Ethan's Glasses

Christina called me.

"Mom. Ethan has to get glasses."

"How can they tell? How do they figure out what a child needs when he can't tell them?" My curious, a bit skeptical of their accuracy, brain wants to know. I'm wondering what I would end up with if I had my eyes examined without the "which looks better, A or B questions.

"Mom, I don't want him to have to wear glasses. How am I supposed to get him to wear them?"

"Oh, I think he will like them. Remember how much he loves to put on those safety goggles?" I'm trying to be positive while walking through the grocery store talking on my cell phone. I hadn't noticed the pain in her voice.

"I really didn't want him to have to wear glasses. Why can't Ethan get a break? He doesn't need one more reason for people to stare at him." I suddenly realized what she was saying and could hear tears in her quivering voice. "Not very many 3 year olds wear glasses. When they do, people stare. I just want him to look cute so he is more accepted.

I stopped walking. I didn't have an answer. I'm standing in the middle of the grocery store with tears welling up in my eyes. I want to hug my daughter. I want to hold my grandson and make things better. I know wearing glasses isn't the end of the world. I want to tell my daughter the plus side of the glasses, that Ethan will enjoy life more. We won't see him crossing his eyes when he tries to focus. But at that moment she isn't looking for answers. She just needs someone to hear what she is feeling and to understand. When there are no words, communicating via telephone falls drastically short. So I stand there hugging my phone, with no words coming out. I hope she understands the meaning.

When it rains it pours

I hadn't cleaned out the refrigerator in over 2 weeks. Ick! I probably would have put if off a bit longer, but I could not cram a single more thing into it. It was grocery shopping day and so it was a necessity.

I began emptying plastic containers of tidbits of leftovers. Nothing was growing anything furry, nor did I find anything unrecognizable. (I'm doing better people.) But why did I save 1/4 cup black beans? It's not like one of the teens is going to open the fridge, say "yum! black beans," open the lid and have a snack. Thanks to my temperamental garbage disposal I emptied the containers into the trash can. I found out the hard way once, after cleaning out my 'fridge. I poured the leftover down the infamous garbage disposer. Afterall, isn't that what the name implies? Not sure if it was the true culprit or the pipes that regurgitated, but the stuff did NOT go down. Two hundred dollars later, the plumber asks if I had just cleaned out my refrigerator. "How did you know?" I queried. Apparently, it happens all of the time. But I've been diligent ever since.

Now who leaves a half-eaten individual pudding container with a spoon in it? Are we really so spoon deprived that she was afraid we wouldn't have any when she came back to finish it off? (Which of course, never happened.) Somehow in the midst of dumping garbage I managed to knock the can over. Out spilled the gooey, slimy contents all over the kitchen floor. That pudding container flew across the room flinging chocolate goo onto the cabinets. I tried to be thankful. At least the can didn't go down my carpeted stairs...wet coffee grounds are especially hard to get off that beige carpet. (Ask me how I know.) Why is my garbage can now protesting and regurgitating? Is the food that bad?

At this point Michael walks in with a gentleman to get an estimate on some work that needs to be done. I smiled and kept right on cleaning. I came across the last container. It was saurkraut. The odor was quite strong. I had just emptied the trash outside, so decided this one could go down the garbage disposal and hopefully the smell with it. I sent it down that grinding hole and tossed a small squishy orange after it hoping to mask the odor. I was finally finished. Off to the laundry room to attack the next chore.

That was when I noticed a strange scent. Walking into the laundry room it was unmistakable. There next to the washer, on top of my freshly folded clothes was saurkraut and water. Darn! It wasn't that nasty disposal afterall. It was the pipes that had it in for me. They were the true perpetrator in the food and water assaults. The floor was also swimming in water mixed with the earlier contents of my purging of the fridge. I had a doctor appointment in a half an hour and I did NOT have time for this. I won't bore you with how the rest of the day went, but after picking up kids, school meetings and such, I finally got back to getting that mess cleaned up sometime around 11p.m.

So this morning, I found a repeat of regurgitated water from my coffee maker on my counter. I wanted to cry. Something about water mixed with anything chunky has it in for me. It was my own fault. I forgot to put a filter in, so the ground clogged the hole causing the brown liquid to overflow onto the counter where I have the lunch and breakfast stuff laid out. I give! I will not try to mix any kind of food, grounds, or anything not liquid with water again. I will forever keep them separated and never contaminate a receptacle for water.

Extravagant Love

Extravagant: Given to lavish or imprudent expenditure
Exceeding reasonable bounds
Extremely abundant; profuse
Unreasonably high; exorbitant

So what does extravagant love mean? Growing up, I knew my parents loved me. When I got married, I hoped my husband loved me. When I surrendered my life to Christ, I was overwhelmed with the thought that He not only loved me, but thought of me and saw something of value. When you value something, you invest in it. You spend time caring for it. Nothing is too great a price to protect it. How many people feel lavishly loved? How many of us know what it means to be extravagantly loved?

Speaking with others, some mention intense feelings and emotion of love when they found "the one." While dating, they felt valued-that nothing was too unreasonable for the other to give in order to express that love. I can't say that Michael and I had an intense, passionate dating/relationship experience. Sometimes I look back and wonder if we even liked each other. We were both self-centered and protective of our hearts.

I did not feel treasured when we married, like I was so deeply loved he couldn't live without me. It was almost as if he just put up with me. Truthfully, he probably felt the same way. I spent years trying to be the perfect wife, hoping somehow I'd earn his undying affection. I came to understand that you cannot make someone love you. It is a choice on their part. Love cannot be forced.

Life has changed. Every day I wake up, the only way to describe what I am living is in Extravagant Love. Michael tells me the sweetest things. He'll say I'm the best thing that has ever happened in his life. He asks, "have I told you today that I love you," or "Did I tell you today how beautiful you are?" And when I look into his eyes, I can see it. He is passionate.

This passionate love is seen as he has lavished gifts upon me. Money is very important to him. He has always been frugal and only invests in what he believes will benefit him or something that will retain it value or increase in value. He does not waste his precious resources. Never has. For him to be so extravagant, shouts to me "I am worthy of his love." (Which of course I'm not. But I do feel like a rare gemstone that he is pouring everything he has into so it will keep its value and preciousness.)

I've been given a love I never believed would be mine. I cannot believe that after being with this man for 23+ years that I could love him more and more each day. I want to give this treasured feeling, extravagant love back to him. I want to share it with everyone I know and those I don't.

I believe this is just a glimpse of the love that God wants to pour out on me and you. When love is nurtured, it grows. It is like a tender plant. With proper care it will flourish and multiply. It will reproduce its own kind. It will bear fruit. And it gives back to the original source of love in its own extravagant way. I don't want to be a reflection of this love. I want to live it overflowing.

Men, Cars, Reversing

I am curious. Has anyone else noticed this? Go to any parking lot. It doesn't matter if it is the grocery store, the mall, a church. Any parking lot will do. Watch for awhile. How often do you see a female backing into a parking spot? So far, I've yet to find one. If you see that reverse light go on, the driver will almost certainly be male. Is driving in reverse akin to driving fast? Is there an adrenaline rush when the shift to R is made?

When my son was home over Easter weekend, I let him drive my car. (Does it sound like my thoughts are centered around this car? I suppose if you count 3 dreams last week, I do think about it a lot.) Anyway, each time Christopher got home, he'd back the car into the garage. He's a pro at backing up. Yes, that means he gets paid. He works as a Valet Parking Attendant. Michael thought it was actually a good idea for my car to be backed into the garage. That way when I opened my car door, it wasn't next to his car.

I've never much liked spending much time in reverse-only when necessary. I may occasionally get an adrenaline rush, but it is pure fear. I suspect this comes from having driven large vehicles for so long. When you drive a full size van, there are blind spots when backing up. That can be scary. The same is true of a Suburban. It is also true in my S2000 if the top is up. (Truthfully, I've only driven twice with the top up. Once was Monday when it was snowing.) But with the top down, it is pretty safe to reverse.

I'm not an expert reverser yet. I can never get the car in the same place twice. This morning Michael said he reversed my car into the garage. What? You drove my car before I got up? "No," he replied. "I just pulled it out and backed it in. I wanted to see if it was as hard as you make it look."

"And, was it?"

"Nope," he grinned. "It's exactly where it should be."

It Happens

It was bound to happen. At least that is what everyone keeps telling me. Last week my baby turned 1 month old. (Yes, my baby is yellow, and some people refer to it as a sports car.) I've been taking such good care of it and its pristine interior/exterior. Saturday, after washing her up real nice, I was feeling quite generous. So I took my 16 year old out to teach her to drive a standard transmission.

She is currently driving my old baby, a 1999 Chevy Suburban. I took darn good care of her too. After 6 years I'd had no accidents, no fender-benders, hardly a door ding in that big white truck. I did manage to catch the side mirror-twice backing out of the garage. It chipped a bit off of the plastic. (Whose idea was it to put plastic mirrors on a truck????) When Michael found out those mirrors were $600 to replace, and since I'd bumped it twice, the chipped and cracked mirror is the only reminder of any negligence to my truck.

