I’m so proud of him (and her for sticking by him) that I just had to post this photo.

Semper Fi!

Too, too cute!

This morning it was 11 degrees (read that again…e-l-e-v-e-n), and it felt like 3 with the wind chill.  Three!  Can you even make that make sense?  I cannot. 

Last night we drove downtown to see the giant tree lit up on the circle.  Of course, the windstorm knocked the lights out and they have yet to be re-lit.  But we had fun and on our way home it began to snow.  Nothing major, but just enough to swirl across the road and look like white confetti floating down.  We sang Christmas carols the entire way home and the kids were bouncing in their seats.

This morning, there was about 1/4″ covering on the ground.  For my kids, it seemed like 140 feet.  They ran out this morning, trying to make snowballs, and jumping up and down, filled with excitement about how cold it was.

Let it snow!

On one of my Christmas CD’s, Kenny G compiled a version of “Auld Lang Syne,” which he called “The Millennium Version.”  It was released at the turn of this century.  Every time I listen to it, my soul is gripped, and I am find that I must stop whatever it is I am doing, sit down and listen to the song.  It is about 8 minutes long and contains snippets of news events, television programs, and speeches that shaped the world during the 20th Century.  If you have never heard it, I suggest you find it and listen to it.  It makes me feel small and insignificant when listening to how the world in which I now live was shaped.

Here are just a few of the powerful words that capture my senses every single time I listen to the song:

“I have a dream…that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”


Martin Luther King’s immortal words, spoken on August 28, 1963.  Every time I hear those words, I am moved to tears.  Since I am the mother of two children of color, I echo his sentiments whole heartedly.

“The crew of the space shuttle Challenger honored us by the manner in which they lived their lives. We will never forget them, nor the last time we saw them, this morning, as they prepared for their journey and waved good-bye and ‘slipped the surly bonds of earth’ to ‘touch the face of God.’”


President Ronald Reagan speaking on January 28, 1986 after the space shuttle Challenger exploded after takeoff.  I was a senior in high school when this tragedy struck.  I still remember exactly where I was when I heard the news.

“Let the word go forth from this time and place, that the torch has been passed to a new generation of Americans….”


President John F. Kennedy on January 20, 1961, during  his Inaugural Address.  Regardless of his personal life, his political affiliation or his heritage, John F. Kennedy gripped the souls of much of this nation.  I cannot help but be drawn to what he said.

Have you ever listened to one of Martin Luther King’s speech’s in its entirety?  Read any of Ronald Reagan’s or John F. Kennedy’s speeches?  I have not.  I think now I will.  My soul needs to be gripped more often by powerful words.

I have no problem with a writer/author/director using certain forms of media as a platform from which to spew his or her various political/social/economic beliefs and agendas.  I DO have a problem with that person trying to cram that down the throat of millions of innocent, unsuspecting, sponge-like children around the world.  Happy Feet offended me to the bottom of my toes.  My feet were tappin’, alright.  They were just tapping in annoyance, followed soon by anger.

The trailers show penguins singing, happy, playful, intimating that this one lowly little penguin will change his world forever by searching for his “heartsong.”  Great, right?  Wrong.  It quickly turns into one of the most blatant anti-establishment movies I have ever endured.

Humans are called “aliens” and the only visions we are given as the audience of these horrible, frightening creatures is of a bird with a yellow plastic marker attached to its leg.  Then another penguin shows up, choking to death from one of those six-pack can holders around his neck.  This choking goes on for an unbelievable 20 minutes.  Twenty minutes of a brutal, vicious, impending death scene….IN A CHILDREN’S MOVIE!!!  I kept watching my children’s faces and they were covered with fear and anxiety as they watched this penguin struggle to breath and, in the end, try to kill himself because he can’t take the pain anymore.  When the penguins do find the mean, nasty aliens “who just don’t care about us,” (quote from the movie), it is in an industrialized town with menacing, rusted out equipment, broken windows, trash-strewn lawns, and circular saw blades with horrifyingly sharp teeth, all set in a dark, very gloomy, terrifying setting.  Again…IN A CHILDREN’S MOVIE.

