The Look

During Jr. High and High school, my alarm clock would go off every morning at 4:45 a.m. My sisters and I played sports throughout the year, so in order to fit in piano practice, which would have been impossible after school, we would pile into the car at 5:30 a.m. and make our way to the church where my father was pastor. Each of us took a piano around the building, we would practice for an hour, and then head off to school.

There were a few constants on these horrifically early mornings: First, my alarm always went off, and I would always stay in bed. The alarm was really useless, considering it was my father who did the actual waking up. Second, my father made my bed. Yes, this was a constant. I didn’t make a bed until my first day of college. At least I did it then.

Third, I made myself a nutritionally, satisfying breakfast each morning which included two strawberry pop tarts. If we were out of pop tarts, which was rare, dad would grab at the opportunity to give us his own version of a nutritionally, satisfying breakfast. He’d bring us Dunkin' Donuts.

Indeed, for six years, none of these morning rituals changed. But there was one more practice that occurred each morning during our early morning drive to the church. Dad would always turn down the radio, tuned into KMOX, and begin praying. It was never a rote prayer, but there was one part of his prayer that was the same each and every morning. Dad would pray for our future spouses.

Now that I have three children of my own, I have a new understanding for why Dad prayed for these unknown men so consistently. And I have become oddly suspicious, due to my own parental perspective, as to whether those prayers were intended not only for his daughters, but for the well being of the men who would spend the rest of their lives us.

My oldest daughter is now eight. It was exactly at her age when I developed my first crush. Like some kids, I got so nervous around this young man that instead of talking to him, I just ignored him. About half way through the school year, however, my teacher switched our desks around and low and behold….prince charming was placed in the desk right in front of me.

I knew this would be my best chance at actually talking to him. But, for the first week of our new seating arrangement, he was gone on vacation. I lamented the whole week, but I also came up with a plan. My plan was bold and well thought out. My plan was to speak to my crush.

The day he returned I tried on several occasions to make my first move, but, of course, the teacher kept getting in the way. Since I had a “negative” on my report card when it came to paying attention in class, I knew I had little chance of slipping in a quick conversation without getting chastised. So, I patiently waited until the appropriate time. Just before the teacher rang the lunch bell, I began feeling the butterflies. I knew this was it. My time had come.

When the bell finally rang, I tapped the boy on his shoulder. He turned around and looked at me with zero anticipation. And then I finally spoke to him. “So, you went on vacation with your family?”

“Yep,” still his lunch was clearly more appealing than me.

“Um, you’re really tan.”

“Thanks.”

“So, was it sunny?” The thing is, I knew as soon as the sentence came out that I had put the nail in my coffin. His groupies, however, just confirmed the end of my prince charming pursuit with their jokes: “No, it was totally rainy and snowy and that’s how he got so tan.” And here lies another constant: Where there are boys, there is immaturity.

Granted, I threw the pitch and deserved what came to me, but I never planned out another conversation with a boy – ever again.

My sisters and I didn’t date a lot. In fact, I was told by a fellow classmate that we probably would never get asked on a date because our father was a pastor. I didn’t understand this until the first time I brought a boy to the house.

My father’s interest was not in how polite they were or in how sweet they appeared to be. No, my Dad’s first interest was, of course, whether or not they were a christian. But it did not end there. The second point of interest was whether or not they knew the five points of Calvinism. And last, but certainly not least, he was over ambitious about finding out their Eschatological view. If a boy didn't know what that meant, my dad would suggest that we talk about it in the car. It was always my job to convert them to historical Pre-Millennialism.

And I wonder why we didn’t date a lot.

But for many reasons, it mattered to me what my parents thought about potential relationships. On one occasion, I stood at the front door saying good-bye to a date that I knew my parents didn't like so much. So when he leaned in for what would have been my first kiss, I panicked. He kept leaning forward, eyes shut, and I did the only thing I could think of. I ducked.

Yes, I ducked. And yes, it was awkward, and we spoke very little after the front door experience. I suppose there just wasn’t much to say.

In fact, the few dates I brought home never really got much interest from my parents. I think, whether I would admit it or not, I was always waiting for that certain smile from my dad. That look that said, “Yep, Katie, this is the one.”

When I was twenty, I finally got the “look." And it was the only time it mattered. With Chris, I got that certain smile from my father that I had been waiting for. So after twenty years, many awkward moments, and a lot of questioning and wondering, our prayers were answered, and in such a beautiful way.

