see what i mean?

Based on the family picture woes, thought I'd share a Christmas card design that was vetoed by hubby. I thought it was funny. :)

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good hair day or year.

you can't photoshop this

It's that time of year again - when I get my annual reality check that I am not skinny, my husband is not photogenic and Christmas cards are a pain in the you-know-what.

The annual family photo shoot was a complete flop. First, because the cool background I had chosen for the picture was not an option due to its close proximity to the building that houses hubby's clients. Well, it wasn't an option because hubby refused to let it be one. That of course resulted in two people who were really in the mood to smile for 100 pictures. I was one of them.

The second problem was the fact that it was 20 degrees outside and my kids are wimps. Even with long-johns and long-sleeved shirts they looked so pained in most of the pictures you'd have thought there was a wave of constipation going through. I suppose this could be blamed on Mom since she waited so long to set up the photo shoot date. But, knowing how much a battle it would be, procrastinating torture is very understandable.

The third problem is that my Mom was taking the pictures and I failed to tell her where to stand or that the camera lens could be adjusted so us handsome Larsons didn't look a mile away. Then again, that may have been intentional on her part. Once I saw the pictures on my desktop, we looked much better further away.

Sigh. Now I'm left with a battle in my head between my vanity, which wants to send out a picture that makes us look somewhat normal, and my desire to make people laugh, which wants to send out the most god-awful picture I can find and put a funny caption on it. And believe me, I have lots to choose from. (Did I mention it was windy that day? And my boys hadn't had their wrestling haircuts yet?)

I'm afraid I will have no options but to go the funny route - man those pictures are horrible! I've toyed around with "Making the rest of the world look good, one snapshot at a time." Or "We don't always look this good." Or even: "If everyone looks crabby on your Christmas card, you might be a Larson." I don't think my in-laws would appreciate that last one too much.

Now, I'm really just wasting time writing here when I should just make a decision, get the stupid photo card done and mail it off. Time to spread some holiday cheer.

please don't come over to my house

I'm pretty certain I lack the clean gene. At any given moment, there are dirty dishes in the kitchen, coats and boots piled by the front door, and schoolbooks and legos strewn about the living room. I'm not sure the last time the kitchen floor was scrubbed and I only know the toilet is clean because I just had to wipe it after some nameless boy broke the "no standing while peeing" rule.

To be fair though, I don't think my house was this messy before I had kids. It's got to be their fault somehow.

I have farmed out nearly all the chores with the exception of laundry, and they still don't get done, even if I threaten no snacks until they're done. The trouble is that the cleanliness only lasts about 45 seconds.

Add a construction zone to the mix and I have just about given up. Last week I started taking down 2009 Christmas pictures. (Now, before you go and think that I'm really slow, let me just say that I leave my cards up year-round. I was actually ahead of the game - taking down old cards before I even got any new ones.)

The trouble is, that I realized quite quickly that all the cards were dusty. And the cabinet they were taped to was full of cobwebs. So, I did a most natural thing I could think of - I started wiping them off the ceiling.

A minute later, my eldest son asked, "Is someone coming over?"

I replied, "Do you think I only clean if someone's coming?"

The sheepish look on his face revealed the awful truth - that is exactly what he thought. Oh dear. I'm officially teaching my kids how to live in a messy house. I don't believe this is a good thing.

Do I get crabby and start throwing things into piles and take toys away and generally go berserk, or do I just succumb to the blatant fact that I should just never, ever have company over again? Well, at least for another 13 years, when the last of the messers is hopefully out of the house.

Consider this your invitation to drop by uninvited - in about September of 2023.

boys say the funniest things...

Number Four: I want to get born again.

Mom (thinking this is an evangelism opportunity): Why's that?

Number Four: So I'm the oldest.

How do you argue with that?

good quote...

If you do something right once, someone will ask you to do it again.
-Unknown

breaking down walls

Getting a start on opening up the old part of the house and the new. Wonder how many child labor laws we're breaking here. He couldn't have been happier though, busting up concrete blocks.

Once the wall comes down then we have to finish off the opening. Glad that's hubby's job and not mine.

it's nice to have boys...

because they argue about who gets to take the mouse out of the trap.

hot water!

Once again, asking tons of questions has solved a problem. I called the manufacturer of our water heater because everyone else was convinced that was the problem. And, since the beast isn't that old, I really didn't want to have to replace it.

The guy (who was sweet as pie on the phone) ran me through some trouble shooting and when those all came back negative, he asked me one question that made all the difference: "Do you have all of your faucets installed?"

What?!? How would that matter? So, I said no, this was not a typical construction project where everything gets put in at the same time and the homeowners move in and everything is honky dorey. There are no faucets in the laundry room sink, the master bath showers and sinks (heck, there aren't even any sinks yet in either room) or in the powder room. The light bulbs went off and we discovered that for some strange reason, without a faucet on those water lines, we would get hot water for a few minutes and then the water would start cycling through the two shower lines downstairs, leaving us high and dry wet and cold upstairs.

Ack. Who woulda thunk? So, hubby promptly installed some shut-off valves on the water lines to those two showers and presto! hot water that stayed hot. Almost miraculous.

Ahhh. I should send that guy a thank you note or at the very least call his boss and tell him what a fantastic job he did. But, first it's my turn in the shower.

sweeten me up

I have a problem. And it's not an easy one to solve.

I don't like plain, black coffee. I wish I did. It would make my morning, afternoon and evening cup(s) of joe much easier to fix and consume.

I also like some flavor beyond just sugar (although that will do in a pinch.) I love creamer - French vanilla is still a favorite, but I will try just about anything except the caramel ones. I also love this time of year when Chocolate Mint Truffle or Peppermint Mocha is available. Last year, I stocked up on about six bottles of the stuff at the end of the holiday season so I could enjoy the flavors longer. (The shelf life on that stuff is insane. And a bit scary.)

What I don't love is that my favorite brands and flavors of coffee whitener are loaded with crap. And yes, I know I can buy cream, but it doesn't give me a vanilla flavor. And yes, I know I can buy vanilla syrup for my coffee, but - two problems - first, now I would be putting TWO things into my coffee (oh the WORK!) and second, it's high fructose corn syrup with a little fake vanilla flavoring.

Putting real vanilla extract doesn't work well either, because it leaves a bit of alcohol aftertaste. Yes, coffee is already bitter, but come on. I want it to taste right. I could steep a vanilla bean in cream, but by the time it would taste like anything, the cream would probably be spoiled.

So, I'm stuck. Land-O-Lakes used to make a vanilla-flavored heavy cream, but apparently I was the only consumer purchasing it, because it didn't stay on the shelves very long.

I recently got persuaded into trying Truvia in my coffee. All-natural, right? Well, okay stevia is a plant and it's natural. Sugar is natural too, but not when you extract only one part of it after it's gone through like 27 separate processing processes. All this so Cargill can put a patent on the combination, which they couldn't if they just mixed stevia and plain sugar. How hard could that be? But, ah, there would be no trademark and therefore no corner on the market and therefore no profits if someone chose to "copy" their idea.

Oh, and another thing - the Truvia was horrid. Couldn't even finish the cup. Don't know how that one got past taste tests in quality control.

So, all griping aside, I'm not sure if I have any other options. I guess I should just remind myself that there are worse things I could be consuming - I'm not spiking my coffee with anything other than the 35-calorie-per-tablespoon creamer. And I'm fixing it at home where it's still fairly inexpensive.

Sweeten me up with some sugar, partially hydrogenated soybean oil, sodium caseinate, dipotassium phosphate, disodium phoshate, mono- and diglycerides, cellulose gel, cellulose gum, coloring, salt, natural and artificial flavor, sucralose and carrageenan.

And honestly, I didn't know there was Sucralose in my creamer until just now!!

That's not news that can be sugar-coated with anything. I'm just devastated. Once again, I'm at the mercy of what's available to me as a consumer. It's maddening.

-------------------
*NOTE: It appears that only CoffeeMate's Italian Sweet Cream has Sucralose. The other four varieties in my fridge do not. Whew. I can still be my sweet old self.

artificiality

Thirteen years ago I discovered that artificial sweeteners like Nutrasweet give me headaches. Without fail, half an hour after consuming some tasty bite of yogurt, I'd get a weird throbbing in my temples and forehead. After I finally figured out the mystery, I have avoided Nutrasweet and its more recent successor, Splenda, as much as possible.

Once, at a church function, I think I may have I ticked off the person serving lemonade when I refused to take any after I learned it was Crystal Light. And I wouldn't let my kids have any either. She acted as if I had to be mentally ill to pass on the beverage and opt for water. (But, I guess I can see why she wouldn't understand, considering her Diet Coke addiction.)

