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“Let it go, let it go, can’t hold it back anymore…”

Back in May, our family sat around our dinner table and made a list of individual goals. We divided them up into reading goals, learning goals, activity goals, and just fun goals. Some examples were- reading 10,000 pages, learning to make pizza, learning about civil rights, learning to fish, learning to run, going to a water park, having two days a week with no technology, etc.

I’m happy to report that we met all our goals and we are entering the new school year as well rested, well-rounded people who are quite frankly, much smarter and cooler than the rest of you slackers.

Eh…something like that. Here’s the truth- only Josiah met his reading goal. He surpassed 10,000 pages actually, which is impressive until I tell you that we probably haven’t spoken to him in a few weeks. There’s been no fishing, no deck building, I have learned 0 new songs on the guitar, no water park, and my children have developed a deep abiding relationship with the television this summer, followed closely by becoming besties with the Xbox. I did not learn how to make artisan bread or homemade sushi, but I DID learn that if you offer no alternative, your children will eat peanut butter and jelly for more than one day in a row.

This week has been difficult, for many reasons, but one of the reasons is that I have been struggling with guilt over how our summer has progressed, and the lack of meaningful interactions between me and my kids. Actually, that’s just fancy blog talk for saying I feel like a failure. A big old not running, frozen waffle making, swimming counts as a bath failure. School starts in a week and my house isn’t more organized. I have no meal plans ready. There are no homework stations and at this point, I am not quite sure where Josiah’s toothbrush is.

It’s amazing to me that we do this- we look at summer vacation and forget that it’s only a vacation for the kids. My life and responsibilities haven’t stopped! In fact, they have at least doubled, because now I have three kids home. Home. All the time. All the days and hours. They are home. With me. All the days. They are home with me and that means I have 88% less time to do laundry, cook, clean, organize the house, take care of the dog, do ministry, write, spend time with friends, spend time with the Lord, and be a wife. Not sure if 88% is right, but who has time to do correct math when all the children are here?? So we have less time and less energy, yet we make goals for ourselves as though we have all the free time in the world. It’s crazy and unrealistic. And for me, it has set me up for grouchiness and crying and guilt.

And I’ve decided I’ve had enough. I can’t find any scripture about spanish lessons or running a marathon or reading Shakespeare or learning cursive. But I’ve read plenty about rest and loving others and laughter and being patient and kind. And I think my ancestors would roll their eyes at my fretting, so I am taking my cues from them. I want to encourage you with the following questions-

1. Has your child been eaten by a wooly mammoth or scarred by an attack while gathering water at the watering hole?

2. Has your child lost any fingers or limbs in a combine this summer?

3. Did you child contract Bubonic Plague while gathering wild mushrooms to feed the family?

If you answered “no” to each of these, then congratulations, your summer was a success!

And more questions-

1. Did your child eat this summer?

2. Did water come into contact with your child’s body this summer?

3. Is your child currently breathing?

If you answered “yes”, then you are a rock star summer parent.

 

The truth is, while many parents wrestle with wanting to have a perfect Pinterest summer, I struggled more with wanting some high level spiritual experience for my kids. I wanted us to be sweet and generous and loving and prayerful and creative and singing and Spinterest. Spiritual Pinterest. But I bet I don’t have to tell you that the world of Spinterest does contain an extraordinary amount of “spin”. Our family is just full of human sinners, and three months of constant togetherness has brought out that sin in some unique and loud ways. Some days were louder than others.

Sweet friends, take a deep breath. Channel your inner Elsa and let. it. go. Don’t let your Spinterest hopes distract you from what is right in front of you- a beautiful, restful, joy filled sink of dirty dishes. They’ll be there tomorrow. Maybe even the next day. And no one will die or abandon their faith because of it.

Your babies are watching to see how you feel about those dirty faces and dishes.

 

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Email me at brandy.followingbutterflies@yahoo.com

Follow me on Twitter @brandyb77

 

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“What’s love got to do, got to do with it…”

I’m taking a stand. I’m drawing a line in the pink and red sand and humming “We’re not Gonna Take it” under my breath. It’s time for us to join together and rise up against the machine of Valentine’s Day gifts for our children’s classmates. It all begins with you and me- won’t you join me?

