I’m 37 years old and yet to be trusted with the names of lakes where the men in my family catch fish. I come from a long line of Lake Liars.

Back when my Grandma and Grandpa used to take us grand kids with them on vacation to the north shore of Minnesota, we’d often go fishing on remote lakes near the BWCA. Being an inquisitive youth, I’d always ask “Which lake are we going to fish on, Grandpa?” His reply was always the same.

“White Pine”

Since Grandpas don’t lie, I never questioned his answer until I was in my early teens. Even then, I was reluctant to verbalize my skepticism out of respect.

And fear.

But the older I became, the more I paid attention to which direction we were headed and which road we were traveling on.

As I began to put together the pieces of the Lake Liar puzzle, I was insulted with the discovery that I was deemed untrustworthy with Lake information.

Did Grandpa think I was going to go into town and announce to all his fishing competition that Grandpa caught his record walleye on 48° 5′ 6″ N Latitude, 90° 44′ 59″ W Longitude in the shallows of Lake Donttellasoul? Was he worried that I’d be kidnapped and forced to spill the secrets of his angling by way of tickle torture?

The icing on the Lake Liar cake happened when I went to the same vacation spot with my parents just last year. Darren had the kids at home which afforded me the opportunity to be on the lake in my parents boat rather than on the shoreline with seven active children.

As we were packing up to head out to fish, I asked the question.

“Hey Dad, which lake are we going to?”

He. Actually. Hesitated. Before answering as if to weigh the risk of sharing Lake Knowledge with someone who has never taken the blood oath of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell”.  I guess he was contemplating the scenario of having his own daughter break the golden silence while in line at the Trading Post.

Tourist to me: “Hey, are you from around here? I’m trying to find a place to set my line and you look like someone who easily spills the beans.”

Me to tourist: “Why yes, I was just fishing with my father and grandfather and we hit the jackpot on Lake Donttellasoul. Would you like me to guide you to the spot because I’m the great-great-great-great grand daughter of Sacagawea and great-grand daughter of Deep Throat. Not only can I tell you my secrets but I can SHOW YOU!”

Yesterday Kevin came home from mom and dad’s house where they spent the day putting a hitch on our minivan and building a rack to attach to the hitch so that we have more room to bring necessities. Kevin was all excited.

“Mom! I’m buying a Trout Stamp. When we get up north, we’re going to pick up Great Grandpa and bring him fishing at…”

Kevin stopped midway through his sentence.

MY OWN SON HESITATED TO TELL ME WHICH LAKE!

“BRING HIM FISHING WHERE, KEVIN!” I demanded.

“Um… you know…that lake with the dock and all the huge trout.”

“If you say ‘White Pine’ you are grounded for LIFE.”

“Fine. I won’t say it.”

ARRRRGH!

For the record, when we return from our little camping trip, I’m going to post, for the world to see, the exact name of the lake with the great big monster walleye and the record-breaking trout.

That’s my way of luring you back.

Okay. I’m just going to say it.

We forgot one of our kids at the county fair.

But it was only for twenty minutes and we found him paging through a little New Testament Bible that he got from the Gideon stand in one of the buildings so clearly God was watching out for him despite our brain fart.

You see, Isaiah had just won first place in the Tractor Pedal Pull

and we were all celebrating his victory and the fact that he now gets to go to the state competition in September. We hopped in the van to go grab a burger before the parade started and it wasn’t until we were waiting for our food that we realized we were one fry short of a Happy Meal.

First time in twenty years of parenting that we didn’t do a head count in the van and wouldn’t you know!

So now if you see a family of nine walking down the street with harnesses attached to each other in one big line, doing a role call every ten minutes, you’ll know it’s us.

And Nathanael? Don’t ever scare Momma like that again.

I won’t lie. For a second I thought Jesus was coming back and my first thought was “I hope He likes Folgers.”

The phrase “eat like a bird” is defined as “eat very little”. It is often used when speaking about someone who needs very little food to get by, often used when criticizing someone for not eating enough. Having fed birds, I can unequivocally say that this is a complete misnomer.

Birds are pigs.

We have two bird feeders which are constantly needed to be filled due to the large volume our little bird population consumes. But they don’t even eat all the food we offer in our feeders. They take as much pleasure from eating as they do spilling the seeds which means I spend time pulling weeds from the base of the feeder as the castoffs sprout in the ground.

