Several years ago, when the boys were younger and first started playing sports, there were a couple of seasons where the idea of not keeping score was suggested and encouraged. You know, teach them to love the game, not to worry about winning or losing. Well, you know that didn't fly in our house, and after every hit, basket, or run into the end zone, our boys would look over at the sidelines and ask Daddy, "Who's winning now?" Of course, the correct score would fly off Coach's tongue faster than the "non-competitive" parent could shoot us a glare. In our opinions, someone always comes out ahead-- just a fact of life. And the sooner our boys realized that sometimes they would carry home the W, sometimes they would walk away with L, the better. Having a dad whose profession and livelihood rest on the amount of wins and losses per season probably sends a stronger vibe to win, but in all fairness we try to teach that age-old lesson of how to be a good loser; and I know firsthand about losing; being the only girl in a house full of guys means I lose A LOT of battles, some I thought I was sure to win, but that was 15 years ago.
Fifteen years ago, Coach was busy finishing school, working part time, and fishing whenever he could squeeze it in. That meant the entire responsibility of decorating our then-home fell on me. Color me Happy! Every room looked the way I wanted it. Every color scheme was mine. Every Southern Living concept played out in various places throughout our 3/2 ranch. I also had some set-in-stone ideas for when we had kids--precious outfits, pastel nursery decor, long, wispy curls falling at the neck of a baby blue smocked jon jon.
Fifteen years have passed and the scoreboard clearly insists that I am not leading this race.
Who's walking away with the W? Hmmm...
Once upon a time, I had a beautiful wicker trash basket in my kitchen. It had its own liner that folded out over the top with the word trash embroidered in blue. Now? On one of his many trips to Home Depot to buy trash cans for some spring football drill, Coach found a great deal apparently and brought one home to us. For our kitchen. To replace the wicker one. I resisted, he persisted, and eventually I folded, as right now in my kitchen sits a gray industrial-sized trash bin that requires me to buy lawn and leaf bags to fit it.
Back in the day, after a long day of teaching English, Spanish, or maybe some kick butt Spin class, I liked to retire to my bed, glass of water in hand, and the remote set for anything resembling "Designing Women" reruns, Kardashian chaos, or even some trashy E! news. Now? I find myself asking questions about Tuna, King Crab, and auctioning off storage sheds. I find myself using first names of fishermen, logging truck drivers, and men who mine for gold. My questions even sound sincere.
Those precious little boy outfits I envisioned while fat and miserable at nine months preggo? Didn't happen. Coach wasn't too keen on "sissy" looking boys so nary a knee sock ever graced my T's chubby little legs. Not a single smocked Strausberg captured by Olan Mills. And those curls? The first mention at Kroger or Sunday school of how pretty our boys were brought out the clippers; thus, the buzz cut became the official hair style of the Kirk boys. No Beiber bangs being slung around here- the proof is on the photo wall.
I guess after so many years of "losing" to a crew of four who outnumber me on just about every decision from supper to movie night to where to hang the flat screens, one(me) gets used to it and losing doesn't really hurt too much. I mean, I love the Louisiana red necks we watch every Wednesday night; the buzz cut hair really does show off the incredibly beautiful blue and green eyes on the three Ts; and even I will now admit that the bigger garbage can means fewer trips to the outside bin to unload. But there's just one battle I swore I wouldn't lose-- one I was prepared to fight til the death for--one change I feared would truly define me.
At some point I must have waved the white flag, surrendered as graciously as only a Southerner could do. The walls of our home once boasted wrought iron pieces, black and white baby portraits professionally framed, and antique pieces that surprised me on anniversaries and birthdays. My special order window treatments matched the throw pillows on my sofa sectional that cozied up to to the antique table my Mama Carter passed down to me. Now? Deer. Or more specifically, deer heads hang from places on my walls that should be reserved for canvas paintings of things I saw on Pinterest. But they are there, and there they shall stay.
Why? I'd love to say it's because Coach won and I lost, and that's pretty much how it looks. But it's about more than winning and losing and competing and beating someone else and being the last one standing on the mound with stained pants and shoulder pads ripped out of jerseys.
