Fiddledeedee

I was on my hands and knees, cleaning up the inevitable spills from dinners long past. Tears mingled with spaghetti sauce, apple juice, and hair. I finished scrubbing, wiped my face with my sleeve, and thought, “Well, since I’m already down here.”

I turned over on my back, looked up at the heavens and began.

“Dear God,
I can’t do this. I’m tired. I’m weary. Every ounce of self confidence has leaked out of every orifice. I talk, but it seems no one hears me. I feel invisible. I don’t know where I’ve gone. Please help me. I feel so alone. Amen

Silent reflective pause.

Is that yogurt on the ceiling?”

That was two years ago.

After watching his bedraggled wife dragging her knuckles on the floor, day after day, my husband remarked, “You need a blog.”

“What’s a blog?” secretly hoping it involved something to do with Kahlua and a tiny umbrella.

On July 26, 2006, It Coulda’ Been Worse was birthed. My husband, sensing I needed community, used his superhuman computer skills and hooked me up.

I’ve always enjoyed writing. I have journals for each of my children, and I looked forward to penning typing the annual family Christmas letter each year. Although, since the gift of brevity has alluded me, the postage on said Christmas letter was nearly the size of a small mortgage.

I am, however, blessed with the gift of exaggeration.

When I began my blog, I was on my own. Baptism by fire. But, over time, I began to find my voice. And on one bright warm morning, I discovered a community of women mommy bloggers, who thought nothing of openly discussing vomit, boogers, and hormone surges. And who would never judge me if I were to, say, bite into a rock hoping it was a piece of chocolate.

I’d found my people.

Knowing that I wasn’t alone, was such an immense relief to me. As a stay-at-home mom, especially one who homeschools, I could sometimes feel rather isolated. My life completely revolves around my family, as well it should.

But, God has created in us women, a desperate need for a sense of community. We are by design, communicators. I so desire to be a more effective communicator. Because I want to continue to reach other harried mommies, and let them know LOUD AND CLEAR THAT THEY ARE NOT ALONE. And that the job that they are doing is an important one. A vital one.

We’re raising the next generation of leaders, ladies.

And also, I want other women to know that it’s okay to laugh at ourselves. Even in the most dire of circumstances. For me, it’s essential to my well being. And oh so much cheaper than therapy.

As a writer, there is an opportunity before me that I am so excited about. The She Speaks conference will be held in Concord, North Carolina, June 20 -22. The conference focuses not only on effective writing, speaking, and leadership skills, but this year, better blogging will be included as well. As you all well know, the blogging community has exploded in sheer numbers in the last two years. Advertisers are certainly sitting up and taking notice. And blogging can be such an effective ministry tool. Reaching many thousands of women, who just need to hear the sound of another voice. I have certainly been ministered to. And I want to be a more effective ministry as well. Women from all walks of life, with different backgrounds, and beliefs, stop in here daily for a cup of coffee. And a little levity. And we’re united in our desire to raise better children, while not giving into insanity. And if we spew a little coffee through our noses, well, so be it.

Because of my intense desire to be a more effective writer and communicator, I’m excited to tell you that Lisa TerKeurst of Proverbs 31 ministries is offering a scholarship to attend this year’s She Speaks conference. My joy knows no bounds.

You cannot even imagine my excitement about this gathering of Godly women.

My children also have a say in all of this. They desperately want me to attend She Speaks because whenever mommy is out of town, they score breakfast, lunch, and dinner at McDonalds. And as an added bonus, they get to see a whole lot more of their grandparents.

Thank you Lord, for my sweet supportive husband. Who understands my need to attempt this. And isn’t afraid of ketchup stains on the carpet of the van.

And who knows? Perhaps there will even be a conference session on brevity when one is effectively communicating.

I believe I just heard the rather loud collective “AMEN SISTER.”

The two passengers in my backseat craned their necks to see what all the commotion was about. “Mommy! Look at all those signs! Who is Rudy?”

The neighborhood clubhouse, normally a sleepy little building, with the occasional elderly resident stopping in for a little workout in the heated pool, was abuzz with the excitement of the Primary vote. Cars filled every parking space, with a few extra spilling out onto the manicured lawn. We secured a spot, and I barked out “EVERYONE HOLDS MY HAND, AND I DON’T CARE IF YOU ARE EIGHT!” We have a few mature drivers who can no longer see over the steering wheel, yet still continue to operate a 15 ton cadillac.

