merry christmas

And, yes I tried to color-coordinate for pictures - which worked fine until firstborn's love of the Vikings decided to show through. Oh well, merry Christmas to all and to all a good night. Including the Vikings.

never too old

As I get older and older (and still not acting my age), I am realizing that there are some things that I will never be able to do again. Like wear spandex (not that I wanted to anyway). Or pass the wrinkle test. Or walk by a kid without trying to straighten his mussed-up hair. Or run a mile (not that I wanted to anyway.) I will never wear a bikini again. I will never get excited to stay up till midnight on New Year's Eve. And I will probably never downhill ski again (not that I wanted to anyway.)

Thankfully there really are some things that you just can't outgrow. Like the smell of a newborn baby. Or skipping rocks. Or playing Wii. Or cartoons like Tom & Jerry. Or learning new technology like text messaging, digital cameras, Facebook and the remote for a new TV. I also won't outgrow algebra (even though I really, really tried.) Who knew that knitting would require math? (16x + 2 = 66) In other words, I need yarn that knits up at 4 stitches per inch. Or if I adjust any pattern, then I'm not only figuring out stitches per inch but also rows per inch and will need to adjust both to get things to work out right - yarn size and needle size are frustrating variables. And it's all math - regardless of how many times I try to get around it.

So far, I haven't got too old for hugs and kisses, no matter how sloppy or stinky. I'm young enough to climb ladders and chase small boys around the house. I'm young enough to sneak candy from the pantry (even though I paid for it) and to deny it when I'm accused. I won't be too old to do laundry any time soon (although I do feel a cramp coming on...) I hope I never get too old for snuggling or smiling (even toothless) or using power tools or holding babies.


I thought this was sweet of Grandma, with her newest great-grandbaby (Peter & Amy's Creed), proving that you're never too old for things like holding newborns.

I might be getting too old for having babies, but that doesn't mean I can't still coo and fuss over someone else's. If I start dribbling, I'll just blame it on the baby.

digital blessings

63 inches. That wouldn't mean anything to me normally. (Actually, it still doesn't.)

But for those of you techies it might mean more - like the terms projection, HD and digital channels. That was all a foreign language to me a week ago, before being "blessed" with a television almost as big as me.

I'm still not sure if this was a good thing or not. A television this large in a living as small as ours puts a bit of a crimp on my decorating. Who really wants a big gray box as the inevitable focal point of a room?

But, hubby is happy, so I guess I should be too. The TV comes in clear since it is digitally-compatible. I still can't get over the difference between analog and digital signals - but I have to admit that it was a treat to watch the Vikings on a big screen that didn't have snow. (Don't tell hubby though - I'm still acting like this is a very unwelcome invasion of my space.)

Can God bless you with a television? I think so. It was a nice surprise to get something so outrageously expensive that we never would have purchased on our own. It was an even nicer surprise to get a free cartoon channel that entertains the kids when I'm trying to get something done, like this blog. (I'm still too cheap to spring for cable or satellite.)

So I guess the lesson is to appreciate the blessing, digital or otherwise. And to not laugh at our low-tech orange cable tacked to the ceiling.

firstborn

On my wish list is a book by Dr. Kevin Leman called "The 1stborn Advantage." I have no idea if the book is any good, but he has a great sense of humor and everything else I've read of his is great, so odds are good. Anyway, today I was reminded again of what firstborns are like.

We firstborns, for some reason, feel it is our duty to correct the world of any errors they make, especially grammatical. Hubby shakes his head at me when I correct him when he says things like "Where are you at?" or "I'm going to go lay down." (I'll let you figure it out...)

With grammatical errors, I notice them almost immediately and I often can't help myself from pointing them out. Sometimes the filter in my brain works; other times it doesn't. (And even though I'm an English major, I do miss some - so all of you who noticed the mistake at the top of the back page of my Christmas letter - rest assured - I saw it, but forget to go back and correct it. And yes, it irritates me.)

But, today my firstborn son got a look at the letter and felt compelled to point out two other errors that I made. (Typical.) First, I apparently listed the blue of the go-cart as Jeff Gordon blue when in fact it was Dale Earnhardt Jr. blue (there is a difference I was told) and I wrote that my third son is six, when I'm pretty sure he only turned five on his last birthday.

I'm not sure which was more mortifying - realizing that I made three mistakes in one letter (one of which I could care less about) or realizing that firstborns can be downright annoying sometimes. (Who wants to hear that they've made a mistake?)