Last Tuesday, after arriving at school, I received a teary-eyed phone call from Sarabeth.

"What's wrong" I asked.

"Can I come home?" She barely managed to squeeze out.

"What's wrong?" I repeat.

"When I was pulling into my parking spot I hit Jen's car. It broke her tail light out. I went into the school to find her. The worst part is when she saw me she hugged me. She told me she was having a terrible day and was happy to see me and needed a hug. I told her, that her day was about to get worse..."

Michael handled it all so well. Very different than when our oldest was driving our big blue van and she stopped at a stop sign and her brother's head hit the windshield, cracking it. She didn't drive again for 2 years. This time, when Sarabeth arrived home, Michael took her in his arms and held her as she cried. He let her know that now that she'd had her first incident she could quit worrying about it. Also, that the first one was "free," he'd take care of it. (I did cringe when I saw the slightest mark on my old faithful truck bumper. She was showing the first scars of teenage driving.)

Back to Saturday. Since she'd had such a rough week with cars, I thought Sarabeth would enjoy learning to drive mine. We arrived at a vacant, recently closed Target parking lot. I taught the basics of clutching, shifting, braking. My little flame handled it well, stalling only a few times, a bit of grinding, revving the engine and if Sarabeth could just remember to take her foot off of the gas after pushing in the clutch. Driving got a little smoother. I was starting to get sunburned, so decided maybe we'd gotten far enough to let the new shifter drive my car home. And then it happened. We hit a dip a bit hard, going too fast. The car scraped on the bottom. It was a terrible scratching sound. I'd heard this sound before in Michael's car. His sits low to the ground and scrapes if you get to close to those concrete parking barriers. Ok, we'd survive. I let her drive home. We made it with only 1 stall.

I took my keys back and was happy to have them back in my possession. It wasn't until later when Michael asked me if I'd parked to close to something that I even questioned that there might have been damage.

When I looked I wanted to cry. The whole front of my car, that beautiful yellow fiberglass was scraped with black showing through. It's only 1/2-1 inch, but it is across most of the front. Sigh. I wasn't as kind as Michael. I didn't yell or get outwardly angry, but I was sullen the rest of the day. It wasn't as if this was a precious golden calf. Or was it?

Funeral

I'm on my way to a funeral. I received a phone call last night that an old friend had lost her son. He was 29 and had custody of his two young boys. It was very unexpected. He had a heart attack. His 4 and 6 year old found their father in the bathroom and couldn't help him. The only phone, a cell phone was in their father's pocket. They waited the night out until their grandmother arrived the next day to find her son dead on the bathroom floor. The children sad because they could not help their father. They couldn't even unlock the front door to go for help.

We don't know what tomorrow holds, or even today. I am thankful for the breath I am breathing, in spite of allergies. I won't complain because of this temporary discomfort. It will pass. The pain of losing a son will not. I cannot imagine, nor will I pretend to comprehend what my friend is walking through. Honestly, I don't even want to think about the devastation. But I will. However feeble my hands may be, I will offer my support. I will stand and allow her to lean. Knowing the only way any of us stand or walk, or take our next breath, is by God's grace, we will hold onto Him together.

Upside Down

At times in our life, we feel as if our world has been turned upside down. Maybe what we don't realize, is that we are just looking at it from the wrong perspective. It might take the help of someone else for us to notice that our world really isn't upside down, we just aren't looking at it the way others see it. My kids showed me a clear picture of why I am feeling so out-of-sorts.



So there really isn't anything wrong in my world, just me seeing things wacky.

"For My thoughts are not your thoughts,
Nor are your ways My ways,” says the LORD.
For as the heavens are higher than the earth,
So are My ways higher than your ways,
And My thoughts than your thoughts." (Is.55:8-9)

He's My Son

I was driving in my car, the top down, listening to the radio. I was thinking about this weekend. Christopher is flying in for Easter. He hasn't been home since Christmas. Then this song came on the radio. Tears filled my eyes. I haven't heard this song for over 2 years. I remembered the last time this song played. I was driving then also, but instead of tears, I erupted into full-fledged sobbing.

It was August. I had the privilege of driving 900 miles with Christopher to see him off to college. We had some great talks along the way. But, have you ever been to Phoenix in August? It was 115 degrees. Christopher's dorm was on the 3rd floor. No elevator, just concrete steps that were outdoors. So up and down we went carrying boxes, bedding, more boxes, computer, a small refrigerator, boxes, microwave and even more boxes in the blistering heat. When we finally carried the last load up those steps we sat in his room trying to cool down. The air conditioning was running, but I sure didn't feel cooler. I was dripping wet with sweat, red in the face and dog-tired. I said good-bye and took my last trip down the stairs.

I was holding up pretty well. Mostly, because I was wiped out and wanting to cool down. While I was driving, that song came on the radio. I melted into heap of emotion and cried my eyes out.

"He's My Son"

I'm down on my knees again tonight,
I'm hopin' this prayer will turn out right.
See, there is a boy that needs Your help.
I've done all that I can do myself
His mother is tired,
I'm sure You can understand.
Each night as he sleeps
She goes in to hold his hand,
And she tries
Not to cry
As the tears fill her eyes.

Can You hear me?
Am I getting through tonight?
Can You see him?
Can You make him feel all right?
If You can hear me
Let me take his place some how.
See, he's not just anyone, he's my son.

Sometimes late at night I watch him sleep,
I dream of the boy he'd like to be.
I try to be strong and see him through,
But God, who he needs right now is You.
Let him grow old,
Live life without this fear.
What would I be
Living without him here?
He's so tired,
And he's scared
Let him know that You're there.

Can You hear me?
Am I getting through tonight?
Can You see him?
Can You make him feel all right?
If You can hear me
Let me take his place some how.
See, he's not just anyone, he's my son.

Can You hear me?
Can You see him?
Please don't leave him,
He's my son.

What will they think of next?

It was a gorgeous spring day yesterday. My girls were sunning themselves and found the sidewalk chalk. They decided to pose and then outline their shadows. It was quite amusing. Elisabeth, my gymnast, had to take her poses to the next level.



I didn't get pics of their chalk outlines, but am going to try before they are all erased. I love that the kids still find ways to entertain themselves without getting into trouble.

I'm A Godmother

When my niece was born, I had the privilege of becoming a godmother. I take my responsibility seriously, and feel it is important to invest in her life. I want to do everything I can to help her grow up and use her gifts and talents. I'm trying to figure out if she has some artistic ability like my mom, her grandmother.

Twenty-Five Years

Twenty-five years ago, at 5:04 p.m. I became a mom. My little girl weighed in at a mere 5 lbs. 6 oz. Because of her low weight, she was whisked away shortly after her birth. I caught just a glimpse of her and the first words out of my mouth were, "She's real!" To which the reply came, "yeah, they quit giving out fake ones a long time ago." I don't believe I'm the only one to utter something foolish at seeing a newborn. My mom says the first time my dad laid eyes on me, he remarked, "she looks like a dried-up monkey without a tail." Thanks, Dad. (Now I know where I get it from.)

Happy Birthday Christina!

Looking at that tiny newborn, I was filled with hopes and dreams for her. Seeing her as an adult, I couldn't be more proud of the lovely lady she has become. Christina is a mom herself now. A mom's life isn't usually described as easy, but Christina has some added challenges. She is a single mom to a child with special needs. Watching her as she so lovingly cares for him, I am overwhelmed with emotion. God couldn't have picked a more perfect mom for Ethan.

Duct Tape

I've always heard men can fix just about anything with duct tape. The funny thing is, I have never seen my darling fix anything with duct tape. He prefers to fix things the "proper" way. (Probably why I married him.)

I, on the other hand, love duct tape. Recently, when I went out to his work bench to borrow it, I found we had RED. Now isn't that a fun color! My lil' Ethan snapped a little plastic piece off of the back of my MP3 player. (No, I don't have an IPOD.) So with just a little strip of red, I can wear it again while working out. Thankfully, the back is against my skin so it doesn't show.

Another creative use for duct tape is a quick hem for pants. I've done this for years with jeans. I am not very tall and it is hard to find the right length. Plus, I like to wear different shoes. So if I'm in the mood for heals, great. If I want to wear flats, out comes the duct tape. Voila! In just a few minutes, my jeans are the perfect length. I've also been known to hem pants in the old fashioned way, but too many times have cut them off to short. After sewing, tearing it out and resewing the smallest possible hem they were still too short even for flats. (At least without my kids saying they would die of embarrassment if I wore them in public.) So I revert to duct tape.

Last week I decided to wear a pair of black slacks to church. My toenails were not polished, so I couldn't wear a dress and open shoes. I pulled out a pair of black pants that were new. Ugh! Way too long. Out came the red duct tape. Worked great, until I decided to wear the same pair of pants this week.

