Whose Hair Is This?!?!

Let me set the scene:

Late morning. Tuesday. Weather is drizzly. Room is messy. Culprit is seven and sassy.

The girls are at school and I'm putting some clothes away. MM's dresser has two long, narrow drawers at the top that are good for nothing. Especially when you're a kid and can't reach them without a step ladder. I wondered what she's put in them and as I slowly opened the drawer and peeked inside....

What?! Horror!! What is this?! WHOSE hair is this?!?!?!

Now, let me take a step back and tell you a story. Once upon a time, there were two little girls. These girls loved scissors. These girls loved their hair. But these girls never once in ten years cut their very own hair. They cut lots (and lots) of paper. But hair? No. Why? It's a mystery. A blessed Christmas miracle of a mystery.

One day (two months ago) the seven year old girl, who had long, thick blonde hair, decided she wanted bangs. She begged her mom and her mom, being the mean old thing that she is, said, "No."

Oh, the wailing. Oh, the frustration. Oh, the seven-year old's determination to be her own person. She decided to take matters into her own scissor-wielding hands. She found the sharpest, shiniest scissors around and.... snip! Now this girl wanted bangs, but she wasn't as bold as she thought (and feared her mother's wrath) so instead of cutting all of her hair, she cut one 1/4 inch wide piece, but only a half inch from her scalp. 

The effect? Ridiculous. The punishment? Ridicule. (Not really, but some definite sighing and exasperated, "What did you do, that's sticking straight out of your forehead now!!" comments.)

This is after two months of growing out...

Did she learn her lesson? Yes! 

The End.

Or was it....

Fast forward out of the story to Tuesday. The messy room, the drawer, the shock... The HAIR. You remember, right?

My heart started pounding and I started wondering. Did I see her, I mean really SEE her this morning? Was I paying attention to her head? What was she was wearing today? It was shoes with a hole in the toe, no socks and shorts when it's pouring down rain - I was looking at that instead of her head, wasn't I? Was it all a deliberate ploy by her so I wouldn't look at her head?!? Oh man. She's not that devious!

I started frantically searching around her room for some explanation. I opened the closet and... 

The After

AHHHHHH!!!!!

Wow! Well, hmmm. This Barbie Styling Head used to have enough hair to actually.... style. And there's another doll next to this, also with some very short hair pieces, which I think the ponytail have actually may have come from. Barbie's hair is so weirdly shiny and sleek, it doesn't quite match. But, wow! That IS a haircut she gave Barbie!

The Before

Well, I know we've been more lucky than some families in the child-haircutting department. And thank goodness that:

A. She's not devious!

B. I'm not so oblivious that I didn't notice that much hair missing from her head when she left for school!

And, you know, Babs doesn't look so bad. Maybe she's got a future as a stylist!

I Feel Like Breaking The World

I was in the store this afternoon and from an aisle somewhere behind me I heard a child in the throes of a tantrum. I'm very (very) familiar with these particular sounds. This wasn't your usual I-want-candy-and-mom-said-no kind of breakdown, though. Again, this sounded so familiar. 

I've always said that Monster Me has needed anger management classes since birth. She has had a fighting spirit since she was born. She gets SO frustrated which turns right into rage. I know this is pretty common with kids, but I feel like she's different, well she's different from Adventure Girl, anyway. I remember when she was about one, I suddenly heard bloody-murder-screaming from her room during nap time. I seriously jumped up and booked it in there, thinking someone had crawled through the window and was torturing her or something. What did I walk in on? Her in her crib with a sock on one hand, screaming in rage because she couldn't get the other sock on her other hand because well... she had a sock on the sock-putting-on hand.

I'm telling you, with MM I didn't say "no" or "don't touch that" over and over. The things I said the most were, "Take a deep breath. Use words. Breath with me. Ask for help. How can I help you?"

I could see frustration building in her with nowhere to go. She would say, through gritted teeth, "I just want to hurt something!! I just want to rip this apart! I just want to break this!!" 

Back to the store. This mama and her five or six year old girl got in line behind me. This sweet thing had long blonde braids, like my sweet thing. This girl wasn't screaming or kicking, just crying and angry and frustrated over whatever had happened. And she kept crying, "I feel like breaking this cart! I feel like breaking the world!"

