Grandpa took Boy #3 ice fishing last week. This was a special event - getting away from your brothers and of course, Grandpa has much better snacks than at home. And he lets you eat as much as you want. (Unlike some mean mommies we know.)
Well, apparently Grandpa was going the extra mile and provided pop for our precocious little three-year-old. Only, it got partially spilled. Then it had to be set down while the men did “serious” fishing. And then (I think I got this story straight), lines were tangled, which isn’t hard to imagine when you think of fishing with a preschooler. So Grandpa was trying to do it all and somebody decided he wanted a drink. Now.
Well, Grandpa said no, not now. Little Sassy Pants replied in a huff, “Fine! I’m never coming fishing with you ever again!”
(At this point, hearing the story, I am completely mortified. Then I wonder how I can blame those genes on my husband...)
Grandpa took the attitude in stride and replied, “That’s okay - your brothers will come fishing with me.”
(I hate to even write this...)
“No, Grandpa, they’re not gonna come fishing with you ever again either!”
I’m pretty sure his two older brothers wouldn’t agree with #3’s statement, but he was positive about it. At least Grandpa has been laughing about the whole thing and doesn’t seem too put off by the grief his grandson gave him.
I find it endlessly fascinating and very embarrassing at how emphatic and bold this child is. He can look me straight in the eye after I’ve told him to pick up his toys and say, “No!” without so much as a twinge of remorse - until he sees the Tabasco sauce bottle come out.
He is so quick to justify his behavior, to demand his demands, to spew, “Fine! I don’t like you anymore!” that I worry it’s more than a stage. Part of it I know is his personality - he is simply quick-witted - and part of it I suppose is just human nature.
We are selfish, demanding, unsympathetic and sassy at times - even to God. We make demands during our prayers and huff if they’re not answered. We whine about what we have to do and sniffle about whatever ails us. We sometimes aren’t all that happy and we let God know all about it. We’re as impossible to please as an ornery three-year-old. Especially when we don’t get our way.
“Fine! I’m not coming fishing with you ever again!”
I wonder if God has Tabasco sauce.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Friday, December 15, 2006
when i'm an adult
This time of year, one can’t help but wish to be a kid again. The wonder and anticipation of Christmas is all too real for children. They clammer about the tree, snooping in presents, shaking stockings...
Oh, wait that was me. I was the nosy one, expertly peeling back Scotch tape from gift wrapping and sliding the paper off the packages to get a peak inside. I was so good at it, I could replace the wrapping back on the present without any rips or tears. I could even line the creases back up to the sides of the box and match the tape to its orginal position. If the tape lost its stickiness, I scrounged up another piece and placed it directly over the old one - viola! Re-wrapped present! What a devious child was I. The trouble was, in all of that peaking, I don’t remember finding a single one of my own presents. For some reason, I always ended up opening one of the my brother’s. Perhaps Mom didn’t label gifts back then?
It was good to be a kid at Christmas-time. If the anticipation of gifts didn’t kill you, having to pose for family Christmas photos might. No one ever smiled at the same time and by the time 15 pictures had been taken, no one had smiles left.
The holiday excitement was usually dampened by having to trudge through preparations for the annual Sunday school program. Practice, practice, practice singing carols, filing out of church pews, fighting for position in front of the microphone (oh, that was me too). I remember being forced to wear a new dress for the Christmas program (oh, how I hated dresses!) and mortifying my mother by somehow managing to put a gigantic run in the front of white tights right before it was my grade’s turn to sing. There I was, curled hair sticking out every which way, navy blue dress making me very uncomfortable, a two-inch streak running up my left leg and I wasn’t giving up an inch to the right or left of the prime property in front of the mike. I was going to SING! If I remember correctly, there were at least three girls in my class that had the same intentions come program time. Sometimes it’s cute when kids belt out into the microphone, but playing tackle-the-mike stand isn’t so much.
Ah, yes. I could probably go on and on with all my memories of Christmas time, but I wouldn’t want you to think poorly of me. I really did enjoy most parts of the holidays. (Did I mention the toys?) To this day, I can’t get the Toys R Us jingle out of my head: ”I don’t want to grow up...”
I wish I could can some of a child’s enthusiasm over snow, Christmas, putting up a tree, etc., and drink it down like a Coke. Maybe then I’d be a little less “adult” about toys and gifts and shopping and baking and family get-togethers.
That’s why I have to chuckle at my boys when they believe all their problems will be solved when they get bigger.
Boy #3 got upset with me last night when I wouldn’t let him have a snack before bedtime. I sent him to bed for the third time and pulled out the last two pieces of chocolate cake for me and hubby. Like most children (okay, okay, like me) he somehow sensed there was a snack out, ready to be devoured. He was out of bed within 15 seconds, down the stairs, and peeking over the railing. “Why do you get cake?” he demanded.
When our usual platitudes about being Mom and Dad didn’t please him, he huffed back up the stairs, muttering, “When I’m a dadult, I’m having cake!”
Boy #2 has been wondering what he should be when he grows up. I told him he’ll figure it out soon enough (he’s five) and not to worry, but that advice fell on deaf ears.
“I just don’t know what I should be. I think maybe a police man, and I’d really like to be a rock star.” I had visions of the Village People in my head so I’m really praying for Divine Discernment for that child.
It’s just incredibly interesting to me how we, as humans, and no matter how young or old we are, tend to think our problems will be solved by growing up, getting rich, getting smarter or even doing X, Y and Z.
We can’t comprehend sometimes that when we get bigger, we let our problems get bigger as well. We have pie and we want cake. We have a perfectly nice dress and we want to wear pants. We want to be big, bigger than God. So much so, that we often forget that He is the ultimate problem-solver, answer-giver, present-gifter and love-offerer.
This Christmas, perhaps we could recapture some of the excitement of children by simply doing two things: giving and receiving.
Give glory. Give worship. Give praise.
Receive love. Receive love. Receive love. And, who knows, maybe even a new dress.
Oh, wait that was me. I was the nosy one, expertly peeling back Scotch tape from gift wrapping and sliding the paper off the packages to get a peak inside. I was so good at it, I could replace the wrapping back on the present without any rips or tears. I could even line the creases back up to the sides of the box and match the tape to its orginal position. If the tape lost its stickiness, I scrounged up another piece and placed it directly over the old one - viola! Re-wrapped present! What a devious child was I. The trouble was, in all of that peaking, I don’t remember finding a single one of my own presents. For some reason, I always ended up opening one of the my brother’s. Perhaps Mom didn’t label gifts back then?
It was good to be a kid at Christmas-time. If the anticipation of gifts didn’t kill you, having to pose for family Christmas photos might. No one ever smiled at the same time and by the time 15 pictures had been taken, no one had smiles left.
The holiday excitement was usually dampened by having to trudge through preparations for the annual Sunday school program. Practice, practice, practice singing carols, filing out of church pews, fighting for position in front of the microphone (oh, that was me too). I remember being forced to wear a new dress for the Christmas program (oh, how I hated dresses!) and mortifying my mother by somehow managing to put a gigantic run in the front of white tights right before it was my grade’s turn to sing. There I was, curled hair sticking out every which way, navy blue dress making me very uncomfortable, a two-inch streak running up my left leg and I wasn’t giving up an inch to the right or left of the prime property in front of the mike. I was going to SING! If I remember correctly, there were at least three girls in my class that had the same intentions come program time. Sometimes it’s cute when kids belt out into the microphone, but playing tackle-the-mike stand isn’t so much.
Ah, yes. I could probably go on and on with all my memories of Christmas time, but I wouldn’t want you to think poorly of me. I really did enjoy most parts of the holidays. (Did I mention the toys?) To this day, I can’t get the Toys R Us jingle out of my head: ”I don’t want to grow up...”
I wish I could can some of a child’s enthusiasm over snow, Christmas, putting up a tree, etc., and drink it down like a Coke. Maybe then I’d be a little less “adult” about toys and gifts and shopping and baking and family get-togethers.
That’s why I have to chuckle at my boys when they believe all their problems will be solved when they get bigger.
Boy #3 got upset with me last night when I wouldn’t let him have a snack before bedtime. I sent him to bed for the third time and pulled out the last two pieces of chocolate cake for me and hubby. Like most children (okay, okay, like me) he somehow sensed there was a snack out, ready to be devoured. He was out of bed within 15 seconds, down the stairs, and peeking over the railing. “Why do you get cake?” he demanded.
When our usual platitudes about being Mom and Dad didn’t please him, he huffed back up the stairs, muttering, “When I’m a dadult, I’m having cake!”
Boy #2 has been wondering what he should be when he grows up. I told him he’ll figure it out soon enough (he’s five) and not to worry, but that advice fell on deaf ears.
“I just don’t know what I should be. I think maybe a police man, and I’d really like to be a rock star.” I had visions of the Village People in my head so I’m really praying for Divine Discernment for that child.
It’s just incredibly interesting to me how we, as humans, and no matter how young or old we are, tend to think our problems will be solved by growing up, getting rich, getting smarter or even doing X, Y and Z.
