Sum-Sum-Summertime

Ah, summer. It's my favorite time of year. And, because I'm currently sleeping under electric blankets, relying on a space heater to keep from freezing to death, and risking life and limb walking on icy sidewalks, I've been thinking a lot about summer.

However, I keep it in perspective. I've got to. I know all too well the dangers of trying to force summer before its time. Here's the proof:



See the perplexed, almost distraught look on that face? That's the look of a girl who has learned that Sun-In is not to be trusted, particularly not the dangerous combination of Sun-In, hairdryer, and dark hair. You see, believe it or not, my hair isn't really orange. Never has been, as far back as I can remember. For one thing, I just don't think this particular shade of orange even exists in nature. It exists in Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory, as the color of an Oompa Loompa.

So, no forcing summer. I'll let it get here in its own sweet time. But, if you hear me mention wanting to try something "fun" with my hair, please throw a stinkin' net over me and save me from myself!

Dancing Queen

There's something I'd like to share with you all. I am not typically one to brag, so not many people know what I am about to tell you. I have been given the gift of the dance.

It was apparent from a young age, as I expressed interest in taking dance lessons, specifically tap and ballet. I took to the dance like a natural and loved to express my gift during dance lessons, my chubby little thighs testing the structural integrity of my Danskin tights. My performances as Glow Worm, Blueberry Muffin, and Chickadee received great praise, and I would go on to take the role of Early Rising Red Robin, a veritable tour de force.

After reading Noel Streatfeild's Dancing Shoes I became convinced that, like the novel's main character, I too was destined to attend the Royal Academy of Dance in London. During prayer request time at school I entreated my classmates to pray toward that end, and each night I twirled around the carpeted floors of my home.

Well, in truth, I was never to be a ballerina, but hope springs eternal. Though I'd quit my ballet lessons a few years prior, I decided to take up dance as my major at a summer sports camp I attended. And, at the end of the summer camp, we performed a dance for our parents. That's me on the far left of the front row.



It's not a great picture, and it's nearly impossible to see me. Just know that I was there, dancing my little fourteen-year-old heart out. The great excitement of this day was that, in addition to performing for an audience, we also had a chance of winning awards. Truth be told, I really didn't think I had a shot. After all, there were girls in our group who were on their school dance teams, girls who still took lessons, girls who could remember to do the right moves at the right times and seemed to possess the gift of the rhythm. I really expected to just sit and watch my friends win awards.

And, that's exactly what I did, until I heard my name called. I heard my name called. Really, the whole memory becomes a bit of a blur at that moment, but I distinctly remember hearing my name and the word "Best."

"Best." The word hung there like a promise. A promise that something amazing would follow that descriptor. Some word that would, indeed, testify to the fact that I had the gift of the dance.

And then I heard it, the whole award title. Sara H: "Best Effort."

"Best Effort." For years, I somehow remembered it as "Most Improved," and I believed that's what I'd won up until I came across a box of my old awards. There it was, plain as day. "Best Effort." No wonder I'd decided on "Most Improved." Even that is better than "Best Effort."

And yet, I've lived beyond that day. Most artists aren't appreciated in their own day. And, in my heart, I know that I have the gift of the dance.

business in front, party in back

Methodist Church Camp. Tucked away in the forests of East Texas is little camp where Methodist kids go to spend the week singing songs, attending vespers, and putting on skits of dubious quality.

During my childhood stint as a Methodist, I was one such happy camper. And, fortunately for us all, I can provide photographic proof.



In case you can't tell, I'm the lil' darling on the far right. Now, looking at this picture, a couple of thoughts come to mind.

Surely there was a camp dress code.
Surely that dress code was enforced.

Then how do we explain what I am wearing? My only answer is this. Even the strictest dress code could not have prevented the outfit you see before you because nobody could have predicted that a child would show up wearing a light yellow Land's End sweater with a white plastic diaper cover. I mean, nobody. Nor would anyone guess that the child would choose to pair said outfit with a pair of teal socks with polar bears on them. Polar bears wearing red vests. Because what polar bear doesn't wear a red vest? It's stinkin' cold where polar bears live!

