"CHECK" this out!

How much cuteness

is this little creation!

(And the jumper's cute, too!)

I just had to show you what Middle Daughter over at Sugar and Spice did last week! She found a "super easy" tutorial at Made by Lex for turning a man's shirt into a darling child's jumper, and then she did it! (And never let it be said that my son-in-law, Saint William, wouldn't give my grandbabies the shirt off his back . . . okay, so it was in that back of the closet, still, you get the idea.)

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Middle Daughter is going to shorten the shoulder straps later so that Bella can wear it shirtless (!) this spring, but for now, isn't it adorable with that Kentucky turtleneck!

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Middle Daughter does a wonderful blog about life as a stay-at-home mom of two little ones -- lots of fun ideas to share with other young moms (and young grandmoms!), and Lex really does have some fabulous sewing/crafting tutorials that you'll love, too (as well as an Etsy shop). I'd encourage you to mosey on over for a visit -- I know they'd both love to see you!

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Meanwhile, over here at Casa St. Michael's neck of the woods, I finally drug out some heart-y stuff to celebrate Valentine's Day. Maybe I'll be able to upload some pics and share 'em with you later this week -- after I get grades posted for my babies' progress reports! (Do you ever feel like if you just had a secretary to handle the paperwork, you could really set the world on fire? Either that or get in some serious trouble . . . )

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Have a mah-velous Monday, sweet sistas!

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Grins!

Pamm

Does this statue make me look fat?

Or to be more precise, does this statue make me look like a big narcissistic woman?

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I know, I know. I've been LMNarcissisticAO ever since I heard that term, myself!

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It seems that the mother of a darling seventh grade girl that I taught last year left a colleague/friend of mine a message asking why her daughter was not doing well in my friend's class.

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"Language arts has always been her best subject,

and she did extremely well on the TAKS test

(state-mandated achievement test) last year,

so I just cannot understand this . . . "

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When Julie returned her call this morning, it seems that despite her daughter's EIGHT zeros (hey, I said the child was darling -- I didn't say she was hard-working), the mother had another explanation for her child's poor performance:

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"I'm sure it's because of that teacher

she had last year . . . I can't remember her name,

but it was that big narcissistic woman --

I don't know how anyone learned anything in that

class from what I heard goes on in there . . . "

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Well, Julie knew exactly who she was talking about (that would be MOI!), but she played dumb and began to recite the names of our sixth-grade language arts teachers until she got to mine . . . Surprise! Surprise! Yes, it was moi!

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After we both quit laughing, I couldn't help but think of how sad it is that so many parents do not seem to hold their children accountable for . . . well, much of anything. Something I wrote a couple of years back for a church publication expresses my thoughts pretty well, so instead of reinventing the wheel, I'm just going to cut and paste the wheel:

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As most of you know, I don’t just preach, I also teach. (Each week, I spend Monday through Friday teaching middle school students the finer points of the English language.) Recently a co-worker told me that one of his students – a thirteen-year-old girl – hits him as often as she can on a daily basis. She also spits at him. She thinks both actions are funny. The sad thing is that when he spoke to her mother about this, the mother was furious at him for even suggesting that this is a problem. You see, the student is a Down’s Syndrome child.

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“She has the mind of a three-year-old!” the mother huffed, indignantly.

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Unfortunately, my colleague was unable to get the mother to realize that even three-year-olds need boundaries. Denying there’s a problem doesn’t help the situation and, more often than not, makes the behavior worse. As my friend said, “When she gets to the high school, hitting others is not only going to affect her targets, but will in all likelihood, eventually get her flattened by someone who doesn’t care that she has the mind of a three-year-old.”
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I see the same patterns repeated, of course, with my own students. Too often, whatever the problem of the day is, it certainly isn’t little Tamika’s fault or Juan’s fault. One parent went so far as to suggest that if her Christopher was misbehaving in class, perhaps my teaching wasn’t entertaining enough!

