Letters from Odd

Parenting 101

2011-11-29T07:30:00.000-08:00

Apparently there are certain rules you are supposed to follow in order to be a fairly successful parent. For instance, did you know that children get hungry approximately 1.7 hours after finishing a perfectly extraordinary feast? You have to feed them again if you want to keep them alive. Smallish children require all manner of intervention in grooming matters. And, as I learned in one of the scariest lessons of my life, some slightly older children do not understand the use of sarcasm. They take what you say literally, regardless of the preposterous situation it might put them in.

My oldest son, Caleb, is a bit of an adventurer. Well, that's an understatement. He must have overdosed on adrenaline when he was still a baby, because his willingness to try the new and see the different knows no bounds. Jumping on the trampoline is fun, but jumping off the roof onto the trampoline looks better. Check. Swinging on the swing set is fun, but swinging off the set using a rope you hold between your teeth looks better. Check. Riding a bike is fun, but riding a bike up a ramp and over a sawhorse looks better. Yep, check that one, too.

Of course hindsight is always 20/20, but another of those Parenting 101 lessons is that I should have taken better note of Caleb's overall penchant for fearlessness before exercising that age-old, fool proof method of creating perspective through the invitation to participate in the scary. Especially when the invitation is issued using sarcasm.

So, let me be clear before I actually share my story: Do not try this at home.

Through '09 and '10 Christopher travelled a great deal to and from the East Coast. I know that for many families traveling is a normal part of life. But those families are not mine. We struggled with the absences, and stress that accumulated as a result of daddy's work. I was tired, frazzled and not doing a very good job of learning to balance all the hats I had to wear. During the middle of a typical 2-week trip to Crystal City I "had just about had enough." It was 9 o'clock at night and everyone was still wide awake, acting as though I had just given them giant bowls of Sweet Simple Carbohydrate and Honey Flakes with a dusting of sugar for good measure. To say they were bouncing off the walls would be an understatement. I issued the command for everyone to clean up and get to bed! I was frantically running a load of laundry, finishing the dishes and feeling grit under my feet with every step I took. I hate a dirty floor.

Bah! I dried the last pot, hung up the towel and grabbed for the vacuum. As I ran it through the kitchen I noticed the debris stretching into the schoolroom... the living room... down the hall... and soon I found myself terrorizing the floor in the back bedrooms sucking up anything that got in my way. This also afforded me the wonderful opportunity to notice that my definition of "clean up" and my children's definition of the same phrase were not entirely equal. Leaving the vacuum cleaner running (because my on/off switch only works when you say the magic phrase but I have yet to discover that phrase) I began pulling toys, wadded up clothes and last week's "art" projects from under dressers and out of the closet.

Vacuum. Vacuum.

"Clean. This. Up!"

Vacuum. Vacuum.

I made my way from the girls' room into the boys' room. Caleb was already perched on his top bunk, staring down at me. I could hear the sand and grit from a thousand pockets filled from treasure hunting rattle its way up the vacuum hose. As the nozzle continued to eat its way through the filth under his bed I heard a strange crumpling sound, like paper being wadded into a ball. I lifted the comforter and ducked my head under the bed. My cool left me entirely as I discovered the remains of one of our family's favorite books torn to pieces by Josiah and a large backpack stuffed with all of Caleb's missing clean clothes.

"Caleb, what is this?" I demanded as I held up the backpack, staring in disbelief at the clothes I had only that afternoon been searching for in vain.

"Oh, that's the backpack I made to run away with." His answer was nonchalant and even. He wasn't upset that I happened upon his scheme. He didn't show any remorse over his desire to leave our home. He remained in his bed, smiling down upon me.

"You were going to run away? Why?!" My voice squeaked over the vacuum that continued to roar.

"Oh, I watched a movie where they ran away and I thought it'd be fun."

Here was another Parenting 101 lesson that should have triggered my brain. He wanted to run away because of a movie he watched. Not because I was a horrible mother. Not because I was failing at my job of caring for his needs. Nope. None of those reasons stood out in his mind. The movie (Ramona and Beezus) is a cute adaptation of Beverly Cleary's series on the pesky Ramona. At one point she runs away. The movie uses clever cinematography to picture Ramona's imagination of all the places she will visit during her flight from home. Adventure. It called to my son. At this point I should have calmly asked him to get down, put the clothes in their rightful homes, and gone back to my vacuum vendetta.

That's what I should have done.

"Caleb, if you want to run away then go!"

Vacuum. Vacuum.

"Now?" Caleb's voice changed ever-so-slightly to the incredulous.

"Sure. Why not?"

Vacuum. Vacuum.

Caleb fumbled out of bed, unclear on what exactly to do. He heard me tell him to run away from home. I took his movement as the ultimate insult, seeing it as proof that he really did want to leave. He grabbed the backpack from the floor and headed out the door. I continued vacuuming, working to get every last speck of dirt, when I suddenly stopped in a panic. Something was wrong.

Hannah and Bethany glared at me as I walked into the living room. I expected to see a chastised son sitting on the couch fully aware that running away at nearly 10 o'clock at night was nowhere near the realm of possible. He was supposed to be realizing the error of his ways for even wanting to leave. He was supposed to be recognizing how I was emotionally fragile, and that his altogether innocent attempt at adventure could be interpreted as rejection in my altered state. Obviously I had not reached the point of Parenting 101 where realistic emotional expectations from 7-year old sons was discussed.

"Where's Caleb?"

"You told him to leave!" Bethany blurted at me.

You know those camera shots in movies where the character stays fixed but the background suddenly zooms in, giving you the eerie feeling of extreme focus? It happens in real life, too.

I ran out the door, yelling Caleb's name. My heart pounded in my chest as each passing moment failed to bring an answer from my son. I was afraid that he could hear me but simply wasn't responding. And in the back corner of my mind I was sick at the possibility that something much worse was happening. I ran back into the house to grab the car keys.

"Bethany, did he do anything before he left?"

"No, he was just holding the backpack and said you told him to leave. He ran out the door in his pajamas. Mama, I'm scared!"

"I know, sweetie. I am, too." I grabbed both the older girls and gave them a hug. I quickly explained that I had not specifically ordered him to go. I didn't want him to leave, and I was going to do whatever it took to make sure we got him back home. Then I desperately started praying, repeating over and over my pleas for help.

Please God, keep him safe. Please God, bring him home. Please God, let me find him. Please God, protect him. Please God, let him be okay. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. I'm so scared.

I saw Hannah run out of the house calling for her brother as I pulled out of the driveway in our car. I drove out of our cul-de-sac division while she began searching up and down the few short streets in our small neighborhood. My mind tried to calculate the number of possible variables placed before Caleb's decision making process. Would he seek shelter? Our home is very close to an elementary school but he was nowhere amidst its covered halls. Would he run for help? I drove down to Wal-Mart but didn't see him anywhere in the parking lot or along the streets. It seemed like he had simply vanished. I couldn't imagine how much further one 7-year old boy traveling on foot could get in such a short amount of time. I raced home.

The weather was unseasonably warm for a mid-October night. It had been sunny during the day but we were expecting rain, and the cloud cover was keeping the day's heat trapped. I was grateful for this small piece of grace knowing that Caleb was running around in a thin set of pajama shorts and t-shirt. However, as I drove into my driveway at 10:15pm the skies opened, and rain began splattering against my windshield.

"Did you find him?" Bethany was beside herself, crying with worry and fright. Hannah slumped next to her, dejected from the failure to find him. They were both aware of the obvious answer as I shut the door behind me.

Simultaneous to my Parenting 101 lessons, Christopher was learning a few of his own. We had grown so accustomed to using his cell phone for easy, reliable and direct contact that he had failed to give me any information on the exact hotel where he was staying. This didn't seem like such a big deal until he muted his phone during the night so he wouldn't have his sleep disturbed by any inadvertent Pacific Standard Time calls... including my call to tell him he needed to pray for his lost son. Not able to get a hold of my husband for moral support, and trying to stay calm for my children's sake, I knew the next step was to call the police.

The phone conversation that ensued was one of the strangest experiences of my life. Beyond the normal description and location of my son there were several questions which sought to understand the motivating factors in my 7-year old's decision to leave his home at such a late hour. Trying to effectively remain truthful without implicating myself in a CPA investigation (Why, yes officer, I did tell my son to leave in his pajamas) was beyond nerve racking. The dispatcher, after taking all my information, placed me on hold to transfer me to my local police station. I was on hold for an eternity. When I was finally patched through these were the first words I heard:

"Ma'am, we have your son."

Incredulously, and with tears running down my face, I listened as the operator explained that my son was found outside a local fast food restaurant trying to stay out of the rain. Police were already in the area due to another call, and immediately noticed his age, clothing and... get this... lack of shoes. He hadn't even stopped to put on any shoes! We ended our conversation with me asking where I could go to pick up my son. I just wanted him in my arms.

I quickly drove to the restaurant, dumbfounded by the nearly mile long trek it took him to arrive at the same destination. He was sitting at a table by himself, wrapped in a police jacket and slightly dazed. He had a nearly untouched pouch of french fries sitting on a tray in front of him. He's allergic to potatoes. I ran up to him and threw my arms around his small little body, telling him over and over how sorry I was and how much I loved him. I had to answer a few more questions from the police, and verify that I was not, in fact, trying to throw my son out of our home. Apparently upon their initial questioning of Caleb he explained that he ran away because his mother told him to. Nice. The police were extremely gracious and recognized my lack of Parenting 101 credentials. They allowed us to go home without further ado.

As we quietly drove home I asked Caleb how on earth he had reached the restaurant.

"You told me to run away. So I ran. The whole way."

We didn't speak any more about the episode that night. But the next day I asked him to trace his exact path for me. We drove a rather circuitous route around parking lots and even along a dirt footpath beside a pond before he finally came to the rather major intersection of our town and the fast food restaurant. He admitted to being scared as he ran through tall sea grasses by the pond's edge. At one point a car passed him and yelled out the window for him to go home. I asked him what he thought he would do once he reached the restaurant, realizing by then that it must have started raining on him. He shrugged his shoulders and said:

"I was going to ask them if I could just sleep inside while it rained."

I again told him how sorry I was for the inappropriate use of sarcasm. I reiterated how I did not want him to leave, and did not ever want him to leave. He smiled at me and gave me a hug.

By the following week Caleb's newfound adventure was already reaching Tom Sawyer proportions.

I am still awaiting my certificate of completion for Parenting 101.

Protector

2011-11-20T16:15:00.000-08:00

Mary announced her intention to run away one morning last week.

Really?

Yes, Mama. I'm going to run away. (long pause) Can I leave after breakfast?

Hmm, probably.

I won't be gone for very long. Only, maybe, 4 hours or so.

Oh, I see.

And I'm not going to leave Marina or anything. Just, you know, maybe go down to the library.

At this point Leah chimes in to ease me over the pain of letting my little girl leave home for the first time.

Mama, it's okay. I'll go with her. That way I can protect her.

You're going to go with Mary to protect her?

Yep. I can save her from wild animals. That way you won't need to worry about things like mosquitos.

Phew! I was worried.

PS - They decided staying on our street (thus ensuring their slice of homemade bread for lunch) was preferable to the adventures available in the greater Marina area.

Quandary

2011-11-20T16:03:00.000-08:00

I have a quandary on my hands. Believe it or not, I love to write. In fact, I often watch the events of my life unfold with blogger titles and descriptive sentences bubbling out of my head. So what's the quandary? I'm sure you can figure it out...

When do I take the time to actually write?

I have no idea!

