In the Midst of It

I had a conversation with a dear friend yesterday about blogging. We talked about how easy it is to get overcommitted to it, between checking friends' posts, leaving comments, coming up with our own posts, and the constant pull to stay "in the loop" with everyone. It is time consuming, and it can be either an obligation or an ego boost, or both.

This isn't why I started blogging. I wanted somewhere to write that provided some feedback and accountability, and the fact that it developed into friendships, prayer support for Addison, and a huge dose of laughter everyday never fails to surprise me. There are people I check in with several times a day, like Ashley, and people I check once a week to see what's new in their lives, and many more that are in between. Some bloggers make me laugh every time I visit, and others make me think. And of course some do both.

I love blogging. And that's the problem. I don't love laundry. And I'm falling out of love with cooking. And of course cleaning bathrooms. Trying to keep up with everybody is taking so much time that I'm stealing from other areas in my life. Not only that, but I'm not reading as much as I want to--books with covers, I mean--and I'm late on writing thank you notes, again.

So I'm taking a break for a little while. My flesh does not want to do this. I have some friends who I know receive encouragement through this little blog, and I don't want to let them down. And, quite honestly, part of me is afraid that if I take a break, I will be forgotten. I don't like to be on the outskirts of what's happening, and it's going to be hard for me not to check blogs.

But I'm biting the bullet and doing this. What started as a fun little hobby has turned into something that has taken too large a place in my heart. I can't juggle too many balls in the air, and I've been feeling the weight of this for a while. So I'm going to do the obvious thing, and take a little breather. If anybody in the house says something blog-worthy, I'll write it down for later. If I learn anything worth sharing, I'll make sure to save it.

Several of you have asked me about the Daniel Fast, and for some reason I haven't been able to write anything coherent about it. I think that's because the Lord was telling me that He wasn't finished with my fast yet, but that this time it wasn't food to give up, it was this. So I'm (albeit a bit reluctantly) finishing up this post, clicking "Publish," and then closing my laptop for a couple weeks. (Hey, you didn't think I could do this for a long period of time, did you?) I'm hoping that when I come back, sometime in mid-March, it will be with more balance and less obligation. I'm also going to both Pennsylvania and NYC in that time period, and I don't want to miss out on the trip by because I'm too busy trying to document it.

So have a happy February, friends, and please pray for me that my eyes will be open to what the Lord is showing me during this time.

(And for those of you who don't have blogs and are shaking your head at me, wondering why on earth this is such a big deal, start a blog. You'll see what I mean. It's addictive!!)

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Caiden gets all the good press on this blog. I can't help it--he's funny in general, and he talks so much that he has a higher probability of saying something blog-worthy than anybody else in this house.

There's not much competition, though. A conversation with the dog would be pretty one-sided, and Addison's vocabulary is limited to "Babababababa" and "Mamamamamama," with an occasional raspberry, screech, or lip-smacking thrown in for kicks.

So I listened really carefully today for something Grayson could contribute to the blog. I don't want him left out, since he's the middle child and will likely feel the need for counseling for it later. (I speak with authority here; I still hear about the trampled rights of the middle child from my mother and sister, who are both middle children. I'm a first-born, so I have a hard time feeling any sympathy. But I'm working on it.)

Anyway, as we drove home from karate today, I heard Grayson crying out--"Don't pull the hair! Don't pull the hair!" As I wondered who on earth could be pulling his hair in the car, since all three kids were in their carseats, he whined to me, "Mama! Grayson is pulling my hair!" I turned around to look and saw him pulling his own hair and telling on himself.

At this rate, he'll have plenty of blog fodder to contribute. Whether those conversations will actually involve anybody else or only himself remains to be seen.

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Conversation last night:
M: "Caiden, I'm not feeling that well. I'm going to have to skip bedtime stories and go to bed myself, okay?"
C: All concern for my health thrown out the window: "PLEASE DON'T THROW UP ON MY BED!"

Several minutes later, Caiden walks into my bedroom hefting the kitchen trash can.
"Here's in case you need to throw up. Then you won't throw up on your bed."
He walked out, "Have a good throwing-up time!" He comes back with a glass of water for me. "So have a good night throwing up, Mama!"
M: "Good night, Caiden."


Conversation this morning:
He climbs onto the bed and wriggles under the covers. "So, did you have a good throwing-up time last night?"
M: "I didn't throw up, Caiden."
Caiden, who's visibly disappointed at this news, recovers quickly: "Well, good thing I brought you that glass of water, huh?"
M: "Maybe when you grow up you could be a doctor, since you like healing people?"
C: "No way. I don't want to heal people; I just want to bring them water. Because I'm going to be a marine biologist, remember? And then I'm going to live at home and work all day but still come home to you, and then I'm going to bring you surprises from the ocean.