With my entourage of two in tow, we patiently stand in the correct line that corresponds with our last name. After verifying my identity, the volunteer hands me my voting folder. She appeared dubious for a moment, as she looked at my drivers license picture. It was taken when I was pregnant with Emme. Nine years, three children, and a near nervous breakdown have done little to preserve my youth. She asks if I understand the voting procedure. I nod my head yes, no hanging chads here, fill in the oval completely. Check.

Up until now, my daughters have been unusually quiet. As I stand at the voting booth, the inquiry begins. “Mom, who is John F. Kennedy?” I’m surprised by the question, as we haven’t quite gotten that far in American History. Emme then points to the mock voting ballot in front of me, as a reminder to fill in the oval completely. In rather large print, the candidates read:

•Dwight D. Eisenhower
•John F. Kennedy
•Abraham Lincoln
•Franklin D. Roosevelt

Now there’s an impressive group. How do you narrow that list down to one? I was awfully glad that my ballot was a much easier choice.

I had been preparing them for voting day. We’ve been discussing democracy, the upcoming presidential election, and how blessed we are to live in a country where we are free to have a say in who runs our country. Fiddledaddy and I openly discuss politics in our home. Thankfully, we are usually in agreement as to which side of the fence where positioned. One thing that we strive to instill in our children, though, is a respect for the person in the oval office. Even when we don’t always agree with them. No name calling this election year in the House of Fiddle. Even if we’re vehemently opposed to a candidate.

I have little memory of my parents ever discussing politics when I was growing up. I know that my mother was a big supporter of John F. Kennedy. And she never really got over his assassination. I was a child of a little over 2 when he was killed. We were living in Fort Worth at the time. I don’t have any actual memories of the day, but my mother discussed it at length while I was growing up. And recently, I found journal entries that she wrote about what she felt on that fateful day.

I don’t recall her ever voting in any other election after that. She never again became emotionally invested in another candidate.

I did, however. In 1968, I remember well, standing on the playground of my parochial school. Some of the older kids were “voting” for the two presidential candidates at the time. They instructed the younger students to go and stand in the line of their desired candidate. I hightailed it over to Richard M. Nixon’s line. Because it was more popular. And that was the line that Mickey Reddy was standing in. I was thrilled when Nixon indeed won. He was “my” choice. My standards for chosing a candidate have since evolved. Relax exit poll taker.

I also remember being crestfallen, when Nixon resigned, in disgrace, in 1974.

I want my children to embrace the importance of their voice in our nation’s politics. And that’s why we’ll probably always drag them with us to the voting booth. Until, they are of age to make their own decisions.

As we were leaving the poll, the volunteer stationed at the door to collect the ballot, gave all three of us a sticker that read, “I Voted!” Holding hands, we walked out to the parking lot. Unexpectedly, Emme chirped, “I hope that we have a woman president someday.”

“I do too, honey.” But, just not this year.

I’m glad that my children are growing up in a nation that will very likely vote a woman, or a minority into office in their lifetime. This country has come a long way.

And, God willing, we still have a long way to go.

One of my favorite bloggers is Antique Mommy. She’s a funny, insightful, and inspiring writer. But really, she’s so much more. She’s a designer too! In fact, her love of all things design has inspired her to create a blog that is devoted to design, aptly titled “Inspired Spaces.” She tackles all type of decorating issues, and gets the readers involved by answering those age old designing questions, “Should I go with the cheap linoleum?” Nine years ago, if I had known Antique Mommy, she would have fervently talked me out of it.

Well. One night, Antique Mommy and I were burning up our keyboards talking to one another. I suggested that we ought to do a podcast. And call it “The Antique Fiddle.” Where we could banter about vericose veins, hotflashes, and knees that creak in the night. She talked me out of it. Instead, we decided to shoot the breeze about painting furniture. From the safety of our keyboards. Our discussion involves taking something from trash to treasure. Since we’ve both been known to forage through the garbage now and again. And she posted it today, so go here to find it!

Antique Mommy and I often think that we certainly must have been separated at birth. She posted pictures to prove it. But don’t let her tell you that I’m older. Because SHE is. By at least a few minutes.

