Enough, Already.

Linking up with my favorite people over at Five Minute Friday. The theme?

It’s a good one.

Totally fitting.

Kinda scary accurate, actually.

It’s like Kate Motaung totally knows me. That poor woman.

 

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Ok, so this week I explained to you my Congo fast, right? I think we’re at almost half way, and so far it’s been a piece of cake.

Cake. I miss you.

And, if you know me at all, you realize that all this glib talk of pastry is just a call for help. This is tough, people.

This Congo fast? There’s not really a truly hungry element here. I am not starving. In fact, the author of the book we’re using, Chris Seay, makes it very clear that quantity is fine. It’s just WHAT we’re eating makes me kinda… itchy for cake. It’s not a hunger we’re dealing with here. It’s a restlessness.

So, also: I cheated.

Last Saturday, something snapped and that night I found myself scarfing graham crackers, off-brand cheezits from Dollar General, and marshmallows.

Y’ALL. I DON’T EVEN LIKE MARSHMALLOWS.

Also, my husband was in the other room, and I found myself SHOVING FOOD IN MAH MOUTH as silently as possible, like a stealthy chipmunk.

A very guilty chipmunk.

So, way back, long ago, when this whole thing started (that was thirteen days ago, my friends. It seems like it was 2014), my friend Kate (Aka the master manipulator who totally bamboozled me into this whole thing) told me it was ok to write about all this. Wow, that is a humdinger of a sentence.

I asked her if the Congo fast had a place in my blog. Would writing about it be too “HEY LOOK AT ME I AM FASTING HOW COOL AM I? SUPER CHRISTIAN WOMAN IN DA HOUUUUUUUSE.” Because whenever I blog about anything I like to channel 80’s hip hop diction. It’s how I roll, yo.

Kate said it would be fine. It might help others and there’s always accountability.

Sigh. Accountability Shmacountability.

So, I had two choices today. I could tell you how marvelous the whole Lenten Congo Fastapalozza is a spiritual walk in the park. And… therefore…

This would be me:c4ecc05d66ba61b6ce0a2590f6efd0e8_well-isnt-that-special-feb-19-well-isnt-that-special-meme_736-649.jpg

Instead, I am gonna fess up and tell you how a graham cracker and some stale marshmallows broke me like a twig.

Oh my goodness. GUYS. I just realized. I  coulda at least made a S’MORE with my rebellion. WHAT is wrong with me? If I’m gonna screw up I should make it COUNT.

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MY PRESHUS.

 

See? Isn’t it a good thing I’m being accountable here? Because then you are welcome to watch me unravel before your eyes. I’m a cautionary tale, in human form.

I’ll keep you posted. Hopefully there will be no more marshmallow shenanigans.

THE POINT:

I have Enough. We all have more than Enough. We don’t even know. I was so used to always having MORE than Enough that I lost sight of Who is Enough.

Enough is enough.

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An Open Letter to the Mom On Vacation Who Would Really Rather NOT Use the Communal Showers, Thank You.

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“This is really pretty.  And I could really use a hot shower.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Mom up there in all those beautiful mountains:

You’re on vacation.  It’s fabulous.  Everything looks like a post card.  There are rustic chipmunks frolicking about, and the air is redolent with the smell of REAL ACTUAL pine trees, not cleaning solvents.  You are here in this wonderfulness, all outdoorsy and wholesome, for a whole week.  You even used your Swiss Army knife to whittle a stick at one point.  You WHITTLED by the fire, people.  Basically, you are a walking REI catalog.

There is, however, one small problem.

You fear the shower.

Nooooo, not like in an Orange is the New Black kind of way (and if you have no idea what I am referring to here then God bless you), or in a EWWWWW, GERMS –  THAT EBOLA BADNESS HAS STAGGERED ITS WAY INTO THESE SHOWERS I JUST KNOW IT,  kind of way…

No.  You fear the shower in a… Uh,  I just don’t want to really have to deal with the awkward eye contact and mumbled “good morning, let me show you my jammies and morning hair but hopefully nothing else cuz this space is rather cramped and steamy” kind of way.

