like a child

Number Four was at the dinner table tonight by himself (as usual because he's the slowest eater in the bunch) and starting talking to me. Here's the conversation.

"Mom you should probably start making some clothes for the baby."
"What baby?"
"The baby in your belly."
"The baby in my belly died sweetie."
"How did it die?"
"I don't know."

(There was a brief pause as he thought about this.)

"That's fine."
"What's fine?"
"That the baby died."

(Another pause.)

"Mom, where did the baby go?"
"Babies go to heaven when they die."

(A brief pause.)

"When we die do we go to heaven?"
"We do if we believe in Jesus."
"I do bewieve in Jesus."
"Good honey."

(Another pause while he munched on bread and I told him that the baby was a boy and it was his brother. His eyes got big with that news.)

"Did the boy in your stomach bewieve in Jesus?"
"Yes, I think so."

"So you don't have the baby anymore?"
"Nope."

Then he went to his brother to tell him the news.
"The baby in Mom's belly died."
"I know."
"It probably bewieved in Jesus. It's in heaven."

And it really is as simple as that. But so difficult to accept as readily and calmly as my three-year-old did. No wonder God wants us to be like children.

blessings

I'm always amazed at how God uses people to touch his children. In order to better convince myself of his love and care for me, I thought I'd keep a running list of all the ways I've been touched and loved and cared for and blessed by others in the past few weeks. Here goes:

Thank you to my brother for calling immediately and telling me he was sorry. I could hear it in his voice.

Thank you to my sister and her hubby who braved a 2.5 hour trip up north with four boys in the van. Peace and quiet was very nice when my mind was reeling. Thanks also to my parents who took the boys on a day's notice and while they were trying to get the house ready for the entire family (all 29 of us.)

Thank you to the dear friend who brought me a fabulous deli lunch a couple days after I learned I lost the baby. The chicken salad was incredible.

Thank you to all the friends on Facebook who posted that they were praying and that they were sorry. Your response was incredible.

Thank you to the all those who phoned and emailed, telling me they were praying for me, crying with me and letting me know they cared. Thanks especially for understanding that I couldn't get on the phone to talk right away because I wouldn't have been able to say anything.

Thank you to my immediate family for not bombarding me with questions while we were up north for Thanksgiving. I was hanging on by an emotional thread and couldn't have tolerated too much talk about what was going on. Thank you for giving me space and understanding.

Thank you to my brother's mother-in-law for her kind words and best wishes.

Thank you to another friend who brought by soup and squash bread to put in the freezer for later. (We had it two weeks later and it was wonderful.)

Thank you to a friend who blessed me with a bag full of goodies that showed how well she knows me - Caribou coffee, chocolate truffles, three glorious balls of yarn, a soy candle and a journal.


Thank you to a couple cousins who put together a box of my favorite things - handmade Christmas ornaments that are simple yet very cool, Ghirardelli chocolate and chocolate kisses, and all sorts of Burt's Bees' products - lipstick, a travel kit and lip gloss. I was blown away by their generosity and love. (See the picture above.)

Thank you to another cousin and her husband for sending a care package that included a plaque with the words "lead me, guide me, walk beside me" (that I stuck above my computer), a cozy bathrobe and a very touching card. I hope she doesn't mind if I share her words. "Just a note to let you know that our hearts hurt for you. To think of the pain and sense of loss that you are feeling right now is heartbreaking. Know that we are lifting you up to the One who has a perfect plan. In the midst of the pain and sadness, we pray that you will sense His Holy Presence. May HIS peace fill every fiber of your being. Lean on Him as you mourn and as your grieve. He, too, lost a son; He knows and He cares and He understands. You are loved by so many. Praying you can feel all of us holding you up; you are being carried on the wings of prayer. God grant you peace and may He fill your aching hearts. With much love..."

Thank you to my in-laws for taking the boys on a moment's notice and keeping them overnight for a couple nights while we were in the hospital. The peace and quiet was needed.

Thank you to my sister-in-law for coming to the hospital with us and for staying with Hubby while I was in surgery. I know that the time passed better for him because someone was there. Also, it was nice to see a friendly face in the room after it was all over and have someone adjust the stupid blood pressure cuff that kept squeezing my IV. (Still have a bruise from that.)

Thank you to another sister-in-law for bringing over Papa Murphy's pizza for us the day the boys got home. I was in no condition to cook - boy does this wipe you out - and the boys LOVE pizza. Also for the card and a CD containing the song that I can't get out of my head. I found myself humming it even today (Hillsong's "You Hold Me Now"). Her card too was very touching. "No matter how long the Lord gives us with the ones we love...it is still hard to say goodbye. Know that we love you and even in the months to come - you'll continue to be in our prayers. Just a reminder of the things we don't often say..."

Thank you to the nurses at Buffalo Hospital, who sent a card after I got home to let me know they were thinking of me and hoping I was feeling better after the hospital stay.

Thank you to another friend who brought over chili (that I had been craving) and cornbread (that goes so well w/chili, but that I never take the time to make) and just for me - chocolate chip cookie dough.

Thank you to a cousin's wife who sent us a book entitled "The One Year Book of Hope," and explained that it had helped her through some of her difficult times and that she hoped it could help us too. I already started reading it, and so far, the daily devotions are powerful.

Thank you to those who have sent cards of encouragement, letting us know that you are praying for us and thinking about us and sometimes providing for us in ways we weren't expecting.




Thank you to the three daughters of our head pastor for waiting so patiently to give me their gifts (I hadn't seen them in at least three weeks). The two older girls (ages 6 and maybe 8) took the time to create some unique artwork for us, with Bible verses penned in very neat handwriting. In case you can't read the passages, they're from Ephesians 3:16-19 and Zephaniah 3:17. The littlest one (age 4) handed me a gift bag with chocolates and some Mary Kay lotion. I was so touched I asked them all for a hug.

Thank you to a cousin for sending me a CD by BeBe Winans with one of her favorite songs - "My Christmas Prayer." She wrote that she hoped we would find it uplifting for our spirits. Isaiah 49:13 was printed on the card. "The Lord has comforted His people and will have compassion upon them in their sorrow."

-----

This is quite a list. And yes, I am counting my blessings.

our baby

In some ways, I'm very thankful that this baby we lost wasn't a girl. I think that would have been harder on both Hubby and I. I'm also grateful that God gave me the sense to ask to see him. I don't think we would have remembered anything from the chaos of the emergency room.

However, I was a bit surprised by hubby's reaction - I hadn't realized how hard this was on him.

After the nurse left with the baby, I looked over to see him sitting in his chair with tears running down his face. (It was the first time in 15 years of marriage that I had seen him cry.) I convinced him to come sit on the bed with me and just put my arms around him. What a sad, bittersweet moment - not really knowing how to comfort someone who is feeling the same way you do, but grateful at the same time to feel more connected with him.

A loss like this is hard on a woman because she's been reminded or been thinking hundreds of time a day about the little life inside her and then it's somehow just gone. It's hard on a man because he has to deal with a death and then watch his wife go through some scary stuff on the physical side of it. It's also very difficult to kiss someone goodbye going into surgery, helpless as to what the outcome will be.

The same nurse came into my room later that afternoon with a little memory box. She took footprints of our baby and pictures of him in a little sac/cocoon. There were poems and pins of little hands and feet in the box, along with a little white blanket and the sac he wore during the picture. I'm not sure how many times I'll go back to look at it - it's painful to see, but I'm still grateful to have it.

Here is the little guy - he died at 16 weeks and weighed 1.2 ounces and was 4 inches long. The first picture shows how big he was in comparison to my lens cover. The second is the one the nurse took. The third is of his footprints.







I haven't been able to bring myself to naming him yet - that makes things so much more final for me and I'm not quite ready for all of that. The pain of this loss is too fresh and my emotions too unstable to go there yet. Soon, I hope.

i'm a survivor

Although I really don't feel that way right now - I guess I have somehow managed to stay alive and keep going in spite of the circumstances.

