kids eat free sign

Take a piece of old barn board, paint it black, add some hand-painted lettering, distress a bit, seal with clear coat and you have a really unique birthday gift for someone special.

I'm pretty sure she liked it.

giving thanks

I’ve been a bit of a bear today. Little to no tolerance for anything - and no significant improvement after half a pot of French roast. Unfinished chores irked me. The snow on the ground chilled me. Even the sound of the humidifier drove me crazy. And I just realized that my hips and shins ache incredibly even though I’ve done zero exercise in the past, ahem, let’s just say a really long time. When I realized that I have likely caught the same thing hubby has been suffering with for the past few days, I grumbled and mumbled some more.

After reaching for the Tylenol PM I realized that I really should be grateful for the comfort I know it will provide (as soon as it powers through the caffeine from both coffee and chocolate I recently consumed). Duly chastized (by a pill bottle no less), I am making a feeble attempt at counting my blessings at 10:10 pm. before I get too drowsy to write and while I’ve got enough angst in my head to make me sound clever.

Here goes. I’m thankful for: the daily opportunities I have to test my patience and see zero growth in my ability to keep my cool when I hear whining about math, doing chores and pretty much anything else I ask the boys to do. I’m sure there must have been some improvement in the 13 years I’ve been a mother, but the grinding of my teeth tells me otherwise.

I’m thankful that my sense of smell apparently is still intact. After diapers, sweaty feet, boys who refuse to take showers even though they smell like a gorilla’s armpit and the skunks that wake me up at night, the olfactory senses haven’t burned out, yet.

I’m thankful that my sons are not picky eaters, or at least have the wisdom not to turn up their noses at whatever creations I come up with out of the pantry - whether that be some mystery casserole or oatmeal or beef stew three nights in a row. (Who knew a soup bone would make THAT much broth?!)

I thankful that God has allowed me to breathe another day and that the pain in my body is a good sign that I’m still alive.

I’m very thankful that my boys get their own breakfast in the morning since they get up at unreasonable hours like the crack of dawn.

I’m thankful I’m not 40 yet.

I’m thankful my boys have all reached the age of thinking Dad is cool and want to bug, ...er...spend quality time with him.

I’m thankful the very friendly dog that mysteriously showed up here a few weeks ago vanished just as mysteriously 36 hours later.

I’m thankful the local library doesn’t have a limit on how many books we can check out. At last count we had 87 out at once. And only 6 of those are overdue.

I’m thankful that the new van doesn’t have any unexplained interior smells, yet.

I’m thankful that four boys in one sport makes life a little less complicated. I’m thankful for all five of the blank spots on the December calendar and I’m trying not to shake my fist at the remaining 26.

I’m thankful that God doesn’t give me everything I ask for any more than I fulfill my boys’ wishlists. We’re probably all spoiled enough. But, it is nice that He listen

I’m thankful the propane tank is full.

I’m thankful for Caribou Daybreak blend and peppermint mocha creamer. And Chipotle burritos and Dairy Queen Blizzards and pizza and Dr. Pepper and Reisen’s chocolates and dark chocolate and hot chocolate and... I’m also thankful I’m not 400 pounds.

I’m thankful the older boys can teach the younger ones really useful things like wrestling moves, how to take apart radios, how to set alarm clocks for 2 a.m., how to grow beans in a wet paper towel, how to make someone scream bloody murder, how to wear 18 articles of clothing in one day, how to drive their mother nuts in a grocery store, and the fine art of sarcasm. Well, that last one they may have learned from me.

I’m thankful that all the testosterone in the house makes me actually look a little bit feminine, I think.

I’m thankful for my toys: power tools, knitting needles, Photoshop and my Mac. I’m also thankful that I don’t have to share them. (And yes, I know how horrible that sounds and I’m not really sure that I care.)

I’m thankful for diversion/addictions like Facebook, Amazon, Pinterest and Ravelry.

Right about now, I’m soooo thankful for Tylenol PM - which means that I should really share my actual list of things for which I’m thankful (before I fall asleep on my keyboard). God. My husband. My boys. Friends. Family. Health. Laughter. Life. In that order. I am so very, very blessed.

May God grant you many blessings to be thankful for as well.