We can’t comprehend sometimes that when we get bigger, we let our problems get bigger as well. We have pie and we want cake. We have a perfectly nice dress and we want to wear pants. We want to be big, bigger than God. So much so, that we often forget that He is the ultimate problem-solver, answer-giver, present-gifter and love-offerer.
This Christmas, perhaps we could recapture some of the excitement of children by simply doing two things: giving and receiving.
Give glory. Give worship. Give praise.
Receive love. Receive love. Receive love. And, who knows, maybe even a new dress.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
bottomless pits
This is the downside to boys. My three and a half are draining our pocketbook, our fridge, our pantry and our freezer. And they’re draining what little energy I have because there are no longer any leftovers left over.
Gone are the days when I can make a pot of chili that will last two suppers. Gone are the days when a casserole will stretch for a couple days. Gone are the days when the bread got moldy before it was all used up.
The three point five juvenile stomachs (bottomless and unfillable) can gobble down an entire loaf of bread during one lunch.
Don’t believe me? Here’s what three boys devoured for lunch yesterday. Each had one ham, cheese and mustard sandwich (two slices of bread), one peanut butter and jelly sandwich (two slices of bread), half a peanut butter sandwich (one slice of bread) half an apple, two fistfuls of chips, three pickles, two dilly beans, a glass of lemonade, eight carrots and 12 grapes. (Yes, I counted, because these children have some sort of unconscious radar detection system that immediately senses and goes ballistic if one child gets one more grape than another.) It’s a bit scary.
Where does all this food go? Worse yet, how can they still want more after wolfing down enough food to feed a large family in a third-world country?
I hear, “Mom, can I have more to eat?” after EVERY meal. (Unless it’s something they don’t like, which is very rare.) These vultures will eat just about anything - olives, sauerkraut, broccoli, cottage cheese, fried cabbage, Chinese, venison and all those things many kids turn their noses up at.
I can’t figure out if their metabolisms are just that high, if they’re just that active, or if they truly do have bottomless pits for stomachs. (But, they’re boys, so it could be all of the above.) I enjoy food as much as the next person, but this consumption in our house is bordering on ridiculous. The sad thing is that others have assured me it will only get worse with teenage boys - more food, bigger messes.
Wonderful. They’re just going to have to learn how to fish or raise chickens for the family larder. Now I know why my parents raised their own beef. (I have five brothers.)
I got to thinking about not living on bread alone (I dare say my boys are making a pretty good attempt at it). I seem to always have an appetite for food, but not so much for what God considers “living bread.”
I wish I salivated over Isaiah and Romans and James the way I do over BBQ chicken pizza. (Put it that way and it sounds like I’m a cannibal, but I’m trusting you get the idea). I wish I satiated my hunger in the morning with Psalms instead of Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch. Most times, if I’m being honest, I would rather consume a cheeseburger than stick my nose into God’s Word.
We are to hunger and thirst after righteousness, but I wonder if we sometimes aren’t more concerned with our hungry bellies. There’s a delicate balance there - too hungry and you can’t concentrate on anything but your grumbly tummy, too full and you tend to get sluggish. Either way food can be a distraction.
My physical hunger will never be satisfied, only temporarily. My spiritual hunger shouldn’t either, but sometimes, well it just is. I get lazy and comfortable and satisfied with where I am and how little of the Word I’m feeding myself. Often, I don't even have an appetite for it. You can want to have that craving, but that’s a bit like wanting to desire sushi if you can’t stand the thought of eating raw fish. It might work to force yourself to eat sushi to develop a “taste” for it, but I’m still not sure that would make you crave it. It might also work if you knew sushi was good for you, but again that’s probably not enough to make you dream about eating it or make your mouth water for another bite.
That desire has almost got to come supernaturally. Each of us has unique taste buds. Some of us love jalapeños. Some of us actually like pickled herring. Some people love seafood. (That one I still don’t understand.) At some point, a person had to sample the above items in order to know whether or not they tasted good. Some of those foods we’ve had to acquire a taste for, other foods we simply love the minute we put it into our mouths. (I’m thinking about chocolate, Krispy Kremes and ice cream in particular.) Some people might simply have an intense desire to get in the Word after one taste test; for most of us, that hankering has to come with repeated nibblings. Either way, the key action is: the Word has to get into our mouths to be tasted to see if the Lord truly is good.
I’m humble enough to admit I’m not there yet. I know that it’s not a simple aversion to God’s Word like my disgust for seafood. It’s more akin to the fact that I haven’t put it to my senses often enough to savor it. Let me put it this way, it’s kind of like broccoli – I know it’s good for me, I know how to eat it and I even like it, but I don’t LOVE it. I don’t want to eat it every day. I wouldn’t choose it over a cup of steaming coffee laced with chocolate mint truffle creamer or a bowl of maple nut ice cream. Or over fried chicken and mashed potatoes.
Somehow, I’m hoping I can either learn to relish broccoli like French silk pie (read: change my perspective) or experience God’s Word in such an personal, deep, pleasurable way, that it would be just like eating French silk pie. Both are possible if I just get out of the kitchen and into the Good Book.
But, first I’ve got some pits to fill.
Gone are the days when I can make a pot of chili that will last two suppers. Gone are the days when a casserole will stretch for a couple days. Gone are the days when the bread got moldy before it was all used up.
The three point five juvenile stomachs (bottomless and unfillable) can gobble down an entire loaf of bread during one lunch.
Don’t believe me? Here’s what three boys devoured for lunch yesterday. Each had one ham, cheese and mustard sandwich (two slices of bread), one peanut butter and jelly sandwich (two slices of bread), half a peanut butter sandwich (one slice of bread) half an apple, two fistfuls of chips, three pickles, two dilly beans, a glass of lemonade, eight carrots and 12 grapes. (Yes, I counted, because these children have some sort of unconscious radar detection system that immediately senses and goes ballistic if one child gets one more grape than another.) It’s a bit scary.
Where does all this food go? Worse yet, how can they still want more after wolfing down enough food to feed a large family in a third-world country?
I hear, “Mom, can I have more to eat?” after EVERY meal. (Unless it’s something they don’t like, which is very rare.) These vultures will eat just about anything - olives, sauerkraut, broccoli, cottage cheese, fried cabbage, Chinese, venison and all those things many kids turn their noses up at.
I can’t figure out if their metabolisms are just that high, if they’re just that active, or if they truly do have bottomless pits for stomachs. (But, they’re boys, so it could be all of the above.) I enjoy food as much as the next person, but this consumption in our house is bordering on ridiculous. The sad thing is that others have assured me it will only get worse with teenage boys - more food, bigger messes.
Wonderful. They’re just going to have to learn how to fish or raise chickens for the family larder. Now I know why my parents raised their own beef. (I have five brothers.)
I got to thinking about not living on bread alone (I dare say my boys are making a pretty good attempt at it). I seem to always have an appetite for food, but not so much for what God considers “living bread.”
I wish I salivated over Isaiah and Romans and James the way I do over BBQ chicken pizza. (Put it that way and it sounds like I’m a cannibal, but I’m trusting you get the idea). I wish I satiated my hunger in the morning with Psalms instead of Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch. Most times, if I’m being honest, I would rather consume a cheeseburger than stick my nose into God’s Word.
We are to hunger and thirst after righteousness, but I wonder if we sometimes aren’t more concerned with our hungry bellies. There’s a delicate balance there - too hungry and you can’t concentrate on anything but your grumbly tummy, too full and you tend to get sluggish. Either way food can be a distraction.
My physical hunger will never be satisfied, only temporarily. My spiritual hunger shouldn’t either, but sometimes, well it just is. I get lazy and comfortable and satisfied with where I am and how little of the Word I’m feeding myself. Often, I don't even have an appetite for it. You can want to have that craving, but that’s a bit like wanting to desire sushi if you can’t stand the thought of eating raw fish. It might work to force yourself to eat sushi to develop a “taste” for it, but I’m still not sure that would make you crave it. It might also work if you knew sushi was good for you, but again that’s probably not enough to make you dream about eating it or make your mouth water for another bite.
That desire has almost got to come supernaturally. Each of us has unique taste buds. Some of us love jalapeños. Some of us actually like pickled herring. Some people love seafood. (That one I still don’t understand.) At some point, a person had to sample the above items in order to know whether or not they tasted good. Some of those foods we’ve had to acquire a taste for, other foods we simply love the minute we put it into our mouths. (I’m thinking about chocolate, Krispy Kremes and ice cream in particular.) Some people might simply have an intense desire to get in the Word after one taste test; for most of us, that hankering has to come with repeated nibblings. Either way, the key action is: the Word has to get into our mouths to be tasted to see if the Lord truly is good.
I’m humble enough to admit I’m not there yet. I know that it’s not a simple aversion to God’s Word like my disgust for seafood. It’s more akin to the fact that I haven’t put it to my senses often enough to savor it. Let me put it this way, it’s kind of like broccoli – I know it’s good for me, I know how to eat it and I even like it, but I don’t LOVE it. I don’t want to eat it every day. I wouldn’t choose it over a cup of steaming coffee laced with chocolate mint truffle creamer or a bowl of maple nut ice cream. Or over fried chicken and mashed potatoes.
