Mommy Blog: Thoughts from the Trenches

Time Out, Spaghetti, and Baby Jesus

2010-08-16T19:31:00.001-07:00

A couple of years ago when our oldest two kids were toddlers, their Gram, who had been a preschool teacher in a previous life, thrilled the kids with a sweet Christmas craft. Using Quaker oatmeal containers (and don't all good preschool crafts begin with Quaker oatmeal containers?), they created little mangers for Baby Jesus, filled them with straw, and placed a perfectly-sized baby inside. Little Davis and Zoe had a wonderful season of playing with the baby Jesus and his cozy manger.

When, sadly, it was time to put away the Christmas decorations, I carefully wrapped and packed the mangers for use the following year. The baby Jesus? He stayed in circulation, a decision I have come to regret.

In the years that have followed, "Baby Jesus" (for he retains his name despite his lack of contextual manger), has become fully engaged in the life of the Kirk family babies. And may I digress here to inform the patient reader (hi, Mom!) that our gaggle of babies includes the unfortunately named "Mafen" and "Spaghetti." I'm highly concerned about the nomenclature of my future grandchildren. But more on that another time.

So, Baby Jesus being an integrated member of the Tribe of Babies, I regularly hear comments such as, "Mom! Look at Baby Jesus doing a cartwheel!" or "Mom! I just dropped baby Jesus in the sink!" or "Mom, Baby Jesus and Mafen are having a cage fight. I think Baby Jesus is totally going to take her."

Humorous, yes, but in that uncomfortable even-though-the-DaVinci-code-was-sort-of-an-entertaining-book-I-don't-think-Baby-Jesus-should-be-marrying-Spaghetti kind of way. If you know what I mean.

Next topic. Emma Kate. She's two, almost three, and boy, has she had a summer. In the span of 14 days, she potty trained, moved into a big girl bed, and gave up her pacifier. The trifecta of change. When a girl can no longer pee in her pants, sleep in a cage, or suck on a binkie, she's got to do something to express her feelings, so express she has.

But wait, there's more. Bye-bye nap. Take two hours of sleep from her life, add exhaustion to the miasma...well, let's just say we have considered some lovely boarding schools for toddlers.

We, being enlightened and veteran parents, have recognized the stress of transition and exercised additional patience with her, at least in our best moments. (Our best moments occur at least once a week. We're good like that.) Despite our sympathies, within appropriate developmental limits, she is expected to obey her parents. It's hard. We know that. She would rather not. We know that, too, and even identify. But, believing it is in her best interest to develop this skill, we have held her to the standard.

Thus, she's spent about 1/3 of her waking hours in time-out, carefully and deeply considering, (even though may look to the untrained eye like she's just yelling her head off) ye olde fifth commandment about honoring her parents so that she may live long. I really like that last part.

Now, our dear girl is a non-stop talker. As the summer has worn on, her primary topic of endless one-way conversation to to all those under her domain: the importance of obedience. There aren't many that fit the category of "under her domain", but if you do, chances are that you, too, have been relegated to time-out on the bottom step recently. Today, the pool toys were all given firm discipline and were sent to the pool-equivalent of the "bottom step of doom." (We don't really call it that. "Hell" has a much zippier ring to it.) Fascinating stuff as a parent, to see your words and actions reenacted and directed to the pool noodles and plastic sharks.

It has actually been encouraging and amazing to watch her begin to process this obligation she has to obedience. In the midst of this, be not concerned. We delight in her and laugh with her and read to herand play with her. She is joyful and chatty as ever, fearless as she jumps off the diving board, overjoyed to be a ballet student in her sister's "class", curly blond hair now long enough for a little ponytail, endlessly playing CDs, singing songs, and doing the hand "lotions." So she's a happy, loved girl. She's learning.

Now for the moment you've all been waiting for, the magical moment when I bring these diverse threads together. It happened this evening as we were preparing for a quick errand, the whole family to pile in the car for an exciting ride to the auto repair shop. All of the children had chosen a companion for the car ride. Davis had his Chickie, Zoe had her Mafen. Emma Kate was in a tight spot. She had a recalcitrant subject to deal with.

Finally she announced, "Well, Baby Jesus obeyed me so now he is allowed to go for a ride in the car."

Lighting flashed. I'm thinking Baby Jesus better get back to the manger, and on the double.

Something for a Song

2010-05-04T08:40:00.000-07:00

They've asked me to write them a poem, my boys have. In four-four time. And it will not, in fact, be so much of a poem as it will be song lyrics, lyrics written for the music they have already written during one of their music sessions in the basement.

They are on their instruments a lot lately: Will on the guitar (acoustic or electric) and Everett on the drums. Will plays even more frequently, as he broke his ankle five weeks ago and so has missed baseball season (well, he played in two games) and can't (for the time-being) juggle his soccer ball. Everett's visits to the drum set are more dutiful, but he's broken through a barrier of some kind. His teacher reports being consistently impressed by our guy, who is inventing new rhythms (imagine!) and Really Enjoying Himself.

And now they've written a song. At least one, maybe more. I don't know how many, in truth.

But they need lyrics, so they've asked me.

I've given it some thought, of course. My writing has fallen off in recent weeks: my bi-weekly visits to the Larger Project, visits which have sometimes rendered as many as 1000+ words and other times fewer than 200, have been almost non-existent in this last month; and the month ahead, which includes end-of-school activities and the senior trip to NYC and honors project symposiums, not to mention countless papers to grade, doesn't seem to offer much in the way of writing time. June, I tell myself. June is the month for me.

But a poem can't be that hard, right? Poems are short. Easy. Ha. Well, I've tried my hand at poetry, at stripping away my language to its essential roots, at finding the word that encapsulates and crystallizes, the mot juste, as my dear old writing professor would say.

Writing poetry-- good poetry-- is Very Difficult Indeed.

Still, I have thought about it. And what comes? Bill's hands, resting for an unnecessary moment on my shoulders just after he's tied or buttoned something for me. My back is to him and I am knowing his hands there for just a moment before I am tearing myself away, racing through breakfast and out the door for another day at school. What comes is Emma Grace stretching, her face contorting in that wrenching twist that means drawing her out of sleep. I am sitting on her bed, talking softly to her, trying to wake her into another day, and I am thinking-- as she subconsciously draws the back of her hand across her face-- that she woke just like this when she was a baby. What comes is Everett on the new swings in our backyard, going there voluntarily before and after dinner, trying with his feet to reach the newborn leaves that dangle before and behind him. What comes is the leaves themselves, newborn, that make that sound when the wind comes.

Can I make that into a poem, do you think? And can that poem be song lyrics? And would those be words sung by adolescent or nearly adolescent boys?

On the Edge of the Crowd

2010-04-23T11:36:00.000-07:00

The boys and I attended Transportation Day this morning. It's an event put on by a local church preschool, and involves a parking lot full of every kind of vehicle imaginable, as well as some of the heroes who drive them (garbage truck drivers, policeman, school bus drivers, etc.). A number of my mom friends invited us and I was sure that Evan, my two and a half year old, would absolutely love it.

And, he very likely did. But, his method of enjoying the day was so vastly different than most of the other children there. The other boys and girls clambered over each other trying to get in and out of the different cars and trucks. They were allowed to start the siren on the police motorcycles and to make the stop sign move on the school bus. High times for little people!

Evan stood, stock still and silent, in the middle of the parking lot. His head swiveled slowly and he studied each vehicle in turn. His hand never left mine. I tried several times to prompt him into a closer inspection, but he shook his head 'no' each time and continued to watch. (Christopher, my center-of-the-action baby, was in the carrier on my chest and squirming madly to get out and crawl in the direction of the shiny lights.)

After an appropriate observation period, Evan agreed to walk to the playground next to the church. Once there, we stood still at the edge and watched. (Lest you think my child never gets out, I can assure you that while a parking lot full of trucks, buses and automobiles might be novel to him, a playground is surely not.) Evan held my hand firmly and watched. And watched and watched. After ten minutes of watching, I was able to gently coax him toward a bouncing plastic horse and from there to the slide. From then on, he melted into the crowd of preschoolers with no reservation.

But, as I stood and watched him from the edge of the playground I reflected on how much he is like me, and how I have so carefully disguised this part of myself. The fact is, I am a very shy person. My husband didn't believe this for the first couple of years he knew me. I have worked hard to overcome my inherent fear of new situations and new people. When I was working, my job revolved around being outgoing. Personally, I meet new people frequently and enjoy our conversations. But, in my heart of hearts, I would much rather stand in the center of the crowd silently and take it all in, or linger on the edges until I am comfortable.

Having grown through this metamorphosis I have no qualms about Evan's always-slow warm-up period, or his frequent wish to observe new things from a distance. I am respectful of his need to enjoy things in his own way and at his own pace.

While I was watching Evan, several of the moms I knew spotted Christopher and me, and we all chatted comfortably for a few minutes. Piled back in the minivan and headed home for lunch, it occurred to me that while I had loved seeing them, I was also secretly grateful for the quiet minutes I was able to spend holding my little boy's hand and taking it all in. And grateful to see a secret part of myself in him.

Date Night

2010-04-16T18:58:00.001-07:00

Flashback. Same mall parking lot, same time of year, same red-haired, blue-eyed boy. Date night with Mama. That time he was three or so, and the date was just a run to the mall for ice cream on a glorious spring evening. As we walked hand-in-pudgy-little-hand through the parking lot, I observed aloud, "Oh, Davis. Isn't it a beautiful evening? The air is warm, the sun is just going down..." "Yes," he agreed, and then he added in a wistful voice, clearly absorbing the spirit of my thoughts, "and cars and trucks..." My dear little guy was as entranced with the parking lot full of shiny metal vehicles as with the warm air and the birds overhead, and it was a delight to be with him then.

And tonight. Now is a lanky six year old boy. Same gorgeous red hair and beautiful blue eyes. His hands are no longer pudgy in the least, but I hold one in the parking lot nonetheless. It's not really necessary anymore, but I'm not telling. Tonight, date night for the two of us involved a game of tennis followed by shopping for summer Crocs, a visit to the bookstore where he talked me, rather easily, into a new chapter book, and then, finally, the ice cream. Over the course of the evening we have happily chased tennis balls, many of which he hit rather impressively, and talked in the car about how everybody sometimes feels self-conscious and debated the merits of red versus orange crocs, deliberated long and hard about which book to buy and which ones might be too scary, and then decided together that the gummy bear topping would go best on strawberry ice cream, not the chocolate. It's a sweet time with my boy yet again. As the evening ends, we find ourselves in the parking lot, crowded with shiny metal vehicles. It is again a lovely spring evening, but this time it is Davis, my observant boy, who looks up and gasps. "Oh, Mama. Look at that sunset." And I do look at the sunset, and I'm so glad for those gorgeous colors in the evening sky. Really, though, what makes me even gladder than the sunset and the warm air and all the shiny vehicles for miles around is the strong and growing hand still holding mine.

Effects of the Eighties

2010-04-11T11:42:00.000-07:00

We were in the car on the way to school, listening to Mute Math's latest (Armistice. Have you heard it? If you haven't, you should get it. It kicks our corporate boutakis over here at the Stevenson house), and I was dancing, as any normal commuting mother should when listening to Mute Math's latest offering on her way to work.

It's tricky to dance in the car, but it can be done. It is trickier still to dance while driving but, yes, I can do it. Mostly with my head.

Which is why Emma Grace pipes up and says, "Mom, how can you do that thing with your head?"

And I'm thinking-- as anyone does who is dancing in the moment and so therefore is not really aware of How or even What one is doing but is just aware that one Must Do-- I'm thinking, "I don't know," and suddenly I'm wondering what I was doing with my head and maybe beginning to come up with an answer when Everett makes answer for me, his voice sounding above the volume of the song,

"Emma, Mom was around in the eighties. She knows how to do things like that."

And I really don't know what that means. No Idea.

My Little Scientist

2010-03-15T16:43:00.001-07:00

Sam left a couple of Bibles at church accidentally this weekend. When I asked him if he had managed to recover them, he said yes; they were right were he had left them.

"That's the nice thing about having our own building," I replied. [Until this fall, our church didn't have its own building but rented a school. You never knew where--or if--you'd find something left behind.]

Luke chimed in right behind me. "That's the nice thing about gravity. When you put your books down, they stay right there instead of floating around in space."

crumbs

2010-02-12T16:46:00.000-08:00

I took the couch cushion outside to shake out all the graham cracker crumbs from a certain four-year-old's snack, saying "You're such a little mess-maker!"

I came back inside, replaced the cushion, and my sweet son said, "I'm the mess maker but you're the mess clean it upper."

Nail on the head, little boy.

After School Debriefing

2010-01-13T18:10:00.000-08:00

The pick-up line at my son's homeschool program is long and there is a procedure to follow. Pull your minivan up to some cones. Your child spots your car, runs for it, jumps in, and you pull away quickly before he/she is belted so the next minivan can pull in. We homeschoolers live on the edge.

Today, my small son jumps in with great concern. "Mom, Mom, do we have any peas at home?" Momentarily disconcerted by the question, I tune in and mentally rifle through the frozen-vegetable drawer: "Yes, babe, we do."

Then I see that in his hand is a...creation. A cluster of grapes bound in Saran Wrap with toothpicks sticking out of most of the grapes. On the end of each toothpick is a pea. A couple of peas have been lost; thus, the dramatic need for replacement peas.

While making sure I do not collide with another minivan as I pull out and simultaneously supervising the belting of the seat, I ask the obvious question.

"So, what's that you made today?"

Pause. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No."

"Did you start a new unit today?"

"Yes."

"So your creation is part of the new study?"

"Yes."

"But you don't know what it is that you made."

"No."

Oh. And from the rear-view mirror, I observe him starting to take the toothpicks out of the grapes, passing the remaining peas-on-toothpicks around for his sisters to enjoy. Then the grapes are unwrapped and passed around, too. As we arrive home, all that is left of this great, if somewhat undefined, educational experience are some toothpicks and a shred of plastic wrap.

Tonight at dinner a thought occurs to him. "Maybe we're studying robots, Mom?"

birthday cake

2010-01-07T09:54:00.000-08:00

My son's fourth birthday is approaching in February, and I thought I would give him the opportunity to give me some input on what kind of party he would like. The conversation went something like this:

me: "Benjamin, what kind of birthday party would you like to have when you turn four?"
B: "I don't know."
"Well, think of something you like, maybe."
"I don't know."
"What kind of would you like on the cake?"
"Birthday cake sounds good."
"Well, what picture would you like on the birthday cake?"
"Oh, mama. Or Grandpa B. Grandpa B."

If Not Always, Then At Least Maybe Sometimes

2010-01-04T20:35:00.000-08:00

I've always loved reading aloud to my children. I began, in fact, when William was still in utero (yes, I was one of those mothers), but took it up in earnest when he was newborn and we were alone in the house together for hours at a time. Rather than watch mind-numbing television during those many nursing sessions, I cradled him with one arm and held a book with the other and read aloud to him.

We began with the poetry of A.A. Milne-- you know, the creator of Winnie-the-Pooh-- and went on from there to read all of the Winnie-the-Pooh stories. I would sometimes laugh out loud as I read those delightful tales, and remember William leaving off nursing to stare at me, wondering why in the world I was laughing.

The reading continued. When nursing a second newborn, reading aloud was the perfect activity for my then two-year-old William, and I employed it again when it was an infant daughter in my arms. Of course by that time I had little ones at each elbow, but it worked well nonetheless.

And reading continued to be The Thing long after nursing. Reading was a major component of our homeschool, an important activity for before bed, a good way to start the day, and a great thing to do when the natives were restless: in those late-in-the-day hours before daddy came home, when the children were overtired and it was too late for a nap, when they had commenced to argue. Remedy? Read. Read, read, read.

