Stick out your tongue

Turns out the movie Ice Age gave Dax the idea to stick his tongue inside the freezer.

Note the chocolate on his face revealing that at this point, he can eat, drink and talk about the incident.

I'm still cringing even as I marvel at the body's ability to heal.

Right off the tip of his tongue

If you ask an 8-year-old why he stuck his tongue in the freezer, don't expect a rational explanation.

"Where did you get that idea?"

"I don't know," he says.

Was he trying to cool off in this 100 degree heat?

And then you think about the bazillion ways boys have of exploring their world.

We don't know how long Dax cried for help before deciding he had to break away, and running in the back door with his tongue bleeding, I was the first to meet this crisis.

After lapping running water for five minutes, a cold rag and Tylenol soothed the tip of his tongue. Oowie.

Anticipating possible dangers challenges the most vigilant parents who wish they could run interference between their offspring and everything that threatens their safety.

Remarkably, Dax had an appointment with the pedodontist this morning who said that it would take two weeks for his tongue to fully heal. Like a bad burn.

So controlling the tongue, I'm reminded, includes not only what we say but where we place this tiny muscle known for its strength.

No Small Feat

Forget the move to Lubbock 8 days ago that demanded of me grit and sweat and long day’s journeys into night. Yesterday a trip to the shoe store to shod the youngest 3 of my daughter’s 4 kids made me think that branding cattle might come easy.

Rope and tie down one boy long enough to slap one foot on the measuring device—there’s one at the ready for right or left foot. Grab a pair of new socks from the display, lace and tie up one foot on the slowest boy, cut that kid loose to hobble around the store to investigate every item within reach of a person 35 inches tall while the other two take a turn choosing or being convinced they like the style they will go home wearing, mother bent at the waist to assist the poor sales person who has to pretend she enjoys her job, and I with my camera capturing chaos. Ta-dah.

So many shoes and so little time. Stickers and a quarter dropped in a gumball machine got us out the door. I can only imagine the calm after our fury.

“Handsome shoes,” one of the twins said as he lifted his foot so I would take a picture. Then he said, as he always does, "See it. See it," waiting for me to show him the viewer.

The feet are small but growing, each step into the next size appears enormous at the time, and the challenge of keeping feet confined to shoes in summer seems futile.

But for a day, every kid wearing a new pair of tennis shoes feels more like Cinderella than a cow branded or a horse shod, and that is no small feat.

An American Idol Experience

What do you get when you don't get what you want?

Experience.

That's what I told Rose before she began the American Idol audition process. Although she was not sure she wanted what she sought, we decided beforehand that the trouble was worth the egalitarian experience.

An aphorism that applies when things fail to turn out the way we hope, I had to admit that everyone there had their hopes, if not dreams, of a "golden ticket." American Idol has tapped into a vein of desire in enough people to produce 9 seasons of the number one show in television.

People will stand in lines, sleep in parking lots and come from all parts of the country for the slice of a chance at a recording contract, a glorified emblem of the American Dream. A compressed cattle call audition, typical in New York and L.A., is how I would describe the process. But hey, nobody made anybody suffer for their art.

We can always choose to take with us something that contributes, informs or otherwise enhances subsequent experiences, each forming a portion of our unique stories.

Rose and I sat in the crowd of 10,000, among the first persons to occupy the new Dallas Cowboy Stadium, an experience in itself. Since I cannot foresee myself attending one of the upcoming football season's games, taking pictures inside made my day.

When the towering glass doors opened, sliding and stacked to the sides like a hero sandwich, massive amounts of air conditioning poured into the atmosphere.

Rose said, "That was cool."

A Waiting Experience

At 6:30 a.m. yesterday, Rose and I found our way to the new Dallas Cowboy Stadium in Arlington to wait for wristbands so that she can, hopefully, audition tomorrow for American Idol.

I said, "I can't believe there are this many people who think they can sing."

But the huge crowd was well-behaved, and standing in line felt more like waiting to enjoy a ride at Six Flags or Disneyworld rather than the masses crowded into cattle cars or waiting for the gas chambers at Auschwitz, mainly because we had a choice about being there.

So after a couple of hours, all but the last 10 minutes in the swelling heat under a red alert air advisory, we left with two tickets for tomorrow's main event (each contestant can bring only one person with them), wearing paper wristbands that we cannot get wet.

So until tomorrow …

Wonder Packers

My daughter's four kids watch a cartoon called "Wonder Pets" and even the 2-year-old twins sing along with the theme song. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xxlWvE2U0nw

I've changed the words a bit to accommodate our current situation, "Wonder Packers," which means, too, I wonder where I packed that thing.

But the refrain rings in my head throughout the day as my friend, Sandra--we've been friends since high school--came from Albuquerque when I called her for help. She is the Master Wonder Packer who works all day and into the night, organizing, directing and telling me, my husband and my daughter what to do next.

Sandra made a lanyard to wear around her neck, attached scissors and a marker, and she walks around with pieces of tape stuck to the front of her shirt so she's ready for the next box. She's always looking to find just the right item to fit into the box she's packing: "there's something we can use and it's right in front of us."

"What's gonna work? TEAMWORK.

What's gonna work? TEAMWORK …

We're not too big and we're not tough

But when we work together we've got the right stuff …"

We're the Wonder Packers.

"Mercy laughed in her sleep"

My title references The Pilgrim’s Progress.

This pilgrim girl, however, does not feel she is making progress, much less laughing in her sleep.

Disrupted nights with stretches of the wide-awakes seem the norm these days as the house where we have lived for the last six years fills with boxes, towering around me the way I used to build with cardboard blocks in nursery school.

Yet a devotional I read minutes ago inspired me to write, to remind myself, and to make myself accountable to others that the “hardship” of making a big move might actually display something good.

So here’s my prayer, edited from the aforementioned devo:

“I want to surprise my family with my abundant peace; I want to delight my friends with my ever-increasing happiness; I want to edify the church with my grateful confessions, and even impress the world with the cheerfulness of my daily conversation.”

This also reminds me of words to an old hymn, “A Worthy Goal Have I.”

If I will remember mercy during the night watches, maybe I can laugh in my sleep.