Tag Archives: Emotion

The verb that protects and preserves.

February 14th signals the return of Valentine’s Day and this year I am celebrating the holiday and the love it represents with all of my beating heart.

Love was.  Love is.  Love always will be.  I cannot think of a greater force than love.

Love was the driving force for our creation and Jesus taking on the cross, spilling his blood, and sacrificing His life in order that we may live.  If you can’t comprehend this love act then just ask yourself “What would I do to save my child or family member? Would there be a limit or would I risk it all?”

Mr. Pavlov and I got to answer this question Friday night when our gas stove was not turned all the way off and caused gas to slowly flow into our home over a three-hour period while our 15-year-old daughter was home alone.  When we returned home and opened the door attached to the garage downstairs, the strong gas fumes overwhelmed us and we suddenly became aware that proceeding further could result in our death.  Although none of us spoke it, we knew that at any minute the home could explode. Yet the three of us charged into danger without any regard for ourselves because love was compelling us.

Without being instructed to do so our 12-year-old son lead the way into the dangerous fumes. And as I watched him disappear bounding up the steps two at a time in order to get to the stove to quickly shut it off, it was then that my heart skipped a few beats and I prayed “Dear God please do not let this house explode.”  Love does not look out for its own interests.  Love. was. present.

Love is each day and in each God-given breath.  And I knew that the Lord’s merciful love would conquer as I watched Mr. Pavlov and our son drag the unresponsive and unconscious body of our daughter out of the house.  Father and son working together to preserve life while possibly having to lie down their own.

Love is a powerful verb.  It always protects.  It always trusts.  It alway hopes.  It never gives up.  Love never fails. (I Cor 13:7)  God’s love did not fail us that horrid night.  Our daughter survived.  We survived.  The house did not explode but the emergency workers did close down the street in front of our home for a few hours to contain any blast should one occur (it is a good thing that I didn’t fully comprehend the reason they were blockading the street at the time)…sorry neighbors.

Love always will be.  Suppose I have enough faith to move mountains.  If I don’t have love I am nothing at all.  I had faith that Jesus would preserve our daughter but it took love to bring her out of the house.  I am thankful for God’s unfailing, unconditional, unwavering love and our daughter is thankful for ours.

Now we see only a dim likeness of things.  It is as if we were seeing them in a mirror.  But someday we will see clearly.  We will see face to face.  What I know now is not complete.  Someday I will know completely, just as God knows us completely.  The three most important things to have are faith, hope and love.  But the greatest of them is love (I Cor 13:12-13)

Love, a little verb that protects and preserves.  I believe it deserves its own holiday.  How about it?  Let’s celebrate some LOVE!!

Happy Valentine’s Day!!!!!

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Words of mistaken identity

Since my last post I have been thinking about the past several decades, most of which brought a big smile to my face.  The images of myself in all of my grandeur are just too pathetic not to laugh.  While those images will be quickly forth coming (yes, I will post the actual photos), today I wanted to focus on words.

Words, words, words.  I love them.  I read them. I eat them. I speak them.  Unfortunately the latter I have not always preformed correctly.  If you are like me you may have grown up thinking a phrase of words was something entirely different from what it actually was.  Right?  No?  Lost you already?

Rewind 20 some years ago to when I was a young adult.  I was sitting at my parent’s dining room table, THE social hub of the home, telling my Mom about a venomous women I had the misfortune of encountering.  It was not enough for me to merely describe this female with her fangs and claws.  I felt as if I needed an association for my Mom to truly get it.  So, with extreme emphasis I said,

“She’s a real Natilda the Nun!!”

There was a very brief pause accompanying the momentary blank look on my Mom’s face.  Then, she burst forth in gut wrenching LAUGHTER spewing partially chewed food across the table (so not the reaction I was expecting.)  After she regained her composure and had the Heimlich maneuver performed a time or two, she managed to choke out,

“You mean Attila the Hun”

Natilda the Nun, Attila the Hun — eeh, close enough. Although at the time I was horrified with my blunder not to mention covered with my Mom’s sprayed food particles.  Gross, but effective.

The first time I heard this phrase, Natilda the Nun made perfect sense in my young mind.  Especially after I listened to the stories my Dad told of the Nuns whacking his hands with rulers in the Catholic school he attended.

