Sleep

I need sleep, lots of it. Am I getting old? I wonder how I managed having 5 children, and the sleep deprivation that came with it. For 13 years straight, I didn't have uninterrupted sleep. Most nights I sleep 6 or 7 hours, but that doesn't seem to be enough. I look forward to Saturday mornings when I can sleep for at least 9 hours. (If you've never experienced this, I hope some day you will. For years, I doubted it would ever happen.) Occasionally, the kids have a day off during the week, and I look forward to that as another day to sleep in. (Now if I would also quit believing I get to stay up late the night before...)

Yesterday was just such a morning. I warned Michael the night before that I was sleeping in, and since it is the only time he gets up before me, I asked him to not wake me up. Apparently, he doesn't realize what a light sleeper I am. When I finally dragged myself out of bed, I was more than a bit cranky. Later, I felt terribly guilty for it. Afterall, Michael had to go into the office, so that is why he spent 20 minutes opening and closing drawers, shuffling through the closet, in-and-out of the bathroom, etc.

So why is it, that some people function just fine on little sleep, even laughing themselves silly or stay up all night just for fun?

Ethan had an EEG on Thursday, a sleep deprivation one. He was allowed to sleep from midnight until 4 a.m. My daughter was not looking forward to being sleep deprived along with him. His test began at 8 a.m. Ethan watched in a mirror, as the tech used a sharpie to draw dots all over his head. (What were we thinking? Yes, later in the day he was drawing on himself with a pen.) We could hear another overtired child crying in the next room. But Ethan was all giggles.


Being so tired, I thought he might get upset at the probes and then the wrapping of his head, but does he look like he minds? I know if I was that tired, and lying in a bed, I would not be so happy.

Once he was wired, they dimmed the lights and he cozied up to sleep. Then the strob light began flashing in his eyes. He grinned the whole time.
Once the strob light stopped, Ethan fell fast asleep. He was monitored for 10 minutes. Then he had to be woken up.

The whole time, I tried to imagine how I would feel if I had to endure this type of testing. Sleep deprivation, flashing lights, finally peaceful sleep-only to be awakened after 10 minutes. Ethan was a trooper. He awoke smiling, as if he'd had a full nights sleep. He didn't even fall back asleep on the drive home. I wish I could have his happy disposition with so little sleep.

What about those who go without sleep for fun? Last night was prom. Sarabeth attended. The after prom party began at midnight. Double-decker buses drove them around to various activities, so if the kids were tired, they weren't allowed to go home early. They had to stay up until the buses arrived back at the school at 7:30 this morning. But that is another story. I'll post pics tomorrow of prom or late today after sleeping beauty wakes up.

Wordless Wednesday

Wordless Wednesday

The Goofy Great Grandparents

Open Letter

Open Letter To Ethan's Father

Because you're his father, I thought I'd share with you that I took care of Ethan for more than 14 hours on Saturday. He was so cute when he woke up. He came walking out of the bedroom in his Power Ranger pajamas, wearing his backpack, and carrying the new sticker book I'd bought him. I don't know if you realize it or not, but Ethan's been a bit off of late. The most likely reason is he's having more seizures. The medicine is not keeping them under control, but sometimes it's hard to tell.

Knowing it could be tricky keeping him entertained all day, I picked up 3 new items for when-all-else-fails-pull-out-a-suprise. He breezed through the new Power Ranger and sticker book. I had hoped the fancy new markers, that only worked on special paper, would last a little longer. I knew I was in trouble when he'd bitten the tips off of every one of them, & it wasn't even noon yet. We did have a long, fun, but exhausting day.

On Sunday, it was nice that you volunteered to take him to a movie. That is a pretty safe, easy activity. Two words of advice, though: Next time, could you provide snacks for the movie? Do you know you can actually purchase food at the theater? I realize you thought you were doing us a favor by taking him for a couple of hours. But how much easier would it be for you to get him something to eat before you came over? You had no one else to worry about but yourself. Secondly, it is most disturbing to watch you strap Ethan in his car seat, then walk back to the house to wait for the snacks to be made. My confidence in your ability to care for him wanes. Never leave him unattended.

When you returned 2 hours later, it was nice that you offered to watch Ethan while he drove his tractor. He was unhappy about having to come inside and really loves riding it. (The day before, he drove it until the battery died and had a meltdown when I plugged it in to recharge.) But there are a few things I don't quite understand.

Yes, we have a creek running on the back of our property, and it is running deep this time of year. I realize how fast Ethan can be and how quickly he can get to the water's edge. What I don't get is how he could have driven his tractor into the murkey water. You managed to pull him out, along with the water-logged tractor. You dragged them both all the way to the front of the house without ever saying anything.

Don't get me wrong. I am so grateful you were close enough to pull him out. I'm thankful his glasses were still intact. But afterwards, what were you doing? I looked out the kitchen window, where I was fixing dinner and saw you unchaining the dog. I thought Ethan looked dazed, before realizing he was dripping wet. I ran to the door and called to you, asking if Ethan was wet. All you said was yes and continued to fuss with the dog. As I rushed to Ethan, I didn't notice you were wet too. I questioned if he'd gone in the creek, and I again got an affirmative answer. I scooped up my confused & shivering grandson and hurried inside. I began removing his drenched clothing. I called to his grandpa for help.

Working quickly, we towel-dried him off and dressed him in warm clothes. Ethan's grandpa went to check on the tractor. I spoke with you afterwards. You didn't offer much information. I know your heart must have been pounding when the accident occurred. Like I said, I don't know how you were able to pull both him and the tractor out so quickly-or did you? You could have yelled for help. You could have straightaway brought Ethan into the house. But you didn't. Were you ashamed? Did you think I'd be angry or call you irresponsible? I did neither, but reassured you that it could have happened to any one of us. But I question your judgment in being more concerned with how you were perceived than in Ethan's well-being. That part I do not understand.

Ethan needs a father that can be trusted to look out for his best interest, who will keep him safe and protect him. The next time you come to pick him up, I will give thanks that he has just that kind of a father-thank-you Heavenly Father that you are the one I can trust to watch over Ethan.

Paper or Plastic

Packing lunches is not my favorite thing. It is my own fault. I hear other moms tell of training their children to make their own lunches before school. I've heard what kids tuck into their lunch sacks.

(Driving home from the bus stop at the end of the day)
Kid 1-I'm starving! I didn't have time to make my lunch, so I had to grab an apple.
Kid 2-Well, at least you had something. There was nothing good at my house. I only had a bag of cheetos. I wish we'd had some cupcakes left.
Kid 1-Hilary, you're lucky. Your mom makes your lunch.

I try to be accomodating. I wouldn't want to eat a turkey sandwich every day for lunch and figure my kids are the same. Thinking back, I believe Christopher ate a sandwich, a yogurt, and a gatorade every day for an entire school year. I'd tuck in a dessert, or try to switch it up, but he'd let me know he really wanted these items to eat on a daily basis. So I'd give him egg salad, turkey, chicken salad, roast beef, salami...at least a variety of sandwiches-no repeats.

It gets tricky, though, trying to remember which child likes lettuce, who doesn't like cheese, strawberries with sugar to dip, but this one's allergic to strawberries. Sometimes I accidently put the salami sandwich in the lunch of the one who was supposed to get the turkey. Or I'd put the salad with ranch dressing in the italian dressing lovers lunch box. Thankfully, my kids are pretty forgiving.

The funny part is watching them through the years & their tastes in the packaging. By 4th or 5th grade, my oldest 2 would no longer take a lunch box. It wasn't cool. A small paper sack was fine, thank-you. I've never liked this transition. Firstly, as they cram that bag into their backpack I just know their sandwich is getting squished. I go to great lengths to pack a nice sandwich. I quit using bread to try making it less compact within those sacks. I use hearty sandwich rolls, but still...

I remember the sadness with which I packed my son's last lunch. I was overcome with the thought that I would never again make him his lunch. It wasn't as if he was moving out the on his last day of school his senior year, but it was the last time I'd lovingly pack it in that paper sack.

I don't recall Christina's last lunch. I think because she was the oldest and I was in a flurry with so many lunches that I didn't notice that last lunch. Elisabeth went to a private school her senior year. She was the only one who has had senior privileges to leave campus for lunch. I only made her lunch twice a week, so I missed her "very last lunch." Elisabeth carried a lunch box until high school. The "coolness" finally set in, and I had to be more careful with the sandwiches.

Sarabeth has always enjoyed picking out her lunch box. The past 3 years, it was a shiny, gold one from Old Navy. Gold is her favorite color. But as all good lunchboxes do, it finally had enough. Black was the new color of choice. It will be interesting to see if she chooses a new one for her senior year. Or whether or not she caves in to "coolness" and sports the ugly, brown, squishy, paper sack. She is pretty much her own person, so I suspect she will go for plastic.

