I Can't Believe I'm Going to Post This But Here Goes Nothing...

I'm on Facebook all the time so sometimes I read something there that I get a little inspiration from. Today was one of those days. A facebook friend of mine posted the quote from an unknown source: "Never give up on something you can't go a day without thinking about". I needed to hear that. I need that seared into my pshche. I wake up every morning with big plans and by mid-morning it's all over but the crying. I need to remember not to forget. Today is that day. I will not give up this time.

I can only imagine what the sales meetings are like at the General Nutrition Center (GNC), or any other store just like it. There's a room full of thin, pretty girls, meaty, muscley young men with gelled hair and a gold chain stretched tightly around his thick, body builder neck. They're wearing their khaki pants with their polo shirts tucked in nicely and everyone is tanned and gorgeous. The management team is just as put together, just slightly older and clearly graduates of whatever marketing school they attended. All very polished, all love themselves a great deal and all satisfied with their jobs. And hey, 20% employee discounts on Mega-Extreme Lean Body Muscle-Building Protein Powder is icing on the cake. Life is grand!

"Ok TEAM!", says the managers to the sales people. "There are lots and lots and lots of fat people out there. They don't love themselves like we do. They are lazy and they sit on the couch all day just wishing they wouldn't be fat anymore. They are always on a diet and they always fail. They search far and wide for some easy, quick-fix and they're willing to pay any amount of money for it. They know it won't work. They know it because they've tried everything out there. They've bought into every infomercial, every women's magazine article, every advertisement. They will even tell you 'I've tried it all and nothing has worked!' What they won't tell you is how they get up out of bed in the middle of the night, eat a massive bowl of sugary cereal with whole milk and then go right back to bed. They won't say 'I took the diet pills and then I went to McDonald's for lunch, adding a 12 piece Chicken McNuggets to go with my Big Mac Meal. Oh, and a large sweet tea.'" The management/motivation team continue, "These fat people are desperate and we need to prey on, er, help them. We're here to help!" And the beefy, beautiful sales team cheers!

"Ok", says the director of marketing. "How can we help the poor, poor fattys and capitalize on their flightly 'I'm really gonna do it this time' determination?" He continued, "When the fat people come in and start looking around for the 'magic pill' I want you to lead them over to the entire back wall - full of diet products. We even have a big sign over the shelves that says 'DIET'. See?" and he points to the back wall and the meat heads nod in acknowledgement. "Every month we'll have a different sales incentive program and we'll focus on a different bottle of magic pills", he said with a tooth-whitened grin and a chuckle. "And whoever sells the most wins a 60 ounce tub of Mass Fusion Optimum Micronized Lean Muscle Body Building Creatine Powder! In Strawberry!!" He whipped the team into a frenzy with high-fives all around, peck flexing and strutting. "Now go help a fat person!" he finished, clapping then dismissed the meeting. Then the fit and trim sales staff went on to work - on a mission.

By the last time I walked into the GNC I had tried every infomercial product, every women's magazine article and every diet product sales pitch had me hook, line and sinker. I've read every book, I've tried every kind of diet from Adkins to the Master Cleanse. I've prayed about it, attended Overeaters Anonymous, considered surgery, gone to medical weight loss centers, put magnets in my shoes and starved myself. I've vomitted, taken laxatives and I've excersized myself nearly into heart failure. I've swallowed vinegar before every meal, I've taken fat blockers and I've lived on speed and diet pills until I worried that my heart would stop. I've taken water pills until my muscles cramped. I woke up EVERY SINGLE MORNING and started a diet only to fail miserably by lunchtime. I've been sick with envy of the thin people of the world, I've beaten myself to a pulp with guilt and self-loathing and I stopped looking at myself in the mirror. I had blamed everything there was to blame and I had all but given up, resorting to sitting on the couch and wishing I would lose some weight.

