Livin' in a Fishbowl

Broken?

2012-01-30T15:08:00.000-07:00

You want to know what happened today with Matthew? I took him to the doctor. The doctor took the splint off and...

Wait. First, I have another giveaway going on over at Givin' In A Fishbowl. It's for 25 dollars worth of Sam's Club cards. But you can use them at Walmart also. Or at walmart.com or at samsclub.com so there's really no excuse not to go enter. Unless, of course, you're one of those people who boycott Sam's and Walmart. I'm not one of those people. I have a Walmart a mile from my house. It makes me happy.

So. Matthew. But did you go over to my other blog and enter? Go ahead. Do it. I'll wait for you.

Because who doesn't like free money? Unless you're raising your hand, head over and enter already.

Okay. As for Matthew. The doctor took the splint off and Matthew started limping toward me and saying, "It hurt. It hurt." The doctor said that he was going to order an Xray but that he would cast it regardless. He said that it was very likely a toddler fracture and he may or may not be able to see it on the image. When we got ready to leave, Matthew (the same Matthew who is generally terrified of any new adult and who generally clings to me with wild, crazy eyes if I so much as make him look at a stranger) reached his arms out for the doctor and started crying about not wanting to leave. I can't figure this kid out sometimes. When we got to the hospital, I set Matthew down to check him in and that's when he started running (RUNNING!) around the office. The limp from before, it was almost nonexistent. Still, I paid--probably a boat load of money but that remains to be seen--to have two images taken. Then I carted the kid back to his pediatrician's office.

The doctor looked at the images.

He looked at Matthew who was galloping, leaping, scaling chairs, laughing, squawking, and not crying, limping or complaining, and said, "I think we can hold off on the cast."

Yeah, you think?

It's not broken. At least, not that anyone can see or fathom based on how he's acting.

"What do you think was wrong last week?" I asked.

He shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe he just tweaked it. Or bruised it."

But it isn't broken. So you should go over to my other blog and enter the giveaway to celebrate.

Enough

2012-01-29T17:08:00.000-07:00

There are days when I feel like, aside from the overwhelming love of God, I'm being held together by Scotch tape and a dab, here and there, of Elmer's glue. Days when relief comes and I unwind quickly--like a kid who twisted 'round and 'round on a park swing--unaware of the fact that I'd been holding my breath. The exhale is verbose and, when my lungs deflate, it becomes painfully clear that I was falling apart. I apply the glue and the tape, put on my combat boots and keep walking.

See, sometimes God doesn't answer prayers exactly the way we want Him to.

But sometimes He does.

Naively, I thought the fear would disappear once the judge made us an official family. I didn't realize it was an offering I'd have to make on an almost daily basis. "Here, Lord, take this anxiety. It's ugly. It stings and aches and wraps its deceptive fingers around my throat. It isn't much but you can have it." Then, when I foolishly think He isn't looking, I creep up to the altar and take it back. For this reason, I've had to bring a sleeping bag straight into the Holy of Holies. I mostly live there now, practicing a tug of war between who I want to be and what I am. If I walked away, I'd bring the cold, choking fingers of anxiety with me because I'm codependent like that.

I live, almost every day, clinging to the hope that I'm doing right by him. In the deepest part of my marrow, he is my son. My heart knows no distinction between the two boys who call me mommy. But in my head I carry the pressure of transracial adoption. I swim around in a cloud of confusion wondering if faith and love will be enough. I tell him his story. He doesn't ask questions because he's two.

I've told it so many times the knees are almost worn through. He used to insist, almost angrily, that he was in my tummy. I explained quietly that he was formed in his mother's body and that she loves him very much. Now he says, "I in her tummy. I in your heart." The other day, out of nowhere, he looked at me with his deep chocolate eyes and added, "You were in my heart, mommy!" I couldn't swallow the lump that lodged in my throat. Tears leaked from my eyes as I pulled him into my chest. For now, what we are is enough.

But the weight sits on my chest like an elephant in the room. I will teach this child about slavery, emancipation, and segregation. The daunting task of the white woman teaching the brown boy about his history is not lost on me. I will teach this child that he has four parents and that the situation is and was...complicated. To use a word that grossly understates the details. How I instruct him, guide him, and love him will have to be redefined with passing seasons. But I will do these things and I will do them from the foot of the altar, in the protective shadow of my Savior's instruction, guidance and love.

And every day that goes by where we are simply we--and it it enough--is a day of answered prayer.

My Theory

2012-01-28T17:01:00.000-07:00

Well, I think we've cracked the mystery of what happened to Matthew. We don't know yet if it's broken--and won't until Monday--but we've likely discovered the cause of whatever it is that ails him.

Yesterday, with full splint on, Matthew jumped four stairs. He started one stair short of the kitchen and leaped to the family room. Four stairs. In a splint. With a probable broken leg. He gets this from his brother who will climb up anything and jump off everything.

So here is my theory. I think Matthew jumped down the flight of stairs. He's done it before and I've told him, every time I've seen him do it, "Stop. You're going to break your leg." Sometimes I throw in neck in place of leg. You know, to mix things up. Thankfully, the way it played out, his neck has nothing to do with it. We found him sitting at the top of that flight of stairs so I think he turned and crawled back up. That's when he started complaining about being hurt. I can't imagine that he put any weight on it by walking up the stairs because he screamed bloody murder when he put weight on it at the restaurant. Troy changed his shoes, sitting right there on the steps, picked him up and carried him to the car.

The doctor's guess, a hairline fracture of the tibia. My guess, a wounded toddler--probably a hairline fracture of the tibia--caused by a kid who didn't believe his mother when she said, "Don't do that! You're going to break your leg!"

How Did This Happen?

2012-01-26T21:41:00.001-07:00

We were heading out to dinner to celebrate some good news by using a gift card. I tried to put Matthew's fleece on him and he pitched a colossal fit. I sent him to his bed for timeout. A few moments later, Troy came in to lay down the law and threaten to cancel our dinner plans if he didn't shape up. He then left to continue getting ready. Once Matthew had calmed down, I sent him in to discuss with his daddy whether or not we were still going to go out.

He walked into our bedroom.

He walked just fine.

He didn't limp.

He wasn't crying.

All. Was. Well.

Troy continued getting ready, I went into the kitchen, Matthew walked down the stairs.

He walked just fine.

He didn't limp.

He wasn't crying.

All. Was. Well.

A few minutes later I vaguely became aware that he was whining about his foot. At this point he had on rain boots. Troy sat next to him on the floor and offered to change his shoes. After he put tennis shoes on him, Troy picked him up and put him in the car. He didn't whine about his foot anymore.

Until we got to the restaurant. He started sobbing and screaming that his foot hurt. When we asked him to show us where, he pointed to his leg, just under the knee. Troy could not get him to stop crying so I had him send Matthew over to me to see if I could do the trick. When Troy set him down on the ground, he took two steps toward me. He was limping dramatically and looked like he was going to collapse. Needless to say, dinner was kind of a mess. We got him calmed down and he was fine as long as someone was rubbing his leg. Otherwise, he sobbed.

We'd felt all up and down his leg and he didn't seem agitated at all by our poking, prodding and squishing it. But he simply would not bear weight on it. We couldn't remember him doing anything that would warrant such pain. When we got home, I stood him at a chair and asked him to walk to me. He would not. All he would do was stand and scream.

So, obviously, I took him to the doctor.

"Broken until proven otherwise," the doctor told me. He suspects that Matthew has a hairline fracture of the tibia although, no one, including Matthew, can explain how or why.

When asked what happened Matthew simply says, "I don't know." The doctor checked his hip, knee and ankle. He compared the two legs. He massaged Matthew's entire leg and he never once cried. Then he stood him up and watched as Matthew refused to put even an ounce of weight on it.

The doctor recommended putting a splint on it and examining him again on Monday. He said that often times a child's hairline fracture won't even show up in an x-ray but that giving it a couple extra days might help them to see something. So he wrapped Matthew's leg in some sort of mummy material. "Whoa, that's cool!" I said in an attempt to keep my hyper-sensitive child from freaking out.

He stared down at his leg and then shouted, "I have to show my daddy!" What a typical boy, wanting to show off his wounds. Then the doctor put the splint on and wrapped it in an ace bandage like material. Finally, he covered it in a blue sticky material to keep the toddler from ripping the whole thing to shreds.

I asked if I was supposed to keep him off of it. (All the while wondering how, on earth, I was supposed to do that unless Matthew obliged.)

"Nope," the doctor said. "The splint should make it feel a lot better. If he wants to walk on it, let him." By the time we got home, Matthew was walking--albeit a little funny--all over the place. And, of course, posing for pictures.

Now he's filled with Ibuprofen and sound asleep. Hopefully he'll remain that way and won't be miserable all night long. We'd very much appreciate your prayers for quick healing.

Week 3: Now That's Funny

2012-01-25T14:22:00.000-07:00

There's a Peta unfriendly billboard on one of the highways here that says, "There's a place for all of God's creatures...right next to the potatoes." I'm not a vegetarian but even I find that a little distasteful. Still, it did catch me off guard and a slight chuckle escaped my mouth. Then I decided to be slightly offended by the slogan and chastised myself for laughing. I decided that taking a picture of it for this week's photo assignment probably wasn't a good idea.

Instead I found this shot, taken back in November. Matthew had found his brother's mask and snorkel and decided to sport it for a lengthy portion of the day.

I hadn't intended for all of my pictures to feature my children but so far we're three for three. Well, the first photo didn't feature them as much as the aftermath of their destruction. Really though, how do you see a kid running around in an over sized mask and not laugh?

The Bully

2012-01-24T17:17:00.001-07:00

There is first time for everything.

Today, I was on the receiving end of a screaming lecture from another mother. It was transracial adoption playgroup day and we met at an Arctic Circle. My sons both love the play area at Arctic Circle and they've both been enjoying getting to know the other kids in the group. This afternoon we munched on corn dogs, bananas and string cheese and the boys played for close to two hours without any drama to speak of.

Periodically, as they played, my oldest came up to me and explained that another little boy--who was not a part of our playgroup--was hitting, pushing and shoving him. This other child was shorter and younger than my son so I said, in a kind of loud voice so that a present parent might have heard, "Well, ask him nicely to stop." This went on another couple of times until, finally, Garrett came to me and reported, "He pushed me again but the adult took care of it."

See, that's how I parent. My child was more annoyed than anything. He wasn't injured. I wasn't going to discipline someone else's kid and I didn't think the offense warranted me tattling on him to his mother. In the end, his parent put an end to the problem.

Not fifteen minutes later, the scenario played out quiet differently. I was talking to one of the playgroup mothers when another mom--again, not associated with our group (Praise the Lord!)--began shrieking. We are talking someone's-bone-is-sticking-out-of-his-arm-or-there-is-blood-everywhere-or-someone-is-having-an-uncontrollable-seizure-in-the-middle-of-the-play-area-or-an-out-of-control-gunman-is-on-the-loose kind of screaming. "Whose is this?" She yelled, sounding like she was honestly about to cry. I looked up from my conversation. She was pointing at Garrett. "Whose. Kid. Is. This?" She howled.

I'll be honest. I was really confused. It was mine, clearly, but the way she was screaming made it sound like this child had just murdered someone. If she'd been pointing at Matthew, I would have been less surprised. My youngest son has a hot temper. He's little and still tries to use aggression to try to get his way. Just last night he hit me in the face with a toy and it hurt like nobody's business. Garrett, on the other hand, is passive. He's a peacemaker. He'd just spent the better part of two hours playing contently with kids his own age and a handful of toddlers, never once losing his patience. The woman I was talking to turned her head. Then she whispered, "I think that's one of yours."

I nodded and muttered sarcastically, "Of course it is."

I made eye contact with the mother. "He. Just. Hit. My. Kid!" she hissed. "He just punched my kid!" Apparently, her first choice of words wasn't strong enough to convey the horror of the offense. My son hadn't just hit her child, he'd hauled off and punched him. Everyone in the play area was staring at her. She stood, fuming. I vacillated between humiliation, disbelief, and amusement like a pendulum crashing back and forth at rapid speed. I honestly felt like this woman was about to put me in time out, call the cops, and spank me all at once. My cheeks turned hot and red. The little boy sat still on the structure, watching his mother. He'd never cried or even complained.

"Garrett," I said. "Come here."

He walked happily over to me. "Did you hit that kid?"

"Yes," he said like it was no big deal. I removed disbelief from my list of places to get off the pendulum.

"Why? We don't hit other kids." I admonished.

"He was being really mean to us and not playing nice." Unfortunately, for this new little boy, my son had finally had it with waiting patiently for parents to intervene.

"Well," I said. "We still don't hit, even if other children are being mean. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Mommy."

Moments later the mother and her child vacated the restaurant and my cheeks returned to a normal color. It was a tale of two parenting plans. In one scenario, the mother calmly monitors the situation, knowing that her child is not going to die at the hands of a tiny hitter. In the other scenario, the mother blows a gasket and causes a huge scene. I'm sure there are people who are firmly planted in both camps but, as for me and my family, we will try desperately hard not to overreact.

When we got in the car, I explained to Garrett that he is supposed to always reflect Jesus, not just when he wants to. I told him that Jesus would never punch someone. I included an, "Are we clear?"

"Yes, Mommy."

"Good. Because I do not ever want to be screamed at by another mom in a restaurant again. That was humiliating." So, then, I suppose humiliation is where we landed.

I Smell Like Water

2012-01-23T17:00:00.000-07:00

When I got home from the pool this morning, The Rock Star was snuggled deep into the covers on my side of the bed. Unfortunately, when I open the garage door to leave, it often wakes up at least one of the children. Usually I come home to find that my oldest is no longer in his bed. Once he was sitting in silence on the couch. If you think that didn't kind of creep the heck out of me, you'd be wrong. Typically, he's nuzzled up to his daddy. When I walked in the door, I immediately heard the squeals coming from the boys' bedroom. Matthew was wide awake and laughing hysterically at something. I went in to get him and take him to the bathroom.

I was wearing a wet bathing suit, my old team parka, knock-off Uggs, and a towel around my waist. My soaking wet ponytail was a pretty dead giveaway of where I'd been. I smelled like chlorine for ten straight years of my life but nothing (NOTHING!) compares to the bleachy stench of an indoor pool. Even I can hardly handle the scent and I'm fairly certain the chemical singed most of my nose hairs ages ago leaving me practically immune. Practically, but not entirely. When I get home from a morning of laps, I stink. At least it's a squeaky clean kind of smell. If we're looking for bright sides. If we're the kind of people who need silver linings.

Before Matthew climbed up onto the potty, he leaned in, took a big whiff of me, and wrinkled up his nose. He furrowed his little brow, cocked his head to the side, and declared, "You smell like water!"

This made me laugh because if my water came out of the tap smelling like I did this morning, I wouldn't touch it with someone else's tongue. If the ocean smelled like me, all the sea life would be floating belly up. "I smell like water?" I questioned. "I think I smell like chlorine."

He considered this for a moment and then corrected me. "No. You smell like water."

I've showered and applied large amounts of lotion. Yet, I still smell like water. Chlorinated, indoor, pool water. Gotta love smelling like a freshly cleaned bathroom.

The Light

2012-01-21T23:45:00.001-07:00

My son is not the smartest person in his class. He doesn't always have the right answers. He's not the quickest to raise his hand or finish his writing assignment. According to his teachers, he doesn't consistently count higher than 39 and he needs to practice his sight words.

He excels where his fine motor skills are concerned. He follows directions. His report card reflected zero "fair" and "good" marks, three "very good" marks and about fifteen "excellent" marks. Next to social skills, outside of the parameters of the chart, his teacher wrote "A+". This doesn't come as a shock to anyone who knows him. Garrett has never met a stranger. "He's hysterical," they said. "He's tenderhearted, respectful and sweet. He cares so much about everyone in our class."

I'm not gonna lie, it warms my heart that he's well liked, respectful and funny (humor is important, people). I'm proud of the fact that he nearly ran the report card with straight excellents. But what stands out about today's conference was when his teacher said, "He's such a light."

It's no secret to anyone at his preschool that Garrett is an evangelical Christian. The kid, at five, preaches to everyone. He'd try to lead a tree to the Lord if he thought the tree would listen. We used to kind of apologize for his behavior because, for one thing, we didn't want the entire school thinking we were putting him up it. More disappointing is the fact that, sometimes, we felt like our child needed to exist within the social norm of when it's acceptable to share Christ. He's teaching us that the answer to that is always.

Garrett loves Jesus. He talks about God all the time. One day, during playtime, he rounded up a group of kids, told them they needed to be baptized, and explained that he was just the one to do it. I'm fairly certain an imaginary baptism followed.

Last Christmas he got in a heated debate with another little boy. When asked what he loved most about Christmas, Garrett replied that he loved celebrating God's birthday. When the other child interjected that it was Jesus's birthday, my son informed the student that they were the same. "Jesus is God." Garrett explained. No, the boy had said, they are different. "But they're both God. God the Father and God the Son," my boy explained. Thankfully, the teachers had intervened before the two boys could really get into it. I'd heard the story before but his teachers repeated it to me again today.

"We just thought it was so sweet that his favorite thing about Christmas was faith based."

"Yeah," I replied. "We just need to explain to him that we live in Utah. A preschool in Utah is probably not the best place to get into an argument about the Trinity."

"Oh, but we love him. He's such a light," his teacher responded. I smiled and said thank you. It was a brief meeting so I bit the words off the tip of my tongue. I didn't say what Garrett probably would have. That's God in him. This light you see isn't my son. The Light is shining through him. God the Spirit, the one he didn't mention in that heated debate, is coming through his very pores. And I couldn't be more proud. He may not be the brightest kid in the class. He may not recognize his sight words or all of his numbers. But he is not hiding his lamp under a basket. You hear him proclaim it, but so much more importantly, you see it.

It's an incredible blessing to experience moments like this. This is the same kid who, two years ago, humiliated me at SeaWorld by screaming, "Put your finger down you naughty lady!" It's the same kid who defied me at the park last summer and then created the world's biggest scene when I told him we were going home. We're talking about a child who often has trouble obeying and honoring his parents. He's like every other five-year-old in the world in so many ways. But he knows his Savior and for that I rejoice.

*****************************************************

You are the light of the world. A city on a hill cannot be hidden. Nor do they light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a lampstand, and it gives light to all who are in the house. Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven. Matthew 5:14-16

For there are three that bear witness in heaven: the Father, the Word, and the Holy Spirit; and these three are one. 1 John 5:7

How Do I Have a 5.5 Year Old?

2012-01-20T11:00:00.000-07:00

I simply do not know how five and half years have gone by. But, just like the quick snap of a finger, they have. My youngest will be three in five weeks and a half weeks. My oldest will be six in six months. There are days when I feel like the only reasonable thing to do is sit in a dark room, clutch their baby pictures, and shed hours worth of bitter tears. But then I remember that this probably wouldn't be the best thing for their emotional well being so I simply grab the nearest plastic sword and join in their pirate adventure. Their baby days are gone. I cannot retrieve them regardless of how hard I try to construct a time machine. Before I know it, the days of sword fighting and toy car racing and nightly snuggles will slip through my fingers.

