Yesterday I went in for my first ob appointment and left with a delivery date for my dead baby. At 14 weeks, there was no heartbeat and the baby wasn't moving. I remember looking at the baby during the ultrasound, knowing something was wrong, but not allowing myself to admit it, until it was obvious there was no heartbeat when a flat, green line raced across the screen. The doctor said that most likely the baby had just died because it was measuring exactly the size that it should have been for this far along.
So, my husband and I face the pleasant task of showing up at the hospital next Tuesday morning for an induction procedure that will start labor se we can deliver our fifth child. I don’t anticipate it to be pleasant for anyone involved, including the hospital staff. I also am not looking forward to waiting six days with a dead child inside me. It's morbid even on paper.
I don’t imagine, if you’re a doctor, that it gets any easier to tell a patient that you can’t find a heartbeat than it is for me to face my third miscarriage. You’d think because you know what to expect that the reality would be that much more real. Or that the whole process would be somehow less emotional.
It’s not. In fact, in some ways it’s a bit worse because you tend to look at the injustice a bit more closely and question why this could be happening again. Along with the pain of loss (that is severe and overwhelming itself), you also feel even more punished than you did with the first or second even.
You tend to think, “How many more times can this happen to me?” It’s not just a matter of losing a baby, but now of losing three babies. And, losing two of those babies under situations where miscarriage is so rare that you have to be making some sort of record that of course no one wants to make. Miscarriage occurs very rarely after 12 weeks – after that milestone there’s only a five percent chance of losing the baby.
None of this is comforting because ultimately there are no answers. There is no lesson. There is only a cold, hard fact with no explanation behind it - we lost our third baby - simply, tragic and true.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
whole lot of screaming
Every year in February i go a little nuts. Mainly because my kids are going nuts. Three out of four have been crying about something this morning - and it's not even 9:30 a.m.!
Number Three got beat up by Number Two so he's crying and now has a nice red slap mark on his cheek. He's also upset because he put good clothes on this morning and now has to change into play clothes, which of course is the end of the world at 4. (In our house, we HAVE to have play clothes, or the boys would destroy every shred of socks, jeans and tshirts in their closet and I'd have to drag them to activities, Walmart or anywhere else public in rags. I'm too proud to allow them in public looking like the ragamuffins they really are.)
Number Two can't believe that "ocean" sounds like "oshun" and not "o-keen." So, he's crying that words are stupid. He's supposed to be learning about whales and can't pronounce spout either. So, a little exercise on adding the right word to a sentence has been very successful this morning.
Number Four is upset because I won't let him open the tub of "baby" toys. They are only in the house for when we get company with babies (or at least younger than 2), which honestly has yet to happen once since I bought the rubbermaid container to pack away chew toys, rattles and blocks.
The oldest is the only happy one in the bunch and that's just because he found out he doesn't have to go to the nursing home this afternoon to recite his poem. They were supposed to go with friends, but their mom called this morning with 102-degree fever. We passed on the outing.
This is the time of year that I always question homeschooling and wonder why we live in such a dreadful climate. The boys haven't been outside for weeks and I think they're going crazy from either the lack of fresh air or exercise. or maybe from being in close quarters with too much male testosterone present.
My only salvation is that I was smart enough not to let them open all their christmas presents. This afternoon (after they get the lunch put away and all their junk picked up in the living room), I get to be the cool mom again when I let them open a "new" toy. We'll see if that won't dry some tears and keep some fights from happening. I call it my snowy-day, freezing-weather, sanity-saving container.
That way, it won't be my voice added to all the screaming around here.
Number Three got beat up by Number Two so he's crying and now has a nice red slap mark on his cheek. He's also upset because he put good clothes on this morning and now has to change into play clothes, which of course is the end of the world at 4. (In our house, we HAVE to have play clothes, or the boys would destroy every shred of socks, jeans and tshirts in their closet and I'd have to drag them to activities, Walmart or anywhere else public in rags. I'm too proud to allow them in public looking like the ragamuffins they really are.)
Number Two can't believe that "ocean" sounds like "oshun" and not "o-keen." So, he's crying that words are stupid. He's supposed to be learning about whales and can't pronounce spout either. So, a little exercise on adding the right word to a sentence has been very successful this morning.
Number Four is upset because I won't let him open the tub of "baby" toys. They are only in the house for when we get company with babies (or at least younger than 2), which honestly has yet to happen once since I bought the rubbermaid container to pack away chew toys, rattles and blocks.
The oldest is the only happy one in the bunch and that's just because he found out he doesn't have to go to the nursing home this afternoon to recite his poem. They were supposed to go with friends, but their mom called this morning with 102-degree fever. We passed on the outing.
This is the time of year that I always question homeschooling and wonder why we live in such a dreadful climate. The boys haven't been outside for weeks and I think they're going crazy from either the lack of fresh air or exercise. or maybe from being in close quarters with too much male testosterone present.
My only salvation is that I was smart enough not to let them open all their christmas presents. This afternoon (after they get the lunch put away and all their junk picked up in the living room), I get to be the cool mom again when I let them open a "new" toy. We'll see if that won't dry some tears and keep some fights from happening. I call it my snowy-day, freezing-weather, sanity-saving container.
That way, it won't be my voice added to all the screaming around here.
