I was a Scrooge last year at Christmas-time. No tree. No stockings. No decorations. Bah! The kids were lucky to get a wrapped gift. (All because of one very active little boy who would’ve consumed every shred of wrapping paper, tore every ornament off the tree and probably electrocuted himself with the blinking lights.)
This year, I’m not going to be so lucky. The boys have finally figured out their greatest strength and my greatest weakness. No human adult can endure the pleadings of children who have learned how to appear deprived of something. If they ask enough times, with sad enough faces, they will probably get to put up a tree this year.
Their sad sack routine worked on hubby quite well. In the five years we’ve been in this house, we have never put up Christmas lights outside. Until yesterday. Apparently Dad is no match for three convincing beggars.
I came home tonight to a very pitiful-looking house. The lights were pretty much ridiculous. Whole strands of icicles aren’t lit, making the roof line looked dashed. And because he could only scrounge up three strings of lights, part of one string was left hanging down the edge of the house.
If I can’t find any more lights hidden among the mess in the garage, I’m going to have to secretly make a run to Wal-Mart to help improve the appearance of our home. (He said not to buy any more lights this year, but to wait until they’re on clearance AFTER Christmas.) Thankfully, I know another of his weaknesses - he will never know where I found them. What these old things?
Normally I wouldn’t care what the place looks like, but this is even beyond my low standards. I’d guess there 480 lights lit out of 1000. It looks like something a kindergartner would have put up.
The boys were happy though. Until they realized that they could con me the same way they did their father. Only now their target was the inside decorations.
Mom, when are we going to decorate? Mom, when are we going to get a tree? Mom, can I have a tree by my bed? Mom, come back here!
I told them we had to wait until it snowed before we could get a tree. (That was mainly just to get back at hubby for sending them inside to bug me with their begging. He can traipse around through a foot of snow trying to find the non-existent perfect tree.)
Actually, I usually tell him to find the skinniest, most scraggly tree at the farm. That way I know it will fit in the house and will fit in with the threadbare couch, the stained carpet and the windows that haven’t been washed in...well, let’s just keep that my little secret. We take pity on the overlooked trees with bald spots and missing branches. When a tree has to go against a wall, it’s better to have a flat spot anyway. By the time our ornaments are on, the tree always looks just fine. I’m not out to win any awards for my holiday decorations and I’m not inviting anyone over who might critique me.
If I do get around to decorating this season, or if the kids finally wear me down, I’ll have another problem on my hands. I’m tired of the decorations I’ve used since number two was born. How many years has that been anyway? I’m not sure if I can bear to see the same old things another year, so who knows what I’ll come up with. I thought about doing a popcorn garland, but then realized that I’d have a toddler eating snacks off the tree all day.
Maybe pom poms. Or coffee filter snowflakes. Or maybe even cute little knitted stockings that I have no time to knit. Oh well, I can dream to be Martha Stewart.
I have never been sentimental about ornaments or even understood purchasing a new ornament for children each year. I have slowly whittled our Christmas decorations down to two Rubbermaid containers and much of that will probably get pitched this year too. I like to change things around too much. Which is incredibly ironic since I don’t want to put the things up in the first place because then I’d have to dust the shelves and change the decorations that are there. Well, mainly because I’d have to dust.
It’s hard to try to change things when you’re lazy and when your budget doesn’t allow for purchasing new decorations each year. Maybe I will have to take hubby’s advice and hit the after-Christmas sales that start at 6 a.m. with lines formed in the cold and in the dark. Nah.
Gotta come up with something better. Maybe I’ll sic the kids on Grandma. Or better yet, they can help Grandma decorate this year. Happy Christmas to all.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Sunday, October 21, 2007
laughing it up...
I like to laugh. It doesn’t matter if it’s laughter from a good joke, a well-timed pun, a dead-on impersonation, a sarcastic comment or even a clever practical joke. God has made me a laugher.
“If you ask me, I think it is often just as sacred to laugh as it is to pray . . . or preach . . . or witness. But then – laughter is a witness in many ways,” writes Chuck Swindoll in The Winsome Witness.
I wonder if that’s because people may not remember what you say, but they will remember how you made them feel. When writing, I get a much more positive response when I poke fun at myself or my life. Whenever I’m planning something, I like to put it together with a few laughs thrown in. I love to see the smiles and hear the laughter that can come from close fellowship.
God is a god of laughter. There are so many scriptural examples of humor (Abraham & Sarah’s late-in-life son, a talking donkey, a king eating grass, the exaggeration of nagging women, fools and lazy men in Proverbs, the satire and sarcasm in the book of Job and Jesus’ comments about gnats vs. camels and polishing the outside of a cup but not cleaning the inside) that I can’t believe God doesn’t have a sense of humor. In my own life alone, I know God is chuckling about giving me four boys to raise. He has perfectly good reasons for doing that, but I also believe he thinks it’s funny. So do I. (Well, maybe not so much when they decide to mud wrestle or eat raw crab apples.)
