Category Archives: humility
A Discussion Turned Sour
This weekend I received yet another flury of scathing emails and comments on a post that is now well over a year old. It happens every once in a while. I touch on a polarizing topic and things turn into a debate. I don’t mind debate … when it’s respectful. What I mind is when a discussion turns into personal attacks and insults. That’s what happened this weekend.
Now, I can handle personal attacks to some degree. I’ve grown a thicker skin in my four years online. This recent situation, however, turned into personal attacks against someone else, someone I had referenced in my original post. I didn’t like that at all. Then it progressed to readers attacking other readers via the comments section. That is when I decided to shut it down. This is, afterall, my blog and I can do what I want. And I want to eliminate attitudes like that around here.
Quoting Sense and Sensibility: “If you cannot think of anything appropriate to say, kindly restrict your remarks to the weather.”
Debate is good. Discussion is good. Conflicting thoughts should be shared. But if you cannot share your conflicting ideas without attacking me or the other people who visit my blog, please don’t bother to come here. I mean that in all seriousness and humility.
I want this small corner of cyberspace to be a safe place. A happy place. A place of encouragement and admonition, a place where we can learn and grow and laugh together. A warm place, not one of arrogant insults or negative, close-minded arguments.
I am upset that I have to make rules like this. I’m also upset that I have to delete a post that I still feel is valid and truthful. A post that many people found helpful and encouraging. But it became distorted and abused. Too many people missed the point and used it as a platform for their own agendas. So, here, as succinctly as possible, I want to relay what I felt were the points of that post, hopefully without stirring the pot further.
- We, as students of God’s Word, should humble ourselves and seek to eliminate all distractions so that we may receive the message. If we are too prideful and filled with thoughts of how we could do it better, if we think too much of the cost of the book or the antics of the teacher or the volume of the music or whatever it is that distracts us, we may miss the whole point. We may miss exactly what God brought us there to see.
- Not every teacher is great for every student. While we must be on guard against false teachers, we must also leave room for personality conflicts. If you cannot get over what distracts you about that teacher (clothes, style, accent, etc.), then find another teacher. There are TONS of teachers out there. Just because one is popular, doesn’t mean that person is the best teacher for you. Find one that meets you where you are.
- If we’re humble and open to God’s leading, we can learn great things about Him and ourselves even from people we disagree with on other doctrinal issues. As Mama would say, “Don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater.”
And that’s all I’m going to say about that.
So, tell me, do you have rules for your blog?
How My Children Keep Me Humble
In addition to being a nurse, cook, maid and therapist, mothers often need to be dictionaries. I am constantly defining words for my kids. Recently they asked me what “humble” means. I explained that being humble is to know exactly who you are. You don’t think too much nor too little of yourself. I also told them that God wants us to be humble by knowing who He is and who we are before Him.
It seems they’ve taken this lesson to heart and, always my little helpers, have decided to encourage my humility.
Here are a few conversations we’ve had lately.
Zach: “Do you know who is the very best mama in the whole wide world?”
Me, welling with pride at the expected answer: “Who?”
Zach: “Grandma!”
Ellie: “I want to be a writer when I grow up.”
Zach: “What’s a writer?”
Ellie: “It’s what Mommy does.”
Zach: “Write books?”
Ellie, laughing: “No, silly! Mommy doesn’t write BOOKS; she writes EMAILS! She READS books.”
Zach: “I love all mommies. Mommies are the BEST!! (long pause) Even you, Mom.”
Battling the Hafftoos
Once upon a time a beautiful princess married a hunky, young prince. She possessed creativity and a zeal for life. Her new husband loved this about her. Sometimes her spontaneous actions backfired on both of them, but he still encouraged her to be the fabulous, fun person she was. Joy shone through her green eyes as she surveyed their future together.
In time the royal couple added children and a mortgage to their kingdom. The princess loved her family dearly and longed to create the perfect home for them. As the family grew, so did the gravity of her task. Laundry piled higher and higher in the castle turrets. This, among other royal duties, prevented the lovely princess from getting out as often as she would like. Always observant, the wicked Hafftoos decided this was the perfect time to attack.
Not every knows about Hafftoos. Not everyone can see them, but believe me: they are very real. These sneaky little trolls wander around ever so carefully through delightful and quaint villages stealing innocents’ joy. They transform tasks into chores and desires into burdens.