It was beautiful outside, I was having a great hair day as I strutted into church. I saw a few heads turn and watch me walk by. They must have noticed my hair. It wasn't until after much singing and I sat down that I noticed the bunched up red duct tape hanging off the bottom of my black pants. At that point I was wishing we'd had black duct tape. Of course once the tape has been tromped on it is folded on itself and there is no way to unfold it. It was useless to try to pry it apart and restick it. Should I sit there in church and pull off the rest of the tape in the front so each leg would drag freely all around? Or should I just let it drag in the back with the possibility of pulling the other pieces loose?

Let's just say, I'm going to cut off the bottom of those pants and try hemming them with needle and thread. The stickiness leftover after the duct tape has been removed on slacks is a magnet for dirt and does NOT wash off. (I never had this trouble with jeans before.) So I will never hem slacks again with red duct tape. Well, maybe if I can find black duct tape.

It's Time To Go

As a young mom of lots of kids, I tried unsuccessfully to have a beautiful, well-maintained home. I very much wanted my home to be a reflection of Christ. We didn't own a single piece of new furniture. We had a little bit of shabby chic going on, much more of "shabby tacky" than chic.

With each pregnancy, I wished for an old fashioned rocking chair. My dear husband wondered why I would ever want to give up this lovely swivel rocker for a hard wooden one. Well, probably because it was a lime green, velvet, 20 year old chair that matched nothing in the room. The brown tweed couch wasn't particularly attractive either, but it did match the brown loveseat. I have to admit, the rocker was comfy to rest in at 2 a.m. feedings. And yes, there were times I remember my head must have leaned back and I actually dozed during some of those feedings. The chair was an eyesore, but it became my comforter.

I grew accustomed to the squeak at one particular juncture in the rock. Rather than letting it be an irritant, I imagined it as a sing-song tune that helped my babies get back to sleep. That song helped rock sick children back to health. Could a hard wooden rocker do that?

One day I walked in the room to find Christopher sitting behind the chair. He had just learned to write his name. What better way to practice than on this bright green canvas in permanent marker? I wanted to cry. As if our furniture wasn't shabby enough, I now had to live with graffiti. And in my own living room. There on the back of the rocker, scrawled out in 5 year old penmanship were the letters:

C H R I S T

Either I interrupted his writing, or he ran out of room, but that is as far as Christopher got on his name.

I'd wanted my life and home to be a reflection of Christ and unbeknownst to me, I had a visual reminder, every day of that desire. Some days I had visitors. I wondered what they thought of our chair with Christ's name emblazoned on the back. I knew they saw it. But more importantly, did they see Christ in me?

I wish I could show you a picture, but after 16 years the letters have faded. All that remains is a shadow from a "miracle product" cleaner used a few years later. It actually removed some of the ink, and a bit of color from the chair. The chair is still here. How do you throw out Christ's chair?

When we moved into our present house, we invested in a few pieces of matching furniture. Christ's chair became a permanent fixture in Christopher's room. That room has now become Hilary's room. She has no fondness for an old worn-out chair that is no less than 30 years old. It now resides in a corner of the family room. I think it is time to let it go to the place where all good, completely used up furniture goes. But nothing will replace the memories. And although it is not visible, I know I wear CHRIST's name. I hope that it shines as brightly as those letters stood out, on the back of the chair. Thanks Christopher for sharing your name and Christ with so many. I'm glad you two share the same name!

Starbucks

Now look at this grin at getting a Starbucks drink. Imagine his horror when he found out it was NOT coffee. His smile faded pretty quick and he didn't drink any of it. How do I convince him he does NOT like coffee???

Ignore

I know I haven't been keeping up of late. Do you ever get hung up on a post? I have one saved in my drafts and keep getting stuck. Why does this happen? I believe I find myself wrestling with thoughts. How open do I really want to be? What will others think? Is now a good time to open the door for all to look in at my inner self? Then I go and write something like this and I kick myself. Now someone is going to be waiting with baited breath for some shocking event or news. Perhaps they expect me to reveal some dark secret. Now I've set others up for disappointments. Grrrr....and I shouldn't really care....or should I? Others will ask, "is this it? Was she talking about this?" And maybe I will never post it at all and the thoughts will forever be banished to the little drafts folder. Let's pretend I never posted at all. I'm going to ignore my draft folder and move on and maybe never pull it out. It will make posting so much easier.

Grandkids are the best!

I've always loved kids, and always wanted a houseful. (My house seems to be so empty these days-only 3 here full time.) On the weekend Christina (my oldest) and my 3 year old grandson are usually here. They didn't come down this week, so Michael and I decided to take my new car for a spin. (Good excuse to go visit.)

Ethan was so excited to see us. What a wonderful feeling to be on the other side of that excitement. I love him every bit as much as any of my own children, but without the responsibility of training him up. I don't have to worry whether or not he will be spoiled if he gets a cookie, or even if he says please and thank-you. I can just enjoy him.

I forgot my camera, but got a couple of pics with my phone. (Hence the poor quality.) But you can probably see from Ethan's expression how much fun he had riding in Gramma's new car with Grandpa and playing at the park.

I love Colorado

Friday evening I was standing at my kitchen window doing dishes. I looked up and this is what I saw:





There were 6 altogether, but by the time I grabbed the camera, I couldn't get them all in the shot. I took it through the window and the screen blurred it a bit. There was one right up next to the front door, but he moved when I tried to take his picture.

Happy Spring!

The First Day of Spring in Colorado

Happy 14th Birthday Hilary!

Hilary arrived 14 years ago today. Being the youngest of 5, we knew she'd be fast in order to keep up with her siblings. We left for the hospital at 3:30a.m. I awoke to 1 hard contraction and knew it was time. I had 1 more before we left. The hospital was 30 minutes away.

Upon arrival, nurses scurried about rather quickly. They skipped a lot of the usual protocol and called my doctor immediately. He was there just before 5:00a.m. He broke my water, stepped out of the room to change his shoes, and out came this beautiful baby. One nurse ran over and picked her up, the other screamed out the door for the doctor.

Things settled down and it was time to pick out a name. We didn't know if we were having a boy or girl. I was leaning towards boy since we had 1 and 3 girls. Ever since our 3rd pregancy, Michael had another boy's name picked out, so I was sure we'd use it. She was definately not a boy.

Michael left the hospital with the baby name book in hand. He came back with 3 names. Catherine, Theresa, and Hilary.

Early in the pregnancy, as I prayed for my baby in utero, I felt the Lord tell me she would be a child of joy. I looked up the meaning of the names. Hilary comes from the same root word as Hilarious, and indeed meant happiness and joy.

Happy Birthday Hilary Rose, our bundle of joy and laughter.



P.S. This was Hilary in these silly pics.

Nail Biter

Have you ever had to interview for a job, try-out for a part in a play, audition for a musical, or try to make the team? If so, you know how stressful the waiting to find out can be. The only thing worse is when it is one of your children-or 2.

This week SB tried out for high school Concert Choir. Thursday afternoon the new "Concert Choir List" would be posted for all to see. That is when the world knows if you were successful or failed at your tryout. It is the best and worst of tmes for a teen.

Also on Thursday, Hilary was trying out for the Pom line. She would find out sometime that evening. As long as both kids were successful, life would be grand. But what if one makes it, while the other doesn't? Or if both fail? These are those times of character building.

We've been down this road before with our kids. Last year SB tried out for concert choir and didn't make it. She was one of the few who checks the list and walks away feeling the sting of rejection. A past failure makes it especially hard on the parent who has encouraged, cheered them to practice, work hard, and try again. At your urging they attempt once more to achieve success. And you wonder if it was the right thing. Fear can sneak into your heart at the thought that it could happen again.

When Elisabeth was Hilary's age, she tried out for Cheerleading. The next morning at school the list was posted for every hall-walker to see, each and every student in the entire school would know if she made it or not. I was having a bible study at my home when the phone call came in.

"Excuse me, I have to answer this one." They all knew that I was waiting to hear news. I picked up the phone. "Hello?" Silence. Uh oh, this was not good. A sniffle. I knew there were tears, I understood the feeling of not being one of the chosen. I wanted to cry too, but I was the mom. I was supposed to make things better, to offer up words of encouragement, help her to know that everything would be alright. The sun would still rise tomorrow. But at this moment in time, this is a 14 year olds entire world.

It was especially difficult because her best friend made the Varsity Squad. It took the entire next year to convince her to try again. I could hardly breathe when I found myself once again waiting for that phone call. This time was better, but not the best. She had made the JV Cheerleading squad. The following year was the most celebrated as she made THE list of Varsity Cheerleaders.

Michael and I sat at the kitchen table just waiting. Sarabeth, who had gotten her driver's license on the previous Friday, had driven to school. She was afraid she might miss the bus since the list wouldn't be posted until after school. She did not want to look too anxious or excited by rushing to the list to avoid being late for the bus, so we allowed her to drive.

Would she phone when she knew? If she didn't call, was that good news or bad? If she was late, was that because she was crying and had to compose herself before driving home? Or did that mean she simply had been rejoicing with her peers, causing her tardiness? Elisabeth joined us in the wait and shared in the experience of the parents on the other side of the waiting. We reminisced about her times of tryouts and we waited.

Sarabeth appeared in the open doorway. I saw just a hint of a smile. She shared her news and broke out in a run. We embraced joyfully! Her hard work and practice had paid off. She was now a proud member of the Concert Choir. Now, the second waiting began.