Merry Christmas.

rules sign

Handmade out of plywood, leftover trim boards, black paint and A LOT of patience. The hand-painted lettering took forever, but it was totally worth it to see the look on hubby's face when I gave it to him for his birthday.

He wanted something to put in his office as a "gentle" reminder to his clients to grow up. (Ha! That's putting it about as nicely as I can.)

I have to admit though, I didn't want to see it leave the house. (And yes, I know I can always make another one, but will I? Ha!)

music to my ears

We are not what I would consider a musical family - unless you count our extensive collection of 80’s music. I enjoy a broad range of genres - you’ll find everything from Gregorian chants to alternative Christian rock to Steve Miller Band on my iPod. And I would be remiss if I didn’t mention my love for ABBA and Switchfoot.

The iTunes library is ever-expanding as the oldest son keeps downloading songs by groups I’ve never heard of and honestly don’t care much for. Add that to the plethora of country songs that my boys magically memorize (much to my chagrin) and we seem to know a lot of songs.

But I’m not so sure we know music.

I took piano lessons for years and yet wouldn’t consider myself talented enough to even play for church. Both hubby and I sang in choir, but neither of us feel comfortable singing in the shower. And yet somehow, the music bug has bit the boys. Two of them can actually sing and stay in tune - the other two might have to rap or deejay.

The firstborn told us at a very young age that he wanted to be just like Michael W. Smith when he grows up. As he hit teenager-dom his tastes have changed to include much more percussion and electric guitars. He has been taking guitar lessons for a couple years, graduating from a very sweet and mellow acoustic to a not-so-sweet and not-so-quiet squealer of an electric guitar. I’m starting to think we may have made a mistake by not insulating the walls surrounding his bedroom. He is about to embark on the adventure of playing for the middle school youth group worship band and I’m pretty sure that this will not only increase the number of his jam sessions but also the volume.

Boy number two begged and begged to start piano lessons. I put him off for months, knowing full well how much we butt heads and how much reminding he would need to practice, thus increasing the head-butting. Three months later, he has progressed beautifully and I have a permanent lump on my forehead. His teacher oohs and ahhs about his ability to learn songs quickly while I silently seethe at how well he plays during his lesson and how quickly things disintegrate at home. He seems to be able to memorize a song instantly but cannot keep a steady rhythm on anything longer than a whole note. (I fear this is genetic because I find it incredibly difficult to sing and clap at the same time.) The rhythm issue only adds to the tension between us.

If he doesn’t play a piece perfectly, he will listen to his teacher say the exact same thing I told him all week and instead of pounding piano keys in frustration, he nods and plays it to her satisfaction. She claims she understands the battle I’m in, but I’m not sure I believe her, even if she is a pastor’s wife. I’m tempted to move the keyboard into his room and tell him he can’t leave until he’s done practicing, but that would be his idea of a perfect day - locked in a room by himself. And I’d probably still be able to hear keys banging since we didn’t insulate his room either.

All of this noise leads to aching ears and very little musical enjoyment.

And now the third one has been “hinting” that he would like to start violin. Oh, why not? A squeaky violin will only add to the shrieks of guitar strings and hammering of piano keys. I’ll bet anything number four will want to beat the drums.

I guess I should be grateful they enjoy music and remember that worship is still worship no matter what key it’s in or no matter how loud it is. Life unfortunately has taught me that worship can be sometimes be painful.

Maybe they’ll form a band someday and this season of suffering will turn into a season of rejoicing. In the meantime, Lord, please keep my iPod battery charged - it works even better than ear plugs.

bathroom reveal

Woo hoo! One room is FINALLY done in this addition project. Well, actually it isn't - I never could find a shower curtain I liked so I bought fabric to make one. It's tucked away in one of those vanity drawers.

I'm so happy with how this all turned out. The paint color I finally chose is called Elephant Tusk, only it was a little light, so I had Hirschfield's remix it darker for me. My trim color is called Muslin - Benjamin Moore color. It's a really subtle creamy tan, just different enough from cream to be noticeable but not too dark that I can't coordinate with anything.

It took forever to find two mirrors that I liked. After traipsing through every store I could think of, I finally found these at Home Goods. They had three left and one was damaged. Whew. Got them both for $60.

