War? What War?

Yeah, maybe there's something wrong with me.

When Obama officially became the Democratic presidential candidate in 2008, I remember thinking that, although I didn't want him to be president because I disagreed with him on so many things, it was a pretty cool thing that a black man was on a major party ticket. And on the day of his inauguration, I got a bit choked up at the meaning of the historical moment. A black president!

Last night was historical, too. Historical in a way that directly affected me more, since I'm a woman. But I wasn't fazed. Maybe if Hillary is inaugurated, I'll get emotional about it at that point, but I kind of doubt it. And I don't think it's a factor of disagreeing with her politics. Because again, I disagreed just as much with Obama's. I just can't get excited about a female presidential candidate. Seriously -- it means nothing.

I don't quite understand myself. "Women's rights" just isn't an issue that resonates with me. I don't at all feel like a victim in any kind of war on women.

It's not that I don't think women should get paid equally. It's not that I don't have a problem with cultures that treat women as property. I get that there are all sorts of injustices happening to women around the globe, and something should be done about them.

But . . . I don't know. I can't get myself riled up or excited about it.

Maybe it's because I don't think it ever once occurred to me in my life that I couldn't be president if I wanted to just because I'm a woman. I don't think there has ever been anything that I wanted to do that I haven't been able to do because I'm a woman (other than, you know, lift heavy objects . . . and that's not really because I'm a woman: that's because I'm a wimpy woman).

Maybe it's because my mother was never a big women's rights person. I don't remember her ever discussing it at all. She was a very contented homemaker and probably never felt held back by her gender either. But I'm also quite sure she was one of the ones encouraging me there was nothing I couldn't do in my life. As if gender just wasn't an issue -- not that it was an issue we now had victory over.

Maybe it's because, while I have experienced (not personally) blatant racism in my life, I have not experienced or even witnessed blatant misogyny. But I have certainly heard females cry "misogyny" when I thought the charge was quite unwarranted. (Of course, I've heard unwarranted cries of racism as well, I guess. I think it's sometimes easier to believe there's injustice in the way you've been treated than to believe that you yourself were somehow at fault or inadequate.)

I don't know. I don't get myself. I felt no swell of pride or relief or joy at the idea of a woman heading a major party ticket last night. I heard no glass ceiling shatter. I never saw a ceiling. I don't think I was looking up there -- I was busy looking elsewhere, I guess. Maybe someone will say I'm not ambitious enough. I think I just figure that God builds my house; he designs the layout, determines the number of bedrooms, and sets the heights of my ceilings. And He builds our houses to individual specs, based on the work He has for each of us. My ceiling is where it needs to be to do the work He has for me to do.

Too simplistic? Too lethargic? Maybe. But there's something to be said for contentment.

So while I'm wondering about myself today, I have to say that I'm not that bothered by my reaction -- or lack of reaction. I'm mostly concerned what I might be communicating to my daughters. Should I be worried that my lethargy on the matter is a negative quality that they will pick up from me and that will be a detriment to them for the rest of their lives? Am I hurting them in some way by not instilling them with a pride in their gender and in how far their gender has come in our society and a determination to move their gender further?

I don't think so. I think they have a pretty healthy view of gender. It matters where it matters, and it doesn't where it doesn't.

And in politics, we don't think it matters.

Our Current Neurosis

A theme of distress has arisen among the females of our household: the theme of Too Much To Do in Too Few Hours of the Day.

It manifests itself differently in each of us, owing to our individual personalities, weaknesses, and neurotic tendencies. But we all are feeling that stress. I need to do this. I have to do this. I should do this. I want to do this. I feel guilty because I'm not doing this. I'm unhealthy because I'm not doing this. And this. And this.

And can I be honest? I don't necessarily look at what we're trying to accomplish in a week and think it's too much. Now, maybe my perception has just become warped -- that's certainly within the realm of possibility. But I don't feel like we're expecting a lot of ourselves.

But maybe that's because when I think of everything I have to do, I think of the big stuff. School, homeschool, curriculum writing, plays and such. That all looks busy, but doable.

Then I add in the once-in-a-while events that come up: the church luncheon yesterday (I'm just helping set up and clean up -- no big deal). Halloween (buy candy, carve a pumpkin -- not so bad). Make my Christmas list (just sitting down and thinking for a while, right?). Again, each of these are stressors, but they are just momentary interruptions.

Here's what I forget: life.

The everyday life stuff. In the midst of the big things are the little things: figuring out what to cook for meals, picking up the house, doing laundry, packing lunches, walking the dog, cleaning out the fountain, backing up my laptop, vacuuming, emptying the dishwasher, making sure we have toilet paper in the house, coloring my hair, exercising, mopping mud stains, Bible study, pulling weeds, paying bills, buying groceries, refilling prescriptions and picking them up, cleaning toilets, dumping bad food from the fridge, watering flowers, dusting, taking care of the dog's nails and teeth, finding missing items, replacing the batteries in the smoke detectors, cleaning out the microwave, showering . . .

The little things are what get missed. And the little things add up fast. And the little things undone make me feel like I'm a crazy woman and failing at life.

How does this happen? Women in my situation from the 1920s would look on my life, with all the modern technological advantages, and think I'm living on Easy Street. Nope. More stressed than ever. And I don't think I know anyone who isn't stressed in a similar way. Do you? No, you don't either.

As I said, the three of us ladies in our home all deal with this in different ways. And none of our methods are wholly successful or healthy. In fact, some of them have become decidedly unhealthy and need to be dealt with.

Which is now another item on the to-do list: fix neurosis.

Sigh. Well, despite it all, I still feel like this is the most enjoyable season of my life so far. I enjoy my family tremendously, and they all enjoy each other. I love the work I'm doing. I love the house I'm living in.

Life is good . . . I just have to remind myself of that when I see more muddy footprints at the front door. Life is good.

Busy, Stressed and Tired -- and Kidding Myself

I'm a Busy Person. By this, I mean that busy-ness is part of my identity, part of how I label myself. By extension, I am also a Stressed Person . . . and a Tired Person. And I'm sure I am a member of a vast company.

I've come by these labels legitimately. Even from high school, I got much too involved in things and had way too many tasks sitting on my plate. It has taken many years and much maturity to learn which tasks I'm good at and should say yes to, and which tasks I can bless this world with by saying an emphatic NO. But my BSF teaching leader made a little side comment last night that slapped me in the face.

