I had a post planned in my head tonight--something called "Never Say Never" that entailed my boasting to my mother this afternoon that I'd never gotten a speeding ticket before. At the moment those fateful words passed my lips I was flying through traffic trying to make it to a photography session relatively on time. I speed on a calm day; on days like this I go Earnhardt. So it's ironic that I've never gotten a ticket, when I deserve one every single day. Call it mercy.
Fast forward (no pun intended) a couple of hours: not in a rush anymore, I left the highway (speed limit 55) and drove down a residential lane (speed limit 35) on the phone with my sister, in a car full of children and my mom, with a hamburger in my lap. I forgot to pay attention to the speed and saw lights in the rearview, again. For those counting, this is #3 this year. Previous count: 1 in 15 years of driving. I'm making up for lost time. And not only did I get a speeding ticket, I also got one for my expired inspection sticker. (Remember, ticket #2 was for the expired registration sticker. Short of running a red light, I've covered all the bases this year.)
So I told my mom, "Never say never. Pride comes before a fall, and I should've just kept my mouth shut." Then I thought for a minute: "I never receive large amounts of money. I never lose weight without trying. I never . . ." and listed a half dozen things I'm hoping will happen, just by saying the word "never." I'll let you know if that happens.
But then--and you could completely justifiably argue that I just did, indeed, post that very thing--I opened my email before starting this post and found an email from Bridget about our friendship. And while I'm sorely tempted to paste the body of the email here, I won't because some things are sacred. But in the midst of executing a party for 160 people, complete with catering, photography sessions, rentals, and a million little details that are starting to give me a headache, my dearest friend sent me an email that held such wisdom in the final line: "Being famous is fine, but I'd rather be loved."
And after reading the email, where she also called me a "good mother" and "excrutiatingly skinny" (You can completely see why I love her, right?), I remembered why we're throwing this party to begin with: Because our daughter was born almost a year ago with a list of known problems, potential problems, and unanswered questions, and people stepped in and loved us fiercely. And even if I have to spend all weekend driving from errand to errand (while getting speeding tickets), the tablecloths aren't the perfect length, and we can't fit 40 balloons into one car, at the end of the day Sunday, it was all because God has not only given us a gift we named Addison Elisabeth, He also has supplied us with family and friends like Bridget who love us hard and love us well.
Thank you, dear friend, for reminding me of that tonight. As always, iron sharpens iron.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
A Pound of Guacamole
And so it begins. Tonight my parents flew in to be with us for the preparation, party, and post-party relief surrounding Addison's first birthday. It's a neat thing--they've been able to be at both of our boys' first birthday parties, and Addie's party will be no exception. So they drove straight from the airport to meet us at a rather classy Mexican restaurant Chris and I love.
Let me tell you why, exactly, we love this particular restaurant: Tableside Guacamole. The waiter arrives at the table with a cart full of ingredients, smashes them all together, and then presents a vat of guacamole that usually disappears within minutes despite its large size. I've never had better guacamole, and believe me, I'm a connoisseur. After a bridal shower several years ago, Bridget gave me the remaining unopened pound of guacamole (You know you live in Texas when guacamole appears at bridal showers.). I sat in my living room with a bag of chips and ate that entire pound of guacamole goodness in one sitting. And I didn't even throw up afterward, although the thought of that right now is making me queasy. But more on that in a minute. I have what you could call a guacamole addiction. I just can't say no to it. If it were illegal, I'd hunt it down and buy it anyway. I love it so much that I skipped out of staff meetings when I was a teacher to make guacamole runs in the afternoon. In my defense, I was pregnant, but still. It's a problem.
Back to my story. My parents sat in the booth on either side of Caiden, and everybody looked just spiffy. My mom wore a brand new blouse, and my dad always looks snazzy in some variety of polo shirt and jeans. Caiden sat proudly in his shirt that looked remarkably like my dad's--he's a little Papa-obsessed lately, so inadvertently matching him is cause for much joy. The chips and salsa arrived, and then the crowning moment of the dinner, the presentation of the guac, was beheld. We dove into those bowls like bears on a beehive. Even Grayson consumed vast amounts of both salsa and guacamole, which is remarkable because the salsa was hot! My theory is that he can tolerate hot foods because he was exposed to so much of it when I was nursing him. Acid reflux be darned; I am a lover of all foods spicy, and therefore, so is he.
After we finished eating my mom suggested Grayson get out of his highchair to come snuggle next to her in the booth. Chris and I mocked her--Grayson hasn't sat still since 2006, but she insisted and we relented, and Grayson did spite us just at that moment by reaching over and hugging and kissing my mom, a picture of meekness. Cheeky baby. If this had been a novel, rather than real life, the narrator would've warned, in a foreboding tone, that this moment was the end of the sweetness, and that feeding a toddler huge amounts of salsa and guacamole isn't such a great idea. But it's not a novel, it's my life, which is more akin to either a slapstick comedy or a horror movie, neither of which is known for foreshadowing. Instead there's hindsight, which isn't nearly as fun. Or helpful.
Grayson slid next to my dad. My distinguished, classy, gentlemanly dad. And he coughed a little, and as my dad and I watched in slight amusement, a few chips gently fell out of his mouth. I giggled, watching my dad to see how he'd react as Grayson spit out the rest of his chips right onto the table. I reached for a napkin, and It Happened. Grayson gagged, and folks, it was all over.
That child threw up enormous quantities of only slightly-digested guacamole all down his shirt and onto the booth seat while my dad, still sitting right next to him, froze in horror. Somehow I missed the actual vomiting, and at the look on my dad's face I reassured him, "Dad, it's okay. He just spit out a few chips." He said, and I quote: "Sarah, he didn't 'spit up a few chips,' he threw up. He Threw Up!" And then I did what any good mother would do, I swallowed my grin, shielded the scene of the crime from the lovely older couple dining directly behind me, ripped off Grayson's shirt as quickly as possible, held my hand over his mouth, and bodily hefted him over the entire table and carried him under my arm toward the bathroom.
I evaluated the situation in the bathroom while my mother delicately patted a napkin over the slightly-eaten avocados. She later told me it was warm, and I swear she shuddered when she said it. So did I.
I decided that Grayson had not, in fact, truly thrown up. He'd choked on a chip and then gagged, bringing up all manner of Mexican goodness inside. I don't know if that made much of a difference to my dad, but in my mama-mind, there's an important distinction between regurgitation due to gagging, and vomiting due to a virus. One is a one-time offender; the other means I'll be called out of sleep later on to wipe vomit out of a toddler's hair in his bed.
So we went back to the table to reassure my dad, who looked slightly pale. I explained the finding of regurgitation-by-gagging, and he bravely said, "Oh, that's all right, Sarah, it didn't bother me at all." Then he paused. "Well, maybe a little bit. Yeah, a little bit." I choked back a giggle, knowing that if I started laughing, it would all be over. I'm the queen of the inappropriate laugh. And the last thing I needed was to snort in the restaurant.
Sopapillas were on their way, so we waited them out while Grayson happily played in his seat, now shirtless and looking every bit like one of the Lipnickis from the movie, The War. Remember them? Always dirty, always naughty, always shirtless. Rugrats. It's just the look I was going for when I dressed my boys for dinner. I love looking like the Beverly Hillbillies.
I thought the moment was over and felt pleased that we had avoided causing a true scene. Then my mother, in slow-motion horror, pointed at Caiden's backside and whispered, "Sarah, don't tell him now, but Caiden has guacamole vomit all down his back and pants." I tried folks, I really did. I slowly told Caiden to come stand by me, in that you-have-a-tarantula-on-your-head-but-I-don't-want-to-scare-you voice, but he was blocked in by my mother, who decided right at that moment to take a phone call (Mother, really? Was that such a good idea??) and didn't understand that I needed her to vacate the premises NOW, before he realized he was wearing his brother's stomach contents and shout it for the rest of the diners to hear. No such luck. He turned halfway around, found the green goop down his body and started panting, "There's Throw Up, There's Throw Up, There's Throw Up, THERE'S THROW UP ON MY PANTS!"
And then I did what any seasoned, reasonable mother does in a crisis situation: I helplessly, weakly dabbed at his back with a used paper napkin while collapsing into my chair and laughing til tears came. My dad at this point looked like a deer in headlights because the panicked Caiden made a mad dash straight for his side, while my mom shimmied away from him, still on the phone and still in the booth.
At this point I realized my husband was nowhere in sight.
I grabbed half-naked Grayson with one arm, pinned him to my side, and lunged for Caiden, who was reacting like a Mexican jumping bean, trapped between both my parents in the booth. I forced my mom out of the booth, grabbed Caiden with my free arm, and fled. I tossed back to my slightly-dazed dad, "Please pay. I'll pay you back later! Tell Chris I am gone!" and headed for the front door.
After stripping down Caiden and putting the near-naked boys in the car, the rest of the family convened in the parking lot.
"Well, that sure was fun," my dad said, looking remarkably truthful.
"Sarah, it sure is nice to see your posts lived out," commented my mother, grinning wickedly.
"Meet you at home," my husband said, as he headed for his SUV.
And as I climbed into my minivan and surveyed the damage--a pile of spewed-on clothes in the floorboard and two skinny, dirty little boys in the back--I realized, with a sigh of relief, that God may just have provided me an answer for my addiction: it'll be a cold, cold day in Texas before I eat guacamole again.
Let me tell you why, exactly, we love this particular restaurant: Tableside Guacamole. The waiter arrives at the table with a cart full of ingredients, smashes them all together, and then presents a vat of guacamole that usually disappears within minutes despite its large size. I've never had better guacamole, and believe me, I'm a connoisseur. After a bridal shower several years ago, Bridget gave me the remaining unopened pound of guacamole (You know you live in Texas when guacamole appears at bridal showers.). I sat in my living room with a bag of chips and ate that entire pound of guacamole goodness in one sitting. And I didn't even throw up afterward, although the thought of that right now is making me queasy. But more on that in a minute. I have what you could call a guacamole addiction. I just can't say no to it. If it were illegal, I'd hunt it down and buy it anyway. I love it so much that I skipped out of staff meetings when I was a teacher to make guacamole runs in the afternoon. In my defense, I was pregnant, but still. It's a problem.
Back to my story. My parents sat in the booth on either side of Caiden, and everybody looked just spiffy. My mom wore a brand new blouse, and my dad always looks snazzy in some variety of polo shirt and jeans. Caiden sat proudly in his shirt that looked remarkably like my dad's--he's a little Papa-obsessed lately, so inadvertently matching him is cause for much joy. The chips and salsa arrived, and then the crowning moment of the dinner, the presentation of the guac, was beheld. We dove into those bowls like bears on a beehive. Even Grayson consumed vast amounts of both salsa and guacamole, which is remarkable because the salsa was hot! My theory is that he can tolerate hot foods because he was exposed to so much of it when I was nursing him. Acid reflux be darned; I am a lover of all foods spicy, and therefore, so is he.
