The wit and charm of Emma Day

Well, it's been a while since I posted. I blame it on Caravans which is consuming my every non-working hour.

When she asked me to consider taking over, last year's director told me, "All you have to do is order badges."

Not that I'm bitter. In my heart, I knew better than to trust the person who was trying to find her replacement so she could quit. And actually, as busy as it's kept me, I'm enjoying every bit of it. Strange, I know.

At any rate, I figured I'd use my lunch time to post some of the funny things Emma's said lately.

If you don't find childish banter amusing, a) what's your problem? and b) come back next time where I will resume discussing nonsensical topics with no profound meaning.

THE ALL ENCOMPASSING EXCUSE

Lately, my daughter has begun applying a universal excuse to getting out of anything she doesn't want to do.

I say, "Emma, finish your vegetables." She replies, "I can't, because my throat hurts."

Or if I say, "Emma, say that you are sorry." She replies, "I can't because my throat hurts."

Or I say, "Emma, go pick up your bedroom." She replies, "I can't because my throat hurts."

You get the picture.

I really don't think she was ever sick to begin with, or if she was, that it has persistantly plagued her throat for 4 1/2 weeks.

MUSIC TO HER EARS

The other day Robert passed gas in front of Emma. (Apologies to my husband for telling this story.)

Emma says, "Daddy, you tooted."

"Yes, I did."

She replies, "It was a beautiful toot."

HOLE IN ONE

We've been helping my sister, Deanna, paint and repair her new home. In the process, the house has been less-than-kid friendly.

So Emma walks into the bathroom and proceeds to fall into a vent where the cover had been removed for paintng. Not baby Jessica style. She just stuck her foot into it, and as she pulled it out, clipped the back of her heel.

Weeping and gnashing of teeth ensued.

Later, Emma had pooped in her pull-up (which gives you an indication of how well potty training is progressing) and so I laid her on the bathroom floor to change her.

She notices the still uncovered vent, and then look up at me with deep concern.

"I hope you don't throw me in that hole."

I didn't know how to reply except to tell her, "I hope I don't either."

---

Well, there's been plenty of other things Emma has said to make us chuckle, but alas, my lunch hour is over. I'll resume bragging about her wit and charm some other day.

Thought you'd like to know

Right now, I'm sitting in my office eating a Smart Ones Three Cheese Baked Ziti Marinara meal. It's like, my favorite frozen meal ever. Seriously.

It takes 4 1/2 minutes to cook it to cheesy perfection in our office microwave. Three minutes. Stir. Put back in for 1 1/2 minutes more.

In general, I hate standing idle, so after I hit the initial 3-o-0 on the microwave, I decided to walk down the hall to use the restroom.

I walked down the length of second floor Burke, exchanged pleasantries with Roy and stopped by Deb's desk to evaluate whether or not she had any candy worth taking. Nope, not at the moment.

I walked into the restroom, did my business, washed my hands.

On the way back, I exchanged a second round of pleasantries with Roy who was still in the hall and said "hello" to a girl I assume to be his granddaughter.

I stopped to fix my shoe and then walked into the break room to retrieve my ziti.

There were still 28 seconds on the clock.

Impressed? I was.

Side note: I came one click away from accidently posting this on Olivet's official blog, because I didn't realize what account I was logged in under. Whew! That would have been fun.

30 by 30

I am hereby declairing my weight loss intentions publicly: I intend to lose approximately 30 more pounds by January 31, 2010.

You see, to this point, I have lost 30 pounds by using an online weight loss program. Check older posts if you're curious about which one. They're not paying me to advertise. ; )

However, about a month ago I plateaued. Not because the program quit working, but because I quit working. I haven't gained anything back, but I've also not lost any more. I got lazy about it.

On January 31, 2010, I will turn 30 years old. I'd like to celebrate this momentous occassion at my goal weight (technically, 31 more pounds, but "30 by 30" is catchier) and in the best shape of my life.

So I'm declaring my intentions publicly to give myself the extra dose of motivation I need. I hate losing and I really hate letting people down. (I know you probably don't care, but humor me.)

In order to do reach my goal, I will stay within my weekly allotted food intake, and I will exercise moderately for at least 30 minutes, at least three times each week.