When I was a kid, we used to go and buy valentines with cartoon characters on them. We would write our classmate’s name on the top and the next day, we would hand them out. We would have a party with chocolate cupcakes with red sprinkles and cheetos. We had cups of water, or if we were fancy, cups of red punch. One year, I decided to hand out little boxes of those candy hearts, the ones that taste like chalk dipped in powdered sugar. There was a boy- a quiet boy, but a boy who haunted my fifth grade dreams. He was a loner, my first foray into “bad boys”, and he didn’t play baseball like the rest of the boys, he just loitered around the field, looking all Dylan McKayish. He didn’t ever raise his hand in class. His voice had already changed, probably when he was four. He NEVER wore a helmet on his bike. I was enthralled. I dumped out all the chalk hearts and separated them into colors because one time I heard him tell someone that the yellow ones were his favorite (of course, he said this with disdain, as though he was scoffing at the whole candy chalk heart industry). Yellow ones are also MY favorite, which clearly meant that we were soul mates. You can’t fake a connection like that. I put all the yellow ones in his box. I waited all day, watching him to see when he would open them. I watched as he opened the box, Debbie Gibson’s “Shake your Love” playing in my head, waiting for the moment he would look up, and we would join hands and plan our yellow candy chalk heart themed wedding as we rode off, sans helmets, into the sunset.

What actually happened is that I saw him TRADE MY BOX OF LOVE to another kid for JOLLY FREAKING RANCHERS AS THOUGH THOSE WOULD EVER FILL HIS HEART. Heartbroken. Debbie abruptly stopped singing and was replaced by the mournful wailing of Whitney Houston’s “Didn’t we almost have it all”

I’ve never forgotten that. So Raymond Martinez, if you are out there, just know that every time I eat a yellow candy heart, I push down a tiny bit of bitterness.

But now that I am an adult (legally, anyway), I have a new issue with Valentine’s Day. I’m looking at you, Pinterest. You and your homemade crocheted hearts and cards made out of recycled pallet wood and individualized Baked Alaska’s and vegetables cut into hearts and arrows and dressing your kid up in a diaper and bow and arrow and the teachers gifts, DEAR LORD THE TEACHERS GIFT.  I tried your melt broken crayons into heart-shaped crayons project. Lord knows I have enough broken crayons, as my kids are convinced this will be the next Olympic sport and they are VERY dedicated to training for the gold. You know what I got? Heart shaped crayons that had melted into the color of “wet dog rolling in a pile of garbage” which is very difficult to fit onto the label. I also had the added bonus of my kitchen smelling like a spork factory. Nothing says I love you like the smell of melted sporks.

It doesn’t stop there. It’s not enough to send cupcakes or cookies anyone to class parties. Now we have to send marshmallow people holding carrot hearts, or cheese cherubs or cookies painted with Robert Frost poetry.

I can’t do it. I won’t do it. This is my stand.

Join me mamas, in taking back the Valentine’s Day of yore. Paint half your face blue and stand with me, and we will battle together against this one upmanship, for we know if we continue down this path, it will lead to our sons taking out loans for gifts that their girlfriends will expect because we taught them in third grade that a flower isn’t enough. Because they may take our yellow candy chalk hearts, but they will never take OUR FREEDOM!!!!!!

Oh Dylan. I can tell from your furrowed eyebrows that you regret throwing my love candy away. I forgive you.

Oh Dylan. I can tell from your furrowed eyebrows that you regret throwing my love candy away. I forgive you.

 

 

This post originally appeared in Feb 2013…

 Email me at brandy.followingbutterflies@yahoo.com

Follow me on Twitter @brandyb77

“In your head, in your head, zombie zombie zombie, what’s in your head, in your head, zombie zombie zombie…”

The Halloween hangover…

10:30 pm- Selah wakes from a nightmare about a vampire bride she saw earlier. Don’t know if she’s actually scared of the vampire or the idea of something ruining a wedding dress.

11:30 pm- Selah wakes again. Comes in to ask me if Twizzlers have food dye. Tell her Twizzlers are made of food dye and lost hopes and dreams.

11:45 pm- Go to bed.

3:00 am- Wake up and find an Ethiopian ice-cube asleep next to me.

3:05 am- Inch away from the ice-cube. Love the ice-cube but it’s survival of the fittest in this bed, yo.

3:30 am- Selah comes in and asks something in Dutch. I think.

4:00 am- Wes’ alarm goes off. He turns if off after the 486th time I hit him.

4:03 am- Ice cube presses his little frog feet on my back.

4:05 am- Invent self heating socks for kids for such moments as these.

4:08 am-Try to go back to sleep.

4:10 am- Imagine sheep. They are jumping and saying “Go baaaaaaack to sleep.”

4:12 am- It’s not working. Yell at the sheep to shut up and quit ruining my sleeping juju.