At the end of the day, life is all about compromise; so is love. Besides, second place isn't so bad, especially if the guy you walk off the field with is the one carrying the first place trophy.
Because you can always hang that trophy on the wall:-)
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Life with Pinterest
Y'all, whatever did we do before Pinterest? I pity our parents who grew up in a world lacking in free exercise tips, 1000s of chicken recipes, dollar store crafts, and pictures of places that only Brad and Angelina can afford to visit. Not to mention the inspirational quotes that keep me smiling as my children destroy the house, keep me running every morning despite the dastardly temps, and encourage me to add a little sarcasm to my Facebook posts, text messages, and face to face conversations.
How ever did they do it? My mom had to shell out 38 bucks a year for a Southern Living subscription to figure out how to rearrange her decades old furniture, all while her perfectly seasoned pot roast simmered on the stove for HOURS. Nowadays, thanks to innovative pinners who share their wisdom via social media, moms can "fake" the taste of an hours long piece of meat and decoupage a trash bin find to make an old dresser look like an antique piece of art. Talk about living the good life-all for the measly price of monthly internet connection:-)
I must say it didn't take me long to develop a slight little addiction to all that pinning has to offer. When I tell the boys to leave me alone because I'm "pinning," they start putting in requests for decadent brownies. When Coach comes home to an unfamiliar meal on his table, he immediately asks, "Pinterest?" My girls at the gym look at me with glazed eyes when I tell them we are trying something knew. Most of them (fellow pinners) will just sigh and ask, "OK, which Pin is it?"
But after many months of a Piniful (plentiful, piniful, get it?) existence, my rose-colored glasses are getting a little foggy. I mean, sure, who doesn't want to be the perfect Mom and spout a timely Bible verse for every parenting moment? Who doesn't dream of popping out perfect, original(oh, the irony) valentine goodies for the kids' classes? I don't know any girl who doesn't want to walk into her closet and come out sporting a kick a** outfit with the stuff that has been hanging pre-pregnancy. But how much is too much? Just how AWESOME are we supposed to be?
Here, A few of My Favorite Pins:
25 things Moms should do with their boys. What a GREAT idea, but unfortunately our quality time these days boils down to me with my hands on my hips, pointing to piles of clothing and an unmade bed, shouting something like "we aren't leaving this room until it is spotless!"
The Mom pooch. What a relief to know that the pooch at my belt has NOTHING to do with my Coca-Cola addiction. There was, in fact, physical trauma in those three pregnancies that requires more than just crunches and cutting back on sugar. So although it isn't an excuse for muffin top, at least it's a REASON for muffin top.
Victorian character captions. Most of these pictures capture dapperly-dressed men and women, dancing around and suggesting that I a)drink more wine b)critique everyone's grammar c)drink more wine and
d)defriend anyone who doesn't do a, b, or c.
Baking soda uses. Seriously? Baking soda is one of the cheapest things I can pick up at the grocery store, so I'm all in. But I'm a little concerned with the fact that the same thing that whitens my teeth and eliminates toxins from my body with a bath soak is the same stuff that can take the red sharpie out of my carpet. Oh well, at 99 cents a box, I'm stocking up.
Of course, I'd be remiss not to mention my "lists," the little reminders Pinterest offers to suggest that as a wife and mom I'm not quite up to par. According to my boards, I have things to do with my kids, things to do with my husband (in case after 15 years I'm at a loss), things to do before I go to bed every night (we're talking squats and lunges; nothing to do with the husband here), and a delightful list of foods I promise not to eat for a month, which will insure that I'll look good but everyone else will be living with a witch.
So maybe I don't Pin every day like I used to, but there's still plenty to be gleaned from Pinterest. While I'm scrolling through ideas, hints, and suggestions on how to improve my life, I can look around and see see that my life is plenty Pinworthy already. It's the boys wearing mistmatched clothes eating Kraft mac n cheese from bowls I did NOT make myself that assure me of it.