It's not been too difficult until recently. I can buy yogurt with sugar as a sweetener. I can buy regular pop instead of diet. I don't have to buy sugarfree candy or Vitamin water or Gatorade - there are sugar or corn syrup-filled options for all of those products. (In no way, am I saying even those things are good for me.) But I can't find gum anymore that doesn't have Sucralose, Splenda, Aspartame or any other artificial sweetener in it. Even the good old Juicy Fruit or DoubleMint are contaminated. My only option is to chew Double Bubble or sugary Bubble Yum, etc., but the flavor in those lasts about 20 seconds.

I'm getting crabby about my lack of gum choices.

Give me back my sugar. Or my high-fructose corn syrup even. Not that I like to consume HFCS, but I'd rather have that than Nutrasweet or Splenda. And people consume this crap like it's no big deal. (If you're a diabetic, please don't take offense - I grant you a pass okay?) I don't want to ingest stuff that gives me a headache.

I swear we're letting food producers poison us. And I'm not sure what to do about it. I'm curious if it's the companies who produce artificial sweeteners lobbying to use their products in everything, including gum, or if the push is coming from the American Dental Association. (As if fluoride weren't bad enough...)

So, I'm curious if anyone out there has some non-artificially sweetened gum suggestions. I'm salivating already.

car conversations

"Mom, can we go to the Dead Sea?"

"Why do you want to go there?"

"Cuz you don't have to do anything and you can just float."

my christmas wish list...

I might get into trouble for airing dirty laundry, or rather dirty skin, but here goes...

All I want for Christmas this year is a hot shower.

I know it sounds ridiculous - so let me explain. For the past two weeks, we have been unable to take more than a 2.5 minute shower before the water turns tepid. Not nearly enough to time to shave anything, let alone try to clean up before some mysterious inner workings of the plumbing and/or hot water heater conspire to shut off the heat.

So, a hot shower is pretty high up my wish list. I’d even take it over yarn. Or even chocolate at this point.

We finally finished one bathroom in the “new” part of the house and a couple of weeks ago made the big switch - moving the water softener and heater so we could actually use the new facilities.

Only the water heater apparently did not like its new accommodations, because it suddenly decided to rebel. Perhaps it got tired of keeping up with a household of six - although that’s really no excuse considering four of the crew barely clean their teeth let alone their smelly bodies. Perhaps it’s in cahoots with the washing machine and decided to go on strike to protest the amount of daily laundry - except apparently the washer didn’t get that memo because still she’s working fine. Or maybe it simply conked out during the move down to the basement.

Whatever the reason - our spaceship-shaped water heater has decided to limit our daily shower intake. It teases us with glorious hot water for about 36 seconds and the gradually weans down to room temperature. No wonder the Bible frowns on lukewarm water - it’s ridiculous for showers as well.

For the past two weeks, hubby has been trying to solve this hot water heater puzzle. Only, he’s not really keen on mysteries and he’s not very patient anymore either. What he is, is cheap. (Whoops, did I say that?) I meant frugal. And capable. And adventurous. To try save $1500 on a new water heater and who-knows-what on a hourly plumber’s rate, he is sacrificing his body in cold showers and his mental health in trying to remedy the situation. What a guy. (There, is that enough kissing up?)

Rather than call in someone (who may or may not be able to solve the problem) he pulled out his handy-dandy multi-meter to test both heating elements (they work), he manually checked the temperature with my candy thermometer (scalding), he turned up the temperature (to hotter than scalding) and learned that a hot water heater has a dip tube. It appears that ours has not disintegrated, cracked or fallen off (like all the problem-solvers online suggest might have happened). And yet - WE STILL CAN’T TAKE A HOT SHOWER.

All of this leaves me in a bit of not-so-hot water (pun intended). I’m so tempted to call someone - no matter the cost - but I know I should tough it out, shivering in my short showers, while hubby troubleshoots with his father. A good wife would do that, I suppose. A new thermostat will be ordered tomorrow, because they now believe this is what’s causing the problem. Oh, me of little faith.

I really should take notes from my son, who upon learning about Christopher Columbus and what it meant to be an explorer, promptly informed me that his dad was definitely an explorer because he’s not afraid to try things he’s never done before and learn to fix things.

Ah yes, we’ve learned about a water heater and all its innards. I guess you could call that exploring. Not really the trip I would have chosen, but since hubby has been able to figure out many, many things in the past, I’m buckled in and along for the ride.

Hopefully this little expedition will be over by Christmas. If not, I’m pretty sure there will be a brand-new water heater under (or next to) the tree.

good quotes...

No one is more influential in your life than you, because no one talks to you more than you do.
–Paul Tripp

my apologies

Life is taking over around here. I can't believe I haven't posted anything since July!!! (The couple of newsletter columns below are the only thing that is forcing me to keep writing - so I shared them in the hopes that you will still love me).

I could say that nothing exciting or funny has happened around here, but well, that would be lying. And while I'm known to exaggerate a story for maximum editorial impact, I don't usually outright fib. Truth be told - I'm just too busy and uninspired to tap my fingers on a keyboard when I know there is history on Christopher Columbus to finish, trim to paint, and teeth to brush (my own).

The kids are still funny and crazy. The addition is still unfinished. And I am still a size 4. (Ha!)

As I sit here right now, trying to finish yet another newsletter column, hash over design ideas for Christmas cards and search online for yarn, my kids are rapping in the kitchen. The beat-boxing is almost in rhythm with my typing. Until someone gets mad because the others aren't singing the right lyrics...

Firstborns are very bossy - did you know that? It's a wonder my younger brothers speak to me anymore. But, that sounds like food for another column, another day when I'm not busy or crazy or sleep-deprived.

Thanks for hanging in there.

boys say the funniest things...

"Dad, do you think maybe I might marry Taylor Swift when I get older?"

"Well bud, I think you might be a little young for her."

"Then you should marry her!"

"What do you think Mom will think about that?"

"She won't mind!"

car conversations

"Mom, we should get a horse. Then it can be my little friend."

wii want to play

As a general rule, I’m not a fan of video games. I’m not sure if it’s my imagination or not, but they seem to make four half-hyper boys even more turbo-charged. I’d rather they went outside to actually play baseball than swing remotes around during a simulated game. Ditto goes for ping pong.

But today - I could hug the Wii, even if it meant six boys rolling their eyes at me.

I am decidely infected by all the aches and pains that come along with the first cold of the season. Tickly throat. Itchy nose. Achy joints. Bleary eyes. It all hit within the time it took two extra boys to drop by and mine to whine that there was “nothing to do.”

That was exactly nine minutes.

Funny how six children with more toys than a small country cannot entertain themselves. They whipped through baseball card trading in seconds. They blasted Nerf guns for minutes. And never mind the balls and books and bikes and skateboards, there is simply nothing to do.

I could think of many, many things I’d have liked to do - going to bed was tops on the list. But, considering four of the extra eyeballs staring at me weren’t fruit of my womb, I didn’t figure that was the best idea. Who knows what kind of chaos would tumble out of the house when their mother came to pick them up.

So, instead of turning to my pillow for comfort, I pointed their non-existant attention spans toward Wii Play and Big Game Hunter. Then I downed a couple Tylenols and flopped into my role as Official Keeper of the Time to ensure fair turns and an equal amount of play. Thankfully I didn’t have to be in the room for that - just had to convince them that I was actually capable of managing the clock by dividing two and a half hours by six. The only child who came out on the short end was the littlest one - he was happy with his 10 minutes of play. (At four, his concept of time is a bit lacking.)

Honestly, I think I was counting down the minutes more than any of them were - praying Other Parents weren’t late. I needed some serious Wrapped-in-an-Electric-Blanket bed time.

I may not be the world’s best mother, and even less so on a sick day, but I do recognize opportunities when God presents them to me. Even on a sick day. Or especially on a sick day.

Normally I’m barely capable of entertaining children. Throw in a common cold and I’m at a serious disadvantage - something in the negative numbers for sure. Add Wii and coffee to the mix and the odds get returned slightly back in my favor. The Tylenol probably helped too. The incessant doo-doo-de-doot “music” from the video game couldn’t penetrate the haze I was in. Neither could one boy complaining when the others took out his tank.

Perhaps the mental fog was a good thing because usually the boys whining about toys they’re playing with results in swift action from the referee, er, Mother - I take the toy away. Today, that option wasn’t even on the table. I knew if they weren’t playing Wii, I had no other game plan. So, I put the ball in their court, so to speak. I sat back and let them solve the problem themselves. (Honestly, I wasn’t capable of intervening, but hey - I can report this any way I want...) To my surprise, after heckling the whiner a bit, one boy offered to let him play in his spot since he had been the one to end his game.
Seriously? What just happened here? Even in my diminished mental capacity, I was in awe. Kindness during a Wii bout? This coming from the same child who will not say uncle even if he is pinned to the ground with no way of escape. Either a miracle just happened or this boy has got wise to my disciplinary strategies. Nah, it had to be a miracle.