Somehow, I’m hoping I can either learn to relish broccoli like French silk pie (read: change my perspective) or experience God’s Word in such an personal, deep, pleasurable way, that it would be just like eating French silk pie. Both are possible if I just get out of the kitchen and into the Good Book.
But, first I’ve got some pits to fill.
Saturday, July 1, 2006
falling in love again
I’d forgotten (until recently) how quickly one can fall in love with a newborn. And how deep the love can be.
So, needless to say, I’m thoroughly enjoying having a five-month-old in the house, especially once he started sleeping mostly through the night. (His timing couldn’t have been better either - right after we got home from a two-week vacation and right when I most needed the sleep!)
A happy, smiling, cooing baby who chews on his toes is a complete delight. (Aren’t I lucky?) I am completely in love with him - all 17 pounds and especially the chunky thighs.
I love the grunts he makes constantly. I love the way he bounces and bounces in his Johny Jump-Up. I love his chubby cheeks and toothless grin. I even think his sweaty feet are adorable. I don’t even mind getting up in the middle of the night to give him his pacifier so he’ll go back to sleep. I love that I have an excuse to have baby lotion in the house (one of my all-time favorite smells). I love how quickly he recognized me (and Dad and brothers!) I love little giggles when we do Pat-A-Cake and when I blow on his belly. I even love how he splashes water all over during his bath.
It seems the rest of the boys are equally as smitten. They have been fighting non-stop to sit next to him since we got a minivan. It got so bad we finally had to put an end to the wars by giving them seating assignments. Boy #1 lucked out and got the coveted spot. Boy #3 threw a fit (that was expected).
All three boys have so far, not tired of giving the baby his pacifier, talking to the baby, and trying to feed the baby Cheerios (you guessed it, Boy #3!)
But, once the hungry screams start, they will mostly skidaddle - love doesn’t cover ear-splitting shrieks that can only be stopped by food.
From what I can tell, this falling in love business appears to be quite common among the female gender. Maybe we’re genetically predisposed somehow to “suffer” from this condition.
I tend to think that’s been done on purpose.
If God meant for us to be saved through childbearing, it seems only natural that we would also be quite attached to the children we bear. (Even when they’re unbearable).
What is really interesting, though is that women also enjoy babies that aren’t their own. We flock around the newborns like they were made of chocolate. We get our “baby fixes” as often as possible. I’m not sure if holding a baby somehow reassures us that life is a gift, a blessing, and a miracle or if we simply are attracted to innocence.
Either way, I’ve been happy to indulge anyone who asks, “Can I hold him?” because I know how good it feels to cuddle a baby – especially when he smiles at you like you’re the most attractive and intelligent person in the world.
Life is good. How lucky we are that God allows us to enjoy it - and all those babies.
So, needless to say, I’m thoroughly enjoying having a five-month-old in the house, especially once he started sleeping mostly through the night. (His timing couldn’t have been better either - right after we got home from a two-week vacation and right when I most needed the sleep!)
A happy, smiling, cooing baby who chews on his toes is a complete delight. (Aren’t I lucky?) I am completely in love with him - all 17 pounds and especially the chunky thighs.
I love the grunts he makes constantly. I love the way he bounces and bounces in his Johny Jump-Up. I love his chubby cheeks and toothless grin. I even think his sweaty feet are adorable. I don’t even mind getting up in the middle of the night to give him his pacifier so he’ll go back to sleep. I love that I have an excuse to have baby lotion in the house (one of my all-time favorite smells). I love how quickly he recognized me (and Dad and brothers!) I love little giggles when we do Pat-A-Cake and when I blow on his belly. I even love how he splashes water all over during his bath.
It seems the rest of the boys are equally as smitten. They have been fighting non-stop to sit next to him since we got a minivan. It got so bad we finally had to put an end to the wars by giving them seating assignments. Boy #1 lucked out and got the coveted spot. Boy #3 threw a fit (that was expected).
All three boys have so far, not tired of giving the baby his pacifier, talking to the baby, and trying to feed the baby Cheerios (you guessed it, Boy #3!)
But, once the hungry screams start, they will mostly skidaddle - love doesn’t cover ear-splitting shrieks that can only be stopped by food.
From what I can tell, this falling in love business appears to be quite common among the female gender. Maybe we’re genetically predisposed somehow to “suffer” from this condition.
I tend to think that’s been done on purpose.
If God meant for us to be saved through childbearing, it seems only natural that we would also be quite attached to the children we bear. (Even when they’re unbearable).
What is really interesting, though is that women also enjoy babies that aren’t their own. We flock around the newborns like they were made of chocolate. We get our “baby fixes” as often as possible. I’m not sure if holding a baby somehow reassures us that life is a gift, a blessing, and a miracle or if we simply are attracted to innocence.
Either way, I’ve been happy to indulge anyone who asks, “Can I hold him?” because I know how good it feels to cuddle a baby – especially when he smiles at you like you’re the most attractive and intelligent person in the world.
Life is good. How lucky we are that God allows us to enjoy it - and all those babies.
Thursday, June 1, 2006
making memories
Tomorrow we will be heading out for a cross-country road trip - first vacation we’ve taken since I was pregnant with boy number three more than three years ago. It took this long to get up the guts to cross the state border. I’m still not sure if it’s bravery or insanity.
Right now, I’ve been trying to pack and plan how to keep all four boys occupied for the 26 hours we’ll be cooped in a vehicle on our way to Washington.
It’s been quite an ordeal - snacks, toys, books, books on tape, more snacks, crayons and coloring books, Adventures in Odyssey CDs, an atlas to track our progress west (typical homeschool mom trying to make this trip educational!) and of course, wet wipes.
I’m really not sure if any of this will help. I let the boys pick out their own snacks today at Wal-Mart - things I never normally buy. A total of $147 later, the cart was filled with Oreos, M&M’s, goldfish crackers, licorice, juice boxes, one bag of smushed potato chips (thanks to boy number three), candy necklaces, cheap toys that I can throw away when we get home (if they last that long) and even some of the cool animal crackers that come in their own little boxes.
The three who can comprehend the idea of snacks were catapulting with excitement in the middle of the snack aisle, much to my chagrin.
“Thank you so much, Mom!” I heard over and over. Who knew kids could get so excited about their own containers of Chips Ahoy and Nutter Butter cookies?
“Boy I can’t wait until Saturday!” one boy bellered, causing the lady in the aisle next to us to chuckle aloud.
I’m guessing by the time we hit North Dakota, the vehicle will be sticky with spilled juice, McDonald’s French fries and an assortment of cookie crumbs.
I keep telling myself “We’re making memories along with the messes.” That and reminding myself that my parents took seven kids cross-country in the opposite direction in a Plymouth Horizon hatchback in July.
And they survived.
Those were the days before seatbelt and car seat requirements. Maybe that explains it. Either that or we were just such well-behaved children that it was no big deal to take a family vacation in a vehicle smaller than one of our four-wheelers. (Somehow I doubt that).
I remember ice coming through the vents from the air conditioner. I remember writing signs on notebook paper to hold in the window as we passed cars. I remember waving at all the other vehicles from the back window - everyone had such big smiles. Back then, I thought people on freeways were just extraordinarily friendly. In reality, I’m guessing they had reactions much like my husband’s coworkers and many of my friends have had about our trip.
“Look at that! Look at all those kids! Can you imagine travelling with that many children? Are you crazy? Do you have a DVD player? No? Can’t you borrow one?”
Then they find out we’re camping on the way - for more than one night. That really boggles most people.
“Building memories,” I mutter, trying to convince myself at the same time.
There are four of us that are excited about camping along the way. (Yes, I would be the lone hold-out for a stay in a comfortable bed. Indoors. In a heated hotel room).
But we’re making memories.
I hope they include 75-degree weather, no rain, no bears, no bugs, no whining... Well, I can dream, can’t I? I wish I had even a tenth the enthusiasm about life that my boys do about “our vacation.” Wouldn’t this trip called life be exciting if we could look at it as a daily adventure?
Okay God, where are you taking me today? What big adventure do you have in store for me (if I’ll just open my eyes to see it)?
I wonder if he tires of hearing us whine, “Are we there yet?”
He’s planned our entire course with great care. The journey is almost as important as the destination. I think he too, likes to make memories.
Right now, I’ve been trying to pack and plan how to keep all four boys occupied for the 26 hours we’ll be cooped in a vehicle on our way to Washington.
It’s been quite an ordeal - snacks, toys, books, books on tape, more snacks, crayons and coloring books, Adventures in Odyssey CDs, an atlas to track our progress west (typical homeschool mom trying to make this trip educational!) and of course, wet wipes.
I’m really not sure if any of this will help. I let the boys pick out their own snacks today at Wal-Mart - things I never normally buy. A total of $147 later, the cart was filled with Oreos, M&M’s, goldfish crackers, licorice, juice boxes, one bag of smushed potato chips (thanks to boy number three), candy necklaces, cheap toys that I can throw away when we get home (if they last that long) and even some of the cool animal crackers that come in their own little boxes.