Monday, February 11, 2008
long john blues
I'm getting tired of wearing long underwear. They bunch up. They twist around. They make your pants tight. And they're not very sexy.
I'm also getting tired of having to wear long underwear. I am not one of those heat box types - I freeze in Minnesota from September to March. Constantly have cold finger and cold toes. These below zero weather is getting very tiresome. I think hubby's getting tired of me coming to bed dressed in - you guessed it - long underwear and a sweatshirt. Poor guy.
I tried to convince him to move to South Carolina, but he just said he couldn't handle the heat. I figure if us Minnesotans can acclimate to temperatures that would make a polar bear hibernate, it shouldn't be too hard to adjust to heat and humidity five months out of the year. He's maybe get to see some skin now and again.
Maybe I'd start shaving my legs again. But, that's a whole 'nother story and is not a pretty sight. Maybe we'll get an early thaw this year. One can always hope.
I'm also getting tired of having to wear long underwear. I am not one of those heat box types - I freeze in Minnesota from September to March. Constantly have cold finger and cold toes. These below zero weather is getting very tiresome. I think hubby's getting tired of me coming to bed dressed in - you guessed it - long underwear and a sweatshirt. Poor guy.
I tried to convince him to move to South Carolina, but he just said he couldn't handle the heat. I figure if us Minnesotans can acclimate to temperatures that would make a polar bear hibernate, it shouldn't be too hard to adjust to heat and humidity five months out of the year. He's maybe get to see some skin now and again.
Maybe I'd start shaving my legs again. But, that's a whole 'nother story and is not a pretty sight. Maybe we'll get an early thaw this year. One can always hope.
Friday, February 1, 2008
bedtime battles
Tonight, after I got Number Four's diaper changed and jammies on, he looked up at me and said, "My bed time!"
I just about danced a jig, or would have, had I known how. Getting him to recognize bedtime is certainly a good step. He has been our most impossible going-to-bed, staying-in-bed, not-turning-lights-on child. It doesn't help that he figured out how to climb out of his crib at 18 months, or that Dad decided to do away with the crib to make a pint-sized bunk bed for him and his next-oldest brother.
Now, he can simply slip right off his mattress, where before he at least had to climb up a rail and slide down the other side to escape. It probably doesn't help that we have four boys in one bedroom either. Number two and three are usually tired enough that they would fall asleep quickly if baby brother would turn the lights on, dig through Legos and move the kid-sized chairs around. By the time oldest brother's bedtime approaches at 9 p.m., all three are still awake, giggling or yelling at the baby (sometimes both simultaneously).
So much for 8 o'clock bedtime being enforced. I've been so tired lately from painting that I don't have energy to remedy the situation. I can barely suck in enough air to yell "GET TO BED!" There's a mad scramble, jumping into beds and then six minutes later I hear feet moving, toys being chucked around and more giggling.
Apparently it does not matter that the baby recognizes that it's his bedtime. That only means more time to play and dig in his brother's things.
Maybe tomorrow night I'll actually get up from the TV to do something about it. Will keep you posted.
I just about danced a jig, or would have, had I known how. Getting him to recognize bedtime is certainly a good step. He has been our most impossible going-to-bed, staying-in-bed, not-turning-lights-on child. It doesn't help that he figured out how to climb out of his crib at 18 months, or that Dad decided to do away with the crib to make a pint-sized bunk bed for him and his next-oldest brother.
Now, he can simply slip right off his mattress, where before he at least had to climb up a rail and slide down the other side to escape. It probably doesn't help that we have four boys in one bedroom either. Number two and three are usually tired enough that they would fall asleep quickly if baby brother would turn the lights on, dig through Legos and move the kid-sized chairs around. By the time oldest brother's bedtime approaches at 9 p.m., all three are still awake, giggling or yelling at the baby (sometimes both simultaneously).
So much for 8 o'clock bedtime being enforced. I've been so tired lately from painting that I don't have energy to remedy the situation. I can barely suck in enough air to yell "GET TO BED!" There's a mad scramble, jumping into beds and then six minutes later I hear feet moving, toys being chucked around and more giggling.
Apparently it does not matter that the baby recognizes that it's his bedtime. That only means more time to play and dig in his brother's things.
Maybe tomorrow night I'll actually get up from the TV to do something about it. Will keep you posted.
are you lonely tonight?
We Americans are lonely. Or lonesome. Or both. Smart as I usually think I am, I had to pause a minute to figure out the different between the two, then check my dictionary to make sure I was right. (I wasn’t. Not quite.)
Lonely is being alone. Lonesome is a feeling of being lonely. I always equated lonesome with missing someone, but, apparently the two words can be used interchangeably.
What’s my point? Well, other than the English lesson, I recently read an editorial online about how more and more Americans are starving for significant relationships. (Friendship, not romance.)
It almost seems improbable, given that most people have work relationships and plenty of social contacts. However, according to statistics, the average American has just two close friends, down from three 20 years ago. The statistics come from the American Sociological Review, which published a study on social isolation in America. The researchers reported a “remarkable drop” in our confidants - the people with whom we can talk about important matters. Nearly 25 percent of us have no confidants at all and only 15 percent of us have a healthy circle of four or five friends.
So, apparently we’re lonely.