Believe me, I know there's no such thing as a "magic pill". I know how to lose weight because I've lost lots of weight a few times. But for whatever the reason that day, I found myself face-to-face with a beefy sales-boy at the GNC, asking me if he could help me find something. "Yes", I said. "Point me to your magic pills", I joked. Mr. Muscles blinked a couple times, probably couldn't believe his luck as he harkened back to the GNC motivational sales meeting, realizing there really are fat people in the world who believe in magic pills and he was one sale closer to that tub of muscle-building goodness! He led me over to a product display and literally handed me a bottle of pills and told me everything a fat person wanted to hear - take these pills and you'll lose a zillion pounds without even trying. The sad part was that he thought I was serious. Even sadder was that I bought the damn thing, knowing - knowing - I was buying another bottle of snake oil. I took my bottle of 40 something dollar diet pills home with me, took a few of them and promptly gave up again. And I was mad at the guy for preying on my desperation - blaming him (and probably some sales meeting that I just made up in my mind) for my failures. And then I thought if he - and the rest of the multi-billion dollar a year diet industry - only knew how I felt about myself and my failures and how much worse I was going to feel when the "magic pill" they just promised me didn't work, then maybe they wouldn't try so hard to earn their money at my expense.

Last weekend I was sitting on the couch watching TV (the only thing I do that doesn't make my joints ache) when I happened onto a program on the Oprah Network. (*disclaimer* - I'm not trying to promote The Oprah Network here - it could have been any reality show based network...) The program was called "Addicted to Food" - a reality show based on a treatment center for various types of eating disorders. Every thing the program said, every point it tried to make, every participants story, every single thing about that show screamed at me to PAY ATTENTION! THIS IS ALL ABOUT YOU!! It wasn't a lightbulb moment, I've always known what my food issues are and have been for years. But it was eye opening and at the least a little nudge - while I sat there on the couch - to get up and try to get myself back together. In this particular treatment center they used the actual Alcoholics Anonymous 12 steps for recovery substituting the word "alcohol" for "food" and they treated the participants like actual addicts complete with food detox, strict and very closely monitored treatment plans and intensive cognitive therapy. And they were also a christian based center, I believe, the TV program showing the counselors at least praying in the name of Jesus Christ which made the show even better to me.

I made note earlier of all the diets I've been on before and all the tricks I've tried. I've done it all. Well, all except get honest. As I watched the show (and it was a program 'marathon' with 4 episodes shown back to back) the more I realized that it was time for me to do something. I could have been any one of those people - and watching them from the "outside looking in", it was easy to see the need for help. There were interesting story lines in the 'cast' and all resembled me so much. I wrote down some of the teaching portions of the show and I tried to soak up everything the counselors told the addicts. I was getting geared up to get on with doing something about my weight problem once and for all and then the head lady at the center said something that disappointed me. She said to the patients there - "No one can do it alone. Just like a heroin addict needs to be detoxed, counseled and helped into sobriety, so does the food addict. You need help, you can not do it alone". I am alone. And I went into the kitchen and fixed myself something to eat.

But I'm stuck on it this time. I know what I've lost as a direct result of my eating disorder and I know what my eating disorder has prevented. My love for my 'drug' has choked out my enjoyment for many other things. It's robbed me of good things that I deserve and it's very definately stolen from me my general well-being and good health. I've decided to get honest and tell others about my eating disorder - sort of like those people on that program unveiled themselves for the world to see (or whoever watches the Oprah Network). Starting yesterday I've decided to address my weight and moreso the things that cause my weight to be what it is and I'm going to write about it as my "help". If someone reads it then I'm not alone. As I sit here typing, I'm feeling anxious about actually hitting the "publish post" button but I'm going to do it and see where it leads me. Over the course of my self-help treatment program I believe I'll write about it all, what got me here, my big food secrets, what I'm doing now, etc. I might even post a picture or two. And I'll see what happens. It's something that I haven't tried yet and once and for all this has to be the first step to regaining myself; to be a better mom, a better employee to whoever will hire me, a better daughter to my mom, a better christian, a better church member and a better friend. Ok, here goes nothing. Click publish...

Not So Randomly Praising God

Sometimes life seems so random. One minute you're here, one minute you're there. We just roll along trying to live our life with a plan and a purpose but still feeling like there's a big randomness all around. Or at least that's how I feel most of the time. So recently, and quite randomly, I have found myself as a new member of the Tuckaseege Baptist Church Choir. Again, one minute I'm parked on a pew in the sanctuary on a Sunday and the next I'm draped in a heavy, burgangy choir robe and trying to find my inner alto. So random. Or is it?

If I pull back, way back, and have a look at the totality of my life so far, I can clearly see a pattern here. There's really no scattered footprints wandering about aimlessly but a paved path which lead me from childhood and straight into the second row of my church's choir. Then if I tighten up the focus I can even say that the purpose was not to be in the choir as a whole but to stand in the exact spot that I was standing this past Sunday. I was supposed to hear exactly what I heard and gain what I gained by hearing it. And that moment in time was all part of the Master's big plan for me - well organized and pulled off without a single hitch!