And then it began. And by "it," I mean the long stream of consciousness that Caiden excels at:

"You ever seen a killed pufferfish, still puffed up? No? Then I'll bring you one in my glub. That way it won't poke my fingers. And how about seaweed? And sea anemones? And sea slugs? Ooh! And then I'll bring you a KILLED GIANT SQUID! With its 20-foot long leg that sucks you to death! Ooh! And then I'll bring you the WHALE THAT EATS GIANT SQUID! And then how about a killed GREAT WHITE SHARK? AND AN ELECTRIC EEL? Wouldn't that be cool? We could keep it in the trash, so it won't get stinky, in the kitchen. Wouldn't that be great?" and on and on and on and on. At the very end, he said, "Have I ever steered you wrong? And did you know that I swallow my spit all the time? When I'm really thirsty."

The randomness makes my head hurt.

The best part about the conversation is that his excitement wasn't even slightly diminished by the fact that I hadn't opened my eyes or pulled my head out from underneath the covers the entire time. I just nodded, sleepily, and mumbled, "Mhmmmm." and "Ahaaaa."


I pray for his wife, almost daily. I know that God has a little girl somewhere out there who will be a perfect complement to my son. I just hope that she's an early bird. Or that he makes really good coffee. Because if she's not, waking up next to him that first morning after the wedding, when he wants to talk ad nauseum and display excitement others reserve only for Christmas, he's going to need to give her a cup. Or three. Come to think of it, maybe I should teach him now. I could use a cup myself.

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Sure, we live in Texas and it was 78 degrees today, but what girl doesn't need a ballerina-style knit hat?




B--if you still want a matching one for bb, then I'm going to need one tiny little comment from you :)

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I was driving home the other night, and it was dark, and the kids were sleeping in the car, and I was thinking what a charmed life I live. There's nothing like the feeling of a full belly, a warm car with quiet music, a dark night, and sleeping children to make me happy. So I drove on down the highway, feeling incredibly content.

Yesterday was my birthday. I have, to say the very least, HIGH expectations for my birthday. And God knew that when He hand-picked my husband, because only Chris could even come close to meeting those high hopes every year. In the interest of full disclosure, I have to admit that I dreamed of him taking me on a hot air balloon ride over the city as part of my proposal. And then, once we landed, my parents were going to meet us for a breakfast of crepes and pancakes and French toast, and I was going to show off my 2 carat diamond engagement ring. I thought about it so much I almost convinced myself that's what he was going to do. What he ended up doing was just as romantic but a bit more practical. Seeing as I'm afraid of heights, and all.

Anyway, yesterday was Sunday, and I swear that my last 10 birthdays have been on a church day. Or maybe not, but I did marry a pastor, so it only feels that way. I stayed home, since I usually go on Saturday nights (Thank You, Jesus, when You led us to serve at a church with Saturday night services. I'm still very thankful for that work of divine intervention!). I had high hopes that he was going to throw me a surprise party. But then my mom called, "So I just talked to your sisters, and neither one of them knows what's up for your birthday. Are you doing anything?" And then Bridget called, "If there's a party, then I'm not invited." And what kind of party would not involve my sisters or my best friend?

I spent the afternoon alone; our pastor called a late meeting, and Chris wouldn't be home before 3 p.m. I watched TV ("Giant Squids" is a favorite. Well, Caiden's, anyway.) I knitted. I read blogs of people who all had lives and were off living them. And I just felt sad for myself, in general.

Chris called. "Hey, I've got us dinner reservations at Reata's, so have the kids ready to go at 4, okay?"

The kids. THE KIDS? At Reata's? I did what any good wife would do. I called Bridget. And complained, just a little. I love my children, but how, after almost 10 years of marriage, could he think I'd want to wrangle three kids in a nice restaurant for my birthday? And then, when my brother called, I might've just mentioned, a little bit, that I was going to have to drag the kids to a restaurant for my birthday, and that maybe I was a little bit less than thrilled.

Then the sitter showed up at 3:30. God bless my husband. And God bless my brother and his wife, who separately called Chris and explained that the kids idea wasn't a good one. I love knowing family has my back.

We drove to Fort Worth, and then Chris started driving in circles around the city. I, being acutely keen and observant, didn't notice Bridget in the car behind me, and I just enjoyed the ride. We got to the restaurant, and after I exclaimed how much I'd like the Cowboy Cookbook showcased up front, blindly walked into my own surprise party. Complete with balloons (pink, of course), presents, my sisters and brothers, and Bridget and her family. The grin on Chris' face was only matched by my own.