Ten minutes later, Other Parent showed up, right on time. I got my blanket time and the kids behaved themselves for the rest of the afternoon, supervised by the oldest. Maybe this is all a dream, but for now I’m going to just thank God for the unbelievable sick day. I’ll pinch myself tomorrow.

boys say the funniest things...

The boys got to see their newborn cousin last night. Number four's reaction: "That baby is cuter than a pig."

Not sure what her Mom thought about that.

boys say the funniest things...

Today's math lesson:

Number Four was trying to figure out when he'll be able to play with his new cousin.

"When she's four, I'll be like five."

"No, you'll be eight."

"When she's eight, I'll be 11."

"No, you'll be twelve."

"Well, when she's 12, I'll be a grandpa!"

Good Lord, I hope his father isn't even a grandpa at that point.

boys say the funniest things...

I told Number Four to get his sheets off his bed. He brought them down to the laundry room and said, "I brought my pillow sheet too!"

real work

"Mom, we're doing WORK today." (This is my third child, informing me of his father's BIG plans for the day.)

"What about Mom - is she working today?" I ask him.

"No, we're doing ACTUAL work!"

Sigh. A mother's work just doesn't count in a houseful of boys.

back to school

For most normal people, the arrival of Labor Day is met with mixed emotions - summer is winding down and in Minnesota, that means winter is about a month away. But, on the positive side, it also means that the kids are finally going back to school.
I’m sure there are a few half-insane people who anticipate winter, and there are probably a few sentimental types who are actually sad that the kids are leaving.

I however, am not maudlin. I would welcome the quiet that would come with three out of the four kids heading out each morning, leaving me with the only one who seems to know how to play by himself. I would not mourn the noise, the mess and the begging for snacks. I think I might actually dance a little jig if Labor Day meant that my boys were going back to a school that wasn’t at home.

As it is, we are a homeschooling family, so this time of year means much more than popping kids on a bus and packing lunches.
It means tears and whining (from me), planning and purchasing (again me), discipline and maybe even a little sisu. (For those of you non-Finns, sisu is a bit like moxie – super guts is how we always translated it.) And this is just for starters.

It will take approximately a month to settle into a routine that looks a bit like this: endless questions like “What do I do now?” when the schedule clearly says math, an hour’s worth of nagging to get a half hour of language done, begging for recess and two kids who will somehow disappear when Mom is working with the third.

I can guarantee that we won’t be even that far into the school schedule when two boys will have lost every pencil that was purchased for them (all 27.) The third will have scribbled his name on someone else’s workbook. One will hide his monthly schedule and claim he doesn’t have to do any school. And at some point in the first month or so, someone will pull out brand-new markers (the non-washable kind because Mom forgot to buy those) and tattoo himself and his little brother.

And to make matters worse, the littlest one - the one who doesn’t have to do school - will be the only one begging for a school book.
The bright side is that when they do disappear on me, they’re likely to have a book in hand and I will find them in some random spot, hunched over reading How to Eat Fried Worms or some other delightful tale. Last year I measured my success as a teacher/mother not in test scores, but in the fact that boy #2 wanting to read his library book during his traveling team’s wrestling match. Anything else that happened that year was gravy.

All complaining aside (and mostly from me), homeschooling is not much different than parenting. It involves focus and discipline and consequences and love. I need to have a keen eye for how my children learn so that I can best know how to teach them. I need to have the will power and strength to maintain a schedule and not back down from their challenges. I need to be able to enforce missing football practice if schoolwork isn’t done. And I need to do all of this with mercy and love.
So, it’s not any easier than parenting.

But, the rewards are there, just as they are in parenting. Occasionally you’ll get a glimpse of a job well done or a lesson learned or even a new skill acquired. And that’s just on my part. They probably get much more out of it, although I doubt they’d admit it.

Knowing all of this, I probably shouldn’t dread the approach of Labor Day. Every year, it’s the same thing - a bit of anxiety in the planning stages (what curriculum should I use? Rosetta Stone costs how much? It’s how many days until Christmas break?) but the end result is usually worth it.

This is not a journey for everyone, and sometimes I question if it’s the right journey for us, but so far, one year at a time, we’re doing our best to follow the path God has laid out for us, even if it doesn’t mean orange school buses and the local elementary school.

Who knows what I’ll learn this year...

boys say the funniest things...

So the big discussion last night was whose muscles (biceps) were bigger - Mom's or Dad's. After both of us flexed for Number Four, he decided that Mom won because Dad has a "flab on his muscle."

However, in Dad's defense, his muscle is actually bigger, but bulgier (is that a word?) and that's what Number Four decided was flabby.

I'll take any compliment I can get, even if it's not truthful.

it's nice to have boys...

because they crack me up.

Boy #3: Are we gonna have any more kids, Mom?

Me: Do you want more?

Boy #3: Only if it's a brother.

Boy #2: We got four boys, so it'll probably be a girl.

Boy #4: Well, it can't pet my kitten!

boys say the funniest things...

‎"Mom how come you get creamer?"

"It's for my coffee."

"How come you get creamer and coffee?"

"Cuz I'm special."

"No you're not special. Dad is. "

And that it precisely why I get chocolate too.

maple flooring reveal

I hope we don't regret doing this, but we stained the maple flooring three different colors. The landing at the top of the stairs and one bedroom have two coats of Minwax's Early American. Two bedrooms were left clear with only the poly on top and the last bedroom was white washed so it would stay more whitish gray (which it didn't because the poly has such a yellowish cast).

The dark stain color was a compromise. I wanted walnut and hubby wanted to keep it looking natural without stain. We settle somewhere in the middle with the Early American. I will probably go a bit darker on the main floor, but at least he can get used to the color for now upstairs.

We lucked out with the direction that the wood runs so we weren't changing the color across the grain, but ended on the edge of board. Does that make sense? See what it looks like in the bottom picture. Maybe that will help.

Notice how only the windows are trimmed out? The rest of the casing around the doors and floor boards is my responsibility. I'm guessing it will take awhile - four rooms, plus oil-based trim paint might mean the boys will be lucky to get in their rooms by next summer.

setting an example?

As far as we know, hubby and I are supposed to be setting good examples to the four offspring hanging on our every word and watching our every move. And, unfortunately most of them have good hearing and all of them can see.

So when we screw up - they notice. They will gag and run away when Mom and Dad kiss in front of them (mission accomplished), but will stare fascinated at how we react when we stub a toe or pound a thumb with a hammer. And then they can repeat word-for-word what we said.

But, it’s worse than that. I think they’ve actually developed some sort of tag-team system to purposely drive us crazy. A typical game (one in which I’m a very unwilling participant) goes a little like this: Contender #1 will beg incessantly for a snack. When he’s accomplished frazzling his mother’s hair, he calls in the next competitor. This one will crank his iPod to obscene levels and beat box to TobyMac until either Mom is singing along to Christian rap or she yells at him to go somewhere else. He usually cannot hear above the “music” in his ears, which only gives him more points in this crazy game. After Mom has sufficiently expended enough energy with the yelling, he calmly tags out and the third opponent comes in. This one will not stop talking - no matter what. He can chatter about the dust under my desk and how he can make a guitar strap from his belt. Then he will rattle on about dirt bikes and baseball cards and the fact that he should really have a bandage on the miniscule cut on his palm.

Some days the third round goes to Mom, but only because she developed a pretty good talent for in-one-ear-and-out-the-other as a teenager (just ask her mother.) Other days, she will try to physically walk away and lock herself in the bathroom. But mostly, she has to resort to yelling again.

This only serves as a battle call to bring in the fourth challenger. He arrives with questions: “Can I get my bb gun out and shoot a bird?” “Can I play MouseTrap?” “Can I make frozen bananas on a stick?” The questions alone aren’t enough for him to win - he accomplishes that by asking all of this in spite of not having his chores done. Or by picking up one thing in the room when there are 27 left and making his mother check every time if he’s done.

It’s really a small miracle that she is still around to talk about all this.

We learned this past week at Wood Lake Bible Camp that we are to set an example in speech, in life, in love, in faith and in purity (straight from Scripture - 1 Timothy 4:12). Pretty convicting words because when I look at those examples, I fall flat on all of them.

My speech is not always positive or edifying. My life is usually a mess and busy and stressful. My love is sometimes conditional. My faith gets shaken. And I’m far from pure. Many days, I’m about as far from setting a good example as a mother could get.

My only hope is found in the verses that follow this passage which promise that if I am diligent people will see progress in me and there is salvation if I persevere.

