Lately I’ve been hooked on British television show called “Call the Midwife.” If you like post-WWII era clothes and music, East End London accents, and multi-layered stories with engaging characters and plotlines, then this is your kind of show. If you don’t like graphically detailed breech births and nurses piecing together placenta in metal bowls and other bloody labor scenes in all their slimy glory, you may want to pass on this one. Being that it’s only an hour-long drama, there are moments and details of the laboring process they have to skip over or at least speed through. And there are times when the newborn baby looks a little too perfect (Where’s the cone head and smushed nose?) to have hung around a birth canal as long as the scene would suggest. Still, all in all, it’s convincingly realistic enough for me. Watching these women labor like there’s no tomorrow makes me think about my own babies. When I had my twins nearly eleven years ago, I had no idea how it was all going to go down. There really isn’t anything that can totally prepare you for that first time so I didn’t even try. I didn’t go to birthing classes or read many books. I got spooked by all of the statistics and horror stories about twin births so I just soldiered on the best I could. I made it to 38 weeks before I was induced. After being admitted, my doctor said I wasn’t far enough along for my epidural so they gave me Stadol, a drug designed to take the edge off the pain. Instead, it made me loopy. I could still feel the contractions but my drugged up mind couldn’t process what was happening to me. My husband told me later that I asked him crazy questions like “If you were a Muppet, which Muppet would you be?” and “Did you just feel that contraction? It was a big one!” Fortunately, the drug wore off before I actually had to start pushing so I have a clear recollection of the big moment(s). When I delivered my son three years later, I entered motherhood with a much better understanding of what to expect. I labored at home from 10:00 p.m. until we checked in at the hospital at 7:00 a.m. the next day and then continued until he was born at noon. Since I wasn’t induced this time, I was able to steadily become accustomed to the building, ludicrous betrayal of my body attempting to turn itself inside-out, a.k.a. contractions. After they gave me my epidural, I was feeling so good that I welcomed a class of nursing students into the delivery room to watch. I put my feet into the stirrups, instructed the nurse as she adjusted the laboring mirror, and gave my doctor a nod that said, “Don’t worry about anything, Doc. I got this one.” Then I started to push. As soon as I saw that little baby head, I stopped listening to my doctor—you know…that real nice lady who went to medical school—and pushed in spite of her warning that I was about to tear. Guess what I did? I pushed anyway. I pushed and I tore a very sensitive area that really should remain intact if at all possible, that is, if you enjoy things like sitting down on a chair without a foam doughnut under your rear. Suffice it to say, I was ready to take out stock in Sitz Bath technology a month later. Even with a labor and delivery already under my belt (and the stretch marks to prove it), I still had so much to learn about becoming a mom. Now I find myself learning another motherhood lesson. Depending on how you figure it, I’m eighteen months into a pregnancy that has been just as difficult and rewarding and confusing and exciting as my other experiences. We signed our first adoption paperwork in July 2011 but conception was probably years before that. The type of pain I feel now is like that night 7 1/2 years ago when I rested between contractions that were too far apart to go to the hospital but too close together to be able to sleep or eat or think straight. It was exciting to think I would be holding my new son, the reason I was on all fours on the living room floor panting through the next contraction. But it was scary to think about the possible complications and worst-case scenarios. That’s what this adoption has been for me: The ups of seeing our little Ezra’s picture for the first time and the downs of finding out that we’re not as far into the next phase as we were led to believe. The knowledge that he’s ours but not as far as the Congolese government is concerned. The excitement of buying clothes for him but the worry that we won’t be able to go and get him before he’ll outgrow them. It’s a roller coaster ride. I have so much to encourage me and point me to the hopefulness of our situation. I can see families that have already picked up their kids from the Congo. I can trust in the experience of our adoption agency and the amazing people who work there. I can put my hope in a Sovereign Lord who I know has called us to adoption with a full knowledge (God’s knowledge, not mine) of how this will eventually end. I can remind myself of all of this every day that I wake up in a house that holds three children instead of four but it’s not always easy. In fact, it gets more difficult every day. But I have to ask myself why we started this whole thing in the first place. Did we do this because we thought it would be easy? No. If child birth has taught me anything, it has taught me that the greatest rewards often come after unspeakable pain—either physical or in the private chambers of my heart. If that formula holds true this time, this sweet African boy will be the greatest blessing of my life.