My dad loved music. He played all sorts of instruments, he had a love for jukeboxes - we always had one - and he even sold records for a living. There was music everywhere in my childhood home from Elvis Presley to boxloads of Rythym and Blues 45's. From piano to banjo - the house was always alive with a tune! As far back as I can remember I had that same love for music. Songs from every genre, every generation are embossed on my memories. I so vividly remember sitting beside daddy on the piano bench and trying to sing "The Holy City" as well as he played it. I never could. He would take me around places and get me to sing for his friends. It was a lucrative little business for me - mostly getting paid in shiny quarters and mostly because I was Johnny Bishop's little girl! It was music that was the strongest bond between dad and me and to this day when I hear certain songs I think of him. I can't watch a man's hands stroll over a piano keyboard without getting lost in memories of him.

I grew up believing that I would be a great singer. I had no doubt in my mind that I was that good and could easily be the next big somebody. Unfortunately the desire and the talent didn't exactly sync up. I could always carry a tune and did well enough to win a karaoke contest or two but it would take a lot more than that to be catapulted into super-stardom! The older I got the more I realized that. At one time I even went so far as to question God for giving me the desire but not the same level of talent. I didn't get it. Surely He knew how much I wanted it. If He would just grant me what I desired then I could sing for the people, the people would love me, I would be rich and famous and then I could give a little back by tithing to a church or something. No luck.

The older I got the less I sang. Gone were the days of seeing my dad beam with pride because I sang the National Anthem at a minor league baseball game. No more bar crawling to Karaoke nights, competing for a cheap trophy and the adoration of the local bar flies thinking surely one of these people could "discover" me. The dream had died - and eventually so did what little voice I had. I sang in the car and I sang to my son. And that was all. I had to go work for a living, trudging along in my random life - earning a non-glamourous living. Thank you very much G-O-D. Thanks for nothing. I was going to glorify you with my fabulousness but no - you couldn't work with me on my big plan.

Last summer I visited Tuckaseege Baptist Church. I had no intention of going there but my son had been going with a neighbor to the Vacation Bible School that week and he had learned a song with the other children of the church. He would be singing in church that Sunday morning and he insisted I be there. That same morning they had a guest pianist and as I was walking into the sanctuary I was nearly knocked over by the music. The beautiful music played by that man took me right back to my little spot on daddy's piano bench listening and watching his hands and wanting to sing well enough to make him even more proud of me. Oh and I cried as he played In The Garden, The Old Rugged Cross, How Great Thou Art. On and on the man played and my heart nearly exploded in the longing for my dad. I wished he could have been there, I wished I could have told him about the man and I wished he could have seen my baby sing. But beyond the sadness and tears there was a spark. A tiny little flame of interest in the music itself. I wanted to sing it! I wanted to stand up and sing it and let the people here me sing it and love me and my voice!! And then it was over. Completely missing the point, I shook some hands, met a few nice people and Matthew and I left. So random, but not really. Matthew and I went back to church that next weekend. And mostly every weekend since then.

"Word got out" that I used to sing a little and finally, after being asked several times and by several different people to join the choir I had run out of excuses. So poof! Just like that I found myself in the choir - singing again. Or trying to. Singing in a church choir is a lot harder than singing in your shower. There are multiple parts and many voices, tempos and key changes and arrangements. I had forgotten what "CODA" was and found myself flipping around the pages just trying to keep up with the others. I didn't know the songs, I had lost my nerve and I couldn't sing alto without following along with someone's tenor. I was humbled. And then His plan for me became perfectly clear...

Sunday morning I stood up with the choir, cleared my throat, took in my lungs-full of air and prepared to sing our song. I sang the parts I could, mouthed the rest. But what was so much better than singing was standing in the middle of the music. The music notes dancing gently over the ivory keyboard, rising and falling and softly swirling around the hearts of the voices. Oh the voices, the sopranos beside me, the basses and tenors behind me all filling my soul with the lyrics of praise. The sheer love for Christ in the voice of the lady standing right beside me washed over me and I cried. She truly loved Him and I heard that love in her precious voice. It was an all-inspiring love song from the voices all singing straight to the audience that was God alone. And then I started to sing again, "Blessed Be The Name Of The Lord" and this time to God! And HE loved my voice! And I finally got it! My talent for Him - He gave me a talent for use to praise HIM. So now I'm in the choir, humbly singing along, mostly in my own key and once again loving music! Not random at all but a direct and specific plan laid out for me, using my dad and my childhood surrounded in songs as a path to the 2nd row of the Tuckaseege Baptist Church Choir.