How ever did they do it? My mom had to shell out 38 bucks a year for a Southern Living subscription to figure out how to rearrange her decades old furniture, all while her perfectly seasoned pot roast simmered on the stove for HOURS. Nowadays, thanks to innovative pinners who share their wisdom via social media, moms can "fake" the taste of an hours long piece of meat and decoupage a trash bin find to make an old dresser look like an antique piece of art. Talk about living the good life-all for the measly price of monthly internet connection:-)
I must say it didn't take me long to develop a slight little addiction to all that pinning has to offer. When I tell the boys to leave me alone because I'm "pinning," they start putting in requests for decadent brownies. When Coach comes home to an unfamiliar meal on his table, he immediately asks, "Pinterest?" My girls at the gym look at me with glazed eyes when I tell them we are trying something knew. Most of them (fellow pinners) will just sigh and ask, "OK, which Pin is it?"
But after many months of a Piniful (plentiful, piniful, get it?) existence, my rose-colored glasses are getting a little foggy. I mean, sure, who doesn't want to be the perfect Mom and spout a timely Bible verse for every parenting moment? Who doesn't dream of popping out perfect, original(oh, the irony) valentine goodies for the kids' classes? I don't know any girl who doesn't want to walk into her closet and come out sporting a kick a** outfit with the stuff that has been hanging pre-pregnancy. But how much is too much? Just how AWESOME are we supposed to be?
Here, A few of My Favorite Pins:
25 things Moms should do with their boys. What a GREAT idea, but unfortunately our quality time these days boils down to me with my hands on my hips, pointing to piles of clothing and an unmade bed, shouting something like "we aren't leaving this room until it is spotless!"
The Mom pooch. What a relief to know that the pooch at my belt has NOTHING to do with my Coca-Cola addiction. There was, in fact, physical trauma in those three pregnancies that requires more than just crunches and cutting back on sugar. So although it isn't an excuse for muffin top, at least it's a REASON for muffin top.
Victorian character captions. Most of these pictures capture dapperly-dressed men and women, dancing around and suggesting that I a)drink more wine b)critique everyone's grammar c)drink more wine and
d)defriend anyone who doesn't do a, b, or c.
Baking soda uses. Seriously? Baking soda is one of the cheapest things I can pick up at the grocery store, so I'm all in. But I'm a little concerned with the fact that the same thing that whitens my teeth and eliminates toxins from my body with a bath soak is the same stuff that can take the red sharpie out of my carpet. Oh well, at 99 cents a box, I'm stocking up.
Of course, I'd be remiss not to mention my "lists," the little reminders Pinterest offers to suggest that as a wife and mom I'm not quite up to par. According to my boards, I have things to do with my kids, things to do with my husband (in case after 15 years I'm at a loss), things to do before I go to bed every night (we're talking squats and lunges; nothing to do with the husband here), and a delightful list of foods I promise not to eat for a month, which will insure that I'll look good but everyone else will be living with a witch.
So maybe I don't Pin every day like I used to, but there's still plenty to be gleaned from Pinterest. While I'm scrolling through ideas, hints, and suggestions on how to improve my life, I can look around and see see that my life is plenty Pinworthy already. It's the boys wearing mistmatched clothes eating Kraft mac n cheese from bowls I did NOT make myself that assure me of it.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
LIfe with Boys
After a particularly rough day cleaning a house that resembled a men's dorm room, I started thinking about all the ladies who, like me, live in a male dominated house. Scrolling through my facebook friends, I found more than ten friends who qualify as the lone lady in a house full of boys, the Queen Bee, so to speak, in a very sticky beehive. This actually gave me some comfort to know that for every errant sock I scooped from the pocket of the pool table, another mom was scooping something just as stinky. So for today, I'm recapping some of the things that moms-in-a-house-full-of-boys experience. And please, if I leave anything off, let me know.
1. Wet toilet seats, or wet floors around the toilet seat
2. Lego's in the refrigerator
3. Baseball gloves on the kitchen counter-- I've learned to work around them
4. A freshly folded load of laundry and no youth sized undies?
5. Lego's in the vacuum cleaner
6. Sticks- big sticks, little sticks; sticks that look like pistols; sticks that have been whittled; stick are everywhere, even the washing machine
7. Oxiclean-- it changed my life, y'all
8. Frogs and earthworms-- it's been almost 12 years and I'm still not ok with those two things
9. Lego's under bare feet
10. Torn shirts and pants- how does a boy wear a brand new shirt to school and come home that same day with a rip?
11. Bare chests- surely I'm not the only one who has to issue a warning to put on a shirt before coming to the dinner table
12. Mud, dirt, dust-- the dirtier the dumptruck, the better
13. (Gulp) The F word-- I can't even write it, but why (and where) does every little boy learn to say *art before he can say his own name?