I interviewed Garrett again. Many of his answers stayed the same as last time so I think I'll start doing it just on his actual birthday from now on. I just love doing this though. Some of his answers crack me up.

1. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE T. V. SHOW? Dragon Tales.
2. WHAT DID YOU HAVE FOR BREAKFAST? Some cereal.
3. WHAT IS YOUR MIDDLE NAME? John.
4. FAVORITE FOOD? Macaroni and cheese.
5. WHAT FOOD DO YOU DISLIKE? Mashed potatoes without gravy. (We are making progress! Now, if gravy is involved, he'll at least eat them without looking like he's experiencing a slow and torturous death.)
6. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE COLOR? Brown and black.
7. FAVORITE LUNCH? Um...Macaroni and cheese. (He said this like I am the world's dumbest human being since, clearly, I was repeating question number 4.)
8. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE THING TO DO? Go swimming.
9. IF YOU COULD GO ANYWHERE IN THE WORLD ON VACATION, WHERE WOULD YOU GO? California. (This kid talks incessantly about Hawaii. All the time. Everything is always about surfing, swimming, seeing turtles, seeing volcanoes, seeing coconuts, eating pineapple. In Hawaii. But his destination of choice for vacation: California.)
10. FAVORITE SPORT? Swimming. (You know what they say about apples and trees.)
11. WHEN IS YOUR BIRTHDAY? July 20.
12. ARE YOU A MORNING PERSON OR A NIGHT PERSON? Morning. Ah well...I usually just stay up all night in my bed. (Riiight.)
13. PETS: Beck. Ollie. Fish.
14. ANY NEW AND EXCITING NEWS YOU'D LIKE TO SHARE WITH US? Uh. No. I'm fine. Nothing really.
15. WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP ? The best swimmer ever. (Look out Michael Phelps.)
16. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CANDY? Candy canes.
17. WHERE IS THE FARTHEST YOU'VE EVER BEEN FROM HOME? California. (Maybe whenever he says California he means Hawaii.)
18. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE BOOK? A book where Indians shoot arrows.
19. WHAT ARE YOU MOST PROUD OF? Jesus. That he died for our sins and is with us.
20. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE MOVIE? Uh. Mulan.
21. WHICH CAME FIRST, THE CHICKEN OR THE EGG? The egg. The egg had to come first because the chicken would have to be born. Right mom?

And, for fun, I asked him the same questions that James Lipton asks at the end of Inside the Actor's Studio.

1. What is your favorite word? Uh. Bathroom. *Giggle* Write it down.
2. What is your least favorite word? stupid.
3. What turns you on? (I rephrased with, "What do you like?") Hot chocolate.
4. What turns you off? (I rephrased with, What don't you like?") Wars. Well, I don't like when bad guys win the wars.
5. What sound or noise do you love? I love music.
6. What sound or noise do you hate? Thud. Thud. Thud. When someone is stomping on the ground.
7. What is your favorite curse word? (I asked him what his favorite bad word was. He responded with) *Giggle* I don't have a favorite bad word. (I told him it was okay to tell me. He wouldn't give me an answer.)
8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? Be a swimmer and win tons of trophies. (I've never heard of swimming as a profession but I didn't figure that now was the time to get into the fine art of endorsements.)
9. What profession would you not like to do? A soldier because a lot of people die being a soldier.
10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? (I omitted the "If Heaven exists" part) Hello Garrett. Welcome home. (Love it!)

Show Me the...

2012-01-18T20:47:00.000-07:00

Troy and Garrett have Kid's Club on Wednesday nights. I love that I get to spend time with Matthew one on one. Although, all that is ending on February 1st when I will start teaching the Beth Moore James study on Wednesday nights (CANNOT. WAIT.) and Matthew will hang out in the church nursery. But anyway. Tonight Matthew and I were building a puzzle.

"Where does that bunny go?"

"I don't know," he responded.

"Well, do you see another bunny?" I asked. "Maybe that bunny goes next to the other bunny."

"I see it!" He said.

"Where?" I questioned. He didn't respond.

"Show me the bunny," I said and then burst out giggling at myself. "Show me the bunny!" Cuba Gooding Jr. style. "Show me THE BUNNY!" This parenting thing sometimes cracks me up.

"It's right there," Matthew said, wide eyed. Sorry, dude. Mommy is a total nutcase.

Week 2: Resolutions

2012-01-17T15:01:00.001-07:00

Well I already said that I don't technically make resolutions. So of course that popped up as my second photo for these 52 weeks. I did say, however, that I wanted to live more intentionally this year. I thought about taking a picture of my Bible and study books--since I plan on learning more about my God. I thought about taking a picture of the pool--since I plan on getting it in and swimming more laps than I did last year. I thought about photographing my kids, folded up in my arms, but I wasn't entirely sure how I'd pull that off. It would have been one of those really bad pictures where you turn the camera around and hope all the subjects actually end up in the shot. Someone's nose always looks thirty times bigger than it really is. This idea wouldn't have flattered anyone.

Today is Tuesday. The second Tuesday that I have met with a transracial adoption group here in the valley. It's incredibly important to me that both of my boys understand that there are other families that look like theirs. They need to see their faces reflected in other families as well as their own. It has warmed my heart so much to see my oldest playing with faces that look like his and faces that look like his brother. And it has been such a blessing to see Matthew, who usually exists in a see of peach colored bodies, to share time with shades of brown.

I want to be intentional about showing my sons that while we are unique family, we aren't the only ones. I resolve to see more of this...

The Hope

2012-01-14T22:37:00.000-07:00

A few days ago my son thought I said dumb-ocrat. I found it hilarious and used that opportunity to poke fun at the Democratic Party.

My Republican husband is watching Huckabee on Fox News. The show is called South Carolina, Undecided and Mike is moderating a forum. At the moment, Mitt Romney is sitting in the hot seat. He just said "...by having free people and their dreams making America what it's always been, the hope of the earth."

America is the hope of the earth?

Oh, Mitt. Really? That's just about the most egocentric statement I've ever heard. Of all the people in all the cities in all the countries on this earth, America (I'm assuming that he is referencing the United States of) is the hope of this world.

Wow. I had no idea we were so awesome and every other country on this planet is, sadly, hopeless.

Look at me go. See, when it comes to making fun of government, I don't discriminate.

I'm Glad I Don't Report To The Direct Manager

2012-01-14T16:45:00.001-07:00

My sister-in-law came across the following employment ad.

Job Description:
This is a child care management/personal assistant partnership. Children are 12, 9, and 8 respectively. The position will require a full-time commitment; expectations include but are not limited to the following:

Childcare Management Duties/Responsibilities: Manage children's schedules, transporting to/from school, doctors appointments, and extracurricular activities.

1. Put the absolute safety of the children first before all other responsibilities
2. Prepare meals for children during scheduled hours
3. Participate and supervise activities with children, including: games, walks, play dates, playground outings, etc.
4. Research and plan activities that have substantial child development, social relationship skills and educational value.
5. Order lunches for children during in session school year
6. Coordinate/Communicate with teachers to ensure project deadlines and upcoming school functions are met, in addition to conferences being set
7. Assist with daily completion of homework
8. Coordinate/Communicate with Direct Manager (i.e. father), ensuring all activities relating to children (school, personal, family, etc.) are noted on family's personal/business calendar
9. Evening meal preparation for Family.

Personal Assistant Duties/Responsibilities: Specific professional duties include research, correspondence, or other appropriate duties as assigned. In addition to the above, applicant will also be expected to do the following:

1. Interface and grant access to home for service personnel (i.e. cable/telephone, pest control, package delivery, housekeeping services, etc.) and also friends, relatives, and colleagues of Family
2. Be responsible for recurring grocery shopping/meal planning
3. Run errands, dry-cleaning, etc when advised and necessary

I really, sincerely, hope that this position pays enormous amounts of money. It may as well be titled, "Mom Wanted" because that's exactly what this ad is asking for. It is slightly less horrific if there is, indeed, no mother and the father works full time. In fact, that's the only way I could even begin to cope with the ridiculous expectations of the job description.

I mean, seriously. Expectations include but are not limited to being a full time mother, teacher, and personal assistant to the Direct Manager.

And, okay. Hold up. The DIRECT MANAGER?! I don't even know how to punctuate that correctly. I don't know if I'm asking a question or making an exclamation. Who refers to their husband or father as The Direct Manager? This is like a 21st century version of The Sound of Music but without the cheery likes of Julie Andrews and certainly without clothing made of drapes. There's no dancing around fountains or singing about favorite things. The Direct Manager sounds a lot like Captain Von Trapp before he fell in love with Maria--when he was just a stodgy jerk wielding an obnoxious whistle. I'm fairly certain The Direct Manager has a whistle.

I don't have to rehash everything this job includes. It's maid, mother, wife, personal assistant, chauffeur and cook all rolled into one. It sounds a lot like what I do but this is my family. I'm invested in all of them. And even I don't have the child development degree it would take to fulfill the duties of number four.

What makes me the saddest about this job posting is number eight. Coordinate with this man so that he can show up at events and pretend he cares. (It's unfair of me to say that he doesn't care when I don't know this man--or his circumstances--at all. However, when you post something like this to the Internet, you have to know that you are choosing your words carefully. The words make it sound like The Direct Manager is way too busy with his job to take an active role in the lives of his children.) A child feels loved when his daddy can't wait until his next soccer game. He feels loved when his daddy knows when that game is and doesn't have to rely on an alarm on his cell phone.

I know that not every family looks exactly like mine. I know that circumstances are different for everyone. I also know that I don't want my children being raised (and my entire household being run) by someone who isn't even a member of my family. The whole things just makes me incredibly sad for the children, ages 12, 9 and 8 respectively.

Sam's Club Card Giveaway

2012-01-14T11:01:00.000-07:00

So it just dawned on me that you can use the Sam's gift card at any retail format of Wal-Mart stores. You still have a few hours to go here and enter for your chance to win a $25 dollar gift card to use at Sam's or Wal-Mart or online at either of those places!

I'll be randomly selecting a winner this afternoon so hurry!!!

Political Parties

2012-01-12T14:10:00.000-07:00

Don't forget to go here and enter for your chance to win a $25 Sam's Club gift card. (It can also be used at Walmart.com so if you don't have a Sam's membership, you're still in luck!)
********************************************

I've said it before and I'll say it again, I'm registered Independent. I love it because I get to make fun of both main political parties equally. Today I was talking to someone, who I'm fairly certain is registered with the Republican party. In the course of the conversation I ended up saying, "Are you going to pretend to be a Democrat for the rest of your life?"

My oldest son gasped. "Mommy! Don't say dumb."

"What?"

"You said dumb-ocrat!"

Oh. My. Gosh. It was hysterical. Seriously. I can't make this stuff up.

This post is paid for by the Republican Party. Approved by Republicans everywhere.

Fake Kate

2012-01-11T12:38:00.000-07:00

We're done having kids. That's what I tell people when they ask. What I mean is that we're not having anymore biological children--for multiple reasons. That chapter of our lives is closed. Not that it was ever really open. I've come to realize that Garrett is some kind of incredibly special miracle child. We're probably not adopting again either. This is more because of finances and emotions and less about not having the desire to adopt again. Some days I'm perfectly content with the size and shape of my family. I love not being tied down to a baby. I adore that, after five and a half years, we're on the verge of being a diaper free family. Other days I see a baby or a pregnant woman and I crave that newborn smell. I envy the tiny flutters of a baby's movements in utero. Tomorrow I'll likely be back to the former. At this very present moment I'm lamenting the fact that my family is probably complete.

See, last night, Troy found this morphing website. He used a picture of me and a picture of himself. Curious as to what a biological daughter might have looked like, he conceived one for us. It was much less complicated than the actual biological child we have. He showed me.

And I was instantly and furiously in love with a fake person.

How, on earth, could I not be?

Oh. Man. I wanted her. Desperately. Actually, wanted has nothing to do with it. I want her. Our longstanding girl name is Kate Elizabeth and I feel like she fits the title. She's not as loud as her brothers but she's a chatterbox, nonetheless. And oh is she ever precocious. She has a deep appreciation of books and tea parties. She loves pizza and pancakes but, for some inexplicable reason, will not touch bananas. She's more compliant than Matthew but less than Garrett and she digs the silver sparkles of her dress up heels into the carpet when they try to boss her around. I want to kiss those pink lips, look deep into those big almond eyes, and tell her that I would have loved to have had her.

We tried again, after Matthew. To no avail, as expected. I am thankful, beyond words and measure, for the incredible children that the Lord has blessed me with. I wouldn't trade them for anything. They are my life, my dreams, my entire heart.

But when I look at Fake Kate, I can't help but imagine her in a pink blanket sleeper, snuggled deep into her daddy's arms while her bigger, protective brothers are cuddled into mine. We are a family of four. A mommy, a daddy, and two boys that are only here because of the power of prayer and my loving, compassionate Father in heaven.

Sometimes, though, I wonder what life would be like if Fake Kate (or a Fake Joel or William or Levi) lived here too.

(And, I mean really, have you seen a cuter, fake, morphed daughter?)

Week 1: A Day In The Life Of Me

2012-01-10T16:21:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine started a project last year on Facebook called the 52 week project. Every week, people would post a photo on a given topic. My mom participated. Many of my friends participated. I did not. I figured I'd do the first week and then promptly forget. Plus I'm not really a photographer in the slightest. This year I decided, eh, what the heck. I'll go ahead and give it a whirl. If I forget for ~~a week~~ 32 weeks in a row who's coming after me? The Picture Police? Right. I thought not.

Then I got the bright idea that I'd go ahead and post them here. So, in theory, you can come along on the adventure with me, even if you aren't friends with me on FB.

For the first week of 2012, the theme was "A Day In The Life Of Me" I thought about several different ideas. One of them would feature the laptop with my blog pulled up, sitting next to my three (THREE!) Bible study books I'm working on right now. Proverbs, Covenant, and James, if you're curious. This would be placed on the table with action figures, dirty plates and a dust rag. Hanging from the chair would be Garrett's preschool bag and my cap and goggles. One idea involved the front of our church building.

But then I decided that I didn't really need to stage something when this would work perfectly well...

There now. Those of you who watched that video of Garrett dancing and then promptly forbade me to ever come to your homes because I called the room messy when it, in fact, was not, can now invite me into your house without fear of condemnation. This is the real me.

Alright, in actuality, this is not the real me. This is the real Garrett. This is the real Matthew. The real Lori is still trying to learn that this is okay so long as it gets cleaned up, in the end, by the people who did it. But I'm not there yet. I know moms who just help their children clean up the playroom once a day. I can't handle that. It gives me heart palpitations. I have trouble breathing. My level of anxiety rises. So in our house, the playroom gets cleaned two or three times a day. Often there is a one toy rule immediately following a cleaning. Because I'm not there yet. I'm a serious clutter freak. I'm afraid of the ways this will manifest itself when I'm old and senile instead of just young and uptight. Pharmaceutical medication may be necessary.

Anyway.

There is it. Week one. A day in the life of me. Cleaning and scrubbing can wait 'til ~~tomorrow~~ lunch time. For babies grow up, we've learned to our sorrow. So quiet down ~~cobwebs~~ pirate ships, tool boxes, stuffed monkeys and dinosaurs, dust go to sleep. I'm ~~rocking~~ lying on the floor making my best angry dinosaur voice with my ~~babies~~ way too big boys and ~~babies~~ way too big boys ~~don't keep~~ turn into even bigger boys.

Strange Advertisement

2012-01-08T22:29:00.000-07:00

This ad was running alongside my email tonight. Let's take a moment to examine it, shall we?

The way I look at it, this ad is saying one of two things.

1. This girl can get her act together and become a psychologist in just 18 months. This concerns me. I don't want her for my therapist in just a year and a half. Something is clearly going on in her life. Something troubling.

2. I can get my psychology degree in 18 months and help people like this. People who cry when cameras are pointed at them. People who frantically run their fingers through their messy hair. People who wear entirely too much eye liner.

Poor dear is like every emo girl I knew in high school and college all rolled into one. I don't think 18 months would put me anywhere near curing her addiction to eye make up.

In all honestly, obviously I would have compassion for this girl if I knew her story (you know, if she wasn't just a model posing for a photo shoot) but the picture doesn't make me want to get a psych degree. In fact, it makes me want to throw away all my eye liner and comb my hair.

Giveaway

2012-01-08T15:51:00.001-07:00

Click right here. You know you want to. It's not every day that you can get a free gift card just by leaving a comment. Am I right? You know you want 25 free dollars.

Snow!

2012-01-07T14:58:00.000-07:00

The Rock Star wanted a snowboard from Santa. He saw it in the sporting goods section of Target and, suddenly, he had eyes for nothing else. It's a training snowboard designed for children and, with a price tag that was less than $20, we just needed to decide if we wanted Santa to bring our son a vehicle of injury, destruction and death. But we're into sports, risk taking within reason, and letting our kids explore, learn, and grow in age appropriate ways.

So, pretty much he had us at, "I want a snowboard."

He got a helmet from his cousin and serious instructions from us that he would be using this injury trap only on very small hills with very slight inclines.

But then we went through the entire month of December with no snow. Christmas came and went. Garrett spent the days after Christmas asking me if he could snowboard down the stairs. Or on the dirt outside. Or if I would pretty please take him to Alaska.

When I woke up this morning there was snow on the ground. There was only one sensible thing to do. We all climbed into our winter gear.

Future snow bunny? Future winter Olympian? Future X Game Athlete? Future boy that gives his mom daily heart palpitations? That jacket, by the way, was originally an 80 dollar item. Let's just say I got a really good deal. At Ross. I love good deals. I handed them a twenty and it was covered. But let's get this rabbit back on it's original trail...

Or, this snowboarder back on his board.

The first time we put him on the little hill, he fell over. Troy stood him up and walked with him until he got balanced. Then Garrett went a few feet alone before the incline leveled out. I caught it on camera but it wasn't nearly as impressive as his second run.

We went to a steeper hill because we also wanted to sled and that wasn't happening at the toddler slope. Garrett spent some time on his keister but impressed us with his ability to balance and stay upright at only five.

We also went sledding. There wasn't much snow so the hill was slow--pretty perfect for the boys, actually. If it hadn't been so cold we might have stayed all afternoon.

In the end Matthew began repeating, "My cheeks cold. My cheeks cold. My face hurts." But not before he laughed and smiled and said, "Again!" over and over.

It's a good thing we got to go out today because it's not supposed to snow again for at least another ten days. This is some kind of bizarre winter. (Has mother nature listened to me at last?)

The Happiest Christmas Tree

2012-01-04T16:57:00.002-07:00

This is, quite possibly, my favorite video of my son. Ever. I don't know for sure but it's certainly near the top. I absolutely adore his face every single time he sings, "Hee hee." All the joy of Christmas is right there in his silly smile.

