when i'm an adult

This time of year, one can’t help but wish to be a kid again. The wonder and anticipation of Christmas is all too real for children. They clammer about the tree, snooping in presents, shaking stockings...

Oh, wait that was me. I was the nosy one, expertly peeling back Scotch tape from gift wrapping and sliding the paper off the packages to get a peak inside. I was so good at it, I could replace the wrapping back on the present without any rips or tears. I could even line the creases back up to the sides of the box and match the tape to its orginal position. If the tape lost its stickiness, I scrounged up another piece and placed it directly over the old one - viola! Re-wrapped present! What a devious child was I. The trouble was, in all of that peaking, I don’t remember finding a single one of my own presents. For some reason, I always ended up opening one of the my brother’s. Perhaps Mom didn’t label gifts back then?

It was good to be a kid at Christmas-time. If the anticipation of gifts didn’t kill you, having to pose for family Christmas photos might. No one ever smiled at the same time and by the time 15 pictures had been taken, no one had smiles left.

The holiday excitement was usually dampened by having to trudge through preparations for the annual Sunday school program. Practice, practice, practice singing carols, filing out of church pews, fighting for position in front of the microphone (oh, that was me too). I remember being forced to wear a new dress for the Christmas program (oh, how I hated dresses!) and mortifying my mother by somehow managing to put a gigantic run in the front of white tights right before it was my grade’s turn to sing. There I was, curled hair sticking out every which way, navy blue dress making me very uncomfortable, a two-inch streak running up my left leg and I wasn’t giving up an inch to the right or left of the prime property in front of the mike. I was going to SING! If I remember correctly, there were at least three girls in my class that had the same intentions come program time. Sometimes it’s cute when kids belt out into the microphone, but playing tackle-the-mike stand isn’t so much.

Ah, yes. I could probably go on and on with all my memories of Christmas time, but I wouldn’t want you to think poorly of me. I really did enjoy most parts of the holidays. (Did I mention the toys?) To this day, I can’t get the Toys R Us jingle out of my head: ”I don’t want to grow up...”

I wish I could can some of a child’s enthusiasm over snow, Christmas, putting up a tree, etc., and drink it down like a Coke. Maybe then I’d be a little less “adult” about toys and gifts and shopping and baking and family get-togethers.

That’s why I have to chuckle at my boys when they believe all their problems will be solved when they get bigger.

Boy #3 got upset with me last night when I wouldn’t let him have a snack before bedtime. I sent him to bed for the third time and pulled out the last two pieces of chocolate cake for me and hubby. Like most children (okay, okay, like me) he somehow sensed there was a snack out, ready to be devoured. He was out of bed within 15 seconds, down the stairs, and peeking over the railing. “Why do you get cake?” he demanded.

When our usual platitudes about being Mom and Dad didn’t please him, he huffed back up the stairs, muttering, “When I’m a dadult, I’m having cake!”

Boy #2 has been wondering what he should be when he grows up. I told him he’ll figure it out soon enough (he’s five) and not to worry, but that advice fell on deaf ears.

“I just don’t know what I should be. I think maybe a police man, and I’d really like to be a rock star.” I had visions of the Village People in my head so I’m really praying for Divine Discernment for that child.

It’s just incredibly interesting to me how we, as humans, and no matter how young or old we are, tend to think our problems will be solved by growing up, getting rich, getting smarter or even doing X, Y and Z.

We can’t comprehend sometimes that when we get bigger, we let our problems get bigger as well. We have pie and we want cake. We have a perfectly nice dress and we want to wear pants. We want to be big, bigger than God. So much so, that we often forget that He is the ultimate problem-solver, answer-giver, present-gifter and love-offerer.

This Christmas, perhaps we could recapture some of the excitement of children by simply doing two things: giving and receiving.

Give glory. Give worship. Give praise.

Receive love. Receive love. Receive love. And, who knows, maybe even a new dress.

bottomless pits

This is the downside to boys. My three and a half are draining our pocketbook, our fridge, our pantry and our freezer. And they’re draining what little energy I have because there are no longer any leftovers left over.

Gone are the days when I can make a pot of chili that will last two suppers. Gone are the days when a casserole will stretch for a couple days. Gone are the days when the bread got moldy before it was all used up.

The three point five juvenile stomachs (bottomless and unfillable) can gobble down an entire loaf of bread during one lunch.

