Piano Recital In Pictures

This is why we don't get Bode out much.

Thanks for another great year, Leah.
And thanks for another great dress, Yaya.

Edmond Cowboy

By "Edmond" I mean "Clueless."  Apparently, this is an intimidating cowboy pose (his sister's fake Uggs really complete the package). 

I call this my "anti-cowgirl wannabe hipster mom" look:

Bode lasted exactly 2.5 second on the horse before screaming like a girl and begging to get off and "go play soccer with those kids across the street."

I consider this picture a miracle because they are both looking at the same camera at the same time and neither of them is screaming, crying, picking their nose, rolling their eyes, or just looking weird.  

He knows he can't really pull off the whole tough-guy cowboy thing.  He's in skinny jeans, for heaven sake.

And this is why I love this annual tradition:  

These kinds of intergenerational relationships are precious to me and my family.  

Another reason I love our church.

Mama T

My sweet Aunt Margie Tedford passed away last night.

 I feel so blessed that we got to spend the day with her Saturday.

 She was precious to so many, especially my own Grandmother who she practically raised after their Mom died.

We love you, Mama T.  

We look forward to seeing you again someday.

Happy Birthday, Yaya!

Today we celebrated my Mom's 60th birthday.

The kids made her this adorable picture:

 And of course, some bling was in order.

 My sweet Ahmo hosted the event and my 100-year-old Aunt Margie came all the way from Tennessee for the occasion.

Bode's lovely drawing of Yaya with her grandchildren really puts her age in perspective.

There's nothing like a four-year-old to keep you humble.

Happy Birthday, Yaya.
Next year, I'll preview the artwork. 

Scary ninja or little Muslim girl?

This is one outfit we aren't leaving the house in.

I'm a fool for books.

 Here are a couple more books I've read lately:


Seven is one of my new favorites.  If you want to be challenged to consume less and rid your life of excess this book is for you.  I love the real-time writing style. It is serious and challenging while at the same time being witty and fun.  I'm in love with this book.  My husband - not so much, mostly because now I want to give away everything we own and adopt 12 orphans.

The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks is a wonderful book.  I did not think I was smart enough to read a book about cells and science and stuff, but guess what?  I actually like it.  And I feel smarter.

If you like sentences like, "A soap bubble, skin of light and water and space suspended in sphere,"  then this book is for you.  I don't have time to try and figure out what that is supposed to mean.  The only reason I did not throw this book across the room is because it's been all hyped up by people that I respect and the idea is good.  I will never take the common practice of  using an article before a noun for granted again.







That's all for Monday, folks.  Happy reading!

Do you know what this means?

These are my children getting their passport photos taken.  

Which means we are leaving the country.

In fact, it is coming up so soon that I every time I think about it I have to go breathe in a bag.

The first time I left the country I was 19 years old.  

Just the week before, my mother was talking to one of her friends on the phone and said, "Of all the places in the world, I would never want my kids going to Singapore."

(To be fair, it happened to be right after the famous caning of American teenager, Michael Fay. )  

And then I came home from college one weekend and said, "I'm going to Singapore in May."  

Now that I am a mother myself, I can appreciate the restraint she exercised when she said, "Ok."

And that May is when my world changed.   

(It didn't hurt that I fell in love with this crazy guy on the trip and then decided to marry him.)  And since then Andy and I have been everywhere.  Any opportunity to experience another culture - count us in.

Let's not forget that Andy has conveniently managed to leave the country about once a year since we have had children.  Without me.  Or the children.

But this time he isn't getting so lucky.  

His job is taking him to Brazil and his family is following him.

I am not considering this a vacation so much as an exercise in keeping my blue-eyed blonde-haired children from getting kidnapped and sold to the Brazilian mafia.

(That was a joke, Mom.)

But seriously, I want them to know that not everyone is like them (i.e. white and privileged).  Not everyone speaks english, eats chik-fil-a and drinks Starbucks every week day.  Not every church is full of programs and ministries and balconies and donuts and tiny-sized toilets for their pottying convenience.  