I went online this morning and read some reviews.  Most were inane, repeating the same words of praise they used for any other animated movie out in the last 10 years.  However, I found one that identified what the others omitted.  The Washington Post, generally a more liberal newspaper, hit the nail on the head this time:

THE FAMILY FILMGOER ® by Jane Horwitz at the Washington Post  (taken from www.fandango.com)
Happy Feet veers off-course about three-quarters of the way through its rather long-feeling 98 minutes. It turns from being a glorious, funny, adorable computer-animated penguin musical about diversity and acceptance into a screed against human encroachment on their habitat. It feels like two films — one a riotous musical comedy, the other a somber alarm call filled with looming fishing trawlers and ugly debris. Even the more typically ‘toon-ish scary bits — giant leopard seals, killer whales, birds of prey bursting out of the sea and swooping down to get our penguin hero — are highly intensified. (We learn it’s because the fish supply is dwindling.) So is a prolonged subplot in which a penguin nearly asphyxiates as a plastic 6-pack holder tightens on his neck. Happy Feet may be too much for many kids under 7, some under 8. (Know how well your child separates animated fantasy from reality.)… His side adventures among trawlers and in a zoo turn the film very dark before the dawn. Director George Miller also added somber notes to Babe: Pig in the City (G, 1998). In Happy Feet, this keeps the film off-balance.

Ms. Horwitz is absolutely correct:  know your kid well.  Otherwise, nightmares and questions a 7 or 8 year old is not capable of understanding may arise from those same kids. 

I totally understand, believe and support the need to take care of our environment.  I also know the Bible clearly states that God gave man dominion over the earth, meaning we are at the very top of the food chain.  Nowhere does it say, “unless the animals are furry and cute.”  It is an awesome responsibility, one not to be taken lightly.  But it is also a reality.  They are animals.  We are people.  Our advancement as humans may change the face of the world, but at the same time, that same advancement allows those directors, writers, and others in Hollywood to drive fancy cars and live obscenely decadent lifestyles within the walls of their multi-million dollar homes.  Double standards drive me insane.

So I caution you to do your research before taking your kids to see this movie, and afterwards, use it as a teaching experience…to teach your kids that there are different viewpoints in the world, and that not everything you see, read, hear, is the truth.  Hopefully, it will also teach your kids to seek out the truth and do their own research.

Meanwhile, these not so happy feet will use their own medium to proclaim my extreme disappointment and dissatisfaction with this movie.

Well, actually, as I was walking in the door, my son annoyed my daughter who then hauled off and punched my son.  The ensuing wails coincided with my entrance and all I heard was “She hit me!”  “He said shut up!”  and they both went directly to their rooms, presumably to lick their wounds.

Welcome home, mom. 

For a brief moment, I was tempted to turn tail and rush back to the airport.  Surely the long security lines and overworked TSA Agents were preferable to screaming children.  But the loving arms of my wonderful husband enveloped me and he said, “I’M glad you’re home.  I missed you.”

Of course he missed me.  Who wouldn’t miss The Mom when piercing cries were still showering down from above?

But soon, the wails subsided and the errant children came and sheepishly said sweet things like, “Mom, I’m glad you’re home. My brother is mean.”  Visions of joyful reunions and happy homecomings continued to pop and burst in my mind, like bubbles out of a bubble maker.  At least the dog had not left my side and was following me around, tongue hanging out, matching my every step.  He at least was grateful for my return.  He had no ulterior motives other than to lick my face and shower me with bad doggie breath. 

But what, you say, about the conference?

In a word, fantastic.  I not only learned vast amounts of ways to improve my craft, but I also got to spend the whole weekend with my dear friend and critique partner, Rita.  We had a great time together and enjoyed the chance to meet lots of people.  If I had taken my camera, you would see exactly who we hobnobbed with, but since I didn’t, alas, you will have to take my word for it.

I also had 2 separate editors/publishing houses request a proposal for my WIP (work in progress):  The Bridal Party Series.  I am frantically working to finish the manuscript so I can frantically work to create a proposal.  Then I must find someone who is published and willing (for a fee, of course) to review the proposal and clean it up, make it tight, and put a pretty bow on it, with a piece of chocolate, for apparently the way to an editor’s heart is through chocolate (although I’m still not sure why, exactly).

In the meantime, the children have finally stopped punishing me for being gone and have given me the (belated) joyful reunion I so longed for, complete with multiple hugs and kisses and “I missed you so much” comments.  My husband has cooked dinner every night since I’ve been home.  Need I say more?