Last Friday I visited Ella at school for her birthday. When lunch was over, I bent down to kiss her good-bye and noticed that she crying quite freely. This was unusual for her, so I took a moment to talk through why she was so upset. She explained that she didn’t want me to leave; she wanted to go home with me.

I hugged her and sent her back to the line. This is about as sympathetic as I get when there’s only two hours of school left. I was pretty sure the tears were because of a spelling test that afternoon and not so much about the need for her mother's embrace.

I watched as Ella walked in line with every girl in her class surrounding her, hugging her, and rubbing her back. I laughed at the predictable scene. And here lies another constant: where there are girls, there will be drama.

It was then that I felt a little tap on my back. I turned and there stood a fellow classmate of Ella’s - a cute red- headed boy. He spoke to me with total and complete confidence:

“Are you Ella’s mom?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I just want to let you know that she’ll be just fine. This kind of thing happens all the time. In fact, I’ve experience this type of situation from time to time.”

His words were so misplaced. I felt like they should have been coming from a teacher, so, for a second, I had to hold in a laugh. “Well, thanks for letting me know.”

“No problem. Yeah, it’s definitely happened to me before. I cried and I cried. But you know, Mrs. Polski, you just have to trust Jesus. And you have to believe that in the end, Ella is going to be just fine.”

He looked away from me for a second but then kept going, which I was actually hoping for. It was a perfect counseling moment…and I embraced every one of his eight year old words.

“OK, so we’ve just finished lunch now. I’d say by the end of recess she’ll be over it. She won’t even remember that you’re gone. Don’t worry. Really, you can go ahead. I’ll keep my eye on her.”

Ella's not into boys yet, but if this conversation occurred with red-head ten or fifteen years from now? Well, I just may have given Ella the "Look." Until then, I will constantly be praying.

"Long List" Trip to Walmart

I don't like going to Walmart. I'm thankful we have such a place, don't get me wrong, but I don't wake up looking forward to this kind of outing...especially when my list is long.

I've tried the "long list" trips with all three kids and it's always very interesting, to say the least. But a mom's got to do what a mom's got to do. It's just too bad that long trips to Walmart and three restless kids don't go hand in hand.

Yesterday morning, in a somewhat usual fashion, I spent a few minutes planning out my day. A "long list" trip to Walmart was included in that plan...with all three children. Half way through my morning, however, I realized that if I diverged slightly from my well thought out plan, I just might have enough time to get to Walmart with only Lily. When I realized my new found plan would work, I swept Lily up, Pj's and all, and we rushed off to get done what needed to be done.

I felt optimistic at this point. In fact, I felt even down right happy. I was at Walmart with only one of my children. Even though it was a "long list" trip, it would be easy; I was certain of that.

We started our "long list" journey on the far side of the store - the side with all the toys. I had to. At the top of my list was "five girl's birthday presents." Two of them were for my own girls who share a birthday in the same week. Until she knows better, poor Lily doesn't get much more than a can of play-doh.

Maybe I'm one in a million, mom's you can attest, but finding cheap but decent birthday presents is not an easy task - especially when looking for five of them. We spent close to thirty minutes in the toy section, and this was only the first thing on my list. Finally, only partially satisfied with the various gifts, I made my way out of the toy section, but made one huge mistake.

Lily is obsessed with dolls. It's somewhat humorous, maybe a little frightening, that at the age of two, she lives vicariously through them. If she's crying, she says the baby's crying. If she's hungry, she brings me the baby and tells me the babies hungry. If she has a dirty diaper, so does the baby and so on and so forth. So I thought nothing of the particular aisle I turned into, until I heard Lily screaming, "my babies, my babies!" I stopped, another mistake, and noticed that the aisle I chose to use for my departure was filled with baby dolls.

I couldn't do it. I'm usually a softy in situations like these, especially when my children's wants coincide with my sanity, but with the prospect of purchasing five other presents, I wasn't about to throw another doll into the mix. So I hurried on, and that's when the demon entered my daughter's body.

She was not strapped into the cart, so within seconds, her body was hanging over the front handle. It took all my force to pull her back, push her down, and buckle her in. But that was not the end of it. Every once in a while, these demons decide to pay this sweet little girl a visit, and when they do, her body is completely taken over. The high pitched squealing, the drooling, the uncontrollable rage. Some parents call these temper tantrums. I'm convinced otherwise.