Jesus and Gum

2011-08-05T23:26:00.000-07:00

We pray with our children each night before they go to bed. Besides free-form prayer we believe it is important that they learn scripture. To that end we usually recite either the Lord's Prayer or Psalm 23. Tonight, right as we finished the Lord's Prayer Josiah suddenly becomes very serious and says, "I wanted to do Shepherd." (this is the nickname in our house for the 23rd Psalm) "Oh, alright. Well, we can do that one, too." He then proceeds to recite the entire thing by himself which, if you're wondering, is the cutest thing you've ever heard. I then decide to take the opportunity to probe him with slightly weightier questions about his relationship to Jesus.

Josiah, what is the most important thing you will ever need to know?

He is lying in his bed watching me very solemnly. He furrows his brow slightly, thinking and pondering this most difficult question. Finally he breathes a sigh of relief as he formulates the obvious answer.

To know how to ask you for gum and candy in the morning.

Umm... well, he got the, "know how to ask" part down right. Now we just need to replace Jesus with the gum and candy. Come on, God!

Loss

2011-05-26T16:50:00.000-07:00

The irony of writing this post immediately after my previous one is not lost on me. It feels a little weird, like when you accidentally tell the birthday boy about his surprise party an hour before the party.

A little foolish.

A little embarrassing.

A little awkward.

The truth is that I did struggle through the several weeks of this most recent pregnancy for reasons that don't really make sense, but were there nonetheless. I believe it might have been God preparing my heart to more readily accept His plan in taking this baby home much earlier than any of us could have anticipated. Whatever the reasons, my fears of losing the pregnancy were confirmed on Monday when an ultrasound showed that my pregnancy was no longer viable. Ironically, gestation ceased at around the same time I was taking my first pregnancy test.

There are a million and one things that can go through your mind when you are faced with loss. Questions, doubts, peace and pure logistics all crowded into my own brain when we left my doctor's office Monday. I was sad. But I had such an amazing presence of peace surrounding me. I didn't fall prey to blaming myself, or asking questions to which I'll never know the answers. God softly spoke to my heart, reassuring me that the mess I saw surrounding me was in fact part of a design that would someday be made known to me.

And this time that was enough for me.

It hasn't always been enough. Facing the exact same situation in the past left me hurting for weeks, crippled with fears and doubts. I don't think I have hit on some magic solution that saved me from that fate over the past few days. And I am not prideful enough to believe that I have weathered all possible difficulties with only blue skies on the horizon. However, I do believe that a greater appreciation for the grace of a sovereign Lord has ministered to me in ways I could not fully grasp in younger years. A deeper sense of joy in my healthy, living children keeps me rooted in the here and now. I am thankful for those things.

I am sad that I will not be meeting a new little person in December. This Christmas will be tinged with some melancholy thoughts, I'm sure. I am confident that it will also be filled with joy, a brightness for the things worth celebrating during the yuletide. As for now, I am thankful for my incredible husband who walked every step of this journey with me. I am grateful for lovely children who care for me. I am indebted to friends who stepped in when I needed help.

I am in love with my Savior who is tenderly caring for a child I have never met, but completely adore.

~Dear Mama, I'm really, really sorry about the miscarriage. Here are some Orange Stars to try to cheer you up. (don't worry, the flowers fell off). I love you very, very, very, very mush (much).

Your daughter, Hannah ~

You Might Be Pregnant If...

2011-05-21T00:08:00.000-07:00

I have experienced a phenomenally easy first trimester this pregnancy. In fact, being so asymptomatic caused me some nervousness, and I took another pregnancy test a couple of weeks ago just to be sure. I don't know exactly what I expected it to read.

It was still positive.

So, I decided to accept the blessing and move on with my life. Until today. I am no longer asymptomatic.

The children and I had a park day for our homeschooling group in Monterey. Trying to save a buck on gas I decided to stop at the grocery store next to the park on my way home. Besides carrying the brand of seltzer water I like best it would save me the hassle of fishing dinner out of my freezer. Chicken fajitas were sounding delish. I pulled into the parking lot of the largest Safeway on the peninsula confident that I could be in and out within 5 minutes. There were 4 items on my mental list:

- fizzy (seltzer water)

- peppers (2 sweet, 4 hot)

- chicken breast

- chicken taco seasoning

I headed straight for the produce section upon entering the store. I don't know what the reasoning is behind all the "floating" displays, but trying to find peppers in a fresh produce area larger than my entire house is no small task. And don't even think about something logical like alphabetizing the veggies. Why can't peppers simply rest between onions and quince? I was pretty near ready to have a chat with the head of the department over the total lack of systematic organization when I finally spied my veggies hidden amongst the fresh cut herbs. That makes sense.

After rounding up my peppers I raced to the soda aisle. "Why soda," you ask? Because seltzer WATER is not kept on the water aisle. No, no. You can purchase it in either the soda aisle, bordered by its high fructose corn syrup counterparts like Sugared Fizz and Cola Candy, or it is tucked next to the mixers in the "over 21" corner. And when I say "tucked" and "corner" I mean them literally. It would take Ethan Hunt a solid hour to discover there whereabouts. However on this lovely day seltzer water was not to be found in either location. Once again, Safeway was sold out. Apparently the new idea in inventory marketing is to discover those items that are sold regularly and they wait until they are entirely gone before ordering more. Let's make sure we have pig's feet in the butcher's case always, but seltzer water is only on a semi-monthly restocking shipment. That makes sense.

Frustrated but not giving up my dream of saving myself the hassle of freezer fishing I proceeded to poultry for my chicken. The one item I had no difficulty finding but had a seizure when I drew close enough to grab a package. FIVE DOLLARS & EIGHTY SEVEN CENTS A POUND. For crying out loud, I'm not serving top sirloin. For roughly twelve dollars I could have walked away with enough chicken to feed 4 members of my family.

Already irritated that I only had two of the four items on my list I finally swung around to grab some chicken taco seasoning. I walked up the "ethnic foods" aisle where the sign marked Hispanic Foods rested over refried beans, corn husks and salsa. No taco seasoning. Huh, silly me. Why would taco seasoning be in the aisle where all the other taco products are kept? I wandered down the spices aisles, the packaged food aisle, the canned meat aisle all to no avail. I finally stopped a worker who told me the taco seasonings are kept on Aisles 16. Perfect. Aisle 16 is the prepared dairy aisle with cheeses, yogurts, butter and such. Sure enough, right across from the Greek yogurt sat a whole wall of packets containing every given type of taco seasoning you could imagine. Low sodium, original, hot, mild, brand or generic were all on full display. Everything except any chicken taco seasoning. I easily shrugged it off and looked for chicken fajita seasoning. Nope. Nada. There wasn't even an empty space for it. Apparently no one in the greater Del Rey Oaks area makes tacos or fajitas with anything other than beef.

I left the store (after a typical line story I won't even go into) holding my small bag of peppers and brimming with angst. I would have to stop at another store in order to finish my shopping. I headed home, calculating the location of the store with the best chances of having both chicken and seasoning within a reasonable distance to my home, and without requiring a small loan to make the purchase. I decided on Walmart.

Again, I pulled into the parking lot and rushed inside to get my two items. The chicken was easy, and at $1.88 a pound for boneless skinless chicken breast you can save your breath on why I should boycott Wally World. I trudged over to the dried goods aisles hoping my sense of organizational genius would prove correct in ferreting out the seasonings. No such luck, but after a much shorter hunt I found the seasoning packets (remember, my Walmart has decided to make its grocery section 85% processed frozen meals leaving the bulk of real food to fit into a rather tiny space consisting of 3 "half" aisles). Perfect! But not really. Once again, there was every known seasoning available in 3 different variations but nothing for chicken. Seriously? Please tell me SOMEONE else fixes chicken tacos and fajitas occasionally?

At this point I was nearing tears. I stumbled out to my van, slammed the door behind me and just about lost it! I kept trying to figure out what was wrong with me, and why I was so upset about the seasoning. The entire time I drove to the 3rd store, saving not an ounce of gas, I continued mulling over in my head what was going on in my life that made me feel so crazy at that moment. By the time I got to SaveMart I realized:

I'm pregnant!

Because the SaveMart I was driving to was our regular grocery store before we outgrew it and moved to Costco, I knew where everything was located. I quickly ran inside, located the seasoning, found both chicken taco and chicken fajita packets, grabbed six and made a bee-line for the register. The ease of the entire transaction made my heart swell with appreciation, and as I walked back to my van my eyes misted over. What a beautiful thing to be able to buy chicken taco seasoning.

Josiah

2011-05-17T20:50:00.000-07:00

jaunty. Josiah has a natural charisma that exudes from every pore. He faces the world with a trademark glimmer to his eye and ease in his person.

obstinate. I don't think any of my children require discipline like my Josiah-Boy. It doesn't seem to matter what threat we make, he is sure to trespass within 10 minutes. We are only sure of his obedience when he sleeps.

smirk. It's a classic look. He lowers his chin ever so slightly, gives just a hint of a raised eyebrow, twinkles his eyes mischievously, and grins. He is utterly disarming when he lays it on this thick.

impatient. Even before Josiah was verbal he had this incredible way of letting everyone know that he was frustrated - usually because he wasn't getting a toy fast enough. Screaming quickly became his favorite sound to inform all in the house that he wasn't getting what he wanted NOW! As he has grown, and his vocabulary with him, he now resorts to asking... a million times.

affectionate. Josiah loves to snuggle. He is a mama's boy! One of his favorite activities is to tenderly brush my hair. He cuddles up next to me on the couch, or embraces his sisters for a good movie.

hilarious. All of our children make us laugh. Some of them by their jokes, some by their faces and idiosyncrasies. But Josiah beats them with his sheer personae. He struts around the house like a peacock, showing off his tail feathers. He unabashedly proclaims that he wears panties, and gleefully wears his sisters' frilly dress-up clothes. He revels in his own little personality, and we LOVE it!

Proof Of The Fall

2011-05-15T16:45:00.001-07:00

There are many things broken in our world that show us how far from perfection we live. Mosquitos, hanging chads and freezer burn come immediately to mind. But I think, without argument, the proof most clearly visible of creation turned horribly perverse is: Poison Oak.

It is not a stretch to say that poison oak is the manifestation of all plantly evil ever made possible by Adam's sin. I am particularly susceptible to this great tragedy of flora. It hunts me down like a heat seeking missile, and targets me with its maniacal schemes.

You may think I exaggerate. I assure you, I do not.

Growing up I was bound to get the dreaded itchy rash every spring when the bloom burst forth in the forest surrounding my home. I would swell up to roughly the size of a blue whale, eyes closed to slits and skin covered in scabbing pustules while my mom diligently used a cotton ball to dab pink calamine lotion all over me. Cotton ball dabbed pink calamine lotion on poison oak is akin to 7 water droplets used to extinguish a grease fire - highly ineffective and strangely comical. We would also employ ice packs to help numb the painful sores but the condensation from the packs just served to moisten the rash and keep it from drying out as quickly as possible. To say I hate it is a gross understatement.

As I grew I learned to avoid the deadly plant like the plague. I memorized the cute rhymes meant to teach children what to look for, like: leaves of three, let it be; and berries white, poisonous sight. This knowledge, along with a godly sense of fear for any contact with the detestable shrub kept me from my nemesis for years.

Then I had children.