Personal Little Rainbows

RAINBOW (noun): An arc or circle that exhibits in concentric bands the colors of the spectrum and that is formed opposite the sun by the refraction and reflection of the sun's rays in raindrops, spray or mist. That's what the Merriam-Websters Dictionary says about Rainbows. I'm sure it makes a lot of sense to a scientist who understands the difference in refraction and reflection but not so much to me. All I know about any of that is that I know one when I see one.

Much ado has been made about rainbows. It's a part of politics with it's Rainbow Coalition, it's a part of NASCAR with it's Rainbow Warriors, it's a symbol of pride and acceptance for some and it's even a "magically delicious" marshmallow in a box of Frosted Lucky Charms. Most famously, I guess, the Rainbow is the gateway to a place where troubles melt like lemon drops and happy little blue birds fly. When I was kid even Kermit the Frog sang a song called "The Rainbow Connection" on the Muppet Show. It was one of my favorite songs then and still remains in my top 10 of all time favorites! I even have the record on my jukebox. (Yes, I'm that old...)

Besides all of that, what is a rainbow really? As a Christian I believe exactly what the Bible tells me about a rainbow. Genesis 9:13-16 says "I have set my rainbow in the clouds; and it will be a sign of the covenant between me and the earth. Whenever I bring clouds over the earth and the rainbow appears in the clouds, I will remember my covenant between me and you and all living creatures of every kind. Never again will the waters become a flood to destroy all life. Whenever the rainbow appears in the clouds, I will see it and remember the everlasting covenant between God and all living creatures of every kind on the earth." To put it simply (if I may be so bold) it's God's promise to every single being on earth - creatures included - that He will never again destroy the world by flooding waters. So when I see a rainbow in the sky firstly I thank the Lord that there will be no earth-destroying floods today but I think how awesome it is to be seeing with my own eyes a miracle - a message from God himself right over my head! No need to find the end of it for some mythical pot of gold - the gold is the thing itself! It's not what Merriam Webster said at all but a God-spoken light of beauty right before my very eyes!!

The other day while working I was saying prayers in my mind about all sorts of things. I do that all the time - good days and bad, thankful or needy, I take it all to God. Then I happened to look around me and noticed at that particular moment in time I was surrounded by little rainbows glowing on the counters and walls and even one spilling onto the floor. Now, those little rainbows may have been more of what Mr. Webster described ever so scientifically as concentric bands brought on by the refraction of the sun's rays - or in this case the beveled edges of our windows as the sun shined through them. But for me in that moment I decided that it was God, hearing my prayers and sending me my personal little rainbows as a reminder of His promise to never flood me with the waters of life. It's a nice thought, I thought, and maybe one you might remember as you're building your own arc to brave the rapids of your life. The next time you catch a rainbow in the mist of your kitchen sink sprayer take comfort in God's promise to YOU!

Merry Christmas! Or is it?

The morning my dad passed away a grief counselor from the hospice unit came into the room to talk about grief, I suppose. We'd been there for several days and I don't believe I'd talked to her before. She was talking about a process or something when I interrupted her nearly in a panic - "What day is this?!" I practically demanded from this stranger. She seemed a little confused at my question. "Is this Christmas Eve?!" again, I felt like I was in a panic. "Oh please, don't let this happen Christmas Eve", I was thinking to myself. "No", the lady said. "It's the day before". And I felt relieved. We spent that Christmas Eve picking out a casket and Christmas day that year our "family meal" was a few casseroles that friends and neighbors had brought over. Still, at least it wasn't on 'the day'.

I have always loved Christmas - everything about it! I have always loved the actual meaning of Christmas as well as the sparkly side of the holiday. I've always loved Santa Claus, Christmas trees, Manger scenes and the Baby Jesus. I looked forward to it months ahead of it and January was the biggest kill-joy month that ever was! Christmas to me was magical and special. It 'was' all those things. But it became 'when my dad died'. It's the anniversary of one of my darkest moments and there's not enough twinkling lights and eggnog to make into anything much different than that. It's a weird place I find myself in. Christmas comes around so early these days with the retail stores getting out the holiday decor before the Halloween stuff is put away. I'm excited when I'm standing in Wal-mart in the middle of October looking at the glittery ornaments but in the same scene I'm devistated that "Christmas is back" with all of it's stupid glittery ornaments. The continuous Christmas music starts on the radio stations in the middle of November and I tune my radio right to it because I love it so. But the songs bash into my brain like a sledge hammer raging to "REMEMBER, REMEMBER, REMEMBER". Yep. It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year all right.