The imps began their attack with whispers. Quietly, gently they convinced the princess she needn’t do anything she didn’t want to do. (While it is true that princesses never need do anything they don’t want, the lie of the Hafftoos was the insinuation that her desires for the moment were all that mattered.)
Soon the princess realized she really did not like laundry. She also didn’t like doing dishes or cleaning floors. Before long she started neglecting the jobs she didn’t feel like doing. This gave her a superficial feeling of freedom, even a hint of superior arrogance, but it invited more aggression from the Hafftoos.
They poured strife on her marriage and then bitterness. The princess didn’t understand why she had to do everything around the castle, always with runny-nosed noisemakers under foot, while the prince simply took his carriage about the kingdom and spent his days with other courtiers. (Of course, the prince did much more than this, but the princess couldn’t acknowledge it because the Haftoos had convinced her that her desires and feelings were more important than the truth.)
Meanwhile, the prince didn’t understand why the princess had lost her passion for life. He had given her all she asked and more. Yet the princess was unhappy. The Hafftoos had made her feel like a slave to her blessings. Instead of enjoying the full life she possessed, she spent all her days managing it, all the while forgetting she had everything her heart desired.
One day the King, the most loving father a child could ever know, visited his daughter. They walked the gardens together until they found a special spot next to the glistening brook. There the King held the princess’s hand and asked her to look at her reflection in the still waters. She was startled to see drastic changes in her image. Her smile was gone. Her hair look dull and tangled. Instead of shining with delight, her eyes appeared hollow and acerbic. As she looked closer she saw something else: all the little Hafftoos hovering behind.
How long had they been there? Why hadn’t she noticed them before?
Tears streaming, she pleaded with her father for advice. “How do I get rid of them? How can I revive the person I once was?”
He answered with characteristic brevity: “Seek and remember.” He stood slowly with a wink, a chuckle and a pat to her knee. “You’ll figure it out.”
Like this:
Bueller? Bueller?
I grew up in a very small town. The big city had two stop lights and was surrounded by farms. As Mama said, if you blinked, you’d miss it. I couldn’t wait to leave that map dot. Everyone knew everyone’s business. It drove me crazy.
I guess I blinked because once I left, I missed that place deeply and often. Kind of shocking, really. The East Coast offers the anonymity I longed for, but that seeming invisibility gets old.
We’ve lived here for five years now. That’s the longest I’ve been in one spot since high school. We’ve put down some roots, gotten established in a great church and — dare I say? — built community. Since my kickboxing adventure last week I have had strangers ask after me. People I knew, but who I believed didn’t know me, have checked on my health and called to make sure I’m okay.
Now, the kickboxing thing was funny. It was a one-day crazy adventure, but that’s it. I’m not dying. I was never truly at risk of dying (I don’t think). It was just a silly little event through which I was forced to admit I’m no longer twenty. But the resulting outflow of concern has been really cool! It seemed I got all this attention for nothing (a little something, but relatively nothing) and I loved it. Rick said he half expected singing telegrams and floral bouquets to arrive at our door. I’m not Ferris Bueller, even if I do bust out a loud version of “Danke Schoen.”
I loved it not because of the attention, but because it felt like home. It seemed like that little mapdot I’ve been missing suddenly moved east with different faces. Home is not about location or culture; it’s about community. It’s when you’re convinced you belong and others are eager to prove it.
“Carry one another’s burdens; in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.” — Galations 6:2
That’s what I witnessed this week. Pretty awesome, really, even if tremendously humbling.
Now, just for fun …
Adventures in Kickboxing (aka: The ridiculously foolish thing I did this week)
It started innocently enough.
When Zach turned four last month I decided the statute of limitations on pregnancy fat had expired. I’ve blamed these extra twenty-five pounds on him, my schedule (which rarely allows me to exercise), my love of food (which is insatiable) and my self-sacrificing mother instincts (which have me eating junk and taking care of the kids more than me). Now that both kids are in school, my routine is different and my excuses are gone. Just as I came to this realization, a friend invited me to join her for a new kickboxing class.
I’ve always wanted to try kickboxing. It sounded fun! It worked into my schedule; I would have accountability; Alison wasn’t an avid exerciser either … It sounded perfect. Toss in that the first two weeks are free and my decision was made.
I even bought new workout pants.
Yesterday morning, unfortunately, I slept late. This was my twitter/facebook status:
I didn’t realize I had the gift of prophecy.