To be fair, they are not trying to be tools of the enemy. But any one trained in tactical arts will tell you that getting the target's loved ones to do the dirty work is worth bonus point. Poison oak is a powerful tactician. Most recently my beautiful 2nd born daughter Bethany was beguiled by the insidious weed while spending the night at a friend's house. However, not satisfied with one victim it also left its toxic oil all over her clothes for me to "find" while doing laundry. Within 24 hours the tell-tale rash with its itchy burn erupted on my left shoulder. A few days later we were both covered from head to toe.

Thankfully today there are a great deal more robust and proactive measures to use in the fight for justice. Topical steroids, oral steroids and even injectables all give much greater relief in a much shorter time...

except me.

Apparently I am one of the few random people who continues to erupt in the hateful breakout for weeks after the contaminate should have washed clear of my system. Why do I know this? Because 5 weeks after my initial contact (and with no possible options for fresh exposure) I am breaking out in a new wave of pustules in the EXACT same location as the initial scourge. Nice.

I'm telling you, there is no greater proof needed that we have fallen woefully short of the Garden of Eden. In fact, I think maybe the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil was a pre-cursed poison oak plant.

And baby makes... 10!

2011-05-12T15:00:00.000-07:00

To be honest, I was quite surprised. It's not that a positive pregnancy test is such an unheard of occurrence in our home. However, Phoebe weaned over a year ago and my modus operandi up to this point had been a mere one or two months from weaning to new pregnancy. So when months one and two passed without any significant happenings I shrugged it off as odd, but nothing extraordinary. But when months 9, 10, and 11 also passed without anything extraordinary I began to wonder...

Could we be done?

I had prayed for the Lord to allow us a little more time between babies after Phoebe was born. I was extremely convicted over my poor stewardship of health, and I felt strongly God's conviction that I needed to address those concerns. Not becoming pregnant right away would make some of my necessary changes in eating and exercise significantly easier to employ. But while I prayed that God would give us a bit more space I certainly was not ready to throw in the towel.

God is so gracious, and knows us better than we know ourselves. He heard my cries for time, and honored my desires to regain lost health and vitality before going through a pregnancy. He also heard my cries for his hand to once again choose a broken, sinful human to help bring the next generation into this world. I am forever humbled when I see those two pink lines show up on the pregnancy test.

Why me?

I make so many mistakes in my parenting. I don't deserve the responsibility He already placed on me with the gifts of my first seven children. I hardly deserve more! Yet He loves to lavish blessing on those who love Him. I am awed that once again He chose to lavish His blessing on me.

We are thrilled to announce the newest Randall, joining our family sometime towards the end of December, 2011.

Patience

2011-05-09T21:00:00.000-07:00

Merriam-Webster defines patience as: the ability to wait for a long time without becoming annoyed or upset; the ability to remain calm and not become annoyed when dealing with problems or with difficult people; the ability to give attention to something for a long time without becoming bored or losing interest. Essentially the gist is that you don't let things get under your skin. It is probably the virtue I am most commonly anointed with by strangers, and the trait I feel most lacking in my own possession. However, I have happened upon a few things that I believe are essential in understanding what patience is, and what it is not.

First, what it is not. Patience is not the ability of a person to spend 1 hour with your small children, never minding the insatiable curiosity or arbitrary repetition that plagues youth. By its very definition it must be exhibited over a LONG TIME. I no longer feel any guilt when friends or loved ones tell me that they have more patience for a certain situation because they aren't around it all the time. That makes them untried, not patient. Patience is also not the misapplication of authority creating an environment devoid of spontaneity or childishness. If I think myself patient while my children are simply squashed cabbage leaves for fear of inciting my anger I am missing the mark.

So, what is it?

Well, we already saw what the literal definition says. It is the uncanny knack or ability to keep the same reaction to your child's 85th question about why blood comes out of their skin when it is cut as their first - especially when the questions are posed during a highly necessarily but poorly timed trip to Costco. It is gently reading the same book, watching the same program, saying the same thing over, and over, and over again.

The assumption that because I have so many children I must be simply oozing patience never fails to amuse me. I believe, actually, quite the opposite is true. You see, your patience isn't tested until you have been at something for a LONG TIME. Remember, that is what patience requires... length in the trial. So, for instance, where other moms might have worked through two, four or maybe six years worth of toddlerhood I have no less than fourteen. Fourteen. To say I am over my fascination with the endless need for crying before peeing in the toilet would be a significant understatement. In fact, I could probably survive without ever hearing another whine, ever again. But that's not my life, so I digress.

Because my home harbors so many opportunities to express patience I began wondering how I could get more of the stuff. I can tell you straight away, willpower won't do it for ya. Trust me. If anyone could white-knuckle their way through parenthood it was me. I tried for years. Tried is the operative word in that sentence since I also failed. And, also contrary to popular opinion, patience doesn't come simply by merit of difficult circumstances. Being in the middle of a snowstorm doesn't necessarily mean you are prepared to effectively handle it; it just means you are surrounded by snow.

Then I stumbled upon a wonderful bible study by Beth Moore called Living Beyond Yourself. It covers the 9 attributes of the fruit of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. I was eager, above all, to read the chapter on patience. As a Christian I already knew that these were not optional, or even occasional characteristics required by Christ. If I truly have the Spirit of God living in me than His qualities must pervade me. It is a necessity. So, I snuck a peak at the patience chapter and read this perplexing phrase:

Patience through mercy

Huh. That didn't seem nearly spiritual enough for my way of thinking. Where was all the "just pray for patience" stuff? And I had no idea how Beth Moore was going to connect patience with mercy. The two appeared entirely incongruous in my mind. I somewhat disappointedly went back to the current week, and settled in to wait for the patience lesson to arrive. In hindsight I should have been ecstatic that I didn't peek at that chapter and read the dreaded "just pray for patience" mantra I had so often heard from both inside and outside of my head. I am happy to say that I am quite elated at this point in my journey, and regularly remind myself of the joy that comes from understanding that enigmatic phrase: patience through mercy.

The bottom line is that since I can't make myself feel patient my patience has to come from somewhere other than my feelings. And that it now does. Mercy is defined by Merriam-Webster as, "a blessing that is an act of divine favor or compassion." It essentially means sympathy towards another person's distress with a view to help alleviate it. Sometimes that distress is a consequence of their own foolishness. Sometimes it is not. Come to find out, it apparently doesn't matter whether the person is responsible since we are to act towards others with Christ-like love; and he certainly bears with us through all manner of distress brought about as a direct result of ongoing (often belligerent) actions of great foolishness and disobedience. He sees us for what we are: broken, afraid, and hurting. He responds to us through that truth. He doesn't try to candy-coat our weakness or hide our imperfections. He is never patient with us by burying his head in the sand and pretending we are not, once again, rebelling against his righteousness. He doesn't ignore anything. And neither can I. That was my big hang-up. You see, I thought that in order to have patience, to feel patient, I must simply ignore the things that really drove me nuts. The faults of myself and my loved ones couldn't be genuinely acknowledged, because somehow recognizing their rub was itself an act of impatience. But the bible tells us that the truth will set us free, and that's exactly what patience through mercy sets up for us - a freedom through truth.

When I acknowledge that my child's behavior is taxing, frustrating, juvenile and even perhaps ludicrous I am freed to choose, of my own volition, to bear with that child in mercy. I can bless that child through compassion even though their actions are foolhardy. I am free to recognize my feelings of exasperation even while simultaneously choosing not to allow them to control my choices. Patience is suddenly nothing whatsoever about how I feel in a given moment, but how I choose to respond. I no longer need to strain, grunting and groaning, towards the elusive prize of feeling blissfully ignorant of any irritants that might come my way. Now I can clearly face my day square in the face, and actively walk out:

Patience Through Mercy.

.

The Perfect Randall Pet

2011-05-09T00:51:00.000-07:00

I really wanted a dog. I mean I REALLY wanted a dog. Christopher didn't think it was such a good idea for us to commit to yet one more responsibility considering our already responsibility-oozing lifestyle. He was right. But I still pleaded, begged and brazenly campaigned for a four-legged Randall.

When we purchased our home a few years back the agreement was finally struck that we could get a dog once our backyard renovation project was complete. This was sensible, and upon completion I began earnestly seeking after my dog.

I did the research. I read the reviews. I spoke with dog trainers. All on the quest for the perfect, family-friendly, hypoallergenic puppy. I finally settled on a Cairn Terrier. To be sure they can be feisty and rambunctious, but I wanted a playmate for my children and all roads pointed to this little guy.

Of course all roads did not point to the price tag associated with buying the Perfect Randall Pet.

So, when a military family from our church were preparing to leave, and mentioned their desire to relocate their beagle to a new family I jumped at the opportunity. Sure, beagle wasn't on my list for the Perfect Randall Pet but hey, free was an awfully large word.

Enter Daisy.

Daisy Lou to be exact. You have never met a mellower dog. Ever. In the first year that we owned her I think I heard her bark out of excitement once. The only other times she ever barks is to remind us that she doesn't like her crate at night. That's it. She sits on the couch and sleeps 14 hours a day. She lies in her kennel and sleeps for 7 hours at night. She lounges on the rug in the living room for another hour and 30 minutes. She sits at our feet during mealtimes for an hour and 15 minutes each day. She eats and meanders outside for her business during the remaining 15 minutes of her day. That's it. But she eased Christopher into dog ownership with her calm ways and quiet personality. She has definitely become an integral part of the Perfect Randall Pet.

Oh, and she loves Christopher.

Yes. Our dog that I wanted so badly adores my husband. She wags for him, runs to him, snuggles with him, listens to him and obeys (when she is in the mood) him. I was cheated, and I felt it!

Then, about a week ago Hannah and I had an interview with the SPCA to begin volunteering in the adoption center. Hannah has a passion for animals, and is excited about putting that heart to use. When we were done speaking with the volunteer coordinator we decided to take a peak at the dogs.

Enter Rodger.

Rodger Thursten to be exact. Rodger is a rescued Irish Terrier mix and at 2+ months old is one cute puppy. I fell in love. I sat in front of his kennel for 30 minutes playing with and enjoying Rodger. When I arrived home that evening Christopher met me with a smile and one simple question: So, which one do you want?

My very sweet husband knew how much I still longed for a dog that would play with our children, and even perhaps love me. He took time off the very next day and we went out as family to the SPCA to see if Rodger was meant for us. We came home with our second dog.

Rodger loves to play. He adores Daisy, who has miraculously begun to move! She wrestles and bears with great equanimity his puppy ways. We are all quite speechless to watch Daisy, the lover of sleep, bound around engaging her new friend in a game of chase. Rodger is sweet, and loves to cuddle. He is excellently crate trained, and we are working on finalizing his potty-training. He plays very well with the children, and will gleefully run around the backyard for hours chasing and being chased by little Randalls.

Together I believe Daisy and Rodger make the Perfect Randall Pet.

And Rodger loves me.

Josiah's First Joke

2011-02-15T22:04:00.000-08:00

Tonight, during our ritualistic bath routine, Josiah shared his first-ever original joke. It bears repeating.

Why did the fire cross the water?

Because he was being rude.

*Here is where you break into spontaneous and unstoppable laughter.*

.