I walked down the cleaning aisle looking at the next five items on my list. I tried to ignore the possessed girl in the cart infront of me, but when the kicking started, I realized it was going to be difficult to push the cart, so I grabbed the first thing I saw: a bottle of dish washing detergent. It was as if that bottle was an exorcist itself. Lily began to calm down. She was intrigued, and for whatever reason, it kept her entertained, and I could move on to the next item on my long list.

I'm not entirely sure how long she was holding the bottle after figuring out how to open it. I never noticed. I never thought she would get it open. I've made this kind of mistake before. Several months back, I gave Lily a bottle of nail polish to play with simply so that I could get dressed. Of course, the bottle was closed, but my wise child, Ella, came running into the bathroom informing me that Lily was holding a bottle of nail polish. The conversation went like this:

"Mom, Lily has a bottle of nail polish! We need to get it from her!"

I responded calmly and confidently, "Ella, honey, I know, but mommy needs to get ready and it's keeping her happy. Besides she can't get it open."

"OK, but I'm not really sure a one year old should have a bottle of nail polish." I walked out of the bathroom with my hand on Ella's back, thinking how sweet it is that she's so conscientious. It didn't take long to see the red trail. I screamed for help with the thought that my baby girl was bleeding.

"Mom," Ella said, calmly as can be, "she opened the nail polish."

So no, this isn't the first time I've made a stupid decision in giving my child something in order to hold on to my sanity, but it may be the last. I heard a slight gag, which is what caught my attention. Lily's eyes were squinting and then she opened her mouth. I am not exaggerating when I say that bubbles began to come out. At first, I admit, I started laughing at the sight of bubbles flying out of my child's mouth. I thought she might float up along with them.

But then I looked at the bottle. Realizing how much she drank, I turned the bottle over. I didn't have to read much. One word glared at me: "Toxic." I began to panic. No one else was in the aisle at the time. So, not knowing what else to do, I went with my instinct. I took my finger and stuck it down my daughter's throat.

It worked. The problem was that she kept throwing up and throwing up and throwing up. I knew she had thrown up enough to get the soap out, so I began pushing the cart toward the paper towel aisle. I smiled at folks as I passed because I wasn't sure what else to do. A few glanced at me then at my daughter who sat in the front throwing up on herself.

This aisle was also empty. I tore open a roll of paper towels and began cleaning up what I could. I put the half used roll in the back of my cart, wishing that it was full with my "long list" items, and put the wad of vomit covered paper towels and clothes in the front of the cart - there were no trash cans in sight. Within a minute after throwing up, Lily was fine. She wanted the soap bottle again. When I said no, there were red flags waving, warning me of another posesssion. I was afraid she would start throwing up again. I knew I couldn't handle that, so with nothing on but a diaper, I let her out of the cart.

I felt like one of "those" people. The ones who don't know that their zipper is down, but everyone sees it. The ones who have toilet paper stuck to the back of their shoe, but are clueless. Those people who have something monstrous in their teeth, but no one tells them. The difference, however, was that I knew. I knew I stood out. I knew their were glaring eyes. I knew I had a naked daughter walking through Walmart, smelling like puke.

We made our way to the baby clothes. It took a while to find an outfit because my child was not contained. She thought it would be more fun to play hide and seek. I was not enjoying the game. I finally clothed her, pulled myself together, and looked at my list. Still on number three, I had a whole page of items to get. I wasn't giving up. I told myself to press on. I could do it. I only had one child with me.

She didn't want to get back into the cart after tasting freedom. So, I decided to let her walk behind me. At her rate, it would take us another three hours to get everything, so I began walking ahead, grabbing what I needed, running back to Lily, pushing her along, and then repeating the process. I thought this was working fine, but apparently one of the Walmart attendants did not agree. "Ma'am. Is this your child? She should probably be in the cart."

That really burned me up. But I quietly submitted and picked up my daughter. I made the attendant stand and watch as the demon entered her body again. It's quite a sight. The employee clearly felt bad, but she probably realized she wasn't an exorcist, so she walked away.

I made my way through several aisles. When people starred at the kicking, screaming, foul smelling, drooling child in front of me, I simply smiled back. In reality, though, I wanted to yell over the loud speakers: "What in the world do you people want me to do, huh? I can't spank her here, or I would be given over to child services. I can't let her out or I would either lose her, another possible child services situation, or be criticized. So, people of Walmart, give a mother of a strong- willed two year old a break!" But, since I couldn't do this, I just smiled.