We got to the class, I filled out my “new student” paperwork, reminded the instructors that I hadn’t worked out in years (Does physical therapy count? No? Darn!) decades in a while, and then waited for the class to begin. They assured us we’d be fine. No worries. I had my towel and my big bottle of water.
Things only got better when more of our friends came. Initially I thought it would only be me and Alison and a few karate moms I didn’t know. But — lucky for me! — my good friends Julie, Carrie and Angela also showed up. I was happy!
I got on my gloves and stood next to my big padded kicking thing, ready and waiting.
I survived the “warm-up” and gave Alison a glare that dared her to see what torture chamber fun class I could invite her to. Then we started the real workout.
At this point, I would like to warn all readers that skipping breakfast — even when you’re running late — is NOT a good idea before an exercise class. I’d also like to speculate that there is no such thing as a “Beginner Class” for kickboxing. It’s pretty much all or nothing, and if you haven’t worked out much, and especially if you’ve skipped breakfast, you should find another exercise. I’m thinking pilates or yoga or some other calm activity, because this is what happened next.
She (the instructor) noticed me when I stopped to breathe. (She probably noticed me because I was the only one on my knees gasping for air.) She then pointed out that I wasn’t breathing. “Do you know how I know that? Because your nose is all white. Do you see how white your nose is?”
Me: “Um, no. I can’t see my nose. It’s on my face, and you’re not a mirror. I feel dizzy.” (She was very close to my face.)
Her: “Here, sit down and take a break.”
The next thing I remember is floating, and then an extremely large karate man tried to wake me up. I resisted because the tile floor was so nice and cool and I really liked how it felt. But he wouldn’t stop shaking my back, so I got up and asked how long I lasted. Big Karate Dude (I can’t remember his name.) said I almost made it through half of the one-hour class. He told me this just before he put me on a stretcher and into the back of an ambulance.
I think I asked everyone that question: “How long did I last?” Anyone with similar levels of bullheadedness tenacity understands it doesn’t matter that I passed out; it only matters how long I lasted. I am especially glad that everyone was there to witness how long I lasted. It must have been a record or something – right?
I also remember asking Big Karate Dude if this happens a lot. He kept telling me not to be embarrassed, but his answer offered no basis for this. He said something like “Well … no. Not really.” That helped my pride.
To add to my humility, I think the entire town gathered to watch. I guess nothing else was going on around here. This pitiful woman (who now feels ridiculously old, out of shape and stupid) attracted the attention of two police cars (four officers in total), one paramedic vehicle (two people in there) and an ambulance (at least two more people, plus the driver). Oh, and anyone else who happened to be standing outside around 10 am on a gorgeous sunny day. By this morning (the day after) I had over 20 notes on facebook, 6 emails and a phone call from the school principal to check on me. Everyone thinks I’m dying. I’m not. I just refuse to believe that I can’t do anything. I refuse to acknowledge personal limits. I mean, if the amazingly toned woman in front of me can teach the class, surely I (25 pounds over weight and with absolutely no training) can keep up. Right? Right? Obviously not.
Anywho, I somehow managed to answer about thirty questions at least seventeen times. I got a lot of “Oh, good. You’re coherent and you still have your sense of humor.” and “It’s better to be embarrassed than unconscious.” My final instructions before they closed the ambulance doors: “Get me my purse. My insurance card is in there. Have Julie pick up my kids at 11:30; she’s the only one authorized to do it. DO NOT CALL RICK!! And please don’t tell anyone I wet myself. Did I wet myself?” That’s when they hooked up the oxygen and turned on the pretty flashing lights.
There’s nothing quite like trying to get an IV while in a moving vehicle. Roads don’t feel as smooth when you’re lying on your back knowing someone is trying to jab a giant needle in your arm. Oh, and I learned a new word: valvular. My veins are quite valvular. In other words, it will take four pricks and a pediatric needle and they still can’t find a working vein. (By “prick” I mean “attempt.” I don’t know the EMTs well enough to call them names, but I think one of them was called “Doug.”)
After two hours in the hospital, an EKG, blood tests, a turkey sandwich, apple juice and a cup of tea that burnt my tongue, they determined that I was fine. They eliminated the possibility of pregnancy, diabetes and stroke and confirmed dehydration, low blood pressure and a bit of foolish arrogance. I signed a paper and Alison drove me back to the martial arts school (to get my car) where everyone was still standing around talking about me.
They invited me to come back on Wednesday. What do you think? I still owe them for a vitamin water.
