30 Days of Thankful Day Three: Christmas Village

How could I not be thankful for Christmas Village? It's the perfect illustration of having enough of everything that you can pay $10.00 for a ticket to go browse a bunch of stuff you don't really need. (Does anyone really 'need' a door wreath or yard art or more jewelry? No. We want.) And God has blessed us enough that I can afford needs and wants during this season.

Not only that, but I got to spend a much needed day with a girlfriend eating and shopping and talking. It was blissful (even if my feet ached at the end). So, today I am thankful for friendships--those in the past, those in the present, and those in the future--and for abundance. My prayer is that I am able to be a good friend all of the time and not only when it's convenient for me. Love you!

I will now make some random observations from Christmas Village:


1.) Yukkon XL: I love it when I'm driving The Family Truckster on the freeway in traffic. (It's sort of comforting knowing I'm comandeering a tank through Malfunction Junction.) On the flip side, it's difficult parking the largest SUV on the road in a parking deck built two decades ago.

2.) I have crossed into that stage of Old where I look for bathrooms as we tour any facility, cause I'm going to have to pee in an hour.

3.) Not sure what this says about my ever changing personality, but I bought two separate outfits with animal prints on them. I guess it means I'm going to be one of THOSE Old Ladies.

4.) Taking kids in strollers to the Christmas Village is child abuse. I'm sorry, but it is. So is taking your husband.

5.) Next year, Tracy, we are buying the super expensive preview day tickets for No Stroller Day. I'm serious.

6.) I'm thankful for that new package check feature.

7.) I'm also thankful for a husband. He kept the two littlest shorties while I was off Holly Golightly Gallivanting around the city and took them to the park. He also instructed me to pick up Wing King on my way home so that I didn't have to cook. Did I mention he gave me his mad money out of his wallet as I cruised out the door so that I'd have "a little bit extra"? (Stay away from my husband or I'll cut you.)

All in all, there was a lot to be thankful for! :-) 

Day Two: Thankful for Parenting Fails. It Means I'm the Mommy.

Parenting Fails. I've had my share. (So have you; shut up.)

1.) Lillian ate chocolate off of the floor in my classroom even after I told her to drop it. My response? I laughed. Okay, so maybe she needed a spanking, but seriously? I might eat chocolate off of the floor too. I also happen to know that it was her sister's from snack. (Not that it makes any difference, since it was ON THE FLOOR, but you see where I'm coming from.)

Making everyone comply
one photo at a time

2.) I "promised" to take my kids trick or treating this year. It just worked out in my favor that the Number One Son went to a friend's house on Halloween and forgot about it, then we had church and it just didn't come up. Lucky me, right? Well, he reminded me that "the Bible says don't make a promise you don't intend to keep". I can justify all I want, but I should have kept him home and gone trick or treating. What I counted a "lucky break" getting out of it he counted as the deepest kind of betrayal--a broken promise.

Lovely. Just lovely.

3.) My kids think that Chuck E. Cheese has been "closed for renovations" for a decade.

4.) I once spanked the wrong child and then blamed her for it. Loudly.

5.) The first thing I taught my girls to do independently in the kitchen was to make their own breakfast so that I could sleep later. My kids still think it's like a cardinal sin worthy of a Papal visit for absolution if they wake me up too early on Saturday morning. (I'm still not sure that I actually repent of this one.)

6.) If I can't figure out who did it, everyone is punish-ed.

Lillian dressed like a homeless person.

7.) My kids are obedient out of Big Fear. I threaten any sort of public humiliation to achieve total world domination. I will dance in the orthodontist's office. I will post Nekkid Bebe Photos if you hack my Facebook, so on and so forth. And they know I mean it. The threat of your mother throwing down in the dentist's office is powerful (and probably psychologically damaging), but rather effective at the same time.

8.) The Little Flower is wearing all of her brother's hand-me-downs. What? She doesn't know or care. Why do you?

9.) The Husband and I are thinking about going to Disney without the kids. I think that might be over the top even for me.