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Those of you who know me are chuckling right now, but the message we as parents send out to our kids when we always make excuses for their misbehavior and their poor choices is that nothing is ever their fault. And sending that kind of message is no laughing matter. In fact, it sets our kids up for a hard fall somewhere down the line.

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Until we teach our children that they are responsible for their actions and that, in turn, they must also accept the consequences of their choices, they will continue to do whatever they feel like doing, regardless of the effect they have on those around them or whether their actions and choices are in their own best interest or not.

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Perhaps the real problem is that we live in a society where adults aren’t willing to take responsibility for their actions. It’s always someone else’s fault – we blame our own parents, our siblings, the government, our neighbor, the man, the system, another ethnic group – anyone but ourselves.

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We would do well to learn from the apostle Paul, who, when talking about sinners, said something to the effect of, "You know, I’m one, too – in fact, I’m 'chief among sinners'” (KJV). Paul understood that until we take responsibility for our actions and admit the we are sometimes the problem, there can be no change, no hope, no new life.

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As for that mom's comments, like I told another co-worker, I don't think that believing I'm wonderful makes me narcissistic -- I prefer to think of myself as REAListic!

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(And yeah, that statue IS sitting on my desk at school. Right next to my tiara.)

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Have a fun weekend, sistas!

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And remember: We are ALL "fearfully and wonderfully made" (Psalm 139:14)!

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Grins!

Pamm

Gimme a break!

This picture has absolutely nothing to do

with today's post, I just like it! LOL!

photo credit: Country Living magazine

[Actually, since I'm talking about R-E-L-A-X-I-N-G today, maybe it does go with today's rambling, 'cause this picture sure does make me feel relaxed . . . and perked up, too! There's just something soothing, and yet refreshing, about the gorgeous pops of color so casually, but perfectly, arranged in that pristine white pitcher with those farmhouse country primitives as their backdrop.]

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I used to have a magnet on my fridge that proclaimed, "Every woman is a working woman!" I think that sums up life for most of us, don't you? Whether we're married, single, career-minded, full-time homemakers or volunteers, childless, or child-full, we all work. We all juggle. We soothe and smooth. We counsel and correct, adjust and admonish. We encourage and inspire. We budget and balance. We shift and chauffer. And somewhere in there, some of us even figure out to get a meal on the table and occasionally clear a path through our respective casas. And, heck, even if someone else does the cooking and cleaning, the what, how, when, and where of it all -- the managing of it -- for the most part, still lands on our to-do list. (I, personally, do not know of one woman who doesn't have a continual running agenda in her head.)

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Because there's always something (or someone) calling our names, begging to be added to that to-do list or our calendars, we're all going to have those days when it seems as if twenty-four hours are not nearly enough to get it all done. (And more than likely, it never is!) But when running from sun-up to sundown, day in and day out, with few stops in between becomes the norm, rather than the exception, we're making a big mistake, sistas.

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We're just not designed to function that way, at least not for the long haul. We need breaks! In fact, say those words any way you want to, and they're still true:

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We need breaks!

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We need breaks!

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We need breaks!

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And even . . . We need BRAKES!

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Even FlyLady, Marla Cilley, Guru-ess of all things clean and organized (FlyLady.net), tells her followers to take breaks frequently throughout the day to avoid burnout. (" . . . stop for a few minutes every hour and take a break." She actually encourages women to write it into their schedules!) Now, I know we can't all work forty-five minutes and then break for fifteen, and then work another forty-five and . . . etc., etc., (especially if we punch in on somebody else's clock), but most of us can carve out a fifteen- to thirty-minute chunk of time at least once during the day -- a chunk that's just for US (and if we can't, we need to figure out why).

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Personally, I would like to work for fifteen minutes and take a forty-five minute break, but since that's not likely to be my schedule any time soon, I'll opt for a "quickie" break here and there. (Hey, sometimes "quickies" can be a good thing!) It doesn't have to be elaborate, just something relaxing and rejuvenating -- something that allows me to catch my breath and then get back in the race.