I freaked out there for a minute. My happiest Christmas tree has had swollen lymph nodes in his groin for six or seven weeks. Yesterday, I made an appointment for today with the doctor and then busied myself with all the crap (read: leukemia) that he might have. I read about diagnosis and treatment. I read about a portion of my kid's hip bone being removed for testing. I read about bone marrow transplants.

Because I'm an insane lunatic who doesn't just jump to conclusions, I leap to them. I set world records. I make entire mountain ranges out of mole hills.

He didn't have any other symptoms but just the one was enough to make me crazy for a night. Turns out that while I've made great strides in regard to surrendering my own life to the Lord, I'm still at zero station when it comes to the lives of my children.

Praise the Lord, the swollen nodes in his groin (and neck) are small enough that the doctor wasn't concerned. His spleen and liver were normal sized. He hasn't had a fever, weight loss, appetite loss or any other symptoms that would concern the pediatrician.

So I praise the Lord that my happiest Christmas tree is also a healthy Christmas tree. And I say an extra prayer for the parents of children who are not.

Come to the Party

2012-01-02T14:24:00.001-07:00

My son came down the stairs wearing an unevenly buttoned dress shirt and a tie. "Would you like to come to my party?" He asked.

He'd turned on the music in his room, his very messy room, his very messy room that you should totally ignore and not judge me for, and the two of them were dancing away. Troy and I did what any normal parents would do and we joined in. We danced like no one was watching and, well, praised the Lord that really, no one was actually watching because we are the worst and second worst dancers in the entire world. I'm bad. Really bad. My husband might be worse. If that's even possible. Unfortunately, our oldest son got our terrible moves. There's hope for the second born but only if he doesn't watch us and find himself influenced.

Welcome to the party.

P.S. I just watched the video and it wasn't that messy. I think most of the stuff wasn't in the shot. All that appears here is a disheveled bed, a stuffed frog, and a stray pair of pajamas.

2012

2012-01-01T16:18:00.000-07:00

I don't really make resolutions. I feel like that's just setting myself up to fail. But, for 2012, one word keeps coming to my mind. I want to be intentional.

Intentional: Done on purpose. Deliberate.

I want to strive to be a better believer, a better mom, a better wife, a better pastor's wife, a better daughter, a better friend. Not that I think I've been an epic fail at any of these endeavors--but there is certainly room for improvement.

I want to intentionally share my faith and not shy away in favor of flying more easily under the radar. I want to read my Bible more, pray more, and remember more steadily that I cannot pick and choose which parts of the gospel message apply to my life in 2012. They all apply. Always.

Maybe I'll eat less ice cream. Maybe I'll go on more dates with my husband. Maybe I'll snuggle my boys a little longer at night. Maybe I'll call my friends more. Maybe I'll read a few more books and watch a little less television.

Maybe, just maybe, I'll try to live like I'm dying.

Because I am. Not today. Probably not tomorrow and hopefully not until the ripe old age of 92. But every day I am one day closer. So I choose today to live intentionally.

Happy 2012 everyone!

Is Today The Day?

2011-12-31T18:47:00.000-07:00

I'm going to wake up every morning of 2012 and ask, "Is today the day that something great is going to happen in my family?"

Because good things come every three years for us.

In 2003 we got married.

In 2006 The Rock Star was born.

In 2009 The Little Buddy was born.

What does 2012 hold for us?

Only time will tell.

Happy New Year everyone!

Goodbye

2011-12-30T19:34:00.000-07:00

My parents, brother, and sister-in-law left at noon.

The boys got bunk beds for Christmas and I sold the crib tonight.

It's a sad day.

It's icky living away from family. It's the ickiest on the day they leave after a great visit.

My babies are all grown up and neither of them need a crib anymore.

Goodbye family. Goodbye crib.

Rock, Paper, Scissors

2011-12-28T08:03:00.000-07:00

As we laughed over games last night, my dad suddenly said, "You know what I never learned how to do?" We stared at him waiting for his answer. "I never learned how to play Rock, Paper, Scissors."

My husband, brother, sister-in-law and I blinked back in astonishment.

"I don't know how either," my mom nonchalantly mentioned.

"What? How do you make all your major life decisions?" My sister-in-law questioned comically and we all erupted into hysterics.

I offered to quickly teach them as this clearly falls into the category of things one should have learned in grade school. My mom, apparently feeling that this is a skill she does not need to master after more than fifty years without it, declined in favor of continuing to play the game we were already engrossed in.

I fully intend to hold them captive in my home until I'm confident that they can face the world with this important skill. I may have my five-year-old teach them. After all, how on earth have they been making all their life decisions?

Mini Mart Santa

2011-12-26T23:33:00.001-07:00

It just so happened that when my husband opened his stocking gifts, the first three were as follows:

1. A small bag of Doritos.
2. A bottle of Gatorade.
3. A small bag of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.

After the third gift he said, "I think Santa forgot about me and stopped at a mini mart along the way." And it was hilarious. The way he said it and the fact that it was entirely possible given what he'd received made the rest of us burst into laughter.

Later he went on to open a t-shirt, a book, and several other less-Quicki Martish items but I think he might be on to something. Maybe next year Santa really will stuff a stocking with only gas station items. Any ideas? What's something really good that Santa could grab at the local Chevron?

I Celebrate

2011-12-24T23:37:00.000-07:00

Merry Christmas!

May you all have a blessed day.

And the first time that You opened your eyes
Did you realize that You would be my Savior
And the first breath that left your lips
Did You know that it would change this world forever

And I celebrate the day
That you were born to die
So one day I could pray for You to save my life

-Relient K

Sentences

2011-12-23T10:55:00.000-07:00

"I buckil mysilf."

"Daddy home!"

"I tell Santa I want toooools."

"Tick-o me, mommy!"

"Come ah brudda, let wessil."

"Dear Jesus. Tank you mama. Tank you daddy. Tank you Gahwit. Tank you Mahew."

Matthew's nearly three-year-old voice is one of my favorite things these days. I simply can't get enough of the sweet sound. He speaks in stream of consciousness, having just walked up to me with this:

"What dat smill? A cand-o? I smill it. I go uptairs and suck my fum in my bed. Okay mommy? I want my gamma here wite now!"

I hope that when I'm old and senile I can still remember the way my baby's sounded as they began to truly conquer language.

Daddy Touched the Elf

2011-12-22T16:35:00.000-07:00

Oh these elves.

They're full of it.

Sometimes they steal the boys' toys during the night and are found playing with them the next day. Sometimes they're slurping on candy canes. Sometimes, one of them hides in a tree and Daddy turns on the lights and a certain five-year-old completely freaks out thinking that his elf is going to catch on fire.

Then Daddy touches the elf's face in an attempt to position him away from the light and all Christmas mayhem breaks loose.

Troy explained to Garrett that it was fine. He was saving the elf from certain doom. We thought he'd explained enough and that Garrett had let it go.

But then, Santa came to preschool.

When it was my son's turn, he hopped up on Santa's lap and immediately launched into what can only be described as a filibuster. Santa couldn't get a word in edgewise. After a good minute, I jumped up from my seat and said, "Garrett, you need to let Santa talk too."

"It's okay," Santa looked at me with a smile. "He's just explaining to me why his dad had to touch his elf. He wants to make sure everything is okay."

Apparently my son was harboring deep concern over what sort of punishment our family would receive for breaking the elfin rules. Santa assured him that all was well and that he was very glad that Garrett's daddy had saved his elf from permanent damage.

Church on Christmas?

2011-12-21T12:26:00.000-07:00

Last night I posted.

A rambling I called Church on Christmas? It was up for about six hours so chances are, a lot of you had the opportunity to read it. After a certain paragraph prompted a response (by a long time reader of this blog) in which it was clear that I caused unintentional hurt, I ended up taking it down. When I went to bed last night, I began to pray that the post would be read and interpreted the way it was intended, as a defense of my Lord and Savior. Pretty quickly it became clear to me that I should take it down. That I might ruin friendships. That it really isn't up to me to pick up my sword and attack. In the garden of Gethsemane, Christ tells Peter to put down his sword. And in Psalm 64:3 we're told, "They sharpen their tongues like swords and aim their words like deadly arrows." (Granted, that second part is out of context, but the inspired Word of God calls the tongue a sword, nonetheless.) In this case, I think what my fingers type is akin to what my tongue says. I felt like God was telling me to put down my sword. So I had my husband, who hadn't yet gone to bed, take the post down for me.

It's not that I don't think my points are valid, because I do. But I wrote the post from such a place of heartbreak over the American church that my ramblings could easily have been construed as hurtful to others. So I've eliminated the ramblings and boiled my thoughts down to four points.

The bullet points of the post go a little something like this.

-I disagree with church leadership canceling church on Sunday if they are a church that meets every other Sunday of the year.

-I think Christmas is actually the second worst day to cancel church, second only to Easter.

-This isn't a commentary on the church attenders choosing to stay home. (Or have valid reasons to not attend, like travel, illness, work, etc.) It's a commentary on church leadership.

-As a member of church leadership, I disagree with the notion that leadership needs the day off. We get Christmas off six times out of seven. We don't get days off from our faith and we shouldn't want them. Celebrating with your family certainly doesn't make someone any less of a Christian, but closing the doors to a church on a day that only exists because of Christ seems like a problematic contradiction to what we should be trying to do, which is reach the world with the Gospel of Christ.

That's pretty much it in a nutshell. I went on and on in last night's post. But it really isn't necessary. I'm disappointed in our nation. All around the world, believers are fighting for the chance to assemble together but the American church is canceling Christmas services--and on Christ's birthday no less.

But it isn't my fight. Our church will be open. The Lord doesn't need me to defend Him. He certainly doesn't need me to ruin relationships. I love my fellow believers and I should not stand in judgement of them. I just disagree with their choice on this particular matter.

Beans and Onions

2011-12-19T21:20:00.000-07:00

My family is coming for Christmas. Well, my parents are coming for Christmas and my brother and sister-in-law are coming two days after. Although, their visit is a surprise to my boys. A surprise I am bound and determined to ruin. I wrapped their presents and put them under the tree. "Mommy, why is Uncle Jon's present under the tree?"

"So he can open it when he gets..." I got to this point in my answer before realizing my blunder. "Uh, when he gets it from Grandma and Grandpa after they take it to him."

Later in the week he asked me why we were cleaning the office. "Um. Well. Grandma and Grandpa are coming."

"Yeah," he answered. "But they sleep in the guest room."

"But they might bring a lot of stuff and need the office too." I lied through my teeth.

Today I took my oldest son with me to two grocery stores because I don't want to go anywhere near anything with a parking lot between tomorrow and Christmas. The Little Buddy stayed home with his daddy and The Rock Star and I took off.

Halfway through our shopping trip, Garrett called his grandma. He informed her that we were shopping for things she could eat while she was here. She asked him what we had in the cart. "Beans. Another kind of beans. Another kind of beans. And an onion!" He answered.

This was the point where my mom almost blew my brother's visit by saying, "Oh, Uncle Jon will be happy." She caught herself and the secret is still safe. For now. She got on the phone with me. "So, you're feeding us beans and onions, huh?"

"Well, you know, I'm on a budget. It's just beans and onions for you."

And, just for the record, we had way more than beans and an onion in the cart. There was also taco seasoning and disposable razors.

Ban on Cell Phones

2011-12-16T15:32:00.000-07:00

A federal safety board called Tuesday for a nationwide ban on the use of cell phones and text messaging devices while driving.

The recommendation is the most far-reaching yet by the National Transportation Safety Board, which in the past 10 years has increasingly sought to limit the use of portable electronic devices -- recommending bans for novice drivers, school bus drivers and commercial truckers. Tuesday's recommendation, if adopted by states, would outlaw non-emergency phone calls and texting by operators of every vehicle on the road.

This includes hands free devices. I just have one question for the NTSB. If the goal is less accidents, less distracted drivers, why not ban children from being in cars? Ever. I assure you that I am much more distracted by the sounds of my toddler screaming, my five-year-old talking incessantly, my toddler saying, "Yook ah me, mommy! Yook at what I doing. Yook. Mama? Mama? Hey mommy. Yook. YOOK!", my five-year-old whining because he dropped something onto the floor.

I promise you that I am much less distracted by my cell phone than I am by my sweet little backseat crew. If we're going to ban cell phones, we really ought to ban kids. And eating. And listening to and/or adjusting the radio. We probably shouldn't have passengers in the front seat either.

I'm just saying.

Elfin Fun

2011-12-15T14:03:00.001-07:00

I grew up with an elf. He came and stayed for the month of December, moving around the house at night while I was sleeping, checking on my brother and me, making sure we were being nice and not naughty. He magically went back to the North Pole on Christmas Eve and reported to Santa.

And you know what? I wasn't scared for life. I didn't have trouble trusting my parents once I found out that the whole experience was basically a giant trick. And, wait for it, I didn't stop believing in Jesus when I discovered the truth that Santa--and his elfin minions--weren't real.

I was discerning enough to understand that while there wasn't really a big fat man in a red suit shimmying down chimneys in what can only be described as breaking and entering, there was a Creator because, logically, how else did we all get here? Call me smart like that but I'm fairly certain most kids have the ability to realize that there is a God-sized whole inside of them that Santa isn't designed to fill. We need God and He reveals Himself constantly to those who seek Him.

I have no problem with parents who don't do the Santa thing. None at all. We don't do the Easter bunny. And before you go calling me a hypocrite for pretending to believe in Santa but not the rabbit let me explain my reasoning. St. Nicholas was a real life dude. He delivered gifts to kids at Christmas. We can tell our children about the truth of the person of St. Nick. The bunny has absolutely nothing to do with Easter. (Although, I certainly don't have a problem with other families having a bunny leave eggs at their houses.) I understand not telling your kids about Santa because I absolutely believe in doing whatever it takes to make sure the children understand the true and only real reason for Christmas.

But we do Santa here. (Always, always, first making sure that our children are being trained up to know that Jesus, in a manger, in Bethlehem is the only thing that really matters.)

And we do the elf thing.

Our elves showed up on the porch on the 1st of December. We have two because I want to be able to send one with each boy when they grow up and have children of their own.

Last year, my oldest son named his elf (the blue eyed one) Finn Mooserider. He wanted to name him Flynn Rider because he'd just seen Tangled. We settled on a compromise and his elf got a silly name that was not based on a cartoon. Matthew wasn't even two so I named his for him. Booker T. Elfington is the dark eyed elf.

My boys absolutely think these things are alive and well and reporting to Santa. Nevermind their lack of hands and feet. Nevermind their ridiculous flannel outfits. Nevermind the frozen expressions that never change. Booker and Finn are alive with the magic of Christmas.

And they have been up to no good. They've been found eating cookies and candies. They've confiscated Garrett's pirate boats and been found doing battle. They've been caught sleeping (with their eyes open, of course) in the bathroom, in a basket, tucked in under a hand towel. They are now suspended in a small toy food basket, from the light fixture in the kitchen.

Sometimes the oldest tells the youngest, "Be good, the elves are watching." I always follow this with, You should be good all the time because Jesus is always watching.

He swears he's seen them move.

And I remember that. I remember not even believing in Santa anymore but being just certain that the elves had blinked or nodded their heads. They're not real. I would tell myself. They can't move. Still, a part of me held onto that crisp excitement that there was the smallest of chances they just might.

One year, I crept up to the elf, knowing that it wasn't real, and touched it. I remember thinking, Huh. I guess it really is fake. He's made of plastic. But this was at least a few years after I stopped believing in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny.

I never stopped believing in Jesus.

I hope that my children understand that some things we do to experience the pure joy of childlike Christmas fun but that God and His Son reign forever. I hope that they appreciate the excitement we had in watching the delight on their faces every morning upon discovering their elves.

I Need A Silent Night

2011-12-14T15:54:00.000-07:00

The Christmas season kicked off on December 3 with our Women's Brunch. Like a snowball spinning uncontrolled down a mountain, gaining speed and size, causing, perhaps, an avalanche, it hasn't slowed down since. I have your average, every day, run of the mill Christmas duties like speaking at another church's luncheon 90 minutes north and spending numerous hours directing the youth in the annual musical. Wait? Are those not every day commitments for most people? Ah well.

On top of that, the calendar is packed with other excitements such as birthday parties, five-year-old gatherings, cookie decorating at a friend's house with my sons wearing adorable hand crafted table cloth aprons, wrapping, decorating, baking, a baby shower, etc, etc, etc.

All of this despite the fact that I wanted to make a conscious effort to slow things down this year, to enjoy hot chocolate with my boys in front of the fireplace, to watch holiday movies snuggled up to my husband, to focus on the gift that was given to us on that day so long ago and not on the gifts under the tree. Each event is special and important and I have no idea what I would have cut out.

Still, I can't help but think that next year, something's got to give. Next year I might not be able to be at Boondock's on Thursday night, a three hour rehearsal on Friday night, get up again on Saturday morning to go to a baby shower, and be back at the church in the mid afternoon to direct a performance. Next year I am going to have to figure out how to strike a better balance between Christmas fun and extreme insanity.

Because, maybe at Christmas, this song shouldn't be on an endless loop in one's mind.

Or maybe, by next Christmas, I might have forgotten all about how crazy this season was and sign myself up for even more.

Sleepy Hamburger

2011-12-13T19:46:00.000-07:00

What stinks about this picture is that it's staged. It's a reenactment which doesn't even come close to being as adorable as the real thing.

(Notice his crazy car seat hair)

The last day of our Thanksgiving trip to California involved waking up at 5:45 and heading to The Happiest Place on Earth. My inlaws--who were also in San Diego--treated us to a day at the park. We needed to leave in the late afternoon because we were spending the night in the St. George area which is approximately seven hours from Anaheim. You know, with kids. Who take awhile to hoist themselves out of the car, use the bathroom, and get back in.

Needless to say, we were all pretty exhausted by the time we actually hit the road--especially the kids. All three of the boys fell asleep pretty quick into our drive--thankfully, I was driving--and so I pushed on to Baker before stopping for dinner. It was a very late meal and it was difficult to rouse The Rock Star from his slumber. We finally managed.

We filled up on gas, went to the bathroom, and bought dinner. As we drove off toward Vegas, Garrett was talking up a storm. "You need to be quiet and eat," we finally told him. Little did we know, the chatter was the only thing keeping him awake. Suddenly, it was very very quiet. I turned on the light and spun around in my seat--thankfully, Troy was now driving. My oldest son was sound asleep with his hamburger in his hand. He looked exactly like he does in the picture except that in real time his arm was bent at the elbow and he was somehow holding his hamburger up in the air. His head was also at a more uncomfortable angle.

Without having the presence of mind to take a picture, I woke him up and encouraged him to eat. He whined feebly, "I'm too tired to eat." We'd bought him onion rings--one of his favorite things--but had told him he needed to eat his burger first. Hearing the exhaustion in his voice I went back on our prior rule and asked him if he wanted the onion rings instead. He did.

Two onion rings later, he was nodding off again. I kept trying to get him to talk to me and eat a few more rings but it was mostly a futile attempt to get food into the kid. When he crashed back into sleep I think he'd had a third of a burger and about four small onion rings.