But, it’s the persevering that has me worried. I’m not really sure how much more I have left in me to “keep on keeping on.” It’s a good thing these boys have two of us to take on - one of us can sit back and laugh at the whole insane game while the other engages in a competition that never ends.

There does appear to be some hope in sight, however. We just noticed that as they get closer to becoming teenagers, they also get quieter. Not sure if that’s due to hormones causing sullen attitudes and less communication or if it’s just the iPods jammed in their ears.

They are also starting to debate instead of duel. Twice now, hubby has had to backtrack on his discipline of taking snacks away because two boys have convinced him that he misread their actions and they didn’t deserve the punishment. Not sure if that will make for more discussions or more conniving to come up with good arguments, but it should make for less doors being slammed.

Either way, I’ll take it. Quiet is a hard commodity to come by in this house. And peace only comes when they’re sleeping.

it's nice to have boys...

because the fun doesn't end when you get home from camping. One boy keeps beating up the others. One boy wants a new family (and has his bags packed ready to leave to find one). One boy is lost in ipod land. And one boy is acting out a one-boy drama in the living room because he thinks he's dying of hunger since he hasn't got an afternoon snack yet.

I love my life.

talk of the camp

Caveat: I claim no responsibility in this next post. I do not know if you will think it funny or bawdy, but either way - I did not teach my son this phrase.

First day at Bible Camp, my four-year-old wants to go swimming. We sent him in the lake with his older brother as a buddy. Hubby and I were sitting a little ways away from the swim area, barely within earshot. I looked over to see him standing just over knee-deep in water that apparently was very cold, because he was hugging himself and shivering. Then, I noticed the lifeguard doubled over in laughter.

Pointing this out to hubby, I had a feeling of dread - mainly because this child is well known for entertaining people (and mortifying me) with what comes out of his mouth. As soon as hubby looked over, the lifeguard attempted to walk down the dock to his co-lifeguard. I say attempted because he was having a difficult time walking while belly-laughing so hard. He managed to make the 20 feet and then both guys were looking over at my son, laughing hysterically. By this time, we were a bit uncomfortable and curious as to what was going on. The first lifeguard walked back over the source of his merriment and asked him, "Are you all right?" (Hubby figured this was in hopes that he would say something even more entertaining.)

Later that afternoon, when swimming was over and suits were off, we learned that the lifeguard had asked our precocious four-year-old if something was wrong because he wasn't swimming. He apparently replied to the guy, "My nuts are freezing."

It didn't take long for the story to spread across camp to the nearly 200 people in attendance - much to their amusement. People were coming up to me and telling me things like: "The first thing I heard when I got to camp was..." and "I just love your son."

Later that evening, the lifeguard came up to Number Four and told him, "You're my FAVORITE camper!"

Apparently the rest of camp felt the same way - even the pastors. Well, everyone but me. I didn't know if I should laugh or cry.

acting like a child

Vacation is the perfect time to act like a child - only in a wide-eyed, life-is-an-adventure kind of way. Not with temper tantrums or pouting.

In our defense - here are all the things that went wrong (on the way to the campsite.) We found ants in the camper because chore boy didn’t vacuum it out very well from the last trip. There is a random dead mouse smell for the same reason above. One boy busted a two-gallon water cooler and spilled 2/3 of the contents on the camper carpet, so we spent an hour in the Fleet Farm parking lot sopping it up with our beach towels. Our resident bloodhound smelled transmission fluid. We drove 100 miles without air conditioning in 94-degree weather because there may have been a loose wire on the alternator. And we very nearly avoided salmonella poisoning from thawed chicken breasts when we had to shut off the fridge due to the issue above.

Truth be told, in a few of these instances, we probably didn’t act like adults. Okay, in most of them. Packing four kids (okay... six) in a camper to drive 11 hours is stressful enough, but when things go wrong (which they just will), we lose our cool.

Thankfully none of the boys seem to have picked up on our low stress tolerance and are able to endure much more than we can. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches four days in a row? No problem. Listening to your older brother beat box incessantly. A little bit of a problem. But, the heat? That was a problem. Perhaps they were worn out by the sauna we were driving or their father's recollections of summers without air conditioning weren’t well received. Either way, you never saw eight eyes light up so fast when they learned we were meeting up with Grandma and Grandpa so they could ride in their air-conditioned camper the final 20 miles to the campground. All four of them were ready to ditch us.

The good news is that (tantrums aside), vacations are intended to allow you to act like a child.

You can sleep in a sleeping bag - even if you’re freezing cold or boiling hot. You can wear flip flops until someone peels off half a toe nail. You can collect rocks and steal ziplock bags from Mom to house your collection. You can go to bed late and get up early. You can hang out with your cousins and snag snacks off Grandma and Grandpa. You can go airborne on your bike. You can try to catch fireflies.

And you can do it all over tomorrow - or as long as the vacation lasts.

It’s nice to have respites like this in our too-serious, too-stressful adult lives, where we can act like kids (in more ways than one.) Besides, as one of the not-so-young-adults perceptively realized - you remember all the times when things go wrong anyway.

That’s the stuff camping trips are made of - flat tires, no air conditioning, gobbling down all-you-can-eat pizza while the camper is being fixed, enduring sunburns and gross showers and maybe even a burnt marshmallow or two. Hopefully, our children will remember things like spilled water and not that Mom and Dad had a “discussion” in the parking lot.

God grant them selective memories.

bathroom progress

Who would have thought it would take me nearly nine months to get this project finished? Nothing moves fast around here, unless it's boys chasing boys when they're fighting.

Tiling is tedious work, especially when you take a wall down because you forgot you wanted to put cubbies in the shower.

Then I decided I didn't want to put the tiles all the way to the ceiling, so I had to mud the walls above to smooth them out to match the sheetrock.

And I had planned to put the tile all the way around the edge of the wall, but ended up deciding it would look funny, so I had to put a sheetrock corner in. First time I'd ever tried that. Wasn't too bad. Just made a mental note to put more mud behind the paper/mental corner next time so there wasn't any air bubbles. Also using at least a 5" putty knife is key, proving once again that bigger actually is better.

I'm pretty happy with my solution for not being able to use the granite backsplash. I used extra pieces of slate from the flooring and the tile design in the shower. The stones were a first for me - but they went up just as easily as the lady from The Tile Shop said they would. Rough up the back sides with a file and stick them in mortar. Easy as that. I cheaped out and made the outlet covers myself. It took me a full day to do all four. Not exactly time well spent, but it didn't cost any extra money. Same goes for the edge tiles - I spent a lot of time sanding the edges to round them down.

The grout in the shower was another case altogether. Apparently I used too much water or too wet of a sponge when I wiped the tiles down after applying the grout. The color ended up looking almost like a pasty white, definitely not the beige I was going for like on the backsplash.

Here's where asking a lot of questions comes in very handy, as does being fully ready to admit that something went wrong when you go back to the home improvement store with all your questions. Turns out there is a cool product called Grout Renew that actually paints the grout with a sealer and covers up the too-light color that I created. And even better, I was able to choose a different color that was closer to the actual color of the tile for a more uniform look. I used a small paintbrush to paint it on, but it wasn't an quick process.

I could only paint small sections at a time, so that I could wipe off areas that I put too much on before it dried. It will stick to tile and it will be very difficult to get off. It looks just like the grout was that color to begin with and keeps the texture of the grout intact. Would definitely use it again, but hopefully next time I'll not remove all the coloring out in the first place.

The only other thing I'm not sure about it how well slate will hold up in a shower, but I sealed it at least six times just in case. I'm not thrilled with the sanded caulking that is supposed to "match" the grout. Mainly because it doesn't match - it's much lighter and took FOREVER to dry.

Update: Two years later and there is still a couple spots where I got the Grout Renew on the slate and it hasn't come off, in spite of multiple showers every day, so I'm fairly certain it will hold up as advertised. Also, the slate still seems to be waterproof - in other words, water still beads up on it and doesn't soak in. I don't think that would be the case if it were a slate floor in a shower, but on a vertical surface the sealer seems to be holding up fine. I read somewhere you were supposed to re-seal once a year, but I haven't yet. 

Also, a note on the caulking: it has refused to stick to the edges of the tile, in spite of being redone once along the whole long side of the tub about a year ago. At this point I've left it until I can do it quickly before we're gone for a few days because it will likely take 72 hours to cure. It's frustrating because I took the time to clean all the tiles after grouting and sealing and it still didn't stick. The tile guy at Menards told me I should have used rubbing alcohol to clean the edges, but I've never, ever had to do that before. I'm left to choose from another brand of caulking or to use the shiny white stuff, which I know won't look as nice. The brand of caulking I used came from Home Depot, so I will definitely not be purchasing that again. I'll probably visit a tile shop to see what they recommend.

boys say the funniest things...

