manrymission.com

Dale’s hair and beard were scaring me and the children. Except Gabe, of course, who thought Dale looked fantastic and hoped Dale would soon arrive at the place of being able to braid the hair in his beard. (Gabe is also attempting to grow a mullet in the hope the principal will not notice. There is no explaining this child. He is unique.)

Most people who saw Dale regularly had grown accustomed to his military appearance being occasionally muddied up during leave with an unshaven face. However, they were unwilling to accept his slide toward becoming a real life Santa Claus. There were few positive comments, and he started to get a bit defensive. Upon receiving a negative remark on his beard from someone in the congregation while he was making announcements at church, he declared, “The beard is staying! I have waited twenty three years to grow a beard, and I am keeping it!”

I felt it was necessary to make an intervention.

To be quite honest, I don’t mind a beard. I tried to convince him to dye it, so he wouldn’t look like he was 60, but he felt dyeing his beard would be too much vanity for him. Therefore, I fought the battle where I thought I could win it. I begged him to find a good barber. A nicely trimmed beard and a good haircut could make a huge difference in forestalling the possibility of being married to Grizzly Adams.

Finding a good barber is never an easy task, even though there are hundreds of barbers outside every military installation. Few barbers know how to trim a beard evenly, use a hot towel and a straight razor, and cut your hair so you don’t look like you are getting ready for deployment. I have yet to find a good barber in Stafford who can do anything other than a good high and tight. We are too close to Quantico.

Whenever we move, I always hope to find a male barber for Dale and the boys. Ideally, an Italian, Greek, or Turk. Male barbers know about hot towels and straight razors and the need to trim unruly eyebrows. They are hard to find.

I told Dale to look near where he worked. An office park full of businessmen had to have a good barber nearby who didn’t cater to military haircuts. He went on line and found one.  A woman ran the barber shop, but thankfully, she knew about hot towels and straight razors. The woman who cut Dale’s hair and trimmed his beard told him he had more hair on the back of his neck than on the top of his head. She also insisted she trim his eyebrows.

When Dale was finished, the owner told him he’d have to show his identification to get back in the building, because no one would recognize him. When he arrived home, I gave a shout of joy. He had gone two months without a haircut and a shave. Thankfully, he had stepped back from the edge.

The theme of the HS Christmas Party was The Phantom of the Opera. Everyone was told to wear semi formal attire and a mask. As soon as she learned of the event, Abby started in on me, “When are we going to shop for my dress? What kind of mask should I get?”

I attempted to delay as long as possible, but her girlfriends were in on it as well. First, one of her girlfriends had a sleepover which involved a scavenger hunt at the mall. As they were finding things for the scavenger hunt, they also managed to look at dresses, and greatly surprising to me, they found masks in an accessory store.

Since this scavenger hunt had narrowed in on dress locations, I took her to get the dress and mask a few weeks later. However, that was not enough for her, as she needed to go back to the mall the next weekend to help a friend ‘who couldn’t find anything’.

Days later when she came home and informed me that she needed to go back to the mall on the very day of the party to help a severely procrastinating friend, I put my foot down. I told her she would not be participating in the last mall dash.

She was not very happy about that.

I did allow her to go to a friend’s house to get ready before the party, and this placated her slightly. Furthermore, I tried to convince Josiah to go to the house of one of his friends, who lives closer to the school, after set up to get dressed. He, of course, did not do this. Instead, one of his friends ended up at our house because he needed a ride.

Although Abby looked fabulous in her mask, Josiah’s mask probably generated the most comments.

When my children were born, my goals for them were simple:

1. Teach them about Jesus Christ and show them what a difference He can make in their lives.

2.Train them to behave so that when others see our family coming, the people do not cringe and think to themselves, “Oh no…here come the Manrys!”

3. Encourage them in the use of their natural talents and gifts, and teach them the skills needed to become functioning adults. Then, at the age of 18 , they can attend University or Tech School in order to attain a skill that will keep them employed.

As a mom, it is always a bit shocking to realize that time is running out. I now have just over two years left to achieve the last goal with my eldest child. Dale has been teaching him how to drive a car, and I have been attempting to teach him map skills so he will not get lost. ( Mastering this skill remains iffy at best.) He knows how to wash clothes, do the dishes, mow the lawn, and clean the house.

This past weekend, I discovered a large gap in his training. I have never taught him how to cook. He can boil water to make noodles, pop a bag of popcorn, and heat up leftovers. However, I had not taken the time to teach him how to prepare a meal.

Last month he was inducted into the National Honor Society in a nice ceremony where they gave him a pin and took pictures. He was then informed that the NHS was in charge of the set up and tear down of the High School Christmas Party. (The kids attend a Christian School which does not allow dancing and a prom, but has a formal Christmas Party dinner instead.)