I got out to my car and tears filled my eyes. I don't know why that struck my heart so much. It was like seeing my own child from an outsider's view. Seeing her frustration without my own frustrated, embarrassed, can't-control-my-own-child, emotions. And I heard her. I felt her need to do something physical to release the frustration. (Because, honestly, don't we ALL feel that way sometimes?)

And her mother. Oh, her mother. Yelling at her to STOP IT? No. Hissing at her to control herself? No. Outwardly expressing embarrassment over her girl's behavior? No. Making excuses to all the other people in line? No. She had her arm around her. She was silent. She was comforting. She may have been inwardly feeling those things. She may have gotten to her car and put her child in, then leaned against the door with tears streaming down her face while she did some deep breathing. (As I have done too many times to count.) But she was calm. She was showing love instead of annoyance. She let her child feel what she was feeling. I could have learned a lot from her. 

So many times MM has told me she feels like being violent when she's angry. I've tried giving her acceptable ways of physically expressing that, like screaming into a pillow, punching a pillow, throwing her pillows against her bed. Poor pillows. But better them than Adventure Girl, who's borne a lot of the brunt of Hurricane Monster Me.

We've made some progress, although even at seven years old we have had massive meltdown public tantrums. I, unlike this store-mama, am not calm, cool and collected. I do all of those things that she didn't do. I am embarrassed that I can't control my child. I'm frazzled and just want it to STOP. I've dragged her along the ground to the car at parks because she pulls the boneless body melt when I pick her up. I've wondered if the police are being called as she's screaming, "NO! NO! NO!" as I try to bolt her into the car.

But, there's progress. I'm assuming (praying) that as a teenager or adult she will have tools to manage her emotions. I don't know. I may be visiting her in jail, but I think she'll (we'll) make it.

All of this to say... these are little (and bigger and some really big) hearts with big emotions and feelings. They are learning. We, as parents, are learning. Our children need tools. Maybe beyond punching a pillow. It's ok to recognize that. 

It's also ok to cheer another mom on who is in the midst of the struggle. In fact, it should be something we strive to do. Whether it's something you've gone through with your own children or not. Moms need to feel like they're not alone. 

Interestingly enough, I said something to this mom, but in the end it was ME who felt like I wasn't alone. Maybe that's where the tears came from. 

Behind the facebook-"fabulous", instagram-"wonderful", pinterest-"perfect" world, there are real people who are struggling. Real women who feel like they don't measure up. Real marriages at the breaking point. Real children who feel like breaking the world. If we step out of hiding, we'll realize we're not alone. You are not alone! And I have lots of pillows if you need to punch one.

The Mug That Healed the World. Or Something Like That...

Fact:
I love hot drinks. I love big, fun mugs. 
Put them together? Bliss.

Fact:
I love mugs. I love my kids. 
I should love the mugs they make me. Should.

Monster Me made this adorable mug for me in Sunday School for Mother's Day. Oh my goodness! 
A: Hello, best teacher award! 
B: Could that little drawing of her holding a heart BE any cuter?!?!

She was so excited to give this to me. I had to cover my eyes while she brought it out and everything. I love this mug.

The problem is... I don't really like drinking out of this mug. It's not my style. It's tippy. It's small. I can.not. get enough coffee into this tiny receptacle to bring joy to my day. I'd much rather choose one of my big mugs that I consider an old friend, something sturdy and colorful with enough room that it takes half of the coffee pot to fill it up. (Because who wants to fill up a mug multiple times an hour. That could indicate...like...a problem...or something...)

Monster Me sometimes asks if I'm going to choose her mug to drink out of when I'm making coffee. Uh.... suuuuuure. Sometimes I hide it on the top shelf. Out of sight, out of mind and all that jazz. 

This makes me sound like a selfish mother. Choosing mug love over child love. I gotta be honest, some days are just like that. Some weeks are just like that.

This week has been rough for me and Monster Me. (By the way, her online nickname is Monster Me because she is the manifestation of the "monster" that lives in me and longs to get out - she just releases it all into the world. Haha!) We've been fighting and bickering and we don't like each other very much right now. That happens when you're confronted with yourself sometimes, and it's hard when yourself is in the form of a tiny strong-willed child.