I can’t imagine going through life and not seeing the inevitable humor. I often find those little upsets easier to handle when I look at them through the laughter lenses. I’m not sure if that’s what Paul meant when he wrote, “Consider it all joy...” but I’ve tried to take that to heart. There is no reason we can’t be happy, smiling Christians.
Let’s face it - much of life is funny. It’s funny when my baby laughs at his burps or when he thinks he’s sneaky stealing a roll off the table. It’s funny when you realize someone else’s kids can be monsters just like yours. It’s funny when someone can tell a clever joke. It’s funny when you set every clock and timer in someone’s house to go off at 2 a.m. (That wasn’t me, by the way.) And it’s even funny when kids ask, “Why is your belly so wrinkly, Mom?”
It wouldn’t hurt any of us to smile or laugh a bit more.
We don’t have to always look for the negative in things or search for ways to cause problems just because we don’t agree with others. Why is it so hard to build each other up, even when the Bible tells us so? We can’t box people in any more than we can box God in by saying He can only work in certain ways, through certain circumstances or through certain people. The Old Testament clearly shows us that He can even work through a donkey (an intelligent, articulate one at that).
God can work through people, through pain, through circumstances and even through laughter. I think Solomon tried to tell us that when he wrote “A cheerful heart is good medicine.”
And indeed it is. Now, it’s up to me to spread the joy..
“If you ask me, I think it is often just as sacred to laugh as it is to pray . . . or preach . . . or witness. But then – laughter is a witness in many ways,” writes Chuck Swindoll in The Winsome Witness.
I wonder if that’s because people may not remember what you say, but they will remember how you made them feel. When writing, I get a much more positive response when I poke fun at myself or my life. Whenever I’m planning something, I like to put it together with a few laughs thrown in. I love to see the smiles and hear the laughter that can come from close fellowship.
God is a god of laughter. There are so many scriptural examples of humor (Abraham & Sarah’s late-in-life son, a talking donkey, a king eating grass, the exaggeration of nagging women, fools and lazy men in Proverbs, the satire and sarcasm in the book of Job and Jesus’ comments about gnats vs. camels and polishing the outside of a cup but not cleaning the inside) that I can’t believe God doesn’t have a sense of humor. In my own life alone, I know God is chuckling about giving me four boys to raise. He has perfectly good reasons for doing that, but I also believe he thinks it’s funny. So do I. (Well, maybe not so much when they decide to mud wrestle or eat raw crab apples.)
I can’t imagine going through life and not seeing the inevitable humor. I often find those little upsets easier to handle when I look at them through the laughter lenses. I’m not sure if that’s what Paul meant when he wrote, “Consider it all joy...” but I’ve tried to take that to heart. There is no reason we can’t be happy, smiling Christians.
Let’s face it - much of life is funny. It’s funny when my baby laughs at his burps or when he thinks he’s sneaky stealing a roll off the table. It’s funny when you realize someone else’s kids can be monsters just like yours. It’s funny when someone can tell a clever joke. It’s funny when you set every clock and timer in someone’s house to go off at 2 a.m. (That wasn’t me, by the way.) And it’s even funny when kids ask, “Why is your belly so wrinkly, Mom?”
It wouldn’t hurt any of us to smile or laugh a bit more.
We don’t have to always look for the negative in things or search for ways to cause problems just because we don’t agree with others. Why is it so hard to build each other up, even when the Bible tells us so? We can’t box people in any more than we can box God in by saying He can only work in certain ways, through certain circumstances or through certain people. The Old Testament clearly shows us that He can even work through a donkey (an intelligent, articulate one at that).
God can work through people, through pain, through circumstances and even through laughter. I think Solomon tried to tell us that when he wrote “A cheerful heart is good medicine.”
And indeed it is. Now, it’s up to me to spread the joy..
Sunday, July 1, 2007
gift of the garden
The gardener surveys her modest plot. I would have preferred something a bit larger, she sighs both to herself and to her benefactor. She has seen the large vineyards and orchards that He has given others, acres of blossoms and later sweet fruit. But for whatever reason, He has gifted her with a small flower garden, tucked away amid a few maples and a black walnut.
It really isn’t anything special, she believes, but it is hers to work the soil, plant what seems appropriate, or to abandon to weeds. It has been given to her with few strings attached, except that her time to garden, or not, is temporary and finite. She will have only as many growing seasons as the Master Gardener has planned for.
She shakes her head, sighing again. It isn’t in the location she would have chosen – too shaded, for starters. She would have preferred a spot with a little more sun and a longer growing season. Perhaps a raised vegetable garden in a warmer climate, so she could enjoy fruits of her labor year round, instead of preparing her plants for the winter weather that comes much too soon and for much too long. She laments that her flowerbed is not plainly visible to the rest of the world; very few people find their way to her little parcel. Nor does it contain the flora she would have picked. Had she the option, she would have chosen fragrant climbing roses, a deep purple clematis and perhaps even hollyhocks stretched taller than her small frame.
