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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

romance is dead

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

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

Me: "Hon, today was 15 years."

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

That was gift enough.

my apologies

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

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

taking a deep breath

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

Ouch.

Yep, still here.

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

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

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

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

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

new tricks

I bet your mind wandered with that title...

My brother got me a guitar for Christmas and I haven't managed to "find" the time to dig it out. But with Boy #1 begging for lessons, and pestering us all by playing at odd times of the day, I finally went online and downloaded some free beginner guitar lessons. (For him.) He, of course, was able to skip past half of lesson one. So, being the expert in the family, he wanted to show me some stuff.

First lesson was tuning. And trying to figure out which way to turn the little dial thingees to make the notes go up or down, sharp or flat. And then trying to figure out if the tuner was reading my guitar or the kid whistling next to me. Then it was on to the real stuff - put your fingers here, twist them just so, press down on a little string that will immediately dig into your flesh and try to strum in a consistent beat. (Now, imagine how difficult this might be for someone who cannot sing and clap at the same time. You'd think that all those years of piano lessons would have taught me some rhythm. Nope.)

It only looks easy. It is not easy. And who knew that playing the guitar actually requires muscles!!??!!

My left arm aches and two of the fingers on my left hand have semi-permanent grooves in them - just from trying to play a couple bars of "Horse with no Name." Thank goodness I was using a pick or my other hand would probably be as sore.

Then I wouldn't be able to knit - and then I'd die.

I lasted about nine minutes and decided that was enough or either my arm would fall off or my fingers would start bleeding. But, I can say I learned a new trick, so apparently I'm not the old dog I thought I was. Although, I must admit it was easier to play on Boy #1's junior-sized guitar with my small fingers. I wonder if they make guitars in smaller sizes for females like me who are neither flexible or have long fingers. Or maybe they make automatic playing guitars like those player pianos.

Gonna have to learn a few more tricks before I'd be willing to spend any money on another piece of frustrating equipment that causes more pain than actual music. Next lesson is chords. Whew. I might not even be able to type after that one.

never too old

As I get older and older (and still not acting my age), I am realizing that there are some things that I will never be able to do again. Like wear spandex (not that I wanted to anyway). Or pass the wrinkle test. Or walk by a kid without trying to straighten his mussed-up hair. Or run a mile (not that I wanted to anyway.) I will never wear a bikini again. I will never get excited to stay up till midnight on New Year's Eve. And I will probably never downhill ski again (not that I wanted to anyway.)

Thankfully there really are some things that you just can't outgrow. Like the smell of a newborn baby. Or skipping rocks. Or playing Wii. Or cartoons like Tom & Jerry. Or learning new technology like text messaging, digital cameras, Facebook and the remote for a new TV. I also won't outgrow algebra (even though I really, really tried.) Who knew that knitting would require math? (16x + 2 = 66) In other words, I need yarn that knits up at 4 stitches per inch. Or if I adjust any pattern, then I'm not only figuring out stitches per inch but also rows per inch and will need to adjust both to get things to work out right - yarn size and needle size are frustrating variables. And it's all math - regardless of how many times I try to get around it.

So far, I haven't got too old for hugs and kisses, no matter how sloppy or stinky. I'm young enough to climb ladders and chase small boys around the house. I'm young enough to sneak candy from the pantry (even though I paid for it) and to deny it when I'm accused. I won't be too old to do laundry any time soon (although I do feel a cramp coming on...) I hope I never get too old for snuggling or smiling (even toothless) or using power tools or holding babies.


I thought this was sweet of Grandma, with her newest great-grandbaby (Peter & Amy's Creed), proving that you're never too old for things like holding newborns.

I might be getting too old for having babies, but that doesn't mean I can't still coo and fuss over someone else's. If I start dribbling, I'll just blame it on the baby.

digital blessings

63 inches. That wouldn't mean anything to me normally. (Actually, it still doesn't.)

But for those of you techies it might mean more - like the terms projection, HD and digital channels. That was all a foreign language to me a week ago, before being "blessed" with a television almost as big as me.

I'm still not sure if this was a good thing or not. A television this large in a living as small as ours puts a bit of a crimp on my decorating. Who really wants a big gray box as the inevitable focal point of a room?