I guess I'm the parent (ugh!) so it's my responsibility (double ugh!) to take control of the situation. I needed some warmth this afternoon so I decided to make some coffee and as I gazed into my mug cupboard I thought about a small way I could show her some love. I chose THE mug. She came home from school after a bad day (WHAT is in the air right now?!?!) and her face lit up when she saw the mug in my hand.

"You chose my mug!" (Read: you chose me.) That's right, kiddo. 

This afternoon had 85% less tears. 50% less dramatic sighing (from me.) 90% less yelling (from both of us.) And 100% more smiles than yesterday.

I'm thinking of dubbing this the Miracle Mug.

Now this is all just a shallow example of an attempt at mending a relationship. Does it take more than a mug? Yes. Does my mug choice accurately reflect my love for my child? No. Do I have a mug problem...? Maybe.

But... if you are in need of some relationship mending, sometimes it's the little things that start the ball rolling.

Puffy Paint For Dummies

So, there's this stuff called Puffy Paint. Have you heard of it? Evidently, you're supposed to be able to "paint" with it, and it will turn out colored and well... puffy.

I have a dilemma. I have two of the exact same (Can I say that? Exact same? Don't care, moving on.) bags that I use at the same time, but have to be kept separate. Both of my daughters have Type 1 Diabetes and they each have a blood glucose monitor bag that we use many times a day. I need to be able to grab the right bag for the right kid so the personal information and blood glucose numbers for each girl stay with that girl. No mixing them up.

What to do... what to do... I know! Stickers! Let the girls each decorate their bag with stickers. That worked for, oh... one day. Then, because these bags get handled A LOT, the stickers started curling up and coming off. Onto me. I walked around half of a day with a rainbow sticker on my butt and an Elsa sticker on my leg and didn't know it. Awesome.

What to do... what to do... I know! Puffy paint! I could write their names on their bags in bright, beautiful, mysterious puffy paint! (I thought about regular paint, but even I am crafty enough to know that wouldn't work. Wait, would it?) When I announced to the hubs that we needed to made a stop in the craft section of the store, he looked at me a little funny. "Are you sure? The craft section?" he said. (He knows me well.) "Yes! Puffy paint is the answer!!"

Now, you have to know, I'm not really a crafty person. My mind and my fingers don't always agree on how to make crafts and, well... you can tell. But, I decided to give this one a go. Oh, I was so excited! Until I got there and couldn't find painty-things. The employee looked at me and actually said, "I can tell you need help. You look very lost." I explained my dilemma and she gently led me (like a lamb to slaughter) to the puffy paint section.

So have you BEEN in this section of a craft store? Could there BE any more options??!! There really should be a little book called Puffy Paint For Dummies dangling from a chain for customers to reference. Apparently I could have benefited from it.

The clerk showed me these puffy paint pens! She said they're much easier to write with, if you're not just decorating. (Ha! Decorating?! Baby steps.)

She left me to think (and think) about paint and I examined the regular puffy paint, the neon puffy paint, the paint pens... Okay, paint pens it is. Now... color....

.......a half hour later.....

The hubs finds me and asks if I'm ready YET. Almost... okay, just make a decision... puffy paint glitter pens it is!! I decided to go with glitter. My girls are into glitter, let me tell you. I wanted to make these soon-to-be-awesome bags fun and pretty and special.

Oh, I was so excited to get home and do some crafting! I got it all laid out, decided on spacing and started to write. FYI, puffy paint is a little tricky to "write" with. It's kind of well... puffy.

I got both of the bags done and was pleased with the beautiful red, glittery paint for Julianne and the sparkly purple paint for Edie. I made a few dots around their names with silver glitter as decoration, too. I did it! I crafted!

Now... to wait. It takes 4+ hours for puffy paint to dry, the package says.

Waiting... waiting... waiting... wait, what? What's happening? Where is the color going? It's disappearing! WHAAAT? The white "paint" part that the glitter is suspended in is drying clear and only the colored glitter is left! Oh no!!! The package didn't say that would happen! The color samples on the front are dark and colorful and glittery and glorious! Noooooo!!!

Look at that gorgeous, sparkly color! Lies.

It says it's convenient! Perfect! Or is it...?

This may have been fine if I had white bags, but the bags are.... black!!! Noooooo!!! Puffy paint!! (Shaking my fist in the air)

Well. That's that. So much for crafting. The girls say they love them, but I think they may feel sorry for me. I guess I can grab the right bag, but probably not at first glance. Although, on the bright side, I should be able to feel my way to the right bag in the dark, because it's well... puffy.