Just so everyone knows: I AM FINE! Rick worked from home today to make sure I take it easy and remember my limits. He only had to stop me from running around the house twice.
Life is good, God is great, and I am tremendously blessed to have such amazing, generous friends. Even in spite of my stupidity cute idiosyncrasies.
A Moment in God’s Presence
“It’s not just what you think, you know. Everyone thinks it is all fear and trembling. And some days it was. Especially in my early years. But I will tell you the truth. The memory that keeps my heart strong and my head clear is the thought of days when my heart was pure before Him. When I had spent time reading the Sacred Texts, preparing myself beforehand, had sung His praises, asked for forgiveness of my sins, I would enter the temple and suddenly be engulfed in His presence …”
At that moment he jerked his head back and stared into the ceiling as if he were seeing some opening into heaven itself. He made a small keening cry, like that of a newborn child. Then he looked down and his gaze was turned so inward he seemed to have forgotten we were even present. Several more tears fell from his cheeks onto the table. Finally he looked up again, not quite back to the ceiling but just over our heads, as if meeting our gaze would have simply been too much at that moment.
“G-d really does have a presence, do you know?” He asked it almost petulantly, as though his proximity to tears was due to some skepticism on our part. “My whole being would throb with this awareness of His person. I thought I could feel His heart. And at such times I was glad everyone else kept their distance, because often I would dance and laugh and weep and sing and shout all at the same time because my chest felt like it would truly, truly burst if I did not. I felt — I felt … well, have you ever seen a young child greet a beloved father after a long absence? The little arms pumping, the little legs churning, the leap into his arms, the tears in the father’s eyes? I felt like that. A child so overcome with joy at His return that all I wanted to do in this world was to leap as high into His bosom as I could. And I could feel His tears, too. That’s the wonder of it, don’t you see? I could feel His Spirit being fed, His heart gladdened, His pain — yes, His pain — being healed somehow.”
He halted his speech and looked down into his lap somberly. Then he said very quietly, almost a whisper, “I could feel G-d’s pain. In fact, I thought of it on my journey here whenever I looked out at the eternity of the desert. Go-d’s pain because of sin and evil and heartbreak was vast and endless and searing. I can still feel its weight up on my soul.”
He looked at me with a glance that had suddenly grown edgy and piercing. Then he shook his head, obviously disappointed. “That’s only a tiny part of it, don’t you know?”
He threw up his hands in a gesture that spoke of futility and allowed them to fall back limply onto his lap. “I also felt struck by lightning. I tingled with a knowledge that I stood in the presence of the Being who created the universe, who created me. And that anything could happen. I could be ushered into glories unspeakable. I could be granted the kingship of Israel. I could be struck dead. Who knows? When you are in the presence of the King of Kings, destiny — not just your own, but the world’s — can change in the twinkling of an eye.”
“I always believed,” Jacob continued, “that the catalyst for these times of blissful closeness to Him was that I had focuses my attention on Him, not on myself. Not on the fact that the Master of the Universe, may His name be blessed, stood in my presence, and I in His at that moment. I could not even think of such a thing, although I suppose it was true. No, like that little child, I was completely enraptured by His arrival and His presence, and my own part in the matter was completely forgotten. Then, of course, as He surrounded me and wrapped me like an infant in those Abba arms, it became even more impossible to turn a thought unto myself. What caused His joy was not my puny righteousness — my holiness, which would have been like filthy rags to Him had He chosen to examine it. In that moment His charity — His favor — was far too great to scrutinize my fault. Again, it was not about me. Not about me at all. What caused His joy was seeing my rapture at His presence and the communion that it sparked. That is what gladdened His heart. Often I have to remind myself that the example of parenthood is not accidental. His is our Father. He is many other things, too, of course. But He is every bit as much a Father, and more, than any man whose heart has ever ached at being separated from his little ones.”
Jacob took one last gulp of stew and leaned back on the bench, wiping his pathetic beard with an edge of his filthy tunic. “I never forget those moments with the King of Kings, not ever. Today, I suppose I am the most expendable person you could imagine. An old, infirm man. One good whack of a bandit’s sword would do me in. Yet I remember, without vanity I hope, that I have stood in the presence and found favor with Him. And no one can ever take the joy, the knowledge, the certainty of that away.”