‎"There's one thing that fweaks me out Mom."

"What's that?"

"Jumping off the Eiffel Tower."

Didn't even have a response to that one.

take me out to the ballgame...

Apparently I am either too old or too uptight for baseball games. Or rather for YOUTH baseball games that drag on an interminable six innings. Four-year-olds do not belong there either. They are too young to follow the lack of action and too old to be distracted with a Tootsie Pop. A three-year-old might take an hour to get to the bottom, but a four-year-old will down it in two minutes.

But perhaps it’s just our four-year-old.

His oldest brother is playing baseball for the first time this summer. And Dad is helping to coach, which makes it next to impossible for him to keep eyes on the ball and the little clown running all over the stands, in the batting cage and chasing the random cat that keeps showing up trying to do his business in the outfield. (Believe me, he’s in no danger of being hit by a pop fly there.) So that means that Mom gets dragged along to the ball game to watch three boys who have little to no interest in watching 11- and 12-year-olds make errors and strike out. They’re probably just as bored as I am - the only difference is they are more capable of creating their own fun and they don’t care what anyone thinks about their diversions.

Here’s all the fun a four-year-old can find in six innings:

Game #1 - He discovered there was a water fountain behind the concession stand. By the time his brother’s team was 10-run-ruled after four innings, he looked like he fell into a mud puddle. He was wet from his outgrown buzz to his good tennis shoes. Apparently, he was too short to reach the water fountain’s spurt, but tall enough to reach the button and stand in the water’s reach as it soaked him and a 10-foot radius around. After that, he decided to play in the batter’s cage, with sand and dirt. I was so proud. So was he.
Game #2 - He spent most of the time collecting chunks of asphalt as his “special rocks” to take home. When I told him they weren’t rocks, he said that it was okay, because he wanted to make us a tar driveway.

Game #3 - He entertained the mom of a boy on the opposing team by discovering his shadow. (Yes, perhaps he’s a little late with this revelation - he doesn’t get out much.) But really all he cared about was her attention and trying to make the shadow as big as possible, and then make it dance around.

Game #4 - I looked over to see him leading a group of five older boys in the chicken dance - didn’t matter that they were within sight over nearly every person in attendance. I should find a chicken costume and dub him the unofficial Red Team’s mascot, but I really don’t want to encourage him.
Game #5 - He discovered sunflower seeds when a friend bought a bag for them all to share. He was given explicit instructions not to chew the entire seed, but to spit out the outside. After making him practice, he was allowed again to roam. But a half hour later, he came up to my friend and I and announced that he “could too” eat the whole thing and that it didn’t hurt when he swallowed it. So much for scare tactics.

Game #6 - We stayed home.

So what’s God’s game plan? He doesn’t seem to be answering my prayer to get me out of going to the game, so maybe he’s trying to teach me something. Humility perhaps? Or to appreciate the value of a four-year-old who provides entertainment while entertaining himself? Or maybe how to have fun for two hours at a baseball game?

Next game, I’ll be singing my own song: “Take me out to the ball game. Keep my boys off the field. I bought them some peanuts and cracker jacks, but somehow they still find their way back to get, get, get into ‘trouble.’ Now I just missed a double. For it’s one, two, three boys and FUN at a youth ball game.”

Feel free to join along in the fourth inning stretch.

donations

I love the public library system. Millions of books at my disposal - and it's even better now that everything is online. I can search for books to my heart's content - click a link and presto! the books are waiting for me in a neat stack a few days later. Books from three counties away are trucked to my little library that is only four miles from my front door. Amazing.

I am continually in awe that I can read books and watch movies for free.

Only lately, it's not been so free. Right now I have $9.30 in late fees that stacked up because one random movie got stuffed underneath a pile of magazines to recycle. Six days later, I realized it was there. Do the math - that's a buck a day for a movie that was so old it wouldn't have even sold for $2 at a garage sale.

Whenever the library has its little $5 fundraiser, I politely decline. Mainly because I know that I've already contributed five times that amount over the past year because of books that somehow manage to disappear exactly the same day they're due. I must be picking popular books too - because rarely will the system let me renew online. Someone else has requested that item. It even happened on an Aaron Copland CD! Who listens to classical music anymore? Other than homeschooled kids who are forced to learn music history.

I fail to understand why my $5 donation could be tax-deductible, but my $25 late fees aren't. It's all going to the same place isn't it? I should write a letter to my representative. Maybe he can do something about this travesty of non tax-deductible donations to the library that I make on a regular basis.

I guess the only difference is that I'm not making them voluntarily. I've got better things to spend my money on, like Redbox rentals that take me three days to watch and all the gas I spend driving to town to drop off one book at a time when I finally find it.

My life is all about donations. I'm just not getting any credit for it - I'm getting debited.

boys say the funniest things...

‎"The only difference being a dad and a grandpa is being slow."

The only problem is figuring out which one is the slow one. :)

it's nice to have boys...

because they constantly say funny things like this:

"I do not like whitey tighties. That is a public announcement." (So, I felt free to share).

math problems

According to a six-year-old, if you add 1/4 and 1/4 and 1/4 and 1/4 you get a dollar. Pretty hard to argue with that logic. And believe me I tried.

boys say the funniest things...

Overhead in a dressing room:

"Let's try on your tux."

"I'm not going to the wedding."

"You have to - everyone else will be there."

"Fine, but i'm not gonna be the ring bearer."

"But you already told uncle kyle you would do it."

"Well, i'm not gonna carry a pillow!"

(Sidenote: Only a $5 bribe from Grandpa could get the little ringbearer down the aisle and he found out he was going to have to walk down with a girl. Then, after hearing laughter as he started down the aisle, we could only watch in horror as he walked the entire way with his face covered by the pillow. But, he got the job done. And he got five bucks.)

when will power doesn't work

About a month ago, I switched out the summer and winter clothes, only to be completely mortified by how little fit me - tops and bottoms. Even worse than tight capris was the bulge between my armpits if I wore something sleeveless.

It was not a pretty sight. I think I may have actually gagged a bit.

So, I decided to do something drastic - a diet. For almost four weeks now, in an attempt to lose seven pounds before my brother's wedding, I quit pop, snacks and eating between meals. I haven't kept track of my calorie intake, but I know that I'm insanely hungry come meal time and could probably devour about three Happy Meals. But, I haven't. In fact, I have almost completely eliminated any processed foods from my diet, fixing home-cooked meals for lunch and supper. My only slip-up is cold cereal in the morning. Mornings and I to do not get along.

All of this has resulted in a grand total of losing one pound. One pound!!!! I probably could lose that much with my morning visit to the john. I probably could have kept drinking my beloved Dr. Pepper, eating chocolate, sneaking black licorice and snarfing down frozen cookie dough and wouldn't have done any worse.

Deprivation apparently does not work for me - which is incredibly ironic, considering that I was so disciplined with this and I am not particularly proud of my will power, especially when it comes to things like reading the Good Book or not yelling at my kids.

I was hoping to avoid physical exercise in this process. Figured I could sort of semi-starve my way into losing the flab on my arms. Evidently, the hyper-metabolism of my youth has died a slow death. I have been known to consume an entire foot-long Subway sub in one sitting and still have room for the pop and chips that go along with the meal. Seconds on a home-cooked meal? Sure, why not! I'll burn it off tomorrow.

So, what does one do when will power doesn't work? Does that mean I now have to been disciplined enough to, gulp, exercise too? Or do I just start investing in shrugs and shawls and chalk it all up to almost turning forty...

cheapskate

Okay, I admit it - I'm cheap.

I can sugar coat it all I want by passing it off as frugality and stewardship, but really... I'm just cheap.

I hate to pay full price for anything, which is why I hit clearance racks and garage sales for 90 percent of my wardrobe. I seldom buy groceries unless they're on sale or at a price that I know is rock-bottom and less expensive than I can get anywhere else (like the $4.59 two-pound chunk of Colby Jack at Costco.) I adore Amazon because I can find books (and lots of other stuff) at steep discounts. In fact, the Internet is a big friend of mine when it comes to ordering things like faucets and light fixtures and even my beloved Smartwool socks.

But, what I really, really dislike is paying for haircuts.

Drives me crazy to spend $25 on a trim - sorry but the 30-second head rub that goes along with the hair wash just isn't that great. I never get the result I hoped for. I can never style it the same as the beautician. And I'd rather spend the money on yarn. If it wasn't for this nagging female issue of hating to look frumpy, I'd just grow it all out to my waist and wear a bun for the rest of my life.