Hilary shared in the waiting. She'd returned from her try-outs and was home. Some of her friends waited at the school for the posting. It was to happen around 11:30p.m. A friend had promised to call as soon as she knew.

Hilary didn't think she did as well as she could have. But she was still hoping to make the JV Pom Line. She mentioned that her friends had said if they didn't make Varsity, but made JV, they wouldn't do it at all. In fact, they were asked that question as part of the interview process. Hilary had answered of course she would be on JV if she didn't make the Varsity Squad.

11:00p.m.
Her phone began to ring. "Hilary?" The voice was loud enough we could all hear it. "You made it!"

"Which did I make?"

"Varsity!"

There were shouts and cheers. I breathed a sigh of relief as I hugged her. Two celebrations in one day. I could go to sleep peacefully tonight. I didn't have any soothing of hurt feelings to take care of. Not this time. But nothing changes. Even with my children grown, I will always be here, whether it is a job interview or waiting on the successful delivery of a child. I will be here to cheer and shout, or to help pick up the broken pieces and see them put back together for a future success. That's a parent's job till the day we die.

Busy with my Birthday

I haven't been around so much this week. I have a new birthday present that has been consuming all of my time. My kids aren't so happy, as they cannot really enjoy it with me, at least not as a family or together-just one at a time. Here is that all-consuming gift:

Making a Chocolate Cake

Who designed a mixer with only 2 beaters? It must have been someone with only 2 children. I think a mixer should have the same number of beaters as a house has children. Anyone with children, who has ever mixed a chocolate cake, knows of the fight that ensues over the coveted beaters.

For years I tried to come up with a way to satisfy all of the chocolate cake batter, licking kids. Two beaters, 1 spatula, and 2 kids to share licking the bowl was how I usually divided the chocolate goo. But no matter how I tried to leave the same amount on the spatula as on the beaters and twice as much stuck to the inside of the bowl, everyone still wanted the beaters. I think it is because they are so much more fun to lick and it takes longer to eat, making it much more savory.

I even tried to bake my cakes while some of the kids were at school. But invariably when the cake was being consumed, someone would ask who had gotten the privilege of licking the beaters. Of couse the recipients would gleefully respond it was them. I'd have some unhappy campers. Try using the mixer when the kids are outside playing. It doesn't matter, they will hear the whir and come running.

Maybe I'll redesign the Mixer. And for my friend with the 13 children, maybe I can make it with mini-beaters or something. To make it perfectly fair, every kid should get one to lick to his heart's content.

Number 44

For six years, #44 was my favorite. This is the number my only son wore on his back during his lacrosse career. Summer days in scorching heat I yelled and cheered for 44 until I was parched. I sweated for that number. Lacrosse games were rarely cancelled because of weather. Only when lightening strikes, anything else and the game went on. I've stood in torrents of rain as Christopher slid up and skidded down a muddy field. On bitter cold days, Michael and I huddled close under heavy blankets while the snow refused to give up. But neither would #44. He was tough and played hard in spite of the elements or his opponents.



I learned to multi-task during lacrosse games. One eye was transfixed on #44 while the other kept track of his younger siblings playing on the sidelines. I'd hand out snacks, videotape the games, carry on a conversation with other lacrosse moms while never missing a single shot or hit. All except for one game.

This game was on the other side of town in an unfamiliar area. For a few moments I was distracted. My littles were out of my sight. I whipped around in order to gain visibility in every direction. I spent a minute in panic before I spied them playing under a tree. Turning back to the field, I noticed the boys "taking a knee." This meant a player was down. Surrounded by a coach, a trainer and some others was a blue jersey and gold helmet. Darn! The injured player was one of ours. I glanced up and down the field. Where was he? While kneeling it was much more difficult to find number 44. During play, I knew his stride even when I couldn't see his back. I recognized his hits, his stick, his swing, even his socks. I saw those familiar legs, from the knees down. It was my boy they were gathered around.




I tried not to be a hovering, overprotective parent, but I scrambled in haste as if I was one. I broke out in a run, but slowed to a jaunt as I neared the center line. I waited anxiously, not daring to sprint onto the field. I heard a voice yell out, "are his parents here?" That was my invitation.

In the middle of the commotion there was a frantic search for something to sling his arm. His jersey was being torn, shoulder pads cut off. I heard words like "broken collar bone, very painful, needs emergency attention." We got him to my car and into the reclined front seat. Shaking, I drove to the only hospital I knew, which was 45 minutes away. Each bump he grimaced and drew in his breath. Silence, groaning, then he'd weakly ask, "are we almost there?" "Yes," I kept lying.

Number 44 was tough. He'd be fine. He's my boy. He's my 44. He did have a fractured clavacle, some bumps and bruises. He missed the rest of that season. But he came back playing stronger and harder than ever before.



Today #44 takes on new meaning. It is my birthday and somehow I've found that same number pinned to me. I'm going to learn to love this number all over again.

Another milestone

Yesterday we hit another milestone. I took our 4th child for her driving test. On one hand I was praying madly for her success and the other I was questioning why we were allowing her to operate such heavy machinery. Is she really ready to be all alone on the road? Do I want to turn her loose to brave the treachery of the traffic and aggressive drivers? She is responsible, I tell myself. She is cautious. But it isn't her that I'm most concerned about. She won't be drinking and driving, but she might encounter a drunk driver while on the road.

I waited for her to return. I watched the door. I was hoping I would have an idea if she passed or failed by her countenance and wouldn't have to ask. She came through the door with a skip. Her smile was unmistakable. We have a new fully-licensed driver in our house. Our drivers once again out-number our cars.

And now I wait anxiously again. It is snowing and cold and I'm hoping the roads aren't too slick or icy. Our driver has gone to the library with her younger sister. I thought this was a good thing, that it would make my life a bit easier. Hmmm...sometimes the mental and emotional work of a parent is harder than chauffering your children around town yourself.

Cookies

Ethan and I made cookies! Before Ethan was born I'd imagined baking cookies with him. It just seems like a grandmotherly thing to do. Last week with Christina sick, I was running out of things to do with him. When he doesn't have something to do, he finds things to do. His favorite is putting things in the toilet, or pulling the toilet paper out until it is gone. I caught him with an open bottle of nail polish with the brush end (and some polish) in his mouth. I was ever so thankful it wasn't on the carpet, but it wasn't fun getting it off of his face and chest. (Or off of my hands and arms when I was finished cleaning him up.)

I needed to make cookies for my kids' lunches, so Ethan and I did. While on the phone recently with Christina, she had been making cookies with him, so I thought we'd give it a try.

Ethan loved stirring, but wasn't too happy that I helped. He did a great job pouring in the flour, vanilla, and chocolate chips. It was a proud gramma moment.

I took a bit of dough out, rolled it, and placed it on the pan. He stood over the dough, spoon in hand watching. As I reached to make the second one, he bent over to cover the bowl. I took some dough out. He began protesting immediately. He then curled himself over the bowl trying to hide it from me. He took his spoon and scooped a big blob of dough, all the while hunched over, and began to consume it as quickly as he could. I had to sneak dough out to make the rest of the cookies. At one point he began yelling at me and nothing I could do would convince him it was a good thing to make cookies. I had so much fun and hope Ethan did too. I know he sure did enjoy eating the dough. I don't think anyone noticed anything extra in the cookies, lol. In fact, Hilary said they were the best she'd ever had. Way-to-go Ethan! Here are a couple of pics. I couldn't get him to look up from that bowl for anything.

Elisabeth's Birth

Nineteen years ago, I was 8 days past my due date and feeling awful. I was in tears that morning and called my Dr.'s office. They told me to come in so they could check and see what was going on with me. I am one of those people who have contractions every 5-10 minutes for days/weeks prior to delivery. Christina was 5 and Christopher was 2 at the time.

I called Michael to tell him about the appointment. While on the phone, Christina informs me that Christopher has opened the bubbles and was carrying them around. He toddled into the room with the soapy liquid splashing. I told him to hand me the bubbles and he tried to turn and run. I caught hold of his arm that didn't have the bubbles and held onto him. (This was the days when the phones were attached by cords and you had to stay right next to the phone.)

In the seconds it took me to say good-bye and hang up the phone, Christopher was pulling to get away from me. As the phone clicked on the receiver, I snatched the bubbles away and Christopher began crying. He wasn't crying over the bubbles. He said his arm hurt. I held him and tried to soothe him, but almost immediately I knew something was wrong. I phoned his Dr. and was able to get an appointment an hour before mine. (It's too bad kids don't realize you don't mess with an overdue, very pregnant mom.) But I felt even more awful.

I phoned a friend asking if she could watch my kids after I took Christopher to the doctor. She said of course, so off we went. It didn't take very long for the doctor to diagnose my son. His elbow was popped out of place. Hot tears stung my eyes. I felt like the world's worst mother. It didn't take much to fix it. She pulled it and twisted a bit and it was all better. I was ever so thankful I had an understanding doctor. She joked with me and told me about when her own sister had this happen, how she called her long distance to try to have her explain how to pop it back into place. She'd given her sister instructions and could hear the child screaming in the background as she attempted to put it back. The sister couldn't do it, so was going to a doctor. Later she called laughing, saying she was trying to fix the wrong arm. I was amused, but still felt bad.