No matter who you are or what you’re capable of, there’s someone out there who has a talent that you envy at least a little bit. Maybe it’s a universally desirable skill like dunking a basketball or singing like Mariah Carey. Or maybe it’s something a little more obscure like the auto-tisement (Did I just make that up? Nope. I just googled it. Already there. Darn.) that said “British Voice-Over Talent, Call 555-1234.” That’s a talent you don’t run into every day. I have a few talents I’d like to develop over the next fifty years: Smooth Talker. I know people who can talk themselves out of any ticket or sticky situation. It baffles me how they do it. I can’t say for sure but a slight disregard for authority probably helps. For me, on the other hand, I can’t pass a postal truck without checking my speed. It’s not as if I’m constantly breaking the law but if I do I will always get caught. I was feeling really rebellious the other day so I ripped the “Do Not Remove” tag from my new pillow. Unfortunately, I ripped the seam open too. Great Memory. My husband has an amazing memory. He says it’s mostly insignificant facts but I’m still jealous. My sisters, brothers-in-law and I once played a game of Trivial Pursuit with him and he won the whole game before the rest of us ever answered a question. When I’m trying to recall the name of an actor or a movie, I have to take him on a trip I like to call “Abby’s Celebrity Road to Nowhere.” It goes a little something like this: “What’s that movie? They ride in a hot air balloon…It’s got that girl with the brown hair…Oh, I know, she played the sister of that other girl who was in that movie about horses…You know the one…The father was a bank robber…” It’s painful for everyone involved. Dance Like No One Is Watching. I’ve never felt comfortable doing anything in public that even remotely resembles dancing—just walking past a crowd can be problematic. I don’t take aerobics classes, either. Just the thought of Zumba-ing in a mirror-lined room full of strangers makes me want to vomit. I’m as coordinated and graceful as a newborn moose. It would be hilarious for everyone else but I’m not that generous. Inventor/Phrase Coiner. My son constantly asks me who invented everything. Sometimes it’s something I already know or I can look up like: “Who invented basketball?” or “Who made the light bulb?” But sometimes it’s not that easy like when he asked me “Who invented swimming pools?” That got me thinking that I’d like to invent something. Imagine if I’d come up with the recipe for the Colonel’s Secret Recipe Fried Chicken. I’d be a millionaire! Or what if I’d invented Velcro instead of that old slacker George de Mestral? I’d be adored by every mom whose toddler has easy slip-on sneakers and by every boy who carries a Velcro wallet! If I can’t be an inventor then I’d at least like to coin a phrase. It would be so cool if everyone started saying a catch phrase that I made up. Like what if I had been the first one to say “No way, Jose!” or “Fiscal cliff?” I’ve got a few options I’m going to throw out there to see if anything sticks. 1) My brother-in-law should actually get credit for this one. My sister and I were talking about the stupidity of the phrase: “That’s like comparing apples to oranges.” You can totally compare apples and oranges. I could come up with about twenty ways that they’re the alike! Instead, my brother-in-law suggested that we say, “That’s like comparing apples to mustard.” I like it. Let’s see where it goes. 2) I’ve also been working on a word for the greasy spots on my sunglasses that show up when they get pushed back too far on my face and rub against my (apparently greasy) eyebrows. I like “smoodge.” It’s short and practically an onomatopoeia. My husband prefers his own phrase: “eyebrow juice.” Since he is the trivial genius in the family, he may be on to something. I guess we’ll just have to let it play out.

‘Tis the season for receiving Christmas cards. For the most part, I really love to see photos and read updates of friends from the various phases of my life: High school buddies who saw me through my most awkward stage, married couples who lived on Campbell’s soup like we did during those first years of our marriage, fellow parents whose kids are best friends with our youngsters. The mailbox holds a new treat everyday. The drawback to the whole exchanging cards tradition is the limited amount of space we’re allowed to explain an entire year’s worth of experiences. We carefully choose a picture that projects our intended image. The kids’ faces are round with wide grins and they’re tenderly grasping hands in sibling devotion. The honest picture would show what happened just after the picture was taken. When she pinched him and he bit her and they wrestled on the carpet for ten minutes before mom had to step in and pull them apart. With the advent of Facebook, I should be accustomed to this type of meticulous name branding but it seems more intentional at Christmas. I could post things about my life all day long on Facebook, (“I just made a cake in the shape of Voldermort for Johnny’s birthday!” or “Thank God for lattes! LOL!” or “It’s Monday :(” etc.) but you just have that one chance every year for the card. I’d love to see a card starring a mom stirring a bowl with one hand as she balances a phone on her shoulder and points to the arithmetic mistakes on her daughter’s homework with the other hand. That’s real life. Maybe I’d throw in a naked toddler running just out of the frame and smoke pouring from the oven for ambience. I’m just as guilty as the next girl when it comes to putting on a show for the Christmas card. There are some friends—due to distance and/or busy schedules—whose only correspondence with me is that annual card. What do I want them to know about me and my family? What do I want to know