14. Ridiculousness-I have been indoctrinated into the world of Rob Drydek; and Tate asks in all seriousness if he can watch adicolus when he gets home. Because what could be more fun than watching STUPID people?
Of course, I wouldn't trade my house full of boys for anything, and I know there are sooo many more examples I could add to the list. But if y'all ever see me with a toad frog in my hand or hear me utter the F word, you'll know the boys have won; and my Gail Pittman pottery is being used for target practice with the new BB guns Daddy brought home.
1. Wet toilet seats, or wet floors around the toilet seat
2. Lego's in the refrigerator
3. Baseball gloves on the kitchen counter-- I've learned to work around them
4. A freshly folded load of laundry and no youth sized undies?
5. Lego's in the vacuum cleaner
6. Sticks- big sticks, little sticks; sticks that look like pistols; sticks that have been whittled; stick are everywhere, even the washing machine
7. Oxiclean-- it changed my life, y'all
8. Frogs and earthworms-- it's been almost 12 years and I'm still not ok with those two things
9. Lego's under bare feet
10. Torn shirts and pants- how does a boy wear a brand new shirt to school and come home that same day with a rip?
11. Bare chests- surely I'm not the only one who has to issue a warning to put on a shirt before coming to the dinner table
12. Mud, dirt, dust-- the dirtier the dumptruck, the better
13. (Gulp) The F word-- I can't even write it, but why (and where) does every little boy learn to say *art before he can say his own name?
14. Ridiculousness-I have been indoctrinated into the world of Rob Drydek; and Tate asks in all seriousness if he can watch adicolus when he gets home. Because what could be more fun than watching STUPID people?
Of course, I wouldn't trade my house full of boys for anything, and I know there are sooo many more examples I could add to the list. But if y'all ever see me with a toad frog in my hand or hear me utter the F word, you'll know the boys have won; and my Gail Pittman pottery is being used for target practice with the new BB guns Daddy brought home.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Life with Coach
It's funny. My husband, Coach, has given time, money, talent, and so much more to a profession that can stab a man in the back quicker than he can glance at his playbook. He dreams in HUDL, charts plays while he watches college football, and never stops looking for ways to improve what he does. And he does it all knowing the knife could slash at any time. He also does it all with the support of one grumpy wife and three amazing boys who think their dad is the best coach ever. Those three future players live not just for Friday nights, but for weight room sessions, spring drills, and bus rides on Friday. For a young boy, not many things can beat riding to an away game with a bus full of stand in big brothers. Our boys learned to crawl on game fields; they have ridden more tractors than some farmers, and one has been know to fall asleep clutching a pigskin. It's life with Coach, and we wouldn't trade it for anything.
So when someone questions his motives, doubts his interests as he sets about securing a future that will allow those three boys to continue down the path they've known for so long, I get a little angry. Sure, coaching is a tough profession. No one likes to see his Dad's name slandered in the paper. No one likes to hear negative comments after a particularly tough loss. But nothing is better than standing on the sidelines when time runs out and Dad's team is the victor. Nothing beats being part of a team that practices together, wins together, and sometimes loses together. Nothing is better than a phone call from a former player letting us know that he is leaving us tickets for this weekend's college game. So to suggest that being a coach's kid or a coach's wife is somehow sub par, and that to subject us to it is selfish, well, let me invite you to take a walk in our shoes.
Hours are long during the season, but the boys get to spend a good bit of that time at the field, in the field house, in the weight room watching their dad work. Not many professions have a "bring your kid to work" day every day. Ours does:-)
They have the privilege of watching their dad yell, whistle, and demand the best from boys who aren't much older than they are. They also get to witness the laughs, slaps on the back, and video game playing that happens with those same boys off the field.
They sit in on study hall sessions where coaches insist that their players excel off the field as well as on the field.