The first year after my dad died I was compelled to have more than one Christmas tree. I wanted one in every room. And Each tree in each of the rooms had to be completely different and each had to have it's own theme and each had to be named after Christmas songs. I spent a fortune of money I didn't have. I think I was trying so hard not to hate Christmas that I forced it all right down my own throat. I was choking on it and I was going to love it, even if I hated the thoughts! And then there was the matter of being Santa Claus for Matthew. And that's really where I spent up the bill money trying to compensate for the obvious, big, gaping hole in my life. My dad was gone and I tried to make up for that with Christmas trees and one each of everything Toys R Us had to offer a 2 year old boy. That Christmas - as hard as I tried - sucked. If it weren't for Matthew I would have stayed in bed the whole day. I was so grateful I had Matthew to take care of. You can't stop Christmas - even if you wanted to and Santa wasn't coming without me. I got through the morning and I was looking at the home stretch to the end of this wonderfully awful season when I got a phone call saying my brother had collapsed. They rushed him to the hospital where he died before the day was done. And it was 'the day'. And it was then that my Christmas dilemma became almost unbearable.

For the last 5 years I've been on the roller coaster ride that I know as the Christmas season. As much as I love it I hate it. As much as I look forward to it I dread to see it coming. As sad as it is to me to see the Christmas stuff in the stores on clearance before the actual day even gets here I'm grateful that it's come and gone without taking anyone else that I love. And January...that dreadful and depressing, nothing-to-look-forward-to, empty and non-sparkly month that I despise so much is a joy to behold. As nutty as I sound - and honestly I can't believe that I'm even sharing this with anyone - this year has been a little different. A lot different, really. And the reason is my church! I've written about my church before and how thankful I am for it and for the people in it. This Christmas I'm reminded that there's even more to that little church that I can be thankful for and that's for giving me something to look forward to! I have a place to be and people to be around and an opportunity to do things for other people. Tonight my son sang a solo in the Children's choir! I didn't have that before - and I couldn't help but think how much my dad would have loved to see him sing! But I remembered that fondly and I didn't feel like the weight of the thing I was missing was going to crush me. What I had was finally starting to outweigh what was gone! Finally, my mind is on other stuff like Christmas - and the birth of my Savior and not just Christmas - death day for everybody I know.

It still makes me so sad that my dad and my brother aren't around to enjoy the holidays with mom, Matthew and me but I'm not going to let that saddness take the lead this year. This year all truly is calm and bright and I'm letting Christ be the centerpiece of my days! One day I'll see my family in heaven again but until then, from this Christmas forward, I'm easily letting the magic of the season back in my heart and in my home with a celebration of what Christmas is, not longing for something that it's not. God Bless you this season and have a very, Merry Christmas!

Giving Thanks To God For My Church!

During church tonight the pastor asked us to be prepared on Wednesday night to name the stuff we're thankful for. For me, this season of Thanksgiving - like every Thanksgiving before - I certainly am thankful for my family, my precious son and my health but this year there's so much more for which I need to give thanks. And I figured I wouldn't have the whole hour to myself on Wednesday night to shout to the Lord for all my blessings I decided to take it to my blog and exclaim that I am incredibly thankful for my NEW CHURCH!

On the table in front of the pulpit at my church there's a Bible that's opened somewhere around the middle. I'm afraid I don't know where exactly but given it's location I'm thinking maybe the Psalms. It's a beautiful Bible, big with the gold edges on the pages. The thing I love the most about that Bible is the red ribbon hanging down the middle - I look at it often while I'm listening to the sermon. It reminds me of the blood of Jesus. That blood, the price paid for my salvation I'm most certainly thankful for and I'm grateful to be visually reminded every time I walk through the doors! The carpeting in the sanctuary is the color of cranberry, and plush under foot. The aisle is so inviting - sometimes I imagine springing out of my seat and running down to the front, throwing myself facedown at the altar and thanking Him for allowing a wretch like me the opportunity to sit in His beautiful house. The stained glass windows are big and bright, lined with the most brilliant red, colored glass. Each one is different and each one dedicated to a church member from days past. I imagine the light shining through one of those windows may have meaning beyond compare to those who's family member is remembered with the dedication of each giant, colorful piece of craftsmanship.

