Tuesday, November 28, 2006

Get Your Scrubs On


Scrubs.

That's it.

That's the solution.

When I see someone in scrubs I immediately think...

Wow.

That's a working person.

They have clipboards.

They save lives.

Even if they are just saving the lives of dogs with exposed hiney holes...the fact remains...

They save lives.

What they do matters.

Scrub wearers cure people of parasites that have ruined their lives forever...GO Dr. Bacak!

Scrub sporters gave me epidurals just when I was positive I was about to meet Jesus instead of my new baby.

Aaron says that I practically told the anesthesiologist that I loved him and wanted to have HIS baby when the wonderful man in scrubs was hooking me up to the ziplock bag of heavenly liquid.

I'm sure I did, since that was in fact what I was thinking, just not aware my mouth was pulling a Benedict Arnold on my mind.

People in scrubs.

They do good things.

And, no matter where they go, or what they do, people in scrubs look...

Comfortable

Accomplished

Smart

Cool

Good in tennis shoes

These are all very good things.

I love all those things.

While I was blow drying my hair today, I thought...

I adore scrubs...the show and the clothing.

I love the show because it is the most accurate representation of how my mind works every moment of every day....half reality...half made-up comedy.

I love the show because it's like watching Josh Langston on TV.

I love the show because the African American version of Aaron's brother is right before my very eyes.

I love scrubs, the clothes, because you can be dirty, and people think it's awesome...not slovenly.

Blood on your scrubs is like a war wound.

If someone walked into any social gathering and had some throw up on their scrubs, I am not kidding, I am almost 100% positive, my first reaction would be, "Cool!"

I do not get that sort of reaction as a mom when someone points out to me that I have crusted boogers on my shoulder.

How is this fair?

Are you feeling the injustice?

Are you seeing why we need to start a mom's scrub wearing revolution?

Wearing scrubs, our children could blow their noses on us all day long. Our kids could fall out of forts and then bury their bleeding nostrils into our shirts. Our kids could go outside, get all muddy and then jump in an ant bed and we could pick them up, get covered in mud and ants ourselves...and then, on the way back to the house, they could pull their famous trick of being able to pee everywhere but in the diaper they are wearing...

ALL of those things could happen and you know what?

We would NEVER have to change our clothes.

Confetti should be shooting in the air and we should all be blowing those gecko tongue things right now.

This is getting me so excited.

If having bodily excretions on your shirt that you show off instead of hide isn't reason enough for wearing scrubs....then how about this one...

If you wear scrubs, you are practically wearing socially acceptable pajamas.

Who wouldn't want to do that?

So, here's my new idea.

I want to wear scrubs too.

I mean, come on....let's all face it...

Being a mom and being a medical doctor are practically the same thing.

I'm on call 24/7.

People throw up on me.

People wipe their nose on me.

Without patients, I mean patience I can't do what I do.

I have to figure out what is wrong with people all day long.

No less than 20 times a day I walk into a room where my children are doing something insane and say, "What is WRONG with you?"

See...I'm asking questions.

I'm diagnosing.

I'm doing things.

I'm House in my house.

We have tools in drawers that no one else gets to play with.

Maybe not gynecological ones or thermometer strips...but can openers and Ronco knives and grown up scissors.

Being a mom is exactly like being a nurse.

We nurse.

We disinfect.

We remove things from noses and ears and other body parts.

We deal with bodily excretions AND vacuum all at the same time.

"I will prescribe regimens for the good of my patients according to my ability and my judgment and never do harm to anyone. To please no one will I prescribe a deadly drug nor give advice which may cause his death."


Moms practically live the Hippocratic Oath.

No matter how much my kids want to drink the chemicals under the sink...I don't let them.

Ever.

See?

I should get scrubs for that.

And I never tell my kids to do a skateboard trick off the couch and break their collar bone. They do that on their own, but I don't advise them to do that. Instead, I say, "When you get back from the emergency room, I'm spanking you for what you just did...just so you know."

I should get scrubs!

Last night, I went to a baby shower.

At about 5 p.m. I changed out of my gym clothes (my unrespected uniform every day) and put on cute clothes.

Cute clothes...at 5 p.m.

I had to change because I couldn't go to a baby shower wearing my cut off gym pants and my Super Summer shirt.

