Mountains

More pics from our cook-out:

Gosh, maybe we should actually try camping. This is Elisabeth and Hilary pretending to camp.

Hearts

What's In Your Heart?

What's in your heart? I know the "right" answer is Jesus. I was thrilled each time my kids could truthfully give the right answer. But this phrase has taken on a new meaning.

When Michael returned from New Jersey, he said he had something for me. He presented me with a lovely little black box with this inside:



It is a "What's In Your Heart" pendant. You purchase it empty, then fill with charms of your choice (according to how much you want to spend.) This is probably one of the single most romantic things Michael has ever done. He added our initials to it, chose a heart with my birthstones, a ruby for my son and grandson, and a diamond for my girls. How sweet is that? I was totally suprised and amazed.

Naturally, my girls each wanted one, so I went online to find information. Apparently these are just becoming popular. What made them popular was an actress from Desperate Housewives who wore one on a talk show. I've never seen the show, nor do I care to. But I am ever so happy with what's in my heart-both the pendant and my own.

Happy Dad's Day

Dad, remember when you took me and Greg fishing while my sisters stayed at home? I felt so important being able to go along with the guys.

Remember when you used to sneak up the stairs to catch us fooling around when we were supposed to be sleeping? I always heard you when your foot stepped on the one creaking stair. I'd immediately pretend to be sleeping while Carolyn would chatter away. She'd usually get in trouble and I'd listen while she vehemently tried to tell you I was really awake. You always believed the best about me.

Remember when you showed me how to play your steel guitar? My love of music developed because of the years spent listening to the whine and twang of that guitar. Hearing you play brought a soothing sense of security to my life. Music still does that for me.

Remember the Fridays we'd climb into the car and head off into the dark night? We'd make that 7 hour long drive to visit Grandad in California. It was often just the two of us and we'd drive back home Sunday afternoon. When I got my learners permit, you'd let me drive-even when you would be nodding off in the seat beside me. I knew you trusted me, even though I wasn't that good of a driver yet. I learned the joy and accomplishment of taking responsibility seriously.

Remember the times Grandad would call to see if you were driving up for the weekend? A few times you had to say no. Grandad would say he was going to die and hang up on you. When you tried to phone him back, he wouldn't answer your calls. I learned by watching you what it meant to love, honor, and respect your parents. After these calls, you'd turn to me and ask if I wanted to make the trip when nobody else wanted to. I'd say yes, and even though you were dead tired, we'd go. When Grandad said no, he didn't want to sell his house, even though we all knew he would never go home to live, you honored his request. When Grandad stubbornly refused to come live with us, you respected his wishes. It would have made your life so much easier if you'd just sold his house and forced him to move, but you didn't. Neither you nor I were big conversationalists, so the two of us would often sit or stand silently by Grandad's bed for hours at a time. I knew how much you loved us both.

Remember when you and Mom went to Germany for 2 years? I was a young mom with 2 children. You and I would write long letters back and forth. I am so thankful for that time. Our relationship grew. You related to me adult-to-adult. I was no longer a kid. You allowed me to grow up.

There is so much more, Dad, but I will pause here and say thanks. Happy Father's Day!

Seven Things I Say

A Meme

The Laundry Lady over at Under the Laundry Pile tagged me for this Meme. Since I've not been keeping up with my blog, I thought it'd be a good way to get going again. So here they are:

1. "Who wants to go to the store with me?...I'm taking "my" car."

2. "No, you can't go. I'm taking my car."

3. "Dear" (this has to be said dragged out, as in "deeeeeeear.") My kids told me once that I called their dad "dear." After vehemently denying it, I was caught red-handed later that same day. The reason I didn't think I said it was I suppose it isn't said very en'dear'ingly. I use dear when I am slightly irritated and yet trying to be nice. Otherwise, he is honey or sweetie-not dear.

4. "Dinner's ready."

5. "Who left the hair straightener on?"

6. "Did the mute button quit working?" Or "Can you turn that thing down?"

7. "I need a Starbucks."

I tag Supermom, Melanie, and Char.