I read that birds typically eat ten times their weight in food every day and yet I’ve only seen the occasional obese robin.

I am convinced that this “bird flu” we all hear about is actually bird bulimia. The birds eat so much that they force themselves to vomit in effort to avoid outgrowing their nests and being ostracized by bird society. It’s not virus, but vanity, that takes these birds’ lives and yet we contribute to the problem by enabling the cycle with our all-you-can-eat bird buffets.

I also blame the media for printing books like “A Field Guide to the Birds of Eastern and Central North America” which sets an unrealistic ideal of what birds should look like by printing photos of anorexic, teenage birds.

Next time I see a fat bird I’m going to whistle at it like a New York City construction worker.

Isaiah is spending the night at my parent’s home which means that for the last eight hours I have not once gasped in sheer terror at a daredevil stunt nor have I had to remind anyone that standing on your head while eating dinner is inappropriate behavior.

In fact, I sent mom an email asking if Isaiah was being good and this was her reply:

He is all dimples and manners and kind to boot!!!

This leads me to believe that he is only having an allergic reaction to growing up with his siblings. Or Grandma is bribing him with those fabulous oatmeal scotchies.

I’m on my third Monster energy drink today and I still feel like a scatter-brained, ADHD patient whose been handed a dozen more irons to add to my already full fire. Only my attempt to medicate myself with Monster Chai has backfired into a good case of the caffeine jitters.

This is not good.

I get stuck in this rut a couple times a year and I have no idea what triggers it but I do know that the only solution is to let go of my expectations and try to find pleasure in the little things of life.

Like taking the kids to the park and watching them play even though my toilet needs a good scrubbing. And buying crappy bread at the store rather than grinding wheat and making my own. And celebrating the fact that no one has needed to go to the emergency room.

I can sprint at full speed for only so long before I decide that taking one more step is just asking too much of myself. You see, moms don’t really get a vacation when even taking time off from work. Meals still need to be made and laundry still needs to be washed. There are still questions to be answered from inquisitive kids and someone always needs attention. There are always bills to be paid and appointments to keep.

The truth is… I’m not sure if I would know what to do if no one expected anything from me at any given moment of the day. I would love to find out. I would love to not feel guilty for taking a whole day to get lost in a historical novel or a marathon of CSI episodes. I would love to let go of the nagging thought that my laundry pile is growing while I mentally check out for 24 hours.

But I’m a mom and that means that mentally checking out happens in five minute increments. This explains the scatter-brained feeling.

I’m old enough to know that I’ll feel better tomorrow so that persistent fear that I’m not going to snap out of this funk can take a flying leap. I managed to meet my deadline with the marathon runner story and that feels good. The kids can make PB&J sandwiches for supper and not develop scurvy. My floor can be sticky for one more day without the world coming to an end. God is in control and I can find peace in that.

So for the rest of the day, or when my hands stop shaking, I’m going to do nothing but play Guitar Hero.

Screw the laundy.

This shy, quiet farm kid, is Kevin’s best friend- Tyler.

When I say ”farm” I mean a real, working dairy farm. And by “kid”, I mean a 16 year old who does more work in one day than most full grown men do in a week.

I love Tyler and wish I could keep him, change his last name to Johnson and let him sleep in til noon for a whole year because when I see a kid work as hard as Tyler does, I can’t help but want to reward him with “Get out of work” vouchers, red Kool-Aid and M&M cookies.

There’s no place Kevin would rather be than on Tyler’s farm. There’s always machinery to be fixed, cows to be milked and hay to be baled. Mix in some dirt bikes and gopher hunting and you have heaven on earth for a boy.

At least for my boy.

So when I was dropping Kevin off at Tyler’s a few days ago, Tyler said “We had another calf born yesterday,” in the same tone you might use to say “So I see the sun came up again this morning.”

“WILL YOU SHOW ME????” I screeched in a pitch that hurt my own ears and sent two kittens running to their mothers for comfort.

You see, I’ve wanted to have a dairy cow for my family ever since we outgrew the ability to fit in a normal four-passenger car. I did the whole dairy goat thing. I pasteurized goat milk on my stove. I made goat milk soap and made goat cheese.

Unfortunately, goat milk sucks. It tastes like a barn smells. Period. The End.