After we finished eating my mom suggested Grayson get out of his highchair to come snuggle next to her in the booth. Chris and I mocked her--Grayson hasn't sat still since 2006, but she insisted and we relented, and Grayson did spite us just at that moment by reaching over and hugging and kissing my mom, a picture of meekness. Cheeky baby. If this had been a novel, rather than real life, the narrator would've warned, in a foreboding tone, that this moment was the end of the sweetness, and that feeding a toddler huge amounts of salsa and guacamole isn't such a great idea. But it's not a novel, it's my life, which is more akin to either a slapstick comedy or a horror movie, neither of which is known for foreshadowing. Instead there's hindsight, which isn't nearly as fun. Or helpful.
Grayson slid next to my dad. My distinguished, classy, gentlemanly dad. And he coughed a little, and as my dad and I watched in slight amusement, a few chips gently fell out of his mouth. I giggled, watching my dad to see how he'd react as Grayson spit out the rest of his chips right onto the table. I reached for a napkin, and It Happened. Grayson gagged, and folks, it was all over.
That child threw up enormous quantities of only slightly-digested guacamole all down his shirt and onto the booth seat while my dad, still sitting right next to him, froze in horror. Somehow I missed the actual vomiting, and at the look on my dad's face I reassured him, "Dad, it's okay. He just spit out a few chips." He said, and I quote: "Sarah, he didn't 'spit up a few chips,' he threw up. He Threw Up!" And then I did what any good mother would do, I swallowed my grin, shielded the scene of the crime from the lovely older couple dining directly behind me, ripped off Grayson's shirt as quickly as possible, held my hand over his mouth, and bodily hefted him over the entire table and carried him under my arm toward the bathroom.
I evaluated the situation in the bathroom while my mother delicately patted a napkin over the slightly-eaten avocados. She later told me it was warm, and I swear she shuddered when she said it. So did I.
I decided that Grayson had not, in fact, truly thrown up. He'd choked on a chip and then gagged, bringing up all manner of Mexican goodness inside. I don't know if that made much of a difference to my dad, but in my mama-mind, there's an important distinction between regurgitation due to gagging, and vomiting due to a virus. One is a one-time offender; the other means I'll be called out of sleep later on to wipe vomit out of a toddler's hair in his bed.
So we went back to the table to reassure my dad, who looked slightly pale. I explained the finding of regurgitation-by-gagging, and he bravely said, "Oh, that's all right, Sarah, it didn't bother me at all." Then he paused. "Well, maybe a little bit. Yeah, a little bit." I choked back a giggle, knowing that if I started laughing, it would all be over. I'm the queen of the inappropriate laugh. And the last thing I needed was to snort in the restaurant.
Sopapillas were on their way, so we waited them out while Grayson happily played in his seat, now shirtless and looking every bit like one of the Lipnickis from the movie, The War. Remember them? Always dirty, always naughty, always shirtless. Rugrats. It's just the look I was going for when I dressed my boys for dinner. I love looking like the Beverly Hillbillies.
I thought the moment was over and felt pleased that we had avoided causing a true scene. Then my mother, in slow-motion horror, pointed at Caiden's backside and whispered, "Sarah, don't tell him now, but Caiden has guacamole vomit all down his back and pants." I tried folks, I really did. I slowly told Caiden to come stand by me, in that you-have-a-tarantula-on-your-head-but-I-don't-want-to-scare-you voice, but he was blocked in by my mother, who decided right at that moment to take a phone call (Mother, really? Was that such a good idea??) and didn't understand that I needed her to vacate the premises NOW, before he realized he was wearing his brother's stomach contents and shout it for the rest of the diners to hear. No such luck. He turned halfway around, found the green goop down his body and started panting, "There's Throw Up, There's Throw Up, There's Throw Up, THERE'S THROW UP ON MY PANTS!"
And then I did what any seasoned, reasonable mother does in a crisis situation: I helplessly, weakly dabbed at his back with a used paper napkin while collapsing into my chair and laughing til tears came. My dad at this point looked like a deer in headlights because the panicked Caiden made a mad dash straight for his side, while my mom shimmied away from him, still on the phone and still in the booth.
At this point I realized my husband was nowhere in sight.
I grabbed half-naked Grayson with one arm, pinned him to my side, and lunged for Caiden, who was reacting like a Mexican jumping bean, trapped between both my parents in the booth. I forced my mom out of the booth, grabbed Caiden with my free arm, and fled. I tossed back to my slightly-dazed dad, "Please pay. I'll pay you back later! Tell Chris I am gone!" and headed for the front door.
After stripping down Caiden and putting the near-naked boys in the car, the rest of the family convened in the parking lot.
"Well, that sure was fun," my dad said, looking remarkably truthful.
"Sarah, it sure is nice to see your posts lived out," commented my mother, grinning wickedly.
"Meet you at home," my husband said, as he headed for his SUV.
And as I climbed into my minivan and surveyed the damage--a pile of spewed-on clothes in the floorboard and two skinny, dirty little boys in the back--I realized, with a sigh of relief, that God may just have provided me an answer for my addiction: it'll be a cold, cold day in Texas before I eat guacamole again.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
It's Party Time!
As I type, my left hand is covered in pink and green spray paint. It looks like I have a disease, something similar to leprosy, only more colorful. I tried to type this post last night, but the pink on my palm kept rubbing off onto the keyboard of my laptop, and while I love pink as much as the next girl, it can't be good for the computer. (Although, on that thought, I'd LOVE a pink Mac.)
I am in the midst of planning a party for Addison's first birthday. And when I say "party," I really mean a large, catered affair complete with custom-designed invitations, cupcakes numbering in the triple digits (amount, not price; I'm not completely insane folks) a customized banner, personalized birthday apparel, and more decor than all previous birthday parties we have had, combined.
I have a file folder with details, receipts, checklists, and reminders. Bridget and my sister and I have had planning meetings, and I've called both in cake crises more than once. I have supplies in my garage, my laundry room, my bedroom, and the dining room. I have bought enough pink and yellow gingham fabric to cover the state of Rhode Island, with wired ribbon to match. My entire family and all friends who love me enough to offer help have been recruited. Addison has appointments with the tailor and the photographer. If she had hair, I might get her an appointment at the salon, too. This is no small affair.
And this is no small thing for me, either. In the past I've sent out e-vites, made a cake (Although in my defense I did craft both a 3-D fishbowl cake and a dinosaur cake last year), and bought some balloons. I'm not big on presentation for things like this. Bridget is the queen of presentations, and I'd fall way lower on the list--maybe the serf of presentations? But this is Addison's first birthday party, not only to celebrate the miracles God has done through her life this year, but also to thank the gazillions of people who have brought meals, sent cards, given gifts, mowed our lawn, met us at the hospital, prayed for us, and given us gift cards to Chili's. Not to forget those who met us at the hospital with Diet Coke. Special thanks goes out to them. But that's all for another post.
I am immersed in party planning. My parents are flying in tomorrow night to be here, and besides finishing the details (rent the tables, buy the drinks, prepare the favors, make the centerpieces), we're going to be spending lots of time eating, laughing, and making new memories. We have high hopes of a photo shoot with all 12 of us in the bluebonnets. This is the last get-together we'll have as an entire family in Texas before my sister abandons ship moves back to Pennsylvania.
So while this is not an official break--I mean seriously, there is too much blog-fodder in this house to stay away for long!--I might be a little scarce for the next few days. And if y'all want to pray for me, pray for beautiful, wind-less weather Sunday, a smiley baby during her photography session Friday (She NEVER smiles for pictures), and for me to enjoy every moment of this momentous occasion. I don't want to be like the mother of the bride and miss out on the joy because I'm too busy making sure everybody else enjoys it.
And I will enjoy it. Because I can promise you this--no matter how many miracles God does in Addison's life this coming year, next year's party will involve e-vites, a mama-made birthday cake, and some balloons. Because I'm not up for an affair like this again for the next twenty years--just in time for that wedding.
I am in the midst of planning a party for Addison's first birthday. And when I say "party," I really mean a large, catered affair complete with custom-designed invitations, cupcakes numbering in the triple digits (amount, not price; I'm not completely insane folks) a customized banner, personalized birthday apparel, and more decor than all previous birthday parties we have had, combined.
I have a file folder with details, receipts, checklists, and reminders. Bridget and my sister and I have had planning meetings, and I've called both in cake crises more than once. I have supplies in my garage, my laundry room, my bedroom, and the dining room. I have bought enough pink and yellow gingham fabric to cover the state of Rhode Island, with wired ribbon to match. My entire family and all friends who love me enough to offer help have been recruited. Addison has appointments with the tailor and the photographer. If she had hair, I might get her an appointment at the salon, too. This is no small affair.
And this is no small thing for me, either. In the past I've sent out e-vites, made a cake (Although in my defense I did craft both a 3-D fishbowl cake and a dinosaur cake last year), and bought some balloons. I'm not big on presentation for things like this. Bridget is the queen of presentations, and I'd fall way lower on the list--maybe the serf of presentations? But this is Addison's first birthday party, not only to celebrate the miracles God has done through her life this year, but also to thank the gazillions of people who have brought meals, sent cards, given gifts, mowed our lawn, met us at the hospital, prayed for us, and given us gift cards to Chili's. Not to forget those who met us at the hospital with Diet Coke. Special thanks goes out to them. But that's all for another post.
I am immersed in party planning. My parents are flying in tomorrow night to be here, and besides finishing the details (rent the tables, buy the drinks, prepare the favors, make the centerpieces), we're going to be spending lots of time eating, laughing, and making new memories. We have high hopes of a photo shoot with all 12 of us in the bluebonnets. This is the last get-together we'll have as an entire family in Texas before my sister
So while this is not an official break--I mean seriously, there is too much blog-fodder in this house to stay away for long!--I might be a little scarce for the next few days. And if y'all want to pray for me, pray for beautiful, wind-less weather Sunday, a smiley baby during her photography session Friday (She NEVER smiles for pictures), and for me to enjoy every moment of this momentous occasion. I don't want to be like the mother of the bride and miss out on the joy because I'm too busy making sure everybody else enjoys it.