I will keep myself accountable to the blogging world with a tally of weight loss in the right hand column, which I will update every Monday. And should I exceed my caloric intake OR neglect to exercise, I will post this information, as well.

Gulp. This is really scary.

But I can, AND WILL, do it!

29 reasons I can't dispute the result

I just took another Facebook quiz, and the results have cut straight to the heart.

Just when I was getting used to the idea of turning 30 (start planning your over-the-hill themed presents now; you've still got about 6 months), I find out that I'm actually much older.

According to Facebook, I act like I'm 43. Wow. That's rough.

Of course, I mean no offense to any 40-somethings who may be reading this. It's just that ... well ... would you want to be accused of acting 14 years older than you really are? I didn't think so.

What's worse is that I think it might be right. In honor of my biological age, here's 29 reasons why I may, in fact, be confused with a middle-aged woman:

1. I drive a mini-van


2. And I think it's cool.


3. I'm routinely plucking grey hairs from the top of my head


4. And from my face.


5. I have, on multiple occassions, scheduled my evening around the late night show.


6. That is, on the few occasions where I was up past 10 p.m.


7. I recently bought a hideous pair of shorts, with an elastic waistband, because they were $6.


8. Then I wore them in public.


9. I own a swimsuit with a built-in skirt.


10. And the only reason I quit wearing it was because I'd had it so long it was becoming see-through.


11. I buy underwear based on practicality.


12. It's been at least six months since I've seen the end of a movie without falling asleep.


13. I've used the term "blouse" in the last week.


14. I refer to college students as kids.


15. And I don't understand what the kids are in to.


16. I can count the texts I've sent -- ever -- on my fingers.


17. I eat Fiber One bars for breakfast (They're REALLY good).


18. I gripe about commercials being too loud.


19. I do not know, nor do I care, who Lady Gaga is.


20. But I do crank up the radio when Phillips, Craig and Dean are singing.


21. Or when a Mr. Big song comes on


22. Or Lionel Ritchie


23. Or Aerosmith


24. Or D.C. Talk


25. Or practically any hair band from the early 90s.


26. The last time I saw Zach Effron, my first thought was, "Why doesn't that boy cut his hair?"


27. My purse is large enough to house a small family of rodents.


28. I have no desire to read or see Twilight. It's not a moral stance. It just seems absurd to me.


29. My favorite attraction at Disney World was the Hall of Presidents.

Wow, when I put this all together, I realize I'm even lamer than I thought.

Perhaps I'm more like 73.

The beginning of letting go

This morning began with incredible news. As of 4:35 a.m. today, our good friends Frank and Mary are the proud parents of a new baby girl, Macy Elizabeth.

Wow! Of course we’ve known this was coming for months, but there’s just something about new life. It always catches you off guard in the most wonderfully exciting way.

Therefore, we’ve also known for months that we needed to make alternate arrangements for childcare, since Mary watches Emma during the day. And we did. After checking out local day care options, we decided on a center that was a good fit for Emma and relatively affordable (in a “we’re already going into debt anyway” sort of way).

In other words, I was technically prepared.

But for whatever reason, I wasn’t mentally prepared to send Emma to daycare today. Maybe it’s because her free “trial” day wasn’t scheduled until this Thursday. I don’t know. All I know is that I was a nervous wreck all morning.

I pictured my precious little girl scared in the care of strangers, confused by why her mommy and daddy had abandoned her.

That’s partly why I got ready at record speed this morning; so that I would have time to give her lots and lots of extra attention. I also wanted to allow ample time to introduce her to her teacher and to make her feel comfortable with the new routine.

We shared breakfast in the living room, so that she could watch Dora, her favorite cartoon. Then when she requested a pink, butterfly clip for her hair – a clip I hadn’t seen for weeks – I hunted through the back of the drawer as if my life depended on it. Phew! I found it.

By the time we pulled out of our driveway, my nerves were shot to the point of nausea. For a split second, I contemplated, “How I will ever survive the first day of kindergarten if this is what pre-school does to me?”

We arrived at the center, and I psyched myself up for what was sure to be a difficult goodbye. I could already anticipate the guilt I’d feel as she’d tearfully beg me to stay. But we walked in anyway.

The greeter efficiently welcomed me, and then she ushered us to Emma’s new home away from home.

