I don't mean to be fastidious or to compare myself to others -- the Bible says not to do that. But have you ever watched those makeover shows on tv? There's this show called 10 Years Younger and I was watching it the other day in my nonexistent free time when it hit me. These people don't really need a makeover.

Think about it.

They choose someone who is already relatively thin, has a few wrinkles here and there, needs an updated look because they haven't looked in the mirror since the mid-80s. Then they proceed to transform the person, man or woman, into a glam girl or guy with microdermabrasion, hair color, makeup (no, not the guys), and a new outfit.

Well, who wouldn't look better if they could afford to do all that!? But the average person can't pay for those things!

I always partake in the sin of covetousness after watching a show like that. I have acne scars on my face, an extraordinarily large Jewish nose (a little gift from my father -- how nice), and a size quadruple AAAA bust. I try to make up for these things with my sparkling personality, amazing wit, fashion sense -- I used to work for a fashion magazine, and passion for life. Sometimes these things don't work. Sometimes they do (see phat knees post below).

I challenge you "makeover show" people who only make over people who don't need making over, to take me on. Fix this nose, implant large fake body parts in all the proper places, scrape my face until the scars are gone, and while you're at it, buy ME expensive outfits and makeup and hairstyles.

The photo above was taken 10 years ago. So now everyone can see what I looked like when I was 10 years younger. There's actually an interesting story behind that photo. I did a glamour shots photo session, and when I got the proofs Steve didn't like any of them. He didn't like the hat I chose or the poses they put me in. So I went back and this time Mr. Television Producer went in with me. He chose the outfit, the poses, and basically produced the whole photo shoot. Then I went out while he was still talking to the photographer about f-stops or somesuch thing.

I opened the curtain and there before me were ten pairs of angry eyes. It was 8:45 pm and they had taken so long with me that ten people behind me who were all made up with hair done had to be sent home with rain checks for future makeover/photo sessions. The icy glares haunted me every time I looked at that photo for at least two years. It was terrible!!

And Steve just laughed about it!

There was only one other time I was tempted to strangle my husband and that was when I was in labor, waiting for the Petocin to kick in and he decided to go grab a snack down at the snack machines two floors down with the anesthesiologist. Hear me now. WITH THE ANESTHESIOLOGIST!

The medicine kicked in, and I had seven of the worst contractions of my life. By the time the nurse got the anesthesiologist back upstairs, snacks in hand and my husband in tow, it was too late. I can still see in slow motion the nurse leaving the room saying, "I'm sorry, it's tooooo laaaaaate!!!" and flying down the hall to get the doctor to come in and catch this baby that was popping out of me. I had a total of 13 contractions. Twenty minutes of labor. It felt like twenty hours. It hurt. I could have killed both Steve AND the anesthesiologist. Aren't they supposed to stay nearby? Isn't that what "on call" means?

I guess I don't care if I look 10 years younger. I just want to look like I got enough sleep last night -- which I didn't because every night for the past ten and a half years there has been a little boy in my bed. Yes, the same little boy who popped out so suddenly while his mother's burning flesh seared, her agony evident only to the discerning eye as witnessed by the redness of her face and the expression of seething anger toward two men who will never know what it's like to poop out a baby au naturelle.

Pardon the segue (that's "seg-way" for my non-collegiate friends who always tell me I use words they don't understand and for my daughter's friends who tell her the same thing. Don't get me started on public education...)

But why can't this boy sleep in his own bed for more than half the night? I remember doing the same thing when I was young. But he's a boy. What is it about a mother's cuddles that wakes him up in the middle of the night and draws him to my side? I'm not knocking it -- he's my youngest and one day he'll be ashamed that he even did this at all -- but why?

I am groggy all day, can't string two sentences together until massive amounts of caffeine have pried my eyelids open halfway, and all because of that little bugger lying next to me. Last night, he decided there wasn't enough room (well, yeah, he's TEN!) and crawled to the foot of the bed. By morning, he was totally upside down and I had feet in my face. Nice.

I guess I'll keep him, though. He's kinda cute.

So talk to me. You have to click on this little bitty button beside where it says how many comments there are at the end of this post to leave me a message. It's really sort of hard to find the little button. I think it is, anyway. Maybe I just need more sleep!