After the past two days, God has answered only two of my prayers positively - I'm not dead and this ordeal is finally over (at least the physical part.

Here's a brief recap:

Monday I awoke to contractions and spotting. Spent most of the morning messing around with my sister-in-law's Christmas cards, just to keep my mind off the pain in my lower back and abdomen. I finally called hubby around 1 pm after I started bleeding slightly. My father-in-law came over shortly after that to pick the boys up.

Contractions started in heavy around 2:30 and I passed the baby easily. It remained in the sac, but the placenta would not budge loose. I let hubby nap downstairs for about an hour until I got sick of laying in the tub freezing. I wasn't bleeding a whole lot at this point, but I knew that it would continue like this for hours if the placenta didn't detach. By a little before 4 pm, I finally told him we need to go in. Nothing was happening but blood loss.

I ended up with severe contractions on the way in - every bump killed. And I was losing more and more blood - filling up my three-year-old's diaper by the time we made the five-mile trek to the Emergency Room. I was able to walk in and plop down on a wheelchair, lucid during all the intake questions and blood pressure check (107/85).

I ended up with a wonderful, no-nonsense type of nurse who didn't seem phased by the amount of blood. After some time (1/2 hour maybe?) the ER doc came in and asked me to bear down to see if I could push everything out. All that came was a ton of clots. With the second push, I felt my body react and couldn't control my breathing (panting). I felt close to passing out. I broke out into a cold sweat, but the doc talked me into slowing my breathing and soon I was feeling like I was back in the room. He tried to ease the placenta out, but it still wouldn't come. I think shortly he tried again, but without any luck.

The sac was loose at that point and I asked him if he could check to see if the baby was a boy or a girl. I didn't get a good look at his reaction, but I think I rattled him a bit. It was a boy.

He made the decision to put me on hemobate (a medicine to induce contractions) which neither I nor the nurse wanted me to take. (We'd both been there done that with the side effects of diarrhea and nausea). But, my options were surgery right away or trying the drugs to see if my body could expel everything. As soon as they gave me the anti-nausea medication, the pain medication (dilatid) and the hemobate, I felt like I had a tons of bricks on my body. It was even difficult to breathe - I remember telling myself, "Breathe!" It was the strangest feeling - like my body was too relaxed.

I told the nurse that I was losing a lot of blood - I could feel it running out. She checked under the blanket and told me I was sitting in a pool. I think the doctor was called back in and once he saw my blood pressure (70/62) they called the OB doc in right away. Sometime in there my sister-in-law arrived (she works in that particular emergency room). I was a bit foggy at that point, but do remember having to poo and not being able to - only pushing out more clots. I had been hooked up to two different IV's at that point - one for blood and one for fluid. I was wheeled to surgery within a half hour.

I think it was some time around 6 pm when I got to the operating room, where I promptly threw up (what a waste of a good bakery roll). The poor anesthesiologist had to rethink his plan at that point. I had to have a breathing tube inserted once I was under, which left me with a very sore throat for a couple days.

Apparently the surgery went well, but I must have taken longer than expected to come out of anesthesia because my SIL even came down to recovery to check on me. (I'm so thankful she was there to talk w/hubby while I was in surgery - that would have been a long time to be alone). The doc said the placenta was already detached by the time I got to surgery, which was a huge blessing because he only had to ease it out and then do a quick scrape to make sure there was no remaining tissue. He told hubby I wouldn't bleed much afterward (not like the six weeks of last time.)

I got to my room around 8 pm and SIL stayed with us for awhile. I actually felt pretty good at that point - slight cramping but not much bleeding. The only thing that hurt was my throat and both shoulders where I'd received injections - one for the dilatid and the other I'm guessing in the OR.

It was a long night though. The pump for the IV made noises similar to remote control cars - every six seconds. The blood pressure cuff went off every half hour until midnight and then every hour after that. When I couldn't sleep, I remember thinking to myself, "Why didn't we look at the baby?"

Finally at 2 am, I got something to help me sleep, but was awakened at 6 am by the nurse checking on me. At 7 am, they drew blood to check my hemoglobin levels (at 7.9 - not good) and my blood pressure was still very low (80s/60s). My OB doc came in and said that I might need another unit of blood if my BP didn't get better. (Already had two.) He said he'd stop back in to check on me later that afternoon and then they'd decide if I'd be able to go home.

Hubby came and spent the whole day with me. It was relaxing at first, just chatting and watching TV, but after awhile, the getting up every 45 minutes to pee got very annoying. As did my low BP - especially since I was feeling fine. No dizziness. No light-headed feelings. That afternoon a very sweet nurse brought the baby in for us to see. He was much bigger than I anticipated. Looked so peaceful and perfect. (I will share a bit more of this in a later blog - along with pictures.)

My OB doc never did show up, which kind of ticked me off considering this was the third miscarriage I'd gone through with him as my doc. Finally at 5 pm, the evening shift nurse told me if he didn't come in after his clinic hours, she'd call to see if I could get released. He never came and she finally got a hold of him a little after 6 pm. What a relief to finally head home - after a more than a 24-hour ordeal.

I made it home to a quiet, peaceful house with orders to get my hemoglobin checked in a few days and to do no heavy lifting for a couple weeks. What a relief. I slept like a baby that night - hubby's snoring or stealing covers didn't even phase me.

My sister-in-law told me a couple days later that the ER doctor said it was "touch and go" for awhile. I guess I didn't realize anyone else was worried. I felt like I was where I should be and never once questioned my safety. Even hubby said this was the best experience we'd had of all the miscarriages. That probably sounds weird, but we've been through many different scenarios with all the miscarriages and I think we both felt a peace about going in right away and letting those who deal with emergency situations do their jobs. Strange how you can be peaceful in spite of a chaotic circumstance.

Well, maybe not so strange after all. There were lots of friends and family praying at that point. I think we're all survivors, just by living this life on this planet. I've just been lucky enough to physically survive five miscarriages. The emotional survival is still to be determined.

out of control

I like to be in control. Of course, I know I can't control my fate, my life, my cravings for chocolate, when I have to pee and many other things. But that doesn't mean I don't want to.

But right now, what I mostly want is to control my emotions. And it was very apparent last night that I can't. It's a tad embarrassing.

We were nearing the end of our small group meeting and I was pretty proud of myself (note to self: pride comes before a fall) for making it through the whole video without losing it. In reality, I was a bit dizzy and couldn't even look at the screen, so I just stared at my knitting and kept my fingers busy. I really don't remember much of it - only wishing that I had stayed home and how thankful I was that I wasn't asked to share anything about what I heard.

Then, the group leader randomly asked one couple to share their story of salvation. No big deal, right? Until the wife mentions how they had a hard time getting pregnant. I swear the whole room probably heard me suck in my breath. I stared at my sister-in-law across the room and felt like my eyes were about to bug out of my head. I could feel hubby's arm around me, but could not will the tears to stop. I tried so hard. Held my breath. Bit my cheek. Squeezed that yarn. But it was no use - I had to escape the room.

All in the middle of this poor girl's testimony.

How rude. But, it was probably less rude than bursting into sobs right in front of everybody and humiliating myself. I made it to the bathroom and let the tears fall - not even sure how long I was in there, but it was long enough to miss the rest of the session and the prayer. Thankfully I found a washcloth in the vanity drawer and doused my face with cold water to try remove some of the red splotches so I could feel a little safer in leaving the room to grab my knitting and my jacket and skidaddle.

I told hubby on the way home that I felt so stupid - and I still do. Clearly, I know my situation and my reaction are probably understandable and even could be expected, but I still feel stupid. And I can still feels the stares from group members who may or may not have known what was going on. I hope they can all forgive me for losing it.

Although, if you never had control in the first place, can you really lose it?

positively negative

I have come to the realization that, although I tend to be an optimist, I am not a positive person.

Or rather, I am not as creative in being positive. I write my best poetry in my least favorite season - spring - and usually around themes of suffering or sorrow or anger. My most effective blog posts are composed while in pain. I communicate hurt better than healthiness. And my complaints are more humorous than my praises.