To top it off, after I opened the most thoughtful, adorable presents from my family and Bridget, Chris gave me a card that explained that he's taking me to New York City. NEW YORK CITY! To run in Central Park! And go to a Broadway show! And go to dinner! And my parents are keeping the kids for us!

And after we finished an amazing dinner with Marble Slab ice cream (another gift straight from heaven) and an hour at Barnes and Noble hanging out, we drove home in a dark, quiet car. We talked about our plans for New York, and about how he managed to pull off a surprise party that kept me completely in the dark. And I realized that I really do live a charmed life. Even if I am a little bit spoiled.

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Today is my birthday, Lord, not that You've forgotten. Thirty-one years ago I became a face and a name. A person who's part of a family, a first-born child, a daughter. Thirty-one years ago I made a "couple" become "parents," and we were a family.

Your Word says You know me specifically, intimately. And to me, that says You care about me and my life. You knew, in that flash of my creation, all the days of my entire life. You knew my strengths, my weaknesses, my personality. You saw everything I'd ever say, do, think, feel. Nothing about me is a surprise to You! You delight over me with singing, and the angels rejoiced the day I knew You, too.

Thank You for my life, Father. For each day--even the really bad ones--for each time You've carried me, interceded for me, forgiven me, loved me in ways I could see and feel.

I don't know what this year holds for me, but You do. My prayer is that this next year of my life is one that glorifies You. I love You, Father.

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My Grandma Atrel was already old when we met, and she fascinated me. Her gray hair was set once a week, and she shuffled around in housedresses, always slow, always industrious. She was patient and kind, and her laugh lit up her entire face. I remember her laughing until she cried.

I was four. Four-year olds aren't supposed to remember meeting people for the first time, but I did. I played under the table with my newfound cousins while my mom and soon-to-be dad visited with her. She asked me why I talked so much; I told her it was so I could breathe. We were fast friends. She was my new grandmother. Nobody told me that I wasn't her real grandchild, and when my sister and brother were later born, it was evident nobody had told her, either.

Grandma Atrel bought me baby dolls at garage sales and then washed them, set their hair, and sewed them clothes. Even as a four-year old I knew they were more special than ones bought off a store shelf. She made us popcorn balls and fudge every year for Christmas, each piece with a nut on top, and mailed them in old fudge boxes. She recycled before people warned of CFCs and global warming, and I still can see her rinsing off the styrofoam plates, to be used again. That always gave me the creeps, a little.

One year for Christmas, when I was about six, she made me an apron. It had rickrack around the sleeves and hem, and it covered my entire front, so I could make her peanut butter cookie recipe with my mother without getting dirty. I'd stand on the chair in the kitchen and help with the wreath cookies, Russian teacakes, sugar cookies. There's something about an apron that makes a little girl feel grown up.

I still have that apron, as well as another, this one sewn for a grown woman. It's black with tiny blue flowers, and the ties are old and thin. I tie it under Caiden's arms when he stands on the chair in the kitchen. He has never met Grandma Atrel, but he looks at her picture on my kitchen counter and knows he's wearing one of her old aprons. He'll likely never meet her; she's 94 now and lives far away, but the two aprons tell him of family ties that bind, that he is a part of this family tree.

I got a package today. Grandma Margie is my other dad's mother. She still had small children at home when I was born; she'd had eight children and was widowed when her youngest was still in diapers. When my parents divorced I was only four, and my mom and I moved a thousand miles away from the rest of our family. Grandma Margie wrote me letters, some of them "from" the ducks outside her apartment, and never forgot a birthday or holiday. Somehow she kept up with me, although with having eight children, she was supplied with plenty of other grandchildren who stuck around.

The package was from her, with my name written in her small, neat handwriting on the front. I haven't gotten a birthday present from her in years. Usually I get a card and a sweet letter, but not an actual gift. Wrapped in tissue paper was an apron, pink with hearts. She included a letter:

"Dear Sarah, Happy Birthday! It doesn't seem possible to me that you will be 31 years old! Where have the years gone? Enclosed is your birthday apron. I began a project in 2006 to sew an apron for each of my daughters, daughters-in-law, and adult granddaughters, and yours is the final one on my list. I have enjoyed making the aprons; choosing the fabric was a major joy as I answered the clerk's question, 'What are you making with it?'

"Your fabric was chosen for the following reason: it was colorful and happy and the hearts are relative to the date of your special day. Can you be grumpy or sad with this apron hanging in your kitchen? I think not!"