It's been harder, in recent years, to do this. School schedules, sports schedules, homework demands mean that I'm not reading to all of them at once and, on some evenings, I'm not reading at all. And then there's the problem of which books to read: how to find something that works for a girl who's eight and a boy who's thirteen, not to mention the newly-eleven-year-old who also has Definite Opinions. Yes, it can be tricky. It can be, in fact, easier not to do it.

To say that this doesn't make me sad would make me a liar; to say that I don't recognize the certain inevitability of it all would do the same.

*sigh*

And then last night they were all being herded towards bed. Bill had gone out for a little bit, the boys were off brushing their teeth, and I was tucking Emma in. And then I saw it, its weary binding peeking out at me among the many selections on Emma's bookcase: The World of Pooh. I decided to give it a try.

The boys were called in; we made space on the bed. And then the four of us lay there and I read aloud Chapter VII In Which "Kanga and Baby Roo Come to the Forest, and Piglet Has a Bath." And my children (some of whom aren't, really, children at all anymore)listened and they listened and they laughed.

We all laughed. We laughed quite hard. The laughing made it difficult, in fact, at Certain Moments, for me to read At All. And when that was over, they asked me to read Certain Moments over again.

This was So Good.

I don't know if we'll keep this up. Not all of the chapters are quite as funny as Chapter VII and, with school starting up tomorrow, we'll be back in the thick of difficult schedules. But I wrote this here for posterity, for maybe (at the very least) me: on January 3, 2010-- despite their ages and some indications to the contrary-- the Stevenson children were not grown up. Not Entirely. Not Yet.

to take your shoes off, or not?

2009-12-17T05:49:00.000-08:00

Moms, you know the pain of keeping your house clean, right? Never ending and wearing you out. Well, I wanted to get your thoughts.

I personally think it is rude to wear your shoes in someone's home. Someone's home that they have probably just cleaned up to have you over (even if it is the "fake" clean). I have taught my kids to take off their shoes upon entering someone's home and they always do (in fact they kick them off and they go everywhere which perhaps is just as rude as leaving them on). I have battled with: should I ask people to take off their shoes when they come in my home? should I leave obvious signs that I would prefer that? like a sign that says, "Thank you for removing your shoes." or a basket with a sign on it that says, "I want to hold your shoes for you." or some such thing. I always have my shoes off in my home and generally ask little kids that have just tracked through my very muddy yard to take their shoes off, but feel hesitant to do the same thing to their parents.

Now, I know the argument of "you should care more about the person than your floors", and I do, really, I do. My floors will clean. It is much harder to "clean" hurt feelings. I am good with that. If someone feels strongly about it or you are uncomfortable with your socks or your feet are really diry, then please, feel free to wear your shoes.

So, I have battled this for quite some time. Even before having kids who eat things off of my floor. Is it rude to "encourage" people to take off their shoes, is it rude to just automatically take off my shoes (and my kids shoes) upon entering a home (perhaps they would rather have my dirt then be exposed to the bottom of my feet)? Tell me your thoughts and if you are a "shoe taker offer" like me, then tell me how you deal with it...

Just a mom trying to eliminate the ever increasing need to clean my floors...

boy? or girl?

2009-12-15T21:37:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago I was in the McDonald's drive-thru (yes, it was one of those days when lunch was on the run!) and I was paying the attendant. I should also tell you that Benjamin has been on a "boy or girl" kick these days, desiring to label every person he meets into the appropriate gender.

I never realized that this is sometimes ambiguous. That is, until I was paying the cashier through the drive-thru window and heard Benjamin pipe up from the backseat, "Mama? Is that a girl?"

No, it was not a girl.

Somedays...

2009-12-15T13:47:00.000-08:00

I am just not so sure I will survive having a boy....

Confession: On Reading

2009-12-09T11:53:00.000-08:00

I love to read. (Feel free to read on. This is not the confession referenced in the title of this post.)

When I was a little girl, the thing I was most often in trouble for was "having my nose in a book"(quoting my mother here) and therefore being slow to do chores, acknowledge guests, etc.

It seems that Evan, my two year old, has inherited this love for reading. When I clean up our family room every night, I find his books everywhere. They have been known to slide under my feet while I am driving. And, we have had to explain -- more than once -- why books can not be brought into the bathtub. (I know about those laminated books, and yes, we have some, but I refuse to get more. I must draw the line somewhere.)

Evan's love of books is enabled by our willingness to read aloud to him. Which we do. All the time.

This morning, I sat down to nurse my four month old. Just like always, Evan came running over with a stack of books he could hardly carry, giddy at the prospect of a half an hour of a captive mother. And, right on top: The Complete Adventures of Curious George (all 399 pages -- yes, I've looked).

So, here in the safety of other blogging mamas, I will own up to the dread that this sight inspired in me. And, I will make my confession: I no longer love to read. At least not when it involves reading aloud.

Some Perks of a Classical Education

2009-12-04T19:33:00.000-08:00

The children and I spend our days in a classical Christian school-- they as students and I as a teacher in English and humanities. This is our fourth year there, and we like it for ever so many reasons.

Back when Will was in the 5th grade, I was delighted and truly impressed with his speech on Junius Brutus during Greco-Roman day. Our 5th grade spends their entire history study on the pillar of our Greco-Roman tradition, and Will owned his role well. He made and wore his Roman toga, but added to it a good amount of Caesar's blood in the form of red paint. His (memorized!) speech was impassioned, articulate, and accurate, and I was sure I was glowing in my seat there in the second row.

After all, a good portion of our 9th grade humanities curriculum has to do with the Greeks and Romans: we go from Homer to Alexander all the way to the fall of the Roman Empire. Currently, I'm waist-deep in The Odyssey: the man of pain has returned to Ithaca, and-- Woe to you, suitors! There will be blood.

So it all seemed especially current when, tonight at dinner, Emma Grace announced that she's been playing Gaia during recess. She and some of her classmates have taken on identities from Roman mythology, and her role as goddess of the earth entitles her to some significant authority. Everett asked her what she does as Gaia, and her answer came quickly, matter-of-fact: "Kill people," she said.

But the best moment of them all might have been the one that came a week ago, when my music-loving Everett came to me where I was folding laundry. "Mom, listen to this," he said. And he proceeded to sing the tune of "Song Number 2" by Blur. But the words weren't the ones that Blur penned. No, they came instead from Everett's 5th grade study of the Trojan War and the tragic ending of King Agamemnon, when he returned after ten years of fighting to find he had an adulterous wife. Everett and one of his friends had made the story fit Blur's song, so the words went like this:

I'm Clytemnestra (do-do... do-do-do-do)
I killed my husband (do-do... do-do-do-do)
It wasn't easy (do-do... do-do-do-do)
But nothing i-his....

I think they've got it.

They Left the House at Half Past Nine, At Half Past Nine in Rain or Shine. The Smallest One was...Jesus?

2009-12-03T18:28:00.000-08:00

Longest post title ever, I know.

Tonight Eliana sat down to "read" me the story of Jesus' birth. She was doing quite well, remembering phrases such as "Mary, you will bring forth a son," and other such non-toddler-ish verbage. And then she got to the part when Joseph takes his family to Egypt to escape Herod: "God told Joseph in a dream to take Mary and the baby to Paris."

Apparently Mary needed to be up on the latest fashion (she was a teenager, after all)and Jesus, well he liked good croissants as much as the next guy.

Joyeux Noel.

tired of mom already....

2009-12-02T13:43:00.000-08:00

My middle one is a girl, 4 years old. She has a lot of personality and never fails to speak her mind or crack me up. Today I pick her up from preschool and as we are walking out, I ask, as I always do, "So, tell me about your day today."

Today's response: "Seriously, Mom, do we have to do this?"

wondering what that will look like in 10 years...

because i want to remember

2009-12-01T11:43:00.001-08:00

(cross-posting, because i couldn't figure out where i wanted to post it--thus the lowercase--sorry!)

this is what i love about six.

my big boy--all four feet one inch, fifty-two pounds of him--can climb the climbing structure at school--all the way to the top--without hesitation. gap-toothed, jeans-wearing, soccer-playing, two-wheeler-riding, own-shoe-tying, rough and tumble boy, he is. funny (funny!)--making up jokes that even make sense (sometimes). curious--about everything, really, but especially about math recently (multiplication, division? piece of cake. it's square roots that really interest him these days). consumer of books--yes, long chapter-ish ones like the lord of the rings, but also sweet picture books he'll still read over and over.

i love that he still loves those picture books. and he still loves being read to, even if he reads faster than dad does. and, thankfully, he can climb that climbing structure one-handed...because he still wanted nothing more than to take the class "pet," a lion named cuddles who had his turn to spend the weekend with our family last week, all the way to the top with him. and he definitely wanted dad to take a picture of him up there with cuddles.

that's what i love about six.

From Dust Thou Art...

2009-11-21T18:42:00.001-08:00

I know that for many people, the onset of dementia changes their personalities drastically. A co-worker of mine described how her children could not believe that their angry grandmother had truly been a kind and patient mother until the confusion of Alzheimer's altered her.

My husband's grandfather, though, is a different case study. "Grandfather Kirk" was a missionary in Brazil for 40 years. He and his wife raised four children, all of whom continue in their faith and remain married to their original spouses. Now, I don't think Grandfather was perfect in his early days. By most accounts, he was a bit hapless and depended heavily on the common sense of his wife to keep things rolling along. He was, however, steady and faithful in the things he believed and I don't think he's leaving his kids with any excessive emotional baggage. (Oh, if such an epitaph could be applied to me...)

Grandfather's dementia has progressed now to the point that he does not know his children, grandchildren, or great-grandchildren. He does remember his Portuguese, and his Bible, and his manners. He is unfailingly polite. He welcomes us kindly and hospitably when we visit, and is obviously delighted that these kind people have come to see him. The fact that he is not exactly sure who we are does not seem to bother him a bit. He hosts us with aplomb.

His connection is most clear and sweet, however, with Emma Kate. She turned "two in September" ( that's her age, if you ask her), and she, too, is not real clear about who Grandfather Kirk is or why we're visiting him, but she's delighted to see him nonetheless. He makes funny animal noises, and he has some stuffed animals in his room, and that's all the raw material they need to start a wonderful conversation. It is, to those of us on the outside of their world, hilariously stream-of-consciousness and non-sensical interaction. But Grandfather is taken with her chubby, clear-eyed sweetness, those blond curls, her willingness to trust him, her approach, her chatter, her arms flung around his neck. She brings him books and they look at the pictures together, talking earnestly of the adventures of Corduroy. He asks her, repeatedly, how old she is, and she never tires of answering, with delight, even, that she is "two in September." As her older siblings hover shyly nearby, more aware of the loss of Grandfather's faculties, Emma Kate is aware of no loss, only of the presence interesting and engaging person who seems to like her.

And in their interaction, two human beings are connecting in some essential way that often gets obscured by pesky considerations like remembering someone's name or what day of the week it is. She loves him, because he's there, and he loves her. And he loves her, because, even in the depths of dementia, her sweetness and openness and vulnerability call forth the love that still resides in him, which, by God's grace, has not been lost along with so many of his gifts and capacities and memories.

Those two are living their lives at opposite margins-- one at the beginnings of awareness and one at the end of it. There is some incredible clarity in those outer margins, some things they know that we wise and able and "with-it" people who are in the middle of the journey can't see. For a few minutes in a small nursing home room today, the most powerful force on the planet was unleashed between two of the most unlikely people. By day's end, the conscious memory of that moment is likely erased from their minds. But I was there, and I remember, at least for now.

The Halloween that...Wasn't

2009-10-31T19:18:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I had everything ready for a great Halloween. We had scouted out a nearby neighborhood that was ideal for trick or treating. The costumes were prepped and ready. The weather forecast was ideal -- warm, with rain expected much later around midnight. And, my sister, her fiancee and his sister and husband were stopping by early to see our little costumed cuties.

And, then, today, a number of factors conspired to unravel my perfectly laid plans:

Factor 1: Evan (almost 2) was terrified of his handed-down lion costume when we tried it on for a trial run this morning. In fairness to him, this is an older costume (they don't make 'em like that anymore), it is quite realistic, and I made what turned out to be a critical mistake of marching him directly to the mirror when I put it on him.

But, not to be dissuaded, I developed a back-up costume after rummaging through drawers and closets. Evan could be an adorable Army soldier garbed in an odd assortment of camouflage and with a darkened face.

Factor 1 averted.

Factor 2: Evan woke up from his afternoon nap in a rare and horrendous funk. The usual tricks (book reading, lining up dinosaurs, a cold cup of milk) fell flat quickly. Even lighting the candle in the jack o' lantern outside failed to perk him up. I nursed Christopher (3 months) and watched Evan writhing and whining on the floor...and hoped for the best.

Factor 2 was still a factor.

Factor 3: My sister and her assorted companions were supposed to arrive at our house around 4:30. I planned for an hour long visit, dinner at 5:30 and off to trick or treating. Our visitors did not, however, arrive until 5:30. Dinner was already getting cold on the stove when they came in. Evan was still fussing for unbeknownst reasons.

I mentally revised my time frame. We would skip the costume parade for Aunt Katie et al., in order to save time (and, hopefully, to avoid any further Evan meltdown). I nursed Christopher again, a little early, figured we'd pop the chicken back in the oven to re-warm it and enjoyed our abbreviated visit.

Factor 3 averted.

Factor 4: Just as we sat Evan down to his dinner, with plans to rush him through it as quickly as possible, I heard something outside. It was...rain. Pouring, torrential rain. Apparently, the weather forecast had gotten the timing a little wrong.

Factor 4 was definitely a factor.

Evan seemed completely unaffected by the abrupt end to our trick or treating plans. He was - finally - happy and chewing contentedly on his green beans. Christopher, however, had an early meltdown and needed to be nursed again, and put to bed. He never wore his adorable pumpkin costume. And Evan never wore his camo.

By 8:00, we had two sleeping boys, two unwrinkled costumes, and no candy to nibble on. And, Mommy and Daddy were the ones who were disappointed.

as only a three-and-a-half-year-old can describe.

2009-10-09T20:01:00.000-07:00

Overheard while I was cooking dinner this evening: "I just made a noise with my bottom."

I had to bite my lip and hold my breath to not burst out laughing at that one.

apple-peach?

2009-09-23T14:07:00.000-07:00

Every week after Sunday school, we ask Benjamin (3 1/2 years old) about the story the teacher told. Usually we get an answer like "Jesus was in it," or "God happened to Jesus," which I still haven't quite figured out. This week, however, he must have really enjoyed the story, since he said this:

Adam ate the apple peach. God was gigantic sad. They left the garden.

I like that summary, apple peach and all.

Duets

2009-09-21T19:36:00.001-07:00

A whole lotta singin' goes on in our family.
Sometimes silly...
"Now let's do Zoe, Mama! Zoe, Zoe, Bo Bo-ee, Banana-Fanana, Fo Foe-ee, Fee fi moe mo-ee. Zoe!

Sometimes sweet (like tonight...)
Sing "I can show you the world, Daddy." The sounds of Elli and Daddy singing the parts of Aladdin and Jasmine wafted down the staircase as they cuddled in bed together.

And sometimes profound...
One benefit of sleeping with the worship pastor is that when a new song is introduced on a given Sunday, it ain't new to me. This week we sang a new song by Keith and Kristyn Getty entitled "Behold the Lamb." I had been singing it off and on all week, but I didn't realize how much I had been doing so until the car ride home from church. I started singing, when halfway through the first line I realized I was not singing alone. How strange it was to hear that tiny voice piping,

Behold the Lamb who bears our sins away, slain for us--and we remember
the promise made that all who come in faith find forgiveness at the cross.
So we share in this Bread of Life and we drink of His sacrifice
as a sign of our bonds of peace, around the table of the King.

I know she didn't understand what it really meant (do I?), but we were singing it together and it was beautiful.

a few recent laughs...

2009-09-03T09:31:00.000-07:00

Kate (4 years old) whining and complaining...
Me: Kate, stop complaining or there will be a consequence.
Kate: Mom, this is how it is. I am 4 years old. You are, like, 30 or something. You know how to control me. It is your job.

sigh....if only this were true.....