That’s when it all fell apart.

It only took one look at all the toys and kids in the room, and a huge smile broke out on Emma’s face. I asked, “Are you excited?” and she literally started jumping up and down.

Emma gave me a quick hug around my legs, mostly to humor me, and then she was off. Off to explore and play without as much as a look back in my direction.

Seriously?! How could she do that to me? She didn’t even know these people! How could she abandon me like that?!

Yes, I’m not ashamed to admit it: I needed a longer, drawn out hug to assure me everything was going to be okay.

Before heading out the door, I asked if it would be alright if I called around lunch time to see how she was adjusting. Clearly used to nervous parents, the kind woman told me, “Yes, you can call as often as you like.”

So just after noon, I called for a progress report. They told me she’d eaten almost all of her lunch (which she doesn’t do at home) and that she had just closed her eyes for a nap (which she also won’t do at home).

The woman asked for my e-mail address to send me pictures of Emma’s first day, and the pictures corroborated her testimony. Emma was having a ball.

Sigh.

I suppose I should be grateful that I’m raising a confident girl. She knows the mommy who dropped her off at daycare will also be there to pick her up.

I should also be happy that she can roll with the punches. That she can, as her name means, “embrace everything” that life throws her, seeing it as an opportunity for adventure.

But at the moment, I’m just not feeling it. Not one bit.

Instead I find myself a little sad. Suddenly I realize, this is just the beginning of a lifetime of learning to let go.

My latest addiction - Part II

A couple weeks ago, I posted a blog about being addicted to Twitter. And even though I was mostly trying to be funny, there was some truth there.

So if you did check me out on Twitter, you might have scratched your head at my last tweet (assuming you give a rip):

“Trying to reclaim my life from techno overload. So long Twitter. It's been fun”

What transpired in the short time period between my public confession of addiction, and my sign-off to the Twitter world? A reality check.

I realized technology had crept into every facet of my life, slowly undermining my time and relationships. I was tweeting, networking with friends on Facebook, checking my e-mails incessantly from my Blackberry, blogging, IM-ing, and even tracking points for my diet online. I was so caught up with the virtual world that I was missing out on the real one.

Fearing I’d lost complete touch with reality, I quickly signed off of the most recent techno parasite: Twitter.

Then, a couple days after my last tweet, I received an eerie confirmation I’d made the right decision through an article in Christianity Today. One paragraph reads, “I often find myself so drawn to my Blackberry and laptop that I fail to be present with the flesh and blood person who is standing before me. I look at them and pretend like I'm listening, but my mind strains to get back to my email.” (From “Does Twitter do us any good?” by Mark Galli, CT online, June 2009)

Wow. I could have written that.

It’s not that I think technology is all bad, or that I’ve sworn it off completely. Obviously… I posted this blog, didn’t I?

My blackberry helps me keep in control of my inbox when I’m away from my desk for meetings. Facebook helps me keep up with the latest pictures and stories about family members who are hundreds of miles away. Weight Watchers online has helped me lose 30 pounds so far.

I’m not saying goodbye to technology. I’m just renewing my commitment to keep it all in check.

It’s kind of funny. The day I said good-bye to Twitter, I suddenly received several e-mails notifying me I had new followers. Really? Did they not read what I just said?

Actually, part of me wonders if they started following me so that they will be notified at the exact moment I relapse. If so, I have to say, “Sorry tweoples. You’ll be sadly disappointed.”

I’ve left Twitter for the real world, and I don’t plan on coming back any time soon.

My latest addiction

Back in the 90s, when Capri pants first came back in style, I hated them. Despised them. Thought they were the dumbest thing I’d ever seen.

Then there were Macs. Uh, you mean the same outdated devices I used in second grade with the green flashing cursor? I don’t think so. Microsoft’s got the market cornered.

And more recently, Facebook. Don’t even get me started on Facebook. A pretentious site for the “I’m much too sophisticated for MySpace” crowd.


All of these things were silly fads not worthy of my attention. That was, of course, until I adopted them all as my own.

I’m what communications scholar Everett Rogers would label a late majority adopter (my comm profs would be so proud!) AND I HATE THAT.

When it comes to all things trendy, I always start to think something’s cool long after the real trendsetters have moved on to something else. I’m such a loser!