Mary

2011-01-12T23:55:00.000-08:00

modest. Mary is quite shy, and inwardly drawn around unknown people. Her quiet reserve are often mistaken for submissiveness, or meekness. Don't be fooled. However, her modesty is not simply bound by her timorousness. She often shows genuine acceptance of honest praise or critique for her work, and the work of her siblings. Mary does not require flattery, and signs of a sensible head peak through more and more.

assertive. Mary's middle name is Ellen. Because of her penchant for howling when she did not get what she wanted as a baby we nicknamed her Mary Yellin'. She has no problems with asserting herself. This can be a good thing when seen against the backdrop of a large family - she won't be overlooked. I think that as maturity and life-experience round it out she has the potential to be greatly effective in her generation.

regal. I'm not sure who wrote the rule, but if you are going to play dress-up properly you must use a British accent. You may not realize it, but Mary was born in Buckingham Palace. Her flounces and jewels are second only to her dainty voice and precise tea-drinking habits, replete with raised pinky.

young. Mary somehow got stuck at 3 and a half. She simply refuses to grow beyond it. The sliding glass door for the backyard can be opened by every other member of the family (including her 3 year old brother, and at times her 1 year old sister) but never by her. She literally hops an eighth of an inch off the floor to show she can not be expected to reach anything above her shoulder. And the idea of gaining responsibility is anathema. She obviously discovered the Fountain of Youth and had herself a drink.

Like Father, Like Son

2010-10-28T16:00:00.000-07:00

We utilize an educational paradigm called, delayed academics. I have mentioned it in passing, but never fully explained why we take the position. Here is why:

Caleb is a lot like his daddy.

That's a compliment that I happily assert. My husband is handsome, loyal, incredibly willing to encourage me, and tells me how much he loves me regularly. Caleb is all these things in junior form. Christopher was also diagnosed with ADD (probably would have added the "H" in there if they called it ADHD 30 years ago) when he was a small boy. For a time he was medicated with Ritalin. Were Caleb in a traditional classroom he to would be facing some of the same issues his daddy faced. Like father, like son.

Caleb is quickly distracted, has a hard time maintaining focus, and doesn't easily retain spoken information. For instance, a while back I was working with him on verse memorization for our church's Wednesday night youth program. He was studying the books of the New Testament. After 45 minutes he was still unable to fully repeat a mere 6 books in the correct order without any prompting. His attention span simply can not keep his focus long enough to work on detail oriented seat-work. What would he be doing in school for 8 hours a day in 2nd grade? Detail oriented seat-work.

I struggle with the ways Caleb does not automatically "learn." But what do I think learning is? For his father it was "learning" he couldn't do what the other kids did. His notes were pinned to his shirt because he was not able to remain focused on the task of delivering them home safely. It was feeling inferior, and inadequate because concepts, lessons, indeed learning did not click for him the way he was told it should. However, my husband is now a highly respected, well-paid senior level software architect who oversees enterprise-wide design solutions. He counsels teams of people through the decision making process for website protocol and design in places that are receiving hundreds of thousands of hits a day. In other words he succeeded. He is, I believe, the exception and not the rule.

So many children, namely boys, are labelled, misdirected, and pigeon-holed by our scholastic requirements. At an age when kinesthetic development is literally causing their bodies to jump we often expect them to sit like well-mannered lap dogs. The maxim, "Girls mature faster than boys," is so well accepted in our culture, and even proven true based on dozens of research studies, statistics, and overall observation. Yet, what is the maturity these studies, statistics and observations are measuring? Often the ability to succeed in a controlled environment more readily embraced by girls. Even with this understanding of the already slanted concept of maturity, rarely are the findings from these studies used in tailoring educational programs, or expectations. "Boys will be boys," is another highly used proverb that points to the idea of boys being more aggressive, less compliant, and generally more raucous then their female counterparts. Yet again, in the typical school classroom the rules focus on those aspects that come much more naturally and easily to the girls - namely: being quiet; focusing for extended periods of indoor time; learning auditorily or visually as opposed to kinesthetically; working cooperatively and not competitively; and verbalizing needs articulately.

And we wonder why our boys are vacillating so wildly between effeminacy and machismo.

We did not want our own son to have the monkey on his back that often haunts young adolescent boys in traditional classrooms. We wanted to encourage him that the way he was designed was not an accident. That's part of the reason we chose to homeschool. But even within homeschooling many parents are hung up on the local public school's standards for determining what should or shouldn't fit in their home. I don't think I need to state the obvious, but in CA those standards aren't exactly something that should instill trust and respect in our minds. For instance, much of the prevailing thought on how to raise obnoxiously low test scores is simply increase seat-work. Yeah, 'cause if the student didn't understand it the first time you explained it then the additional 30 minutes of working identical problems with the same explanation will definitely help.

Note the sarcasm.

Delayed academics asserts that children learn academically in much the way they learn physically - through involuntary leaps and bounds. I say involuntary because children do not determine when they will learn to walk. If given the right environment, support and encouragement they will develop the skill as their body allows - not in a smooth curve of perfect progress but rather in a one-day-she-couldn't-and-now-she-can kind of way. Mental development follows this same course. Therefore academics are rarely any different than the physical progression of maturity. If given the right environment, support and encouragement most children will "click" with book learning in a sudden, and often mind-boggling way. How many times have you said, or heard the phrase, "The light just suddenly came on for him!" And more times than not there wasn't anything different about the approach of the subject in question - the mind was simply ready to make the leap.

I don't want to waste my time trying to get Phoebe to walk when she isn't physically ready for it. Similarly, I don't want to waste my time, or my children's time teaching them academic rhetoric if they are not ready to learn it. However the rise in single-parent families, and the increase in dual-income families means parents need institutions that can help in providing childcare. With public school already an accepted norm in the vast majority of American families it seemed only natural to put the burden of responsibility on them for the care of our youngsters. But these are schools, so we also expected that our children's time there would create more academically robust students, if for no other reason than to assuage our guilt at leaving them in these classrooms for 8 to 10 hours every day. The result? The expected age for children to "click" with book learning has dropped significantly over the past 30 years. Instead of character being the greatest lesson beyond fine and gross motor skills for the average five, six or seven year old it is paragraph reading and complex fractions.

Now, let me add a quick word for the onset of better and more intuitive means of education. There have been some incredibly amazing inroads made in the connection of small children and academic achievement. Teaching communication through sign language to the pre-verbal, understanding phonics, raising the expectation for literacy across gender and socioeconomic backgrounds are wonderful, and I support all of these developments. What I don't support is the unapologetic use of generalized standards based on convenience and lies.

For a mainstreamed child to read by age 6 is convenient. Therefor, it is necessary that all mainstreamed children read by age 6.

The convenience.

The lie.

There are countless others that follow this same pattern. It simply takes too much time to create a dynamic lesson that can encompass all levels of learning in one room. And in fairness to the traditional classroom, you have to break the children into groups based on something. Age is the most obvious, so assumptions of academic progress based merely on age were bound to occur. Those generalizations were given merit as scores of averages proved them correct. The average age for understanding a concept was noted, birthing the standardized testing phenomenon where administrators, teachers, and parents could check to make sure their Suzy Q reached her potential.

Since when did the average become equal to the potential?

I want my children, both male and female, to set high academic expectations for themselves. I want life long learners who love to read, explore concepts, and not be afraid of asking questions. I want well-adjusted, confident children who have a security in their body's design and development. I am firmly convinced that can not happen when academic pressure is added to the already mounting list of responsibilities placed on children in traditional classrooms during their younger years. I am convinced that children are designed to be children first and foremost - not scholars. Learning through play, interaction, and experience extends well beyond the toddler years. Yet we stifle that natural flow of cause and effect far too quickly creating unnecessary work on our parts, and years of frustration for our children.

So how does delayed academics answer these concerns?

By looking at those same averages used for standardized tests, but zooming out for a slightly wider context to their findings.

On average children reach a learning plateau at age nine, or roughly the equivalent of 3rd grade. During this time the vast majority of students who previously didn't "get it" suddenly understand concepts that alluded them for years. Likewise, many students who were exceptionally bright are quickly absorbed into the norm. In other words an evening works itself out, and from 9 years old on a new game is played. Delayed academics takes advantage of waiting for the new game before ever beginning. Rather than drive concepts into hardened earth it says to wait until the soil has been softened with the fullness of the young child experience. At nine the cognitive abilities are more advanced, and the physical discipline more inline with the demands of book learning for hours each day. The rigors of detailed seat work and rote memorization no longer compete against six-year old bodies bursting with excessive energy. Delayed academics keeps your seven year old from feeling like a failure when it really is just a matter of time. And if there is a genuinely significant learning delay the maturity of the nine year old to handle the truth of their situation will surely be an asset.

Christopher came out of the academic system a victor, though most of his early markers generally pointed in the opposite direction. I have confidence that even though Caleb would be receiving the same marks were he in a public classroom he too will be like his Daddy, emerging as a bright, capable and educated man.

After all, like father, like son.

Leah

2010-10-22T23:27:00.000-07:00

loquacious. Yep, she talks. Leah loves to babble about anything, but most especially she likes talking about her babies, imaginary friends, and health maladies. I can't remember the last time she spoke when something didn't tickle me. I regularly have to cover my mouth in order keep my mirth under cover, lest I spoil her transparency and ruin the moment. But really... how does one keep a straight face while being told that Ariel, her mirror-living friend, is the daughter of Satan?

empathetic. My 4th born is bothered by her siblings hurts, fears, or mishaps. She quickly seeks out help on their behalf, usually trying desperately to console the injured party at the same time. Her empathy can even get her in trouble. She has been known to cry more demonstratively than a sibling receiving punishment, lending total chaos to our house.

appetite. At first glance you may suspect me of giving a glowing report on Leah's robust love of food. I am not. While I will say that she knows how to chow down, she apparently forgets that knowledge every other day; forcing her father and me to resort to ultimatums at least twice a week. No, the appetite I do intend to give a glowing report on is Leah's zest for life. She is insatiable. Her personality alone requires a tremendous amount of caloric intake, and feed it she does. She is a walking non sequitur. You can not be around her for more than a few minutes before genuinely laughing yourself silly.

higgledy-piggledy. There isn't anyone in my immediate circle of friends or family who leaves a bigger disaster in their wake than Leah. Seriously. Her version of "clean" makes my version of "messy" look tame. Of course, there can be seen a benefit to this penchant for clutter. For instance, Leah is free to move with inspiration from one project to the next, never fearing that her ideas may grow stale in the brain vacuum of cleaning. And, I must admit, her dance through life leaves me breathless with its wonder and curiosity - never masked or hindered by the fear of what consequences she may leave behind her.

Marriage

2010-10-18T22:06:00.000-07:00

I love listening to my little people muse about their future. Whether it is Caleb sharing about which blue-color job is for him, or Bethany wishing she could be a prima donna, listening to their ideals about what they want to do when they grow up always makes me smile. However, there are times when a real gem pops out, all bright and shiny.

This morning it was Mary's turn to deliver.

She and Bethany were sitting next to one another on the couch perusing the latest catalogs to arrive in the mail. Bethany somberly read American Girl. Mary animatedly gabbed away while thumbing her way through The Company Store. Every few moments Mary turned her eyes upon one of the dolls in American Girl and asked what its name was. Bethany obliged her with the doll's name before turning the page. Mary immediately dropped the just-spoken-of-doll's name into a sentence that included a product on her own catalog page. For instance:

Kip just loves to use these towels in her bathroom.

The game was working fine for Mary, but Bethany was growing weary of being interrupted every few seconds and began to give off the "don't bother me" vibe. Mary took the hint, and began to simply use her own names in her advertisements. Over and over I kept hearing the same four names in reference to bed linens, bath towels, personalized robes and sheets.

Elizabeth. Isabella. Grace. Josephina.

Peeked with curiosity, Bethany asked Mary about the four girls' names.

"Who are they, Mary?"

"They're my children's names."

"Oh. So you have four daughters?"

"Yes." She smoothed her hair and looked directly at Bethany as she added, "I want four kids, but I don't want to be married. I don't want to have to kiss."