Daniel talking about ghosts.
Me: Daniel, do you know what a ghost is?
Daniel a little hesitant: Of course I know.
Me: Ok, what is a ghost?
Daniel: It is a white, scary monster that will eat you.
Me: Hmm, OK. What about the Holy Ghost?
Daniel: Of course not the Holy Ghost. The Holy Ghost is shaped like a heart so he will fit inside of you. He lives in my heart and he is nice.

i just saw a pirate in the library (or, how our kids change our perspective)

2009-09-02T11:07:00.000-07:00

(This is a cross-posting from my other blog, thus the all-lowercase letters. It seemed to work here, too. Perhaps all the same people read this blog as that? If so, my apologies.)

i just saw a pirate in the library.

i hope the gentleman with the eye patch, no doubt recovering from some injury or surgery or vision trouble, will forgive me for my first thought when i saw him. luke wasn't even with me. nor was he with me when i left the library and passed a fire truck and barely stopped myself saying out loud, "look! a fire truck! and it's blue!"

i think i used to be a compassionate person. i'd like to think that, before i had kids, if i saw someone with an eye patch, i thought about how unpleasant that would be (and at the library reading, with just one eye!) or i thought about the eye patch my mom once endured. i suspect that, before i had kids, if i saw a fire truck, i wondered to what emergency it was racing or whether anyone was hurt (or probably whether a traffic hold up was in my very near future).

but now, six years after (after, you know, my whole new world), a man with an eye patch is automatically a pirate. a fire truck is excitement (is it a pumper? a hook-and-ladder?).

they (who are they, anyhow?) say having kids changes you. and how.

when i read the reports of the toxic drug cocktail that likely killed michael jackson, i know well every single one of those drugs and its side effects. when i hear of a dear friend's father having breathing trouble, i understand intimately the weaning process from ventilator to c-pap and the important statistics of pressure support and oxygen percentages. and when i see a friend in the parking lot at school who also lost her baby girl and she says she's doing well--having a good first week of school and so on--i know what she's not saying. what we're both not saying.

having kids changes you. indeed.

changes your friends, for sure. (don't have kids yet? you'll see.) changes your priorities, no doubt. (my new job this time around? no sweat. don't like my work? okay, i've got more important things to do anyhow.) changes your habits, certainly. (for dinner? whatever it is, it'll include carrot sticks all around.) changes your heroes. (kindergarten teachers, pediatricians, mommy-friends...and dump truck drivers, sanitation workers, and airplane pilots, too.) changes your hobbies (i remember when emailing used to be work. now it's my salvation...ahem, my connection to the outside world.) changes your love language--have you read that book? (make me a meal or do my laundry or clean my house? you're also my hero, and i know you love me.)

i like to think i'm a better person for those changes, though perhaps my pirate friend would disagree. i like to think i know better what's important: why swimming lessons trump editing work every time, why an excellent picture of a wriggly child is worth oh-so-much more than a thousand words or many dollars, why a comfy chair in a messy living room is so much more appealing than a stiff chair in a tidy one, or why chocolate chip cookies taste even better when eaten sprinkled with tears.

Routine Remembered

2009-09-01T18:57:00.000-07:00

We've rolled into it quite nicely this time-- the school-year routine with its early mornings and family breakfasts, long days and varied evenings. The children have adapted nicely-- even happily-- to the return to school, and they do their homework without prodding and they ask for screen-time when they haven't earned it and they go to bed too late. Just Like Always.

Of course we are hoping that, in some ways, we've moved on from where we used to be. Our daughter has had quite the talking-to about not correcting her teacher (or anyone else for that matter); we've had the conversations about kindness and loving others No Matter What. And we are hoping that lessons enforced about, say, tidiness in one's homework will carry on into this new school year.

So there he sat-- weary from football practice-- reaching for his math book to do the last twelve problems. His binder-- newly organized and stocked with appropriate supplies-- looked so neat and clean that I had to say so: "Look at that!" I said, "Look at that neat and clean binder." And it was so neat and clean, and there on the top was a nice clean blank sheet of paper, just waiting to be filled with math problems.

Then came the text book, and pulled from beneath the cover was the Other math paper, the one holding the first half of the problem set, all rumpled and wrinkled fit (almost) for the trash can (for that's what happens, don't you know, when you slip a perfectly tidy math paper inside the cover of your math book and then drop it into your book bag).

And there was my son, examining it only briefly, and then smoothing and smoothing it on the coffee table. "It's fine," he said, looking up at us while still trying to rub the wrinkles out. "It's fine, it's fine. I'm not starting over."

speechless with disgust...

2009-09-01T17:12:00.000-07:00

once again mommy friends, teach your kids God's truth about who they are. this is horrible...

http://www.feministing.com/archives/017505.html

Future car thief?

2009-08-31T12:48:00.000-07:00

I'm not one of those moms who spends time daydreaming about what her child will be when he grows up. (Most days, I'm just looking forward to him growing up!) And since we've graduated from the "I'm going to be a fireman-dump truck driver-garbage collector-excavator operator" phase, I rarely have conversations with Luke about what he expects he'll become someday. But after our trip to the grocery store this afternoon, I have to wonder.

As I unloaded the bags into the back of the van, he climbed in the side door, ostensibly to buckle up and get ready to roll. But he was taking his time, looking, I thought, into the car next to ours. After making sure there wasn't someone (doing something interesting, perhaps) in there, I went on with my unloading, content that something (even if it was snooping) other than conversation with me was entertaining him. But as I climbed in on my side of the car, Luke called me over.

"Mama," he said. "It's not very safe to have a car with a keypad like that." This particular car had a set of numbered buttons (1/2, 3/4, 5/6, 7/8, 9/10) on the driver's side door. "Anyone, even a kid like me, could figure out how to unlock it. 1/2, 7/8, 9/10."

"What makes you think that's the code?" I asked, chuckling a little that he could never understand how many possible combinations of numbers could open that door.

"Well, the 1/2, 7/8, and 9/10 buttons are all worn out, but the others are brand new."

Oh dear.

Feeding time!

2009-08-26T14:38:00.002-07:00

I guess after seeing me nurse Noah for the past 11 months, Benjamin figured it was high time to feed his turtle the same way.

With boppy pillow in tow, he stated, "I'm going to feed Kai some milk from my tummy."

2009-08-24T18:18:00.001-07:00

It was inevitable, really. The picture appointment scheduled for tomorrow morning must be postponed. The annual summer shot of my one, or two, or three suntanned/ghost white kids with blond highlights/red hair will be delayed until next week, or the next, until their tans fade and the highlights disappear and we might as well wait for the Christmas picture.

Why is it that scheduling a picture automatically results in some sort of major catastrophe marked by obvious injury to the face?

At least I can appreciate the sad humor in this latest episode. This particular picture eve, my 5 1/2 year old was playing "camel," a favorite game at our house whereby one drapes a large, heavy blanket over oneself and is led about the house by a sibling. You know, like a camel. Unfortunately, this particular camel set out on a jaunt without his guide. Shockingly, within moments, he tripped and fell, chin first, into a low bookcase. Camel down. Many tears and some blood. Large bruise on chin. Picture cancelled. Maybe next week.

Not Exactly

2009-08-17T10:02:00.000-07:00

As school gears up and the summer winds down, I thought I'd share my favorite moment from the summer:

We were at the beach with friends, and after spending the whole morning out in the sun, had decided to pack it up and head back to the house for lunch and some down time. With four kids and three adults, there was plenty to pack up. Blankets, chairs, umbrella, towels, snacks, water bottles, buckets, shovels...you know the drill. So we packed up, rinsed children, divided up loads to carry, and started up the beach to walk across the street and down the block to the house. Luke stopped me and whispered in my ear: he had to pee. Of course. It's almost as predictable as the snowsuit.

"Run back down to the water and pee in the ocean. Quickly." He looked shocked. In the ocean?

"But people will see me!" he protested. I assured him no one would know, everyone does it, etcetera, etcetera. "But everyone will be watching!" I was getting fed up; don't kids always pee in the water, even when they're not supposed to? I urged him to hurry up.

Dutifully if doubtfully, he ran off, all the way back down the beach to the ocean. As the rest of us stood all loaded up with our gear, watching along with everyone else on the beach, it occurred to me why Luke was so concerned...but I was too late to stop him as he ran to the waxing and waning edge of the water and pulled down his swimsuit.

(On second thought, you're right, honey. Everyone did see, and no, everybody doesn't do that.)

Hard Not to Laugh

2009-08-07T10:35:00.000-07:00

Luke ran out of jokes from his latest National Geographic Kids magazine as we drove today, so he suggested we make up our own. Not being the creative-on-the-spot type, I suggested he make them up, and he was glad to oblige. The highlights went something like this:

Luke: What did the leaf say to the bug that was eating it?
Me: Bug off?
Luke: Nooo...I don't even get that.
Me: Okay, leaf me alone?
Luke: No! Stop leafing me!

(Hmmm...)

Luke: What did the pancake say to the pan that was flipping it?
Me: See you on the flipside?
Luke: No, mom. Stop flipping me; I'm fried.

(Ummm...)

I think I might be better at writing jokes than I thought.

Want Some Olive Oil with That?

2009-08-03T17:41:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I pushed Sam in his stroller to the grocery store. Since he started to get a bit restless as I shopped, I gave him a ball of fresh mozzarella cheese (in wrapping, of course) to keep him busy. A friend whose daughter is the same age as Sam called and I became quite engrossed in discussing appropriate food to buy for baby. I plum forgot about the cheese until when it came time to check out. When I took it from Sam and was about to hand it to the cashier I noticed that he had managed to gnaw a big hole in the bottom and help himself to a large hunk! So lessons learned for me: a) no more giving Sam anything I don't want eaten as we shop b) talk less on cell phone! and c) Sam loves mozzarella cheese...and plastic! :P

A Life Less Ordinary

2009-07-31T17:02:00.001-07:00

This morning I had a plan with a friend to visit a neighborhood Barnes & Noble and let our (collectively) 5 children play amongst the books while we attempted some form of semi- adult conversation.

But our ordinary plan was foiled for an even more ordinary reason: the cable man, who was scheduled to knock on my friend’s door between 7:30 and 9:00 a.m., didn’t roll up until 9:15, making it impossible for us to transport our babbling brood to and from the bookstore before lunch…

So I hauled two babies and two baskets of laundry into the back of my car and headed to her house for a bit of playtime instead.

As I climbed into my car I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window. Well aren’t you the picture of suburban domesticity!, I thought. And isn't it banal? It was middle morning on an empty street. I was wearing flip-flops, my hair pulled back in a ponytail… An image of utter ordinariness. I looked back at my girls. Evie was sleeping soundly after a long night of wakefulness while Audrey chattered some delightful nonsense about going in the big pool...and sliding down the big slide.

I considered that if someone ten years ago had presented me with a snapshot of just this moment – driving in the car in the bristling heat at 10 in the morning to a friend’s house, to fold laundry – I would have bristled myself. At that time, ordinariness, in any arena of life, was an absolute anathema to me. I’d have preferred any other adjective - even stinky, slimy, or sordid! - to describe my existence. But ordinary?! Faugh.

But now that I was on the inside of this very ‘ordinary’ picture – (and perhaps it took being on the inside)—I realized that you can’t determine the quality of something merely by observing its exterior.

Stereotypes, I defy you!

Regardless of how ordinary my life may appear, each moment is, in actuality, completely unique and original. Never before in the history of the world has there been an Audrey Sophia, or an Evangeline Grace, thrown together at this particular time, in this particular set of circumstances, with this particular Mommy … nor will there ever be again.

That is the joy – the thrill, even – of motherhood: being physically and emotionally present in both the monumental and mundane moments; and being (or attempting to be) the Mother they need. The challenge is to allow those moments, particularly the seemingly mundane ones, to be my ‘tutor,’ not just my children’s.

After all, isn’t that the real miracle – not just of motherhood, but of life in general? That God can use the ‘ordinary’ moments of our lives to teach us extraordinary things? The trick is, to let Him.

Dromedary Denominationalism

2009-07-26T12:04:00.000-07:00

(You may remember a post I wrote a long time ago regarding camels, too: http://mommytrenches.blogspot.com/2008/06/camel.html. Luke would not say they are his favorite animal, I think, though they do seem to come up with more than average frequency around here.)

In the car today, Luke was quizzing us with his newest science facts, no doubt acquired from something he has read recently. It's one of his favorite games: "Mama, did you know that humans can go a week without food but only two days without water?" Sometimes he gets the facts right, sometimes wrong; what's scary is when I don't know which it is: "Mama, did you know that a zebra's skin is actually black?" It's been a while since I've read my Zoo Books magazine religiously, and Luke is becoming quite the bluffer...

Anyhow, today, the aforementioned question about food and water was immediately followed by a camel quiz: "Mama, what do you think camels' humps are for?" Ha ha, Mr. Smartypants, I know this one (on a side note, it's scary when you're satisfied to beat your five-and-a-half year old at a science facts quiz): "Storing nutrition."

"No, Mama. You see, some camels have two humps and some have three"--here's where I begin to doubt the validity of his fact memory--"so that they can tell each other's religion. If a camel with two humps sees another camel with two humps, he knows they're the same. But if he sees another camel with three humps, he might just walk away or something."

Where to begin? After stifling a laugh, Sam jumped in with the important correction: "Luke, I don't think there's such a thing as a camel with three humps."

(As for the religion thing, well, I didn't even know where to begin. But I'm guessing he's just bluffing on that one.)

Mommy's Magic Bag

2009-07-26T10:48:00.000-07:00

I got home from a baby shower yesterday afternoon and felt like my purse was just too darn heavy, so I vowed to clean it out once the girls were asleep. Here's what I pulled out of the bottomless pit:
1 wallet, 1 set of keys, 1 cell phone, 1 digital camera, 3 diapers, 1 package of wipes, 2 little bottles of hand sanitizer, 3 travel size packages of tissues (three?!), 1 teething ring, 1 little stuffed animal, 2 pens, 1 tube of lotion, 6 bandaids, 4 random crumpled coupons, 1 pacifier (my littlest hasn't used one for months), 1 hairbrush, 1 bottle of contact solution, 1 binder clip, 1 pair of sunglasses, 1 full-sized bottle of baby sunscreen spray and 1 little tube of kids' sunscreen, 1 mini maglite, 1 giant paperclip, 1 granola bar, and 1/2 a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (just put in there that day, thankfully)

Sincerely yours,
Big Purse Momma

Back at Ya!

2009-07-23T05:30:00.000-07:00

Driving home from book club, I asked my 4 year old daughter how the morning was playing with her friends. She is sitting back there quietly reading a book. She looks up at me and says very politely, "Please don't talk to me, I am reading right now!"

Wonder where she has heard that before????

Waiting

2009-07-22T17:32:00.000-07:00

We are expecting our second baby any day now. Technically, said baby (no, we have not found out if it's a boy or a girl) should not be making an appearance until its due date of August 11th. But, our first baby, 20 month old Evan, arrived 3 weeks early, exactly on the day he reached the 37 week full term milestone.

My midwife told us that Evan's weight (a healthy 6 pounds, 9 oz) was probably a comfortable one for my body and that it would be likely that our future babies would be born around the same weight and likely early. This seemed logical to us, and so we mentally revised the due date to July 21st.

We have, for the last several months, worked some very, very long days, nights and weekends on home improvement projects that had to be completed 'Before the Baby Comes.' When we finished those projects, I spent weeks scouring the construction dust out of the house, frantically reassembling baby equipment and washing miniature clothes.

On the 20th of July, my husband and I looked at each other and realized we were finished. And ready. I packed my bag and double checked my calendar, to be sure that it was clear.

Now, two days later, we're still waiting. And, I am sheepishly realizing that there is a very good chance that this little one may not appear for another three weeks. Maybe it's time to start putting some things on the calendar again.