Yours,

Megan Elizabeth,
alias "The Princess" of The Princess and the Pea
or to my husband, his precious Jewish American Princess
(What is this preoccupation with royalty I've suddenly developed?)

Okay, you have to go to Jody's blog  and read about the contest I won to understand what this photo means to Jody... I am upping the challenge. Jody said she was so sure I did not already have this insane object that she bought at Goodwill for a prize for winning the contest that she would run naked through the mall or something like that. You have to read her blog to get the full story. Well, guess what? The prize was a carved coconut head. AND I ALREADY HAD ONE! I thought it was a lot different and smaller than Jody's prize, but my daughter found it the other day and... well... I find the two items rather similar. You decide! 

Donna got me thinking about Christmas traditions... What are yours?

I'd like to say we roast chestnuts, perform at nursing homes, and do all the right things at Christmastime, but we tend to get a little strange in December. For one thing, we don't just celebrate Christmas, we also celebrate Hanukkah. This keeps us hopping. We have eight nights of partying with dreidel games, cookies, listening to NPR's fantastic Hanukkah storytellers and music, and, of course, praying to Almighty G*d, the Creator of the Universe, the unspeakable, all powerful One. Everything blue and white goes up at our house, then comes back down eight days later and is replaced by red and green. It's really tricky! But loads of fun. Chocolate gelt for everyone!!!

These are the special moments -- the times we carve out for only our family. I know we should be reaching out to others during this season, but instead we always seem to pull in. And I can't wait to do it again...

We always bake the proverbial cutout cookies along with a special treat my mother calls a "puff." It's like a gigantic cream puff with yummy vanilla glaze on top. It's rich with egg yolks and out of this world. I'll post the recipe for it as it gets closer to Christmas. I also started making dishes and desserts out of The Frugal Gourmet's Christmas recipe cookbook. He has food for the magi, the shepherds, etc. We have so much fun with this! Well, I do, anyway. So every year, I make date pudding with whiskey sauce. It's intoxicating in more ways than one. And I don't even like those fruitcake sorts of desserts. But with finely ground walnuts and dates chopped very small, this one is out of this world rich and decadent. We sometimes make plum pudding and figgy pudding, but date pudding is my favorite. I'll post the recipe for that, too.

The evening before Christmas Eve day, we always go caroling around the neighborhood. Just our family. We take along a candle or two in brass candleholders that we only use for this occasion, and we take a plate of cookies to each neighbor. We can't do this any earlier or the neighbors will try to return the gift. If you go close to Christmas, they won't have time and you will have blessed them without getting anything in return which is, of course, ideal.

We like to read Dickens' A Christmas Carol every year, too. And we always read through a few stories in Tasha Tudor's Take Joy. This must be done beside a roaring fire with Wassail in hand or the spell will be broken. It's magical, I tell you!

About the Wassail. It is a Hoyt MUST! From Thanksgiving to Christmas, there is always a pot of steaming Wassail on the stove. The aroma of Wassail and evergreens means Christmas to us. To make our special Wassail, you must use a gallon jug of Apple Cider, a half gallon jug of pure Cranberry Juice -- not cocktail and no added sugar. Then you add a cup of brown sugar, about five cinnamon sticks broken in half, and top with ten slices of orange with cloves tucked into them (This keeps the cloves out of the drink but still adds their flavor). Sometimes we add apple slices, too. It's a simple recipe with fabulous results. And after the kiddies go to bed, you can add a little red wine for a lovely chill-out time with the adults in your life.

Every Christmas Eve, we act out the Christmas story. And Steve always plays the donkey. Now that the kids have gotten a little older, he begs for mercy! Each girl gets a chance to play Mary, so this can take a while. I am always the angel. Funny to some of you, I'll bet. This is a great way to help the kids memorize the story from Luke. At first, I recited it while they play acted. Now, I'm pretty sure we can all recite it word for word. I had to memorize the story in third grade for a Christmas play, and I have never forgotten it. Memory work is good for children. And this is one I would definitely recommend.