I couldn't keep pretending. The screaming became unbearable - even to me - and there, in the middle of the shampoo aisle, I lost it. A couple standing in the aisle looked at me and my possessed child and the woman shook her head. And I lost it. I knelt down beside the cart and started crying.

And then it happened. Empathy. A touch of sympath, and a gift of candy from another mother. A sweet woman - I couldn't look her in the eye because I was so embarrassed - was kneeling down beside me putting her arms around me and showing me, hidden in the palm of her hand, a packet of candy. "I have four of them (clearly not referring to the candy), and this works every time."

I stood up, finally looking at this Angel in the face, and thanked her.

"You'll be fine," she continued on, "but being a mom is the hardest job out there."

She was sent from God, and so was the candy. The demon left Lily and was replaced by sweet, sweet sugar. And with some simple encouragement from another mother who probably knows all about posession, I got through my list.

In the check out line, I ran into an old friend. The drastic difference between the two of us as I stood in one aisle, my friend in the checkout line next to me, was astounding. She was cleaned up, dressed nicely, and her son was sitting calmly in the front of the cart. I, on the other hand, due to my quick change in plans, had not showered, combed my hair, put on make-up, and was wearing mismatched socks (which I noticed during my breakdown in the shampoo aisle). My eyes were swollen and red and Lily, well, Lily looked like she had wrestled with a demon...literally.

"Um, so how are you?" She said. I was honest and admitted that I wasn't having the best of mornings, just in case she saw this as normalcy, but I continued conversing, not caring in that moment how I looked...or smelled. I had accomplished the task at hand. I was finished with Walmart and had nothing to complain about.

I was so ready to get out out of the store, and so was Lily. Two hours later, I was checked out. I opened my purse to get my keys....they were not there.

I stood in front of the exit door, so close to freedom and yet so terribly, terribly far away. Lily began crying again wanting to go "out." I told her with all the calmness I could muster that "momma wants to go out too, but momma can't find her keys to get us out of this cottin-pickin' place!" It didn't come out so calmly.

The greeter at the door asked me if I needed any help. While emptying my purse onto the floor of Walmart, in the hopes that my keys were at the bottom of my junk filled bag, I told the greeter that it would be helpful if she could find the candy lady. I don't think the greeter knew how to respond. I mentally replayed my request. Yes, I sounded like a schizophrenic. I started to laugh. Gathering my things, I walked out the door with no plan, but I was finished.

When we got to the car, I found my keys in the ignition. The outing was thwarted from the very beginning. Once loaded up, I looked in the rear view mirror at my daughter who was sucking her thumb and rubbing her foot to her cheek, as she does when she's tired.

"Lily," I said, "Momma loves you."

Lily smiled. Thankfully, she won't remember these sort of adventures. But I will, which is why Lily and my "long list" will not accompany me together to Walmart for a long, long time.

Out of the Mouths of My Babes

The other day, while watching Lily and Jrod played outside, I noticed Lily playing too close to the street. I quickly ran over and reminded her to not get too close, or a car might hurt her. As I walked away, I heard Jrod's commentary on my parental advice: "Lily, it's OK. If a car hurts you, you would just go to heaven. There's really fun stuff there."

I've wondered at times about what comes out of my kid's mouths. But the more they say, the more I realize that most of their editorial comments and inquisitive questions are usually the product of their innocent (albeit sometimes confused) perspectives on life. And at times the comments even humble us as parents.

While driving home in Chris' long awaited new car, Jrod asked the ultimate question: "Mom, Dad, how much did this car cost?" When we told him, he responded without question: "Holy Cow. You definitely don't have that much money. I mean, mom doesn't even have a real job." Once again, I let the "real job" comment pass, and I tried to focus on the car situation.

"Jrod, you're right we don't have enough money, so we borrowed it from the bank, and then we'll pay the bank back."

"Oh, I get it," totally satisfied with my answer, "you guys got something you didn't have enough money to buy because you really wanted it. Can I get a pool?"

Unbelievable. We both knew there was no honest explanation, so we just said no to the pool. When Jrod asked, “Why,” we simply added the common phrase parents use when they don't really have a formed answer to a well thought out question: "Because we said so."