4:15 am- Think about the song Thrift Shop. Wonder what “pop some tags” means. Does it mean pop the price tag off and steal things? Do you really steal things from a thrift shop? I mean, it’s pretty cheap. Maybe if you have a shoplifting problem. Or if you are a hoarder. He DID buy a broken keyboard. So…he’s a hoarder. I expect a song about that soon.

4:20 am- Think, what’s he gonna DO with a broken keyboard anyway? Can he fix it? Is it completely broken or maybe just some of the keys are broken or maybe the helicopter sound is broken which is fine because really, nobody needs that anyway. Maybe he’s gonna use the parts for a craft project. Is he crafty?? He doesn’t look crafty but you know, it’s always the quiet ones…

4:28 am- Think-IS HE ON PINTEREST?!  Not to self-check Pinterest tomorrow to see if he has an account.

4:35 am-Think- I wonder what the Pilgrims would think of Pinterest? They’d probably roll their eyes and hide their laughter in their bonnets and say “Good sir! A place where you pretend you will actually cook things and make things? So you are just planning to do them? When do you actually do them? Oh, you are too tired from pinning to actually do them? Poppycock!”  Then they’d invite you to the first thanksgiving where you would be shunned because your napkins weren’t folded like scarecrows riding turkeys. The Pilgrims could be jerks sometimes.

4:45 am- Listen to Malachi start to snore.

4:46 am- He’s still snoring. Dear Lord, will it ever stop? I need silence to sleep!

4:47 am- Decide that this country has it all wrong. We should take the worst criminals, and instead of solitary confinement, we should send children in all through the night to wake them up and ask them questions.

4:49 am- Realize this plan’s shortcomings.

5:00 am- Okay, new plan. We can’t use real children, these are violent criminals, people! Don’t make me do all the thinking work here.

5:02 am- How about robots?

5:05 am- But they are violent criminals, so…they might punch the robots and break them, and punishment robots are probably expensive.

5:15 am- I got it. What if we cut out puppy faces and put them on the robots? Nobody is gonna punch a puppy face!

5:17 am- Brandy, be reasonable. These are criminals. They would totes punch a puppy.

5:20 am- I’m gonna have to think about this more. File what would a violent criminal NOT punch under new ideas.

5:21 am- How am I NOT president of the USA???

5: 25 am- Can’t take it anymore.

5:26 am- Wake Wes up and have him take Malachi back to bed.

5:30 am- Savor the silence.

5:31 am- Diagnose myself with auditory sensory processing issues.

5:45 am- Wonder if medicine will ever invent a way to take off your ears at night so noises don’t bother you.

5:50 am- This is an amazing idea. If you have restless legs, you could just unhook them and let them go run it off while you sleep.

6:00 am- Again, how am I not the president?!

Happy Halloween. Thankful for the sugar in the house that will keep me awake today.

“When the road looks rough ahead And you’re miles and miles From your nice warm bed You just remember what your old pal said Boy, you’ve got a friend in me Yeah, you’ve got a friend in me…”

An open letter to Emma Watson…

Dear Em, (I can call you Em, right?)

Sometimes you just know, Em.  Some friendships develop like a souffle, they rise slowly and you have to be careful and delicate until you have something really good, and other friendships are like those microwave mug cakes that are on Pinterest- they look good in theory and sound easy and you start to crave them one night and then you make them and realize they taste like a chocolate scented mud pie. Other friendships, like ours, are like a creme brulee. It’s rare and beautiful and you set it on fire. I mean, don’t WORRY. I’d not ever set YOU on fire. I completely frown upon that in my friendships. The fire is a metaphor, which I thought you’d appreciate since you went to a fancy college and you got really good grades at Hogwarts. The fire is the difficulties in a relationship, like in ours it’s difficult because we haven’t officially met. But I can look past that, EmALem. (I like to give my close friends nicknames) I can tell- we would be very good friends. I am sure you have lots of people who want to be your friend, maybe some who just want to get close to that Potter kid, but not me. I mean, I wouldn’t turn it down if you like, arranged a dinner party and he happened to be there and Snape was there too and when you asked Snape how many lumps of sugar he wanted, he’d look over at me and say “Three hundred and ninety…..four.”  And then I’d look at him and say “Did you just siriusly do that?” and we’d laugh and laugh and drink our butterbeer.

