Oh my, Peeps. I have a new favorite. A new, big, holy crapola favorite: The Lumineers. It’s a band – and they describe themselves as bluegrass, alternative, rock, punk, and singer/songwriter in genre. Their song “Ho Hey” got my attention on CMT last weekend (they are played EVERYwhere) and a quick review of iTunes stocked up my work playlist with about 4 more of their songs. Holy geez, they are AH-SOME. I would love nothing more than to pull up a quilt on a grassy hill, with my cowboy boots draped across husband’s knees and a cold beer in my hand. This band deserves a live performance in front of a barn with twinkly lights swinging from the lightposts, bluegrass style. Mmm..hmm.
Dad is taking the boys for a Snickers-eatin’, cervelat sandwich-makin’, corn-traipsin’ trip this weekend. They are geeked up, geared out, and we’ve stocked up everything in orange. They may or may not come back with vittles and stories to tell their children. And I may or may not have to sharpen up my ‘how to unzip a rabbit’ skills upon their return. Gulp. Kidding – I can totally handle it.
Since the boys will be off yonder, Mabes and I are going to have the weekend to ourselves. We’re going to have sushi lunch and go pick out some new earrings after gymnastics on Saturday. Also on tap: thrifting, kitty cat ears, Say Yes To The Dress, and a trip to Target. We girls know how to party it up.
Hayley will be with her mother, partying it up with Justin Bieber. Oy.
Twice this week it has been nearly 80 degrees. Just beautiful outside. Tomorrow, it will be 48 with 40mph winds. That is yet another example of life in Da Plains, my friends. Husband and I slept in a knot last night and awoke together around 5 because the house was shaking from wind.
I have a bone to pick today, regarding parents who treat their children like friends instead of like parents. I feel we are here to light the way and raise them up right, including discipline and consequences for ill behavior and rewards for good. We aren’t here to pacify them, be afraid of hurting their little feelings, or for doing their bidding all the time. We are not their chauffeurs, their servants, or their free ride. We believe they must put work in to respect the home they live in and the people working to raise them; this is what builds respect. Perhaps pacifying children was born from a culture of divorce, where parents are afraid of losing their children all the time and so relent on any and everything their child asks for. That puts the kid in charge of the parent. Even the little things like adult movies, swearing, staying up late, or “no rules” can lead to very, very big problems when these little people grow into adults. We must remain consistent and hold our children to the same standard God holds us to. That is not to say that mistakes can’t be made, or that treats shouldn’t be had sometimes – of course! But I don't think we should make excuses for it. If we say something to our children, we have a responsibility to see it through. Every single time. And, husbands – can I just say, back up your wives. If they lay down the law you have two choices: disagree in private and come up with a better solution together, or shut up and back her up. Wives, same thing – back up your husbands. If he sets a rule, you must reinforce it, too. See it through. Disagree in private, otherwise children have the upper hand in the home and your marriage will stand on popsicle sticks. That might work for some of you and if it does, I'm thrilled for you. But that is NOT okay for moi and it chaps my hide to see this. This concludes this total overshare of my opinion, however since this is my big, fat blog I figure I'm safe. Ahem. That is all.
This morning, husband awoke with a poke. Ahem*. I mean, he had a wild hair. When I came out of the bathroom, he was standing in the hallway with his old jeans, a soft flannel shirt, and his camo stocking cap on. Lookin’ like he was ready to go rustle me up a pheasant or 3. My belly did a whirl. Mostly because he’s letting his beard grow, too. All Phil Robertson-like [don’t tell me you don’t know who that is] and stuff. My belly did another whirl. He is so yummy, my husband. Good Lord, I love the hairy camo combo. Dakota Jedi right there, yo.
I can’t wait to thrift this weekend. Moo and I are going to hit the aisles and dig. I want to find some vintage blouses, granny sweaters, and scarves. Trevor needs jeans again. I swear that child has grown another inch since school started.
The breakdown of clothes sizes in our home stands thusly (HEY, SHOES - HERE IS THE CLOTHES SIZING YOU REQUEST EACH CHRISTMAS, YO):
Trevor, size 14 in tops and bottoms (mostly green)
Andrew, size 12 in tops and bottoms (mostly camo)
Hayley, size 12/14 in tops and bottoms (mostly glittery or neon)
Mabel, size 6 in tops and 5/6 in bottoms (pink. duh.)
I’d love to say I am going to sew this weekend, too. I don’t know, maybe I’ll finally pull something out and stick a needle in it. I sorely need to. I feel the inspiration coming back. Or, I might paint the kitchen while they are gone. That would be fun.
I saw something yesterday that I want to stick with me forever. It was a small, but significant something. A little saying: “Lord, help me to empty myself of my wants and needs, so that I may be filled up by You instead.” You could also say it like this: “Lord, help me to think of YOU more often than I think of me.” Poignant, no?