I’ve been there. Now before you question how I can be lonely in a full house...let me just tell you that it is possible. Mainly because little boys are not friends to mothers who desire clean, germ-free, dirt-free homes at least one day out of the year. Little boys bring lots of noise and activity, but not the social interaction craved by this mom.
But seriously...feeling isolated and alone can be a problem, putting us at higher risk for many ailments - physical, social and psychological. It’s no wonder I start to get paranoid if I haven’t heard from my friends via the telephone for some time. Or that I get cranky if I haven’t got out of the house to do more than buy milk and cereal.
I don’t always feel lonely, but it does happen. I sometimes play the victim role, replaying scenarios in my head and feeling like I’m the only one who’s reaching out to my friends. Most of it is hogwash, of course, but it does happen. I can get dependant on feeling needed or wanted by someone (other than my children.)
What’s causing this loneliness and lack of friendships? Part of it could be our inability or unwillingness to commit to relationships. They are after all, work. We need friendships that require something of us - sacrifice, accountability...perhaps even forgiveness now and then. But sometimes we don’t want to give that much. We want the other
person to give and we’ll receive.
Unfortunately, true friendships don’t work that way. It has to be a two-way street. My cousin often tells me, “You have to be a friend to have a friend.” In other words, give before you’ll receive.
Sometimes, we’re afraid to reach out to find a new friend. We might get rejected. There is no real cure for that, other than to rely on God as your ultimate friend, and trust that he can provide you with the human being friends that you need - a Jesus with skin on, so to speak.
Sometimes, we just think of ourselves more than all the other lonely people.
Sounds like a good challenge to me. I’m pretty sure we all know at least one person who doesn’t attend church whom we can befriend.
It might end up being just the friendship your (or my) lonely heart desires.
–Excerpt from a November 14, 2006 Christianity Today Daily Newsletter Editorial, “Look at All the Lonely People.” Used by permission of Christianity Today International, Carol Stream, IL 60188.”
Lonely is being alone. Lonesome is a feeling of being lonely. I always equated lonesome with missing someone, but, apparently the two words can be used interchangeably.
What’s my point? Well, other than the English lesson, I recently read an editorial online about how more and more Americans are starving for significant relationships. (Friendship, not romance.)
It almost seems improbable, given that most people have work relationships and plenty of social contacts. However, according to statistics, the average American has just two close friends, down from three 20 years ago. The statistics come from the American Sociological Review, which published a study on social isolation in America. The researchers reported a “remarkable drop” in our confidants - the people with whom we can talk about important matters. Nearly 25 percent of us have no confidants at all and only 15 percent of us have a healthy circle of four or five friends.
So, apparently we’re lonely.
I’ve been there. Now before you question how I can be lonely in a full house...let me just tell you that it is possible. Mainly because little boys are not friends to mothers who desire clean, germ-free, dirt-free homes at least one day out of the year. Little boys bring lots of noise and activity, but not the social interaction craved by this mom.
But seriously...feeling isolated and alone can be a problem, putting us at higher risk for many ailments - physical, social and psychological. It’s no wonder I start to get paranoid if I haven’t heard from my friends via the telephone for some time. Or that I get cranky if I haven’t got out of the house to do more than buy milk and cereal.
I don’t always feel lonely, but it does happen. I sometimes play the victim role, replaying scenarios in my head and feeling like I’m the only one who’s reaching out to my friends. Most of it is hogwash, of course, but it does happen. I can get dependant on feeling needed or wanted by someone (other than my children.)
What’s causing this loneliness and lack of friendships? Part of it could be our inability or unwillingness to commit to relationships. They are after all, work. We need friendships that require something of us - sacrifice, accountability...perhaps even forgiveness now and then. But sometimes we don’t want to give that much. We want the other
person to give and we’ll receive.
Unfortunately, true friendships don’t work that way. It has to be a two-way street. My cousin often tells me, “You have to be a friend to have a friend.” In other words, give before you’ll receive.
Sometimes, we’re afraid to reach out to find a new friend. We might get rejected. There is no real cure for that, other than to rely on God as your ultimate friend, and trust that he can provide you with the human being friends that you need - a Jesus with skin on, so to speak.
Sometimes, we just think of ourselves more than all the other lonely people.
"One wonders what it would take for the church, the new community, the friends of Jesus (John 15), to hold equal fascination for our lonely culture. To draw our culture to Christ, evangelical churches spend enormous amounts of money on slick marketing materials, enormous amounts of creative energy crafting “authentic” worship, and enormous amounts of intellectual capital on postmodernizing the faith. We’re not convinced these strategies get to the heart of our cultural malaise.
Perhaps another “strategy” is in order. What if church leaders mounted a campaign to encourage each of their members to become friends, good friends, with one unchurched person this year?
Oh, but that would require so much commitment, sacrifice and humility!
Exactly."
Sounds like a good challenge to me. I’m pretty sure we all know at least one person who doesn’t attend church whom we can befriend.
It might end up being just the friendship your (or my) lonely heart desires.
–Excerpt from a November 14, 2006 Christianity Today Daily Newsletter Editorial, “Look at All the Lonely People.” Used by permission of Christianity Today International, Carol Stream, IL 60188.”
Monday, January 28, 2008
knocking knock-knocks
The boys are into knock-knock jokes and it’s driving me crazy. Especially when they finally memorize one and everyone has to tell it to me, five times a day. They’ve even got the two-year-old yelling out the punchline.
