Sunflowers

i long to be
a candle, flickering in the dark
settled in the shadowed corner
a servant of
the God of the Dark Places
the God of raves and tattoo parlors;
of bar stools and smoke-filled back rooms


i long to be
a flame, fanned by the whispers
of the dark of night
an expression of one
who made beauty out of blood,
Redemption out of Death;
who spoke into the dark to create


i long to be
the salve on the self-inflicted wound
soothing the need for pain
a remnant of one
from which beauty creeps
infusing the broken and bleeding,
defiling the Sabboth with healing


i ache to be
the tool of a heartbroken God
whose tired sighs call me to action
a weeping Christ
who looks into the tomb
and grieves while he heals,
who honors our struggles with tears


i ache to be
an expression of love
for one whose being is love
a flickering flame
for the desperate and damaged,
the addicted and abandoned;
the ones who are just like me


i long to belong
to the God of the Dark Places

Some Conversations

A couple of weeks ago D and I packed up and headed to Cedar Point with Velma and our friend Seth. As we’ve proved in the past, Velma and I cannot travel to Cedar Point without some sort of ridiculousness happening. It simply isn’t possible. Come to think of it, Velma and I cannot seem to spend more than 20 minutes together without some sort of ridiculousness happening, but I suppose that’s a different story. Anyhow, in the spirit of being true to oneself, I’ve decided to share a few of the random conversations from our trip with you. Enjoy!


Conversation #1: Consider your career choices carefully

Velma: So, I started Junior Achievement this week. I had to go talk to all these 6th graders about their future careers. I asked them all to write down some careers they were considering so I could talk to them about the classes and skills they would need to get there, but one kid wrote down that he wanted to be God. What do you say to that?

H: Hmmm, I don’t know.

Velma: I told him he was going to be pretty busy if he was going to be God.

H: Yea, he’ll definitely need time management skills

Velma: Yea, that’s a lot of responsibility.

H: I don’t want to be God. I don’t even want to be a supervisor.



Conversation #2: You see it, right?

On the way home from Cedar Point, we stopped at this happy little pizza joint that someone had recommended to Seth. One of the pizzas we ordered was a Greek pizza with feta cheese on it. The following ensued:

Velma: (squealing and pointing) Look, guys, look!

(everyone looks over to her plate, where she is pointing)

Velma: Look, it’s Abe in the cheese!

H: Huh?

Velma: It’s Honest Abe! There in my cheese!

D: You see Abe Lincoln in your cheese?

Velma: Right there, in the Feta! Don’t you see him!?

D: No

Seth: No

H: No

Velma: I feel like I’m at Mount Rushmore!!!

Seth: Mount Rushmore looks just like that, only it’s huge and it’s not made of cheese.



I love you, Velma!

Marketing That Really Stands Out

Here' s a sign I saw by the side of the road yesterday:

Gently Used

Low Mileage

KITTENS!!

I suppose that's better than high mileage kittens, eh? D found the sign to be rather ridiculous, but you know what? I still remember it, and I'm sitting here writing about it, aren't I? I'd say that makes it pretty darn effective.

Can't a Girl Get a Bath Around Here?

Hello there!

I’m just popping in with a quick short story from my everyday before I run off to get some work done. I promise, I have a few fun blogs in the works for the near future, so don’t give up hope on me yet!


About a month and a half ago, after a long day of being a tired and overworked mommy (babies are quite the time suck, even if they are quite worth it), I decided to hand my beloved Norah over to her father so that I could take a bath.

Now, if you have ever been a new momma, you know that baths are a rare commodity. Between feedings and changings, and trying to figure out what in the world your baby wants, there are laundry and dishes and groceries, and meals that need cooking. Throw in 20 hours working from home, and you have one burned out momma. I needed that bath. I mean, I needed that bath. I needed that bath like I need air – I mean, I was going to turn blue and convulse and my heart was going to stop if I didn’t get that bath.

Did I mention it had been a rough day?

Anyway, I handed Norah over to D and proceeded to draw myself a bath. I even had the forethought to grab a Coupland novel and a glass of water, so I could properly enjoy my bath o’ luxury. The tub reached a state of relative fullness, but it wasn’t quite finished. I decided to climb in anyways and get a head start on my way to relaxation.

