caught on camera

I was "supposed" to be the designated photographer at a recent church event in the park, but one prankster snapped a pic of me.

At least it looks like I might have been doing something with the camera. :)

I'm sharing only because I'm hardly ever on the receiving end of the lens and this proves that I do have a sense of humor (he shot this right after I tried to take a picture of him taking a picture of me).

a procrastinator's garden

There is something almost magical about planting a garden. You take some wrinkled seeds out of packets, place them into tilled-up earth and a week later (if you’ve been diligent about watering) little shoots start to appear.

Well, let’s be clear here - if you’re a gardener like me, you wait until the last day you can get the 50 percent discount to order your seeds. After they arrive, you stash the box somewhere out of sight and then remember that you had planned to attempt indoor seedlings - only it’s about a month too late at this point, but you don’t want to waste four varieties of tomatoes and five kinds of peppers, so you plant them anyway. Then, after making a mini-greenhouse in an unused bedroom and barely remembering to water anything, you realize it’s about time to be planting a garden outdoors. Only, then you decide it’s imperative to make yourself some cute little raised beds out of cedar. So you spend a few days building them. And they are cute. But then it rains. And it rains. And your (well-intentioned) plans of getting a garden planted at any time close to what a Minnesota summer will allow for are pretty much gone.

Come June 1st and it’s still not done. Procrastinators do not make good gardeners. But, I digress - back to the magical part of having a vegetable garden. I would love to set up a time-lapse camera for how quickly plants like squash (that were only planted at a certain someone’s request - certainly not mine) will burst up and how slowly my precious cilantro grows. It’s really rather unfair that produce that has little-to-no flavor without adding brown sugar and butter can double its size in a day while this savory herb takes FOREVER.

What is less magical and certainly less charming are the six different kinds of weeds that sprout up right alongside what I’ve cultivated. They have no sense of personal space and just pop in uninvited. Although, I do have to admit that pulling weeds is a bit of a cathartic process - “take that you little water-hogging parasite!”

Gardening is also teaching me patience and helping me to remember the tenth commandment as I see the fruit coming from my parents’ and inlaws’ abundant garden. I look at my beans that have just started to blossom and marvel (okay, I cringe) that they have already harvested a five-gallon bucket.

Thankfully they are blessed with the gift of generosity because they both have shared their produce with us since my paltry efforts at gardening aren’t producing yet. There’s probably a lesson there somewhere, but I’m too busy scarfing down fresh cucumbers and new potatoes to think about it.

paint samples

Here's what I've picked out so far.

living room project

So, I know that we've been working on our addition for like 45 years and I should be focusing on that, but I have been saving up for new couches for what seems like even longer and I'm going to finally be getting them!!!

Here's what they look like.

But, I knew that they would look out of place in a living room with olive green walls and mismatched everything. So, what's a girl to do?

Repaint. And better yet, repaint a room that really doesn't need it. And worse yet, repaint a room when I have an office, a hallway, a powder room and a master bedroom to finish. Sigh. I'm going to just convince myself that the new couches deserve a new room to live in.

(Insert five second pause here.)

There that wasn't hard at all. Now to the fun of picking out paint colors and puttying holes in the walls.

the fun side of motherhood

My job as a mom has many responsibilities. Some of them I never knew existed until I had kids. Some of them (like changing bed sheets or watching Legos reproduce) are less than thrilling. Others are just plain fun to fulfill.

For instance, it’s a bit of a kick to finally be on the other end of “You’re wearing that?!?” since I have been (for years) a bit sheepish about what boys are willing to wear in public. Once teenager-dom shows its face, somehow clothing (and showers) become important. It’s a refreshing change. It’s also thoroughly entertaining to put together interesting clothing combinations, just to see if anyone notices and starts to sputter.

I am now able to check this off my Mom bucket list: Arrive at least a half hour late to pick up offspring from an extracurricular event. (I was actually 45 minutes late). But in my defense, I waited 30 whole minutes for the bus to arrive the day before. My only regret is that apparently middle school coaches are required to stick around with the kids until parents show up. And that I left my phone in the car so I missed the phone call alerting me that someone was waiting. (I brought the coach a gift card to the local coffee shop as an apology.) It was nice to have someone wait for ME for a change though.

I never realized how much fun it would be to purposely make meals that my boys don’t like. For the most part, they are great eaters, however I do have one child who doesn’t like tomatoes or onions and another who detests peppers. The other night we had fajitas for supper, which put two of them over the edge - onions and a plethora of multi-colored peppers brings out lots of gagging noises and a bit of whining. My response is to smack my lips and pile more onions into a certain child’s tortilla. And then wait to see if he will actually eat it in order to get a snack before bedtime. The suspense is addicting.

When I do laundry, I throw all the socks into one basket. When a boy claims that he doesn’t have any socks to wear, it is joyous to show him the pile and tell him to start searching and matching. The worst job ever is no longer my problem. I took the time to write little initials on the insides of sock bands and since I think they all know the alphabet, they are more than capable of sorting socks. (It hasn’t solved the missing sock problem though.)

My boys are not terribly responsible (I know, it’s all about the training), but this sometimes works to my advantage when I find little tips left just for me at the bottom of the wash. I collect change and dollar bills - now it pays to do the laundry.