On the day of the Christmas Party, Dale dropped him off for set up at 9:30am and I picked him up at 3pm to shower and change. I figured he had spent all day setting up tables and chairs and maybe holding the end of a decoration someone was taping to the wall.

When he got in the car, I asked him what he had done all day. “Chopped onions,” he replied. “What? Why didn’t you set up the chairs?” I asked. “They finished table and chair set up on Friday,” he said. “I got kitchen duty. I had to chop and put onions in a mixer, add the cucumbers and the purple stuff ( cabbage, I assume) to the salad, slice the cheese, and fill up baskets with rolls.”

“Kitchen duty? They put you on kitchen duty? How did you manage? Were you with any other kids or just adults?” I asked. He informed me that two of his friends were also assigned kitchen duty, but spent most of the time washing dishes.

I am not sure what was going through his head when they told him to chop an onion, but he must have figured it out somehow. I should probably give credit for his apparent ability to chop an onion to both Dale’s and Zeke’s love of the cooking show ‘Chopped’ and to the many hours wasted watching other people chop up vegetables.

I now realize that I must get on top of this cooking training just in case he once again finds himself on kitchen duty. I would like to prevent him from becoming a sorry cook like his mother. I admit that my cooking ability is limited. (This is my fault and my fault alone. My mom offered to teach me how to cook when I was a kid, but I refused. “I’ll be working,” I said “And I’ll pay somebody to cook for me.”)

Well, my life did not quite work out that way, so I am now forced to cook. For Ezekiel (age 6), my lack of cooking skills remain a cause of concern. A few months back, he asked me if I could make some “different dinners”.  He apparently is quite tired of the same meals every week.

I believe he now realizes that if I worked, someone else would be doing the cooking.  In my birthday card he wrote, “I hope you’re birthday rocks. I hope you have a great time. I have a fun time with you. What are the places you’re going to. I love you. do you want a work place job”

His hints are less than subtle.

Praising God for all the blessings in my life!

My dear friend loves animals and although she owns two cats and for a limited time a hibernating hamster, she has long pined for a puppy. Her husband does not love animals and held out on the puppy request until there were no children left to potty train.

For months, she has been scanning collie rescue sights seeking a collie mix to call her own. A few weeks past, up popped a photo of a puppy too cute to resist and off she went to claim her. I wish I could tell you that all has been love and happiness ever since. However, that would make for a boring story.

When acquiring a mixed breed dog, I highly recommend you attempt to determine which breeds created the mix. The hesitation taken while determining breed mix might give you enough time to back out quickly. Unfortunately for my friend, she did not consider the rest of the mix. She heard the Collie part and away she went.  After three days of puppy sitting and observing this dog dashing around at a frenetic pace, I have come to suspect that the Collie part has been overrun by the Jack Russell Terrier part.

This puppy ran loops at extremely high speeds and would dash from room to room to room in a never ending check on what was happening. She bolted up and down stairs to see what was going on. She launched herself onto furniture, people, and Blaze. She chased squirrels, birds, and Patches. She did not stop until I put her in her kennel to sleep. Even then, she would catch sight of the neighbor dog, a bird, or a squirrel and bark at it for good measure.

We had to block the stairs with an old crib rail to prevent her from going up to pester Patches, but that did not stop Patches from coming down to tease the puppy. Patches would sit on the steps just the other side of the rail and stare at the puppy. This would drive the puppy nuts, so Dale hung a blanket over the rail to block the view. Then, Patches moved up several steps and peered over the top of the blanket.

As a result of these antics, we were less than sympathetic when the puppy actually caught Patches unaware in the kitchen and started chasing her around the kitchen/office/hall loop. Because the stairs were blocked, Patches could not get up them quickly. I would have caught the puppy sooner had I not been laughing so hard at the sight of Patches’ big belly dragging on the floor as she skittered and hissed and tried to make her escape.

Blaze was on duty three days straight and taught the puppy games to play: fetch, keep away, wrestling, and “I’ll take that stick, thank you very much.” The puppy did not relent no matter how many times he knocked her back. She jumped on Blaze time and time again. Eventually, he would get sick of it and sit on her which made us all laugh.

The puppy could not quite grab the ball in her mouth, so we would throw two sticks instead, one for Blaze, one for her. Blaze would fetch his stick, bring it back, and then grab the end of the stick the puppy was carrying and take it away from her.

I put the kids on 10 minute “keep the puppy entertained in the yard” cycles in an attempt to exhaust her. Instead, she exhausted us. Blaze felt it the worst. The morning after her arrival, he stood up, hobbled a ways, and then stretched for a really long time.