The fireworks didn’t really ignite until I started crying…

Years ago we lived in a small house in a suburb of Chicago with two cats, a new puppy and a toddler.  When I say small, read small enough that one thing out of place was a BIG deal and I had both a changing table and a ball pit in my living room.  Seriously, the place was small.  Which is why my decision to host a dinner party was an odd one but nonetheless, you know how the story goes.  I sent out the invites then started cleaning like a woman possessed, shaking my head in disbelief halfway through the first round of dusting.  There was no way we could entertain ten people (with two cats, a puppy and a toddler in tow).  When I asked the dear hubster for help, I was overjoyed he not only agreed to pitch in but asked for my to do list and said he’d get started right away.  Praisealleluiah!  The Calvary had arrived.  Two hours later I found my husband in our pantry closet re-organizing the spice rack and the largest fight we've ever had ensued.

The toddler & the puppy in the little living room (Chicago, 2002)

Until yesterday, we’d only had three major blow-ups in almost 22 years of marriage and I can name them all:  bed sheets (first time I’ve slept on a bed without them), my son’s red sweat jacket (worst anniversary dinner, ever), and the spice rack incident (the sole event all other events are judged against).  Sadly, a fourth has been added to the list…  The washing machine.

School starts Thursday, which means it’s crunch time in my world.  As life would have it, my washing machine broke early last week but I didn’t sweat it.  The repair service was scheduled to come out yesterday and while mounting dirty laundry was a small set back in my routine, I had no doubt he’d fix the machine and I’d be merrily on my way to another afternoon of fluff and fold.  Or not, which I hadn’t planned on.  So I lost it, right in front of the poor A & E Factory repair tech that had the misfortune of standing between my husband and I in the middle of our laundry room when he delivered the blow.  My washing machine won’t be fixed until Monday the 17^th at the earliest and three things have to happen in lockstep to make that date work. 

When I heard I’d be without a washer for yet another ten days, I blew a gasket.  But the fireworks didn’t really ignite until I started crying, which is exactly what I did.  I stood frozen, trapped between the dryer sheets and a bucket of used wash water leftover from my attempt to hand wring a load of bath towels (bad idea), and  I fell apart.  How was I going to deal with what would amount to just over two weeks worth of dirty laundry by the time the machine might be repaired?  What about the start of school, sports practice, and all those kitchen towels I use in the process of shining everything in the kitchen a hundred times a day?  Just as my brain hit full-tilt, the Calvary (dear hubster) stepped in in an effort to save the day.  Hello, major blow-up number four.

The ball pit (Chicago, 2002)

In his effort to help, the hubster offered everything he could think of from hiring out the laundry to building me a new laundry room complete with three of every machine they make, all to no avail and we argued for nearly an hour.  I didn’t want to hear the plan or brainstorm or think through options.  My mind instantly snapped back to our Chicago days.  How dare he re-arrange the spice rack while the whole house is falling down around us?  The hubster finally grew silent as I ranted and raved and just when I’d shut up long enough to catch my breath before starting in again, I heard six little words I won’t soon forget.  “Is this really about the laundry?”

The new must have

“You know it’s not,” I hiccupped, and truer words were never spoken.  While I’m frustrated at the hassle factor involved with not having a washing machine for a couple of weeks, none of my tears were marked for dirty laundry.  It was the abrupt change in plans revolving a daily routine that did me in.

The kiddo starts high school Thursday and to say I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed is putting it mildly.  It’s the dawn of a new season for me as a mom and I’ll be honest, I haven’t gotten my hands around all of the changes taking place in our lives just yet.   But I know this—I adore my boys and I’m sold out on helping the kiddo have a great freshman year.  Which is how I also know that Woolite works just fine in warm water in the kitchen sink and is good to have on hand for that time your kiddo wears his new school shirt (you know the one he was certain he’d die without because he wanted to wear it for school pictures?) a week before school starts.

Rebel Ink Press Author Hop!

****REBEL INK PRESS FACEBOOK AUTHOR PAGE HOP AND GIVEAWAY****

Thanks for stopping by!  I've been with Rebel Ink Press since their beginning back in 2010.  I write inspirational romance with a contemporary flare and also have military contemporary novel releasing yet this month with my writing partner, Denisea Kampe.