Dear Mr. Campaign Solicitor,

Let me give you a piece of advice. If you really want to solicit a vote for your candidate, don’t ring my doorbell at 8:00 at night.

Even though it was DARK, you may have noticed the well worn mommy van in the driveway. And from the often unkempt appearance of the front of our house, and the sidewalk drawings of various misshapen amphibians, you might assume that our house contains small children.

And you would be correct.

Now, if all your pistons were firing, you would have guessed that 8:00 at night is the time that I dream of. It was the end of an excruciatingly long day. I hadn’t seen my last nerve since breakfast. 8:00 is when we put the offspring to bed. A time for goodnight prayers and kisses. And saints be praised, peace and quiet.

Let’s say, hypothetically, that the doorbell rings. Unaccustomed to such a sound at 8:00 at night, the children leap out of bed alarmed. “WHAT’S WRONG?” Fearing the worst, they wonder if the house is ablaze, and the neighbors are attempting to alert us to that fact. Because they inherited my genes.

And as a side note, I, myself, may have peed my pants just a little.

And that is just never a way to attract a vote for your candidate.

I’m just sayin’.

And furthermore, Mr. Campaign Solicitor, don’t argue with my husband about whether or not you are soliciting. You are. And it’s against the bylaws in this zoned neighborhood.

And no, we don’t believe you when you tell us that you got special permission from the police department.

Liar, liar.

I’ve been sitting on the fence concerning your candidate. You better hope I’m not still hormonal, on this the date of the primaries.

Sincerely,
Ura Jerck

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Girl Scout,

Please disregard the “No Soliciting” sign posted on our front door. This in no way applies to you. If you are ringing my doorbell to sell me a box, or 12, of Girl Scout cookies, knock yourself out.

Any time of the day or night.

And please have plenty of Thin Mints stashed in your red wagon.

I need them.

Sincerely,

Iva Hotflash

AKA

We were visiting my in-laws a couple of weeks ago. Fiddledaddy came into the kitchen to show me a DVD he found on his parent’s media shelf. They have great entertainment over at the House of Grandfiddle. We borrow DVDs all the time. It’s better than the library.

And they hardly ever charge me with a late fee.

The DVD that has been in their home, without my knowledge, is “The Donny and Marie Christmas Show.” Circa 1978. I grabbed it out of his hand and shoved it in my purse.

“Let’s get outta here before they miss it!” I stage whisper, not letting the screen door hit me on the way out.

A busy couple of days followed, so it sat untouched on my kitchen counter. Just so that I could admire the cover while I slaved away in the kitchen.

Emme wandered through the kitchen and spotted it. Picking it up, gazing at the cover, she inquired, “Mom, can I watch this while I take a bath tonight?”

The girls enjoy long luxurious baths with entertainment on special occasions. Special occasions like when I need a few moments of peace and relative tranquility. And the DVD player is WAY OUT OF A DRIPPY HAND’S REACH. So, put your phones down.

That evening, quiet ensued as Emme watched “The Donny and Marie Christmas Show, 1978.” in it’s entirety. From the comfort of the masterbath garden tub. I found every excuse in the world to wander in and linger over the easy banter sung between all 58 Osmonds. Remember, this was 1978. I know from the recent appearance on Oprah, that the family has grown into something like 2045 members strong.

A fact not lost on Mitt Romney opponents.

I tripped merrily down memory lane. The impossibly high waisted jeans, high feathered hair, and Donny. Way before he became a grandfather. Sigh.

The next night the scene repeated itself. “Mommy, can I watch that Donny and Marie show again?” I’m powerless to refuse. I understand. “Of course you can.”

Today she wandered again through the kitchen, picking up the case from the kitchen counter, where it once again resides. Dreamily she says, “Mom, this is the best singing group ever. I just love them.”

Yes. My girl has indeed inherited my highly refined musical taste. My heart overflows.

And oh boy, is she in for a treat. Since I have all the old 45’s and LPs. Just nothing to play them on. I suppose I could scour e-Bay for a vintage “Close And Play.” Oh yes, I had one of those in the 70’s, too.

And about that DVD. I may be accruing late fees that could reach the triple digits. Because I will be hanging onto it until the twelfth of never.

And that’s a long long time.