The red sparkles are almost visible...

You can kind of see the purple sparkles

Some people are meant to craft and some are meant to buy crafts from crafty people. If you're one of the crafty people, I'll most likely be visiting you soon. Oh, puffy paint...

Destruction With The Mother! (THE Mother!)

I'm a flat out cold-stone killer, yo. I killed with my bare hands today. I also used The Mother as a weapon of destruction. I took four of 'em down and didn't blink an eye. 
(Please imagine me with a satisfied grimace, arms folded across my chest, eyes squinted and looking...well... mean. What?! It could happen! But wait - is Cold Stone an ice cream place? Is it stone-cold? Whatever, man.)

You know what I'm talking about. Fruit flies. Yo. (My tough-girl accent, that's playing in my head as I write, is quickly turning into a Southern one for some reason, so I need to stop the act. Now.)

I don't know what it is about this year. It's like the plague (up in here... Ok, seriously now, I'm done.) First we had stink bugs. They were everywhere. We were so terrified to accidentally kill one because we had no idea what kind of stink would be unleashed. Could we handle it? Would we recover? We'll never know. We treated those babies like royalty. Escorted them out of the house with fanfare and ceremony.

Now it's fruit flies. I can count on one hand the number of fruit flies I've had flying around my kitchen (and yes, there IS fruit in here) in the ten years we've lived here. We've just been lucky that way. But not this time. Oh, not this time.

I think at first I accidentally-on-purpose missed when I tried to kill them. Or I'd clap them with semi-cupped hands, so I'd be like, "Yeah!" Then I'd open my hands and they'd stick their little fruit-flyish tongues out at me and zip away. Now everything's changed. I hate them. It's violent, but true. Now I clap and smear my hands together, just to make sure I reeeeally got 'em. Got 'em good.

I started to wonder what my neighbors thought. If they happened to be able to see into my kitchen window in the evening when I'm on a good rampage, they may think that I'm doing a really weird dance. With a lot of above-the-head clapping. Step. Clap. Step. Clap. Mouth mild swear words. Clap. Bang the window with my hand. Step. Hit the wall. Clap. I knew there had to be a better way. One that would keep the neighbors from looking at me out of the corner of their eye as I got the mail.

Enter The Mother. Not MY mother, THE Mother. Do you know about this stuff? Apple Cider Vinegar with The Mother? What's The Mother, you ask? Well, let me tell you!

It's the stuff of nightmares.

It's weird floaty stuff in the bottom of the bottle. Stuff a reasonable person would try to avoid. It shouldn't be there, but it is.

If you drink it (which you're supposed to) it will cure you of many many things... as it destroys you. I get heartburn just thinking about it. It will singe your nose hair off. The taste will linger with you for hours. You will shake your fist at The Mother and risk the backlash she brings, because she's THAT bad.

The bottle says it's delightful. WRONG.
It says it's delicious. LIES.
It says you can sprinkle it on popcorn. POPCORN MADE IN HELL.

Here's my tutorial on how to drink ACVWTM 

(Apple Cider Vinegar With The Mother)

Step 1 Plug your nose and measure 1-2 Tablespoons in a glass you plan to throw away.
Step 2 Pour a copious amount of orange juice into said glass. Some say use water...honey...apple juice... NO. You need the acid to mask the acid.
Step 3 Plan to never drink orange juice again because you'll have flashbacks of this upcoming moment. Forever.
Step 4 Plug your nose, take a big breath and chug while doing the yucky dance (this helps distract from the burning in your esophagus).
Step 5 Keep nose plugged and fill your cup with water and chug that, too.
Step 6 One more glass of water with nose plugged....
Step 7 Do a full body shiver and thank the Lord that it's over.

And WHAT, pray tell, are they not filtering
 out?

Ew! Just...ew.

Back to the flies!! I found out that fruit flies actually love The Mother! Maybe because it smells like rotten fruit? Maybe they're tiny masochists? Maybe they just need a mother. Who knows. I read that you can take a jar, put a little ACVWTM in it, make a cone out of paper, put it in the jar and do some fly-catching.

They want The Mother. The Mother wants them.