It goes like this:
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Interrupting cow.
Inter––
Moo!!!!
Some days I get the baby putting his chubby face two inches from mine so he knows I can hear him holler: “Cow. Moo!”
I have no idea where they learned it from, nor do I care. I guess I should be grateful that they’re trying to develop their senses of humor, because most days the laughter flows following bodily functions, especially those committed at the table. Often, they try to make up their own jokes, which are none-too-funny, but that somehow doesn’t discourage them.
“Mom, why did the pig cross the road?” (At this point I have to turn my head so they don’t see me roll my eyes). “Because he wasn’t a chicken? Get it?” I’m trying to figure out if they’re future comedians or somehow crying out for attention. Can’t be
the first.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Boo.
Boo who?
What are you crying about?
It only goes downhill from there. I guess my sense of humor tends to lean more toward sarcasm, so the silly little jokes don’t do much for me. They do however, delight other little boys and they feed off each other as they try to remember any joke they’ve ever heard in their short life so far. Somehow, though they keep coming back to the knock-knock jokes. Maybe because they’re easier to remember or maybe because they’re easier to make up.
I need to join in before I lose the battle altogether.
So tonight, it’ll be:
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Go.
Go who?
GO TO BED!
or
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Quitcher.
Quitcher who?
Quit yer messing around and get to bed!
Think it’ll work? I’m not counting on it. I think it’ll drive at least two boys crazy with laughter, rile them up even more and then for sure they won’t go to sleep.
A merry heart is supposed to be good medicine. It’s just a tough pill for me to swallow right now.
It goes like this:
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Interrupting cow.
Inter––
Moo!!!!
Some days I get the baby putting his chubby face two inches from mine so he knows I can hear him holler: “Cow. Moo!”
I have no idea where they learned it from, nor do I care. I guess I should be grateful that they’re trying to develop their senses of humor, because most days the laughter flows following bodily functions, especially those committed at the table. Often, they try to make up their own jokes, which are none-too-funny, but that somehow doesn’t discourage them.
“Mom, why did the pig cross the road?” (At this point I have to turn my head so they don’t see me roll my eyes). “Because he wasn’t a chicken? Get it?” I’m trying to figure out if they’re future comedians or somehow crying out for attention. Can’t be
the first.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Boo.
Boo who?
What are you crying about?
It only goes downhill from there. I guess my sense of humor tends to lean more toward sarcasm, so the silly little jokes don’t do much for me. They do however, delight other little boys and they feed off each other as they try to remember any joke they’ve ever heard in their short life so far. Somehow, though they keep coming back to the knock-knock jokes. Maybe because they’re easier to remember or maybe because they’re easier to make up.
I need to join in before I lose the battle altogether.
So tonight, it’ll be:
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Go.
Go who?
GO TO BED!
or
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Quitcher.
Quitcher who?
Quit yer messing around and get to bed!
Think it’ll work? I’m not counting on it. I think it’ll drive at least two boys crazy with laughter, rile them up even more and then for sure they won’t go to sleep.
A merry heart is supposed to be good medicine. It’s just a tough pill for me to swallow right now.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
decorating dilemmas
I was a Scrooge last year at Christmas-time. No tree. No stockings. No decorations. Bah! The kids were lucky to get a wrapped gift. (All because of one very active little boy who would’ve consumed every shred of wrapping paper, tore every ornament off the tree and probably electrocuted himself with the blinking lights.)
This year, I’m not going to be so lucky. The boys have finally figured out their greatest strength and my greatest weakness. No human adult can endure the pleadings of children who have learned how to appear deprived of something. If they ask enough times, with sad enough faces, they will probably get to put up a tree this year.
Their sad sack routine worked on hubby quite well. In the five years we’ve been in this house, we have never put up Christmas lights outside. Until yesterday. Apparently Dad is no match for three convincing beggars.
I came home tonight to a very pitiful-looking house. The lights were pretty much ridiculous. Whole strands of icicles aren’t lit, making the roof line looked dashed. And because he could only scrounge up three strings of lights, part of one string was left hanging down the edge of the house.
If I can’t find any more lights hidden among the mess in the garage, I’m going to have to secretly make a run to Wal-Mart to help improve the appearance of our home. (He said not to buy any more lights this year, but to wait until they’re on clearance AFTER Christmas.) Thankfully, I know another of his weaknesses - he will never know where I found them. What these old things?
Normally I wouldn’t care what the place looks like, but this is even beyond my low standards. I’d guess there 480 lights lit out of 1000. It looks like something a kindergartner would have put up.
The boys were happy though. Until they realized that they could con me the same way they did their father. Only now their target was the inside decorations.
Mom, when are we going to decorate? Mom, when are we going to get a tree? Mom, can I have a tree by my bed? Mom, come back here!
I told them we had to wait until it snowed before we could get a tree. (That was mainly just to get back at hubby for sending them inside to bug me with their begging. He can traipse around through a foot of snow trying to find the non-existent perfect tree.)
Actually, I usually tell him to find the skinniest, most scraggly tree at the farm. That way I know it will fit in the house and will fit in with the threadbare couch, the stained carpet and the windows that haven’t been washed in...well, let’s just keep that my little secret. We take pity on the overlooked trees with bald spots and missing branches. When a tree has to go against a wall, it’s better to have a flat spot anyway. By the time our ornaments are on, the tree always looks just fine. I’m not out to win any awards for my holiday decorations and I’m not inviting anyone over who might critique me.