And I will enjoy it. Because I can promise you this--no matter how many miracles God does in Addison's life this coming year, next year's party will involve e-vites, a mama-made birthday cake, and some balloons. Because I'm not up for an affair like this again for the next twenty years--just in time for that wedding.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Monkeys
Grayson was a perfect baby. He really was, and I can say that--I've had two other babies to compare him to, and although they were both very easy, he reigns supreme. He defined the word easy. If he'd been my first, I'd have been in for a rude surprise when I had a normal baby. He was that perfect. And he stayed pretty perfect until about two months ago, when he erupted into a naughty, quirky, busy, naughty, funny, naughty little boy. My mild-mannered little middle child has become quite the challenge. So every night, after a full day of chasing, scolding, preventing, disciplining, containing, and praying, I bundle him into the rocker with me in the dark, and we spend a few moments together. It's the only time of the day he is still, and as he snuggles into me, we talk. Tonight's conversation needs to be recorded for posterity:
Mama: Who made you, Grayson?
Grayson: Pancakes.
M: No, God made you!
G: I like monkeys.
M: Who loves you?
G: Monkeys.
M: (Trying again) Who made Grayson?
G: Elephants like monkeys. I like monkeys.
So much for that. Changing topics.
M: Did you have fun with Kristina (our babysitter) today?
G: Yeah.
M: What did you do?
G: I eat zebras.
M: Aha. What else did you do?
G: I throw my cheese on the floor.
M: And what else did you do?
G: I like monkeys. Monkeys say (elephant noise.)
M: Aha.
G: God made hippos. Monkey-hippos.
M: Monkey-hippos?
G: God made giraffes. Giraffes maked Gray Gray. Giraffes say (elephant noise.)
M: What else did you do today?
G: I jump on the tramp-a-bean (trampoline). Monkeys like the tramp-a-bean. I like monkeys.
Moving on.
M: Gray Gray, it's time for bed.
G: (elephant noise), giggle. Sing to me?
M: (Beginning our nightly song, then interrupted)
G: No, sing to the monkeys. I like monkeys. I like hippos. Hippos maked monkeys.
I give up and lay him down. He grins at me, suprememly satisfied with what he considered a bonding moment, while I shake my head and laugh.
I don't know who this child is going to be when he's grown, but when I think about my question tonight, Who made Grayson?, I know that the answer, God, stretches beyond every box I could put Him in. Only He could've created zebras, giraffes, elephants--and Grayson's beloved monkeys. And anyone who could've thought up somebody so fun, so sweet, so naughty, and so random as Grayson, all in one little blond package, must be pretty clever.
These moments not only make motherhood so sweet, they also teach me a little bit more about God. Life through a child's eyes is something, indeed.
Mama: Who made you, Grayson?
Grayson: Pancakes.
M: No, God made you!
G: I like monkeys.
M: Who loves you?
G: Monkeys.
M: (Trying again) Who made Grayson?
G: Elephants like monkeys. I like monkeys.
So much for that. Changing topics.
M: Did you have fun with Kristina (our babysitter) today?
G: Yeah.
M: What did you do?
G: I eat zebras.
M: Aha. What else did you do?
G: I throw my cheese on the floor.
M: And what else did you do?
G: I like monkeys. Monkeys say (elephant noise.)
M: Aha.
G: God made hippos. Monkey-hippos.
M: Monkey-hippos?
G: God made giraffes. Giraffes maked Gray Gray. Giraffes say (elephant noise.)
M: What else did you do today?
G: I jump on the tramp-a-bean (trampoline). Monkeys like the tramp-a-bean. I like monkeys.
Moving on.
M: Gray Gray, it's time for bed.
G: (elephant noise), giggle. Sing to me?
M: (Beginning our nightly song, then interrupted)
G: No, sing to the monkeys. I like monkeys. I like hippos. Hippos maked monkeys.
I give up and lay him down. He grins at me, suprememly satisfied with what he considered a bonding moment, while I shake my head and laugh.
I don't know who this child is going to be when he's grown, but when I think about my question tonight, Who made Grayson?, I know that the answer, God, stretches beyond every box I could put Him in. Only He could've created zebras, giraffes, elephants--and Grayson's beloved monkeys. And anyone who could've thought up somebody so fun, so sweet, so naughty, and so random as Grayson, all in one little blond package, must be pretty clever.
These moments not only make motherhood so sweet, they also teach me a little bit more about God. Life through a child's eyes is something, indeed.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
A Patio-Warming Party (I've Gone Martha Stewart Today!)
Completely out of character for my blog (But hey, I'm all about out of character lately--yesterday I created a blog for my trees.), I'm posting a menu for the patio-warming party we're having with our family tonight. Our brand new patio has been built (hurray!), and although we're still lacking the final touches, like concrete, landscaping, and the rest of the furniture (small details . . .), I do have some snazzy containers planted and a patio table. And a grill. So my sister and her family and their dog, and my brother and his wife and their puppy are coming over tonight to celebrate with us. You know family loves you when they're willing to celebrate something as dorky as a patio cover. And you know I love them when I suggest they bring their dogs over.
So it's a party tonight, and this is what I'm making:
Jalapeno-Cheese Grits
South of the Border Deviled Eggs
Grilled Corn on the Cob
Lowcountry Baked Beans
Cilantro Potato Salad
Sweet Tea
They're bringing the meat for the grill, and I'm supplying the sides and a few pigs' ears for the dogs. Sounds fun, doesn't it? And to top it off, Chris is planting my trees for me this afternoon. It's a glorious day. Happy Sunday, friends!
So it's a party tonight, and this is what I'm making:
Jalapeno-Cheese Grits
South of the Border Deviled Eggs
Grilled Corn on the Cob
Lowcountry Baked Beans
Cilantro Potato Salad
Sweet Tea
They're bringing the meat for the grill, and I'm supplying the sides and a few pigs' ears for the dogs. Sounds fun, doesn't it? And to top it off, Chris is planting my trees for me this afternoon. It's a glorious day. Happy Sunday, friends!
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Twigs
Edited to add: Because I'm crazy like that, I have a second blog--devoted entirely to my trees. It's called Mustard Seed Trees, and it'll chronicle the growth of my twigs trees. I know, I know. That's nuts. Wait 'til my husband hears about it--I'll never live down the teasing. But that's okay. When those trees are towering over my house, I'll have the last laugh. And some shade. :-)
Get ready for this: I have lived in Colorado, North Dakota, Southern Illinois, Tennessee, Virginia (briefly), Pennsylvania, Florida (even more briefly), and Texas. What's remarkable about this is that I am not an Army brat, as my husband affectionately refers to himself (he is), and I resided in all eight states in a matter of 22 years. That's impressive.
However.
It ruined me.
Colorado? It's a beautiful state. I love just about everything about it (I know I said that about Texas, but I mean it for Colorado too.), but the mountains and tall, tall trees clinch the deal for me. Love it.
North Dakota? Let's skip that one. If you live there, you know what I mean.
Southern Illinois--I spent 11 years there, and despite the horrendous humidity, I loved it. The rolling corn fields, towering trees, and old, old houses color my memories of growing up there.
Moving on: Tennessee. Oh, Tennessee is still home to me. I went to college there, met and married my Southern gentleman, and fell in love with both the state and its people. Even West Tennessee, where I lived, is beautiful, although East Tennessee is breathtaking. When we go home to visit Chris' parents I fall in love with it all over again.
Virginia was but a blip on the radar screen, but it was gorgeous. Hills, trees, seclusion. I loved it.
Pennsylvania is where my parents live now, and where my sister is moving home to, and I can almost forgive it its gray days and looooong winter because the grass is so green, the flowers are profuse, and the hills and trees bring with them deer, wild turkeys, and groundhogs--all in my parents' suburban backyard. I wouldn't want to live there--I'd get depressed with that many cloudy days--but I love visiting it. It's gorgeous.
Skip Florida. Too hot. Too sandy. Too beachy in general. I'm not a beach girl.
And that brings me to my beloved Texas. Let me list what I love about it: Endless skies colored by amazing technicolor sunsets and innumerable stars. The people. Fort Worth--I love that city, especially the Riscky's Bar-B-Que downtown with its free plastic cups. Sometimes we go there just because I like their cups so much. Bluebonnets. Breezes coming up from the Gulf. Hailstorms and tornadoes and raging thunderstorms. Fall days warm enough I can wear t-shirts and jeans, my favorite attire. And the list goes on and on and on.
Notice I did not mention trees. Or hills. Or beauty, other than the sky. As much as I love this state, I don't think it's very pretty. (All you Texans who live elsewhere in the state, I'm sure it's gorgeous. But if you live in the DFW area, you know it's not. So don't get mad at me; I'm just speaking the truth.)
And this brings me to my point. Yes, I have a point. My backyard is literally devoid of trees. Actually, it's devoid of any foliage other than my fabulous containers and a few sad little crape myrtles I planted. And grass. We do have that in Texas. After having spent the first 20 or so years in states with trees, I'm suffering. I've been here about nine years, with nary a tree to my name. I long to hear leaves rustling in the evening breeze. I crave shadows from mighty oaks falling over my backyard so my children can play in the summer without having their skin crisped right off. I need birds and birdfeeders and bird nests. I am dying without trees. Every Arbor Day, I mourn a little more.
So I got productive. I've already tried to move to a house with trees. After 9 months on the market without a single offer, I gave up that idea for the time being. And since I can't go find the trees, I did the next best thing: I brought the trees to me. I've been hearing about the Amazing Austree Hybrid and did some investigating. The tree is supposed to grow 10-15 feet the first year! I watched the infomercial (Don't laugh at me.), checked out the website, and ordered a brochure. And then I ordered three shade trees.
I should say, potential shade trees.
They came in the mail yesterday, and when the long, skinny box arrived I couldn't figure out for the life of me why a fishing pole was being dropped off at my door. And then I opened it, and three "trees" flopped out.
Y'all, to say I was shocked would be the understatement of the century.
Here's what I got in the mail:
And yes, that's my finger next to the "trunk."
You can imagine my husband's reaction when I showed him the trees. He was thrilled and overjoyed that I'd spent real, cash money on twigs. That's what he called them, twigs. And then, as he wrinkled his forehead and tilted his head, staring at them in amazement, he asked me if I was hoping for some shade this year. Or this lifetime.
Oh ye of little faith!
Because I'm going to plant those trees, and fertilize those trees, and water those trees, and talk to those trees, and even pray for those twigs trees if I have to, and each month I'm going to take a picture of them. Because darn it if I don't get a verifiable shade tree out of this! Jesus said faith like a mustard seed, the smallest seed known to man back then, could move a mountain. I'll just pray that my mustard seed trees do the same. Quickly.
