Aug 282009

When Craig gets home from work in the evening, he usually finds the kids and me waiting for him at the end of the driveway. I wave and smile, the kids jump up and down… it’s all very Normal Rockwell. Craig thinks it’s sweet. The neighbors think it’s sweet. It is kind of sweet.

But here’s what nobody knows:

We meet Craig at the end of the driveway because I cannot wait another three minutes to pass off the children.

I’ve watched through the front window when he arrives home and seen how he dawdles in the car before getting out, inches to the mailbox, stops to pet every passing puppy, and then creeps up to the front door with little teeny baby steps. Let’s just say it’s a bit slower process than he employs when he runs out the door to leave for work in the morning.

So, welcome home, honey! Hugs. Kisses. Here are your three beautiful children. No, no, don’t worry about the mail, I’ll get it. Just hurry on inside.


Sep 012009

Every morning in the kitchen, my kids and I boogie to country music. Craig eats his cereal, head cocked in confusion, and watches his suburban family sing into broomsticks about tractors, guns, honky tonks and whiskey. Our children believe that brooms are made to serve solely as special kitchen microphones.

I love country music. It makes life seem simple and sweet. Country transforms my mundane mommy life into an inspiring musical. Changing diapers, paying bills, sweeping the floor, watching the kids pummel each other…it’s all set to music. There are entire country songs about the heartbreak caused by a broken dishwasher. To this, I can relate. And with country, if you’re broke, dripping with babies, and clinging to Jesus and sobriety with white knuckles…. it’s cool! Romantic, actually. Patriotic, even! Country is a good niche for me.

But it also means that occasionally I have moments like these:

Yesterday I was folding laundry upstairs and heard Tish in the family room singing with a serious twang. I sneaked down the stairs and saw that her dollies were all lined up on the couch, watching her perform on the coffee table.

She closed her eyes, adjusted her cowgirl hat, and belted into her broom stick…


I stood frozen on the stairs, deciding whether to interrupt the concert or not. Do other three year olds sing about beer and crazy people? Is that okay? If not, how do I correct her? What do I say? Beer isn’t good? People aren’t crazy?

I decided that “Great God, Good Beer, People Crazy” was as good a theology as any I’d come up with…so I stepped down from the stairs and offered her a standing ovation. Tish turned towards me, tipped her cowgirl hat, and curtsied.

Sep 022009

After I graduated from college, my therapist prescribed Prozac in a last ditch effort to treat my bulimia and other eccentricities. The problem with trying to cure bulimia with pills though, is that you become a dog chasing her tail. The Prozac can’t work unless you keep the pills down, but for dedicated bulimics like me, the pills never stay down long enough to take effect.It’s enough to make a girl insane-er.

After I’d been taking the pills for a month, my therapist asked me if they were helping.

“Weeelllll, “I said, “it’s hard to tell. I don’t think they’re always…staying down.”

She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, which I thought I was paying her not to do. But, in her defense- I was a tough nut to crack.

She peered at me above the rims of her teeny therapist glasses and said:

“Glennon: You must stop puking long enough for the Prozac to work.”

Friends, I know there’s a perfect analogy for life inside that instruction, but I can’t put my finger on it.

If you figure it out, holla back.

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