Over the years I have come to appreciate and even treasure the various statements that come out of our kid's mouths. The following are a few selected comments that have come from our beloved children during the last couple of years:

When Ella's friend told her that a girl in their class is Egyptian, Ella responded: "Oh, No! I thought she worshiped the One True God!"

While Jrod was using the bathroom, I told him I'd run down and get him some more toilet paper. His unnerving response: "It's OK, mom, I just used the shower curtain."

Jrod explained to Lily on one occasion the fine details of the Trinity: "Lily, God is three persons: The Father, The Son, and The Holy Monster."

Ella found a teachable moment for her younger brother when passing by a graveyard: "Jrod, everyone dies at some point. When they die, you have a funeral, and then you put the body in a Quesadilla."

Ella was explaining to her friend why I had stitches in my leg: "My mom has stitches because she had a mole removed." Ella's friend asked her what a mole is, and Ella responded quite confidently, "A mole is what happens when you leave food out. She probably left old food on her leg."

Jrod remains confident to this day on his thoughts regarding his younger sister: "Mom, did you know that Lily is a boy? I mean, mom, look at her."

One of our finer teaching moments as parents came after the following conversation I had with my son while cleaning the kitchen: Jrod said very curiously, "Mom, when in the world is Dad going to become a Christian?"

I told him with all surety that Dad was already a Christian.

"No way! You mean Dad is a Christian like Tim Tebow? "

And yet another one of Jrod's many random comments on the way home from school: "Mom, in my whole life, I only know one person who is going to hell."

"Who is that, Jrod?"

"That man who came to our door and gave us all that stuff about Jehovah."

A few days before Easter, I was working on a piano piece that I intended to play during our Church’s Worship Service. Jrod called to me from the kitchen: "Mom, is that a new song you’re trying out?"

"Yep. It's for Easter. Do you like it?"

"Mom, it kind of sounds like a nervous wreck."

All out of the mouths of my babes.......and there still is a third who is learning how to put together words that will eventually transform into the kinds of editorial comments that all at once give us ulcers, good laughs, and full, full hearts.

Ministry Lessons

There are many things that seminary does not teach. My husband would say that he felt very equipped when it came to languages, preaching, and theology in general, but there are certain lessons that seminary simply cannot cover. Certain situations, such as conducting a session meeting, forming a weekly schedule, managing staff, handling hospital visits, all have to be learned through experience.

A few of our "experiences" in the pastorate have been nothing short of memorable through the years. Whether good or bad, we've learned to tuck what we've learned under our belts, should we ever need to fall back on past lessons learned.

Two years ago, we found my son on a Sunday morning in a very inconspicuous place: standing in front of the fire alarm at our church. Chris found him just before the service began. Jrod had his hand up on the alarm and, as if in slow motion, Chris ran to him yelling, "No!" Jrod quickly put his hand down, and Chris took the next several minutes to explain to my son the seriousness of pulling one of those alarms.

When it comes to my son, I have to admit I understand his problems. Jrod is too much like me. We both have demented minds, according to my husband.

Our family purchased a trampoline a few years ago, and it was placed right below our deck. As soon as it was set up, my first thought was how much fun it would be to jump from the deck to the trampoline. No one else in our family understands these kinds of thoughts, except for my son.

So, after hearing about the alarm incident, it was as if I could feel the burning in my own hand, just as I'm sure my son did in his. And it was as if I could hear the questions going through his little mind while starring up at the daunting red thing on the wall: "What would it do? What would it be like? Could it possibly have enough force and sound to lift me up in the sky?" I suppose I can't argue too much with my husband's demented mind comment.

The following Sunday was Easter Sunday. A glorious day, as usual. The service concluded beautifully, and it wasn't until we were greeting our church family afterward that it happened. One of the most unnerving sounds on the planet - the fire alarm.

My husband and I looked at each other and in a simultaneous yell, we called out our sons full name. The only other time this has occurred was the day Jonathan Rodney Polski was born. We ran up the stairs and found him standing in front of the red alarm.

In a moment like this, the relation between a mother and her son and a father and his son is very distinctly defined. While starring at the boy, my husband saw the devil himself. I, however, saw tiny innocence - surely his friend pulled it.