 10.) I'm still Mother of the Year in Johnsonville. Of course, I'm running unopposed, but whatever.

If You Give a Kid a Pancake

I have smart kids.

It's true. They are quick on the uptake, good students, quality test takers, and all-around smarty pants. But the Number One Son has entered the fifth grade--notorious for being The Hardest Grade in our little school. It's not the teacher's fault--it's just the way it shakes down with more new material than review material. So, Junior has been struggling a little in spelling and penmanship.

Now, the spelling I understand personally. I have to really, really focus on my own spelling skills, which is probably why God invented the spell check device just for moi. And penmanship? (Yes, we still teach that.) I don't want to say it's not big whoop, because it's graded and an important character issue not to quit when things are difficult. (You still have to keeping going at your job sometimes when you think it's silly and not terribly important, right?) It's a life-lesson. So, press on toward the goal, Son.

Anyhoo....

Yesterday was elementary honor chapel where we recognize all of the honor students. My babies have always been honored at these sorts of events, being A-B kind of kids, until today when the Number One Son didn't make the A/B Honor Roll, because spelling and penmanship rode him around the room and left him for dead. And to make it worse, he was the only kid in his grade who didn't make the A/B Honor Roll.

So, we did the only thing there was to do.

We ditched school and went for pancakes. :-)

My beautiful boy carried the tray to the table, cleared up after we ate, held the door for me and two women coming into the the restaurant behind us. Then he walked with me to the driver's side where he opened the door for me before going around to the passenger side and climbing in himself.

(Don't tell anyone, but that whole spelling and penmanship thing is overrated in the grand scheme of things.)

And today, when he took his spelling practice test? Well, let's just say that he better have enjoyed that b'fast, since it'll be the last one like it. He'll be too busy to go with me during the next elementary honor chapel because he'll be getting his A/B Honor Roll Certificate.

I love you, Carter. You are my favorite son in the whole world.

Wonderful. Just Wonderful.

I haven't blogged since May. This is because I haven't had anything wonderful to say.

It's not that stuff hasn't been happening, it's just that The Stuff has been sort of a downer, and I'm not feeling that on my blog. The Blog is supposed to be where The Magic Happens, like a place to escape and be silly and record my family happiness.

But when what's happening isn't so happy? Well, there's no blogging.

So, here are some random thoughts from May until now to catch us up, since I'm getting my groove back one day at a time:

*I hated starting school later this year. I'm feeling rushed and as one friend so aptly put it, "like I'm standing in front of a fire hose." Amen. I blame this solely on starting school two weeks later than normal this year.  So, I'm starting at the beginning of August next year. The rest of you can do what you want.

*Yeah, I said that the public school system stinks. And your counter point is? (And I'm not talking about the teachers, who are doing all that they can, I'm referring to a broken system of education.)

Elaina calling the ball.

*We had a very busy volleyball season. My daughters didn't actually play any volleyball, but we drove around a lot, and now I know where the schools are for next year.

*Our football team is tougher than a two-dollar steak. We might be small in stature, but we are lion-hearted.



*For the first time EVER that extended warranty fell on my side of the line, and we are enjoying our new transmission.

*My new washing machine gave up the ghost at the 13 month marker. They won that one.

*Naynuh is going to be in braces until she graduates college. The rest of the shorties are out of luck, because I'm not going to be able to afford another set on anyone ever. (SIX YEARS and counting!) And the orthodontist said that she will wear a retainer for the rest of her life. I snorted. Like that's gonna happen. Dude, you could have saved us a LOT of time and money by just telling us she's going to have crooked teeth and an overbite and to get used to it. I can't even get her to put away folded clothes. Retainer my bohonkus. Snort. That's a good one.

*Thanking God that I only had twins and not triplets, because I couldn't physically take anymore female hormone action in this house.

*Yes, we are doing something in class today, and if you ask me again I'm going to staple gun the Stupid Stick to your forehead. Do I look like I'm kidding?