A resounding, collective sigh of relief has settled over this house.  She’s back, they all say with smiles as they drift off to sleep.  And she looks them over, lovingly and tenderly before dragging herself off like a slave to the computer. 

She’s back, indeed.

The children are nestled,
All snug in their beds,
Which is a good thing
‘Cause Mom might lose her head!

For tomorrow she leaves
On a journey so fair
To reach for her goals,
And not pull out her hair.

The ACFW Conference
Is but one short day away
She struggles for breviloquence
(Hey, not much rhymes with conference!)
And tries not to play.

The piano, it calls her.
Target does, too.
She writes silly poems
Better suited to a zoo.

Alas, she must focus
And write, write, write, write!
Or a swarm of mad locusts
Might swoop down and bite.

The clock, it is ticking
Loud and so fast
Yet nothing is clicking
So she thinks she will pass.

But no, Rita replies
Time will not wait
Sit down at your desk
And write ’til it’s late!

Heeding her words,
I sit here and stare
At an empty computer screen
And wonder what I should wear.

Perhaps when next I write
I will be almost published
And if not, then I’ll return
And try to get un-unpublished.

Signing off until after ACFW Conference 2006!

This year, the school bus stops literally outside my front door.  I commented this morning to my husband that my only regret is that I have to actually be dressed to take my kids to the bus stop…PJ’s aren’t really fashionable bus stop attire.  Especially not old mom’s PJ’s (as my daughter perceives it).  However, as my husband so wisely pointed out, it is a small price to pay for the joy of walking out the door, putting my children on the bus and walking back inside, all within the space of approximately 3.5 minutes.  It’s a beautiful thing.

My son, who is in first grade, was exceedingly overjoyed at the prospect of riding the bus this year.  My daughter, to a lesser degree, was also thrilled.  But for TJ, well, it has always been a lifelong dream to ride a bus to school.  Now, think about it…how often do you get to witness the realization of a lifelong dream?  Rarely, if ever, I’d say.  For instance, I always wished to be a concert pianist.  On a good day, I can play a stirring rendition of “Heart and Soul.”  We’ll leave it at that.

But for kids, how cool is it to see something they’ve longed for repeatedly in their short lives come to fruition?  For Molly, I think it will be when she can actually say, “I’m 16 now” as opposed to “I wish I were 16.”  For TJ, it’s the bus.

Molly is ultimately too cool for school and often prefers to blow me a kiss instead of actual contact.  I mean, seriously…how embarrassing!

On the other hand, TJ cannot leave the house, the street or get near the bus without a full body tackle hug.  While the wonders of riding the bus are still new and exciting to him, he also faces it with a small amount of trepidation.  He may be in first grade, but he’s still 7.  He is a homebody and loves to do things with the family.  So when he gets on the bus, it’s bittersweet.  He’s heading away from home and mom (bitter), but he’s also riding the bus (sweet!). 

And every day, the last words out of his mouth are, “Wave to me, Mom!”

Let me tell you, to this mother’s heart, the reaction for me is also bittersweet.  I am happy they are heading to school, but I fear for them to be sad, lonely or afraid.  I stand there, waving madly like a fool (and I think secretly, Molly is glad I wave to her, too.  She just may never admit it), flapping my arms, blowing kisses and generally doing exactly what Molly fears:  embarrassing my children.  But hey, that’s what parents are for, right?

So when TJ says, “Wave to me, Mom!,” I must say, it is a beautiful thing.

Bookstores are at the top of my list of “happy places.”  I can be in a going-postal, sailor-swearing, fire breathing foul mood when I park my car outside of the store, but the moment I cross the threshold, I swear I can hear angels singing, birds chirping and a gentle, calming breeze lathes my face.  Ahhh.

Unfortunately, it also houses small arms weaponry which my son availed himself of yesterday. 

In the corner of the children’s section, there is a table with a Thomas the Tank Engine train track set up, complete with various trains and accessories.  TJ was determined to build the longest stretch of trains known to man…or at least to all the little boys at the table at that time. 

Enter Molly (his sister).

She is a delicate flower.  An angel girl.  She doesn’t see a gaggle of boys and think, “Must show who is boss.  Kill!  Kill!  Kill!”  No.  She thinks, “Hey, a group of boys.  They must be in need of organization, direction and not a little bit of feminine input.  I’ll just help them out and soon they’ll be showering me with praise and adoration for my insight and intellect!”