I'm still trying to decide if I need to do anything with the window or not. It is an upper level bathroom, so privacy isn't a real big issue, except that the window faces the road. Maybe shutters? Just a valance? Not sure yet, so I'm going to leave it as is.

We found the faucets at Costco.com and I think they were $89 each. I love how they look, but I'm not thrilled that they don't seem to extend over the sink far enough, so there's often a lot of water splashed onto the countertop. Actually I'm not sure if I ever mentioned it before but the vanity itself came from Costco too. The price was hard to beat and they had a coupon for $200 off on top of that! We smiled the whole way home.

The only thing left to do in this room is the above-mentioned shower curtain and I need to put a shelf and some hooks up in the cubby opposite the vanity. (It was supposed to have been a urinal, but after painting in a men's bathroom at a church and realizing that I would just be cleaning TWO things, I nixed that idea.) Then, we were going to put a closet in that space, but I failed to communicate that to my dad when he was helping us put up sheetrock - by the time I realized it, he had the space already done, so it stayed that way. Perhaps if I find a cute cupboard, I'll slide it into that nook. We'll see.

Feel good to finally have a full-size working bathroom. Now on to the bedrooms - flooring, trim and doors.

greener grass

Sometimes it seems like everyone else’s life is better than mine. And by better I mean more organized, calmer, quieter, wealthier, less stressful, more passionate, healthier and easier. In other words - better.

I get tempted to believe that not only is the grass greener, but it’s also been recently mowed and doesn’t have dandelions popping up all over. It’s so easy to look in from the outside and convince myself that other people don’t have problems. They don’t have acne or clogged toilets or a complete set of fat jeans or even the trials and tragedies that life inevitably brings. In other words - they’re just not human.

I’m not sure if everyone is like this or not - but I tend to admire/be envious of people who are gifted in areas I struggle. Disciplined people. Organized people. Generous people. People who can maintain an exercise program. People with clean houses and non-smelly vans. People who can wake up on Saturday morning without a to-do list 10 miles long and be able to ask (seriously) “What should I do today?” Imagine.

And yet, I know no one has a perfect life. No one has a perfect marriage or perfect kids or the perfect amount in their bank account. No one escapes not having weeds sprout in their lawns or bare patches where neighbors dogs have marked their territory.

Life is life - and it’s not always green and pretty. A good friend of mine has been facing serious allergies, chronic fatigue and a thyroid condition. And she just found out that they have mold and water in their basement for the third time due to shoddy construction on their home. She’s plugging away, grateful for each day she has without pain, even if they are few and far between. Life isn’t greener for her right now. Unless you count the mold.

Another friend has had her family uprooted 700 miles from where she’s called home for 15 years. She is not a social person and her sarcasm is often misunderstood, but she’s trying to find the blessing in new surroundings, new people and a new climate. Life for her is dry and dusty with little grass in sight.

Unless you knew these two women well, you probably wouldn’t see the inner struggles they face on a daily basis. They might even seem to “have it together” because they are seldom found without a cheerful word or a joke or a heartfelt prayer for someone else. Which of course makes me all the more insecure and frustrated that I can’t be as fruitful in the midst of my weed patch.

Perhaps that’s the point of it - it’s not the color or the condition, but what you do with the grass you do have that matters. Because we’re human, it will probably look greener from the other side of the fence anyway.

i fought the saw and the saw won

I was TRYING to cut 3/4-inch maple flooring for the addition, but the chop saw apparently didn't feel like participating in my little DIY project.

It sent a little projectile whizzing right at my hand and tore open a slice that had JUST HEALED and bruised my palm to boot. (Yes, I sliced my hand in the same spot with a utility knife. Can't even remember what I was trying to cut.)

Perhaps I need to invest in some gloves to go along with the safety goggles that hubby keeps telling me I should be wearing.

On the positive side, my hand probably protected my face from another injury, so I'm feeling pretty grateful right now. However, I am a little miffed that it's going to be hard to work for awhile and I have to patch a dent in the sheet rock from where the wood ricocheted off my hand.