Also on Christmas Eve, we all snuggle up and watch White Christmas. It's a tradition for us because Steve and I watched it on our first date. We were the only ones in our group of friends who did not go home for Christmas when we were in graduate school. So we hung out together, did some Christmas shopping, went to Steve's work Christmas party together. And on Christmas Eve, it happened. No, not THAT it. We fell in love. So every year, without fail and no matter how tired we are from all the festivities adding up to Christmas Eve, we watch White Christmas. Then Steve and I stay up most of the night trying to bake, cook, and get everything else wrapped and set up for Christmas morning. 

Christmas morning. We always have breakfast before anything else. Crazy of us to make the kids wait, right? But with full tummies, there is less negative emotion. That doesn't matter so much now that they're older, but when they were young, wooooo! 

We open presents one at a time, taking turns. It's an obsession of my husband's. He's a television producer and he always wanted to make sure he got everything recorded on video. So we must TAKE TURNS! I am convinced my kids will be in therapy when they grow up. And they'll blame all their repressed emotions on the fact that their dad made them open presents one at a time! But again, now that they're older, they savor the time together, watching each person open a gift and rejoicing with each person as they see what they got.

We don't do Santa. We never have. I have taught the kids the story of St. Nicholas from a young age, and they understand the whole concept and don't spoil it for anyone else. But we prefer to focus on the Christ child, the meaning of it all, the Alpha and Omega, beginning and end. The reason for the season is Jesus and the salvation he bought for us all on the cross. I don't think Jesus would have celebrated a nativity. That was a pagan type thing to do. But since He is the promised Messiah, I hope he understands why we do.

God bless us, every one!

Megan Elizabeth -- with a little tiny Tim thrown in

Vaguely curious?

I was reading this article about "Knowing God" when it hit me. I have been vaguely curious about God lately rather than aggressively pursuing a relationship with him. The busyness of each day prohibits me from carving out the time I should to pray, to sit in solitude and wait, to worship the Creator of the universe. Does he deserve to be worshipped? After all, look at the natural world around us. We see deer in our yard almost every day now. They are beautiful creatures -- fragile and fleeting. I want to cradle them in my arms and love on them. Their beauty is stunning, their gentleness overwhelming. I think it's like that with God sometimes. We want to put a collar around his neck and make him stay near us, to be petted and to inspire love and gentleness within our hearts. Instead, He darts to and fro -- brings His love close, then flits away again. We want -- even crave -- the security that comes from knowing He is always at our beck and call. But He's not. That's scary. But it's the truth. 

I have digressed, but I wanted to share this article with you. It's by Dick Keyes, a friend of a friend of mine and someone we hope to bring to a ChildLight USA conference soon.

Knowing God

This you will not believe...

I was shopping at the Salvation Army thrift store the other day, and I guess I was dressed fairly fashionably for a 44-year-old mama of four. I had on boots and a skirt and a leather jacket. Well, this man who worked there kept joking with me about how a "pretty girl like me needs this item or that item or this chair or book or sofa or dress." I was getting a little bit irritated, but just as I was about to say something about it to the manager, he finally gave up and walked away. 

Then, another man who looked like he was about 30 -- an African-American gentleman (I have to tell you that for this to make sense -- I am in no way trying to poke fun at this culture or that culture. Just identifying the perpetrator in this hilarious scenario).

So this guy walks up to me and starts talking about my knees. I mean, he's going on and on about how fat my knees are and how much he loves fat knees! I do not know what to make of this situation because, frankly, I have never thought much about my knees being fat or thin or pretty or ugly or anything at all other than the joints by which my legs are still able to bend, thank the good Lord.

I finally got tired of this man pestering me, so I held up my left hand and pointed to the wedding ring on my finger. He says, "Oh now, baby, that's just too bad." I wish I could pass along the accent -- it was very hip. And the man wasn't bad-looking either. But why was he so interested in my fat knees?

I went home, and later on at the dinner table, I started talking to my family about the incident. To tell you the truth, I was befuddled and confused by the whole thing. Then, one by one, my teenaged girls and husband all started snickering and giggling. 

