Hair Vote. I really do need help...

Ok, let's pretend that picking out a haircut is not a ridiculous first world problem. 

Let's also pretend that hubs and I have never had a full blown argument concerning the length of my hair. I know we aren't alone, because this is one of my most read posts on this here blog. But for us, this is a touchy subject. He doesn't want him to look at the back of my head and confuse me for a man. 

I need hair help. I have to head to Hong Kong in a few weeks and I'm going to try and get a haircut while I'm there. 

Sarah Jessica Parker and I have similar face shapes. Sarah Jessica Parker and I do NOT have similar arm muscles, waist lines, stunning legs, or thigh circumferences. But we do have the same face shape. I'm ownin' that much. 

I'm thinking of these three. Disregard highlights, pink lights, and skin color. I won't color anything, although I would love to be a large black woman who sings in a gospel choir. 

#1

I need pretty easy. The whole 5 kids, homeschooling, living in China thing gives me approximately 27 seconds a day to do my hair. 

#2

#3

If my husband didn't have fairly strong opinions on the matter, my hair would look like this:

I love this hair cut. The only downfall to this one is that it feels like with a short cut, you really do need to wear makeup and earrings. Is it just me?

Ok, seriously, which one should I go with? Or am I totally crazy and these will all look ridiculous on me?!

Sometimes it's Lonely

There is a deepness in loneliness that differs from sadness. Loneliness is the shadow that brushes around the corner, shifting our heads. The hope of community catches our breath, only to be exhaled in slow-measured disappointment. Most days are filled with things that allow my mind to get satisfied by the small morsels of task. But after a sustained diet of small bites, the emptiness starts to eat away at joy first. I find myself thankful for the technology that allows me to see people that I love. 

Fractured and flat communication gets old. 

I'm not one for self-pity. I knew when I signed up for life overseas that loneliness was part of the deal. Most of the time my mind remains healthily attached to the Lord who promises to sustain. But there are days. Oh, there are days where I want to sit across from friends and tell them there is spinach in their teeth while we eat Greek salads at a swanky outdoor cafe. 

You can't see spinach in a Skype picture. 

This season is so busy that sometimes I want to put everything down on a table and start walking. To walk until I hit a mountain where nobody is going to ask me to practice their English. Where nobody is going to ask me where I'm from or why I'm here. I want to pretend I can play the banjo and write folk music where nobody can tell me to put on more clothes because it's cold outside. 

I should stop listening to folk music. 

I look around at the women that are near me and they seem to be swimming smoothly through this season. I'm the fat kid out way too deep, thrashing and spitting up salt water that has blown its way through my sinus cavity at like a nuclear torpedo. My swimsuit has lodged itself into every nook and cranny and a jellyfish just stung my collar bone. Yet others seem to be swimming without their hair getting wet. They are all smiling and wondering what the fat kid is doing out so far from shore. 

Thanks for listening. Or reading. Or having this blog up while you procrastinate from Christmas prep.

Adoption links and picking a winner

First of all, I want to invite you over to Carrie Anne Hudson to jump into a grab bag of adoption/fostering resources. 

If you have a book, website, blog, sermon, etc that you would like to share, please link it over there. 

If you are curious about adoption, read it over there.

 If you want to subtly show your parents that you haven't gone completely made by considering adoption, send them a text that will lead them there. 

For those of us who have walked through adoption, I encourage you to put resources there. When I have people email me with, "So, I've been researching online about adoption..." my lungs cease to continue working. There is so much junk online about adoption. Let's lead them to God-centered, grace-filled, I-can't-do-this-apart-from-Jesus'-help type of resources. Ok, go!

********************

Now to the giveaway from last week. 

Let's pretend that lovely photo booth doesn't flip the photos and the winner is #12.

I need to apologize for the fact that my son is never wearing clothes. I'm hoping that changes by the time he hits Junior High. 

ROBIN!

She said that, "When I was small, I wanted to be an astronaut!"

Robin, if you could send me a comment to this post with your mailing address, I won't publish it. Congrats! 