about them? I wish I could sit down with everyone on our list and find out—Barbara Walters’ style—exactly what makes him/her one of the year’s Most Fascinating People. What would they share that they left off their 2012 recap? I know I would discover something new every time. These people I call Friends have talents and experiences completely unbeknownst to me. Although there’s nothing wrong with putting our best face forward when it comes to mass mail-outs, I have to ask myself what kind of card would God send us? Here’s my guess: The holidays are just around the corner and the three angels who visited Abraham are in charge of designing the Christmas card this year. They’re scrolling through pictures for the perfect photo. This card will be sent out to everybody (and when I say everybody, I mean EVERYBODY) so it has to be perfect! ANGEL 1: “Here’s the one with Gabriel on the slopes. Oops…he closed his eyes in the picture…” ANGEL 2: “How about this one? It’s really festive.” ANGEL 3: “No. Michael hates that one. Spike, the rockstar angel, is always trying to do the hair metal, back-to-back, air-guitar thing whenever any angel within fifty feet pulls out a camera. It’s getting lame.” ANGEL 1: “Raphael looks good in this picture. He really has that ‘Hark the Herald’ thing going for him…wait a minute…never mind. His halo’s on backwards. Good grief. We’ll never pick out a card!” After much deliberation, they take their possible choices to God’s throne to get his opinion but He has a different idea. GOD: “This is a going to sound crazy but instead of a Christmas card this year, I’m going to send Jesus down to a tiny town called Bethlehem to be born of a Virgin.” ANGEL 2: “What?! He’s the quarterback for our football team…” ANGEL 3: “And the best baritone in the choir…” ANGEL 2: “And the lead in all the musicals! We were going to do Jesus Christ Superstar this year!” ANGEL 1: “Why would you send Him down there anyway?” GOD: “I want everyone to really know Me. Not the watered-down version but the real, salt-of-the-earth, Creator of the Universe. It’s hard to explain so I’m going to send Jesus and he’ll live it out for me. Don’t look at me like that—it’s going to work. It’ll be messy but totally worth it.” ANGEL 3: “Why not send just send lightning bolts and shake the ground with thunder?” ANGEL 2: “Yeah. I like it, and so will Spike. It’ll be like the best rock concert of all time!” GOD: “Nope. I’ll shake the earth later, I promise. But this year will be about a baby—a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. Now get going to choir practice. I just wrote a new song for you. It goes like this: ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.’” So keep sending those cards! I only wish I could say “Merry Christmas!” to all of you in person!!

There are plenty of things to stress over when it comes to parenting: multiplication tables and table manners, vitamin deficiency and sugar overload, caffeine and nicotine, the birds and the bees…I could keep going but I’m starting to feel queasy. One of the least important things to worry about is facilitating the development of a sharp sense of humor in my kids, right? But if I don’t do it, who will? Spongebob? I don’t think I want to leave something this important in his skinny, less-than capable, yellow hands. I have a few theories about what makes a person funny: Most of kids’ television shows today are pretty lame. The laugh tracks and the predictable storylines make me want to rip my hair out or, at the very least, change the channel. We’ve tried to strike a happy balance in our kids’ television and movie-watching habits. We don’t want them to be totally unable to relate to their peers so we’ll let them watch a few current shows and movies (I especially like Word Girl and Electric Company. And there’s nothing better for fun family entertainment than whatever is the newest Pixar movie.). To keep things interesting, we’ll add in some episodes from The Dick Van Dyke show, The Andy Griffith show, and I Love Lucy. My girls are becoming junior aficionados of musicals from the 1940’s and 1950’s. That should wow their fellow 5th graders. After I teach them the card game Mille Bornesand the finer art of constructing tissue cozy covers out of plastic canvas, their education will be complete. Voted Most Popular of the class of 2020? You’re welcome, girls. Speaking of girls, I think it’s trickier for women to be funny. I’m not blaming chromosomes or uterine lining for it; I’m blaming society. At some point, most girls are brainwashed to believe that they must giggle at every little thing said by the boys they like. This is usually done during the crucial humor development ages of 8-14. They should be making their friends laugh with witty and carefully crafted comments about their chorus teacher not giggling at fart jokes made by the baseball team. Why do you think that most successful comediennes are of the sexual orientation that makes flirting with boys negligible? Growing up, they didn’t care if they made the boys around them feel hilarious. I’m not saying you have to be gay to be a funny woman—not at all—but just think about my theory the next time you’re watching Ellen. Another important part of nurturing my kids’ love of Funny is making sure they’re open to unusual experiences. These are comedy fodder. I’ll give you two recent examples from my own life: I am the co-director for the Shining Stars, a children’s sign language/singing group at my church. We were asked to sing on a Sunday for a large group of Chinese who were coming to our building for a special service. We had chosen “Revelation Song,” a song we’d been practicing for a few weeks. At the Wednesday night practice before “China Sunday,” one of the kids in our group informed us that in China if you stick up your pinky—something that we did about