And now it’s happened again.

I’ve been revolting against Twitter for months now – claiming it to be a ginormous waste of time and completely narcissistic. I couldn’t see the point.

Until this week. At the urging of several people much cooler than I’ll ever be, I started playing with it — and now I’m completely and utterly addicted. Every time I say something that makes me laugh or I find particularly clever (Yes… I am my biggest fan), I think, “Oooh, I should put that on Twitter.”

It’s really quite pathetic. I’m limiting myself to four tweets a day, just so I don’t come across as completely self-centered or desperate for attention. That may be the reality, but I certainly don’t want the cool kids on Twitter to know.

And like every good addict, I’m not just using. I’m pushing.

This morning, as I sat in Starbucks sipping my latte — yes, the same drink I used to declare the overpriced version of what I could easily buy at Speedway —I sang the wonders of Twitter to our university chaplain. With heartfelt conviction, I did my best to convince Chap Daddy that this is the best way for him to be an effective minister to the lost.

So yes, I’m a Twittering fool. But this is it. I mean it. This will be the LAST trend I jump on board with late in the game.

Unless everybody’s doing it.

www.twitter.com/quiteaday

How Nazarene are you?

I'm not a big fan of Facebook quizzes. If you've sent them to me, I've probably ignored them. I don't care what 80s sitcom character I am, what book best represents me, or what my stripper name would be.

But I saw one the other day that intrigued me. "How Nazarene are you?" Hmm.... this might be interesting, I thought.

So I took it. And after successfully answering basic questions about our church structure and history, I was declared a "Manuel Memorizer." Wow! Who knew?

I must admit, though, I was a little disappointed. Who cares if I know how many general superintendents we have or how often General Assembly takes place? Anybody can figure those out. (No offense to Stephanie, who bombed the test).

No, I think there's much more complexity in identifying a purebred Nazarene. Ask yourself these questions:

• Did your mom shed a tear or two when she ironed your Phineas S. Bresee award on your Caravan scarf?


• Have you driven out of town to watch a perfectly clean movie, so that no one would see you?


• When your friends start swapping stories about random celebrity run-ins, do you tell about the time you saw a general superintendent buying doughnuts at the grocery store?


• Did you hold two receptions for your wedding -- one for the church, and the other a secret celebration with you and your dancing friends?


• Do you own a collection of polyester dresses from your years on the Impact team?


• When you hear the letters NYC, do you think of massive teen gathering instead of a major U.S. city?


• (For women only) Do you remember a time when you couldn't wear pants to church because it was too provocative?


• (For men only) Have you ever felt guilty for staring at a provocative woman who was wearing pants to church?


• After years in teen Bible quizzing, do you still twitch your right butt cheek when you want to be the first to answer a question?


• If a short-cut in the grocery store meant going through the alcohol aisle, would you take the longer route just so no one thinks you've backslidden?


• Are you excited that this year's family vacation will be in Orlando, because you've seen just about all there is to see in Indianapolis?


• Have you calculated which direction you need to turn to face Kansas City when praying?


• When you're telling someone what part of the country you're from, do you automatically include the name of the nearest Nazarene college or university?


• When the song leader announces you'll be singing "Called Unto Holiness," do you set down the hymnal because you already know the words?


• Do any of your children have Wesley as a first or middle name?


• Do the highlights of your social calendar revolve around a potluck dinner or Old Country Buffet?

If you answered "Yes" to five or more of these questions, congratulations!

You are officially Nazarene through and through, and I'll see you in Orlando.

When I think of M-O-T-H-E-R

I had the distinct pleasure of singing with my mom at at mother-daughter banquet Friday night.

It all started when our ladies council president asked if anyone knew any songs about moms, and I said I'd heard one before. At the time, I didn't know any of the words, except, "M is for the million things she gave me." That qualified me to research and sing the song.

Thanks to ever faithful informational highway, I found it... and it was terrible. Here's the first verse:

I've been around the world, you bet, but never went to school. Hard knocks are all I seem to get, perhaps I've been a fool; But still, some educated folks, supposed to be so swell, Would fail if they were called upon a simple word to spell.

The composer then goes on to sing the traits of his beloved madre, each line beginning with the letters which spell out M-O-T-H-E-R. I'm sure it was touching in 1915 when it was first written, but it left me unimpressed.