For years, I have threatened to do the Sinead O'Connor thing and just shave it all off. I can't imagine the freedom in not having to worry about blow-drying, moussing, flat-ironing or hairspraying. The only thing that keeps me from doing it (other than a slight courage issue) is that people would inevitably think I had cancer. I wouldn't want to have unnecessary pity come my way or make a mockery of those who are bald not by choice.

It's still a tempting option though. And I would save a couple hundred bucks a year.

it's nice to have boys...

especially when they argue about stupid things.

‎"I invented peanut butter & jelly...and I invented cheese on chips."

"That's called nachos, bonehead."

"I don't care - I still invented it."

due date

Can I survive another missed due date? Technically - I'll still be breathing (probably) when May 5, 2010 ticks away, so I suppose the answer is yes.

I'm still not sure if that's a good thing.

Days like this are ones that make me long for a better place - one with no headaches, heartaches, whining, crying, pinching or biting. It's hard to appreciate the kids you can hold when they're irritating and when they think they're too big for hugs anymore. It's also hard to focus on them when you're distracted by the children you never got to hold.

Well, okay that's not exactly true either - because right now I have one begging to use glue to make a tent out of newspaper (yeah - that'll work). Two are arguing about who sucked up something in the vacuum cleaner and the other wants to glue his coloring book picture to the wall. So, perhaps it's the other way around - these four are distracting me from my grief.

I'm not sure if that's a good thing either.

I still haven't decided if I'm sad about not having a baby today or if I'm a bit grateful that I'm not lugging around an extra 15 pounds and I can sleep in. Pretty sure the sadness wins out because every time I see a baby, I wince. I should just get over this already. I've been dreading this day for weeks. It's probably why hubby keeps asking me why I'm so crabby, but I don't want to tell him because I don't want to lose it and I want him to just "know" what's wrong. Is that too much to ask? It would have been nice if God would have made spouses able to read each other's minds.

Wait - no. I'm sure that's not a good thing. I really don't want to know how much he thinks about a certain activity.

So, to make it through this due day so far I have:
1) slept in until 10 am
2) downed half a pot of coffee (I should have spiked it with something)
3) added 12 things to my to-do list and crossed nothing off
4) took a nap to try get rid of my headache
5) cursed at a tile project that never goes away
6) decided to make nothing but brown rice for supper and let hubby do the rest
7) cursed some more that I can't find my iPod so I can sing/warble to ABBA
8) tried to be grateful that my kids did all their chores this morning
9) said a few prayers for people who are having much more difficult times than I am
10) made plans to do nothing but sit and knit tonight.

I probably can and will survive - if my definition of surviving is just one step at a time and putting one more piece of slate up on the wall. If I could take a sauna some time today, I might actually make it.

That would be a good thing.

boys say the funniest things...

"When grandpa gets dead, can I have his kitties?"

I dare you to hear that and not laugh out loud.

100 grand worth of happiness

This makes me feel better about not being wealthy - at least in terms of finances.

A recent New York Times column says, essentially, wealth is NOT the key to happiness. Finally. I can wake up from that dream.

Instead, having good interpersonal relationships make humans happy. If I have close friends, I will be happier than if I have more money. The activities most associated with happiness are sex, socializing after work and having dinner with others. (I'll buy that for two out of three, but won't tell you which two.)

All of this seems to be common sense, but now it's being backed up by research. Apparently a couple of studies have found the following:
1. Joining a group that meets just once a month produces the same happiness gain as doubling your income.
2. Being married gives you a psychic gain equivalent to more than $100,000 a year.

Wait until I tell hubby that one. He's rich! I bet he never knew I was worth a cool 100 grand. Heck, I didn't even know that.

It makes me happy. And it makes me hungry for one of those little candy bars...

confidence

So, I'm upstairs working on our never-ending project and I couldn't get this hymn out of my head. I'm starting to think that God's going to communicate with me through music since I won't listen any other way. (How's that for a confession?)

I'm feeling blue and blah and... a little sorry for myself. And it's raining - even more depressing.

I should be happy for those around me who have good news to share. I should be praying for those around me who have shared uncertainties with their health and their professions. I should do something for the cousin who is facing the incredible burden of losing a nine-year-old son to cancer. Instead, I'm humming a hymn, lost in my own issues. I should...well I'm not really sure what I should...

Then, when I realized what the words of the hymn were I couldn't stop the tears from coming.

Confidence by F.A. Graves
Lord, clasp my falt'ring hands in Thine;
Too weak I am to walk alone;
My path, dear Lord, I would not choose,
But ever say, "Thy will be done."

Tempted at times to trust in self,
And in this self feel brave and strong;
Help, in my weakness, Thee to trust,
To do the right, and shun the wrong.

I'll trust in Thee each day and hour,
As thro' this sinful world I go;
I'll lean upon Thine arm of pow'r,
And then defeat I'll ne'er shall know.

If I in Thee shall fall asleep,
Or in the clouds shall see Thee come;
Then, where there'll be no cause to weep,
Greet me, my Savior, in that home.

I'd love to share the tune as well, in case you're not familiar with this not-so-well-known song. But, I can't find it anywhere online.

I wish I had the confidence to walk the path chosen for me - especially when I want to do nothing more than turn and run in the opposite direction. I wish I could focus more on others than on myself - especially when life could be so much worse. I wish I wasn't feeling so melancholy - especially when I'm so blessed.

Confidence is not an easy thing to possess.

it's nice to have boys...

because they discover cool things like this:

"Drinking pop sounds cool when you have ear plugs in."

Sadly, I don't know which one of them said this.

boys say the funniest things...

"You're goofy."

"No I'm not, I'm hilawious."

And even at four, he knows himself pretty well.

life's messy - grace it up

Somewhere along the line we have gained another rug rat to add to the four that already wreak their own brand of havoc our house. And surprise, surprise - it’s a boy.

I am living in the land of “not me” and “I didn’t do it.” A year ago, the youngest got blamed for everything - including things done in places he couldn’t possibly reach. Now that he’s older, wiser and slightly more capable of challenging the charges against him, the older three have got creative.

They invited a fall guy to join our family. His name is Andrew.

Whenever I find Legos stuffed under the TV cabinet or socks under couch cushions, they strangely belong to no one and no one left them out. No one, that is, but “Andrew.” I have yet to see what this impetuous child looks like and whether or not he carries any Larson genes like cowlicks and the inability to put shirts on with the tag in the back. My guess is that he’s quite intelligent since I can never seem to catch him in the act of sneaking cereal or scattering the Monopoly money in five different rooms. He also must be at least five feet tall, because he manages to get into the top shelves to pull down toys that were supposed to be taken away.

Andrew is rather amazing. He’s also downright disorderly.

He leaves mud clods on the rug. He spills water and doesn’t wipe it up. He doesn’t put away his rubber boots. He “borrows” tools without permission and leaves them outside to rust. He has even been known to leave the toilet unflushed.

If it weren’t so frustrating to hear “It wasn’t me” on a daily basis, all this Andrew-blaming would almost be funny. Even though the dirty, smelly sock left by the front door might fit Boy #3, he will insist, “It’s not mine!”

I’m starting to wonder about my childrens’ intelligence - or at the very least their common sense. For some reason, they haven’t figured out that I get more upset about excuses than I do that stuff doesn’t get picked up. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been completely mortified by the condition of my house when some random person stops by. Coats on the floor. Cushions off the couch, creating some sort of sad-looking fort. Random socks peeking out everywhere. And then there are the toys that I’m convinced are procreating. Some days I’m tempted to run for cover, but I’d probably trip on something as I get up to speed and sprain my ankle. Tinkertoys can be weapons, you know.

Other days I blow. The blaming others, the denial, the justifying - it can add up to one irate mother who more often than not doesn’t keep her cool. I rant and rave for awhile. I throw things outside in a huge heap. Then I complain to hubby and to God about how unresponsible and dirty and irritating my children can be.

After all, I never make excuses for my behavior. I never forget to do things. I never blame other people for my failures. (I never deny things either.) And of course, God never shows me grace when I do all of that.

When I grumble to him, he asks: “Did you show love?” “But, they’re such pigs!” I protest. “Did you bite your tongue?” “But he really needed the discipline!” I justify. “What kind of mess did YOU make today?” “Um, well...” I mutter, knowing I’ll make more of a mess if I continue.

The whole point of God showing me grace is so that I’ll show some grace to my boys, and to Andrew. And it might be working - the other day one boy broke the water filter right off the kitchen faucet. A bit nervously, he came to confess.

Thankfully, I didn’t bungle the opportunity. A deep breath and a hug later, I realized - grace can clean up a whole lot of messes.

just a question

At Walmart today - the cashier told me about a new spa that just opened up in town and then asked if I wanted to buy a $25 special on a facial/shoulder massage that she does. I couldn't help wondering if 1) she should be soliciting for her other job while working and 2) I looked like I needed a facial.