Signs

2009-07-19T12:27:00.000-07:00

We're on the verge-- the Very Brink-- of teenager-hood over here. I can hardly believe it. Will's thirteenth birthday is next month, and I find myself looking for signs....

For the most part, Will isn't showing many. I mean, the personality change that parents sometimes groan about hasn't emerged. He's still his joyful, delightful self. Case in point: over the last months a contest has emerged: he's aiming-- over the course of his life-- to kiss me more times than I kiss him, and I've explained that, given his failure to kiss me for the better part of his first eighteen months or so, and given that I gave him Ever So Many kisses during that time (and since then), he is Hopelessly Behind. So now he tries to kiss me where I have no hope of getting him back: on the back of my neck, on the tip of my nose-- places where I cannot simultaneously reach him at all. Still, I tell him, it's hopeless.

Yet he has become quite the texter, I will say-- a form of communication for which I have (almost) complete disdain as it fails to be genuinely relational (and in taking this stance I realize that I have rendered myself among the Ancient). Last week, with the use of this texting medium, he arranged for he and some friends (one of them is a Girl) to go bowling. That seems pretty teenager-ish to me.

The Smart Mouth (thankfully) hasn't really emerged, but at its threat we are quick to Correct and he is (Sweet Boy) quick to apologize.

But the forgetfulness, well, that's been around for awhile. During sixth and seventh grades he lost or forgot necessary binders countless times, both at home and at school. He also forgot his lunch, his guitar, his soccer clothes. This was irritating for all of us, but as a symptom of adolescence it hasn't been a big deal.

Nonetheless, when he was headed last week to King's Dominion with the youth group and asked to borrow my Bible (my lovely, leather-bound, slender, received-for-my-last-birthday Bible), I was hesitant to let him take it. (Doesn't he have one of his own, Bill asked? And yes, he does, but it's a "Kid's Bible," so I'm guessing it wouldn't do for a youth group trip (another Sign)). Still, this was my Son, asking for my Bible. How could I say no? So I told him: Please, please Will, don't lose this. Don't forget it where you are staying, or in somebody's van. Bring it Home.

He'd been home for a day or two when I realized the Bible hadn't re-surfaced. My question (Will, where's my Bible?) was met, at first, with silence-- a silence I dreaded. And then he says: "I think it's in the laundry."

???

"I haven't done any laundry," I said.

"Oh," he said. A little more silence. And then, "I guess it's in the laundry hamper," he said. "I just opened my bag and dumped all the clothes in there, and your Bible was at the bottom of the bag. I guess I forgot it was there."

Oh. The laundry hamper. Didn't think to look there, I guess. But I found it, just where he said it would be.

At least he brought it home.

Before You Make the Grocery List

2009-07-17T18:48:00.000-07:00

Third call from upstairs, nearly half an hour after bedtime. Nearing the end of my rope.

"Mama, just one more thing. Have you ever noticed how I start sneezing a lot when I'm around lettuce? I guess I'm allergic to it." Sips from the cup of water he has requested. "I shouldn't be around salad, I guess."

Just in case I was downstairs planning tomorrow's dinner, I suppose.

To infinity....

2009-07-16T10:32:00.000-07:00

My three-year-old son is absolutely obsessed with numbers. To be fair, my husband is a math PhD, but never really pushed the number learning (I guess he didn't want to hear "Well, you are a math professor..." all the time). Our child, once we taught him to count to twenty when he was 2 1/2, quickly learned the pattern that commenced. And has not stopped. He now regularly writes numbers like 5607, 25603, and knows that one million is a one followed by six zeroes. It's adorable. (And makes me worry about him acting out of boredom in kindergarten. Counting to ten, bah, I've done that for years!)

The other day we asked him if there was a biggest number. He said "A trillion." My husband said, "But what about one trillion and one?" Benjamin thought that over. I asked the same question yesterday, and he replied, "No." I asked why not, and he said, "Because they keep going on and on and on {pause} forever."

His dad is so proud. (And so is his mom, really.)

Gimme 5!

2009-07-14T17:10:00.000-07:00

Sam learned a trick today! I say, "Gimme 5!" And he slaps my hand. I know it's not walking or even waving...But of course I think he is brilliant. It's the first time I taught him a "skill" too, so that was exciting. Just thought I'd share! :)

The Sun Will Come Out...

2009-07-06T18:00:00.001-07:00

I am a bit of a closet Broadway freak. The earliest obsession I can remember was centered around "Annie". There are numerous hilarious pictures of me on Christmas morning clutching Annie dolls, stationery, etc. I dressed up as Annie for Halloween, and I learned my first swear word from the song "NYC" on the cast recording I used to play on my Fischer Price record player (I'm sure you had that same record player too).

So, you can imagine my delight when my husband raced down the stairs tonight to have me come and sit outside our 2 1/2 year old's bedroom. From the other side of the closed door we could hear her tiny little high pitched voice singing, "The sun will come out, tomorrow, bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow, there'll be sun." Then she really went for it, "To-MORROW! To-MORROW! I LOVE YOU! To-Morrow! You're only a day awaaaaayy."

The New Normal

2009-07-01T19:47:00.000-07:00

I had a couple of weeks a while back where I truly thought I might be headed for insanity, but things have stabilized and all is right with the world. To prove my point, here are a few snippets from today:
6:30 am: Elli has donned a tutu, dress-up shoes, and a pink tiara and is holding a sparkly wand, twirling with the sheer joy of being a girl

12:00 pm: Elli and Annie (2 1/2 and almost 6 months) are wearing only diapers and giggling together on my bed.

8:45 pm: Both girls are asleep and I am on a free-woman Target run. I pull into a space between a BMW and a new, yellow Corvette in my 1995 Plymouth Voyager. All I feel is gratitude that someone gave us that van and think about how completely uncomfortable either of those cars would be for me at this stage in my life.

Good Night, Mommas. Hope you get some rest.

In Any Language...

2009-06-28T12:54:00.000-07:00

We're just back from our big adventure, and as soon as I get my jet-lagged sea-legged self back on track, I'll have plenty to share, I'm sure. But for now, this gem:

In Greece, stray dogs are a fact of life. They're well cared for and accepted, never euthanized, vaccinated and spayed/neutered, even, by the government in preparation for the Olympics a few years back. One day, as we were observing a roaming pack of said dogs, Luke and I asked our tour guide what sound a dog makes in Greek. "Gav gav," she told us. "Oh," replied Luke. "Then those are definitely American dogs. Because they just said 'woof woof'."

Who Needs a Gym When You're a Mom!?

2009-06-19T10:57:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I looked up the closest Target (we've moved), loaded Sam into the carseat, and set out with my list. When we arrived, I debated about whether I should put Sam in his stroller or not. I decided not, since he really enjoys riding around in the shopping cart these days. We walked through the parking lot, Sam happily bouncing in my arms, diaper bag slung over my shoulder (since as we all know, if I hadn't brought it, I would've needed it).

As we entered I noticed, to my chagrin, that this was no regular Target - I would have to walk through the mall (!?) to get to it. Doh. Oh well, I thought, I'll just make sure to not go anywhere else and only get what's on my list. Well, of course that never happens at Target. Orla Kiely tray and bowl on sale!? Such a good find. Into the cart. A double-boiler! I've needed one for so long to make that special frosting mom always made for us. A beach umbrella. Perfect gift for Father's Day! Look at this adorable t-shirt for Sam! You get the picture. I finally force myself to stop shopping and head to the check-out. We pay and I dutifully drop the cart at the door and hobble out with my shopping bags, diaper bag, and baby.

Oh, but Old Navy is right here! I really need to look at their bathing suits - swim lessons for Sam start next week - and they have carts. 20 minutes and four unsuccessful try-ons later I am red-faced and my self-esteem in about as sore as my arms. I did manage to find a cute summery outfit for Sam. Back through the mall. The tray and the pot are banging against each other, making Sam (8 months old) very excited. He is now bending out of my arms trying to reach into the Target bags. A few seconds later he realizes he can kick the bags and make even more noise. So, here we are, a one and a half man parade trudging through the mall and providing some lucky shoppers with some lunchtime entertainment. Finally, we reach the car. I deposit Sam into his carseat, open the trunk, and place the bags next to the stroller!!

Job Well Done

2009-06-19T07:22:00.000-07:00

It was a task long-overdue. A summer job. Something that would require all of us (mom and the children, anyway) to accomplish: cleaning out and giving away some toys.

We started on Wednesday afternoon with the game shelf. They keep coming, these games. At least one per birthday (that's three) and then maybe one or two more for Christmas. At the rate we collect them-- and at the rate we don't clean out the game shelf-- we had, on Wednesday, Too Many.

I was impressed, really, by the efficiency and honesty of the children in parting with them. They were frank: "No, we don't play with that anymore." "No, I don't like that one now." They were willing to give them away. And they were vocal, assertive about, even eager to play with some that had been neglected.

I was pleased. And we had a small pile on the playroom floor.

That could have been enough for one day, but this first task had gone so well. Why not move over to the Major Toy Storage Area, that space under the television where, for years, we've stored bins and bins of toys? So we did.

The Bionicle bin stayed, as did the Matchbox car bin, the Lego bin, the Playmobil bin and the wooden train set bin (which, let's be frank, we're keeping for young guests at this point). Also kept the Kapla blocks and the little basket of wooden blocks that we got-- when was it?-- when William was two.

We jettisoned the two (two!) empty Lego bins (why had I kept them?) and (it was Time, I know) the Fisher Price castle set, complete with joker and king figure (the other knights are long-ago-lost, and one of them had lost his arm), horse-drawn wagon-that-converts-to-armored-vehicle, and dragon. The castle has a draw-bridge that really works and makes wonderful (electronically-generated) creaking draw-bridge sounds when you push the lion's nose above the gate. These were gifts to William for his fourth birthday. They had felt like a Huge Splurge at the time, but when I think of the hours of play they enjoyed (even now a string is lassoed about the flag on one of the turrets), I know it was Totally Worth It.

Still, the castle had to go. It was Time. None of the children doubted it for a minute.

Also purged from this under-the-television area were the two hobby-horses that William and Everett received for Christmas when they were (when was it?) five and three. Or maybe four and two. They really don't ride them anymore.

The pile on the playroom floor grew.

We were on a roll. Next off to the toy-chest, where we were all relentless. And now two garbage bags joined the pile. And finally on to the costume bin, which of late is almost entirely populated with Nerf guns of various sizes, light sabers, a few cowboy pistols, and an impressive slew of bandanas. We did cull some more stuff from here, but most of it was junk. I sequestered the cowboy hat that Bill brought to William from Australia when Will was 16 months old, the felt vest I made for William's second Halloween (he was a pirate), and-- gasp!-- Everett's Batman costume, the one he wore Almost Every Day while he was four.

The pile was Most Impressive, and the children helped me carry it out to the van, the back of which it filled Quite Nicely. Not bad for an hour or so of summer labor. The playroom feels accessible now, approachable. The things in there are things they want, and there's a place for everything.

I took the load to the giveaway yesterday. Emma was at camp; the boys had stayed home reading. It was up to me to unload everything to the large yellow bins in the narrow hallway, and I worked alone, efficient and quiet.

The bins weren't very full. I deposited my goods in one that was nearly empty, one marked "household goods," because I couldn't find one marked "toys."

It seemed strange that our things should take up so much space. Stranger still, in that store and hallway full of the smell of used and old and unfamiliar things, to see our Very Familiar Things piled there, just a little bit abandoned.

The hobby horses lay off to one side; the castle was on the top of a pile of garbage bags. I pushed the lion's nose, just to hear the sound of the drawbridge one last time.

I'm not sentimental at all. No. Not in the least.

Just then a friend from church came in, making her own deposit of well-loved things. Her girls are much younger than my children, and she exclaimed when she saw the hobby-horses lying there.

"Oh my gosh. The girls would go crazy over these," she said.

And suddenly I felt so glad. So Glad. "Take them," I said to Samantha. "Take them. They don't really belong here. I just put them there, and nobody from the store has even seen them yet."

"Are you sure?" she said, smiling, doubting.

"Absolutely," I said. "It would make me so happy," I said. And, "The head on one of them is a bit wobbly."

Samantha grasped the horses by their sticks and headed out the door behind me. "The girls will be thrilled," she said.

And I drove away to pick my girl up from camp, remembering that it was only just last summer (wasn't it?) that the boys used that castle (didn't they?) as they played with their Playmobil things.

I am 29 Going on 30...

2009-06-16T12:04:00.000-07:00

I am really not freaking out about being thirty. Honestly. But I have these college friends who have yet to have children, and when discussing my impending (as in, tomorrow)30th birthday, they proceeded to tell me how liberating it was for them to turn 30. How they finally feel put together, healthy, balanced, stable, beautiful, and at peace with who they are. It was a good thing these communications occurred via email because my current unhealthy, imbalanced, unstable, new mayor of Hagsville, who-the-heck-am-I self might have reached out and smacked someone.

We are currently battling swine flu in our household and trying valiantly to keep the sick toddler away from the as-yet healthy 5-month old. I am wearing an old college t-shirt, my hair is pulled up into the classic "messy mommy ponytail", and the shaving status of my legs is questionable to say the least.

It's either laugh or cry, ladies. I'm doing plenty of both during my last day as a 29 year old.

Finding the place

2009-06-13T19:48:00.001-07:00

While looking through Benjamin's Bible attempting to figure out where my husband had left off reading the night before, I said aloud, "I don't know where daddy is."

To which my son replied, "He's downstairs." So there you go.

what we spend 98% of our day doing lately.

2009-06-13T09:12:00.000-07:00

"Go Fish" is my three-year-old's latest favorite game. One might call it an obsession. Since mama can only play so many hands of "Go Fish" every day, he's taken to playing it with his beloved stuffed turtle. It's now my favorite thing to watch. Ever.

Some People I Know Haven't Even Gotten Out of Bed Yet

2009-06-12T06:51:00.001-07:00

It's 9:45 am and I have been awake with my children for 4 1/2 hours. Don't tell me it's too early to break out the sangria.

Why Daddy Really Does Know Best (Sometimes)

2009-06-04T18:10:00.001-07:00

We spent this past weekend on a small vacation in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. It's a little beach town, with a one mile boardwalk that provides wonderful morning stroller rides, evening people watching and delicious smells of french fries and fried dough. The boardwalk is also home to Funland -- a pavilion filled with rides and games. In the height of the summer it is teeming each night with kids of all ages and their camera-wielding parents. For 60 cents (one ticket) the smallest children can ride the carousel with those paparazzi parents. For a bit more (cents and tickets), the older children can graduate to the spinning tea cups, or the helicopters, or eventually, the Haunted House.

My husband, George, grew up going to Rehoboth Beach, and to Funland. Most of the rides there are still the exact same ones he rode on as a little boy. Last summer, our little boy, Evan was still too small for any rides, even the carousel. This summer, however, George had big ideas for Evan's ride capabilities.

The three of us set out for Funland one evening and I envisioned us riding together on the carousel, and maybe watching some bigger kids on other rides. That was all I envisioned, because I was certain that Evan would not be able to handle anything else.

He is, after all, my baby. And, he is a shy sort of a fellow. While very rough and tumble at home, he's typically very reserved in new situations and very, very attached to his mommy or daddy. So, I had horrible visions of strapping him into a ride and watching a meltdown as he spun away and I was unable to reach him.

When we arrived, however, George headed directly for a ride that involves tiny little boats spinning in a small circle in a small pool of water. Each boat has a steering wheel that the kids can turn and turn, and a rope that makes a bell ring -- it is perfectly designed for toddlers.

We had a hushed conversation at the side of this ride, during which I insisted that Evan would hate it and would cry as soon as he realized that he was going to spin away from us. George was sure that Evan would love it. Even as I protested though, I knew I would give in. I knew that George remembered being on this same ride as a tiny kid and that he had to try it with Evan. And, I'll admit, I was fully prepared to be able to say "I told you so" at the end.