Christopher got a lollipop and was happy, so I dropped him and Christina off at my friend's and went to my appointment. After the usual, my doctor examined me. He asked me if I'd been having contractions. I said yes, the same ones I'd been having all week. "Well, you are dilated to 6cm., so I want you to just go to the hospital." I was shocked. I explained that I needed to pick up my kids, but he insisted I go straight to the hospital.

I arrived at the hospital at 3:30p.m., just a few minutes after Michael did. (Okay, I didn't drive straight there. I stopped at my girlfriend's to explain to make sure she could keep my children. Remember, this was before cell phones.)

I was hooked to the monitors and also to Pitocin. I couldn't tell that anything had changed and I didn't feel like I was in labor. Twice, the nurses "lost" the baby's heartbeat. I wasn't sure what that meant. My doctor showed up around 6:30p.m. He broke my water, said he was going to have dinner, then come back and deliver the baby. Fine.

As soon as he left, the contractions became very painful. (You know, I finally figured out that I like that bag of water intact. It is a very nice cushion for both me and baby and from here on out I was not going to let that be taken away too early.) A half-hour later, I was losing it. They called for the doctor to come back and he very quickly began changing into his scrubs and telling me not to push. It didn't much matter if I pushed, she was going to come anyway. I watched the face of a student doctor, who was standing there ready at the foot of my bed. I could tell he was getting worried that he might have to step in and catch her. My doc turned around just in time to deliver her.

The cord was wrapped around her neck twice, and it also had a knot in it. (Somewhere I have a pic, and if I find it, I'll have to post it.) That was why they lost her heart beat. The remarkable thing was my Dr. announced that she had the longest cord he'd ever seen. God is good!

Elisabeth weighed 6lbs, 13 oz. (I'll see if I can scan a photo in, what is a birth story without a picture?)

Happy Birthday Elisabeth!





(Note: I intended to write this on 2/23, Elisabeth's 19th birthday, but that was the day Michael had his angiogram,and the next week became a blur. So I am doing this now.)

Living like the Rich and Famous

I have a confession to make. I feel guilty. I feel like I'm living in someone else's shoes where I don't belong.

After Michael's cardiac ordeal, the cardiologist was pretty insistant that he change his dietary needs to the Zone Diet. Some of you may remember my first attempt at this diet back in June. The recipes in the book were for a single serving and I didn't do very well multiplying them by 7. Michael understood the challenges of making a lifestyle change in our family's eating habits, so he kindly took matters into his own hands. I'm not sure why some of us wait until we have a health scare to fully appreciate our need to take better care of ourselves. But we are now more motivated. So this sweet man made a huge investment. He signed us up for the ZoneDietAtHome.

What this means is: for 1 full month, Michael and I will enjoy 3 deliciously prepared meals & 2 snacks each day. And the best part? They will be cooked by chefs, delivered straight to my doorstep each week. It is a complete no-brainer. Each morning I wake up, I take my breakfast out and eat. The same goes for lunch, snack, dinner, snack. All I have to do is eat! (Heating is often suggested, but not always required.) Could a diet get any simpler???

Well, sure, I still have to make meals for my family. I thought this would be a challenge, but so far it has not. In fact, having meals individually packaged has been so convenient I've been inspired. Sunday evening I cooked up a week's worth of omelettes, pancakes, and such for breakfasts. I then individually packaged them. It is only Wednesday but mornings have been so easy. The kids have a choice in what they want for the week and then just have to pull out their meal and eat. What could be easier?

Today is the last day of the first week of this luxury. Sometime this afternoon, another week's worth of meals will arrive. I will arrange them in the refrigerator by days and Michael and I will be set for the week. It has been fun to try new foods and new combinations. (More inspiration for when I have to really cook again.) Because of the investment, neither Michael nor I feel the need to cheat on this diet. I'm excited to see what this next week's menu will be. Now if I can just get past my birthday and Hilary's birthday...

I Wonder

I've been thinking a lot today. For a very long time now, I have believed that when we try to limit our family size what we are really saying is, "I don't believe God knows what is best for me, so I'll take care of this myself, thank-you-very-much." I think the reason we stop at 1, 2, 6, or 10 is for purely selfish reasons. Oh, we are good at disguising our true feelings. We say things like, "we can't afford to have more, we wouldn't be able to spend enough quality time with our children if we had another, blah, blah, blah."

I am of the mindset that God DOES know what He is doing. Little by little, even science (I believe) proves God right. What if you had 2 children, 1 boy and 1 girl. You and your spouse decided that you had the perfect little family. Snip, snip! You ended your physical ability to have more children saying you could always adopt later if you changed your mind, afterall, aren't there plenty of children out there just waiting to be adopted?

But what if God had designed for you to have 4 children. Because God is Omniscient, He knows just exactly what you need. What if in that perfect design for you to have 4 children, He had built in a safe guard so that you would not get breast cancer. Suppose your body needed just the exact hormone variance of having 4 children in order to ensure your health and avoid breast cancer. If you knew this ahead of time and could choose just 2 children and later get breast cancer, or choose to raise 4 children (complete with all of the sacrifices this requires), what would you choose?

Sadly, too often when we make life-altering choices we don't give God enough credit. We don't believe He is looking out for our best interest, or that He truly cares about the details of our lives. We think just because we had 4 children in 4 1/2 years that we will continue to have children this quickly/easily. (My mom had her first child at 19 and had her 4th before she turned 24.) My mom didn't plan to have that many children that soon. In fact, the doctor had told her she would probably never have children. She also didn't know that she would have a complete hysterectomy at age 24. She did not have 20+ children, as some might have guessed at the rate she was going. Had she decided after having her first daughter and first son and quit, I wouldn't be here. I am so thankful that she allowed God to choose her family size.

I also wonder how a man would feel if after deciding to stop his family size at say 3 children, and then later found out this increased his wife's chance of cancer.
What if she did develop cancer and died? Would he see the connection? Would he wonder if he directly or indirectly opened the door for his wife's cancer? And if he tried to warn other, younger men and fathers of the dangers of not allowing God to choose their family size, would these men pay attention?

And what about the wife who twisted her husband's arm to quit having children because she just didn't think she could handle anymore? Would she question if her decision had anything to do with her illness? Would she wish to go back and do it over again so her children would not only have more siblings to enjoy but also a longer time with their mom? Her husband, instead of enjoying his family, is left with the full responsibility of raising his children because of his wife's selfishness, how would she feel?

I'm just thinking out loud today. This is not meant to criticize anyone for their choices in family size. Just wondering what if...

Ultrasound

I went for an ultrasound today. No, I'm not pregnant. They aren't much fun when there isn't a little person you get to see, no tiny hands or feet. I went because my uterus was enlarged the size of a 12 week pregnancy. In the back of my mind I couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to go in and have the tech say, "well no wonder your uterus is swollen, there's a baby in there." Now that would have been a delightful surprise.

While lying on the table I thought about the whole procedure and how it affects one's life. How many times does a woman lie on this table hoping beyond hope to see a fluttering heart beat? The elation that comes when life is confirmed. What about the excited mother-to-be who is waiting to find out if she is having a boy or girl? She comes in and in a moment of time her dreams are shattered when it becomes apparent that something is wrong with this new little life. This machine has the power of alleviating fears, or creating new ones. Your life can change in a dramatic way.

For me it did neither. They found a mass. I was told I'd need to come back for further tests and a different ultrasound. Fine.

The part that stirred emotion was when the tech found my ovary. She turned the screen towards me and exclaimed, "Look! This is your left ovary. You are about to ovulate. See that little circle? That is the follicle about to release the egg." She exuded excitement. It was as if she was witnessing the beginning of life. (Truthfully, this is the potential beginning of life, it should be something that brings more than a yawn.) She never found the right ovary, but said it didn't matter since I would be back for another exam.

There's a desire in my heart to hope beyond hope that my little potential beginning of life would become a reality. My home is full, but inside my heart lurks an emptiness. Will that desire disappear, once these little potentials quit bursting forth? Will acceptance of no more babies ever find a place in my heart? I think not.

Crazy Kid

I was going through photos. This isn't what I was looking for, but made me laugh. These were taken last summer. Hilary was having a good time with the camera.


The Perfect Arrow


Spinning?


Look Ma, no hands


Aren't mirrors fun?

Playdough vs. Poop

Playdough-soft, squishy in hands
Poop-soft, squishy in hands

Playdough-sticky
Poop-sticky

Playdough-sticks to carpet, hard to clean
Poop-sticks to carpet, hard to clean

Playdough-molds nicely into shapes
Poop-keeps falling apart

Playdough-doesn't smell too bad.
Poop-smells very bad.

What would make a kid think one was the other, or at least play with it, rub it in the carpet in the same way, and basically smear it all over????