Neither question has a very good answer.

boys say the funniest things...

Number four after church today:

"Mom, I want to see heaven, but I want to grow and grow too." ;)

tardiness

I am not known for my punctuality. I believe it's some sort of personality defect - really it's my only flaw. (Please hear the sarcasm there!) If it involves leaving the house by a certain time to get somewhere else by a certain time - forget it.

It drives my husband crazy. I can't tell you how many times I've prayed desperately as we've been driving somewhere for the slow drivers to find other roads and for stoplights to be frozen green. Sometimes it's worked miraculously, but most times, we show up a couple minutes late (even if the clock is set forward by unknown increments.)

But in my defense, it's usually not my fault (unless tardiness is genetic, then in a roundabout way, it probably is. But we won't go there now...)

It's the kids.

They are the reason I am perpetually late and perpetually flustered. We rarely make it to church on time. We'll fly into the parking lot and each of us will have to run with separate kids to make it to their separate areas before the worship team is done with the five songs they do on Sunday mornings. If we have to add a bathroom stop in for the youngest, we're screwed.

We haven't made it on time to freestyle wrestling practice yet this month. Even if I drive like a you-know-what from you-know-where, I still pull up to the school at 6:31. And the kids are running inside in various stages of dress and undress. Last week, I thought we were on a roll...until one boy decided to check the chickens a minute before everyone was out the door. This normally would be cause for celebration (he did something without being asked! It's a miracle!) but not on this day. He set all five eggs on the rug in front of the side door and his brother promptly smushed one when he turned to tie his shoes. Yep, we were late again.

The next time practice day rolled around, we were again just about ready to head out the door on time and I (stupid me) asked the middle child (who never has ANYTHING ready) if he remembered his water bottle. Of course not. Then he couldn't get the lid unscrewed to fill it up. I uncapped the thing and was treated to the not-so-pleasant aroma of stale well water. I couldn't just fill it up and have him drinking stinky water, so out came the Dawn and hot, hot water. You guessed it - late again.

I've lost count how many times we've had to turn around halfway to town to retrieve someone's wrestling shoes. Last week we showed up to guitar lessons without a guitar. I probably shouldn't say "we" because really I have enough on my mind to get four kids into the van and make sure they're not too dirty or that their everyday clothes aren't too dorky in case we stop at Walmart or the library. I can't remember the guitar too. (The upside is that the guitar-forgetter will probably never leave it behind again.)

I feel a bit like a cowboy trying to round up the herd and get them through the door and corralled into the van. All without losing one or forgetting one behind. I'm not a very good drover however, because my four bulls fight me every step of the way, leaving behind tell-tale piles of crap and taking much longer to get going than even the most patient cowboy could tolerate.

So, this morning I was late again. I was trying to get my oldest in to town to meet his father for a doctor's appointment. I was in the van but he hadn't changed his clothes and then he forgot his language book (yes, I'm a mean mom and make my kids take their schoolwork everywhere if they haven't finished it.) Then, driving into town we get stuck behind an idiot in a PT Cruiser driving 45 mph. Hubby wanted me to get to his office early, which of course meant we got there two minutes late. Phooey.

As I was driving home, I noticed my feet felt weird. Looked down to discover I had left the house wearing my slippers. Who do I blame on that one?

It's probably a good thing that my kids don't have to make a bus to school in the morning - they'd end up chasing tail lights like my brothers and I did many, many times. So, maybe it is genetic. Which of course, just means that it's still not my fault - it's my parent's.

the boss

I'm in big trouble...in about ten years.

My four-year-old is going to give me a run for my money as a teenager. How do I know this? Here's a sampling of our ride home from Cub Foods last night.

"Mom, I'm older than you."
"Really?"
"Yep. I'm yours plus one."
"If you're older than me how come you're not bigger than me?"
"I AM bigger than you and STRONGER than you." Then came a "hmmph" - like that settles that.
"And I'm the boss."

He sat and pondered his boss-dom for about ten seconds and then (I'm not making this up...) he spouted, "Hmmm.... what does Mom have to do?" (because after all he is The Boss and can now tell me what to do, or in this case, where to go.)

"You have to get out of the van."
"Why is that?"
"Then I don't have to wear a seat belt."

"If you don't wear a seat belt you can get hurt."
"Nope. I'm strong. I'm like Noah."

Apparently Noah was a strong man (or at least The Boss thinks so after watching Evan Almighty the other week.)

"Mom, know what?"
"What?"
"I'm gonna change my name."
"Really?"
"Yep. I'm gonna."
"What name are you going to be?"
"I'm gonna be Matthew. That would be a good name."

Matthew is his new best and only friend who he met at wrestling. They have been known to sneak out of the wrestling room into the boys locker room to open lockers in search of money. Last match, they found about 64 cents. Number Four got the dime and four pennies. Matthew got the quarter. Matthew is five.

Thankfully by this time we pulled into the garage, so I didn't have to hear any more from "The Boss."

He bolted out of the van and ran to the edge of the sidewalk.
"See Mom, I am the Boss. I can pee farther than you."

How am I supposed to compete with that?

butter battle

So, just a random question - can not cleaning the cast iron frying pan from last night's sauteed mushrooms get you sick?

I only ask because I didn't. Clean it that is.

I just took a paper towel and wiped out the remainder of the butter and plopped my frozen green beans in. Perhaps it wasn't such a smart thing to do because now my green beans are smelling slightly like mushrooms. Which really makes me crabby because there is little else is this world that compares to green beans sauteed in olive oil and finished off with fresh garlic pressed over them.

Well, I'm at the point that I really don't care. If I do get sick, it'll be welcomed. Then I'll have a good excuse to not get anything done except for bad daytime television and random knitting. (Only have like five projects started and not finished - that's another rant for another day...)

Bring on the butter barfing.

spring can fling

I'm not sure what's wrong with me. So many people I know are thrilled with the early thaw, the sunshine, the warm weather, with SPRING.

Not me. I think there may be a gene that went astray somewhere in my code. Well okay, perhaps one of many. But for this post - we'll only focus on the "Yay! Spring!" trait that somehow mutated to "Spring puts me in a bad mood" quirk in me.

I do not like this time of year. I do not like it with a beer.
I do not like it while in bed. I do not like it wearing red.
I tell you very honestly. I do not, do not like the spring.
Why that is, I could not tell. Only that it makes me yell.
Why it is that I can say - spring can fling - I'm in a fray.
I tell you very honestly. I do not, can not like the spring.
I do not like it when I wake. I do not like it for Pete's sake.
I do not like it like you do. I do not like you 'cause you do.
Spring can fling that's all I'll say.
Talk to me again in May.
Maybe then I'll be less a bummer.
Maybe then it'll be closer to summer.

Yeah...

I'm still wearing my long johns since it's not THAT warm and I really really hate all the muck and mud that four boys find this time of year. Warm weather means I have to start (gasp!) shaving my legs again and have to deal with the itchiness that goes along with that. And don't even get me started on spring cleaning - I'd really like to sink my teeth into whoever thought up that wonderful idea. (In case you can't tell - I'm not a happy camper. And I can't even blame it on cabin fever anymore or the lack of sunshine.)

The really weird thing is that I've been this way at least since college. I'm a writing major who mostly did non-fiction stuff and newsletter articles. Spring is the only time of year that I write poetry. Mainly because I need to be a bit in a funk to write a good poem and for some strange reason, Spring does that to me.

Case in point: I got a poem published one year in Bethel's annual competition (can't remember the name of it) that was entitled: Man: My Casus Belli.

Look it up - it will explain a lot.

So, I'm welcome to theories as to why this time of year gets me crabby, short, impatient and restless. Maybe you can figure out why I'd like to give spring a fling and move on to fall.

Oh, and just to demonstrate that I don't write bad poetry like the Dr. Suessism above, I'll try to hunt down those college rants and publish some soon. They're probably all saved on 3x5 discs, so it might be a task to recover... but hey, y'all are worth it. And of course I'd like to prove my point.

boys say the funniest things...

"Where's my good morning hug?"

His response: "I don't hug girls anymore."

I almost cried, but I'm not the sentimental type. Ha.

it's nice to have boys...

because they come up with answers like this:

Doing geography this morning, Number Two had to label the four layers of the earth. He wrote 'mantle' and then immediately put "Mickey" in front of it. "Sorry Mom, I couldn't help myself" was his explanation.

passing of the genes

Apparently sarcasm is genetic. One of my boys attended a birthday party and when the dad pulled blinds down, the entire unit fell. My darling son looks at him and says, "Well, if you wouldn't buy cheap blinds, they wouldn't break."

Thankfully these are friends of ours who cherish laughter more than possessions.

boys say the funniest things...