The end result?  A train (the small arms weaponry) was launched (by my son) at the appropriate target (my daughter) and scored a direct hit (her head).  All I can say is, thank goodness they kept the battle within the family ranks.  Needless to say, we left immediately thereafter.

On the way home, I informed my son of the type of punishment he would receive when we got to our abode.  My daughter, always the ever vigilant one when it comes to fairness and equality, felt that she should receive the punishment too.  When I asked her why this was the case, she suddenly decided she had hit her brother back.  Once.  No wait, five times.  So hence, she deserved the punishment as well. 

Determined not to let this lesson go by, I insisted that not all things are created equal and she would not, in fact, be receiving punishment.  It may be the first time in the history of mankind that a parent yelled, “When we get home you are NOT getting a spanking and that’s final!  I don’t want to hear another word about it!”

However, this did not go well and before the short ride was terminated, my daughter managed to drum up all sorts of invectives in her creative, if nothing else, attempts to secure said punishment. 

So in my great motherly wisdom (new mothers pay careful attention here, for this is important), I pronounced, “Fine.  You will get your mouth washed out with soap instead!”  So there.  Pffft.  (Imagine my tongue sticking out and a not so lady like noise issuing forth).

We got home and my daughter insisted her punishment be enacted immediately.  I did not relish the thought of such an encounter so I did the only thing I could.  I punted. 

“We’ll do it when your father gets home.”  So there, again.

This did not meet with my daughter’s approval and her “fairness meter” was  dropping to dangerously low levels.  I, however, did not give in.  I tuned out her pleading, ranting and raving and simply let the issue go.  At last, she was quiet.  I breathed deeply, enjoying the fruits of my successful mothering skills.  Until my son enlightened me.  Peering cautiously around the corner, he whispered and alas, the enlightenment began.

“Mom!  Molly is sitting outside her door with a bar of soap in her mouth!”

Blank. That is exactly how I felt at his words.  Blank.

“What?”  At last, my voice seemed to have arrived, albeit tardy, to the conversation.

“She’s just sitting there.  With a bar of soap sticking out of her mouth!”

And as if by magic, he produced the object of our discussion.  There she stood in all her glory, proudly displaying a full bar of soap, turning this way and that so I could see it from every vantage point. 

I was furious.  And as I informed her in my most steely, mama-is-PISSED voice, “get back to your room!” I reached for the phone to call my husband.  Someone was going to pay for this outrage.  I don’t know who or why but it just felt good to think that.  And unfortunately, the next thought was to dial my husband’s number.  Go figure.  Anyway, as I told him what was going on, he began to chuckle, then he laughed and before the story was finished, it was an outright guffaw.

Why was he laughing?  This was serious business!  Our daughter was punishing HERSELF!  As he was wiping the tears from his eyes (well, I imagined that part but it adds great depth to the story), he said the one thing I did not want to hear.

“You have got to write this story down.  This is one of the best kids stories ever!”

I could not go near a computer at that moment.  I was not certain my innocent computer would not suffer mightily at my shaking hands.  Deep down, however, I knew he had a point.  So a day has passed and all is well in the Snell battleground.  And as I sit here writing this, I too am chuckling with laughter at the memory.

From my own vantage point, it seemed as if my daughter and I were both fighting to stay on top of the soap box.

The jury is still out on who won.

I can’t fathom how people are surviving buying houses that are so expensive when they are coming in from other states where the market is, well, normal.  Our friends from Dallas were in total sticker shock when they moved back here.  They had no idea the prices had so drastically increased in the 3 years since they moved.  They’re used to it now and are hoping their contract finalizes in a week or so and then they too will be moving out of limbo-land into happy land.

If all goes well, we will be settled in our new home before Father’s Day.  Here’s a picture of our new place.  Now that we’ve sold our house, I’m really starting to get a bit excited. 

The people who bought our house here are also fantastic and it is just amazing to me that no matter how much I screw up as a believer, no matter how little I seek God’s direction in my life, no matter how much I think I can take care of business on my own, God just keeps on working and doing His thing.  I’m just this bystander, or better yet, hanger on. I have this image in my mind of a Very Large Man playing chess, moving pieces accordingly, and winning every time.  I’m a spec of dust on one of those pieces.  And all I can see is the little square that my piece is sitting upon.  Good thing God sees it all.  I’d never make it out of square one if things were truly left up to me.

And in the meantime, our house is sold.