However, I guess it's not so much the clothing choice that bothers me as it is the hair. The hair, people. It's a mullet. A business in front, party in back mullet. The hairdresser (who ran a lovely shop out of her garage) so kindly referred to it as a "pixie cut." I was assured that it was adorable, but I knew the truth. Perhaps it's that haircut that led to my poor fashion choice that day. It's like I just said, "Okay, world, I'm 11 years old, and I've just given up. I'm gonna put on a diaper cover and a sweater just in case you think I don't mean it. I've truly given up."

Only Child on the Road

Sometimes the life of an only child can get pretty rough. What, with having the undivided attention of her parents and unlimited amounts of positive reinforcement, the stress level of an only child can build up to the point that she's just got to say, "Hey! I need some space!"

At times like that, it's a good excuse for the only child to book it as fast as possible, go visit her aunt in Miami, and road trip to the magical world of Disney. That's right, only child, you're going to get some much needed rest and relaxation in the Happiest Place on Earth!

In order to have the Happiest Time Possible at the Happiest Place on Earth, it's best to follow a few simple guidelines. First, you'll need to dress the part of the Happiest Traveler on Earth.



Our only child, pictured above, has got it just right. Choose an outfit in appropriately muted pastels, hike those shorts up to around your armpits, and be sure that your shirt is just short enough to be completely awkward. This outfit says, "It's party time. Now, where's that giant Mouse?"

However, vacations aren't just about looking for enormous rodents, they're also about enjoying the scenery. Our only child does just that in this next shot.



You see, people have the wrong idea about only children. Only children are seen as needing to be the center of attention at all times. Our only child knows that she is but one part of a larger whole; in this case the larger whole is the background display of poinsettias. In order to show that understanding, she's chosen not to look directly at the camera as might be expected, and her body language (arms slightly flailing to the side, one leg awkwardly twisted) suggests that she wants us to admire the flora surrounding her. Well done, only child.

When all of this self reflection and picture posing gets to be a bit much, it's important to take a little downtime. Stop for a snack.



It might surprise you to know that, like other children, only children love ice cream. Some only children love ice cream a little. Some only children love ice cream a lot. And some only children use ice cream to compensate for the younger siblings they sometimes wish they had. I'll leave it up to the reader to decide which type of only child our only child is.

Finally, it's also necessary to note that, even on vacation, children can sometimes act up. Though usually the picture of behavioral perfection, only children are not immune to the occasional bad day. Because of the only child's natural stubbornness, the adult in charge of the only child's care must be firm.



While it might look as though the only child pictured above is being punished for behavioral problems, I assure you that is not the case. Sadly, our only child has been put in the stocks for "Crimes against Fashion," with an additional citation for "Failure to Brush Hair." Who even knew those were punishable offenses in the Happiest Place on Earth? Apparently they are, and Disney employs a veritable platoon of furry costumed ambassadors of good taste.

So, when going to the Happiest Place on Earth, remember to pack a brush. Following these simple rules should provide any only child with the vacation of a lifetime. Enjoy!

[Editor's Note: I was a stubborn, brush-and-hair-product hating child. My dear Aunt Jane is not responsible for my imprisonment at Disney. I take full responsibility for that. She couldn't have gotten a barrette in my hair without use of excessive force. And I still think I could have taken her. ;)]

[Editor's Note, the second: All sarcasm and joking aside, this was one of the awesomest trips I've ever gone on in my life. I slept on a turnpike and in the parking lot of a Radisson. Most people can't say that. And, according to my Aunt Jane, I am not supposed to say that either. Well, I guess the cat's out of the bag.]

You were perfect, so we just stopped at one.

Hi, my name is Sara, and I'm an only child. While going through some photos this evening, I realized that there was just too much good stuff to keep to myself. So, I'm sharing.

If you enjoy tales of awkwardness and social ineptness, you have come to the right place. For most of my life, I've been blessed with more than my share of both. I hope you enjoy my blog.



Above you can see my whole entire family. The 1980s were nice in that they gave us a whole decade to really enjoy pastels. My mom and I lived that up. Apparently, our generous use of Final Net startled dad a bit.