Hilary, a freshman in high school, went for the ultimate in coolness. She chose a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle lunch box. But sadly, this week, they have lost their cool. I noticed the signs & should have seen it coming, but it snuck up on me. She asked if she could have the dreaded brown paper bag. I tried to protest. My biggest gripe now is they are making the sacks smaller, even though my lunches have become more creative. I try twice a week to pack a hot lunch into a nice silver thermos jar. Sarabeth loves it, maybe Hilary doesn't. I can't fit them into those sacks. I tried a larger produce sack, but that "was embarrassing." I was also informed she really needed a throw-away water bottle, as she didn't like having to save her lunch sack. No problem...at least not for her.

Last Friday, try as I might, I could not jam her lunch into that little sack-even if I left her water bottle out. I snatched the Turtles off of the fridge where they'd been hanging for awhile. I explained that she was going to have to take them again, but I handed her a sack that if she just couldn't be caught with a lunch box, SHE could figure out how to make it work.

Hilary came home from school "starving." Her lunch, packed neatly in the Turtles Box was left uneaten in the car. Did I mention how much I hate "coolness" and peer pressure?

Spring

I walk across the soft, green grass in the bright sunlight.
Achoo.
Yellow daffodils & pink tulips display themselves brilliantly.
Sniffle.
Apple trees with their delicate, white blooms stand out against the bright blue sky.
Eyes itch, water, and swell.
Spring in all its splendor, is best viewed from inside.

Final Move

Yesterday was the last part of the move. Since Sunday, bits & pieces, then boxes & furniture were moved into the tiny apartment. The remaining big item was the bed. Once the bed was put into place, it meant they weren't coming coming home again.

Home has been my place for the past 5 weeks. As nice as it is, I'm sure it felt like they were living in someone else's house. They had a few items, like their clothes and a shared computer, but most of their belongings were still in Arizona.

The entry way and lobby is grand. I could hear the pianist as I entered. I looked at my watch, 11:45. Yep! Today's events mentioned a pianist at 11:30-noon. A lively rendition of Amazing Grace resounded from the keys.

We wrestled the mattress and box springs from the truck to the 3rd story-thankful for the elevator. (Not like the 3rd story move with Christopher.) After making the bed, we all looked around. It looked very much like their home back in Phoenix. Even Poncho was there to watch over their doorstep, keeping an eye on Mr. Bear.

The unpacking was nearly finished, aside from a couple of suitcases. The pictures would be hung and everything tidied up, but it was beginning to look like home.


Michael and I had lunch with them in the dining hall. It was delicious. That evening was a Wine & Candlelight dinner, complete with a strolling violinist & Prime Rib. I wanted to come back for that, but figured it would be nice for the two of them to enjoy. It would also give them a chance to get to know their neighbors. I hope they had a lovely time.

We will miss having them here every day, but it isn't like they won't be here for dinner tonight. Besides, when I turn 70, I'm moving in with them.

Just Remembering

Gotcha

Yesterday, we were enjoying a lovely Sunday afternoon. I was busy wrapping a few gifts. Christina's 26th birthday is Thursday and we were having her birthday dinner that night. I almost always wrap gifts in my bedroom, and this was no different. Elisabeth was sitting on my bed chatting and helping wrap when she received a text message.

"Mom, did you talk to Christopher?"

"No, why?"

"You mean you didn't get a text message from him?"

"Well, I don't know. I don't carry my phone from room-to-room. Do you know something that I should know?"

"He just sent me a text that reads 'Sweet! My car was just totaled."

"What?" I ran to find my phone. Sure enough. There was the same text message. I quickly sent him the same response I'd given Elisabeth: "What?"
I didn't wait even a second and sent him a second message, "Call me." Then I wondered what I was doing sending text messages. For all I knew he was standing in the middle of the road with his car in a million pieces. Was he ok? He should probably be checked out at the hospital anyway. I dialed his number.

"Hi mom, what are you doing?"

"Well, wrapping presents for your sister's birthday dinner. You know her birthday is this Thursday. So what is going on??????"

Silence.

Then laughter.

"April Fools Mom!"

I told him he really had me going and then he made me promise to not give it away since he'd sent that text message to everyone.

"Did you send it to Lauren?" (That is his girlfriend.)

"No, I really wanted to still be alive tomorrow." (Smart man.) It's a good thing he is a thousand miles away.

The funniest part was when Hilary came up the stairs asking about this mysterious message. I am NOT a good liar, so I sent her to ask her father. He had not seen the message. His first response was, "I sure hope it wasn't his fault." He went back outside to finish up the yard work. We watched from the window as his phone rang. Christopher was calling to finish up the fool's business. After a few moments we saw Michael burst into laughter with threats of getting even next year.

Ahhhh...we have a whole year to plan our revenge. Feel free to share your ideas.

Just For Fun

I was reading Heth's Blog and saw she had linked to this. Yes, Janice & Susan at 5 Minutes for Mom are giving away a Dyson Vacuum cleaner.

Confession: I already own a Dyson. Yes, I truly love it. So why do I need another one? Well, mine has not been working so great recently. I am hard on vacuums. Don't let that discourage you from entering the contest. The suction on the thing truly is unbelievable. But it is all plastic. I broke off the plastic hook that you wind the cord around. Now I need a new hose, as I suppose I put too much stress on it when stretching it all the way down the stairs. (It is a very long hose, but ok, maybe I became so accustomed to the convenience that I pulled it a bit further than I should have.)

The real test: Would I spend that huge amount of money and buy another one? You bet I would. It is by far the best vacuum I ever owned. (I've owned some great vacuums, and it was my 4 or 5th one.) So I thought I would share this good news with the rest of you.

Pillow Presents

For as long as I can remember, I've shared a bedroom. It isn't always easy having someone in your space, but what incredible richness it has brought to my life. Life skills were learned, negotiation techniques mastered & sisterly bonds formed within the confines of shared sleeping quarters.

Sometime before I entered the 5th grade, Laurie and I began this adventure. My parents had purchased a 4 bedroom home. The 3 girls no longer were grouped together. My brother and older sister now had the privilege of residing in their own rooms. This left Laurie and I very unhappy with the new arrangement.

We had our ups and downs, but when we climbed into bed at night, we became comrades. We'd lie awake discussing how we could divide the room to give each of us our own separate space. We chattered about our day, commiserated about the struggles with certain friends, or expressed our secret fondness for a really cute boy. We'd tickle each others feet to see who would be the first to flinch. We laughed and laughed. We needed that physical contact but even more, we needed to connect. It didn't matter what we might have argued about earlier in the day. At bedtime, we became best friend sisters.

I don't recall exactly when it happened. It might have been Laurie's birthday. Maybe not. But one night, I left a note on her pillow. It said something like, "In order to find your very next clue, look around the room for something blue." I'd made a scavenger hunt of sorts for her. At the end of the hunt, she was directed back to her pillow. Underneath it, I had placed a small treasure.

That was the beginning of pillow presents. It wasn't every night, although in the summer it sometimes was. One or both of us would make, create, or find a treasure for the other. I was better at it than she was. I was supposed to be. I was older. I loved making scavenger hunts and they always had to rhyme. Laurie made up a few too, and it was ok that they didn't rhyme. Laurie's favorite pillow presents to give me were tamales. No, not red hot tamales candy. We're talking honest-to-goodness tamales. My mom (usually with our help) would make 12 dozen tamales around Christmas time each year. She'd cook them up a dozen at a time for dinner. If any were left over in the 'fridge I received a tamale under my pillow that night. I still can't eat tamales without thinking of them as pillow presents.

Last week, on Hilary's birthday, I saw her walking around searching. I wondered what she was doing. She was on a scavenger hunt Elisabeth and Sarabeth had created for her very late the night before. At the end were some small gifts they'd purchased. (You can see one of them in the wordless wednesday photo.) That was when the pillow present memories came flooding back to me. What richness comes to sisters who have shared a bedroom. Makes me feel sorry for only children and those who have small families and never had to learn to "live" with one another.

P.S. (My dad was/is an only, and he always told us to have more than one. I did my best to have a houseful.)

Wordless Wednesday

Fear Of Failure

Well, would you look at this. Yes, I am actually posting, and yes, I realize it has been over a week since I've posted and over 2 weeks since I've really written anything. Sigh. I remember this feeling. It is de ja vu. (Ok, maybe not quite so serious and life-changing, but the feeling remains.)

It happened sometime during my senior year of high school. Classes began at 8 in the morning. At 10:45, after my 3 core subjects, I spent the next 6+ hours at "beauty school." (Wouldn't it be terrific, if we'd been learning to be beautiful both inside and out?) It was good old fashioned learn-to-cut-and-style hair school. I'd convinced my parents that when I finished, I'd have a good steady job to pay for college. Honestly, I'd never thought it through at all. It was just something I thought would be fun.

At 5:00 o'clock, I'd rush home, change into my busboy clothes and get to the restaurant as quick as I could. I didn't mind busing tables. It was interesting to watch the different people come through. Old men eating steak, would talk your ear off, but leave a decent tip. Couples were harder. Some were obviously there to discuss serious subjects and didn't want to be disturbed. Others welcomed any interruption as if bored to tears by their date.