*Dear God, I promise not to help another person ever again if you just get me out of the situations I already find myself neck-deep in. Really. I know, I know I've said it before, but I really mean it this time. Seriously. Why are You laughing?

*Bob Jones University should ALWAYS be said in word form and not abbreviated when giving a speech to high school kids. Someone needs to tell the folks at BJ-University this little factoid.

*I will never consume a milkshake again as long as I live, so help me God. (See: lactose intolerant)

*The Number One Son breaking both wrists means lots and lots of extra work for the parental units. I'm against it.

*I hate campaign/presidential season. I'm clearly right and everyone else is delusional. It's okay; I know you feel the same way about me too. I forgive you. 

*You know, telling me that you didn't read the book doesn't make you look clever; it makes you look foolish and like a lazy cheat. You are basically telling me that you weren't smart enough to read and comprehend. Way to go. What else do you intend to slide through in life? Your marriage? Parenting? Your career? Gotcha. That path to success is cleared up for some other folks, because you ain't on it, Sunshine.

*If you don't want me to fall asleep during your presentation, you should probably make it more interesting.

See what I mean? I'm a cranky pants. Wonderful, I tell you, wonderful. I'm back, Baby. ;-)

Because You Just Can't Be Too Careful



The day of The Incident

 I am like a sunblock-ing maniac. I love the sun--LOVE the sun. I love how it feels to lay out next to water until you sweat. I love being at the pool or on the beach for hours and hours. I love everything about summer, but I refuse to look like a piece of shoe leather when I'm "older", so, we limit our sun time, and I attack every available, exposed skin surface on myself, The Husband, and The Shorties to a liberal dose of high-octane 45+ sunblock every time I even think we might possibly be in close proximity to some sunlight.

Every moisturizer I own has an SPF of 15 or higher. The lowest SPF on sunblock in my cabinet is 45. We are serious about our sunblock at Casa Johnson. It's like wearing a seat belt. Only idiots don't wear seat belts and don't sunblock, therefore, we obviously sunblock.

I am especially diligent in this sun blocking protection post The Husband's encounter with Mr. Melanoma. There's something especially disturbing about knowing your spouse had cancer cut off of his face and looking at your son who is covered in the same quantity of moles that his daddy has. (In fact, it's making me itch to get out the sun sticks right now even though everyone is in bed, and we aren't anywhere near the outdoors.) So, we live to Sunblock and Sunblock Again.

The kids just lu-hu-hu-hu-uv that. It stinks, it's sticky, it's cold, and why-do-we-have-to accompanied by mucho moaning and groaning (as though they might actually talk me out of it this time). Lillian is the worst. She use to run from me, but now she just stands there, shoulders sagging, and berates the sunblock as though it were a person. And every single time she asks, "But WHYYYY do we have to use the sunblock??? I HATE it!"

Well, life lesson number 7,905 occurred on Memorial Day. I'd slathered half a gallon of the stuff on the kids, but somehow between the ribs and baked beans I neglected that Put More On Every Hour and After Swimming rule and let the kids go almost two hours without re-applying. (And I don't even have the Too Much Beer excuse to fall back on--I just flat out forgot, proving that even the most diligent mom out there can have a lapse.) Ahem.

And you know what that means: Sunburn.  And Lillian got the brunt of that party on her shoulders. I turned her around to let her view her crispy shoulder blades in the mirror and said, "Sweet Cake? THAT is why we sunblock."

She moaned and took the Tylenol and let me rub some of that aloa vera sunburn gel on her little toasty back. Bless her heart, she had two little raw strips of pink flesh that hurt me just looking at them. It's the only time she's ever been even remotely burned in her whole little life. It must have been quite the shock.

We're getting ready to go to Wal-Mart for groceries this morning, and Sugar said, "Wait! We have to sunblock my arms and face!" I explained that going into a store didn't really mandate a full-body sunblocking. She looked at me funny and said, "Yes, but we aren't taking any more chances."