I am positively negative.

In other words, the things that are not-so-great about my life or life in general, can be turned into something helpful and emotive. I guess it's better than being a positive person with a negative influence.

I wonder why honesty about hurts and negativity touch us more than a rah-rah speech. Perhaps it's because someone else can recognize humanity and failings in the confessor. Perhaps it's because others can see themselves and not feel looked down upon. Or perhaps it's that we learn the lesson (whatever it may be) more readily through a message of positive negativity - peace in spite of pain, humor in spite of heartache and joy in spite of trials.

Creativity apparently comes from angst. Perhaps it's when I need to vent most. Or when I need the remedy of putting my struggles and frustrations out there - sort of a therapy session via writing. Or perhaps I'm just vain and like to see my own words.

I made that last part up - what vain person would want others to even see that they struggle or don't have it "all together?"

What I do have together I owe in large part to the words that come out when I don't. That's positively negative.

getting the best of me

I have finally figured out that I’m outnumbered. Four kids against one mom is just plain unfair odds. I can no longer keep tabs on four boys all at the same time.

One will dump out Lincoln Logs and run around trying to get everyone’s attention on him. (Any guesses?) Another one will lock himself in the bathroom with books and stay there until he’s discovered missing. One will be lost in a world of baseball cards, organizing and reorganizing and reciting endless statistics until you can hardly bare to hear any more about Chase Utley, Derek Jeter or Joe Mauer and where they were born, what their batting averages are and what size shoe they wear. The last one never leaves. I haven’t decided if that’s better or worse because his mouth never stops either.

But, unfortunately, being outnumbered isn’t the worst of it. I’m being outsmarted too.

It didn’t take them long to figure out the “Go ask your mom/Go ask your dad” game. It took even less time to realize that sending the youngest to ask for a snack is the most effective way to get candy. And they’ve also discovered that Mom can be easily wore down by endless requests from multiple kids. They stagger the begging just right so as to not be obvious, and then they time it perfectly to get a distracted affirmation to snacks or movies or playing video games. It’s really pure genius.

One boy has figured out how to escape the house whenever it comes time for chores or schoolwork, which is pretty much the whole day around here. He will do anything to avoid schoolwork, including playing with a younger brother who normally drives him crazy. He would rather go outside and rake leaves all day long than do his math. Ask him to pick up his room or do division problems and he will take the entire day. He can be found hours later, lost in space, surrounded by clothes that need to be folded and half-finished worksheets. He is the family foodie, but lately even taking away snacks hasn’t helped the procrastination.

Another one knows how to push everyone’s button, including mine. Five seconds ago, I told him if he didn’t finish his schoolwork, he wouldn’t be going to wrestling practice tonight, end of story. He simply looked at me and deadpanned, “What story?” He knows that calling one brother names will drive him crazy. He knows that singing songs wrong or out of tune will make another one insane. And the pummeling he usually takes doesn’t seem to stop him. There have been days when I would swear I can see the gleam in his eye as he tries to get me upset with him for whining or crying or being disrespectful.

One will interrupt everyone, not allowing anyone to work for more than five minutes at a time. He will sometimes throw things at us to get our attention, or he’ll start bumping the table or sometimes even run around the house singing “Little bit of chicken fried...” at the top of his lungs.

At times, I have all I can do to keep a straight face. But most times, I simply have to admit that they’re all getting the best of me. They’re just so much smarter than I am.

What I can’t figure out however, is if my kids are so smart, why I constantly fight to get them to do subtraction problems that they insist they don’t know how to do. And yet they can count exactly how many pieces of candy are left from their Halloween haul.

One child continually complains about any memorization, to the point that he’ll bang on his head and whine that he can’t remember. But, allow him to listen to the country music on the radio with Dad and he will repeat, line for line, lyrics that at best sound ridiculous coming from a grade-school boy. I’m still not sure if the point is to embarass his mother or to infuriate her with his ability to memorize song lyrics almost immediately and his inability to remember that nine times five is 45.

Another one will whine about every bit of work required of him. I have never met a kid whose normal voice (at least at home during the day) is so grating. “It’s too hard!” continually comes out of his mouth in a high-pitched squawk that you’d expect from a three-year-old girl with nasal issues.This same boy knows that he gets headaches if he cries too long. And still, one day last week he cried so much that he actually chapped his cheeks from all the salty tears and had to go to bed with Vaseline under his eyes.

All of this makes for some fun days. I can’t tell you how enjoyable it is to be outwitted by a six-year-old or find yourself humming some random Taylor Swift song because you’ve had three boys singing three of her songs at the top of their lungs all at the same time.

I sometimes wonder if at least a few of these kids couldn’t survive on Survivor. Outwit? No problem - if you’re not convinced, reread above. Outlast? Easy peasy - they have the stamina of bulls. Outplay? Well, they probably would have that one conquered too if it wasn’t for their father being Mom’s secret weapon.

There is hardly a day that goes by that I don’t thank the Lord for my spouse. I am admittedly not much of a kid person. I often find them difficult, draining and stress-inducing. My husband, on the other hand, somehow innately knows how to “handle” them. When I call him (at my wit’s end), describing what’s going on, he usually laughs (which doesn’t help much), but then gives me some sort of priceless advice as to whatever the situation requires. I can’t imagine what kind of pickle we’d be in if we were both like me. (Oh, that’s so hard to admit.) He enjoys figuring these kids out. I would rather lock them in the basement. He enjoys their antics. I would rather be knitting and have a clean house.

The only thing my meager kid-intelligence has been able to figure out is that these boys somehow have a strange attraction to getting into trouble. Or for doing exactly what they’re not supposed to.

Sound familiar? Seems that the Apostle Paul and I struggle with the same thing. What I want to do I do not do and I do what I don’t want to do. So, why should I be surprised that my children do the very same thing?

Tomorrow, rather than letting them get the best of me, I’m going to try to remember that they are (as hubby says) just KIDS. And I’m going to try to squelch my desire to run far, far away.

boys will be boys

I can't seem to squelch those male tendencies no matter how hard I try. Even worse than this - he started pointing the water to spray anyone who got close.

it's not fair

I can't wrap my head around unfairness. I'm not sure if it's the firstborn tendencies in me, but when things don't seem just, I get slightly peeved.

How is it fair to allow someone to get pregnant, have them deal with the emotions and struggles of trying to get through morning sickness and puking and tiredness and crabbiness, only to take the baby away once that person is finally feeling better? How fair is to allow someone to finally feel like she can relax, only to make her worst fears come true?

It's like running a race and making it almost halfway, finally hitting some good strides, only to be disqualified for some bizarre and unknown reason. It's like dribbling past half-court, finally hitting your shots without using the backboard - even a three-pointer or two, and the coach takes you out of the game, without an explanation.

It's just not fair. I don't expect life to be fair, but really it should be for me in this instance. I don't expect fairness in how people treat me, or how much money I bring in from rental property I can or can't rent, or how many stupid drivers I come across on the road. But, after nine pregnancies and four miscarriages, I expected a little fairness this time. I expected after making it past 12 weeks that everything would be fine. I expected after pulling maternity clothes out and switching my wardrobe around because nothing fit anymore, that I would get to use it. I expected after finally telling the boys they would be having a little brother or sister, that I wouldn't hear bad news from the doctor the very next day. I expected that the prayers of close friends who knew about our situation would work.

People have babies all the time. It's not like I expected some sort of miracle. Or maybe I did. Is that too much to expect?

Is it any wonder that I'm pissed off that my expectation weren't met? It is any wonder that I'm a little angry that I survived the first trimester without ripping anyone's head off or puking all my guts out and I still don't get a baby to hold or nurse or smell? Is it any wonder that I feel cheated? Or betrayed? Or treated unfairly?

Life sucks, mainly because it's not fair.

music in my ears

The Quarry Worship Team played a song that has been pounding in my head since Sunday morning. I can't seem to shake it. It got a little irritating until this evening when I realized that perhaps it was in my ears for a reason.