Sleep

2010-10-17T01:05:00.000-07:00

Phoebe sleeps in her own bed. She has always slept in her own bed. Recently, however, she began showing us that she didn't like that plan so much.

Because our home is rather tight on bedrooms (3 of them for 9 people) we tend to get creative with our sleeping arrangements. For Phoebe this means going to bed in a pack-n-play at the foot of our bed until we can transfer her to a crib in her own room. Why can't she simply start in her own room, you ask? Because she goes to bed when her sisters are still awake, and would never actually fall asleep if she could watch their antics. She also must nap in our room so that the other four girls can have access to their bedroom during the day.

But I digress.

This system was working excellently until a few weeks ago when Phoebe discovered that she could fold the bottom pack-n-play "mattress" into a triangle, and made a fairly handy step stool out of her playpen and onto our bed. The first time it happened caught me quite by surprise. I was sitting on the couch in the living room when I thought I heard the fast-busy sound of the phone when it has been left off the hook too long. Sure enough, I checked the phone (on the table immediately to my left) and the screen indicated that it was in use. Funny, since I am the only one old enough to use the phone without permission. I took a quick mental count of my children, and their locations.

Hannah: school

Bethany: dishes

Caleb: trampoline

Leah & Mary: littlest pet shop

Josiah & Phoebe: naps

Then I heard Phoebe babbling from my room. In her preverbal ranting I could easily make out the intonations of a conversation. I slipped down the hallway to see what had her gander, only to be met with a peek at an empty playpen. Pushing the door open wider, I saw Phoebe sitting contentedly on my bed chatting away on the phone while it beeped back angrily. She saw me and grinned. My entire nightstand was a disarray of books and papers. Christopher's alarm clock was missing entirely from the other side of the bed. Someone had been busy.

Laughing, I scooped her up and took her out of the room. Nap was obviously not going to happen that day. Oh well, I thought, she just wasn't tired. She'll sleep tomorrow.

Ha! I seriously doubt I need to elaborate on the last two weeks.

And so my story reaches tonight. Up until this time we always managed to win the game by either: a) taking her out of the room until she was more tired, or b) redepositing her into the pack-n-play until she stayed in it. This evening it seemed that route b was the winning ticket. She eventually fussed at the grievous misfortune of being forever daunted in her quest for freedom, but the room silenced soon enough, and we knew she was asleep.

Christopher went in to transfer her. The first thing he noticed was the dark room. We always keep a small light on to help us see through the transfer process, but for some reason it was not lit. Then he bent over the pack-n-play, and there was no one inside. Startled, he shot a glance around the room until, his eyes adjusting the dim light, he saw Phoebe.

Efficiency

2010-10-03T22:30:00.000-07:00

Caleb, always thinking of the newest, fastest way to produce results, came to me this afternoon with a bold, new move to improve efficiency in our meal preparation. However, before I tell you about this bold, new move you should probably have a quick peek into the workings of my kitchen.

I generally cook 3 meals a day, every day, for 9 people. Breakfast, lunch and dinner see my entire family sitting around our table. In between meals the dishes are done, and preparations begun for the following menu. At any given point in time someone can usually walk into my kitchen and find the counters clean, dishes washed, stove wiped down and general orderliness reigning. I don't say this to toot my own horn; I say it so you will fully appreciate the "help" my son is about to offer me.

Tacos were on the menu for dinner. I am teaching Bethany how to cook, and this is her first recipe to tackle entirely on her own. She is doing a great job! I was especially proud of her tonight, because she recognized the need to open the refried and chili bean cans while the ground beef was browning. She carefully opened each one, put the can opener away, and then prepared to add the cans' contents to the meat.

At this point Caleb offered a new solution for the horror of opening cans

"Mama, you know what would be great? If we built shelves above the stove that went across like this (slashes his hands horizontally through the air in front of him). Then we put the cans of beans on the shelves so they sat there. Then I could take a baseball and throw it at the cans (he winds up and gives me a full pitch so I fully appreciate his superior ball-throwing skills). The cans would just explode in half (jerks his hands from closed fists to palms-out in the international sign language for bomb), and the beans would fall right into your pot. You wouldn't have to mess around with all that can opening any more. It'd really make it a lot easier."

Taco Beans
1 - 1.5 lbs lean ground beef (depends on how "meaty" you want it - great without meat, too!)
3 8oz cans Rosarita refried beans
1 15oz can Bush's chili beans in zesty sauce (mostly drained)
1/2 packet McCormick Taco Seasoning
1/2 yellow onion (optional)

Saute onion in olive oil. Remove from pan and set aside. Brown hamburger and drain fat. Add seasoning and onion, stir. Add cans of beans, combine well. Turn heat to med. low and simmer until thoroughly hot. Serve with fixings.

.

Run-On Sentence

2010-09-29T20:29:00.000-07:00

Mama, me and Grace got to play together as much as we wanted, it was so much fun, and the park was funny when we were on the slide together, and Grace laughed at me so, I like her house when I went over there a long time ago, and we played in her room, and then we had dress-up so I wore church shoes because I didn't want to have bare feet, because Grace's mom was okay that I wore them, but I didn't ask, but I think it was okay, and I want to wear the special dress when I am there again, but Grace whined about her dress, and I don't think that was nice even though I wanted to wear the one she had, so I can't remember if she has a backyard or not, so I don't remember if we played in it, but I think we might have, but I can't remember, oh yeah, we did play in her backyard after dress up, then I played with her alphabet on her refrigerator while her mom was cooking dinner, because I played with all the letters, even A, G and Y, wow, I am just talking so much to tell you all about it, but now I am tired of talking, so I think I am going to stop for a while.

Caleb

2010-09-28T13:41:00.000-07:00

creative. I don't think I have met another boy who is able to come up with the degree of ingenuity necessary to pull off his more hair-brained ideas. For example, Caleb decided to test out how well an IKEA reusable bag would work as a parachute. Of course, there is the infamous roof to trampoline story, which you can read here. And don't forget the plan to swing from a rope off the play-set using nothing but his mouth, which ended in the loss of a tooth. He simply takes these minor setbacks in stride, and continues to push the envelope of his creative genius.

agile. At 4 he could skate, unassisted, on a standard skateboard. Riding his bike came naturally, and within moments of his daddy removing the training wheels. He recently learned how to skim-board while at the beach and took to it like, well, a fish to water. He has a natural capacity for hand-eye coordination, which stands him in good stead during any sport he has tried.

loving. Caleb really soaks up the love; he gives it as well. Hugs, compliments and genuine concern are often expressed by him with transparency and thoughtfulness.

entertaining. There is never a dull moment in our house, thanks in large part to our first son. Need a ridiculously absurd knock-knock joke? Caleb's your guy. Want to watch someone sacrifice their body for the gag? Again, Caleb's your guy. Everything from his laugh to his cry can provide an immense amount of valuable entertainment.

boy. Of course. Recently Caleb said something that was typical of his testosterone-washed brain. Bethany and I made the obvious statement in complete unison, "Such a boy." His pain tolerance has nothing to do with his brain tolerance. He impulsively asserts himself in dangerous situations. He asks questions that defy logic. And he insists that he is the man of the house whenever Christopher is away - even to the store.

Medical Care

2010-09-21T18:07:00.000-07:00

Leah regularly regales us with stories of her babies, their wounds, and the treatment required for their care. Sometimes the treatment is successful. Sometimes it is not. In fact, a few weeks ago she pointedly announced that her baby was going to die, "because the medicine didn't work."

Our family has grown accustomed to these tales, but tonight's version brought a fresh wave of hilarity to Leah's audience. Bethany whispered to me, "You need to blog that one." She's right.

Mama, did you know my baby needs surgery on her leg?

No, I didn't. What happened?

Well, her leg is broken.

Oh no!

Yep. So she needs to have surgery.

How did she break it?

Well, there was a hook attached to a rope. I had tied the rope to the middle of the street, and I was pulling my baby with the hook. Well, I was pulled into the middle of the street from the rope, and I didn't get run over but my baby did.

Wow!

Yep. By a monster truck.

And with that, she bounced out of the room.

A Whole New Walmart

2010-09-20T16:02:00.000-07:00

Walmart store 4488 has a new, improved look. They are calling it a mini-super because it has a substantial grocery section (including fresh produce), but it doesn't quite cover everything. I must admit, I am not a huge fan of Walmart. It's not that I carry a personal vice against the largest majority private employer in the United States. I simply prefer Target as my box store. But, truth be told, I was actually excited when the announcement was made that the mass merchandiser would be moving into my neighborhood. I am all for micro-businesses, definitely preferring organic, locally grown, responsibly managed outfitters who care about all the "right" things. But let's face it, a mom of seven needs a little Walmart once in a while. So, when the home we purchased happened to be 1 mile from the store I was looking at the proximity as a good thing.

That proximity is proving to be useless.

First it was the several months of inconvenience related to the total store makeover. Now, let me clarify my annoyance before you think I am a complainer simply because I had to learn to go to a different part of the store to get that quick gallon of milk. Yes, I had to go to a different part of the store to get my milk. In fact, I had to ask directions every trip I took because the milk, diapers, baby food, pasta and vacuum cleaner bags were always in a different place. Always. Then, there was the frustration associated with Walmart's need to downsize stock in order to make moving merchandise easier. Need oven cleaner? Oops, sorry. We sold out, and aren't ordering any more until the store is completed. And don't try to find nonfat milk, either. That's gone, too.

I worked to roll with the punches. After all, I was being promised that the end would be a newer, better shopping experience. I grew up in retail. My family owned their own business for over 50 years. I can appreciate the need to occasionally make some mess in order to ultimately provide a better product. Unfortunately, my mom doesn't own Walmart.

Well, the newer, better shopping experience began about a month ago. I even picked up a flyer Walmart made especially for the occasion. It contained a map, and a few explanations for some of the changes.

What a piece of propaganda.

Here are a few excerpts from the pamphlet:

Where convenience is everything.

We've always brought you the lowest possible prices. Now we've added more of the products you buy most often - all in one location. Why? So you can save even more time and money.

I realized upon my first newer, better shopping experience that the "products you buy most often" are not the products that I buy most often. Rows upon rows of frozen convenience items, chips and soda were added but try and find a can of chili beans and you are outta luck. In fact, I had no idea there were so many prepackaged, sodium laden, frozen food choices.

Simplified Shopping

Less clutter and clearer aisles make it easier to find just what you're looking for.

At first glance this sentence makes it appear as though Walmart did a total reorganization from their previous store model. In actuality, they simply moved the pallets and cleared the final debris from their months long remodeling project. Then there is the irony that the new store lacks clear signage to guide you in your quest for their "easier to find" products. I recently went looking for coffee for my hubby and finally found it down the "Cookie" aisle next to the small "Tea" subsection. Nothing noted coffee anywhere. I didn't realize coffee was such a speciality item, and not in need of its own sign because of the small number of people purchasing it. After all, don't you see everyone going into Walmart to buy 5 gallon drums of ground tea? I need to note, for my hubby's benefit, that he was not asking me to purchase him one of those 5 gallon drums of ground coffee. He can't stand pre-ground coffee. He was getting ready for a business trip, and needed a few of those Starbucks Via packages.

Lastly, we have my favorite:

Smart Choices

We've simplified our assortment to help make your shopping easier. All so you can save money and live better.