Natilda the Nun seemed like an ideal match to the phrase and had my Mom not so memorably corrected me, I would continue to bring Natilda the Nun to many conversations today!  I just wonder if anyone would have the jazz to tell me Natilda is really Attila?  Probably not.  But not to worry, Natilda is still very much a part of our verbal dialog because dear ‘ol Mom brings her up every chance she gets!

Here are a couple other words of mistaken identity we have embraced.

  1.  Let us snot into temptation.” This is from the Lord’s Prayer and should read “Lead us not into temptation.” As a young child it seemed totally reasonable to me that snotty nosed children would be the ones walking off to engage in tempting sin.  Thankfully, the realization of my error came by way of self-revelation after reading (yes, again delayed revelation) the Lord’s prayer IN PRIVATE.  Because it was only a matter of time before someone heard me proudly belt out “LET US SNOT INTO TEMPTATION.” And then they would laugh.  And mock me for years to come.  Let us snot into temptation…because if you’re going to sin, do it with some snot!
  2. Maury Deemer:” While the song ‘My redeemer lives’ was playing my youngest asked “Mom is Maury Deemer the Jewish name of Jesus?” I also had the momentary blank look and pause of my Mom but spared my precious child from the trauma of forceful laughing, food choking, ridicule and simply asked “Why?” He was quick to reply “Because that song is saying Maury Deemer lives and I just wanted to know if that’s Jesus’ Jewish name?”  Melt my heartAnd the fact that he is 7yrs (rather than my pitiful mid 20’s) is adorable and stills the laughter.
  3. Kill-her: My youngest defined the word “killer” (which he pronounced kill-her) when he was 4yrs old as,  “a man who only kills women.” I let him continue thinking that his definition was correct for about a year until his siblings provided the appropriate definition (sans mercy).  I have  listed more of his 4yr old definitions below.
  4. Hillbilly:  A person who lives on a hill and loves billy goats.  There was too much truth to correct this one!
  5. Psycho-mean-and-act (his exact pronunciation): “psychomaniac”  He informed us this was a psycho person who was mean and acted out.  He particularly enjoyed calling the grocery check out cashiers this name. I guess he felt some sense of empowerment as he muttered “Psycho-mean-and-act” after one cashier impatiently yanked away and bagged (the nerve) his ring pop.

Women and their rings.  No wonder men curdle at the thought of engagement ring shopping.  They’ve had one too many Natilda the Nuns hijack their ring pops.

From nuns to psychos, what words of mistaken identity can you add to this list?

The girl (Mom) with the (fake) diamond earrings

I heard the closet door open.  Then the sloshing sound.  Considering that the closet serves primarily as a home to our linens, I knew the sloshing could come from the only liquid taking up residence there. The jewelery cleaner.

I heard the clinking of my jewelery into the liquid followed by my youngest yelling (his version of asking permission),

MOM, I’m cleaning some of your stuff!”

Given that My Stuff consists primarily of junk jewels, I smiled and hoped that he didn’t grab (and was now drowning) anything of sentimental value.  Ya’know how some of those junk jewels are right?  They melt and flake and downright disintegrate upon contact with liquid or soap.

He came out glowing partly from the blinding light reflection off of my now clean, overly large (we’re talking massive carat weight), CZ earrings that he held in his dirty little hands.  After convincing me to put them on he gasped,

Oh Mom, you look sooo BEAutiful…just beautiful!!!”

I love this age when beauty is so easy to achieve.  To them, right now, everything is just beautiful.  My stretched out ear lobes (not reaching the African tribal stretch yet) thanks to the huge CZs currently hanging on them are beautiful.  My morning bed-head is beautiful.  My eye bags are beautiful.  My face is beautiful.  My PJ’s are beautiful.  My voice is beautiful.  My aged skin is beautiful. To my 6yr old, I am beautiful.

This Beautiful Mamma, of three has been a good sport like all Beautiful Mammas before her.  I’ve worn awful proudly because one of my darlings thought it was divine.

I’ve had my neck turn green, my fingers nearly fall off and I have sustained raging cellulitis of the ear lobes thanks to cheap costume jewelery purchased by my beloveds at their school Santa’s Workshop.

