Rocks In My Dryer

Stormy

A couple of nights ago, I was awakened at 2:30 a.m. to the shrill whine of tornado sirens outside my window.  Ah, springtime in Oklahoma.

Giant chunks of hail hit my window, and my daughter came careening down my hall in a fit of fear before I could even sit upright in my bed.  (My boys, incidentally, did not wake up.  I suspect that if the roof lifted off our house and some tree branches reached in and picked the boys up and shook them upside down, they might wake up.  Might.)

As I held my daughter and tried to awaken, I noticed the room was illuminated by the soft glow of our tiny television, and my husband was silhouetted, sitting at the foot of our bed.  His eyes were honed in to a scary-looking radar screen. 

"Shhhh," he whispered.  "Go back to sleep.  I'll keep an eye on things, and I'll wake you up if we need to go to the shelter."

For about 2.4 seconds I considered arguing with him.  Then I looked at my daughter, who had already fallen back asleep in my cushy bed, and I just nodded.  I was horizontal and sound asleep before I could think another thought.

The night dragged on, storms ravaging our city.  I awakened several more times to thunderous, howling noise, but my sleepy eyes always saw, first of all, my husband at the television.  And every time, I relaxed instantly, dropping back to sleep.

The visual image is staying with me powerfully:  my strong husband, quietly yet sharply keeping watch over his family, while the rest of us were sleeping too soundly to know to be thankful.  We just slept, because it's what you do at nighttime, and we left all the safety issues to him. 

And I wonder, as I navigate other kinds of "storms"--will the day ever come when I rest quite as easily in God's watchful care?  His silhouette may not be as visible--to my eyes, anyway--as that of my husband's, but He is surely perched just as soundly at the foot of my bed, on the hood of my car, on the shoulder of my children, on a dusty road in Uganda.  May I trust, and rest.

Thoroughly Hopeless

Four children, three states, four mortgages, 427 bouts of stomach viruses and even more episodes of tearfully bad hair coloring (mine, not Hubs)...and I think my marriage may have finally encountered the deal-breaker*:

Is the word "thorough" pronounced THUR-oh or THUR-uh?

(And no, do not tell me how the dictionary says to say it.  Tell me how you say it.  And no, I won't tell you which one is mine and which one is Hubs', except to tell you that mine is the right one.)

*I jest, of course.  We are absolutely, totally, geekily, happily, grammatically in love.  There are no deal-breakers in this marriage.  Though if there were one, it would probably be related to bad pronunciation.  I'm just sayin'.

Madness Indeed

March Madness is the only time  of year that my otherwise sensible husband goes crazy.  Before we had children, and the concept of "leisure time" still figured in to our vocabulary, I knew not to expect too much togetherness in March.  It was sacred time.

My man has college basketball running deep in his blood.  The first time I ever saw him cry was when the Arkansas Razorbacks won the NCAA tournament in 1994, three months before our wedding.  Tears of joy poured down his cheeks, and he planted a kiss on me that may still be the most enthusiastic one I've ever had.  Certainly the most salty.

He has made me promise that I will play One Shining Moment at his funeral someday.  I have reluctantly agreed, and I'm just praying I pre-decease him.  (Which, come to think of it, might not be such a good idea, or One Shining Moment might get played at my funeral.  Oh, heavens.)

As the years have gone by, his passion hasn't waned, but his leisure time has.  The demands of life keep him from watching as much college basketball as he'd like throughout the year, and he's been a real sport about it.  That man makes sacrifices more cheerfully than anyone I've ever known.

But when the second half of March rolls around, I can see the hairs on the back of his neck standing permanently at attention.  Now he has three boys who happily pile on the couch with him (though I suspect they're in it more for the steady flow of cheese dip).  He can fill out a bracket that will usually slay anyone else's.  In fact, I have learned that the easiest way to drive him STARK RAVIN' NUTS is to explain him to the reasoning behind my own convoluted bracket.  My logic for this year's bracket goes something like this:

1.  Always pick SEC teams.
2.  ORU and Oklahoma make it to the Sweet 16, because, well, they live in Oklahoma, and so do I.
3.  I have lots of friends from Kansas State and Texas A&M, so I have to vote for them.
4.  Gonzaga will advance far, because Gonzo has always been my favorite Muppet.
5.  So will Temple, because, well, Jesus worshipped in the temple, right?