The song has this chorus:

No weeping. No hurt or pain.
No suffering.
You hold me now. You hold me now.
No darkness. No sick or lame.
No hiding.
You hold me now.
You hold me now.

Unfortunately, I don't feel held. I wish I did. I am trying my best to cling to the idea that I am held whether I want to be or not and whether I feel arms around me or not. I am numb right now, with a beat of anger coursing through my veins. It is playing to the tempo of the chorus above. And I can't make it stop, even with silent screaming.

No weeping. No hurt or pain. No suffering.
But in the here and now there is more weeping and more hurt than I can handle.

Here's the song that has become my heart's cry.

the joes

Overheard today at the lunch table: Boy #4: I'm Mo Jo. Boy #4: I'm Joe Cool - he's the coolest. Boy #4: Well, then I'm Joe Bad. Mom (in her head): I think you're both Joe Blow.

it's nice to have boys...

who have a sense of humor.

Boy #1: "Mom! I think I dislocated my toe!" Boy #2: "What does that mean - you can't find it?"

dream fulfilled

Walking up to Cub Foods today I spied the bell ringer. I gave each boy a dollar to put into the red kettle. After we got inside, one boy asked me who the money was for. After I explained, another one said, "Wow! I've always wanted to give to the Salvation Army!"

it's nice to have boys...

who don't appreciate all the money you save by cutting their hair. The haircuts didn't go so well tonight - "You cut my hair too short! I look like a dimrod!"

boys say the funniest things...

‎"Mom, you're hideous."

"Why would you say that?"

" 'Cause you're a girl and it's a girl's name."

When I told Mr. 3-year-old that it meant ugly, he got a shocked look on his face and then he giggled. Typical boy. I feel so pretty right now.

good question

Are you on a certain website too much when your six-year-old says something stupid and then immediately tells you, "You better not put that on Facebook!"

siding

Here's what we've been doing most of the late summer and fall - siding and painting. I'm pretty happy with this product from Menards - it's a pre-primed engineered wood lap siding from called LP Smartside.

It wasn't difficult to install, just took some time (well, most of the summer really). I only got involved when it came time to pick paint colors, caulk the seams and paint the trim and siding.

In case you're wondering, the paint colors are Fairview Taupe on the siding and Edgecomb Gray for the trim. Both are Benjamin Moore colors.

Next summer we (meaning hubby) will be putting cedar shakes on the gable end and on the dormers in front. I haven't decided yet if I'm going to stain it gray or let it age naturally.

bridging the gap

There is a generational gap of gargantuan proportions in our home. The old folks are just not understanding the young ‘uns. Or it could be that the youngsters are just plain crazy.

Recent snow is a prime example. Number three woke up nearly unable to speak because he was so excited about the temperature change that caused liquid to turn to white crystals and accumulate on our lawn. Even though there was barely half an inch, he immediately began digging through his closet trying to find winter boots and snow pants. After destroying the bedroom, he headed outdoors to pull out the snowboards.

Before questioning his sanity, I sat mesmerized that the child who can never find anything (not even his underwear most days) managed to pull together an entire outdoor ensemble more appropriate for 20 below than for the 34-degree October day we were blessed with.

Thankfully the snow didn’t last long. But the next morning, the same kid was looking out the window chewing out the weatherman, mumbling something about doing his job better. (Don’t ask me where they get this stuff - I gave up trying to figure out the mysteries of the world a long time ago.)

All four boys were delighted with the snow. Even the one who couldn’t get his snow boots on. (Turns out he has grown, again, and they no longer fit. Imagine that.) A few minutes later he traipsed out to the garage to get his rubber boots. Problem solved.

The only mentally stable person in the house that day didn’t stay that way long, after first viewing snow on the ground when she had siding to paint and then seeing the pile of wet, muddy “winter” clothes in the entryway.

A few days later, all four boys were clammering to cut into the pumpkins Grandma and Grandpa had given them. (Yes, we’ve had a weird fall in Minnesota.) I had visions of seeds and string and pumpkin guts all over the kitchen floor. And I knew it wouldn’t be long before someone declared a pumpkin fight - seeds, string and all. Then they’d still want to roast the seeds, even after most ended up on the floor.

Number four was adamant that I make him pumpkin pie. All day long, all I heard was him begging to cut up his pumpkin and bake a pie. The only way I got out of it was the “discovery” that I had only one egg in the fridge. Whew.

Number two was insistent that I couldn’t use his pumpkin this year to actually make pumpkin. He was going to carve a jack-o-lantern. Hmmm, boys loose in the kitchen with vegetables (that weigh as much as they do) and sharp knives suddenly didn’t seem like such a good idea. The trouble is neither did cutting up three gigantic pumpkins. Either way involved mess and work. And four stinky boys peeking over my shoulder and each other’s for about three minutes before someone bumps someone else’s pumpkin and World War III starts in my kitchen didn’t exactly seem fun either.

Both the snow and the pumpkins were thrills for the boys. I was slightly less excited about the hassle factor they were creating in my world. I couldn’t do much else that day anyway, so I did the next best thing.

I took a nap.

By the time I got up, number two had actually completed his jack-o-lantern and removed all the seeds, setting them aside to soak. Somehow he managed not to cut himself and somewhat more miraculously, managed to not smear pumpkin everywhere, including his brothers’ hair.

The other two, upon learning that they could still make pumpkin seeds, promptly decided that they were going to can the carving and make pumpkin instead. I’m not sure if it was gluttony or sloth that made that decision, but I’m pretty sure I came out on the losing end. Mom is one to bake the pumpkin, puree the pumpkin, make the pumpkin pie and bake the pumpkin bread. I felt a little bit like the Little Red Hen. Who will help me eat the pumpkin pie and snack on the pumpkin bread? You guessed it - four hungry little boys with pumpkin seed breath.

I’m not sure at what point in my life I went from getting excited about innocent things like snow and pumpkins to judging the value of something by how much work it will require of me or how much of a mess it will create.

I used to love the smell of Play-Do; now I cringe at the crumbs it leaves behind. I used to make snowmen outside with carrots and an old scarf; now I hate to waste a perfectly good vegetable or have to wash the scarf in a week. I used to love baths; now I can’t help but gulp at wasting water. I used to be a kid; now I am the Mom.

I think I need to build a bridge.

boys say the funniest things...

Grandma tried to give Number Four a hug before Grandpa and he wanted nothing to do w/it. When he got to Grandpa, he stuck his arms out wide and said, "I have room for two people!"

hugs

Grandma tried to give Number Four a hug before Grandpa and he wanted nothing to do w/it. (Most of my boys have been serious "Grandpa's boys" at that age.) When he got to Grandpa, he stuck his arms out wide and said, "I have room for two people!"

He must get that from his father.

it's personal

This morning, God made my day. I was the recipient of a very blunt, sort of personal question - and all I could do was laugh. It was exactly what I needed to start my day off. I knew the asker wasn't asking just to be nosy (okay maybe a little nosy) but I'm pretty sure it wasn't the only reason.

Our little internet chat made me chuckle, helped me through some junk and gave me the promise of another person's prayer for me to work through some more junk. This person, who proudly claims to not be a "people" person, really was God with skin on this morning - a people person whether she knew it or not, if only for a few minutes.

I truly appreciate no-nonsense, matter-of-fact people who don't beat around any sort of shrub. People who will ask a blunt question. People who will tell you exactly what they're thinking, sometimes whether or not you ask for their opinion.

And usually, they don't get upset if you don't agree with them. Those are the kind of people that I like to have in my life - brutally honest, blunt people who can speak the truth in love. (Not an easy gift or talent, I might add.)

Sometimes I need to hear stuff like that and like today, welcome it. Other times, I just get ticked and won't listen, or at least won't listen right away. But today, I'm so grateful that someone was wise enough to see through me, brave enough to ask a personal question and kind enough to hear the answer, give some counsel and prayer.

After all, is it really supposed to be so personal?

swing batter, batter...

Here's why I really love Facebook. I posted this as a status update:
If life hands you lemons, make lemonade. So what do you do when life throws you a curveball?