(Sorry for the grossness, but it's worse in real life. I won't humor you with photos.)

My dear, sweet husband came home from the hospital on Friday. Later that evening Christina called from the ER. She was admitted and was discharged last night. Christopher had 2 minor car accidents. This could be a long week/while. I may be gone a bit as someone has to take care of everyone.

Happy Thoughts

Happy thoughts...can we just have happy thoughts today? I need a day of humor, a few amusing anecdotes. I woke up at 3:30a.m. with the worst sore throat I've had that I can remember. Could Ethan have shared his strep with me? I have a too much to do to pause for a Dr. appointment. No, a pause I can afford, an appointment with the waiting room is way to big of a block. Blocks should be reserved for naps or shopping for my birthday girl. (Why do I wait until the day before to get something for her birthday?) I wait because I am not a good hider, but my kids are good seekers. They would find anything that might resemble a present.

That reminds me of one year at Christmas. My 3 siblings and I snuck into our parent's bedroom and peeked at all of the Christmas presents. We knew which ones belonged to us, as we all had different and distinct tastes. Imagine our shock when Christmas morning came and my wise parents mixed them all up. My sister was now the owner of the doll I so much wanted. She hated dolls. I wonder if my parents thought we'd be smart enough to trade gifts with one another. Can you just imagine a bartering session on Christmas morning? That might have been fun and amusing, but none of us thought of this option. So instead we were sorely disappointed.

I've never been brave enough to try this method of stopping peekers and seekers. So I am resigned to shop the day before birthdays, and yes right before Christmas too.

Sad

I am trying to remember the anger, but it escapes me. I reach for the positives of the decision, but they seem so insignificant.

Seven years ago, my fifth child entered 1st grade. I'd had kids underfoot for 18 straight years and I found myself feeling a bit lonely. No more babies to cuddle, no company for hours every day, 5 days a week. I began wanting a puppy. I wanted a lap dog, one that would follow me around as I went about my day. If I sat down at a task, I wanted him underfoot-just like one of the kids. I browsed the pet shops, talked to other people, researched. Then I found him.

He was a pathetic looking puppy in a pet store. I hated the thought of spending the money, and even worse buying from a pet shop that perpetuated puppy mills. But this baby, errr...puppy, needed a home. I visited him on several occasions and every chance I got would tell my husband of this longing. It all looked very unlikely, that is, until Mother's Day.

Michael came to me and asked me what I wanted. I told him all I wanted was that puppy at the pet store. He argued with me all of the reasons we should NOT get a dog and asked me again what I would like for Mother's Day. That puppy. Guess what I got for Mother's Day? That puppy.

I named him Dakota, because Dakota means "friend." He was my buddy, my pal, my constant companion. Unfortunately, he did not remain the little lap dog he was supposed to be. Instead of the 9-12 lbs typical for a Bichon Frise, he grew to 23 lbs. He still thought he was a lap dog and I had to quit bathing him in the sink, but he remained my little buddy during the day and friend to everyone.



Dakota learned tricks fast. The favorite was dancing or at the command "bang" he'd play dead. He'd fetch a ball and actually bring it back to you. The funniest game was hide and seek. You had to be quick to play. You'd throw his ball down the stairs and run like the dickens. He'd race down, grab his ball, then be back up the stairs in seconds. He then proceeded to find whoever threw the ball. Of course no matter where you hid, he'd always find you then be ready to play again.



Dakota left us today. No, he didn't die. After 7 years we made the decision to give him up. Like I said, the positives of this decision escape me now. I found myself praying that his new home would love him even more than we did. (Is that possible?) Hoping beyond all hope that someone would be more patient with him, spend more time with him, let him be their constant companion (and maybe even let him sleep on the bed.) Of course the nagging thoughts are, what if they don't? What if he doesn't go to a better home?

I can only imagine how difficult it is when some gives up a child for adoption. The anguish and guilt must be overwhelming. Maybe, just maybe, Dakota will be the sparkle in someone else's eyes, the joy that only and adoptive parent would know.

A New Stroller

Ethan finally has his new stroller. Technically it is called a Push Chair. It is similar to a wheelchair except that it can't be pushed by the rider. The wheels aren't big enough for that. No more carrying him from the car or trying to drag him into the store. Here is a not-so-good picture of him in it:



My teens were not as excited about it. They think it looks too much like a wheelchair, which shouts "Special Needs" or "Disabled." They want people to know him as Ethan, not a kid with labels. It will be interesting to see if people react to him differently than when he was in a typical stroller. Will others be more patient with him when he is playing in the mall play area and doesn't interact or respond like the other children? Will they look past his meltdowns and not comment how tragic it is that his parents haven't taught him how to behave? Or will they merely view him as different and look away, not acknowledging him at all? In dealing with our own inadequacies of not knowing what to do, we often do nothing. We're afraid of offending someone so we say nothing at all. I posted about my own shortcomings. My hope is others can learn and grow the same way we are-by being confronted with different, causing us to step out of our comfort zone.

UPDATE Christina took Ethan to the mall today. When she got home, she said she was shocked at how people reacted to her pushing Ethan in his new chair. She said instead of people smiling at him, talking to him, or commenting that he had cute, curly hair, she said they would turn their heads and look away when they saw him coming. Sad.

Valentine's Day Part 3 (Hopefully the Last One)

As Valentine's Day approached, I just did not feel very creative. I have been distracted by a lot of things. I mentioned I try to remind my kids how much they are loved so they aren't hurt on this day. But as they get older, it gets harder and harder to do something special (without spending LOTS of money.) Almost gone are the days of love notes, stuffed animals, and candy. I don't think they will ever outgrow the love notes. The hard part is trying not to say the same thing every year. Also, I've always thought it important to NOT say the same thing to each child or it minimizes the meaning and thought. So how do you say "I love you, you're important/special to me, I appreciate you, 5 different ways, year-after-year, without repeating yourself???

While out shopping, I noticed these cute little stuffed animals. My 16 year old has always had a fondness of dogs. (Her room is still decorated in the 101 Dalmation theme.) These were small little dogs so I picked up 2. One for her and one for her younger sister. I figured the oldest 3 would definately not appreciate a stuffed animal, at least not from me. Of course I got Ethan one too.

As I packed Sarabeth and Hilary's lunches Valentine's morning, along with a note and candy, I stuffed these dogs in their lunch pails.

When it came time to pick them up from the bus stop, I grabbed some chocolate Valentine candy. Chocolate makes you feel good, right? I saw Sarabeth get off the bus carrying a rose and her stuffed dog. She was smiling. Hilary approached the car looking not so happy. Of the two girls who ride with us, one carried a rose too. Once inside the car, I passed out the bags of candy declaring, "we all need chocolate on Valentine's Day." Three of the kids excitedly thanked me, opened the candy and began eating. The fourth, Hilary, didn't respond. As I was pulling the car away from the school she finally blurted out, "is this all I get for Valentine's Day?" She then tossed the candy to the floor with "are you trying to make me fat?"

My first thought was to immediately address this ungrateful, snotty attitude. I am still learning as a parent, but one of my goals is to respond appropriately in a situation-not react emotionally. I am sure the other kids in the car were aghast at Hilary's rudeness, along with no reaction from me. I knew her day had obviously not gone well. It is no excuse to take it out on others, but at that point correcting the behavior of someone who is hurt and lashing out is wasting my effort.

Later we were finally able to talk. She had sent a singing telegram to a fellow student with her own money. Most of her friends had received flowers or telegrams. She hadn't received anything. (Last year I'd had each of the girls "secretly" send something to the other. I had decided not to repeat that. Should have done it anyway.) And to make matters worse, when she opened her lunch box, she said all of the kids laughed and made fun of her. She said the dog was ugly and it humiliated her. Ouch! (I am now nominated for the "Bad Mother Of The Year Award.") But, Grrrr...junior high kids make me mad. Why do they laugh and make fun of one another. And why does my child worry so much about what other people think? Could she not have ignored them and instead gushed that it was sweet and pretended like she enjoyed this? No, I guess that would be asking too much.

Sigh. Next year I am cancelling Valentine's Day at my house.

Valentine's Day Part 2

Sorry I didn't return yesterday. Ethan's dental work took much longer than anticipated. He did not come out of the anesthesia well. (Or else he was in a lot of pain-he was unconsolable.) I have more to say about dentists and the likes but will save that for another post.

Another quick Valentine's Story.

When my oldest, Christina, went to junior high life certainly changed. This is the year that there are no more classroom parties, no mandatory giving of Valentine's Day cards to every student. Instead, the parties are replaced with the option of "buying your sweetie" something. Two weeks prior to the Lovefest Day, students have the option of purchasing items such as candy, flowers, singing telegrams, etc. from their student council. These items are then delivered only to those students who are very loved by fellow students.

As a side note. The Christian school some my kids attended had a different policy. It started in elementary school. The option that made it better was that parents could purchase a teddy bear, candy, flowers, etc. and have them delivered to their child. This option gave the greatest possibility that every child could feel loved and special.