If I do get around to decorating this season, or if the kids finally wear me down, I’ll have another problem on my hands. I’m tired of the decorations I’ve used since number two was born. How many years has that been anyway? I’m not sure if I can bear to see the same old things another year, so who knows what I’ll come up with. I thought about doing a popcorn garland, but then realized that I’d have a toddler eating snacks off the tree all day.
Maybe pom poms. Or coffee filter snowflakes. Or maybe even cute little knitted stockings that I have no time to knit. Oh well, I can dream to be Martha Stewart.
I have never been sentimental about ornaments or even understood purchasing a new ornament for children each year. I have slowly whittled our Christmas decorations down to two Rubbermaid containers and much of that will probably get pitched this year too. I like to change things around too much. Which is incredibly ironic since I don’t want to put the things up in the first place because then I’d have to dust the shelves and change the decorations that are there. Well, mainly because I’d have to dust.
It’s hard to try to change things when you’re lazy and when your budget doesn’t allow for purchasing new decorations each year. Maybe I will have to take hubby’s advice and hit the after-Christmas sales that start at 6 a.m. with lines formed in the cold and in the dark. Nah.
Gotta come up with something better. Maybe I’ll sic the kids on Grandma. Or better yet, they can help Grandma decorate this year. Happy Christmas to all.
This year, I’m not going to be so lucky. The boys have finally figured out their greatest strength and my greatest weakness. No human adult can endure the pleadings of children who have learned how to appear deprived of something. If they ask enough times, with sad enough faces, they will probably get to put up a tree this year.
Their sad sack routine worked on hubby quite well. In the five years we’ve been in this house, we have never put up Christmas lights outside. Until yesterday. Apparently Dad is no match for three convincing beggars.
I came home tonight to a very pitiful-looking house. The lights were pretty much ridiculous. Whole strands of icicles aren’t lit, making the roof line looked dashed. And because he could only scrounge up three strings of lights, part of one string was left hanging down the edge of the house.
If I can’t find any more lights hidden among the mess in the garage, I’m going to have to secretly make a run to Wal-Mart to help improve the appearance of our home. (He said not to buy any more lights this year, but to wait until they’re on clearance AFTER Christmas.) Thankfully, I know another of his weaknesses - he will never know where I found them. What these old things?
Normally I wouldn’t care what the place looks like, but this is even beyond my low standards. I’d guess there 480 lights lit out of 1000. It looks like something a kindergartner would have put up.
The boys were happy though. Until they realized that they could con me the same way they did their father. Only now their target was the inside decorations.
Mom, when are we going to decorate? Mom, when are we going to get a tree? Mom, can I have a tree by my bed? Mom, come back here!
I told them we had to wait until it snowed before we could get a tree. (That was mainly just to get back at hubby for sending them inside to bug me with their begging. He can traipse around through a foot of snow trying to find the non-existent perfect tree.)
Actually, I usually tell him to find the skinniest, most scraggly tree at the farm. That way I know it will fit in the house and will fit in with the threadbare couch, the stained carpet and the windows that haven’t been washed in...well, let’s just keep that my little secret. We take pity on the overlooked trees with bald spots and missing branches. When a tree has to go against a wall, it’s better to have a flat spot anyway. By the time our ornaments are on, the tree always looks just fine. I’m not out to win any awards for my holiday decorations and I’m not inviting anyone over who might critique me.
If I do get around to decorating this season, or if the kids finally wear me down, I’ll have another problem on my hands. I’m tired of the decorations I’ve used since number two was born. How many years has that been anyway? I’m not sure if I can bear to see the same old things another year, so who knows what I’ll come up with. I thought about doing a popcorn garland, but then realized that I’d have a toddler eating snacks off the tree all day.
Maybe pom poms. Or coffee filter snowflakes. Or maybe even cute little knitted stockings that I have no time to knit. Oh well, I can dream to be Martha Stewart.
I have never been sentimental about ornaments or even understood purchasing a new ornament for children each year. I have slowly whittled our Christmas decorations down to two Rubbermaid containers and much of that will probably get pitched this year too. I like to change things around too much. Which is incredibly ironic since I don’t want to put the things up in the first place because then I’d have to dust the shelves and change the decorations that are there. Well, mainly because I’d have to dust.
It’s hard to try to change things when you’re lazy and when your budget doesn’t allow for purchasing new decorations each year. Maybe I will have to take hubby’s advice and hit the after-Christmas sales that start at 6 a.m. with lines formed in the cold and in the dark. Nah.
Gotta come up with something better. Maybe I’ll sic the kids on Grandma. Or better yet, they can help Grandma decorate this year. Happy Christmas to all.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
laughing it up...
I like to laugh. It doesn’t matter if it’s laughter from a good joke, a well-timed pun, a dead-on impersonation, a sarcastic comment or even a clever practical joke. God has made me a laugher.
“If you ask me, I think it is often just as sacred to laugh as it is to pray . . . or preach . . . or witness. But then – laughter is a witness in many ways,” writes Chuck Swindoll in The Winsome Witness.