I’ve worn hand strung dyed noodles and buttons around my neck.  Tacky pins on my chest.  Tye-dyed T-shirts that looked like baby diaper blow-out.  Bows in my hair, charms on my shoes.

And there was the time that one (only time) when I went out in public after being “made-up” by my, at the time,  young 2 1/2-year-old daughter.  I looked like a cross between The Mad Hatter and The Joker.  I was sleep deprived (and sucked dry dehydrated from my pro breast-feeding infant) and clearly functioning at the rote level.  And we needed milk (not the kind that my highly effective mammary glands were springing forth).  Incase you didn’t know, milk is what drives all house wives, in various states of decay, from the shelter of their homes.  It wasn’t until I saw a reflection of myself in the frozen section aisle that I understood why elderly ladies were flocking to me.  One even informed me she liked my bright red lipstick.

So, you see, for this Beautiful Mamma wearing a pair of gaudy bling in my ears was NAA-THING. I pranced around the house as he ooh’ed and aww’ed and then I went to the grocery store with my now 14yr old daughter, the same daughter who morphed my face into some hideous many years ago.

I was talking to myself (to the products actually) as I usually do.  My mouth and I moved up and down the isles to our well-practiced beat.  The grocery store is therapeutic.  I find that I have some of my best conversations with the store items.   And when I get odd looks from the other store patrons, I either pretend that I have a blue tooth attached to my ear (if I am feeling people opinion conscious) or ramp up the conversation with my spinach (if I’m going for leave me alone crazy).  Works every time.

My daughter looked at me as I was talking to my produce.  I know THAT look.  The long, long stare…the pause…then the verbal spewage.  I expected her to comment on my mental stability or ask why I felt the need to inquire of the carrots quantity amounts.  Instead she said,

“Those earrings make you look ghetto.  Never wear them again.”

I cleared my throat and itched my now burning, flaming red lobes as I informed her (and my carrots – not the carats flashing on my ears) that one day she will also be sporting cheap, fake bling in the name of love.  She silently understood.  I got the eye roll.

I may not have the sexy babushka towel wrap on my head or the non-itchy, real pearl earrings but for now, to a 6yr old, I am the most beautiful creature on the planet.

I am the Mom…his Mom with the (fake) diamond earrings and that’s just beautiful.

The heat and the power of endorphins!

I caught a quick glimpse of the TV yesterday (while I was vacuuming and dropping sweat that could fill a man-made lake) as the youngest was channel surfing (yes, he is male and inherited this trait from his father’s gene pool).  The quick flash I saw was of the USA pictured on a weather map and the entire country was lit up red with 90’s and 100’s across the board.  A meteorologist was standing in front of the weather map speaking to the camera and wearing a look of concern in addition to his slightly wilted and crumpled suit.

That’s all I got.  I couldn’t hear him and before I could power down the sweeper and make a request that the little TV dictator keep that station on for a minute,  he changed the channel.  I debated on using my rank to overtake him and seize power of the arc of the covenant but decided to continue working and sweating.

Sweating has been a part of daily life.  But I’m not complaining (thank God for A/C).  Although apocalyptic, I love the heat.  Ok, so this might be a bit oppressive (we live in the arm pit of the world) but I’d rather have this heat than the horrid blizzard of a winter we had to endure.  Actually, I’d rather have my butt planted in Arizona where there is zero humidity.  The humidity is what kills us here.

Well some of us more or less than others.  My middle child, Dos, cannot handle humidity in any form and Mr. Pavlov was birthed and raised in the heat ridden, humid, tropical Philippines.

Dos is a big boy and an avid sport player.  By big I do not mean McHeffer, I mean large for his age.  At 12yrs he is 5’7″ and 160#  The boy is solid.  Think hitting a brick wall and you’ll get it about right.  He is also freakishly strong.  I already cut his hair so I know for a fact that we don’t have any Sampson going on here (and he has also taken sips of fermented drink – another non-Sampson trait).