[Isn't that how it often happens? You're listening to a speaker who has Points A, B, and C to communicate to you, but in the course of this communication, they make a passing remark that hits you square between the eyes and convicts you to the depths of your soul . . . and you very likely completely miss Points A, B, and C.]

I still self-identify as a Busy Person. But the reality is, I'm not that busy. Oh, I have plenty of things to do -- and I have more things I could be doing that aren't getting done -- but I'm certainly not rushing around all the time, with never a moment to sit and relax and think (as I have been at other

periods of my life). 

Yet, if someone were to ask me How my life is these days? (one of those dear friends who you know actually wants to know how life is and isn't just hoping for a pat, polite, small-talky response), I think my automatic response would be something to the effect of, "Oh, life's a little crazy, as always!" 

But my life is NOT a little crazy these days -- "as always." My life is pretty good these days. But it is my default mental state to think I'm Busy, Stressed, Tired Person. 

That was my slap in the face.

Because if my Busy-ness is merely a habit of thinking, is it possible my Stressed-ness and Tiredness are also? Is it possible, that, even when I have been genuinely busy, I could have born it all without stress and exhaustion if I had thought I could do so? 

Is it possible that, as the Bible teaches me, the Spirit really is my strength and He really does empower me to do all things He's called me to do if I relax and let Him do that? 

And is it possible . . . no, forget that. I am quite certain that I -- and probably many, many other women out there -- have nursed this self-image of a Busy, Stressed, Tired Person because there is, strangely enough, some female-induced peer pressure to do so. Because Busy, Stressed and Tired seems to also mean Productive. And Accomplished. And Worthwhile. And Someone Who Matters. 

We assume that being Someone Who Matters can't feel any other way.

But if scripture is to be believed, it not only can, but it should. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light, Jesus tells us. Is it possible that he's telling us the truth?

Mommy/Daughter Time

Hubby has been traveling a lot on business lately, so I'm spending a lot of with my daughters. And as much as we miss Hubby, I'm enjoying some new things with my girls. For instance:

- Once Upon A Time -- Oh, my goodness! This is, like, our new obsession. I remember when this TV show premiered, I read a review and thought, Hmm. That sounds interesting. But not interesting enough to add another weekly required viewing activity to my life, so I forgot about it. But as the girls get older, we have a much more difficult time finding TV shows that are entertaining for all of us that are also appropriate age-wise for all of us . . . and "Once" hits the spot.

We're watching the first three seasons on Netflix, and I'm so glad we are. It would drive me insane if I had to wait an entire week (or more) for the conclusion of each episode's cliffhanger. This show is FASCINATING. How fun would it have been to write this! Figuring out how to tie all these different fairy tale characters together. We are loving, loving, loving this show.

- Dance class -- This is a brand new one. The eldest and I have been bouncing around the idea of checking out adult dance classes at a dance school a couple minutes from our house. So this week, we finally took the plunge. We got to sample all the class in one week for $20: Hip Hop on Monday, Jazz on Wednesday, and Ballet last night. Walking is painful today, as you might understand. It's been a long time! I didn't realize until last night how much I miss my Sioux City dance class friends.

I think we're going to stick to the Ballet on Thursdays. More our speed (even my daughter preferred it, to my surprise). And the nice thing was, last night, we were the only students there, so we get basically a private lesson.

- New homemade dishes -- My eldest has taken on the duty of cooking some of our family's meals. And this has been an adventure because she is trying to eat more healthy stuff, so we're all having to eat her new experimental healthy dishes. But a few have been hits. She discovered a veggie burger recipe that just isn't that bad . . . I would almost call it good. She made a veggie fajita that I really enjoyed. But the best one yet: she found a recipe for homemade lo mein that is just like what you get in restaurants. Oh, my! SO good!

-Walking the dog -- Now that some semblance of fall is falling on southern Texas (some semblance . . . kind of . . . I miss fall . . . ), it is getting cool enough that the family is more interested when I say, "Who wants to go with the dog and me on a W-A-L-K?" (The spelling is for the dog's benefit; the minute he recognizes the word, he dances like a maniac with impatience until we're out the door and it makes us nuts.) These days, the neighbors have fall decorations up -- lots of scarecrows and ghosts -- and it has been a hoot to watch the mutt staring these creatures down, trying to figure them out.

Sigh! We won't have both girls with us for these moments for too many more years. Gotta treasure these days while they're here.

No, You CAN'T Have It All

A few minutes ago, while scanning my Facebook newsfeed, I clicked on an article titled, "Why Women Still Can't Have It All." I'm not sure why I did; such articles usually annoy me. And I haven't finished reading the article yet (it's thirteen pages . . . yeesh), so I don't know exactly what conclusions the author is headed toward. But the beginning is rather interesting.

The author is a woman who works at Princeton, I believe (like I said, I haven't finished or read really closely yet) and who spent a couple years in Washington in a high-profile, highly influential position -- the job of her dreams. Yet she gave that job up after two years to go home and spend more time with her family, realizing that her "dream job" simply wasn't worth the sacrifices she was making.

She talks about how choosing to leave your job and "spend more time with your family" has become a euphemism in Washington for being fired. How crazy would it be for someone to actually make that choice of their own volition! Who would give up this kind of power and prestige to devote more energy to being a spouse and raising your kids? Nobody, of course.

But she did. And now she's speaking out, taking back the lies that she used to tell young women in her speaking engagements -- that you can have a high-profile, powerful job and never sacrifice anything in your family life.

Reading this reminded me of a seminal moment in my life. A couple of them, actually.

The first was during my first year of teaching, which was my second year of marriage. I was busting my butt trying to be a good teacher -- and for those of you who don't know, being a good teacher is hard work. Long hours. And for me, constant thinking about students and how to help them and how to get through to them. I was also trying to figure out this wife business -- how to give my husband the attention and support he needed, cook meals, maintain the house, all that.

Then one day, I had a sudden scare that I might be pregnant. I literally was so emotionally distraught, I had to call in sick. The idea of adding a baby to this mix was inconceivable to me.

The reality was, I was too much of a perfectionist. I wanted to be Perfect Wife, Perfect Teacher, and eventually Perfect Mom . . . and I was now coming to the painful reality that this was not possible. And I spent a week or two fuming about this. FUMING at the fact that I had been told all of my life that I could be anything I wanted to be -- and I had been lied to.

The second seminal moment was when hubby and I started talking about having children. I had been teaching for a few years at that point; I was juggling Wife and Teacher fairly well. But I sat and considered seriously the prospect of having a baby and realized I didn't know how to do add a Mother ball to my juggle. And the reason I didn't know is because I had not seen anybody do it well yet.