They go in the cone and theoretically can't get back out. Theoretically. I have witnessed a few that were preeetty smart. They must have been nibbling apples beforehand or something.

But... it's actually working! Within 3 minutes I had four flies in the cone making their way to death and destruction by The Mother.

Follow the mesmerizing lines to
the golden glow...

Oh, they look so happy in there!

They love The Mother.
The Mother loves them.

Evidently, you can catch more flies with vinegar than honey. Well, I haven't actually TRIED catching flies with honey, it sounds pretty messy. But maybe I will. I'll get back to you.

In the meantime, if you have an infestation, try The Mother in a jar. Yo.

p.s. Many fruit flies were hurt in the making of this blog post.

A Little Too Much Pampering...

You know those women who seem to do it all? I think of them as Supermoms. A passel of kids, lovely garden, tidy home, home cooked and whole-food meals, homeschooler, crafter, still looking like they've just graduated college...? You ladies are awesome! But, yeah, that's not me. I wish it were, but it's not. It may not be you, either. If it is you, then I'd bet you'd say it's all an illusion or it's just really hard work to live the Supermom kind of life - and you put in the effort. If it's not hard work for you and it's not an illusion, then please let me learn at your feet... :)

Over the last few months I've really been struggling with the putting in the effort part. Struggling with... I don't know - my role in this world? Who I am? What I want? Where I'm going? It may be because, oh, I don't know: IT'S THE LAST YEAR BEFORE I'M 40??!! Who knows. I've never had a problem with birthdays before, so actually it may be something else. Bottom line - my contemplation over my life led to me being/doing... nothing! And the more I did nothing, the more I liked it. Motivation? Pshhh. Clean house? Whaaaat? Patience with kids? Uh...

My "chore chart" from Motivated Moms with
my inspiring magnet on top. At least I got
ONE thing done in the past two weeks...

Even my husband finally asked, "So... What's up? Have you just given up on everything?" I thought about it and responded, "Yep." Didn't even come up with excuses.

No desire to clean. No joy in cooking. Frustration with my household duties. Frustration with my kids. Everything I clean is instantly messed up and no one cares or helps. The same thing day after day. Overwhelmed and underpaid (ha!).

I took the advice to "take care of you" and "pamper yourself" (that I've been hearing from numerous sources for years) a little too seriously and my new "home" became my reading nook in my bedroom. My quiet corner is tidy and neat and comfy and cozy. My book, my coffee, my lovely-smelling candle... Away from life. A little spot to read and paint my nails and even have a piece of chocolate now and then. What more could I want?

I was happy/sad about this new state of life. It felt good to do nothing, but I knew it was wrong. My house became out.of.control. Chaos makes me crazy, so it's become a vicious cycle of hiding from the chaos, which causes more chaos. My kids suffered because I wasn't prepared for each day and it was so stressful getting ready for school that I became an out-of-control momzilla, and I usually ended up in tears by 8:30 a.m.

I didn't "sign up" to be a maid, but that's what I felt like and I repeated it to myself and to anyone in my family who would listen. Usually in an irritated voice.

Then a speaker at my moms' group mentioned a Bible verse that knocked me over inside.

Proverbs 14:1 

The wise woman builds her house, but with her own hands the foolish one tears hers down.

Whoa. That's what I realized I've been doing. Tearing down my house with my own hands. What a terrible thing. That old saying "When mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy" is true. It wasn't just the physical cleaning, it was the atmosphere I was creating with my lack of caring about anything or anyone except myself. The atmosphere that I was creating by not doing my "job" as a homemaker and mom. Oh, I was "making" my home alright - making it a terrible place to be! I'd started the process of tearing down my house with my own hands.

True, I didn't "sign up" to be a maid. But I DID sign up to be a wife, a mom and to take care of and nurture my home and those who live here. Basically, I need to put on my grownup pants and get on with life. Does that include cleaning? Yep. Does it still include spending time to recharge and relax in my reading nook? Yep. Does it include a much-needed and pretty big attitude adjustment? You betcha. Do I like cleaning now? Nope. But, am I going to do it? Well... ok, ok! Baby steps.

We have a LOT of hardwood and Edie was excited
to help. At first. It's a long road, girl...