The DIY work never, ever ends. But, it was my left hand, so maybe I can still find something to do...

sitting still

When a person is busy on a regular basis, with usually more than 12 things going on at the same time, it gets to be a way of life. You get used to the busy-ness and the hectic pace and getting a lot done. You get accustomed to accomplishments - even if they’re as big as finishing a DIY project or as small as showering.

Where it gets tricky is when you’re forced to take a break. Against your will. Against your schedule. And against your need to get something done. It is very difficult to just do nothing. Or at least a scaled-back version of what you’re used to. Not nothing, but not much either.

After a minor accident involving a utility knife, a piece of door trim and some debatable logistics on which direction one should be cutting with a utility knife, I am temporarily out of commision with my left hand.

And it’s driving me nuts. I am forced to type with nine fingers. (That just said “dingers” until I went back and corrected it.) I can’t cut or hold a piece of casing to finish trimming some closets. I can’t put socks on. I can’t even text - or at least not well because it’s difficult to hold the phone.

I feel a bit like one of my wiggly sons, who constantly tells me, “I just feel like I have to jump up and down.” Most days, when it comes time for schoolwork, he “claims” he has too much energy. I thought it was baloney, but now I get it.

Sitting still is just plain hard. Especially when THERE’S SO MUCH TO DO! I should be weeding the flower bed, painting trim, cleaning my bedroom, knitting, or purging the house of all the clutter. Instead, I’m twiddling my toes, soaking my finger to get out the infection and wondering why utility knives are so stupid anyway.

I also get to wondering why this happened to me - aside from the obvious lack of intelligence on my part. I don’t need a break. I don’t have time to take a break. Even if I say “gimme a break” I don’t mean it that way. I get flashes in my head of Psalm 37:7 : “Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for Him.” Right now I have little choice but to sit still and wait (as patiently as possible) for this cut to heal. If I don’t, I’ll probably rip it open and the healing and patience-learning will just take longer. I’m smart enough to not pray for patience, because, well, things like this happen. But I’m not smart enough to recognize I have no patience until I’m forced to sit still.

Seems pretty clear that sitting still is still a prerequisite of waiting patiently. Which of course means the only way to sit still is to sit still.

And that will take some getting used to.

coffee break

I once saw a mug imprinted with the truest words ever found on a cheap marketing trinket: Coffee is sauna in a cup. I almost bought the stupid thing just for its cleverness, and because I was slightly afraid I would forget the little ditty by the time I got home.

Thankfully, I must have had a little caffeine in me to fuel the memory banks, because it’s been percolating in some dusty corner of my brain. Convenient, when I have no sauna of my own and it’s two below in the dead of winter. It would take a die-hard Finn to enjoy a sauna while drinking a cup of Joe, but I digress.

I meant to chat about coffee, not the heavenly warmth that is sauna. Coffee will have to do for now. In fact, it’s about all that keeps me going these days, when I’m low in iron and Vitamin D and long johns. The chill outside seeps into the house no matter how many layers I bundle on and how many little boys raise my blood pressure with their antics.

I have, after years of experimentation, found my favorite mug, my favorite brand of coffee and my favorite flavor creamer. All I need is a favorite chair to sit in and a favor from the boys - peace and quiet. Instead, I sip the steaming liquid before breakfast because the only cereal left is Raisin Bran and the only bowl that’s clean has Legos in it.

I move on to the second cup during school work - between coffee and yarn I make it through health and the history of the Jamestown settlement, focusing on the creamy deliciousness instead of the constant babbling of the youngest two. I won’t tell you who they take after, but I’m pretty sure the chattering skipped a generation.

By the time language and handwriting rolls around, I’ve perked up a bit and actually feel human enough to think about changing out of my pajamas. And once it’s time for speed drills, I’m as jittering as Boy #3, who spends the entire two minutes saying, “Um. Um. Um. Um. Um.” I usually have to bite the inside of my cheek and think of something pleasant like worms.

By this time, it’s 10:30 am and it’s time for a coffee break. Seriously. What kind of person would I be if I let the coffeemaker burn the last cup or two? That would be scandalous. One can’t waste good coffee this time of year (and especially at the price I paid for it.)