No sooner had I sat down in the tub then D came flying into the bathroom, practically shrieking, “She’s throwing up blood! She’s throwing up blood!” I deciphered that my husband was shouting at me that my daughter was dying of some sort of blood-vomiting disease, and immediately hopped out of the tub, searching for a towel. All kinds of crazy thoughts are running through my mind at this point: What in the world did she eat? What if there are, like, little shards of glass in her tummy? Oh, this is very, very bad! How much blood is there going to be? What’s going on with my poor baby?!?! Oh, god, we can’t afford the Children’s Hospital! What if her little intestines are in shreds?!

I ran into the bedroom where little Norah was playing. I’m sopping wet, just barely wrapped up in a towel, and I have no idea where my glasses are, so everything is a little blurry. I look around and I see….. no blood. There is no blood, anywhere.

Stupidly, I think to myself that maybe I need to get my glasses to see the blood – ‘cause, blood isn’t, like, a distinct bright red color or anything, right? *sigh* I looked to D, then looked to Norah, then back to D, then back to Norah. Finally I asked him, “where’s the blood?”

D: Right there! (points to a tiny spot of spit up that, as far as I can tell, has no blood in it)

Me: Where?

D: THERE!! (points closer to the same spot)

I looked very closely, and what did I see?

A tiny, tiny, spot of blueberries, about the size of my pinky fingernail.

Let me just say, there is an enormous difference between vomiting up pints of blood and spitting up miniscule remnants of blueberries. Like, maybe the difference between calling 911 and just grabbing a burp cloth.

Details, details – I know, I’m so picky.

I proceeded to grab a burp cloth, wipe up the spot, and tell D that he was looking at blueberry spit up.

D: Are you sure?

Me: Yes, I’m sure.

D: How do you know?!?!

Me: Because, as far as I know, Norah doesn’t have purple blood. If you find out differently, let me know, but until then I’m getting in the tub.

Now really, I know blueberries aren’t exactly ‘blue’ in color once they’ve been cooked. But they are purple, which is not the same thing as bright, bloody red. At least in my experience, purple, and blood red are generally very different colors. Generally. I could have missed something in art class, I suppose. I’m still trying to figure out whether I should be more concerned that my husband thinks my daughter has purple blood or that my bath water was getting cold while all this was going on.

It was a very nice bath, incidentally, once I got past the ‘o-mi-god, my daughter’s insides are being ripped to shreds by some horrible malady and she’s puking up blood everywhere’ train of though. Very nice, indeed.

PSA for Lactating Mamas

Calling all lactating mamas!

Preemies and sick babies need your help!

(How's that for a tug on the 'ole heartstrings? Did I mention I write for a living?)

The Indiana Mother's Milk Bank is currently experiencing a milk shortage.

In case you weren't aware, human breast milk provides countless benefits to babies, including disease and infection fighting antibodies - which, of course, preemies and sick babies need plenty of. However, mamas of preemies are the most likely group to have difficulty with their milk supplies. You see the problem, I'm sure.

The Indiana Mother's Milk Bank collects human milk from donors. This milk is pasturized and then given to preemies and sick babies who need it. According to their website, 'In many ways, human milk is like medicine to sick or premature babies'.

I'm kind of a sucker for sick babies, so to me it seems like this is kinda important.

If you are lactating, if your youngest baby is under one year of age, and if you have success in pumping, please consider becoming a human milk donor. The process is fairly simple, and they will even provide your milk storage bags if you need them. I was approved as a donor earlier this month and it was super easy to get started.

If you're interested, contact the Indiana Mother's Milk Bank through this link, or check out their entire website here. I promise, it won't be too hard, and then you can brag to all your friends that you helped save some babies! How could it get better than that?

Another Great Quote from D the Wonder Husband

So, my husband took some time off work recently to spend at home with Norah and me. He was really excited about getting to go with us to the library for story hour, and so when Friday came, we packed Norah up and headed out. Story hour went great, so we headed over to the Dunkin' Donuts located inside of the library. I normally do this on Fridays after story time as a way to treat myself after a long week, so D just joined me for my normal latte' run.