By the way, Motivated Moms is an awesome program that really helps you get on top of your household chores (if you use it, that is...). Jobs are broken up in little bits (clean the top shelf of your fridge on Monday, the middle shelf on Tuesday, etc.) and pretty soon your house is under control! It even reminds you to cut your kids' nails - which, going by the daggers on my girls, I apparently need! Plus, a reminder to pamper yourself?! Yes, please! You can download paper versions or an app for the year really inexpensively. Check it out! http://www.motivatedmoms.com

Stolen Candy, Polish Jokes and Jingling Change: An Homage to Dad

So today is my dad's birthday. He would have been 62, but passed away a year and a half ago. I thought about writing this when I was awake at 2am last night, but didn't. It was one of those nights where you pick up a book to read a chapter before bed, then realize you may as well stay up until morning, which I should have done because I found my children eating goldfish crackers for breakfast since I couldn't get my sleepy butt out of bed... Anyway. I'm still pretty emotional about it all and almost decided to not write this. Maybe next year, when it isn't still so fresh. Yes, 18 months is still fresh for me. But, here it is. I don't know if I'll hit "publish" yet, but... here it is - for me.

My dad was awesome. I know some of that is a child/parent perspective, but I also know that most of that is true. I know he had faults (who of us doesn't?) so I'm not making him into something he's not, but he was special. He grew up in a family of 7 kids and his dad died when he was a baby. I remember him saying he didn't know how to be a father because he didn't have an example, but he really, really did know how. He loved his family, spent time with us, made things special for us, worked hard for us, invested in us and totally took care of us. My mom did/does, too. She's an unsung hero that really needs a song.

So I don't forget, I wanted to make a list of some of my favorite things and memories of my dad, and really they're about my mom, too. So my family, I guess.

* Friday nights were special - it was prize night and fight night. We got a little candy or something when he came home from work and my brother and I got to have a "wrestling match" with him in the living room. Being a mom now, I realize how horrible this was for my mom - waiting with hands over eyes for that first scream of accidental pain. We found out years later that she set a timer for our wrestling matches and would physically wind it down herself to make it end quickly. Which was wise since there were knocked out teeth and dislocated elbows. But, all I remember was the fun of being tossed around and fighting against someone so strong and big. Which is also why I let my hubby toss around our girls and "play wild" which is what we call it in our house. With my hands over my eyes, of course.

Fight Night continued for many years...

* In high school my dad would drive me to school every Friday morning. It was kind of our time to catch up, connect and spend one on one time together - even if it was only 20 min. We would always stop at Circle K and get a doughnut and small carton of milk for breakfast. And every time I took a drink of milk he would speed up so it would spill down my face, then act like he had no idea that he'd done that. Every. Time. I could have used a straw, but it would have ruined our joke.

* He was a gifted storyteller and always wanted to be a writer. I think that's part of why I write this blog. He always encouraged me to write and thought I should write a children's book. I tried and it didn't work. I'm not that kind of storyteller. It went on and on. This format works for me for some reason - I wish I would have done this before he died so he could have read it. Ever since we were very little we were told the never-ending stories about Wilbur the Ladybug. He wasn't too happy to be a "lady"bug and he and his friends had great adventures. Usually we heard about him to distract us when we were doing something unpleasant. Like laying on the counter with our head in the sink while mom tried to get lice out of our hair. Or when there was a big splinter that needed to be removed. The kind that needs a sterilized needle and an ice cube to numb it.

* He and mom invented the Silly Bugs which are mythical creatures who visit the night before your birthday and play silly tricks on you while you're sleeping. Balloons everywhere, a spider-web of string to climb through, shoes stuffed with paper so they don't fit, socks all tied in knots... And always a little note in very silly, backwards, misspelled writing wishing us a Hapy Burfdey. When I was in my 20s and living overseas/missing my family on my birthday, I got a package from my parents and the SBs had put a little note in for me, too! I guess it was too far for their wings to fly, but they were thinking of all the tricks they'd play if I were closer. The Silly Bugs have found their way to our house and visit our girls each year, too.