By 9 p.m., I was exhausted, but not smart enough to go home to bed. I needed to unwind. I would go out with friends or to my boyfriend's home. Some nights I'd make it home by 11, but often it was 1 or 2 in the morning when I'd lay my head to rest. Getting up at 6 seemed to arrive earlier and earlier.

It was those early mornings that I felt the gnawing sensation. It ate away at my sense of well-being. It told me that my life was out-of-control. There was an emptiness, and it wasn't just my lack of completing assignments. Homework? I didn't have time for that. I didn't study, read, or write anything for school outside of class. I began falling behind.

The constant inner nagging left me feeling like a failure. I didn't know how to catch up. I told myself I'd do better. But nothing changed. One day I couldn't face going to class unprepared. I had an idea. Instead of attending class, I'd spend those 3 hours getting ahead. It seemed like a brilliant idea. Catching up turned into a couple of extra hours of sleep. It felt good for the moment, but only made things worse. I began attending class 2 or 3 times a week. I didn't graduate that year.

A few days of not blogging, and I start to feel that same gnawing inside. Ok, maybe it isn't quite that bad, but with each day that passes I feel like I am running behind. I am sure fellow bloggers can relate to the thoughts that come each and every day, the words that fight to get out. But when the words aren't written that day, the following day new words form and the earlier ones are pushed to the back. After a week or two, the unfinished thoughts feel heavy. It takes great effort to sort through. Unfinished assignments. It is hard to know where to begin. Instead of blogging, I lay my head to rest at night believing I will do better in the morning.

I must be tired. I sound way too dramatic without good reason. Perhaps tomorrow I will feel caught up. This is extra credit for my missing assignments. I won't be withdrawn for lack of participation. I will graduate to a new day. Hope to see you then.

Old Or Grumpy

Old & Grumpy



(I used to wonder where my kids got their sense of humor.)'
Happy 15th Birthday Hilary!

Happy Birthday To Me

I am so excited. Summer is almost here. I feel the warmth as I step barefooted onto the pavement. It is not cold. I sense heat radiating up through my toes. The air smells summery, like a hot breeze blowing about dusty hay. I imagine cool wet sand as I scrunch my toes inside my boots. I tilt my head back, eyes closed and I soak up the bright sunlight that makes me squint. I want to squeeze into a swimsuit, slather on tanning oil and bake in the summer sun.

What is summer for? It is a time for growth. Little seeds are buried into the soil and in a few short months are producing luscious, edible fruits. I mostly look at summer as a time to slow down. Long, hot days are intended for more hours to work, but I like to believe we are afforded a bit more leisure. Time for staying up late and going out for ice cream cones, for cool, refreshing swims and water balloon fights. Summer is a time for marathon monopoly games that last for days and watching hours of home videos. Let's not forget the soft, green grass for laying upon while trying to figure out what character the cloud formations have created.

Summer is just around the corner, and this year we will share it with my inlaws. They are going to love summer in Colorado.

Wordless Wednesday

I have so many things running through my head that I want to share. Unfortunately, I seem to have very little time to accomplish this. How can I squeeze more time into my day??? No, I will not get up any earlier. My body severly protests early mornings. If I stay up late, I will hate myself in the morning. (This makes my body even more unhappy than usual.) So I will have to settle for not being able to blog as much as I want to. (Insert a huge sigh here.)

A few weeks back, in the middle of dinner, Elisabeth noticed brownies sitting on the counter. "Are those FAIRY TALE brownies????"

I nodded, since it is not polite to speak with a mouth full of food.

"Where'd they come from?"

After swallowing I answered, "My mom sent them."

She scrunched up her face as if I'd said a very strange thing. "Your mom? Oh that sounds weird. I can't imagine ever saying 'my mom sent brownies."

I had to think about this for a second. Was it too difficult for her to imagine me buying & sending brownies to her and her some-day family? Could she not fathom anything but homemade brownies? Or was it because I'd said "my mom" when I usually referred to her as Gramma?

It turned out that it was the latter. I think it is hard to remember that "Gramma" is "my mom." One day "Gramma" for her kids will be "her mom." (ME!) Why is it so hard for us to wrap our minds around these thoughts?

I remember similar times through the years. Watching my grandma become a great-grandma I wondered what it would be like when my own mother was a great-grandma. It happened when Ethan was born and now she had 2 great-grandchildren. But my mom and dad don't seem old. I have a hard time imagining my parents having serious health problems, or being frail. They've always been...well, the parents. Parents are supposed to be the ones who do everything, take care of everything. Or are they?

Michael's parents are in the process of a huge change in their lives. They've lived the past 42 years or so in Arizona. This Thursday, they officially become Colorado residents. They are coming here to live out their remaining years. We feel so privileged and blessed, but I wonder what they might be feeling. I can't imagine such a huge life-change at this point in my life. What would it be like in another 35 years or so? They are leaving everything comfortable, all the familiar. Not only will the weather and altitude be very different, the only ones they will know is us. New friends, new doctors, new church, new home...pretty much everything about their lives will change. I wonder if Fairy Tale Brownies would welcome them to their new life? Nah, I think I'll go for homemade cookies and a cozy, warm, electric blanket for their bed to remind them of the Arizona sunshine.

Update of Sorts

Apparently, I don't recall what it is like having a 4 year old boy around the house. Okay, Ethan is a very special little boy, which sometimes means he is a bit more of a challenge than your typical 4 year old. But still.

I was up bright and early yesterday morning. I went with Christina to Children's Hospital. Ethan was having the nerves in his ears checked for hearing loss. He had to be sedated. Any procedure that has to be done at Children's seems like a huge ordeal, especially when the arrival time is 7:00a.m. I figured it'd be a 15 minute thing once he was out. But no, it was nearly 2 full hours of waiting. We found out that Ethan has pretty good hearing in his left ear, a bit of hearing loss in his right. Nothing that would cause his lack of speech. On one hand it is good news. But the other hand is left to wring itself out. I forgot how much emotional energy it takes to trust a child in the doctor's hands.

Today it was my privilege to take care of Ethan while Christina ran some errands. One small boy, sounds like a piece of cake. That is when my shortcoming kicked into gear. I forget I am getting older.

A not-very-well-liked dog woke Ethan up with her barking. I couldn't get him to eat anything for breakfast, despite my most equisite cuisine offerings. Two hours later I made him lunch. He did eat a few bites, but mostly because his grandpa was eating the same thing. I forget how picky kids can be.

I gave him a bath. While bathing, I gave him a quick haircut producing a horrendous mess in the bathroom. During my attempt to clean it up, he poured powder on his feet. (And all over the carpet.) I forget how wiggly boys are.

Then the bad Gramma remembered she'd forgotten to give Ethan his anti-seizure medication. She quickly mixed it into his leftover yogurt/oatmeal and tried to spoon it into his mouth. I have no idea how much of it went down. He swished it around until he no doubt tasted the bitterness, then proceeded to spit it down the front of his clean shirt. I'd forgotten how messy boys can be.

We played Power Rangers. We put his puppy outside, while we stayed in. I looked around the house. I decided to wait to bake cookies together. If I could just run the vaccuum and pick up some of that dog hair, then maybe we could do something fun. Ethan was playing with his new castle and watching Sesame Street, so I quickly got out the vaccuum and headed for the bathroom, then the bedrooms. Did I forget how fast he is?

I vacuumed for 5-6 minutes. I walked back to the kitchen. The refrigerator door was wide open, a carton of eggs atop the table. My instincts told me to find the kid. Looking up, I see what looks like raw egg whites coming out of his mouth. Pausing a split second to close the refrigerator door, I see an empty prescription bottle on the floor. The contents are spilled. I break into a full run to reach Ethan. It isn't egg white running from his mouth, but saliva. He is trying to remove the bitter taste from his tongue. It's been a long time since I've had to call poison control. I'd forgotten the number.

After counting pills I realized he probably only bit into one of them. The man on the phone assured me that he might get a headache, but nothing worse. Relieved I hung up the phone. I spent the next 20 minutes trying without success to get Ethan to eat or drink something so he'd quit gagging. Juice, chocolate milk,ice cream, pretzels...I'd forgotten how difficult it can be to coax a child to eat.

He had a seizure, and I felt sure it was my fault. I didn't know grandparents felt guilt the way a parent sometimes does.

His mom came home, and boy did I feel relieved. I could be just "gramma" and not the responsible adult. I'd almost forgotten how nice and fun it is to be a grandma.

The phone rang. Practice was cancelled. Hilary needed to be picked up from school. Did I mention it was snowing and we had about 6 inches already? I had not forgotten how icy the roads can be, nor how cold it no doubt was. I was taking a coat & the 4 wheel drive.

On my way out the door, I saw my refrigerator standing open again. To the right stood Ethan. He was holding an emtpy bottle of coffee creamer. He was covered in white liquid and the carpet beneath him was soaking it up too. The rest of the evening I enjoyed the delicious vanilla scent.

Imagine the joy when I finally saw this:



I'd forgotten the sweetness of a sleeping child.