People would think....look at her...what a slob...what does she do all day?

But, Lisa came to the shower last night in scrubs.

Scrubs.

And it was so cute.

And I thought lovely things about her.

And so did everyone else.

Why?

Because Lisa has been saving lives at work all day (and reading my blog).

She is doing something that matters.

We were just thankful she could pause from her super hero, scrub wearing existence to come to a baby shower.

Her....her scrubs...and her tennis shoes.

If you wear scrubs, you have a permission slip from society to be comfortable and hard working...yet respected all at the same time.

Women....moms...let's get us some.

Our profession needs these.

Let's wear them proudly.

With our tennis shoes.

With our hair in pony tales.

With very little make up on because in scrubs, everyone will know...we're too busy saving the next generation to worry about something as trivial as eye liner.

No one cares if their doctor took the time to apply mascara...unless you see Dr. Bacak.

No one cares what doctors or nurses look like because they are wearing scrubs.

Scrubs mean you do things.

We do things.

I'm getting some.

Now, where do you get them?

And do you have to answer any anatomy questions before you purchase them?

Because if so, I'll need to brush up on my skills.

Right now, my anatomy vocabulary is pretty much limited to boody, nose, wee-wee, tummy and chi-chi's.

Friday, November 24, 2006

Put Another Dime in the Jukebox Baby

30

It’s haunted me.

And yet…it’s here.

Face to face we meet.

Hello 30.

You aren’t as frightening up close.

You’re almost tolerable.

30

It doesn’t seem young.

But it doesn’t seem old.

It just seems like more.

Look at the difference between 2 and 3.

Less complex.

Less torn.

Less rigid.

Yet more grounded.

More embracing.


More all the same direction.

More confident in what is right,
with out having to be so confident in me.


30 is a relief.

It’s like I’ve been there, done that, come back home to reevaluate, sort…keep, toss…put some things in frames on shelves, and yet some things…some things go back in the drawer.

Maybe my 40’s will explain those things.

30 means I’ve found a spot that’s mine.

I'm a small town's down town.

A mixture of the past, that's so meaningful, that can't be recreated......and the new...so bright...so promising.

30 is like main street.

The view is good from this corner.

Either way I look I see how far I’ve come, or how much further there is to go.

I see I'm not alone.

My life is a busy road. Full of animation and profound connection.

The street of my life is adorned with precious people.

Personalities that bring me great comfort and joy.

I'm at home in their lives.

I've been taken from the loud, crunchy plastic pot and planted in the yard of their souls...where it's ok to be quiet...to just be.

It’s nice.

I think I like 30.

It feels honest.

Real.

Comfortable.

There are so many things I care so deeply about, and so many more things I used to care about but now couldn’t care less.

There are so many things I don't want anymore...and a few I want so badly it hurts.

I want the days to stop going by so quickly.

In the blustery wind of today, I want to reach out...grab my children, make it all stop..just stop...and look deep into who they are, imprinting the depths of them with my love.

So they never forget. So they never wonder if they are wonderful.

I want more ways to show Aaron how much I love him. How much just him inhaling and exhaling next to me in my bed means to me. How much the steady rhythm, the perfect beat of his life tames me...teaches me...makes me sane.

30

It feels nice to focus.

Forget the fickle.

Dump out the dumb.

A lot happens in 30 years.

A lot of growing.

A lot of stretching.

A lot of getting lost and getting found.

A lot of heat that’s done a lot of unfortunate things to the outside of my body…but something breath taking to my insides.

I took a good look at myself in the mirror just now.

It’s true. My beauty is fading.

Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the LORD is to be praised. Proverbs 31:30

There are lines now in what once were smooth places.

My skin looks sort of heavy...like it's tired of sucking in to fool people.

The outside of me is changing.

30 means transformation.

30 means caring less about my outsides.

Anyone with enough time and money can have nice outsides.

Don't misunderstand.

As long as I have time, Kirby and a gym membership, I will go down fighting.

Wrinkles and sags are in for the fight of their life.

I will not surrender with out kicking and screaming all the way.

It's just...I know it's not going to last, so my focus begins to shift...from outdoor projects to inside ones.