Instead, she was given this shady little area with nothing special about it except its deep, dark fertile soil. She didn’t have a clue what to do with it at first. She remembered feeling overwhelmed and even contemplating walking away. Someone else better qualified can turn this space into something beautiful...I can’t do it, she had thought and even believed. I have no experience in gardening, or growing or even getting dirty. Well, that part wasn’t exactly true. She knew she knew how to get dirty, just not doing the work required for this section of earth.
So, she began, taking timid baby steps at gardening, digging out chunks of sod, pulling out roots, preparing the dirt for planting. She experimented with different tools – hoes, shovels, garden claws, even rakes – learning what works and what doesn’t for the type of soil she found herself in, all the while consulting the Big Book of Gardening for instruction, however cryptic it sometimes was. She grunted her way through moving boulders to build a retaining wall at one end so she could level out the soil. Shaking her head now, she remembers how sore she was trying to move them by herself, by hand. Yeesh, thought you could do it all yourself, every last rock, she tells herself. After she finally realized how pride was preventing her from finishing her wall, she again had consulted the Big Book, only to learn that this garden wasn’t to be a solitary project. Yes, it was hers, and yes she was responsible for it, but she was exhorted to seek help from the Body of Gardeners. Within that Body, she found encouragement, advice, accountability and analysis. She also found strength beyond her own, muscles strong enough to help her with the boulders.
Many, many summers ago she began cultivating her plot. She started with a peony, added day lilies, a bleeding heart that reminded her of her grandmother’s garden and hostas she transplanted from another site. Each year, she found herself able to add more: creeping phlox, Ozark sundrops, daisies and carnations. Each season showed more signs of growth and more evidence that she herself was growing as a gardener. There were always setbacks: sometimes she didn’t want to listen to the advice given her by older, more experienced growers; sometimes she would forget to water her little parcel and her plants would become parched and droopy; and sometimes she just got sick and tired of all the dirt under her fingernails.
Each spring, she eagerly awaits the first signs of greenery poking through the mulch. Some plants survive her climate, but others succumb to the winter; She always grieved a little when a bush or perennial didn’t make it. She felt the loss of nurturing what seemed almost like a part of her - watering it, fertilizing it, caring for it and then to lose it for reasons she often couldn’t understand.
Some years, the flowers produce myriads of blooms and the gardening is enjoyable, fruitful and even easy. Some years it rains enough so she doesn’t have to drag out the hose to patiently water the thirsty plants. Other years, like this one, are just plain work. As she stands over the bed, she can see it isn’t getting any better. She is doing battle with crabgrass, pulling out the little green shoots only to have them crop back up in the same place a few days later. I thought I had you licked, she scolds them as if they are listening. It has become a daily war with the weeds – they don’t have the upper hand, but if she walked away now, it wouldn’t be long and they would take over her garden. She has found that they are easiest to pull when they are little weeds, with little roots. If she doesn’t get them right away, they become much harder to remove and often will break off at the base rather than release the root from her soil. She has weeded so much that she can recognize by sound whether the offender has come out with the root intact – it’s a bit of ripping music that helps take her mind off her aching back and tender fingers. The Big Book talks quite a bit about weeds, she notices, and not allowing them to take root. She knows that she has to keep pulling, tugging and jerking, no matter how weary she gets, if she wants her flowers to flower and her plants to mature. Once they grow enough, they will provide sufficient shade to prevent most of the weeds from seeing sunlight. Once she is able to add more plants into her garden, their fullness and sheer numbers will also keep the weeds down.
But, she isn’t at that stage in her garden yet. So, she is resigned to pulling weeds, a little every day, and nursing her aches afterward. Some days go well and she can finish quickly. Other days she barely gets started with the plucking and mosquitoes bombard her. She can swat away a few, squash several, but in a shady spot on a cool day they get a taste of blood and they swarm. Often, just when she feels like she’s getting the upper hand over the weeds in her garden, she is attacked from all sides, getting bites on her ankles, arms, neck and even her toes. Sometimes she armors herself with a Shield of Spray-on Protection and is able to work away unbothered. Other times, she simply has to run for cover inside and rely on the Master Gardener’s protection.
She will wait for a sunny day before she gets the courage to head back out again. A day like today...where she can prune in peace, deadhead in delight, transplant in tranquility, all within the sanctuary of her garden, little as it may be. She stands back again, perusing many years of growth and pain, death and learning. She smiles realizing her plot is sized just right, beautiful in its humbleness.
WIth a deep breath that takes in the mingled scents of peony and wet earth, she kneels down and gets back to her life’s work, exhaling a prayer of thankfulness for the task before her.