I knew three kinds of teachers. 1) Lousy teachers, who put minimal effort into their job and got minimal results. 2) Teachers whose lives were completely centered around their jobs -- most of them were single, or childless, or with grown children, and/or their spouses worked for the school system, too. And 3) good teachers who had lives outside of school but who were literally making themselves crazy or sick -- most of them seemed to burn out after a few years.

I had no role model for how to be a good teacher, a good wife, AND a good parent, all at the same time. It was easy to assume that it couldn't be done.

I'm now trying to do all three for the first time in my life. So far, so good, but it is definitely a challenge.

In any case, I'm stunned by women -- and men -- who throw themselves into high-pressure careers and somehow think their families aren't affected by this. I suspect they are in denial; I suspect they know that their families are adversely affected -- they just don't want to acknowledge it. Why?

I probably shouldn't go there . . . maybe another day . . .

What They're Wearing

Fall means a new year of Bible Study Fellowship. This year, my oldest daughter is going to her own BSF class, one for young adults. I'm very excited that both of my daughters are involved in this study now. BSF has been very meaningful for me when I've been able to participate in it over the years.

Last night, while I was sitting at the piano waiting for our opening session to begin (I accompany the songs we sing as a group before we start), I was noticing our teaching leader's dress. It was a long, sleeveless blue and white thing under which she wore a white t-shirt. Very cute. The kind of thing I wish I could find to wear to school. She always has cute outfits on -- not over-the-top fashion plate stuff, but simple and attractive.

Not only that, she always has different outfits on. After thirty-some weeks of class last year, I don't recall seeing her in an outfit that I remembered her wearing before. I have often wondered at the size of her closet. This has particularly struck me this year now that I'm back in the work world and have to dress professionally three days a week. I have only a handful of outfits that qualify as "professional" -- I'm going to be wearing the same thing over and over.

I've also wondered if our teaching leader intentionally keeps track of what she wears every week so she's always wearing something different. From what I know of her, I doubt it. She doesn't strike me as one to focus that much on her clothes. Yet I've noticed . . .

And now I'm not wondering about her anymore -- I'm wondering about me. Why in the world have I been paying such close attention to what she's wearing?

Such behavior might not be unusual for some women, but I am SOOO not into clothes. I hate shopping. I hate trying to dress myself and make myself look appropriate for whatever situation I'm going into because I stink at it. I don't like having to care about what I put on my body before I leave the house. And most of the time, I pay no attention whatsoever to what others are wearing. If my daughter had disappeared in the middle of a school day, I couldn't for the life of me have been able to tell you what she was wearing that morning. (Well, not when we were living in Sioux City. Here in San Antonio, she would have been wearing her school uniform. But that's beside the point.)

There are two people whose clothes I find myself paying a great deal of attention to these days: my BSF teaching leader and my principal. I have no earthly idea why what they're wearing jumps out at me. They're not flashy dressers -- like I said, simple and attractive. But it seems like every time I see them, my eyes end up scanning their outfit of the day and thinking, "Oh! That's so cute! I need a scarf like that . . . or a skirt like that . . . or shoes like that . . . "

I have never done this before. Is it weird that I suddenly notice how these two particular people in my life are dressing? Even more -- is it weird that I'm sitting here thinking about how weird it is that I suddenly notice how these two particular people in my life are dressing?

Even more weird: I apparently think you all are interested in reading about how weird it is that I suddenly notice how these two particular people in my life are dressing. Hmph.

The Puppy is Cute; I Am Not

There was a time in my life -- actually several "times", really -- as an insecure bespectacled child, as a teenager desperate for positive male attention, as a young woman no longer in the dating game and wondering about my continued appeal, that I would have given anything for anyone to call me cute.

That time has passed.

Babies are cute. Puppies are cute. Dresses and purses and shoes are cute. Teenage heartthrobs can rightfully be referred to as cute . . . that is, Ross Lynch from the Disney channel is cute while George Clooney, for example, requires another descriptor.

Middle-aged women are not cute. At least this one isn't. I'll gladly hear that I'm pretty, lovely, beautiful, stunning, gorgeous, attractive, nice-looking, "fetching" . . . but cute does not feel like a compliment I want anymore (except perhaps from my husband in certain circumstances which don't need elaboration here).

Several years ago, I did a monologue at a church service in New Jersey as a homeless person, talking to the audience about how I was invisible. I really made an effort to look the part (I'm not a costume person); I dressed as scummy as I could, had my hair back, no makeup, all that. I affected a limp and a different voice (again, as best I could do). A few people told me afterwards that they didn't recognize me for most of the piece. It was a challenging persona for me to put on, and it was a challenging message for the congregation to hear in the monologue. I wasn't brilliant or anything, but I was pleased that I was able to pull it off as well as I did.

A chipper friend came up to me after the service. She smiled a chipper smile, gave me a chipper hug, and chirped, in obvious reference to the monologue I had just performed: "You're so cute!"

Cute?!? You found that cute?!?? Nothing about what I had done on the platform that morning was supposed to be cute, thank you very much.

Now, I try to remind myself that "cute" seems to be the go-to compliment for many women out there, and especially many Texas women I have met (my chipper New Jersey friend was born and raised in Texas). I understand that they don't mean to belittle or demean, for example, a piece of serious, intense writing that I've belabored over by calling it cute. They just don't have the mental time or energy (or maybe the vocabulary?) to search for a more accurate word to describe it. My chipper friend didn't mean to imply that my dramatic efforts that morning looked childish or amusing (I hope). She wanted to say something nice, and "cute" was the word that fell out of her mouth. My hurt and offense was probably unwarranted. I hope.

In any case, "cute" is going on the banned word list for my English classes next year. Even if you're describing babies, puppies, and brand new pumps, it's worth the effort to learn some new adjectives.

My Daughter Thinks She's Courting

When I got home last night, hubby and our eldest were watching "19 and Counting", the episode I've heard a lot about lately where one of the daughters is starting to court and they're setting up all the rules for that.

Courting is something I'm familiar with now that I've been a part of the homeschooling world for a decade or so. I haven't experienced it, but I'm familiar with it. I've known families who have done it, in a variety of forms, with their kids. But I had other friends who saw this episode and were astonished at the idea.

For her part, my eldest was horrified. She said, "If you ever made me do this, I'd probably leave home." Her biggest beef was the fact that this couple never got to talk alone together. She'd go crazy if she could never talk to her boyfriend alone, she said.