Today I'm giving away signed paperback copies (or Kindle versions if you'd prefer) of Hope 22 and faith 15 and I'd love to share a copy with you.  This offer is void where prohibited and no purchase necessary but you do have to leave me a comment to enter to win. smile emoticonTell me a little about you. Where are you from and what do you like to read? I'll randomly select a winner Friday, August 7, 2015 around noonish PST or so.Please be sure to go by http://www.rebelinkpress.com/RebelReasoning for the complete list of hop stops and good luck!****REBEL INK PRESS FACEBOOK AUTHOR PAGE HOP AND GIVEAWAY***Tell me more about you. What do you like to read? What's currently in your TBR pile?  What's your favorite type of heroine or hero?

Tell me more about you.  What do you like to read?  What's currently in your TBR pile?  What's your favorite type of heroine or hero?

I'll randomly winners Friday, August 7, 2015 and notify everyone then!

Please be sure to go by http://www.rebelinkpress.com/RebelReasoning for the complete list of hop stops and good luck as you visit with everyone today!

Leaving Las Vegas...

As I sit on the plane waiting to leave sin city, I have to say I wasn't impressed but I’m glad to have experienced Vegas firsthand.  That’s right, I’m nearly forty-five and a half and I’d never been to Vegas until earlier this week.  I mean seriously, even my mother has been to Vegas!   But now I get it.  There’s a reason the saying what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas exists and to my way of thinking, it can't be good.  So here it is, the non-gamblers view of Vegas...

The goal of Vegas is to swallow you whole.  Before you Vegas lovers attack me for making such a comment, yes--it dawns on me that Vegas is like Disneyland, you don't go there to stay.  Yet it also dawns on me that the gaming industry spends billions of dollars a year trying to keep patrons in its establishments.  Like those of us just trying to find the five star restaurants amidst the maze of nicotine saturated, caffeine lit hallways.  While I appreciate the challenge of trying to be on time for a reservation in your labyrinth, maybe you could work on improving air quality and not try tricking me into believing it's always the middle of the afternoon when I'm inside your walls.  Call me crazy but I like a window or two here and there and I appreciate the difference between 3am and 3pm.

There’s more to Vegas than the strip, but you've got to be willing to rent a car and go get it.  Given the family and I made our way to sin city via a road trip that started in salt lake, we were rolling fat, which is to say we had a tricked out GMC Yukon with Texas license plates and you know what they say about Texas, right?  Yeah, don't mess with it.  With 80 mph speed limits for most of the trip, we were on the fast track and by the time we got to Vegas, people were gladly moving out of our way.  Having wheels allowed the boys to drive exotic cars at the Las Vegas Motor Speedway and us to visit Pawn Stars.  It made breakfast at the city's oldest restaurant, the peppermill, possible and it even created time for a bit of back to school shopping.  And I got my picture.  You know the one...

The learning opportunity for the kiddo was huge.  While I can't be certain what Vegas looks like to a fourteen-year-old boy, I have a pretty good idea.  Nearly everywhere we looked we saw opulence and excess and addiction and despair, which created some of the most colorful and engaging conversations we've had with our son this summer.  We talked about the various ways the house creates a psychological advantage over its guests and how the house is positioned to win.  At one point during dinner when parts of an earlier conversation sank in, the kiddo looked at the hubster and said, "you know, you're totally right.  Even if you did win it big, you'd be hard pressed to get out of this building without spending it all."  We talked about the seeming advantages and downsides of free money and free alcohol and 24/7 entertainment and topless bars and prostitution and living a life without boundaries.  We Googled Steve Wynn so we could learn about Mr. Vegas and laughed when we realized the happiest people we saw the entire time we were on the strip were the cabbies we met when hopping venues.

Vegas was far from a bucket list item for me and while I have zero plans to go back, I can honestly say I'm grateful we spent a day in sin city.  It's our job to show the kiddo the world and it's my hope that learning took place on both sides of the fence for him.  We even came away from Vegas with a new saying:  just because everything is possible doesn't mean it's a good idea. 

Nothing about this scene is normal...

So you already know I was a fairly big chicken on our recent vacation out west.  "Mom," the kiddo said.  “What's your problem?  I mean, seriously.  How can you think this is scary?  It’s cool!"

Yes, it was cool.  So very cool I'm not sure I can explain it.  But it was also scary as hell. Let me tell you why...