But he'd sure had a blast at Disneyland that day.

(We staged this photo after arriving at my aunt's house around midnight.)

Tebow Time

2011-12-11T21:22:00.000-07:00

My status update on Facebook reads, "To the doubters and unbelievers: There is a God and Tim Tebow has found His favor.

My brother wrote about the Tebow phenomenon and he said it better than I could.

If you know me at all, you know that I am a serious San Diego Chargers fan. I have been for about the last 18 years. When it comes to the AFC West, I want the Chargers at the top every time. I despise the Raiders and the Chiefs but I used to be able to take or leave the Broncos. Obviously I wanted the Chargers to beat them when they played each other but otherwise they could win or lose. It didn't really matter to me. Then the Broncos put Cutler at the helm and I added them to my list of teams to hate. I cannot stand Cutler. Off the top of my head, I can't think of a player I dislike more although, these days, Tom Brady is a relatively close second.

When I watched the draft in 2010 (if I hadn't already alienated 90% of my readers in the first few sentences of this post, I'm fairly certain I just did. I mean, really, you come here to read stories of my dirty boys. I regale you with vignettes about fecal matter and vomit. On occasion, perhaps, if I'm lucky, I challenge you to dig deeper into your faith. But sports. You draw the line at knowing that I watched the draft. I'm sorry. Please come back tomorrow.) I audibly cried out, "NO!" when the Denver Broncos drafted Tim Tebow. Why? Because I really like Tebow. And I had grown quite accustomed to hating the Broncos under Cutler. Even when Cutler was traded I still detested Denver simply for the fact that they had, at one time, employed him. I just knew that I couldn't hate the Broncos if Tebow was their starting QB.

In the past few weeks, I've watched this very scenario unfold. I needed the Broncos to lose today to bring my Chargers within one game of the lead in the division. For this reason, I was pulling for the Bears but when I saw the same overtime situation playing out once again, I couldn't help but know exactly how it was going to end.

God is using Tim Tebow. Do I think they'll win the Superbowl, not really. Do I think God is showing favor upon this man who takes every opportunity to shout the name of his Savior across the air waves? Yes. Yes I do.

Next week the Broncos play the Patriots. I need the Patriots to win if there is to be any hope at all of my Chargers making the playoffs (a ridiculous long shot at this point). But you know what, in all likelihood I am going to cheer for Tebow's team. Today, Tom Brady screamed at his offensive coordinator. He let the expletives fly as he sat looking like a spoiled brat. Tim Tebow praised the Lord that we both worship. As I grow up I realize that it's all about furthering the kingdom of heaven. Deep down, it is rarely all about the Chargers.

So next Sunday I'm a Broncos fan.

Go Tebow!

Speaking

2011-12-10T17:20:00.001-07:00

I don't know where this speaking thing is going. I don't know if God will cultivate it into a full blown speaking schedule someday or if I'll never again have another church ask me to share. But I know that I am so thankful for the opportunities I've been given so far.

Today I had the chance to share the word of God at a church in Brigham City. I spoke mainly on Philippians 2:1-8 about making connections and how Christ came down and humbled Himself to the point of death on the cross. I talked about David and Jonathan and their incredible friendship. I talked about the baby Savior in a manger. And I plugged in Christmas lights and made an example out of them. Even though all these things sound like they're all over the place, I'm pretty sure it's what God wanted me to say. I'm pretty sure He blessed it. I'm pretty sure it worked.

I love (read: LOVE) the opportunity to meet and fellowship with like-minded, Jesus loving believers. I love the preparation that goes into a session and the journey the Lord takes me on while I'm writing, rewriting, practicing, and praying. I love to share my passion for my Savior.

I am so thankful that God led me to an event at a little church in Brigham City this morning and (hopefully) spoke through me.

Birthday For Jesus

2011-12-08T09:28:00.003-07:00

I wrapped the gifts we bought for the boys and placed them under the tree. "Don't you think Matthew will open them all before Christmas?" Troy asked.

I hadn't really thought about that but I shrugged, "I hope not. I'll tell him not to in the morning and hope he listens." I then proceeded to strategically place the gifts so that he would have to go through all of his own before he got to his brother's. I figured that I'd hear the crinkling paper before he got all of Garrett's presents opened prematurely.

Neither boy really paid any attention to the gifts. At one point, Garrett did inform me that there were presents under the tree but they didn't even look closely at them. Last night, when I turned on the lights on the tree, Matthew followed me. He gently put his hands on one of the presents and started to pick it up.

I asked him to put it down. Then I dropped to my knees and pulled my youngest boy close. "Matthew, please don't open any of these presents until I tell you it's okay. Do you understand?"

He smiled sweetly and then put his mouth next to my ear. Whispering, he told me, "Mommy, doze burtday presins for Jesus." (Mommy, those birthday presents for Jesus.)

While I don't know that Jesus wants a pair of fuzzy Dinosaur Train crocs or a size 6 snow jacket, I was so happy that my youngest son, my not quite three-year-old, knows that Christmas is about Jesus's birthday. It actually warms my heart that he doesn't yet realize he gets gifts on the Savior's special day.

Thankful

2011-12-07T12:45:00.000-07:00

Head over to Givin' In A Fishbowl and enter the contest for a free $25 Sam's Club card and a big box of Chex cereal!
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I am thankful that 9 years ago my husband and I went on our first date.

I am thankful that 6 years ago I first knew that my oldest son and I were both cohabitating in my body.

I am thankful for the joy that both of them have brought me.

I am thankful to the Lord for giving them to me.

And I am thankful for my youngest son who has nothing to do with December 7 but who I love just as much as the two boys that do.

Then & Now

2011-12-06T12:56:00.002-07:00

Don't forget to enter the giveaway at www.familyfishbowl2.blogspot.com. Only four more days to enter. Lots of ways to win!
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My friend sent me a link to her sister's youtube page.

I can't believe this was Garrett just two years ago.

Although, I can't believe that this is Garrett now, either. I mean, six years ago tomorrow, I found out I was pregnant with him. He was the size of a pea for heaven's sake. He was nothing but a gray blob on the ultrasound with a tiny heart beating in the center. And now he recites poems.

He learned that for preschool. The assignment was to memorize a poem to get a button for their bags. These buttons are prized possessions. I found the poem online and read it to Troy. He chuckled and said, "That might be a little long for him since he wants to do it tomorrow." Garrett had it mostly memorized Sunday night and got it down pat Monday morning. When I picked him up from school, his teacher gave me the thumbs up.

"His poem was great!"

Six years ago, teeny little embryo. Today...well, today he's a big boy.

Appyboneteet

2011-12-04T14:47:00.000-07:00

Today at church, I let The Rock Star have a donut. He chose a particularly chocolaty one, lifted it to his mouth and smiled, "Appy Bone Teet!"

I laughed, "Do you mean bon appetit?"

"Oh. Sure. Bone appy teet! And yum."

Sorry! I accidentally posted my giveaway here. Whoops. I moved it over to the place it belongs. So head over to Givin' In A Fishbowl and enter already! (I think I moved all the comments as well, but you might want to check to be sure.)

Giveaway

2011-12-03T19:33:00.000-07:00

Guess what?

I've got a giveaway going on over at Givin' In A Fishbowl.

Who doesn't like free cereal and gift cards?

Peter

2011-12-02T20:18:00.001-07:00

It seems like forever ago that Garrett started begging for a pet.

"You have a dog and a cat," I told him.

"But I really want my own pet that I take care of," he'd replied.

We kept saying no.

Over the summer, Garrett started going through a really annoying phase of sleeping in his room for a few hours and then sneaking into our room and finishing the night on the floor. It didn't matter what we did, we could not get him to stay in his own bed.

We treated the situation as tenderly as we could since both Troy and I were afraid of our own rooms at one point or another when we were kids. Still, it was something we wanted to try to curb.

We implemented a system where he would earn points by staying in his bed. For each point he got to put a sticker on that date on the calendar. When he reached a certain number he would get the reward he was working for.

The first reward was for three nights of staying in his bed. He earned a candy pop that he'd been eyeing.

After that he had to go ten days but the prize was a trip to Leatherby's for ice cream.

Then he asked for a pet. A fish to be exact. I was pretty thrilled that all he asked for was a fish. He didn't ask for a three-toed sloth or a python or a wildebeest, thankfully. Troy and I talked about it and decided that if he could stay in his bed forever or, like, two months, he could earn a fish.

With about two weeks left, I bought the bowl, the rocks, a net and the plant (for $8) and set them up. He just had to wait for the fish to be in it. When we got home from our recent trip we went to the pet store.

For twelve dollars we purchased the fish, the water drops, the food, and a small thermometer. All in all a pretty cheap pet since the food and water drops will last longer than the fish. (Although my betta in college, a one Moby Dick, lived forever so who knows...)

Meet Garrett's very own fish, Peter the Betta.

How did he come up with the name Peter for a fish, you might be wondering. "Well, Peter was a fisherman. And he also sunk into the water, just like a fish," Garrett informed me.

And of course Peter the Betta is a male. Of course he is. Because if anything else with estrogen came into our house, there's no telling what might happen.

Macaroni Mess

2011-11-30T14:07:00.000-07:00

Matthew just learned the hard way that we do not throw half a bowl of macaroni and cheese over the table and down into the family room.

He learned the hard way that a lot of it gets stuck on the wall.

He learned the hard way that more of it messily plops to the floor.

He learned the hard way that while the dog will eat some of it, most of it will land on top of his hairy back and stick there.

He learned the hard way that when I see the mess, the best idea is not to look at me, laugh, and declare proudly, "I feeding doggie!"

He learned the hard way that while it might take a toddler just a few moments to throw macaroni all over the house, it takes him much, much longer to pick each piece up and put it in the the trash.

Firefighter

2011-11-27T14:17:00.000-07:00

My parents have a very sensitive smoke detector. It's just outside the bathroom door and anytime anyone takes a shower she has close the door behind her when she's finished or the steam will set it off. With some degree of regularity, someone forgets to lock the steam in the bathroom when he leaves. Every time we stay here, the smoke alarm goes off.

On Thursday morning, the food was cooking, the house was clean, and a fire was crackling in the wood burning stove. For reasons I'm still slightly unsure of, the stove suddenly began billowing smoke from all of its nooks and crannies. It had something to do with my dad turning on the house fan. Several of us were in the kitchen. My mom kept trying to find the source of the alarm, checking the microwave, the toaster oven, all the different timers she'd set. I figured it was the smoke detector being screwy again. We soon realized that the entire family room was filling with smoke.

My dad turned off the house fan and began opening windows. Let me be clear, THERE WAS NO FIRE (other than in the stove, where it is supposed to be). There was only smoke. A lot of smoke. We all opened more windows and began fanning the smoke out. A minute or two later, my dad turned to go down the hall. That's when he noticed my son, fighting the "fire" that wasn't.

When he'd noticed the smoke, Garrett had run into the front yard, turned on the hose, pulled it up to the front door, and was spraying water through the screen and into the house.

The clean house.

The house that was eagerly awaiting guests.

The house that was not on fire.

Maybe we have a firefighter in the making.

Plans For The Day

2011-11-26T08:32:00.000-07:00

I can't wait to tell you the story about my oldest son and his recent fire fighting stunt but it'll just have to wait because I have to go take a shower. My mom, sister-in-law, and I are all going to go have a shop 'til we drop kind of day.

There will be lunch.

And some kind of delicious drink from some kind of coffee shop.

And shopping.

Maybe tonight I can tell you about how my five-year-old likes to put out fires.

Thankful

2011-11-24T23:24:00.000-07:00

I am thankful.

That I have a husband who loves me.
Holds me.
Gets me.
And two boys who are so much more than I deserve.

I am thankful for good parents--then and now.
For a brother I wouldn't trade for anything.
For grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins and inlaws.

I am thankful for good friends.
Friends who laugh and share and converse.
Friends who pray.

I am thankful for food.
Fellowship.
The ocean
The mountains
The valleys. Yes, even the valleys.

I am thankful for
The Way
The Truth
The Life.
My Jesus
My Savior
Redeemer

Happy Thanksgiving!

Can Anything Good Come From Nazareth?

2011-11-21T23:07:00.000-07:00

I had a great lunch with a friend the other day.

We talked about Jerusalem and, well, everywhere else. Samaria. Even Nazareth. Because can anything good come from Nazareth? (John 1:46)

We talked about Utah and, well, everywhere else.

It's not easy being called to minister in Utah.

But He calls.

We answer.

Ministry is hard. But it is ever so sweet.

There were several new faces in church on Sunday morning. Jerusalem would be easier. But Christ has come to Nazareth, to Samaria, to Utah. We will preach the good news.

He saves. And I am thankful.

National Adoption Day

2011-11-19T15:48:00.000-07:00

Today is National Adoption Day. A day to advocate. A day to remember.

I remember.

I remember meeting his mother for the first time. I remember flying home to Utah and knowing that my heart was back in southern California, with my unborn son.

I remember seeing his face for the very first time. I remember how head over heels in love with him I was with just one look.

I remember feeling like my soul had been thrown into a blender. I remember trying to breathe and knowing that my heart had never hurt like that before. I remember memorizing his face, terrified that he'd be taken away from me, knowing that I couldn't forget a single detail.

I remember so many moments of those painful fourteen months. I remember sobbing over my child and begging the Lord to do whatever it took for Matthew to have the very best life possible. I remember the judge officially giving my son our last name.

Nearly three years after we first met Matthew's mother and a year and a half after we legally adopted him, I cannot imagine my life without him in it. Adopt [uh-dopt]: to rear as one's own child, specifically by a formal, legal act. But sometimes I forget that I didn't give birth to him. The heart pains involved in Matthew's adoption far exceed the labor pains I felt with my first born. (Granted there's no epidural for adoption--that may have helped tremendously.) I find myself wondering if he got a certain trait from me or his father before realizing that if it has anything to do with either of us it's purely nurture.

A few weeks ago, Matthew had his hands folded. Troy and I both cross our left thumb over our right so, naturally, Garrett does as well. Matthew was in my lap and I looked down at his hands. Left over right. I know he got that from his first parents but it made me so happy. He's just like us, I thought.

And he isn't. I know that. He's curly haired, nearly black eyed, and incredibly stout. But watching nature and nurture unfold is simply incredible. He will tell you that his name is Matthew and that it means gift of God. Not long ago our five-year-old nearly started crying in the car. "I want to be gift of God!" We explained what his name meant, To Watch or Strength of the Spear--like a guard. His middle name, John, meaning God is Gracious. "I want to be gift of God!" He said again, more emphatically.

"I gift of God!" Matthew exclaimed.

"You are both gifts from God," Troy explained. "But Matthew's name actually means that." Of course, they are both my incredible blessings from heaven.

Adoption is such an absolutely miraculous gift. So, today, on this National Adoption Day, I remember.

Home For the Holiday

2011-11-18T20:04:00.000-07:00

I haven't been in San Diego for Thanksgiving since a few days before we moved here. (I haven't been home for Christmas either.) The first two Novembers that we lived here I cooked and we hosted my inlaws. Last year we went to Oregon. Thankfully, my inlaws have a Thanksgiving that is very similar to what I grew up with. The menus are nearly identical. I'm so glad that I didn't marry into a family that ate bizarre things or omitted the green bean casserole (oh the humanity!). These last three Thanksgivings have been wonderful.

This year, I get to go home. Most of my extended family will be there. I can almost taste the mashed potatoes, marshmallow covered yams, and green bean casserole. I can almost smell the turkey cooking. I'll wake up in my old bedroom, the one that still has a few glowing stars on the ceiling--leftover from my early teenage years.

Garrett is counting the days until our trip in sleeps. There are two sleeps left, to be exact.

And then I'll be home for the holiday.

Q Is For...

2011-11-17T21:47:00.000-07:00

Both of my boys were, in my opinion, late talkers. The Rock Star only said about twenty words before he turned two. However, by two and a half he was speaking in paragraphs. One man shows. Novels. Non stop. The Little Buddy talked even later than his brother.

But now, he too, pretty much won't stop talking.

Last night I sat with him and we worked on vocabulary words. I showed him a picture and he told me what it was. On one side is a letter and on the other side is a picture and a word. I would say, "A is for..." and show him the picture.

"Ant," he would supply.

"B is for..."

"Banana."

And so on. There were some pictures that stumped him. He calls the orange a ball every time. For some strange reason, the J flash card has a picture of jeans. Really? Not J is for jam. Not J is for jug. Nope. J is, obviously, for jeans. So every time we go through the cards, Matthew tells me that J is for pants. I say, "Very good but these are actually jeans which are a type of pants."

Last night, when we got to Q, I laughed out loud. "Q is for..."

"God" Matthew exclaimed, stabbing a finger directly onto Washington's face.

I don't know if Washington's long hair reminds my son of Jesus or what but it sure made me giggle.

"It's a quarter," I explained.

"Oh," he nodded. "Co-dah. Not God."

Snuggle Time

2011-11-16T15:00:00.000-07:00

Matthew places his two chubby hands on my cheeks. He pulls my face right up to his and gently puts his lips on mine. He makes a loud smacking sound well after the kiss is over. "Nuggle," he says, because he does not yet pronounce s's at the beginning of words. He wants me to climb into his bed and hold him tight.

I do.

This child, conceived in my heart, wraps his arms around my neck. I press my cheek to his and we stay that way for a few minutes. I try to leave and he refuses to let go. With his arms still firmly around my neck I begin to stand. His small toddler body lifts up, he hangs on. "Doh go, Mommy!" he whispers. "Nuggle mo-ah."

Unlike his brother, he won't fall asleep while we're cuddling. At some point, I have to go. "Matthew," I say, "it's time to go to sleep." He whimpers.

"I love you."

"Lub ew," he says through tears.

I pull the door mostly shut behind me and stand there for a moment.

My whole life, it seems, is in bed behind that door. One miracle that I never thought I'd have and another miracle that I thought I was going to lose. It strikes me. I love them with a consuming passion.

But God, He loves them even more.

Maudy

2011-11-14T16:49:00.000-07:00

My youngest child has taken to calling both his father and me, Maudy. At first it was reserved for Troy and I assumed that, what with being around me all day, every day, he was just wired to say, "Mommy." And that, halfway through, he realized he actually wanted his daddy and changed the name accordingly.

Troy would, rather ineffectively, say, "Buddy, I'm DAddy."

Then, Matthew just started calling both of us Maudy. He still refers to us as Mommy and Daddy most of the time (or Mama, Dada, Mom, or Dad) but several times a day we get the more universal moniker. The way he says it is absolutely adorable and I would so get it on video if I had a clue when it was coming.

The other day, he switched it up on us. Toddling into the room in need of assistance, he looked at me and said, "Dammy, hep me."

I'll take Maudy over Dammy any day of the week.

Submission

2011-11-12T17:20:00.000-07:00

I was head over heels in love with Troy and we were barreling toward marriage but if I let myself think about one subject in particular, I nearly broke out in hives. Troy was a pastor and had been since before I knew him. I pretty much figured he was going to be taking those pesky submission verses to heart. He'd never lorded over me before but that was my working definition of the dreaded word. To be lorded over. Ruled with an iron thumb. Stripped of one's former identity.