It all led to an interesting discussion, though, about dating and courtship. Because my daughter believes that if you set aside the ultra-stringent requirements about never being alone so there's little temptation to impurity, she thinks dating someone and courting someone is about the same.

Hubby and I disagree with her strongly. Dating is casual. Dating is not focused on a future goal of marriage, at least not by definition. Dating is a form of entertainment -- at least, that's what it has become in our society. People date folks that they would have no intention of marrying, and might date them for years, even getting very physically serious with them.

But apparently, that's not how our eldest thinks of dating. Sure, there are people out there who misuse dating that way, she says. But dating is supposed to be about finding a mate. She's had a couple other boyfriends before this one, and she says that once she realized this was not a guy she was interested in being with forever, she ended the relationship. Essentially, she said, she's always been "courting". She's "courting" her boyfriend now.

First of all, I'm impressed that my daughter has such a mature view of relationships. But secondly, I'm surprised she doesn't realize how unique she is in looking at relationships that way.

I also need to explain to her today (because I couldn't think how to explain it to her last night) what I see as the major distinction between courtship and dating. One doesn't start courting until you are ready to be married. She and her boyfriend are quite aware that they are not ready to be married right now. They have not completed their educations, they have no income, etc. etc. If she was really courting and not dating, they would have held off having any kind of romantic relationship until marriage was an imminent possibility -- because a romantic relationship that goes on and on for years and years without tying the marital knot puts you in a position of being seriously tempted to go too far physically, for one thing.

Plus, it's kind of "playing" marriage. You're "committed" to someone, but not really. You expect a kind of faithfulness from each other without the maturity or intention to be genuinely faithful as faithfulness is defined. Your faithfulness ends when your interest ends . . . and that's not faithfulness at all: that's training for divorce. You really have no right to make claims on another's heart until you're ready to give them a permanent claim on yours.

So, no honey, you're not courting, you're dating. But really, I'm not big on the courting vs. dating debate, mainly because there's a lot of semantics involved. I don't care what name my daughter gives to the current relationship she has with her boyfriend. I care most that she is willing to talk to me about it and take my advice about how to do this relationship in a wise and healthy way, whatever she's calling it.

Parenting . . . if we knew how hard it was before we got into it, the race would die out.

Guess I'm Just a Sorry Excuse for a Modern Woman

A comment thread on a friend's recent FB post prompted me to make the following declarations:

- Although I'm a bit fuzzy on the current definition of a feminist, I'm still pretty sure that I'm not one.

- I don't believe I've ever been in a situation where I have been held back or mistreated simply because I'm a woman. However, this is most likely because I chose a career field that has historically been dominated by women.

- I don't at all doubt that there are women out there who are held back professionally or mistreated simply because they are women. But I also believe there are men out there who are held back professionally and mistreated simply because they are men. Example: I can't tell you how many times over the last twenty-five years my husband has been one of the last couple candidates for a job and lost it to a woman or a minority . . . but it's enough to convince me that it's not a coincidence. And I'm quite tired of television shows portraying all men as either violent sex maniacs or wimpy buffoons dominated by their wives.

- I have no problem with the term "mankind", even though I am not a man. None at all.

- I also have no problem with masculine pronouns being used to refer to a generic person. In fact, I find "s/he" and "his/her" and all their ilk to be quite annoying. They are MUCH more disruptive to effective communication, I think, than just saying "he" and assuming your reader has a modicum of common sense.

- The only time I recall experiencing any direct discrimination for my gender (and even this wasn't really direct) was at a church Hubby and I visited several times when we first moved to Hutchinson early in our marriage. He actually was the one who pointed out to me that women were never asked to pray in the Sunday School class, and did that bother me? (Not really.) When the church had a missionary couple come in to speak for a weekend -- and the men gathered to hear the husband speak of the mission efforts while the women gathered in another room to hear about the country's food and clothes -- that's when we decided to move on in our church search.

- There are a lot of super-conservative Christians that have a lot of super-conservative views on women that I don't agree with.

- That said, I think the Bible teaches that wives are to submit to their husbands, and I agree and do so, to the best of my ability. It's not a question of inferiority and superiority. I am "inferior" to my husband in some aspects, and he is "inferior" to me in other aspects, and we are equal in value before God. It's simply a matter of position; someone needs to be in charge in any organization. I knew when I married my husband that I was hiring a CEO for my family; if I didn't trust him to do the job well, I wouldn't have married him. Rarely has he ever expected me to "submit" to him because we rarely disagree on important matters regarding our family, but I'm prepared to do so. Anyone who uses the Bible to make women doormats has not thoroughly read their Bible.

- Men (as a whole) are physically stronger than women (as a whole). This means that men (in general) are better suited for certain jobs than women (in general). There are many other differences between men and women, and I like my men and women to be different. Again, it does not mean they are different in value.

- I had male OB/GYNs deliver both of my babies -- and I loved them.

- I prefer not to attend a church with a woman pastor. But I don't know that this has to do with Biblical admonitions against women in the ministry -- I think it's just a personal preference.

- I'm still not sure what I think of women in ministry roles as a whole. I had a friend once (a woman Sunday School teacher of a couples class) who believed that the church made a big mistake when they allowed women to take leadership positions in the church because this gave men permission to sit back and stop leading -- which they did. I tend to think there's something to that. I also know that if I were tapped to teach a class at church and I knew that there were several men who would not attend or who would give less credibility to the teaching because of my gender, I would step down and give the job to a man . . . because it is far more important that these men hear the word of God with an open heart than it is for them to get over any misogyny I suspect they suffer from (especially because getting over their misogyny would require them hearing the word of God with an open heart first).

- I was uncomfortable with Sarah Palin running for Vice President because she had young children -- and especially a very young one with special needs -- and I felt she would not be able to give her family the attention they needed if she were Vice President. It did occur to me at the time that it was hypocritical of me not to apply the same standard to men running for office . . . which has contributed to my belief that high-level offices in the national government (President and such) really need to be filled only by people who do not have children at home. Everyone should put their families first, and a President really can't.

- When a man opens a door for me or stands to give me a seat on a bus, it never occurs to me that he is implying that I am incapable in any way. I'm just terribly impressed at his good manners.

- I understand that many women have experienced genuine abuse based on their gender. This is abominable. I also think there are many women (and men) who frankly are just too darn sensitive. There.  I said it.

- Please feel free to call me a "lady". I strive to be one. I think I can tell when you mean it in a pejorative sense, and I'll get over it if you do.