The whole sanctuary is comfortable and inviting, but most importantly the pews are filled with the body of Christ. My first Sunday as a visitor, this group of people who collectively make up "the Church" reached out to me and to my son and made me feel that I'd finally found my way home. As lovely a building as I find my church to be, there's nothing more beautiful there than the people in it. Young and old, together they are the heart that give the little church its soul. I think the people there are what love looks like and I'm thankful I've gotten to see it for myself. I'm grateful for my friend who thought Matthew and I may benefit from being invited to her church. I doubt she knows the full impact of her invitation.

I'm thankful for the music that wraps me in its arms and comforts me. It's gentle notes envelope me, it's words whisper to me to come as you are and invites me into it's melody. There my heart swells and I cry. My tears flow, I can't help it, and it's right there that I realized I'm loved. I'm thankful for the children's choir that has given my son the opportunity to sing songs of praise and raise his hands towards Heaven with worship. I had no idea that watching my son praise God would be so beautiful! Seeing that is a blessing. And what a blessing that little children's choir has been! It was Matthew singing a song he learned in vacation Bible school that led me to that precious little church and for that I am so thankful!

In the short time I've been a student in my Sunday school class I've learned so much about the awesome Word of God and I have even fallen in love with the people in the class. I love those people like my family (some of them ARE my family) and I really get the feeling they love me too! Before I found my church, well, before God placed me in my church, I was so incredibly lonely and I prayed for people. I needed people. I needed to see people, talk to people, listen to people - so God sent me to some people! Isolation is a dangerous thing and I'm so thankful that I'm isolated no more. I cannot thank God enough for leading me to this precious group of friends. They each offer something to me so special they may never know but I cherish them and what I've gained just from hearing them speak. And then there's my beautiful Sunday school teacher. If ever a person opened their arms and truly welcomed me it was her. She's a gift from God to me, a true gift! She listens to me when I say something and she prays for me. And I feel it when she prays!

And then there's my pastor. The first sermon I ever heard from him, he called Jesus' disciples "some dudes". And it wasn't disrespectfully - it was passionately and I knew right then that I was going to love this church! Vocally he has good tone and the right inflection which is important for any speaker. He uses personal anecdotes to tell stories and he's mixes in just the right amount of humor with a bit of history and a great deal of knowledge. He smiles when he speaks and he's excited about what he's doing - that's obvious in his delivery - he's youthful with boyish charm and a hairstyle that makes newspaper writers want to do stories about him. But besides any of that...God uses him to speak directly into my soul. I stop hearing "the pastor speaking" and I start to receive into my heart the precious Word of the Almighty God. It washes over me and I absorb it like a sponge, I lose my breath and I break out in chills when I feel the presence of the Holy Spirit surrounding me. He leads me into prayer - my personal conversation with my savior and he's guided me closer to God. I thank God for the vessel that carries His message and I shed tears of joy for the abundance of love that He showers on me through the voice of a man.

So this year I give thanks to God for all my blessings but especially I thank Him for Tuckaseege Baptist Church and all that makes it. May the Lord continue to bless it, it's people and it's ministry.

TURN DOWN THAT NOISE!

"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people to peaceably assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances." That's the First Amendment of the Constitution of the United States of America - and I'm down with it. But...

When I was a big-haired teenager in the 80's I remember being upset with Tipper Gore for campaigning to slap that tell-tale "parental advisory" sticker on my favorite albums. I had just learned about the Constitution in my 9th grade Government class and as far as I was concerned, she was trying to squash Motley Crue's freedom of speech! Before Tipper shined the light on heavy metal and some other less than holy music-makers, my mom and dad were completely in the dark about what I was listening to. All they really knew for sure was that it was loud and it got on their nerves. With the addition of that cursed little black and white warning sticker my gig was up. No more listening to my favorite hairbands singing about love-making in less than flowery language. No more teenaged rebellion in the form of head-banging greatness peppered with the occasional "damn" or "hell" for amplified sentiment. And then on the rare occasion you were blasted with the "F" bomb - the MOTHER of all bad words - that teenaged rebellion headed right to the cliff - living on the edge of total anarchy! All of a sudden you were fighting for your RIGHT to PARTY! (ala Beastie Boys, circa 1980 something...) A real kick in the teeth of all authority. I was a rebel. A real hard-core wild child with my good music that was oh so BAD! No more of that. When my parents became enlightened by simply eying that "Tipper Sticker" attached to what seemed like every song I ever loved I could no longer walk freely through the back door with my latest purchase from the Record Bar. I had to allow the 'inspection'. I had to resort to smuggling in my musical paraphernalia - so when I was yelled at to "TURN DOWN THAT NOISE!", I did it. Mostly so I wouldn't get caught!