But this was not an option for Christina that fateful Valentine's Day. When she arrived home her head hung down, her backpack looked like it must have weighed a ton the way she dragged herself in the door. This was my first clue she did not feel loved at school. Her little sister, Elisabeth, was happily singing at the kitchen table. She was carefully opening each of her Valentine's. She would read it in a sing-song voice and talk lovingly about each sender. Sitting beside the notes was a growing pile of candy.

"Look at this one!" She cried out. "Jonathon said he thinks I'm cute and he gave me TWO pieces of candy."

She turned towards Christina as she entered the room. "Look at all of my Valentine's! I got 25 and 2 from my teachers! How many Valentine's did you get????"

Christina stopped to get a drink of water without even looking. But Elisabeth was persistent.

"Well, how many Valentine's did you get? Look at all of my candy, did you get lots of candy?"

"No. I didn't get anything."

"Oh, I guess you don't have any friends." Elisabeth turned and went back to her singsong Valentine's, completely oblivious to what had just transpired.

We actually laugh about this now. Christina is 24. But I think Elisabeth is still mortified that at age 7, she just blurted out whatever she was thinking without a thought.

These questions were on WonderWoman's blog, and I just had to answer them for her.

1. Can you use chopsticks?

No

2. How many times have you ever been stung by a bee-type creature?

Just once. That was enough. Got stung on my toe and the swelling went up my ankle.

3. Do you know what SNAFU stands for?

You mean, other than a ridiculous, blundering chaos? Like: Something Not Actually Funny/Unusual?

4. Who lives in a pineapple under the sea?

Hmm...Sponge Bob?

5. Free groceries for a year, or free gas?

Groceries for sure.

6. Where is the worst place to have a zit?

When you sit down and you are sitting on it.

7. Can you wiggle your ears without wiggling any other part of your face?

Of course I can.

8. If you had $5000 that you HAD to spend on plastic surgery, what would you have done?

Tummy Tuck.

9. How much guilt would you suffer over spending $5000 on plastic surgery?

Plenty.

10. Which is worse: a low droning noise that goes on and on or a piercing shriek that happens once?

Piercing shriek

11. What is a suitable punishment for someone who is the source of a low droning noise that goes on and on?

To have to continue to make that noise 24/7, until they are so tired of doing it they never want to do it again.

12. What is your response to a piercing shriek?

Send offender outside to shriek to their hearts delight, until they are hoarse and can no longer shriek.

13. What is generally your first clue that someone is a moron?

Hmmm...when they feel the need to comment on anything that is none of their business.

14. Is one loaf of bread enough to feed 11 hungry children?

Definately not.

15. Can I borrow a loaf of bread?

Anytime.

16. What is one holiday that you would like to see invented, and how much time off from work should we receive for this holiday?

Mother's Week. Every mom would get a week away to do as she wanted-no questions asked and come home to a clean home and happy family.

17. If you could give every person in the world a present, what would it be?

God's Love

18. What is the most charitable act you have done recently?

Does letting the dog out front count? He LOVES to not be penned up, (and if he ran away and never came back, dh would be oh so happy.)

19. Did you have to think far too long for a response to #18?

Nah, just thought about the last thing I did.

20. Which is cuter, a 4 week old puppy or a 5 month old human?

Uh, after the above response, you need to ask???? A 5 month old human for sure. (And when I'm finally free of pets, and if my home is not full of grandkids do NOT under any circumstances bring a cute little 4 week old puppy to my house. I might forget momentarily what it is like being a dog owner.)

Valentine's Part One

For a week I've wrestled with what to write for "Valentine's Day." Do I honor my dear sweetie in all his glorious romance? There are so many thoughts and emotions associated with this celebration. I've cursed it, romantically dreamt about it, planned for it, and anticipated with great excitement all this day might hold. I have much to say about this whole affair, far too much for one day's post.

A heads up for the men: Don't invite your sweetheart to lunch at the mall on Valentine's Day. It doesn't matter that you had your heart set on a gyro sandwich that you can't get anywhere else. If you do this, on the way home your sweetie will not be thanking you for the thoughtfulness in taking her to lunch. She will be distracted. She will be confused. When you mentioned the mall, she thought somehow all of her subtle and not-so-subtle hints about those cute earings penetrated your thoughts. She will imagine that you have decided to be totally out of character extravagant. (Yes, she did say that "she" would never spend that much on a pair of earrings, but has no problem with "you" spending that much.) When you exit right after eating something will be amiss. You will no longer look like the loving husband taking his darling out for lunch. You are now that guy who still believes his wife when she says things she really doesn't mean. (If you are really confused, you need to read this post by WonderWoman entitled "I heart you."

That's what I mean about Valentine's Day. Too often it can set a heart up for hurt and disappointment.

The school is a place that notoriously sets up the beginnings of Valentine heartbreaks. In Elementary school notes are sent home that if a child brings Valentine cards they must bring one for each student. But does anyone really check? Did you ever get a "Teacher" card from another student and realize he or she didn't actually hand-pick a valentine for you? Or did you receive a Valentine with someone else's name on it? Have another child walk by sneering, "I didn't get one for you," or worse, "I gave candy to everyone but you."

I have tried to be sensitive to my children on this day. I've spent time, money, emotion, prayers, and tears in trying to do something to make them feel lavishly loved. If they go to school after feeling extravagantly loved, any ill-shot cupid arrows won't penetrate their little puffed up hearts. Sadly, I haven't always been successful.

(Continued tomorrow, after Ethan's dental work which he will have to be put under general anesthesia.)

My favorite 3 year old is here.



He was finally well this week after his bout with pneumonia. On Wednesday at preschool, his teacher said he was the only one in his class. Everyone, including his bus driver, had strep throat. Christina called his Dr. on Thursday because he'd hold his neck while playing. She didn't notice a fever, but the seizure meds he's on seem to lower his body temp. The Dr.'s office said she'd have to call Friday. They couldn't get him in Friday and said to call on Saturday. Today he got in. He has strep and an ear infection. The dr. said his throat looked like it REALLY was sore. Poor thing. So as soon as he is up from his nap, I'll spend the afternoon snuggling on the couch with him.

Hair Update

Paula asked how I was wearing my hair now. When she asked I was in the middle of wishing for that makeover. So here I am that day.


Yesterday I broke down and got someone else to touch up the color and cut it. (And for those who remember me posting about the waiter, who in reality was my hairdresser, no I wasn't up for the confrontation, so went to someone else.)

So here I am today. Not sure if I'm going to wear it curly or straight. This is in between. The girl said she was only going to take an inch off, lol. Hairdressers. To think I used to be one.

Locked Out

Last night as I started preparing and setting out the lunches for today, I realized there were no dessert items. I cannot in good conscience pack a kids lunch without giving them a dessert. It just seems unAmerican or something. So even though I was tired and would rather go to bed, I decided to make cookies.

I turned the oven on, softened the butter and then the frustration began. I could not find this:

For those of you with a Houdini toddler in the house, you may know what this is. For the others, I will explain. This is a very powerful magnet that sits on the side of my microwave oven. It is used to open magnetic cabinet locks. These are the only locks I have never seen a kid break into-ever! This sweet little knob never leaves its home, except when the flour/sugar cabinet needs to be opened. Then it is allowed to momentarily makes it presence known on the cabinet front and is sent immediately back to its lovely home. So where in the world was it???

I glanced around the countertop, in the sink, on the floor-all of the obvious places it might have come to rest if it had been knocked off. I would be blaming a dear little boy, but he hadn't been around for 4 days. So I called in the search team. After questioning each one as to whether or not they had possibly forgotten where this lil' knob lived and inadvertantly given him a new home, I had them searching. I even had them check their bedrooms on the off chance that someone was holding lil' knob and walked off with him. Nope! No where to be found.

My oven was more than preheated. It was already baking, just didn't have anything to bake. Poor hubby. He was called in and aided in the search. He finally got out a knife. What was he going to do? Saw into my cabinet? I should have more faith in him. He managed to slip it between the door and the lock, after a bit of trouble, and magically open the door. I was elated! And wouldn't you know it. There on the inside of that door sat mr. totlock. He somehow jumped from the microwave to the inside of the cabinet, thus locking himself inside the very cupboard he was designed to open. I would have never found him if it hadn't been for my very smart husband.

The cookies were made. The lunches were saved. Some kids had a very good lunch today. I just might have to remove not only Mr. Totlock, but his locking counterpart.

“Friends are angels who lift our feet when our own wings have trouble remembering how to fly.”




"How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news!"

I guess I'm going to have to make an appointment to have my hair cut.

A local radio station is having a contest. It is a Valentine's Heart 2 Heart Makeover contest. A devoted, loving man is supposed to nominate his sweetie for a makeover, wardrobe shopping with the experts, dinner, overnight at a posh hotel, etc. Would that not be a cool thing to win???

I mentioned it to hubby. I knew hinting would not get the job done. I told him the possible benefits of his actions: Free makeover for me, a FREE dinner and over night with me, he would get a free haircut, a very happy wife who he'd get to spend alone time with...