The Queen of Appearance

I kind of like this picture -- don't you? Woman Sitting on a Throne of Clothing (my title). It's not representative of me at all, but it's very symbolic of many women in the western world these days. The Queen of Appearance seated on the source of her majesty and power. I am Woman; see my dress. And its accompanying accessories and sky-high pumps.

The second month of Jen Hatmaker's "experimental mutiny against excess" (which I referred to in my last post) was about clothes.  Out of her vast wardrobe, she chose seven items of clothing:

- a pair of nice jeans
- a dress
- four shirts (of varying levels of dressiness and formality)
- shoes (one pair of sneakers and one pair of cowboy boots -- see note)

[NOTE: Ms. Jen's "Council" (a circle of friends whom she drafted to help her set the parameters of her experiment and to keep her accountable) all agreed to make "shoes" a single item, but limited the scope of that item to two pair.  And undergarments were excluded from the fast. Understandably.]

As the month progressed, Ms. Jen found herself enjoying the fact that she didn't have to waste time and energy making decisions about what to wear (something my eldest has enjoyed about having a school uniform). She also learned a lot about how much importance she gives to her image -- and how little most people really pay attention to what you wear -- and how ridiculously much others DO pay attention.  And about the importance of regular laundering.

As I was reading this chapter, though, I kept thinking, this would be a breeze for me. I've gotten to a point this year where I seem to wear the same seven items of clothing all the time anyway.  (Okay, more than seven items, but still.)  And that was a bit of a rude awakening.

I do have excuses for my limited wardrobe, though. For one thing, I'm home most of the time. Nobody sees much of me except when I go to church, go to BSF, and drop the kids off at school. And until about a month ago, we were visiting different churches almost every week, so I could wear the same outfit to church each week and nobody would know the difference (and even if I wore the same outfit to the same church twice in a row, we didn't know anybody there yet, so nobody would pay any attention anyway).

But I realized that the biggest factor is EXERCISE. I have put "exercise" as a permanent item on my to-do list every day because that means I may actually get to it three or four times in a week. This means that when I get up in the morning, I dress for exercise; if I don't, I just cut the chances of my lazy butt actually going out to run by about a fifth. And on the days that I don't run, I end up wearing my t-shirt and sweat pants all day -- and putting them on the next morning so I'm again ready to exercise.

However, it's still kind of sad that I've come to look like a frumpy housewife every day. I'm sure my husband would appreciate my looking a little nicer when he comes home in the evenings . . . or at least would appreciate some variety in my appearance. There has to be a happy medium between needing to dress to the nines to feel good about yourself and not giving a flip at all about what raggedy threads are hanging off of your limbs.

This week, I substituted at my daughter's school two mornings. Which meant that I suddenly had to find "work clothes" in my closet. Wow! It was kind of exciting and kind of annoying and kind of frustrating, all at the same time. And it also made me wonder why, in a school where the students are required to wear uniforms, the teachers are given the "freedom" to express their individuality in their dress.

"Freedom". I think if I were teaching there, I'd find it more freeing to have a uniform. Maybe if I start teaching there, I'll impose one on myself. Standing in solidarity with my students. Yeah.

But it won't be a pleated plaid skirt. I haven't killed my pride that dead yet.

You Didn't Hear It From Me, But . . .

A book I'm reading describes the various approaches Christians have used to deal with “being in the world but not of it”. One of these approaches is to cocoon themselves in their own little community separated from the sinful world. Problem with this, the author states, is that they take their own sin into the cocoon with them. 

My eldest might be getting a taste of that at her new school. It's a rather prominent Christian school here in town, but she says there seems to be a gossip epidemic on campus. Everyone knows it; the teachers bring it up in admonition on a frequent basis . . . although many of those teachers are themselves some of the biggest culprits.

My daughter doesn't think she personally has much of a problem with gossip (“although that may mostly be because I don't talk much at all”), but her observation did lead to a discussion of what constitutes gossip and what doesn't.

Because, really, why wouldn't kids at school talk about each other? And why shouldn't they? If merely passing on second-hand information about another person is a crime, how would we ever know anything about anybody? What distinguishes gossip from casual, harmless conversation? Is it the content of what is said? Is it the way the information could be used or perceived? Is it the motive of the informer?

When I google a definition of “gossip”, it tells me that gossip typically involves details that are not confirmed as being true. But this is easily turned around to create an excuse: “It's true, so it can't be gossip.” In fact, we can come up with all sorts of excuses to justify this behavior. “She didn't say it was a secret, so I'm sure it's okay to share.” Or the grandmama of them all: “I'm just sharing this with all of you so you can pray for her.” Mm-hmm.

Another Google source gives a more specific description of what the Bible says constitutes gossip. We are gossiping when we:

- tell a secret (Prov 11:13)
- talk too much about others (Prov 16:28)
- use our words to add fuel to a fight (Prov 28:20)
- discuss topics we shouldn't (1 Tim 5:13)
- cause division with our words (Prov 16:28)

That helps. (Although "too much" is still pretty subjective . . . )

Curious about the school's approach to the problem, I asked my daughter if the teachers' reprimands were simple scolding or if they included suggestions for how to identify what's gossip, how to direct conversations away from inappropriate topics, what else to talk about instead. No, just scolding. In my BSF this week, we read this teaching of Christ's in Matthew 12:

When an evil spirit leaves a person, it goes into the desert, seeking rest but finding none. Then it says, “I will return to the person I came from.” So it returns and finds its former home empty, swept and in order. Then the spirit finds seven other spirits more evil than itself, and they all enter the person and live there. And so that person is worse off than before.

When dealing with our pet sins, getting rid of the bad is not enough – you must replace it with the good so there is no room for the bad to return.

Hmm . . . excuse me while I apply that teaching to my own little pet sin . . .

New Life Growing From the Top of my Head

I realize it may seem a bit vain to spend an entire blog post talking about my hair, but hear me out.

Growing up, my hair was straight as a board, and I hated that. I had a long, thin face, and I thought my long, straight hair just accentuated that and made me look like a horse. So, I tried desperate maneuvers with a variety of curling irons and rollers to change the shape of my coif. All to no avail. By lunchtime, all my curls would disappear.

Then during my junior year, when I landed my big theatrical lead of my high school career (Ruby in “Dames at Sea”), the director asked me to perm my hair. Hallelujah! I loved this! I continued perming my hair for years – many years after the style was in any sense fashionable. It was an EASY style. I washed my hair, put a little mousse in it (maybe) and let it dry. Glory! With two little ones in tow, I hated the hassle of messing with my hair.