Don’t believe me? Here’s what three boys devoured for lunch yesterday. Each had one ham, cheese and mustard sandwich (two slices of bread), one peanut butter and jelly sandwich (two slices of bread), half a peanut butter sandwich (one slice of bread) half an apple, two fistfuls of chips, three pickles, two dilly beans, a glass of lemonade, eight carrots and 12 grapes. (Yes, I counted, because these children have some sort of unconscious radar detection system that immediately senses and goes ballistic if one child gets one more grape than another.) It’s a bit scary.

Where does all this food go? Worse yet, how can they still want more after wolfing down enough food to feed a large family in a third-world country?

I hear, “Mom, can I have more to eat?” after EVERY meal. (Unless it’s something they don’t like, which is very rare.) These vultures will eat just about anything - olives, sauerkraut, broccoli, cottage cheese, fried cabbage, Chinese, venison and all those things many kids turn their noses up at.

I can’t figure out if their metabolisms are just that high, if they’re just that active, or if they truly do have bottomless pits for stomachs. (But, they’re boys, so it could be all of the above.) I enjoy food as much as the next person, but this consumption in our house is bordering on ridiculous. The sad thing is that others have assured me it will only get worse with teenage boys - more food, bigger messes.

Wonderful. They’re just going to have to learn how to fish or raise chickens for the family larder. Now I know why my parents raised their own beef. (I have five brothers.)

I got to thinking about not living on bread alone (I dare say my boys are making a pretty good attempt at it). I seem to always have an appetite for food, but not so much for what God considers “living bread.”

I wish I salivated over Isaiah and Romans and James the way I do over BBQ chicken pizza. (Put it that way and it sounds like I’m a cannibal, but I’m trusting you get the idea). I wish I satiated my hunger in the morning with Psalms instead of Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch. Most times, if I’m being honest, I would rather consume a cheeseburger than stick my nose into God’s Word.

We are to hunger and thirst after righteousness, but I wonder if we sometimes aren’t more concerned with our hungry bellies. There’s a delicate balance there - too hungry and you can’t concentrate on anything but your grumbly tummy, too full and you tend to get sluggish. Either way food can be a distraction.

My physical hunger will never be satisfied, only temporarily. My spiritual hunger shouldn’t either, but sometimes, well it just is. I get lazy and comfortable and satisfied with where I am and how little of the Word I’m feeding myself. Often, I don't even have an appetite for it. You can want to have that craving, but that’s a bit like wanting to desire sushi if you can’t stand the thought of eating raw fish. It might work to force yourself to eat sushi to develop a “taste” for it, but I’m still not sure that would make you crave it. It might also work if you knew sushi was good for you, but again that’s probably not enough to make you dream about eating it or make your mouth water for another bite.

That desire has almost got to come supernaturally. Each of us has unique taste buds. Some of us love jalapeños. Some of us actually like pickled herring. Some people love seafood. (That one I still don’t understand.) At some point, a person had to sample the above items in order to know whether or not they tasted good. Some of those foods we’ve had to acquire a taste for, other foods we simply love the minute we put it into our mouths. (I’m thinking about chocolate, Krispy Kremes and ice cream in particular.) Some people might simply have an intense desire to get in the Word after one taste test; for most of us, that hankering has to come with repeated nibblings. Either way, the key action is: the Word has to get into our mouths to be tasted to see if the Lord truly is good.

I’m humble enough to admit I’m not there yet. I know that it’s not a simple aversion to God’s Word like my disgust for seafood. It’s more akin to the fact that I haven’t put it to my senses often enough to savor it. Let me put it this way, it’s kind of like broccoli – I know it’s good for me, I know how to eat it and I even like it, but I don’t LOVE it. I don’t want to eat it every day. I wouldn’t choose it over a cup of steaming coffee laced with chocolate mint truffle creamer or a bowl of maple nut ice cream. Or over fried chicken and mashed potatoes.

Somehow, I’m hoping I can either learn to relish broccoli like French silk pie (read: change my perspective) or experience God’s Word in such an personal, deep, pleasurable way, that it would be just like eating French silk pie. Both are possible if I just get out of the kitchen and into the Good Book.

But, first I’ve got some pits to fill.

falling in love again

I’d forgotten (until recently) how quickly one can fall in love with a newborn. And how deep the love can be.

