insulation under our uniforms. The department wasn’t full of wimps, women and weaklings like it is now.” 

A real charmer, that one. 

At least when I had to be around him, his sweet wife kept the peace by buffering his insults and verbal assaults with graceful scoldings and smiles.

Then . . . his wife died. 

Suddenly, I became the primary caregiver for that cantankerous man! 

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Mary or Martha. . . Becoming My Own Object Lesson!

My son’s room was a disaster area.

Stacks of magazines, motorcycle paraphernalia, and

a week’s worth of socks and underwear covered the floor.

He had one little bitty space on his huge desk that

wasn’t covered with paper or doodads or books.

The bed was disheveled and the window blinds were all catawampus.

How could a kid whose brain organized data to get straight As live in this chaos?

When he invited me in to talk, I hesitated at the doorway.

He was wearing a sad face and a T-shirt that read:

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