Agreeing it was lame, my mom and I decided to write our own lyrics, updated for the women of 2009. (Watch here)

I don't know if anyone else really found our song funny, but we cracked each other up. And the process of writing and performing our song reminded me of just how special my mother really is.
So, sparing any form of spelling theme or alliteration, here's what I think of when I think of my mother:

- A woman who was widely known as the coolest counselor at kids camp.

- A woman whose vocal talent I first became aware of when my 4th grade music teacher told me she had the loveliest Soprano voice he'd ever heard.

- A woman who made the best with what she had, sewing us clothes throughout elementary school and convincing us they were stylish.

- A woman who treated Bible quizzing like an extreme sport.

- A woman who came to every single basketball game I ever played, no matter how busy she was.

-A woman who modeled what it means to love God's Word, as day after day, I'd find her pouring over the pages of her Bible.

- A woman who knows how to make the piano sing.

- A woman who never gives up the faith, no matter what life throws at her.

- A woman who always has a hug, a kiss and a sucker for my daughter.

- A woman who makes me laugh, and is there to hold me when I cry.

- A woman who I count as my dearest friend.

Happy (belated) Mother's Day, mom. I love you!

Feasting on Manna

I've been thinking a lot about Egypt lately.

No, not the pyramids, or even the Bangles' monster hit of the 80s.

I've been thinking about the way God delivered the Israelites from their bondage in Egypt, only to have them gripe about His methods every step of the way.

It used to be that when I'd read the pages of Exodus, I'd think, "You morons! Quit your complaining." I mean, God split the Red Sea, for crying out loud! You would think such an awesome experience would cause them to think twice before squawking about how hot it was in desert, or how bland the the manna tasted.

Now, I don't read it quite the same way ... because I think I would have done the exact same thing.

It's amazing, really, how petty I can be in light of all God's goodness. After all the things He's given me, and after all the amazing ways He's worked in my life, I'm still prone to freaking out whenever things look bleak. And then when He answers my prayers, I lament how it's not exactly the answer I was looking for.

Silly Israelites. Silly me. When will we ever learn?

And so I'm trying to do better about that. Trying to trust and trying to be grateful, on my way to the Promised Land.

Macaroni and cheese

This past weekend, I traveled with my parents and Emma from Bourbonnais to Omaha to witness the dedication of my nephew, Thane.

By all logical calculations, the trip out there should have taken somewhere between 7 and 9 hours. Possibly 10 with a couple, lengthy stops. For some reason, it took us 11 1/2. Yeah... I don't get it either. I'm pretty sure we hit a time warp somewhere near Des Moines.

Regardless, we pulled in to Ben and Steph's driveway somewhere around 5 a.m. We turned in for bed immediately, but the next 5 hours of sleep went by in a blink. Then we readied ourselves for the Henry Doorly Zoo, where we walked from exhibit to exhibit from noon until 5:30 p.m. The next day, Sunday, was only slightly less sleep-inducing between church, errands and late night viewings of The Office. Then on Monday, it was time to hit the road again.

Honestly, we had a fantastic time, but I was E-X-A-U-S-T-E-D! We've been home for 2 days and I still haven't completely recovered.

But as tiring as it was for me, I can only imagine what a trip like that does to a 2-year-old's body. Emma spent more hours in vehicle than she ever had before, she spent more time walking than she ever had before, she stayed up later and went more consecutive days without a nap than she ever had before.

Even so, pushed to her limit, Emma was refleshingly pleasant. She was thrilled for the opportunity to watch Monster's, Inc. and Cinderella repeatedly in the van, she basked in the attention of her aunt and uncle, and she even discovered a new hobby: tattling on her cousin, Caleb. She loved every minute of the adventure!

Proud of her beyond measure, I wanted to reward her with a simple pleasure. At every restaurant we visited to, from, and in Omaha, I told her she could have whatever she wanted. Her culinary drothers are really quite basic, and so her response was always the same. "I want macaroni and cheese."

You would think this wouldn't be a problem. It was. It seems like that would be a restaurant staple. It's not.

Meal after meal, I would scan the menu only to feel the weight of a broken promise. "I'm sorry, hon. They don't have that. But we'll get it next time."