Doing the hard work of letting the sword have greater access to my guts, my core, the cave of me...giving God permission to redecorate my interior...

Move my furniture around to suit Him...

Alter the color...

Freshen up a bit...make my breath fruity...

Sort through me and decide what stays...what goes...

That takes courage...and faith.

One day efforts to spruce up my landscaping will be in vain.

There are some things lip gloss cannot fix.

So after the smoke from my glamour fire flees, I want to find wisdom here.

Kindness.

Gentleness.

Love.

I want to be valuable all the days of my life.

So that even though the outside is withering, the inside is becoming even more new.

More radiant.

Wise.

Tested.

Approved.

Hello 30.

Let’s be friends.



Speaking of friends…

I have sweet ones.

They had me a surprise party.

It wasn't a surprise, but that’s ok.

We all knew it was best I found out.

I hate surprises.

My mind needs time to think.

Time to think all the things it wants to think.

By the time I actually arrive in a place,
I’ve already wandered it in my mind.


I already know the details.

In my mind, I wrote what I’m writing right now, yesterday.

It’s just how my brain works.

I enjoyed the party because I knew about it…
and because it was fantastic.


It was 80’s themed.

Fun.

We busted out our leggings, side ponies and blue eye shadow.

We walked like an Egyptian and played Atari.

Jenn had “I love 1976” t-shirts made.


Hysterical.

My girlfriends got me a Chi. The “bling” edition.

I feel like a movie star.

In my thirties, I will have straight, shiny hair.

I love you people.

Thank you for making my 30th birthday funny.

I had more laughs in reality than I did in
my make believe party in my mind.


That says something.

And now…for your enjoyment…

My party…my friends…80’s style


I love these girls!
Judy looked just like Madonna.
Kirby and her belly in leggings.
Lynsey and my new NIECE in shoulder pads.
Lynsey did the "hammer" pregnant,
and she was still awesome.

My Ashawe, who wore leggins just for me.
She and Lynsey hip-hop danced.
Lots of screaming. So funny.

Rusty being a goober.
He was our fantastic DJ for the night.

Jenn with her sweater arms that doubled as leg warmers.
Clever. Very clever.



Sweet friend with high hair!

How cool is Mike in his sweat pants?
And do you see Ashley's jelly bracelets?


80's wanna-bes.
But this proves...Kirby could be cute in ANY time period.
We decided that Charlie looked like the preppy 80's friend
who would have supplied the drugs for the party.

Eric and Wendy were so funny.
I want this to be Eric's real hair.
And I want him to flick it around like he did at the party. All in favor?


Tamara made my cool MTV cake!
I ate the Joan Jett piece.


My brother, the boy off Goonies, talking to 80's Matt.

Here is the most frightening thing about my party:

Practically all the clothes were bought at modern-day stores. NOT resale shops.

Like my 30's, the 80's haunting is over.

The 80's are here.

Go celebrate by putting on some leggings.

And listening to MC Hammer.

But don't do cocaine at a party hosted by your rich friend.

That's not cool in any decade.

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

A Riddle

What do you get when you cross a dad, some kids and a leaf blower?


A scary face

dry eyes


and a hole in your stomach

And this picture was just so cute, I had to put it on here.

Monday, November 20, 2006

On the Road Again


It’s not new news that I hate being in the car.

Especially being in it for any length of time.

And yet….here we go…a riding. A long ways away.

I’ve been praying for days.

I hate it that it takes such small things like long car rides for me to see that I still have so much stuff stuck to me in need of sloughing.

Scrubbing.

Surrendering.

In order to get through this ride, I had to lie in bed one night and figure out what it is exactly that makes me such a brat inside a vehicle.

What is it?

I made a mental list.

Issue Number One: Aaron’s driving.

Reading through the entire Bible and the fact that Aaron is not in a wreck every time I’m not in the car with him are equal reasons why I know, beyond a doubt, that God does in fact exist.

Aaron treats red lights with an “as needed” mentality.

If no one is coming, but the light is red, why stop?

He goes right on red.

And left on red. But not on purpose. He's not a rebel. He's just singing. Really.

And he drives so close to other people I can practically tell what time it is…on their clock…in their car.

Music and beverages are the most important elements of any trip that includes Aaron.