Then my friend Maria in Jersey offered to color my hair for me to save me the money I was spending at the hairdresser's. As she was finishing up, she said, “You wanna see what your hair would look like straight?” And she pulled out this remarkable little flattening iron and proceeded to make my hair straight and amazing-looking. I was so excited! I immediately bought myself one of those handy little tools and had her teach me how to do that with my hair.

That was my last perm. I let the kinks grow out and took to straightening my hair after every wash. And I did find it interesting that even when the perm had grown out, there was enough “wave” in my hair to require the flattening iron. But I didn't think much of it.

Until we went to Panama . . . and my hair took on a life of its own. I may as well have left my beloved little tool at home because my Panama hair defied it with vengeance. That hair was big and curly and flyaway and I'd have had more luck bottling the waves of the ocean than taming the locks on my head. I chalked that up to life in a different continent, one of the many things that would be new in my world if we decided to make that move. Everything was so different in Panama that my hair being curly seemed to just fit right in.

Imagine my surprise, however, when I found the same to be true in Texas. It's not quite as bad – I can force my hair almost straight right after a wash, but it's not worth the effort. The picture above is my own little head. My naturally curly head that still doesn't feel like it belongs to me. I paid good money for this look twenty years ago, and now it's given to me as a gift. No, it's not the climate -- the climate isn't THAT different here -- it's just my freaky hair.

I don't get it. I've heard of a woman's hair changing dramatically after pregnancy, or growing back differently after chemotherapy, but I've just been living life and suddenly my hair has decided to create a new life for itself.

As if it were inviting me to do the same. Weird.

Thoughts While Playing Bunko at the Neighbor's House Last Night

- How do you play bunko again?

- Dang, women are loud.

- The evening's theme is PJs and breakfast food. I think this is the first breakfast event I've been to in San Antonio that didn't include salsa.

- And I've never drunk wine with my breakfast, either, but that and water are the only beverages available this evening.  Oh, wait!  Someone just brought in a pitcher of orange juice.  Awesome!  I love orange juice.  Wait . . . this isn't just . . . sigh! Glad I walked here.

- I got a bunko and a boobie, both in the first round before I had any idea what I was doing and understood the significance of either.

- Our new neighborhood seems to have a nice mix of ages.  We haven't had opportunity to meet many folks yet, so this is nice to see. All lily-white, though -- which is surprising in a town where anglos are in the minority. And a little disappointing to me, because part of the appeal of coming to San Antonio was that I might hook up with someone willing to talk Spanish to me and help me learn (Panama is still in the back of our minds).

- I love breakfast food. I wish my tummy wasn't acting up so much. What did I eat for lunch that's coming back to haunt me . . . ?

- Bunko's an interesting phenomenon. A friend in Sioux City invited me to a bunko night, so this is my second go at it. The game seems to be created simply as an excuse to mingle and chit chat. Frankly, it almost feels like speed dating.

- Dang, women drinking wine are LOUD.

- And these drinking women are not fond of Obamacare. One lady just found out their insurance is being cancelled -- the suggested replacement policy will have an $8000 higher deductible and cost them $3000 more a year.  Three women in the group work in healthcare (one's an occupational therapist, don't remember about the other two, if they said). They all say they knew this was coming from the moment Obamacare started being discussed. And they all say they are losing doctors at their places of employment (I want to ask if those doctors quit or were let go, but I'm not drinking enough wine to be loud enough to get a word in).

- Finally starting to remember how this game works. Not that it matters -- there's no skill involved whatsoever. But at least I can keep up with the competitive ladies who are really into this, of which there are a couple.

- A former first grade teacher in the group (who's expecting her third son in a couple months) and a mom of a first grader are talking about money and math. The mom's daughter is anxious to learn how to count money, but the first grade teacher tells her she won't learn that until second grade. That was her biggest frustration teaching, she says; she had some kids who were ready to move on to counting money and beyond, and then other kids who couldn't even name the coins. So many levels she had to accommodate . . . and the ESL kids mixed among them.  Yep. We give public school teachers an almost impossible job.

- And the hostess decides she's done with bunko after eleven rounds; time to stop and just drink. (These women aren't drunk or anything, I should clarify; it's just clear that some of them are really only here for the wine and the talk -- maybe they had rough days.) So, I end the night with six wins, five losses, one bunko and one boobie. Which wins me nothing out of the $5-a-lady pot. Oh, well. I didn't come to win money. Or to drink wine.

I came to meet my neighbors. And that's why I'll be back in December . . . with a $15 white elephant and a plate of hors d'oeuvres. Maybe I'll bring the salsa this time.

Three Things To NOT Do When a Woman Is Crying (And One Thing TO Do)

I offer this as a service to guys everywhere, particularly you young ones just starting out on this relationship gig. You should be taking notes, gentlemen.

 

1) Don't even think about hinting at “that time of the month.” Seriously. You may be right, but just don't. We know better than you do how crazy our body chemicals make us.  If we don't realize that that is the source of our emotional outburst right now, we will eventually, and your trying to rush that process will only prolong it.

But even more than that, blaming all of our tears on hormones just minimizes the real problem . . . and yes, there usually is a real problem. It's possible that your lady just fell apart into torrential sobs over absolutely nothing, but it's not likely. It's more likely that the hormones simply magnified the reaction to a very real problem that deserves very real attention.

2) Don't try to make her stop crying. At least, on a surface level. When I see a teenage boy with his weepy teenage girlfriend trying to make her laugh to stop the tears . . . or, God forbid, tickling her (seriously, do you have a death wish?) . . . I think, “Yeah, dude, she'll think that's cute and appreciate your effort for a while, but be prepared for the blow-up one day.”

Once again, you have to remember that under the apparent hysterics, there is a real problem. When you minimize that problem, you are minimizing her. It's demeaning. I know you mean well -- so does she, that's why she'll put up with it for a while -- but there comes a point where you look like you aren't interested in the whole woman here.  You're only interested in a happy, pretty plaything that entertains you and responds to the push of a button.  That's not a woman; that's a doll.  Buy a doll.

3) Don't try to fix the problem – at least at first. I realize that sounds COMPLETELY contradictory to what I said in my first two points. And here is where I'll admit some craziness on the part of my gender. Men are fixers; they see a problem, they fix it. Women are not men. Sometimes, we need some wallow time. We need to feel the full emotional impact of what we're dealing with and get a grip on that before we can deal with it. Yes, we will over-do it occasionally and indulge in our wallowing to an unhealthy extent (ladies, you need to recognize this tendency in yourself and work on it so your man doesn't have to attempt the dangerous maneuver of pointing it out to you).