Check out Noonday's other products here. Thanks Jamie for letting us team up and spread the word about this fabulous company. 

Context is King: The Olympics

My husband is well versed in theology. It's a hobby and a passion for him. One of the phrases that he often uses is, "Context is King!" The gist is that you can't just take a verse out of its original context and use it however you want, even if it makes a nice refrigerator magnet. I thought of this phrase over and over again as we watched the Olympics. How many things, when taken in a different context, just seem wrong. On many levels.  

I realize that Mexican wrestling is not yet an Olympic sport. A tragic oversight from the IOC. I hope that in the future, my children can enjoy a dream realized in an Olympics that includes Mexican wrestling.

These sweet Chinese women are not so much afraid of being drop kicked in the jugular but instead, of getting sun on their face. The sun...the most formidable opponent to a Chinese women. The monster air conditioner would be the next most intimidating competitor.

Masks: appropriate in the ring, terrifying on the beach. 

Context is King.

Tears were shed be countrymen around the world as various songs representing proud people were sung. As we watched the American athletes watch their years of hard work culminate into the playing of the US National Anthem, we too felt united with America even though we live so far away. 

With a short turn around between swimming in his event and stepping up on that awards stand, even Michael Phelps knows that you put on clothes before sportin' the gold. Thank you.Michael.Phelps.

While this man is probably making his mama proud, the rest of us could do without the mental picture. I'm sure Jesus still hanging on the crucifix would also appreciate a shirt of some kind.

Gold Necklaces: Victorious on the Olympic awards stand, creepy on random hairy Italian beach-goers.  

Context is King.

And now we move over to the Aquatics Center where speed and resilience are key. Swimmers have been perfecting both their strokes and their suits for the last 100 years to make them cut even faster through the water. This year, the swimsuits were definitely underrepresented and at times I thought they had even forgotten to show up. Man, those things seemed small. Like an after thought really.

If slicing through the water at 35 mph isn't what you are trying to achieve, then wearing a small loin cloth in the pool is simply not necessary. 

Speedos: necessary for optimal impact and minimal splash in the diving pool, a gratuitous uniform when there is not way a minimal splash will be achieved in the hotel swimming pool.

Context is King.

The amount of strength it takes these gymnasts to hold themselves up and defy gravity is remarkable. It is totally understandable for a person who is doing rings in the men's individual competition to cramp up in their arms. 

It is not ok, as a 35-year old mother of 5 to get cramps in her biceps from holding her cell phone to her ear for 12 minutes. That would not break any type of record in any type of country. It is quite simply pathetic and makes me want to go outside and start cross training. Right now. 

Cramps: Sign that an Olympic athlete is pushing his body to the limits, also a sign that a mother's body has limits akin to a ninety-year old woman.

Context is King.

Sheep Placenta Lotion and Other Treasures from Down Under

A few finds from the past few weeks:

I bought this lip gloss. Lip gloss is actually Latin for "I abhor wearing make-up, and wearing this makes me feel spritely and not so near death." When I first opened the lip gloss, a light came streaming across my face and almost poked my eye out. It also made my head look like Andre the Giant. Apart from applying lip gloss in the Bat Cave or when stuck in the elevator with 25 sweaty cabinet installers, I'm not sure why you'd need lip gloss that glows. 

To each their own. 

Many of the people we love who live within 20 miles of us moved this week. I hate good-byes. I loathe good-byes. But thankfully my friend Kristen gifted our family with a few Jesus bandaids. "For my hand and my heart." That's the motto we gave these at dinner. I like the psychedelic take on the Creator of the Universe. Not such a big fan of Him looking incredibly Caucasian. 

I realize it's just a bandaid, but the whole white Jesus thing has got to stop somewhere. These bandaids were applied to not-so-bleeding-but-mommy-I-need-a-bandaid type wounds. And now I'm back to using scotch tape and toilet paper because again, I am out of bandaids. Am I the only one who seems to never have these in stock? Probably. 