Get ready for this: I have lived in Colorado, North Dakota, Southern Illinois, Tennessee, Virginia (briefly), Pennsylvania, Florida (even more briefly), and Texas. What's remarkable about this is that I am not an Army brat, as my husband affectionately refers to himself (he is), and I resided in all eight states in a matter of 22 years. That's impressive.
However.
It ruined me.
Colorado? It's a beautiful state. I love just about everything about it (I know I said that about Texas, but I mean it for Colorado too.), but the mountains and tall, tall trees clinch the deal for me. Love it.
North Dakota? Let's skip that one. If you live there, you know what I mean.
Southern Illinois--I spent 11 years there, and despite the horrendous humidity, I loved it. The rolling corn fields, towering trees, and old, old houses color my memories of growing up there.
Moving on: Tennessee. Oh, Tennessee is still home to me. I went to college there, met and married my Southern gentleman, and fell in love with both the state and its people. Even West Tennessee, where I lived, is beautiful, although East Tennessee is breathtaking. When we go home to visit Chris' parents I fall in love with it all over again.
Virginia was but a blip on the radar screen, but it was gorgeous. Hills, trees, seclusion. I loved it.
Pennsylvania is where my parents live now, and where my sister is moving home to, and I can almost forgive it its gray days and looooong winter because the grass is so green, the flowers are profuse, and the hills and trees bring with them deer, wild turkeys, and groundhogs--all in my parents' suburban backyard. I wouldn't want to live there--I'd get depressed with that many cloudy days--but I love visiting it. It's gorgeous.
Skip Florida. Too hot. Too sandy. Too beachy in general. I'm not a beach girl.
And that brings me to my beloved Texas. Let me list what I love about it: Endless skies colored by amazing technicolor sunsets and innumerable stars. The people. Fort Worth--I love that city, especially the Riscky's Bar-B-Que downtown with its free plastic cups. Sometimes we go there just because I like their cups so much. Bluebonnets. Breezes coming up from the Gulf. Hailstorms and tornadoes and raging thunderstorms. Fall days warm enough I can wear t-shirts and jeans, my favorite attire. And the list goes on and on and on.
Notice I did not mention trees. Or hills. Or beauty, other than the sky. As much as I love this state, I don't think it's very pretty. (All you Texans who live elsewhere in the state, I'm sure it's gorgeous. But if you live in the DFW area, you know it's not. So don't get mad at me; I'm just speaking the truth.)
And this brings me to my point. Yes, I have a point. My backyard is literally devoid of trees. Actually, it's devoid of any foliage other than my fabulous containers and a few sad little crape myrtles I planted. And grass. We do have that in Texas. After having spent the first 20 or so years in states with trees, I'm suffering. I've been here about nine years, with nary a tree to my name. I long to hear leaves rustling in the evening breeze. I crave shadows from mighty oaks falling over my backyard so my children can play in the summer without having their skin crisped right off. I need birds and birdfeeders and bird nests. I am dying without trees. Every Arbor Day, I mourn a little more.
So I got productive. I've already tried to move to a house with trees. After 9 months on the market without a single offer, I gave up that idea for the time being. And since I can't go find the trees, I did the next best thing: I brought the trees to me. I've been hearing about the Amazing Austree Hybrid and did some investigating. The tree is supposed to grow 10-15 feet the first year! I watched the infomercial (Don't laugh at me.), checked out the website, and ordered a brochure. And then I ordered three shade trees.
I should say, potential shade trees.
They came in the mail yesterday, and when the long, skinny box arrived I couldn't figure out for the life of me why a fishing pole was being dropped off at my door. And then I opened it, and three "trees" flopped out.
Y'all, to say I was shocked would be the understatement of the century.
Here's what I got in the mail:
And yes, that's my finger next to the "trunk."
You can imagine my husband's reaction when I showed him the trees. He was thrilled and overjoyed that I'd spent real, cash money on twigs. That's what he called them, twigs. And then, as he wrinkled his forehead and tilted his head, staring at them in amazement, he asked me if I was hoping for some shade this year. Or this lifetime.
Oh ye of little faith!
Because I'm going to plant those trees, and fertilize those trees, and water those trees, and talk to those trees, and even pray for those
Woes, Wal-Mart, and My Worship Service
EDITED: I'm sorry y'all, if you've clicked over thinking this is a new post. Somebody left me a spam comment that contained FOUL profanity and although I've deleted it, stupid Haloscan won't get rid of it from my comment box. So I had to delete the old post and republish it. I hate that I've lost your sweet comments, but I can't handle having nastiness on my blog. :)
My husband may protest, but I am typically a low-maintenance, cheerful girl. I am not easily offended, and I can usually go with the flow--whether it be a lazy river or a tidal wave, which is more typical at our house. I also have the ability to forgive at the speed of light. Like I said, I'm low-maintenance.
So that's why I've become a mystery to myself. I have been, in the last couple of weeks, on the verge of tears almost constantly. Generally I can move to the point of tears in less than sixty seconds--I'd make a great soap star if it weren't for the acting part--but that's reserved for things like sappy commercials, hysterical laughter, and really, really cute things the kids do. But this is different. I have been struggling with a pervasive feeling of sadness that no amount of Diet Coke (gasp!), chocolate, bubble baths, or really good novels can get rid of. Jesus and I have done a lot of talking about this, and I've come to the conclusion that He is teaching me something new and different through mourning. Something that I evidently have not learned yet, because it persists no matter what I do.
And I'd totally avoid telling you what I'm mourning, except that would be wrong. And besides, my mother would call me and want to know just what on earth was wrong with me, and so this is easier. So here it is: my sister, who has lived here for almost four years, is moving 1200 miles away in just a few weeks. See, even as I type the "1200 miles" part, I'm tearing up again! I'm hopeless.
Leslie and her husband Jeremy came here to Texas to pursue some education and career goals, and now that they've wrapped all that up, they're going back to Pennsylvania. And they're taking my baby nephew with them. And Blitz. Remember Blitz? The dog I let get impaled on my trampoline? Even their dog has memories for me. Yesterday I drove to Leslie's house and helped my mom pack up some of their things, and then it got too hard and I found myself spilling tears over bathroom decor and picture frames, and I drove myself back home. It's one thing to accept that Leslie's moving away; it's another entirely to facilitate the move. Besides, I doubt she wants her wedding photos washed with salt water.
I realize that we'll still have the phone, and email, and our blogs, but that's not the same as having her real, live self to meet at Starbucks or sit next to in church. It's not the same thing to see a picture of her son as it is to kiss his little cheeks myself. And her husband, Jeremy, is like another brother to me. It's not like Chris and I can drive 1200 miles one way to have dinner with them. So I'm mourning. And no matter what I do, or what I tell myself, or how many Bible verses I read, I still walk around my house and feel pinned under a quilt of despair.
Today I took the kids to Wal-Mart to do some grocery shopping, which can also make me feel loads of despair. This trip was remarkably painless, something that has to be penned down for posterity, and as I drove back home I sipped on a Diet Coke and gave myself a talking-to for still feeling so down. After all, if a quick trip to Wal-Mart and a cold Diet Coke can't shake the blues, there's no hope. My CD changer in the car switched to the next CD, and praise music poured over the speakers. I hollered back at Caiden, way back in the third row, to sing with me. He's always game. I turned the music up, and as the lyrics began, I shouted back explanations to him.
And then it happened.
I started crying again. But this time, it wasn't sadness, it was worship. As I tried to explain to Caiden that just like I sing over him each night, God also sings over each one of us, I found myself choking up. Caiden is quite used to this--I cry every time we finish a chapter book. Somehow that last page turning brings on some kind of emotion that gets me every time. So he knows Mama cries, and it doesn't scare him as much anymore. But what I realized, as I spoke the truth over Caiden, is that God not only knows I'm sad, but He hurts for me. And He doesn't even care that what I'm sad over isn't life-threatening or tragic or important to the masses. He cares because I do. And He, the Creator of the ENTIRE WORLD AND ITS BILLIONS OF PEOPLE! sings over me because He thinks I'm that great. Even if I am a little emotionally unstable lately.
It was a great moment. I lifted my eyes off my own feelings and caught a little glimpse of what it's going to be like in heaven--praising Somebody who is bigger than myself, yet still loves me tenderly. And despite still feeling sad, it took the edge off. I felt like I was going to make it. In that moment I remembered somebody wise telling me that when I'm sad, the best thing I can do is to praise God because it will have exactly that result. And it did. Except for the crying part. But I'm working on that.
My husband may protest, but I am typically a low-maintenance, cheerful girl. I am not easily offended, and I can usually go with the flow--whether it be a lazy river or a tidal wave, which is more typical at our house. I also have the ability to forgive at the speed of light. Like I said, I'm low-maintenance.
So that's why I've become a mystery to myself. I have been, in the last couple of weeks, on the verge of tears almost constantly. Generally I can move to the point of tears in less than sixty seconds--I'd make a great soap star if it weren't for the acting part--but that's reserved for things like sappy commercials, hysterical laughter, and really, really cute things the kids do. But this is different. I have been struggling with a pervasive feeling of sadness that no amount of Diet Coke (gasp!), chocolate, bubble baths, or really good novels can get rid of. Jesus and I have done a lot of talking about this, and I've come to the conclusion that He is teaching me something new and different through mourning. Something that I evidently have not learned yet, because it persists no matter what I do.
And I'd totally avoid telling you what I'm mourning, except that would be wrong. And besides, my mother would call me and want to know just what on earth was wrong with me, and so this is easier. So here it is: my sister, who has lived here for almost four years, is moving 1200 miles away in just a few weeks. See, even as I type the "1200 miles" part, I'm tearing up again! I'm hopeless.
Leslie and her husband Jeremy came here to Texas to pursue some education and career goals, and now that they've wrapped all that up, they're going back to Pennsylvania. And they're taking my baby nephew with them. And Blitz. Remember Blitz? The dog I let get impaled on my trampoline? Even their dog has memories for me. Yesterday I drove to Leslie's house and helped my mom pack up some of their things, and then it got too hard and I found myself spilling tears over bathroom decor and picture frames, and I drove myself back home. It's one thing to accept that Leslie's moving away; it's another entirely to facilitate the move. Besides, I doubt she wants her wedding photos washed with salt water.
I realize that we'll still have the phone, and email, and our blogs, but that's not the same as having her real, live self to meet at Starbucks or sit next to in church. It's not the same thing to see a picture of her son as it is to kiss his little cheeks myself. And her husband, Jeremy, is like another brother to me. It's not like Chris and I can drive 1200 miles one way to have dinner with them. So I'm mourning. And no matter what I do, or what I tell myself, or how many Bible verses I read, I still walk around my house and feel pinned under a quilt of despair.