They learn what it means to buy into a work ethic; that playing football is more than just throwing and catching a ball. It is studying playbooks, watching film, and LISTENING to a room full of coaches.
And because they have always been coach's kids, they know that time is fleeting. That time runs out in games, just as it does in certain towns and schools. They learn to invest in a place and in people, even though they might not be around for the breakthrough. They learn to look forward to new things, new people, and new places, because if there is one thing we have all learned from being at many schools in many years, there are good people everywhere.
Life with Coach includes lots of things, and moving vans are one of them. And we wouldn't trade it for anything.
So when someone questions his motives, doubts his interests as he sets about securing a future that will allow those three boys to continue down the path they've known for so long, I get a little angry. Sure, coaching is a tough profession. No one likes to see his Dad's name slandered in the paper. No one likes to hear negative comments after a particularly tough loss. But nothing is better than standing on the sidelines when time runs out and Dad's team is the victor. Nothing beats being part of a team that practices together, wins together, and sometimes loses together. Nothing is better than a phone call from a former player letting us know that he is leaving us tickets for this weekend's college game. So to suggest that being a coach's kid or a coach's wife is somehow sub par, and that to subject us to it is selfish, well, let me invite you to take a walk in our shoes.
Hours are long during the season, but the boys get to spend a good bit of that time at the field, in the field house, in the weight room watching their dad work. Not many professions have a "bring your kid to work" day every day. Ours does:-)
They have the privilege of watching their dad yell, whistle, and demand the best from boys who aren't much older than they are. They also get to witness the laughs, slaps on the back, and video game playing that happens with those same boys off the field.
They sit in on study hall sessions where coaches insist that their players excel off the field as well as on the field.
They learn what it means to buy into a work ethic; that playing football is more than just throwing and catching a ball. It is studying playbooks, watching film, and LISTENING to a room full of coaches.
And because they have always been coach's kids, they know that time is fleeting. That time runs out in games, just as it does in certain towns and schools. They learn to invest in a place and in people, even though they might not be around for the breakthrough. They learn to look forward to new things, new people, and new places, because if there is one thing we have all learned from being at many schools in many years, there are good people everywhere.
Life with Coach includes lots of things, and moving vans are one of them. And we wouldn't trade it for anything.
Friday, December 14, 2012
Something Terrible Happened Today
Something terrible happened today. I don't know exactly when it happened. It may have been when I was running on the treadmill with my gym girls teaching Tread n Shed; maybe it happened when I was teaching water aerobics to some of my favorite senior citizens, many of whom are former teachers, school secretaries, and bus drivers. Maybe this horrible and senseless act of violence occurred at 10:40, the designated time for Tanner and his class to receive their AR awards. Tanner had been so excited when I dropped him off at school, and because of who he is, he told me not to worry that I couldn't be there to see him get his 80 point sticker. We shouldn't have to worry when we drop our kids off at school, should we?
I can't help but think of all the other students who went to school today, expecting to celebrate their achievements, test their knowledge on a tough science test, or maybe participate in some much-anticipated Christmas celebration. While our kids were smiling for cameras, dancing with their friends, and gluing Popsicle sticks into Christmas trees, others were living the kind of horror that we don't even let our kids watch on television. All those things we as parents try to shield our babies from, close their eyes to, came to life today in Connecticut. How to make sense of that? What kind of test has no right answers, just a bunch of empty blanks with no solutions, no do-overs, no retakes? I keep seeing the same responses from people on Facebook: how could this happen, what kind of person does this type of thing to 5 year old children? All rhetorical questions, I know, but I think beneath all those rhetorical questions lies a real need for answers. We can't fix what happened in Connecticut, but can we prevent it? That's a scary question.
I don't know when it happened, but I do know that I have NO answers for why things like this happen, why people see violence as a means to an end, why we have no respect for the sanctity of life. Apparently, my children haven't heard anything about what is being called the worst school shooting in history. I plan to keep it that way, so unless one of them finds out on his own, I think I'll keep it to myself. Of course, I was a little more "overjoyed" to see them than usual at car rider pick up; I played tennis ball with Tanner in the middle of the parking lot while we waited on Tucker, not really caring what other parents thought of my softball toss; and I figured that on the way home we might make a detour and have an after school snack. I'm going to spend the rest of the afternoon watching "Mickey's Christmas" with Tate; I'm going to smile at them a little more, laugh with them a little more, let them laugh at me whenever they want, and kiss them EVERY morning at drop off.