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Sound like something you need? Wondering where to start? Well, here are some ideas:

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1) Pick a favorite HGTV show (or other) to watch while drinking a cup of coffee or glass of tea -- and do nothing else but sit there during this time. (In other words, don't fold clothes while you're watching it -- just enjoy the half-hour break, and DON'T FEEL GUILTY! Remember: It's part of your schedule!)

2) Spend thirty minutes to an hour sitting in your most comfortable spot with a good book or a magazine. (Or at your computer, enjoying some of the glorious blogs that are out there in Blogland!)

3) Take a twenty- to forty-five-minute power nap. (Most naps under twenty minutes won't refresh you as much, and anything over forty-five minutes will make you feel like you have a hangover, so set your alarm. I have a couch in my classroom, and on those days when I'm really dragging, I've been known to turn off the lights during my conference period and stretch out on that baby! And my sixth and seventh periods are much safer because of it!)

4) Find a favorite passage of scripture, read it, and then journal a little about your thoughts -- what you think it's saying to you today, how it makes you feel, what you think it might be leading you to do, etc. (This can be done at the kitchen table or in your favorite sitting spot with a favorite beverage and/or snack.)

5) Put on some praise and worship music (or some other kind of favorite) and just sit in your comfy spot with your eyes closed and listen to the lyrics. (If it's Christian music, try praying the lyrics as you listen to them. I'm really into Jimmy Needham right now -- love his words! Sara Groves is another favorite.)

6) Again, sit in your favorite comfy spot, and think of yourself snuggling with Papa-God. Close your eyes and just talk to Him. Tell Him how much you love Him; tell Him all the things you're thankful for, all the things that concern you . . . and then just sit there and enjoy His presence. (And remember, He's there whether you feel Him or not. Besides, we are not women who operate in our feelings. We operate by faith in the fact of what Papa-God has already told us in His Word -- that He is with us and will never leave us or forsake us -- in fact, His Spirit dwells IN us [John 14:16-17]! Woo-hoo!) mm

7) Plan lunch for yourself as you would a dear friend -- set your table with your favorite dishes, and enjoy your meal!

8) If you work outside your home, you might not have as much of a chance for during-the-day breaks, but perhaps you can plan one for later in the day. Maybe you can manage fifteen to thirty minutes of down-time when you get home -- just to do nothing but sit and relax before you have to start dinner or run evening errands. (If you have young children and know that you’ll be “tagged” the minute you get in the door, maybe staying at work an extra fifteen minutes to just sit and unwind – if you have a space to yourself – before you head home will work better for you.)

Remember, if we completely deplete ourselves during the day, then we will have nothing left to give to our families when we are finally all home together. So don't feel guilty about taking a few moments for yourself when you can -- you're doing it for them as much as for yourself!

Let me know how YOU like to relax when you know you've only got time for a "quickie". Meanwhile, have a fabulous rest of the week, complete with BREAKS!

Grins and blessings!
Pamm

PS I know some of you are wondering how things are going at Casa St. Michael with Desmond. They are going GREAT! I am really feeling the power of your prayers! Thank you! Thank you! I'll write more details later, but for now . . . take a load off! (I'm going to!) XO!

Normal but not the norm

Is this a sweet face or what?

Okay, I know I'm her mother, but I'm usually pretty objective about my kids. (I know you're thinking, Yeah, right! Like a friend of mine's dad used to say, "Every ol' cow thinks her calf's the best . . . " but, really, I AM pretty objective!) And I can honestly say that 98 per cent of the time, this one -- Baby Daughter -- is about as sweet as her picture. (And, yes, I'll admit that the other 2 percent can be ferocious, but that's not what we're focusing on here.) Her sweetness and good-heartedness is why I'd like to knock some of her classmates in the head!

Okay, let me explain.

Baby Daughter works about thirty-eight hours a week (not forty because then her company would have to give her little perks like insurance, but that' a whole 'nother post), and goes to school at night. Cosmetology classes.

What on earth is it about the world of cosmetology that attracts so many immature females who each appear to be vying for the title of "Drama Queen, USA"?