But I'll let you in on an important secret: often, when a woman is not able to get past the emotions of a situation and move on, it's because somebody in her life (currently or regularly in the past) has minimized her emotions so much that she has learned to compensate by exaggerating them. She has to over-react to demonstrate -- to herself and to you -- that her feelings are legitimate.  That SHE is legitimate. Weird, yes . . . but only to a man.

Your woman would probably welcome your suggestions and insight into her situation, but not until she's ready.  Not until she's felt the full emotional impact of that situation.  Not until after you . . .

* DO sit with her and help carry the burden.  Listen. Hold her hand. Affirm how bad things are. Yes, even if you don't quite understand why things are so bad. I'm not saying to patronize and lie . . . I'm saying take the time to understand what this means to her. Did you catch that key word?  UNDERSTAND. Attempt to understand. Women are extremely relational by nature. They won't care to hear your suggestions until they are convinced you really get the problem.  How can you fix things until you understand?

This is hard for men; I get that. But let me give you some encouragement: the more you do this, the less you may need to do this.  The more understood she feels, the quicker she can get through the emotions and be ready for your assistance in solving it all.

Do I hear an "amen", sisters?

How I Ended Up Crying in an Empty Church Parking Lot

I knew I needed to get a Texas driver's license. I figured there was no point until we had a permanent address to put on it. Not until I was signing papers to close on the house and the lady making a copy of my license said, “Do you know that your license has expired?” did I realize that I needed to get a move on.

Of course, right after the closing we had our hectic several days moving from apartment to house. I stopped by the DPS office soon after (because I couldn't get anyone there to answer the phone) and asked what all I would need to have with me to get this process done. Turned out, I needed to have my vehicle registered in Texas before getting a license. And turned out, I needed to have the vehicle inspected before I could get it registered.

And turned out, I needed to replace the tires and update the insurance before I could get it inspected. (They also said I needed a current and valid photo ID – I was about to panic about that Catch-22, but thank God, the inspection guy didn't say boo about my expired license.) While he was out of town the first week we were in the house, hubby worked on getting our insurance taken care of and finding the best price on tires. So, I got the tires replaced . . . got the inspection done . . . got the van registered . . . and finally, yesterday made it to the DPS office again with all my required paperwork in hand.

Or so I thought. After waiting to see an agent (a short wait, I'll admit) and waiting while she checked over everything and signed various items, she suddenly asked where my marriage license was. Uh . . . nobody told me I needed my marriage license. Turned out, I did. So, I drove home, got it, drove back, and waited to see an agent again.

Waited through the paperwork again. Did the computer touch-screen driver's exam (86.6%, thank you very much). Scheduled a road test for 2:20pm yesterday afternoon. (No, I did not know going in that I was going to need to take a road test – but whatever.) Then I went home for lunch and a short nap. (Did I mention that I am still lousy sick? Yeah . . . )

So, I drove my third trip of the day back to the DPS office for my road test . . . only to be informed by my tester (after he'd already started paperwork and looked over my brake lights and all) that he couldn't give me my test because I didn't have my Texas tags on the van yet. I showed him I had them in the car with me – I just got them yesterday! No go.

I tried to smile. I went in and scheduled another road test – the earliest opening was Thursday morning. Then I drove to the empty church parking lot next door to the DPS office, sat in my car, and cried for a while.

Now, I realize it is ridiculous that this should bring me to tears. I have friends in the hospital right now. I have friends with seriously ill children. Friends with teenagers on drugs. I have friends who have lost their jobs . . . friends whose marriages are on the rocks . . . even in light of the trials our own family has gone through for the past couple years, this is minimal.  I know all that.

But you know, maybe it's a woman thing. I just needed to cry. As I've said before, sometimes, for a woman, crying is like sweating. It's a release of tension. I just had to get it out. Then I pulled myself together, stopped for a pack of Twinkies (don't judge me) and went to pick up my daughter.

And yes, I drove with my expired Iowa license.  Lord help the cop who stops me -- he'll get an earful.

#childhoodfriendsforever

Laura and Amanda go home today.  They are my eldest's two best friends from New Jersey, and they've spent the last week with us.  Yes, sleeping on the floor or in crowded beds in our small apartment, driving around with us to run errands and take kids to and from school, listening to my griping about last minute moving details.  That's how good of friends they are.

We did the sightseeing stuff with them -- took them to the River Walk, the Alamo, the Japanese Tea Garden and the Botanical Gardens, the very cool outdoor La Cantera Mall -- and last night we ate at Texas Pride BBQ, a place we saw featured on a Food Network show right after they got here.

They also spent a lot of time at the apartment pool.  And they watched "High School Musical 3", kind of for old time's sake (even while they complained about how unrealistic it is . . . didn't bother them five years ago!).

They joked all day yesterday about the waiter at the fondue place telling them when they left to "have a good strip . . . uh, sorry . . . I was thinking 'have a good stay' and 'have a good trip' . . . um, yeah." Silly boy.

But mostly, they talked, as only teenage girls can.  They've been friends since our family started homeschooling and joined a co-op -- my eldest's second grade year (she's a senior now, remember).  They've kept in touch through texting and Skype for the five years we lived in Iowa.  Last spring, Amanda chose a trip to visit Leslie in lieu of a graduation party . . . and Laura begged her parents to let her come along.

That's how good of friends they are.

And today, they go back.  I felt bad that we weren't more settled here so we could give them a richer San Antonio experience.  But really, they weren't here to see Texas.  They were here to see my daughter.  (Although they liked Texas, too.)

All the hashtags Laura's been putting on her FB pictures kind of sum up the trip:  #wearealltogetheragain 
#mygirlies 
#childhoodfriendsforever 
#texaslovin

#lovelovelovethem

Fixing a Hot Mess

At the end of my time in New Jersey and during the first part of our stint in Iowa, I lost about 15 pounds.  During this last stressful year of unemployment, I gained it all back.  Unfortunately, carbs are a long time friend to me in times of trial.

I also lost a contact toward the end of May (while on the treadmill, if I get any brownie points for that) and have been wearing my old glasses full-time for a couple months.  And Texas humidity seems to be doing a number on my hair -- I can't quite make it look right most days.  And I don't know if it's the lighting in the apartment bathroom or the cheap foundation I bought while on a strict budget, but my skin is yeechy.  And I'm already tired of the limited wardrobe I brought with me for this temporary time in the apartment.

