Ballin' It Up

Check out these super-short videos of my little ballers.



The Firstborn Son



Big Dave

Let me just tell you that, for me, there is nothing quite like watching my boys play ball. I love watching them have fun and they're pretty good at it. It used to be 'cute' to watch but now that it's getting a little more competitive {they actually keep score}, it's really exciting.

Proud mommy right here....

Bless His Heart

Have you ever heard someone say ‘Bless your heart?’ I hear it all the time and even find myself saying it, too. I’d like to preface this post with this little tidbit. I recently listened to a podcast from Craig Groeschel {have you heard of him? He is pretty fantastic!} and he equated the saying of, ‘Bless your heart’ to, ‘You’re a ding-dong.’ Actually, I think he used ‘idiot’ but I’ll go with ‘ding-dong’ since I’m working really hard to live out Ephesians 4:29 in my daily life and ding-dong doesn't sound nearly as ugly. Anyway, keep that in mind.


For those that don't know, Dallas grew up in the country on five acres of land. And then when we moved to South Carolina, our first house that we bought came with nearly a full acre. However, in this new pad, our outdoor space is limited. We basically traded our lot for convenience. I, for one, think it was a great swap and I know Dallas does, too, but our backyard really is ridiculously small and, paired with a ginormous deck {which holds a hot tub that we do not even use}, it doesn’t leave much room for the boys to run around.

Do you think that holds Dallas and his posse back? Let me help you here. The answer is no.

About a month ago, I peeked out in to the garage and found Dallas digging through his mess of tools. He looked a lot like a little boy who was gathering supplies for his secret hide-out. Bless his heart. When I asked what he was doing, he told me he was building a field goal post for the back yard.

I’m sorry. Come again? Because, for a minute, I thought you said something about a field goal post in our back yard. But then he followed with, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take it down every night.’ Oh, well then, that makes me feel so much better.

Bless his heart.

A few minutes later, I look out into our pint-sized back yard and see that MacGuyver Dallas has managed to turn two shelving brackets and a bungee cord into a contraption with which my boys kick a football through. Nice, BigD. Real classy. Although I will give him an A for the ingenuity, I was still not sold. The good news is that he did not try to replicate one he saw in BiLo that was constructed from PVC pipes and spray-painted a nice shade of neon yellow. You know, if I’m going to look at the bright side….

And, as it is with everything else, the boys have moved on from being professional field goal kickers and the bungee shelves have not made an appearance in a good while. Thank goodness. Oh but not because they chose to spend some time working on Legos or playing a nice, quiet game of Scrabble Junior. They’re still outside in that itty bitty back yard but now they’ve become spectators to Dallas’ latest project – a tree house. Honestly, this man that I married cannot be still for five minutes. He has to be doing something all the time. Bless his heart. I sure do love that man but are we not busy enough?

I’m really not even sure how the idea of a tree house came about. My guess is that Dallas muttered something about a tree house, Dagen overheard him {because he has developed this knack for hanging on to every word out of our mouths – selectively, of course} and rallied the troops around the concept. The next thing I know, Dallas is talking with our neighbor across the street who happens to possess some serious wood-working skills and, 24 hours later, we had a detailed floor plan drawn out on notebook paper. This is no ordinary tree house, mind you. In fact, there’s not even a tree involved so I guess it’s more of a fort but with all the bells and whistles. It will be like the Biltmore Estate of forts.

All I know is that after this is done, they had better spend some quality time in it. In case you didn’t know, wood and hardware is NOT cheap. And, although I try not to dwell on the past, we did buy a very nice swing set just before Dayne was born {which may or may not have been a bribe to the older boys in exchange for their word that they would not use him as a human bowling ball until he was old enough to decide for himself} and they were over it in just a few days. Seriously, it took Dallas longer to assemble that swing set BY HIMSELF {remember, I was pregnant and when I’m with child, I am useless}. I just hope this keeps their attention a bit longer. I'm keeping my expectations low in an effort to be plesantly surprised.

Stay tuned.