Walking down the stairs, making his way though the loud confusion, my husband carried our son outside and placed him on a bench. I personally think Chris' exhortation to his son was quite good, considering. Really, considering the fact that he had sternly been over why not to pull the fire alarm the week before, and considering the fact that this was Easter Sunday and we had to bother the headmaster and other leaders at the school where our church meets because the Fire Men couldn't figure out how to turn the alarm off, and considering the fact that we even had Fire Men at church on Easter Sunday on account of my son, I think he held it together pretty well.

An hour later, the chaos was over. We got in the car, not uttering a word about the events of the morning. Ella finally broke the silence: "Mom, Dad, is it OK if I tell my friends about this tomorrow? They would totally think it's hilarious."

This was a learning experience. Chris now knows how to handle one of his children pulling the fire alarm on an Easter Sunday, should this ever occur again.

And then a few weeks ago, we celebrated Easter again. Another glorious day. We were excited to celebrate with our church family. My grandparents were visiting from Pennsylvania, the same ones who experienced last Easter's fire truck "experience." The service was moving along as planned, that is until my grandfather became ill in the middle of Chris' sermon.

Now it's important to explain a little bit about my family. Being a seventh generation pastor's wife, I have learned that there are few circumstances that would stop a pastor in our family from not finishing a sermon. Other than facing death itself, the worship service must always go on.

In fact, when my mother was young, my grandfather was watching her misbehave from the platform at the church he pastored. As a pastor's daughter myself, I know how "free" you can feel when both of your parents are involved in the intricacies of the service. I'm sure my mother had the same thought I did: "What can they do?"

Now that I'm a parent of devious pastor's kids myself, I know "they" can do something. The worship service will not be interrupted, but something will be done. When the time was appropriate, my grandfather stepped down from the stage, took my mom out, spanked her, and returned, settling comfortably into the pulpit in order to complete his sermon without being distracted by a misbehaving daughter.

So, when my grandfather came close to fainting on this Easter Sunday, my grandmother's response was not surprising in the least: she did not move. She explained later that she figured the less she moved, the less my grandfather's situation would distract the worship service.

But then there were others watching the event unfold, including my husband. Standing in the pulpit, nearing the end of his second of three points, he noticed the situation with my grandfather.

There is one place and one place alone that my husband can do more than one thing at once - in the pulpit. He described later the simultaneous thoughts that were running through his mind:

1. The passage and sermon itself (one of those minor focuses a pastor has to consider when preaching)
2. It looks like Grandpa's OK.
3. Should I stop? If I do, I'll disrupt the worship service and Grandma and Grandpa "B" wouldn't want that. If I don't, people might take that as insensitive toward my family. Good grief.
4. They're going to call an ambulance to make sure he's OK (at the sight of one of our friends walking outside on his cell phone)
4. I have about five minutes to finish up point number three before the ambulance arrives. That way, the paramedics can come in during the closing hymn instead of the middle of the sermon.
5. What can I cut out? I need to wrap it up.

My husband is remarkable, to say the least. As the concluding hymn began, the ambulance arrived and the paramedics came in to care for my grandfather, who was fine and needed no additional assistance.

Another learning experience. Chris now knows what to do if a family member appears ill during a worship service, should that ever happen again.

But then, a few weeks ago, there was yet another pastoral "situation." This one, like the others had no past experience to draw from. Chris was asked to participate in the youth auction where the kids were trying to raise money for their trip to Jamaica. When he turned down the "give a lot of money and you cant throw a pie in Chris' face" idea, he knew he would have to come up with something else.

My husband has had a plethora of opportunities, and I purposefully call them that, to be a good sport through the years. Again, there is no seminary education that can prepare you for the various "favors" people seem to ask of you in the ministry - especially when you are the "youth guy." Chris has been asked to play the burly "Hans Bronson" in a children's musical, he has played a nerdy professor for Vacation Bible School, and has even worn tights when asked to play the part of a lizard.

When he moved into a Senior Pastor position, I'm sure a part of him had hoped that perhaps he was phasing out of these types of "roles." Not only did this phase not pass, but somehow, as a couple, we attained various roles... together. Chris and I have fit all too comfortably into roles such as Popeye and Olive Oil, but nothing could compare to what we did together last weekend for the youth auction.

In the name of raising money for something good, Chris and I sang and we danced. This did not occur in the privacy of our own home, where my children have been known to cry over our voices, rather this occurred in front of our church congregation. We re-wrote the words to the song "Wind Beneath my Wings," and we did the unthinkable: we sang together... out loud. But it did not end there. We danced a choreographed routine. A true out of body experience, I must say.