The three who can comprehend the idea of snacks were catapulting with excitement in the middle of the snack aisle, much to my chagrin.
“Thank you so much, Mom!” I heard over and over. Who knew kids could get so excited about their own containers of Chips Ahoy and Nutter Butter cookies?
“Boy I can’t wait until Saturday!” one boy bellered, causing the lady in the aisle next to us to chuckle aloud.
I’m guessing by the time we hit North Dakota, the vehicle will be sticky with spilled juice, McDonald’s French fries and an assortment of cookie crumbs.
I keep telling myself “We’re making memories along with the messes.” That and reminding myself that my parents took seven kids cross-country in the opposite direction in a Plymouth Horizon hatchback in July.
And they survived.
Those were the days before seatbelt and car seat requirements. Maybe that explains it. Either that or we were just such well-behaved children that it was no big deal to take a family vacation in a vehicle smaller than one of our four-wheelers. (Somehow I doubt that).
I remember ice coming through the vents from the air conditioner. I remember writing signs on notebook paper to hold in the window as we passed cars. I remember waving at all the other vehicles from the back window - everyone had such big smiles. Back then, I thought people on freeways were just extraordinarily friendly. In reality, I’m guessing they had reactions much like my husband’s coworkers and many of my friends have had about our trip.
“Look at that! Look at all those kids! Can you imagine travelling with that many children? Are you crazy? Do you have a DVD player? No? Can’t you borrow one?”
Then they find out we’re camping on the way - for more than one night. That really boggles most people.
“Building memories,” I mutter, trying to convince myself at the same time.
There are four of us that are excited about camping along the way. (Yes, I would be the lone hold-out for a stay in a comfortable bed. Indoors. In a heated hotel room).
But we’re making memories.
I hope they include 75-degree weather, no rain, no bears, no bugs, no whining... Well, I can dream, can’t I? I wish I had even a tenth the enthusiasm about life that my boys do about “our vacation.” Wouldn’t this trip called life be exciting if we could look at it as a daily adventure?
Okay God, where are you taking me today? What big adventure do you have in store for me (if I’ll just open my eyes to see it)?
I wonder if he tires of hearing us whine, “Are we there yet?”
He’s planned our entire course with great care. The journey is almost as important as the destination. I think he too, likes to make memories.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
all marked up
We have need for establishing a marker-free zone at our house. I’m seriously considering banishing the tools of color for good - mainly because the color is ending up everywhere but on paper.
Boy #3 has been at it again. But, before I cast all the blame at his feet, I should note that Boy #1 and Boy #2 have a bad habit of leaving temptation out in colors like electric lime, blue lagoon and infra red where eager hands can grab them and run. They are at least partly at fault for the condition of our home.
A few days ago, I wandered into the boys’ bedroom (not by choice - I generally try to avoid it unless absolutely necessary). A sheepish little boy greeted me at the door with about seven markers uncapped and ready for war. Apparently, part of the battle had already taken place.
Purple streaks covered the table and chairs that I had laboriously painted for Boy #1’s third birthday. (That was five years ago). The set had somehow managed to survive the first two hooligans with little to no major damage. But that had all changed now. All the cute little lettering and stars I had painted on the top was graffitied over by scribbles. The chairs had the same matching streaks down the legs and across the back. Next to the table, on the wall (which was previously a nice shade of sage green) were more lines and swirls of varying colors. Even the light switch didn’t escape being vandalized.
I closed the door and nearly jumped out of my skin. The backside of the door was covered in a two-foot patch of colorful sketches only a two-year-old could make.
But, it didn’t stop there. His brother’s closet door had scribbles. The floor had scribbles. The two-year-old himself had scribbles up and down his arms and on the sides of his face.
He received a mighty good lecture, a little discipline (okay maybe a lot). And then I attempted to scrub off his marker job. Nothing worked. Soap. Water. Elbow Grease. Comet. All it did was fade the colors somewhat; the stains refused to budge.
Each boy received a good talking to and I thought the matter was resolved until I went to clean up the living and dining room a few days later.
My brand-new red tablecloth now sports blue lines on one corner. The off-white carpet has an attractive turquoise splotch in front of the TV cabinet. I found another spot of the same color next to one of the end tables.
None of these stains came clean 100 percent. The only thing this child colored that managed to come clean was his tongue. He decorated that with a black marker, but his mouth looked good as new after lunch that day. (Where’s the justice in that - I almost found myself hoping he’d get marker poisoning, or at least a slight case of indigestion).
Instead, I’m left with a room to repaint. The only way to solve the problem is to brush Kilz (a stain blocker) over the offending marks and then paint. Without the stain blocker, the marker marks will bleed right through any new paint.
Actually, my life isn’t all that different.
I get myself and my life all blotched up with marker marks – some visible, others not. Words. Actions. Thoughts. Anything I do that I’m not supposed to do and ought to know better than to do.
The result is discoloration on myself or sometimes even on others. Then I can’t remove the stains. I can try to scrub and scour myself, but it generally isn’t much more effective than to white wash what’s there or perhaps fade a stain a bit. I then kid myself that it isn’t any more noticeable than the faded purple streaks my son left on his bedroom walls.
There’s only one way out of it. It’s not a terribly easy way either if I can’t admit that I’ve got marks.
I need a real stain blocker. Something that will prevent the marks from showing up again. Ever. Period. Then, I need a fresh coat of paint to look new again. It’s a little process called forgiveness that can clean me up. My stain blocker is blood red and available 24-7. It literally does “kill” the marks.
Guess I shouldn’t be so hard on a two-year-old who’s doing nothing more than I did at his age. I actually distinctly remember drawing stick people with big fists on the back of my brother’s dresser. Mom said when I learned to write my name, they found it everywhere in the house – on walls, on furniture and probably even on my brothers.
Maybe this son will be the creative one of the bunch. In the meantime, I better stock up on paint.
-------------
You’ll think I’m making this up, but sadly it’s true. As I was finishing up the last lines of this column, I heard the boys yelling at their little brother. You guessed it - #3 struck again. I had taken the market bucket out to find the names of those cool marker colors and told #2 he could draw a picture with them.
Big mistake.
Boy #3 got a hold of a black marker and promptly colored both of his palms. He then invented a new form of finger painting by wiping the black marker on my living rooms walls, a yellow chair and a white pillow. By the time I had reached him, he also had black streaks on his sweatshirt, his cheeks and over his eyes when he tried to hide his face.
The good news? Somehow, this time he chose a WASHABLE marker! What a great invention! I’m guessing the creator also had a Boy #3 at home.
Boy #3 has been at it again. But, before I cast all the blame at his feet, I should note that Boy #1 and Boy #2 have a bad habit of leaving temptation out in colors like electric lime, blue lagoon and infra red where eager hands can grab them and run. They are at least partly at fault for the condition of our home.
A few days ago, I wandered into the boys’ bedroom (not by choice - I generally try to avoid it unless absolutely necessary). A sheepish little boy greeted me at the door with about seven markers uncapped and ready for war. Apparently, part of the battle had already taken place.
Purple streaks covered the table and chairs that I had laboriously painted for Boy #1’s third birthday. (That was five years ago). The set had somehow managed to survive the first two hooligans with little to no major damage. But that had all changed now. All the cute little lettering and stars I had painted on the top was graffitied over by scribbles. The chairs had the same matching streaks down the legs and across the back. Next to the table, on the wall (which was previously a nice shade of sage green) were more lines and swirls of varying colors. Even the light switch didn’t escape being vandalized.
I closed the door and nearly jumped out of my skin. The backside of the door was covered in a two-foot patch of colorful sketches only a two-year-old could make.
But, it didn’t stop there. His brother’s closet door had scribbles. The floor had scribbles. The two-year-old himself had scribbles up and down his arms and on the sides of his face.
He received a mighty good lecture, a little discipline (okay maybe a lot). And then I attempted to scrub off his marker job. Nothing worked. Soap. Water. Elbow Grease. Comet. All it did was fade the colors somewhat; the stains refused to budge.
Each boy received a good talking to and I thought the matter was resolved until I went to clean up the living and dining room a few days later.
My brand-new red tablecloth now sports blue lines on one corner. The off-white carpet has an attractive turquoise splotch in front of the TV cabinet. I found another spot of the same color next to one of the end tables.
None of these stains came clean 100 percent. The only thing this child colored that managed to come clean was his tongue. He decorated that with a black marker, but his mouth looked good as new after lunch that day. (Where’s the justice in that - I almost found myself hoping he’d get marker poisoning, or at least a slight case of indigestion).
Instead, I’m left with a room to repaint. The only way to solve the problem is to brush Kilz (a stain blocker) over the offending marks and then paint. Without the stain blocker, the marker marks will bleed right through any new paint.
Actually, my life isn’t all that different.
I get myself and my life all blotched up with marker marks – some visible, others not. Words. Actions. Thoughts. Anything I do that I’m not supposed to do and ought to know better than to do.