Happenings

My baby is going to Washington D.C. tomorrow for 5 days. Yes, I realize she turned 14 recently. But something begins taking place in a mother's heart as she starts seeing big milestones in her youngest child. Two years ago she was in 6th grade. At the end of field day as I was trudging along after a hot, sweaty day, I realized that this was my very last field day. Is that possible? I'd been attending field day every single May for the past 18 years. I thought about the times of juggling multiple kids doing field day at once, running back and forth trying to catch important events of each child. Most of the time I missed the photos of the win and only got ones of them holding up a brightly colored ribbon.

Ok, if I was honest, I was a bit gleeful at the thought of no more field days. But there was still a twinge in my heart that they were over. I know that instead of field day, bigger adventures were coming up. So now here is Hilary getting ready to fly across the country for an entire week. I don't get to go and cheer her on, or take her picture as she is enjoying the sites. I will be at home thinking about her, praying for her, and hoping she grows from this opportunity and has fun.

So I'm off to help her pack for her trip and make sure she has everything she needs. Here are a couple of pics of hubby's flying experience.

Summer

Today is the first day of summer break. I just returned from the airport. My dear Michael will be gone for 10 days while I keep things on the homefront. I feel like this is the beginning of a new life. (No, not the 10 days without him, silly.)

Michael is renewing his pilot's license. When we first met (I should write about that sometime,) I was working at a small airport coffee shop, he had a plane. He'd wanted to join the AirForce to be a pilot, but his vision prevented it. So he went to work at a computer firm and learned to fly on his own. We married and began having children. When I became pregnant with our 3rd, we took the kids on a long flight in his 4 seater plane. It was after this, that Michael decided it was time to put flying aside for awhile. We'd outgrown the 4 passenger plane and could no longer afford this expensive hobby.

During this same time period, it was my desire to go on the mission field. I had a hard time envisioning Michael and I ministering together. But the one thing I could imagine was a Michael as a bush pilot. Our church financially supported a bush pilot who lived in Alaska. I loved hearing his stories and treasured them in my heart, all the while continuing to pray that this would be our lives one day. But as our family continued to grow, it seemed we moved further and further away from this dream. After several years, I quit asking God to send us.

This past year Michael watched several documentaries about pilots on humanitarian missions. His interest was sparked. One day it hit me. The desire to be a missionary came flooding back. I remembered the years of praying. Could we be nearing a time that Michael and I could go out in ministry? God hears each one of our prayers and always answers. Maybe this prayer was like that of Abraham and Sarah who didn't see their prayers for a son until many years past not only the time they asked, but past what was even probable. Sometimes our dreams are laid aside and forgotten. But they can be resurrected in a moment. I don't know if this desire will ever come to pass, but I am so very encouraged and excited to be reminded that God never forgets.

Michael's motto in life is "Keep the Blue Side Up." So that is what I expect him to do for the next 10 days. Keep the blue side up Michael!

Finally

Tomorrow is the last day that my sleep will be interrupted by beep, beep, beep, beep. (At least for awhile.) Friday is the official first day of summer vacation. Ahhh...to be able to sleep a bit longer, to not be so rudely awakened. I look forward to staying up late with the kids talking, playing Monopoly all night, or late night runs to Taco Bell or Starbucks. Relaxing dinners out on the deck where much laughter is heard and nobody rushes off to finish their homework. Instead we can take our evening walks around the neighborhood, breathing in the scents of lilac bushes, seeing the lush green of the grass and trees, hearing the gurgling water in the many streams, taking in the beauty of God's creation.

Summer, my most favorite season of all. As you can tell, I am not one of those crazy parents who signs their kids up for the many activities that some think are necessary. I've never believed it was a good thing to put my kids on a swim team. Why would we want to go to practice every morning and be at swim meets at 6 a.m. on Saturdays? Nor have we ever spent hours and hours at endless baseball games that run too late into the evenings. To some, these things are what they look forward to and what marks the beginning of summer. I look forward to lazy days. Didn't God design a dy of rest when he designed all of creation?

Alright. What was someone thinking when they wrote on my calendar, that Friday, my first day of leisure, "Pom Practice-7:00a.m.?" Ugh! That means not only will my sleep be broken by an incessant beeping, Hilary will need to be at the school a half hour earlier than on school mornings. And it is a 20 minute drive. I love summer.

S is for...

Along with Owlhaven Mary, I'm playing an ABC game y'all may have seen floating around. She has assigned me the letter S.

Ten Significant Words Beginning With S.