But, hubby is happy, so I guess I should be too. The TV comes in clear since it is digitally-compatible. I still can't get over the difference between analog and digital signals - but I have to admit that it was a treat to watch the Vikings on a big screen that didn't have snow. (Don't tell hubby though - I'm still acting like this is a very unwelcome invasion of my space.)

Can God bless you with a television? I think so. It was a nice surprise to get something so outrageously expensive that we never would have purchased on our own. It was an even nicer surprise to get a free cartoon channel that entertains the kids when I'm trying to get something done, like this blog. (I'm still too cheap to spring for cable or satellite.)

So I guess the lesson is to appreciate the blessing, digital or otherwise. And to not laugh at our low-tech orange cable tacked to the ceiling.

firstborn

On my wish list is a book by Dr. Kevin Leman called "The 1stborn Advantage." I have no idea if the book is any good, but he has a great sense of humor and everything else I've read of his is great, so odds are good. Anyway, today I was reminded again of what firstborns are like.

We firstborns, for some reason, feel it is our duty to correct the world of any errors they make, especially grammatical. Hubby shakes his head at me when I correct him when he says things like "Where are you at?" or "I'm going to go lay down." (I'll let you figure it out...)

With grammatical errors, I notice them almost immediately and I often can't help myself from pointing them out. Sometimes the filter in my brain works; other times it doesn't. (And even though I'm an English major, I do miss some - so all of you who noticed the mistake at the top of the back page of my Christmas letter - rest assured - I saw it, but forget to go back and correct it. And yes, it irritates me.)

But, today my firstborn son got a look at the letter and felt compelled to point out two other errors that I made. (Typical.) First, I apparently listed the blue of the go-cart as Jeff Gordon blue when in fact it was Dale Earnhardt Jr. blue (there is a difference I was told) and I wrote that my third son is six, when I'm pretty sure he only turned five on his last birthday.

I'm not sure which was more mortifying - realizing that I made three mistakes in one letter (one of which I could care less about) or realizing that firstborns can be downright annoying sometimes. (Who wants to hear that they've made a mistake?)

So, if I've ever corrected you...hopefully, the good news is that the peacemaking middle children will have enough grace to forgive me and life-of-the-party last-borns won't even care that I made a mistake in the first place. And the rest of you firstborns probably didn't even think twice about who corrected you because you felt just as mortified as I did today.

At least that's what I'm telling myself.

getting away

This past weekend, hubby and I ran away. Well, actually we drove away.

We escaped north to Duluth. Somehow we conned the grandparents into taking four rugrats for three days and three nights. (It wasn't even tough to convince them - still wondering what's wrong with them.)

We arrived to hotel room that was a suite! (This should have been a no-brainer, considering the hotel was Hawthorn Suites!) The place was huge - a kitchen, sitting room and TWO TVs! We were within walking distance of the homeschool conference and the weather was nice. It had the makings of an incredible weekend.

At this point, you're probably expecting me to launch into everything that went wrong. But, not so fast. We ate out with friends. We went to a great movie. We relaxed watching our own TV programs. We listened to some very good speakers. We spent a lot of money on the kids for next year. We had great service at Red Lobster and tipped the waitress more than we've ever tipped a human being before. (Who said you can't change?) We even managed to make it the entire weekend within getting into an argument.

That should probably tip you off as to how much we needed to get away. The last time we spent more than an evening out was almost three years ago. And we went camping, so you can about guess how high it rated on my scale. (Sorry, tenting just isn't romantic, even with candlelight. Well, okay campfires are kind of cool, but that's as far as I'll go. Especially considering that you'll smell like smoke for the rest of the weekend. I'm getting too old for adventures.)

So we had comfort over adventure this weekend (unless you count driving around Duluth trying to find one of Hubby's clients on Sunday morning.) We, okay I, decided that we really need to do this more often. We don't often get a chance to even talk to each other without someone interrupting because someone else pushed them, looked at them or won't be quiet. Even a simple conversation on the long car ride was a nice change. Funny how you don't realize how much you needed something until you're already halfway through the weekend and wishing it could last longer.

Don't get me wrong, I love my kids, but man I think I can love them more, or maybe better, if I get away from them for awhile. Sometimes I get so overwhelmed and sick of hearing all the fighting, kicking, screaming and pestering that I can't even enjoy them when they are behaving. This was a nice reminder that, yes I love my kids and yes I love them even more now that I've had a break.

My guess is now Grandma and Grandpa need a getaway.