The result is discoloration on myself or sometimes even on others. Then I can’t remove the stains. I can try to scrub and scour myself, but it generally isn’t much more effective than to white wash what’s there or perhaps fade a stain a bit. I then kid myself that it isn’t any more noticeable than the faded purple streaks my son left on his bedroom walls.
There’s only one way out of it. It’s not a terribly easy way either if I can’t admit that I’ve got marks.
I need a real stain blocker. Something that will prevent the marks from showing up again. Ever. Period. Then, I need a fresh coat of paint to look new again. It’s a little process called forgiveness that can clean me up. My stain blocker is blood red and available 24-7. It literally does “kill” the marks.
Guess I shouldn’t be so hard on a two-year-old who’s doing nothing more than I did at his age. I actually distinctly remember drawing stick people with big fists on the back of my brother’s dresser. Mom said when I learned to write my name, they found it everywhere in the house – on walls, on furniture and probably even on my brothers.
Maybe this son will be the creative one of the bunch. In the meantime, I better stock up on paint.
-------------
You’ll think I’m making this up, but sadly it’s true. As I was finishing up the last lines of this column, I heard the boys yelling at their little brother. You guessed it - #3 struck again. I had taken the market bucket out to find the names of those cool marker colors and told #2 he could draw a picture with them.
Big mistake.
Boy #3 got a hold of a black marker and promptly colored both of his palms. He then invented a new form of finger painting by wiping the black marker on my living rooms walls, a yellow chair and a white pillow. By the time I had reached him, he also had black streaks on his sweatshirt, his cheeks and over his eyes when he tried to hide his face.
The good news? Somehow, this time he chose a WASHABLE marker! What a great invention! I’m guessing the creator also had a Boy #3 at home.
Wednesday, March 1, 2006
boy oh boy!
As of February 1, I am officially the mother of four boys. Gulp. That even looks tough on paper.
Number four arrived fashionably on time (on his due date), but I really would have appreciated an early appearance.
The two older boys were thrilled to have a brother, but only because the boys would then outnumber the girls on the Larson side. They seem to think only in terms of wrestling and beating up the girls and can’t quite comprehend that by the time this one is old enough to fight, his girl cousins will be graduating from high school.
The former baby of the family has not been so excited about the new addition. He hasn’t pulled any two-year-old stuff like poking baby’s eyes or trying to smother him (although I’ve kept a close eye on him, just in case). Instead, he has become a master of the word “No!” and has been almost unbearably stubborn. Any time he gets disciplined for calling me “stupid” or “dumb,” he then insists that it’s all my fault. Logic of a two-year-old is interesting.
Thankfully, this baby has been our calmest by far. He eats, sleeps, poops and burps and spends the rest of the time wide awake, observing the chaos that constantly surrounds him.
I wonder if he’ll stay calm forever, or if he’s simply taking it all in, waiting for his chance to prove “anything you can do, I can do better,” which seems to be the motto around our place.
I’ve already pulled out “Bringing up Boys” - Dr. Dobson’s Bible on male children to re-read. Pretty sure that it will have to be kept out for permanent reference as I muddle through this raising boys business. My only complaint is that there are no chapters in the book about how to cope with never-ending laundry piles, potting training boys who dribble on the floor, and how to keep boys from biting each other.
Maybe I need to write my own book - a mother of boys survival guide. Between all the noise, the competition, the outrageous amounts of food they eat and the toys they accumulate, there has got to be a silver lining somewhere. If not, perhaps I can make some money selling my new-found and hard-learned expertise.
I probably wouldn’t know what to do with a girl baby anyway, so perhaps in a way God’s looking out for me. One more male in this already testosterone-overloaded house isn’t going to make much of a difference.
Hopefully, those future daughter-in-laws will thank me some day that I forced my boys to eat (of all things!) tomatoes, onions, sweet potatoes and sauerkraut. I know I’m grateful my hubby isn’t picky about what he eats.
I’m also hoping they’ll appreciate boys who aren’t shy about singing to strangers, too embarrassed to wear patched jeans, love vegetables, adore their grandparents, are polite enough to say thank you, but not uptight enough to keep from burping out loud and laughing about it. They (so far) seem to enjoy the few chores we make them do. (We even discovered that #2 actually likes to sweep the floor and wash dishes!! Believe me, we’re taking full advantage of that.) They aren’t easily bored and can watch “The Incredibles” five times in a row without going nuts. The only one going nuts is me, when they argue about who has what super-powers as they chase each other around the house.
For some reason that I haven’t figured out yet, we’ve been chosen to have four boys. So far it seems to be working. I’m still somewhat sane. The washing machine still works. The vacuum cleaner didn’t self-destruct after sucking up a Lincoln Log last week. And, I’ve got plenty of hand-me-downs for boy #4.
Now if I could just get some sleep...
Number four arrived fashionably on time (on his due date), but I really would have appreciated an early appearance.
The two older boys were thrilled to have a brother, but only because the boys would then outnumber the girls on the Larson side. They seem to think only in terms of wrestling and beating up the girls and can’t quite comprehend that by the time this one is old enough to fight, his girl cousins will be graduating from high school.
The former baby of the family has not been so excited about the new addition. He hasn’t pulled any two-year-old stuff like poking baby’s eyes or trying to smother him (although I’ve kept a close eye on him, just in case). Instead, he has become a master of the word “No!” and has been almost unbearably stubborn. Any time he gets disciplined for calling me “stupid” or “dumb,” he then insists that it’s all my fault. Logic of a two-year-old is interesting.
Thankfully, this baby has been our calmest by far. He eats, sleeps, poops and burps and spends the rest of the time wide awake, observing the chaos that constantly surrounds him.
I wonder if he’ll stay calm forever, or if he’s simply taking it all in, waiting for his chance to prove “anything you can do, I can do better,” which seems to be the motto around our place.
I’ve already pulled out “Bringing up Boys” - Dr. Dobson’s Bible on male children to re-read. Pretty sure that it will have to be kept out for permanent reference as I muddle through this raising boys business. My only complaint is that there are no chapters in the book about how to cope with never-ending laundry piles, potting training boys who dribble on the floor, and how to keep boys from biting each other.
Maybe I need to write my own book - a mother of boys survival guide. Between all the noise, the competition, the outrageous amounts of food they eat and the toys they accumulate, there has got to be a silver lining somewhere. If not, perhaps I can make some money selling my new-found and hard-learned expertise.
I probably wouldn’t know what to do with a girl baby anyway, so perhaps in a way God’s looking out for me. One more male in this already testosterone-overloaded house isn’t going to make much of a difference.
Hopefully, those future daughter-in-laws will thank me some day that I forced my boys to eat (of all things!) tomatoes, onions, sweet potatoes and sauerkraut. I know I’m grateful my hubby isn’t picky about what he eats.
I’m also hoping they’ll appreciate boys who aren’t shy about singing to strangers, too embarrassed to wear patched jeans, love vegetables, adore their grandparents, are polite enough to say thank you, but not uptight enough to keep from burping out loud and laughing about it. They (so far) seem to enjoy the few chores we make them do. (We even discovered that #2 actually likes to sweep the floor and wash dishes!! Believe me, we’re taking full advantage of that.) They aren’t easily bored and can watch “The Incredibles” five times in a row without going nuts. The only one going nuts is me, when they argue about who has what super-powers as they chase each other around the house.
For some reason that I haven’t figured out yet, we’ve been chosen to have four boys. So far it seems to be working. I’m still somewhat sane. The washing machine still works. The vacuum cleaner didn’t self-destruct after sucking up a Lincoln Log last week. And, I’ve got plenty of hand-me-downs for boy #4.
Now if I could just get some sleep...
Friday, July 1, 2005
where chaos reigns...
A couple weeks ago some friends of ours stopped by unannounced. Ordinarily this would be a welcome surprise. This time it wasn’t. I honestly was GLAD that Hubby and Oldest Boy were suffering from the flu so I had an excuse to tell them they might not want to come in. (I didn’t even let them past the front door).
Why? Well, let’s just say I probably would have died of mortification right then and there.
There were exactly 14 pairs of shoes, sandals and boots piled in front of the coat closet. I’m estimating about two pounds of sand and dirt was compacted into entry rug -most of which was highly visible. My desk was piled so high with paperwork, phonebooks, etc. that the printer wasn’t even visible. My kitchen floor hadn’t seen a mop in, well... I’m not sure I’m going to confess that one.
The house was quite literally, complete chaos. (My husband will back me up on that one).
We had shipped the boys into the bathtub so at least three messes were clean - which unfortunately left a nice black streak in the tub once the water drained out.
I know that housework is a matter of priorities and some people place a higher priority on it than I do. Either that, or they actually enjoy cleaning. I know all about discipline, but yet I just can’t find any myself.
So, I decided to do what seemed like the next best solution - make the kids be more disciplined.
Now before you think that’s a real cop-out, let me explain something. I had to do chores when I was a kid. My husband had to do chores when he was a kid. Our kids are not doing chores. It has been, up to now, too much work to make them do anything on a daily basis beyond brushing their teeth and putting their cereal bowls away.
There is little more aggravating than having the entire house spotless and then three little whirlwinds come along with dirty socks, dirty clothes and all their Legos, Tinkertoys, Lincoln Logs and matchbox cars to mess things up.