So, we handed over two tickets and loaded Evan into his own little boat. From the instant he sat down, he lit up. The steering wheel was fascinating and he rang the bell incessantly. Off he went around the pool. And...he was smiling...and laughing...and completely fine and happy.

I never got to say I told you so. But, this was one time when I was really glad that I let daddy have his way.

had to share

2009-06-04T13:42:00.000-07:00

This made me laugh.

"One day, my 2-year-old son, Maximus, stumbled and hit his head on the fireplace. We took him straight to the hospital, where he had to have six stitches. When we were getting ready to leave, my 4-year-old son, Gabriel, looked up at the doctor and said, 'Thank you for zipping up my brother.'"

from Parents, June 2009.

I never really thought of it this way before.

2009-06-02T16:34:00.000-07:00

*it occurred to me last night that this isn't really a "mommy" post, but just something that has been on my mind.*

For years and years and years I have been passing this verse on to Bible-believing friends and family as comfort in whatever struggle or hardship they had been going through in that time:
And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. (Romans 8:28)

It's one of my favorites. I know it doesn't mean that God will give us everything we want or think we want or that He won't take away even that which we hold most dear, but that in whatever circumstance we find ourselves He is working to make the outcome good.

Right, except I never really thought of it this way:
"You make all things work together for my good." (from "Your Love Never Fails" by Jesus Culture)

So I'm supposed to believe that God will work all things for good in everyone's life but mine? Silly me - of course He has His hand in everything happening in my life - from the baby who keeps coughing so hard he throws up to not getting a faculty condo on Pepperdine's campus to hitting my toe on the stool my 3-year-old left in the middle of the kitchen to feeling cramped in this too-small apartment and wondering if I should have been working these last three years to save money to be able to afford a better house than what we're looking at to a brother and brother-in-law with no jobs to an uncle with prostate cancer to still owning a home across the country...

Yes, yes He is.

And even through all these unfavorable circumstances, I can still praise Him for so much. And I can have faith that whatever the outcome of the happenings in my life, He already knew what would happen and was busy making things work together for my good.

Just Another Night or How the Cereal Box Ended Up in the Fridge this Morning

2009-05-29T10:51:00.000-07:00

7pm-8:15 pm: Trying to get Sam (7 months old) to sleep. He cries and cries and finally I hang my head over the side of his crib so he can play with my hair as he falls asleep.

9pm: Awake again. Repeat process.

10:15pm: Awake again. Feeding time.

Midnight: Awake again. Try to get him to fall asleep with pacifier. Unsuccessful. Feeding time.
I stumble back to bed at 12:30.

2am: WAH! Guess what? I turn over and mumble to my husband, "Can you try to get him back to sleep. I'm so tired." Husband stumbles down the 7 stairs to baby's room. I hear crying. Crying continues as husband crawls back into bed. "He'll fall asleep. Just let him cry." "Is he wet?" I ask. (That amazing mother's instinct still alive and well at this ungodly hour.) Husband mumbles, "He didn't feel wet to me," as he turns over and falls asleep.

2:15am: I almost fall down the stairs this time. Sam is sopping wet. And cold. He is very unhappy and tries to roll away as I strip him, put on new clothes and a fresh diaper.

2:30am: Back to bed. Sam in the middle of us. I am too tired to change his sheets and put him back into his own bed. I'm praying he'll just give me 3 straight hours of sleep. No such luck.

4am: The last hour and a half were less than ideal. Sam's toes are digging into my back (which reminds me that I need to clip his nails) and he keeps pulling my hair. Feeding time, back into his own bed.

6am: Sam appears to be up for the day. Hubby mercifully gets up with him so I can sleep until...

6:45am: Husband appears at my bedside to hand off the baby. I kiss him goodbye as he leaves for work. Sam is all smiles and squeals in delight. I feel like I've been hit by a bus.

And THAT is how the cereal box ended up in the fridge.

Life of the 3rd Child

2009-05-27T08:49:00.000-07:00

Micah is 10 months old and the third child. This is what his day has been so far:
6:15 wake up (none of my other kids have ever gotten up this early)
stay in bed until 7
7 - give him a bottle which he holds himself while still in bed so that I can get my first of 5 loads of laundry in the wash.
7:30 breakfast
8:10 still in highchair munching on cheerios while I give older sis a hair cut.
8:30 stuck in johnny jumper while I take a shower
9:15 moved from johnny jumper to carseat (wait you say, isn't this close to a 10 month old nap time - why yes, it is. However, I have a lot to do today so he will snooze in the day or have one nap this afternoon) to go to WalMart for that thing that just can't wait (me)
11:00 home from Walmart, small snack since we have had no nap.
11:30 other kids want to eat lunch so he is stuck once again in his highchair where is eats lunch which sometimes consist of the crust of other two children.
It is 12 now and where is he? Still in his highchair babbling and munching a banana cookie.

Poor little guy, he gets moved from one thing to the next all day long...The upside: He is happy and pretty consistently easy going. He laughs and smiles a lot. He is in love with his two older siblings and has more hands and feet to play with than the first one did. He gives lots of kisses because he has many other people to give them to.

But now he is yelling ahh-doe (which means all done). He wants out of the high chair.

Swimsuit Recap

2009-05-26T12:04:00.000-07:00

Today I ventured out with my 3 to try to find a bathing suit for my postpartum body (I can still call myself postpartum, right? He is only 10 months old!). As if that was not daunting enough, I had all 3 kids in tow. So, we go to multiple stores and I finally see one at Target that seems worthy enough to try on (read - it might shrink my stomach). I try it on and of course, no go. Daniel is cheering me on, telling me it looks great and I should buy it. I say, nah, it doesn't really look very good. So, I get dressed while trying to keep Micah from crawling out of the door. Micah in one hand, trying to get the door open with the other hand that I am holding the offensive bathing suit with. I hand the said bathing suit to Daniel while I try to get us all out of the 2X2 space. Daniel walks up to the sales lady at the desk and says, "We don't want it. It doesn't look good at all." Thanks son...The lady is busting at the seams to keep from laughing.

It reminded me of another such occassion. This is an old story to a few of you. A couple of years ago, I was in the exact same situation. Our mutual friend, Daniele, had this great bathing suit that I loved; I was trying to be as cute as her and find one exactly like it. I did, on sale, at a store that I had a gift card to - SCORE! Only one problem - it was really a size too small but I vowed to squeeze by chubby self into it. For those of you with sons, or if you have ever been around my son, you know that there is really no such thing as an inside voice for him. His voice is always several volumes too loud despite my attempts to quiten it. I am standing in the pretty full dressing room, literally stuffing myself inside this realy cute bathing suit and he shouts in his very Daniel voice, " Mommmy, your booty is WAAAAY too big for that!" It was so embarrassing and so comical that I totally cracked up. He was right, my bottom was way too big.

Just hoped to give you all a laugh!

Wisdom from Beyond "The Trenches"

2009-05-18T19:33:00.000-07:00

I was talking to my mother today and complaining about Sam's poor sleep habits and feeling pretty sorry for myself. He is just over seven months old and it is a "good night" if he only wakes up three times. Seriously. (And yes, we have tried just about everything and read close to ten books about sleep.) Anyway, my mother (a mother of 12) said, "You know, I'm 65 and I can tell you that you only have your children for a little while and then they are gone. This first year may seem like an eternity, and you may be wondering when you are going to get any rest, but it will pass so quickly." Even though what she said didn't make me any less tired (and it seems like it'll be a long night ahead, as Sam is screaming his head off as I write this), it does put things in perspective. I am going to appreciate this present time for what it is and appreciate my son, even at 3:30 in the morning! :)

My So-Called Vacation

2009-05-15T17:02:00.000-07:00

We're closing out Day Four of the long-awaited vacation (or Long-Awaited Vacation, as Rebecca might capitalize) and, wow. It's not that I wasn't warned by friends that going to the beach (or anywhere, for that matter) with an almost two and a half-year old and four month old would not be a ton of fun nor was I under the influence of any illegal substance at the time the trip was planned. It seems that this trip is simply an enhanced version of my regular life, which right now is a roller-coaster, a crazy dichotomy, a Jekyl and Hyde kind of experience. There's the insane I-am-going-to-lose-my-mind-if-this-doesn't-end-soon stuff followed closely by the I-never-want-this-moment-to-end stuff. It's exhausting and exhilarating, depressing and joy-giving within a five minute span.
But you already know that, don't you?

Working on it.

2009-05-14T15:05:00.000-07:00

Teaching a three-year-old to ask for things politely usually ends up with something like:

"May I mama give you milk please?"

At least he's trying.

You May Say I'm a Dreamer

2009-05-13T19:15:00.001-07:00

Okay, mommy-friends, this post is neither funny (no, Luke has definitely not been all that funny recently--read on), nor heart-wrenching, nor profound. Just some good stuff I heard tonight that I thought might encourage you, too.

Tonight, I went to a new parents' meeting at the school Luke will attend next year. Good information, good folks. It's a classical Christian school, so a fair amount of the information was about their mission statement, philosophy, etc. The headmaster shared that three key words (goals? or something like that) in what they want the kids to learn, from kindergarten right up through high school, are attentiveness, respect, and responsibility. (It's Charlotte Mason stuff, if you're familiar with her work).

Aha! That, my friends, is what we are missing around here. Luke, yes, but all of us really. Attentiveness, respect, and responsiblity.

Luke doesn't pay attention when he is told what to do, or when a question he has just asked is answered, or when he is called away from something he is doing. It's driving me crazy. But do I pay attention to him when I'm busy blogging or emailing or facebooking or cooking or reading? Luke has been speaking disrespectfully to me, to Sam, to friends, to other adults. I can't stand it. But do I always choose my words carefully and consider what they communicate to their recipient, be that Luke or Sam or anyone else? Luke hasn't been taking responsibility for his things: cleaning up his toys, putting away his books or his backpack, clearing his place. I'm sick of being responsible for everything. But how many pairs of shoes of mine are sitting by the front door, how many books and pieces of mail on the coffee table, how much stuff on the computer desk?

Attentiveness, respect, and responsibility. Good goals. I'm even thinking of planning a family study on them for the summer. Imagine if we all lived with those goals in mind: if we all paid attention to the needs around us, if we all respected each other, if we all took responsibility for ourselves and for others, too.

(I think I'm starting to sound a little bit like John Lennon, which is so not my goal, so I'll stop there. But just imagine it. I am.)

with a few exceptions

2009-05-06T13:16:00.001-07:00

(a reprint from my other blog, which seems to fit well here, too)

it's coming, you know.

you probably do. you probably already ordered the flowers, mailed out the card, planned the brunch, or scheduled the massage (ooh, you shouldn't have!), depending on what you tend to do with the day, as a rule.

there's a carefully cut-out flower with a school photo in the middle coming my way this year. (i know this because i just happened to be the mom-volunteer one day when they were making them). and something from rite aid (mouth quickly covered before the details of "something you really, really won't like--snicker, chuckle" slipped out). and no doubt something thoughtful from dad--who is ever-so-much better at keeping secrets--in fact, who delights in "purloined letters" that always always manage to keep me in the dark.

just a few days away, it's coming.

eliza always gave me dairy milk (the chocolate bar, of course, though it must needs have milk to go with it). she had no idea she gave me dairy milk, no notion of smooth chocolate, no notion of gratitude or a mom, even, if you believe the doctors. she never "gave" me anything. that is, nothing from rite aid, anyhow.

except a reminder of real, true need (have you heard sam's eulogy? i can always find someone who has said it better than i can, i think). except a reminder of my dependence--utter dependence--for my every little need. except a reminder to love unconditionally, that love isn't about what you get in return for it. except a reminder of how little power, how little control we have, and how powerful and almighty God is. except a reminder of how good and kind people can be, how people can love so well, even from so far. except a reminder to be faithful in the very little things, the very little details of very little chores that can matter so much to a very little person. except a reminder that we--each and every broken one--are created in God's image, and that is by His definition Good. except a reminder that He died for me, just for me regardless of anyone else, and that none of it is about me or mine at all. except a sweet little yawn, accompanied by a sweet little sigh; a sneeze so like mine that masquerades as a cough; clear, clear blue eyes with fantastic eyelashes; out-of-control (so like mine) curls, so very deliciously (unlike mine) strawberry blonde.

except for that.

An Answer for Everything

2009-05-04T09:38:00.000-07:00

I don't know what made me ask. Maybe I suspected a whine was coming and wanted to stave it off. Or maybe it was because his feet were quite right in my face (because, when you climb into bed with someone, isn't that where you put your feet, too?). Or maybe it was tickling each of those toes that made me wonder. Anyhow, I asked.

"Luke, which is your favorite toe?"

Who knew this was such a good question to ask? Only a five-(and-a-half, MOM!)-year-old would have such a complete answer to such a ridiculous question.

(I know you're dying to know the answer, too.)

The big one, of course. Because it's so strong and could lift a thousand pounds. Because with his hands he can only lift five hundred pounds, but his big toe can lift a thousand! And the little toe can't do anything anyhow, can't even bow down like these other ones can (at which point he checked to see if my little toes could "bow down"). And it's as big as these two fingers, as long as this one and as wide as these two together. Which is really pretty big and impressive.

(I love all of them. Because I knew you wanted to know.)

Wednesday Blues

2009-04-29T05:46:00.000-07:00

So, I think today is going to be a bad day. Maybe it is just that my husband is out of town for the week. Perhaps it is because I woke up at 5:20 and couldn't go back to sleep and then everyone else woke up early. Perhaps it is because I woke up already tired of hearing the word "mommy"
and I had not even heard it once yet - now a few hours later I have heard it hundreds of times. Maybe it is just hump day. Maybe it is because Wednesday is Laundry Day in the Blackston house. Perhaps it is because my son shattered a bowl of oatmeal all over the pretty clean floor at breakfast time, or that my baby was crawling through the mess while I tried to clean it up. Maybe it is because my hair hasn't been washed in three days and who knows when I will get a shower. What ever it is, I woke this morning feeling the attack of a bad day coming on. Please Lord Jesus, change my heart. Change my patience level and let me enjoy and smile at the day, and my children. And Lord, in the times that I fail today, in the moments when mean things come out of my mouth and I want to yell or shout, please close my children's ears to me; or worse, when I want to grab someone in a less than loving grasp, make my children be in another room and Lord, give me a time out.

Moms, pray for me today.

Overheard during "Naptime"

2009-04-28T14:29:00.000-07:00

"Whale, you're having a time out. That's what happens when you don't listen and obey."

How many times has that sentence left my lips?

Beauty

2009-04-28T13:33:00.000-07:00

So, I really struggled with what to name this post. I thought for days about such names as Terrified For My Children, Put Sex Back in the Church, Get the Skanks off the Street, but just settled for this one. The fact that the title was so hard should tell me that the entire thing will be hard to write, but here goes...

Sunday after church we were driving to a park to have a little picnic lunch, and drove by a building with an advertisement on the entire side. You can guess what it was. A young, raven headed beauty, very scantily clad. With an almost transparent, shimmery tube top on, and a mini mini to match. She was tan and shiny and had flowing, jet back wavy hair that was blowing in the wind; and the smile...the smile was captivating, full of appeal and a "having the time of my life" quality. You know the ads I am talking about. The kind that women stare at in envy and the kind our husbands quickly avert their eyes from in fear that they will stare one second too long. It screamed sex appeal.

I generally do not notice these ads much any more. Growing up in a world where I have seen that most of my life. In fact, I have been that scantily clad girl that the guys cat call to. This time it was different. This time, it drew the attention of my children, a boy age 5, and his little sister age 4. This time, my children were drew into the culture and touched by it. I felt sadness grow in my heart as I listened in on their conversation and thanked God that my husband and I had been there to talk to them about it. This is a sum of their conversation:

Daniel: Look at that girl, she doesn't have any clothes on.
Kate: Yes she does, she has a shirt that is too small. She is showing her tummy and that is a private part for girls.
Daniel: Yeah, she doesn't look very good.
Kate: Look at her hair, it is all wild sticking out to the side like that.
Daniel: She looks a little crazy, doesn't she?