Wordless Wednesdays

(More Wordless Wednesdays)

Survivor

How many of you are Survivor Fans? I confess, I am. I have watched every show since the beginning episode. It isn't because it is the most entertaining show. Nor is it because I am endeared to the contestants. No, it goes much deeper than that. I have a secret desire to be a contestant on Survivor.

Honestly, I really do want to be a survivor. Think of the adventure of it all. I realize there would be no morning coffee, no soft pillow to lay my head upon at night. And yes, I know my age. It would be difficult at best to keep up with the 20 something year olds. But still, I want to be a survivor contestant.

You'd think I would have already applied. I haven't. I keep waiting for just the right inspiration. I need an incredibly creative and perfect idea for a personal video to send in to the show. I haven't been inspired enough yet.

My family thinks I'm crazy. But I figure if I can survive having 5 kids, raising gerbils, lizards, hamsters, frogs, a snake, cats, dogs, caught the resident mice, had giant cockroaches run across the floor, endured...well, you get the idea. Don't I have some bit of experience to bring to a game of Survivor??? (Or maybe I'm just trying to escape it all, and it sounds like a lovely break from the mundane?)

The funny thing is, I think I know where my spirit of adventure comes from. My mom and various family members-including my son, applied to be contestants on the Amazing Race. And I don't even watch that one.

Happy 20th Birthday Elisabeth!

It's hard to believe you've closed the door to your teen years. What happened to my little Gerber baby with the infectious smile?

Very quickly, that baby turned into a laughing, forever-singing toddler. You loved singing and entertaining anyone who'd pay attention. There was no such thing as a stranger. You welcomed everyone into your world.


Remember how you'd play dress-up for hours and hours? Or making tea and crumpets with your kitchen set? Your golden brown hair, pulled up in crooked pigtails, would bounce as you "cooked." You'd talk and talk in your singsong voice as you'd offer freshly baked cookies.

I remember a girl in second grade who wanted to be a cheerleader. You went to cheer camp and performed at a high school basketball game. Two ladies in front of me saw you amidst the sea of girls and couldn't get over how cute you were. I wanted to say, "that's my girl!" But before I could you waved and curtsied my direction and they thought you were waving to them and they waved back. You brought out the best in others. It wasn't but 7 or 8 years later that you were in high school drawing the crowd to their feet.

Do you recall that summer we took your cousin Jeremy to church for the first time? You both were 8. You had such a tender heart. You loved to dance and worship. You were explaining to Jeremy what it was going to be like in service, and how much he would enjoy it. "And something happens in there," you told him "and it's ok if you cry. It's not like it's because you are sad. You're happy. But God just touches you and sometimes you just start crying. But don't worry. My mom has tissues in her purse if you need them." What you didn't realize, is not everyone experienced what you did. It was precious. I'll bet you remember getting baptized too. You kept practicing how you'd hold your nose and asking if you were doing it right. You looked so little in the tank, but turned and waved to the crowd. You then bobbed up and down excitedly until it was your turn.

In 6th grade, my little girl struggled at school. You couldn't figure out why your friends didn't want to spend more time with their families. You told me I was your best friend and always would be. I wanted to hold onto that forever.

You finally became a teenager, a bit later than your peers and phone became your new best friend. We laughed, we cried. At times harsh words flew out, but tender ones calmed them down.

Now here you are, all grown up. Being 20 doesn't mean you quit having fun. Wherever this year finds you, laughter and fun won't be far behind.

Happy Birthday Elisabeth! I love you!

Oh Ye Of Little Faith...

When my children were little I prayed for them when they were sick. For every scraped knee and bumped head, we asked for God's healing. My first goal was to get them to seek God to meet their needs. Secondly, I wanted them to realize that God cared about them and their individual needs, that he wanted them to be whole and healthy. But I also hoped that they would experience first hand that He is our healer and He still performs miracles.

I must admit, sometimes my faith was not as big as that tiny mustard seed. I remember the night we were standing in the grocery store checkout. I had 3 small children with me and I was exhausted. Distracted and not watching, I pushed the cart forward, running into Christina's little 5 year old foot. I felt awful. This has happened to me and it hurts! "I'm sorry," I blurted out. Before I finished speaking, she dropped to the floor, clutched her foot and wailed, "Pray for me! Pray for my foot! You ran it over!" Tears began running down her face.

I'd like to say I immediately ran to her and prayed. I did not. I couldn't leave the baby in the front of the cart while I attended to her. I glanced around. Everyone around me was watching. They could hear her as she began pleading again, "pray for me! Pray for my foot, I think it's bleeding!" Two year old Christopher was already poised beside her ready to pray. The commotion became louder, more heads turned. I'm sure they waited to see what I would do. In a half whisper I choked out, "can Christopher just pray for you?"

"Nooooo, pleeeease, Mom. Praaaay for me." I pulled the baby out of her seat. My cheeks felt hot. All eyes were on me. I could have been a great witness to all of the observers. I wasn't. I knelt beside my daughter, with the baby dangling to one side and said, "can we pray in the car?"

My normally quiet, non-dramatic daughter seemed to be going for an Academy Award. "Noooo, I can't walk on it. Praaaay that it isn't broken! It hurts!" I laid my hand upon her foot, closed my eyes and somewhere between a whisper and hushed voice I prayed, "Lord Jesus, please heal Christina's foot." Her sad eyes looked up as if to say, "that's it? After all the effort it took to get you to pray, that's it???" But she didn't say that. She rubbed her foot, stood up and proclaimed, "I think its feeling better."

I was deeply humiliated. Was I ashamed to let strangers know that as a mother I prayed for my children's owies? I felt like Peter, when he denied he knew the Lord. I found myself apologizing to Christina and Christopher when we got to the car for not having more faith.

I knew in my head, that God heals. I've read the stories of Jesus healing blind men, opening deaf ears, even raising people from the dead. I believed it was right to pray for healing. James tells us to pray for the sick. Friends would share glorious stories of their personal experience of being healed and touched by the Great Physician. I had not witnessed the miraculous. I continued to pray for accidents, sickness and to teach my children to pray.

In the wee hours of the morning, holding a sick baby and rocking in the chair, I'd cry out to the Lord to touch her. I'd ask Him to remove the pain of an ear infection, comfort an upset tummy, lower a fever. There wasn't anything dramatic. But I could rest, knowing that He was in charge and I wasn't. He would watch over my children. It was my job to pray for them.

The funny thing is, I had a hard time praying for myself. I can count on one hand the number of times I was so sick that I actually crawled back in bed in the middle of the day. Then I would lie in bed and pray that my family could survive without me for a few hours. It wasn't that I never got sick. But how does a mother lie in bed with 5 children to care for? It has to be bad. One time it was. I had to ask Michael to come home from work. I knew I wasn't going to make it through the day standing up. After giving him suggestions of what he could do with the little ones and what time the others needed to be picked up from school, I laid down in my bed. It felt weird, but after a bit I began to doze off.

I heard the older kids arrive home from school, still asking what was wrong with mom. Why was she in bed? Was she going to die? Christopher quietly came into my room and stood beside me. I opened my eyes.

"Sorry to disturb you, Mom. I just wanted to say I hope you feel better." Then he did an unexpected thing. He placed his hand upon my forehead and he prayed. He prayed that God would touch me and heal me. Was I filled with faith? No. I worried that he would be disappointed when I didn't immediately arise from the bed healed. I did not want him to be discouraged, but I had no idea how to encourage him. When he finished, I thanked him and he left the room.

In my head I began to question my lack of faith for healing. At the same time, I knew God could work through sickness and pain-but I don't like to suffer. Why didn't He just heal us immediately when we asked? As I lay there wrestling with my thoughts, I noticed something. My head was no longer pounding. I didn't feel feverish or even sleepy. Why was I still lying in bed? I hesitated, then sat up. I didn't feel sick. I felt fine. Out of the bed I came. I went to Christopher and thanked him for praying for me.

In my weakness, God showed Himself strong. And is it possible, that in my weakness, God spoke into the heart of a 2 year old boy? When I asked Christina if her 2 year old brother could pray for her, did God breathe life into those words? Without even realizing it, my words told Christopher that I believed in the power of God to work through him. I'd like to believe God used my lack of faith to build faith. My son's faith, in turn, increased my faith. This is what the body of Christ is all about. We need one another, whether it is a 90 year old lady who prays or a 2 year old boy. God values and cares for us all.

Phone Calls (Updated)

I want to be snug in bed right now, my head resting comfortably on my special pillow. I'd be wearing my fuzzy, soft, pink pajamas with the covers pulled up and folded neatly under my chin. But here I sit. I'm wide awake. I'm waiting. Waiting for the phone to ring.

It's nothing serious, I hope. Earlier in the evening I received one of those "mom, what should I do?" phone calls. Christina's voice sounded remarkably calm, although I suspect that was for my benefit. Ethan had choked on something. He began gagging, then vomitted. Whatever it was, it didn't come out. But he did start breathing, so it must have gone down. She wondered if she should take him to the Emergency Room to make sure he was okay. One part of me wanted to shout, "yes, get him there now!" Another part of me didn't want to be an alarmist. I suggested she call a real doctor and ask his advice. She did.

