To the Pain (or confessions of a wimp)
I’m a wimp. It’s true. My kids know it, and that’s okay, because I’m a mom, and don’t have to be big and buff. The boys John and I taught in Sunday School twenty-five years ago knew it, and it was okay, because I was a ‘girl,’ even if they were totally amazed that I was both a ‘girl’ and a great wide receiver in backyard football. We used to whup their 11 year old butts, but mostly only after they started talking trash. My husband knows I’m a wimp (AND a great wide receiver), and it’s okay, although sometimes when we’re carrying heavy furniture or moving a mattress (I’m especially wimpish when it comes to hefting mattresses), I do hear him muttering under his breath something about wishing he had married Dick Butkis. I let him mutter, because I know that I have less stubble than Dick Butkis after shaving. I can’t handle eating hot foods. My husband loves them, as do most of my kids. Not me. I make a delicious enchilada sauce that I serve with my homemade tortillas and al