I wonder if that’s because people may not remember what you say, but they will remember how you made them feel. When writing, I get a much more positive response when I poke fun at myself or my life. Whenever I’m planning something, I like to put it together with a few laughs thrown in. I love to see the smiles and hear the laughter that can come from close fellowship.
God is a god of laughter. There are so many scriptural examples of humor (Abraham & Sarah’s late-in-life son, a talking donkey, a king eating grass, the exaggeration of nagging women, fools and lazy men in Proverbs, the satire and sarcasm in the book of Job and Jesus’ comments about gnats vs. camels and polishing the outside of a cup but not cleaning the inside) that I can’t believe God doesn’t have a sense of humor. In my own life alone, I know God is chuckling about giving me four boys to raise. He has perfectly good reasons for doing that, but I also believe he thinks it’s funny. So do I. (Well, maybe not so much when they decide to mud wrestle or eat raw crab apples.)
I can’t imagine going through life and not seeing the inevitable humor. I often find those little upsets easier to handle when I look at them through the laughter lenses. I’m not sure if that’s what Paul meant when he wrote, “Consider it all joy...” but I’ve tried to take that to heart. There is no reason we can’t be happy, smiling Christians.
Let’s face it - much of life is funny. It’s funny when my baby laughs at his burps or when he thinks he’s sneaky stealing a roll off the table. It’s funny when you realize someone else’s kids can be monsters just like yours. It’s funny when someone can tell a clever joke. It’s funny when you set every clock and timer in someone’s house to go off at 2 a.m. (That wasn’t me, by the way.) And it’s even funny when kids ask, “Why is your belly so wrinkly, Mom?”
It wouldn’t hurt any of us to smile or laugh a bit more.
We don’t have to always look for the negative in things or search for ways to cause problems just because we don’t agree with others. Why is it so hard to build each other up, even when the Bible tells us so? We can’t box people in any more than we can box God in by saying He can only work in certain ways, through certain circumstances or through certain people. The Old Testament clearly shows us that He can even work through a donkey (an intelligent, articulate one at that).
God can work through people, through pain, through circumstances and even through laughter. I think Solomon tried to tell us that when he wrote “A cheerful heart is good medicine.”
And indeed it is. Now, it’s up to me to spread the joy..
“If you ask me, I think it is often just as sacred to laugh as it is to pray . . . or preach . . . or witness. But then – laughter is a witness in many ways,” writes Chuck Swindoll in The Winsome Witness.
I wonder if that’s because people may not remember what you say, but they will remember how you made them feel. When writing, I get a much more positive response when I poke fun at myself or my life. Whenever I’m planning something, I like to put it together with a few laughs thrown in. I love to see the smiles and hear the laughter that can come from close fellowship.
God is a god of laughter. There are so many scriptural examples of humor (Abraham & Sarah’s late-in-life son, a talking donkey, a king eating grass, the exaggeration of nagging women, fools and lazy men in Proverbs, the satire and sarcasm in the book of Job and Jesus’ comments about gnats vs. camels and polishing the outside of a cup but not cleaning the inside) that I can’t believe God doesn’t have a sense of humor. In my own life alone, I know God is chuckling about giving me four boys to raise. He has perfectly good reasons for doing that, but I also believe he thinks it’s funny. So do I. (Well, maybe not so much when they decide to mud wrestle or eat raw crab apples.)
I can’t imagine going through life and not seeing the inevitable humor. I often find those little upsets easier to handle when I look at them through the laughter lenses. I’m not sure if that’s what Paul meant when he wrote, “Consider it all joy...” but I’ve tried to take that to heart. There is no reason we can’t be happy, smiling Christians.
Let’s face it - much of life is funny. It’s funny when my baby laughs at his burps or when he thinks he’s sneaky stealing a roll off the table. It’s funny when you realize someone else’s kids can be monsters just like yours. It’s funny when someone can tell a clever joke. It’s funny when you set every clock and timer in someone’s house to go off at 2 a.m. (That wasn’t me, by the way.) And it’s even funny when kids ask, “Why is your belly so wrinkly, Mom?”
It wouldn’t hurt any of us to smile or laugh a bit more.
We don’t have to always look for the negative in things or search for ways to cause problems just because we don’t agree with others. Why is it so hard to build each other up, even when the Bible tells us so? We can’t box people in any more than we can box God in by saying He can only work in certain ways, through certain circumstances or through certain people. The Old Testament clearly shows us that He can even work through a donkey (an intelligent, articulate one at that).
God can work through people, through pain, through circumstances and even through laughter. I think Solomon tried to tell us that when he wrote “A cheerful heart is good medicine.”
And indeed it is. Now, it’s up to me to spread the joy..
Sunday, July 1, 2007
gift of the garden
The gardener surveys her modest plot. I would have preferred something a bit larger, she sighs both to herself and to her benefactor. She has seen the large vineyards and orchards that He has given others, acres of blossoms and later sweet fruit. But for whatever reason, He has gifted her with a small flower garden, tucked away amid a few maples and a black walnut.
It really isn’t anything special, she believes, but it is hers to work the soil, plant what seems appropriate, or to abandon to weeds. It has been given to her with few strings attached, except that her time to garden, or not, is temporary and finite. She will have only as many growing seasons as the Master Gardener has planned for.