* April Fool's Day was a national holiday in our family. We had a bag of jokes in the closet that we reused and "fell for" and laughed at every year. Things like a ketchup & mustard squeeze bottle that squirted out red or yellow string. A can of peanuts that had a snake pop out, and my personal favorite: a postcard saying you won a bike and to just call this number to collect it (and the number was only half readable, the rest was smudged). I remember bringing that letter in from the mailbox many times. When we got older my brother and I did more physical pranks - like taping the sprayer handle on the kitchen sink closed and pointing straight ahead so whoever turned the water on was blasted in the face. (Sorry, Katie.) At school our lunch was a crazy lunch of dyed milk, paper in our sandwich, one year there was a big rubber alligator when I opened my lunchbox. My teacher even sent home a note thanking them for such a fun lunch.

* Speaking of jokes, every night my dad would tell us a joke at dinner. But he would start them out like a real story and halfway through one of us would say, "Is this a joke?!" He loved telling Polish jokes and my favorite one is about the Polack and the cannibals... :)

* My dad was a great teacher and preached at church every so often. Of course, he would use real-life examples from home so I always sat there and wondered what crazy story he would use that Sunday.

* He also loved to sing, and had a nice voice, but since my mom, sister and I were the "singers" in the family, he always gave us the limelight. But, I remember standing next to him at church and listening to him sing hymns and loving it. I still hear his voice when I hear Tis So Sweet To Trust In Jesus, There's Something About That Name, and Blessed Assurance. Once we had a talent show at church and our whole family did a play that he wrote. I remember having to "rake leaves" as part of it, then we all sang One Step At A Time from a Psalty record.

* He also loved "oldies" from the '60s & '70s. Not so old back then. :)  When he built our big shop in the backyard (my mom still lives in the house we were born in. Well, not actually BORN in, but lived in since before we were born.) he started with the deck/flooring (obviously) and we kids would use it as a stage to dance and sing on to really loud oldies music. My favorite was Indian Reservation by Paul Revere & the Raiders. I remember once he requested it on the radio for me and taped himself calling in and sent it to me on cassette when I worked at a summer camp. Oh, also my parents would use paper plates and balloons to make welcome home signs or happy birthday signs tacked to trees on roads leading up to our house with one word per sign so we'd be waiting until the next one to see what our message was. I totally forgot about that until right now!

* On Mother's Day we would get up early with him and make a special breakfast for my mom. The only thing I really remember making, though, is a fruit salad in a carved out watermelon. Can that be right?! Hmm... I do remember bringing things in on a tray for her though. Maybe the watermelon was for New Year's Day brunch. We still got up early to help with that, too.

* He made really good breakfasts. Fried eggs over medium were his specialty. We loved the "moojh/maash" of the yolk on toast and his crispy hash browns. Hot breakfasts are still my favorite.

* He comes from a Polish family and gave us (me?) a love for Polish things. I remember doing a report on Poland, buying a Polish phrase book that my friend Sarah and I put to good use in the mall, pretending to be foreign... and my first (only?) Polish Polka record, which I still have and play. My favorite song on it is Those Were The Days (my friend) and I could sing along in Polish. Could. I also knew insults in Polish, my favorite being: May a chicken kick you in the shin. It sounds much meaner in Polish, so I'll keep that one to myself so you don't get in any fights.

* On New Year's we would stand on our front porch and bang pots and pans together and jingle change in our pockets to signify a prosperous new year. I remember him handing out handfuls of change to us. I still do that but it's usually just me and it feels a little weird. I'll teach the girls when they're older and not sleeping at 9pm.

* My dad also stuck up for me no matter what. Warning: confession of shame ahead! When I was a teenager my friend Jenni and I walked to a big grocery store a few stores down from my family's Christian Bookstore that we owned. While there were grabbed a couple of those little flavored tootsie rolls out of the bulk bin to eat while we walked around. I know, I know. Stealing is stealing. Well, I always wore big cardigans back then (shocking, I know) and we were in the store a long time and I must have put a couple of the candies in my cardi pocket and not even realized it. As we were walking out, the security guard grabbed me and asked me to empty my pockets. I honestly had NO idea what he was taking about. As I put my hand in, my heart sank. I pulled out the candies and was taken upstairs to the security office where all my info was taken, he threatened to call the police, and I was banned from the store. He walked with me to our store and asked to meet with me and my dad in the back room. I was so ashamed and humiliated and scared that I'd disappointed my dad. But - he was mad. I've never seen him so mad. He didn't ok my wrong, but let that guy know that it was ridiculous for him to waste time and money on 3 cents worth of candy. To humiliate a young girl who isn't a trouble-maker and I'll tell you, that guy left with his tail between his legs. I felt so protected and loved. And knew that no matter what, my parents had my back.