I wasn't that kind of girl. Submission was for weak minded women who wanted to be rescued. I was strong. Willed. I never backed down from a fight. I was bossy and assumed that, at least 50% of the time, I outta wear the pants. I didn't want to lose my identity somewhere under my husband's thumb.

One day, with trepidation, I brought up the subject with my fiance. And he took me through the verses, in depth.

Ephesians 5: 22 "Wives, submit to your own husbands, as to the Lord." Yeah. I didn't much like that one. At that point, at the tender age of 21, I was still working through the part about submitting to the Lord. And He's perfect and His will for my life is perfect. Submitting to my husband, a fallible man? Preposterous. But Troy just kept right on going.

Ephesians 5:25, 28-29 "Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ also loved the church and gave Himself for her...So husbands ought to love their own wives as their own bodies; he who loves his wife loves himself. For no one ever hated his own flesh, but nourishes and cherishes it, just as the Lord does the church." Hmmm. It was, at the very least, getting better. At least my husband was also expected to love me as Christ does. What a tall order. What a much, much taller order than simply submitting.

I remember Troy explaining submission and defining his role. "If I love you and respect you, I will never lord over you." He went on to explain that he chose a strong-willed woman. He wanted a wife who would challenge his thinking, debate, and stand up for her thoughts and feelings. He said that if we had a disagreement, we would talk about it, argue about it, whatever, and that if and when we reached an impasse, after careful prayer and consideration, he would make the final call.

It's never happened. Not in eight years of marriage. Oh sure, there have been times when, in the heat of an argument I've yelled sarcastically, "Fine! I submit to you! You're right. I'm wrong!" (This, by the way, is not submission. These, by the way, are not my finer moments.)

I can only think of one time when I said, honestly, "You decide. I submit to you." Troy didn't have to leave his ministry in southern California. He didn't have to take the job here. We went back and forth and around in circles. I prayed and prayed and never felt that God gave me an answer. So I made the decision that, since Troy is the one with the master's degree in exegetical theology, he needed to make the call. Because, without a clear word from the Lord, I never would have chosen to leave my life, my family, everything I'd ever known. He felt that the Lord was leading us here. I submitted to that decision and loaded my life into a U-Haul.

In eight years he has never told me to submit to him. Not once. That would defeat the purpose. My heart has to be willing for it to work.

To submit means, literally, to put under. To my 21 year old self this looked like an identity squashing at the very least. A heavy boot descending upon all that I was. To my 30 year old self, it looks like deep and abiding covenant love. It looks like protection. To put under as in, a protective arm around me. He will defend me to anyone every time. Christ gave Himself for the church and Ephesians calls my husband to do the same for me. I trust him. He takes the blame. He's held responsible. He gives his life for me, maybe.

This is submission.

I wonder what the world would look like if we lived Ephesians 5:21 "Submit to one another out of reverence for Christ."

Volume of Poop

2011-11-10T17:39:00.001-07:00

I was going to try to write some thought provoking post on submission. That'll have to wait. In the life of a mom with young kids there are things that take precedent over writing about the biblical principle of submission.

Things like poop.

Dude. The day when I am no longer dealing with diapers simply cannot get here soon enough.

We've been putting Matthew in Pull Ups during the day and a diaper at night. This works well. Troy and I are very trained to take Matthew to the potty once every hour or two. I pretty highly doubt that he's actually trained but he is learning to hold it until we remind him to go--most of the time.

Unfortunately, the kid really enjoys pooping during his nap. I cannot find a single, solitary reason for this because few things would gross me out more than pooping myself in my sleep.

He had a really bad ~~diaper~~ Pull Up a couple days ago. It was everywhere. On his pants. From his waist to the back of his knees. It was nothing compared to the one I just changed.

Poop was E.V.E.R.Y.W.H.E.R.E. And each of those letters represents it's own sentence. It was that bad. On his pants. On his shirt. On his back up to his shoulder blades. On his legs. On the new bath mat. On the tile. The entire upstairs smells like a fecal matter factory. I don't think that's actually a thing. I hope it's not.

I sort of whimpered the entire time I was cleaning my child. He's almost completely verbal now. "Can you please start pooping in the potty? You need to tell mommy when you have to go poop," I explained. He nodded as though he understood. I'm sure tomorrow he's going to poop himself again.

You just don't realize, before you have kids, the astounding volume of someone else's poop you're actually going to be dealing with. There are so many things about my babies that I am going to miss.

Their poopy diapers are simply not one of them.

Remembering

2011-11-09T20:55:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I get to wishing that I could have the first year of Matthew's life back.

Then I look at this...

And I am reminded that it wasn't all stress and anxiety and tears and fear.

Thank you Bethany, for taking this picture.

Vikings and Dragons

2011-11-08T17:44:00.000-07:00

The Rock Star is still obsessed with knights and dragons and castles and swords and shields and vikings and damsels in distress. He wanted to be Hiccup from How to Train Your Dragon for Halloween. Except for the shaggy brown hair, he was pretty much a dead ringer. He's just so scrawny. He could have been any old viking but, as we collected candy from the local shopping complex, kids continued to say, "Hey look, it's Hiccup!" Of course, he had his sidekick, The Little Buddy Dragon.

The best part of our trick or treating adventure was that Carl's Junior handed out free small fries instead of candy and Jamba Juice handed out mini smoothies. It was also the first time in all of Garrett's years of life that Troy was able to join us for the entire adventure. Usually he comes for a few minutes before returning to put the finishing touches on our church's Harvest Party. This year the party was held on Saturday night instead.

The funniest part was when a little boy walked by and said, "Look, a dragon!"

The mom replied, "It's a dinosaur."

When they were out of earshot, both Troy and I said, almost simultaneously, "It's a dragon."

Am I Normal?

2011-11-06T14:55:00.000-07:00

Let's start out by saying that I have no idea what is going on in the background of this picture.

It looks like an album cover gone horribly wrong. Or a bad poster for a youth production of Andrew Lloyd Webber's Cats. All that aside, The Rock Star said the most hilarious thing following his face painting at his friend's birthday party.

While the kids watched their friend open presents, my son scratched his face. I assume he got a bit of orange paint on his finger because, with a look of horror, he questioned, "Mommy! Am I normal?" He was frantically pointing to the spot he'd scratched. I think he was wondering if he had scraped off all his face paint, thus returning to normal.

Of course, not wanting to miss my opportunity, I replied, "Honey, you are definitely not normal."

Polar Bears

2011-11-04T13:56:00.000-06:00

Yesterday morning, while we were still in bed, The Rock Star came in. He started telling us about a dream he'd had. Apparently, in said dream, we were camping. A polar bear started chasing us and Troy and I hid Garrett in the bathroom at church. We hid Matthew in one of the Sunday school rooms before hiding ourselves (TOGETHER!) in another room off the sanctuary. Because, logically, it makes total sense that we would hide our children separately while we cowered together. As Garrett was explaining the dream to us I was trying to sort it all out in my mind.

"Garrett," I said, "Did you really dream about a polar bear chasing us last night?"

"Yes."

"No. I mean, did you seriously have a dream about a polar bear?" I inquired.

"Yes."

Troy, confused by the inquisition, asked me why I was interrogating our first born. "Because I had a dream that a polar bear was chasing us."

I'd dreamed that we were living in Alaska. We had a house as well as a research building. The man I was married to was, apparently, working on some kind of bear documentary. I think it was supposed to be Troy but he was about twice as wide as Troy, half again as tall as Troy, and looked very much like Yukon Cornelius. Except, well, not made of a weird clay substance.

In the dream, there was a polar bear stalking my son and me. The child was, evidently, a combination of The Rock Star and The Little Buddy because he was about two--Matthew's age--but decided Caucasian--like Garrett. In the dream, I was desperately trying to protect the child from the bear but the bear was always one step ahead. I'd run into a room. The bear would be waiting. I'd run from the house to the research den. The bear would be waiting. I simply could not get away from the menacing presence of the giant animal.

I'm no dream analyzer but I think I have mine figured out. Still, how bizarre is it that my five-year-old son dreamed something very similar? Is this normal? Are we a family of freaks? Wait. Don't answer that.

Shake It

2011-11-02T16:19:00.000-06:00

Sometimes, what happens at the retreat doesn't always stay at the retreat.

This year, a couple of the girls got the bright idea that we'd all have to do something humiliating to receive our notes of encouragement. See, we have a basket that I take up (you can see it in the bottom left hand corner of the photo). It's full of blank note cards. Throughout the weekend, the women have the opportunity to give and receive notes of thanks, encouragement, and friendship. On Sunday morning there were a lot of notes to be distributed and it was decided that we would do goofy things in order to obtain what belonged to us.

Someone had to perform I'm a Little Teapot.

Someone else sang a song and pointed to various body parts.

A group of people performed a preschool song.

And then it was my turn.

The night before, a group of ladies had been playing Imaginiff. They were short a player so they wrote in my name. Then they had to choose which 70's dance I would be. One of the options was Shake Your Booty or Shake Your Groove Thing or something. The next morning they asked me if I could, in fact, shake mine. Turns out, I can. Independently of the rest of the my body, even. Although not particularly well when I'm not quite four days post biopsy. Not that the biopsy was in my butt. Um. Wow. This post has gone to Hades in a hurry.

Moving on.

In a nutshell, I declared that I could shake my, er, booty.

Naturally, an hour or so later, when it was time to collect my mail, the group decided that I needed to get my, uh, shake on.

So I did. And there are several pictures on Facebook to prove it.

On Monday night we took the boys to Chili's for free kids meals. The server brought us a large quantity of coasters which Matthew thoroughly enjoyed lining up and then declaring, "Yook! I made puzzle!" They were promoting 'Rita Fest and one side featured a picture of a margarita. On the flip side it says, SHAKE THAT THANG.

What with attending the Beth Moore conference in August, where all of us learned that thing is, indeed, pronounced thang, and then my shaking mine at the retreat, I think the Chili's slogan pretty much sums up women's ministries this year.

He's So Funny

2011-11-01T15:34:00.001-06:00

Garrett: Mommy, I don't think I'll get married when I turn 21. I think I'll wait a minute.
Me: Okay. How come? (Not that I've ever wanted my son to get married at 21. I just figured there was a reason behind his sudden decision.)
Garrett: I just think I'll wait for a minute because when a guy gets married, the girl always starts talking about babies. (Oh my goodness! Where is he getting this? I mean, it's probably mostly true but yeesh!)
Me: Oh. Okay. And you don't want babies?
Garrett: Of course I want babies! But when a girl wants a baby and God says, "Not yet," she cries all the time. (It might be time for me to amend the story I tell him about how he came to be. Maybe from now on I will say, "God told mommy to wait and mommy was the pillar of strength, stability and faith.)
Me: ...And you definitely don't want your wife to cry all the time?
Garrett: No. I wouldn't like that.
Me: Well, it's alright with me if you wait a minute after you turn 21 to get married.
Garrett: Okay. Good. How about 22?

Grudge

2011-10-31T18:56:00.000-06:00

Nine years ago today, I called off my engagement.

He was a Kansas City Chiefs fan but that isn't why I broke up with him.

Still, when my Chargers play at Arrowhead, my skin crawls a little and I feel nauseous. When I hear their noisy fans and watch that sea of red, I can't help but cringe.

It might be my longest running grudge.

These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things

2011-10-29T22:05:00.000-06:00

The little one keeps tabs on the bigger one. One thousand times a day he asks about him. "Where brudder go?" "Brudder ah schoo?" "Brudder home!" "Brudder dowstair?"

And "Brudder" loves Matthew right back.

Oh sure, they have their moments. Sibling rivalry on an hourly basis. Garrett is a rule follower. Matthew thinks they were made to be broken. Garrett is bossy. Matthew is sensitive. Both spend their days vying for the alpha dog position. Even still, it's pretty much a coin toss.

I can't believe I lived more than two decades without evening knowing that these brothers would one day exist. Now I cannot imagine a day without them.

These are a few of my favorite things...

Obsessed with the Chest

2011-10-28T14:36:00.000-06:00

Official diagnosis: Intraductal papilloma.

The bad news: Increased chance of breast cancer in the future.

The good news: The removed mass was totally benign.

On Saturday morning, when I woke up, there was still no visible bruising. On Saturday afternoon, when I took a shower, the whole entire...thing was an enormous bruise. The whole shebang. Black and blue and bright yellow. It looked like I'd been mauled by an angry wolf. That was six days ago. Today it's still bruised but hardly worth mentioning. When I went in for my post op this morning, the doctor said, "Oh, you have quite a bit of bruising."

I replied with, "You should have seen it on Saturday!" She apologized. It may have had something to do with the internal tissue exam she performed last Tuesday. Ya think?

We've decided that I am going to continue to be seen by her. Apparently, intraductal papillomas in thirty-year-olds are rare. Abnormal, she said. My tissue is compromised. Or something medical and scary sounding like that. It's enough to kind of freak a girl out.

But she didn't say the word carcinoma and she didn't say the word malignant. Instead I heard the reiterated words benign and papilloma and you're fine. And so I choose to focus on that.

I had a mammogram--at my request and for no good reason other than peace of mind--earlier in the year. I've had four exams, two ultrasounds and a biopsy in the past nine months. The doctor told me that it's great that I am so diligent about my breasts at my age. It was a strange accolade. I imagined a trophy inscribed with Most Attentive. The imaginary statue atop the trophy was inappropriate and made me laugh.

But we all need to be diligent. It doesn't matter if we're seventy or twenty-five. Apparently, I am going to live the rest of my life obsessed with my chest but maybe we all should be.

I can't stand breast cancer slogans like, Save the TaTas. That particular one literally makes me cringe. To me, to refer to them as tatas is disturbing at best and absolutely degrading and chauvinistic at worst. Save the Boobies is only slightly better. Marginally better. Hardly better at all, really.

Obsessed with the Chest--it could work.

For the Birds

2011-10-26T17:28:00.000-06:00

Imagine The Rock Star's delight when we received a package today from my inlaws. We opened it and pulled out sticker books, sticker crafts, cookies, Halloween candy and a decorative scarecrow. He was thrilled.

He wanted me to put the scarecrow outside.

It's clearly not an outside decoration.

I explained this.

"How will it scare away the crows?" He asked.

"It won't. Which is fine. We don't really have an abundance of crows," I reminded him.

But it got me thinking. Maybe if I did put it outside it would scare the misguided seagulls back to California where they belong. I only recently learned that the Utah state bird is actually the California Gull. I feel so sorry for those stupid birds. It's totally like the Israelites being stuck in Egypt. There they were, slaving away, trapped under Pharoah's rule--unaware of just how great the Promised Land really was. A land flowing with milk and honey, it was. They'd all been born in Egypt and that was that.

They're not called the Utah Gull. No. They're from California. They just don't know it because they were born here. Whenever I see them, I try to nicely explain that it doesn't get cold where they come from. The water--it just keeps going. Granted, the Salt Lake is bigger than one bird could ever hope for but it rather pales in comparison to the Pacific Ocean. And waves. Oh, those poor birds are missing out on tides! Abundant fish, too. I don't actually know what lives in the lake but the whole things smells funky so I wouldn't recommend eating anything that comes out of it. Poor gulls, fly back to your home.

But they never will. Even in California, gulls are totally stupid. And aggressive. They'll snatch an entire sandwich right out of your hand. Oh. Yes. They. Will.

So if I thought that putting the scarecrow outside would do any good, I would. But it makes for a super cute indoor decoration. And as for the gulls, well, on a warm summer day when I look up and see a bunch of them flying around I close my eyes and pretend I'm at the beach. They're like a little piece of home.

Interestingly, when I'm in California, I can't stand sea gulls.

This is not a metaphorical post about how California is the promised land and Utah is Egypt and I'm enslaved here. God led us here and I love our ministry. I don't want to leave right now for anything. It really is just a post about the birds.

Thanks Gary and DeDe for the package!

The Power Of...

2011-10-25T10:48:00.000-06:00

My husband is modest.

Much more modest than I am.

So he isn't overly enthusiastic when my boys run through the house shaking their naked tooshies and yelling, "Naked dance!"

He tolerates it for a few seconds, shakes his head and says, "Go put some clothes on!"

Last night Troy had a meeting at the church. When my boys were finished with their bath they both burst into their bedroom screaming, "Naked dance." I laughed. Then, Garrett struck a victory position.

He thrust one foot forward, pumped his hand in the air and shrieked, "The power of naked!"

I...just...I...don't...even...know...what...that...means.

Revelation & Belly Laughs

2011-10-23T16:31:00.000-06:00

Have you ever played Telestrations?

Have you ever played it at a women's retreat? If you haven't, you have no idea what you're missing. Unless you're a man. Then you really have no business being at a women's retreat. None. Whatsoever.

I was first introduced to this hysterical game at our retreat 13 months ago. Our speaker, who has since become one of my closest confidants, brought it with her. I was skeptical. Telestrations is like the love child of Pictionary and Telephone. I've never been good at Pictionary.

But we played. I laughed. I called my mom up and insisted she buy it for her own women's retreat which was approaching. I asked for it last Christmas. You cannot, simply cannot, play this game without laughing so hard you cry. Or injure a stomach muscle. Or both.

Yesterday, during our retreat free time, we played. One person gets a word. She writes it on page one of her dry erase booklet. She passes it. The next person looks at the word and then attempts to draw it. The next woman looks at the picture and writes the word or phrase she thinks it is. The next one draws it. And so on and so forth.

My friend, Christy, wrote the words "spin doctor" and passed it on. By the time it got to me, I read the words "surgical saw" and drew a guy on a table. Standing over him with an enormous saw was a stick figure with a surgical mask on. I drew an arrow to the saw. I also added a tray table at the end of the bed and intended to put smaller surgical tools on it but the tip of the pen was too fat. I passed my booklet on.

"Vasectomy" is what my friend wrote before passing it on to another woman in our church.

She then drew a very, ahem, well endowed fellow and a giant pair of scissors. The next woman got it and guessed correctly (based, of course, on the most recent picture). Christy got it back, opened it up to the last page and began laughing hysterically. As she showed us each page, we were already giggling. By the time we saw the first "vasectomy" we were all laughing so hard we were crying. Then we saw the drawing. Kleenex had to get involved.

If this doesn't sound funny to you, I encourage you to play the game. I promise you'll laugh so hard you'll cry.

We do other stuff at retreat too.

We hear from the Lord. We fellowship. We eat way too much chocolate. We pray. We have quiet time with our Savior.

God's been rocking my world lately with the realization that I don't really know how to pray. I present my requests. "God, heal this person. God, heal that person. God, help with this. God, help with that. Amen." For several weeks now the Lord has been revealing to me that my requests need to come last. First, and foremost, my prayer life is about worshiping Him. Of course, our speaker spoke on this very subject last night. And I was impacted. Anything that brings us nearer to the Lord is good and worthy of praise. Even the bad stuff. We need to pray accordingly.