I told her that she'd be fine. Twenty minutes later, armed with purse, sunglasses, coupons, I called for the Little Flower to come on so that we could go to the store. I can't say that I was surprised to smell her before she rounded the corner. I'm not sure if it was the entire bottle of sunblock she'd put head to toe on her body (even in her hair) or if the smell was emanating from the four stuffed animals that she'd also drenched before stuffing them into a drawstring bag.

I stared at her for a second or two, unable to figure out where to start, finally just saying, "So, the stuffed animals too?"

She nodded. "You just can't be too careful with the sun," she said over her shoulder as she marched out to buckle everyone into the Family Truckster.

Amen, Sister.

Okay then. Off to Wally World. You'll smell us before you see us. We'll be the family who took a bath in Eau de Sun Sport 50.

Sticker Shock



Elise, Hannah the Bonus Child, and Elaina

I took the girl shorties shopping yesterday. Just for a change of pace, we drove to the fancy side of Birmingham to do some browsing.

I'd prepped the Wonder Twins (who were in desperate need of jeans as we've had a growth spurt changing us from size 14 children's to women's size 3/4 which is FREAKING ME OUT SINCE YOU OUGHT TO HAVE A LITTLE WARNING ABOUT THIS SORT OF THING) that we might have to just look on the Hwy 280 side of town and actually purchase on the Alabaster side of town. I was absolutely sure that the price tags would decrease exponentially as we drove south on I-65.

Anyhoo...

We needed jeans. Since the girls just moved from the kiddie section, I felt as though we ought to explore some Real Clothing Brands instead of Wal-Mart. (It's this sort of unbridled enthusiasm that keeps me in trouble.)

We drove to the fancy mall and ate a fancy lunch at The Cheesecake Factory. As we approached the enormous doors to the restaurant, Elise announced that we were going to freeze to death because, "Fancy restaurants are always too cold because rich people wear layers and blazers and stuff." Her companions nodded in agreement, so we wisely chose to eat on the patio, because the main dining room was like an Arctic zone. 

Then we started hunting.

I reiterated the three most important words that were to become our mantra for the shopping spree--SALE RACKS FIRST! And armed with our slogan, lip gloss, knock off Vera Bradley Lookalike Bags, and shorts that have become a midge too short (hence the shopping trip) we cruised into Belk like we owned the place.

First on the agenda--humiliate the Wonder Twins--so I found a sales lady and asked to see the "hot trend in junior jeans" so that we knew some brand names to start looking for (since Wrangler is evidently 'soooooo country, Mom'). The sales lady immediately moved me to the blindingly neon section of the store where most of the clothing actually appeared to be Lilly-sized and said, "We can't keep these on the shelves! They are the number one seller on the floor."

She handed me an ordinary-looking pair of blue jeans that were called "7 for All Mankind".  (What kind of stupid name is that for a blue jean? What does it even mean?) She simultaneously handed me another brand called "G-Star RAW" which sounds flat out obscene. (I don't want to know what that means.)

Can anyone tell these from Wranglers without the 7?

Elise flipped the tag over on the 7 Jeans, her eyes widened like saucers, she flipped a glance up at me, and said, "Well, back to Alabaster."

$189.00 for a pair of junior jeans. Jeans that a junior-sized person will wear for approximately six months, because said person isn't finished growing yet.

Ahem.

We did find two reduced items on the Sale Racks and purchased a pair of Red Rivet jeans for $10.00. That was a win, since they were originally priced at $90.00. We left a little depressed with only one dress and one pair of jeans total, but soldiered on to the cheap side of town. On the way through Hoover (half way to Alabaster, proving that the prices do indeed decrease dramatically as you drive south on I-65), I remembered a trendy little consignment shop that specializes in teen clothing called Plato's Closet. We detoured there and guess what, Folks. Five million pairs of cute jeans--those 7 kind and RAW pants and everything. $20.00 a pair. SOLD! We bought bags of clothing, bags, I tell you!