Only they didn't have it the next time. Or the time after that. Or the time after that. It was heartbreaking. Every time she had to settle for chicken nuggets or grilled cheese, she looked at me like I had completely crushed her spirit. Out of guilt, I even let her have what is normally forbidden fruit: pop and french fries.

Finally, with just the right amount of planning ahead, and an outrageous number of bathroom stops, we arrived in Davenport, Iowa on Monday evening just in time for dinner -- our last meal of the trip. We ate at the Machine Shed, a restaurant that prides itself in down-home cooking.

Sure enough, there it was on the kid's menu: good ol' macaroni and cheese. Woohoo!

I was downright giddy to finally provide my little girl the desires of her heart. I ordered with a great sense of pride, and as the waitress returned to our table with a tray of food, I'm pretty sure I clapped my hands in excitement. "Emma, here it comes!"

The overall-clad woman set a bowl of delightfully orangish noodles down in front Emma, and I held my breath in anticipation.

Emma took one look at the bowl and pushed it away.

With absolute certainty in her voice she told me, "I don't like macaroni and cheese."

The two hardest words

I had an interesting glimpse into the human psyche the other night.

Robert and I were playing with Emma in her room, and I reached over to show her one of her toys. As I did, Emma quickly snatched it away from me and said, “No, mommy, that’s mine.” In the process of pulling the toy away, she inadvertently whacked me in the face.

Now, I really should clarify, I don’t believe for one moment that she meant to hit me. Clearly, she was being toddlerifically selfish, but the “injury” was purely accidental. And I should further clarify that this is not standard Emma behavior, lest the readers of this blog think I’ve raised a monster. She’s generally very sweet natured, much like her mother.

Nevertheless, Robert wisely identified this as a situation that needed to be addressed. “Tell your mommy you’re sorry,” he said in a firm, fatherly tone.

Emma immediately stood straight up, arms by her side and clamped down her jaw in stubborn defiance.

After a few moments of silence, Robert repeated the order. “Emma, tell your mommy that you’re sorry.”

Straight face, no response, her eyes firmly locked on the wall.

Robert looked at me, and then turned back to Emma. “Alright then. I guess you’re going to have to go in time out until you can say you’re sorry.”

Now, just to underscore how uncharacteristic this is of Emma, we’ve rarely had to punish her to this point in her life. And coincidentally, it’s never happened while we’ve been home. He turned back to me and we had one of those magical conversations that take place without a single word being uttered. “Where is time out?” my shrug conveyed. “I’m not sure,” his eyes replied. I motioned toward the corner with my head, and he marched her over there.

She stood silently staring at the wall for a minute or so, when Robert went over and gently spun her around. “Are you ready to say you’re sorry?”

No response.

“Emma, all you have to say is ‘I’m sorry.’ It’s easy. Tell your mommy you’re sorry for hurting her.”

No response.

He sighed. “Alright, I guess it’s back to time out.”

Two minutes later. “Now, are you ready to say you’re sorry?”

No response.

“Back to time out.”

Folks, this went on four more times, each following about two minutes worth of time out. It was a rather impressive standoff, and I was genuinely worried we’d be there all night.

Then Robert asked the controversial question one last time, after the sixth and final time out session. I’m still not sure exactly what she said, but we heard the faintest of whispers from Emma’s lips. Actually, I’m not even sure that she said anything, but her lips did move. And then she came and hugged me.

We took it. It was way past bedtime, and we were feeling drained.

Such simple words: I’m sorry. And yet even at two years old, Emma already knows how difficult they are to say.

I was thinking about this encounter with Emma today, as one of my colleagues walked into my office.

Earlier in the day, we had quite the infuriating conversation, and I had been fuming ever sense. He had said the most outlandish, unfair things, and I let them get under my skin. I was angry and discouraged by the whole situation.

So when he walked into my office, he was absolutely the last person in the world I wanted to see. Then he said the two hardest words in the English language.

“I’m sorry.”

Those words are as powerful as they are difficult, and in that moment, my anger instantly vaporized.

“I was wrong,” he said. “I was unfair, out of line, and should have never said the things I did. I apologize.”

Wow.