Here are the responses I got:

Catch it and throw it back?

If you're the batter, BUNT... or learn to hit a curve ball outta the park!! :)

That last comment if fantastic...too bad it is not so easy to do, but what a goal.

Love the comments...and pray. Don't get hit in the face with the ball.

Swing...you might hit it out of the park and then you will be the teams hero....and if not your team will stand there and pat you on the back and tell you great job...

(ME) I was sort of thinking about just quitting the game...

It's too easy to just quit..the curve ball is not the only one in the game..there may be a nice slow pitch with the next throw and you can knock it right out of the park..

If it's a strike...swing!! what do you have to lose?!

(ME) I think i got hit by the pitch. ;)

Will start to pray for you to be ready to get up to home plate again.

Walk's as good as a hit! Have quick feet on the bases! See ya at home!!


It's always interesting to get other people's perspectives, and often makes a person feel better just to hear some positive pep talk. Not sure if I'm ready to get back in the game yet, but at least I know some good coaches.

wrestling with god

For nearly nine months now, I have been a Wrestling Mom. That does not mean that I am the wrestler, but rather the Chauffeur, the Shoe-tier, the Bloody-nose Wiper, the Cheerleader, the Photographer, the very inept Coach and occasionally I might even take a dodgeball to the head.

Those just some of the duties required of a Wrestling Mom. Another one is Parade Walker. Or Fund Raiser. Or even Sweaty Clothes Washer. They’re all just loads of fun, pun intended.

I now know what a half-nelson is, how to recognize clasping, the scoring system in freestyle wrestling and have even had to demonstrate “the pancake” to two boys who missed practice one night. (And no, it’s not sitting on top of them with my 65-pound weight advantage, although there are days when it’s tempting.)

We have been traveling to local practices, and not-so-local programs. We’ve participated in a few tournaments and two different styles of wrestling. Hubby has even purchased wrestling mats for the basement floor. (I tend to think padded walls would be a better investment.) We’ve even made a road trip out of the sport, where the actual time of wrestling was shorter than one potty break along the way.

The best part of all this wrestling though, is the energy the boys burn, which makes my job as Wrestling Mom much easier. They can channel their aggression into wrestling with each other, instead of the normal punching and kicking I used to see. (Well, who am I kidding - they still do that, only now they throw a few takedowns in the mix as well.) They come home from practice too exhausted to argue about bedtime or beg for snacks, and usually too tired to pick up their stinky shoes and bags. There is a whole new odor that goes along with this sport - Eau de Wrestling Room can fry nose hairs. I’m told it rivals hockey gear, but really don’t want to put it to the test.

I sometimes wonder if we’re overdoing it by wrestling year round, but figure any sport found in the Bible can’t be all bad. After all, Jacob was a wrestler, and apparently somewhat good.

What I find most interesting about that account in Exodus 32 is the idea that Jacob actually wrestled with God. And I’m pretty sure it’s not included in Scripture as an example of a Biblically-sanctioned sport. The fact that Jacob wrestled with God has extreme significance in my life as well.

I can actually be a Wrestling Mom who wrestles, with God that is.

I can struggle with whatever, even to the point of grappling with God about it - and not have to feel guilty because I am struggling with something. Like Jacob, I might wrestle overnight. Or weeks even. I’m not sure there’s a time limit on wrestling with God. Periods, maybe. I might take a break or a breather, and be back on the mat using all my mental and physical strength to do some more battle.

Am I battling against God? If I’m honest, yes I am. I fight against what I don’t want for my life, or fight for what I do. Sometimes I’m raving mad - at my situation, at God, at my life. Other times, I’m fighting out of grief or fear or even just plain old stubbornness. You’d be amazed at how far a strong will (obstinance) can take you in a wrestling match. Or let me put that another way - you’d be amazed at how long it takes to give in, even if I’m already beat and have one and a half shoulders to the mat.

It would be easy to look at Jacob’s wrestling match and conclude that I should attempt to outwrestle God. But that’s not the point.

Jacob got up in the middle of the night and sent his family and possessions across a stream. (How’s that for a wake-up call?) The Bible doesn’t tell us why Jacob was alone, but it does give us, in Chapter 31, a good idea of what was going through his mind - fear. He was afraid because he thought his brother was coming after him. And probably a bit unsure of God’s promise: “I am with you and will watch over you wherever you go...I will not leave you until I have done what I promised you.” (Gen. 28:15)

I wonder if Jacob purposely sent everyone away because he needed to pray and think. Difficult to do that with the distraction of hundreds of cows, sheep, goats and donkeys, not to mention servants. Perhaps he just needed to be alone.

That is when God (the opponent) initiated the wrestling. The Bible doesn’t give us the how or why, just that they wrestled until daybreak. What I take away from the sparse details of this hours-long bout is that God will actually meet with us to wrestle. The struggle can produce stronger faith - will I resist Him or will I trust Him? And even if I resist, He still pursues me.

I might not be able to work out my issues any other way than by battling through them. Accepting some struggles does not always come easy. (Even though James tells me to consider my trials joy for what they can do for my faith.) Where God’s grace comes is in allowing a match in the first place, and in showing me who I am and who He is. He might even leave me with a souvenir scar to remind me of what I’ve learned.

God wrestled with Jacob and his fears just as He allows me to wrestle with Him about my fears and doubts. I find it comforting that He would do that - even if I’m only a Wrestling Mom who knows a grand total of two moves: falling on my knees and begging for mercy.

boys say the funniest things...

‎"Mom, are you a lazy boy?"

"No."

"Then why are you sitting down?"

Because I... well I really couldn't think of a good reason.

it's nice to have boys...

especially when they fight about stupid things.

"Mom, you really need to put [Boy Number One] in brain school! You need to get him re-educated to a smart person!"

Apparently there was a disagreement about which was the "right" way to scooter around the garage.

it's nice to have boys...

because only a boy would stick air gun pellets in BOTH of his ears and cry to his mom that it was an "ACCIDENT." I did not react with laughter like his father did.

boys say the funniest things...

Just made peanut butter rice krispie bars. Number Four says, while was standing on a stool watching me, "Man, I'm so tired from all dis work!"

boys say the funniest things...

Number Four told me my head looked like a meatball. When I asked why, he said "Cuz it's in a circle."

Nice way to start the day.

it's nice to have boys...

and it'd be nicer to borrow them to somone.

#3 mouths off, so #4 whacks him, #2 tries to stick up for #4 and #1 yells at them all. #3 shoves #4, then #1 and #2 hold down #3 so #4 can get another "free" whack in.

boys say the funniest things...

I pulled my pickle jars out of the canner and Number Four told me, "If you put my butt in there, I would say, 'My buns are burning! My buns are burning!' "

I don't even want to know where this came from.

romance is dead

Overhead in an Omaha hotel (while in a double bed):

Hubby: "These beds are for newlyweds, not 14-year-weds."

Me: "Hon, today was 15 years."

I let him squirm for awhile before telling him that I too had forgot our anniversary. And the sad thing is that we were both okay with it. No roses or chocolate or jewelry to celebrate 15 years of marriage. We simply rolled over and slept.

That was gift enough.

bedroom flooring

So, I have another detour in my plans to get to the bathroom project upstairs. Instead, we switched gears (again) and starting installing the maple hard wood flooring in the upstairs bedrooms.

It's pretty rustic looking. Not sure if I'm in love with it, but hubby absolutely is thrilled with it.

We purchased it from an Amish guy in Wisconsin and the price was very reasonable. Installation so far has been decent, but we have two more rooms to go.

The hardest part? Cutting the flooring for around the wood floor vents. Very thankful right now that we're able to cut outside on the porch and that we have both a table and a compound miter saw. Can't imagine doing this project without either of these.

So thank you Jet and Dewalt for building great tools that work well, even when you work them hard.

laundry floor reveal

Here's the laundry room floor - complete just in time for the delivery next week.

