Month: August 2011

Put Your Own Mask On First

this is not my rooster. we met this rooster in Historic Jamestown, VA.

It’s 6:00 a.m., Sunday morning. The little rooster has awakened with the sun. Blame it on his grandfather’s dominant dairy farmer genes summoning him to get up and milk the cows.

There are no milking cows at our house, but this Sunday we are due at the early 8:30 a.m. service for my husband to sing. Two and a half hours is plenty of time for three people to get ready for church.

My son wakes us, crawls into our bed, squirms, crawls out then disappears to play. His father is immovable, somehow skipped by the early-to-rise dairyman genetics. The time is now 6:30 a.m. I get up and begin the routine.

Shower. Try to wake my husband. Prepare breakfast for my child who is starving. Feed the dog. Try to wake my husband. Read a book to my child who is lonely and bored. Try to wake my husband.

The time is now 7:30 a.m. My husband gets out of bed and stumbles to the bathroom. My child is on his second breakfast. We giggle at the table as we hear his dad warming up his voice in the shower.

“Ah, ah, ahhhhh!” he sings. We giggle some more.

I let the dog out. Try to convince my child to get dressed. Check to see if the dog has done her business. Check to see if my child is anywhere near his clothes. Clean up from second breakfast. Let the dog in. Praise the dog. Hunt for my child who has disappeared again to play.

Get third breakfast out as my husband still needs to eat. Ask said husband to please help our child get dressed and ready. Clean up from third breakfast.

The time is now 8:00 a.m. The final stretch. Departure in 15 minutes. I run upstairs to get dressed and put on some makeup.

“But, Daaad!” says child. “I’m trying to read this book!”

“You have to get dressed NOW,” says husband. “We’re going to be late!”

I’m tempted to leave my mirror with a half painted face to intervene. But the wise words of the trusty flight attendant ring in my ears: Put your own mask on first, then assist those traveling with you to put on theirs.

slow children at play

If I don’t get ready, none of us is going to make it. I reach for the hair dryer to complete the blowout.

“Daaad!” says child. “I want my book! You are so mean, Dad!”

That’s it. Exit bathroom. Break up squabble. Comfort and dress child.

The time is now 8:15 a.m. My child and my husband are clean, polished, dressed and sitting in the truck waiting for me. I’m standing in the bathroom with unstyled hair and no shoes, wildly slapping on mascara.

Next week, come hell or high water, before anyone else eats, bathes, dresses, reads, or requires me in any other way imaginable, I’m getting ready first. One must get into the lifeboat before one has any hope of helping the others.

Indeed, the “right time” is now. Today is the day of salvation. from 2 Corinthians 6:2 NLT

Someone Saved My Life Tonight, sugar bear.

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Posted on by Aimee 15

High-Rise Jeans

Jackie in jeans

Presenting another rare and short Saturday post.

Yes, I know if I keep posting on Saturday it will no longer be rare. I’ll commit to keep it short though.

THE big news today is an item of clothing. I discovered the most comfortable jeans at J Crew yesterday. And they’re high-waisted.

Now before you shudder and think mommy jeans, take a look.

Here’s the link:  http://www.jcrew.com/womens_category/denim/bootcutandflare/PRDOVR~51329/51329.jsp

They’re comfortable, they don’t fall down around my hips, and they’re smokin’ in jezebel wash.

Granted they’re a bit pricey. J Crew cardholders, use the email promo to save 20 percent. Missouri friends, enjoy tax-free purchases this weekend.

I have my favorite Lucky low-rise jeans too. But they give a little with wear, leaving me with the dreaded muffin top. Will be interesting to see how these beauties perform.

J Crew has been known to fuel a trend or two. Perhaps comfortable, good-looking, high-rise jeans will show up in other favorite stores. We can hope.

She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come. Proverbs 31:25 NIV

Before I go, the stuff of fashion lore: The darling salesperson who helped me said when the high-waisted flare jeans were introduced, New York J Crew stores sold out within days. And since New York is the center of the universe, regional stores (like St. Louis) had to ship their stock to the Big Apple. The regional stores have been replenished, but the jeans are selling like hotcakes.

PS: I’m not being paid to promote these jeans or J Crew. I just like you and like them and thought you two should meet.

Posted on by Aimee 9

That’s Not My Name

may I offer you a card?

Hello. My name is Aimee. Pronounced like Amy, but not spelled like it. Spelled like it sounds. A-I-M as in the toothpaste with double E’s at the end. It’s French for beloved. Folks misspell it all the time.

My most free-spirited college BFF recently spelled it Amy online. Ouch. So did the kindest boy I dated in high school. Ouch, ouch.

Another good friend from high school spells it Amiee. So close I can’t bear to tell him. Well, now he knows. Makes me feel a little Pure Prairie League coming on. Or Counting Crows. Wow. Did you even know the Counting Crows rendition existed until this post? Neither did I.