Number Four got a belated birthday gift last night from his aunt. When he gave her a hug goodbye, he whispered in her ear, "It's not REALLY my birthday!"

boys say the funniest things...

Number Four got a late birthday gift last night. It was a Nerf dart tag gun with extra ammunition. He opened it up and I heard him yelling upstairs, "I'm rich with darts!"

car conversations

"Mom, when I get bigger and you die, then I'll be the boss and I won't have to pick up anyfing!"

prohibition

I may have to start a ban around here.

Maybe I should explain. I'm mortified by my kids. They can learn a song lyric by heart after hearing it one time. Which ordinarily wouldn't be so bad, but they don't have great taste in music and end up choosing lyrics that, well, mortify me. Why they can't memorize Bible verses or which slots the silverware go into is beyond me. Instead, they're savants at picking up words about alcohol or women that are sung to a catchy tune.

It all started when my husband switched radio stations while working on the addition. Out when the local Christian station and on came current country music. (To be fair, I had to agree with his reason - we both got sick of hearing the SAME song 14 times a day. Only I switched to Air1 for the Christian rock and he went to stereotypical redneck anthems.)

I should probably be grateful that I have children with great memories. But I'm not. It's a bit embarrassing/ridiculous/surreal to hear a six-year-old sing this:

"Rain makes corn; corn makes whisky; whisky makes my baby frisky."

I mean really. My husband has a hard time figuring out what makes me frisky, so I'm pretty sure that a kindergartener doesn't have a clue. There have to be better phrases that come through free airwaves into our house to bounce around in my boys' brains.

My four-year-old was into the "Pants on the Ground" thing for awhile, complete with a wiggly butt dance. Before that, he would belt out, "little bit of chicken fried; cold beer on a Friday night; pair of jeans that fit just right..." Yeah. And worse, after he'd sing, the stupid song would be stuck in my head for hours.

The older two aren't any better, although they'd graduated to Steve Miller Band classics like "The Joker" or the Eagles' "Hotel California" thanks to Band Hero. But even they have got caught up in the country music craziness - especially after Mom got a Taylor Swift CD for Valentine's Day. The older of the two likes to belt out "You Belong to Me," yet can't understand why girls steal his hat and won't give it back. The second crooner has latched on to Lady Antebellum (who I adore), but still something's not quite right when you hear an eight-year-old singing, "It's a quarter after one, I'm a little drunk and I need you now..."

See what I mean?

Perhaps I'll enact a law that breaks some sort of Personal Freedoms when it limits what boys who pick up on country music lyrics way too quickly can hear. I'd call it the "No K102 4 U" statute. It would scramble inappropriate content so all they'd hear was static when the offending song was played. Maybe it'll have to mean inventing a special tool for the stereo that I can turn off and on at will. That way I can screen songs for them, but listen to whatever I want.

After all, not only is it appropriate for me to sing "God is great, beer is good, people are crazy," it's mostly true.

boys say the funniest things...

I asked Number Four: ‎"Are you reading the phonebook?"

"No, I'm seeing if my name is in it."

boys say the funniest things...

Little boy who is mad at mom for making him eat all his omelet: "Know what, Mom?"

"No, what?"

"When I grow up, I'm going to live somewhere ELSE!"

Don't think he quite knew what to say when I told him, "Good, I hope you do!"

evaluation

Hubby had the day off today and decided to help me out by doing schoolwork with Boy #2 and Boy #3, bribing them with ice cream sundaes if they got everything done for today and more. This would be approximately four hours of actual school work time, if they actually sat down and did it without crying and whining and daydreaming. I chuckled to myself because I knew the bribe, while clever, probably wouldn't work.

After half a day of trying to install maple flooring (in between bouts of "I don't know what to do" and "This is too hard" and "I need you to help me" and "I don't know what nine times seven is") he plopped himself on the ground, looked at me and said, "I seriously think you need a psych evaluation!"

Now, I'm thrilled that he understands why I'm sometimes still in pajamas when he gets home from work and why I sometimes call him several times a day to insist the boys are getting on the bus the next day and why I am making no progress on my tile work. But I'm not as thrilled by the insinuation that I might be crazy.

Wonder what the evaluation would reveal. But really, I'm probably better off not knowing.

idiot #1 and #2

Every once in awhile, I run across a parent (or set of parents) who leave me speechless with their stupidity and lack of parenting skills (or maybe both). Even worse, I had been warned by hubby, so I shouldn't have been so shocked. And yet... I'm still shaking my head.

Last night at my son's wrestling match, a teammate of his was wrestling and as soon as things weren't going his way, he started bawling. Hubby told me about the tears, but I wasn't quite prepared for how much this boy acted like a baby.

I also got a close-up view of the lack of intelligence sitting three people down from me. It was a bit scary. After losing, the boy tromps over to his mother and father, sobbing for reasons unknown. Okay, I guess I can understand crying because you lost your match, but not bawling at this decibel nor what happened next. He started screaming at one parent or the other (I couldn't really make out what he was saying through all the whining and tears.) Then, when the parents either couldn't understand him or didn't give him what he wanted, he KICKED HIS MOTHER!!!

The father sitting next to me (not the father of this child) told me it would be suicide if one of his kids did that to him. I couldn't agree more. I was stunned. First, that this happened and second that the parents DID NOTHING ABOUT IT. They didn't even look surprised.

My kid would have been hauled out of the gymnasium, had a severe "talking to" and then would have been marched to his coaches to explain why he would be leaving and wouldn't be allowed to wrestle his second match. Then at home would be some real consequences that I'd dream up - like cleaning toilets and handwritten apologies and hmmm, I'm sure I could come up with something fun. I seriously doubt a child would try something liking kicking a parent after all of that.

But there was none of that last night. The mother looked slightly embarrassed but did little else.

This boy's second match was even worse. I had a little bet going with the guy next to me about how long it would take the kid to start crying. He guessed 30 seconds and he was almost dead-on. Halfway through the first period, this boy got put on his back by a far superior wrestler and started squealing like a stuck pig. This isn't an exaggeration. Tears on the wrestling mat, while silly, are common in youth wrestlers. Screeches are not and especially when they reverberate across the gym so that there was no mistaking the source.

I know we all take the easy way out once in awhile. But, it boggles my brain when people cannot figure out that if they consistently do that with children, they are only inviting more problems and more fights and more meltdowns later on. Giving in now to bad behavior like this does nothing but delay the issue and permit it to grow into a bigger, much more difficult issue in the future. Do I deal with this now when it's a small battle or do I allow it to become an all-out war when my child is 9 or 11 or 16?

So, here's to you - idiots #1 and #2 - for reaffirming my decision to discipline my children as consistently as I can, so as to not raise brats. Thank you for providing me with a perfect opportunity to praise my son for not acting like a baby after he lost his second match. And most of all, thank you for showing me that my children, even though I get frustrated with them, are pretty darn good kids. Compared to yours, my son is a gem.

one month later

It's a bit surreal this many days after a loss. I'm far enough away to feel better physically, to not be angry and to talk about it all without going berserk. But I'm close enough still to feel sad and numb and even a bit like my emotions could still get the best of me when I least want them to.

So, my goal for the next month is to avoid pregnant women, babies, all the thoughts that crop up in my head late a night and songs by Sinead O'Connor.

Do-able? Hardly.

Well, I can avoid sad, angry songs and I can either read myself to sleep or take Tylenol PM. Beyond that - little is in my control.

One month later is a tough place to be in for another reason. Because I sound fine and look fine and feel fine, I think most people just think I am fine. And for the most part, I am. But, all it would take would be one little thing like the whiff of a newborn or seeing a women about as pregnant as I should have been and I'd probably be a puddle of tears. I'm not sure that most people would anticipate or expect that from me.

I know there isn't a time limit or a set schedule for grief, and yet we tend to put that on people. We unconsciously think, "Oh, it's been awhile now; she should be doing much better." And then we're surprised at how fresh the pain can still be - both when it happens to ourselves and to others. We're uncomfortable with mourning - and especially mourning beyond a certain undetermined time period in our minds.

And believe me, the mourner is just as uncomfortable. We tell ourselves that we shouldn't still be emotional. That we shouldn't still be so sad. That we should be over this by now. We tell ourselves all of this and yet we're still a mess and sad and not over anything. We just don't feel the pain quite as acutely - it's more of a dull ache than a stabbing heartbreak.

Now is the messy part of recovery. Now is when we battle ourselves with stupid expectations and time tables. Now is when we most need hugs and small reminders of God's love and care for us. Now is when we are most susceptible to bitterness. Now is when we are most likely to stuff our emotions and become numb to both pain and joy.

We're fine, but we're not. And it's only been a month.