It really isn’t anything special, she believes, but it is hers to work the soil, plant what seems appropriate, or to abandon to weeds. It has been given to her with few strings attached, except that her time to garden, or not, is temporary and finite. She will have only as many growing seasons as the Master Gardener has planned for.
She shakes her head, sighing again. It isn’t in the location she would have chosen – too shaded, for starters. She would have preferred a spot with a little more sun and a longer growing season. Perhaps a raised vegetable garden in a warmer climate, so she could enjoy fruits of her labor year round, instead of preparing her plants for the winter weather that comes much too soon and for much too long. She laments that her flowerbed is not plainly visible to the rest of the world; very few people find their way to her little parcel. Nor does it contain the flora she would have picked. Had she the option, she would have chosen fragrant climbing roses, a deep purple clematis and perhaps even hollyhocks stretched taller than her small frame.
Instead, she was given this shady little area with nothing special about it except its deep, dark fertile soil. She didn’t have a clue what to do with it at first. She remembered feeling overwhelmed and even contemplating walking away. Someone else better qualified can turn this space into something beautiful...I can’t do it, she had thought and even believed. I have no experience in gardening, or growing or even getting dirty. Well, that part wasn’t exactly true. She knew she knew how to get dirty, just not doing the work required for this section of earth.
So, she began, taking timid baby steps at gardening, digging out chunks of sod, pulling out roots, preparing the dirt for planting. She experimented with different tools – hoes, shovels, garden claws, even rakes – learning what works and what doesn’t for the type of soil she found herself in, all the while consulting the Big Book of Gardening for instruction, however cryptic it sometimes was. She grunted her way through moving boulders to build a retaining wall at one end so she could level out the soil. Shaking her head now, she remembers how sore she was trying to move them by herself, by hand. Yeesh, thought you could do it all yourself, every last rock, she tells herself. After she finally realized how pride was preventing her from finishing her wall, she again had consulted the Big Book, only to learn that this garden wasn’t to be a solitary project. Yes, it was hers, and yes she was responsible for it, but she was exhorted to seek help from the Body of Gardeners. Within that Body, she found encouragement, advice, accountability and analysis. She also found strength beyond her own, muscles strong enough to help her with the boulders.
Many, many summers ago she began cultivating her plot. She started with a peony, added day lilies, a bleeding heart that reminded her of her grandmother’s garden and hostas she transplanted from another site. Each year, she found herself able to add more: creeping phlox, Ozark sundrops, daisies and carnations. Each season showed more signs of growth and more evidence that she herself was growing as a gardener. There were always setbacks: sometimes she didn’t want to listen to the advice given her by older, more experienced growers; sometimes she would forget to water her little parcel and her plants would become parched and droopy; and sometimes she just got sick and tired of all the dirt under her fingernails.
Each spring, she eagerly awaits the first signs of greenery poking through the mulch. Some plants survive her climate, but others succumb to the winter; She always grieved a little when a bush or perennial didn’t make it. She felt the loss of nurturing what seemed almost like a part of her - watering it, fertilizing it, caring for it and then to lose it for reasons she often couldn’t understand.
Some years, the flowers produce myriads of blooms and the gardening is enjoyable, fruitful and even easy. Some years it rains enough so she doesn’t have to drag out the hose to patiently water the thirsty plants. Other years, like this one, are just plain work. As she stands over the bed, she can see it isn’t getting any better. She is doing battle with crabgrass, pulling out the little green shoots only to have them crop back up in the same place a few days later. I thought I had you licked, she scolds them as if they are listening. It has become a daily war with the weeds – they don’t have the upper hand, but if she walked away now, it wouldn’t be long and they would take over her garden. She has found that they are easiest to pull when they are little weeds, with little roots. If she doesn’t get them right away, they become much harder to remove and often will break off at the base rather than release the root from her soil. She has weeded so much that she can recognize by sound whether the offender has come out with the root intact – it’s a bit of ripping music that helps take her mind off her aching back and tender fingers. The Big Book talks quite a bit about weeds, she notices, and not allowing them to take root. She knows that she has to keep pulling, tugging and jerking, no matter how weary she gets, if she wants her flowers to flower and her plants to mature. Once they grow enough, they will provide sufficient shade to prevent most of the weeds from seeing sunlight. Once she is able to add more plants into her garden, their fullness and sheer numbers will also keep the weeds down.
But, she isn’t at that stage in her garden yet. So, she is resigned to pulling weeds, a little every day, and nursing her aches afterward. Some days go well and she can finish quickly. Other days she barely gets started with the plucking and mosquitoes bombard her. She can swat away a few, squash several, but in a shady spot on a cool day they get a taste of blood and they swarm. Often, just when she feels like she’s getting the upper hand over the weeds in her garden, she is attacked from all sides, getting bites on her ankles, arms, neck and even her toes. Sometimes she armors herself with a Shield of Spray-on Protection and is able to work away unbothered. Other times, she simply has to run for cover inside and rely on the Master Gardener’s protection.