There is time for food and fellowship and chocolate and sleeping and snugly pajamas and conversation and making new friends and keeping old friends and there is, indeed, time to learn about our God. After all, He's the reason we do this every year.

But we also laugh. Deep, belly laughs with fellow believers, who endeavor to walk, every day, with the perfect and Triune God. I can't tell you how refreshing a weekend characterized by revelation and belly laughs is.

Biopsy

2011-10-20T18:48:00.002-06:00

I sat in the chair, soft pink gown tied loosely in the front. The significance of the color wasn't lost on me. As I waited for the doctor to come in I contemplated my surroundings. Enormous bright light, jars of liquid, liberal amounts of gauze, needles, scalpels and a plethora of other stomach turning paraphernalia. I'd already sat in the waiting room for a good half hour past my appointment time. Now I was sitting in the office. Waiting.

When I'd pulled up in front of the surgical center I was doing alright. I'd prayed the entire way over that God would remove from me a spirit of fear and grant me courage in its place. It was courage I'd had as I boldly rode the elevator up to the third floor. It was courage I'd lost as I flipped through magazine after magazine and allowed the Father of Lies to use fear to permeate my thoughts. I'd finally been called back and my blood pressure was the highest I'd ever seen it. Thankfully, it was still well within normal. The nurse left and I waited.

I called my mommy. "Remember the Flu Shot Experience?" I was six. The nurse came in with the vaccination. I snapped. Berserk. Completely. I ran around the office and out the door, shrieking at the top of my lungs. It ended with my mother and the pediatrician holding me down so that the nurse could administer the vaccine. I had to write a note of apology. It wasn't my finest moment.

I proceeded to tell my mom that I was seriously contemplating a repeat performance. I mean, it's been 24 years. I figured that maybe my time had come once again. She asked me if I could feel her hugging me. I didn't answer for a long time. She probably thought I was mute on account of the fact that I was wondering how I could feel a hug from 800 miles away. In actuality, I wasn't speaking because the lump in my throat was swollen with fear and tears. I knew if I spoke it would all come flooding out.

I'm just not a huge fan of needles. Or scalpels. Especially if they're going to be used on me. Especially if they're going to be used on my breast.

It all started back in April when I noticed a tiny lump just under the skin. After waiting a few weeks to see if it would change, disappear, or grow, I went to see my doctor. Based on its location, she suspected that it was a blocked duct and had me put hot compresses on it. I went back to see her a week later. The bump had not changed. Again, because of its place of residence, she sent me to a specialist. I saw her in June. After an ultrasound, the plan was to keep an eye on it for the summer and come back to see her three months later.

So last Monday I saw her again. She opted to remove it.

Eight days later I found myself sitting in the procedure room waiting for her to enter the scene. My mom was 800 miles away but, thanks to technology, pressed directly to my ear. She talked me off my ledge. Or, at least, she talked me out of running around the doctor's office screaming like a total ninny. After all, it really wasn't even appropriate when I was six. I don't remember what she said to me but I loudly declared, "I know I'm not going to die!" And just as the second half of the sentence came out, the doctor walked in. All she heard was the declaration, "...going to die!"

She quickly turned her head in my direction and said, "Are you talking to me?" I explained that, no, my mother was on the phone. I quickly hung up. She had me get on the table. Then she couldn't find a marker. So she left for another five minutes.

I hadn't been afraid of the procedure until two different people, on the same day, told me that the numbing needle was quite painful. I stared up at the giant light and pictured a torture prison where people routinely came at my breasts with enormous needles of death. She came back in. She told me that the first part was the worst part. So I've heard. I told her that I'd once run around the doctor's office in an attempt to avoid a flu shot. I'm nothing if not chatty when nervous. "It's just like having dental work done," she explained.

"I've never had a cavity," I replied.

"Get me the small needle," she said to the nurse. Oh good, I thought. I'm getting away with the small needle. I don't think her or her pregnant nurse had any intentions of holding down a full grown woman with a sudden and irrational fear of biopsies. The nurse handed her the biggest needle I've ever seen used on me and that's when I realized that it probably had something to do with width and not a lot to do with length. She plunged it mercilessly into my...self. Okay. She totally didn't. In fact, I barely felt anything. Really. It hurt less than a flu shot to be sure. Just after the initial poke I did feel a slightly uncomfortable push as, I assume, she went into tissue. "Is it horrible?" she asked.

"No!" I almost shouted, annoyed that I'd lost nearly an hour of my life freaking out about this. I should have listened to my mom who kept telling me that it couldn't possibly be that bad. Note to self: Mother knows best.

Then she performed an excisional biopsy which I've come to realize is the same thing as a lumpectomy. I felt nothing except for weird tugs and pulls. The worst part was listening to the snip snip snip of the scissors and realizing that she was inside of my body cutting things out. It was just a little disconcerting. She pulled out a pea sized mass. Just as she began to sew me up my stomach began to growl. I started pushing on it with my available hand--the other one was secured under my head--and hoping that if I sort of massaged it, the protest might stop. In the middle of a stitch she asked, "Are you feeling this? Is this hurting you?"

"No," I said. "My stomach won't stop growling." She then shared with me that her stomach often has dialogue as well. This prompted my sharing of the time my stomach distracted an entire group of students from the SAT at hand. She assured me it wasn't distracting her. "Good. I'd rather ruin 100 SAT scores than distract my surgeon," I answered. She laughed.

She finished sewing me back together and put medical glue on the incision. And then I waited and waited. The nurse was standing there. The doctor was sitting there. I was lying there. Nothing was happening. Am I supposed to jump up and be on my merry way? I wondered.

She pulled the light closer. "The warmth from the light helps the glue dry. I want to to make sure it's dry before I put a bandage on," she said. "Otherwise you'd have to come back so that I could remove the bandage. Or live with it forever. Your choice."

I laughed. "I'd probably rather not have a bandage stuck to my chest for the rest of my life."

"Oh! The worst was when I did a rectal surgery. A few hours later the poor woman called me up and told me that I'd glued her, uh, cheeks together." Let me tell you, nothing makes you love your surgeon more than finding out she once glued a patient's butt together. "Thankfully she was a really good sport about it," she finished.

I'm really private about certain things. My health is one of them. I just didn't want to tell anyone, or for goodness sake blog about it, until I had an answer. I could barely stand the waiting myself and I didn't want to wait knowing that everyone else was sitting on pins and needles right along with me. So I came home and I kept quiet. Turns out, if you want to keep quiet, you need to tell your five-year-old the plan. He knew something was up so I explained to him that mommy had a bump taken out of her. I showed him my bandage. That night, Troy took the boys to the softball field. A man from our church asked Troy if he was on Daddy Duty. "Yeah, Lori's not feeling well," he answered.

"Mommy has a band-aid on her nipple!" Garrett screamed. And if you think I didn't just try to figure out a more appropriate synonym for nipple to use in its place you'd be wrong. Because I totally did. But that's what he said. To a man my father's age. About that man's pastor's wife. Good times. The best of times, really. So much for keeping things quiet. One must have first birthed a quiet child, I suppose.

While that fun episode was occurring, I was at home, recovering. Oddly, I was completely at peace with whatever news the results would bring. I kept praying that God would use this to glorify Him. If breast cancer--at thirty of all things--would bring Him glory, so be it. If a clear reading would bring Him glory--bring it. If I've learned one thing through the trials of bringing children into my family, I've learned that God's way is Plan A. Every. Single. Time.

"If I have cancer, God, so be it. May your name be lifted high!"

As it turns out, I don't.

The doctor called this afternoon. It was benign.

To God alone be the glory!

Hey Batter

2011-10-19T16:02:00.001-06:00

The Rock Star just finished playing t-ball. He was on the Phillies. His little brother wanted to play.

In twenty years, when he's playing for the Phillies, should this be the photo they put up on the jumbotron when he's up to bat?

Oh, I think it should be.

Growing Up

2011-10-18T15:38:00.000-06:00

In some ways, I think he still looks exactly like this...

Minus, maybe, the super chubby cheeks.

But I recognize the shirt he's wearing.

And I know it's in his brother's drawer now.

I love my little men.

But I think I might just always miss my babies.

Wieners. Yep. I Went There.

2011-10-17T16:17:00.000-06:00

"Mom," The Rock Star said from the backseat, "what's a wiener?"

I waited a good five seconds before responding. I thought about asking him to use it in context but then I would have had to explain context. Instead, I asked him to use in a sentence.

He raised his voice. "WHAT'S A WIENER?"

And I began to giggle, somewhat hysterically. He's smart, that one. I could just hear his internal monologue, That is a sentence!

"Okay. Well, it depends on how you're using it. There are different kinds of wieners." At this point I was speaking intermittently, whenever I stopped choking on my own laughter. "There are wiener dogs. Those are the ones that have long bodies and really short legs. They're called that because they look like a hot dog. Hot dogs used to be called wieners all the time. Sometimes they're still called wieners."

"Oh," he said. "So a wiener is a hot dog?"

"Yes," I declared. Then I asked, "Did you hear someone say the word wiener?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Who?"

"My friend Bob*," Garrett replied. Bob is seven. He lives up the street.

"What was he talking about?" I asked. A hot dog. Make it be about a hot dog. I thought.

"The spot right here." He pointed.

I sighed. And then I got to explain that different people use different words for their private places. In our family, we call them by their medical terms. We always have. We always will. Because I don't want my kid walking in to the doctor's office and saying something about his wiener.

*His name isn't really Bob. If that wasn't already clear. Names have been changed to protect, in this case, the not so innocent.

What's The Difference?

2011-10-15T14:23:00.001-06:00

By way of setting the scene, it's important to know that I'm participating in a Sunday school class on the book of Ephesians and a Bible study by Kay Arthur on Covenant. Each day I spend time in prayer and work on a section of one book or the other. Well, except for Sunday. On Sunday I generally ignore both books and, I don't know, read a Psalm or something.

So. Yesterday. I decided to work on my Covenant study. Garrett was playing in the backyard with a friend and Matthew was sleeping. I carried my book, Bible, and colored pencils (it's an inductive study which led to Garrett's friend asking, "Are you coloring?" with a tone that clearly expressed, Wow, lady, you are way too old be coloring.) up from the basement and sat down at the kitchen table.

But when I went downstairs to get the book I thought about what the study would be on that day. We'd already explored both the covenants between David and Jonathan. I thought, perhaps, Jonathan's son might grace the pages of my study.

"Oh," I said aloud, "maybe today will be about Methuselah." I descended the stairs. Wait. That doesn't sound right. "What's his name? Johnathan's son name is..." I know it. I know it. It's..."Mephibosheth." Now, because I talk to myself incessantly, I continued the one-sided conversation. "Who the heck is Methuselah? Oh yeah. She's the evil witch from Sleeping Beauty."

At that point I was standing in the middle of our office, completely confused. I picked up my work book. "Wait. No."

I began ascending the stairs. "Mephibosheth is Jonathan's son. Methuselah is the really old guy in Genesis. Maleficent is the creepy woman from Sleeping Beauty."

Can anyone else understand my confusion? Mephibosheth, Methuselah, Maleficent. What's the difference?

How To Be A Preacher's Wife And Like It: Part Three

2011-10-14T20:24:00.002-06:00

"Be it ever so humble, your parsonage can be clean. A broom, mop, pail and box of detergent, plus an ample supply of elbow grease, can transform any dingy parsonage into a sparkling set of rooms. Keeping the woodwork and windows clean, the furniture in order and the toys picked up is a matter of bodily exercise, which the Apostle Paul says is profitable.

The habitual appearance of dirty dishes in the midst of an unkept kitchen is inexcusable. Parish duties should never come ahead of parsonage obligations. Your first responsibility is to provide a clean, well-ordered home for your pastor-husband and your family." Lora Lee Parrott

Oh. My. Goodness. I'm so far off the mark it just isn't even funny. I mean, there isn't anything generationally hilarious about this particular passage. Well, except for maybe the bit about dirty dishes being inexcusable. You don't want to see my kitchen on Sunday mornings.

On Sunday mornings I really believe that Satan sends his minions to thwart all of our plans to get out the door. Dishes are thrown in the sink to be tended to later--usually I'm just glad that the children have eaten anything at all. Cups, jackets, hair gel, Christmas play scripts, and tooth brushes are here, there and everywhere. Troy throws the kids in the car. I pat myself down to make sure I'm not missing any vital piece of clothing and run back in to grab somethingorother important thing that I totally need but darn near forgot. As Troy slowly drives down the street, Garrett yells, "Hurry mom!" and I dive in before my pastor-husband gets up to 25 mph. Okay, so that last part is an exaggeration...but not by much.

I would have failed miserably as a 1950's pastor's wife. I doubt I'm having much success as a 21st century pastor's wife but I have to believe I'm better than I would have been 60 years ago.

And, keeping the toys picked up, well, that task is simply futile.

My Toddler

2011-10-12T20:51:00.002-06:00

When I got Matthew out of the car at the church this morning he grinned at me and said, "I so cute."

"And so humble," I replied, laughing. I guess if enough people tell a toddler he's cute, he just starts repeating it.

He's been doing this adorable thing lately. We'll be riding in the car and he'll say, "Mommy, yook at me!" If I'm in the passenger seat I will turn to watch him. If I'm driving I will glance quickly in the rear view mirror. He will, inevitably, be sitting in his car seat pretending to mouth the words to whatever song is on the radio. Really, he's just wagging his head from side to side and opening and closing his mouth dramatically.

He did that the entire way to Troy's softball game last night. When we were almost there, Blessed Be Your Name came on. From the backseat, the tiniest voice in our family sang, "Bessed be name of da Yord. Bessed be name. Bessed be name of da Yord. Bessed be name."

And my heart melted into a puddle of goo.

How To Be A Preacher's Wife And Like It: Part Two

2011-10-11T22:53:00.003-06:00

Under the section titled, Causes for Conflict, Mrs. Parrott writes, "Difference in I.Q. must be considered. Theoretically, the husband and wife have the same native intelligence. However, in actual cases this is not true. Marriage counselors say that greater happiness is often achieved in homes where the husband has a slightly higher I.Q. than his wife."

I read this part to my husband and, with a twisted grin, he said, "That's why we work so well." I shot him a dirty look and he laughed.

It continues, "However, in numerous parsonages, the wife is smarter than her husband. Unless a proper adjustment is made by both the husband and the wife, this can cause serious conflict in the parsonage."

"Oh," I said, "that explains any conflict we have. I'm actually smarter than you."

Later, in the same section, I read, "There are differences in learning. Obviously, there is a vast difference between the serious-minded young man who took advanced training to prepare himself for the ministry, and his young wife whose main interests in college were social."

Oh. Obviously.

Obviously my husband was a serious-minded young man. Obviously my main interests in college were social. Now you're all making snarky comments about how I majored in Theatre and my husband has a Master's in Exegetical Theology, aren't you.

What strikes me about this particular passage is the fact that my research revealed that Mrs. Parrott had, herself, a Master's in Religion. Maybe she went to graduate school for purely social reasons.

Don't think I'm going to leave you without a wise gem. "Even if the pastor is not able to be gone week ends it is good for his family to be away from the parsonage for at least four consecutive weeks once each year. The new perspective, the complete rest, the change of environment can make an appreciable impact for good on the parsonage household. However, I only suggest this an an ideal, for as yet I have never been away from the parsonage for more than two weeks at a time."

This is very wise advice! I sincerely hope that, as time went by, Mrs. Parrott was blessed with the opportunity to be away for a four week stint. I hope Hawaii was involved. Or the Bahamas. I, myself, would be perfectly okay with four weeks of new perspective, complete rest, and a change of environment involving tropical sand, trade winds, and pineapple. Wait, did she not include that last bit in her original paragraph? Huh. Must have been an oversight.

How To Be A Preacher's Wife And Like It

2011-10-10T17:40:00.005-06:00

Before I got married, my friend came across a bunch of books being removed from the PLNU library. She gave several of them to me. Among the gems was my personal favorite, How To Be A Preacher's Wife and Like It, by Lora Lee Parrott. Recent research has revealed that Mrs. Parrott died earlier this year, at age 87. She was an author and a pastor's wife. Her husband also served as the President of Olivet Nazarene University and Eastern Nazarene University.

The book that I have in my possession was published in 1956. Mrs. Parrott was 33! At 33 she knew how to be a preacher's wife? Emphasis on the question mark. Thank goodness...by this time three years from now the mystery will be revealed!

My copy was a gift to a Vivian Kirby. I don't know if Mrs. Kirby donated it to the Point Loma Nazarene University library or if it belonged to someone else in between but more than eight years ago it landed in my hands. The inscription on the first page is written in blue ink and dated six months before my own father was even born.

"Best wishes to Vivian Kirby--and remembering a lovely evening with the Parsonettes. Sincerely, Lora Lee Parrott. Apr. 24-58.

Remembering a lovely evening with the Parsonettes. Oh to be a fly on the wall on that lovely evening. Oh to be a Parsonette. They sound like a lively bunch of pastor's wives. I mean, they had to be the life of the party. Am I right? But the pastorate has changed. The "preacher" has evolved with media, Internet, networking, and the disappearance, in most cases, of the parsonage. I say in most cases because four and a half years ago we were contacted by a tiny church in a tiny town in Arizona that still had a parsonage so I know they exist but they're hardly the norm these days.

The book opens with a forward by Ruth Graham that reads, "If you are like I am you will be tickled to death to discover a book that is both inspirational and very, very practical as a sort of guide book for us preacher's wives. All of us get to the place where we feel the job is just too big for us. That's a good way to feel, I know, but we need something practical to help us to be better wives and mothers. This little book will do just that. It has helped me and I know it will help you too." Well. There are certainly nuggets of wisdom flowing throughout Mrs. Parrott's book but they are bathed in the hilarity that results when a thirty-year-old pastor's wife is reading something in 2011 that was written for the women of five decades ago.

The first chapter is titled, Marry the Right Preacher. Not, marry the right guy, no. Apparently this book was written specifically for pastoral predators. "To marry a successful preacher has been the secret ambition of many fine Christian young ladies," is the very first sentence of the book. What women are these? Perhaps in the 50's many fine Christian young ladies were trolling for a man who, in passing, mentioned a call to ministry but I don't think this translates to the 21st century. I think these days most young women dream of marrying doctors, lawyers, and software engineers.

Later in the first chapter, Mrs. Parrott writes, "Perhaps no one in the congregation is subjected to more stringent criticism than the pastor's wife. She may be criticized for what she has done, or what she has not done, or what she could have done. Not only is she criticized for what she does but for what her husband does, or her children. She will be criticized if she assists her husband too much in the parish work, or criticized if she does not do enough. But if God be for us, this criticism doesn't matter too much." Hmmm...I do think this particular paragraph transcends time. Of course it does go on to say that the pastor is recognized by his, "shaven face, combed hair and conservative suit and necktie..." Yikes. My husband only wears a suit if someone has died. Or is getting married. Or it's Easter.

This book is just so awesome in so many ways. And I haven't even gotten to the part about how it's important, when a girl marries a pastor, that he have a higher I.Q. than her. Oh yeah. It's in there.