sixteen times in the song—it’s the same as sticking up your middle finger here. Whaaa? Is that for real? We asked a friend whose sister-in-law is Chinese to confirm and yes, it is an offensive gesture. Great! We scrambled to have the kids change the sign to point all of their fingers up to say “I” or “is.” Phew! International disaster avoided. We had a fundraising event at my kids’ school that involved having one grade at a time go outside and walk/run laps around the parking lot. They asked me to wear a furry lion suit so that I could encourage the kids to continue running their laps with my furry hand-waving and kiss-blowing. That sounded easy enough. At the beginning of the day it was cool outside and the kindergarteners were adequately awestruck by my appearance. As the day went on, the suit revealed to me the similarly sweaty experience of its former occupants. In other words, I began to reek. To add insult to smelliness, the older the kids got the less respectful they were of the suit. It was as if an adult wearing a full body animal costume doesn’t mean anything anymore! They started trying to un-Velcro the back. They would slap me as they ran by just to see what I would do. I started fearing for my safety! I would pretend to growl at them when they were naughty but since they couldn’t hear me and my face was frozen in a non-threatening smile, it didn’t have the desired effect. Since all I could see was what was visible through two Ping-Pong ball sized eyeholes and some of the 4thgraders would be bigger than me, I gave up after lunch. Those older kids would have to dig deep within themselves to find the will to go on. I was out! I wouldn’t be able to share those anecdotes if I had been concerned about little details like not knowing sign language or how I look (and smell) in public. Although there are plenty of other weightier things to worry about for parents in this day and age, I have to at least devote a small amount of effort to make sure my kids are funny. But truthfully, they were born with all of the funny this world can handle. My job is to keep laughing so their “funny” supply won’t dry up for lack of use. The good news is that one of the best ways to encourage their humor is the same fix-all they give us for almost everything else: Just sit down to the table for supper with them as often as possible. They’ll have you shooting milk out your nostrils in no time!

A few months ago, my son had a brain scan to attempt to discover the reason for his migraines (By the way, it was inconclusive. But in this case, no news is good news!). The procedure took about ninety minutes and I spent that time in the waiting room. I had brought a book and my phone. With these distractions plus the televisions (Who doesn’t enjoy an hour of The 700 Club?) and various magazines, the time should’ve flown by. Instead, I found myself fascinated by the other family members and friends of patients in the room. I was reading their expressions and, in some cases, listening to every word of their conversations. I realized three things: 1) Some people cannotwhisper. They are genetically predisposed to have a speaking volume that is always adequate for a lecture hall. 2) Murfreesboro has a transgender community. Hmm…Go figure. 3) People over seventy are awesome at waiting. There was an older lady sitting near me with what I finally decided was her husband and daughter. Eventually, her son-in-law also joined them. They were there because a young woman in their family (Granddaughter? Great granddaughter?) was having some kind of minor surgery. The older woman brought the newspaper and used the majority of the time I was there to read aloud every ad and half of every article. She was thrilled to find out that Subway often sells foot-long sandwiches for $5! She was dismayed by the article about a groom who made his own wedding cake (Lemon curd filling? That just didn’t sound right.). She handled a potentially stressful situation—waiting to hear bad news about a loved one—with the calmness of an air traffic controller. She patted her daughter’s knee several times and kept the conversations light. Her son-in-law left at least twice to smoke in the parking lot, but she never broke a sweat. I was in awe of her, but I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. Where I am the generation of the Video Game and the Music Video and my kids are the generation of On-Demand and Text Messaging, she is the generation of the War Department Telegram and Ration Cards. Her family survived the Depression and polio outbreaks. She knows how to wait. Her generation has perfected it. So now I wonder: Can I exceed the standards of my generation? Can I appreciate the wonders of this Age without demanding them as a God-given right? Can I be content with the ability to fast-forward commercials in the shows that I DVR-ed without complaining that I can only record two shows at one time instead of three? I watched a documentary about the Dust Bowl on PBS last night. They interviewed dozens of people who were children living in Oklahoma, Kansas, and other states affected by the crop devastation of the “Dirty Thirties.” These people spoke about the extreme hardships they faced and the small victories they won. One of the stories that stuck with me was when the flour companies began making their flour bags out of floral printed fabric because they knew the farmer’s wives were sewing their children’s clothes from the empty sacks. This was a group of people whose identities were forged by fire. I personally don’t want to suffer. Never liked it–never will. But I can see the effects of the lack of struggles and it’s not pleasant. My prayer is that God will strengthen my faith and reorganize my priorities to reflect His plan for me. And if that means I have to wear a dress made of flour sack, so be it.