"Meg, you just don't know the modern lingo," my husband said, still laughing. "He was trying to tell you he thinks your knees are sexy or good-looking. The word for that is 'phat! P-H-A-T!' "

Okay, well, what do I know about "phat?" So I looked it up at answers.com and it says: "Excellent, first rate; phat fashion; a phat rapper; sexy (said of a woman).

Ohhhh Baby!!!!

I guess I've still got it...

Yours -- with phat knees!

Megan

P.S. As I was leaving the store, I heard that same employee say, "A pretty girl like you should have this sofa." I looked over and saw that he was talking to a plump, elderly lady of about 80!

Life is funny that way...

Just when you think you have things figured out -- when you think your life is cruising along nicely, everything in place, everyone present and accounted for -- something punches you hard in the stomach and you find out you were never in control at all.

We visited a new church on Sunday. At the end of the service, the pastor called for people to gather around a young woman named Kate and pray for her. Three and a half months pregnant, she just found out she has Leukemia for the second time. It's aggressive. And she is not willing to abort her baby in order to undergo the treatment to fight it. 

I don't know Kate personally. But she looks like she is about 25 years old to me. Her countenance radiates the presence of God, so it's sort of hard to tell exactly how old she is. She is in a different place, on a different plane, perhaps, from where I am standing. Overwhelmed and premenopausal, surrounded by children, carpools, pets, and laundry, I think I can safely say that I have lost sight of the really important things in life. Things like integrity, devotion, and sacrifice. I daresay, most Americans have lost sight of these things. We're stumbling along, blind and depressed, hoping there is more to life than the mundane daily grind we're all experiencing. I think Kate knows about the "more." She's living each day totally dependent on the power of God to give her life, breath, and strength to grow a baby for the next six months. She doesn't even know if she will be able to hold out for that long. Her sacrifice may be all for nothing. Think about it. She is laying down her life for the sake of her child. We all say we would do that. But would we? Really? Even before we have a chance to know that child?

I am humbled.

Yours -- with every breath I breathe,

Megan

Gee, I left all sorts of people out of my "friends" list...

It's always dangerous to blog thoughtlessly like this. I left out so many good friends from that last post! Jody, you always comment on my blogs and I didn't even include you. And you gave me a cocoanut head, too! What was I thinking leaving you out like that? It's not every day that one receives a cocoanut head from a friend. 

Without Kathi, I would not have gotten my house packed up to move over the summer.

Without Joe D., Kathy P. and Steve E., I would not have been able to jumpstart my career a few years ago.

And Cecilia. She's a "through thick and thin" friend, too. What would I do without her? Who would I sing old Simon and Garfunkel songs to?!?!?

The list goes on...

Yours -- when procrastinating even though three articles are due on Monday,

Megan Elizabeth

What does a good friend look like?

I have the best friends in the world.

Let's start with Bebe in Australia. We've been friends since 4th grade. I write her an email, detailing all my complaints -- even the ones that are my own fault -- and she always comes back with a "there, there, you couldn't have possibly known this would happen. Pour yourself a cup of tea, hop into a steamy bubble bath and pamper yourself. Life is hard. You deserve a break!" Bebe has not had an easy life herself. She's faced divorce with strength, courage, and dignity. And infertility with the same. She and her husband now have two adopted boys who are the joy of their lives. One of them has a little too much joy -- ADHD issues make life difficult for him. But Bebe faithfully cares for him -- and me!

Donna is lively and fun. She's full of great advice and tall tales. All true, of course. She keeps me young and happy.

I have some friends through work that are so supportive I sometimes think they're being sarcastic. Then I do a doubletake and say, "No, they really ARE that nice!" I get encouraging emails from them at just the right times. They even talk to one another behind my back and conspire to be encouraging to me! I'm tearing up just thinking about it.  Thanks, John and Wendy -- and Valerie and Kathy and Karen and Carole and Jay and Chris and... and... Wow, the list is quite lengthy!

I was a lousy friend to Laura. I was her maid of honor, then promptly moved to another state and forgot about her. She kept calling and occasionally visited me, but I was preoccupied with my own life -- having babies and raising them. Years later, I discovered her husband had been brutally abusing her. Those calls and visits were pleas for help, but I didn't recognize them. I am ashamed that I took Laura's friendship for granted. She's now coping with her ex-husband's lack of consistency when it comes to child support and raising their two children alone as a working mom. And still, she calls to check on me and make sure I'm doing all right. 