I've been saying for quite some time that there needs to be a handbook for pastor's wives. I'm not thinking that this is it. But I think Lora Lee Parrott was on to something. I think she knew that we pastor's wives need to support one another. I think she knew that having your husband also be your pastor is a position that few are called to. I think she knew that dedicating your life to the Church is not without pain but it is also not without reward. Because when one person comes into a saving relationship with the Lord, the ministry is so worth it.

Stay tuned. I plan to share more of Lora Lee's gems with you. Particularly the part where breakfast should include: fresh orange juice, crisp bacon, eggs scrambled in butter, steaming coffee, fresh berries or melon, coffee cake or sweet rolls, and hot biscuits with butter, cherry jam and orange marmalade. Is it just me or is that a lot of carbs?

Cake Pops

2011-10-08T15:45:00.002-06:00

The Rock Star saw an infomercial for a pan that makes cake pops. "Mommy, can you make those?" he questioned as he started to run into the kitchen to assemble the ingredients.

"No, Honey, I can't," I replied.

"Please?"

"No. I really can't. I don't have the pan."

"What pan?" he asked as though I was making this part up.

I pointed to the television. "That pan. The one they're selling."

His shoulders sagged. "Uh oh!" He's been saying that lately. Every time I tell him to do something he doesn't want to do or that we can't do something he does want to do or that it's bedtime or that his battle needs to be picked up or, or, or...the list is endless, really.

Minutes later I found him in the kitchen. He was standing on the stool. On the counter in front of him was a loaf of bread, a melon baller, chili powder, garlic salt and cream of tartar.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

He held up the melon baller. "I'm gonna make cake pops!"

And It's Snowing

2011-10-06T13:21:00.004-06:00

Really, Utah?

Really?

When I spoke at the retreat last weekend I could not go outside in my dress pants, short sleeve shirt and thin jacket (buttoned at the elbow) without melting in the heat. The high that day was 86. But allow me to explain that I was not complaining about the heat. Not me. I like the heat. I love the sunshine. It's good for the heart.

That was five days ago. Five.

Today it is snowing! Yes, southern California, you heard me. Here, where I live, in the frozen tundra that exists between the Wasatch and the Oquirrh mountain ranges, it is snowing on October 6th. It is currently 40 degrees outside. That's a 46 degree swing in five days. Unacceptable.

For the record, I do not find this amusing.

I'm going to make Utah go to couples therapy with me as I do not feel that my needs are being met by this ridiculous display.

Batten down the hatches, Utahns, you'll feel warm again at the end of May.

Does anyone in Florida, southern California, Arizona or Hawaii need a speaker for any winter conferences? (Other states where winter temperatures stay above 55 degrees may also qualify). I figure if I can travel somewhere warm at least once a month I might be able to endure my fifth season (and by that I mean October-May) of being cold deep down in my bones.

Not cool, Utah. Not cool.

Sick Boy

2011-10-05T19:13:00.003-06:00

Sick toddlers are no fun. I'm sure it's even less fun if you're him.

Last night, at Troy's softball game, Matthew produced a diaper to rival all icky diapers. Ever. It coated his shirt, his shorts, and his legs. He ended up in just a hoodie which did have poop on it but significantly less than the rest of his clothes. He proceeded to sit in my lap and complain that his tummy hurt.

I thought we were in for a long night.

But then he slept for eleven hours straight, woke up, and puked.

Well, really, he woke up and barfed about a half hour later. This prompted Troy and I to rearrange our day so that we could take turns at home with him while still making most of our commitments. I am thankful for my husband's job. When I have Bible study he can come home for a couple hours to be with a sick kid.
Matthew laid around the house most of the day looking sad.

But even when he doesn't feel well, he holds the secrets of the world in his eyes.

If I was old and senile and blind I think I would still remember the vast chocolaty deliciousness of my son's eyes.

He's a little better now. He's resumed pointing his finger at me and bossing me around. Earlier in the day he didn't have energy even for that.

Secret Ambition

2011-10-03T20:54:00.002-06:00

In high school, I was on a mission trip. I don't remember why I ended up on a small stage in a tiny church in Mexico doing a sound check but I did. I don't remember why I suddenly did a bad rendition of Michael W. Smith's "Secret Ambition" but I'm sure it had something to do with my flair for the dramatics.

The other day, out of the middle of nowhere, from some dark recess of my mind, "Secret Ambition" began flowing from my vocal chords.

I still really like the song. I love the awesome 80's sound. I appreciate the lyrics. So I looked for it on YouTube. I've seen the video before but it's been years, more than a decade I'm sure. Passing time and a degree in Theatre might be what makes the video so humorous to me.

0:12- Oh, Smitty. That outfit was not timeless. That hair was not timeless. That hair toss, however, just might have been. Nice vest.

0:27- That man is way too Caucasian to be Jesus. Did no one on this production realize that Jesus was Jewish?

0:31- Entire Caucasian cast. With mullets.

0:35- Smitty doing his best "Young, Brooding, Christian Recording Artist" smolder.

0:43- I think we have those exact costume head pieces in the the storage room at church.

0:58- Is it just me or does that woman have a subtle French manicure?

0:59- More of the bad costume head pieces. I can't handle them. Make them go away.

1:08- Is this supposed to be Israel? It looks like Sedona.

1:36- Smitty really has this brooding thing down.

1:44- Random symbolic birds.

1:50- Wait. That's the temple? It looks like cardboard boxes spray painted white.

2:01- Oh. Bad. Purple. Head. Piece.

2:21- Adorable little girl. American. Or French. Or Canadian, possibly. Not Jewish though. No.

2:30- Passionate Smitty attempting to dislocate a shoulder.

2:46- Those head pieces were a really bad idea. The bushy red beards may be a worse one.

3:16- Violent fist pump from Smitty.

3:19- Is that Pilate? With an 80's mustache?

4:02- Smitty croons at the sky, his thumbs firmly planted in his spectacular 80's denim.

4:08- We actually had those exact Roman officer costumes at our former church. Really.

4:10-4:30--The best part of the entire video. I mean, a video can't capture the awesome sadness and glory of Christ's crucifixion but there's nothing 80's about those twenty seconds.

4:41- Smitty spins in circles. It is somewhat reminiscent of children that spin around until they fall over. Except Smitty stops short of actually falling over.

5:25- Caucasian actor's head appears to float in a pond.

5:32- Smitty is, apparently, a narcoleptic.

Bring It

2011-10-02T09:02:00.001-06:00

It's the same every time.

I'm digging deep into the Word. I have a Strong's concordance opened next to me, a notepad, and supplemental books spread around me. I'm so terrified that I'll quote something wrong or misinterpret a verse. So I study. I study the heck out of whatever the Lord has impressed upon me to talk about. I get an adequate grasp on the material, compile it into some kind of a cohesive presentation, and I get really excited.

I go over the material. And over it. And over it. At first I chuckle at my own jokes. Eventually they stop being funny and I wonder if anyone at the conference or retreat will laugh. I'm still excited. Out of my mind thrilled, really, that the Lord has given me an opportunity to share my deepest passion, Him, with a group of women.

Then, about 48 hours before the event, I start to feel an impending sense of dread. Why did I agree to do this? What was I thinking? I am ill equipped. I'm convinced that God sends this uneasiness so I remember that no amount of preparation makes a bit of difference if I'm trying to do it on my own. I beseech Him, "May you speak through me!"

This morning my eyes flew open at 5:28, forty minutes before I needed to get up. I couldn't fall back asleep. I rolled over and woke up my husband. "Will you go speak for me?"

"No." He mumbled.

"You can wear the heels," I replied.

He laughed groggily, "Then definitely not."

"I'm going to text Christina*. 'Can't make it today.'"

"I think that'll be the end of your speaking career," he said, the sleep lifting from his voice.

I laughed, "I think that would be the end of my friendship with Christina!"

I don't know why, but I was particularly nervous this time. There wasn't really an explanation for it. I packed deodorant because I was sweating profusely before I even left the house.

It's the same every time. I listen to several powerful worship songs. The songs vary but one thing remains the same, they have to be songs where I am thrown before the throne. I pray. I go over my opening in my head. I contemplate throwing up but decide against it because bits of regurgitated breakfast in the speaker's teeth is just never good. In the end, someone says my name and I walk forward. Usually I have the thought that suddenly I have no idea what I'm going to say. I think, "Oh God," and I'm not taking the Lord's name in vain. "Use me."

After my first session today I had the thought, "This afternoon I am going to bring it." Immediately I felt the Lord impress upon me, You are not going to do anything. You are going be quiet and let me move.

As I was telling my mom about the first session and the fact that God rebuked me when I said that I needed to bring it she said, "You need to pray that you would get out of God's way."

So that's exactly what I did. My mother is wise.

It's the same every time. I'm bouncing off the walls excited to bring God's word. Then I'm nervous as anything. Then the event actually happens and I get to tell people about my Jesus and what He's done. Then I am almost euphorically happy and I wish like mad that it wasn't over.

Heaven. Man. Eternal praising of the Lord. Eternal worshiping of the Savior who extends the free gift of grace to us. In heaven it will be all euphoria and no nerves. In heaven it will be Revelation 4:8 "...day and night they never cease to say, 'Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty, who was and is and is to come!'"

Bring it, Lord Jesus. May your kingdom come.

*My friend who also happened to get me this particular speaking engagement.

Heard Around Here

2011-10-01T09:25:00.000-06:00

If you've been here for longer than a month, you know that my youngest son has a problem with cussing. He really likes to make the words fork and frog sound like the mother of all curse words. Well, you can add ass to the list of words he likes to say.

I needed to get gas after I picked Garrett up from preschool. "Okay," I said. "Let's go get some gas!" Matthew is at that stage where he repeats everything. Garrett was so proficient at repeating that it earned him the nickname "Echo" and I remember those days well. From the backseat, I heard Matthew's tiny voice say, "Yet's go git suh gas." Except that gas was distinctly missing its g.

Yeah. That is not a sentence I want to hear coming out of the mouth of my two-year-old.

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Garrett asks a lot of questions. We've always been very determined to answer his questions with age appropriate responses but not to lie to him or say that we'll tell him when he's older. He started asking questions about childbirth at a very young age.

He always wants to know the details of his birth. Why did I have an oxygen mask on at one point? What, exactly, did I say to daddy while I was giving birth? How long did I stay in the hospital? Yesterday, over lunch and after another round of twenty questions, I fired one at him. "When you get married, do you think you'll have kids?"

"Yes," he replied, "everyone has kids."

"Well, not everyone."

"Some people can have as many kids as they want!" He informed me since he knows that mommy and daddy probably would have more if it was really that easy.

"Yes, that's true," I said. "I really hope that you can have as many kids as you want."

"Yeah. I think I'll have, maybe, fourteen," he smiled. I almost said something about how that's insane but I kept my mouth shut. After a moment or two his eyes got big.

"If I had fourteen kids I would need a huge table!" He exclaimed.

Pampering+Chocolate+Praise=Amen & Amen

2011-09-30T09:50:00.003-06:00

Don't forget to enter the giveaway for a free 25 dollar Sam's Club card! Click here. Or just copy this link= http://familyfishbowl2.blogspot.com/2011/09/25-giveaway.html . I know 25 dollars doesn't get much this days, what with cheese costing approximately one firstborn child and three cents, but every little bit helps. You can boost your chances with multiple entries.

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Tonight, the conference begins. Of course, it's my understanding that tonight is a pampering time and free dinner for ministry wives followed by prayer and praise and chocolate! What about that doesn't appeal to my heart? Nothing. All of that just sounds like a little slice of heaven on earth.

Dinner=Good.

Pampering=Even better.

Chocolate=Now we're talking.

Prayer & Praise= Hallelujah!

Few things warm my soul as quickly as the gathering of evangelical Christian believers in this valley. I'm so excited for this weekend. Several days ago I was praying and I just kept asking God to show up this weekend. In the quietness of my heart I felt Him impress upon me, "Expect it." It was a somewhat startling response, actually.

I started thinking about it. Why wouldn't I expect Him to show up? Why would I feel like only my heartfelt begging would make the Lord present? He's going to have the captive attention of 125+ women, to think He might not show up is preposterous. So I'm expecting Him to make His presence known in a powerful way. And I'm praying that He'll use me to accomplish His will.

Some 25 Years Ago

2011-09-29T19:12:00.003-06:00

I wonder if there was ever a doubt in my parents' minds that I was going to be dramatic.

I think I was five in that picture. In fairness, I also think that I would have been incapable of sporting that head wrap on my own. My mom must have helped. I totally look like some incognito famous child. Add the ridiculous sunglasses and I simply reek of the theatuh. Dahling.

The Battle Belongs to the Lord

2011-09-28T15:25:00.003-06:00

Last night I ended up at the after hours clinic. Late in the afternoon I called to ask the nurse if she thought it was a reaction to the flu shot. She suspected that it could be but thought the doctor should see me anyway--especially when I mentioned that I had a conference this weekend. The doctor looked in my ears, which weren't hurting. He looked at my throat, which wasn't hurting. He listened to my lungs--which felt fine. Then he asked whether anyone in my house had been sick and diagnosed me with, nothing really.

He said he thought I was trying to fight off a common cold and having some kind of slight reaction to the flu vaccine. I left with a prescription for Prednisone but when the doctor started explaining side effects to me I asked if I might take Ibuprofen first and see if it worked. He thought that sounded like a good idea. He'd already told me that Prednisone might cause me to have difficulty sleeping and might make me bloated.

I had an image of myself, extremely swollen and bearing dark circles under my eyes, shuffling up to the stage on Saturday morning. In the image I was also incredibly disheveled, although I think that was more a product of my imagination than anything.

I did fill the prescription today just in case I needed a heavy weight in my corner come Saturday but I have no intention of taking it. I looked up all the possible side effects on the Internet and I really don't want to deal with any of them.

Headache- I don't want one. I've had enough lately.

Dizziness- Onstage? I'd likely topple off. I'm not coordinated anyway and falling off the stage is always a distinct possibility.

Difficulty falling asleep- I don't want to be tired. Enough said.

Inappropriate Happiness- The idea of inappropriate happiness makes me inappropriately happy. I have images of hysterical laughter while everyone in attendance shifts awkwardly in her seat and gives a sideways glance to the woman seated next to her.

Extreme changes in mood- "Which conference was that again?" Betsy asked her friend. "The one where the speaker laughed hysterically for no good reason and then burst into tears," Wanda responded.

Changes in Personality- See Extreme changes in mood.

Bulging Eyes- Yeah, that's, just, never good.

Acne- I still deal with a honkin' zit here or there as it is. I do not need acne. Although, this conference is open to teens so maybe they'd feel more connected.

Thin, fragile skin- I'd have to make sure not to talk too animatedly with my hands...you know, out of fear that my thin, fragile skin might go flying off.

Red or purple blotches or lines under the skin- I'd have invest in a lot of flesh colored concealer to handle that one.

Slowed healing of cuts and bruises- I'm not planning on getting cut and/or bruised while speaking but, well, you never know.

Increased hair growth- Where? A long luxurious mane just in time for the conference would be fine. Unless it was on my face.

Changes in the way fat is spread around the body- Sign me up. Not.

Extreme tiredness- See Difficulty Falling Asleep

Weak muscles- "Can I get a chair up here? I've been speaking for five minutes and my muscles are incredibly fatigued." And, wait, this is like a side effect akin to what I'm trying to cure.

Irregular or absent menstrual periods- I have PCOS so what else is new? In this case would two negatives come together and make a positive?

Decreased sexual desire- Well. Now. This one wouldn't really effect the outcome of the conference. To my knowledge.

Heartburn- I get heartburn with some regularity and I can say that I'd prefer for it to stay completely away from me during any and all conferences.

Increased sweating- Okay so we've established that we're not taking this little gem of a medication. I'd much rather have an aching body than be known as Pit Mark Girl.

Since the doctor didn't really diagnose me with anything to speak of, I diagnosed myself with a case of Spiritual Warfare. Sometimes Satan doesn't even try to be subtle. When I said aloud that I wasn't going to let some severe muscle pain stop me from preparing, he threw something else at our family. I might have to put oil on my socks and walk circles around myself. But my God will have the victory.

2 Chronicles 20:15 "...Do not be afraid or discouraged because of this vast army. For the battle is not yours, but God’s."

Aches and Pains

2011-09-27T15:03:00.003-06:00

Do you all not have a Sam's Club membership or do you just not need an extra 25 dollars to shop with? Head over to my giveaway blog and enter already!

And then come back over here and cure me of whatever is making me ache from my neck to my knee caps.

I've had a hunch all day that it's some kind of weird reaction to my flu vaccination but I'm not having any fun yet. The majority of the pain is located in my back and arms but it radiates to, well, everywhere else. If I sit still enough I hardly remember that I hurt. Then I jump up to do something and I feel like I'm going to topple over, dead.

Maybe there was a little bit of Satan in my flu shot and he's trying to thwart my plans to bring the Word of God to the conference this weekend. I have news for him, my God is a whole lot bigger and I expect Him to show up in a mighty way.

If I still feel like the living dead this weekend I'll have pop some serious pain killers so that Satan doesn't win the battle (just the battle, never the war). Although, perhaps popping pain killers and then public speaking is not the very best idea I've ever had.

How's the Painting?

2011-09-26T16:47:00.003-06:00

Every time we drop The Rock Star off at school and his teacher is the one unloading kids from cars, she says something like, "He is so sweet."

Today she said, "He's just the cutest. I have to tell you a quick story. The other day his table was working on writing and the other table was painting. He turned around in his seat and said to the other table, 'How's the painting going guys?' I mean, who does that? He's adorable."

I smiled and said, "Thank you. He's never met someone who isn't a friend."

She replied, "Well, I just love it."

When I picked him up from class today she looked me right in the eye and said, "Thank you!" I raised my eyebrows. "He really adds so much to my class!"

"Oh," I said, "Well, you're welcome."

Garrett has always received a lot of attention in preschool. He's been the energetic one, the one who says random, funny things, the one in the transracial family, the one who talks nonstop. I am thrilled that this year his teacher is loving how friendly and sweet he is. And I see his confidence with school boosting almost every day. I couldn't be more happy with our decision to send him to that particular preschool to begin with and I couldn't be happier with our decision to put him in a third year there.

Today we were walking and he reached up and took my hand. I looked down at him and smiled, "Do you know that I love you so much it sometimes hurts and my heart feels like it might burst?"

He nodded. "Yeah, mommy. I know you love me."

Head Over to Givin' in a Fishbowl

2011-09-24T17:22:00.002-06:00

Head on over to my giveaway site for your chance to win a $25 Sam's Club gift certificate. If you don't have a Sam's Club card, enter anyway and if you win you can give it to someone who does.

Click here --> Givin' in a Fishbowl

He is Here

2011-09-23T14:36:00.004-06:00

Suddenly, yesterday, it hit me like a tons of bricks outta nowhere. I could have lost my baby. I could have lost my baby. I could have lost my baby. And, you know what, I don't know that I ever really processed that.