Although they were judging this poor girl pretty harshly saying that she was all crazy, I was glad that they at least have not been touched by the fact that the scantily clad female is what the world wants. I was also sad and scared as I thought about all our children will come up against in our culture. Not just in "the" culture, but in "our" culture, our Christian bubble culture. The pressure to look a certain way, act a certain way.

I have been reading a great book by a local christian author and speaker. I am actually involved in a Bible Study that she leads. The book is called " Unhindered" and it is written by Jana Spicka. Her first few chapters she really, rawly, talks about the sexuality in our culture. This is a quote from that book:

Ezekial 16:15, "But you trusted in your beauty and used your fame to become a prostitute.
You lavished your favors on anyone who passed by and your beauty became his."

Sound Crazy? Your beauty became his. Watch how we lose part of who we are. Let's talk
about dress codes. Remember the season of thongs combined with low rider jeans? It was the
unwritten fashion code of the day. Girls were sitting down showing everything that God gave
them and yet failed to understand why guys were on full hormonal alert! I was at a church
during this fashion season and a young women went to the front to pray. She knelt down and I
think every male in the church just about passed out. Praise the Lord that she was bowing
before God. But it was a sad illustration of how the battle rages, both in and out of church.
For the sake of history, I want to give you a brief walk through time. In the 1900's somebody
came up with the idea of a Uni-bra, a corset that would squeeze your breast together so it
would look like one big breast. Huh? In the 1920's, the flappers first showed calves and ankles
to the scandel of all. The 1960's hippies introduced mini-skirts. Don't forget about the 1970's
hot pants and the 1980's yuppies with long skirts split up to their wazoo.
And today the X and Y generations sport sheer gauze tops, bare bellies, and min-minis. In
fashion we keep showing more and more. But in relationships, we keep getting less and less.
Does anybody else here that hissing?

Friends, we are under attack. OUR KIDS are under attack. Where will we find our worth? Where will we teach our daughters to find their worth and our sons to repect their women? How do I teach my little girl what modesty is when no one even uses that word anymore and she sees all her friends, even in preshool, where low rider jeans and shirts that show their bellies? We must fight this culture, first in our own hearts. We must repect ourselves because we are God's temple. We must throw off the culture, the world and fight for our true beauty, which only comes from knowing who we are and who our creator is.

Serously, I could go on and on. But...let me leave you with this...

Romans 12:2, "Don't let the world around you squeeze you into its own mold, but let God re-make you so that your whole attitude of mind is changed."

So, what should our attitude be?

Genesis 1:27, "In the image of God He created him; male and female He created them."

So, what does that mean about is?

"The King is enthralled by your beauty" Psalm 45:11

The Parent Formerly Known as Daddy

2009-04-27T11:23:00.000-07:00

My two year old and I were sitting at the kitchen table today eating lunch and chatting. Actually, we were engaged in one of her most common forms of conversation, which involves her asking me a question and me rightly interpreting that this is the question she wants me to ask HER.
"What's Mommy's name?"
"What is Mommy's name, Elli?"
"Mommy is Kristin"
"Right! And what is Daddy's name?"
"Daddy's name is 'Babe'."

Rookie?

2009-04-23T20:17:00.000-07:00

*Disclaimer: I have a three-year-old and should have known better. Enough said.

I am very proud of the fact that I am a Prepared Mom. I carry a too-big diaper bag, which holds toys, snacks, sunscreen, extra clothes for potty-training toddler, nursing cover, Maya wrap sling, sippy cup, diaper cream, wipes, diapers, burp cloth, the kitchen sink.

However, I have a seven-month-old who has been getting over a cold (read: coughing and dealing with nasal drainage). The result of such drainage/coughing is occasionally some vomiting. Usually on me. Sometimes in the middle of nursing. One would think that I had put at least an extra onesie in my oversized diaper bag. That would have been too easy.

The four of us trekked to Target this evening. Good thing: I wasn't the sole parent in charge of pushing the enormous cart around my favorite store. Bad thing: Noah was in his infant carrier and started coughing. I was attempting to undo the buckles to stand him up to help him, but was too slow. Out came a mixture of garden veggies and breastmilk and mucous. (At least it mostly missed the carseat!) I sighed, realizing that I had no extra clothes for my now grinning baby to wear. I took him out of the gross outfit and sent my husband over to the baby section, where he found a cute romper (my favorite baby outfit!) in the clearance section. He paid for it and we re-dressed Noah, who was still smiling up a storm and chewing on my shirt.

And I put a "just in case" onesie in my bag as soon as we returned home. Now that I'm prepared, I'll probably never need it.

The Pursuit of Happiness

2009-04-21T17:48:00.000-07:00

As we pass the empty lot, my five year old asks me what the big, complicated sign says. "That lot is for sale," I answer. "Someone can buy it and build a store or a house in that space."

"Maybe the homeless people could buy it!" he suggests.

"Well, perhaps..." I begin to answer, not sure where to go with this conversation.

"Yes," he adds, growing more excited about his unfolding plans. "And then they could build a house and get married and have children and be happy."

What happens when Tigger bounces Rabbit one too many times:

2009-04-18T17:45:00.000-07:00

Right on Cue

2009-04-11T20:16:00.000-07:00

Samuel was being especially fussy, so we decided to give him some "airtime" from his diaper (you know what's coming). As my husband is holding Sam and his little bare bottom he asks, "Has he gone poo lately?" As soon as the question came out of his mouth, a brown storm came out of Sam. All over Apa's foot. Oh yes, I had a good, long laugh!

What a Day

2009-04-09T11:06:00.000-07:00

I just had a sweet conversation with Luke about why his day at school--a Big Day, it was, Easter egg hunt and resurrection biscuit baking and Easter chapel--was a disappointment. It went something like this:

"Well, it started when my resurrection biscuit got put on the wrong baking pan." Turns out he was worried it would get mixed up with someone else's, which it didn't.

"Then I fell in the mud during the Easter egg hunt." And refused to change into his back-up clothes, kept on hand for just such accidents, despite being wet through to his underwear and even needing new skin, as he reported once we got home and removed the muddy layers.

"And then I cut my hand and wouldn't tell my teachers and embarrassed them." Or himself, maybe? Not sure on this one.

"And then I was worried that you wouldn't come get me at recess, that a stranger might come instead." Though I've never once even arrived late, much less sent anyone else to get him.

"Really, sometimes I think life without you just isn't life at all."
Me, too, my love; me, too.

And my day just took a turn for the so-much-better.

The Perils of Independence

2009-04-08T19:12:00.000-07:00

I was feeling kind of liberated tonight. After their showers, both older kids went to their rooms, chose their pajamas, dressed themselves, and headed downstairs to prepare their own bedtime snacks. I bathed the baby in leisure, enjoyed chasing her naked buns down the hall and kissing her tummy before getting her dressed peacefully. As I headed downstairs to join the older children, I heard them speaking nicely to each other. Ahhhh...it's getting easier every day, isn't it?

And then I noticed their choice of bedtime snack: chocolate mousse yogurt. And the napkins. My sweet son had tried to refill the napkin holder (an effort for which I am very grateful and impressed), but only managed to jam about 200 of the 300 napkins into the space, leaving the remaining 100 scattered over the floor.

So, if I'm ready to abandon nutrition and napkin-free floors, I think I can pretty much leave them to their own devices. Small price to pay, really.

E-I-E-I-O

2009-04-08T05:17:00.000-07:00

I don’t know how they keep finding me. I have moved 4 times in the past five years and yet those hounds at Pottery Barn keep pursuing me. I do all I can to stave off their determined advances, taking the catalog (now catalogs—fie, you evil Pottery Barn Kids) and chucking them in the trashcan on my way from the mailbox into the house. Because for me, perusing the Pottery Barn catalog leads only down the path of destruction. All those perfect looking, well-organized rooms, bereft of any clutter or non-wooden toys.

The truth is, I want my life to look like a Pottery Barn catalog, but really, it’s more like just a Barn. Even if I clean till kingdom come, it still doesn’t look great, there are all kinds of strange noises and smells surrounding me at all hours of the day, and there’s crap all over the place (usually not literally, although I was the victim of an unfortunate diaper blow out a few days ago).

I am slowly coming to terms with this, because what makes my house and my life more like a barn than a glossy catalog page is also what those staged and Feng-Shui-approved rooms lack: two beautiful little girls. And if I really have to choose, Elli and Annie will win out every time. But if I could have both...

I love these conversations.

2009-03-31T19:53:00.000-07:00

From Sunday -

Dad: "What did you do in church today?"
Benjamin (three years old): "Played with the trucks."
Dad: "Did you paint that picture?"
B: "Yes."
Dad: "Did you sing any songs?"
B: "No."
Dad: "Did they tell you a story?"
B: "Yes."
Dad: "What was the story about?"
B: "God."
Dad: "Did they say anything else?"
B: "No, they just said 'God, God'."
Dad: "Did they say anything about Jesus?"
B: "Yes.
Dad: "Did they say anything else?"
B: "Just God God and Jesus."

So there you go.

Christmas in March

2009-03-31T19:44:00.000-07:00

What makes a three-year-old boy smile like it's Christmas morning? How about re-paving of the parking area in front of our townhome? There are trucks, steamrollers, frontloaders, shovels, asphalt...All at the top of a little boy's list of Awesome Things.

We watched them pave for an hour. The six-month-old baby even took in the action. This all saved my sanity, since aforementioned baby only napped for a grand total of ninety minutes today, therefore being Mr. McGrumpypants all afternoon. Thank you, big trucks, for making my afternoon survivable.

See How You Are?

2009-03-31T18:56:00.001-07:00

We give our friend and neighbor Daniela a ride to school every day. This morning I asked her for an update on her Apollo 11 project, an essay she was working on several weeks ago.

"I'm finished," she said.

"Wow! Good for you!" I said. "When is it due?"

"Next Monday," she said.

"Wow," I said again. Today, you realize, is Tuesday. Which means she had finished her project At Least A Week Before It Was Due.

"Wow," I said, with real admiration, "I was never that kind of student."

And Will chimed in, a note of regret in his voice: "I used to be that kind of student."

And then Everett, his confident voice drifting up from the back of the mini-van: "I will never be that kind of student."

Something They Never Taught Me in Science Class...

2009-03-30T16:29:00.000-07:00

Has anyone out there had the desire to see a theory turned into scientific law? If you have, here's one for you to get cracking on...
I have never made detailed records, but I'm sure that if I did I would find that the likelihood of getting EVERY red light and being stuck behind either the person who insists on going EXACTLY one mph under the speed limit or the biker whose wobbly balance makes it too risky to pass goes through the roof when you have a crying baby in the car with you.
Can I get a witness?

put algae in bowl. put a littel of grass.

2009-03-29T11:59:00.000-07:00

She collects things. Anything, really, that appears to have value or might possibly one day have value or used to have value a long time ago. Especially Natural Things. Things from Outside.

Case study: the tadpole that is gaining life in an old salsa jar on my kitchen counter. She brought it home from school last week in a Dixie cup. It was still an egg at the time, but she promised me with honest eyes that the small round darkness in the murky water drifting near the bottom of the cup was Most Definitely and Absolutely a Frog's Egg, and that it would Hatch and that it would be a Tadpole and that someday it would be a Frog.

And sure enough, in two days it was indeed a small straight darkness, motionless at the bottom of the salsa jar, and I was Certain it was Dead.

It was not, and it has now very nearly tripled in size and is, as I said, gaining life on my kitchen counter, exhibiting all the proper signs of being a tadpole.

Like I said, she collects things.

So one day last week I decided that we needed to clean out her backpack. It was Entirely Too Heavy for a second grader who totes only two slender homework folders to and from school every day. Two folders, but it easily weighed several pounds. It was time to investigate, and here were the contents:

four books of various weights and thicknesses all belonging to the school and needing to be Returned;

a bottle of Gatorade seven-eighths drunk-- left over from an after-school event in February;

a bit of stick, maybe ten inches long, skinny, with all the bark peeled away ("That's my magic wand," she said);

the remnants of a bag of pretzels, ie., the bag, virtually empty, and Lots and Lots of pretzel crumbs and dust which was coating

several pencils and pens, also of various weights and thicknesses;

folded and crushed sheets of paper, on whose various notices the information was Seriously Out of Date;

a dime. a penny which was coated, on one side, with some sort of waxen substance. Red. Maybe it was gum;

a bookmark she had knitted of green yarn;

a Christmas ornament she had made from a paper clip that had been turned into an angel;

a large, green, plastic, four-holed button on a string that she has turned into some kind of spinning game;

a painted wooden butterfly threaded through with yellow string;

a crushed baggie of what once must have been crackers (different pocket from the pretzels);

four fist-sized (adult fist-sized) rocks.

I vacuumed out the various pockets in the bookbag. I kept the button string game, the butterfly, the knitted bookmark, the angel ornament. I threw away the papers, the baggie, the pretzel bag; I recycled the Gatorade bottle. I wiped off the pens and pencils and put them in a small pocket of her backpack; I removed the dime and the gum-covered penny to Another Place. I neatly stacked the books and returned them to the bag and admonished her to Please Return These To Their Proper Places Tomorrow, and I asked her to Please Take These Rocks Outside.

I put the magic wand back in the bookbag.

Monkey See...

2009-03-25T19:41:00.001-07:00

Daniele's post yesterday was gorgeous and heartbreaking.

Here's a post that's neither.

8 AM: I was checking my email. My constantly-chattering 18 month old, Emma Kate, walked behind me. She stopped to pull at the back of my pants, inspecting the contents carefully. Her running dialogue as she checked things out: "Mama has poop? No, no poop." And, thus satisfied, she moved on to other pursuits.

Stillness...and Other Heart Problems

2009-03-24T05:54:00.000-07:00

4am. Hysterical, sobbing cries for Mama, Dada from Luke's room. I leap from the bed (Dad doesn't stir, grrr), and as I run into the hall, flipping on lights and dashing into his room, I imagine what I'll find. He has fallen out of his loft. Or he has thrown up in bed (which has happened too many times this winter for me not to imagine it). Or he has had a terrible nightmare.

I fling open the door, and he's still up in his loft. Check that one off (whew--no broken bones!) and move on to checking the bed for vomit.

Me: Honey, what's wrong? (relief, no vomit)

Luke: (absolutely beside himself) Where were you?

Me: I was asleep, love. What's wrong? (nightmare?)

Luke: (almost shouting at me) But WHY didn't you come?

Me: I'm sorry; I didn't hear you. What's wrong?

Luke: Were you in your room?!? (still sobbing and now definitely shouting at me)

Me: Yes, of course I was in my room. What's WRONG? (trying not to shout back, ahem)

Luke: Is Dad in there? (whimper, whimper)

Me: Yes, he's asleep. (yes, he's asleep--asleep!-- sleeping through this 4am third degree...and I still don't know what's wrong, for crying out loud). What's wrong?

Luke: (suddenly totally calm) Oh, I can't find Cardinal.

His stuffed animal. This is the drama?!? Cardinal?!? I get ready to launch into It's-4am-and-you-could-have-turned-on-the-light-or-come-to-get-me...but it's his Cardinal.

Eliza's Cardinal, to be exact. Who is right under the covers, as usual when she (yes, Cardinal, despite clearly being a red male cardinal, is a she) is lost. Be still my racing heart.

And my sweet boy, too; be still. "Be still, and know that I am God" (Ps. 46:10).

Cardinal in hand, he drifts happily off to sleep before I can even close the door. Trust restored.

(As for me, well, so much for still. Not so for Dad, who is still asleep. I may as well start the day.)

Could it be!?