Goodbye HRA, Hello Payment Plan

Have you ever been sitting in the doctor’s office and felt like you could hear the sound of money running out of your checking account? I felt that way this morning. And, for once, it wasn’t in our pediatrician’s office. This was actually a visit for Mommy…..with a cardiologist…..that included a ‘to-go’ monitor. Now are you hearing those cha-chings?

You see, a few months ago I started having some weird symptoms but since I tend to second guess myself {and like to see just how high I can bank my HRA}, I blew them off until it got to be too much. When you’re driving down the interstate and start to feel like you might black out, it’s probably time to get checked. Or so says my husband.

So, a couple of days before Christmas, I went in and saw a family practice physician. We ran through my symptoms – heart palpitations, lightheadedness, difficulty breathing. We talked through some of it because I had convinced myself that it was anxiety {and am still wondering if I’m right – in which case I might ask for a refund and enroll in medical school}. Anyway, he wanted to be safe and hooked me up to the EKG machine. The results showed some arrhythmia which I’m told would explain some of my symptoms. The next step was to get a referral to a cardiologist. {insert dark music}

A week later I met with a cardio guy {with the first name of Yogi – how I made it through without asking where Boo-Boo was remains a mystery}. We went through the same set of questions only he wanted to know more. I thought I’d log this conversation because it was comical to me. Granted, this may have been a ‘you had to have been there’ moment but whatever. It’s my blog and I’ll laugh alone if I wanna.

Dr. H: Hello Mrs. Darnell. I’m Yogi ________.
Me: {ahem} Nice to meet you.
Dr. H: Tell me what’s been going on.
Me: {Read above – not him, YOU}
Dr. H: And how long has this been going on?
Me: {Also above if you’re paying attention}
Dr. H: Let’s talk about your everyday. Do you smoke?
Me: Nope.
Dr. H: Drink?
Me: Would that help?
Dr. H : Do you have children?
Me: Yes.
Dr. H: How many?
Me: Three boys.
Dr. H: Well, we can stop right there. That can explain anyone’s problems away. Now let’s move on to family history. Any heart problems for Mom?
Me: I don’t know. We don’t talk much.
Dr. H: Dad?
Me: I don’t know. We’ve never talked.
Dr. H: Grandparents?
Me: Dead
Dr. H: Alright then. This conversation is going well.

I’ll give it to the guy. Ole’ Yogi has a sense of humor which I don’t see all that often in this profession. He did a little examination but it doesn’t help much when these palpitations that seem to trigger the other symptoms are not an everyday occurrence. Because of that, he sent me home with a 48-hour Holter monitor that I could not take off. Not even to shower which was just gross. However, they did tell me that I could ‘sponge bath.’ Right. And how exactly does one do that and actually feel clean?

Oh and the best part about my little electronic friend? He came in a….wait for it…..FANNY PACK. I wore a flippin’ fanny pack for 2 days {working days, I might add}. Um, hello? The last time I wore a fanny pack was in the 4th grade, it was pink and Joey McIntyre’s face was on the front of it. This, my friends, was not that cool….and I’m not nine years old. On the other hand, I knew that if I didn’t wear it, I would have ultimately owned it from dropping it in the toilet. Conformity at its best.

Fast forward three weeks. After I wore that dumb monitor, all along trying to hide the ridiculousness of its carrying case, wouldn’t you know, I didn’t experience one ‘episode.’ Naturally. So I went back in this morning for the results to which I was not surprised at all. They saw a few skipped beats but nothing to be concerned over. I told him that the episodes are so random and I can’t correlate it with anything but to say that they just come and go. I actually expected him to tell me that I was cuckoo and that I just need to simplify my life and relax. For the record, that feedback wouldn’t have gone over well as my million-dollar-diagnosis because how exactly does one just wake up and choose that path?

Instead, he informed me that we had to keep digging for the answer and that would require – you guessed it – another monitor. Only this one stays on for a month. And, according to the technician that suited me up, it transmits directly to the company who then will call me if they receive a ‘bad’ signal at which time they’ll tell me to go to the ER or call my doctor. As much as I want to get to the bottom of this issue, I’m not looking for one of those phone calls. I mean, who wants to hear, ‘Hello, Mrs. Darnell? This is ABC Heart Monitor Company. You’re about to have a heart attack/stroke/aneurysm. Please proceed to the nearest hospital.’ Just sayin.’ Send me an email, Toots.