I might have to borrow a trick of an aunt of mine who used to lock her doors during the summer and force the kids to play outside. I used to think that was horrible torture. Now, I’m beginning to realize that perhaps it was the only way she kept her sanity and her house clean.
I’m not sure I’m ready to go that far yet, but I have decided that the boys are going to learn to do chores. By the time I’m done with them and they’re 21, they’ll be real catches for their future wives because they’ll know how to cook, clean and hopefully, pick up after themselves.
Is it possible? Well, we’ll see. I haven’t exactly put this theory into practice yet. But, this afternoon, Number One will be learning to sweep the food crumbs from the kitchen floor and Number Two will be wiping off all the toothpaste on the bathroom sink. (Notice how both messes were made by the kids anyway?)
There’s no reason they can’t feed the kittens, scrub the toilet, weed the garden and at the very least, pick up their things!
The tough part is that it takes discipline to discipline. But, the feeling of embarrassment is a very good motivator for me - I’m hoping it will be my ticket out of a house of chaos. It probably won't put me on the couch eating bon-bons, but it might allow me to walk across the kitchen floor without stepping onto sticky goo or crunchy cereal.
Now, I just have to figure out whose chores are whose.
Why? Well, let’s just say I probably would have died of mortification right then and there.
There were exactly 14 pairs of shoes, sandals and boots piled in front of the coat closet. I’m estimating about two pounds of sand and dirt was compacted into entry rug -most of which was highly visible. My desk was piled so high with paperwork, phonebooks, etc. that the printer wasn’t even visible. My kitchen floor hadn’t seen a mop in, well... I’m not sure I’m going to confess that one.
The house was quite literally, complete chaos. (My husband will back me up on that one).
We had shipped the boys into the bathtub so at least three messes were clean - which unfortunately left a nice black streak in the tub once the water drained out.
I know that housework is a matter of priorities and some people place a higher priority on it than I do. Either that, or they actually enjoy cleaning. I know all about discipline, but yet I just can’t find any myself.
So, I decided to do what seemed like the next best solution - make the kids be more disciplined.
Now before you think that’s a real cop-out, let me explain something. I had to do chores when I was a kid. My husband had to do chores when he was a kid. Our kids are not doing chores. It has been, up to now, too much work to make them do anything on a daily basis beyond brushing their teeth and putting their cereal bowls away.
There is little more aggravating than having the entire house spotless and then three little whirlwinds come along with dirty socks, dirty clothes and all their Legos, Tinkertoys, Lincoln Logs and matchbox cars to mess things up.
I might have to borrow a trick of an aunt of mine who used to lock her doors during the summer and force the kids to play outside. I used to think that was horrible torture. Now, I’m beginning to realize that perhaps it was the only way she kept her sanity and her house clean.
I’m not sure I’m ready to go that far yet, but I have decided that the boys are going to learn to do chores. By the time I’m done with them and they’re 21, they’ll be real catches for their future wives because they’ll know how to cook, clean and hopefully, pick up after themselves.
Is it possible? Well, we’ll see. I haven’t exactly put this theory into practice yet. But, this afternoon, Number One will be learning to sweep the food crumbs from the kitchen floor and Number Two will be wiping off all the toothpaste on the bathroom sink. (Notice how both messes were made by the kids anyway?)
There’s no reason they can’t feed the kittens, scrub the toilet, weed the garden and at the very least, pick up their things!
The tough part is that it takes discipline to discipline. But, the feeling of embarrassment is a very good motivator for me - I’m hoping it will be my ticket out of a house of chaos. It probably won't put me on the couch eating bon-bons, but it might allow me to walk across the kitchen floor without stepping onto sticky goo or crunchy cereal.
Now, I just have to figure out whose chores are whose.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
long live the potluck
I love potlucks. I love the sight of dish after dish of various macaroni casseroles (We grew up saying “hotdishes.”) I love the smells that all combine to form one scent that doesn’t quite go together and yet somehow it just does.
My high school science teacher taught me that those odors come up from the church basement because of diffusion. (Can you believe I actually remembered that!) By the time church is over, my stomach is rumbling and my feet won’t go anywhere but toward the scent of 15 kinds of warm food.
I can’t explain why goulash, green bean casserole, Jello salad and pickles all taste just right together. Makes no culinary sense, but boy is it appealing to my taste buds.
I love any excuse to visit and have potluck get-togethers. Growing up, church potlucks always meant more choices than you could fit on your plate (and always at least one tuna noodle casserole that we turned up our noses up to). There was (and usually still is) the three-bean or six-bean casserole. (If you’re lucky, it might even have hamburger and bacon in it.) There usually was about 12 kinds of hamburger/macaroni/spaghetti sauce dish - each a little different but still pretty much the same. There were at least two or three different shades of Jello salads (why they call it a salad is beyond me). And someone usually brought that 24-hour layered salad. Mmmm! Best of all, we often got Finnish flat bread, already buttered for us. And if we were good, then came a choice from six different kinds of bars.
I can’t get enough of potlucks. I love to sample bites of other people’s cooking. I love to find the perfect recipe to try making for it. Best of all, I love to have a four or 10-course meal without having to do all the work myself. Clean-up’s easy too.
I really think it should be written in the church bylaws (somewhere under outreach or worship service order) that they be mandatory once a month, at least.
Did I tell you that I love potlucks?
So, when I read recently in a Christianity Today weblog that churches are facing legal problems because of potlucks, I nearly fainted. Aaaaah! Tell me it isn’t so!
But, nope...the piece was even subtitled, “State governments increasingly regulate church potlucks” (The title “Food Fights” was more clever than mine, but considering I’m writing this at 1:04 a.m. you’ll have to humor me.)
Anyway, back to potlucks. Yikes.
The writer, Rebecca Barnes, stated that U.S. churches are facing more and more legal hurdles to holding potlucks. And the first state mentioned was (surprise!) Minnesota, where apparently potlucks are exempt from food safety inspections only if food is not prepared in the kitchen. Churches in Wisconsin that have more than 12 public food events per year may have to get a restaurant license!
Churchgoers and civic groups in Indiana were banned from having potucks when a new law took effect that required nonprofit groups to hire certified food handlers. (It apparently was an inadvertent error and one that has those same lawmakers scrambling to fix). Illinois faced a similar problem until Governor Rod Blagojevich signed a new law that exempts all potluck dinners from state and local health regulations. He was quoted as saying that potlucks, “are a long-standing tradition that do not warrant government intrusion.”
Amen! Please pass the hotdish. And the salad. And the pickles.
---------
“The term potluck comes from the traditional practice of never throwing anything away. Meal leftovers would be put into a pot and kept warm, and could be used to feed people on short notice. This practice was especially prevalent in taverns and inns in medieval times, so that when you showed up for a meal, you took the "luck of the pot."
How’s that for some trivia?
My high school science teacher taught me that those odors come up from the church basement because of diffusion. (Can you believe I actually remembered that!) By the time church is over, my stomach is rumbling and my feet won’t go anywhere but toward the scent of 15 kinds of warm food.
I can’t explain why goulash, green bean casserole, Jello salad and pickles all taste just right together. Makes no culinary sense, but boy is it appealing to my taste buds.
I love any excuse to visit and have potluck get-togethers. Growing up, church potlucks always meant more choices than you could fit on your plate (and always at least one tuna noodle casserole that we turned up our noses up to). There was (and usually still is) the three-bean or six-bean casserole. (If you’re lucky, it might even have hamburger and bacon in it.) There usually was about 12 kinds of hamburger/macaroni/spaghetti sauce dish - each a little different but still pretty much the same. There were at least two or three different shades of Jello salads (why they call it a salad is beyond me). And someone usually brought that 24-hour layered salad. Mmmm! Best of all, we often got Finnish flat bread, already buttered for us. And if we were good, then came a choice from six different kinds of bars.
I can’t get enough of potlucks. I love to sample bites of other people’s cooking. I love to find the perfect recipe to try making for it. Best of all, I love to have a four or 10-course meal without having to do all the work myself. Clean-up’s easy too.
I really think it should be written in the church bylaws (somewhere under outreach or worship service order) that they be mandatory once a month, at least.
Did I tell you that I love potlucks?
So, when I read recently in a Christianity Today weblog that churches are facing legal problems because of potlucks, I nearly fainted. Aaaaah! Tell me it isn’t so!
But, nope...the piece was even subtitled, “State governments increasingly regulate church potlucks” (The title “Food Fights” was more clever than mine, but considering I’m writing this at 1:04 a.m. you’ll have to humor me.)
Anyway, back to potlucks. Yikes.
The writer, Rebecca Barnes, stated that U.S. churches are facing more and more legal hurdles to holding potlucks. And the first state mentioned was (surprise!) Minnesota, where apparently potlucks are exempt from food safety inspections only if food is not prepared in the kitchen. Churches in Wisconsin that have more than 12 public food events per year may have to get a restaurant license!