Weeks from now, I’m sure I will not remember the subject of our dispute. I won’t remember what he said, and I won’t remember why it made me angry. What I will remember is his willingness to make it right. I saw his character more clearly in that moment of reconciliation than I have in all the days when he’s been nice to me.

That’s the kind of transparency I want to have, and the kind of attitude I want to bestow upon my children.

In this world, there will be days we screw up royally. All of us will be at fault at one time or another, and we’re bound to hurt the people around us. In those times, it’s the people of character who will stand out because of their willingness to say, “I’m sorry.”

The World’s Most Super-Interesting Olivetian

You may have heard, my sister Stephanie has been actively campaigning for my attention lately.

Not the regular, sisterly, “I love you; let’s spend some time together” kind of attention, mind you. After all, we converse via phone, e-mail, or Facebook just about every day. Sometimes multiple times a day. No, the attention she desires is much more specific.

You see, I’m the editor of Olivet’s alumni publication, The Olivetian. Stephanie sees this connection as her ticket to glory and fame. And so she uses every opportunity she can to try and convince me why she should be the subject matter for an upcoming alumni feature. She’s blogged about it; she’s talked to friends about it; she’s submitted photos to me for it. I think the next step is a billboard.

Rather than see Stephanie waste her precious time and resources on a mass advertising campaign, I decided to dedicate a blog entry to her. Perhaps it’s not quite as far reaching as ONU’s official publication, but the best I can figure, at least five people read my random ponderings.

And so, Stephanie, a tribute to you…

15 reasons why Stephanie Joan (Quimby) Kumor is my pick for the 2009 World’s Most Super-Interesting Olivetian: *

1. Stephanie has never had a cavity.

2. Stephanie’s left eye (or is it right? I’m sure she’ll correct me) moves back and forth involuntarily when she’s eating.

3. Stephanie is an incredibly loving and hard working mother. Where I would probably spend most of my day lounging around, she spends her days keeping things exciting for Caleb and Thane. On any given day, she’s at the zoo, library, or park with them, or at home playing educational games. No wonder Caleb is brilliant – his mommy is constantly teaching him new things!

4. Stephanie is the utmost authority on shaving devices and products. She has tried everything from wax and sandpaper to bleach and electronic zappers in her quest to find the most painless and effective way to rid her body of unwanted hair.

5. After graduating from ONU, Stephanie worked for a sleep clinic, where she measured the brain activity of patients while they were sleeping. This data was used to confirm or rule out sleeping disorders such as Sleep Apnea. One April Fool’s Day, Stephanie told a patient that if he produced a drop of sweat while sleeping, he would be instantly electrocuted by all the wires.

6. Stephanie is a pickle fiend. She has loved them for as long I can remember and can wipe out a jar in no time. She also adores those pickled peppers you see at salad buffets.

7. Stephanie’s middle name, which is the same as our mom’s, defines phonetic reasoning. Heaven help her the day she gives birth to a girl. She intends on passing the name to a third generation, and Ben insists on making it rhyme with “phone” instead of treating it as two syllables (Jo-an.)

8. Stephanie is a Craig’s List connaisseur. She’s the queen of getting incredible deals on toys and furniture.

9. When she was a child, Stephanie developed a weird, large, purple blob-type growth on the top of her foot. The doctors were fascinated by it, claiming they had never seen anything like it before. It went away as mysteriously as it appeared.

10. Stephanie has always been athletically gifted. She was a fantastic basketball player back in the day, and on our town’s swim team, she could do the breast stroke like nobody’s business. I always enjoyed watching her from the bench.

11. Related, when we lived in Hoopeston, Stephanie once woke up and discovered that the Sweetcorn Festival’s 5K run was beginning directly in front of our house. She threw on a pair of shorts, and decided to give it a try, without any training whatsoever. She was one of the top finishers in her category.

12. In a moment of beautiful creativity today, Stephanie figured out how to turn Leviticus 18:19-20 into a special, Valentine’s acrostic greeting. (Look it up. You won’t regret it.)

13. Stephanie and I are contemplating starting a side business providing baby/toddler attitude tees. Proposed onesie sayings include “Follow me to a hot mama,” “I drool cuz I’m cool” and “Booby: the other white meat.”