[This is where his eyes start to roll back in his head.]

6.  I plan to vote for John McCain in November, so I have to pick Arizona to go far.
7.  Memphis will make it to the Final Four, because they have such nice barbecue.
8.  Duke will take the whole thing, because I feel sorry for Mike Krzyzewski that he has such a difficult last name.

Now you see why I never actually bet any money on this.

So if my blog posts seem disjointed the next couple of weeks, know that it's because I'm being interruped by shouts of joy and anguish coming from the man sitting on the couch next to me.  Well, and all the cheese dip.   

I Love It When That Happens

Last night Hubs and I were having a conversation in which I was--predictably--emotional and over-reactive.  Hubs was--predictably--calm and rational and (dadgummit) right.  When it was over he looked at me with something resembling a smirk.

Hubs:  You know I love you, even though you're kooky.

Me: Of course you do.  Can you even imagine if you were married to somebody...

Hubs: ...sane?

Me: [Something resembling a glare.]

Hubs:  Yes, dear.  It would be very dull.

Me:  Thank you.

What If

I am a fearful person.  I can fake it pretty well, and I act confident much of the time.  I'm usually able to engineer circumstances so I'm taking as little risk as possible.  But at the core of it, I'm a trembly mess.

Add to this an over-active imagination, and you have a recipe for some very vivid, irrational fears.  Think "Ally McBeal", except without the law degree, tiny waist, pouty lips and dancing baby.

Scratch that, I even have the dancing baby.  She's sleeping upstairs in pwincess pajamas.

I've learned to cope with this over the years by verbalizing these fears (usually to Hubs, the poor man), and then I can see how ridiculous they are.  We get a good laugh out of it.

As you might imagine, this Africa trip has kicked my imagination into overdrive. 

What if we're driving toward a village miles across the desert and our jeep breaks down and we're kidnapped by a band of marauders (do they really have bands of marauders these days?) and we're headed to their village but are intercepted by a hungry horde (troop? tribe?) of elephants and I am trampled to death, with my last thoughts being the looks in my children's eyes?

And that's on the good days. 

There are plenty of fantasies involving the plane trip, as well.  I'd rather not even verbalize those, if you don't mind, but they generally involving plunging from the sky in a fiery ball of death toward the Atlantic ocean. 

When I spoke about not being the adventure sort, I wasn't lying.  And I do not mean to make light of Africa or the people that work there, or the people who are facing their mortality in more serious and immediate ways.  I know my fears are silly in the grand scheme of things.  But to me, they're a real stumbling block. 

The other night Hubs and I had a real-live honest-to-goodness date, and it ended where all truly fantastic and passionate dates do:  walking the aisle of Wal Mart Supercenter, hand-in-hand, picking up some Pull-Ups on the way home. 

As we walked through the baby section, we passed the little girls' pajamas.

"See?!" I said suddenly.  "This is what I mean."

"What?" Hubs said.

"If I die in Africa, how will you know that Corrie prefers gowns to pajamas, but it's hard to find gowns anymore, so when you do find one in her size, you need to go ahead and buy it."

I am sure this is a date that will live in his sweetest memories for a long time.

"Well," said my rational man, "first of all, you're not going to die in Africa.  Second of all, if you did, pajamas would be at the bottom of my list of concerns.  And third, ultimately we'd just manage."

"But life would be very, very hard for you, wouldn't it?  You'd barely be able to go on, right?"

"I'd be a shell of a man," he assured me.

I was satisfied for a moment, and we continued our shopping--until something else spurred my thoughts.

"I know I always tease you for watching those survival shows, but what if I get stranded on the plains of Africa and I have to actually implement some of those awful Bear Grylls techniques?  Wouldn't that just be so ironic?"  [Nervous laugh].