My boys call it snack time. I call it a coffee break. Either way, we all get what we need. A breather. A break. A recess. Only they usually take off to burn more energy while I just sit. Sometimes I think. Sometimes I pray. Sometimes I just stare at the pieces of fuzz that float in the air whenever a child blows by. But honestly, most often I find myself doing laundry, picking up toys or some other never-ending chore, instead of taking a break to be with God.

Even though I know that sitting with my Bible or a devotional, even for 15 minutes, will transform my day (and my mood), I still find it difficult to do. It is a struggle to convince myself that not being busy is still productive. It’s hard to defend the coffee break when it seems like the house is falling apart around me. Sara Ban Breathnach, in her book Simple Abundance, writes: “Usually, when the distractions of daily life deplete our energy, the first thing we eliminate is the thing we need most: quiet, reflective time.”

Finally - justification for a coffee break! Since I utterly fail at being a pleasant morning person, I have more of a need for coffee and quiet time than most. Sometimes it takes that little breather for me to refresh myself and renew my patience so that I can face whatever troubles the day will hold.

“Satisfy us in the morning with your unfailing love, that we may sing for joy and be glad all our days,” the Psalmist tells us. For me, that gladness (and peace) comes from the humble coffee break - no decaf allowed.

sauna bucket

I painted this as a Christmas gift for my sister-in-law. Now, I'm hoping for an invite to use her sauna.

i'm in lego la-la land

The ratio of individual Lego pieces to children at our place is about 4,573 to one. I’m pretty sure we didn’t have that many to start with. I’m kind of worried that they’re somehow fulfilling the Biblical command to be fruitful and multiply.

No matter how many times I try to hide those colorful little rectangles, they keep popping up, usually right in the path of my cold feet. Cold feet and hard plastic are not a good combination. Neither is having only three tables to build things on and four boys. Space is at a premium around here and they’re forced to carve out their own square footage and defend it faithfully.

To their credit, Legos seem to be the one toy that my boys (even the four-year-old who long ago told me to sell the “baby” Legos) can use without fighting about THE rules. Well, actually that’s not true either. They have devised some sort of distribution system so that they all have an equal number of wheels and guys and if someone swipes something, beware - it’s Lego mania.

As I’m writing this, the entire kitchen table is covered in creations - cars, strange pagoda-looking houses, some sort of tower with elephant heads on top, a music studio complete with round discs to resemble CDs and a few random unidentifiable blobs of color.

While they enjoy Lego construction, they do not seem to be capable of Lego collecting at the end of the day. I’m pretty sure they’re not colorblind, so I can’t figure out why the every-color-of-the-rainbow pieces aren’t visible to their eyes when I announce clean-up time. It’s as if their eye sockets only see things a foot off the ground. Perhaps some sort of Lego-induced disorder? Maybe the bright colors affect their vision and their brain.

When I finally lose my patience with the pieces, I swoop in a Lego-frenzy and pick everything up - banishing it to the far reaches of a dusty closet. The Lego-free house last about four days before some desperate, Lego-starved boy braves the darkness and possible spiders in a closet with no lights to pull out the 20-pound container.

And before I know it, they’re stockpiling again, worse than some of the hoarders I’ve seen on TV. One boy has been begging to purchase more - with his own money even! They’re usually so tight-fisted with their dollars, you can’t even pry tooth-fairy money out of their dirty palms to put it in a piggy bank. I’m amazed that a simple building block can out-do much fancier, battery-operated toys.

I should probably be grateful they are using their imaginations to create models of their future houses (with bathrooms and toilets even!), trucks and trailers and other odd shapes, when they could be frying their brains on video games. They seem to be content to spend an entire afternoon constructing, designing and occasionally crying when something breaks. But, they immediately start all over again and then proudly show off their creations. “Mom, look at this!” “ Mom, can you make a sign that says: Sports Shop”?

Welcome to Lego La-la Land - where imaginations run as bright as the colors and the pieces always go together, even if something’s missing. I wish real life could do that sometimes.

I don’t know how many times I fret about this or that piece of my life not fitting together where I think it should. Often, I can’t seem to see the missing piece that’s right in front of me.

Good thing there’s a Master Plan created by a Master Lego Designer. He knows which pieces go where and will sometimes put them in place for me. And sometimes, He’ll even start over if something topples.

That’s a Lego Land that has a little less La-La.