The letter went on to speak of Addison, the boys, our life in ministry. She mentioned a book and a website about a woman who uses old fabric to make aprons, and she left her email address asking me to keep in touch.

Over the years, despite birthday letters and gifts, I've always felt a little removed from that side of the family. Living a thousand miles away hasn't helped, but it was mostly that I was like the stepchild--not quite part of the family. Knowing that she made me this apron, that I was included in the list of women she loves, reminded me what I already know is true. Family is complex. Relationships change shape. But the members of a family are like threads woven together, each one important to the whole.

Grandma Atrel taught me this when I was small, through the gift of an apron and unconditional love. Today Grandma Margie reminded me again. I am special, and no matter how far away, how removed, I am not forgotten. I am a part of something greater than myself. My three children may never meet their great-grandmothers. I don't have many memories to share, and the ones I do have are faded with the passage of time. But I do have two aprons, two tangible reminders that speak of enduring love.

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I think I know how Internet daters feel when they meet face-to-face for the first time. It's worse than a blind date--only one of which I've ever been on, praise the sweet Lord in heaven--because there are expectations. With a blind date, you only hope that the people who've set you up haven't actually set you up, which is what I still think might've happened when I was paired with a guy whose nickname was Bowling Ball. The nicknamed referred to his head. That is another story for another time. Which I'll never be telling.

With Internet dating, there are expectations formed after months of emails and phone calls. You've created your persona. It's easy to be witty, charming, and perceptive over email. Real life is different. So before you meet for that first real date, you inspect every eyebrow hair, stand sideways in the mirror and suck in your stomach, and curse yourself for having bailed out of using those Crest Whitestrips for the entire 14 days.

I have a point, although I almost forgot it just thinking about where I put those Whitestrips I bought eight months ago.

I met Big Mama today. She was in Dallas for a day trip, and last night over email I suggested we meet somewhere for a Diet Coke if she had time before her flight out. I clicked "Send" before I could chicken out.

She wasn't sure if we'd be able to meet, so I kept my cell phone nearby in case she called. When she did call, I was out of the house in under five minutes, a nearly-supernatural feat considering I'd been feeding Addison, Caiden was only halfway dressed, and Grayson was sound asleep. I drove faster than I can remember ever having done before, hoping that the fact that I drive a minivan would deflect any police officer's attention. It must've worked; I made record time. Being nervous must make me drive fast. The entire way there, I worried that she wouldn't like me, or that she wouldn't be like I'd imagined, or, even worse, that we'd run out of things to talk about after the first five minutes.

The four of us hustled out of the van and up to the front of the bookstore where we'd decided to meet. I was in jeans and tennis shoes; she met me at the door in a black suit with pearls. She explained that she didn't always look that way; I explained that I always did. And it was friendship at first sight.

I know this has been stated in other places before, but Big Mama, for the record, is not big. She's tall, tall, tall, and thin, thin, thin. And so cute. She is everything she seems from her blog, and I'm happy to announce that yes, we did discuss P. and elk hunting, as well as dirty diapers, blogging in general, and Caroline's erratic sleep habits. (If you don't know what I'm talking about, you need to go visit her blog. If you haven't read her, you are missing out. Missing Out!!) And yes, Grayson had a blowout. Because really, what fun would it have been if I'd been in public and he hadn't? At least she knows I wasn't exaggerating when I wrote all those poo stories.

Addison stared her down for a long, long time before finally deciding she was fun. Big Mama held her on her lap, while Addison munched on her pearls. Anybody who doesn't mind baby drool on her jewelry is a friend for life.

We never stopped talking, even all the way to the airport where I dropped her off, and I knew, as she shut the car door, that today was the beginning of a real friendship. I'm so glad I didn't chicken out.

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I love a newborn. Soft, smooth skin and fuzzy, downy hair. A wrinkled little face and tiny rolls of baby fat. Toothlessness. Hiccups. Baby sighs. Baby breath.

Baby breath--that's something I wish we could keep, even over the smooth baby skin. The rest of the above list comes back to us as we age, except it's not nearly as cute the second time around.

It's a sad day when our babies get big enough not only to have normal breath of their own, but to recognize it--and dislike it--in others, namely their mamas.

This morning Caiden brought me breakfast in bed: a large Dallas Cowboys cup filled with organic Cheerio-type cereal, and a spoon. No milk. He brought its twin to Chris, who cleverly suggested Mama would feel special if she got both of them. Caiden climbed onto the bed and handed me the two cups as I tried to open my eyes. "Oh! And Mama! I've got your Valentine's Day presents! I'll go get them!" Everything that child has ever said has been marked with exclamation points. He's a spinning ball of glee, all the time. On days like Valentine's, it's precious. On other days, it makes me old.