People are scary.  I'm probably going to offend half the population with this post so here goes.  People are crazy.  On some of the highest trails and catwalks in both the grand canyon and Bryce canyon I saw people taking selfies on out-of-bounds ledges, kids running, scads of hikers in flip flops and sandals, many with heels, and I even saw two women with umbrella parasols. On walkways barely passable if you turned sideways!  I’m just going to come right out and admit it to the world--I trust myself but I don't trust y'all!  Add a stiff breeze whipping all around into the mix and it just got all up and weird at 9400 ft.

Me, clutching a tree...

There’s nothing about the situation that's normal.  Nothing.  When you're standing on a precipice staring at a landscape you're having a hard time believing is real, everything around you becomes surreal.  In both the GC and Bryce at elevation, my peripheral vision couldn't take in the scenery fast enough as the views were very nearly 360.  At times I felt like I was floating and it was a bit of a struggle to focus on what was right in front of me or at my feet as I took tenuous, baby steps.  Zion National park was the easiest for me as it's a slot canyon and we hiked the lower levels.  Mossy Cave at Bryce was also a canyon-up hike--yeah!

Everything I love--my whole life--was on those catwalks.  Both of my boys were fearless and were way out ahead of me at my request most of the time.  Grief sake!  If I went down, I didn't want to take them with me!  But as I stood back and watched them disappear around curves or rocks or ledges, I held my breath, praying I’d see them again.  My whole life was suspended on a narrow piece of rock contained by chain link fencing that looked like I could compromise it with a butter knife numerous times during our trip and I'll be honest--I didn't like it.

I hiked all of the low canyon passes and 60% of the upper elevations.  We shared great laughs as a family and was able to laugh at myself as I hugged trees near ledges and found big, flat safe rocks to park on while waiting for my dare devils to return from their near death experiences.  And I discovered what I already knew but am quick to discount--nothing else matters but the welfare of my family.  The job, the housework, the errands, the budget?  The regrets of the past and dreams for the future?  None of it matters without my boys.

A Music Lesson for Friday...

If you know me at all, surely you know by now that music is a huge part of life in Buehlerland.  You’ve either heard me singing, seen me singing in the car, sat beside me at church or had ringside seats to the many jam sessions, sing-offs, dance-offs, and rap-offs that take place in this house.  If you were at the mall yesterday, you might have seen my mom and my son dancing in the Lands End section of Sears.

I’m the daughter of a man that can play anything with strings and the granddaughter of a woman who played open-hand rag (ala Jerry Lee Lewis) on a piano that would have made you cry.  I grew up with music (insert the Mills Brothers, Patsy Cline, Jim Reeves, Fleetwood Mac, Bob Seger, The Eagles, and the Amazing Rhythm Aces here).  And I was determined that my son would grow up with music, too.  Before the kiddo took his first breath, there was music in his life.

I knew as he grew his preferences would stray from those I introduced to include music I don’t really like (insert ColdPlay here), to music I really can’t stand (insert PSY and Sia here).  His choices are no different than those I made at his age and my mom can attest (insert The Thompson Twins, Duran Duran and ‘Til Tuesday here).  Even now there are days we take turns playing “our” music while the other groans and rolls his/her eyes.  Such is the rhythm of life with a teen.

When the kiddo got his first turntable last summer, his dad pulled out Elton John and Billy Joel while I reached for Michael Jackson and The Police, handing the vinyl over with a smile all the while wondering if he’d ever make it back to the music he was raised on.  I know that sounds funny given he’s only fourteen and it’s not like he’s out the door tomorrow or anything but still, you know what I mean.  A mom wonders these things…

So imagine my surprise when I return home from running errands this morning and open the door only to be hit square in the nose by Allison Krauss and Jerry Douglas tearing it up on We Hide and Seek.  Yes, indeed.  The kiddo was listening to AKUS (Allison Krauss and Union Station), and dobro and fiddle were flying through the house as loud as the Bose could broadcast them. 

“Hey, mom?  Tell me about these guys again?  I remember this stuff!  I found this video on YouTube but don’t you have more on your IPod?”

“I sure do, sweetie.  Go grab my phone,” I smiled.

“Let’s break it down like we always do,” he added, referring to the way we listen to most songs several times, first to identify the instruments, then for story and harmony and so on.