And then finally comes the sheep placenta lotion. The great thing about friends moving is they load all their unwanted stuff at your house. Like an enormous bag of sesame seeds and one cup of flour.

 I voluntarily took this Australian sheep placenta lotion because I had made fun of it previously and now wanted to try it. Don't we all, at some point in our lives, make fun of sheep placenta lotion? I thought so. I have to admit, I'm digging' this lotion. I don't know exactly what's in it, but I'm an "ignorance is bliss" type of gal. I don't want to know what the restaurant kitchen looks like, just bring me the chips and queso. I've always been that girl. 

I'm not sure what is actually releasing in that "24 Hour Time Release" period, but continue to enjoy my "Treasures from Down Under."

 I will say the accidental pun of "Treasures from Down Under" was not lost on me. 

Fruit Fly Invasion-Take 2

(This was the most benign picture of a fruit fly I could find. All the other ones make you start to itch like you have a sudden onset of leprosy.)

Ok, so the post I did where I claimed victory over my little fruit fly invasion? Well, it seems as if they were simply laying low for a late night guerilla warfare attack. The next morning I woke up to another swarm of them partying like it's 1999 over my kitchen table. You see, these little flies exist only to frustrate mothers whose husbands are currently out of town. 

I was trying to be a good parent and explain to my children the beauties of creation, when this little infestation threw a wrench in my sanity and my poetry. See, I can think of no reason that fruit flies exist. When this happens to me, I resort to the "Well, frogs eat them and God created hungry frogs." Clearly I am saying to my children, "I have no idea, so let's just make something up because I know that God does everything for a purpose." 

Fruit flies seem just as arbitrary as Paprika.

We have set more traps. The problem now is that we are in some type of reproductive cycle with our little visitors and I am stuck explaining why all these flies are giving piggy back rides to their friends. My husband is in for quite the surprise when he comes home. 

I have mustered up Katniss Everdeen type determination against these things. It's like they are flying around mocking my efforts and yelling to their friends, "Hey guys come look at the crazy lady swatting her slipper on the bookshelf 87 times a day!" 

And now I'm mad. 

Why Travel When You Can Live There?

These are our friends from our seminary days. Back when we were foot loose and fancy free with only three kids per family. We swapped off on date nights in which we would tote around 6 kids and tell people that we had birthed 3 sets of twins. I've just started reading this book and I've enjoyed the way he takes us through the early days to learning to navigate in a new country to the comparisons made even while eating toast.

Why Travel When You Can Live There? Thailand  is a Travel/Adventure narrative about one author's first time living overseas. Making the move from North America to Southeast Asia is a big leap! Follow along on his journey into the international community, "...the faux pas, the goofs, the gaffs, and being the foreigner who sometimes got it all wrong."






I asked Rick a few questions about the writing process and generally making a fool of yourself in foreign countries:


1. Why did you decide to write "Why Travel When You Can Live There? Thailand"?


I started blogging recently and loved writing! I got such positive feedback from readers that I decided to write about our experiences in Thailand, our first time living overseas, with an eye toward a series of books about the countries we’ve lived in. That’s why I’m already calling this my first book - the second is finished and the third is in the works!




2. Tell us about one of your first culture shock experiences. A "We're not in Kansas anymore" moment.


How about the really beautiful womman in the women's clothing department that I thought was perfectly at home until he coughed and spoke to his friend with a man's voice. A SHIM!!!!

I like my Stretch Marks

It's funny how our body image changes as we get older.

Or maybe I'm just too tired to care anymore.

But the older I get, the more I appreciate the way people are put together through their stories and struggles and not their matching scarf and Tom's set. There are times when I look at a 20-year old in all her perkiness and find myself glancing jealously in the mirror. I scroll over the stretch marks laying over every patch of skin that makes me uniquely female. I also find that I no longer where spandex because it keeps me from chaffing, but rather it holds the jiggling down to a minimum. Thank you spandex.

But I feel like as my age increases, so does my freedom in what my body looks like.