So, needless to say, I’m thoroughly enjoying having a five-month-old in the house, especially once he started sleeping mostly through the night. (His timing couldn’t have been better either - right after we got home from a two-week vacation and right when I most needed the sleep!)

A happy, smiling, cooing baby who chews on his toes is a complete delight. (Aren’t I lucky?) I am completely in love with him - all 17 pounds and especially the chunky thighs.

I love the grunts he makes constantly. I love the way he bounces and bounces in his Johny Jump-Up. I love his chubby cheeks and toothless grin. I even think his sweaty feet are adorable. I don’t even mind getting up in the middle of the night to give him his pacifier so he’ll go back to sleep. I love that I have an excuse to have baby lotion in the house (one of my all-time favorite smells). I love how quickly he recognized me (and Dad and brothers!) I love little giggles when we do Pat-A-Cake and when I blow on his belly. I even love how he splashes water all over during his bath.

It seems the rest of the boys are equally as smitten. They have been fighting non-stop to sit next to him since we got a minivan. It got so bad we finally had to put an end to the wars by giving them seating assignments. Boy #1 lucked out and got the coveted spot. Boy #3 threw a fit (that was expected).

All three boys have so far, not tired of giving the baby his pacifier, talking to the baby, and trying to feed the baby Cheerios (you guessed it, Boy #3!)

But, once the hungry screams start, they will mostly skidaddle - love doesn’t cover ear-splitting shrieks that can only be stopped by food.

From what I can tell, this falling in love business appears to be quite common among the female gender. Maybe we’re genetically predisposed somehow to “suffer” from this condition.

I tend to think that’s been done on purpose.

If God meant for us to be saved through childbearing, it seems only natural that we would also be quite attached to the children we bear. (Even when they’re unbearable).

What is really interesting, though is that women also enjoy babies that aren’t their own. We flock around the newborns like they were made of chocolate. We get our “baby fixes” as often as possible. I’m not sure if holding a baby somehow reassures us that life is a gift, a blessing, and a miracle or if we simply are attracted to innocence.

Either way, I’ve been happy to indulge anyone who asks, “Can I hold him?” because I know how good it feels to cuddle a baby – especially when he smiles at you like you’re the most attractive and intelligent person in the world.

Life is good. How lucky we are that God allows us to enjoy it - and all those babies.

making memories

Tomorrow we will be heading out for a cross-country road trip - first vacation we’ve taken since I was pregnant with boy number three more than three years ago. It took this long to get up the guts to cross the state border. I’m still not sure if it’s bravery or insanity.

Right now, I’ve been trying to pack and plan how to keep all four boys occupied for the 26 hours we’ll be cooped in a vehicle on our way to Washington.

It’s been quite an ordeal - snacks, toys, books, books on tape, more snacks, crayons and coloring books, Adventures in Odyssey CDs, an atlas to track our progress west (typical homeschool mom trying to make this trip educational!) and of course, wet wipes.

I’m really not sure if any of this will help. I let the boys pick out their own snacks today at Wal-Mart - things I never normally buy. A total of $147 later, the cart was filled with Oreos, M&M’s, goldfish crackers, licorice, juice boxes, one bag of smushed potato chips (thanks to boy number three), candy necklaces, cheap toys that I can throw away when we get home (if they last that long) and even some of the cool animal crackers that come in their own little boxes.

The three who can comprehend the idea of snacks were catapulting with excitement in the middle of the snack aisle, much to my chagrin.

“Thank you so much, Mom!” I heard over and over. Who knew kids could get so excited about their own containers of Chips Ahoy and Nutter Butter cookies?

“Boy I can’t wait until Saturday!” one boy bellered, causing the lady in the aisle next to us to chuckle aloud.

I’m guessing by the time we hit North Dakota, the vehicle will be sticky with spilled juice, McDonald’s French fries and an assortment of cookie crumbs.

I keep telling myself “We’re making memories along with the messes.” That and reminding myself that my parents took seven kids cross-country in the opposite direction in a Plymouth Horizon hatchback in July.

And they survived.

Those were the days before seatbelt and car seat requirements. Maybe that explains it. Either that or we were just such well-behaved children that it was no big deal to take a family vacation in a vehicle smaller than one of our four-wheelers. (Somehow I doubt that).