————-
This is an excerpt from Hadassah: One Night With the King, a novel by Tommy Tenney with Mark Andrew Olsen (Bethany House, 2004). The speaking character, Jacob, is an elderly priest who has visited Mordecai and Hadassah for the night. He has traveled from Jerusalem to Susa in order to collect offering for the newly restored temple. Hadassah, still a young girl at the time of Jacob’s visit, would later grow to have one night with a different king and, as a result, become Queen Esther.
Give me less
If you could only ask two things of God, what would you request? Any two things in all the world and imagination. And, no, you can’t ask for more wishes. What would you choose?
I’ve requested many things from God. A bigger house, so that I can exercise the gift of hospitality properly. A more organized mind, so that I can manage my household more efficiently. The perfect opportunities, so that I may bring glory to His name most profoundly. These requests may be fine and good, but they’re based on my finite understanding. Furthermore, they hint of pride.
Oh, yes, I already have the gift of hospitality and, yes, yes, I want what I deem efficient and proper. If only God would give me the right opportunities, then I could honor Him rightly. Why does He delay in provision, preventing me from using my magnificent abilities??
I read Proverbs 30 this morning. The first nine verses include a discussion between a skeptic and a believer. Check it out. (Normally, I don’t like quoting The Message, but I really like the way Peterson paraphrased this passage. For further study, be sure to check out actual translations of Scripture.)
The skeptic swore, “There is no God! No God!—I can do anything I want! I’m more animal than human; so-called human intelligence escapes me. I flunked ‘wisdom.’ I see no evidence of a holy God. Has anyone ever seen Anyone climb into Heaven and take charge? Grab the winds and control them? Gather the rains in his bucket? Stake out the ends of the earth?Just tell me his name, tell me the names of his sons. Come on now—tell me!”
The believer replied, “Every promise of God proves true; he protects everyone who runs to him for help. So don’t second-guess him; he might take you to task and show up your lies.”
And then he prayed, “God, I’m asking for two things before I die; don’t refuse me — Banish lies from my lips and liars from my presence. Give me enough food to live on, neither too much nor too little.
If I’m too full, I might get independent, saying, ‘God? Who needs him?’
If I’m poor, I might steal and dishonor the name of my God.”
What two things did the believer ask? (1) Set me in the center of truth and (2) give me just what I need for today, no more, no less.
As consumers, especially in America, we believe we always need more. We need more food, more comfort, more clothes, more technology, more coffee, more sex, more friends, more entertainment … more of everything. But in acquiring all of this, are we seeking to be free of God? Are we seeking independence from our Creator and Sustainer?
God likes reversing human logic. The last shall be first and the first shall be last. The servant shall be greatest of all. The weak shall be strong and the strong made weak. Love your enemies.
Here’s another one, my prayer for today: Give me less that I might need You more.
Bathsheba: Victim or Vixen? (Part 1)
A couple weeks ago I posed some questions about David and Bathsheba. The root of both was the same: why? Why did it happen? Why did they both go along with it? Why was she chosen to bear the next king of Israel? Why was that son chosen to be an ancestor of the Messiah? Why, of all the women listed in Matthew’s genealogy of Christ, was this woman listed while other women, more worthy and righteous, were ignored?
Lately the Dennis family has struggled with “why.” Regardless of what I say, how I say it or to whom, Ellie answers, “Why?” This may be a precursor to sassy adolescence or it may be the “terrible twos” coming late. Unfortunately, I think it’s neither. This isn’t a phase; it’s human nature. As intellectuals, we want to know the reasons behind everything. We long to have life explained to us.
Beyond explanations, we seek comprehension. Somehow we think if we understand the purposes, it will be easier to obey. If it makes sense, then we’ll find our responsibilities tolerable. Ellie believes that, if my reasons are good (from her perspective), then it’s okay; she’ll understand and obey. If my reasons are not good (again, from her perspective), then she’ll try to persuade me to change my instructions to align with her superior preschool wisdom.
But that’s the problem right there: perspective and position. Her perspective is not the same as mine because (1) we are not peers in wisdom nor knowledge and (2) I’m her mom. I am the one in authority. In the same way, our perspectives — yours and mine — are not the same as God’s. We are nowhere near as wise as He. And He is our God. He is the one in authority.
Rick used to tease me that the only reason we argued was lack of communication. I would just keep talking. And talking and talking, repeating myself and my arguments incessantly. I believed if he truly understood my position, then he would agree with me. If he didn’t agree, then obviously he didn’t understand what I was saying. So I would keep trying to explain. This practice didn’t garner his support and it won’t garner God’s. God wants obedience. Not explanations or arguments or reiterated demands for sensible reasons.