Jean, Jean, and Jeanne...

Where do I begin? The Lord has blessed me with three remarkable friends named Jean. Jean R. is my homeschool guru and a dear friend who always listens with a sympathetic ear. I'll never forget the time I griped and complained to her about what a terrible day I was having, ending with "And how are you?" to which she promptly replied, "I broke my foot." We both burst out laughing. I said, "Why didn't you stop me sooner?!" Then we laughed again. Jean R. keeps me sane. I just love her.

Jean from my writing group is like a mother to me. Seriously. She tells me to stop running around so much and to take care of myself so I'll be able to take care of my family. She reminds me not to sweat the small stuff. Jean's son was killed suddenly. Her husband is blind. She has not had an easy time of it, but she still calls to check on me if she hasn't heard from me in a while. I love Jean.

Jeanne... What can I say about this precious woman? My deepest spiritual issues are always safe within her trusted bosom of secrecy. And her advice is the best. She prays for me, listens for answers, then shares from her heart. I love Jeanne, too!

There are others. Some whose lives I emulate from afar like Elaine Cooper and Ranald Macaulay. They are heroes as well as friends. Jack, Bobby, Carroll, Lisa, and Amber all hold a special place in my heart. We are co-laborers on behalf of a better education for children across the world.

Stacy, Michelle, Lori, Barbara... All my church friends from Virginia... You are the best. Especially Stacy. I can say that because she was also my labor and delivery nurse for two of my four children. Stacy has seen more of me than I'd like to admit! I hope she counts me as one of her close friends, too!

My dearest friend, though, is my husband. I put that man through so much emotionally it is not even repeatable here. It would take up too much space to explain anyway! But Steven is my biggest fan, my most devoted, passionate love, and my closest, intimate friend. I don't  deserve his love. I am sensitive, irritable, outrageous when I should be quiet, and I crumble to mush when someone hurts my feelings. But he is always there to pick up the pieces and put me back together -- even when he is already stressed himself. I recently had the opportunity to look at our relationship more closely while he was away on a business trip. That's when it hit me. Steven loves me the way God does. I am loved -- not because I'm pretty or smart or talented or successful or a good mother or a good housekeeper or a gourmet chef or a fantastic lover -- Steven loves me rather in spite of myself. When I am Lucy Ricardo, he forgives me. When I am Dharma Finkelstein Montgomery (which is OFTEN!) he is amused. When I am Audrey Hepburn as Holly go Lightly, he is compassionate. When I am Emma Peel from The Avengers, he is thrilled. When I am Ann Wilson from Heart, he laughs uproariously. When I am Mother Teresa, he weeps alongside me. He is my dearest friend. 

Yours -- with sugar and spice and everything nice,

Megan Elizabeth

My son...

Last night, as we were snuggling and talking before bed, my son leaned over and said, "Queen is from England, I think." Lest you assume my son is three years old and has just figured out that the UK still has a queen, let me assure you that is not the case. He's ten. And he's talking about Freddie Mercury and the gang.

Has this boy been googling behind my back?

And if he has, why is he googling my favorite old rock groups? And why is this what he is thinking about at the end of the day? A hero of mine once said a child should have something to love, something to do, and something to think about each day. I know Jesse loves his family. He loves to read, to do science experiments, to cook, to mess around outside making up new games and sports to play with his brother. He loves to play in the woods, to build things. Some of these things branch out into the something to do category. But what about something to think about? 

I can easily sit around sipping tea and discussing world issues with my teenaged daughters for hours on end. But what am I giving my ten-year-old to think about? I don't know what I'm going to change, but I know I must do something to help him so that we don't end up talking about '70s rock groups at night before we go to bed!

Yours -- with snips and snails and puppy dogs' tails,

Megan Elizabeth

Honk if you are reading my blog!

I have only heard from two people so far and I already knew they would read my blog. Thank you, Jody and Jean!!!

Where is everyone else? Come on, now, talk to me! Leave comments. Browse the archives. Argue with me. Enlighten me.

Megan