So, if I've ever corrected you...hopefully, the good news is that the peacemaking middle children will have enough grace to forgive me and life-of-the-party last-borns won't even care that I made a mistake in the first place. And the rest of you firstborns probably didn't even think twice about who corrected you because you felt just as mortified as I did today.

At least that's what I'm telling myself.

sponges

No one ever told me how much kids pick up information - literally like sponges. They can retain so much and their memory capacity just scares me sometimes. Of course, the info they soak up is never what you want - like multiplication facts or what sound the letter "h" makes.

Instead, they suck in what Mom said about someone that shouldn't be repeated, and then they do. They memorize whole team rosters and then recite them in the van when you're trying to concentrate on not ramming into the idiot driving 30 mph in front of you. They pick up on song lyrics that are at best slightly inappropriate.

Hubby likes to listen to a country music station that plays both new and old songs while he's working on the addition. Normally this wouldn't bother me at all because I kind of like the station too (nothing like a little Johnny Cash or Marty Robbins on occasion.) But, of course the kids couldn't pick up on "El Paso" or "A Boy Named Sue." Instead, all four of them have been singing the chorus to a song that I have to admit is catchy, but a little strange coming out of the months of two- to 10-year-olds. I don't even know the name of it or who sings it.

But, apparently my brain is a sponge for useless information too - because I can actually recall the refrain (but probably only because I've heard it over and over and over:

"A little bit of chicken fried. Cold beer on a Friday night. Pair of jeans that fit just right. And the radio on..."

Yeah, picture that coming from a five-year-old and you get the idea of what I'm dealing with. Maybe I'll have to switch to classical music - no words. Course, them they'd just hum "Flight of the Bumblebees" and drive me just as crazy.

if-then

Two-year-old is supposed to be potty-trained by now. (He'll be three in a month and a half.) He was doing great for awhile - Grandpa gave him lots of incentive by telling him he wouldn't get to go out to eat for his birthday until he went poo and pee on the potty.

Now, however he just gets mad at me when I tell him it's potty time. He doesn't want to go and doesn't care that he goes in his pants. Today, when I tried to tell him that he should be a big boy and wear big boy underwear, he just pouted at me. I tried to reason with him by telling him, "IF you don't go pee on the potty, THEN you won't get to go out to eat with Grandma and Grandpa for your birthday!"

He just looked at me and said, "Then you can't to come to my berfday!"

IF this child doesn't drive me crazy soon, THEN I'll do it myself.

in the wash today...

six one-dollar bills!! not sure if they were mine or one of the boys, but they're mine now. who says doing laundry isn't profitable?

oh the places you'll go...with boys

You never quite know where you'll end up as a parent or the things you'll find yourself doing. But in my case, I think it's even a little more extreme being the mother of four boys. The testosterone overload in this house has me doing things, saying things, learning things I would never have dreamed. And going places I never would have imagined.

Here's just a sampling.

I never thought I'd be sprawled out on a wrestling mat, trying to coach two seven-year-olds on how to do a double-leg takedown (you can read about the entire episode in the previous blog.) Although I have always enjoyed wrestling and even chose to cover it when I worked at a local newspaper, I never imagined myself down on all fours trying to be a parent/coach. I wouldn't have bothered to do it either, except that the other parents involved didn't seem to be able to stop the two boys from running at each other like bulls during a bullfight.

I never thought I'd ever watch an entire NASCAR race, start to finish. Watching 43 cars go round and round a track for three+ hours is about as exciting as watching golf. Nonetheless, because Sunday afternoons are supposed to be "Sunday Funday" around here, I have been forced to not only watch, but listen to three boys get excited about lead changes, crashes, penalties and pit stops. The other saving grace is that I can knit while I watch.

I never thought I'd ever know anything about NASCAR. Stuff like Tony Stewart was sponsored by Lowe's but will drive his own car next year. Or that Dale Earnhardt Dr. is team mates with Jeff Gordon and Jimmie Johnson. Jeff Gordon drives the 24 car. Jimmie Johnson is sponsored by Lowe's and drives the 48 car - and he just made history this past year by winning the Sprint Cup chase for the third year in a row. I would not know that two Busch brothers drive cars - one sponsored by M&M's (Kyle) and the other by Budweiser (Kurt). I would also not know that the races are started not only by the National Anthem, but by a prayer, which I have to admit is pretty cool. I also would not know any of this if my oldest didn't talk incessantly about it.

I never thought I'd have to explain to a boy what a groom means - and have him respond that he never wants to get married if that's what he'll be called. His exact words, "I don't want to be called a stupid word like 'groom' all day."