But EmCat, even if that party never happened, I’d still be a great friend for you. I’d be like your cool older sister who gives you wisdom on life choices. Like, roles for example. I know you probably think I am just some big Harry Potter fan, but I have watched you in other movies. “The Perks of Being a Wallflower” made me cry. “The Bling Ring”, well that might have been a mistake. But that’s another reason we should be friends- I will always tell you the truth. But you could let me read scripts you get and I will tell you if playing a spoiled girl who gets roped into a baby rescuing scheme by a glittery man in spandex is a good idea.  It’s not, by the way. It’s already been done in Labyrinth. And Twilight. But maybe you get a script about going on a girls road trip with a sassy southern bff type, and you drive through towns causing mayhem in a red convertible.  I can help you method act that.

I can help with boys too. If you ask me, Prince Harry and you would make super amazing ginger babies. He needs a good girl to calm him down and you would have a crown. But there’s other choices, Eminem. Zac Efron would be presh. I’d even be willing to give up my celebrity crush to you, Rob Pattinson. You know what, on second thought, you wouldn’t like him. So forget about that. Maybe a musician? Justin Timberlake is married now so that won’t work because I am deeply rooted in reality, but I am sure we could find you someone.

You’re probably wondering if meeting each other would be awkward at first, but you don’t have to worry about that. I’ve already scripted our first coffee date in my head-

Me- “Hey Emazing! What’s up, girlfriend??”

You- “Ello mate! How are you doing?”

Me- “I’m brilliant. That means good here, you know.”

You- “I did not know that. Thank you for educating me in American dialect. I am not sure what I did before you fell into my life.”

Me- “Me neither. I for sure would have never gotten to meet Johnny Depp and charm him with my questions about dreadlocks and 21 Jump Street.”

You- “That is so true. I could tell he really wanted to stay longer and keep using the Jack Sparrow voice you were demanding.”

Me- “He DID find me delightful. But Emancipation, he really only had eyes for you. You should totally get together with him. And let me plan your Edward Scissorhands wedding.”

You- “I am speechless. You have successfully planned my future in a way that I could never have imagined. Will you be my matron of honor?”

Me- “Can I wear Hermione’s dress from The Goblet of Fire?”

You- “Uh, of COURSE! What else would you wear?”

We can make this a reality, EmRoll.  Just call me.

Love,

Brandy

“Baby you make the difference, it’s just like day and night, baby you make the difference, you make it all seem right…”

(I’m postponing Mama Mondays post until Wednesday. I’ll call it “Whatta I do Wednesday”.)

Dear Wes,

On Saturday we celebrated Fathers Day because you were going to have to work all day on Sunday. I asked you what you wanted to do to celebrate and suggested that you have some time alone in the house. Your idea was mowing the lawn, having lunch with me and the kids, and spending the afternoon at the house, just hanging out. I’ll admit that I probably would never suggest celebrating Mothers Day by engaging in a rousing round of washing dishes, but that’s just the crazy guy you are. This is our tenth year with the mom and dad titles (although I personally am making them call me mommy FOR-EV-ER), and like in any job, there’s been a learning curve, but I am grateful to have you as my teammate because I’ve learned that there are multiple things I just can’t do. I know if you weren’t here, the Lord would provide for us and fill in the gaps, but I wanted to take a minute to tell you the things our kids would be missing if I didn’t have you.

Knowledge of pop culture- I’m sorry that I still can’t really tell you who “Legolas” is. I know he’s in that movie with the giant spider but come on, that movie is 17 hours long, so no one understands the plot. Without you, our kids would be able to quote every line from The Princess Bride, but would never know Indiana Jones or Anniekin. They would refer to sad moments as “this is totes Beaches”, but sadly would never know anything about why Frodo might choose the red pill over the blue. I realize that knowing that George Michael will never musically top his Wham! days is important information for the growing mind, but without you, their little ears would not enjoy the mulleted musings of a young Steven Curtis Chapman. They’d never know Michael W. Smith and without that, who knows what direction they’d go in? It could be west, but that’s not a chance we need to take!

Dishwashing how-to- its entirely possible that without you, I’d just throw dishes in the dishwasher until it looked like it needed to close. I mean, it all gets the same soap and water, right? No need to pay attention to where they are supposed to go! The utensil drawer is just a suggestion! And I also realize that I am a smidge more “liberal” when it comes to what can and can’t go into the dishwasher. For you, a dinner plate needs to be rinsed and washed with some soap before being gently placed in the correct place within the complicated dishwashing grid. I think a plate housing a small mountain of spaghetti is probably okay to throw in there. Don’t worry- I checked the manual. (we both know that is a lie- I don’t read manuals). So without you, our kids would be breaking dishes and dishwashers willy nilly, and I’d be shaking my head and saying sympathetically to them “it’s okay. The manual said this could happen.”