So somewhere, 70 miles away, Ethan and Christina are waiting. Waiting to be seen, waiting for ex-rays, waiting for the results, waiting to speak with the doctor. And I am waiting for the phone call that tells me everything is fine and I can go to bed now.

At 2:23 a.m. Christina sent me a text message to say that they were home and Ethan was fine. Hallelujah!

Monday is my grocery shopping day. I debated about whether or not to go, since it was a holiday for the kids. I was feeling a bit guilty that I didn't do anything special with them. It is sort of what happens during Spring Break. I hear about the trips to Hawaii, Arizona, the Cayman Islands, New York, Paris...all of the places their classmates go for Spring Break. We almost always stay home. When they were little, we'd go out to lunch, take a trip to a museum, see a movie, or drive up for a picnic in the mountains. But now, maybe I just get tired.

So, even though it was a day-off-from-school, I went grocery shopping. I found I was walking a bit slower than usual. (I think it was because I didn't bother to make a grocery list.) Not only that, I hadn't even thought about the meals we'd have this week. I was browsing.

By the time I reached the produce section, my cart looked rather barren instead of its usual brimful self. Fruit and vegetables are healthier anyway, I mused. I pushed my sparse-filled cart to the apples. I decided on 3 different varieties, but a lady and her plentiful cart blocked my way. I pushed mine off to the side, so as not to block anyone else, then wiggled my way to the apples. I carefully selected some lovely, crisp Pink Ladies, a few not-as firm Galas, and 1 very green, most-likely tart Granny Smith. I turned to place them in my cart. But it wasn't there. I turned 3 or 4 times. I knew I'd pushed it a bit to the side, but hadn't it been right here?

I heard familiar giggling as I was looking around but it took a minute to figure it out. There across a few rows was my cart. It had been kidnapped by Elisabeth, Sarabeth, and Hilary. They were no longer just giggling but laughing hysterically.

"You turned around 4 times looking for your cart, Mom! What did you think happened?"

Oh! My kids can be so funny. I didn't feel so guilty for not doing anything special with them. They seem to have managed to amuse themselves just fine without me. We finished shopping together and they loaded my groceries in the car for me. I can't imagine life with just 1 or 2 kids. Think of all the fun I'd miss out on. If anything, I should have had a half a dozen more.

Opening Night

The stage was set. The actors stood poised, ready to make their entrance. The curtain was about to be drawn for the High School Musical. Sarabeth could feel her heart beating and noticed she was breathing faster. "Take a deep breath and relax" she told herself. Afterall, it wasn't as if she was going to be seen, but still. She was responsible for left stage.

Back in November, Sarabeth tried out for the musical. It wasn't the first time she felt the sting of disappointment. When she didn't make it, she chose to become part of the stage crew. Before she had the courage to try out, she was part of the crew. She could do it again. I was reminded of Joseph, of the bible. He too was able to rise above rejection and disapointment and work hard at whatever task was at hand.

As practices began, the Director made an unprecedented move. For ten years he'd produced some of the finest high school musicals around. He is well respected in the community for running a quality show. His standards are high. He demands hard work and respect from his cast and crew, but he gives the same and more of himself. This year, he chose two Juniors as his Stage Managers. Formerly, these positions had only been held by Senior students, typically the most mature and responsible kids. Sarabeth was chosen as Left Stage Manager.

Once during rehearsal she missed giving the cue for closing the curtain. Apparently, she took to daydreaming. (She does sound a lot like Joseph. Didn't his brothers call him "The dreamer?") The director began yelling, "curtain, curtain, curtain..." expecting it to close instantly. Sarabeth froze. I have learned through the years, that she does not react well to shouts. I found out while teaching her to drive and she blew through a stop sign. Another car was coming. Yelling "stop, stop!" did not produce results. She froze, with her foot on the accelerator.

Afterwards, Sarabeth apologized to the Director for missing the cue. He wasn't angry, but replied, "just don't let it happen again." And it didn't.

I proudly sat in the audience opening night. I noticed when the lights went off and on, the entrances and exits of the actors. I listened in the dark to scene changes and paid attention to the orchestra. I'm sure most of these things went unnoticed by the others who've come to watch this performance. The audience was full of parents who came to see their sons and daughters on center stage in all their glory. But I knew it took the work of many unseen people to create this stunning production. I was proud of Sarabeth and her accomplishments.

I was reminded that in some ways, I also am a Left Stage Manager. I am responsible, as a wife, mother, friend, sister, daughter, to see that those around me achieve their full potential. God is the ultimate creator and director. I may not be chosen to be center stage, but by doing my part and giving direction in the lives of others, I can witness a glorious performance.

Love At First Sight

He smiles when I walk in the door. As we talk, I see a spark in his eyes. I know he loves me.

His embrace is warm and inviting. It's like hugging a big teddy bear.

His hands are soft and gentle. I know I can go to him for comfort and support.

There's a ruggedness about him. Strength and character abound. I can count on him for always doing the right thing, no matter what it will cost him.

Was it love at first sight? I think it was. Even though the first time he saw me, he thought I looked like a shriveled up monkey without a tail. My dad loves me.

Happy Birthday Dad! I love you!

(Dad with greatgrandson Ethan)

Buttons

What is the allure of a shiny round button that says "push?" Or the attraction of soft, plastic, arrows that light up when pressed, that have the power to bring an elevator up or down? Watch any child excitedly walking onto the elevator who has been given the privilege of seleting the floor. She will understand. Truth be told, if allowed, she'd press every single one of those buttons again and again. Watch two children race to the street corner to see who can reach the walk button first. It will not be good enough for the loser to press it after he's been beaten. Quite possibly, the mother will have to wait through an entire light cycle to calm the crying child who didn't get the privilege of pressing the button first.

Why do adults press the same button repeatedly? Intellectually they know that only one push is required to trigger a response. Push! Push! Push! In their rush, do they really believe the elevator will move faster if they push it 6 times? Possibly there is an elf inside, manning the pushes. Gosh, this man must be in a hurry. Four pushes, I'll speed the elevator up just for him. In all reality, the elf is probably saying, "Nope! Ten pushes is way too many. That woman needs to learn some patience. Hold the elevator on the 5th floor for at least another minute or so."

Okay, I admit it. Once or twice I've double-pushed, just in case it didn't register the first time. The other day I beat a kid to the elevator button. I deleriously watched the 3 light up. The kid went to push the button. "No honey, we are going to the 3rd floor too." His hand dropped. his face fell. He looked dejectedly at the floor. I felt a little guilty. I hadn't really meant to beat him. There's just something about pushing the button.

Can you believe it? I have this in my car:
A bright red button! Who could resist this beauty?

I guess it shouldn't surprise me, that my daughter, Elisabeth, cannot resist the secret beckoning of a button. I hung one of these in the shower: If you've never seen this product it is an automatic shower cleaner. How cool is that? Before exiting the shower, you press the button. It beeps 10 or so times to let you know it has been activated. It then sprays your entire shower with cleaner, to keep your shower sparkling clean. Now if you are Elisabeth, and see this blue button while you are showering, you will not be able to resist pushing it. Right there in the middle of your shower you will press it. Your music will be loudly playing and at first you won't hear the beep, beep. You will wonder why it didn't do anything and you will press it again. Then, without warning, apple-scented cleaner will squirt you in the eye. Around and around it will go, until it has sprayed your entire body. When you finally recover, and are out of the shower, you will inquire of your mother, "what-in-the-world is that spray-thingy in the shower and why didn't you warn me?"

Wordless Wednesday

Bronco Game


Hey, the Broncos are playing


Touchdown!


Interception!

Phone Calls You Don't Want To Get

This was one of those weeks that you don't even want to hear the phone ring. It started last Sunday night.

Michael received this one from Elisabeth (our 19 year old)

"Hello?"
"Dad, (pause, sniffle) Brian's dad just died."

Tuesday night another call came in. Michael answered it.

"Hello?"
"Mike, this is Jeri (his sister.) Dad just took mom to the hospital."

Wednesday Evening-another one Michael had the privilege of receiving

"Hello?"
"Dad, (long pause) Brian and I just slid into another car. I was on the way to the chiropractor because my back was hurting so bad. Brian was driving and the roads are real slick..."

Thursday Afternoon (I answered this one from my oldest, Christina)

"Hello?"
"Mom, my car just hit a concrete barrier in the middle of the highway."

Later that night Jeri phoned again.

"Mike, can you come down? We are worried about dad being alone while mom is still in the hospital."

It is Saturday morning. Michael is in Arizona with his parents and I'm on my way to a funeral. If the phone rings, I'm not answering.

Baby It's Cold Outside

Denver weather has made the news again. We hit an all time low last night, a chilly 18 degrees below 0. Yes, -18, not to mention the 7th straight week of snow. Baby, it IS cold outside.