14. As a child, Stephanie had her mouth washed out with soap so often that she developed a taste for Dawn.

15. Finally, Stephanie has an extraordinarily gifted sister who just so happens to be the editor of The Olivetian. She is thereby interesting by association.

So, there you have it. Stephanie, I think you’re pretty cool, and I will do my darndest to work you into an upcoming issue.

Just submit a short note, no longer than 50 words, beginning with the announcement of Thane’s birth, and I’m pretty sure I can squeeze it somewhere into Class Notes.

-----

* The World’s Most Super-Interesting Olivetian contest has no affiliation or impact on the World’s Most Interesting Olivetian annual contest sponsored by Olivet Nazarene University. The similarity in title is purely coincidental and shall not be construed as an endorsement, or prediction of outcome, for the 2009 WMIO contest to be held later this year.

Gynecology patients say the darndest things

As I write this, I am sitting in a doctor's waiting room, desperately trying to tune out the conversations around me.

For all inquiring minds, I'm not sick, and I’m not pregnant. I’m just anxiously awaiting the mother of all annual appointments.

So far, I've been waiting for nearly an hour, and I've given up hope of escaping any time soon.

I tried passing the time with one of the complementary magazines, but I could only stomach about half of the article on Randy Jackson's gastric bypass surgery. Pun intended.

And so now I’m blogging to you, whoever you might be.

How are my fellow waiting room attendees passing the time while I pretend to be at work on my Blackberry?

Woman # 1 is loudly speaking in exaggerated baby talk to her four-month old son, occasionally glancing around the room to see if anyone will, once again, comment how cute he is. She had an epidural with him, but not with his older sister. The epidural put her to sleep. How do I know? She told us.

Woman # 2, clear across the room I should add, is talking boisterously on her cell phone. She "doesn’t want to go into details because [she's] in a room of people,” but she was in the emergency room all day yesterday because she was bleeding again. The intern who did her pelvic exam admitted out loud he couldn't find her cervix. No, the doctors aren't overly concerned, they just have her on "pelvic rest" until the baby is born. Yes, her husband has been very understanding. Besides, there's plenty of other things they can do to keep things exciting.

Woman # 3 is raving about what an incredibly cute belly woman # 4 has. Seriously, she's been talking about it for at least the last 10 minutes.

Woman # 4 is due on the 25th, but she's so skinny all her friends think she's only 4 months along. Gag me! When I was at 4 months, a woman at church asked me if I was having twins.

This must not be woman #5’s first go around, because she thought to bring a friend. The two of them are planning out an intervention for their other friend who shouldn’t put up with her boyfriend’s crap any more.

Woman # 6 is trying to corral her toddler. He’s wearing those little shoes that squeak whenever he takes a step.

Woman # 7 is politely smiling at the toddler whenever he runs up to her. She's putting up a pretty good front, but you can so tell she wants to rip the squeakers right out of those shoes.

Women # 8 through 12 are either reading their magazines or digging through their purses. I suspect that, like me, they are just trying to appear busy.

Wait? What’s that?

The nurse just called my name! Wahoo!

I’ve never been more thrilled to strip down to a paper robe in my life.

Should old aquaintance be forgot?

I had this horrible dream the other night.

In a chance encounter with an old friend, I asked her where our relationship had fell apart. Why had we not kept in contact over the years?

Her answer: my hair. She was afraid my haircut would look bad in her pictures.

Yes, it was a little strange. Yet for whatever reason, I couldn't go back to sleep once my angry response to her woke me from my slumber.

It got me to thinking about all the close friendships I've had over the years. Those kind of friends you label as "forever." And yet, very few of them are.

Things happen. Moves happen. College happens. Marriage happens. Babies happen. And somewhere in the process, those relationships I thought I could never live without, have fizzled by the wayside.

At first it seems a little sad. Then I remember all the wonderful things I've gained along the way. New places to call home. Love. Motherhood. Wisdom. And even new friends.

Should old aquaintance be forgot? Absolutely not. They are part of who I am, and I will forever relish my memories with them. I will smile when I look over old pictures with them, and I will celebrate when I learn of the new exciting things happening in their life.

But neither should they be mourned. They've changed, and I've changed. There's nothing wrong with that.

Life is to be lived looking forward, not backward.

Dwelling in the past will cause you to miss out on all the beauty of today.