She will wait for a sunny day before she gets the courage to head back out again. A day like today...where she can prune in peace, deadhead in delight, transplant in tranquility, all within the sanctuary of her garden, little as it may be. She stands back again, perusing many years of growth and pain, death and learning. She smiles realizing her plot is sized just right, beautiful in its humbleness.
WIth a deep breath that takes in the mingled scents of peony and wet earth, she kneels down and gets back to her life’s work, exhaling a prayer of thankfulness for the task before her.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
you little stinker
Whoever coined the phrase, “There’s one every family” knew what he/she was talking about. That being – one little monkey who has the ability to outshine all the others in their monkey-shining.
I’m speaking of the youngest of our four boys. You wouldn’t think that mischievousness would already be showing up at 14 months, but believe me it is. He’s still good-natured, but other than that, I’m not so sure he’s related to the other three.
He believes it is his job to throw his dirty diapers into the garbage all by himself (and pitches a fit if he doesn’t get the opportunity). He also doesn’t miss anything. He already recognizes the word “snack” and “chip” and it only took him half a day to figure out where his Easter candy bag was. I have found him climbing shelves in the pantry to grab a fistful of potato chips. He’s bitten into raw potatoes. He’s dumped out Malt-O-Meal into neat little piles on the kitchen floor. You’re probably thinking the poor chap’s hungry, but if you saw how much he eats, you’d know otherwise. I’ve caught him on top of the kitchen table, happy as a lark, and then trying to stand up and swing from the light fixture like a true monkey. I believe it is his favorite perch in the house. But, he will try to climb on top of anything, and then stand with his arms raised, as if he’s just conquered Everest. I wouldn’t be surprised to see him beat his chest in pride.
He’s made it up and fallen off a bunk bed ladder. Then scaled it again 10 minutes later. He loves light switches and thinks it’s just hilarious to turn them off and on, especially if someone (like one of his brothers) screams because they’re sitting in the dark.
He loves phones, remotes and dials. He likes to punch in the numbers because the phone beeps each time and he even once dialed 911. Luckily the phone didn’t get turned on, so that call never went through. However I have had a few long-distance calls that were unexplainable on the phone bill. The boys have been watching a DVD or a cartoon and he’ll come along and press a random button on the remote, sending them all flying off the couch, yelling his name. A month ago, I kept getting after the three older boys when I’d come downstairs to a sauna in the morning because the electric heaters were turned up. They usually sit around in the morning wrapped in blankets because they’re cold after eating breakfast, so I assumed they were trying warm up. Turns out it was the little guy all along. Oldest brother caught him in the act cranking a heater dial to high. He also won’t leave the dehumidifier dial alone either – it’s like the light switches to him – turn it one way, the motor kicks on; turn it the other, it shuts off. Great fun.
With the weather being so nice now, today I decided to air the house out a bit, leaving the storm door closed with the screen open. He managed to stand on his tiptoes, unlatch the door and escape to the outdoors in his fat little stocking feet.
He loves to be outside, even though he constantly falls on concrete and usually has multiple bruises, cuts and scrapes on his forehead at any one time. (So many, and so often, I have yet to take his one-year pictures because he’s not been able to stay bruise-free for more than 12 hours).
He has renamed countless files of mine on my computer desktop after he climbs onto my chair and bangs on the keyboard. I’ll come around later and find my hard drive is now mijeu48jmfiji3jjjj00000007 instead of Macintosh HD. He also likes the mouse because it lights up when you lift it.
Right now, I’m keeping him occupied by bribing him with M&Ms, although I think I might be getting outsmarted. I wonder if he isn’t pulling a chipmunk routine by storing them in his cheeks so he can keep getting more, which of course I’m giving him because I’m distracted.
Grandma and Grandpa took all four boys the other day and I think they were surprised with his busyness as well. All Grandpa could say was, “Boy is he active!” (Which I think is just a nice way of saying “I’m really tired after all that!”)
I’m not saying all of this to complain, although it is busy. And, I’ve long ago figured out not to question why God planned it this way (having four boys pretty much cured that). Instead, I’m grateful he appears to have an above-average aptitude, agility and appetite. Most of it, I’m thoroughly enjoying. It is very entertaining to watch this little kid figure things out so quickly. He’s so delightful when he proudly pats his belly or rubs raspberry jam into his head. (That’s usually about the time he’ll want a hug). And I usually comply – who could resist a pink-faced, toothy-grinning, fuzzy-headed, sweet little boy? Not me.
I’m trying to use his precociousness to my advantage - like having him fetch his own diapers when he needs changing, search for his pacifier when he’s cranky, climb upstairs when it’s bath time, throw trash into the garbage and go see Daddy when he smells.
He’s extremely proficient at mimicry and has already tried to sweep floors, wipe up spills and clean toothbrushes in the toilet.
Now if he could just figure out how to grow some hair.