He ran back into the room with three pieces of paper. The first was a picture of a tree with hearts floating to the sky, and a big "M" written on it. "It's hearts all the way up to the sky because I love you that much!"

The second was a paper boat with hearts on it. "It's a Love Boat!" I laughed so hard I was now awake.

The third was a card, folded with hearts drawn on front and back. When I read it, I burst into tears: "Mom, I luv you," the letters written wherever they would fit, not necessarily in line or in order. Hearts drawn everywhere. It's the first card he has given me, created without any help or suggestion, and he spent an hour on it yesterday, hidden behind his closed bedroom door. He brought Chris the same three items, almost identical except marked with Ds instead of Ms. I prepared Chris for the card while Caiden was rummaging in his room, telling him it was the best card I'd ever gotten in my entire life. I showed it to him. He wasn't quite as touched.

When Caiden showed him his card, Chris did his best, "Caiden, that's so wonderful! Thank you!" Caiden looked at him, not impressed. "Yeah, well Mama cried." Then Chris proceeded to do an Oscar-worthy fake cry, which was almost as fun as getting the Valentine's Day cards in the first place.

Caiden finished his presentation and closed in for the hug as I still lay in bed. "Oh, Mama, you're beautiful! And you smell so good!" Then he paused. "Even if the air around your breath is stinky."

He's my funny, funny Valentine. God outdid Himself when He made that boy.

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Thank you for nominating me for this award for "My Tattooed Soul" post! I'm also incredibly tickled for my grandmother, at FlightSong, and my aunt, at Chelsea Morning, who were also nominated. Congratulations to both of you!

To find out who else was nominated, go here. Thanks to Jules, at Everyday Mommy, for sponsoring these awards. :-)

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Okay, ladies (and the two men who read this), for accountability purposes, here's what has gotten accomplished:

Don't know what I'm talking about? Go here. If you're interested, that is. If you're not, I'm not offended.

1. Caiden's bedroom: Check. Looks great, if I do say so myself :) Which is good, since I'm not about to redo it! I need to post a few photos but will save that for another day.

2. Kitchen cabinets: Um, halfway check. I've done the touchups but not the polyurethane. And if I don't hurry up and do it, I'll be doing touchups again. I need a fire lit under me for this one! Well, not literally--fire and polyurethane do not mix.

3. Knitting Addison's hat: Check. But it looks hideous. The top half somehow got purled instead of knitted, and there were gaping holes where the sides joined. It's possible that Addie could've done a better job by herself. So I'm trying again. She has a little head; I think I'll figure it out before she's too big for it.

4. Kitchen table and chairs: Nope. Not even started. And I don't care. What I need is for somebody who does care to come and do it for me. Any takers?

5. Addison's scrapbook: Yes! I actually started it! And did all the photos of her birth! (That's huge--I hate scrapbooking.) Now let's see if it ever goes beyond the birth photos.
FYI--When I say "photos of her birth," I am NOT referring to the actual birth. Yuck.

So that's what I did this weekend. Now I'm taking a little while off before I start any new projects, but everytime I pass by Caiden's bedroom, I pat myself a little on my back. :)

If you're in a new project, let me know--I'd love to cheer you on!

p.s. I'm sorry this is in such a small font--I can't seem to get it to obey me.

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At 11:59 I lifted him out of his crib, sat down in the rocking chair, and held him to me. Our chests lifted in unison as he slept, warm against me. The numbers on the clock turned: 12:00 a.m. Caiden's first birthday. I sat and rocked, the house sleeping, while tears streamed down my face, down my neck, onto his small blond head.

I think most first-time mothers cry when their baby turns one. That's normal. I wasn't crying because I was sad he was turning one; I was crying because I was terribly relieved his first year was over. It had been a hard one.

One of the benefits of marrying young is the ability to be married several years before having children--and still be young. One of the drawbacks, though, is that none of my friends had children. Many of them were only celebrating their first anniversaries when I was nine months pregnant, irritable, and hot. My family was over 1200 miles away; I had to go it alone.

Labor was less than stellar. I'll spare the details; even I don't want to hear them again. Suffice it to say that I was not the same person after giving birth. Caiden wouldn't breastfeed. I had no one to ask for help. And then came September 11, 2001. A week later he started projectile vomiting; I had no one to compare him to--I thought this spit-up business was slightly understated in the baby care books I'd read. Two weeks later he had an ultrasound and then emergency surgery for a stomach disease. At the same time, Chris and I were staging our own breastfeeding/formula debate, and I was tired. I'd had visions of lying on blankets in the backyard with the baby and snuggling the fall away; reality was something else altogether.

