​You’ve probably heard of the children’s book, If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. It’s about a boy who shares his cookie with a mouse and it turns into a chain of events that keeps the boy busy all day.
 
Today I’m going to share my own version of that story. It’s called, If You Give a Mom a Muffin, It’s a detailed account of my morning last Friday. I hope you enjoy it.

​On Friday morning I got myself a banana nut muffin. When I went to the fridge for a glass of milk, my 11-year-old handed me her Butter Braid fundraiser form. “It’s due today and you haven’t ordered anything.” So I went to my office for a pen, ordered a cinnamon for me and a raspberry for Curt and wrote out a check.
 
While in my office, I glanced at the clock on my computer. Why wasn’t my 14-year-old up yet? I tromped up the steps and found her lying in bed. She wasn’t feeling well. I went to my bathroom to find the thermometer.
 
While in the bathroom, my 16-year-old knocked on the door. “Do you know where I can find a white tank-top?” I dumped a big basket of unfolded laundry across my bed. “Check this.”
 
I marched back to my 13-year-old and took her temperature. 101.3. “Nope, you’re not going to school.” 

​I headed back downstairs, saw the bus coming down the road and quickly hugged my 11-year-old good-bye. My husband walked by on his way out the door, so I gave him a kiss and talked him into meeting me for lunch. Then I remembered that my 16-year-old needed to take a lunch. So I helped her put together a sandwich and some chips. Then I told her good-bye.
 
Maybe now I could eat my muffin.
 
But just as I reached for the milk, my 16-year-old realized she had forgotten her purse at Fazoli’s the night before. This meant no driver’s license. “Can you take me to school?” I looked down at my ratty old pajamas. I was in no shape to walk out the door. I hadn’t brushed my teeth. I hadn’t even put on a bra. “Okay fine, let’s go,” I said. I slipped on a pair of tennis shoes.
 
On our way, I called my 14-year-old’s school and told them she wouldn’t be in. Then I dropped off my 16-year-old and decided to swing by Fazoli’s. Just in case someone was around. 

​Fazoli’s was empty, so I walked over to the window to see if I could spot her purse. No luck. Then I realized cars were zipping by, I was still in pajamas and I probably looked like a crazy woman peering through the windows of Fazoli’s.
 
So I jumped back in the van and started driving home. Half-way home my “check fuel” light came on. I decided to ignore it.
 
When I returned home I checked on the 14-year-old. She was sleeping. So I headed downstairs, grabbed a big glass of cold milk and sat down to eat my muffin. 

​Then I thanked God it was Friday.  

​Stop by next week to read my squeal, “If You Give a Dad a Donut.”
 
On second thought, never mind. I just realized that if you gave a dad a donut, he’d eat it. And the story would be over.

My kids have access to amazing technology. They send messages on Facebook. They can text, tweet, email, follow people on Instagram and snapchat their friends. 
    
Now let’s compare that to when I was a kid. Other than talking on the phone, here’s how I communicated with friends.

I passed notes during study hall. I wrote letters over summer break. I corresponded with pen pals from other countries. 

I think my kids are missing out.

Call me old fashioned, but there’s something special about seeing (and reading) someone’s handwriting. Everyone has their own unique style. It’s kind of an art form. A lost art, I’m afraid. 

For example, how do you space out your letters? Do you make narrow or wide loops? How do you dot your i’s and cross your t’s? Are your letters rounded or pointed? Do you use heavy or light pressure? Are letters slanted to the left or to the right? Or not at all? All of these factors create a distinct writing style that's unique to you.    

Here’s an example. Patty and I have been friends since fourth grade. To this day I can recognize her handwriting with only a glance. It’s unique to her. 

I can’t tell you the number of notes Patty and I passed from grade school to graduation, but thanks to my pack-ratty ways, I can tell you what we wrote about. (I recently dug out a few from storage!) Here’s a brief summary of our most popular topics during our junior high years. 

Boys. Shopping. Volleyball. How much we hated our hair. School dances. Stuff other girls said. Boring classes. Difficult tests. Unreasonable parents. And whatever plans we were trying to make for the upcoming Friday night. 

Obviously our letters didn’t include any deep, philosophical discussions. But that was life in seventh grade.

Here’s a nice one from Patty:  

I’m glad I kept a few of those old letters. If nothing else, they’re entertaining. However, here’s what happens after my kids read a message from one of their friends. 

DELETE. 

Don’t get me wrong. I love technology. I like the convenience of texting. I enjoy keeping in touch with folks on Facebook. I would NOT want to sit down and write my blog in longhand each week! But with all of our digital options, we’re losing the personal touch. 

My friend Brenda knows the value of a handwritten note. Not only does she like to send cards (yes, through the U.S. Postal Service!) she also takes the time and effort to write something inside of her cards. 

​Emails are easy to ignore. But when I find a card amongst the bills and junk mail, I immediately open it. Brenda’s cards are so kind and encouraging. I’ve actually been tempted to send her a thank-you note for her thank-you notes! 