Today I took the kids to Wal-Mart to do some grocery shopping, which can also make me feel loads of despair. This trip was remarkably painless, something that has to be penned down for posterity, and as I drove back home I sipped on a Diet Coke and gave myself a talking-to for still feeling so down. After all, if a quick trip to Wal-Mart and a cold Diet Coke can't shake the blues, there's no hope. My CD changer in the car switched to the next CD, and praise music poured over the speakers. I hollered back at Caiden, way back in the third row, to sing with me. He's always game. I turned the music up, and as the lyrics began, I shouted back explanations to him.
And then it happened.
I started crying again. But this time, it wasn't sadness, it was worship. As I tried to explain to Caiden that just like I sing over him each night, God also sings over each one of us, I found myself choking up. Caiden is quite used to this--I cry every time we finish a chapter book. Somehow that last page turning brings on some kind of emotion that gets me every time. So he knows Mama cries, and it doesn't scare him as much anymore. But what I realized, as I spoke the truth over Caiden, is that God not only knows I'm sad, but He hurts for me. And He doesn't even care that what I'm sad over isn't life-threatening or tragic or important to the masses. He cares because I do. And He, the Creator of the ENTIRE WORLD AND ITS BILLIONS OF PEOPLE! sings over me because He thinks I'm that great. Even if I am a little emotionally unstable lately.
It was a great moment. I lifted my eyes off my own feelings and caught a little glimpse of what it's going to be like in heaven--praising Somebody who is bigger than myself, yet still loves me tenderly. And despite still feeling sad, it took the edge off. I felt like I was going to make it. In that moment I remembered somebody wise telling me that when I'm sad, the best thing I can do is to praise God because it will have exactly that result. And it did. Except for the crying part. But I'm working on that.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Helping Hands
Sometimes I wonder how I, as a stay-at-home mom with three little ones, can make a tangible difference in other people's lives. I can't volunteer much, other than in the church nursery once a week. We've sponsored a child with Compassion, International before and loved it. And I take any new neighbors homemade cinnamon rolls. But outside of that, I have limited time/sleep/sanity right now to really reach out and help others outside of my four walls.
So when an opportunity like this comes along, I'm thrilled to be a part of something that will help, in a very tangible way, somebody else. Even by writing a post like this is a help, because I know my readers (You!) will have the opportunity to do the same. Any time I can help a fellow Christian, mother, woman who understands what life is like with a child with medical issues--I jump on it.
Heather left me a comment back when I had Addison that I'll never forget. Her daughter, Emma Grace, has a story that'll amaze, humble, hurt, and bless you. She has been through valleys like I've never known, only to praise God through it all. And now Heather, a mom of three, has an inoperable brain tumor. You can read more of her story when you link on over here. Today Boomama (no need for an introduction; I know y'all know who she is!) is hosting an opportunity to help Heather and her family in a very tangible way. Please take a minute out of your day to click over and read about it, then pray and see what you can do, too. Even if you think you can't help out at all, Heather asks for your prayers. God can do more with the prayers of the faithful than we know!
If you've been around here for any amount of time, you've probably noticed that I link to Ivey, Eliot, Ashley, and others in medical crises a lot. It's not just to pull at your heart strings or give you a good cry. (Although I'm a huge fan of the good cry.) It's because I know, as a mom who's been through a lot with her children over the last 5 1/2 years, what it means to have others pray for me and encourage me. I've had some contact with Eliot's parents, and more with Ashley's, and what never fails to amaze me is the loads of grace and faith each of them practically oozes. More often than not, I visit their sites with the intention of encouraging them, yet I'm the one walking away inspired and uplifted.
So if you, like me, are wondering how you can fill the long hours of a day with an infant, toddler, and preschooler with something more meaningful than a trip to Wal-Mart (a veritable scourge on my soul!), start clicking. You'll have the opportunity to give, to encourage, and to be inspired, all without getting up. That's pretty neat.
Have a happy Wednesday, friends!
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Southern Comfort
I'm going to let you in on a little secret: I'm not a true Southerner.
But oh, what I wouldn't give to be one! I'm still pining away to live in North Carolina or Georgia or maybe Eastern Tennessee. I love the Georgia accent so much I'm tempted to affect it anyway. I am, in my defense, the child of a native Southerner, and I've given birth to three Texans, and I married a true Southerner with long, hardy roots in the Southern soil. My husband can claim Tennessee, Alabama, and North Carolina to his credit, and his daddy's from Mississippi. So I'm close. If my Tennessee/Texas twang counts, I'll take it.
There's not much--not anything that I can think of at this moment--that I don't love about the South. Wait, I take that back. I can live without the humidity. But the sweet tea, front porches, fluffy biscuits and grits, and almost fanatical etiquette is something straight from heaven. And Southern women fascinate me. Especially older ones. My husband's Aunt Blanche, who is now enjoying sweet tea and tatting with the Lord in heaven, is my ultimate picture of a Southern woman. She was a delight. Aunt Blanche personified the word "lady." And after four years in Tennessee and almost nine in Texas, I truly love the South. I love it enough that I'm almost a true Southerner. Honorary Southerner, I guess.
In that vein, Boomama has a little Southern contest going on here. Even if you're not a true Southerner, or even an Honorary Southerner, go check it out. It'll make you laugh, or at least shake your head in confusion and wonder if you're from, say, North Dakota. (Not knocking North Dakota. I spent four years there. It was lovely, except for the whiteouts, raging windstorms and utter lack of trees.) So roll up your sleeves, adopt your best Southern sayings, and join the contest. The winner even gets a prize. Because Boomama is nothing if not a Southern lady, and she knows all contest winners need prizes. It's only good manners, after all.
Have a happy day, y'all! (I had to throw that in!)
But oh, what I wouldn't give to be one! I'm still pining away to live in North Carolina or Georgia or maybe Eastern Tennessee. I love the Georgia accent so much I'm tempted to affect it anyway. I am, in my defense, the child of a native Southerner, and I've given birth to three Texans, and I married a true Southerner with long, hardy roots in the Southern soil. My husband can claim Tennessee, Alabama, and North Carolina to his credit, and his daddy's from Mississippi. So I'm close. If my Tennessee/Texas twang counts, I'll take it.
There's not much--not anything that I can think of at this moment--that I don't love about the South. Wait, I take that back. I can live without the humidity. But the sweet tea, front porches, fluffy biscuits and grits, and almost fanatical etiquette is something straight from heaven. And Southern women fascinate me. Especially older ones. My husband's Aunt Blanche, who is now enjoying sweet tea and tatting with the Lord in heaven, is my ultimate picture of a Southern woman. She was a delight. Aunt Blanche personified the word "lady." And after four years in Tennessee and almost nine in Texas, I truly love the South. I love it enough that I'm almost a true Southerner. Honorary Southerner, I guess.
In that vein, Boomama has a little Southern contest going on here. Even if you're not a true Southerner, or even an Honorary Southerner, go check it out. It'll make you laugh, or at least shake your head in confusion and wonder if you're from, say, North Dakota. (Not knocking North Dakota. I spent four years there. It was lovely, except for the whiteouts, raging windstorms and utter lack of trees.) So roll up your sleeves, adopt your best Southern sayings, and join the contest. The winner even gets a prize. Because Boomama is nothing if not a Southern lady, and she knows all contest winners need prizes. It's only good manners, after all.
Have a happy day, y'all! (I had to throw that in!)
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Sunday, April 15th
"Trust in the Lord and do good;
Dwell in the land and feed on His faithfulness.
Delight yourself in the Lord;
And He will give you the desires of your heart.
Commit your way to the Lord,
Trust also in Him, and He will do it.
And He will bring forth your righteousness as the light,
And your judgment as the noonday."
Psalm 37:3-6
Dwell in the land and feed on His faithfulness.
Delight yourself in the Lord;
And He will give you the desires of your heart.
Commit your way to the Lord,
Trust also in Him, and He will do it.
And He will bring forth your righteousness as the light,
And your judgment as the noonday."
Psalm 37:3-6
My little heart's desire enjoying her first lollipop.Thursday, April 12, 2007
Sanity
(UPDATE BELOW)
It is fitting that today I read Beth Moore's post about life with young children. She writes about the desperate need for a real-life friend who has children the same age--I think she probably said something to the effect that we need that friend to encourage us, but today, I needed someone to commiserate with. No, that would be a lie. I need that friend everyday.
And praise be to the Giver of All Good Gifts, I have that real-life friend, and if she weren't at home wrestling her own infant and toddler into bath- and bedtime, I'd call Bridget and suggest we run away. I'm pretty sure she'd be game. Mama told me there'd be days like this. But I was only 10 and had no clue what that meant. Oh blissful ignorance.
Another friend of mine announced this week that she is pregnant with her first child. Congratulations were given around the table, all shouted by childless couples except us. There is nothing that screams sweet naivety like a woman pregnant with her first child. What I wanted to say was, “Hold on, sister! You are in for a wild ride! Enjoy your sanity while it lasts, because once that baby is born, you can kiss it goodbye!” But I came to my senses and said something cheery and encouraging, like, "Hooray for you! You are going to make a wonderful mother and love motherhood with every breath. Congratulations!" as I proceeded to cut my food into tiny, toddler-sized bites, forgetting that that my children were at home with the sitter.
Today I made a monumental mistake and I, as a veteran mother, should've known better. I took the kids to a plant nursery. We had a patio built this week, and I've been planning our patio containers for days. So this afternoon we headed to a nursery known for its beautiful selection of shade plants--a rarity in Texas--and I drove with bated breath. I imagined a lovely scenario of strolling with the cart and stroller by the ferns, ponds, and impatiens. I visualized bonding while discussing the difference between annuals and perennials with Caiden. I just knew this would be a beautiful, beautiful memory.
I am a dumb, dumb girl.
Somewhere between Addison's cart rolling down the hill with both the ferns and her carseat bobbing wildly over the rocks, and Grayson attempting to eat the leaves of poisonous plants on the wayside, I noticed a child—a naughty, naughty child--careening wildly on a plant cart down the brick lane straight into the path of a collection of expensive exotic plants and a $2500 stone fountain. Where was his mother? Oh, right. I am his mother. He crashed, and while I waited to see if the fountain would hold fast or shatter into thousands of expensive pieces, I analyzed whether or not I could run away fast enough to escape detection from the owners of the nursery.