In a moment of sudden seriousness he looked me square in the eye.  "If you get stranded on the plains of Africa, I will come for you.  I will find you."

I think I need to go kiss that man again.

The truth is, I know that this trip is not about me--not at all.  It's entirely about those sweet African children, and doing whatever we can to gain more sponsorships to improve their situation. 

But as it often happens, God is using a primary thing to work a secondary purpose in my heart.  It's like he's grabbed my brain and is wringing it until all the fearfulness has bubbled up to the surface.  It's ugly.  It's even funny.  But it's terribly necessary.

Many of you asked how you can pray for us.  Of course, pray for the kids of Uganda, and that hearts all over the place will be opening up to sponsor one.  But if you think of it, pray that this silly housewife will learn a thing or two about stepping out--really stepping out--to trust in God's plan.  Marauders, elephants, and all.

Women Are From Venus, Men Are From Earl

Last week, as we drove for hours across the wide open spaces of the Oklahoma prairie, I glanced over to catch a look at the profile of my husband.  His strong hands gripped the steering wheel, and his furrowed brow glanced back and forth between the highway and the screen of our dashboard navigational system. 

I settled back into my seat with a sigh of contentment, and I began to think Deep Thoughts About The State Of My Marriage.  What a manly man I have!  He's just as comfortable behind an Excel spreadsheet as he is behind a campfire.  He takes such good care of us.  He never complains.

And, certain that my good man must be thinking Equally Profound And Loving Thoughts, I spoke his name.

Me:  Hubs?

Hubs: [Absently] Hmmmm?

Me:  You know, one of the things I love most about you is that you're just uncomplicated.  I mean, you just make a decision and stick with it--you don't overanalyze and fret and make things as messy as I do.  And I love that about you, so much.  [I reached over and gently rubbed his neck.]  Don't you agree?  Wouldn't you say you're uncomplicated?

Hubs:  [Thoughtful pause.]  Earl.

Me:  Pardon?

Hubs: [Pointing at the nav system and chuckling in way that was entirely too reminiscent of a junior-high boy.]  Earl.  We're about to drive through a town called Earl.

Uncomplicated?  I rest my case.

Quite Possibly the Best Line Ever In the Whole World

It was November of 1993.  Hubs and I were in luuuuv, and he was ready to pop the question.  But he is a good Southern boy, and he knew, therefore, that he had to ask my daddy first.

Hubs isn't easily intimidated by things.  In fact, people who first meet him sometimes find him intimidating.  He takes things exactly as they come, with a level head, and he almost never over-reacts or worries. 

Except this time.  The poor guy was a nervous wreck about talking to my dad.  I'm the only daughter, the first-born, and my dad and I always have been close.  AND Dad had a tendency for giving the boys I dated a hard time (I had shared all the stories with Hubs).  He knew this might be hard. 

Because Hubs is a smart man, he chose the big moment carefully.  My parents had come to visit me at college, and Hubs took my dad to a Razorback basketball practice.  This automatically put them on common ground, and (best of all) eliminated the need for that great killer of courage, eye contact.

As they sat there together, the thumping of the basketballs and the squeaking of the rubber-soled shoes echoing all around them, Hubs summoned his nerve.

"Mr. [maiden name]," he started, "I think you know that Shannon and I have become very serious."

My dad silently nodded.

"And I love her very much."

More silence.  Poor Hubs.

"And I'd like to ask your permission to marry her."

Dad didn't speak for a minute.  As he always does when he's reflecting (and my dad is usually reflecting), he gently rubbed his upper lip with his index finger.  His eyes stayed on the basketball players in front them.  He let the silence linger in the air just as long as he possibly could.

Then he spoke.

"Let me ask you a question."

Another pause.

"For 21 years, Shannon's mother and I have prayed every single day about the man she would marry.  Every day."

Yep, another pause.

"What I want to ask you is, are you the man worthy of all that prayer?"