Fast-forward 20 something years. I'm older, wiser, I'm responsible, I work for a living and I'm a mother of an impressionable 7 year old boy. I have a lot more sense than I used to. So now when I'm listening to music - and I listen to all kinds - I don't really see the need for the bad language. The artist, as far as I'm concerned, could have made the exact same point without running the risk of getting 'labeled' with the warning sticker. Just the same, to each his own. The artist has a right - based on the Constitution - to use whatever language he or she is compelled to use and to write about whatever is top of mind at that time. Just like I have a right to purchase it and listen to it. Their choice to say it, my choice to listen, anyone's choice to listen. But...

The other morning I walked up to the bus stop with my 7 year old boy. My precious little son who I've tried to raise with some manners, morals, a sense of self, some independance (but not too much!) and a definate understanding of right and wrong. I try my best to protect the boy from harm, to guard his innocence. Kids today grow up so fast anyway - there's no need for him to know about 'bad stuff' or 'adult stuff'. I watch what I talk about in front of him, I monitor what he listens to on the radio or the things he sees on TV. To put it simply, I care about what goes into him because I care about what's liable to come out of him.

So back to the bustop the other morning...Matthew and I were standing there like we do every morning along with probably 1o other kids when one of the parents pulled up in his car with his little girl. I could hear the bass thumping from down the street so when he got to the stop it was just as loud as a car stereo could get, I imagine - and crystal clear too. My hearing, my son's hearing was assualted by the noise alone but the song was obscene, and the more we stood there the more I felt like I was being molested by words. The chorus was, and I quote, "I ain't scared of a N-word's Mother Fu*%in' S#*t" and "Man F*@k that S#*t N-word, f^*k that S#*t, man." repeated over and over and over. The verses rapped about killing people. It was as plain as daylight, I could hear it as well as if I had earbuds crammed into my ear canals. I tried to cover Matthew's ears - but that didn't work. Had I left the bus stop we would have missed the bus. I happen to know this particular neighbor so I'm certain if I'd have asked him to turn that off here at the bus stop with all the kids around then he would have told me to f*%k off and then he would have turned it up just to prove some sort of point. I just had to stand there and hear it - and even worse, my precious, absorbent little sponge of a son who struggles already with the temptation of trying to kick in the teeth of authority by slipping out a bad word now and again, was forced to hear it. Let's not forget the guy's own little 8-year old girl who stepped out of his car when the bus rolled up. She had a front seat to all things "bitches and ho's". When I got back in the house I 'googled' the lyrics I could remember and to the best of my knowledge it's a song called "Knockin' Heads Off" by a fellow called "Lil Jon". If you're not familiar with it, I urge you to google it for yourself. I'm sure it has "the sticker" but it's good to know what kind of thing is going on out there these days. And so you can see for yourself what we're up against in case you have a neighbor who thinks that 'gangsta rap' is appropriate for bustop listening.

Again, I'm down with the Constitution and your right to sing whatever you like and your right to listen to it but when my son cannot stand at the BUS STOP - a place where ELEMENTARY SCHOOL CHILDREN stand and wait to catch a bus that takes them to school so they can learn how to spell things like cat, rat, house, mouse, etc. then I have a REAL problem! What about MY rights NOT to be bombarded with the "f" bomb and my son's right not to be pummeled with the sounds of drive-by shootings and the like. Just like there's laws against having sex in a public park or the smoking ban in public restaurants, I think there should be some sort of law against blairing obscenities at a place where people - young and old - are gathered. I think I'll look into that, indeed. If there's not a law against auditory assault on children at the bus stop then maybe I'll petition to get one, using my dear neighbor as the poster boy for "We're not gonna take it anymore!" (ala Twisted Sister, circa 1980-something!) Where's Tipper when you need her?!

Say, what's with all the pictures?