Churchgoers and civic groups in Indiana were banned from having potucks when a new law took effect that required nonprofit groups to hire certified food handlers. (It apparently was an inadvertent error and one that has those same lawmakers scrambling to fix). Illinois faced a similar problem until Governor Rod Blagojevich signed a new law that exempts all potluck dinners from state and local health regulations. He was quoted as saying that potlucks, “are a long-standing tradition that do not warrant government intrusion.”
Amen! Please pass the hotdish. And the salad. And the pickles.
---------
“The term potluck comes from the traditional practice of never throwing anything away. Meal leftovers would be put into a pot and kept warm, and could be used to feed people on short notice. This practice was especially prevalent in taverns and inns in medieval times, so that when you showed up for a meal, you took the "luck of the pot."
How’s that for some trivia?
Tuesday, March 1, 2005
getting along
I have been struggling recently with trying to help my boys be friends. Well, I’m really trying to MAKE them be friends.
Not an easy thing to do when one of them communicates with his fists.
I know that siblings fight, (I have five brothers and a sister) but that shouldn’t prevent them from practicing the Golden Rule on occasion. When I tell my boys about it, they get these blank stares. It doesn’t seem to sink in when I ask one, "Do you like when people hit you?" He will say no, and two minutes later, bam! out come the punches.
It’s such a battle - and I’m not even talking about between them. It’s a battle for me. I’m going crazy listening to them argue about who’s sitting next to Dad at lunch, who had what spot on the couch, who’s going to pray first at bedtime and who gets the last bagel.
"Why can’t you two just get along?" I growl. Well, okay it’s more like the hysterical rant of a cave woman who’s ready for spring to come, no matter how muddy it will be, no matter how muddy the boys will be and no matter how many loads of mud-caked clothes she has to wash. At least she has a washing machine. But that’s off the subject.
Now, really...why can’t my boys just get along? They will bicker about anything, argue about nothing, hit each other constantly and then, worst of all, TATTLE about it!
The only thing that seems to settle them down is snack time or shipping them outside. I’m not sure if they need extra energy-producing sugar or extra energy-depleting exercise like riding bikes through mucky clay.
I know that on some level they love each other because the oldest was gone for about two hours the other day and his younger brother missed him, and even said so!
So, I can’t really win. They fight when they’re around each other and yet they don’t like to be apart either.
Funny how adults have the same issues. We need each other for fellowship, friendship and conversation. (I particularly need adult conversation.) But, we still sometimes disagree and have conflicts.
It shouldn’t be this way, but isn’t any easier for me to get along with others than it is for my boys. Except that I don’t punch and call names. But, I do tattle and well, okay I do call names, at least in my head...
I know I’m supposed to accept others, flaws and all, because Christ has accepted me, flaws and all. (Romans 15:7) The Message paraphrase says to "reach out" to each other and likens unity to "getting along." I like that connection - getting along.
Something that is as hard for two brothers as it is for the brotherhood of believers.
How can you “get along” with those you don’t see eye to eye with or those you just can’t understand? How do I teach my boys that, when I have difficulty doing it myself?
It begins with an attitude adjustment. I need to recognize how other people put up with my faults and how I'm not always easy to get along with either. I need to see my imperfections so God can help me correct them. I need him to teach me acceptance, tolerance, understanding, all those things that are critical to “getting along.” I need to understand that the Golden Rule applies to me as well, in actions as well as attitudes.
I can’t expect something from others that I have trouble doing myself. I can’t expect my boys to get along with each other if I don’t show them how. I need to treat others how I’d like to be treated, and think about others how I’d like them to think of me. I need to live the Golden Rule.
Then, I need to convince the boys that the doing unto others part doesn’t involve fists.
Not an easy thing to do when one of them communicates with his fists.
I know that siblings fight, (I have five brothers and a sister) but that shouldn’t prevent them from practicing the Golden Rule on occasion. When I tell my boys about it, they get these blank stares. It doesn’t seem to sink in when I ask one, "Do you like when people hit you?" He will say no, and two minutes later, bam! out come the punches.
It’s such a battle - and I’m not even talking about between them. It’s a battle for me. I’m going crazy listening to them argue about who’s sitting next to Dad at lunch, who had what spot on the couch, who’s going to pray first at bedtime and who gets the last bagel.
"Why can’t you two just get along?" I growl. Well, okay it’s more like the hysterical rant of a cave woman who’s ready for spring to come, no matter how muddy it will be, no matter how muddy the boys will be and no matter how many loads of mud-caked clothes she has to wash. At least she has a washing machine. But that’s off the subject.
Now, really...why can’t my boys just get along? They will bicker about anything, argue about nothing, hit each other constantly and then, worst of all, TATTLE about it!
The only thing that seems to settle them down is snack time or shipping them outside. I’m not sure if they need extra energy-producing sugar or extra energy-depleting exercise like riding bikes through mucky clay.
I know that on some level they love each other because the oldest was gone for about two hours the other day and his younger brother missed him, and even said so!
So, I can’t really win. They fight when they’re around each other and yet they don’t like to be apart either.
Funny how adults have the same issues. We need each other for fellowship, friendship and conversation. (I particularly need adult conversation.) But, we still sometimes disagree and have conflicts.
It shouldn’t be this way, but isn’t any easier for me to get along with others than it is for my boys. Except that I don’t punch and call names. But, I do tattle and well, okay I do call names, at least in my head...
I know I’m supposed to accept others, flaws and all, because Christ has accepted me, flaws and all. (Romans 15:7) The Message paraphrase says to "reach out" to each other and likens unity to "getting along." I like that connection - getting along.
Something that is as hard for two brothers as it is for the brotherhood of believers.
How can you “get along” with those you don’t see eye to eye with or those you just can’t understand? How do I teach my boys that, when I have difficulty doing it myself?
It begins with an attitude adjustment. I need to recognize how other people put up with my faults and how I'm not always easy to get along with either. I need to see my imperfections so God can help me correct them. I need him to teach me acceptance, tolerance, understanding, all those things that are critical to “getting along.” I need to understand that the Golden Rule applies to me as well, in actions as well as attitudes.
I can’t expect something from others that I have trouble doing myself. I can’t expect my boys to get along with each other if I don’t show them how. I need to treat others how I’d like to be treated, and think about others how I’d like them to think of me. I need to live the Golden Rule.
Then, I need to convince the boys that the doing unto others part doesn’t involve fists.
Friday, October 22, 2004
eating greens
I have to confess something - I am feeling particularly ornery today. Actually it's been longer than just today. It's been, well, let's just say awhile.
I'd like to blame it on the weather - too many gray, gloomy days in a row, but I don't think that's a very good excuse.
I'd really like to blame it on the kids - too many fights, too much whining, and definitely too many battles to get them eating their supper. Our youngest is especially difficult - he is just plain picky. I used to pride myself in being a "good" mom whose kids ate vegetables. Then this one came along and figured out his colors at 15 months. He will not put anything green in his mouth. No peas, no beans, no celery, no broccoli, absolutely nothing green. If I serve him mixed vegetables, he will quite methodically pick out all the carrots and push the rest away. Grrrrrr!
But, even a toddler isn't the cause of my orneriness.
To be honest, I'm not really sure where it's coming from…I've got a lot on my plate right now (nothing green) and I'm struggling with where exactly God wants me right now. Part of it is knowing where he wants me and not wanting to be there.
And another part is taking a step of faith and stubbing my toe.
I often find myself frustrated because something doesn't go the way I expected or the way I would like. I know it's childish to expect that much out of life, but I'm big enough to admit I'm a child, a little bitty picky toddler at that.
I want sweet corn in one area of my life and God says, "No, I'm going to serve you brussel sprouts."
My choice becomes to either push it away stubbornly or to swallow my pride and swallow something I'd rather not. Perhaps I do need to eat more greens. My spiritual health may depend on it.
I think that I've made the dinner plans, fixed the mealtime, set the table and even prepared the first few courses. Then God comes along and says, "Wait a minute, who's coming to dinner? Is the meal about the guest or the host?"
Touché.
Heap some more brussel sprouts on my plate God.
I get so caught up in what I'm trying to serve that I don't even think about WHO I'm serving. Perhaps I'm making bread and they need meat. Perhaps I'm offering soup and they want salad. Or even worse, perhaps I'm expecting more out of my guests than I should, not considering their tastes, their schedules or their diets.
Yep, those little green veggies look worse by the minute.
Why is it that you can know something is good for you and yet not bring yourself to eat it? How can I know a little spiritual discipline is exactly what I need, and yet not want to do it?
I want growth on my terms. I want to believe without having faith. I want to trust not knowing the outcome. I want to know the plan. I want to make the plan. Then, I want the glory.
I really am an ornery child.
And yet, God loves me. Even when I spit out his brussel sprouts, he's there with another spoonful. Can't you just see him say, "Here! Try it again!" When I finally realize I'm hungry enough to eat even brussel sprouts, he's right there, excited that I might swallow one mouthful.
I can't begin to comprehend his patience with me. He knows I don't deserve it. I know I don't deserve it. What an awesome God to give me what I need instead of what I want.