Another learning experience. Chris now knows how to dance in front of his congregation one night and preach in front of them the next morning. Chris is not, however, tucking this learned lesson under his belt. As fun as it was, folks, this, quite frankly, is one learned experience that we won't be drawing from again.

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My Internal Clock

When it comes to time, I'm never early. I'm rarely on time, and I'm usually late. I believe the reasons for my time deficiencies are out of my control. In fact, it's rarely my fault. My husband, on the other hand, believes that I have an internal clock that is "off." Apparently this warped internal clock affects my ability to think rationally about time. So he says.

My explanation is quite different and quite simple: It's not all my fault. My inability to be on time has much to do with three little people that are attached to me twenty-four hours a day. In fact, I'm actually very organized in the way I carve out time. If I have to be somewhere, I plan how each minute will be spent up until the departure time.

But, I know I can't blame all of the time deficiency on our children. I admit that I carve in no extra time for mishaps; there is no "just in case" moments built in. And, I should know by now, mishaps are inevitable with three, young children. Were I a single person, my time lines just might work out perfectly. However, I'm not. Perhaps someday this will sink in.

My sister, Bekah, has been in town the last couple of days. We had a plan that included me picking her up at 9:45 a.m. This meant departure time for the day would be 9:30 a.m. I figured I would have plenty of time to get things done around the house before we had to leave for the day. So, I mentally planned out my time line. It was set, and I was ready for it. By 9:30 a.m., I would easily be out of the house while still accomplishing everything on my "to do" list.

At 5:45 a.m. my alarm went off. My intention was to get up, take a jog, jump in the shower, and be completely ready before we had to wake up the two older kids at 7:15 for school. I looked at the time and thought about my little time table for the morning. So much to do before 9:30.

That was the last thing I remember. The next time my eyes opened it was 6:20. I jumped out of bed, figuring I would readjust a few areas on the time line and still be fine. By 7:20 I was back from a jog and ran upstairs to wake up the kids. No time for a shower. Getting the kids ready took twice as long because Jrod fought against me helping him. I was "sweaty and smelly," so he asked that I stay away - far away. After rejecting his request several times, I finally caved. It was taking too long to help him get dressed with one hand over his nose.

Finally, Ella and Jrod were dressed, fed, packed up, and out the door. I was right on schedule. Except for the shower. Regardless, I felt pretty good about my time line and all that I had accomplished thus far. I could finish everything I needed to twenty minutes earlier than planned and would fit in that shower just in time to walk out the door.

After an hour of emails, cleaning, trying to rationalize with a two year old why she can't eat cookies for breakfast, writing, and laundry I was finally finished with all that I had hope to accomplish....and all right on time. Except for the shower.

I had a half hour before we had to leave - plenty of time to shower and get ready. I set Lily in front of cartoons and quickly made my way up the stairs. One minute later Lily swung open the bathroom door asking for a "bubble bath." When I told her no, I realized the temper tantrum would take up more time than the bath. So I turned on the water, added the bubbles, and stuck her in the tub. It was now ten after nine. I could still take a quick shower.

About a minute into my shower, Lily began screaming. I got out, soap in my hair, and saw her pointing frantically to something in the bath. My daughter has pooped in the tub before, and because my anxiety level goes up, so does hers. She began crying and screaming "clean up!" My thoughts exactly. Gross.

So, I pulled her out of the tub, put her in a towel and began the ugly process. Once everything was cleaned and Cloroxed, I filled the tub back up. For a brief moment, I felt OK. But then I looked at the clock: 9:28. I called my sister. The soap was beginning to dry in my hair.

"Um, Bek. I'm going to be a little bit late. I think I can get out of here in the next ten minutes." I will admit that this is when my sense of time goes drastically awry. I realize it every time, in hind site, but when I'm in the midst of trying to get out the door somehow I'm convinced I can do it.

She assured me it was fine and told me she'd see me around 10:00. Once I was showered and ready, I opened the drain to let Lily's bath water out. The second temper tantrum of the day began, and there was no diverting this one. She wanted the water, but she simply couldn't have it. We had to be in the car in three minutes.

She lay prostrate in the tub with all the water drained. It's amazing the positions that child can hold when she wills it to happen. I took her out, straight as a board, and did my best to dress her. By the time Lily was in the car, it was 9:55. A 10:00 a.m. arrival time was going to be, well, difficult.