All to say, I'm less than pleased when I behold myself in the mirror these days.  My husband, God bless his soul, still tells me I look beautiful, but what's he supposed to say?  "Ew, baby!  You're a hot mess!"  He has the wisdom of 24 years of marriage to know better than to make a comment like that.

But I've been chipping away at the hot mess.  I replaced my contacts as soon as I could get to an eye doctor here in San Antonio.  Been making use of the exercise room here and cutting down on sweets and portion sizes.  And yesterday, I got my hair done.  Whew!  It's amazing what a difference that can make.

The lady who did my hair was a friendly lady -- we had a conversation about Candy Crash and the frustration of getting stuck on certain levels.  (She said she had a customer who was on level 300-something.  Seriously??  Somebody doesn't have a life . . . )  I wasn't sure how she could do Candy Crush at all, however, with her fingernails.

These were serious nails -- wicked nails -- long, thick, colorful, bejeweled nails.  When I first saw them, I couldn't imagine how she was going to be able to do anything on my hair with those nails.  But she did.  They didn't even fall off when she scrubbing my hair and massaging my scalp under the water. 

But I had the passing thought:  is this what other people do when they're less than pleased when they behold themselves in the mirror?  Jewel-covered nails?  Blond streaky highlights on thick black hair?  Nose rings?  Tattoos?  Do those decisions come out of the same experience of being tired of your image?

I don't think I'll ever get THAT tired of what I look like.  And even if I did, I would start with a bright new lipstick or something first.  Lipstick's cheap . . . and it wipes off.

Kim

I have a friend named Kim.  I don't remember exactly where we met, but I remember where we became friends -- at a park by Sunnyside Elementary watching our kids play Ultimate Frisbee once a week the summer of 2009.  (Well, her daughter played -- my daughters mainly hung around for the social time.)

We sat in our lawn chairs at the side of the "field" and talked.  And somehow our talk turned to drama.  And somehow we came up with the idea of trying to do a play with the homeschoolers that fall.  I'm still not sure where we got the chutzpah.

Thus began four years and eight plays worth of collaboration.  And it has been a God-ordained collaboration.  I never cease to be amazed at how well we mesh in this endeavor.  I write the plays and run the rehearsals -- doing the things I enjoy and do best.  She gathers costumes and props, manages set building, collects money, makes and copies programs -- all the things that would make me insane, but apparently she enjoys (well, I don't know that she enjoys hunting down people for their money . . . ).  This drama program would never have happened if I'd had to do it alone, because her job would have made me cry on a regular basis and I would have been too stressed to go on after the first year.

And yet, despite our different roles, we think so much alike.  I look at the emails she sends out to the parents every week (and just the fact that she sends them, methodically, every week) and think, "That's just how I would have done that.  Yay!"  When we sit down together at my kitchen table after every audition to cast the show, we both come away awed at how God used our separate perceptions of everyone to pull together a perfect cast.  It never fails about halfway through a season that we make some comment about how there's simply no other way this show could have been cast.

God consistently has taken the fish and loaves we each offer to him and multiplied them to feed a multitude.

Kim never gets the credit she deserves for all this.  Because I'm the loudmouth in front of everybody, I seem to get most of the kudos.  And yet she never complains.  She said last Friday that I was the "face" of the program.  But she is the heart that keeps the blood pumping to make it live.

A mutual friend told me once that she was praying for God to bring me a Kim in my drama ministry at Sunnybrook.  I told her I could use a Kim in every aspect of my life.  My Barnabas.  Thank you, friend.

On Maturity

One of my daughters has been hurt by the accusation from certain friends that she is “immature”.  Now, I realize that I’m her mother, and I’m not objective.  And I know she has her faults, as does she.  But I would defy any objective adult to look at my daughter and her accusers and tell me that she is the least mature of the group.

I love this facepalm monkey.

Hubby and I have tried to explain to her that the problem, we think, is how these kids define maturity.   Their definitions have nothing to do with character and everything to do with lifestyle and experience.  My twelve-year-old daughter doesn’t wear make-up and isn’t into fashion and how she looks.  To them, this is a sign of immaturity.  Every "mature" girl they know their age is trying desperately to make themselves as attractive as possible to boys.

My daughter isn’t "boy crazy".  She has crushes on boys, but she doesn’t act silly around them and she doesn’t avoid their presence for fear of doing something embarrassing.  She is a big fan of Max Schneider, a Nickelodeon star, (in fact, she created her own fan blog – give her a thrill and check it out here), but she doesn’t act all kooky and gaga over him.  To her friends, this is immaturity.  Every "mature" girl they know their age is obsessed with boys, because that’s what is supposed to happen when you hit the middle school years and stop being a little girl.

My daughter doesn’t watch "Degrassi" or other shows of a similar nature aimed at kids her age.  She thinks the sexual content of these shows is ridiculous.  Keep in mind, she’s had crushes on boys since she was five, so it’s not like she’s not into the opposite sex yet.  She just doesn't buy into the idea that teenage romance must inherently involve stupidity – and she thinks shows that glorify stupid teenage romances are stupid.  To her friends, this is immature.  Every "mature" girl they know their age longs for the kinds of relationships they see portrayed in such programs and will take any opportunity they get to have one.

Of course, it now occurs to me . . . every other girl that these friends know goes to school.

There's an old joke among homeschoolers: when someone asks, "Aren't you worried about your kids' socialization?" they say, "Absolutely!  That's why we homeschool!"

It Starts With a "P"

Hubby was checking online last night for the date of the local Daddy/Daughter Date Night event sponsored by the Rec Center.  "Guess what the theme is this year?" he asked our youngest.  "I'll give you a hint:  it starts with a P."

She thought for a while.  I offered "Pirate?" as a possibility.  Nope, no pirate theme. 

Suddenly her face perked up.  "Potential?" she asked.

Ahem.  Potential????  What the heck??

We roared about that for a while, and hubby gave her another clue:  it starts with PR.

"Principal?"

Yes, dear.  Everybody goes to the Daddy/Daughter Date Night dressed as their favorite principal -- which would be a bit awkward for you since you're homeschooled and your principal is your DATE.

"Pretty?"

Oh, dear.  At least this is getting closer.  "It's not 'Prognosis' either, honey," hubby tells her.

At this point, we're all in stitches too much to offer any more guesses.  I suppose my twelve-year-old is truly not a little girl anymore when she can't come up with a "Princess" theme for Daddy/Daughter Date Night.

"Potential."  Smirk.  This is what happens when a vocab-loving, grammar-diva English teacher homeschools.