My toddler would eat potato chips and his new discovery, chocolate chip cookies, all day if I let him. But, because I love him and want him to be physically healthy (and because I'm stubborn), I won't let him. I will feed him good stuff, like peas and beans. Green stuff.
Just like God gives me.
I'd like to blame it on the weather - too many gray, gloomy days in a row, but I don't think that's a very good excuse.
I'd really like to blame it on the kids - too many fights, too much whining, and definitely too many battles to get them eating their supper. Our youngest is especially difficult - he is just plain picky. I used to pride myself in being a "good" mom whose kids ate vegetables. Then this one came along and figured out his colors at 15 months. He will not put anything green in his mouth. No peas, no beans, no celery, no broccoli, absolutely nothing green. If I serve him mixed vegetables, he will quite methodically pick out all the carrots and push the rest away. Grrrrrr!
But, even a toddler isn't the cause of my orneriness.
To be honest, I'm not really sure where it's coming from…I've got a lot on my plate right now (nothing green) and I'm struggling with where exactly God wants me right now. Part of it is knowing where he wants me and not wanting to be there.
And another part is taking a step of faith and stubbing my toe.
I often find myself frustrated because something doesn't go the way I expected or the way I would like. I know it's childish to expect that much out of life, but I'm big enough to admit I'm a child, a little bitty picky toddler at that.
I want sweet corn in one area of my life and God says, "No, I'm going to serve you brussel sprouts."
My choice becomes to either push it away stubbornly or to swallow my pride and swallow something I'd rather not. Perhaps I do need to eat more greens. My spiritual health may depend on it.
I think that I've made the dinner plans, fixed the mealtime, set the table and even prepared the first few courses. Then God comes along and says, "Wait a minute, who's coming to dinner? Is the meal about the guest or the host?"
Touché.
Heap some more brussel sprouts on my plate God.
I get so caught up in what I'm trying to serve that I don't even think about WHO I'm serving. Perhaps I'm making bread and they need meat. Perhaps I'm offering soup and they want salad. Or even worse, perhaps I'm expecting more out of my guests than I should, not considering their tastes, their schedules or their diets.
Yep, those little green veggies look worse by the minute.
Why is it that you can know something is good for you and yet not bring yourself to eat it? How can I know a little spiritual discipline is exactly what I need, and yet not want to do it?
I want growth on my terms. I want to believe without having faith. I want to trust not knowing the outcome. I want to know the plan. I want to make the plan. Then, I want the glory.
I really am an ornery child.
And yet, God loves me. Even when I spit out his brussel sprouts, he's there with another spoonful. Can't you just see him say, "Here! Try it again!" When I finally realize I'm hungry enough to eat even brussel sprouts, he's right there, excited that I might swallow one mouthful.
I can't begin to comprehend his patience with me. He knows I don't deserve it. I know I don't deserve it. What an awesome God to give me what I need instead of what I want.
My toddler would eat potato chips and his new discovery, chocolate chip cookies, all day if I let him. But, because I love him and want him to be physically healthy (and because I'm stubborn), I won't let him. I will feed him good stuff, like peas and beans. Green stuff.
Just like God gives me.
Friday, September 24, 2004
three's a handful
Before we had our third boy, my brother-in-law tried to convince me that the third was no more work than two. I wonder what planet he was living on when their third was born. Either that, or the difference between boys and girls (he has three girls) is so immense, that one cannot even make comparisons.
I’m still waiting for the day of no more work than with two kids. I don’t think it’s ever coming.
Talking to other people who have been there, they assure me that the third makes ALL the difference in the world. (I knew I wasn’t crazy!)
Gone are the days when I pack the kids up for a “quick trip” to the grocery store. I won’t set foot inside Wal-Mart unless I’ve either got some brave help or I’m solo. Ditto for the bank (although I have discovered that the drive-through is a good compromise and the tellers give Dum-Dum suckers to me as a reward for sitting patiently while three boys holler in the back seat. They’re so thoughtful.)
It’s not that my boys misbehave, in fact they’re downright polite at Wal-Mart when they ask for candy bars, new tractors and another fish because Harvey (the beta they so kindly gave me for Mother’s Day) might be lonely. They usually say please, please, please and PLEASE!
They’re also very helpful, piling seven boxes of Honey Nut Cheerios into the cart. Boy Number One reads all the labels to make sure we’re not getting too many grams of sugar. (Did you know that pop has 41 grams while a juice box only has 12?) He will ask me, much to the amusement of other shoppers, “Is this cereal on sale, Mom? Do you have a coupon?”
They’re not loud or obnoxious, but they are a handful.
I’m just not strong enough anymore to push a cart with a baby in the front seat, a three-year-old sitting in the cart squishing bread and a six-year-old who thinks he can stand in front and hang on.
The little car carts at Cub are an option, except that whoever designed them with workable horns couldn’t have been a mother. By the time I’ve trudged through produce, dairy and made it to the peanut butter, I’ve heard all the “beep, beeps” I ever need. Even better is when one horn is operating and the other isn’t, which is more typical.
The people at Cub have yet another option for shopping with children–those immense carts with the two seats in front. Have you ever tried to push one with 60 pounds of boy and another 60 pounds of groceries? It’s impossible to maneuver, especially around all the seniors who stare wide-eyed at this monstrosity on wheels heading directly for them with an out-of-control mom behind the wheel who, trust me, would have more luck with a Zamboni. It’s a bit like trying to drive a Suburban through an obstacle course designed for a VW Beetle. And trying to do so with two boys arguing about whose elbow belongs where.
Someone told me two children are two children, but a third is a houseful. I grew up with seven kids, so I’m not sure I can complain about three filling a house, except that my parents’ home has six bedrooms and ours has two. Ours is full.
But, I’m not complaining. Instead, I’m thankful that I’m learning time management (by not making it anywhere on time), people skills (by learning that children do not respond any more quickly to an increase in vocal decibels unless it’s accompanied by a piercing wail), and patience (what else can you learn from sweeping the kitchen floor three times a day, a baby who throws food in your face and consistently stepping on Matchbox cars and Legos?)
What else is a Mom to do when her days are a combination of tears, hugs and meltdowns (hers, not the kids) but appreciate the humor and know she’ll finally get peace and quiet at 10 p.m.
It could be worse. I could have four boys and more material for this blog.
I’m still waiting for the day of no more work than with two kids. I don’t think it’s ever coming.
Talking to other people who have been there, they assure me that the third makes ALL the difference in the world. (I knew I wasn’t crazy!)
Gone are the days when I pack the kids up for a “quick trip” to the grocery store. I won’t set foot inside Wal-Mart unless I’ve either got some brave help or I’m solo. Ditto for the bank (although I have discovered that the drive-through is a good compromise and the tellers give Dum-Dum suckers to me as a reward for sitting patiently while three boys holler in the back seat. They’re so thoughtful.)
It’s not that my boys misbehave, in fact they’re downright polite at Wal-Mart when they ask for candy bars, new tractors and another fish because Harvey (the beta they so kindly gave me for Mother’s Day) might be lonely. They usually say please, please, please and PLEASE!
They’re also very helpful, piling seven boxes of Honey Nut Cheerios into the cart. Boy Number One reads all the labels to make sure we’re not getting too many grams of sugar. (Did you know that pop has 41 grams while a juice box only has 12?) He will ask me, much to the amusement of other shoppers, “Is this cereal on sale, Mom? Do you have a coupon?”
They’re not loud or obnoxious, but they are a handful.
I’m just not strong enough anymore to push a cart with a baby in the front seat, a three-year-old sitting in the cart squishing bread and a six-year-old who thinks he can stand in front and hang on.
The little car carts at Cub are an option, except that whoever designed them with workable horns couldn’t have been a mother. By the time I’ve trudged through produce, dairy and made it to the peanut butter, I’ve heard all the “beep, beeps” I ever need. Even better is when one horn is operating and the other isn’t, which is more typical.
The people at Cub have yet another option for shopping with children–those immense carts with the two seats in front. Have you ever tried to push one with 60 pounds of boy and another 60 pounds of groceries? It’s impossible to maneuver, especially around all the seniors who stare wide-eyed at this monstrosity on wheels heading directly for them with an out-of-control mom behind the wheel who, trust me, would have more luck with a Zamboni. It’s a bit like trying to drive a Suburban through an obstacle course designed for a VW Beetle. And trying to do so with two boys arguing about whose elbow belongs where.
Someone told me two children are two children, but a third is a houseful. I grew up with seven kids, so I’m not sure I can complain about three filling a house, except that my parents’ home has six bedrooms and ours has two. Ours is full.
But, I’m not complaining. Instead, I’m thankful that I’m learning time management (by not making it anywhere on time), people skills (by learning that children do not respond any more quickly to an increase in vocal decibels unless it’s accompanied by a piercing wail), and patience (what else can you learn from sweeping the kitchen floor three times a day, a baby who throws food in your face and consistently stepping on Matchbox cars and Legos?)
What else is a Mom to do when her days are a combination of tears, hugs and meltdowns (hers, not the kids) but appreciate the humor and know she’ll finally get peace and quiet at 10 p.m.
It could be worse. I could have four boys and more material for this blog.
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