I remember ice coming through the vents from the air conditioner. I remember writing signs on notebook paper to hold in the window as we passed cars. I remember waving at all the other vehicles from the back window - everyone had such big smiles. Back then, I thought people on freeways were just extraordinarily friendly. In reality, I’m guessing they had reactions much like my husband’s coworkers and many of my friends have had about our trip.

“Look at that! Look at all those kids! Can you imagine travelling with that many children? Are you crazy? Do you have a DVD player? No? Can’t you borrow one?”

Then they find out we’re camping on the way - for more than one night. That really boggles most people.

“Building memories,” I mutter, trying to convince myself at the same time.

There are four of us that are excited about camping along the way. (Yes, I would be the lone hold-out for a stay in a comfortable bed. Indoors. In a heated hotel room).

But we’re making memories.

I hope they include 75-degree weather, no rain, no bears, no bugs, no whining... Well, I can dream, can’t I? I wish I had even a tenth the enthusiasm about life that my boys do about “our vacation.” Wouldn’t this trip called life be exciting if we could look at it as a daily adventure?

Okay God, where are you taking me today? What big adventure do you have in store for me (if I’ll just open my eyes to see it)?
I wonder if he tires of hearing us whine, “Are we there yet?”

He’s planned our entire course with great care. The journey is almost as important as the destination. I think he too, likes to make memories.

all marked up

We have need for establishing a marker-free zone at our house. I’m seriously considering banishing the tools of color for good - mainly because the color is ending up everywhere but on paper.

Boy #3 has been at it again. But, before I cast all the blame at his feet, I should note that Boy #1 and Boy #2 have a bad habit of leaving temptation out in colors like electric lime, blue lagoon and infra red where eager hands can grab them and run. They are at least partly at fault for the condition of our home.

A few days ago, I wandered into the boys’ bedroom (not by choice - I generally try to avoid it unless absolutely necessary). A sheepish little boy greeted me at the door with about seven markers uncapped and ready for war. Apparently, part of the battle had already taken place.

Purple streaks covered the table and chairs that I had laboriously painted for Boy #1’s third birthday. (That was five years ago). The set had somehow managed to survive the first two hooligans with little to no major damage. But that had all changed now. All the cute little lettering and stars I had painted on the top was graffitied over by scribbles. The chairs had the same matching streaks down the legs and across the back. Next to the table, on the wall (which was previously a nice shade of sage green) were more lines and swirls of varying colors. Even the light switch didn’t escape being vandalized.

I closed the door and nearly jumped out of my skin. The backside of the door was covered in a two-foot patch of colorful sketches only a two-year-old could make.

But, it didn’t stop there. His brother’s closet door had scribbles. The floor had scribbles. The two-year-old himself had scribbles up and down his arms and on the sides of his face.

He received a mighty good lecture, a little discipline (okay maybe a lot). And then I attempted to scrub off his marker job. Nothing worked. Soap. Water. Elbow Grease. Comet. All it did was fade the colors somewhat; the stains refused to budge.

Each boy received a good talking to and I thought the matter was resolved until I went to clean up the living and dining room a few days later.

My brand-new red tablecloth now sports blue lines on one corner. The off-white carpet has an attractive turquoise splotch in front of the TV cabinet. I found another spot of the same color next to one of the end tables.

None of these stains came clean 100 percent. The only thing this child colored that managed to come clean was his tongue. He decorated that with a black marker, but his mouth looked good as new after lunch that day. (Where’s the justice in that - I almost found myself hoping he’d get marker poisoning, or at least a slight case of indigestion).

Instead, I’m left with a room to repaint. The only way to solve the problem is to brush Kilz (a stain blocker) over the offending marks and then paint. Without the stain blocker, the marker marks will bleed right through any new paint.

Actually, my life isn’t all that different.

I get myself and my life all blotched up with marker marks – some visible, others not. Words. Actions. Thoughts. Anything I do that I’m not supposed to do and ought to know better than to do.

The result is discoloration on myself or sometimes even on others. Then I can’t remove the stains. I can try to scrub and scour myself, but it generally isn’t much more effective than to white wash what’s there or perhaps fade a stain a bit. I then kid myself that it isn’t any more noticeable than the faded purple streaks my son left on his bedroom walls.

There’s only one way out of it. It’s not a terribly easy way either if I can’t admit that I’ve got marks.