I CAN'T WAIT!! Hauling 14 loads of laundry to the laundromat is not exactly a pleasant experience, given all the smells and my phobia of overly perfumed detergent and fabric softener. Can't tell you how many times my clothes came out smelling like something other than my lavender-scented natural detergent, or how many times I had to pass on an open washer because it was COVERED inside with cat or dog hair.

Laundromats are not easy on the pocket book, especially when washing machines have a tendency to eat dollar bills. Hauling around quarters got to be a bit tricky when you're trying to juggle hampers, soap and a bag of change.

Okay, okay, I'll stop complaining now. Here's what the flooring looks like. I did a little inlaid rug pattern in the walkway. My only regret is that I didn't use a lighter colored grout. That way the design would have popped out more. But, I'm consoling myself by knowing that darker grout will hide more dirt since there seems to be a never-ending supply of it around here.

What you see in the background is supposed to be a mudroom shower and a big closet, but who knows when that will ever get done. I'm just happy to get a real laundry room, that I'm not even going to worry about it. :)

under garments

A recent conversation between me and Number Four.

"Mom – is underwear tighty whities?"
"Yep."
"Then I’m not wearing dem!" (This coming from the child who wears his undies on backwards most every day, and it doesn't seem to bother him.)

"Is all underwear tighty whities?"
"No, not boxers."
"I’m not talking ‘bout boxers!" (Apparently, boxers aren't underwear?)

"Is my underwear tighty whities?"
"Yep."
"But they’re not white!" (How do you argue with that?)

life's little disappointments

Number Three: Where are we going for summer vacation?

Me: Omaha.

Number Three: Are we going anywhere else?

Me: Nope.

Number Three: Oh man! I wanted to go to Mexico!

unfinished business

Right now, I probably have about twelve different “projects” that are waiting patiently for my undivided attention or my uninterrupted time, both of which are in rare supply these days.

I have a pair of knitted socks that were supposed to be a birthday gift for someone - only one sock is done. I have slate half laid out for a laundry room floor - mainly because I got stalled while trying to decide which direction to stagger the pieces. I have half a garden weeded, but that I’m blaming on mosquitoes. I nearly got carried away the other day after donating a half-pint of blood to the thirsty buggers.

There is a stack of magazines that I have (for two years now) intended to rip out pages of kitchen ideas, gardening tips, recipes or other inspirations for future projects (and so that I can get the pile away from my nightstand.) There are (well, I won’t even confess this number) tons of new books to read that I can’t seem to find the time for. Boy #2 got an ipod a month ago and I still haven’t loaded any songs from iTunes on it. I think he has actually forgot he even has it. It’s nearly July and I have yet to make new folders to file all of our 2009 paperwork.
To top it all off, my washer and dryer conked out on me two months ago. (You can only imagine the pile of clothes calling my name.) That problem cannot be resolved completely until the tile project is finished because hubby won’t let me buy new appliances until the flooring is done.

All of this adds up to unfinished business, and lots of it, in my life. Some of it irks me. Some of it stresses me out. Some of it, I’ve just plain given up on.

I sometimes wonder if I don’t have a slight ADD problem because it is very difficult for me to actually complete one thing before I move on to the next thing. Or before I HAVE to move on to the next thing. Then I realize that I’m a mother. In my world, motherhood equals a short attention span. There is no possible way to finish things when you have four kids (or probably any number of small children) at home. You are constantly being interrupted by requests for snacks, appeals to break up fights and those pesky meals that need to be prepared. Just when I get into a project like weeding, I’ll realize that it’s lunch time. Or rather I’ll be reminded by at least two carnivores that it’s time to eat. Then, after cleaning up all the crumbs, spilled water and cherry pits, I’ll get into, say tiling, only to realize that I should have started planning supper a half an hour earlier.
The interruptions are never-ending, which makes my unfinished business never-ending.

To be honest, it would probably be like this even in a kid-less world. I’d just find different things to interrupt me, like Facebook, coffee breaks and phone calls. Wait, I already do all that. The key, I think, is how I respond to the interruptions (and their end result.)

In his wonderful book, “The Rest of God”, author Mark Buchanan advises to “become hospitable to interruption.” I will never experience the possible blessing that God-ordained interruptions could hold for me if I get cranky about them or disregard them.

Sometimes those interruptions come in the form of flowering weeds. Sometimes from two boys with their fingers around each others’ necks. Or from another one, begging for animal crackers. And sometimes, it’s a phone call from a friend asking for prayer.

All of these interruptions will prevent me from doing whatever it was that I was doing. Temporarily. It is quite simply my choice as to whether I view them as intrusions or pauses. Buchanan advocates managing time less and paying attention more, drawing from Moses’ prayer in Psalm 90:12 - stopping to number our days aright. Or as the Message puts it: “Teach us to live wisely and well.”

A mother’s work is never done, but there will come an end to kissing boo-boos and making Play-do snakes. I choose to live wisely when I am unselfish with my time. “The world of the generous gets larger and larger while the world of the stingy gets smaller and smaller,” says Proverbs 11:24. The tradeoff is that the unfinished business can seem to grow in direct proportion to the amount of time I redeem for interruptions. But according to Buchanan, a generous person will actually have more time because she will give herself first to God and then to others. Or perhaps she simply looks at her time as something to give rather than something to hoard. Or she considers reading about Little Critter more important than finishing a blog entry.

Some interruptions are God’s way of letting me know He’s got some unfinished business with me - business that can’t be completed if I ignore them.

bottom of the wash...

A wet soggy mess is what I found the other day. Somehow, our 10-year-old washer conked out, leaving unspun clothes after it's demise. Which is just loads of fun when you live in the country, you're in the middle of a construction project AND you have four boys.

We purchased a new LG front load washer/dryer combo and had the delivery put back a month, hoping it would give me enough time to finish the new laundry room floor. I figured I could live without cabinets and doors in the room as long as the water was hooked up and the workhorses were running.

So I had to take a little detour in my plans to complete the upstairs bathroom. Now, I'm installing the same slate as in that room, in just a slightly different pattern. And hope to get it done in just under a month - otherwise my new appliances will be sitting in their boxes without a home or a job.

Wish me luck.

dinner table conversations

"Mom, how come you get all the cilantro in your sandwich?"

"How do you know I have cilantro?"

"It smells funny."

Something is seriously wrong with this kid. And his father. Cilantro-haters. Must be a stray gene somewhere.

mary, mary quite contrary...

Even though I’ve reached the ripe old age of Never-You-Mind, I still haven’t figured out this nursery rhyme. My tattered copy of The Complete Mother Goose doesn’t help at all. I want to know why Mary was so contrary.

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that she was gardening. That I get. I could be the Mary in “Mary, Mary quite contrary, how does your garden grow?” Only my response would more like this: with weeds galore and more in store and ten dirty toes in a row.

Never mind we haven’t had rain in, well, I’m getting to old to remember any more. Never mind that I have four little boys who want to “help.” And never mind that my hose doesn’t quite reach to the newly-moved garden that needed more sun.

And yes, I know the solution to problem number three is an easy fix - Wal-Mart is only five miles away. But, have you ever walked inside a store that contains Oreos, baseball cards and squirt guns with four boys? I’d rather lug my watering can with the broken nozzle to each little garden bed to refresh some not-so-fresh looking peppers and cabbage. (That problem also has a solution called Wal-Mart, but...)

Problem one I can’t fix. Problem two I can’t either. Well, I tried and I gave up. Well, okay I didn’t try very hard.

I had this BRIGHT idea that four boys could have fun planting their own rows next to my garden with the seeds I had left over. But it took some doing.

First the ground was too hard. Then it was too hot. Then it was too cold. Then I just didn’t feel like it. Hubby got the ground tilled up (for the second time) for me, or rather for them.

I figured the boys could experience some real-life science, real-life chores and maybe even some real-life sweat. Who knew you could get so much out of one simple little project? Like procrastination, irritation, bug bites and sunburn. It’s enough to water MY garden, let alone four more hodge-podge rows of who knows what. Because of course, then comes the weeding. (I can almost hear the whining already and see all the dirt clods getting thrown around. I’m raising boys, can you tell? Anything can turn into a war and then into a wrestling match.)