I scrapped the running away idea in time to save his life while letting him know in no uncertain terms that if he ever did that again I'd ship him to Uzbekistan. At the same time I had to hold onto him with one leg to keep him from flying down the remainder of the garden path and at the same time use my other leg to stop Addison's plant-laden cart from flying down the hill. I looked like Inspector Gadget—Go go gadget legs!—as I stretched out and used all my weight to keep either child from racing down the hill into the pond and ferns below. Grayson, bless his heart, was paralyzed with fascination in his little umbrella stroller and going nowhere. If he'd decided to start rolling, I'm afraid I'd still be picking up his pieces.
The nursery workers pretended not to notice our spectacle, and after I brushed us off, I paid and left. By then the picture of Caiden sledding down the hill towards certain death and ultra-expensive "You break it you buy it" fate struck me as slightly hilarious. But I promise you by all things holy that I did not crack a smile. There is no need to encourage Caiden. He'll just do it again, and this time the fountain will not only crack, but it will have been marked up to $5000.
While driving home, surrounded by plants and wailing, hungry children, I asked myself a crucial question: Was it worth it?
I'll let you know after I plant the containers.
I tried calling Bridget, but she didn’t answer, and I felt supremely disappointed. She is my go-to girl. She understands the insanity of taking a 2 1/2 year old and infant to Wal-Mart on a Sunday afternoon. She gets what it’s like to break out into a literal sweat from carting everybody and their bags into church. And that’s in the winter. She has juggled cooking dinner while overseeing bathtime, bedtime, and a phone call from her mother-in-law all at once. She knows what it’s like to get up from the dinner table 19 times in one meal to serve the others who are blissfully eating, uninterrupted.
Bridget is a mother. And on afternoons like this, when I realize every shred of sanity I once had has clearly been obliterated by giving birth—why else would I brave a hilly nursery with three small children at dinnertime?—the only earthly person who can offer me sympathy, encouragement, and perspective is somebody who’s been there, done that, and hasn't come through unscathed. I don’t want to be friends with somebody who makes juggling children look like a cake-walk. I want somebody who sweats and struggles and cries and loses her temper and relies heavily on Jesus and Diet Coke to get her through.
I think that’s what Beth meant. Because although her children are grown, there’s no way she came through raising them unscathed, either. And someday, when my own children are off and raising little ones, and I’m enjoying days with no disciplining, no diapers, and no disasters, I’m going to heave a big sigh of relief and thank the good Lord above for Bridget. Because if there’s anything that makes this load called motherhood lighter, it’s a best friend to share it with.
UPDATE: I planted the pots last night in the moonless dark. It was quiet, the potting soil smelled like summer rain, and I was utterly alone. For even just that moment, it was worth it. But this morning when I woke up and saw how beautiful the containers look on the patio, it was doubly worth it. However--I won't be doing it again anytime soon. I do have a tiny shred of sanity left.
It is fitting that today I read Beth Moore's post about life with young children. She writes about the desperate need for a real-life friend who has children the same age--I think she probably said something to the effect that we need that friend to encourage us, but today, I needed someone to commiserate with. No, that would be a lie. I need that friend everyday.
And praise be to the Giver of All Good Gifts, I have that real-life friend, and if she weren't at home wrestling her own infant and toddler into bath- and bedtime, I'd call Bridget and suggest we run away. I'm pretty sure she'd be game. Mama told me there'd be days like this. But I was only 10 and had no clue what that meant. Oh blissful ignorance.
Another friend of mine announced this week that she is pregnant with her first child. Congratulations were given around the table, all shouted by childless couples except us. There is nothing that screams sweet naivety like a woman pregnant with her first child. What I wanted to say was, “Hold on, sister! You are in for a wild ride! Enjoy your sanity while it lasts, because once that baby is born, you can kiss it goodbye!” But I came to my senses and said something cheery and encouraging, like, "Hooray for you! You are going to make a wonderful mother and love motherhood with every breath. Congratulations!" as I proceeded to cut my food into tiny, toddler-sized bites, forgetting that that my children were at home with the sitter.
Today I made a monumental mistake and I, as a veteran mother, should've known better. I took the kids to a plant nursery. We had a patio built this week, and I've been planning our patio containers for days. So this afternoon we headed to a nursery known for its beautiful selection of shade plants--a rarity in Texas--and I drove with bated breath. I imagined a lovely scenario of strolling with the cart and stroller by the ferns, ponds, and impatiens. I visualized bonding while discussing the difference between annuals and perennials with Caiden. I just knew this would be a beautiful, beautiful memory.
I am a dumb, dumb girl.
Somewhere between Addison's cart rolling down the hill with both the ferns and her carseat bobbing wildly over the rocks, and Grayson attempting to eat the leaves of poisonous plants on the wayside, I noticed a child—a naughty, naughty child--careening wildly on a plant cart down the brick lane straight into the path of a collection of expensive exotic plants and a $2500 stone fountain. Where was his mother? Oh, right. I am his mother. He crashed, and while I waited to see if the fountain would hold fast or shatter into thousands of expensive pieces, I analyzed whether or not I could run away fast enough to escape detection from the owners of the nursery.
I scrapped the running away idea in time to save his life while letting him know in no uncertain terms that if he ever did that again I'd ship him to Uzbekistan. At the same time I had to hold onto him with one leg to keep him from flying down the remainder of the garden path and at the same time use my other leg to stop Addison's plant-laden cart from flying down the hill. I looked like Inspector Gadget—Go go gadget legs!—as I stretched out and used all my weight to keep either child from racing down the hill into the pond and ferns below. Grayson, bless his heart, was paralyzed with fascination in his little umbrella stroller and going nowhere. If he'd decided to start rolling, I'm afraid I'd still be picking up his pieces.
The nursery workers pretended not to notice our spectacle, and after I brushed us off, I paid and left. By then the picture of Caiden sledding down the hill towards certain death and ultra-expensive "You break it you buy it" fate struck me as slightly hilarious. But I promise you by all things holy that I did not crack a smile. There is no need to encourage Caiden. He'll just do it again, and this time the fountain will not only crack, but it will have been marked up to $5000.
While driving home, surrounded by plants and wailing, hungry children, I asked myself a crucial question: Was it worth it?
I'll let you know after I plant the containers.
I tried calling Bridget, but she didn’t answer, and I felt supremely disappointed. She is my go-to girl. She understands the insanity of taking a 2 1/2 year old and infant to Wal-Mart on a Sunday afternoon. She gets what it’s like to break out into a literal sweat from carting everybody and their bags into church. And that’s in the winter. She has juggled cooking dinner while overseeing bathtime, bedtime, and a phone call from her mother-in-law all at once. She knows what it’s like to get up from the dinner table 19 times in one meal to serve the others who are blissfully eating, uninterrupted.
Bridget is a mother. And on afternoons like this, when I realize every shred of sanity I once had has clearly been obliterated by giving birth—why else would I brave a hilly nursery with three small children at dinnertime?—the only earthly person who can offer me sympathy, encouragement, and perspective is somebody who’s been there, done that, and hasn't come through unscathed. I don’t want to be friends with somebody who makes juggling children look like a cake-walk. I want somebody who sweats and struggles and cries and loses her temper and relies heavily on Jesus and Diet Coke to get her through.
I think that’s what Beth meant. Because although her children are grown, there’s no way she came through raising them unscathed, either. And someday, when my own children are off and raising little ones, and I’m enjoying days with no disciplining, no diapers, and no disasters, I’m going to heave a big sigh of relief and thank the good Lord above for Bridget. Because if there’s anything that makes this load called motherhood lighter, it’s a best friend to share it with.
UPDATE: I planted the pots last night in the moonless dark. It was quiet, the potting soil smelled like summer rain, and I was utterly alone. For even just that moment, it was worth it. But this morning when I woke up and saw how beautiful the containers look on the patio, it was doubly worth it. However--I won't be doing it again anytime soon. I do have a tiny shred of sanity left.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
He Should Be Scared. Very, Very Scared.
Today is my blog's birthday, if there is such a thing. And in thinking back on this past year with The Blawg, I realize two things: it takes time and can sometimes be a pain, but I love it. It's sort of like a child in that sense. And the second is this: I post about poop a lot.
And so, even though the babysitter is going to be here in 25 minutes and my hair is still wet, I'm going to write this, in honor of my dear blog. Actually, this is not an original post; it's a copy of an email I sent my husband today.
Dear Chris,
When we had sweet Caiden and he was a tiny baby, he threw up. A lot. You remember: projectile vomiting that made him appear to be a creature from the movie Alien. Our twill couches just couldn't hold up to all the spewing.
And so, heeding your great taste, we purchased our lovely leather couch. And it truly was lovely, until we had sweet Grayson. Who also threw up. A lot. Except that his throwing up wasn't projectile as much as it was persistent. Those ten months of my right shoulder smelling like vomit would now be nothing but a sweet, sweet memory if it weren't for the fact that his aim was also perfect--straight for the couch, which holds evidence of his skillful aim.
And now that we have purchased our lovely leather armchair, it is only fitting that it, too, should be christened. Perfect, stain-free leather is highly overrated, right?
But here's where you should be scared: Addison does not throw up. She does not spit up. And she does not drool. (Oh blessed baby!) So you know it's not regurgitated breast milk that is on the seat of your chair today.
Click on the picture I've attached to see what your favorite leather chair has been blessed with this afternoon.
And just remember: you can't kill Grayson, and you can't give him away. The chair is replaceable, the child is not.
See you tonight! :-)
Sarah
For all of you who are holding your breath wondering what, exactly, is on the seat of Chris' favorite leather armchair, I'll give you a hint: I post about poop a lot.
Thanks for a fun year, friends!
And so, even though the babysitter is going to be here in 25 minutes and my hair is still wet, I'm going to write this, in honor of my dear blog. Actually, this is not an original post; it's a copy of an email I sent my husband today.
Dear Chris,
When we had sweet Caiden and he was a tiny baby, he threw up. A lot. You remember: projectile vomiting that made him appear to be a creature from the movie Alien. Our twill couches just couldn't hold up to all the spewing.
And so, heeding your great taste, we purchased our lovely leather couch. And it truly was lovely, until we had sweet Grayson. Who also threw up. A lot. Except that his throwing up wasn't projectile as much as it was persistent. Those ten months of my right shoulder smelling like vomit would now be nothing but a sweet, sweet memory if it weren't for the fact that his aim was also perfect--straight for the couch, which holds evidence of his skillful aim.
And now that we have purchased our lovely leather armchair, it is only fitting that it, too, should be christened. Perfect, stain-free leather is highly overrated, right?