(May I just say how thankful I am that the world is structured the way it is?  If I had been the one required to ask such a question, and I'd received such an answer, I probably would've started crying.)

But Hubs said the only thing a confident young man with the world at his feet could say:  "Yes sir, I think I am!"

The conversation was easy and gracious from then on, as my dad gave Hubs his blessing and encouraged him. 

I love that story.  It makes for a few good chuckles when we tell it now, but it still--14 years later--warms me to the core.  I treasure that Hubs loved me enough to humble himself willingly.  I treasure that my dad loved me enough to make it hard.  I love that those two men are such good friends now. 

And you can bet my husband is saving that line to use himself, when some sparkly-eyed boy comes sniffing around our daughter.  I pity the boy.

That Kiss

We had a very big wedding, and there were a mind-numbing number of details.  I spent the better part of six months making sure it would all go off flawlessly.  I was stressed-out and jumpy, and I was a control freak to such a degree that it's remarkable Hubs still married me.

On my list of Wedding Details That Needed To Be Managed was "the kiss".  The you-may-kiss-the-bride kiss.  I suggested to Hubs that we should rehearse it.  We had plenty of kissing experience, goodness knows, but that was a very important kiss.  What if we clocked each other in the nose in front of 400+ people?  What if, out of nervousness, the kiss was passionless and dull?  What if I started laughing?

Hubs had the nerve to say no.  We wouldn't rehearse.  We'd kiss plenty, and every now and then I'd say, "so, will it be like that?"  But he would just smile and shrug, much to my dismay, and my pleas fell on deaf ears.  I started to worry he had some lovey-dovey mischief up his sleeve, and I reminded him that my dad would be sitting in the second row. 

Still, he just grinned.  "It'll be a good kiss," he promised.  Even then, that man knew how to mess with me. 

On our wedding day, things were perfect.  Despite my preoccupation with the details, I managed to stay quite focused during the ceremony.  I wasn't nervous at all.  Until our pastor said, "I now pronounce you husband and wife.  You may kiss the bride."

I had exactly .7 seconds to think half a nervous thought.

Because then he kissed me.

That kiss, my friends, was The Kiss To End All Kisses.  While the specific details of it are meant for my memories only, I'll tell you that I didn't just feel that kiss on my lips.  I felt it inside my brain, the very brain that had tried (unsuccessfully) to talk me out of falling in love with this man so quickly.  I felt it inside the belly that would someday carry our four as-yet-unknown-and-unplanned-for babies.  It traveled all the way down to my feet, the feet that would happily follow this man from the small town to the big city and everywhere in between.

It was a good kiss.

And thankfully, Hubs didn't pack that kiss away with the box of wedding keepsakes that sit in my attic.  Every now and then, it reappears.  He'll walk in the door from work, usually on a day when my hair is greasy and the kids are fighting and dinner is burned and he'll plant that same kiss right back on me.  My knees go just as weak as they did 13 years ago.

It's still a good kiss.

How Hubs and I Almost WEREN'T

I'm not sure why I'm in such a walk-down-memory-lane sort of mood lately, but I am.  Today I'm going to tell you one of my favorite stories.  It involves one of my oldest and dearest friends, a sorority sister whose privacy I want to be very careful to protect.  So I'll just tell you only that her name begins with Mich- and ends in -elle.

(I'm totally giving her a hard time, because I know she's reading this.  Hi, darlin'!)

Hubs and I first met our junior year in college, Michelle and Hubs were both very active leaders in a particular student organization.  They had to work closely together, and in the course of their interactions they had somehow butted heads.  Badly.  Both of these people I love dearly are very (how shall I say it?) independent-minded, and the two of them together wasn't a nice combination.

Anyway, Hubs and I had met in February of '93, with initially disastrous impressions of each other.  Thankfully, circumstances continued to put us around each other, and we formed more favorable opinions.  We quickly became friends, and I developed a pretty significant crush on this smart, funny, ambitious fraternity boy who was unlike anyone I'd ever met.