If you’ve ever wondered if age is relative, ask a kindergartener how old he thinks you are. This is hilarious fun. If he’s a meditative five-year old, he may look you up and down before answering. Hmm, he will think. I know she’s older than me but she doesn’t ride a motorized scooter like great-granny. After a moment, he will guess that you are anywhere from seven to 100-years old. Of course, when that happens you aren’t offended. What does a child know of the merciless onslaught of old age? The only wrinkles he sees are the ones on his Garanimals t-shirt after naptime. To him, tooth loss equals cash money under his pillow. Although I turned a youthful thirty-six this year, I’m starting to feel old. Here are a few ways I know it’s coming: A package was delivered to the house the other day. I was so excited to see it sitting by the back door when we got home from school. “What is it?” my kids asked. I answered: “Oh! I hope it is…could it be? Yes! It’s the part to the washing machine! I’ll be washing clothes tonight! Uh-huh! Oh yeah!” (That’s me doing a victory dance.) My kids were completely mystified by my rejoicing in the street (The woman in Jesus’ parable about the lost coin probably got the same reaction from her kids.). I was looking at the apps on my phone and I realized that the one I most frequently use is the Weather Channel app. You know you’re getting old when the weather becomes supremely important and interesting. I suppose the next step is to feel “a storm a-brewin’ in my joints.” At the dermatologist’s office, I stared intently at a poster hanging in the examination room extolling the virtues of Botox. As I glanced at myself in the mirror over the sink, I saw the same lines in between my eyebrows as the one in the “before” picture of the poster. I tried to keep my eyebrows raised for the rest of the visit. It was exhausting. I had a thirty-minute conversation with a friend recently about insoles for shoes. We decided that comfort is essential when choosing athletic shoes. I tried to explain this to my ten-year old daughter when she accompanied me to the shoe store today. She actually said she would “die” if I bought those “ugly” running shoes. She also told me to stop calling them “tennies.” Which, of course, had the adverse effect because I started adding “-ies” to all shoe names after she stated this preference (We got her some “Bob-ies” because I’m too cheap to buy “Tom-ies.” I refused to buy her any “boot-ies” but I did buy her sister a six-pack of “sock-ies.” I’m such a fun mom!). I realize that age is a very flexible concept. When I’m racing my son down the driveway after rolling the garbage can out to the street, I feel young and full of energy as I beat him in the house. Then there are other days when I feel too exhausted to stay awake past 9:00 p.m. In a few weeks, Murfreesboro will host a four-mile run on Thanksgiving Day. There will be all kinds of runners stretching at the starting line that morning. Serious runners and people dressed like turkeys. Teens, families with strollers, and every other demographic you could name. And you can bet that several of these runners will be pushing 70 and well beyond. I love to see that. It makes me think that age isn’t something to hide from or fret over. These men and women are doing what they love in spite of their age. And when my son can eventually beat me in foot races I will keep in mind that these 75-year old runners probably can too.

Our final full day in D.C. was the most somber of the week. We began with a subway ride to Arlington National Cemetery. The expanse of the acreage itself is amazing. It’s made up of neat rows of tombstones as far as the eye can see. The tour guide on the tram ride told us that they average about twenty-five funerals a day. Just as soon as she said it, we saw a family leaving a graveside. It felt strange to watch this family mourning the loss of a loved one while we rode past them—like The Pirates of the Caribbean if Disney World built a cemetery (I’d call it Disney After-World.). The tram stopped at the JFK Memorial where President Kennedy, Mrs. Kennedy, their infant son, and stillborn daughter are buried—so sad. It made being the Kennedys seem not so glamorous after all. Next we watched the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. In a time when we aren’t respectful very often about much of anything, it was moving to be in a group of people that large who were completely silent. You could hear every click of the soldier’s footsteps. There were about sixty firefighters in the first two rows of the crowd. The presiding soldier eventually announced that they were going to be laying a wreath to honor fallen firefighters. They were dressed in their fanciest uniforms. Some even had kilts and tall furry hats. The patches on their arms denoted their home states. A widow was there to represent the families of firefighters killed on duty. We took a quick tour of the Lee mansion (Did you know that the original land for the cemetery was owned by the family of Robert E. Lee?) but there wasn’t much to see in the house itself. It’s being renovated. There is a great view from the back of the mansion. We headed back to town to walk around the Washington Monument (We couldn’t go in it because of the earthquake a few years ago.). Then we went to find lunch in a section with lots of food trucks…lots of food trucks and ravenous pigeons, that is. After lunch, we went to the starkly minimal Vietnam Memorial and the inspiring and impressive World War II Memorial. That evening we ate supper at the home of one of my oldest and dearest friends. She and her husband and their three adorable sons live in Maryland not far from D.C. It was such a treat to hang out with her and her family. She was with me the first time I went to D.C. some twenty-three years ago. We went with our eighth grade class. I don’t remember a lot about the trip—or I don’t remember a lot about learning much American history on the trip. One of the few things I do remember is watching my friend click her heels on the steps of the Capitol building. That’s what happens when you’ve been on a bus too long. I’m just hoping that my kids will retain a lot more meaningful history lessons than I did on my first trip. All in all the kids did a great. We kept the tantrums to a manageable low. We were able to see everything on our list but I’m sure we’ll be back in a few years.