I have successfully sequestered my first grey hair and the rest of my follicles have thrown their hands up in  color-defeat. They are ushering me slowly into a lonely grey tundra. But I think I'm ok with that. There is a certain freedom that comes when you stop concerning yourself so much with what physical image you are projecting. It's allowed me to laugh more at myself. It's allowed me to enjoy my husband as he dips his goatee into the salt and pepper pool. It's given me more mental space to play "T-Rex devours Spiderman" with my boys.

I wish I could have discovered this a good 20 years ago. The bang poof, shoulder pads, and endless jelly bracelets were all aching so loudly at me that I didn't enjoy what was right in front of me: others.

The Long Hair Debacle

I first posted this on Dec. 6, 2010. I just had this exact conversation again yesterday with two friends over Skype. In their honor, I give you this:







Hubs and I have an ongoing "discussion" about girls and their hair length. Men across the board want women to have long hair. I think they have this fantasy that if our hair is long that we will be morphed into some slinky super model that spritzes herself each morning in coco butter. And then we will walk out the door covered in glittering in the morning sun. And then we will frolic over, lay on a log, and dream of writing prose.

I'm usually only glittering because of the sweat that has formed on my overgrown eye brows as I lug my babies to the grocery store in the summer. And the hair that he loves so much...ya, it's tucked into a nice half pony tail. A half pony tail because it feels a tad bit like I actually did my hair that morning. And because full pony tails make me feel like a cheerleader. If I'm draped over a log, it's because my kid has thrown his shoe from the stroller and I'm trying desperately to find it and to save myself another trip to the store to buy the third pair this season.





If I thought I was going to be a cute as Sinead O'Connor in this above picture, I'd shave my hair all off. Seriously, look at that specimen of femininity. But I'd look like a bull dog. Or a party balloon. Either way, my husband would shackle me to the closet until it all grew back if I decided to pull off a a hair cut like that.

But I'm not gonna say I'm not tempted to cut it all off sometimes.




And I am training him to understand that when you get older, you just shouldn't have long hair. Unless you are a librarian or a yoga instructor living in Portland. It just shouldn't be. Like Chris Farley in Spandex.

Working...Keep Away

I was thinking of making this sign into a t-shirt for my friends with nursing babies. The logo would be on the back of the shirt while they feed their little one. 

What do you think?

"Anorectal" Ads Dripping with Immaturity

If you are offended at potty humor in any way, shape or form, skip this post.  It's dripping with immaturity and inappropriateness. I just couldn't help it. 

As I walked home from dropping the kids off from school, my peripherals stumbled upon this beauty.  Just your typical "Anorectal Hospital" ad.  

Apparently this ancient cauldron has not yet seen the "Anorectal" doctors, because he is still leaking.  

He is still leaking hot lava.

I shivered, laughed, shivered again and then took the picture.  The vividness of this picture was effective in it's not so subtle message that "anorectal" problems can plague us all. 

Worldview Perspective

A little worldview perspective for you on a Wednesday morning.

What's in a Sacrifice?

Jobs says he authorized biography so his kids can know him.  

As I saw this headline, my first thought was sadness.  To live a life and realize at the end of it that your children revere you as provider...and stranger.  And then I started thinking about those few individuals that live in any given generation that sacrifice their own families in order to serve the world at large.  Whether you admire or abhor Steve Jobs, we have to sit and think through what it means to sacrifice.  Did he make billions of dollars? Yes.  But now his children are sitting with a filled bank account, but empty memories of their father.  And guys like that aren't usually doing what they are doing for the money.  They are visionaries.  Thinkers.  Motivators. World Changers.

At what point does one realize that they will have to sacrifice themselves for the sake of others?

That they have been placed in such an extroordinary position that their lives will require more of them than most.


It's easy to villianize this type of person.  To say that they neglected their families and they should have been home more.  But, let us also realize that if Jobs decided to pull back, the ripple effects of his absence would be too numerous to measure. I for one am thankful for his sacrifice and hopeful that his kids will see that sacrifice and be grateful one day too.