Any time we get in a car, whether it’s to drive for a decade or drive around the block, Aaron must have a drink, and he must put in new CD’s. Really.

And, my sweet Aaron…he’s not much into planning ahead.

Nope.

We will leave to go on a long trip.

We will immediately stop AT A GAS STATION and get him a drink.

See. I told you. Beverage. Priority.

Then, about 45 minutes later, after the kids have finally fallen asleep, the car is quiet, the muscle spasm in my shoulders I have acquired from looking back over my seat and handing toys, pacifiers, blankets, pens, paper and Darth Maul to little boys has subsided…that’s when Aaron says, “Man, we’re almost out of gas.”

Then we stop and get gas at a gas station that resides only 30 or so miles from the other gas station where we got his coke. All the kids wake up and are demonic or eeyoric the remainder of the trip.

This makes me stare at Aaron with my angry eyes and throw Attacktics at my kids instead of handing them over nicely.

And, Aaron hates anything that jingles in the car.

He hates anything that taps or rubs against something else.

One time he made me crawl over three sleeping children, risk waking them so that I could silence the little metal zip (made up name for the hand piece on the zipper) that was tapping up against the actual zipper in the very back of our vehicle.

How come I have to firmly tap him to make him notice that Hayden is in the backseat imitating a scratched record saying, “Daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, you know what daddy, guess what daddy, daddy, daddy” but a tapping zipper cuts right to his central nervous system?

Another strange phenomenon about my husband is that he feels he must go AT LEAST the speed limit no matter what.

No weather condition can alter his driving speed.

If the sign says 70, we must go 70…even if we are driving through a hurricane...or through someone else's car.

I am convinced that Aaron gets a slight case of road rage in traffic, not because we are having to patiently wait…patiently waiting is one of Aaron’s gifts in most situations. I think he’s perturbed that somehow, backed up traffic is breaking the rules. Have any of you ever seen Aaron perturbed? Probably not. It's almost precious. It's so not like him, it causes me to laugh at him. Aaron being upset about anything is such a rare event, it should be announced on the news, and we should all have to view his irritation through a specially-made box. Isn't he wonderful?

But, in the car, something in him snaps and goes berserk (berserk for Aaron means he starts breathing a little louder). If we are stopped on a road in front of a sign that clearly says “Speed Limit 55 miles per hour” he cannot take it. We can't be stopped. The sign says for us to go 55. We must mind. He's like Monk.

My rule following husband.

To Aaron, rules were made to be followed…at all costs…even at the cost of death, or becoming incarcerated.

How ironic.

So, how do I solve a problem like my husband?

I try to remember to be thankful.  It's hard, but I'm asking God to help me try.

I have a super husband...being in the car doesn't really change that.

So, instead of being annoyed at Aaron, I need to be thankful for him.

When he changes the CD for the 553 time, instead of jumping out of the car, I can say, “Thank you God that Aaron doesn’t have cancer or a hairy back.”

When he tries to give the car in front of us an Expedition Enema, instead of irritably saying, “PANTS AARON” and then exhaling loudly, I can say, “Thank you God that our lives are in your hands. You haven’t ever let Aaron kill us yet, which I know takes divine intervention...overtime on your part, God so thank you…thank you that our car trips are proof that miracles do still happen every time Aaron gets behind the wheel of a car.”

Issue Number Two: My kids

Normally, I love my kids.

I love being with them.

I love talking to them.

I love listening to them.

I love watching them play with each other.

None of that applies for some reason once we get in the car.

Once we’re in the car, I find myself looking back at the rows of children and car seats and thinking, “HOLY COW...where did all these kids come from?”

It’s terrifying.  There's so many of them.

So why does "holy cow" only hit me in the car?

Those same bunches of mouths, arms and legs walk around my house every single day and they don't make me want to hyperventilate.  They make me tired, but they don't make me certifiably insane.

So what’s my deal?

After a few nights of dreading the car...I know what it is...and I hate it.

Serving them becomes too much.

Car seated up, seat belted in, they can do NOTHING for themselves.

Nothing.

In the car, even my big kids become like newborns. 4 Newborns in a car for hours...AHHHHH!

Being a mom is a wonderfully, tireless job.

I serve my children all day long.

God has taught me so much by being a mother.

