Janelle Evans

I’m not big into pets. I was fine with never having one, but my children…they wanted a pet.

“Please,” they’d say.

“No way,” I’d say.

Back and forth, on and on, they wouldn’t let it go no matter how many times I’d say NOOOOO!

Well…this week, my oldest son drags me outside. Inside the wagon they use for mowing lawns was a bunny—no, not a bunny—a rabbit. A wild, who-knows-how-many-diseases, tick infested rabbit.

“But mom, it’s nice. It didn’t run away. It just let us pick it up. Please, let us keep it.”

Now I’m sure it’s riddled with disease. “Holy cow, no! It’s a wild animal. If it didn’t run away, it means it’s sick. Go inside and wash up, now!”

The darn rabbit just sat in my front yard where my oldest placed it before going inside. For hours it didn’t move! Clearly something was wrong with the animal.

It was lovely listening to my three children cry, telling me what a mean mother I was. Nothing I said was getting through to them, so I called for backup—my mother-in-law. She lives on a farm, and my children know she loves animals. They’ll listen to her, I thought.

But that phone call snowballed into something else…

While she did backup my claim about the animal most likely being sick, and not a good candidate for a pet, she was too sympathetic to my children’s desire for an animal. And lucky me one of the farm cats is having kittens soon. You can guess what happened next.

You got it—we will soon be the proud owners of a new kitten. Sigh…so much for never having a pet.

It took the better part of two summers, and seven dump trailers full of dirt to finish the yard around my house. Our family is exhausted, even our youngest, from the many trips it took to wheel-barrow the hand-shoveled soil around.

Each load ended with us being tired beyond belief, but this time it’s different. We are finished. Not one more shovel-full needed. No more cramped fingers straining to lift the wheel barrow while pushing it along. It’s done.

IT’S DONE!

That realization has made all the difference. Yes, it was backbreaking work, but I’ll never have to do it again. It’s lessened the pain my body feels to almost nothing.

I felt the same when I finally finished editing WORTH?, my debut novel coming out to the public later this year. The process wasn’t as physically strenuous as moving dirt, but there were mental struggles heaped on me to write and re-write, my editor demanding perfection. But it too is finished. Yes, there’s still a waiting game while reviewers send in their opinions of my novel, but I take comfort in knowing WORTH is as polished as I could possibly make it.

It would be so much easier if I could do everything perfect—unfortunately I can’t. A week ago, I was singing a solo in church and hit a wrong note. Then, so focused on my flub, I forgot the entire phase I was supposed to sing. Now this doesn’t embarrass me as much as it angers me. I had been shooting for perfect. I had practice, memorized the piece, and felt like I’d put in the time for perfection to be possible.

Lamenting to my mom over the whole debacle I told her my days of singing were over.

Of course, drama queen that I am, my mom reminded me I pretty much came out of the womb singing. I wouldn’t be happy if I gave it up completely.

“But it’s not fair. It used to be so easy,” I said.

In her wisdom my mom reminded me it was never easy. I spent hours in rehearsals, performing in plays, choir groups, and voice lessons.

She was right—singing every once in a blue moon wasn’t going to cut it. I may not have the kind of time I used to spend toward this talent, but if I attempted to put myself out there a little more often, my performances would improve. It’s just my poor church congregation that’s going to suffer while I work out the kinks.

You’d think after living thirty-plus years I’d have a more realistic idea on how long a project is going to take me.

I bought sod this week for a small patch we needed to fix in our lawn. When the fork lift brought the sod to my truck it looked so miniscule, about half a pallet, I figured why wait for my family to come home. I can lay this sod all by myself. It won’t take more than thirty minutes…

Two and a half hours later, I finished. My back hurt, my arms hurt, I was out-of-my-mind exhausted.

Unfortunately, this is a common problem for me, and it hurts every time I try and do it all by myself. And I have nobody to blame but the silly, stubborn woman staring in the mirror back at me.

This past weekend my husband took our two boys to a Fathers and Sons outing. Aptly named, it’s a camping weekend of no-girls-allowed. My daughter and I don’t mind, we give ourselves the girliest, girls night out possible while there gone.

When my sons returned home they regaled me with stories of their antics. They put long sticks in the fire until the tips began to burn then pulled them out and chased each other. They climbed a steep mountain with a cliff drop off on one side without parental assistance, and rather than eat the marshmallows they roasted, they chucked them at each other. Nothing like sticking a gooey mess to your friend’s shirt to show how much you care.

You might think I’d be upset by all this, I’m not. There are very few things that men and woman do the same, and our approach to rearing children would be one of those things. My sons had a great time. Sometimes, boys just need to be boys. I would have only ruined it with my overbearing, “Put that stick back in the fire before you poke somebody’s eye out! No, you threw your marshmallow, you can’t have another. Are you kidding me, that mountain is off limits mister!”

Besides, my husband did manage to keep them out of the nearby river swelled high with the spring runoff, so they came home alive and without any major broken bones. A mother can’t ask for more than that.

I hope every mother had a wonderful Mother’s Day. My gift for Mother’s Day came last Thursday when my oldest son hopped in the truck and said, “Mom, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think you better show me how to dance.”

He had a school dance on Friday—his first. I knew it was coming up, but he was adamant that he wouldn’t be going. It bummed me out. Dances were some of my favorite memories growing up, and here he was refusing to even try and see what they were about. I don’t know who or what changed his mind, but I pounced on the opportunity.

As soon as we got home I found us some suitable slow dance music. After a thorough drilling of how to hold a girl when you slow dance, and no, it’s not the stupid bear-hug-shuffle these kids do today, we worked on the basic Waltz. He caught on quickly, so I showed him a little Fox Trot, and even a few steps to the Jitter Bug. It was an amazing evening of laughing and learning.

When I sent him to the dance on Friday, I hoped he would follow all of my advice. I told him to ignore the boys who stood against the wall jeering everyone out on the dance floor—they would be there, they always are—but he needed to dance every dance. Second, I told him to dance with a different girl every slow dance. If she wasn’t confident in movement, don’t get to fancy with the moves. But, a smart boy would always give the girl a twirl or two while dancing.

He came home with the biggest smile on his face. “Mom, you were right, it was awesome! I danced every dance. The girls around me thought I was cool, and they liked it when I twirled them around on the slow dances.”

I wasn’t surprised. We, as a culture in general, may have drifted far from the era of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rodgers, but when you’re being glided across the floor by a boy with a little know-how, it’s hard as a female not to enjoy it. Just wait until I show him how to dip a girl, oh boy is he gonna be popular.

This coming weekend I will have the pleasure of talking to single, young adults about creative dating. Some might see this as a less than desirable topic. Less face it, sometimes dating can be hard, and filled with heartache, but if you don’t want to end up alone for the rest of your life, you’re going to have to attempt the whole dating scene. Spending time with a perspective mate is the only way you’re ever going to find out if you’re compatible.

As for being creative, the sky’s the limit. Focus on the person you are trying to woo–what do they like to do? If this is a first date, I’m afraid those take blind courage, but just remember, a good date leaves plenty of opportunity for talking.

One of the coolest creative dates I saw was when a boy had two of his friends dress up like 1940’s mob characters. They showed up at the girl’s door with plastic guns and a blind fold. They told everyone present to “forget about it” as they blindfolded the girl and took her away for a secret Italian themed dinner.

What’s the funnest date you’ve ever been on? I’d love your feedback. The more examples I have will make my class this weekend that much better.