1. S is for Savior. I was born-again back in 1984 and my life has been forever changed.

2. S is for Sunday, the best day of the week.

3. S is for Sweetheart. That would be Michael, the sweetest man in all the world. The one who puts up with my tossing and turning at night and all of my crazy ideas.

4. S is for Sarabeth, my number 4 child. Sarabeth will be seventeen next month. She has grown into a very sensitive, smart young lady with a great sense of humor. Sarabeth is also the most shy of all my kids.

5. S is for Son. Christopher is my sunshine on a gloomy day.

6. S is for Seven, the number in our family. It is through my husband and children that I have become who I am today.

7. S is for Socks. I can't sleep without socks on my feet. It doesn't matter how warm or cold it is, even in the middle of summer. I wear socks to bed.

8. S is for Seasons. I get bored if things are always the same, so I love the season, whether the seasons of the year or seasons of life. So far the season of life that I'm in at the time, is always my favorite. I hope I can always say that.

9. S is for Surprises. I love surprises. No, not the kind that awaken you in the middle of the night, or something wet you step in while wearing socks. I also so enjoy it when I can do something special for someone else as a surprise. Something meaningful to make one smile, something totally unexpected. (Pleasant surprises have to be gifts from God.)

10. S is for S2000. Yep! That is my sunny, yellow, Honda convertible that Michael gave me for my birthday this year. The best times are driving it in the warm sunshine with him. Fun in the Sun.


Want to play this game? Email me, and I'll assign you a letter! Then leave a comment so others can see your top ten.

MEMORIAL DAY

May we always remember...



May we never forget...

Disrepect

I've been a little shocked lately at the disrespect that is so prevalant between parents and mostly teens. The part that concerns me the most is the disrespect I see from the parents. The parent then looks for a sympathetic ear when the teen doesn't do his chores or pay attention to anything the parent says.

Here are some recent examples that I've taken notice of: A mother (who shall remain annonymous) was chiding her daughter for not completing a chore.

"What is wrong with you? I told you to clean the kitchen. Do you think you are the only one in this house that is important? Don't ask me to take you to practice. If you won't do what I want you to do, I won't do what you want me to do."

This same mom turns to me and says, "My daughter doesn't show me any respect, so I'm going to make her life so miserable that she will learn to respect me."

Does this mom realize that she sounds like a 5 year old, throwing a temper tantrum because she didn't get her own way? The message she just spewed at her daughter is, "You are dumb. You are not important. I don't respect you because you don't respect me. (Reminds me of 2 little children playing. One gets mad and takes their toys home so the other can't play with them.)

By resorting to childish behavior, this mother has reinforced the same behavior in her daughter. So why does she think her daughter should be more mature, rise above the way she is being treated and show respect for the mother?

(Out of time, will have to finish this thought later.)

May

Am I the only one whose brain quits functioning in May??? Even when I write things down I forget. Yesterday I couldn't remember what I had planned for dinner and couldn't locate my menu plan. So I improvised with a meal meant for later in the week. At the last minute I realized I did not have olives. That is a main ingredient. So I ran up to the store in an attempt to get them and 2 other things I'd forgotten.

I was trying very hard to not browse. I tend to do that and come home with much more than I wanted. It is usually things we need, but it was getting way to close to dinnertime to be browsing. I grabbed the items and went straight to the checkout. Driving home I was so proud of myself for not getting distracted. That is until I was about to pull onto our block and realized I did NOT pick up olives. I'd gotten the other 2 items that could have waited until today. Grrr....so instead of pulling onto our street I drove back to the store.

I was sure glad I'd remembered to bring my water bottle with me, as it was very hot yesterday. When I arrived home, I gathered my purse, sunglasses and water bottle and went inside. Sarabeth asked me where I'd been. At that point I started laughing. She looked at me odd. I knew the reason she didn't know where I was, I'd left the grocery sack sitting in the trunk. Amazingly, I did get the dinner made and it wasn't midnight when we ate.

Crazy Pics

Some crazy pics because my kids like to goof off.

















Can you tell you who it is that like to goof off the most? Yes, somehow it is always the male species.

More Pics

Is it possible to get just one decent pic when everyone happens to be in one place? I doubt it. This is about the best family one we could come up with:



The kids without Ethan:



And here is my attempt at getting them all in a shot in the car:



Oh, and one last one of Christina and Ethan:



Tomorrow I will post the goofy ones.