Postpartum depression settled in, and that Christmas I suggested not putting up a tree. The energy required to decorate it was more than I could muster. Chris--who must've felt shell-shocked by this point--decorated instead. I had only three emotions back then: love for my husband, love for my child, and the feeling of being utterly, completely overwhelmed with life. I remember sitting on the couch with Caiden, looking at his tiny face, and wondering if I would ever be a normal person again. I could not see a light at the end of the tunnel. And I had no one to talk to who could offer reassurance; while I was preparing bottles and changing diapers, my friends were planning weddings and trips to Cancun.

A few months later, he got a cold that turned into serious pneumonia, and we spent a week in the hospital. By this point I'd developed stress-related vomiting episodes and insomnia. I was a wreck. After Caiden was discharged from the hospital, we had to follow a four-times daily regimen of nebulizer treatments. Instead of getting better, he developed illnesses almost weekly. Several times a month we'd wake up to the barking sounds of croup, and I'd sit with him on my lap in the bathroom with the shower running, trying to stay awake.

Two days before his birthday, he had to have a minor surgery, and we found out that our house was losing value and we'd need to sell it. It was a fitting end to one of the most difficult years I'd ever experienced.

So that night we rocked, in the comforting peace of a dark bedroom, and I memorized the events of the past year. I wasn't sad that he wouldn't be a baby anymore; I was ready to put the year behind us. My only sadness was that what was supposed to be the sweetest, most cherished year of my adult life was something I'd missed out on. Seven months of postpartum depression, Caiden's two surgeries, and numerous illnesses had left me numb.

The other day Caiden and I painted his bedroom. We rearranged furniture, bought a table and chairs and a new bookcase, and I hung black and white photos of him on his walls. Late that night, when once again the house was sleeping, I finished my work and sat on his bed, looking around the room. Those memories of rocking, now several years ago, flooded back again, and the tears welled up. It's a tug-of-war, our children growing up. Happy memories pair with excitement for the future, but no history is complete without pain. I pondered in the dark if any parent ever has a child without experiencing some sort of loss. Would we cherish the good times if there were no heartache to stand in stark relief?

I looked at those black and white photos of him as I left the room. In an instant I knew that I'd go through that first year again--a thousand times again--for just one moment of being his mother. I love him so much it hurts. That's the best summary of motherhood that I can think of: love hurts. But it's worth it.

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I'm still plowing through my to-do list (s-l-o-w-l-y plowing), and I have nothing remotely thought-provoking, witty, or even minimally entertaining to offer. Paint fumes will do that to a person.

So I'm directing you here instead. Not directing, exactly--that would be bossy. Encouraging? Helpfully pointing? Either way, please go visit Faith Lifts. Faith Lifts is a collection of faith-inspired writings from various women, and even a quick peek at a post or two is sure to lift your spirits and give you encouragement.

Janice at Faith Lifts interviewed me earlier this week about my journey with Addison. It seems fitting that it posted today, when I began Addie's scrapbook. Looking back at the pictures of her as a brand new baby brought back so many memories--some of them really hard, most of them wonderful. My scrapbooks aren't good enough to post pictures of (My artistic talent is nil.), so consider this interview a scrapbook of sorts. If you are new here and aren't familiar with our story, this is a great place to get all caught up.

I'll be back Monday, when the dust settles and the fumes fade.

Enjoy the weekend, friends! :-)

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I can't resist a new project.

It's the finishing that I don't love so much.

But I also hate the half-finished look, not to mention the reputation I'm gaining with my husband for biting off more than I can chew--and then not finishing the mouthful!

So for the rest of the week, I'm going to:

1. Paint and redecorate Caiden's bedroom. (This isn't half-finished; I'm just starting it today, and I've been wanting to do it for a while.)

2. Finish the last two coats of polyurethane on my kitchen cabinets--and touch up the places that have been nicked because I failed to apply the poly in a timely manner :-)

3. Finish painting my kitchen chairs. I know--I started this project a million years ago. The original color and the new color are similar enough I've been able to get away with it, but enough is enough.

4. Finish Addison's hat I'm knitting. I'm teaching myself to knit--I stayed up until 1:30 last night working on it, which has earned me the nickname "Granny" with my husband, but I'm okay with that. He still thinks I'm cute, old lady habits and all.

5. And if I have time, I'd like to start Addie's scrapbook. I bought the book, the paper, and the other overpriced but highly tempting stuff, and I've even printed out the pictures from her birth. So maybe I could actually you know, transfer the stuff to the actual scrapbook? Just a thought.