2009-03-18T13:15:00.000-07:00

7:15pm - read bedtime stories, sang soft songs, snuggled in the rocking chair, dressed in sleep-sack, turned on space heater, put in crib, said prayers, kissed goodnight.
7:30 - Quiet.
7:31 - 9:45pm(!) - Crying. Patting back, shush-shushing. Holding in rocking chair, burping. Back to crib. Crying. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Could it be teething? Cheeks are red. Gastrointestinal issues? He's squirming a lot.
I'm at my wits end. Why will this baby not sleep? Oh God, please help Samuel sleep. I can't take this anymore.
Ok. I'm just going to take off the sleep-sack and nurse him again. Sleep-sack comes off. Calm descends. Huh? Back in crib without sleep-sack. Zzzzzz. Could it be that he was just too hot? Was that what he was trying to tell me for the last 2.5 hours? Oh boy, do I feel terrible.

My First Attempt at a Post in Quite a While...

2009-03-15T20:36:00.001-07:00

On the occasion of your first missing tooth, I find myself astonished at the person you have become at 5 1/2, Mr. D.

You choose to shower now. Shower! As in, you come home from soccer practice, take a shower, and eat your dinner. That's not toddler stuff.

And bless your heart, as our first born and Mama's first baby, you constantly have to prompt us, your clueless parents, that it's time to move on to the next thing. I'm ready to shower. I'd like to eat with a regular fork, please. I can go get the mail. I don't need help with this, or that, or the other thing anymore, Mama. Right. You are, after all, 5 1/2, and you really don't need that kind of help anymore. If you didn't remind me of that, I'd still have you eating in the high chair, I think.

You hold on to your sweetness, though. You love your sisters with such a nurturing presence, such willingness to help them, such kindness and appreciation of them. You love your friends and share freely and gladly. You love your family, all your grandparents especially, and Mommy and Daddy, with whom you are unabashedly affectionate.

Last night, you called me back in after lights-out. I was expecting the traditional litany of "I'm hungry, I'm thirsty, I'm not tired." But last night, you called me because you had a question. How, exactly, do they capture sharks from the ocean and transport them to an aquarium? Without the sharks biting people? How, exactly, not in baby-general terms? So we discussed some of my guesses and agreed that we'd go on-line the next day do some research. I went downstairs shaking my head, amazed and grateful for all that goes on in your mind.

Speaking of your mind, it is a joy to watch you gravitate with intensity toward letters and numbers. You're learning to read, all on your own. You're doing math all the time, when you skip-count in basketball and quiz me with math facts and count your enormous car collection or the number of times you can hit the ball before it drops to the ground. It is all joy to you, these symbols that hold ever-increasing meaning in your world. It is a joy to me to watch you figure it all out.

And no reflection on my 5 1/2 year old boy could fail to mention how you love your sports. Hours of basketball in the driveway, made even better when Mommy or Daddy is soundly schooled by your accurate shot. Tennis. Soccer. Cheering on your Tarheels. When a game is going, whether you are playing or watching, your attention is fully focused.

Sweet D, we love you. It is with some sadness that we let go of your baby teeth and your baby days, but with even more joy, we love watching you grow. So bring on the tooth fairy. We're ready. I think.

And the lesson is?

2009-03-08T13:35:00.000-07:00

Luke and friends are working on a two-sided art project in the Sunday school class I'm teaching, one side depicting Jesus and the disciples in a boat in a storm, and the other side depicting the boat after Jesus had calmed the storm.

Friend: My picture is beautifuller than yours.
Luke: It's not about whose picture is more beautiful (sassy know-it-all grammar correction emphasized, of course); it's about...

And here I'm waiting breathlessly for him to insert a profound lesson he's learned about Jesus as king over creation, about the disciples' lack of faith, something really good (pat pat myself on the back, good Sunday school teacher, good mom)...

Luke: ...it's about getting the pictures on the right sides.

Sigh. There, as a friend likes to say, goes Mother-of-the-Year 2009. Not to mention Sunday-School-Teacher-of-the-Year. Maybe next year...

And only the hat.

2009-03-02T19:39:00.000-08:00

The other day I sent my bathed and towel-dried but unclothed son into his room while I hung up his towel. When I got to the room he (still completely naked) had decided to wear his Mickey Mouse ears hat. And only the hat.

Babies Don't Keep

2009-03-02T07:11:00.000-08:00

I read this poem on this blog I really like today, and I think it's a wonderful reminder. I'm so grateful for all the sitting and rocking I did over the past three years...and now, so much for the vacuuming; I think I'll go back out and play in the snow.

Song for a Fifth Child
by Ruth Hurlburt Hamilton (1958)

Mother, O Mother, come shake out your cloth,
Empty the dustpan, poison the moth,
Hang out the washing, make up the bed,
Sew on a button and butter the bread.

Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?
She's up in the nursery, blissfully rocking.

Oh, I've grown as shiftless as Little Boy Blue,
Lullabye, rockabye, lullabye loo.
Dishes are waiting and bills are past due
Pat-a-cake, darling, and peek, peekaboo

The shopping's not done and there's nothing for stew
And out in the yard there's a hullabaloo
But I'm playing Kanga and this is my Roo
Look! Aren't his eyes the most wonderful hue?
Lullabye, rockaby lullabye loo.

The cleaning and scrubbing can wait till tomorrow
But children grow up as I've learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down cobwebs; Dust go to sleep!
I'm rocking my baby and babies don't keep.

Recent Quotables

2009-02-26T12:08:00.000-08:00

This week, Luke has come up with some great one-liners. At my expense, of course. But still. If we can't laugh at ourselves...

Here's a taste of our week:

Background to this first one: I painted the inside of our pantry white the other day while Luke was at school. I got some paint in my hair, of course, because that's the kind of painter I am...and I have a lot of hair. Luke, a few hours later, after I had cleaned out the paint:

Luke: Mom, I think you still have some paint in your hair.
Me: No, honey, I'm sure I got it all out.
Luke: Mom, look right here! There's a white hair! And some more white hairs.
Me: Ummm...that's not paint. Those hairs are just white.
Luke: Really? How do you grow them like that? White roots?

No, my dear, in fact, YOU grow them like that.

And a random conversation in the car on the way home from school yesterday:

Luke: I'm going to be a veterinarian when I grow up.
Me: That's great, honey.
Luke: 'Cause I love animals. I just love animals.
Me: That's great, honey. I love animals, too.
Luke: But you didn't become a veterinarian, mom. You just became a taker-care-of-Luker.

Breakfast, anyone?

2009-02-18T13:24:00.001-08:00

I'm well aware that this is a blog about mommy stuff and not necessarily wifey stuff. But since all children have fathers somewhere, and many mothers have husbands, I think a good can-you-believe-my-husband story is in order once in a while. And this is also about a mother (that would be me) almost losing her mind, so I think it qualifies.

Not long after our return from Christmas travels, which would also be not long after Eliza died (you'll see why that's important soon), I started noticing a maple syrup smell once in a while when our heat kicked on (Okay, some of you--all of you?--are now saying, I've heard this already!). It was at random times and in random locations, especially near the computer. At first, I thought maybe Luke had somehow gotten some syrup on the computer chair (which is, incidentally, upstairs, far from the kitchen), but I couldn't locate the smell in the chair. In fact, I only smelled it sometimes, and only when the heat kicked on. Sometimes, I thought I smelled it on Sam, when he came to wake me up to say goodbye before he left for work; he never knew what I was talking about. Once, I thought I'd located it in the microwave, of all places, which I cleaned thoroughly to no avail.

And neither Sam nor Luke ever smelled it.

(So here's where the part about Eliza dying becomes important).

I started to think I was losing it. Why not, really? Three years of sleep deprivation plus indescribable grief; I had read plenty about what kinds of weird things sometimes happen to people who lose children. One mother I read about couldn't taste a thing for months. Why couldn't weird smells fall into the same category?

So I decided to keep quiet about the smell. I wouldn't want to reveal my insanity, after all. And then it seemed to go away, or maybe it was the horrible congestion from my cold that masked it. Either way, I started to think I might someday be able to eat a pancake again (Did I mention that I hate maple syrup? So this wasn't helping).

And then, a couple weeks after it started and then waned, the smell was back (coincidentally, at the same time as I recovered from my cold). Stronger. I got worried. I started asking Sam and Luke again if they smelled it, and Luke (mama-pleaser that he is) thought maybe he did. I resorted to asking others who came into my house, "What does it smell like in here?" One said, "Something good! Something sweet...". Another: "Pancakes!"

I was vindicated. My heat was definitely--somehow--emanating a maple syrup odor. My poor husband suffered from many days of, "Can't you smell it?" and "But So-and-So could! How can you not?"

So what did I do? What would you do, my 21st century blog-reading friend? Of course. I googled it.

And the results were even more vindicating: okay, so I didn't exactly find an answer to what it means if your HOUSE heat smells like maple syrup, but apparently, if your car heat smells like maple syrup, you need to get your coolant checked. And my house heat pump has coolant, too, right? I thought I had it all figured out. (Incidentally, there was also a big scare in Manhattan some time ago when lots of people smelled maple syrup; though there was no clear connection, the suggestion by some that it had been a terrorist attack only fueled my certainty that there was most definitely something wrong.)

So I called Sam at work, both ecstatic and in a panic. "I think we have a coolant leak! I've got to call a heat repair guy!" The smell was worse that day than it had been yet. And I had a terrible headache, evidence, I was sure, that I was being slowly poisoned by burning leaking coolant (you'll remember that grief/paranoia connection here, no doubt). He agreed, and I set about the task of finding someone to fix my heat.

I don't like calling repairmen. At all. Now picture me calling several, trying to find someone who could come soon (to put a quick end to the slow poisoning, of course) and not charge an arm and a leg for the service call.

"What's wrong with the heat? Blowing cold, or not blowing at all?"
"Umm, it smells like maple syrup. Have you ever heard of that?"
Inevitable stifled laugh, "No, can't say I have."

And so it went. Those weren't my favorite phone calls. But doggone it, I had a problem, and I was going to be the one to save my family.

Two days later, the chosen repairman finally came. For the record, he was very kind. He admitted he smelled something; in fact, he could taste something because his dental work was sensitive to toxic substances. I kid you not. Toxic substances. I was definitely going to be vindicated.

Two hours and as many hundreds of dollars later (because, of course, there was something else that needed fixing), he had no answer to my maple syrup smell. No coolant leak. No burned out something-or-others. I had instructions to open the windows, run the fans, change the filters, etc. But no answers. It was over.

And the next day, when I got up at 7am, Sam long gone to work as usual, the smell was worse than ever. Frantic, I called him at work: "Did you smell it? You MUST have smelled it before you left! It's so strong this morning!"

Came Sam's absolutely calm, nonchalant answer: "Oh, that? That's just the oatmeal I ate for breakfast."

Insert dramatic pause.

Feigning equal calm, I asked, "Oatmeal? What do you mean, oatmeal?", all the while making my way to the pantry. I never buy oatmeal. None of us likes oatmeal (except Sam, apparently). "You mean, this oatmeal?!? This MAPLE SYRUP AND BROWN SUGAR instant microwavable oatmeal, which is almost gone?!? This oatmeal I've never seen before?" (Which, incidentally, was purchased and delivered by lovely friends--who deny any involvement--along with other groceries shortly after Eliza died). "HAVE YOU BEEN EATING THIS EVERY DAY?" Needless to say, I had lost my feigned nonchalance...and apparently, Sam had taken notice.

"Well, not every day..."

We like to think we can blame all our insane moments on our children. Thank you, my dear husband, for reminding me that it's not ALL their fault.

That's an Interesting Way of Putting It

2009-02-15T12:22:00.001-08:00

Friday brought a rural adventure on a friend's farm, complete with egg-collecting, baby-goat-chasing, falling-in-a-creek activities. However, in order for these festivities to take place, it meant that my two-year old would have to forgo her afternoon nap, a risky venture for someone deep in the whiny toddler stage. Also, did I mention she woke up over an hour earlier than normal that morning? Clearly the sleep deprivation of having a 4-week old had affected my abilities to make rational decisions. Nevertheless, we made the trek to the farm with Daniele and Luke and much fun was had by all.
Then it was time to go home.
Luke was in the back seat, chomping on pitas and nut butter, listening to Curious George on CD, when a pitiful cry erupted from my precious offspring. We looked back, and there she was, writhing in her car seat, eyes at half mast, as she sobbed in utter exhaustion, "I don't want my eyes. I don't want my eyes." Oh honey, I know how you feel..believe me, at 2 in the morning, at 5 in the morning...there are many times when I don't want my eyes either!

Samuel's Birth Story

2009-02-11T11:26:00.000-08:00

Samuel will be four months old tomorrow. In honor of the occasion, I have finally finished writing this. It was a short labor, but it's a long story!

On Saturday, October 11 Richard and I went to a family dinner to celebrate the nuptials of his Uncle Andy and new wife, Michelle. Our young nephews, Tyson and Dominic, were very interested in my belly and curious about how a baby could be inside. Indeed, the upcoming baby arrival was the subject of much conversation - everyone seemed to agree with me when I mentioned I’d probably have the baby at least a week late (I was due on the 16^th). I was feeling great, enjoying my salmon, and thinking about all the projects I would be doing in the next couple of weeks before the baby arrived to keep myself busy. I hadn’t had any false labor or increase of Braxton-Hicks or anything that would cause me to think I would be going into labor later that night…

Fast forward to 1:57am on October 12. I went to the bathroom (as I usually did about every half hour!) and noticed some blood on the toilet paper. I woke up Richard to show him; we quickly got out our childbirth books and surmised that this must be the “bloody show”. I told Richard, “Ok, let’s not get excited here. I want to take one last walk around Greenlake tomorrow and go apple picking, so let’s just get a good night’s rest.” I thought I’d probably be having a baby on Monday (it was Sunday morning). We both got back in bed and I tried to force myself to fall asleep. But I started getting these cramps that felt just like PMS. After trying to ignore them, I decided I’d just have to get up and do some things to keep myself busy. I cleaned the bathroom, put in a load of laundry, and swept the floor. Halfway through sweeping the floor, the cramps were getting so intense that I had to sit down. At 2:19am I started throwing up salmon! I had wanted to switch the mattress on our bed for the guest room mattress (since ours is so high) and told Richard I could easily help him do it. I couldn’t. I tried to hold up one mattress while he moved the other out of the way, but had to put it on the floor during what I now realized was another contraction. After 2 hours, the pain was getting so great that I thought to myself, “I might just need to go to the hospital and get me some drugs. I don’t know if I can do it. This is supposed to be the ‘latent’ phase and I can’t even handle this pain.” However, my next thought was, “I can DO this. And if I don’t after all this talk about having a natural birth, I am going to be so disappointed with myself. So, let me remember all those coping with pain strategies from my childbirth class…” Around that time Richard told me the contractions were lasting about 1 minute and 30 seconds. I told him (with great annoyance), “No they’re not! You must be timing it wrong. They are not supposed to be that long yet!” I called my mother and said, “I’m in labor. HOW did you do this twelve times!?” I had to get off the phone quickly as another contraction took over my body.

Richard kept saying he wanted to call Sally, our midwife, and I kept telling him no because I didn’t want to wake her up. Finally, around 4am he called. She got the update, talked to me, and then asked him to check back in twenty minutes. In the next phone call, I was unable to talk to her because of the contractions. She told us to ask Esther (my sister-in-law) to come downstairs and she would be there shortly. By the time Esther came down (which was fast) I was on my hands and knees on the bed. My body was now convulsing in a way that felt like throwing up but out the other end. I had no control over these heaves! It didn’t dawn on me that I had reached the pushing stage already. I was making these terrible noises and there was a lot of pressure in my back (later I found out it was probably because the baby was turned sideways). A few minutes later I felt myself “peeing”. I said to Richard, “Sorry, but I’m peeing on this bed right now.” A second later there was a gush of “pee”. I said, “I can’t help it, I’m peeing all over!” (Thank goodness we had put plastic down under the sheets!) I heard Esther tell Richard it might be my water breaking and he should smell it. By his silence and sudden stillness, I knew it must not have been pee. I think Richard was pretty stressed at that point and thinking he might be delivering a baby.