Prom Season

It is prom season. For the past 9 years I've had at least one of my kids attending a prom, except this year. Not a one. I miss the fun of seeing the kids all dressed up. I always have a flash of a future wedding when I see them. (Scary.) But I don't miss the stress of buying dresses, finding and creating the perfect hair, nails, makeup, shoes....remembering two days before prom that a corsage wasn't ordered or running to the flower shop in midst of fixing hair to pick up the boutonniere.

In honor of the season, here are a couple of pics from previous years. (Sorry Christina, I didn't have one of yours as it was pre-digital cameras, but I will try to find one and scan it in.)


Christopher


Elisabeth

Ants

One hundred and sixty-four of them. Yes, I did count them. I didn't notice them at first when I was walking around on the laundry room floor. I was still wearing these slipper socks from the hospital. They have those fun rubber bumps on the bottom that sometimes feel funny when walking. So the extra crunches weren't initially noticed. After a bit I did notice and realized I'd been stepping on these:


I hate ants of any kind, especially ones that fly and are inside the house. I wasn't too happy about finding them. Of course in my wild attempt to sweep them onto the dustpan, I was knocking clothes off of hangers and onto piles of these ants. I would try to pick the clothing back up shake the attached ants off, only to land them in my basket of clean socks. So I amused myself by counting them as I picked them up.

Surgery Update

I actually came home feeling better than when I went into the hospital. I had IV antibiotics pre-surgery which, I believe, kicked out a sinus infection I was fighting along with the headache I'd had for days. I went in to have some uterine polyps removed. I found out today that 2 of them were "huge" according to the Dr. and he couldn't get those. He's waiting for the pathologist's report and I go in next Monday to discuss what's next. But I didn't have any of the previous side affects from anesthesia, for which I am thankful. Nor did I need to take any of the pain medication. This morning in my usual routine, half-asleep, I took my morning meds, including Allegra for allergies. Twenty minutes and a 1/2 a cup of coffee later, I realize I did NOT take Allegra but the Darvocet for pain. Hmmmm....I guess I did take pain medication, I just didn't need it.

Now I am going to share a gross factor, so anyone (especially of the male gender) will want to stop reading. For those who don't mind reading the gross details, continue on.

After this type of surgery, there is some bleeding involved. A pad is typically worn (of which females are very familiar.) Before dressing to go home, it seemed as if I was leaking. I asked the nurse who checked and said "no, the pad is dry." Okay, but I feel wetness. I find I am wearing disposable underwear, the kind the give you after having a baby. Fine. I get dressed and go home. Upon arriving home it still feels like something is amiss. Sure enough. I have blood on my clothes. I can't figure this out. The pads they give you are ginormous. Well, they are pretty useless when you find that they have been placed in your special undergarments with the side with the sticky facing up. The absorbent side is down and nobody ever bothered to even remove the plastic that exposes the sticky side. Made me wonder about who was caring for me when you can't even put a pad in correctly. (Hope I didn't offend anyone.)

There Is A Difference

Whenever I hear someone say the only reason boys and girls are different is because parents raise them that way, I just laugh. Only a fool would believe that just because you give boys dolls to play with or trucks to girls that they will act the same.

The first time I noticed a difference was when my 5 year old daughter and almost 2 year old son were playing on the swingset. Christopher was holding onto a swinging rope. He held it out to his big sister and said, "Here Chrisnina, your turn." As she reached for the rope, he immediately pulled it back laughing. "Hey, you said it was my turn. Hand it to me."

"Ok," he responded and held it out again. But just as it was almost in her grasp, he snatched it back laughing harder. I could hardly believe he knew hot to tease and he wasn't even 2. He did not learn this. There was something inborn that told him this was a very fun game to play with girls.

You see this behavior in boys once again around puberty when they start noticing girls. The female counterpart still does not find this teasing amusing and cannot figure out why a boy would tease. I was trying to explain this to my 8th grade daughter.

"Boys usually tease when they like a girl. Yes, they sometimes tease just to be mean, but most often it isn't because they hate you but it is their way of being affectionate. I know it is crazy, but don't let it hurt your feelings. Try to ignore it."

Ok, so it was dumb advice. But it is so hard to get them to understand that they are wired differently than boys. Boys view the world one way and girls another-it never changes. It is good. And no, it doesn't have to make sense.