I need a real stain blocker. Something that will prevent the marks from showing up again. Ever. Period. Then, I need a fresh coat of paint to look new again. It’s a little process called forgiveness that can clean me up. My stain blocker is blood red and available 24-7. It literally does “kill” the marks.

Guess I shouldn’t be so hard on a two-year-old who’s doing nothing more than I did at his age. I actually distinctly remember drawing stick people with big fists on the back of my brother’s dresser. Mom said when I learned to write my name, they found it everywhere in the house – on walls, on furniture and probably even on my brothers.

Maybe this son will be the creative one of the bunch. In the meantime, I better stock up on paint.

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You’ll think I’m making this up, but sadly it’s true. As I was finishing up the last lines of this column, I heard the boys yelling at their little brother. You guessed it - #3 struck again. I had taken the market bucket out to find the names of those cool marker colors and told #2 he could draw a picture with them.

Big mistake.

Boy #3 got a hold of a black marker and promptly colored both of his palms. He then invented a new form of finger painting by wiping the black marker on my living rooms walls, a yellow chair and a white pillow. By the time I had reached him, he also had black streaks on his sweatshirt, his cheeks and over his eyes when he tried to hide his face.

The good news? Somehow, this time he chose a WASHABLE marker! What a great invention! I’m guessing the creator also had a Boy #3 at home.

boy oh boy!

As of February 1, I am officially the mother of four boys. Gulp. That even looks tough on paper.

Number four arrived fashionably on time (on his due date), but I really would have appreciated an early appearance.

The two older boys were thrilled to have a brother, but only because the boys would then outnumber the girls on the Larson side. They seem to think only in terms of wrestling and beating up the girls and can’t quite comprehend that by the time this one is old enough to fight, his girl cousins will be graduating from high school.

The former baby of the family has not been so excited about the new addition. He hasn’t pulled any two-year-old stuff like poking baby’s eyes or trying to smother him (although I’ve kept a close eye on him, just in case). Instead, he has become a master of the word “No!” and has been almost unbearably stubborn. Any time he gets disciplined for calling me “stupid” or “dumb,” he then insists that it’s all my fault. Logic of a two-year-old is interesting.

Thankfully, this baby has been our calmest by far. He eats, sleeps, poops and burps and spends the rest of the time wide awake, observing the chaos that constantly surrounds him.

I wonder if he’ll stay calm forever, or if he’s simply taking it all in, waiting for his chance to prove “anything you can do, I can do better,” which seems to be the motto around our place.

I’ve already pulled out “Bringing up Boys” - Dr. Dobson’s Bible on male children to re-read. Pretty sure that it will have to be kept out for permanent reference as I muddle through this raising boys business. My only complaint is that there are no chapters in the book about how to cope with never-ending laundry piles, potting training boys who dribble on the floor, and how to keep boys from biting each other.

Maybe I need to write my own book - a mother of boys survival guide. Between all the noise, the competition, the outrageous amounts of food they eat and the toys they accumulate, there has got to be a silver lining somewhere. If not, perhaps I can make some money selling my new-found and hard-learned expertise.

I probably wouldn’t know what to do with a girl baby anyway, so perhaps in a way God’s looking out for me. One more male in this already testosterone-overloaded house isn’t going to make much of a difference.

Hopefully, those future daughter-in-laws will thank me some day that I forced my boys to eat (of all things!) tomatoes, onions, sweet potatoes and sauerkraut. I know I’m grateful my hubby isn’t picky about what he eats.

I’m also hoping they’ll appreciate boys who aren’t shy about singing to strangers, too embarrassed to wear patched jeans, love vegetables, adore their grandparents, are polite enough to say thank you, but not uptight enough to keep from burping out loud and laughing about it. They (so far) seem to enjoy the few chores we make them do. (We even discovered that #2 actually likes to sweep the floor and wash dishes!! Believe me, we’re taking full advantage of that.) They aren’t easily bored and can watch “The Incredibles” five times in a row without going nuts. The only one going nuts is me, when they argue about who has what super-powers as they chase each other around the house.

For some reason that I haven’t figured out yet, we’ve been chosen to have four boys. So far it seems to be working. I’m still somewhat sane. The washing machine still works. The vacuum cleaner didn’t self-destruct after sucking up a Lincoln Log last week. And, I’ve got plenty of hand-me-downs for boy #4.

Now if I could just get some sleep...