It's a lofty list, and I feel silly even typing it, because then you're going to ask me if I managed it all in four days. I'm going to try, and I even promise to feed my children three square meals a day, even if it's just cereal. But blogging (and probably showering and possibly brushing teeth) isn't going to fit in this schedule. So I'm off to work for a few days. I hope all of you have a happy weekend, and I'll see you Monday!

(p.s. Boomama, Big Mama, and Antique Mommy, could you please refrain from writing anything highly entertaining while I'm gone? Because I'll feel the humor calling to me from my closed laptop, and then I'll never finish anything. And that goes for the rest of you I read--I need y'all to have a boring, mundane weekend, okay? I hate missing out :) )

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This time it wasn't even a diaper.

Generally after a party the house smells good. Once I've thrown away paper plates and cups, run the dishwasher, and taken out the trash, our home is clean and quiet, still carrying the scent of the candles we lit earlier in the evening. Generally, it doesn't smell like death.

We had a Super Bowl party Sunday. Chris came home after church and vacuumed, lit candles, and entertained the kids while I put the finishing touches on the food and did the last-minute things necessary to make out home appear as if it's always clean, ready for guests, and full of great food. I'm into making an impression, folks, not reality.

Our friends and family came, consumed, and cheered Peyton's last touchdown before going home. We cleaned up the kitchen and went to bed.

Monday morning I went out while it was still early, the outdoors smelling cold and fresh. I came back into the house and noticed that it smelled. And it smelled bad. I scoured the house for a hidden dirty diaper, then noticed that not all of the trash had been taken out, so I did that, too. I sprayed Oust and Febreze and anything else I could find that smelled better than the odor.

It got worse. The babysitter arrived and I apologized for the smell. After karate later on in the afternoon I walked back into the house--Caiden's in karate, not me, just so you don't even try to imagine that--and by then the smell had turned into a certifiable stench. Some places smelled worse--the laundry room and near the fireplace. I checked the carbon monoxide detectors, then gave up and called the gas company, reporting a suspected gas leak.

"Hi, my name is Sarah X, and I think we may have a gas leak." The woman was a robot: "Well then you'll need to exit the house quickly, making sure you touch no outlets or switches, extinguish any open flame, do not move your car out of the garage, do not turn on any faucets, and do not leave the premises. If our man arrives and you are not there, he will leave. So stay close. But not too close. In the event of an explosion."

Ahem.

In my usual and customary calm, cool manner, I screeched at the boys to GET OUT OF THE HOUSE BEFORE IT EXPLODES! and grabbed the baby, hauling tail while being careful not to actually touch anything in the house. I strapped the baby on my front, loaded the toddler into the stroller, and coaxed the child onto his bike. We were set, ready to confront danger. I only had a few minor coronaries when Caiden wandered too close to the outside walls of the house and when he asked to go back inside and get his coat, turning the light on as he went in. I had big visions of a catastrophic explosion, a 24-like mushroom cloud rising above our street.

Doing what any woman in a crisis does, I called my best friend. While I pushed the stroller and toted the baby, I chattered away with Bridget as my neighbors tried not to openly stare at the menagerie passing by. Bridget volunteered to come get the baby; I valiantly said we were managing just fine and having a lovely time walking in the ever-increasing cold, around and around and around the block.

Finally, after an hour, my next-door neighbor drove by and took pity on us. We camped out in her house, stroller and all, with the other six kids who were already there. It would have been a great party, if I weren't so aggravated that my house was probably going to blow up, and I had finally bought the supplies to start Addison's scrapbook. It just figures that after nine months of resisting, the day I brought home the goods, it was all going to go up in a puff of smoke.

The gas man--I'm sure he has a real title, and "gas man" probably isn't it--finally arrived. He and I, with the baby still strapped on--walked into the laundry room.

"Smells like a dead rat," he said. "Did you put any traps out?"

I stared at him, not sure whether to be glad he didn't think it smelled like gas, or offended he thought we had rats.

"Not so much, no."

"Well, sure smells like a dead rat, but I'll check for a gas leak anyway. 'Sides, ma'am, a dead rat sure is better than a gas leak. Even if you can't find it, the smell will go away. Just can't say for sure how long." He looked pleased, while I continued to mutely stare at him.

I tromped back to the neighbors' while he did the check. "He says it smells like a dead rat." (Why, oh why did I just tell our neighbors that? I've just branded myself as the Dead Rat Lady.)

He completed the exam as my husband arrived home from work. We went back into the house, me not sure it still won't explode from the stink, to find one lone garbage bag that hadn't made it to the curb that morning. It was sitting right outside the door to the laundry room, and it had shrimp tails in it.