I love to watch the joy they take in creation and how they pay attention to the little things. The other day the youngest spotted a hummingbird and spent the better part of an hour trying to follow it around the yard. The oldest fills the bird feeder within view of his bedroom window every day, taking note of what types of birds are hanging around. Another one has an affinity for flowering weeds and never fails to bring me clumps of whatever is blooming.

It’s been a ball being the family recorder and keeping track of all the things our boys say and do, all with the express purpose of using it as ammunition for a graduation party slideshow or stories at a wedding reception. I will have proof of many of life’s humorous moments in the form of photos, words and in the case of the one child who thinks he could start a business of dancing, plenty of video.

But honestly, the most enjoyable part of being a mom is seeing progress. We’ve moved from walking and potty training to bike riding and learning algebra. I’ve seen them go from spoiled toddlers to boys who actually might share their toys once in awhile. I’ve seen them help each other make their beds (those fitted sheets are quite the challenge.) I’ve seen them learn to pray out loud in front of other people and be willing to do it for special occasions. I’ve witnessed temper tantrums and selfishness, but I’ve also observed them asking for forgiveness and actually finishing their chores on time. They may be bottomless pits when it comes to food, but they always ask permission before raiding the fridge. They have opinions, tempers, questions and emotions and most days every one of them are evident. But there are occasional glimpses of God’s grace peeking through dirty fingernails and buzz cuts - quick hugs, playing together without fighting, obedience and successful Bible memory work.

Those are the things that make this job even more enjoyable. That and an endless supply of information on things like fish illnesses, how to raise meal worms, Roger Bannister, iPods and Sponge Bob jokes.

cooks in the kitchen

Because we hope they can eventually function on their own someday (and not die of starvation), we’ve been slowly attempting to teach the boys to cook.

It has been an experiment with mixed results. Most meals have been edible, but their appearances may leave some room for improvement. Chili was interesting with very strangely shaped (and very large) chopped onions and celery.

Tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches were a success but the cook that night was very frugal with the cheese, never guessing that his mother uses at least six slices per sandwich. I doubt he’ll forget that next time; the astounded look on his face that he could use THAT many was priceless.

The main specialty of at least three of the boys is eggs. (The youngest still isn’t allowed near hot pans, even though he insists he’s old enough to fry his own.) They have mastered frying both hard and soft eggs (many preferences within this household - from yolks running all over the place to smashed as hard as possible). They’ve managed omelets, but again the chopped veggie thing tends to be a problem. Someone taught them that eggs on peanut butter toast was a good meal, so that’s been the go-to breakfast for awhile, much to Mom’s repulsion. And they do extremely well in the fine art of hard-boiled eggs - even getting the timing down just right so the yolks don’t turn greyish.

Awhile ago, two boys wanted to know what a poached egg was, which made for the perfect opportunity for a cooking lesson. Here’s what I heard during the process: “Oh sheesh, that’s gross!” “Oh sheesh, that’s crazy!” “Wow!” “Are they good, Mom?” “Don’t know, never had one.” “How long does it need to cook?” “Don’t know, never made one.”

They figured out that they had to keep the water boiling or the egg will stick to the bottom of the pot and that they didn’t add enough water either. When the egg was done: “Why are you putting it on the stove?” “Why not?” “Where else would I put it?” “On a plate?” (I think Mom’s sarcasm gene was inherited by this one.) “Why would I do that - it’s more work!” (This come from the one whose chore was dishes that week.) After making them eat the egg, they concluded it was much better than a hard-boiled egg, because the yolk doesn’t get stuck in their throats. (Go figure.) Then it was off to brag to their brothers that they got to crack an egg into boiling water. “When can we do it again?” was the last question I heard.

Cooking class apparently was a success that day.

Hubby has used the kitchen to his advantage too, only in the area of preparing venison on the days when Mom is gone. He had all four boys grinding deer meat with an antique hand-crank grinder and packaging it into 3-pound freezer bags to use later for venison burgers or jerky. Making jerky was pawned, er, delegated to the boys, who mixed up the seasoning packets into the ground meat by hand, rolled it out to the right thickness, cut the strips and placed them into the dehydrator. Somehow hubby seemed to have failed to get his hands very dirty with that project. The end result apparently was edible, but I’m taking their word for it because I’m not a fan of venison.

One boy wants to be a chef someday, but he has flat out admitted that the only reason he does is so that he doesn’t ever have do the dishes. Apparently he’s seen enough cooking shows on TV to know that some other peon does the cleanup, not the cook. The other boys I think would live on cold cereal if they had the choice, mainly because there are fewer dishes.

I supposed in many ways they are typical of most humans. They enjoy the fun parts of cooking: the tasting, the nibbling, browning hamburger, using a hand mixer, licking spoons, dumping in spices and of course the eating. But they do not like the cleanup and inevitably someone will complain about how many dishes a certain other someone used while they were cooking. And the boy whose chore it is to clean up the table gets upset because of the onion skins or potato peels that get dribbled all over.

The only one who doesn’t complain is Dad, because we made a deal when we first got married - whoever cooks doesn’t have to clean up - and now he’s somehow getting out of all of it.

Turns out he may be smarter (or sneakier) than all the rest of us put together. Wonder how long it’ll take before the boys catch on.

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.