Fortunately, Sally showed up soon after with all her equipment and Audrey, her apprentice, followed. She said, “Well, I’m not even going to bother to check you because I’m positive you’re already 10cm.” For the next two hours I pushed and heaved. For a while I was on my hands and knees and (I’m embarrassed to admit because I didn’t think I’d do it) yelling at the top of my lungs. Finally, Sally said, “Um, Susannah, I know yelling like that might feel good, but you need to bring all that energy down.” I was very annoyed and thought, “I’m having this baby and I can do what I want.” But then thought, “Wait a second, she’s the professional. I better listen to her.” So, I switched to more of the ‘groaning’ and breathing sort of noises and things started to get better right away. Sally then said, “Ok, Susannah, I am going to reach in there and see where the baby is. It will feel just a bit uncomfortable [the understatement of the year].” She said, “Oh, I feel a little ear there!” That reminded me, “Oh yeah, there’s a baby in there!” (What she told me later was that she was actually turning him because he was sideways.) But the other problem was that I just was not pushing efficiently. No one tells you how to push exactly in childbirth class, but once I listened to Sally (“Push like you’re doing a big poop!”), we made some progress. It also helped to foucs on the baby. I started to encourage him/her to come out, saying things like, “Come on baby, we can do it. Come out of there so we can meet you.”

Sally had me move a few different times; at various points I was on the toilet, sideways on the bed holding my leg in the air, and finally, squatting over a stool at the end of our bed. Richard would hold me as I squatted down and pushed during a contraction and then pull me back up onto the stool after. I should add that he was really sore the next day. His chest had scratches and bruises all over it from me grabbing it and he could barely lift his arms. He was an amazing, perfect partner and never left my side (or back, rather). Actually, at one point he did leave to go to the bathroom and I started yelling, “Where’s Richard? RICHARD, I need you!!” And then he came running back. Also, my sister-in-law, Esther, was incredible – bringing me Gatorade, ice packs, and doing just about every little thing that needed to be done. I think she was better than a professional doula. Anyway, so I kept squatting there at the end of the bed and finally Audrey said, “I see the head, you’re doing great!” I responded, “What color is the hair?” She replied, “It looks black.” I was immensely relieved because I really didn’t want a red-headed half-Asian! Richard and I both reached down and felt the baby’s head. Sally had happened to leave the room to take a phone call but came rushing back as Audrey nervously called her in. Esther brought in a crockpot of hot water and washcloths and they were trying to massage me and heat it up down there so I didn’t tear. Sally said, “Ok, try not to push.” I was thinking, “WHAT!? You gotta be kidding me.” I tried but, like I mentioned before, I had no control over those pushes. My body was doing its own thing whether I wanted it to or not. She had been continually checking our vitals the whole time, and I think (this part’s a little blurry) that the baby’s heartbeat had dipped or she had lost it and she was worried because she then said, “Ok, just push.” A couple contractions later, out came a baby – swoosh! It was 8:26am.

I looked down and saw a little creature all covered with goo with a giant cone-head. Richard promptly yelled, “It’s a BOY!!” All I was thinking at that point was, “It’s a BABY!!” Sally urgently said to Audrey, “Cut the cord, cut the cord!” Audrey did so, I guess (I felt pretty out of it) and they rushed our baby boy over to the bed and started massaging him with warm receiving blankets, which Esther had brought in. Someone said, “Oh, he’s peeing! That’s a good sign!” He was making little whiney sounds but no big cries (like you see on TV). I was perched on the stool watching, but also aware that all this blood and gook was pouring out of me. Sally turned to me and said, “Ok, Susannah, he has good color, but he is not breathing like he should be. We’re giving him oxygen [she had had the tank all ready before he came out].” At that point, I said to Richard, “Go talk to him. He knows your voice.” I heard Richard encouraging the baby to breathe and I also heard him call the baby Samuel. Even though we had been debating between Micah and Samuel, I thought, “Yes, he is Samuel. That’s who he is.” Sally told us, “Ok, so when he has the oxygen mask on, he’s fine, but every time I try to take it off, his breathing is shallow again. Susannah, lie down on the floor right there. Esther, put down the camera and CALL 911 RIGHT NOW!” Richard came over to me and we were gripping each other’s hands and praying, praying, praying for Samuel to breathe and be ok.

Really quickly, two fire trucks and an ambulance came. Suddenly there were about 8 guys in our bedroom. Mind you, I’m lying there on the floor naked and when they walk in what do I say? “Thank you so much for coming.” They agreed with Sally that he should be taken to the hospital to be looked at. It wasn't a life-threatening situation, because he was breathing and crying but not like he should have been at 10 minutes old so it was still scary. One man carried Sam out in a blanket, and two other guys carried me (with towels on now) – and a good thing too because I couldn’t imagine walking anywhere at that point. When we got to the ambulance and they started shutting the doors, I panicked because I couldn’t see Richard. “Wait, my husband!” Then I heard him call from the front seat, “I’m here, I’m here!” The guy held Samuel next to me and everyone kept asking how I was doing. “Fine, I’m just worried about him.” Sam had his eyes scrunched shut and an oxygen mask on, but he kept wiggling and trying to turn his head to get it off. I said, “Can I see him? I haven’t seen him yet.” He lowered Sam so I could take a good look. He was beautiful and utterly perfect.

We quickly reached University of Washington hospital. We went up the elevator to Labor & Delivery, they put Samuel on the table to examine him, took off the mask, and he promptly started screaming his head off! It was music to my ears. He was already breathing strongly on his own. The nurses didn’t even dress him before they brought him over to me and said, “Let’s get this baby nursing.” It took a few tries, but he got the hang of it and I had plenty of colostrum (darn stuff had been leaking out of me for months).

No one knows why Samuel didn’t breathe well on his own at first. I guess it just took him a little while longer to adjust to the world. It might have been because it was such a fast birth. Or maybe because he was stuck for a while in my pelvic area during the pushing - which turns out to be pretty narrow. He actually came out with some scratches and bruises on the top of his head from rubbing back and forth on my bone and a cone head that looked like he was extracted with a vacuum. We had to wait around in the hospital room (I was in a bed, so it was fine) from about 8:50am to around 4pm because they needed a pediatrician to come check him over and apparently it was a very busy day in the NICU. Richard’s family came to exclaim over and hold our beautiful baby. My second-degree tear was stitched up by an intern (that was just fine because I knew no pain could compare to the pain I had already had) and I went through the ordeal of urinating for the first time (no one tells you how difficult that part is). Finally, a doctor came and examined Sam. She told us he looked great and that we could go home at anytime. Richard’s family had all gathered at our apartment to welcome Samuel back home.

I felt prouder than I had in all of my life; proud of our gorgeous son, proud of our teamwork, but also proud of myself. It was the same feeling I had had after running the NY Marathon, but just about ten times stronger. I did it! I'm so glad little Samuel was born at home and I'm grateful the midwife reacted so quickly and played it safe. As someone wrote after seeing "The Business of Being Born, "Far from a refutation of home birth, Epstein's complicated delivery serves to demonstrate how a well-orchestrated birth can quickly shift from home to hospital when the situation warrants." I'm so thankful for the kind ambulance drivers and all of the nurses (who were so supportive - the one who worked most with us is a certified nurse midwife herself and had trained under Sally). Most of all, I am thankful to God for blessing us with Samuel! Would I do the whole thing again? Of course.

Anticipating Again

2009-02-04T11:01:00.000-08:00

I heard a reading of this poem today, which seemed so appropriate as I anticipate with all of you--eagerly, admit it--my homemade valentines, probably under construction at school or with Daddy even as I write, so soon to be delivered.

"The Lanyard"
By Billy Collins

The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

I can't wait to see what colors mine is.

Birthday Present

2009-01-24T18:17:00.001-08:00

do blatt do blatt

These noises ricochet up the stairs from the basement, the playroom where the drum set now resides.

dum digga digga digga digga

Everett is practicing, the last task on his list of daily must-dos: homework, make bed, put away clean clothes, feed the cats, etc.... Practice the drums.

dig-uh dig-uh duh

The drum kit was The Gift for his tenth birthday, the Biggest Birthday between birth and sixteen, the Double-Digits, the big one-oh.

bidda badda boom

And when your birthday falls two days after Christmas, your loved ones have to work extra hard to make sure your birthday feels Special, and Important, and, well, Special.

Crash!

Especially when you're turning ten. 10.

Trouble is, we forgot, when ordering the drum kit, to have it sent to Someone Else's Address. This would have been Smart. And it would have prevented What Happened, which was that we arrived home from school on a mid-December afternoon, and the UPS truck was just pulling away from the driveway, and the Middle Child Whose Birthday Was Quickly Approaching was the first one out of the van and asked me to toss him the house key on his way to the front door. And I didn't think anything of it.

So when he got to the bottom of the front steps, There Was the Drum Kit, in its box, with pictures of its contents all over said box for Everyone To See.

digga digga digga dum

We debated for a few hours. Do we put the kit away? Hide it in the storage room until December 27th and hope that he forgets about it? He's ten, not two. Tell him it was a mistake?

do-blatt do-blatt do-blatt do

No, we give him his Biggest 10th Birthday Present Early, so that he has it to enjoy Before Christmas, Before His Birthday.

bidda badda bidda badda bidda badda boom

I'll confess to being pretty darned disappointed with the way it all turned out. I wanted it to be this Grand 10th Birthday Surprise.

But he doesn't seem fazed by it in the least.

digga digga digga digga Crash!

No, as far as he's concerned, it's all good:

"Good night, San Francisco!"

My patented* lose your baby weight diet

2009-01-23T12:13:00.000-08:00

1. Live in a two-story townhome with no downstairs bathroom.
2. Work on potty training your toddler, which will inevitably lead to at least 14 trips up and down the stairs each day, usually in emergency situations where you have to heft the child and run up the stairs (this is good for your glutes and quadriceps).
3. Have a four month old who is going through the "I'm tired of playing on the floor, pick me up and play with me!" phase. (This works the shoulders and arms)
4. Forget to eat breakfast and lunch, and when you remember, eat a bowl of cereal while standing up and holding the baby. Remember to make dinner only because your husband comes home and distracts the children so you can cook. Possibly eat dinner, depending on the moods of said toddler and baby.
5. Sleep? Who needs it. Spend your nights rocking, pacing, feeding, etc.

The weight should be gone in no time!
*not actually patented, but perhaps this will make me rich! :)

Milk, Boobs, & Burritos

2009-01-21T20:34:00.001-08:00

I feel a little nervous about blogging since this is my first time. And I haven't written anything except e-mails in a very long while. So, all you amazing writers, bear with me!

My husband and I traveled to the east coast for the holidays with our 10-week old son. I am exclusively breastfeeding and I had a couple encounters with very curious kids while engaged in the act:

My 8 year-old nephew: "What are you doing?"
I explain how God gave mothers a special way to feed their children (etc).
He replies, "So milk comes out?"
Me: "Yep."
Him: "Cool! Can you make burritos come out!?"

My 4 year-old nephew, pointing to my breasts: "Hey, my mommy has those things!"
Coming in closer for a better view, "Wow, you let him chew on them!?"

I swear, La Leche League should pay me! :)

Sir-Milks-A-Lot

2009-01-18T17:40:00.000-08:00

It was Day Two home with new Baby Sister Annie. I was sitting on the couch nursing her while Big Sister Elli played on the floor. Taking a break from her playtime, Elli decided to oversee some of the feeding session, but needed to get some anatomy straight first (one's body really changes after pregnancy, you know). Pointing to my, ahem, engorged chest, she said, "Mommy's hiney?"
What can I say? Baby got back.

The Elephant in the Room...and Other Idioms

2009-01-15T11:46:00.000-08:00

Those of you who know me--and I suspect anyone who reads this blog does--know that I lost my daughter just over a month ago. If you're a blog reader who doesn't know my story, here's where you can get caught up: Eliza's blog. But life with a five-year-old doesn't stop just because life with a very sick almost-three-year-old does. And I'm grateful for the routine--and chuckles--that come with it.

We've been talking a lot about idioms lately. In case you're rusty on your literary terms, an idiom is not, as my dad likes to say, the cousin of an idiot. It's an expression. Sometime in the past few months, Luke decided to start wondering about all those very-common-but-really-quite-illogical expressions we adults use without even thinking about it. Hit the road. Cat's got your tongue. Beat around the bush. Drop the ball. Play it by ear. If you don't believe me, trying paying attention to how many idioms you use in a day--or even in an hour--one time. If you're anything like me, you'll lose count.

So a very frequent answer to lots of questions around our house is, "It's just an expression that means...". And, apparently, Luke is catching on.

In the car the other day, he was describing something to me--and I confess that my foggy brain has lost track of exactly what it was--but it was really Big. Maybe it was a school project...or something he read about in a book...or something he dreamed about. Anyhow, it was something Big. As big, he explained to me, as a popsicle.

I waited a minute for the explanation. Nothing. So I asked.

"What do you mean, as big as a popsicle?"

Came the answer from the back seat, with a smile on his face that I couldn't see but could hear in his voice: "Expression!"

Right. Of course. Naturally. Or some other idiom.
As in, Mama might just be the cousin of an idiom.

sick days

2008-12-29T10:04:00.000-08:00

Mom sick day:
Get up early to feed the baby while trying not to breathe/cough on him. Hear toddler wake up and talk to himself. Get his breakfast ready. Put baby down for nap. Make self tea. Get distracted by toddler doing something he shouldn't be. Find tea two hours later, cold. In the meantime, the baby needs a change of clothes due to a leaky diaper/spit up/both. Play with trains. Make lunch for toddler. Eat something, probably bread or cold pizza. Finally, both kids are "napping" at the same time, mom can sit. Wait, the baby's crying...time to feed him again. Toddler is wide awake when he should be sleeping, but at least he's staying in his bed. Make dinner for everyone, and hope you get to eat it while it's at least lukewarm. Fall into bed and thank God that the baby has been sleeping until at least 6am for a few weeks.

Dad sick day:
Asks for decongestant while still in bed at 8am. Gets up and moves to couch. Takes a nice, hot shower a few hours later. Sits on couch again. Goes to bed.

goals

2008-12-09T15:45:00.000-08:00

As the mom of a newborn and a toddler, one of the milestones I was most looking forward to was that of Sleeping Through the Night. Noah has been a pretty good sleeper all along, which has saved my sanity, but even five hours in a row just wasn't cutting it anymore. We would sleep those five hours, then Noah would decide that eating every two hours was a much better plan. Suddenly, however, my child slept seven hours straight. And then went back to five. (I was not a fan.) I would attempt to reenact everything I did on the Night of Seven Hours of Sleep, and it would work. Sometimes it did, sometimes it didn't, but all I know is that the last four days I have slept from 9:30 until about 6. So I will not be changing anything anytime soon. (Except that I'm working on potty training said toddler, so I'm sure I'll have exactly 2.5 weeks of good sleep, and then I'll be woken up again. Sigh.)

And Some People Say There's No Difference...

2008-12-02T20:17:00.000-08:00

between boys and girls.

We were at Monkey Joe's. Monkey Joe's, the land of giant inflatables where children run free. They climb and jump and slide surrounded by primary colors and flashing lights and the whir of the air-blowing machines. It's heaven for Davis, a giant indoor playland. He could spend the whole day there, red-faced, sweaty, and happy, and I wish we could, because it costs an arm and a leg to get into that place. We go once or twice a year for a special treat.

Zoe, though, is getting whiny. It's a bit much for her. She is clinging to me. "Mommy," she intones, "when are we going to do something special?"

I look at her. "Zoe, we're at Monkey Joe's."

"No," she explains, "something special. Like a craft."

talent

2008-12-02T14:56:00.001-08:00

Daniele shared something deep and meaningful and beautiful to prepare our hearts for Christmas.
I'm preparing your eardrums. And yes, it's only December 2nd and I've already had to sing this song about 2394802983059 times. Oh well, 'tis the season.

Merry Christmas!