Tomorrow

This time tomorrow, I will be at the hospital preparing for surgery. I am not worried or stressed about it, but later I might be. It will hit me when I get up and cannot have a cup of coffee. That will tend to throw my whole morning off and remind me that something is different. It is outpatient surgery, so I am planning to be back home tomorrow evening. And I expect to be fine by Wednesday. Is that asking too much?

How Does That Happen

Yesterday I spent over an hour writing a tribute to my mother. When I went to publish it, poof! It disappeared. I have yet to try again to put my thoughts into writing.

To me, written words are to be cherished. Spoken words can be forgotten, but once written down, they are forever. It's true that hateful, angry words spewed off of one's tongue are usually etched into a memory, but it is the soft, meaningful words that can be lost. I'm one of those who would still prefer an old fashioned, hand-written note to a phone call for just that reason. The tribute I typed here for my mom was to go into her card after I wrote it. So I will definately try again. Sigh. Happy Mother's Day Mom, and to all of the other moms too!

Weight Loss

I've been wanting to lose weight for some time. Diets have been started and stopped many times. I thought it would be so much fun to have dramatic before and after pictures. The hard part is always taking the dreaded before pics. I wanted to look my worst so I could later look great. At the same time, I dispise those before/after photos in which a woman has no makeup, bad hair and sweats, while the after photo shows a perfectly manicured one. I want to see the before fat, but not someone totally unkept. (And I really didn't want anyone else to take the picture and see how awful I really looked, as if they hadn't noticed. Sheesh!)

I don't believe I ever got my worst photo. Oh, I have plenty of very bad ones where I look horrendous, just none which shows enough flab. I've been working out and wanted to show muscle definition in the after photo.

I don't have those photos yet, but I've lost almost 20 lbs and still losing. I'm so excited. Michael has lost 22 lbs. Why didn't we take a fat photo together? Oh well, I'm going to be happy with the new slimmer us with or without the photos.

Cheesecake

I made a cheesecake yesterday. The recipe called for a liqueur. Not being very knowledgeable in alcoholic beverages, I ventured out to find one. I needed such a tiny amount and all I found were huge bottles. Then I happened upon this cherry syrup:

The little hat caught my attention (no doubt the marketing ploy.) I picked it up and went to pay for Milady Cherry Liqueur. She did indeed look like a little lady wearing the hat. At the checkout counter I found some small bottles of liqueur, but at this point, I just could not put back this cute little Miss.

After making the cheesecake, the bottle was sitting on the counter. My daughter was helping me clean the kitchen.

"What is this little hat for?" I told her it went on top of the bottle and I supposed that she could throw it out as it wasn't necessary to save it. But before doing so, I wanted to show her how cute it was and put it back atop the bottle. At that point, there is no way I could throw it out.

"You know, if you girls were still little, I'd give you this hat for your barbies." Sarabeth responded, "Yeah, Mom, I know. I was just thinking the same thing." Immediately we were both transported back to Barbie Land.

Growing up, I had the best dressed barbies. My mother and grandmother would sew or knit clothing for them. The outfits were coveted by all of the neighbor girls and friends who had the privilege of playing barbies at our home. My sisters and I were so inspired that we spent hours ourselves creating our own clothing for them when we learned to sew. I don't think we played dolls as much as we made clothes and just dressed them.

My oldest 2 daughters had the privilege of playing barbies while my grandmother was alive. Once again, my girls had the most fashionably dressed dolls around. They too spent time creating clothing, even when it was just cut-out fabric with holes for arms and string tied around the waists. (I did not inherit the seamstress genes.) But in all those years, I don't recall ever having hats to complete an outfit. This hat would have been to die for.

Chatty

I learned yesterday that it is best to avoid certain individuals who can't seem to speak without using hand gestures. I had to have my blood drawn and I made the mistake of being chatty to the lab tech. She got the needle in my arm and I must have said something that stirred her emotions. She reacted by trying to say something with the hand waving technique, completely forgetting that her hands were busy with a very sharp needle in my vein. She instantly realized it was a bad idea and apologized while digging around to find the vein that escaped. Next time I have to have my blood drawn I'll either be very quiet or run the other way if I notice a hand talker.

Glasses

Here are the new glasses! This was taken after we made cookie dough and Ethan is in the midst of devouring as much of the dough as he can before the cookies are baked.

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.