On our fourth day in D.C., we crossed two pretty important items from my bucket list: see the place where Lincoln was shot and go through spy training. Well, those shouldn’t be permanently erased from my list, maybe just lightly marked with a pencil. Let me explain: We purchased tickets for Ford’s Theater online and arrived at the appointed time Wednesday morning. They gave us headsets that explained the events and details leading up to Lincoln’s assassination. We walked through the basement museum, looking at maps, photographs, clothing, furniture, and other various and sundry artifacts relating to what happened at 10:13 p.m. on April 14, 1865. I love history so this was mind-blowing for me to be in the actual location of the assassination. I couldn’t wait for them to call us back upstairs to the auditorium part of the tour. A ranger (Ford’s Theater is under the protection and authority of the National Parks) retold the story as he stood on the stage and we sat in the audience. He was kind of an awkward fella but it was nonetheless riveting. That is, until he told us that after the assassination the theater was dismantled, studied as a crime scene, and eventually used by the military. What a let down! They tried to recreate the theater’s interiors and light fixtures but I was still a little disappointed. It was pretty cool to look across the street and see the house where Lincoln actually died. The line was long to peek in the door so we didn’t look inside. I admit I was a little afraid that we’d see a leather sectional sofa and flat screen TV despite the ranger’s claims that it was more carefully preserved. We went to the steps of an Episcopal church to eat our lunch instead. After lunch we went to the Spy Museum. It was ridiculously expensive (We had become spoiled by the free Smithsonian Museums.) but it was a lot of fun. The first thing we did was to choose our new identity from a variety of “covers.” For some reason this made me nervous as if I were going to be grilled at the airport interrogation room of a hostile country. As it turned out, I just had to answer questions asked by a computer. No biggee. I was deemed “suspicious” by the computer but sometimes I like to live on the edge of danger. (In case you’re wondering, I was a 33-year old German woman named Helga or Olga—something like that. I was traveling to London on business. My profession was a librarian or an anthropologist. I can’t remember. Okay, now I see why I was considered a threat.) We learned about microscopic bugging devices and breaking coded messages. There was a section about the Cold War that made me want to duck and cover. The museum was really interesting and interactive but it made me paranoid the rest of the day. Later when we were riding on the subway, I scanned the crowd looking for a possible spy in our midst. I focused in on the guy with the dark glasses and long stick. Maybe he only wants us to think that he’s blind. Hmmm… Next we made a quick tour of the National Portrait Gallery. The paintings of the presidents were lifelike and fascinating, especially with the informative plaques mounted by each one. We avoided the modern art section. You never know what you might find there but there’s a better chance that it will be graphic illustrations that I intentionally left off of our “birds and the bees” talk and not a painting of a bowl of fruit. On the way to the subway stop, we took another look at the White House. We ended our day with an early supper at a little restaurant near our apartment and then a few episodes of Little House on the Prairie on the Hallmark Channel. We had one full day left in D.C. so we got in bed early. Coming Soon…Day Five!

Our third day in Washington, D.C. was jam-packed with excursions. And what does a busy day walking around a busy city need to make it a memory? Rain. Luckily we had rain jackets and an umbrella so we were undeterred in our quest. Our first destination was the office of Senator Lamar Alexander. Brent had contacted his office before we left Tennessee to set up a tour of the Capitol building. We had a confirmation number for our tour but we were able to get gallery passes from one of the Senator’s assistants. Side Note: While chatting with his assistant, we asked her about her hometown. It turns out that she was from Knoxville and graduated from Brent’s alma mater, Farragut High School. He was a bit deflated when he found out that she graduated in 2008. I have condiment bottles in my refrigerator that expired in 2008. The first part of the Capitol tour included a lobby area called Emancipation Hall. As we waited for our guided tour time to begin, we inspected the dozens of statues from the many decades of American history. Knox turned the waiting time into a Where’s Waldo game by looking for the statues in the room as he found them on his brochure. Our tour guide did a great job pointing out interesting paintings and statues. She was full of names, dates, and numbers that I no longer remember. For example: “You can fill the rotunda room with ____ Statues of Liberty standing on each other’s shoulders.” I wish I had a better memory. I do remember her saying that the only woman to lie in state in the Capitol building was Rosa Parks. After the Capitol building, we went to the Library of Congress. We saw the Gutenberg Bible and the oldest remaining map that contains the name “America.” Our tour guide in the library showed us paintings arranged by theme–the Seasons, the Senses, the branches of learning, etc. He took us to the balcony of one of the reading rooms where you can check out books and do research. It was beautiful—all dark mahogany desks and green glass lampshades. Our kids were excited to go in the Children’s reading area. Knox was convinced that my Linebaugh library card would work there. He had to be satisfied with just reading books and re-shelving them without checking anything out. We ate lunch in the food court at Union Station. They were doing a lot of construction on the interior of the building but you can tell it was a grand place at one time. I can imagine the excitement of boarding a train there as business men with fedoras, overcoats, and briefcases pass us by while looking at their watches and rushing to their trains. We were tired and a bit bedraggled by the weather but we wanted to see the Air and Space Museum. Since all of the Smithsonian museums are free, we felt okay just making a quick walk through it. We saw the section about the Wright Brothers and their European rivals. We saw a section about space travel. There was a very interesting board explaining all of the restrictions for flight attendants when airplane travel was just beginning to become more available to regular people. They had to be a certain height, weight, and age. Needless to say, I wouldn’t qualify. On the way back to our apartment, we stopped by the Eastern Market to buy a few groceries for supper. On Tuesdays they have a larger than normal farmer’s market selection. We got fresh ravioli and marinara sauce, broccoli, and homemade sour dough bread. We whipped it up in our little kitchen and relaxed the rest of the evening. Coming Soon…Day Four! (We went to the Spy Museum. If I tell you more I’ll have to kill you. Just kidding. I’ll tell you all about it in the next blog.)