Twenty-one years ago, my grandma gave me several handwritten recipes at my wedding shower. I refer to her recipes often. I love seeing Grandma's signature - the same familiar signature that signed my birthday cards year after year.    

This past week I had the opportunity to look through Grandma’s old recipe boxes. As I flipped through the cards, I pictured my grandma, standing by the stove with an apron around her waist, stirring a big boiling pot of something yummy. 

One card had dried specks of frosting that had probably splattered from her mixer. Another had a dark spot from opening a can of chili beans nearby. Grandma's recipe cards are a small piece of her that I can hold in my hands. I know it sounds strange, but it all feels so … personal. 

Handwritten notes show the recipient that they are worth the extra time and effort. That’s why I’d like to end this week’s blog with a little note from me to you. 

What do you think? Am I the only one who misses actual handwriting? Leave me a message - I'll even let you type it.   

Madison ripped open the envelope and pulled out a gift certificate. Her eyes widened as she read the print. With a joyful squeal, she launched both arms into the air. “Yes! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” 

It was the reaction I was hoping for. 

Birthday shopping for Maddie had become a challenge. She’s too old for toys. She’s too young for an Iphone. She likes cute clothes, but that’s not really her thing. I wanted to give her something she’d love. 

What did she love? 

Well, she loved gymnastics, but lately that wasn’t going so well. For several weeks she had complained of back pain during practice. I took her to our family doctor who called it a muscle strain. She recommended rest – and no gymnastics for two weeks. Maddie was not pleased. 

After two weeks, the pain continued. I made an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon who ordered an Xray. Thankfully, he found nothing wrong with her spine. He recommended Ibuprofen and more rest. 
                            
A few days before Maddie’s birthday, I stumbled across a picture of our family horseback riding in Colorado. I remembered how much Madison had loved it. Suddenly, I knew what to get for her birthday. After a quick internet search, I found a horse stable that offered trail rides. They had an opening in three weeks. Three weeks? Patience didn’t come easily for Maddie. At least she’d have something to look forward to. 

Taking a break from gymnastics also didn’t come easily. Madison felt lost. She normally practiced four times a week, three hours a day. But what do you do when suddenly it all stops? 

Instead of the gym, we headed to Grandma’s. Maddie loves animals and Grandma’s farm has an abundance of them. They were a welcomed distraction.  

Though I was grateful Maddie’s back didn’t hurt constantly, it still hurt when she ran or moved a particular way. Finally, I’d had enough. I called back the orthopedic surgeon and asked for more tests. He ordered a bone scan. Within a few days, we got the results.
 
“It looks like Madison has a bilateral stress fracture.” The doctor turned to Maddie with a sympathetic look. “This means absolutely no physical activity – no gymnastics, no volleyball, no running, no pitching lessons, no PE, nothing – until your back is completely healed.”
 
I couldn’t imagine Maddie’s emotions. Anger? Grief? Frustration? But I knew what I felt: sadness. Not because my daughter could no longer do gymnastics, but because she could no longer do the things she loved.

After a tough couple of days, Madison accepted the doctor’s orders. Each day was a little better – until she remembered the gift certificate.
                                                                                       
“Do you know what I’m excited for?” She asked unexpectedly one day.
 
Suddenly I felt like a heavy weight had dropped onto my chest. I knew what was coming.
 
“I’m excited to go horseback riding.”
 
The look on my face said it all. There could be no horseback riding. Tears streamed down Maddie’s cheeks and my heart ached again.
 
Over the next several days I couldn’t get her look of disappointment out of my mind. I had to fix this. Surely there was something I could do. If she couldn’t ride a horse, maybe she could at least spend some time with one. I called my aunt, who was the owner of two sweet ponies and three beautiful horses. She was happy to help.

​One night I stopped by Maddie’s room to tell her goodnight. She sat up in bed.   

“Mama, she began, “Do you think we could go to a gymnastics meet and watch my teammates? I think we might have a pretty good team this year.” 

A strange mix of relief, pride and contentment swept over me. “Maddie,” I said. “I think that’s a great idea.”

I suppose it's a lesson we all have to learn; how to let go of our own plan and trust that God has another. It's not easy. I mean, what do you do when you can no longer do the things you love? 

You find something new to love.

​Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert. – Isaiah 43:19

My oldest daughter, Emily, recently got a fun surprise during her volleyball game. Her friend showed up with a gigantic sign and throughout the entire game, cheered her on.

My daughter is not one who enjoys the spotlight. In fact, I’m not sure if Emily's face was flushed from playing volleyball, or from her friend’s enthusiastic cheers. But Mattlyn cheered anyway. Before long, my husband joined in the fun. Maybe Emily was slightly embarrassed, but she was also delighted.

It’s a good lesson for parents. Your child might humbly dismiss your compliments as no big deal. Your words of encouragement might make her slightly uncomfortable. Cheer anyway.

Today I'm over at the Quad City Moms Blog, talking about being your child's cheerleader. I'd love for you to check it out! 

​Have a great week!