*** As a quick sidenote:  I think that this type of extraordinary talent happens in only a handful of people in each generation.  I do not in fact endorse people using lame excuses to not be with their families.  That is all.

Waving the Flag of My Life Overseas

I just realized that while all other Americans were reflecting deeply on the events of 9/11, I was blogging about a Rabbi and his homosexual matchmaking fallacies.  Nice, Carrie.  9/11 was huge.  It's still huge.  I think it's really important to reflect and reconsider.

The thing about living overseas is that the cultural waves that sweep through in America are missed.  I often forget what date it is, what American holiday is coming up, and how to appropriately use English contractions.  There is good and bad about jumping the cultural waves instead of getting bowled over by them.  For example, we own nothing with Justin Beiber or Hanna Montana's face plastered on it.  That's a win.  The loss is when you have important events that transform and impact you as a person.

That's all.  Just wanted to acknowledge the day....and my glaring immaturity on such an important American event.

Free ESV from Kindle

Amazon is offering a free version of the ESV for Kindle.

If you don't have it, go there and get it.  And in case you didn't know, you can download the Kindle app for your ipad or computer and read it just like a Kindle.

If I were to write a movie...

If I were to write a movie, this would be the premise:  You only have a limited number of words to use before you die. 

For each person, that number is different.  At some point in your life, there will be a light that goes off on some device planted in your hand to tell you that you have just 100 words left to use before you die.  So, for some people, that signal will come after a life has been lived, loves have been lost and relationships have been restored.  But for others, the last 100 words will come at a high school graduation or after the loss of a first tooth.  A signal might come at a time where the concept of death has yet to be imagined.  

When a person discovers he has yet 100 words to impart as a legacy, what an incredible scene to watch played out.  I imagine that a few people would escape to live a more monastic final existence, using their final breaths not to speak words but to meditate and reach inwards. A young bride might sit her new husband down and speak her 100 over coffee as she shares her dreams she has for him after she dies.  There might be a hero who uses his last words while issuing a "not guilty" verdict to a wrongly accused criminal.  Maybe an orphanage worker who's last 3 words are whispered "I love you" into the ear of a child.  

Thinking through this little script of mine, I've been reminded how often I waste words to complain, grumble or knock others down.  I imagine how different my life would look if I knew my words were limited. I smile at the conversations I would spend just listening and learning and not feeling like I needed to contribute anything.  I wonder what I would say to my husband, my children, my God.

Week 2: Operation Sanity

We have crossed the finish line of week 2 of hubs being gone. In the last lap of this week's race, it felt like a band of hooligans jumped out from behind a low lying bush and ambushed me with a two by four.  But as I reflected back on this week, there are a few things I am sure of:

1.  Adrenaline is God's greatest creation.  Ever.  He created it to keep all mothers out of jail.

2.  I am tired of hearing the phrase "Mommy, I need..."  While this phrase was cute and innocent and left a sense of joy and purpose in my mind when my first child began to speak, this phrase now feels like the moaning of a dying cat as his abdomen is being run over by a semi.   It makes my shoulders tense up and a look come across my face like I'm trying to saw off my arm.  With a spoon.

 Here's a little math fact for you:

If each of my children say "Mommy, I need..." 7 times in one hour, 5 x 7=35 times an hour I hear that lovely phrase.  14 hours later (14 x 35=490 times in one day).  Currently there is only one set of ears to hear that call and I will say that at about the 314th time, I want to run, hide under my bed, and suck my thumb.

3.  I wish I was one of those parents who just let their kids watch movies and play video games all day.  They could eat Coco Puffs and drink Mountain Dew and just inhale movies all day long.  I realize that this formula adds up to the makings of either a unibomber or someone who eats Cheetos off their sweatshirt at age 40, while living on my living room couch, but man it would sure make today easier.

4.  I just ate a mango.  Ya know what, mangoes are one of the most amazing fruits ever to grow on a tree.  But they are also incredibly messy.  Beautiful, sweet, satisfying and alarmingly messy.  If I had more than one brain cell working at a time, I would write about what an accurate analogy this is to life.