This is where the rubber hits the road. Remember in the beginning when I acknowledged that a mother of seven occasionally needs a little Walmart? Things like diapers, lotion, and eye drops are nice to grab a mere 3 minutes away from home. And I must admit, my choices have definitely been simplified. There isn't much guess work to be had between no baby food and... no baby food. Okay, maybe that's a slight exaggeration. But seriously, it's WALMART for crying out loud. Isn't that where you should expect to find a plethora of baby food choices, diaper sizes and styles, cleaning supplies, and all manner of health and beauty selections? I have one, maybe two options to chose from in order to allow mass amounts of square footage to be devoted to Pancho's Pizza Packages in cheese, pepperoni, sausage, combo, vegetarian, and seven other extra high cholesterol varieties.

It's time for me to go back to Target.

Bethany

2010-09-17T13:36:00.000-07:00

bubbly. We used to joke that Bethany's middle name was so aptly chosen for her because she really did bring us Joy each and every day. She still does. Bethany works hard to find the brighter side of life in just about every circumstance. She has a great laugh, and shares it readily.

early. Especially of the bird variety. No one in our home willingly gets up as early as Bethany. She loves those quiet hours in the morning when the house is still.

thrifty. I think the penchant for earning, saving and spending frugally has found a secure home in the heart of my second-born. She could figure out a way to spend $1.50 on two items at the Dollar Store. Bethany keeps me in the loop on current sales, circulars and adds relevant to our home.

humane. We have rescued injured rabbits, birds and insects. Our family picks up children for events, brings cards and meals to the sick, and more all as a result of Bethany's penchant for the destitute. I can only wonder at the altruistic activities she will be involved in once she has her own transportation.

artistic. Whether it is a drawing, a piece of music, or theatre Bethany is our family's lover of the arts. She sings, dances, paints and sculpts. Her handwriting was beautiful before she even really knew how to write because she treated writing like drawing, carefully crafting her letters to be distinct and lovely.

nurturing. Simply stated, she is the second mom in the house. Bethany is adept at cuddling babies, helping cook and managing the emotional ups and downs of her younger siblings. She really cares when one of her brothers or sisters is hurt, and works to find a solution for comforting them regardless of what it costs her.

youthful. I chose this word not because Bethany is "only" 9. I chose youthful to sum up a part of her character that I find lovely - her transparency. Many adolescents at her age are already starting to pretend they are something they are not - older, more mature, more experienced, more... Not my girl! I am proud of her willingness to be exactly how God made her.

Language

2010-09-13T08:15:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time people used language with respect, deference, and even a little bit of awe. I adore the scene in My Fair Lady where Henry Higgins denounces Eliza Doolittle's deplorable vocabulary. And she wasn't even using filthy curse words! But our society has lost so much appreciation for healthy communication that it must resort to the same handful of loathsome obscenities for virtually all its dialogue. There are literally millions of words aching for the opportunity to make themselves useful, but I consistently overhear the youth of today resort to a single 4-letter word to describe:

an adjective of shock

an exclamation of joy

a noun of filth

a verb for jesting

Really? You can't come up with something even slightly more original? The real shocker is that these same boys and girls feel their awesome use of vocabulary grants them mastery over the English language. Well, I guess children will push the envelope of appropriate behavior in their ongoing battle to define themselves. Except, where are these children coming into such consistent contact with flippantly abusive language?

Oh, that's right... adults.

For every teenage boy I hear spouting off defamatory curse words to establish his prowess with the Burger King drive-through waitress there are at least half a dozen adult men and women doing the same thing.

Ridiculous.

And, might I add, shame on them.

Remember the old school rule of thumb for mixed company: If you can't say it to your grandmother then maybe you shouldn't say it? I want to bring back that rule. I am tired of knowing that the only place I am guaranteed to hear civil language from the beginning of an exchange to the last is the President of the United States' State of the Union Address, and my children's puppet shows. Just about everything in between seems fair game.

Now, before anyone slings me with mud for being an overly demanding moralist let me elucidate my gravest concerns. I do not become personally irate when I inadvertently overhear a private conversation which uses words I find vulgar and distasteful. I have my doubts about the honor of such vocabulary being used in public places where it can be overheard, but really it isn't any of my business. My issue arises from the shameless manner in which recognized curse words are bandied about as though every human over the age of 14 desires to be initiated into the fraternal bond of coarse slang.

I do not.

I do not want a five-minute conversation to qualify as grounds for "language-intimacy." Frankly, if it involves the use of unnecessarily graphic or odious jargon then a lifetime of conversation does not qualify it.

Professor Henry Higgins to Eliza Doolittle:

Eliza, you are to stay here for the next six months learning to speak beautifully, like a lady in a florist's shop. If you work hard and do as you're told, you shall sleep in a proper bedroom, have lots to eat, and money to buy chocolates and go for rides in taxis. But if you are naughty and idle, you shall sleep in the back kitchen amongst the black beetles, and be wolloped by Mrs. Pearce with a broomstick. At the end of six months you will be taken to Buckingham Palace, in a carriage, beautifully dressed. If the king finds out you are not a lady, you will be taken to the Tower of London, where your head will be cut off as a warning to other presumptuous flower girls! But if you are not found out, you shall have a present... of, ah... seven and six to start life with as a lady in a shop. If you refuse this offer, you will be the most ungrateful, wicked girl, and the angels will weep for you.

Christopher

2010-09-10T20:15:00.000-07:00

Everyone needs acclamation from time to time. Being told that you are special, appreciated and loved can give your morale such a necessary boost - even for those whose primary love language doesn't include words of affirmation. I always want to make sure those closest to me know how much I adore them! You simply can't overstate your unconditional love. So, I thought I would make an acrostic for each of my children, and my husband, to communicate publicly my affection.

I'll start with my beloved husband.

clean. Not just cleanliness from showering, although that's nice too, but a cleanliness of the mind. Christopher doesn't use off-color humor, foul language, or inappropriate references in any of his communication. He honors and respects others with words that edify.

helpful. For anyone new to the block, we have seven children. That's a lot of diapers. That's a lot of dishes. That's a lot of everything. Christopher isn't squeamish about getting his hands dirty with the business of our life. Rather than passing off the responsibility to the womenfolk, he readily helps me.

responsible. I am consistently amazed at my husband's ongoing dedication to provide for his family. Most mornings find him awake hours before anyone else in the house. He takes on the inconvenience of going early to work so he can be home sooner. And he never complains about the financial responsibility placed on his shoulders as a result of our family size, or our decision to keep me at home.

intelligent. Christopher is just plain smart!

strong. Recently, the two of us were talking about how important it is for a man to feel strong - not just physically, but mentally, emotionally and spiritually as well. Christopher has all four in spades. He exercises discipline in his physical workouts. He grows spiritually strong through his personal devotion to Christ. His humility develops his emotional fortitude. And his willingness to be a life-long learner ensures his mental acuteness.

tender. This daddy loves to snuggle with all his children. He doesn't dismiss his sons from needing his physical touch. He listens to each of the girls' make-believe stories with the appropriate expression of pure rapture. Holding a baby is second nature to him.

open. Christopher is disarmingly honest. He doesn't hide behind false pretenses, or play games to curry favor with people. He is the real deal.

playful. I don't think I have met someone more willing to get silly. Laughter is his second language, and he uses it liberally. He loves to look for the comedy in life, and truly appreciates the absurd. His children's jokes can have him laughing for hours. Just ask him about the bone guy.

harmonious. Christopher is much better than I am at being a peacemaker. He doesn't pout or act like a child if his feelings are hurt, but speaks his thoughts so that we can maintain open lines of communication. He is willing to quickly acknowledge when he is wrong, and repents with sincerity so there can be reconciliation.

enjoyable. I simply love hanging out with him. Whether it is staying home, going on a date, or even running errands the time spent with him just flies. His conversational style is effortless, and his interest in what's important for me is equal to his willingness to share from his own life.

relaxed. Ever the optimist, he balances my tendency to think the worst when things aren't going my way. His easy-going style keeps him from getting quickly overwhelmed by our houseful of children, even when I sneak away for a weekend alone! He knows how to spend a quiet evening at home; while his adventurer heart loves a good road trip he is equally at ease in our living room.

Cooking

2010-09-03T10:26:00.000-07:00

Bethany is learning to cook. And, truth be told, she has a definite knack for it. Her favorite is eggs. She has learned to scramble them something delicious. Her younger brothers are quite smitten with them. Most mornings now find her cooking eggs for at least Josiah and Caleb, but she often offers them to her daddy and me!

Here is the menu she created to help us in our selections.

The Buy-Back Box

2010-09-01T13:15:00.000-07:00

I am learning to streamline some of the training that goes into parenting. The more children we have the more necessary it becomes to have a system that can manage details without my constant intervention. With that in mind I created the Buy-Back Box. Pure genius, if I do say so myself. It has alleviated a huge amount of angst in me, and my home is suddenly de-cluttered and clean. Let me explain.

Once upon a time my children were asked to clean up their belongings. They went about their task with relative ease, and in just a few short minutes completed their chore. Well, completed might be a strong word for what they accomplished - namely, half of the necessary cleaning. So, I reminded them to finish the job. They went about their task with slight murmurings, but in just a few short minutes had completed their chore. Well, completed might be a strong word to use for what they accomplished - namely, three-quarters of the necessary cleaning. So, I reminded them to finish the job. They went about their task with thinly veiled sighs and groans, but in just a few short minutes had completed their chore. Well, completed might be a strong work for what they accomplished...

I stepped on a Littlest Pet Shop toy (read: roofing tack) as I headed to bed.

AHHHH!!

Normally I would seriously debate waking the whole house for a stern lecture while fuming over the negligence of my children. Of course waking Phoebe to prove a point about diligence would only make my night worse, so I usually settled for putting the toy away myself and then reminding my children the following day about their gross misbehavior. The result was often blank stares, muffled apologies, and a general acceptance of the need to, "do it better next time."

The next time went something startlingly similar to the first time.

After three or four of these cycles I would finally reach my breaking point and declare war on all the clutter in the house. Kids were sent scurrying for every stray toy under every bed. The outside, inside and underside of the house was straightened, vacuumed and polished. I ruthlessly threw the detritus of their childhood into the garbage. I ranted about cleanliness, thoroughness and several other obligatory "ness"es known to be so effective in these parental tirades. It felt wonderful.

The problem was my ridiculous notion that I had actually effected real change in my children. All you seasoned parents out there can now stop laughing at me. Eventually I came to recognize the simple fact that my temper tantrums were simply not aiding in getting the job done. Something needed to change. So, I instituted the Buy-Back Box.

And peace is reigning in my home.

Grown Up

2010-08-27T16:31:00.000-07:00

Leah and Mary are playing together in the other room. Mary is deciding to assert her ownership over a few My Little Ponies, and Leah is becoming more and more upset. Finally I hear Mary concede:

Sure, you can play with them, Leah... when you're grown up.

But Mary! (she's working herself into tears) I won't be grown up for years. It is going to be at least 20 years before I am grown up!

I know. (Mary says - nonchalantly and without a hint of pity) You'll just have to wait.

Crazy Boy

2010-08-25T16:05:00.000-07:00

Caleb is a crazy boy. Seriously. I hear other families talking about their boys, and how they do wild things, but Caleb takes the cake. Besides lacking impulse control, short term memory, and fear he has this uncanny ability to chose only those activities that could kill him.

Case in point.

The kids were playing in the backyard and schoolroom one afternoon while I was trying to get some rest with the two smallest children. Our home has hardwood floors, so noise travels. As a result we use white-noise machines to help reduce break-through sounds during naps and bedtime. The kids adopted the nickname "train" and so they are called to this day. Anywho, I had my train on but could still hear the muffled sounds of kids playing hard. A couple of times I thought about getting up and asking them to be quieter, but they were getting along and that was more important than silence. Then, just as I was falling asleep I heard someone running upstairs.