These are the moments in the middle of the mayhem when I don’t doubt myself.  When I know that my soul has been shared and a part of it is lodged deeply within the heart of my precious boy.

Pops (with my Takamine), Brad and Braden @ 11 mos.

More days, please!

It’s fitting we’re talking about summer plans this month because I’m the Chic that’s already been quoted as saying she wants to cancel summer.  Just this past Friday I called the hubster at five minutes til 5pm and told him I was done.  That I wanted off the ride.  I begged him to please cancel summer before we got too far down the road to turn back.  How sad is that, right?  Especially given summer isn’t even truly here yet.

I’ve had a feeling about summer floating around in my brain for a few seasons now that I haven’t been able to fully understand.  Given I’ve been uncertain about this feeling, I haven’t been able to put it into words and share it with anyone.  Until Friday.

Let me explain—my leading role is that of mom to a fourteen year old.  On top of being extremely gifted, said kiddo is equally regimented and sensitive.  My kiddo is an Aspie, which is to say he’s on the Autism spectrum.  Although his particular diagnosis is very mild, his Aspie is alive and well and never is it more on the scene than during the summer.  My kiddo thrives on routine and only seems to have two modes:  school and home.  While I realize that’s true of every child, they have time at school and time at home, for most children the two bleed into and out of one another without issue.  Homework, that is schoolwork that’s done at home when needed, is normal.  School activities taking place outside of the school day are understandable.  Not for my Aspie.

While I won’t speak for every Aspie out there, I’ll share with you that my kiddo doesn’t like to mix things.  To my kiddo’s way of thinking, schoolwork stays at school, even if it means we rush to get done before the final bell and leave a few points on the table here and there.  And we don’t like to attend school related functions after the school day.  So here’s where the trouble meets the road…

When you’re little, summer equals down time.  For most of the children I know, kindergarten through 8^th grade comes with summers that are large in part free of scheduled work, or comprised of decided upon camps and activities that the children look forward to and might even consider special.  And while there might be sports and a few extra outdoor related chores to tend to, there are still ample amounts of free time and summer feels like the much needed break from school that it is.

But what I’ve learned, what I think I’ve sensed nagging some remote corner of my brain these past couple of summers that I haven’t been able to put into words, is that summer changes when you start high school.  And here we are—73 days away from the first day of high school and change has hit this house bringing with it a stark realization:  there are no more summer’s off.  No more summers that equal freedom and down time. 

With an impact comparable to that of a hurricane, my kiddo, the regimented Aspie that only equates summer to freedom because that’s all his brain has known to this point, suddenly has a summer schedule that’s quite busy.

There will be 42 days of summer school this summer so the kiddo can get P.E. and health out of the way before his first day of freshman year.  That’s 42 days complete with a mid-term and final.

He’ll work 24 days at his karate dojo teaching lower belts necessary skills so they can advance through the ranks.

The kiddo will attend his own karate class twice a week for a total of 24 sessions before school starts again.

He’ll attend 11 band camp sessions lasting four hours each.

The kiddo will be gone 7 days on an inner city mission trip to Memphis where he’ll roof houses several hours a day.

And of course, we’ll manage to sneak in a six-day vacation the day after summer school finals are complete.

By my count we need 114 days to get all of this done unless we double up, and many days we’re actually tripled up and I’m driving car pool to boot.  It’s a first for us.  Last summer we only had the mission trip and karate class to deal with.  To say that change isn’t coming easy is an understatement.

So it’s true, last Friday when the kiddo and I sat down and wrote out his summer schedule, I was near tears and by the time we got to August 13^th, he was fuming.  It’s the end of an era around here—those lazy days of summer when I didn’t even have to look at the calendar, let alone set multiple alarms throughout the day so we don’t forget something.  Those days when a little boy got to play from sun up to sun down with no thought of forgetting to tend to something important.

Just this morning leaving church, the kiddo watched a toddler run unabashed into the arms of his mom complete with toy in hand, his face laced with not a care other than playing with her.  He sighed as he looked to me, his face a mix of wonder and resignation.  “Where does the time go?” he asked, a phrase that broke my heart for me because I know he gets it, that things have somehow changed and the clock has started ticking toward manhood.  “I don’t know, babe.”  I shook my head.  “I truly don’t know.”