Lessons Learned: 


Inside of Plato's Closet

1) Even if you are able and can afford $189.00 jeans for an eleven year old, you have serious issues if you consider purchasing them. If you actually purchased them for that price, and this can't be said emphatically enough, you just aren't very bright. (Seriously, what life lesson are you teaching your pre-teen about  money? Stewardship? Frugality?)

2) I don't own one thing in my entire closet that cost $189.00. In fact, I don't think I have an outfit worth that much. (This is a point of pride, not a pity cry.) I am cheap, and we intend to keep on keeping on. I'd rather vacation big in my cheap jeans. Me and my completely debt free self will sleep well tonight.

3) There were racks of these jeans for $189.00 a pair. Who are these people?

4) Fancy lunch is overrated when dining with 11-yr-olds. Elaina announced that the cheese sticks at Arby's were better than The Cheesecake Factory. (She was right.) And about a third of the price with no tip.

5)  We sat across from two women who thought they were on the Kardashian reality show--shoes, hair, make up--all sorts of crazy going on. The over processed blonde talked on her cell phone (with Swarovski crystal studded Otter Box) to someone else the entire meal while her dining companion (and I use that term loosely) texted someone. Elise staged whispered, "Why did they go to lunch together if they aren't going to talk to each other?" That, My Dear, is the question, cause it sho' nuff weren't the conversation or the $12.99 salads they picked at and didn't actually eat.

6) Plato's Closet is across from the Galleria in the shopping center with 2nd and Charles/Toys R Us FYI.

7) My cousin waits tables at The Cheesecake Factory. Who knew?

8) My most proud moment of the day? When Elaina held up something she wanted to buy that had been marked down over and over with little red marks and stickers littering the tag from $190 to $7.99 and said, "SOLD!" You got that right. Now we can go to Dairy Queen and back to the woods, where we evidently belong.

Refusing to be Upstaged

Elise must have been feeling a little put out because her twin received an entire blog post to herself, so I'm pretty sure that she lost a fingertip in a door-slamming incident at school just for spite.

Fun times.

I was in the school office trying to buy some pants at the time of the incident. (I know, I know. Reading one of these things is like falling into the rabbit hole, isn't it, Folks?) I sent E-1 up to fetch E-2 from the classroom so that they could try on said pants when It happened.  Elise was standing in the doorway to the classroom when a student (in a bizarre attempt at humor), slammed the door to keep Elise out of the room.

Well, he kept all of her out except for the top joint of her right-hand ring finger. That part sort of flopped through the crack in the door while the rest of her body stood in the hallway, so the joke needs a little work on the execution.

She heard the popping sound of bone breaking and then ran to her teacher's desk for assistance. Elise, being Elise, simply announced that she was bleeding and got a tissue. Mrs. Jennifer held it together like a pro, especially after realizing that Elise's finger was actually lifting off in the tissue. They hustled down the hall and to the office where I was casually perusing through an amazing selection of Shortie-sized used jeans. When they rounded the corner, it was completely obvious that something was bad wrong by E's face.

She sees my face responding to her face and says, "Don't cry, Mommy, don't cry, but I think my finger fell off."

Huh. That's a new one.

Now, I'm really fantastic at multiple things. I can put an entire meal on the table for twelve people in 40 minutes flat. I can organize 63 high school kids and various adults and put on Macbeth in ten days. I can pack seven people into one vehicle for a two-week-long journey. I can make money magically stretch from have-to's into want-to's. I have degrees in Psychology and English. I'm really quite prolific.

But you present me with a severed finger, and it's Chicken With Head Cut Off Impression Hour at Casa Johnson. I turned into Prissy from Gone With the Wind.  I certainly don't know nothing 'bout reattaching no fingah.

So, I did the completely natural thing under the circumstances; I freaked out.