I’m speaking of the youngest of our four boys. You wouldn’t think that mischievousness would already be showing up at 14 months, but believe me it is. He’s still good-natured, but other than that, I’m not so sure he’s related to the other three.
He believes it is his job to throw his dirty diapers into the garbage all by himself (and pitches a fit if he doesn’t get the opportunity). He also doesn’t miss anything. He already recognizes the word “snack” and “chip” and it only took him half a day to figure out where his Easter candy bag was. I have found him climbing shelves in the pantry to grab a fistful of potato chips. He’s bitten into raw potatoes. He’s dumped out Malt-O-Meal into neat little piles on the kitchen floor. You’re probably thinking the poor chap’s hungry, but if you saw how much he eats, you’d know otherwise. I’ve caught him on top of the kitchen table, happy as a lark, and then trying to stand up and swing from the light fixture like a true monkey. I believe it is his favorite perch in the house. But, he will try to climb on top of anything, and then stand with his arms raised, as if he’s just conquered Everest. I wouldn’t be surprised to see him beat his chest in pride.
He’s made it up and fallen off a bunk bed ladder. Then scaled it again 10 minutes later. He loves light switches and thinks it’s just hilarious to turn them off and on, especially if someone (like one of his brothers) screams because they’re sitting in the dark.
He loves phones, remotes and dials. He likes to punch in the numbers because the phone beeps each time and he even once dialed 911. Luckily the phone didn’t get turned on, so that call never went through. However I have had a few long-distance calls that were unexplainable on the phone bill. The boys have been watching a DVD or a cartoon and he’ll come along and press a random button on the remote, sending them all flying off the couch, yelling his name. A month ago, I kept getting after the three older boys when I’d come downstairs to a sauna in the morning because the electric heaters were turned up. They usually sit around in the morning wrapped in blankets because they’re cold after eating breakfast, so I assumed they were trying warm up. Turns out it was the little guy all along. Oldest brother caught him in the act cranking a heater dial to high. He also won’t leave the dehumidifier dial alone either – it’s like the light switches to him – turn it one way, the motor kicks on; turn it the other, it shuts off. Great fun.
With the weather being so nice now, today I decided to air the house out a bit, leaving the storm door closed with the screen open. He managed to stand on his tiptoes, unlatch the door and escape to the outdoors in his fat little stocking feet.
He loves to be outside, even though he constantly falls on concrete and usually has multiple bruises, cuts and scrapes on his forehead at any one time. (So many, and so often, I have yet to take his one-year pictures because he’s not been able to stay bruise-free for more than 12 hours).
He has renamed countless files of mine on my computer desktop after he climbs onto my chair and bangs on the keyboard. I’ll come around later and find my hard drive is now mijeu48jmfiji3jjjj00000007 instead of Macintosh HD. He also likes the mouse because it lights up when you lift it.
Right now, I’m keeping him occupied by bribing him with M&Ms, although I think I might be getting outsmarted. I wonder if he isn’t pulling a chipmunk routine by storing them in his cheeks so he can keep getting more, which of course I’m giving him because I’m distracted.
Grandma and Grandpa took all four boys the other day and I think they were surprised with his busyness as well. All Grandpa could say was, “Boy is he active!” (Which I think is just a nice way of saying “I’m really tired after all that!”)
I’m not saying all of this to complain, although it is busy. And, I’ve long ago figured out not to question why God planned it this way (having four boys pretty much cured that). Instead, I’m grateful he appears to have an above-average aptitude, agility and appetite. Most of it, I’m thoroughly enjoying. It is very entertaining to watch this little kid figure things out so quickly. He’s so delightful when he proudly pats his belly or rubs raspberry jam into his head. (That’s usually about the time he’ll want a hug). And I usually comply – who could resist a pink-faced, toothy-grinning, fuzzy-headed, sweet little boy? Not me.
I’m trying to use his precociousness to my advantage - like having him fetch his own diapers when he needs changing, search for his pacifier when he’s cranky, climb upstairs when it’s bath time, throw trash into the garbage and go see Daddy when he smells.
He’s extremely proficient at mimicry and has already tried to sweep floors, wipe up spills and clean toothbrushes in the toilet.
Now if he could just figure out how to grow some hair.
Friday, April 20, 2007
finding my balance
I'm ready to retire. Well, retire to bed never to crawl out. Life has become crazy. Chaotic. Challenging. Even cantankerous. (And so have I.)
My calendar makes me cringe. My cell phone won’t stop calling my name. I'm drained. Distracted. Demanded. And I have no down-time.
Nothing on my plate is inherently bad. Women’s Bible study. Small group. Retreat meetings. Coop get-togethers. A building project. Rental showings. Oh, and did I mention home schooling? Try to add dentist appointments, chiropractor visits, swimming lessons and the fact that my oldest has needed shoes for about two months is very nearly tipping the scales out of my favor. And the kids are noticing.