And I'm going to pray. And pray some more. And keep on praying that our tv's and radios, our Facebooks and texts never again interrupt our days with the kind of information they gave us today.
I can't help but think of all the other students who went to school today, expecting to celebrate their achievements, test their knowledge on a tough science test, or maybe participate in some much-anticipated Christmas celebration. While our kids were smiling for cameras, dancing with their friends, and gluing Popsicle sticks into Christmas trees, others were living the kind of horror that we don't even let our kids watch on television. All those things we as parents try to shield our babies from, close their eyes to, came to life today in Connecticut. How to make sense of that? What kind of test has no right answers, just a bunch of empty blanks with no solutions, no do-overs, no retakes? I keep seeing the same responses from people on Facebook: how could this happen, what kind of person does this type of thing to 5 year old children? All rhetorical questions, I know, but I think beneath all those rhetorical questions lies a real need for answers. We can't fix what happened in Connecticut, but can we prevent it? That's a scary question.
I don't know when it happened, but I do know that I have NO answers for why things like this happen, why people see violence as a means to an end, why we have no respect for the sanctity of life. Apparently, my children haven't heard anything about what is being called the worst school shooting in history. I plan to keep it that way, so unless one of them finds out on his own, I think I'll keep it to myself. Of course, I was a little more "overjoyed" to see them than usual at car rider pick up; I played tennis ball with Tanner in the middle of the parking lot while we waited on Tucker, not really caring what other parents thought of my softball toss; and I figured that on the way home we might make a detour and have an after school snack. I'm going to spend the rest of the afternoon watching "Mickey's Christmas" with Tate; I'm going to smile at them a little more, laugh with them a little more, let them laugh at me whenever they want, and kiss them EVERY morning at drop off.
And I'm going to pray. And pray some more. And keep on praying that our tv's and radios, our Facebooks and texts never again interrupt our days with the kind of information they gave us today.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
From Ozzy's Uck to Willie Robertson's Duck
The first reality tv show I can remember watching was Ozzy Osbourne's; I don't remember if it even had a catchy "reality tv" name. Tucker was a wee lad, just starting to toddle around the house, and one lazy Sunday afternoon I scrolled through the channel selections and found a marathon showing of Ozzy and his family. I guess curiosity must have killed the cat, because I flipped to the channel and all I can remember was cuss word, cuss word, cuss word, and a really big house. The good news is that I didn't stay long on that channel, evidenced by the fact that I can't remember anything other than cuss word, cuss word, cuss word, and a really big house. I couldn't then, and I still can't today, allow myself to watch things that I KNOW aren't pleasing to God. I find myself struggling with than one sometimes, but when someone tells her son or daughter to shut the **** up, that's a clear cut sign for me--it's time to keep flipping.
I guess what is most surprising is that it became acceptable to air things like this, as long as the editors are *bleeping* the words out and shadowing any other unfortunate gestures made from one friend to another. I know this because shows like this are everywhere now. Morals are gone, niceness isn't as funny as meanness, and manners are a thing of the past. The even scarier thing is that the shows come on at all times of the day, and the horrible word choice and innuendos have slipped into the few remaining sitcoms on TV at night. Used to be we could turn the TV on at 8 o' clock on a school night and feel pretty confident that whatever was on would not end up in a one-on-one conversation with Dad in the back room away from the brothers who haven't caught on yet.
So as we lament the passing of quality TV and try to shield our babies (11 is still a baby, y'all, especially to his mother) from growing up too quickly, along comes a show about rednecks eating squirrel brains, hunting ducks, and blowing things up. I realize that West Monroe is just a short skip from where I grew up, and I have spent some quality time in Louisiana, but when Coach suggested we tune in to this new phenomenon everyone had been talking about, I was skeptical. Frogs scare me, guns scare me, and if someone offered me a bowl of squirrel stew, I might cry (because deep down my momma raised me right, and if someone offers me something in her house, by golly I have to eat it).
