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.