“Mom, you never do anything fun with us anymore!” or “Mom you never have time for us!”
Ouch. Although, to be honest, in my head I responded, “Do you want breakfast and clean underwear every day?”
My calendar probably isn’t as crammed as most, but for me it's too much. Life is getting out of control even though I have tried to be very conscientious about keeping blank white space in those little boxes. So, acting on instinct as much as feeling led, I started emptying my schedule. It helped, a little. But, I couldn’t take laundry, cleaning toilets and trying to teach a five-year-old to read off the list.
I'm still sick and tired of being tired. But the only time I have peace and quiet was late, late at night. I’m a night owl, so staying up till midnight knitting is a real trade-off. Enjoyable yes, but not so much when your toddler awakes at 6 a.m. ready for the day. I can't function without a nap in the afternoon, which can only happen if the rest of the boys were quiet, which can only happen if they watched a movie.
I think they know every line in Cars by heart.
It wasn’t until I recently had a heart-to-heart with my cousin that I realized how far I’d let myself go. In all senses of the word - physically (both inside and out), mentally and spiritually. All I wanted to do was sleep. She helped me realized a couple of things:
1) I needed a break now and then for my own sanity.
2) I needed sleep.
3) I needed to take better care of myself.
If you came over to visit me on let’s say a Tuesday afternoon, you’d likely find me still in my pajamas. I probably ate cold cereal for breakfast and half an avocado for lunch. I likely forgot to brush my teeth. In fact, I probably haven’t showered for a couple days. (Yes, you can feel sorry for my husband now!)
My cousin told me to “get out of the house.” I was shocked to realize that the last time I’d been alone doing something just for me was eight months ago. So, I took her advice. First, I got myself some good supplements. Then I took a nap. Then, I started eating regular meals. Then I took another nap (just kidding). I’ve managed to set aside the knitting or that good book and go to bed at a decent hour. And, I’m planning a day to get out of the house, by myself. In the works will be some sort of regular exercise.
It’s slowly working. I’m no longer feeling like crawling into bed at 3 p.m. and I had a salad for lunch instead of potato chips. I kept the boys quiet with Play-doh so I could do a very short devotion and if all goes well I might even be able to still knit a bit tonight.
I know that finding balance will be a process and that I will fail. But, I also know that being aware of the need for balance will help me find a healthy medium. As will having someone hold me accountable. The good news is that it also enables me to say yes to the things I feel called to and no to the ones I don’t, without having to feel guilty either way. I’ve already been tested on that one, and am happy to report that I gulped and said yes to one request, no to another (while feeling peaceful about that decision) and signed my two older boys for TaeKwon Do.
For that exercise part, I probably should join them.
My calendar makes me cringe. My cell phone won’t stop calling my name. I'm drained. Distracted. Demanded. And I have no down-time.
Nothing on my plate is inherently bad. Women’s Bible study. Small group. Retreat meetings. Coop get-togethers. A building project. Rental showings. Oh, and did I mention home schooling? Try to add dentist appointments, chiropractor visits, swimming lessons and the fact that my oldest has needed shoes for about two months is very nearly tipping the scales out of my favor. And the kids are noticing.
“Mom, you never do anything fun with us anymore!” or “Mom you never have time for us!”
Ouch. Although, to be honest, in my head I responded, “Do you want breakfast and clean underwear every day?”
My calendar probably isn’t as crammed as most, but for me it's too much. Life is getting out of control even though I have tried to be very conscientious about keeping blank white space in those little boxes. So, acting on instinct as much as feeling led, I started emptying my schedule. It helped, a little. But, I couldn’t take laundry, cleaning toilets and trying to teach a five-year-old to read off the list.
I'm still sick and tired of being tired. But the only time I have peace and quiet was late, late at night. I’m a night owl, so staying up till midnight knitting is a real trade-off. Enjoyable yes, but not so much when your toddler awakes at 6 a.m. ready for the day. I can't function without a nap in the afternoon, which can only happen if the rest of the boys were quiet, which can only happen if they watched a movie.
I think they know every line in Cars by heart.
It wasn’t until I recently had a heart-to-heart with my cousin that I realized how far I’d let myself go. In all senses of the word - physically (both inside and out), mentally and spiritually. All I wanted to do was sleep. She helped me realized a couple of things:
1) I needed a break now and then for my own sanity.
2) I needed sleep.
3) I needed to take better care of myself.
If you came over to visit me on let’s say a Tuesday afternoon, you’d likely find me still in my pajamas. I probably ate cold cereal for breakfast and half an avocado for lunch. I likely forgot to brush my teeth. In fact, I probably haven’t showered for a couple days. (Yes, you can feel sorry for my husband now!)