But here's where you should be scared: Addison does not throw up. She does not spit up. And she does not drool. (Oh blessed baby!) So you know it's not regurgitated breast milk that is on the seat of your chair today.
Click on the picture I've attached to see what your favorite leather chair has been blessed with this afternoon.
And just remember: you can't kill Grayson, and you can't give him away. The chair is replaceable, the child is not.
See you tonight! :-)
Sarah
For all of you who are holding your breath wondering what, exactly, is on the seat of Chris' favorite leather armchair, I'll give you a hint: I post about poop a lot.
Thanks for a fun year, friends!
Monday, April 09, 2007
Jumping Hurdles
If you want to know what I'm talking about, you might need to start here. Otherwise, you'll be confused, and I'll just sound crazy.
So I was saying the other day that I've had a run of unfortunate events. Last Tuesday we started with sandbox woes, mildew in the walls, and carpet pulled up unnecessarily. At midnight, when we were tearing out even more of the wall and wearing masks while bleaching the wall studs, the smoke alarms started going off. There's nothing like inhaling bleach fumes mixed with a trace hint of mildew while having your hearing damaged. While sleep-deprived. We decided the alarms were being tripped by the dying battery in our house alarm and disconnected the power to the main alarm. It worked. The house was silent.
We called it a night (Oh woeful naivety!) and hauled our pillows upstairs to the bonus room to sleep on the L-shaped, super-skinny couch. Our heads met at the crux of the L, and I think I made some asinine statement like, "Oh, this is fun! It's like a slumber party in our own house!" We watched a re-run of Planet Earth and drifted off, only to be awakened by piercing, screaming sirens at 3:21 a.m. And for some reason, this time the alarms didn't stop. They wailed. They shrieked. They mocked the fact that the rest of the neighbors were asleep in their beds while we were tripping downstairs and holding our ears and hollering, "What in the Sam Hill are these stupid alarms going off for?!?" All three kids woke up, and while I sent them back to their rooms, Chris succeeded in yanking out the batteries of all 98 alarms in our house.
And you know what? Those stupid alarms kept going off.
Then he yanked the alarms from their bases in the ceiling and handed them to me.
And you know what happened then? Those stupid alarms kept going off. Now, however, they were beeping and humming and remininding me eerily of the movie Gremlins. I carried the creepy things out to the car and unceremoniously dumped them in the car seat and slammed the door.
We trudged back upstairs, crammed our pillows over our heads and tried not to think about the fact that we were now without any alarm systems at all in the house. By this time, I was wide awake and planning Addison's birthday party in my head. I should've gotten up and cleaned a bathroom or two. Not five minutes later, I heard a "scraaaaaatch" against the wall by my head. There was something in the attic.
Chris and I listened intently to the screeching and scratching, and I grinned a delirious, slightly-crazed smile. "Of course we have an animal in the attic. What kind of fun would this night be if we didn't?" He pulled the pillow over his head and muttered, "Let it die in there. I don't care. I'm not getting up again until morning."
I fell asleep pondering whether a bird in the attic would die before it pooped all over the Christmas ornaments. Of course not. We're not lucky like that.
The next morning the sun shone and the day was full of promise. But not here. I woke up to a 6 foot by 3 foot section missing from my bedroom wall, beeping smoke detectors in my front seat, bags under my eyes, and the smell of mildew emanating from the general direction of my bedroom.
When it rains, it pours.
And, evidently, then the mildew grows.
I'd like to have a fun, snazzy little wrap-up for this story, except that a week later I still have a 6x3 foot hole in my wall, mildew is still stinking up my bedroom, and there are smoke detectors hanging out in my garage. In fact, the only positive note I can think of is that the bird in the attic either died a quick, odor-free death or flew away, knowing better than to land here. We're a ticking time bomb.
On a happy note . . . never mind. I can't think of one. Without a resolution in sight, I'm getting used to sleeping on a bed smack-dab in the middle of a bedroom that's missing carpet against the whole back wall. It seems normal to have masks and goggles and a Wet-Dry Vac as part of the bedroom decor. Even the smell of mildew doesn't seem quite so bad. I'm getting used to the madness.
I did ponder on Philippians 4:6-7 today while driving alone in my car: "Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will protect your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus." I lifted up my palms and handed over my finances, family, friends, fitness, and fungus. (I was on a roll with the alliteration, something an English major never fails to find delight in.) And as I drove down the road, I realized that there is always going to be something frustrating, discouraging, or difficult in my path. That's likely true for everybody, but it's especially true for me. I seem to invite disaster. I don't get to choose whether or not hurdles litter my path. But I can choose whether to jump over the hurdle while trusting God to handle it with me, or to just sit down and cry.
Today, I decided to jump. And while I'm still shaky on the thankful part, I can testify that I have a peace tonight that transcends all understanding, even my own. God's good like that.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Hamster
We brought home a hamster for Caiden for Easter. Evidently this is a widespread trend, because Chris had to go to four pet stores to find one that had babies. He called the last one before driving to it, and he said the guy who answered thought it was a prank call. "Hello, do you have hamsters?" He said "Sure." Chris said, "Yeah, but do you have them right now?" "Yes." "Okay, but do you have them right now, in your store?" "Yes." "And are they for sale?" I'm surprised the guy didn't hang up.
He brought the hamster home, and of course we captured the moment on camera. Caiden stood at the door, hands outstretched and eyes closed, and Chris opened the lid of the box. Caiden peered in, exclaimed, "Oh, a pet! Hooray!" Then he wrinkled his eyebrows and glanced up. "What is it?" We put together the hamster's home, fed him, and sat around his cage, fascinated with the rodent's every move.
"We need to name him, Caiden."
"Okay, but I'll need help." And so it began. Every name choice I suggested, he shot down with reasoning that eventually made my head hurt. After I'd exhausted every normal hamster name I could think of, I branched out and got creative:
"What about Easter?" "No, too Easter-y."
"How about Hammy?" "No, too Eggs and Hammy. He might be scared he'll turn into breakfast."
"How about Sam?" "No, that reminds me of my buddy Sam." (The "buddy" Caiden only sees once every three years.)
"Sammy?" "No, silly, that's the same thing."
"Do you like Happy?" "No, too much like Happy Feet. He might think he's a penguin."
"Saturday?" "No, it might remind him of the day we took him from his old home."
"Friendly?" "No. It's too friendly. Because he's so cute. Hey, just go to Petco.com and see what his name was there. We can name him the same thing. I do like the name Comby though. And I really like the name Floam."
"Lucky?" "No, too lucky."
Then, in a moment of inspiration, he exclaimed, "Hey! I know what to name him! I'll name him Hamster!"
Why didn't I think of that?
He ran off, to "talk to him about that," after I re-suggested the name "Hammy," which could be short for "Hamster," as opposed to "Green Eggs and Ham." When he came back, I asked him if the hamster liked the proposed name. "I don't know. He was just eating."
"Well, how are you going to know if he likes the name?" "I don't know."
Who would've guessed it would be harder naming the hamster than any of our children? We're probably spending valuable brain power thinking of a name for a rodent that'll live a whole six months. Yeah, I know the lifespan is considerably longer, but nothing makes it long in this house. The kids are all still alive, and our marriage is going strong, but everything else is a crapshoot. So to speak. I realize that those of you who actually know me are shaking your heads in disgust. I know. I caved in to another pet suggestion after vehemently stating we were never getting another animal, fish, or fowl again. But really. Chris swears he and Caiden will clean the cage. Caiden promises to feed him. And all I have to do is keep Grayson out of Caiden's room, so he doesn't kill the hamster with toddler love and kindness. I think we can manage that.
I think.
Of course, at this rate, the hamster will never even have a name, so in the event of his untimely (yet highly likely) demise, maybe we won't feel so bad.
Have I mentioned we might get a cat for Christmas?
He brought the hamster home, and of course we captured the moment on camera. Caiden stood at the door, hands outstretched and eyes closed, and Chris opened the lid of the box. Caiden peered in, exclaimed, "Oh, a pet! Hooray!" Then he wrinkled his eyebrows and glanced up. "What is it?" We put together the hamster's home, fed him, and sat around his cage, fascinated with the rodent's every move.
"We need to name him, Caiden."
"Okay, but I'll need help." And so it began. Every name choice I suggested, he shot down with reasoning that eventually made my head hurt. After I'd exhausted every normal hamster name I could think of, I branched out and got creative:
"What about Easter?" "No, too Easter-y."
"How about Hammy?" "No, too Eggs and Hammy. He might be scared he'll turn into breakfast."
"How about Sam?" "No, that reminds me of my buddy Sam." (The "buddy" Caiden only sees once every three years.)
"Sammy?" "No, silly, that's the same thing."
"Do you like Happy?" "No, too much like Happy Feet. He might think he's a penguin."
"Saturday?" "No, it might remind him of the day we took him from his old home."
"Friendly?" "No. It's too friendly. Because he's so cute. Hey, just go to Petco.com and see what his name was there. We can name him the same thing. I do like the name Comby though. And I really like the name Floam."
"Lucky?" "No, too lucky."
Then, in a moment of inspiration, he exclaimed, "Hey! I know what to name him! I'll name him Hamster!"
Why didn't I think of that?
He ran off, to "talk to him about that," after I re-suggested the name "Hammy," which could be short for "Hamster," as opposed to "Green Eggs and Ham." When he came back, I asked him if the hamster liked the proposed name. "I don't know. He was just eating."
"Well, how are you going to know if he likes the name?" "I don't know."
Who would've guessed it would be harder naming the hamster than any of our children? We're probably spending valuable brain power thinking of a name for a rodent that'll live a whole six months. Yeah, I know the lifespan is considerably longer, but nothing makes it long in this house. The kids are all still alive, and our marriage is going strong, but everything else is a crapshoot. So to speak. I realize that those of you who actually know me are shaking your heads in disgust. I know. I caved in to another pet suggestion after vehemently stating we were never getting another animal, fish, or fowl again. But really. Chris swears he and Caiden will clean the cage. Caiden promises to feed him. And all I have to do is keep Grayson out of Caiden's room, so he doesn't kill the hamster with toddler love and kindness. I think we can manage that.
I think.
Of course, at this rate, the hamster will never even have a name, so in the event of his untimely (yet highly likely) demise, maybe we won't feel so bad.
Have I mentioned we might get a cat for Christmas?
Thursday, April 05, 2007
The Sandbox
I didn't actually play in it; I was already a teenager when we got it. But I vividly remember the sandbox from growing up. When I was in the sixth grade, we moved into a rambling, old house that had an equally old and rambling yard. The house was perched on the corner of three streets--one in front and one on each side, so our address was Five South Mill Street. There weren't any other houses on that side of the street, and it has always puzzled me why we weren't One.