No longer do I dictate my day. They do.

No longer do I have “me time.” My time is their time. I’m on call 24/7.

And just when I think God has emptied me of me so much…taught me how to give of myself sacrificially to love them and care for them…

He puts me in the car for hours.

He shows me how far I have to go…further than our physical destination, for sure.

They drop a cup. They can't get it. I need to get it for them.

They need a snack. They can't get one. I unbuckle, turn around and dispense.

They cry. They can't come to me. I crawl over the seat to get to them.

They need to go to the bathroom, they can't go on their own. We pull over, get out and stand there with them (a brilliant perk to being the mother of boys is that anywhere there is ground…there’s an empty bladder.)

They need a blankie. It is out of reach for them. I bend over and find it.

They need a new movie. They are helpless. I move the TV, find a tape, rewind, fast-forward, push start.

If they are hungry, tired, cold, hot, uncomfortable, lonely, hurt, full of liquid, messy or wet they can not remedy the situation on their own.

They need me.

They need my help.

They need me to serve them.

And, with Aaron’s driving skills in mind, every single time, before I unbuckle and bolt across the seat, I feel the need to say to him, “Honey, please don’t kill me.”

Aaron always says, “I haven’t yet.” Yet? He thinks that comforts me.

And so I get tired. I get cranky.

I throw a silent, spastic fit in the front seat, at some point of every trip.

Really.

I have a short seizure of irritation.

And Aaron just looks at me with his head turned to one side and then shakes his head.

That poor man.

He’s married to a wife with a Philippians 2 deficiency.

Don’t be selfish; don’t try to impress others. Be humble, thinking of others as better than yourselves.

Lord, help me care more about their needs than I do about mine…even though when a mere car seat is involved, their needs automatically quadruple.

Don’t look out only for your own interests, but take an interest in others, too. You must have the same attitude that Christ Jesus had. Though he was God, he did not think of equality with God as something to cling to. Instead, he gave up his divine privileges

If He can serve me to the cross, surely I can serve my family in the car.

Sunday, November 05, 2006

When Pumpkins Go Bad


I think Aaron and I are having an official stand off.

Who should have to pick our moldy, imploded, old-man-pumpkin up and carry him to the trashcan?

Our stand off has never been spoken out loud.

I’m sure neither of us want to admit that we’re secretly standing our ground.

To admit that would mean we were also admitting we are stupid.
Maybe the pumpkin will just break down, right before our very eyes...turn to pumpkin goo...become one with the porch, and this will all be over.

Maybe one day we'll grow up.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

Hendrick Halloween



It seems that Halloween is a lot like Pig Pen. A cloud of views, opinions, history, and arguments seem to surround it. Speaking of Pig Pen, It's the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown did NOT come on TV this year. What is this world coming to? Huh?

So...back to the Halloween big-hoopin' deal...

All I know is Halloween is a holiday where you get to walk up to perfect stranger’s doors, say hello, hold open a bag…and they give you CHOCOLATE.

It might be poisoned...but it's CHOCOLATE. I'll take my chances.

Wherever people are handing out possibly poisoned chocolate, you can count on the Hendricks to be there.

We went over to the Bacak’s to take the kids street walking
.

And this is BEFORE they have had any candy.
Again, we should have stuck some glow sticks on these guys.
And I stuck Danny in camo.
What is wrong with me?
I have so much to learn.

We invited Allen and Kendra to Jenn and Rusty’s house…mainly so we could see Taylor in her Pebbles costume.


We also got to see the Bacak’s hope group. There were so many cute costumes, I wish I had taken a picture of all of them…but here are a couple…

Very serious superheroes, because all superheroes should be serious.
Really. They must.

Dr. Jodi, Medicine Woman.

My favorite part of the night was that every time my kids knocked on a door they said, “Trunk or Treat!”

How funny!

That morning, I tried to teach them the traditional trick-or-treat chant.

While we were eating our Halloween cereal (cereal with lots of candy in it) I told them I was going to teach them what you say when you go trick-or-treating.

My kids were paying close attention…soaking in every tidbit of information I could give them about this myth called trick-or-treating. They were intently listening, all eyes were on me while I told them how this system of candy on demand works. You would have thought I was teaching them how to slay a dragon they were so frightened, amazed and amused. By the look on their faces you could tell they thought that their very lives depended on how well they performed this new daring feat of door-to-door treating. This was serious business.