As we were standing at the counter, the following conversation took place:

D: "What do you think a hash brown donut is?"

Me: "A hash brown donut??"

D: "Yea, what do you think that is?"

Me: "Where do you see a hash brown donut?" (looking intently over the counter for anything that could be construed as a hash brown donut)

D: "There, on the menu"

Me: "Um, not seeing the hash brown donut."

D: (pointing at the sign) "Right there!"

Lo and behold, what did I see? A sign that looked kind of like this:

So, I'm sure I got the pricing and the specific items all wrong, but you get the point, right?

Hash brown donuts.

Lord, help us.

That's Not My Pirate

So now that I have a baby, I have ventured into the wonderful world of children’s books. To be honest, most children’s books creep me out. Fairy tales that are so innocently told seem scary to me. Imagine being just a little one and hearing about Little Red Riding Hood’s grandma being chomped up by the big bad wolf. Eek! Then there are witches poisoning apples and fattening up little kids to eat them, and trolls that want to eat the cute little billy goats (what is it with stories about being eaten?)… not to mention parents intentionally leaving their children to die of exposure or starvation or an animal attack in the middle of the woods.

There also seem to be lots of Noah’s Ark animal stories for little kids, where they get to count the animals two by two or make animals noises or whatever. The storytellers have conveniently left out the part about God annihilating all of humanity by drowning.

Cause, you know, that might make the story kind of a bummer.

Anyway, as I was saying, children’s books kind of creep me out. Despite this fact, I’ve started to really enjoy the children’s department at our local library. They have a baby story time on Friday mornings that Norah seems to love, and – bonus! – a hand puppet cat named Puddin’ that they sometimes make sing to the kiddos.

Norah and I have been picking out one or two board books a week to read until the next week when we return them and pick out a couple more. There’s a whole series of ‘touch and feel’ board books whose titles begin with “That’s Not My…”. There’s That’s Not My Bear, That’s Not My Bunny, That’s Not My Puppy, etc, etc, etc,. Each page lists some reason why ‘that’s not my (whatever it is) and then there is something tactile on the page for the kids to feel that goes along with it. For example, here’s an excerpt out of the last one we checked out:

That’s not my bear. Its tongue is too scratchy.

The picture on the page was of a polar bear, and his tongue was made of Velcro.

So, the kiddos can touch the scratchy Velcro tongue, and this is supposed to ensure that everyone has a grand ‘ole time, and the kiddos like to keep reading books. This is important, and I particularly like the pages with something fuzzy on them (That’s my bear. Its ears are so soft!)

So, last week at the library while Norah and I were looking for a book, I happened to notice one of these board books titled That’s Not My Pirate. At the time I thought to myself, “That’s weird, what would we want to feel on a pirate?”, and then I promptly forgot about it. However, as the week has gone by, that stupid book has been on my mind more and more. I mean, really, what textures is my kid supposed to associate with pirating? I get that bunnies are soft and bears can have rough tongues, but pirates? What the heck?

All week long this has been bugging me. The more I think about it, the more completely inappropriate crap I keep coming up with. I finally decided just to write it down so maybe I can let it go. So, here goes! Here is the year’s best children’s book, complete with safety hazards and inappropriate connotations. Don’t say you weren’t warned….

That’s not my pirate, his hook is too sharp!

Look kids! A Touch and Feel hook! You only need a tetnus booster if it breaks the skin!


That’s not my pirate, his peg leg is too splintery.

Anyone seen the tweezers?

That’s not my pirate, his wench is too hairy.

Aww, no sweetie, you don't pet the lady like a doggy....



That’s not my pirate, his sword is too jagged.

Yes, sweetie, that's what we call 'serrated'... Oh... crap! What was that about tetnus again?

That’s not my pirate, his gums are too firm!

Scurvy, anyone?



That’s not my pirate, his stubble is too rough.
Kind of like the velcro tongue, eh?

That’s my pirate! His parrot is so soft!

Finally, something appropriate. And with that, I think we'll say...

THE END!