Chris carried the bag out, and within a couple of hours the house smelled like a party again. I'm not sure which is worse--having the house explode from a gas leak, being known as the Dead Rat Lady, or being too stupid to realize that shrimp tails in the trash will cause a stench on a 70 degree day.

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February 3rd. It's a day I've been reminding my husband of for a month. A day I've anticipated for such a long time. A day I was determined to celebrate. And then I almost forgot about it.

Finally, at 11 p.m., we broke out the Diet Coke and toasted. The moment passed in silence, heavy with unspoken emotion. I settled back on the couch and watched with That night, while the nurses changed shifts and the PICU was closed, Chris and I sat in some restaurant in Dallas--I still don't remember which one--and clinked together our glasses. She'd made it. We'd made it. She looked terrible on the outside but would now live. It was an amazing combination of rejoicing and unspeakable exhaustion at the same time. I can't remember if we said a single word over dinner.

Last night, we again sat in silence, toasting the same drink. But this time, the silence wasn't heavy with unspoken words, fears, anxiety. It was with deep satisfaction. As the glasses clinked it was as if an enormous sigh filled the room, a collective letting go of breath held for months. Looking back is often easier than looking forward. If only I could've seen, that early August morning, us last night. She made it. We made it.

She has a thin scar on her chest. We have a thin scar on our own hearts. Signs of a battle fought and won. We almost forgot to celebrate, and even the near-forgetting was a gift.

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Being a mom is overwhelming, underappreciated, relentless, monotonous, unpaid, unglamorous work. I am on call 24/7, and that means when my child is vomiting in his bed at 3 a.m., not only do I have to get out of my own warm bed, clean up his stomach contents and change his pajamas, I also have to let him sleep in my bed with me, breathing his sickly breath in my face.

I have stretch marks and permanent love handles. Parts of me will never look the same without professional help. As of this month, I have been either pregnant, breast-feeding, or pregnant and breastfeeding at the same time, for three complete years. My life is not my own. I answer to the beck and call of three immature, demanding, high-maintenance people who don't understand the rules of fair play or the value of alone time.

I am a servant, nurse, toy mechanic, chef, P.E. teacher, discipliner, narrator, laundress, and personal assistant. Even when they go to bed--which is a complete routine involving books, songs, back-scratching, prayers, medication, and diaper changes--my work is not near finished. There are still loads of laundry to be folded, toys to put back in their homes, highchair trays to clean, and boys' bathroom toilets that need to be wiped down. It is an unending cycle that at times can be frustrating, exhausting, unrewarding.

And if I looked at my life through those eyes all the time, I'd be bitter, irritable, and negative. I would be impossible to live with, and my children would grow up feeling like they were obligations, rather than gifts from God bestowed on me for a brief period of time. There is so much out there that says I am living life as a doormat if I don't fight for my rights! Demand me-time! Make my husband help with the chores! Have my own checking account!

I live in this world, but this world does not live in me. Mottos like Have it your way! don't work for me. Instead, in a paradox that this world scoffs, Jesus says, Have it My way! Not your will, but Mine! If you want to have a life, you have to give yours up! Be the servant, not the served! I don't know of many opportunities outside motherhood that allow me to lay down my life more fully. When I'm tempted to chafe at the constant demands and occasional indignities, I hear a still, small voice gently reminding me that I am the clay; He is the potter. He is using stomach viruses, sibling rivalry, and high-maintenance children to shape me into something much more beautiful than I am now. If only I'll let Him have His way.

At the same time, I am teaching my children the crucial lessons of having patience, taking turns, and serving each other. They are learning that family is a gift, and if we bite our brother, he will not want to play with us. In the same moment, they learn that even a wide-jawed, skin-breaking bite mark doesn't break the strong bonds of brotherhood.

Sometimes I blow it. God hands me an opportunity to develop kindness, patience, and gentleness; instead I react with anger, irritation, harsh words. In those moments, my children see that even adults need repentance, and they learn how to forgive. He is the Redeemer, able to teach them through my weaknesses.

What a beautiful, many-colored gift motherhood is. It is something nobody can be adequately prepared for, no matter how many parenting classes and books are consumed. On some days, my children may not get bathed, eat nutritious food, or be read to, but if I've spent some time snuggling and speaking softly-spoken words, all is well. When I take the time to remember that interruptions are God's method of working on this canvas of my life, that my life is not my own, I feel the rays of His pleasure breaking over me.

Motherhood is a permanent tattoo on my soul. I am a mom, and I will never be the same. Even stretch marks are worth that.

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