I never thought I'd have kids into cards. I wish they were card sharks - they could probably earn their keep around here. This is the kind of cards that are just plain annoying - baseball, football and basketball cards. A friend of boy #1 gave him a stack this fall and that's what started the whole problem. Now I have a 10-year-old who will not talk about anything but football - how he wants to play football, who his favorite team is, whose cards he has and who plays on what team. He has a memory that simply astounds me and can rattle off statistics and information about completely meaningless things like what number Adrian Peterson is, where Peyton Manning played college football or that Randy Moss is his all-time favorite player. It bores me to tears.

I never thought I'd know that there are two Steve Smiths who play professional football, or that I could care less. I'd rather know what to do about two boys who can't get their school work done because all they do is play football or snow board.

I never thought I'd have to wipe off the toilet lid, the toilet seat, the edge of the toilet and around the bottom of the toilet on a daily basis. Four boys is more than one bathroom can handle. I should have taught them to pee standing up inside as well as outside.

I never thought I'd have four boys. That probably says enough right there.

on the mat

Last night God surprised me again.

We put boy #2 into the local youth wrestling program and I have been content, with the younger two boys, to sit on the side of the room, watching the coach put the 60-some kids through warm-up exercises. I've even been able to knit a bit. Last night I was not so lucky.

After giggling at my five-year-old and two-year-old as they tried to do the bicycle warm-up and windmills, we settled in as the boys got paired off to "wrestle" their partners. Last week my son was paired with a kid who seemed about as aggressive as a bull (a good pair I thought.) Turns out I was wrong. The two were supposed to be practicing a double-leg takedown on each other, switching off so each could learn it. Instead, this boy and my son were circling each other like two deer, waiting to do battle with their horns. Then, the other boy would make a mad dash at my son and try a takedown of force using only upper body strength. It didn't work well.

I noticed that this boy's parents were sitting directly across from the battling boys, but seemed be doing little to help out the situation. (Most of the others paired off had at least one parent or coach alongside, correcting mistakes.) After watching this go on for awhile and realizing that I was paying good money for my son to not learn the proper technique for a takedown, I left the two boys in the corner and crossed the room to be a coach.

I put the two face-to-face and explained what they needed to do: close together, fling the other's arms out, grab both legs, step-knee, right turn and drive him to the mat. Whew. But, it worked. They got at least a few "proper" takedowns in before it was time for the coach's demonstration of the next move. The other boy's family informed me that he just wasn't listening to them when they tried to explain what to do. (I almost snorted at that, but refrained from doing it aloud. I figured they just didn't know anything about wrestling.) I ran back to my corner to make sure the two other hooligans weren't causing any problems and found them trying to take each other down.

The next move was to flip the opponent over on his back while he was laying on his stomach using a half-nelson hold. (Under the armpit, over the head was drilled into all of our heads.) My son's partner had disappeared to get a drink of water. His father told me the boy's name and that he was a foster child (which explains why Dad was so much older than I expected) and that they were trying to get him interested in something. He came back and I was again on the mat trying to show the two boys what they were supposed to do. Get to the side. Arm under the armpit and over the head. Grab a leg and flip. Chest to chest with all your weight. On your toes! They got a few good moves in while I glanced over to see my other boys laying on top of each other. (Guess I'm getting free tuition for those two.)

Then the coaches wanted the boys to actually wrestle. This would have worked well, if the other kid was interested in wrestling and didn't seem to have a slight baby streak in him. They worked on taking each other down and I kept trying to get my son to finish off his moves, not just jump up right after a takedown. The other kid got bumped in the nose somehow and after that it was all downhill. Any time he got put into a position he didn't like, he'd grab his nose and say he got hit again. Once he got off the mat to give his dad a hug. I couldn't help but be a little frustrated that my son was not getting as much practice as some of the other kids who seemed to have a real desire to actually wrestle.

After practice was over, I was a sweaty hot mess. (Last time I wear long johns into the practice room - it's like 80 degrees inside.) I toyed with the idea of telling my son to try to switch partners next time (if it were possible.) But, felt immediately guilty about it.

Here's where the God part comes in. I recognized that He probably initiated this pairing off for a reason - both for my good, for my son's and for this boy's. I have no idea what his background is, but I have to give his foster parents credit for being willing to spend the money to get him involved in something, for showing him love and for just trying. I figured I should be able to do the same. It that means I have to be out of the mat learning wrestling moves right along with two little boys, so be it.

I've had weirder assignments.

my christmas wish list...