Wait. I don't have an upstairs.

I heard it again.

I sat up to really listen, but couldn't quite make out what I was hearing. I could tell there were kids on the trampoline outside of my window. I could tell there were kids in the schoolroom laughing. I could hear someone squealing on the swing. Everything seemed normal. I laid back down, and started to drift to sleep once more when I again heard the thump-thump-thump of someone running "upstairs." I finally realized that it was someone running down the hall, but the hardwood floors and train combination were distorting the sounds. I settled in for my nap.

An hour later I emerged from the back bedroom. I was met by Bethany telling me that Mr. Coleman came over to say that he saw Caleb on the roof.

Nice.

I sat down with Caleb to get the scoop.

Apparently I wasn't as crazy as I thought when I heard someone running "upstairs." Caleb had used the brick arch over our side yard gate to climb onto our roof. Running around on the top of the roof didn't make the "fun enough" cut, so he decided to use the roof as a diving board onto the trampoline. That was more like it! In fact, it was so much "fun enough" that he talked his younger sister, Leah, into taking the plunge and together they began a circuit of roof-jump-trampoline-roof-jump-trampoline...

I am not convinced that this is ordinary boy-ness.

non sequitur

2010-08-20T13:30:00.000-07:00

Mama, watch my dance.

Okay, Leah.

Lala tra-lala laaa (singing her own theme music)

That's beautiful! Well done.

Yep, because my superhero is cooking.

Don't look for an explanation. There is none.

Cell Phone Sense

2010-08-16T16:36:00.000-07:00

Our girls, probably like every other tween out there, are constantly inquiring about the date when they will receive their first cell phone. The discussions range from simple suggestion (You know, if I had a cell phone I could take Daisy for a walk, and if you needed me to come home early you could just call me on my phone.) to bribery (If you got me my own cell phone I would make sure to always answer your calls, and do whatever you asked.).

A few years ago a product called Firefly was introduced. The cell phone is specifically designed for kids, with no numerical keypad so only preprogrammed numbers can be accessed. My girls instantly recognized our "need" for this new phone, and Bethany, in particular, has been reminding us of the many features we must surely appreciate about it. Christopher and I keep touting the party line:

You are not getting a cell phone.

It's really that simple. The girls just don't require a phone. Their social calendar is not independent enough to necessitate one. On top of that, we feel rather strongly about developing independence. What does that have to do with cell phones? More and more adolescents are failing to achieve common sense, and logical problem solving skills. Why? We believe that a significant part of the problem is the false sense of security that comes when mom or dad answer all your questions - immediately. Changes in plans, unexpected possibilities, and circumstantial unforeseens are handled by calling home to receive instantaneous feedback on the right or wrong option. The problem is most clearly seen when you remove the potential for cell phone use (i.e. dead battery/no reception). We use these hypothetical situations to help our girls understand why we don't want them overly dependent on cell phones.

Yesterday, the conversation again turned to cell phones, and when the girls' archaic parents would get the knack and buy them one.

Never.

Bethany was utterly unimpressed with this answer and left the room, but Hannah hung on and played the game.

But it would really help you if I had a phone. Then you could call me whenever you needed anything.

Hannah, we have already gone over this however, we can do it again if you wish. When you are accustomed to using a cell phone for aid whenever you are in a questionable situation what happens when you no longer have the cell phone? Daddy and I want to be sure that you are safe without a cell phone before we allow you to have one. And until then, we aren't going to allow you into potentially unsafe situations with the false sense of security derived from a cell.

*blank stare from Hannah*

Okay, say you are driving along a road when suddenly your car breaks down. You are in an unfamiliar town, and your cell phone has no reception. What do you do?

Well, if you were accustomed to always having a cell phone then you would probably run to the nearest phone booth, and call a tow truck. But, if you knew how to solve the problem without using a cell phone then you would just siphon gas with your mouth and drive home.

Maybe we should buy them phones.

Writing

2010-08-16T15:00:00.000-07:00

I really love to write. There is something immensely cathartic about organizing my thoughts into neat little packages that can easily be communicated to others. Well, "easily communicated to others" when I do it right. Unfortunately, I have a dilemma with engaging in one of my most satisfying past-times... it is diametrically opposed to my responsibilities. You see ideally I would spend a set amount of time each and every day scribbling out... something. Anything. But instead of doing just that I:

-nurse the baby.
-shuttle my children to and from events.
-home educate my kids.
-prepare nutritious meals for a small tribe.
-rock the baby.
-change the baby.
-scold the toddler.
-engage in a soul-searching conversation with my adolescent.
-check facebook.
-clean up the dishes from the nutritious meals I previously prepared.
-wash laundry.
-play tea-party with the smaller girls.
-chase the toddler.
-buy groceries.
-check email.
-answer the phone.
-answer the phone.
-answer the phone.
-prepare for bible study.
-vacuum.
-teach ethical behavior to the wayward son.
-imagine writing a quirky, hugely popular book of complied anecdotes from my children's lives.
-converse with my husband.
-sleep.

I am trying to find what I can cut out, and from my perspective I'm thinking sleep is overrated.

Absence Makes The Heart Grow Fonder

2010-08-12T14:30:00.000-07:00

Is it true? Does absence make the heart grow fonder? If it does, then you should be absolutely enamored with me right about now! So, what has kept me from my adoring fans? Note my tongue in my cheek.

Life.

Yep, that about sums up all the stuff. There have been so many times I wished that this blog could simply stream from my thoughts. Alas, it has to actually be written. So, here is a summary of my thoughts surrounding life, and the details that have kept me from writing them down.

Phoebe.

No, really. She has taken my life by storm, and does not seem remotely interested in giving it back to me. I thought that I would have this whole infant thing cracked after 6 babies. How difficult could a seventh child be? Wow, was that the wrong question to ask!

Phoebe is proving to be my humbler. She evades all my best efforts at parenting, and reduces me to a blubbering pile of jell-o. Schedules and routines - out the door. Independence - not even remotely. What happened? Where did all my best intentions of a well-ordered home go? At nearly 16 months she still doesn't consistently sleep through the night. She won't regularly eat well. It is anyone's guess whether she is going to play contentedly or whine in frustration through the afternoon. And to top it off she insists on climbing onto anything vertical. Anything. Vertical. The result of all of this sanctification is me spending much of my time wandering the house bleary-eyed and confused. Should I try to get her to take a nap, or try to feed her? Should I rock her, or leave her be? Should I...

So, my blogging life continues to get pushed to the back burner. I continue to promise myself that someday I will write to my heart's content. Someday I will post every day.

Yeah. And someday I won't think that leaving the house with only one spot on the front of my wrinkled shirt counts as, "dressed for success."

Office Space

2010-07-10T13:00:00.000-07:00

Christopher is moving up in the world. His responsibilities are growing at work, and prospects are opening up with each new day. He recently made a strategic career move by transferring to a new division within the Defense Manpower Data Center (DMDC - part of the Department of Defense). While nothing has changed in his externals (he still sits at the same desk) the job he is doing (at that same desk) is constantly throwing him curve balls. Christopher thrives on challenge and change - together they make a heady cocktail for success. Meeting with high-level executives and briefing department chiefs are fast becoming norms in his business day. His supervisor recognized his need for more versatility from standard government protocol, and assigned him a Blackberry and laptop to help facilitate efficacy in and out of his office.

Our family has also seen some changes as a result of his new position. The introduction of travel to the East Coast for week-long business meetings was thought to be temporary when he first accepted the transfer. We now understand it to be much more permanent in nature, and are preparing for the long haul with bi-monthly trips to D.C.; Boyers, Pennsylvania; and both Arlington and Alexandria, Virginia. A significantly more exciting change is the decision Christopher made to go back to school, and earn his Masters. He enrolled in National Defense University, and will begin classes this fall!

We felt like all this elbow-rubbing with the big-wigs deserved a more dedicated place for work at home. He needed space to comfortably make long-distant conference calls to colleagues in D.C., and the privacy for dedicated focus on high-profile projects. We made the plunge, sacrificed in-demand space and created Christopher's new home office. We put together his desk, network connectivity, phone system and computer so that he can easily access his work from the comforts of our home.

I really think it's a fantastic solution.

Baseball

2010-07-01T13:42:00.000-07:00

Caleb finished his first official season of baseball. He exuberantly reminded us of every practice, every game. We knew that he would probably enjoy himself, but we weren't expecting him to be so naturally gifted at the sport. It made it all the more pleasurable for us to watch each week as he grew in his hitting capabilities. His fielding still needs quite a bit of polishing. In tee-ball the definition of, "call it" means everyone screams in unison, throwing punches if another fielder (especially the fielder who would naturally have the right of way in the play) dares to catch the ball. One play saw Caleb, positioned as pitcher, fling himself onto a throng of boys trying to snatch a ball from a fellow teammate in left field.

Left. Field.

I played ball for a few years, and am pretty sure that the pitcher doesn't ever back-up the left fielder. Perhaps I misunderstood my son's noble intentions.

On the sidelines we laughed ourselves to tears watching the players swing at anything resembling a baseball; lolligag to first base and then sit upon the bag; converse so intently with the opposing team's 3rd baseman that the runner was passed by his own teammate on the way home; and run in circles to avoid being tagged out. It was great fun, and every week we looked forward to bundling the family up for another game. We are excited for next year!

Sleepyhead

2010-06-09T07:00:00.000-07:00

Phoebe was just agitated. We couldn't figure out the problem. All through dinner we tried to coax her into contentedness with crackers, a water cup, her pacifier, and any number of crazy faces and words. She would have nothing to do with any of it. Exasperated, we finally gave up and prepared to battle our way to the end of the meal with her fussing in her high chair. At some point she quieted down, but by then the rest of our children were making such a ruckus trying to talk over one another that we didn't even notice. The last child finished, and all the kids eagerly asked to be excused. As soon as I gave the word 6 chairs went sliding across the wood floor in unison, followed by the clatter of 6 plates and glasses being cleared. On the way back into the dining room for more dishes Bethany said, "Ah! Look at Phoebe!"

We all turned towards the high chair to discover the reason for her blissful silence.

Necessary Accommodations

2010-06-05T11:44:00.000-07:00

It is a little warm on our lovely peninsula this weekend. When I say, "a little warm" I do not mean the mid-80s that many of you consider the definition of warm. Those temperatures are obviously relative to your heat, which hits the 100s plus during your summer. No, I refer to the blazing inferno of 72 degrees fahrenheit (with breeze). Hey, I never said we were heavy weights in the heat department. That's why we life were we do.

But I digress.

Leah came up to me holding a rubber band in her hand and asking me, quite seriously:

Mama, can you please put my hair up in a ponytail? I need you to because Bethany said if I don't have it put up then the back of my neck will suppocate!

She looks at me with her, "Can you believe it?" expression of incredulity. Then she calmly tosses this out as she walks away:

Or worse... the Sahara Desert.

Daisy the Dog

2010-06-05T07:00:00.000-07:00

Many of you may already know this, but adding a member to the family certainly bears repeating. Daisy the Dog became a Randall on April 11, 2010. This is more auspicious than merely adopting a pet... I mean, why would I write a blog about it unless there was a story?