Thanks to his size, power, attitude and natural talent, he is readily accepted into the sport arena and plays just about everything known to mankind.  I have the mileage on my newer Clown Car (the non-affectionate name for our 5 seater downsize after the death of our beloved Honda Minivan) to prove it.  Currently he is on a basketball league.  Outdoors.  An outdoor basketball league. Clear?  Outdoors.  He had a game yesterday in the 100+ degree hot and humid temps.

My Mama heart was feeling a bit sorry for my big sized baby.  Hey, I still remember the day he was born like it were yesterday.  His head and shoulders are the most vivid of the memories (I will remember them forever!) but he will always be my baby no matter how large he becomes.  So when he came to me all pathetic looking asking if he could sit this game out, I knew my sports crazed kid was suffering from the heat.  Was it truly worth it?  Making a kid who sweats buckets, becomes easily dehydrated and then vomits up the attempts at rehydration play in this dangerous heat index?  The image of him hurling all over the court and the other players sealed the decision for me.  I told him he could remain at home.  Indoors.

Now Mr. Pavlov is a heat eating machine.  I think he possesses a mutant tropical gene that enabled him to live (as in play outdoors) in the Philippines. The man is unphased.  He is also an avid participant in sports and his true love is cycling (think Lance Armstrong as in cycling NOT his true love…just so we’re clear!)

He would sleep with his bike if I permitted her in our bed….but I don’t and she is confined to the garage or on the trainer in our family room.  He cycles 25 miles to work “just cause” and pushes himself regardless of the heat index.  He laughs at the sun and the gnats don’t even attempt to buzz his head, dive bomb his eyes or lodge in his sweat.  They know better.  Mosquitos don’t touch him either (I’m thinkin’ the mutant gene repels them).

He is an outdoor god.  But I’m not quite ready to place an image of him in my garden or erect a totem pole just yet.  Even though these next few pictures are totally statue worthy:

What heat?

Unzipping is my secret for ventilation

Feel the breeze baby!

On basketball day he came home from work wearing similar garb to the above photos.  Yes, he cycled to work, again.  His cycling suit was unzipped (see above)and he was joyfully sweaty.

I wondered how long the joy would last once I informed him that I permitted our heat intolerant child to skip his game.  Without further delay I spit out the information.  Mr. Pavlov looked at me, then glanced at Dos lounging on the couch wearing only his basketball shorts and playing with his ipad (nice presentation Dos!), then glanced back at me.  I waited for the speech about team commitment, keeping kids active and off of brain numbing computer gadgets and TV (Mr. Pavlov is also ex Airborne) but instead he nodded and replied a simple,

“Yea, it is hot.”

I offered Mr. Pavlov a glass of water and told Dos he should be thankful for a little thing called endorphins!

Strep, irresistibly sweet and some love

Strep has invaded.  It began its assault weeks ago by taking out the youngest.  It seems his school was an easy breeding ground for the nasty bacteria that finally took up residence in his throat.  The next victimized throat was that of his brother and on his throat heels came their sister.  We had several bottles of antibiotics going.  I thought the evil was on its way to hell.

Thought wrong.  And I knew it the morning when I pried open my morning hating eyes to a painful, red throat.  I have not experienced Strep since my childhood and man, does this bug hurt!  I had to brace myself for the pain associated with swallowing each time spit accumulated in my mouth.  I even contempleted carrying around an empty can to spit in.  I’ve never been much of a spitter and given the fact that I would most likely wear most of my saliva, I passed on the can idea.  The fever came next and although I was in misery, our chronically shaking chihuahua was in heaven.  I had just become her personal space heater.

Although not 100%, I am on the road to recovery thanks to some Amoxicillin.  During my invasion of strep I logged onto my blog to find a little medicine.  The first blogging Amoxicillin came in the form of an Irresistibly Sweet Blogging Award given to me by Kenniebeanie over  at   http://www.keeniebeanie.blogspot.com/ 

Keeniebeanie is one irresistibly sweet blogger herself and I am thankful for her recognition.  KB sweetness is contagious and you find yourself a little more sweeter and more smiley after you leave her blog.  Thanks KB!!

The second blogging Amoxicillin came from Redneckprincess over at http://redneckprincess.wordpress.com/ in the form of a blog lovin’ award and I must say…..I am feeling the love.  Redneckprincess is a person who loves her family and friends unconditionally and with everything she’s got even though love can hurt.  She is an inspiration.