As I go into the weekend, I have a very simple goal:  Not blow it.

Keepin' it simple folks, keepin' it simple.

Week 1: Operation Loneliness

Week 1.


It's been a week since Brad left, which I realize for all those military wives, is pathetic and not worth mentioning.  For the most part, it's been a good week.  There have been a few bumps along the way, like the speed bumps that you think will be small but then you actually  hit them and it sends your neck whiplashing forward like you've just been hit by a semi.  Ya, those types of bumps.  But we've made it.  I'm trying not to look forward on the calendar and gaze at all the empty boxes still left to mark off.

I actually think that one of the hardest parts is loneliness.  I have found myself having very profound conversations with my coffee mug.  See, in our new city, I've only got a few people that I can call friends.  The past two weeks, two of those people have been out of town.  They come back this week, but I have realized how quickly I grow weary without community.  I've seen my head swivel as I look for someone else to receive the words "Mommy, I need..." I have watched myself start and not finish 15 blogs because writing about how I saw a bird take it's last breath and keel over in the street yesterday isn't really blog worthy material.  I just needed to tell the story.

So many of you have been incredible in your consistent emails and prayers for me and my family.  Those words on my computer screen have been a huge source of encouragement.  There are times I've been clinging to the words that you all have typed to remind me that we are not forgotten.

And...the birds are eating my basil again.  I don't want to have to drop kick a sparrow, but I'm getting dangerously close to having to do it.

Thanks for praying, thanks for writing, thanks for sustaining.

Star Wars part 9: Battle of the Air Conditioner

You can hear the Star Wars music begin to wash over the sun as we enter the bedroom for the night.  It's been a day of wins and losses.  Triumphs and victories.  

Yet...the biggest, most epic battle was still to come.  Just how low would the air conditioner be set in our bedroom.  

The warm blooded Luke Sky Walker always sneaks in as the sun tucks in for the night and begins running the air conditioner while the unsuspecting Princes Leia is still at the table.  Sky Walker is used to the nightly battle and tries to subvert her attempts by setting the evil air conditioner to "Arctic" while they peacefully eat dinner with their 5 crazy Ewoks.  

As Princess Leia enters their room, her skin begins to shrivel into tiny ice crystals.  She tries to throw on her force field blankets and roll up into a protective sphere, but they are no match.  Luke Sky Walker's blood is made of molten lava.  He will never grow cold.  

So, Princess Leia will continue to shiver and resort to resuscitating all of her frost bitten appendages each morning. 

life through death

I'm reading "Bird by Bird" by Anne Lamott.  I love reading her voice.  It's dry, witty and truthful.  Before I recommend her, I need you to know that she is sometimes prone to a cuss word or two.  But, I will admit that most of them are very well placed.  This book helps people who want to be better writers.  It's not a how-to book, but more of a why-not book.  She writes about the freedom found in writing what is held captive inside all of us.  It's beautiful and had been really helpful.  

Anyway, she recalls this story about giving:

"Here is the best true story on giving I know, and it was told by Jack Kornfield of the Spirit Rock Meditation Center in Woodacre.  An eight-year-old boy had a younger sister who was dying of leukemia, and he was told that without a blood transfusion she would die.  His parents explained to him that his blood was probably compatible with hers, and if so, he could be the blood donor.  They asked him if they could test his blood.  He said sure.  So they did and it was a good match.  They they asked if he would give his sister a pint of blood, that it could be her only chance of living.  He said he would have to think about it overnight.  

The next day he went to his parents and said he was willing to donate the blood.  So they took him to the hospital where he was put on a gurney beside his six-year-old sister.  Both of them were hooked up to IVs.  A nurse withdrew a pint of blood from the boy, which was then put in the girl's IV.  The boy lay on his gurney in silence while the blood dripped into his sister; until the doctor came over to see how he was doing.  Then the boy opened his eyes and asked, 'How soon until I start to die?' "

What a beautiful story of self-sacrifice and love.