Hold on -- before any of you jump on me for that last statement -- of course I know that there are exceptions. There are exceptions to every rule. But the for the past three semesters that BD has been in the cosmotology program of this school, it's been like watching her go back to junior high or high school, for Pete's sake. The cattiness, the gossip, the inconsideration, the name-calling, the unwillingness to help each other out . . . ugh! I'm telling you, it is ugly!

BD understands that there are these kinds of people everywhere, in all walks of life. (Heck, I teach with some! I go to church with some!) But when you have to deal with the same ones day in and day out, it's gets awfully tiresome. And BD was awfully tired last night when she came home.

One good thing, though. Between the sniffs and the tears, she said, "I tell you what, Mama, it sure makes me appreciate my real friends and my sisters . . . and people who are just nice and kind -- people who are NORMAL."

Ahhh, see, there's the rub.

Nice.

Kind.

Helpful.

Compassionate.

Caring.

Fair-minded.

Giving.

We raised our kids to think that these things are normal!

Did we set our kids up for a fall? Maybe. Okay, yeah, I guess we did 'cause those traits sure don't seem to be the norm for most of the world. Still, it's a risk I'm glad we chose. Our kids' may get a bruised knee or a skinned elbow here and there, but their hearts are healthy.

Being nice. Exercising kindness. Helping. Showing compassion and care. Being fair-minded. Exercising generosity.

Simple acts. Cardio for the soul.

Please pray . . .

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My "adopted son" is coming home. The one who calls me "Ma." And I need some prayer.

My "adopted son" isn't really adopted at all. He's a kid who, sitting in a seventh grade language arts class, stole my heart. And he's never given it back.

In 1996, after four years of juggling three kids, a husband, a variety of other activities, and a full-load of college classes, I was finally finishing up my batchelor's degree in literature and preparing for a career in teaching.

My student teaching assignment was at an intermediate school in another Houston suburb, just down the road from my own. And yet, on some days it seemed as if I traveled to a different planet each morning. The second week I was there, two female students -- eighth-graders -- were found on the other side of Houston, shot in the head, execution-style. I hadn't known the girls, but a cousin of one of the girls was in one of my classes. And although I saw him every day, seeing the black, tear-stained face of a wirey fourteen-year-old speaking into a local news camera -- "They didn't deserve this . . . " -- was my family's introduction to Desmond.

Desmond had never known a father. His mother was a crack addict, and his grandmother had brought him home to her house from the hospital to raise. His freshman year of high school, I was once again his English teacher and he and I grew even closer. Granny passed away Desmond's junior year, and I watched as cousins, aunts, and uncles crowded into the church pews around him at her funeral. When the service was over and the church had emptied, Desmond was left to pretty much raise himself in his grandmother's house. An uncle or cousin or two were at the house from time to time, and other relatives were in and out, but no one really seemed to take responsibility for Des. Once, when Desmond became dangerously dehydrated after a football game, I rode in the ambulance with him while St. Michael followed in our truck, and I stayed with Des in the ER while St. Michael sat in the waiting room with his coaches. (I signed for his treatment, praying no one would ask questions.) No mama. No aunts or uncles. No cousins. Desmond came home with us for the remainder of the weekend. Later that same season, it was St. Michael and I who had the privilege of escorting him onto the field for Parent Night.

Don't get the wrong idea, this is not The Blind Side, and we are not the Tuohys. Desmond's always been pretty independent, and we've been there for some things and absent for others. In fact, at one point during his last part of his senior year of high school, he did move across Houston to stay with his mother, and he and I were actually estranged for a while. (Sometimes kids who raise themselves avoid telling the truth; it's a survival mechanism, but one that I don't abide very well, and it led to problems between us.) Still, the ties between us have never been completely severed, and just prior to his being stationed in Korea several years back, the phone calls began to come once again. He called when he could, and we E-mailed.