Thank God that He saw fit in His infinite wisdom to have three nurses standing in the office with me at that exact second. 1) The school secretary, 2) some random woman paying her school tuition, and 3) the woman I was buying the jeans from. They took one look at the hand and one look (listen) at me and sent me running for ice. No joke. Get the nutcake out of here so that we can accurately assess the situation. I know when I'm being dismissed, so I ran for it. I'm that chick who should be sent for towels and hot water, not standing at the birthing chute. I came back with a baggie of ice, the nurses shoved the finger/hand into the bag, and Part II of this nightmare began.

See, my other Achilles Heel is this...directions. I'm not just directionally challenged, I'm almost like a special needs person when it comes to finding my way. I'm not making light or joking either. I really can't find my way out of a paper sack with a flashlight and a GPS. Everyone who lives here will get this; the rest of you will just have to imagine, but the directions I was given to get to the local hospital (that is in the opposite direction from my house and the hospital I would be most likely to attend), involved the words, "turn left at the old Jack's". Now, where in the crap is that? I am not sure that I can find the new Jack's much less some old one that I've never eaten at.  It's just happenstance that I knew where they told me to go. I mean like a miracle.

Elise didn't shed a single tear in the school office, didn't freak, didn't scream, nothing. (In fact, I was the only person of like ten people who was actually screaming.) And this was a BAD cut. Her finger was severed straight through the center of the nail bed, like it had been hacked off with a butcher knife. (I will spare you the gory, disgusting photos.) It was only  hanging on by the pad of the fingerprint. But once we got in the car and away from that initial panic, she began to cry mostly out of fear more than pain.

Fortunately, once we got rolling, I was in the zone again. In charge. Focused. So, I began to do the natural Johnson thing--Distraction Through Laughter. It's our favorite Coping Technique.

Shall I demonstrate?

"Now, Elise, you  have to stop crying and calm down this instant, because if you puke everywhere that is going to add time to our little trip here. There is NO WAY you are going to be able to find your fingertip in that baggie of ice water if you drop it while you are heaving, and I'm certainly not digging it out of there for you. I have to draw the line somewhere."

giggle

"And furthermore, Young Lady, this really isn't altogether that big of a whoop. Seriously, it's your right hand, and you are left handed. And it's your ring finger--like the weakest finger on your hand--and you even kept the knuckle, so you can totally still wear a ring. So, worst case scenario you've made the entire High Five experience awkward for people, but you can always shift to a High Four like nothing ever happened. See? give me high four." At which point I literally held up my hand with the ring finger tucked into my palm and she actually high-four'd me with her left hand.

The Zone, I tell you.
By the time we hit the door to the emergency room (which I had to drive around the hospital twice to find in spite of the enormous red EMERGENCY ENTRANCE signs that were everywhere--I told you--I give new meaning to Directionally Challenged), we were giggling and laughing, no tears in sight.

Sitting there on the gurney, having viewed the absolutely grodie missing finger, waiting on the doctor to come in and stitch her up, still no pain medication having been delivered, Elise began a little Johnson Coping herself.

She said, "Man, I'm totally like the Soul Surfer girl."

Pause for effect.

I deadpanned, "Well, except there was a shark, and it was her whole arm."

She nodded, solemnly, "Yeah, but mine was the class clown and my finger is part of my arm, so, totally Soul Surfer. I mean, some people are even more scared of clowns than they are of sharks."

I nod, simmering in the joke.

"So, should we get you like a little tiny prosthetic fingertip?"

She cocked her head in thought for a second. "Nah, her dog chewed up her arm,  but like Mellie would totally eat my fingertip and then you'd make me dig through the dog poop to get it and I'm NOT wearing a dog poop finger."

"Well, you could always just go with your naturally deformed fingertip...like paint your nails all jacked and stuff. Paint a jagged edge like torn paper."

"Cool! or maybe an arrow with 'this way up'."

"Or 'oh no!'"

giggle

Now you're talking, Sister. We had the doctor looking at us like we were crazy. Well, if the prosthetic fingertip fits....

Because We Are Johnsons.