On to other news, back in early December it was decided that my inlaws would move to Colorado. They currently live in sunny, brutally hot Arizona. Shortly after the decision was made, we've had this amazing weather. I wonder what they are thinking now. At ages 83 and 79, why would they want to leave the never-icy sidewalks of the desert to join the survivors of blizzards, cold, and snow? The answer is simply because Michael and I are at a point in life where we can provide the most help.

Life is about changes, growing and learning. It is a journey not intended for standing still. If we become too comfortable, thinking we can sit at leisure, something will come along to knock us out of that zone. If we resist transition, our personal transformation won't occur. We cease to live.

For Christmas, Ethan received a micro gameboy from his father. Because of Ethan's disabilities, he really doesn't understand playing video games. The miniature size of this one makes even pushing the buttons difficult. It is a mere 3 inches. I tried to take a picture of Ethan playing it, but only got a blur. Hilary was text messaging on her phone and this was Ethan standing next to her "playing" his game. After pushing the buttons, he put it up to his ear and started talking. We laughed and laughed. I guess it works as a cell phone too.

For a couple of weeks, I contemplated what I could do for my sister's birthday. If I lived in the same city it would be easy. We'd go to lunch, I'd bake her a German Chocolate Cake. Laurie loves to shop, so we'd no doubt visit the mall. It would be a grand time. Then I'd watch her boys so she and her hubby could have a night out. So how do I celebrate from another state?

By Monday, I decided I was sending a card. I couldn't actually send it on that day, as her birthday wasn't until Friday. I'd mail it Tuesday and hopefully it would arrive on the proper day and when the confetti fell out of the card it would feel just a tiny festive. (I'm not sure why I couldn't actually BUY the card before Tuesday. I really need to rethink my silliness.)

Sometime on Tuesday I realized I needed to get my act together, if I was going to celebrate in some fashion. That is, until it hit me that it was not Tuesday but Wednesday. Ugh! How did that happen? There was a slim-to-none chance that the card would actually arrive on Friday. I was going to have to order flowers or balloons. But Laurie is a flight attendant and works weekends. By the time she came home the flowers would be wilty and balloons deflated sadly on the ground. Sigh. I didn't do anything.

Friday morning I woke up early. Before I was even out of bed, I remembered it was my little sister's birthday. For just a second I thought about how fun it would have been to just hop on a plane and eat cake and laugh for hours on end. Around 10, I called to wish her a Happy Birthday. I told my sad tale of my pathetic attempts to celebrate and how I wished I could just be with her. I asked her how she planned to enjoy her day. She was having a party that night. Mom was making enchiladas. My other sister, my brother, nieces, nephews and such were coming over. "Why don't you just come down?"

Because she works for the airlines, she can share some of her flight benefits. That is the luxury of flying standby for a very cheap price. She had a pass. The new ones were electronic. The arrangements could be made online. Could I make the 2:57 p.m. flight? Oh my! Michael and I had an errand to run that would take an hour and a half. Yes, I could do it. (Okay, maybe it wasn't really that easy.) I could hear the exuberance in her voice. She began making plans out loud and telling of the fun we'd have. How exciting it would be to share our little secret with everyone when I walked in to the party. She was elated.

I amazed even myself when my bag was packed and we were walking out the door to the airport. I hadn't even told my kids. I text messaged each of them, then texted Christopher. I asked him how he'd like to go to a party with me that night. "What? Are you flying into town???" He was incredulous. I assured him I was and he made plans to meet me there. This birthday celebrations was going to be huge. My mom & dad would be so happy to see me. Could it get any better?

Michael reminded me that although I was looking forward to having a grand time, disguised in my sister's birthday, that it was at a cost. Others would have to sacrifice in order to make this work. He was right. I felt like I was abandoning my other children and him. I was shirking my responsibilities. This was very impractical. But at that moment I didn't want to be practical or responsible. I wanted to be spontaneous, to enjoy the thrill of jetting off to a party. The wind went out of my sails.

I said good-bye, as he got my suitcase out of the car. We embraced and off I went. The security line was long. I felt a bit tense. Maybe when I was on the plane I could feel the party mood again.

At the gate I phoned my sister to let her know I'd be there in just a couple of hours. She chattered enthusiastically. When they began boarding the plane, I told her I needed to hang up. I waited impatiently. I stood near the counter as they called each section to embark. What was taking so long? I didn't have a confirmed seat yet. The announcement came. The plane was full. No one else would be getting on the plane. An earlier flight had been canceled making the rest of the evening an impossibility. Sigh.

I phoned Michael, who was already at home. He drove the half hour back to get me, and it took us over an hour to get home. It wasn't meant to be. I guess it really was a unrealistic & impractical.

Wordless Wednesday

Snow Dog

Seasons Poll

I have a confession to make. In the midst of constant complaints about the non-stop snow, I am secretly loving it. I say secretly because I'm afraid that if towards the end of the season I begin to look forward to green grass, someone may not let me forget my secret love of the white stuff. I even read in the news today about "Tips on how beat the depression" brought on by this kind of "foul" weather.

Colorado is known for huge changes in weather at a moment's notice. I love variety, which is one of the reasons I fell in love here. (Did I mention one day 2 weeks ago, the temperature hit 64 degrees and I hand washed my car? Two days later the high was 6 degrees.) This has been a very unusual winter. The grass was still green in December when the first blizzard hit and I now have no idea what it looks like now. It's been buried beneath deep snow for over a month. Snow usually melts within a day or two at most. But it is beautiful, which is why Winter is my second favorite month of all.

So, all of this got me to thinking about seasons. What is your favorite season of the year? I'd love to hear from everyone about which is the best to worst season. (I missed "delurking week" so I'd love for lurkers to jump in and add their answers too. You are welcome to post annonymously.) Oh, and please include the month you were born. I'm wondering if some of us look forward to a season because of the anticipation of celebrating one's birth.

Here are my answers:

1. Summer-I love the hot, lazy days of summer.
2. Winter-I love layering clothes and the beauty of winter snow.
3. Spring-Because just about the time I'm getting tired of being cold, springs breaks out. (My birthday is in March 13, technically winter, but close to spring
4. Fall-I think I've always disliked fall. For the past 20 years or so, it means my kids would go off to school, spending more of their day with a teacher instead of me. I never liked the beginning of a school year. I miss my kids when they are gone!

So what about you?

Sights & Sounds Sunday

(I love mobile blogging!)

Tick...tick....tick...it wasn't audible, but I could hear the the minutes counting down. He knew that the tickets went on sale at exactly 10 a.m. Why wasn't he out of bed yet? Did he forget? No, he couldn't possibly forget, or could he? Sometimes when things weren't important to him, he became absentminded. But he knew how much this meant to me.

It was only 9:15, but he never sleeps past 8 a.m. Ninety percent of the time, he goes to bed before me, and 99% of the time that is before midnight. So what was he doing up until 2:30 a.m. the previous night? It would be understandable if he slept past 10 this particular morning. This whole situation could be resolved in 1 of 2 ways. I could go wake him up. But in my mind, if I wake him up, that would be saying, "I don't trust you to keep your word." I could awaken him just before 10 if it looked like he wasn't moving towards getting up, but that still seemed a bit pushy.

Or, if he wasn't out of bed by the time the tickets went on sale, I could actually make the purchase myself. But...but, that wouldn't be the same. The tickets were for my birthday. It just wouldn't feel like the special gift it was if I made the purchase myself.

At this point I am beginning to fret. I'm already wondering what my reaction is to be if I miss out on this concert. He and I have never been to a concert together. We've never spent so much on tickets strictly for entertainment purposes. Am I going to be angry, disappointed? Will I have a hard time not bringing this up again-failure to remember something that is important to me?

What? Do I hear the sound of water running? Yes! He's up in plenty of time. He only takes about a half hour to get dressed. At 9:45 a.m. he walks into the room. He poises himself at the computer, as if he is about to start a marathon. At exactly 10 a.m. he begins furiously typing the info onto his keyboard. By 10 minutes after the hour it is done. Michael and I are going to the George Strait concert on March 3rd! My birthday is the 13, but I don't mind celebrating 10 days earlier. Woohoo! My husband rocks!~

This is my first attempt at blogger mobile. Nice temperature. I didn't realize I could take pics with my phone and upload to my blog without being anywhere near the computer. How cool is that? I can blog via my phone! Gotta love technology.

This is my first attempt at blogger mobile. Nice temperature.

I Wish I'd Thought Of That

Somewhere the question was asked, "how can we get consumers to spend more money?" Clothing manufactures & laundry detergent makers got together to find an answer that would benefit both. They needed to come up with a plan for selling more clothes creating a need to wash more frequently, thus selling more detergent. But how could they do this?

"I propose that we convince the general public that layering clothes is a grand idea. What about jackets and vests?" Suggested one vendor. He figured that if women were told jackets were flattering and could hide their figure flaws, they'd definitely go for it.

That idea worked alright, but it was found that jackets and vest didn't require laundering every day. Some had to be dry cleaned, so the detergent makers weren't very happy. Back to the drawing board they went.