I haven’t seen these people in years, they’re all married with kids, and the spelling of my name is not a priority in their lives at this time.

We joke about it. My college friend has agreed I can call her Betty if she can call me Al. I have to wonder if she’s lived in California too long.

My kindest high school boyfriend explained he was so concerned about spelling everything else right in his comment that he misspelled the most important part. Aw. Great save, man.

People in my not-so-distant past have a habit of misspelling it too. How excusable is that? And if you add my last name, there’s no end to the butchery of what my husband calls Americanized German.

Whetstine. Pronounced like a damp mug, a wet stein. Members of my own family still get it wrong and I’ve been married 15 years.

More than one person has asked me if Aimee was the name I was given at birth. No, I changed it when I was 15. My real name is Joleisa.

Yes, of course it was my birth name! Had you there, didn’t I? As the story goes, Amy was a popular name when I was born in 1970. My mom saw it spelled Aimee in a magazine. The rest is history.

And it’s not that unique. Lots of people spell it that way. Like Aimee Mann. Okay, that’s all I can think of right now, but there are lots of others I’m sure.

A-I-M

In a particularly legalistic time of my life, I wanted everyone to get it right. So I took preventive measures when I sensed a misspell coming.

“It’s A-I-M-E-E. Like the toothpaste with two E’s,” I said to my victims. “W-H-E-T-S-T-I-N-E. Like a damp mug, a wet stein. Get it?”

That was working really well until I overheard my then two-year-old, the verbal parrot, muttering as he played with his toy trains, “My name is Aimee. A-I-M-E-E. Like the toothpaste with two E’s.”

Maybe the correct spelling of my name doesn’t matter all that much. Maybe it’s a luxury like privacy.

Spelling doesn’t seem to count these days unless it’s your resume, Scrabble, or Scripps National Spelling Bee. It’s not like we’re being graded. Those pesky misspellings are harmless. They just sting a little.

Do not be afraid, for I have ransomed you.
      I have called you by name; you are mine. from Isaiah 43:1 NLT

hello my name is

If Toni Basil and Debbie Harry morphed, joined forces with a male J Crew model on drums and backup, entered The Matrix, and made a music video, you’d get The Ting Tings’ That’s Not My Name. Thanks to this dynamic duo for the song that inspired the post title when I first heard it on Muzak in FroYo. It rocks.

Posted on by Aimee 37

A Secret Kept

quiet zone

Once someone told me a secret. And no, I’m not going to tell you what it is. But trust me. It was a doozie.

It wasn’t a secret that isn’t really a secret like, “I’m a perfectionist.” Or a secret that is odd but inconsequential like, “I loved Riverdance.” Which I did.

Or even a secret about a stupid wrongdoing like, “I stole a bath mat from the hotel where I stayed on a j-school trip to New York my senior year of undergrad and felt guilty about it in my late-20s so I donated it to Goodwill as penance because I was too embarrassed to mail it back to the hotel.” Whew! Run-on, girl. Feel better now?

No, not that kind of secret. This secret was destructive. If it went public, it would wreak havoc on unsuspecting lives. It had to be resolved between the transgressor and the transgressed against. Now I, the confidant, was in the mix. 

Time went by. Things happened. Life continued. No one said a word. I held that secret for about three years. As far as I know, I was and may still be the only one the person told.

It burned like hot coal inside, charring my resources. A heavy anchor, pulling me down, down, down.

“What is it, Aimee?” a friend finally said.

“It’s a secret,” I said. “I think I’m the only one who knows.”

“You have to share it,” she said, “or it will destroy you.”

She was a safe person, a third party who didn’t know the others involved. I told her the truth. And the weight I carried lifted, buoyed up by my sobbing. It still hurt, but it no longer crushed me.

“You have to tell your husband,” she said.

“No,” I said. “He knows these people. I can’t tell him.”

“He loves you. He can help you bear it.”

stationery anchor

So through tears I told him, and she was right. He helps me bear it to this day.

A secret kept is a powerful thing. Don’t fool yourself into thinking you can carry one without paying for it.

You don’t have to broadcast it on Jerry Springer, but you have to shine a little light on it. Bring it out into the open. Take away the weight of its secrecy.

Let someone safe—someone who loves you, bear it with you. Or help you face the transgressor. Or sob alongside you. And feel it lift, then fall away.

You have set our iniquities before You, our secret sins in the light of Your presence. Psalm 90:8 NIV

The Newsboys’ song Million Pieces is apropos. Not sure what’s with the fuzzy quality of this video. Chalk it up to “artistic treatment.” Love the song anyway and couldn’t resist the flying pink elephants. This is not your floor/You’re going higher than before…

Posted on by Aimee 6