But a Cow! Cow’s milk. Cow’s cream, Cow cheese and Cow butter… Do you have any idea how much potential there is in cow’s milk?

I do. I’ve thought about it for well over ten years and I’ve yet to convince Darren it was a good idea!

We have the land. We have the hands to help. We have the time. But for whatever reason (God only knows) Darren is worried that he would end up doing all the work whichissonottrue!

How does one convince their cynical, unbelieving spouse that buying a dairy cow is a good idea when it’s so blatently obvious that its the most brilliant idea ever?

I mean, come on. That little cow in Tyler’s arms? Well, she sucked on my fingers and followed me in the barn. And then, just when Kevin pried my arms from the calf’s neck so Tyler could get on with his day, she winked at me as if to say “You just keep working on Darren… even if it means making a public plea on the internet.”

That is one smart Holstein.

The raindrops started just outside of St. Cloud and I had a hunch we were in for a long, cold, wet football game.

Darren, Kevin and I attended the Minnesota High School All-Stars game on Saturday night but before the game started, we met up with Jeff of View From the Cloud. Having met Jeff and his wife, Char, on a previous occasion, I knew it would be a joy to see them again.

And it was.

As Jeff explains here, his son, Austin was chosen to be Grand Marshal for the Granite City parade. Austin is one of those kids who seems to be born with an ability to change the world for the better and has the courage to actually do it. Not only was he a leader for the parade, he is the leader in the proposed St. Cloud Skate Plaza.

This 16 year old kid rubs shoulders with the mayor of St. Cloud and prominent businessmen in the area and talks about it like it’s no big deal, and certainly less admirable than his latest skateboard move.

Jeff and Char need to write a recipe book on how to make a great child. The profits from the book  would fund hundreds of skate plazas and then Austin could start “The Austin Lee Foundation” and give grant money to kids with visions.

The icing on this happy cake was finally, at long last, meeting Jeff’s parent, Bill and Lois.

A look back at my blog entries would tell the story of how Bill and Lois have become dear friends of mine, one encouraging comment at a time. They’ve been with me during some bumpy roads and have invested love into my life. Amazing how you can love someone having never met them and how wonderful it makes the meeting!

Had it been an option for me, I would have skipped the game and spent time trading witty comments with Bill and hugging Lois until she finally said “Oh for Pete’s sake, stop already!” Then Jeff would’ve had to peel me off of his mom and file a restraining order.

Five minutes wasn’t nearly long enough.

After this special encounter with the Lee family, we headed over to Husky Stadium for the game. Fox Sports was filming for a later broadcast and being able to witness the behind-the-scenes of that was very interesting.

One of the broadcasters was getting ready to go live when a bird crapped all over the front of his shirt. It was hilarious to see a crew member search in downright panic for a towel to clean it off the poor announcer.

A half dozen Viking cheerleaders were there along with former Viking players, Randall McDaniel and Matt Blair, who served as honorary coaches for the teams.

Not more than ten minutes into the game, the sky opened up and the deluge began. For three hours I ran up and down the sidelines trying to get good photos of the athlete playing from my hometown while the rain prevented me from seeing through my glasses, all the while craving Lois’s warm hugs.

The team I was hoping would win, lost. I managed to get a few decent photos for the paper but the real story of the day happened at the beginning of a parade.

Every once in a while I run across a photographer on Flickr.com whose photography just takes my breath away. Mehraj Mir is one excellent example.

From his profile on Flickr:

I Mehraj Mir was a trained video photojournalist but decided to switch career and took up photography as a profession. Grew up amid chaos and pendamonium in the strife-torn Kashmir, India. Witnessed many important events and incidents as a teenager.Also witnessed and covered live encounters between security forces and islamic rebels.To point the example of a live encounter,i got stuck in the middle of security forces and militants. I thought that was end, but God was there to save me. Despite heavy firing i managed to shoot some important pictures..I have covered the Kashmir conflict extensively for several years now. I feel his pictures should make people aware of the grass root situation of Indian Kashmir and tell stories on how life there affects its own people.

He somehow manages to capture both the beauty and horror taking place in his city:

I invite you to see more of Mehraj Mir’s photos here.

He is 20 years old and should be encouraged to continue his art.

This moth wears more eyeliner than Steven Tyler and is hairier than Robin Williams which means it’s probably very difficult for this moth to find a date.