I spent thirteen and a half months repeating, "Who of you by worrying can add a single day to his life?" I spent over a year clinging to the truth that God knows the plans He has for each and every one of us. I spent nearly 60 weeks living a nightmare. In that time I tried not to think about what it would be like to hand my son over to a social worker.

I don't know if I ever explained that our case wasn't as simple as Matthew growing up here or with his father. The case was simply to decide whether or not to allow the adoption to continue. If we'd lost in court, Matthew would have been removed from our home and placed into the foster system. We may have been able to petition the court to allow him to stay with us instead of being placed in a separate foster home but, as our case was being heard in California, the court may have wanted him in that state. There likely would have then been a custody case between Matthew's mother and father. If his father had won that case, Matthew would have remained in foster care while his father completed a series of necessary steps, classes and evaluations before he could have custody of Matthew. It's possible that those steps never would have been completed or that, after further evaluation, custody never would have been granted. Had that been the case, Matthew would have, again, been placed for adoption. But I don't think we would have been allowed to adopt him because our process would have already been stopped by the court.

Those are the facts as I understand them. Clear as mud?

Back then, I couldn't allow myself to think beyond the trial. I had to simply take life one day at a time. When it was over, and Matthew's father had agreed to a settlement, I tried to pick up the pieces, rejoice, and work through everything that had happened. I never let myself think about what might have happened. Maybe that's okay. Maybe there's no point in speculating--especially about something so painful.

Or maybe we should confront such emotions so they don't sneak up on us. Yesterday the thoughts piled up on each other one after the other after another.

What if I'd never heard that sweet voice? What if I'd had to hold that one-year-old's head in my hand, whispering that everything was going to be okay and that I was going to love him forever even though I would never see him again? What if I'd had to trust someone else not to lose his favorite monkey? What if I didn't get to watch him fall in love with a kitty named Cupcake at Petsmart? What if he picked dandelions for someone else?

What if he wasn't here?

The thought was suffocating. Matthew is such an enormous part of what makes us, well, us. The days with a toddler are long and filled with foot-stomping, button-pushing fights for independence. But he is here and I couldn't be more thankful.

Hanging Out

2011-09-22T16:44:00.002-06:00

It was picture time for tee ball so Troy took The Rock Star last night. They headed off to get photos taken and then went straight to Kid's Club at the church.

It was just me and a very spaghetti sauce covered boy left at the house. After his bath, we got ready to head over to Walmart to pick up a new shower curtain liner. As I put The Little Buddy into clothes he asked, "Where daddy go?"

"He had to leave," I said simply. This kid hates when his daddy leaves. He hates when his daddy leaves and takes his brother even more.

"Oh."

"Do you want to go to the store with me?" I asked.

"Ye-ah!" He squealed, emphasis on the ye.

We had a great time together just walking through Walmart. Usually he has to ride in the cart but since we didn't need a cart last night he got to toddle. He pointed a chubby finger at anything and everything. "Yook ah dat!"

At one point, while I was deciding which liner to get, he laid on the floor. Gross. I know. He started wiggling around. "I foating mommy! I foating." I'm still unsure exactly what he was doing but I'm pretty sure he thought he was floating.

After about forty minutes, we returned home. As soon as we entered the house he looked around and then asked, "Where Gehwit?"

Oh, you know, he's upstairs, livin' it up. I decided to be a horrible mother and leave him home alone for nearly an hour. "He left with daddy, so we get to hang out together" I said. It cracked me up that he actually thought we'd left Garrett.

"Oh. Okay. Gehwit wit daddy. We hang ow."

I love watching his little mind working.

The Screaming

2011-09-21T20:53:00.004-06:00

My boys sometimes play adorably well together. Their happy sounds drift down the stairs from the playroom or through the window from the backyard and my heart is content.

But usually there is squabbling and shoving and choruses of, "That's mine!" or "I had that first!" or "Give it back!" And then there's the shrieking.

They both do it.

And mama's had it.

Had. It. Said in a southern accent for dramatic effect.

One of them yells. I don't know if the yeller is yelling because he's being mutilated by the other or if the yeller is yelling because it makes him seem more fierce as he yanks a toy out of the other brother's hand. It's hard to know who the offending party is when one of them screams, is what I'm trying to say.

In this regard, Mary had it made. Don't get me wrong, this is probably the only time Mary had it easy. I mean, trying to explain a virgin pregnancy doesn't sound like a picnic in the park. Watching her son and Savior being brutally killed because of her sin--and mine--had to be the worst thing any mother has ever endured. But parenting. Well.

"Mom! Jesus hit me!"

No, he didn't.

"Jesus is lying!"

No, he's not.

"Mama, Jesus stole my toy."

James, he did not. Go sit in the corner.

"Why do you always think Jesus is so perfect?"

BECAUSE HE IS!

Sigh. It might have been difficult to be one of Jesus's siblings. But his mother, well, she always knew it wasn't Him.

I can identify the screamer but beyond that I'm at a loss. Garrett points his finger at Matthew. Matthew points his finger at Garrett. They both go to their room. Because the shrieking thing is making me insane.

Today I told them that the next time they started yelling, they were getting separated. Sure enough, several minutes later, they were both howling at each other. I told Garrett he was no longer allowed to play with his brother and to go in the backyard. "I don't want to! It's hot out*!" I gave him my most hideous glare--the one that I've fine tuned to specifically say, I mean serious business--and he started to cry. But he went outside. Matthew toddled down the stairs a moment later.

"I go owside. I go owside wih Gehwit." He went for the door.

"No," I replied. He looked at me, bewildered. "You aren't allowed to play with your brother until you can stop screaming." He burst into tears.

Garrett was in the backyard wanting to get in. Matthew stood inside wanting to get out. But they weren't yelling. And that was blessed bliss.

*I think it was about 75 degrees. I wasn't torturing him. I promise.

Needle Mania

2011-09-19T23:58:00.005-06:00

Today we were all inoculated with the flu vaccine. I just typed fly vaccine and thought about how wonderful it would be if there was a shot that repelled flies. The Little Buddy would be all over that because he's not a fan of flies. Although, really, who is? Also, inoculated is such a fun word that I think I may need to integrate it into my vocabulary with fervor.

Troy went first. I followed. The Rock Star, who could seriously go by The Shot Star just as appropriately because he is an incredible little trouper who isn't scared of needles at all, was third. Seriously. Troy is the biggest needlephobe I've ever met. I would question paternity but I'm 110% positively sure that my husband fathered my son. Although the doctor did insist for quite some time that I became pregnant on a specific day. A specific day that I was all the way across the country from my husband. For real. I insisted that, no, I actually didn't get pregnant while I was in New York City. Without my husband.

My point. Garrett is Troy's biological son but they couldn't be further apart on the needle to fear continuum.

We all sailed through our vaccinations with flying colors. Even Troy. All the while, Matthew was standing in the middle of the room quietly saying, "I want one." Every time one of us received our Band-Aid he pointed and asked politely. We kept assuring him that he'd get one.

I sat on the table and held him on my lap. The nurse cleaned his leg and stuck the needle in. And that is when all the pandemonium in all the world broke loose. Matthew is strong. I mean really, incredibly, sometimes frighteningly, strong. As soon as the needle went in he yanked his leg ten inches in the opposite direction before the nurse or I could do anything about it. Vaccine sprayed and blood trickled. The violent jerk of his leg had sent the needle grazing across his skin. And he sobbed.

The nurse was confident that we got enough vaccine in and that it would be better to let it be than to give him another dose and risk him getting too much. She covered part of his scrape with a Band-Aid and went to get another one for the rest of it. When she walked back in he freaked out and started flailing--terrified that she was going to administer another poke of death. We assured him that he was just getting another Band-Aid. When she put it on he quietly said, "Thank you."

And it broke my heart just a little.

In the car Garrett (the weird little freak) said, "Matthew wasn't that fun?"

Matthew, still looking pathetic and clutching his favorite stuffed animal, responded, "Yeah!"

Someone needs to teach him that he doesn't always have to agree with his brother.

Sweet Weekend

2011-09-17T15:19:00.002-06:00

I'm speaking at a conference in two weeks here in the Salt Lake valley called Sweet Weekend. If you're in Utah (or anywhere nearbyish) and want the details, shoot me an email or comment. I would be glad to send you the link to the online brochure. The event is an equipping and encouraging weekend for women. There is also a teen track for those in sixth grade and older. The conference begins at 7:00 pm on Friday the 30th of September (unless you're a pastor's wife and then it starts at 4:00 with spa time/dinner). It resumes again on Saturday at 8:45, ends at 3:30 and includes a luncheon.

The cost is 30 dollars and includes breakout sessions, two keynotes, and an incredible time of worship.

Funny Business

2011-09-16T16:33:00.004-06:00

I didn't have kids so that I could laugh out loud on a regular basis. But it's certainly a perk.

The other night Garrett fell asleep in my bed. When I crawled in, a couple hours later, to snuggle with him before Troy moved him to his own bed, he stirred. For a moment or two he mumbled and repositioned. Then, he suddenly sat straight up, looked into my eyes and shouted, "Mom, how do you say mantis in Spanish?"

I began laughing hysterically as I answered truthfully, "I have no idea."

Yesterday we were driving in the car and The Rock Star saw a digital sign. As it changed pictures he exclaimed, "Well, that's an awfully flashy sign." I think it was advertising car service. If he thinks that's flashy, it's a good thing he seems to have his head buried in a book every time we drive through Vegas.

Today, when I picked him up from school, he got in the car laughing. "What's funny?" I asked. There is another Garrett in his class and the other one had already been picked up. Apparently, when Other Garrett's ride arrived they called my Garrett and ushered him toward the door saying, "Your Grandpa's here." I imagined that there was a moment of extreme elation followed by a very big disappointment when my boy realized that his grandpa wasn't waiting for him. "Did you think your Grandpa came to pick you up?" I asked him.

"No," he said, still laughing. "I looked out the window and said, 'That's not my Grandpa.'"

Not to be left out, Matthew caused quite a stir in Target last week when he saw a frog themed bathroom set. "Fuhgk! Fuhgk!" He screamed in excitement. Turns out his word for frog is very similar to his word for fork. A man walked by. If looks could kill he would have slain me for teaching my child the mother of all cuss words.

"Yes, Matthew," I said. "It is a frog. Let's maybe not be quite so loud about it though."

My Friend, Eddie

2011-09-14T15:20:00.006-06:00

Death sucks.

There's no way to sugar coat that, no word that describes it more adequately, no way around it. Death just sucks. It stinks. It bites.

And when you work in ministry it seems to suck/stink/bite even more because we're given such a big platform on which to love people. We get to know them. We worship with them. We dine with them. We care deeply about them.

We know. We know the believer is in a better place. We know that they closed their eyes on a disgusting, dirty, perverse world and opened them in glory. For them, death is the first moment of eternity with the Lord. So, for them, death is unending joy. They close their ears to sadness and pain and reopen them to the angels singing, "Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty who was and is and is to come."

But for those of us still here, death sucks.

Our friend, Eddie, went to be with the Lord today. Never again will I turn around during worship and see him standing behind me plucking his bass guitar. Never will I see his bright smile zooming toward me in his wheelchair. Never will I watch as he wheels my children around the sanctuary. Never will I feel the rough edges of his mustache as he presses his cheek to mine on a Sunday morning.

My son fell in love with Eddie the moment we moved here. Eddie had lost his legs in an accident so even back then he wasn't a whole lot taller than my toddler. This intrigued Garrett and they became fast friends. Every Sunday my son would beg Eddie to zoom him around. Eddie would wrap an arm around Garrett's torso and, with his other arm, fly as fast as he could around in circles or up and down the hallway. My son's laugh could be heard throughout the building. Only within the last year has Garrett gotten a little too big to ride with Eddie--but he still tried, balancing on the edge of the seat, his giggling matching Eddie's deep chuckle measure for measure. Garrett thought it was so funny when we told him that, from the back, it looked like Eddie had a pair of new, wispy, little boy legs hanging off the front of his wheelchair.

We went to see Eddie in the hospital on Monday and we took Garrett. I wasn't sure if we were making the right decision but when I'd tried explaining that Eddie was probably going to meet Jesus soon, Garrett had replied with, "I need to get up to the hospital to see him." It sounds like he's been listening to our end of a lot of phone conversations. I know that Garrett is five and I don't want to put the weight of the world on his shoulders but I also don't want to tell him that because he is five--because is young, little, small--he can't say goodbye to his friend.

Troy and the boys were a few minutes behind me and Eddie was asleep when I got there. I walked in, took his hand, and said, "Hey, Buddy." He opened his eyes, smiled, and fell back asleep. But when my son got there, oh, the blessed sweetness of that moment.

I lifted Garrett up and he whispered, "Hi."

Eddie rolled his head to the side, opened his eyes, took a deep breath, chuckled and said, "Hi, Garrett!"

This morning I asked Garrett if he knew that Mr. Eddie probably had an appointment with heaven today. He nodded and then said, "And when Mr. Eddie gets there he's going to say, 'I'm home!'" I smiled.

"Is that what he's going to say?"

"Well," Garrett replied, "I don't know for sure what Mr. Eddie is going to say when he gets to heaven but when I get there I'm gonna walk in and say, 'I'm glad to be home!'"

There are moments when it becomes abundantly clear to me that I am the child in our relationship. So often he reminds me that we're just passing through. That this is not our permanent residence.

I had the job of telling him, just a little while later, that Eddie was with Jesus. I expected a flood of tears. Gone are his days of riding around the church with his buddy. Gone are his days of standing next to him and plucking a string on Eddie's guitar. For me, the images of Eddie are causing chest constrictions that can only be relieved by a bubbling of tears. But my son looked at me and said, "Okay. I'll get to see him in heaven. And now he has a new body so he has new legs! And that, Mom, is pretty cool."

Death sucks. For the living.

But my friend is walking around on a brand new set of legs. And that is pretty cool. Who knows, maybe they are a pair of wispy little boy legs. Maybe they look a lot like the pair that used to hang off the front of his wheelchair.

Rest in the peace of our Savior, dear friend. We'll see you when we get there.

Oh What A Morning

2011-09-13T09:04:00.004-06:00

I need a moment's peace and in that moment's peace I need to get my everlovin' mind focused on the Lord. It's only 9:05 but the last hour was crazy. It involved yelling. And being late. Two things I don't really enjoy.

A dear friend of ours from church is nearing the end. He will very likely be walking with the Lord soon. Last night, my husband and our associate pastor stayed very late at the hospital. Troy got home around 3:30. Our associate pastor's wife is out of town so he brought his daughter to spend the night while he camped out at the hospital.

She needed to be at school--about ten minutes away--at 8:25.

So I got up at 7:00.

I got all three kids ready. I fed them. I curled Madi's hair. Three sets of teeth got brushed. I started a load of laundry. I cleaned out the litter box. I was doing good. We were ahead of schedule so I let them play for a few minutes. Apparently I needed a good humbling because I was starting to think I had this motherhood thing down pat.

When it was time to go it took forever to get Madi buckled in between Garrett and Matthew's car seats. So we left a couple minutes late.

I took the shortest route to the school. This involved passing two other elementary schools and the traffic was terrible. I grew up in an area that had one elementary school until I was in the sixth grade and they opened a second. I'm not used to school traffic.

Then, despite looking up the directions to the school last night, I assumed that I'd be able to see it from the main road. Well, we all know what happens when we assume. People are late to third grade. That's what! So I ended up in road construction--that I would have missed altogether if I'd turned at the right place--and I'm sitting there, not moving. At this point my boys get loud and I yell at them to pipe down immediately so that I can think. It's been a long time since I've been in elementary school. Was I supposed to walk her to class? Walk her to the office. I needed to process what I was supposed to do with her now that she was late. I was acutely aware that I hadn't yet put make up on.

The road sign changed from STOP to SLOW and the line of cars in front of me continued on their merry way. But just as I was about to go through, the angry red STOP sign showed its face to me and I had to cease moving once again.

Once I was finally allowed to go I went straight, since, you know, I hadn't yet seen the school from the road. "Why didn't you turn?" Madi asked me?

"I was supposed to turn back there?" I questioned.

"Yes," she replied. I flipped the car around. Now I was stuck on the other side of the road construction. Neat.

"Okay, Madi, do you know where to turn after that?" She agreed that she did. So I turned onto the road that I previously didn't know I was supposed to turn on. I continued driving. "Make sure you tell me where to turn." I drove for a few more seconds.

"You should have turned back there," she said, suddenly.

Oy vey!

So I flipped the car around again. Within seconds I had pulled up in front of the school. "I'm afraid we're late," Madi sighed. I explained that, yes, we were late but I would walk her in. Exercise clothes, no make up, and all.

Of course Matthew had taken off his shoes and thrown them about the car. Of course I had to find them and put them on him before we walked in. Of course he didn't want them on and he screamed and kicked his feet in an effort to accomplish his goal.

We walked in and got stuck in line behind some kids who were having some sort of rental instrument crisis. Once that was all figured out I simply said, "We're family friends of hers. She spent the night last night. I didn't figure in the road construction on my way here. Does she need a pass or something?" They smiled at me.

"She's okay, just go straight to class."

So the moral of this story is that, apparently, I don't have this motherhood thing figured out. Or, at least, I don't have road construction figured out.

New Handle

2011-09-12T17:07:00.003-06:00

If I were a super hero I think I might be WonderMultitasker. My uniform would involve combat boots. And many pockets filled with lists.

My kids would likely be Terrible Two Man and Superloud.

What's your super hero handle?

Remembrance

2011-09-11T07:54:00.002-06:00

The phone rang. It was early. I was just thinking about getting ready for my first class. My roommate's mom was on the other end of the line. "What channel?" I heard my roommate say. When the answer to that question is that it doesn't matter, you know something is very wrong.

Even with the reporters explaining what had happened, it took several minutes for anything to register. I kept thinking that it didn't make sense that two pilots had miscalculated so badly. But then it registered that we'd been attacked by terrorists. I ran into my friend's room and woke her, on her birthday, with, "Terrorists attacked New York!" We ran back into my room and the three us stood, glued to the repeated video of planes flying into buildings.

And then we watched, live, as the tower fell, rapidly, window by window by window, to the earth below.

Shock.

Stunned silence.

Overwhelming sadness.

I remember being terrified. I remember being devastated and angry and confused. I remember wondering how we just went off to class or rehearsal when the weight of the world was now sitting squarely on our shoulders.

More than any one image imprinted on my mind, I remember watching footage of people leaping from the tower to their deaths.

I simply cannot believe that ten years have gone by.

Because, as though it was yesterday, I remember.

Birthday

2011-09-08T10:49:00.002-06:00

Well, the twenties are gone. So far thirty feels a lot like 29 and 11 months.

I suspected it would.

Now let's just pray that my flight doesn't go down this afternoon. Because I think a tombstone that read: September 8, 1981-September 8, 2011 would just be exceptionally depressing.

Right now I'm trying to type and both of my boys are entertaining me with bizarre dance moves. It doesn't get better than this...

Special thanks to my friend, Joelle, for revamping my blog as a birthday gift.