One young entrepreneur had a thought. "What if we made clothing for the female gender a little more revealing? The men would love it. Let's design every shirt, blouse, sweater, or dress to be low cut, made from sheer or flimsy fabric. We will also begin manufacturing these lovely little numbers, that were once considered underclothes, as Cami's. Every woman who tries on our shirts will realize that it is necessary to layer something underneath. From there we can branch out to fancier brassieres because even with a shirt and a Cami, out clothes will still be sheer enough to see the straps. Every lady you know will desire to have not only an undershirt for everything she wears, but matching brassieres also. Think of the possibilities! It won't be long before we can have them wearing 5, 6, 7 simple pieces of clothing each and every day. Just think about how much more laundry they will be doing. I can hear the kaching at the register as they are investing in more and more laundry detergent. And the best part of all, we won't even bother giving the ladies any other choices. If we all get together and do this women everywhere will HAVE to purchase and wear more clothes.

And so the foolishness began.

Laundry-Clean or Dirty

Sometime after having my 5th child, laundry became out-of-control. To keep it somewhat manageable, I wash 3 loads a day, 5 days a week. This led to the occasional game of "is this clean or is this dirty?"

When I find articles of clothing, still folded amidst the dirty laundry, I know these items are clean. Somehow they've found their way back into the hamper. That somehow is usually one of the kids in a hurry to clean their room. Or on a rare occasion he or she has decided to sort through clothes they no longer wear. Why they'd dump their castoffs into a basket of dirty clothes boggles my mind. If not found in time, it is necessary to wash them again.

The other puzzling "is this clean or is it dirty" happens when a stray sock or pair of underwear is found on the floor of the laundry room. How does this happen? 1. It falls out when putting clothes into the washer. 2. An offending child rummages through their clean clothes basket and something gets tossed out. (Why would they bother to pick it back up?) 3. It gets knocked off the neatly folded (or haphazurdly heaped) pile of freshly laundered clothes on the table. 4. It is dropped while removing laundry from the dryer. So there are 3 chances in 4, that sock is clean.

With some socks and some underwear it is easy to tell "is this clean or is it dirty." If the sock is stiff, crunchy feeling, or stretched out it is definately dirty. Thong panties have a certain look after being worn that shouts unclean. But on occasion I have come across a pair of whitey tidies, or a sock that looks fresh out of the dryer. "Is this clean or is it dirty?" You pick it up. It feels soft. So how do you know? The true test is the whiff test. It is the only way. Pick it up and hold it to your nostrils and inhale. Ah, the soft scent of your favorite dryer sheet or an offending odor that causes you to propel the item away as if it was a dirty diaper you'd just plunged upon your face.

I've decided to quit playing the "is it clean or is it dirty game." From now on, if an item is on the floor, no matter how soft or clean looking it appears, it goes in with the dirties. The whiff test is just too, um, repulsive.

It's time to talk about something other than the weather around here. Sheesh! Enough already! I became so excited that the temperature made it to 20 today, my daughter and I left the house without a coat. It was almost balmy.

While getting ready for church, Christina mentioned that she and Ethan would join me. I was surprised, as it had been awhile. It is not easy taking Ethan to church. We never know if he will be able to sit that long or how quiet he will be. The Sunday School class is not always prepared to have him. They like to have one person to devote just to him. As my thoughts pondered what the morning might bring a memory came in to focus.

Ethan is now 4 1/2. By next fall, he will be old enough for kindergarten. I remembered Christina's first day of school at age 5. Along with the usual worries of a first-time mom sending her first child off to school, I had an added concern. My daughter was going with her arm in a cast that went from her hand to just under her armpit.

We'd taken our vacation at the end of summer. Arizona, naturally, to visit grandparents and cousins. While the adults were enjoying some much needed conversation, the kids played happily in the bedroom. Thud! No screams or crying, so we figured everything must be ok. Out walked Christina. One arm was cradling the other. The injured arm was bent at a 90 degree angle right in the middle of her forearm-a place that doesn't normally move or bend. I don't think I've ever moved so fast in my life.

At the hospital, I found I could not look at her arm without feeling faint. I was sure the contents of my stomach would come spilling out at any moment. It didn't help that I was 10 weeks pregnant. Thankfully, she did not have to have surgery to put everything back in place. We returned to Colorado with a momento from Arizona-a plaster cast. It was heavy and quite a weight on her thin little arm.

The first day of school Christina sported her very decorated but bulky cast. I was delighted to see her smile at the end of her very long, 2 1/2 hour day. We chatted on the drive home as she told me about her new teacher, the activity centers and books they'd read.

At home I wondered about recess. I'd been concerned about the possibility of her getting hurt or falling and injuring her arm further. So I asked her.

Me: How did recess go? What did you do?

Christina: I sat on the sidewalk and watched the kids play.

My heart was saddened. Had I frightened her with my warnings to be careful? Was she afraid to play? Before I had a chance to ask, she began to explain.

Christina: You know what mom? I think I know what a kid in a wheelchair feels like.

Me: What?

Christina: When I was sitting on the sidewalk, I was watching the other kids play. They would run by, then go up the slide, slide down and then run by again. When they'd run by, they'd look at me. I think they didn't know if I could play or not. I think they saw my arm and were afraid to ask what was wrong, and so were afraid to play with me. So they just kept playing. I think that happens to people in wheelchairs. People are afraid to talk to them because they don't know what is wrong with them, so they just ignore them. I think that is what the other kids thought.

As I remembered my daughter as a 5 year old, my eyes blurred with tears. Here she was at almost 26, doing an amazing job caring for her disabled son, Ethan. Ethan who is nearly 5 himself. Was God preparing Christina at 5 for what was to come years later? I looked over at Ethan. He was laughing and playing with his puppy. What could God be preparing him for at this tender age?

Ah, the weather

First it was the blizzard-27 inches of snow. The following week, another blizzard & 18 inches of snow. The next week only 8 inches fell. A few days later winds were blasting up to 70 mph. It was blowing leftover snow making visibility 0 on some roads. Two days later it was gorgeous! Ok, there still ice and snow packed on the street and our yard is covered in snow, but I took my car out and drove with the top down. Afterall, it was 40 degrees. It was splashed with icy, dirty water, but I figured we'd survive. That was Tuesday. On Wednesday it was 65 degrees. I hand washed my car in the driveway. (Yes, the water ran until it met the icy snow mound at the end of the drive and formed a nice pool. But again, I didn't care. I was enjoying the sunshine.) Sadly, on Thursday the temperatures dropped. It was -1 degrees when the girls left for school on Friday. Things haven't changed much. I think the high was 4 degrees today. Tonight -8 and the interesting weather continues...but I still LOVE Colorado! (Variety-it's the spice of life.)

I have the best kids ever! As a Christmas gift, they splurged and booked an overnight package-just the two of us, at the Brown Palace on our anniversary. We had to reschedule, as our anniversary was December 29th. That date coincided with the second blizzard and record amounts of snowfall in 2 weeks. As the rescheduled date drew near, there was again talk of yet another big snowstorm.

Michael and I contemplated changing the date yet again, but decided to just go anyway. I grumbled that we'd yet to be able to mill around downtown, see the city lights, walk the 16th Street mall, or take a carriage ride during the Christmas Season. It always seemed to be very cold or snowy the day we chose. Okay, we're wimps when it comes to the cold.

One of the kids asked, "well, why did you get married in December?" Um...err...well, that is just when it was convenient. (They all know why.) Besides, we lived in Arizona. It doesn't snow in Phoenix.

Friday morning it was snowing. Michael had to go into the office for a meeting. I figured I'd shovel our enormous driveway so we could get away early. Eight inches of newly fallen snow. I could do it. What I'd forgotten were the huge piles of snow along the side of the driveway. It wasn't a matter of just tossing the shovel fulls to the side. They had to be hoisted up a good 3 feet or more. The neighbors were probably laughing as they watched me scoop and attempt to throw. In an almost mocking way, the snow would tumble down the hill and back onto the driveway. I fought with the heavy wet stuff for a couple of hours. I only fell once on some ice, but I won.

Michael and I made it to our romantic getaway. Free valet parking, Rose-petal turn down with delicious truffles, an equisite dessert, a bottle of wine, an amazing breakfast in the elegant Ellyington restaurant, and at the "Top of the Brown." We had a wonderful time. Thanks kids!
(Room Service)

The Real Puppy Story

I posted a picture of Ethan and some puppies last week. He was just visiting the mamma dog and her 10 pups. Ethan is now the proud owner of a Boxer puppy, as is his Uncle Christopher. Here are a few pictures:


Hilary with Dazee and Daphne


Sarabeth helping Ethan with Dazee


A Boy & His Dog

The New Puppy

If you happened to be at my house sometime in the past two days, per chance you noticed a new pet. The kitchen is blocked off, as it is the only flooring with no carpet-so the perfect place to house a not-housetrained critter. Now if you ventured downstairs, as you might, quite possibly you saw another pet. RoboDog. Walking past you'd see Robodog standing in the middle of the room. You would be amazed at the performances of this not-so-cuddly pup. You would marvel at the pile of poop, just beneath the backside of the metal and plastic. How real it looked. And that mound, you would find, is scented just as if it had been freshly laid by its live counterpart.