On our second day in Washington, D.C. we ventured into unknown territory for a mild-mannered family from Murfreesboro, Tennessee—the subway! (Buh-buh-bum) It took us a little bit to figure out the fare cards but once we got the hang of it, it was really convenient. On one occasion, we heard a subway musician playing somewhere in the bowels of the city. We never actually saw him but he was singing “Soon and Very Soon, We are Going to See the King.” During the song, we passed a man going up the escalator as we were coming down. He was singing along really loudly and shouting “Yes, Sweet Jesus.” It was just one example of a moment when something borderline crazy happened in/near a subway but fifty people carried on with their business like it was just another Monday. Rule Number One when Living in a Large Metropolitan Area: It may seem like there are other people in the subway or on the street but they are just holograms. As long as you don’t acknowledge their outbursts, wild ravings, or their very presence then they don’t actually exist. Keep your eyes on the ground and your facial expressions completely passive. Speaking of the subway escalators, it was comical how excited our kids were about riding them. Our hometown mall is only one level so a set of stairs that move by magic or possibly gerbil-power is mind-blowing. One of my kids looked like Buddy from the movie Elf the first time she got on the escalator. In other words, she nearly did the splits with one leg stepping onto the first available moving step and the other, more reluctant leg staying behind on the non-moving platform. It was all fun and games until we started seeing more out-of-order escalators than running ones. Our first post-subway adventure was the Museum of American History. It was our favorite of all of the Smithsonian Museums that we visited. We saw Dorothy’s ruby slippers, Kermit the Frog, a cool interactive section about transportation, and a gigantic American flag from the War of 1812 that inspired the “Star Spangled Banner.” After a quick lunch outside, we checked out the Natural History Museum. Everyone should see an assembled dinosaur skeleton at least once in his life. It’s more amazing than riding an escalator. We also saw well-preserved animal specimen placed in realistic looking poses: Lions tearing apart a bloody antelope; Monkeys hanging from trees while picking bugs off each other; Giraffes stretching their trademark necks to reach the leaves at the top of a tree—purplish tongue and all. I liked it better than the zoo. The high point for my husband was the moment when he showed our kids the family heirloom, the Rosser Reeves ruby (I hate to tell him that the guy’s first name who donated it to the Smithsonian was Rosser but since he’s expecting to pay for their college with it, I’ll let it go for now.). The ruby was located near a lesser known trinket called the Hope Diamond. I was a little disappointed by the size of both of them. That’s what happens when you get your information about priceless gems from movies like The Great Muppet Caper. The kids were nearly at the end of their ropes but we pushed on and walked over to the Archives. We stood in a line to see the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights. Then we went to a different part of the building to see collection of letters and photographs. There was a letter from a young boy in Cuba named Fidel Castro asking President Roosevelt for a $10 bill. Tired and hungry, we went to the old post office that has been turned into a food court. Knox and Ella got sweet and sour chicken, Lucy got sushi, and Brent and I got gyros. It was an international feast. For dessert, I bought the kids each an ice cream cone at Ben & Jerry’s. As I paid the cashier my $25 for the three one-scoop cones, I reflected on the events of the day. We had learned a lot about our country and our world, but the real epiphany was that I bet Castro was asking FDR for some cash so he could afford a scoop of Chunky Monkey. That’s all we really want, isn’t it?