You know all those Dove commercials that are all, “let’s just celebrate being beautiful women, OK?  Let’s just be comfortable with ourselves, no matter what, and just embrace our skin, right?”  Yep.  Right.  They never talk about embracing their hair.  In the morning.  When it looks like this:

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That’s just not right.

Pretty sure that’s where we women draw the line.  We’re all, “We love each other! We’re beautiful!  Our bodies are amazing! Some of us had babies come out of ’em!  It hurt but we’re cool!  Group hug!  We are wonderful!  Our extra skin is wonderful!  All the folds where folds shouldn’t necessarily be are wonderful!  In fact, our– WHOA HECK.  YOUR HAIR IS OUTTA CONTRALL WOMAN.  BACK THAT RIGHT ON OUTTA HERE.  We are judging you.”

 

And while we’re at it, there’s a couple other things you have been, shall we say, challenged by on this trip:

1.  Purple crocs.  It’s all you packed for leisure wear.  You are reminded that crocs are terrible things.  They make any outfit – swimwear, jammies, jammies paired with morning hair (see above) just bad.  It’s possible you could get away with the crocs if you were, say,  a blonde, leggy au pair from Germany.  But, as it were, you are a mom from Kansas with rather short legs and absolutely no ability to speak German.  In fact, the last time you were in Germany (a million years ago, pre kids, as is everything in your life that involved a passport and verve) you bravely took on a few words but kept mysteriously slipping into an accent that sounded a lot like the Swedish Chef from the Muppets.  Nicht gut.

So, every morning, as you leave your dreaded showers and squeak, squeak SQUEAK home in your slimy crocs, you really wish you had just packed some flip flops. And some dignity.

2.  Mountain trails with your sweet toddlers will mean copious amounts of antacids and prayer.  Why? because for some reason each toddler will walk on the exact EDGE of the trail, 90% of the time, all the while chattering and skittering about like a squirrel on espresso.   I mean really.  REALLY?  Is it absolutely necessary, wee one, to walk RIGHT UP ON THE EDGE OF THAT TRAIL? THE ONE WITH THE 500 MILLION FOOT DROP OFF?  Has no one taught you the laws of physics and gravity yet?  Well, no, I know no one has, really, yet actually done that.  But STILL.  Look OVER THERE.  NO TRAIL.  Just AIR.  And no, I am NOT exaggerating.  It’s the MOUNTAINS.  There are no kiddie trails here.

3.  After each wonderful hike, all natured up and such, going back to the cabin to create a healthy and tasty meal on a grill with some foil, a fork,  Cheetos, and some soggy hotdogs is, at best, daunting.  But if you just put a lot of CHEESE on all of it, you still can win.  Because cheese?  Dairy. So = healthy.

4.  Marspellows on da grill fix everything.  Grumpy?  Have a s’more.  Marital problems because, vacation?  Stuff your feelings with this golden toasty goodness.

By the way:  I am of the firm conviction that if people could just sit around a campfire and make and serve s’mores to each other with a starry sky overhead – we would not have to worry about all those cease fires and such in the news.  In my humble opinion.  (Hubs is rolling his eyes.  He is now talking using words like, “Oversimplification” and “Starry eyed”  and I think, “Hippy Magic.”  I would offer him the Mom Platitude about how “don’t roll your eyes, they’ll stick that way” but my mouth is full.  With da marspellows.  Food of da Gods.

5.  There’s all these pharmacies here that have green leaf signs out front.  It’s confusing.  And that’s all I am gonna say about that.

6. It is possible to fit three roomfuls of stuff into a one room cabin.  It’s just that… your brain is done after that.  So, once you have figured out how to store your cutlery neatly rolled up in your underwear, and all the bug spray is slipped into the hiking boots, which are holding up the box of shampoo, the bible, and five packs of Slim Jims,  your brain kinda shuts off and you just want to watch an episode or two of Hoarders.