Wait a minute! The father of the house would happen by and report that not only is that brown goo the real stuff , but it was not manufactured by the robotic dog. Someone had actually found this pile of poop and strategically placed RoboDog in order to trick someone into believing he was the guilty party. As the father questioned those present in the house, you probably heard a few muffled snickers. But nobody would have an idea how RoboDog did it.

There were still 2 absent members of the household. One of them must be the guilty party. Shortly after arriving, the first one home was questioned. Gales of laughter were heard. "Come on Dad, you have to admit, didn't it make you laugh just a little?" I might have cracked a wee smile. This is the sense of humor of a 19 year old. Now aren't you glad you didn't visit my house recently?

Surprise of 2006

Have you ever waited expectantly for something to happen? Something big? Have you sat in anticipation for what yet, you didn't really know but you knew it had to be good?

This was my experience that began at the end of 2004. As Christmas approached I couldn't shake the excitement that churned inside of me. I did not know what it was and I had no idea what was to come, nor was I planning anything. It was one of those God things where you just have a sense that He is up to something-and He was.

I knew I was greatly blessed. I'd been given so much and I was spiritually rich beyond anything I'd ever imagined. What more could I want? But inside I had this sense that I was about to be blessed in a physical, tangible way. A blessing I could grab hold of, something I could see with my eyes and not just my heart.

I love the verse in Ephesians that begins: "Now to Him who is able to do exceedingly abundantly above all that we ask or think," (or can imagine...) I have a very creative, imaginative mind. I tried to envision a big gift for Christmas that would knock my socks off. I remembered a birthday when a friend unexpectedly dropped by with an equisite, bountiful plate of delicious 2 layer brownies. But I knew this would be a bigger surprise. But no matter how hard I tried, I felt I wasn't believing big enough. The only big object that I could come up with was a car. But who would give me a car? Besides, I already had a car-an 8 passenger Suburban. What could be bigger than that?

Christmas came. It was nice, but nothing big happened. The feeling of expectancy didn't leave. Another birthday passed and another Christmas approached. That Christmas/anniversary, Michael did surprise me with a new wedding ring. It was unlike anything I ever imagined I would own. It was big and beautiful, very different than the gold band placed on my finger when we exchanged vows.

The funny thing was, I felt like there was more. For those of you who dont' know me in real life, I have never been a material person. But I had this sense that the Lord was showing me His extravagance in a tangible way. I wasn't sure why, but who was I to question His goodness? As Valentine's Day approached I was sure that something incredible was about to happen. (Some of you may remember reading that it didn't.) But the big blessing didn't come until my birthday.

My socks were definately knocked off. Not only did I receive the gorgeous diamond and ruby earings I'd been admiring, but Michael bought me a brilliant Rio Yellow Convertible Sports Car. Now there are 2 reasons that this was so huge. The first was I do not ever remember owning a small car. I've driven the Suburban for 6 years, and the 12 years prior a full size Ford Van. Imagine a mother of 5 children driving a 2 passenger car with the top down, hair blowing without a care in the world.

The second reason is that my husband is very frugal with his money. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined him buying me such a fun and seemingly frivolous, yet expensive car-just for fun and enjoyment. Money is important to Michael, it means security. For him to be so lavish, so extravagant could only mean one thing. He values me. I am more important than his money, than anything his money can buy. It tells me I am worth it. He is willing to sacrifice in order to see the joy and delight it gives me.

Mary at Owlhaven asked, "what's the best thing that happened to you this year that you could not have predicted a year ago? In other words, what was your best surprise in 2006?" And this was it.

Note to self, must get rid of the Santa hat.

Wordless Wednesday



For more Wordless Wednesdays...

Happy 53rd Birthday Michael!

In honor of my dear husband's birthday, I am writing 53 things about Michael.

53. Michael is 30 years older than his son.
52. He is 30 years younger than his dad.
51. I find I am still learning things about him.
50. Michael likes dark chocolate, but not milk chocolate.
49. He is so very patient with me and my quirkiness.
48. He is a tease and we all laugh at his sarcasm.
47. Michael actually enjoyed shoveling our new huge driveway after the blizzard.
46. He plays Power Rangers with Ethan.

45. He likes curly hair.
44. (I'm glad I have curly hair.)
43. He loves red hair.
42. (Did you notice I'm a redhead now? LOL.)
41. Michael has a gorgeous smile.
40. He works from home, where we share an office.
39. He takes me out to lunch at least once a week (and lets me get Starbucks whenever I want.)
38. He doesn't drink coffee.
37. Michael is trustworthy.
36. He enjoys mowing the lawn and doing yard work.
35. He has a riding lawn mower.

34. Isn't romantic by nature, so instead works very hard at it for me.
33. He never complains about how long it takes me to get ready to go somewhere.
32. He is a genius.
31. Is a member of mensa.
30. He doesn't like computer or video games, but enjoys a good challenge.
29. He has been an incredible provider for me and our 5 kids.

28. Michael is a wonderful father and an even better grandpa.
27. Loves to fly sail planes.
26. He isn't particularly fond of pets.
25. He lets me think I am right.
24. He is honest.
23. He used to be a gymnast.
22. He still has hair.
21. Michael compliments me often.
20. He has his pilot's license.

19. Is amazing with finances and has a gift for earning and investing.
18. He has the greenest lawn on the block (okay, with 1 exception.)

17. Is witty and great with puns.
16. He keeps our cars in great running order (and most of you know about the little gem of a car he bought me.)

15. Michael has been on a 100 mile bike ride.
14. He is a man of character and a man of his word.
13. He is generous.
12. He used to be a flight instructor.
11. He keeps me laughing with his sense of humor.

10. He likes to make me happy, and I am happy most of the time.
9. Michael appreciates anything and everything I cook.
8. Diet Pepsi is his favorite drink.
7. He watches T.V. to relax.
6. He lets me pick out whatever music I want to listen to.
5. Michael is honest in everything he does.
4. He is creative.
3. He is my partner in having fun.

2. He tells me he loves me every day.
1. He just keeps getting better and better.


Happy Birthday Michael!!!

When I was 6, my family attended a small Baptist Church. My brother and I were in the same Sunday School class since so few children went. He is 13 months older than I.

The Sunday before Christmas, the teacher asked, "Whose birthday is next Wednesday?" My brother immediately spoke up, "It's mine!" Mrs. Noel, the teacher of the primary grades very gently told him, "no, it isn't your birthday. Does anyone know the answer?"

"It IS my birthday." My brother insisted. "I will be 8." The teacher turned and looked sternly at him. I wanted to say something, but being so shy, I instead began nodding my head in agreement. His birthday was indeed on Wednesday."

Relenting, Mrs. Noel replied, "okay, it is Greg's birthday, but who else celebrates their birthday on Wednesday?" Without waiting for a response she answered her own question. "Class, next Wednesday is Jesus' birthday." As she continued to share the wonderment over this most magnificent event, my brother just looked sad.

As a child, how do you measure up to sharing a birthday with Jesus? Not only does Jesus' birth outshine yours, but then this Santa character comes in and presents gifts to everyone else on your birthday. Nobody wishes you a Happy Birthday. It is "Merry Christmas, oh, and Happy Birthday too."

My mom tried to be creative in celebrating Greg's birthday. I remember the time he had his birthday party in September. It was the beginning of the school year and he had friends over, birthday hats and birthday wrapping paper. I think he had fun, but I don't think he felt like it was "really" his birthday. My guess is that he felt slighted on his birthday. Too often he was handed a brightly wrapped Christmas gift from unsuspecting friends/relatives with the greeting, "Merry Christmas, Happy Birthday."

With the exception of that Christmas when I was 6, I didn't think much about his birthday being on Christmas. I don't recall ever celebrating it on Christmas.

Do you remember the November I met Michael?(Part One & Part 2) A few short weeks later, I was at his parents' home to celebrate his birthday. His mother always made a big deal out of his birthday. His falls on December 24th. His sister's is the 26th. Three days of birthday celebration.

As I'd grown accustomed to, I presented my gift to Michael. It was wrapped in beautiful Christmas paper. "Merry Christmas and Happy Birthday." I watched the look of shock and horror from the faces of his sisters. One of them spoke up. "It is Michael's birthday, not Christmas. You never wrap someone's birthday gift in Christmas paper." I was embarrassed, humiliated. I'd never given it much thought.

Talking with Michael, he said he'd never felt slighted in regards to his birthday being on Christmas Eve. Now I understood why. I never made the mistake of wrapping a December birthday gift in Christmas paper, nor did I hand a single gift with birthday and Christmas greetings together. I wonder how Jesus feels as we go about our celebrations, anticipation of Santa's arrival and all, and then throw in the token Christmas Eve attendance at church.