She shakes her head, sighing again. It isn’t in the location she would have chosen – too shaded, for starters. She would have preferred a spot with a little more sun and a longer growing season. Perhaps a raised vegetable garden in a warmer climate, so she could enjoy fruits of her labor year round, instead of preparing her plants for the winter weather that comes much too soon and for much too long. She laments that her flowerbed is not plainly visible to the rest of the world; very few people find their way to her little parcel. Nor does it contain the flora she would have picked. Had she the option, she would have chosen fragrant climbing roses, a deep purple clematis and perhaps even hollyhocks stretched taller than her small frame.
Instead, she was given this shady little area with nothing special about it except its deep, dark fertile soil. She didn’t have a clue what to do with it at first. She remembered feeling overwhelmed and even contemplating walking away. Someone else better qualified can turn this space into something beautiful...I can’t do it, she had thought and even believed. I have no experience in gardening, or growing or even getting dirty. Well, that part wasn’t exactly true. She knew she knew how to get dirty, just not doing the work required for this section of earth.
So, she began, taking timid baby steps at gardening, digging out chunks of sod, pulling out roots, preparing the dirt for planting. She experimented with different tools – hoes, shovels, garden claws, even rakes – learning what works and what doesn’t for the type of soil she found herself in, all the while consulting the Big Book of Gardening for instruction, however cryptic it sometimes was. She grunted her way through moving boulders to build a retaining wall at one end so she could level out the soil. Shaking her head now, she remembers how sore she was trying to move them by herself, by hand. Yeesh, thought you could do it all yourself, every last rock, she tells herself. After she finally realized how pride was preventing her from finishing her wall, she again had consulted the Big Book, only to learn that this garden wasn’t to be a solitary project. Yes, it was hers, and yes she was responsible for it, but she was exhorted to seek help from the Body of Gardeners. Within that Body, she found encouragement, advice, accountability and analysis. She also found strength beyond her own, muscles strong enough to help her with the boulders.
Many, many summers ago she began cultivating her plot. She started with a peony, added day lilies, a bleeding heart that reminded her of her grandmother’s garden and hostas she transplanted from another site. Each year, she found herself able to add more: creeping phlox, Ozark sundrops, daisies and carnations. Each season showed more signs of growth and more evidence that she herself was growing as a gardener. There were always setbacks: sometimes she didn’t want to listen to the advice given her by older, more experienced growers; sometimes she would forget to water her little parcel and her plants would become parched and droopy; and sometimes she just got sick and tired of all the dirt under her fingernails.
Each spring, she eagerly awaits the first signs of greenery poking through the mulch. Some plants survive her climate, but others succumb to the winter; She always grieved a little when a bush or perennial didn’t make it. She felt the loss of nurturing what seemed almost like a part of her - watering it, fertilizing it, caring for it and then to lose it for reasons she often couldn’t understand.
Some years, the flowers produce myriads of blooms and the gardening is enjoyable, fruitful and even easy. Some years it rains enough so she doesn’t have to drag out the hose to patiently water the thirsty plants. Other years, like this one, are just plain work. As she stands over the bed, she can see it isn’t getting any better. She is doing battle with crabgrass, pulling out the little green shoots only to have them crop back up in the same place a few days later. I thought I had you licked, she scolds them as if they are listening. It has become a daily war with the weeds – they don’t have the upper hand, but if she walked away now, it wouldn’t be long and they would take over her garden. She has found that they are easiest to pull when they are little weeds, with little roots. If she doesn’t get them right away, they become much harder to remove and often will break off at the base rather than release the root from her soil. She has weeded so much that she can recognize by sound whether the offender has come out with the root intact – it’s a bit of ripping music that helps take her mind off her aching back and tender fingers. The Big Book talks quite a bit about weeds, she notices, and not allowing them to take root. She knows that she has to keep pulling, tugging and jerking, no matter how weary she gets, if she wants her flowers to flower and her plants to mature. Once they grow enough, they will provide sufficient shade to prevent most of the weeds from seeing sunlight. Once she is able to add more plants into her garden, their fullness and sheer numbers will also keep the weeds down.
But, she isn’t at that stage in her garden yet. So, she is resigned to pulling weeds, a little every day, and nursing her aches afterward. Some days go well and she can finish quickly. Other days she barely gets started with the plucking and mosquitoes bombard her. She can swat away a few, squash several, but in a shady spot on a cool day they get a taste of blood and they swarm. Often, just when she feels like she’s getting the upper hand over the weeds in her garden, she is attacked from all sides, getting bites on her ankles, arms, neck and even her toes. Sometimes she armors herself with a Shield of Spray-on Protection and is able to work away unbothered. Other times, she simply has to run for cover inside and rely on the Master Gardener’s protection.
She will wait for a sunny day before she gets the courage to head back out again. A day like today...where she can prune in peace, deadhead in delight, transplant in tranquility, all within the sanctuary of her garden, little as it may be. She stands back again, perusing many years of growth and pain, death and learning. She smiles realizing her plot is sized just right, beautiful in its humbleness.
WIth a deep breath that takes in the mingled scents of peony and wet earth, she kneels down and gets back to her life’s work, exhaling a prayer of thankfulness for the task before her.
It really isn’t anything special, she believes, but it is hers to work the soil, plant what seems appropriate, or to abandon to weeds. It has been given to her with few strings attached, except that her time to garden, or not, is temporary and finite. She will have only as many growing seasons as the Master Gardener has planned for.