7.  There are some bikers who are here.  Two cabins down.  There’s a lot of handkerchiefs tied on heads.  Not in a cute, Cindy Lauper kind of way.  Oh, and beer.  Beer is alllll over their perimeter.  If there are any slugs in the area they should avoid cabin 23.  It’s a death trap.   You catch your husband eyeing their big shiny bikes with what you think might actually be envy.  Of course your boys are in total awe.  There really is nothing left to do but invite them for some food with cheese on it.

 

 

I think it’s safe to say, dear Anti-Communal Shower Mom Who Is Really REALLY Trying to be a Good Sport About All This –

You deserve a junior camper badge.  And yes, it’s perfectly Ok to squirrel away the bag of Reese’s for your own consumption at a later point, like right after you sqeaak, squeeeeaaak, squeak past the bikers and you realize as you get back to your cabin that though you had wadded up all your clothes in your towel, you managed to drop your bra right outside their cabin.  Retrieving it was fun.  You wondered if they were gonna regard this as some sort of secret gang signal and you were now initiated into their heavily tattooed fold.

It’s possible.  Your hair would fit right in.

 

Get your own biker name!  Click here.

 

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There was this one time when my blog went all BOOM and I had no internet…

So.  I am sitting on a metal bench outside of a bathroom, typing as fast as my chubby little fingers will clatter across the keys.

 

The fingers, they are chubby because we’re on vacation and so:  Cheetos (puffed AND crunchy), CoCo Crispies, and the piece da la resistance:  REESE’S PEANUT BUTTER CUP S’MORES.  YOU KNOW YOU WANT SOME.  This menu is what I like to call:

IT’S VACATION!  EAT ALL THE JUNKFOOD EVERRRRRRR!  It might run out, the junk food, so we need to get it all in before we return to normalcy and my kale smoothies.

 

And also, I am typing away here, while the moths thwack at my head and people keep looking at me funny because you guys are the best.

Just the best.

 

I had this whole “We’ll go away to the mountains!  We’ll rough it, as much as I can do so for 5 days without killing anyone!  And also, I’ll eat my weight in chocolate to compensate for the roughage!” plan for this vacation.

And!  NO internet!  We will really be “Getting Away From It All!”  It will be awesome!

Oh ho.  Until Glennon Melton rang and asked if I might be interested in, uh, you know, sharing my post on her blog.

You might be interested to know that I went on a 5 hour hike with my family today – all the while my Twitter basically fluffed itself up into a ball of blue exploding feathers, and my blog kinda blew up all over the place.  (But in a good way.  Thank you, Glennon.)

And what was I doing?   I was leading my four and five year old across Seven Bridges Trail (“der are 7 WHOLE bwidges there!!!”) and saying things like:  “No!  Slow down!  Be CAREFUL!  Would you not look OVER that so OVER it, please?  PLEASE? Come over HERE. HERE.  OH MY GRAVY, SON IF YOU FALL OFF THIS MOUNTAIN I AM GOING TO KILL YOU.”

Not my finer moment(s).  But we actually had a really REALLY good time.  And so far, everyone has stayed ON the mountain.

So, now I am typing my thank you.  I love you guys.  I am just so grateful.

This has been such a journey, this whole getting sober deal.  It had me kicked and beaten, but then, I finally kicked back, and then… kicked a little more.  And then…

The kicking and screaming turned more into my own long hike up a mountain.  A really beautiful, hard, treacherous, scary, breathtaking mountain, where God lives.

It is a good journey.  Come along.

 

Many hugs and blessings to you.

 

And so, I am leaving you with this:

 

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This is my Red, you know.  Stuffing his cute little cheeks with hotdog because campfire, you know. He reminds me of ET when he wears his little hoodie. “I’ll be right here.”