So although I am not up to completing the requirements of these awards, I did want to give these two blogging lovelies a huge shout-out from this strep infected throat.  That hurt.

Thank you my blogging friends.  This medicine was better than what the Dr. ordered!

xoxo

Summer, Hippies and Hoes

I was outside today (exactly one week into our summer vacation) and, as I hit my leg on the hoe, I smiled.  Smiled?  Yes, a big toothy smile.  Why?  Because I was reminded of this post that I posted last year at this exact time.  The next time you see a hoe, I bet you will smile too.

The place of my conception???

Our summer is in full swing and I love it!!  I love the carefree schedule that summer brings.  The chill out, peace, love and be happy days of summer.  The more I think about my emotional make-up I become increasingly convinced that my parents were closet hippies and my conception took place in a flower power van during a make love, not war convention.  I am so chill that reefer could be my middle name…but I’ll stick with Ann.

The clouds part, the heavens open, a light shines forth and a majestic voice is heard saying "I can't believe she is fishing!!"

What have we been doing?  Absolutely nothing yet everything!  We take this time to focus on the important things in our lives which are people.  Our days are filled with family, friends, devotions and of course fun! Fun that is, until I hear the expected words sung throughout our home– the aggravating wails of “I’m BORED” — and just one mere week into summer break too!  So this chilled out person kicked everyone outside equipped with hoes, rakes, diggers and whatever I could find in the shed and told them to go show my garden and yard some love.  I felt proud.  I nipped that boredom in the bud. Yes. I. Did.

Buuut, then I realized this single act of forced labor may come back to haunt me.  Why?  Because my youngest could be heard shouting “c’mon hoe let’s go love on mom’s yard.” 

Yep.  Priceless, I know.  And I even laughed…a little, until I visualized the repercussions of being out in a very public place and…you get it.  He loves to repeat new-found adjectives and has done so before (click to read)…quite well!

Of course these words spoken in innocence caused the older two to burst out into convulsions of uncontrollable laughter which encouraged him to shout even louder…aaannnddd a vicious cycle is born.

Sigh, note to self: NEVER give a 5-year-old a hoe and tell him to love on your yard because he’s likely to form a complete sentence.

Happiness is when the tooth fairy takes her dementia meds

This is worth at least $5

Continuing with the dental theme, Tres just lost another tooth (proudly displayed above).  I can’t keep up with this kid.  He laughs out teeth.  He sneezes out teeth.  He coughs out teeth.  Ok, not really but they are dropping faster than my aging skin.  And these baby pearls come with a high price tag.

Remember when .25 cents was the going rate and anything above was a massive bonus?  Today kids expect green backs…paper…dollars (plural!)  I learned of this fact by evesdropping listening to a ball field conversation where a few kids were discussing their tooth fairy earnings….earnings that could be claimed on a 1040EZ!!

But this tooth fairy’s kids are happy for whatever they find under their pillow because this tooth fairy is incompetent.  The incompetence grew worse with each child and sadly, Tres didn’t stand a numerical chance.  She often forgets about the tooth and day after day her kids awake to the [now stinkin’] tooth under their pillow.  So when the tooth is finally replaced with whatever she can scrounge up, elation is the emotion in this house.  The dejected “She didn’t come again…my tooth is still here…I think she has dementia!!!” is replaced with “I got a quarter!!!!!!! She came!!!!! She took my tooth!!!!!  Whoo-hoo she must have taken her dementia meds!!!”

We also do other things like attempt to capture the developmental moment…..

Holding a tooth penny and refusing to show the missing teeth

I won't smile.

Not gonna happen...my teeth are "private parts!"

I could claim mad genius.  I could say that it was the tooth anti-inflation master plan all along.  And when they blame me for ruining the reputation of the imaginary characters of their youth I just may.  But for once my disorganized, forgetful ways paid off.

I am not super mom.  I am not the organized, crafty type.  I am not Martha Stewart.  I am imperfectly human.  I dig in dirt without gloves and get dirt under my finger nails.  I make a mess, daily.  I live, laugh and love hard….

…and I forget about the teeth under my kid’s pillows.