What I found (and am tuned into religiously every Wednesday night) is a family not unlike my own. I love that all the brothers work together and visit their Momma all the time; in fact, I'm working on coming up with a multimillion dollar industry that will insure that all three of my boys can NEVER go too far from home. I love that the grand kids say "yes, ma'am" and "yes sir" in their sweet, country accents. I love that the wives on the show have been shown on more than one occasion doing things for their church. I love that there is never a cuss word spoken. I love that when my kids watch, they are unknowingly witnessing an example of a godly family, where men appreciate their wives, women respect their husbands, and children still spend time with their parents and grandparents. Most of all, I'd be lying if I said I didn't get a little choked up every time the show closes and Phil says his prayer. It isn't contrived, it isn't funny, it isn't propaganda. It is just who they are.
And apparently America loves who they are: Facebook pages are lit up with Likes for just about every member of the family, the main talk at the middle school these days is the latest episode and Jase's shenanigans, and people I know are planning to name their babies Silas, nickname Si.
I've heard folks speculate that Duck Dynasty is just another fad, soon to pass in time. I hope not. Maybe ten years from now, America will still be talking about Willie and his ducks; and the youngsters will cock their heads, look at me all funny, and ask "Ozzy who?"
And that is my closing prayer.
I guess what is most surprising is that it became acceptable to air things like this, as long as the editors are *bleeping* the words out and shadowing any other unfortunate gestures made from one friend to another. I know this because shows like this are everywhere now. Morals are gone, niceness isn't as funny as meanness, and manners are a thing of the past. The even scarier thing is that the shows come on at all times of the day, and the horrible word choice and innuendos have slipped into the few remaining sitcoms on TV at night. Used to be we could turn the TV on at 8 o' clock on a school night and feel pretty confident that whatever was on would not end up in a one-on-one conversation with Dad in the back room away from the brothers who haven't caught on yet.
So as we lament the passing of quality TV and try to shield our babies (11 is still a baby, y'all, especially to his mother) from growing up too quickly, along comes a show about rednecks eating squirrel brains, hunting ducks, and blowing things up. I realize that West Monroe is just a short skip from where I grew up, and I have spent some quality time in Louisiana, but when Coach suggested we tune in to this new phenomenon everyone had been talking about, I was skeptical. Frogs scare me, guns scare me, and if someone offered me a bowl of squirrel stew, I might cry (because deep down my momma raised me right, and if someone offers me something in her house, by golly I have to eat it).
What I found (and am tuned into religiously every Wednesday night) is a family not unlike my own. I love that all the brothers work together and visit their Momma all the time; in fact, I'm working on coming up with a multimillion dollar industry that will insure that all three of my boys can NEVER go too far from home. I love that the grand kids say "yes, ma'am" and "yes sir" in their sweet, country accents. I love that the wives on the show have been shown on more than one occasion doing things for their church. I love that there is never a cuss word spoken. I love that when my kids watch, they are unknowingly witnessing an example of a godly family, where men appreciate their wives, women respect their husbands, and children still spend time with their parents and grandparents. Most of all, I'd be lying if I said I didn't get a little choked up every time the show closes and Phil says his prayer. It isn't contrived, it isn't funny, it isn't propaganda. It is just who they are.
And apparently America loves who they are: Facebook pages are lit up with Likes for just about every member of the family, the main talk at the middle school these days is the latest episode and Jase's shenanigans, and people I know are planning to name their babies Silas, nickname Si.
I've heard folks speculate that Duck Dynasty is just another fad, soon to pass in time. I hope not. Maybe ten years from now, America will still be talking about Willie and his ducks; and the youngsters will cock their heads, look at me all funny, and ask "Ozzy who?"
And that is my closing prayer.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Today was home school Sunday School again at our house. Coach has a Thursday night game this week, thus a Sunday practice (yes, they do exist), so in lieu of trucking my three munchkins to church alone, I opted for my own life lesson from the KJV. I had a great idea to work with, and I have to admit, I found MORE material to choose from than I could incorporate into my adorable worksheet. So I narrowed it down and we got to work.