I thought I'd start an annual tradition just for myself - a list of all the things I'd like, but probably will never buy for myself. Feel free to purchase any of them for me. (I hope you hear the joke in that...)

cast iron frying pans/griddle
anything Burt's Bees - especially lip gloss
smart wool socks or any wool socks for that matter - my feet are always cold
yarn (well, okay I might buy this...)
size 2 double pointed knitting needles - I want to trying knitting socks
sock yarn
peridot birthstone necklace or earrings
chocolate - I'm not picky - I'll even eat chocolate chips
yoga pants or Target's boyfriend pants - all about the comfort - just don't care what I look like anymore
an ipod (to drown out the noise around here)
nintendo wii (this for the boys - lol)
trader joe's salt scrubs (they're the best for itchy winter skin)
an acoustic guitar (so i can learn to accompany my vocal boys)
a surefire method to get boys to pick up toys
a laundry service
perfume from Bath & Body Works
coffee - preferably decaf
creamer
Dr. Pepper
a Calvin & Hobbes cartoon treasury book (juvenile, I know, but it's just so funny!)
peace and quiet
a day to sleep in until noon if I want to
black licorice
books - here's my amazon wish list

Is that enough ideas? I hope your Christmas is merry and your shopping even merrier. (If that's possible.)

a thing of beauty?

I am a woman and therefore I spend a certain amount of time in front of the mirror - not as much as most to be sure, considering I have four children at home and usually the bathroom mirror is covered with toothpaste. I also am not much of a primper - throw a baseball cap on and a little Burt’s Bees lipgloss and I’m about as preened as I will get.

Hower, lately I have been checking myself in the mirror more often. Or rather I have been checking my face and a little tell-tale mark across the bridge of my nose. I’m curious to see how what was a rather deep gash heals and whether or not a noticeable scar will be there forever. (I’m betting yes.) I’m not vain about it, worrying that it will disfigure me, but am rather curious just to see what happens. Right now it is healed, although still somewhat sore, and there is a slight bump in the skin.

Everytime I look into the mirror, I will be reminded of a recent accident involving a 2x4 and a table saw that left me with busted glasses, a bleeding nose and two black eyes, not to mention a very large gooseegg on my forehead, a miniature version which is still there. I was not a pretty sight, but all things considered, have healed quite nicely, although the glasses were irreparable.

The little scar across my nose will forever remind me of how lucky I was to not lose an eyeball and how stupid I was to take the safety guards off my table saw.

Scars are funny that way. Some we are proud of - like where the hockey puck hit us in the chin during a high school game. Some are a part of life - like the stretch marks across my belly or the tiny chicken pox indentations on my two-year-old’s temple. Some recall trauma from accidents or surgery. Some are even remembered fondly or with humor - like the fact that one of my middle fingers is flatter than the other from getting squished in a Laz-E-Boy. But they all have the capacity to remind us of something.

Scars on the inside, while invisible, often hurt more. They are either healed, healing or still bleeding. Sometimes they bleed for a long time, longer than we would like. Sometimes they are still bleeding or still mending, even though we think they are completely healed.

The thing about scars is, inside or out, they shape us into who we are. They change the way we look at our bodies. They change the way we look at our world. They, plain and simple, cause pain. Sometimes, that pain is short-lived and other times it is lifelong.

But regardless of the kind or amount or length of pain, our scars are almost as individual as we are. We all have them to varying degrees and in varying stages of healing. We have scars from loss, from abuse, from failed relationships, from car accidents and from baseball games. We might even have scars from picking zits or chicken pox.

While we may not share the same kinds of scars, we do share the opportunity to look at our scars, inside and out, as potential things of beauty. I don’t make that comment lightly or to diminish pain. I am still bleeding from a different, more painful wound that will undoubtedly scar me in a way I haven’t yet anticipated. I don’t know how this scar will heal or when, but what I do know is that it will eventually.

I also know that I can take my scars (the oh-so-many of them) and either look at them as only painful reminders of what kind of world we live in and the frailty of our human bodies, or I can see in them the opportunity to learn something about myself, about those who minister to me and about my God.

I can use them as an excuse to check out or I can use them as a catalyst toward a deeper reliance on God and his plan, even though I can’t begin to understand it. I can even use my scars to minister to others facing similar pain. And someday, hopefully I and others will be able to look at those scars as things of beauty.

They are maybe not beautiful per se, but capable of bringing forth beauty through how they remind me of where I’ve been, where I am and where I’m going. And how I’ll be going there with a little bump across my nose.

The only difference is that I’ll have learned to wear safety goggles.