I think I know why Mary was contrary.

She probably needed a hammock in the shade and a few servants to tend her garden. And, I’m guessing she didn’t have rows of watermelon, pumpkin, two beans, one huge mass of carrots where the seed packet got dumped out and a puny little tomato that got trampled, twice.

Remember, she had pretty maids all in a row. I have pretty dirty faces all in a row. Well seriously I don’t know if you can even call them rows - they sort of zig and zag a bit. But, they’re labeled whose is whose with favorite rocks and sticks and even a hoe handle.

Now they want to plant apple seeds and raisins and whole dandelion heads. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if one of the littler boys got planted, head first.

If I’m being honest, my life isn’t much different than Mary the Contrary. I make big plans. I get crabby about said plans. I work, work, work to get plans done, but do not enjoy one single second of the work. And then I find something more to plan.

The good news is that God has a funny way of tapping you on the shoulder sometimes and forcing you to smell the dirt clod that just got thrown in your face. After you get the grit out of your mouth, be sure to look around closely. You might just find four delighted boys poking holes in dirt, babbling non-stop about what their row contains and how they’re going to eat an entire watermelon this summer.

And you know what? They can eat the whole thing. Life’s too short to be contrary. Or stingy. The four boys God planted in my life are more fun than silver bells and cockle shells.

That’s how my garden grows.

vanity for bathroom

Now we get to find some muscles to help us move this upstairs. It's heaaaavy.

Note: it would have been extremely helpful if we would have purchased this BEFORE all the plumbing and sheetrock was in. A furniture height vanity requires plumbing to be about six inches higher. It also means that the electrical outlets are too low so I can't use the granite backsplash that came along with it.

I think I have a solution though. Stay tuned.

bathroom floor finished

Here's the slate floor - all installed and sealed.

I'm very happy how it turned out.

casualty three

Here's why I love living on acreage.

This child actually got the scissors out to remedy the situation, but eventually (after cutting off a few hunks) decided that Mom had better get in on the fun.

The first thing Mom did of course, was to grab the camera. His reaction was somewhat appropriate.























Yep, that would be about 25 burrs stuck into his lovely, curly hair (that looks oh-so-attractive here.)








The good news is that Mom knew exactly what to do. But only because a few days earlier, she too was caught several times with burrs stuck into her ponytail and bangs.

For future reference: do not pull the burr. That will only tangle things more. Pull the hair close to the roots, and it will gently slide right out of the burr. Eventually, enough will come loose and the burr will come free with little to no hair loss. Scissors are not a solution.

help me please!

These hands were made for working, and that's just what they'll do. One of these days these hands are gonna fall off.

I actually had to go to church looking like this. The mortar simply would not come off and I was too tired to scrub and too sore to care.

Feel free to donate to the "Mom Needs a Manicure Fund." (I have never had one, but I think I might need it after this job is done.)

snooze

This is proof that children can sleep anywhere, in any position. At least he didn't have the finger up his nose.

casualty two

I'm starting to wonder if I'm accident-prone.

This is what happened when I went garage-saling yesterday. I usually take only one child out at a time (the rest are confined with snacks, 25-cent toys and a three-year-old singing to entertain them). After 10 minutes of arguing, it was finally determined whose turn it was to escape. I was a bit frustrated by that point and ended up slamming the van door on my shin.

Limping across the road, I noticed #3 was lolly-gagging and I turned to see if he was going to make it or not, not wanting to miss out on any "bargains."

Unfortunately, my knee-eye coordination must also be defective, because just as I told him to hurry up I managed to walk right into the hitch on the back of a minivan.

This is the end result.
























But the skirt I got was kind of cute.

casualty one

This is what happens when 11-year-olds play baseball with five-year-olds.

This child is usually...shall we say...a bit dramatic, so I didn't even comfort him when he came in crying. No blood. No broken bones. No need for tears. (That's our motto around here.)

The next day, I told him to get up in the bathroom and wash his face off. (It looked a bit like dirt.) Only after it didn't come clean (and I very nearly chewed him out for not listening to me) did I realize he'd actually got hurt the day before.

So, I did the only thing I knew that could remedy the situation.

I went out and played 500 with the boys. I was the batter. And the baseball turned into a tennis ball.

Problem solved.

bathroom

Finally got started on the slate for the bathroom floor. Here's the progress so far.

my apologies

Not finding anything remotely humorous in my life right now to write about.

If/when I do, I'll be back.

morning glories

One of my greatest pleasures in life is sleeping in. A good day would start out by being able to stay curled under my down comforter until at least 9 am.

Notice I say would be because it’s next to impossible to sleep late in a house of early-risers, some of whom drag themselves out of bed at ungodly hours - usually somewhere around 6:15 am.

Hubby will often find the littlest one next to the tub, waiting to give him his towel after showering. (Don’t be tempted to think he’s being quite helpful - he’s only there to sit next to the heater.) The two middles ones will be downstairs, fighting over who gets to pour his cereal first, who gets which blanket on the couch, and on a good day, they’ll yell at each other to be quiet so they don’t wake up Mom. On days like those, I’ve finally learned to pray before I get out of bed.

Did I mention (or did you assume) that I am not a morning person. I do not get up and get going willingly, and never without coffee. I could work a night shift much more easily than I could get to work by 8 am. Night owls are usually like that. And we’ve usually figured out that 11 pm is the only time the house is quiet and we can actually get something done. Something that will stay done until morning.

Occasionally I do get the opportunity to sleep in, but so many things have to fall exactly into place that the odds are about one in 978,643 that it could happen. First, there has to be milk and cereal available. And clean bowls. The temperature can’t be below 68 degrees in the house. One child can’t have woke up grumpy (that should show you how impossible this is.) And there has to be a new toy, game or activity to entertain them. Quietly.

You’d think checkers would be a quiet activity. Wrong. I have waked to wood game pieces being pelted into the walls and banshee howling by one who got hit. You’d also think that Qubo’s cartoons would keep them quiet, but only if all four are in pleasant moods and willing to compromise on a seating arrangement.

The only thing that seems to work is if at least two are sick. (The oldest is off reading a book somewhere and the non-sick one knows better than to bug the others.) Then they just sort of sit there. No one pesters anyone. No yelling. No whining. No noise. I’d consider them true morning glories, if it weren’t for puke buckets and sick breath.

I’m 11 years into this raising kids business and God has finally gifted me with the ability to tune out just about anything. It’s a great talent. Not only does it allow me to catch a few extra winks in the morning, so I can get up at, say 7:30 am, but I can ignore someone whistling the theme song to “The Andy Griffith Show.” I don’t even flinch when something bangs or smacks or goes splat. I can tune out whining so well that I miss noises the van makes. And I’ve taught Boy #1 how to make oatmeal. That trick works well until it’s time to divvy up frozen blueberries - that’s a Mom-sized job because no one dares to argue with me about whether they got less than their brother.

I’ve been praying that those little eyeballs wouldn’t pop open every day at the crack of dawn. But, so far that selfish prayer hasn’t been answered.

Complain all you want about teenagers. I’m looking forward to those years - they might actually sleep in!

confession #789

I am such a bad mom that my three-year-old actually fell asleep on the bathroom rug waiting to get his hinder wiped.

pack of lies

Recent things that have happened in my little sheltered world have led me to ponder...lies. And how many I've let myself believe, or not thought deeply enough about them to figure out how I've been duped.

Death, for instance. It is a lie. A temporary departure to another place - but just because the "person" is gone as we know it, doesn't mean he/she is dead. Gone, yes. Dead, no. I'm so grateful for a faith that reaffirms that we have life after death and for some, a better life because of death. Sounds almost ridiculous, but I firmly believe that is true. Life on this earth, while it can be blessed, is certainly not a treat all of the time, but life in heaven...probably what life is meant to be - communion with God, praise with angels, dancing with Jesus and more than we can imagine. No doubt about it - death is a lie.