My cousin told me to “get out of the house.” I was shocked to realize that the last time I’d been alone doing something just for me was eight months ago. So, I took her advice. First, I got myself some good supplements. Then I took a nap. Then, I started eating regular meals. Then I took another nap (just kidding). I’ve managed to set aside the knitting or that good book and go to bed at a decent hour. And, I’m planning a day to get out of the house, by myself. In the works will be some sort of regular exercise.
It’s slowly working. I’m no longer feeling like crawling into bed at 3 p.m. and I had a salad for lunch instead of potato chips. I kept the boys quiet with Play-doh so I could do a very short devotion and if all goes well I might even be able to still knit a bit tonight.
I know that finding balance will be a process and that I will fail. But, I also know that being aware of the need for balance will help me find a healthy medium. As will having someone hold me accountable. The good news is that it also enables me to say yes to the things I feel called to and no to the ones I don’t, without having to feel guilty either way. I’ve already been tested on that one, and am happy to report that I gulped and said yes to one request, no to another (while feeling peaceful about that decision) and signed my two older boys for TaeKwon Do.
For that exercise part, I probably should join them.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
little mister sassy pants
Grandpa took Boy #3 ice fishing last week. This was a special event - getting away from your brothers and of course, Grandpa has much better snacks than at home. And he lets you eat as much as you want. (Unlike some mean mommies we know.)
Well, apparently Grandpa was going the extra mile and provided pop for our precocious little three-year-old. Only, it got partially spilled. Then it had to be set down while the men did “serious” fishing. And then (I think I got this story straight), lines were tangled, which isn’t hard to imagine when you think of fishing with a preschooler. So Grandpa was trying to do it all and somebody decided he wanted a drink. Now.
Well, Grandpa said no, not now. Little Sassy Pants replied in a huff, “Fine! I’m never coming fishing with you ever again!”
(At this point, hearing the story, I am completely mortified. Then I wonder how I can blame those genes on my husband...)
Grandpa took the attitude in stride and replied, “That’s okay - your brothers will come fishing with me.”
(I hate to even write this...)
“No, Grandpa, they’re not gonna come fishing with you ever again either!”
I’m pretty sure his two older brothers wouldn’t agree with #3’s statement, but he was positive about it. At least Grandpa has been laughing about the whole thing and doesn’t seem too put off by the grief his grandson gave him.
I find it endlessly fascinating and very embarrassing at how emphatic and bold this child is. He can look me straight in the eye after I’ve told him to pick up his toys and say, “No!” without so much as a twinge of remorse - until he sees the Tabasco sauce bottle come out.
He is so quick to justify his behavior, to demand his demands, to spew, “Fine! I don’t like you anymore!” that I worry it’s more than a stage. Part of it I know is his personality - he is simply quick-witted - and part of it I suppose is just human nature.
We are selfish, demanding, unsympathetic and sassy at times - even to God. We make demands during our prayers and huff if they’re not answered. We whine about what we have to do and sniffle about whatever ails us. We sometimes aren’t all that happy and we let God know all about it. We’re as impossible to please as an ornery three-year-old. Especially when we don’t get our way.
“Fine! I’m not coming fishing with you ever again!”
I wonder if God has Tabasco sauce.
Well, apparently Grandpa was going the extra mile and provided pop for our precocious little three-year-old. Only, it got partially spilled. Then it had to be set down while the men did “serious” fishing. And then (I think I got this story straight), lines were tangled, which isn’t hard to imagine when you think of fishing with a preschooler. So Grandpa was trying to do it all and somebody decided he wanted a drink. Now.
Well, Grandpa said no, not now. Little Sassy Pants replied in a huff, “Fine! I’m never coming fishing with you ever again!”
(At this point, hearing the story, I am completely mortified. Then I wonder how I can blame those genes on my husband...)
Grandpa took the attitude in stride and replied, “That’s okay - your brothers will come fishing with me.”
(I hate to even write this...)
“No, Grandpa, they’re not gonna come fishing with you ever again either!”
I’m pretty sure his two older brothers wouldn’t agree with #3’s statement, but he was positive about it. At least Grandpa has been laughing about the whole thing and doesn’t seem too put off by the grief his grandson gave him.
I find it endlessly fascinating and very embarrassing at how emphatic and bold this child is. He can look me straight in the eye after I’ve told him to pick up his toys and say, “No!” without so much as a twinge of remorse - until he sees the Tabasco sauce bottle come out.
He is so quick to justify his behavior, to demand his demands, to spew, “Fine! I don’t like you anymore!” that I worry it’s more than a stage. Part of it I know is his personality - he is simply quick-witted - and part of it I suppose is just human nature.
We are selfish, demanding, unsympathetic and sassy at times - even to God. We make demands during our prayers and huff if they’re not answered. We whine about what we have to do and sniffle about whatever ails us. We sometimes aren’t all that happy and we let God know all about it. We’re as impossible to please as an ornery three-year-old. Especially when we don’t get our way.
“Fine! I’m not coming fishing with you ever again!”
I wonder if God has Tabasco sauce.
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