The ability to shake it off- without you, our kids would probably be on a first name basis with the triage nurse at our local emergency room. I’m not saying am paranoid because I’M TOTALLY NOT WEBMD WOULD NEVER LEAD ME ASTRAY but I am saying that you are a good balance in knowing that a sneeze is probably not Belgium Nose Flu and that that one spot on under his arm is a freckle EVEN THOUGH IT LOOKS EXACTLY LIKE THAT ONE THING I SAW ON THAT ONE SHOW THAT ONE TIME. Because you are their dad, they dive headfirst into lake water without thinking about those amoebas that drift into your brain and make you start barking at cars, and they don’t check their shoes for baby cobras. Not that I do that. That’s crazy. It was just an example.

Leaving the house- In this modern world, there really isn’t much use for this. Need food? Home delivery service. Want to watch a movie? Hello Netflix. Education? On line classes! Human companionship? Skype, baby! But you are different, sweetheart. You like this “great outdoors” that you often speak of. While I could be content in my home, you make us get out into the sunshine and interact with the world. Thank you for that, because without you, our kids might end up on one of those shows where they have to bulldoze the house just to find the owner and forklift them out. I know because I watched that show today instead of having a playdate.

Aside from all these super important skills, our kids would not be nearly as kind, compassionate, selfless, generous, and loving if you weren’t their dad. Truly, our kids will know this someday, but right now they don’t know how blessed they are to be yours. And I would not be half the mom I even want to be without you. You encourage and sharpen me. You stand by my side and hold me up when it’s hard. You trust me and honor me. You bless me with your love for Christ. I love you.

Love,

B

“In the days of the caveman and mammoths and glaciers, bugs and trees were your food then, no pajamas or doctors”…

“Oh, I’m totally doing Paleo right now. I like it, but it’s hard because blah blah blah nutritional first world problem whole foods words…”

This is what I overheard as I sat in Panera, trying to work and munching on a most decidedly non Paleo blueberry muffin and hippesque hibiscus tea. By the way Panera- you can call it hibiscus tea all day long, but you and I both know y’all be sitting back there in the kitchen stirring red Koolaid up and forgetting the sugar. I could take this “tea” into the bathroom and dye my hair with it, ala 1993. Whatever.

I believe part of being a good friend is shooting straight with you, so I’m going to do that. Paleo is straight up cray y’all.  I can already hear the sputtering of the Paleo crowd, crying out “but BUT it’s SO HEALTHY!!” Actually, I have to strain to hear them, since their voices are faint from lack of energy. Do not come after me, caveman people. I will be forced to block your weakly placed punch with my box of Ho Hos. Those HoHos will take you OUT. And how foolish will you feel being defeated by processed circles of pillowy goodness?

Look, I’m all for choosing to eat healthy food, and food that hasn’t been processed to death. I avoid food dye and corn syrup when I can. I drink water. I like to buy from farmers and grow some of my own food. I’m not getting money under the table from Kelloggs or anything. But this concept of eating like the caveman did…what kind of mockery is this?

Picture yourself for a second in prehistoric times. There you are, in your little caveman or cavewoman costume, walking around, grunting commands and dodging the swoops of dinosaur birds intent on making their nests out of your hair. You’re walking along with your caveman gang, making jokes about how Fred got turned down by Wilma, when all of a sudden you spy something sitting on the ground. You get closer, and poke at it. It’s soft, and it smells good. One of your brave buddies picks it up and licks it. “Mm. Good. Will name it Cupcake.”

There is great rejoicing in your village over this “cupcake” but you, loyal to the Paleo diet, protest because it’s obviously processed and has white sugar and flour. I think we all know what happens next. Your friends, weary of your warnings, club you over the head and display you in the center of the village as the guy who shunned their new queen, “Little Debbie”

Oh, and I’ve seen those “paleo cupcake” recipes on Pinterest. Come on. If caveman actually COULD have made cupcakes, you and I both know it would have included dinosaur blood and mastodon tails, so just stop.

The fact is, cavemen were incredibly physically active in a way that we are not. So if you are looking for a way to resist eating that cupcake, instead of making a version of it that makes the angels cry, ask yourself these questions-

“Did I fall into a volcano and climb out of it today?”

“Have I built a house for my family out of boulders and tree branches?”

“Was I recently chased by a T-Rex looking for a mid afternoon snack?”