Figuring he probably didn't do it, I mentioned that I should just go ahead and make an appointment for this week to at least get a haircut. He laughed. "What do you think your chances are for winning this contest?" Well, he had a point. (Did I mention that you had to include a full length photo of you and your sweetie?) So are they looking for someone who "looks" like she desperately needs a makeover and wardrobe? Or someone who looks like a million bucks that they can make look frumpy in a before photo and then a knock-out in the after photos? Ok, so I would definately not make the latter category (except I can do a good frumpy.)

I reminded him that I did indeed win a contest of sorts. He honestly doesn't remember it at all. It was 20 years ago.

I was a young mom, pregnant with my 3rd child. Our marriage was at a tough point, I was still a new Christian desiring to be a perfect wife and mother (and feeling like a failure at both.) Finances were tight. I wore the same dress to church 3 times a week, and the same pair of shoes. In my desperation, I had the privilege of attending a Women's Advance at our church. (Same thing as a "retreat" but we like to think we are going forward, not running scared-hence the word "Advance.") It was a wonderful time of refreshing. For the cost, it meant more than a new dress or shoes that I could have bought. At the end of the Advance, they gave away prizes. All of them were lovely, but the grand prize was a free dinner and an overnight stay at the Marriott. Inside I so wanted to win something. It was a way to feel validated as a person. Receiving something special somehow spoke "you are valued and loved." I smiled, cheered, and rejoiced with each lady that won. As they were about to draw a name for the final prize, I caught myself hoping beyond hope. My heart was beating wildly. And then I caught myself.

I bowed my head and silently prayed, "Lord, please give this gift to someone who REALLY needs it. Amen." The leaders at the podium announced my name. I was in shock. If I hadn't been so pregnant, I would have jumped up and down. Still stunned I walked forward to collect my prize.

God, in His infinite mercy and grace, knew what this meant to me. It was His own special way of telling me that He did indeed love me and that I held value in His eyes. That was all that mattered.

I am not at a desperate place in life. My prayer once again is, "Lord, please give this prize to someone who REALLY needs it. Amen."

Secrets

Do you keep secrets? I'm not asking whether or not you gossip, whether you hear it or speak it. I'm talking about keeping things from loved ones to spare them from what you perceive as "too stressful." Protecting them.

Here is an example: In the 11th week of my 4th pregnancy, we found out the baby had died. I was about to miscarry. We were devastated. The very same day we received this devastating news, my father-in-law was having heart surgery. When my mother-in-law phoned to tell us about how things went, I put on a cheerful voice and carried on as if everything was fine. I was thankful she didn't ask how I was feeling. I don't think I could have lied. But I still felt dishonest. I felt the same way talking with my sister-in-laws.

In the back of my mind, I imagined being in my mother-in-law's shoes. Her husband had undergone major heart surgery. If this was me, and one of my daughters happened to experience the loss of a child in utero, would I want to know? My answer? Absolutely! I would be heartbroken if my daughter had been afraid to tell me. But Michael thought it best to not tell his family at that time. I figured he knew them better than I did. I mentioned it to my own mom, who let me know that she would want to know and felt it was wrong of me to keep it from them.

I had my answer a few weeks later. When we finally shared the news that there would not be another grandbaby in 6 months, my mother-in-law thanked me for NOT telling her when it happened. So Michael was right. He knew his parents much better than I did.

I mentioned this to my children the other day. I figured I should let them know that in any situation that I could imagine, I did NOT want them keeping secrets from me. I told them I did not feel like anything would be too stressful. I would be disappointed if they did not share something that I could be praying for them. I would not get stressed about a situation, but I could certainly intercede with the Father for them. And I'd be hurt if they did not share what they were going through with me. My oldest, Christina said, "you mean, like when I didn't tell you right away that Ethan had pneuomonia?" Ouch!

Yes, that was exactly what I meant. I told her that I would have appreciated her telling me. If she was afraid I'd run down there to be with them, she could say, "I don't want you here, but you can be praying." She said that the reason she didn't tell me right away is because she DID need help. She was afraid she would tell me she really needed me to come down and that I would feel obligated and do it no matter what.

I let her know that I was capable of making critical decisions. That there was the chance I might have had to tell her "no, I can't come down to help right now." (yeah right) but that I would have appreciated being able to make that decision. So hopefully, I have that straight with my own children.

But I hate keeping secrets.

"It doesn't matter how many languages you speak, you will return to your native tongue when praying or making love. It says a lot about true intimacy, it can't be faked."

Joanne

Big Loser

You know you are losing inches when your sports bra has wrinkles in it. I was looking forward to buying new clothes, but not this.

Where's the Delete Key???

Have you ever wished you had a delete key for real life? Think of the immense possibilities that could bring. The next time something offensive slipped out of your mouth, you could back up, hit delete, engage your brain, then say something more intelligent. It wouldn't have to be saved to memory, just vanish.

What about people? Am I the only one who wishes I could hit delete on another person? (I know, it does not sound nice, nor very Christian.) I'm not talking about a family member who irriates me, nor the rude driver who just cut me off and thought it was somehow my fault. I'm talking about someone in your life that is a stumbling block: Someone who manages to steal your time, energy, or other resources. If I'm totally honest, stealing is not a very accurate term. Someone can't steal my time unless I allow it, but they can be very deceptive in their motives.

It could be the waiter at your favorite restaurant. You go there to enjoy the company of another individual and feast on your favorite cuisine. You don't go there for intrusive comments from this individual. Nor do you take kindly to their overt advances. A delete key would work nicely in this situation.

I don't mind confrontations. What I do mind is when I am so shocked by a person's free speech at I don't know how to respond. Sometimes I think a slap in the face seems appropriate for a lady, but I of course would never respond as such. The scenario is often played back in my head many times. Hours later I think of a snappy comeback or a word of truth that would have done the trick almost as well as the delete key. Some of your other options are:

1) To never go back to the restaurant and avoid the chance of it happening again.
2) Find out when that person works and only go on his days off.
3) Decide how and whom to confront about this person and do it.
4) Is delete still an option?

Maybe I'm not as confrontational as I thought I was. I wish I had a delete key in life. Even if it didn't permanently delete, but just stashed things in your recycle bin. At least then you could pull it out only when you felt like you were ready to deal with it. The rest of the time, it stays safely tucked in the bin.

Song

I heard this song the other day and cried. It isn't brand new, but I had never heard it.

Artist Joe Nichols
"If Nobody Believed in You"

I watched him take the two strike call:
He hadn't tried to swing at all.
I guess he'd had all that he could take,
He walked away, for goodness sake.
His father's voice was loud an' mean:
"You won't amount to anything."

That little boy quit tryin',
He just walked away.
There were teardrops on his face.
Tell me, how would you feel?
You'd probably give up too,
If nobody believed in you.

That old man said: "One more try,
"I know I'm not too old to try.
"I promise, son, I'll do my best,
"This time, I'm gonna pass the test."
"Give me the keys, Dad, an' get in."
His father never drove again.

That old man quit tryin',
He just turned away.
An' there were teardrops on his face.
Tell me, how would you feel?
You'd probably give up too,
If nobody believed in you.

We take His name out of schools.
The lawyers say it breaks the rules.
Pledge of allegiance can't be writ,
An' under God, should not be said.
I wonder how He will take.
I just pray it's not too late.

What if God quit tryin',
He just turned away?
There were teardrops on his face?
Tell me, how would you feel?
You'd probably give up too,
If nobody believed in you.

Tell me, how would you feel?
You'd probably give up too,
If nobody believed in you.

Okay, here are some pics of my hair obsession. I know it will be overkill and far more than anyone wants to witness, but here they are: (And by-the-way, I did delete 8 other pics from this so you wouldn't think I was completely obsessed.)

I had the best time meeting with Heth! She is every bit as real and sweet as she is on her blog. And that baby was just adorable. I think we could have chatted all day long and never run out of things to talk about. I found it very amusing that our dh's seemed to have a lot in common too. I am so thankful we had the chance to meet in person. She is a rare gem.

I couldn't sleep last night. Either it was the Starbucks I had at 4:30 or I was too excited about today. I think it was the latter, or both. You see, I'm going to do something today that I've never done before. I'm going to meet one of my online friends in person. She happens to be in town with her hubby, who is on a business trip. I have no idea what we will talk about, but I have a feeling we will find plenty of topics for conversation. Of course there is a tricky part to this whole situation.

I've always warned my children that there is no way I would let them meet someone online and in real life. I've drilled into them the dangers of weirdos lurking on the internet, waiting to deceive them into believing they are someone they are not. I've questioned them on any "new friends." How do you really know she is a 14 year old girl from Japan? It is probably a 40 year old man posing as a girl. When they argue that they've seen pictures, my response has been, "how do you know that is who they really are? They could use a niece's picture or anyones for that matter. Then your friend will all of the sudden find themselves visiting the U.S. and want to meet you somewhere. In reality, it is all a setup to meet this pervert."

So how do I tell them I'm going to meet this lovely lady, with children, at the hotel she is staying at-or a bakery across the street from her hotel? I'm not setting a very good example am I.

I am excited none-the-less, to meet a fellow blogger whom I've loved getting to know via bloglife and now to meet face-to-face.