Now, before you start thinking of how nasty my pits will smell from the 30-day timeframe, I will have you know that I can remove this contraption for a quick shower. That was definitely a deal breaker. And, although this monitor isn’t strapped to a string around my waist, it is riding in a holster-type carrier that makes me feel like I should be able to draw it out like a gun and taze someone. Seriously, in this day and age, can they design a monitor that is not as big as a 1998 cell phone strapped to my belt loop? I’ll add that to my comments and suggestions when I ship this bad boy back.

Don’t get me wrong – I know it could be worse. We’re not talking hospital bills, just physician and diagnostic charges, but those alone are probably going to run the same as a year’s worth of car payments….except I don’t get a new car, just a monthly invoice with Yogi’s name on it.

And since I’m turning my glass over, I’m going to reflect on the fact that we have not graced the doors of the pediatrician since May {with the exception of a round of flu shots}. So far, our little people have managed to avoid the typical stomach bug and strep throat mess. In my opinion, we’ve had our fair share for the last seven straight years. We were due a break.

So, all in all, I can’t complain….except I just did about 72 times, huh? It’s not me, it’s Manny the Monitor.

Justifying My Guilt

NOTE: Roll your cursor over to the right hand side, scroll down a hair and pause the music so that you can hear the videos.

Captions really aren’t necessary for these videos. It’s just Dayne being super cute. I choose to remember these moments over the ones where he is pitching his two-year-old tantrums in an effort to show me who’s boss {and some days I actually wonder that myself}.

And, no, we aren’t always in the car…..it’s just when he’s at his peak of CUTE. That, and when he’s nestled, all snug in his bed….those are extra sweet moments. And he's only cute in the car when books aren't flying at my head. Just to clarify because that is NOT cute.








Alright. Let’s go ahead and address the elephant in this cyber room. Yes, it is true. I post a lot of videos of Dayne. Maybe you’re wondering if I’m still the mom of three. I will assure you that I am but, before you start judging me, let’s get something straight. When Dagen was born, I had LOADS of time {even though I didn’t even realize it}. PSA for one-child parents – if you plan to have more, this IS your free time. Enjoy it. It only vanishes from here.

Ahem, so, because of all that ‘free time,’ Dagen has three elaborate scrapbooks that one day he will appreciate.

When Big Dave came along, the schedules got busier and middle son only has two scrapbooks {but more like pictures on paper} to someday cherish. Are you seeing a theme here?

When sweet little Dayne made a surprise entrance almost three years ago, I was dealing with one boy starting school, one boy mastering the art of potty training and one husband who returned to the basketball court as Coach. There was ZERO time to pull out my stickers, glue dots and stamps and record his first two years. Wait, I take that back. He has two pages – his birth and his first bath. Because that first bath is really a monumental step in his walk of life?!?

Anyway, my point is that this blog is his scrapbook and, at this point in our lives, he’s lucky to have that. I rarely find time to blog anymore, even with my new schedule, but try to jot down a few things, snap a few pictures and tape some footage of his third-child-awesomeness. That, my friends, is why he makes the blog a little more than the others. I may not have all of his statistics or when he first walked and talked but I'd like to think he'd prefer to hear his precious singing over that other 'stuff' anyway. Uh huh, I'm justifying my slack. And it's actually helping the guilt.

Besides, if I posted everyday videos of Dagen and Davis, you would be appalled at how many times they pass gas from one end or the other in a 30-second-interval. If you think I'm kidding, come spend an hour with me. I dare you. And if they're not having fun with flatulence, they're 'stealing' Dayne's buttcrack, throwing it on the front porch and laughing while they watch their baby brother search for it. Where did they come from?!?

That's all for tonight, friends. I hear Dayne screaming from a closet and lots of snickers from the peanut gallery. I'm off to do a search and rescue. Just one more on the long list of Mommy duties.