Remember when you were in elementary school and upon returning from vacation you had to write an essay about how you spent your time away from school? In that spirit I give you: “Stop! My Brain Will Explode if You Tell Me One More Fact About Abraham Lincoln” or “My Trip to Washington, D.C.” Last Saturday, my family and I traveled via Honda Odyssey to our nation’s capital. It was a long journey similar but opposite in direction from those Tennessee pioneers who left New England to settle and establish our slanted rectangle of a state (The early pioneers had those snack packs with the plastic knife to spread goopy cheese on club crackers and their kids drank juice boxes while they watched old episodes of The Brady Bunch in their covered wagons, right? Oh, yeah. The Brady Bunch probably wasn’t in reruns yet. Silly me.). We split the trip to D.C. in two by staying one night at a Comfort Inn in Harrisonburg, Virginia. We woke up early on Sunday so that we could be standing on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial before lunchtime. After a brisk walk through the Jefferson Memorial, the FDR Memorial, the Martin Luther King, Jr Memorial and the Korean War Memorial we headed to the house we rented for the week. We changed our clothes and freshened up before meeting our good friend who is a Secret Service Agent. He took us on a private tour of the West Wing. Brent and I recently re-watched all of the episodes of the TV show The West Wing so everything we saw had to be changed into the TV version for me to fully understand it. For instance, our friend told us that he is assigned to Jacob Lew. Not impressive until he reminds me that he is the Chief of Staff…he’s Leo McGarry. Oh! Cool! We went in the Press Room. “That’s the door where Jay Carney walks out for press conferences.” Who? “C.J. Cregg.” Really? Amazing! The oval office looks much less majestic up-close and there weren’t a whole lot of roses in the Rose Garden. I mention this not to complain but to comment on the fact that this is a place meant for work. As the granddaughter of a woman who was raised in a Quaker family, I can appreciate the plain-looking black telephone by the simple, tan sofa in the office of the world’s most powerful man. I came away with the feeling that these offices were filled with people who—whether you agree with their bills and vetoes or not—understand that they won’t be in these roles forever and they want to get as much done during this time as possible. At the end of our first day in D.C. (For supper we ate at our friend’s house with his sweet wife and two adorable daughters!), I went to bed with the reality of the role of the president looming in my thoughts. I thought about the FDR Memorial with the statues of downtrodden men in bread lines during the Depression, the barefooted farmer listening to his radio during a “Fireside Chat,” and President Roosevelt in his wheelchair. With all the obnoxious noise about the upcoming election, I’m reminded that one man can make a difference in the course of a nation but the nation itself is made up of many. Being responsible for the welfare of so many must be the source of daily headaches and heartaches but I can make a difference in the lives of those around me without a caucus or a supporting delegate. I can care about the person standing in line in front of me or sitting in the car next to me. I am the President of the United States of Abby-erica! So, let’s take a step back on some of the negativity. History can be a deadweight that holds us down with feelings of guilt and helplessness or it can be a set of directions in reverse. If our Tennessee pioneers could only see us now! (Stay tuned for Day Two!)

I like TV. There, I admit it. I know I’m supposed to be above it all and say something kind of smug like, “I don’t really watch much TV…” but I cannot tell a lie (I’d no sooner drown my food or misuse a conjunction—both of which I learned about from Saturday morning cartoons.). I can almost chart the growth of my brand of humor and sense of timing to the shows I watched growing up. Who would I be without “Gilligan’s Island” and “The Brady Bunch” or “The Cosby Show” and “The Dukes of Hazzard”? The thing to keep in mind when watching television is that it’s not real. I realize that was one of the most obvious statements ever recorded in blogosphere history but it never hurts to review some basic facts. In honor of those days of old when we watched Saturday morning cartoons and they slipped in lessons about how to use crackers and cheese to make a wagon wheel and Superman taught us about bike safety in between commercial breaks, I will give my own PSA with a list of “Top Seven Ways TV is Different from Real Life.” 7. In real life you can’t always come up with ten things in a list. 6. On TV, a character will say something witty or profound and then he’ll walk away leaving his words hanging in the air like a floating bubble of wisdom—no retort necessary. In real life, if you say something witty with the authority of someone who knows he won’t be challenged (actors on TV can rely on the fact that the other actors have to stick to the script), you will most likely be disappointed. You’ll have to hustle out of the room before someone says something like “Uh-uh!” or “What?” or “Get back here! That’s not true.” 5. Some of the hair-do’s for TV characters are ridiculous. A female surgeon scrubs her hands in the OR. Though she’s on the tail end of her 36-hour shift, her hair is perfectly twisted and pinned into a neat chignon—not a hair out of place. Where’s the messy ponytail with unkempt wisps all over her forehead? 4. Romantic relationships on TV are almost always unrealistic but nothing tops the “teen boy pines away for the shy, pretty girl” scenario. How often do we really see the guy with the boom box in the girl’s front yard? 3. It cracks me up when a woman wears a lot of makeup to bed. Ok, I realize you’ve got the studio lighting to battle but does she really need charcoal eyelids and ruby lips with her flannel pajamas? 2. TV drivers look at the passenger too frequently. Keep your eyes on the road, people! 1. Anytime someone comes home after going to the grocery store on TV, that person must always carry a paper grocery bag with celery or the green part of carrots sticking out of the bag. It’s a law. Ok, that’s a start. Send me more ideas! Be proud that you love TV! Just don’t watch crap like the Kardashians or Jersey Shore.