As soon as I started the engine, I realized that I wasn't entirely sure about the directions to where Bekah and I were headed for the day. Here is another part of my time tables that I all too often neglect: I have a terrible sense of direction. And when I say terrible, I mean it's bad. It's really bad. In high school, when my sense of direction was at it's worst, I ended up in east St. Louis...trying to get to West County Mall.

Acknowledging the fact that getting lost was an extreme possibility, I ran back inside and tried to pull up "Map Quest" on my computer. After speaking unkind words to my frozen laptop, I got back in the car, map less.

The time was 10:05. At least I made it out of the house. There was a point, around 9:45, when I actually wondered if that was going to happen. As I sped away to pick up my sister, Bekah, I called my other sister. From Georgia, she found the directions to where we were supposed to go. While trying to memorize exit numbers, I heard a terrible, terrible sound.

There is not much that triggers my tear reflex, but the sound of a cop car following behind me gets those tears flowing. I don't have to conjure it up; I don't even have to will them to come. It's remarkable, quite actually, how well it works. I hung up on my sister and pulled off to the side of the road.

The officer approached my door. "Good morning, Ma'am. Can I have your license and registration?" I had sunglasses on, so I figured I could hide my inability to keep my composure, but I was unable to do so. I snorted through my tears. How utterly embarrassing.

"Ma'am, licence and registration?" I was digging through my purse trying to find my wallet. I took out about ten lollipops, two baby dolls, three "ABC" books, two plastic containers full of crackers and goldfish, several packets of fruit snacks, two diapers, and an extra large packet of Wet Ones. By the time I retrieved the Wet Ones, my hands were shaking. But then, at the bottom of my "purse," was my wallet. Thank the Lord.

I pulled out my license, and then gave the officer the other card that I thought he asked for.

"Ma'am? Ma'am this is your health insurance. I'm going to need your car insurance."

Good grief. I pulled out the next card and handed it to the officer, not in a composed sort of way.

"Ma'am, this card expired in 2008. Do you have a more current one?"

I opened up my wallet and snorted again. I pulled out another card and handed it to the officer.

"Ma'am, this card expired in 2009. Do you have one that's up-to-date?"

At this point I wouldn't be surprised if he put his hand on his gun. One of those "just in case" moments. I became a little frantic, not knowing what to do. So, I asked the officer if I could have a minute, picked up my cell phone, and called my husband.

Chris had a busy morning and at that particular time I knew he was in the middle of ministering to a refugee family in the city. I only call him during these times if it's an emergency. My husband has his own commentary on this 30 second interaction, but here is what the officer heard: "Look, I'm sorry that I interrupted the prayer....can't you just go to another room....well I'm crying too...I can't find our car insurance....because I got stopped....I really was not going that fast....how long will it take you to get here from there...thirty five minutes...." At this point the officer interrupted, so I hung up.

"Ma'am, um, why don't you check the glove compartment?"

Right. I opened the glove compartment and low and behold - the 2010 car insurance. I handed it to the officer and he went back to his car, probably grateful to get away from me for a few minutes.

The first phone call was to my sister, Bekah. In the midst of my sobs, I explained to her why it was now 10:15 and I was still not there. She graciously told me it would be alright. I wanted more sympathy, so I decided to call my other sister. As soon as I began to dial, Lily began screaming. She wanted to get out of the car and take a walk. I tried to pull myself together for my daughter's sake. "Lily," in the midst of sobs, "mommy was speeding because she was trying to get to Auntie Bekah on time, even though I was already totally late. I am now in trouble with a police officer, and possibly your father, and I would appreciate if you would just be quiet for a few minutes."

It was a one way conversation. She started to scream louder. The officer approached my door again, looked in the back at Lily, and looked back to me. "Ma'am, crying gets me every time. I'm letting you go with a warning. Have a good day." I waved my arm because I couldn't speak, due to my emotion overload.

I looked at the clock: 10:18. For a moment, I just sat there. At that point I was only thirty three minutes late. Pushing thirty four minutes, I decided in that moment that I was going to turn over a new leaf. I decided in that moment that I would I would re-define my time lines. I decided in that moment that I was going to be an on time person.

The next day, I needed to be out of the house by 9:15. We pulled out of the driveway at 9:35. My husband is right - my internal clock must be off. I'm just glad it's not my fault.