Another lie? Sin masquerading as a "how I was made." This can take any form - a temper flaring, homosexuality, gluttony, lust, greed, envy...okay, should I just name the seven deadly sins and be done with it? We tend to want to justify so much of our misdeeds - I was created with a bit of an anger problem so therefore I'm not sinning by yelling at my kids or wanting to sucker punch an idiot - it's just how I was made! Lie, lie lie. I can't help wanting what other people have that I don't have. I just have expensive tastes. Nope, sorry. Another lie. I'm not hurting anyone by peeking at this dirty picture or by daydreaming about someone more romantic. Yep, you guessed it - big fat lie.

How about this one? Christianity is all about a set of rules. Ha! I laugh in the face of legalism. Okay, so the 10 Commandments are in. The Golden Rule is in, but adult baptism vs. infant? Grape juice or wine? Free will or predestination? Sabbath vs. Sunday? King James vs. NIV? (Okay, that last one is pretty hard to argue in favor of KJV, but I know plenty of people who try.) Now, this analogy isn't working as well as I'd like, but I'm simply trying to point out that where legalism fails is that no one can make faith about a list of dos and don'ts - eating pork might not be right for me, but I'm not about to bonk you over the head for having a BLT. Certain things are right and certain things are wrong and most everything else falls under a gray area that one has to determine for oneself. Do I go to a Lutheran church? A Baptist? A Messianic Jewish temple? Can't tell you that one. But I can tell you - that isn't a decision I make for you or one that I can tell you is right or wrong. That's the Holy Spirit's job.

God isn't big enough to handle ________. Truth or lie? Pretty pointless to believe in a God who ISN'T big enough to handle whatever problems we have or encounter. And yet, we somehow manage to have an image in our heads of a washed-up old man, pestering us to do His will and picking and choosing which prayers he'll answer. Yuck - give me an all-powerful, all-knowing and all-loving Father any day. Even if I don't understand all He does or allows to happen, I still know he is in control. Sometimes that alone is enough to answer my questions. Sometimes it isn't, but I'm pretty sure he's okay with that.

Today, I just feel liking sticking my tongue out at the devil and saying "Liar, liar, pants on fire!" Someday his will be. And mine won't. And that's the truth.

boys say the funniest things...

Just spent the last 10 minutes trying to argue with a three-year-old about what his "job" is and he's not liking my "going to bed" definition.

life is boring?

Ever have one of those days or weeks or months where you feel like you’ve seen it all, done it all, heard it all and put up with even more than the usual?

It looks so peaceful outside as it snows. Inside - not so peaceful and not so quiet. I listen to two boys tease each other and another one run around screaming that he’s Superman, with cape and all. Thing two and three have already been outside in the white stuff, but failed to make it very long without coming back in to complain of the cold and the snow. And of course the sidewalk didn’t get shoveled.

A peek in the living room reveals the entire floor covered in a layer of Legos about an inch thick - you’d think it was snowing candy-colored pieces inside while it dumps white flakes outside.

There have been two meltdowns already this morning because someone didn’t want an orange for a morning snack - because oranges are stupid and sticky and too hard to peel. He wanted a “real” snack - whatever that means.
When the boys get bored, they get hungry apparently. There has been three requests (well, let’s be honest...three whining bouts) for lunch - and it’s only 10:15 am. The complaints have ranged from boredom to hunger to outright exaggeration. Here’s a sample:

“Can I have lunch, Mom?”
“My belly needs food!”
“I’m gonna fall asleep because I’m so starving!”
“I missed lunch for the last three days!”
“I can’t take it anymore!!” (This wasn’t me!)
“Mom, what can I do?”
“Mom, I’m so bored!”
“There’s nothing to do around here!”

Which makes me almost laugh, considering the state of cleanliness, but of course no one wants to admit that a possible solution to boredom is chores.

They only have 37 board games, 5,478 Lego pieces (on the floor), 76 different kind of balls, 269 matchbox cars, 182 books, and enough art supplies to outfit a small preschool. I have banned them from puzzles though, so those are still off-limits. (Wonder why?)
Do you think they want to play with any of it? Do I really have to even ask you that?

Instead, they decide that if they can’t have an early lunch, they’re going to have a “discussion.” They argue about who’s the tallest in the bunch, who is the best Nascar driver, who is the most like Dad, who gets to make their sandwich first, who is the strongest, who’s has the best robber bandana - and on and on and on...

This lasts until one falls off the arm of the couch, after trying to stand on it to be the tallest. He fell into the TV cabinet, bonking the side of his face, much to his brother’s amusement.

“They’re laughing at me!”
“It’s not funny!”
“I think I’m going to die.”

He then kicks his younger brother, who is walking around with a paper bag over his head, oblivious to the commotion going on. This results in punishment time out at the top of the stairs, but on the way up...
“What!?! I didn’t do anything!”
“He was trying bother me.”
“There’s nothing to eat up there!”
“I can’t go up there - I’ll starve to death.”

When he finally has the okay to come down and eat lunch, he’s reached gigantic proportions of brattiness and the mouth gets revved up and off to the races.

So the battle just moved from the living room to the kitchen table and ends when someone calls someone else a girl and a plastic bowl gets thrown. (Should I really be telling you all of this?)

The only good news in this whole ordeal is that the one with the biggest mouth is finally getting a taste of his own blabbery-ness from his brothers. They’ve finally managed to figure out a way to drive him crazy. As proud of them as I am, it’s really not helping me get anything besides this column done.

We have tears and hollering and now a bloody eye at the table. And one wants some serious revenge. Mom turns into the “bad guy” for breaking up a fist fight.

How can all of this be boring?

At this point, I’m not sure whether to crack up with laughter or with tears. These four “blessings” are turning out to be more than I can handle some days. I can’t help but think that God is watching all of this with amusement, hoping I get whatever lesson He’s trying to teach me and hoping I see the humor in all of it as well. He knows I can’t whine to him that I’m bored.

Just as quickly as the fight started, it settled down and I have four quiet boys scarfing down sandwiches, chips and raw broccoli. (This is how to make inside the house as quiet as the snow falling outside.)

“Mom, you are the best broccoli-maker ever!”
“She didn’t make it, God did!”

Ah, yes...that was all worth it. I’ll take that over being bored any day.

my gift to you

I ran across all these things on etsy.com and wanted to share them with you today, as a special thank you for reading my blog and (hopefully) enjoying my sense of humor.




















































































Happy April Fool's Day!

snow day

Number Four was looking out the window at all the huge flakes coming down. He was not happy because he wanted to go out and pick rocks. (I didn't even ask.)

"We should probly take the vacuum outside and vacuum up all that snow!" he decided.

I couldn't agree more.

taking a deep breath

I am still alive. I think. Just pinched myself to make sure.

Ouch.

Yep, still here.

Not sure if that makes me happy or not - I'm ready for Jesus to come back any time now...

My days lately are consisting of putting out one fire after another - either because of a lack of planning on my part or things that pop up that "have to get done today." I'm be-bopping between wrestling practices, cement board cutting, cooking, cleaning, laundry, home-school, knitting hats, mailing hats, trying to be a good wife, trying to be a good friend on facebook and grocery shopping. I occasionally get a shower in there somewhere.

Last Sunday I noticed that all three kids were wearing clothes that were at least a size too small - slightly embarrassing (for me, not them - they're boys. They could care less if something doesn't fit as long as it doesn't hurt.) So, have to add that to my five-mile-long TO-DO list. Sort through clothes in four different dressers.

Sometime this week I have to figure out what I'm going to order/buy at the annual MACHE (homeschool) convention on Friday, finish a preemie hat, get overdue books to the library, finish taxes (grrr!), drive to Thing #1's writing class, two or three wrestling practices (for the boys, not me), edit hubby's resume, make eight meals, keep myself from nibbling on frozen cookie dough, finish a newsletter and start designing a new one, write up a knitting pattern for a felted purse, not to mention the bathroom that just won't go away.... Sigh.

Let everything that has breath praise the Lord... What do you do if you can't catch your breath?