The yard was a full acre, which is amazing to me now that I live in typical suburbia, on a postage stamp-sized lot. It was a fantastic yard. Ghost in the Graveyard could be played by a whole herd of junior high kids, all in our one yard, it was so big. The sycamore and crabapple trees were ancient and huge. We played croquet games in the side yard, where the trampoline was. Football games were played on the back lawn, by the walnut tree I hated with my whole heart. The inner back yard, though, was fenced in and had a huge patio and flower bed the size of a swimming pool. My parents always joked that we had a flower bed instead of a pool. We lived in Southern Illinois, where the humidity is at about 98% most of the year, and I never thought that was funny.
Next to the patio was a sandbox my mom made my dad build. It was also enormous, big enough for several little boys or one little boy and a big dog. My brother Danny and our golden retriever, Lindy, spent afternoons out there digging. Danny was smart; he'd have Lindy dig out the holes, which he'd then fill right back up with his construction trucks. Every once in a while he'd find a little cat treat in the sand, undoubtedly left by one of our roaming cats. From the kitchen window I could look out and see the entire backyard, with Danny and Lindy flinging sand, both filthy and happy. Good memories, that sandbox.
I hate that sandbox now.
Last summer we were sequestered for weeks on end because Addison was too fragile medically for us to go anywhere with people. That kind of limits us, seeing as we live in a major metroplex. I faced an entire summer with a newborn, a 19 month old, and a 4 1/2 year old, and nowhere to go to divert the boundless energy. Theirs, not mine. So I reminisced about that wonderful yard, its giant shade trees, and the sandbox that entertained little boys for hours. And I went to Home Depot and bought a plastic one. I hauled the sand, filled it up, and sicced my boys on it. They loved it, for about 10 minutes at a time. The fire ants loved it even more, and by the end of summer it was virtually forgotten, shoved up against the house and taken over by the fiery devils.
The other day I was lying in bed smelling a smell. A forgotten wet towel or hidden dirty diaper smell. Chris and I investigated, pulling up the dust ruffle, shoving past bins of stored clothes, looking for any obvious source of the stench. We decided it was the carpet behind the bed, and when we smelled the carpet, a definite odor wafted up. I thought it was odd at the time--but not enough to do anything about it--that the outlet in the wall smelled terrible, too. If only foreshadowing were so obvious in real life as it is in English class.
After a few days we couldn't take it anymore. Chris did more investigating, which was when I began to be in Big Trouble. Evidently a sandbox pushed up against a house, an abandoned ant mound the size of a small child, and a torrential downpour equal water damage. He pulled up the carpet, which I thought was bad enough, to discover that the carpet didn't smell. It was in the wall.
Fortunately for me, I had to leave. Bridget and I had plans to meet at Chili's and work on Addison's birthday party, while Chris stayed home with a hammer and exacto knife and attacked the wall. When I came home the room smelled bad enough to make me sway, and the sight of my formerly-intact wall did, too. After scouring the Internet for ways to tackle mildew in the walls, we found what we thought was a good plan and dug in. Donning masks we scrubbed down the studs with bleach and threw away all the insulation and sheetrock Chris had removed. We opened the windows, turned on the fans, and shut the door behind us, hopeful.
Let me tell you hope does not disappoint only if it's rooted in Christ. Hope rooted in bleach disappoints. In a big way.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Before I discovered the utter failure of bleach to rid the room of mildew, we suffered through multiple fire alarms, an unseen visitor in the attic, sleeping on narrow couches, and children squealing in the night. It's the stuff of another Lemony Snicket novel. Except it's true life, and it's not nearly as fun when it happens to me. And darn it, it seems to happen to me often.
That, however, is the rest of the story.
Which I will tell tomorrow.
The yard was a full acre, which is amazing to me now that I live in typical suburbia, on a postage stamp-sized lot. It was a fantastic yard. Ghost in the Graveyard could be played by a whole herd of junior high kids, all in our one yard, it was so big. The sycamore and crabapple trees were ancient and huge. We played croquet games in the side yard, where the trampoline was. Football games were played on the back lawn, by the walnut tree I hated with my whole heart. The inner back yard, though, was fenced in and had a huge patio and flower bed the size of a swimming pool. My parents always joked that we had a flower bed instead of a pool. We lived in Southern Illinois, where the humidity is at about 98% most of the year, and I never thought that was funny.
Next to the patio was a sandbox my mom made my dad build. It was also enormous, big enough for several little boys or one little boy and a big dog. My brother Danny and our golden retriever, Lindy, spent afternoons out there digging. Danny was smart; he'd have Lindy dig out the holes, which he'd then fill right back up with his construction trucks. Every once in a while he'd find a little cat treat in the sand, undoubtedly left by one of our roaming cats. From the kitchen window I could look out and see the entire backyard, with Danny and Lindy flinging sand, both filthy and happy. Good memories, that sandbox.
I hate that sandbox now.
Last summer we were sequestered for weeks on end because Addison was too fragile medically for us to go anywhere with people. That kind of limits us, seeing as we live in a major metroplex. I faced an entire summer with a newborn, a 19 month old, and a 4 1/2 year old, and nowhere to go to divert the boundless energy. Theirs, not mine. So I reminisced about that wonderful yard, its giant shade trees, and the sandbox that entertained little boys for hours. And I went to Home Depot and bought a plastic one. I hauled the sand, filled it up, and sicced my boys on it. They loved it, for about 10 minutes at a time. The fire ants loved it even more, and by the end of summer it was virtually forgotten, shoved up against the house and taken over by the fiery devils.
The other day I was lying in bed smelling a smell. A forgotten wet towel or hidden dirty diaper smell. Chris and I investigated, pulling up the dust ruffle, shoving past bins of stored clothes, looking for any obvious source of the stench. We decided it was the carpet behind the bed, and when we smelled the carpet, a definite odor wafted up. I thought it was odd at the time--but not enough to do anything about it--that the outlet in the wall smelled terrible, too. If only foreshadowing were so obvious in real life as it is in English class.
After a few days we couldn't take it anymore. Chris did more investigating, which was when I began to be in Big Trouble. Evidently a sandbox pushed up against a house, an abandoned ant mound the size of a small child, and a torrential downpour equal water damage. He pulled up the carpet, which I thought was bad enough, to discover that the carpet didn't smell. It was in the wall.
Fortunately for me, I had to leave. Bridget and I had plans to meet at Chili's and work on Addison's birthday party, while Chris stayed home with a hammer and exacto knife and attacked the wall. When I came home the room smelled bad enough to make me sway, and the sight of my formerly-intact wall did, too. After scouring the Internet for ways to tackle mildew in the walls, we found what we thought was a good plan and dug in. Donning masks we scrubbed down the studs with bleach and threw away all the insulation and sheetrock Chris had removed. We opened the windows, turned on the fans, and shut the door behind us, hopeful.
Let me tell you hope does not disappoint only if it's rooted in Christ. Hope rooted in bleach disappoints. In a big way.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Before I discovered the utter failure of bleach to rid the room of mildew, we suffered through multiple fire alarms, an unseen visitor in the attic, sleeping on narrow couches, and children squealing in the night. It's the stuff of another Lemony Snicket novel. Except it's true life, and it's not nearly as fun when it happens to me. And darn it, it seems to happen to me often.
That, however, is the rest of the story.
Which I will tell tomorrow.
A Chicken Sans Its Head
I opened my laptop this morning to find out that I've been given the Thinking Blogger Award--by three of you! Thank you so much!
And oh, ladies, am I ever thinking! Thinking that I probably shouldn't buy the cookies if I'm going to eat 13 in one sitting . . . thinking of whether I'm crazy enough to brave the post office with all three kids today . . . thinking whether we have enough clean underwear that I can get away with not doing laundry . . . thinking it would be funny if I got pulled over today, while all the smoke alarms from the house are in my front seat (There's a story--I will tell it.) . . . thinking that my bedroom really doesn't look that great with a huge hole in the wall (Again--a future story) . . .
I have a post to write, but between holes in the wall, alarms in the car, invitations to be mailed, children to love and feed, and my own teeth to brush, it's going to have to be later today. If I can get my thoughts together. I'm trying to plan my daughter's first birthday party, which is a story entirely in itself, as well as get ready for our patio build job next week, bake something delicious to take to my sister's for Easter. Oh, and Easter! My children need Easter outfits pulled together, not to mention my own self. (What on earth am I going to wear???)
As you can see, I'm a little scattered. Actually, I'm usually a little scattered, but I generally pull it off better than I am this week. I'm not stressed, despite the hole, the scratching in the attic, the lack of Easter attire, or the invitations that need to be sent now. Not stressed, just scattered. So instead of sitting here with a coffee mug and my laptop (Which sounds like heaven), I'm going to get dressed and take the kids to the post office, and then to Home Depot if I can stand it.
Fun times, here at the In the Midst of It house! And while I'm running errands, I'm going to be thinking of the five bloggers I'll be awarding the Thinking Blogger Award to. See you tonight! :-)
And oh, ladies, am I ever thinking! Thinking that I probably shouldn't buy the cookies if I'm going to eat 13 in one sitting . . . thinking of whether I'm crazy enough to brave the post office with all three kids today . . . thinking whether we have enough clean underwear that I can get away with not doing laundry . . . thinking it would be funny if I got pulled over today, while all the smoke alarms from the house are in my front seat (There's a story--I will tell it.) . . . thinking that my bedroom really doesn't look that great with a huge hole in the wall (Again--a future story) . . .
I have a post to write, but between holes in the wall, alarms in the car, invitations to be mailed, children to love and feed, and my own teeth to brush, it's going to have to be later today. If I can get my thoughts together. I'm trying to plan my daughter's first birthday party, which is a story entirely in itself, as well as get ready for our patio build job next week, bake something delicious to take to my sister's for Easter. Oh, and Easter! My children need Easter outfits pulled together, not to mention my own self. (What on earth am I going to wear???)
As you can see, I'm a little scattered. Actually, I'm usually a little scattered, but I generally pull it off better than I am this week. I'm not stressed, despite the hole, the scratching in the attic, the lack of Easter attire, or the invitations that need to be sent now. Not stressed, just scattered. So instead of sitting here with a coffee mug and my laptop (Which sounds like heaven), I'm going to get dressed and take the kids to the post office, and then to Home Depot if I can stand it.
Fun times, here at the In the Midst of It house! And while I'm running errands, I'm going to be thinking of the five bloggers I'll be awarding the Thinking Blogger Award to. See you tonight! :-)
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
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