* My dad taught me to drive, too. In a station wagon that had a lever, like a turn signal one, as the horn button for some reason. It was broken and glued in so it didn't work. I remember them asking me to honk the horn during my test and having to explain that it was superglued into the car and wouldn't work. Awkward! Dad was a truck driver for a delivery company for a long time (and had one very tan left arm and very white right arm to prove it!) until he started working in the office-end of that, and I always aspired to be a great driver, like him. I think that's why I loved playing Pole Position (if you don't know this reference, it's a sad day for you, my friend.) I hated driving at first. I didn't get my license until I was almost 18 because I was too afraid of that kind of power. Now I love it - ha! My first car was my beloved Toyota Camry, a stick-shift. I had a car, so I had to learn how to drive a stick. He took me to the empty parking lot behind Target to practice and honestly, I don't like driving automatics. The Explorer I have now is the first automatic I've had, and I prefer a manual transmission. My mom and sister never learned to drive a stick, although I've offered to teach them! But, my sister lives in Seattle, so even I'd be nervous on those hills!

* He also drove a Seattle city bus for a while, too. He had regular customers and would get to know them. He'd do games and trivia contests for them to make their ride fun. He was a people person who invested in people.

* We have a basketball hoop in front of our house and that's another thing I remember and appreciate about my dad. He was the block dad. All the kids would come to our house to play and shoot hoops with him. His hook shot was his famous shot and he always won when we played horse - well, when he didn't let us beat him. I played a lot of basketball on our street with him and my brother and the other kids. We were a safe place and people could tell that he was a good, safe dad. My husband is like that, too. I love it. Growing up, one of our neighbor boys was very troubled and still lives there, involved in drugs and gang stuff. He still would seek out my dad and my dad still invested in him, giving him food, attention and making him feel like he's a valuable person. I'm sure he feels loss from dad's passing, too.

* He was also a good husband. I'm sure my parents had their fights and arguments and stress, but they didn't let that spill over onto us. Our house always felt safe and loving. Once we kids left the house, my parents didn't fall apart like a lot of couples do when the kids are gone and they don't know each other anymore. They went on dates and to marriage retreats and after we left, they went on weekend adventures exploring Washington together. They were two months away from being married 40 years when he passed away, and still in love. I'm so proud of them and proud to be their kid.

* My mom and dad always encouraged me to take risks and follow what I felt I was supposed to do. Even if it included skipping college to live overseas doing missionary work for years. Even when two years ago I felt like I needed to go on a missions trip to Africa, leaving my family, raising a LOT of money and leaving a not-thrilled (for safety reasons) husband at home. If my dad had told me it wasn't a good idea I probably wouldn't have gone, but he told me that opportunities don't unite with heart-desires for no reason. I'd regret it if I didn't go. And I would have.

Dad praying with me before bed

* My dad was a fixer. "My daddy can fix anything!" I remember saying a lot. Not just stuff, but arranging things, trips, drawing maps for me. My glove compartment was filled with hand-drawn maps from my dad, getting me anywhere I needed to go in Seattle. I just put the destination name at the top and pulled it out when I needed it!

* He was always involved in family stuff. He played games during game night, took us to Mariner's games, came to T-ball games and ballet recitals, AND my best friend in high school, Heather, and I took our dads to prom one year. Honestly, I was nervous, but it was fun. And one of the intimidating girls in my class told me later that she thought it was cool that we did that, and that she didn't think her dad would go if she asked him.

* He was a great Boppa, as his grandkids called him. These four kiddos love him and he loved them. They still talk about the scavenger hunts he would create for them, playing him in Wii boxing, and snuggling with him while they played Barbies, played restaurant or heard a story. When we were young, Robert the Rose Horse was a favorite. He could really work up a good sneeze for that one, throwing the book and jostling us off of his lap. I think that's when I started to love reading to kids - it was so fun to make it come alive.

Boppa and the grandkids

Dad reading to me

Well, I know there are a million more memories and stories. I'm sure I'll remember them in a few hours. But for now, on his birthday, this is a little way to honor him and my mom for being great parents and raising three great kids, and passing on morals and ways to make a child feel loved, wanted and safe. This is one family cycle I don't want to break. I love you, Daddy.