Our topic was fear, and we started out pretty basic. We talked about things that fourth and sixth graders, not necessarily them, but any fourth and sixth graders might find frightening. Their answers were good, and they were taking me seriously (I had thought about whipping out a copy of my teaching certificate for credentials, but it wasn't necessary). Tanner said going to the principal's office; Tucker suggested breaking a bone, along with some others. "All valid fears," I commended. We were rolling by then, so I got ready to hit them with the scriptures, when one of them turned it around on me and asked me what my greatest fear was. After I thought about it for a few minutes, I told them I had already realized my greatest fear and will testify to this day that without God, I would never have known how to face and overcome that fear.
All parents' worst fear is to see their child hurt or suffering, sometimes it is physical pain, other times it is emotional. My worst fear came with the news (from a not-so-sympathetic NP) that my water had definitely broken at 24 weeks and it didn't "look good." From there we spent 17 weeks with a most sympathetic, yet stubbornly tenacious NICU crew that transferred my hastily scribbled "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me" verse from room to room, bed to bed. Never was Tanner without that rag-tag verse, thanks to some pretty special ladies. I still have that piece of paper with all the cards and prayers lists we were sent, and trust me, that is definitely something I'm grabbing in the event of a house fire.
I felt led to write about this as I prayed this morning for another baby T, little Tripp from Winder who was injured when a tree limb fell and struck him on the head. Right now, his mom and dad are facing their biggest fear, and I wish for them the peace that comes from that verse that traveled with Tanner for seventeen weeks, that now-torn, slightly faded promise that we held on to until we could hold him. Life is not fair, and we may never understand why things happen-- why babies get sick, why wind can be powerful enough to destroy, why moms and dads divorce, why jobs and homes are lost. Though we don't understand, we must constantly remind ourselves that no matter our fear, the depth or the weight of it, "I can do ALL things through Christ who strengthens me."
If you are reading this, please stop and pray for this sweet little boy and his mom and dad. And for each person who comments, I will make a $1 donation (up to $50) to his family. And if you don't want to comment, please just pray for Tripp.
Our topic was fear, and we started out pretty basic. We talked about things that fourth and sixth graders, not necessarily them, but any fourth and sixth graders might find frightening. Their answers were good, and they were taking me seriously (I had thought about whipping out a copy of my teaching certificate for credentials, but it wasn't necessary). Tanner said going to the principal's office; Tucker suggested breaking a bone, along with some others. "All valid fears," I commended. We were rolling by then, so I got ready to hit them with the scriptures, when one of them turned it around on me and asked me what my greatest fear was. After I thought about it for a few minutes, I told them I had already realized my greatest fear and will testify to this day that without God, I would never have known how to face and overcome that fear.
All parents' worst fear is to see their child hurt or suffering, sometimes it is physical pain, other times it is emotional. My worst fear came with the news (from a not-so-sympathetic NP) that my water had definitely broken at 24 weeks and it didn't "look good." From there we spent 17 weeks with a most sympathetic, yet stubbornly tenacious NICU crew that transferred my hastily scribbled "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me" verse from room to room, bed to bed. Never was Tanner without that rag-tag verse, thanks to some pretty special ladies. I still have that piece of paper with all the cards and prayers lists we were sent, and trust me, that is definitely something I'm grabbing in the event of a house fire.
I felt led to write about this as I prayed this morning for another baby T, little Tripp from Winder who was injured when a tree limb fell and struck him on the head. Right now, his mom and dad are facing their biggest fear, and I wish for them the peace that comes from that verse that traveled with Tanner for seventeen weeks, that now-torn, slightly faded promise that we held on to until we could hold him. Life is not fair, and we may never understand why things happen-- why babies get sick, why wind can be powerful enough to destroy, why moms and dads divorce, why jobs and homes are lost. Though we don't understand, we must constantly remind ourselves that no matter our fear, the depth or the weight of it, "I can do ALL things through Christ who strengthens me."
If you are reading this, please stop and pray for this sweet little boy and his mom and dad. And for each person who comments, I will make a $1 donation (up to $50) to his family. And if you don't want to comment, please just pray for Tripp.
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