She shakes her head, sighing again. It isn’t in the location she would have chosen – too shaded, for starters. She would have preferred a spot with a little more sun and a longer growing season. Perhaps a raised vegetable garden in a warmer climate, so she could enjoy fruits of her labor year round, instead of preparing her plants for the winter weather that comes much too soon and for much too long. She laments that her flowerbed is not plainly visible to the rest of the world; very few people find their way to her little parcel. Nor does it contain the flora she would have picked. Had she the option, she would have chosen fragrant climbing roses, a deep purple clematis and perhaps even hollyhocks stretched taller than her small frame.
Instead, she was given this shady little area with nothing special about it except its deep, dark fertile soil. She didn’t have a clue what to do with it at first. She remembered feeling overwhelmed and even contemplating walking away. Someone else better qualified can turn this space into something beautiful...I can’t do it, she had thought and even believed. I have no experience in gardening, or growing or even getting dirty. Well, that part wasn’t exactly true. She knew she knew how to get dirty, just not doing the work required for this section of earth.
So, she began, taking timid baby steps at gardening, digging out chunks of sod, pulling out roots, preparing the dirt for planting. She experimented with different tools – hoes, shovels, garden claws, even rakes – learning what works and what doesn’t for the type of soil she found herself in, all the while consulting the Big Book of Gardening for instruction, however cryptic it sometimes was. She grunted her way through moving boulders to build a retaining wall at one end so she could level out the soil. Shaking her head now, she remembers how sore she was trying to move them by herself, by hand. Yeesh, thought you could do it all yourself, every last rock, she tells herself. After she finally realized how pride was preventing her from finishing her wall, she again had consulted the Big Book, only to learn that this garden wasn’t to be a solitary project. Yes, it was hers, and yes she was responsible for it, but she was exhorted to seek help from the Body of Gardeners. Within that Body, she found encouragement, advice, accountability and analysis. She also found strength beyond her own, muscles strong enough to help her with the boulders.
Many, many summers ago she began cultivating her plot. She started with a peony, added day lilies, a bleeding heart that reminded her of her grandmother’s garden and hostas she transplanted from another site. Each year, she found herself able to add more: creeping phlox, Ozark sundrops, daisies and carnations. Each season showed more signs of growth and more evidence that she herself was growing as a gardener. There were always setbacks: sometimes she didn’t want to listen to the advice given her by older, more experienced growers; sometimes she would forget to water her little parcel and her plants would become parched and droopy; and sometimes she just got sick and tired of all the dirt under her fingernails.
Each spring, she eagerly awaits the first signs of greenery poking through the mulch. Some plants survive her climate, but others succumb to the winter; She always grieved a little when a bush or perennial didn’t make it. She felt the loss of nurturing what seemed almost like a part of her - watering it, fertilizing it, caring for it and then to lose it for reasons she often couldn’t understand.
Some years, the flowers produce myriads of blooms and the gardening is enjoyable, fruitful and even easy. Some years it rains enough so she doesn’t have to drag out the hose to patiently water the thirsty plants. Other years, like this one, are just plain work. As she stands over the bed, she can see it isn’t getting any better. She is doing battle with crabgrass, pulling out the little green shoots only to have them crop back up in the same place a few days later. I thought I had you licked, she scolds them as if they are listening. It has become a daily war with the weeds – they don’t have the upper hand, but if she walked away now, it wouldn’t be long and they would take over her garden. She has found that they are easiest to pull when they are little weeds, with little roots. If she doesn’t get them right away, they become much harder to remove and often will break off at the base rather than release the root from her soil. She has weeded so much that she can recognize by sound whether the offender has come out with the root intact – it’s a bit of ripping music that helps take her mind off her aching back and tender fingers. The Big Book talks quite a bit about weeds, she notices, and not allowing them to take root. She knows that she has to keep pulling, tugging and jerking, no matter how weary she gets, if she wants her flowers to flower and her plants to mature. Once they grow enough, they will provide sufficient shade to prevent most of the weeds from seeing sunlight. Once she is able to add more plants into her garden, their fullness and sheer numbers will also keep the weeds down.
But, she isn’t at that stage in her garden yet. So, she is resigned to pulling weeds, a little every day, and nursing her aches afterward. Some days go well and she can finish quickly. Other days she barely gets started with the plucking and mosquitoes bombard her. She can swat away a few, squash several, but in a shady spot on a cool day they get a taste of blood and they swarm. Often, just when she feels like she’s getting the upper hand over the weeds in her garden, she is attacked from all sides, getting bites on her ankles, arms, neck and even her toes. Sometimes she armors herself with a Shield of Spray-on Protection and is able to work away unbothered. Other times, she simply has to run for cover inside and rely on the Master Gardener’s protection.
She will wait for a sunny day before she gets the courage to head back out again. A day like today...where she can prune in peace, deadhead in delight, transplant in tranquility, all within the sanctuary of her garden, little as it may be. She stands back again, perusing many years of growth and pain, death and learning. She smiles realizing her plot is sized just right, beautiful in its humbleness.
WIth a deep breath that takes in the mingled scents of peony and wet earth, she kneels down and gets back to her life’s work, exhaling a prayer of thankfulness for the task before her.
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