In March, my sorority held a "date function", which is another word for "cruel, medieval torture device."  Not really, but it did mean that the girl from the sorority invited a boy to the party.  As in, asked him out.  On a DATE.  Because of the very proper way I'd (thankfully) been raised, I would've rather thrown myself in front of a bus than ask a boy out, so I had skipped most of these date functions up to that point.

But then there was Hubs.  And I WANTED A DATE with that man.  I fretted and stewed and wrung my hands and somehow summoned every ounce of courage deep in my soul.  I was going to ask him to the party.

This particular date function required that the sorority member sign up her date's name on a list posted in the chapter house.  Then that list would be published in the student newspaper, and the girl would then call the boy and say, "Hey!  Did you see your name on the list?  That was from me!"

So not only could you potentially be rejected, but you could potentially be rejected with the entire University of Arkansas watching.  It was a grand tradition.

With sweaty palms, I nervously wrote "Hubs Dryer" on the list.  It was horrible, but I was ready to sacrifice my dignity for a date with Dream Boy.  I took a deep breath and dashed to class. 

As I headed across campus, though, I heard someone shouting my name.  It was Michelle, and she was frantically chasing me.  Breathless, she said, "Did I see that you put Hubs Dryer's name on the date function list?  I didn't even know you knew him!"

"Yes," I told her.  "We met about a month ago, and I think I like him."

She told me how she knew him, how they'd worked together.  "Shannon," she said firmly.  "He is AWFUL.  So bossy.  You cannot possibly go out with him."  Then she delivered the final blow:  "Trust me--the two of you would NEVER work out."

Of course, that was just IT for me.  My nerves couldn't take anymore.  As soon as I got the chance, I thoroughly erased his name from the list, thankful my friend had spared me from a horrible date with Awful Boy. 

Yet, Awful Boy continued to show up in my path, almost daily.  And he wasn't that awful.  Not at all.  When he spared me the trauma and asked me out a month later, I fell hard.

The wonderful irony of this story (and there is much) is that Michelle and Hubs are dear friends now, which tickles me pink.  Except for this one gaping incident, every other piece of advice she's given me has been spot-on correct, but I still won't let her live it down.  In fact, I recall standing behind her in the foyer of my hometown church on my wedding day.  Pachelbel's Canon in D was swirling in the air and Michelle, my maid of honor, was about to head down the aisle. 

"We'd never work out, huh?" I whispered.

Thankfully, a good sense of humor is one of her many gifts.  (I love you, my sweet friend!  Oh, and Awful Boy?  I love you too.)

Ah, the Blind Love Of a Son For His Mother

Today we went to the pool.  I had squeezed my sorry self into a swimsuit and was wearing my five-year-old swimsuit cover- up.  My make-up was running off my face, thanks to the heat index of 107 degrees.  My hair had not been washed in 48 hours.  I was the picture of loveliness.

As we climbed into the car and headed out, I slipped on my sunglasses.  Stephen suddenly piped up, "Mom, with those sunglasses on, you look like David Beckham's wife."

Why yes, Darlin', people get us confused ALL the time.  Except for the fact that she wears spikey heels with her mini-dresses and I wear Keds with my knit yoga pants.  And that she has a staff to take care of her family, and I'm just thrilled to have a dog that licks the chunks off the floor.  Oh, and MY THIGH IS BIGGER AROUND THAN HER WAIST.

To be fair, my hair stylist and I did discuss the Posh Haircut before my last trim, and we were generally aiming in that direction.  So you could say she and I have the same hair, if you squint your eyes, tilt your head sideways, and wear a blindfold. 

I wouldn't trade places with her for anything, though.  I'll take my Keds and my scrappy dog and my eight-year-old son who thinks I'm a rock star. 

Anyway, her husband isn't as hot as mine.

(And by the way, before anyone leaves me nasty comments about letting my son read articles about Posh Spice, let me assure you that the ONLY reason he even know she exists is because she's married to Soccer's Golden Boy, a title he fully intends to assume himself someday.)