We prayed for his safety during his tour of Iraq, and when he finally returned to the states and was stationed in Missouri, we talked about his PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) diagnosis and the accompanying nervousness and depression. Though he had planned to make a career of the Army, he did not re-enlist when his last four years was up. I don't know all of the details, but I know he was having problems. Picked the wrong women. Married and divorced. Started finding himself in the wrong places at the wrong times. Got stabbed by an out-of-control acquaintance one night. Recovered. Spent thirty days in jail for something else I'm not quite clear on. Lost his job. Got his heart broken by the latest girlfriend . . . tough times for a young man who, seemingly, just a couple of years ago was so excited about finally finding his niche in the military.

(Gosh, I realize this has gotten long, but I thought I needed to lay some groundwork for you before I ask for your prayers.)

Late this Saturday evening, Desmond will get on a greyhound bus in Columbia, Missouri, and begin the long trip home to Texas. He'll stay with us while he gets his head together and prepares to re-enlist in the Army and get his life back on-track. He didn't ask for the room and board. I offered. And while St. Michael gave us the okay -- me and Baby Daughter (who loves Des like a brother) -- he's not really thrilled about this. He's not feeling the motherly vibes that I do. (Heck, on this one, to be honest, he's not even feeling the fatherly vibes.) Working side-by-side in ministry to those who feel disenfranchised, who spend their lives in the "system", who take advantage of and often abuse the very people who are reaching out to help them has taught us some hard lessons in the past.

It is possible to be too trusting.

It is possible to give too much.

It is possible to do everything "right," only to have it all turn out wrong.

It is possible to get hurt -- he and I both know that -- so I understand that St. Michael is simply taking on what he feels is his God-given assignment as protector. And, truth be told, I need that 'cause I tend to lead too often with my heart while totally ignoring my brain. (Sometimes that works out okay, but it can also be dangerously foolish.) So, sistas, my prayer is that I will walk so closely with the Spirit during this time that I will exercise His wisdom in every decision, experience His guidance in every action, and, at the same time, cover all things in His love, holding tightly to what needs to be held onto, and letting go when I need to do that, too.

Please join in praying this with me.

Grateful grins and blessings,

Pamm

Worth the Walk . . .

Seen inside this week’s Bible study material:

"Pray that learners will desire to set aside disagreements with other believers so that they can continue participating in God’s mission."

Ugh! Been there. Done that. Threw away the T-shirt.

A couple of years back, I found myself smack-dab-in-the-middle of one of the most gut-wrenching misunderstandings/disagreements/irritations (I could go on!) I’ve ever been in the midst of -- in church, no less. Walking away from the situation wasn’t an option. I was the pastor! (I couldn’t exactly change churches, y’know?) In addition, this person was vital to our mission, and no way did I want her to walk away either. So . . . we worked it out. Easy to type out. Easy to read. Not so easy to actually do.

There were tears. (I don’t know that I have ever cried so much in “one sitting” my entire life, and, people, I’ve been through some deep valleys where lots of snot was slung!) And almost as many words. Heated words. Accusing words. Bitter, swallowed words, deeply felt but better left unsaid at moments. Finally there were pleading words, begging Papa-God to heal our hearts, and humble words, asking for forgiveness and understanding. It was one of the rockiest, most difficult paths I’ve ever walked, and I’m sure my co-laborer felt the same. But we both came through it more resolved than ever to work together toward the building of the Kingdom. And you know what else? Miraculously -- it was definitely a God-thing -- we came out with a deeper, stronger, more committed love for one another (and appreciation) than we would’ve ever had otherwise.

Do I ever want to go through that again? Not in this lifetime! But ya know what? I would if that’s what it took to be part of the team that builds something lasting. (Heck, even if that’s what it took just to love my brothers and sisters better.)

The mission. Bigger than me. Bigger that us. And, yet, we are part of it. Awesome. Definitely worth walking a few rough roads.

Until next time . . .

Grins and blessings!

Pamm

WOO-HOO!

"I FEEEEEEEEEEL GOOD!'

IT'S FRIDAY!

Enjoy your weekend, my sistas!