I said… “When you walk up to the door, you say, “Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat.”

Hayden kind of laughed for a moment, then got silent…and Anson just stared at me…then calmly he said…


“Mom, I don’t think we should say that, it’s really rude.”

I said… “Oh. I guess it is!”

They were very disappointed in me!

The kids looked so cute in their costumes.

Anson wanted to be a spy.

We collected cheap spy toys…black clothing…the works.

By the time we got to the Bacak’s he had decided it would be so much more funny if he was just the color black for Halloween…so that’s what he told everyone he was…the color black
.

Hayden was…well…the most normal looking I have seen him since birth. My child that wears goggles, capes, Mardi Gras necklaces, 4 belts and carries a pocket full of straws (magic wands) to the grocery store wanted to be a police man.

A policeman?

I could not believe it.

I said, “A policeman with super powers?”

He said, “No. A policeman with…handcuffs.”

While other kids looked so festive, Hayden looked like he wasn’t participating in Halloween. I felt like we were in an alter universe. My child who lives each day as though it were Halloween was hands-down the plainest looking child we saw all night. I hardly recognized him.

He has wanted to be a policeman for about a month. He pretends like he is one every single day.

He writes tickets and says, “Stop in the name of the law!”

He has wanted handcuffs since August.

He finally made do with some mason jar rings.

They were not attached, but he could put you under arrest with them, so he was happy.

I bought him a policeman set for Halloween to go with his police clothes. I gave him his real-life, pretend, plastic handcuffs when he woke up from his afternoon nap. I have never seen such joy.

He’s been a jail junky lately.

We’ll be driving around town and he will start asking me 95 questions, in machine-gun fashion about prison.

“If you run over someone with our car, mom, will you go to jail?”

“If you break a window, will you go to jail?”

“If you say a bad word, mom, will you go to jail?”

“If you jump out of our house and make a hole in our roof, will you go to jail?”

According to Hayden, people in jail get "locked" and have to sleep all day.

He is terrified of going there.

Ashton wanted to be a “Big Truck” for Halloween.

This means he wanted to be an 18 Wheeler. He often sleeps with one at night.

I was completely out on this costume.

I had no idea how to do this and still have him mobile for our night of free candy gathering.

So, I convinced him to be a road
.


He was down with that.

Of course, he filled his trick-or-treat bucket up with cars to take with him, so there was not much room for candy.

Danny was an army man.


He’s not really the age where he thinks having anything weird on him is fun. He thinks you put capes and hats on him just so he can take them back off...and you can put them back on him again.

He and Ashton would explode with excitement at each door as someone handed them candy. Ashton would run back down the drive way shouting… “CANDY!”

Danny was not sure why we were not going into any of these nice people’s homes. He was very confused. He kept looking at us like, “We do usually go in after we knock and they open the door, right?” We had to constantly call him out of people’s foyers.

As soon as he walked back from a front-door candy machine, he would start eating his candy…and eat it until we got to the next door.

Then he would throw his “old” piece of candy in their yard and get his new piece. I mean, come on…that other piece of candy was “so next door.”

I was a hippy and Aaron made me gag.




He was Joe Dirt.

Not only did he work very hard to look like Joe Dirt, he was also constantly quoting lines from the movie.

If someone at the Bacak’s house had dressed up like a lawyer for Halloween, I might have divorced Joe Dirt right there on the spot.

I could barely make eye contact with Aaron he was so gross.

He loved his nasty self though.

He got dressed before the kids woke up from their naps. When Aaron went to wake Ashton up from his nap (he is fond of sleep) Ashton opened his little eyes, looked at his Joe Dirt dad and said, “Daddy…no.”

Children are so honest…and so are wives…but that didn’t make our determined Daddy change his clothes!

So Halloween was a hit.

On the way home, I decided I like this holiday.

I’m sorry.

Maybe I’m going to hell, but it seems so much easier…so much simpler to understand and to grasp.

I think it’s easier to spot Halloween’s evil…the black…the darkness…the death…the terrifying than it is for them to spot the evil on display during Christmas.