If the answer is no to any of these, tell yourself that you probably don’t deserve a cupcake.

I have to believe that there are cavepeople who have gone before us, sitting in heaven right now, looking down at us and sadly shaking their heads. I can hear their mournful cries of “why, WHY are they eating those sticks when pasta is a thing?”

Have a question or subject for Mama Mondays? Email me at brandy.followingbutterflies@yahoo.com

Follow me on Twitter @brandyb77

“Take me out to the ballgame, take me out with the crowd, buy me some peanuts and crackerjacks, I don’t care if I never get back…”

When I found out that I was having a boy, I began to have dreams of playing with my little one in the backyard, teaching him how to plant flowers and watching him walk around with his little bubble mower. I imagined sweet afternoons of reading books together and making little popsicle stick crafts. I dreamed about us, at the kitchen table together, while we make cookies and cupcakes.

Then Wes went out and bought my dream baby an Astros shirt.

I could hear the screeching record as it hit me that I was about to have a boy…a boy who might like playing sports…and watching sports…and talking about sports…and breathing sports…I’m pretty sure I panicked and cried. Considering that I cried because Wes brought home butter pecan ice cream instead of pecan praline ice cream, me crying over the idea of a sports loving boy isn’t that strange, but I truly worried that I would have no idea what to do with a little baseball hat wearing baby.

Josiah was born, and I swear that in the hospital, he looked up me in his little bassinet and tried to kick the box of baby wipes at me like a soccer ball. He has grown into a great little athlete, with a deep love for soccer especially. But my lack of sportiness has caused problems at times. It’s not like I don’t try, but yall, I didn’t grow up in a sport home. I mean, yes I did, if shopping is a sport. But I never knew what the Super Bowl was until I was married. Not kidding. I didn’t know sports had seasons. I thought they just played all year round. But Brandy, you ask, didn’t you notice your high school football team didn’t play all year? Why yes, blog friend, I probably would have noticed that if I ever attended a game. Which I didn’t. Well, that’s not completely true. I “attended” one game my junior year which equated me being asked to go with a boy who shall not be named (not because he’s Voldemort. Because some of my high school friends might read this) and me agreeing to go because he was cute and talented and not Voldemort. And then about ten minutes into the game, I realized that he wanted to watch the game. I mean, really? It’s not like the team was doing something new! They just run up the field and stop. Then run again and stop. Then run and fall down. Then get back up and run around some more. Then sometimes they kicked through the big slingshot thingy. So I told him I wanted to walk around which he roughly translated that I wanted to go make out in his car. Which we did a little, and it was about as interesting and attention holding as the football game.

I really have tried over the years to become more informed about sports and even tried playing volleyball. Once. For two minutes. But y’all, when the ball comes at you and you do that fist thing and hit it…um…it hurts. I just…I mean, I am going to stand here and hurt my hands and probably fall on the hard floor so I can maybe win a game that doesn’t have a prize or anything? This is fun?? No. It is not. I have a dream version where the ball is made of cotton candy and you don’t hit it, you gently hand it over to your teams and there’s not teams, everyone’s just friends and there’s no net, there’s hammocks and you all just lie in your hammocks with your cotton candy that your friend shared with you and the last person to take a nap wins. This is my version of volleyball and I think we can all agree that it is superior.

Part of this may be that I am the least competitive person on the planet. I like board games, but I find myself wanting to help others with answers because isn’t it just more fun if we all learn something? And I hate it when two teams are playing and one is winning by a lot of points. It seems so…inconsiderate. I mean, it’s fine if you want to win, but it would be nice if one of those basketball boys stopped and said “guys, let’s stop. You are losing because you keep shooting the ball wrong. Here, let me show you how to fix that.” I’d play with that guy. And trash talk…oh my word. Can’t even understand. If I was a coach and I heard my players trashy talking, I’d stop and say “that is unacceptable. You don’t even know his mom. You will call his mom right now and apologize.” Then I would put them both in a room until they could learn to play nicely together.

A few weeks ago, Malachi was getting ready to play soccer and I noticed he needed help. I called him over, and he impatiently bounced over to me and asked what I wanted. I said “come here, let me fix your soccer costume.”

Even the five-year old stared at me as though discovering a new kind of creature, rolled his beautiful little Ethiopian eyes, and ran back onto the field.

It’s fine. They have their dad. And someday, I am confident we will play cotton candy ball in heaven.

 

Have a question or subject for Mama Mondays? Email me at brandy.followingbutterflies@yahoo.com

Follow me on Twitter @brandyb77

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