We’ve made a rule about why in this house. You can ask why only after you obey. Obedience must come first. Even then, no one is obligated to give a reason. Ellie can ask “why” until her face turns blue and my hair falls out, but I never need to give an explanation. That’s my right as her authority. It is also God’s right as our authority.
Now, none of this means we should never question God. Asking questions is the best way to learn! We can ask all we want, but we must remember our position and His perspective. He is not required to answer. His answers need not satisfy us and our thinking of what is a “good” reason. We can ask and we can learn, but in our searching for answers let us be humble and respectful, remembering He whom we serve and the power He holds. Let us remember who we are and how much we need Him, how much He has given us and how little we deserve.
It is with this attitude that I seek to dissect Bathsheba. I want to ask some “why”s and speculate on the answers, always remembering God’s goodness. In the next few days we’ll look at her life: her joys, her sorrows, her legacy and, of course, speculate about some whys. Victim or vixen? Whatever the conclusion we know that there is relevance in her story, otherwise it wouldn’t be included in Scripture. So, the ultimate question is this: what can we take from her life to bring glory to God in ours?
DUFF Theory
I’ve been told all men carry a DUFF Theory. (Simpsons fans: Forget about Duffman and excessive drinking by rotund, bald men. Yes, I watch the show. No, this post has nothing to do with it.)
The DUFF Theory goes something like this. All female groups of friends contain at least one DUFF: a Designated Ugly Fat Friend. This DUFF is necessary for maintaining positive self-esteem for the skinny, beautiful members of the clique while still making them feel “nice” because they’re friends with someone less desireable than themselves. The DUFF also serves as a chaperone when necessary and a test for future boyfriends. (Remember the Spice Girls? If you wanna get with me, you gotta get with my friends.)
Okay. I don’t think this theory is true, but a number of male friends assure me it is absolute law, carved in stone, never known not to exist. Regardless of its validity, the DUFF theory has been on my mind lately. Not in regards to friends (like whose DUFF am I?) or physical attraction, but rather about spiritual and intellectual growth.
Isn’t it nice to feel like the smartest person in the room? Or the most faithful? Nobody wants to be the spiritual infant of the group. We all want to feel good about ourselves, like we have something extraordinary to contribute. How do we accomplish this? I think there are two ways: become the best (smartest, most spiritual, most compassionate, etc.) or move to another (dumber) room. Read the rest of this entry
A Rat-patootie Birthday
After pride comes the fall – right? It did for me at Ellie’s birthday party, so I’ll offer it to you here in the same sequence.
We’ve never before invited friends to her birthday parties. (We’ve got a big family, a small house and consistently too much snow this time of year.) But this year my girl turned five. That’s a big deal! And so we did a full-blown kid party for the first time. (Please note “full-blown kid party” is a relative term in the Northeast. A post explaining this is forthcoming.) Ellie insisted on a Ratatouille theme. She doesn’t actually like the movie so much, but she loves to cook. I took some elements from the movie and then did a mini-cooking class with her and her friends. It really was a great party. My favorite two aspects: we got everything done within the alotted time frame without any crying or injuries (a huge success with ten 4- to 6-year-olds!) and … the cake.
Can you feel my smile? I’m so proud of this! Here it is:
I found an inspiration cake online and duplicated it the best I could. It’s a two layer yellow cake with chocolate fudge frosting. This was my first time doing a basketweave, so don’t look too closely at that part. I purchased the rat figurines, but molded the fruits, cheese and napkin from marshmallow fondant. Isn’t it cool? Even with the mistakes, I can’t fake humility on this one. This cake rocks! And I MADE IT! Moo hoo bwa ha ha ha ha!
(That’s my attempt at an evil world dominion-seeker’s laugh.)
Wanna see more angles? Of course you do! Here are the side and back.
And here’s my girl blowing out her candles.
And here’s my humbling moment.
Yup. That’s my birthday girl licking the rat’s ah—- “bummy”, as they call it in preschool. doesn’t she look happy? Then she generously handed out more rats so the whole party could join in in the licking of rats’ bummies.
I pointed out the offensive creatures for you, in case you missed them. And then there’s me, wondering why in the world we’re taking pictures of this.
They say “The problem with the rat race is that even if you win, you’re still a rat.”
See more humbling photos and their stories in the ‘Fro Me to You Carnival at Marcy Writes (aka: The Glamorous Life Association).