Most importantly, I want them to see that the God that they pray to every night is the same God that Brazilian children pray to.  That He sees no color, no race, no social standing, no education.  That He hears prayers in English and Portuguese.  

I want their hearts to bleed for the lost and I want The Great Commission to be more than just a catchy song they sing in bible class.

I want it to be their life. 

Of course we don't have to go all the way to Brazil to teach our children this.  But I am not turning down the opportunity to change my kids' worlds, just like mine was changed 15 years ago.

And so we are headed to Brazil with a 4-year-old and a first-grade drop-out.  Bode thinks that it's going to have more rides than Disney World.  Mia can't wait to dazzle the natives with her three Portuguese phrases.  I'm trying to convince myself that my diet coke, starbucks coffee, and special k cereal with braum's milk addictions are all in my head. 

I'm terrified.  And so, so excited.

Easter: If it weren't for the fact that Jesus rose, it soooo wouldn't be worth it.

But He did, so it is.

I woke up extra early this morning.  I sat in beautiful silence and read about the last week of Jesus' life.  It was a chaotic mess, that week.  His best friends were clueless.  One of them betrayed him, one denied him not once, but three times, and the rest were secretly fighting about who He really was and which one of them was His favorite.  People were confused and outraged and just plain crazy.  

He asked for a simple drink of water and was denied it.  He was slapped across the face for answering a question.  He was screamed at, laughed at, mocked, beat almost to death, and then put to death for doing absolutely nothing wrong. 

And yet He was just as calm as a cucumber.  He took it in stride.  He was human so He felt every emotion that we feel, yet He never blew his top, threw a fit, burst into tears out of anger and frustration or said, "Screw this, I'm outa here."

Yet, just an hour after reading that story I was in a complete tizzy trying to get the kids out the door.  I changed clothes twice due to VPL (visible panty line, duh),  I spilled a huge glass of milk all over the floor, and I had to resort to the migraine medicine before 8:00 AM.  As soon as I sat down in the pew my husband leaned over and said, "I'm going to throw-up," and then raced out of the church like he was on fire. 

And all I could think was, "Screw this, I'm outa here."

Then I realized that my kids, the ones I took 78 pictures of that all look exactly like the one above, don't get it.  I asked Bode if he knew what Easter was really all about and he thought for a minute and said, "Giftcards?"
I'm ashamed of myself.
I'm ashamed that I felt all smug and down-to-earth for only getting my kids one book each this year and telling them the truth about the Easter bunny.
I missed the point.
Thank you, Jesus, for being an example to a suburban Mom 2,012 years after your life.  You are always relevant.  And if you can stay focused and in control during that chaos, then by all means so can I.
And now I am going to take a deep breath, remain calm, and take advantage of the remaining hours in this day to make sure my family "gets" it.
All will not be lost.

We all just want to feel beautiful.

And for a seven-year-old girl beauty is curled hair and a little hand-on-hip action.

To a mother beauty is the innocence of a crooked-tooth smile.

And then there's Bode,

who reminds us all that beauty is relative.

Girls Night Out

In this lovely season of my life girls' nights out usually consist of running into another Mom at Walgreen's in the middle of the night.  Seriously, that's exciting as it gets. 

And I'm not complaining because, after all, this is a just a season.  There will be many years for girls nights where we will probably sit around and wax nostalgic about the good ol' days when our kids were little and we had no time.  I get it.

But one girls night every five years seems reasonable enough to me.  So to Groupon we went.  And the next thing you know we are sitting at a Mexican restaurant painting pictures of birds' eggs.  It was fun, even though my brain felt like it might explode as it hadn't been stretched that far out of its comfort zone in quite some time.  I usually leave the art to my daughter.

Believe it or not, there are four little boys in utero represented in this picture.  None of which are in my uterus.  Knock. On. Wood.

Mia acted mortified at my artistic skills.  She poo-pooed my efforts and as a result she got this lovely picture plastered in the middle of her wall where it will stay until she learns some humility.

Thanks for the memories, ladies.  I'll see you again in about five years.