People (usually my family and my Facebook friends) say to me all the time "MAN you take a lot of pictures!" and "Geez, you and Matthew are always going somewhere!" And to both comments I say "yes, you're right". The next question is usually "Why?". Well, there's actually a reason behind both. And as much as I wish to one day write my little travel guide for the single mom complete with pictures of Matthew standing in front of the "fill in the blank" attraction, it started, simply enough, just for my dad.

First of all, I'm compelled to say that there was not another person on the face of this Earth that my dad loved more than ME! Oh the sun set on me according to my dad. I was a favorite thing to him. (My brother and I used to joke about it - he was mom's favorite and I was dad's and we were ok with that!) So, I was happy as a lark going through life being a daddy's girl, all spoiled and showered with love and anything I needed and then - along came Matthew! Suddenly I became a distant second in dad's eyes since the coming of Matthew, dad was just goofy in love with that baby! But no sooner was little Matthew born then my husband took a job up in Lenoir, North Carolina. We had to pack up the new family and move a whopping 45 minutes away to Hickory, North Carolina. In dad's mind it might as well have been Saskatchewan...he was so upset that the baby was going to grow up "so far away from home".

When we got to Hickory, the hub was working all the time and I had this brand new baby that at times I wasn't sure what to do with. I was lonely and becoming a little isolated and sometimes even felt like I was as far away as Saskatchewan. I took care of Matthew during the day, painted, unpacked and worked on the house at night. It was quiet and there were days when the only person I talked to was a 2 month old baby! It was the first time in almost 20 years that I didn't go to a job and work for a living - it was just Matthew and me. I was grateful for the opportunity to stay home and raise my son but I didn't, make that COULDN'T stay at home for long! I was about to go crazy inside the 4 walls of my new house and I had to get out of there and go see something different - or go talk to someone who could answer without cooing, gurgling or spitting up on me!

Meanwhile my dad was at his home missing us, make that Matthew, terribly. He called a lot but we had to be mindful of the long distance charges. It was before facebook and dad had no desire to learn anything about email. I really was a long way away for him and he worried himself sick over us. I went home a lot - but he would worry about that too, saying stuff like "you're burning up the highways with that baby in the car!" He would be thrilled to see us (baby Matthew) but wouldn't be happy until we made it back to Hickory in one piece! I was sort of stuck.

So dad, bless his soul, not wanting to miss one more minute of Matthew's little life and not wanting me to risk life and limb by driving anywhere went out and bought me a Cam-corder so I could video every little exciting thing that Matthew did! So I did. I recorded Matthew lying on the floor, Matthew batting at toys, Matthew flipping over, Matthew's face turning red when he was pooping, Matthew eating baby food and spitting it out. Dad was content with the 'footage' and according to mom watched the tapes over and over (bless his heart!) I got a little bored video taping Matthew sitting in the play-pen and again the 4 walls were starting to close in on me so we started to go out to the local parks just to get pictures and video of Matthew lying on a blanket in the grass or in front of something different than my house! At least it gave dad something different to look at (even though he would give me a hard time about 'taking that baby to a park where muggers could be lurking' or 'germs from some sick kid could get on him'!)

When I exhausted every 'photo-op' every local park in my area had I started looking on-line for some other "baby-friendly" places to go. And go we did! Over that next year Matthew and I went all over the place, snapping pictures and shooting video of our "adventures". For dad I made photo albums, had calendars made for him out of pictures of Matthew, tee-shirts, coffee mugs, framed 8x10's. The pictures became some of dad's favorite things and the videos kept him close to his favorite person.

When dad got sick the pictures and the videos became even more important to him. The more he couldn't get out the more I wanted to go somewhere - just to make pictures of Matthew for my dad. A handful of simple snapshots could make his whole day seem better. The last pictures dad saw were of our trip to the Asheboro Zoo and Matthew's visit with Santa Claus. I took the photo album to the hospital when he asked me to and he took one of the pictures out of the book and kept it by his bed until he died. When dad passed away he had 18 hours worth of cherished memories on video and a little building full of photographs - we even sent some of the pictures with him. Since dad's been gone Matthew and I have been countless places. Every trip we've ever made or any picture I've ever taken in some way reminds me of my dad - if for no other reason than I "burned up the highway" to get us to where we landed that day! Now-a-days I just post my pictures up on Facebook but occasionally I still take a picture or two over to the cemetary. What started out as a way to get out of the house for a minute became something so special for my dad - and subsequently me, and now Matthew - that I can't imagine NOT going somewhere and very definately not taking a picture of it!