Once upon a time I wanted a dog. I mean I really wanted a dog. I asked. I begged. I cajoiled. I persuaded. I argued. I begged again, until I finally got the hint that Christopher was not going to budge on the issue. Sure, he had some valid points, if you call severe allergies and possible exacerbation of Hannah's asthma legit. I think he was just putting me off. Among some of his other reasons were the recognition that a dog would add a level of responsibility he just wasn't sure we were ready to take on. We already had 4 kids. I'll let that sink in.

Four kids.

But, God started to speak to my heart, and convicted me that I would certainly not appreciate the games I was playing if the roles were reversed. Christopher had his reasons, and I needed to respect them. I wasn't going to enjoy any pet if it came into our home without the full acceptance of my husband. And, grrrrr, I also realized I was not honoring him in front of our children. While it was perfectly fine for me to point to Christopher as the authority behind the decision to refrain from getting a pet, it was not fine for me to make a point of showing the children my own disagreement with the decision over and over again. I decided to shut my mouth, and pray. Novel idea, I know.

A few years later we started looking at buying a house. In the middle of several pro v. con discussions Christopher noted that a pro to buying was the freedom to finally own a dog. I was stunned! I had no idea this was still on his radar. I immediately put in my plug to buy. Thankfully there were several other obvious factors pointing towards a decision to buy, so our mortgage isn't based solely on the ideal of a four-legged companion. However, I will admit that during every walk-through we went on during that laborious process the idea of how a dog would fit in the house was at the forefront of my mind. When we finally found our home the backyard was a shambles, and it was obvious we were not prepared to bring home a dog until some serious work had been completed. That work ended up taking us over a year from the time we closed escrow until we breathed a sigh of relief that it was finished.

The day we waved good-bye to our landscape contractors I turned to Christopher and asked if he was ready to make good on his promise. He smiled, and said he was happy to start looking for our family's canine member.

Woohoo!

I did tons of research, read tons of articles, spoke with my allergist, friends, and breeders before settling on a Cairn Terrier as the perfect pet for our home. We started looking earnestly for sellers with reputable breeding practices, and were shocked to discover that our puppy was going to cost us more than some of our children to bring home. Registration fees, initial vet fees, transportation fees, and finally adoption fees all added up to one expensive outlay. To his credit, my husband was willing to move forward, but this time it was me that just couldn't bring myself to take the plunge. I have no condemnation in my heart for AKC registered pets, and fully intend to own one myself someday - but not today.

Continuing to stalk the SPCA for the possibility of a rescued Cairn (as well as rescue and private breeder sites) I happened to read a friend's status update from Facebook. Her husband is in the military, and will soon be transferred to another duty station. She noted that their loving beagle needed a new permanent home, and wondered if anyone might have some leads. Hmmm... I wrote her back and told her that we might be interested. She immediately responded, expressing her excitement at the possibility of their beloved pet going to a family with children and a backyard. It all seemed to be happening so quickly!

Now I needed to tell Christopher.

When I sprang the news on him his initial reaction was less than exuberant. Apparently the thought of a dog was still more appealing than the actuality of a dog. However, he very graciously agreed to stop by our friends' house and meet Daisy. The next evening saw us sitting in the M's living room playing with the sweetest dog. She was gentle, playful, and not given to barking - all merits that we found appealing, to say the least! We discussed Daisy all the way home, and decided that a trial was in order. I called Mrs. M the following day, and asked if we could take Daisy for the weekend.

We told the kids we were dog-sitting (which was technically true) but failed to mention a deeper purpose of seeing if Daisy integrated well with our home. All the children were overjoyed at the idea of a dog. They kept saying things like, "We can pretend she is ours!" Christopher and I smiled to ourselves. After three days we knew it was time to make a decision. She was quiet and very gentle with the children but her willingness to play seemed nonexistent. Christopher noted that he really liked how laid back she was, but even he recognized that our family required a slightly more engaging pet. We assumed she was slightly depressed with the absence of her original family, and when I called Mrs. M to confirm my hunch she agreed. Christopher and I spoke that night, and agreed that we wanted to keep her.

Daisy then confirmed that she wanted to stay with us.

About 2 weeks after we made her adoption final, Daisy escaped from our yard. It was night, and we didn't realize she was gone for over an hour. When we did discover her absence we were sick with dread. Mr. and Mrs. M warned us that Daisy liked to, "take off" and could sometimes be gone for quite some time. She always returned, they encouraged, but we were nervous that her sense of "home" was not yet defined enough for her to come back to us. Christopher and I scoured the neighborhood but with no success. I went home to make some phone calls while Christopher continued in the car.

We realized there was a possibility that she would try to go back to the M's house, and I was scared that between her attempted Incredible Journey and the 350 foot acre open ranch across the street from our house I had a sinking dread that we had lost Daisy for good. Working hard to keep myself calm for the kids' sake I called everyone together in the living room, and explained that we needed to beseech God on behalf of our dog. We all got down on our knees in the middle of our living, and I began to pray to the Lord. Suddenly we heard a soft noise coming from the front door. My heart leapt to my throat as the possibility of what that noise could be came to my mind. I scrambled up, ran to the door and threw it open to reveal Daisy, scratching to be let in. She had been gone for over 2 hours.

Daisy had come home.

She is now happily a Randall. The trepidation we saw in her through those first several days has completely vanished. She plays with the children, loves to get lots of love from Christopher, and contentedly shares our life. We couldn't have asked for a better pet!

Conversations With A Genius

2010-05-17T18:20:00.000-07:00

Christopher and I have decided that Leah must remain perpetually 5. Her precociousness is mixed with just the right amount of tender wonder and innocence. The following two conversations are, verbatim, discussions I had with her just today.

Mama, what is that flag next the the American flag?

The California Flag.

Wow, are we going to go to California?

We live in California.

Hey, Mama, I got an idea. We could take a trip in our van from America to California. And we could drive there, and when we got there we could visit friends. Only, if the friends weren't home, and it was raining, then we might get wet and could die! So we would have to get some food, and then go back to South America. But we might not be able to drive there, so we would have to drive to an airport so that we could fly back, so that none of our children die. You would be so sad if that happened, because you love us.

You are right. I do love you all so much.

Yep, I know. Because I am smarter than anyone.

***

Mama, I am going to have a headache in about an hour.

Really?

Yep. Right now my left brain might start to hurt. So in an hour it is going to be a headache.

Do you have a headache right now?

No. Just that I am going to have one in an hour.

How do you know you are going to have a headache in an hour?

Because my left brain is going to hurt.

Oh, okay. Thanks for letting me know.

You're welcome.

Joining The Family

2010-05-12T08:21:00.000-07:00

Romans 10:9 says, "That if you confess with your mouth, 'Jesus is Lord,' and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved."

Saved from what?

That was the question Caleb has been wrestling with for some time. Through consistent time in church, countless conversations with his father and me, and I am sure not a little amount of wonder and frustration on his own part, he simply could not understand what was so bad about him that he needed a savior. After all, he is a pretty good kid. And he knows it. Come to think of it, why do any of us need a savior?

Sin.

It's a pretty small little word. And it makes me less palatable to some, perhaps you. That's okay. I am learning that God's approval means far more to me than man's. I am endeavoring to teach that lesson to my children as well - including Caleb. You see, he had a pretty common assumption about his worth; namely that because he wasn't so bad he really did deserve to be given a pardon for any wrongs he may have committed. You know, the ole hardened-criminal-turned-reformed-man-so-let-me-out-of-prison-early deal. Only it was easier for Caleb since he wasn't a hardened criminal (except to Mary). After all, what can a nearly 7 year old really do that is so offensive to a loving God that he would be committed to an eternal torment without a savior's forgiveness? I can see the logic in that question.

The problem is the measurement used for justification. We are pitifully limited, as humans, to truly understand much of anything outside of our own experiential scope. And let's face it, many times we are limited in understanding things even within our experiential scope. But one of the biggest mistakes we make in determining our worth is to lay ourselves beside one another and declare, with much pomp and circumstance, "I'm better than you are." Don't forget the 3rd grade-playground sing-songy voice. That is essentially what we say when we declare to the heavens, "I'm good enough to receive the blessings and glories of everything this life has to offer, and everything a life after death can bring because I wasn't that bad. I mean, did you get a load of that guy over there? He left his wife because he just didn't love her anymore. I stuck with my spouse even through that nasty business of bankruptcy. I'm better than he is. Oh, and check out my neighbor! She yells at her kids constantly, taking off at all hours of the night to do who knows what, while I had the patience and presence of mind to remain faithful to my own children, even when they rebelled against me. I'm better than she is. And don't even get me started on my co-workers, parents, and the vast majority of my friends. I regularly prove through my actions that I make better choices than they do. So... bring on the good stuff." Here is the problem with all that:

God is perfect.

God is the fullness of perfection, justice and love. So, when we go to Him and state our reasons for receiving a pardon they suddenly don't fly. While you might have felt pretty hot standing next to the local juvenile delinquent you can't even stand when you are in the presence of an all-mighty, most powerful and holy God. And the clincher is that no matter how hard we try from here on out, we will always have a past that keeps reminding us of how utterly unattainable perfection is for us.

Yep, we need a savior. In fact, we need not simply a little "s" savior, but a big "S" Savior.

In order to be saved from my own imperfection I can't merely have another imperfect human offer to make me perfect. The old saying, "two wrongs don't make a right" comes in handy to illustrate the simplicity of this concept. This would be akin to accepting the pledge of an already convicted criminal for the veracity of a tried criminal's character, and then the convicted criminal accepting any penalty the other fellow may deserve. Umm, yeah, that's not going to cut it. If we all thought justice could be served with this our prison systems would be empty. Nope, I need to be made perfect through the power of God. But it is God that requires me to be perfect. How does that work?

Romans 5:8 says, "But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us."

Yep, Jesus Christ, the bodily incarnation of the Deity (Col 2:9), willingly sacrificed himself for me so that I might be justified before a holy God. He required perfection from me, then supplied perfection for me. Caleb began to understand that through the past several months until finally, a few nights ago he came to us and confessed his need for a Savior.

Caleb realized that he could never be perfect. And he knew, as all humans do (Romans 1:2) that there is a Divine Master who is perfect. He began to desire reconciliation with his God, and trusted through faith that his God desired reconciliation with him, providing Christ as the mediator. As a result, Caleb was reborn spiritually.

On May 2, 2010 Caleb Joseph Randall became my brother in Christ.

Welcome to the family, son.

Future Reminiscence

2010-05-11T01:10:00.000-07:00

I am know there will be numerous things I miss about teeny people. I am able to realize that I probably don't appreciate several of those things right now. Christopher and I joke, often, about the noise level in our home now, and the way quiet will sound when it is deafening. I can't imagine being done with mispronounced words, baby burbles, sweet kisses, lullabies, first steps, and a million other insignificant treasures. Someday I will move on from this season, and my heart will break just a little each time I mark the passing of another milestone - for the last time.

Yes, there will most certainly be tears.

But, I can assure you, there are some things I won't miss. For instance, I am pretty sure that cleaning other people's bodily fluids can go the way of the dodo without a single thought of whimsical nostalgia. Greasy, Costco-pizza hands wiping across my sleeve will cause nary a tear to spring to this eye when that last meal is finished. Screaming. Yep, screaming and all its variants (including the whisper-yell my children do when I am trying to take a "nap") will be joyfully ushered out my front door.

Buh-bye.

Why do I bring this up? Because birthing and raising small children is not the eternal-season-of-contentment-if only-I could-figure-that-out. Heaven will not be me, slouched over a crib in 5-day old dirty sweats barely hanging onto sanity trying to coo an exhausted yet stubborn infant to sleep. I'm pretty sure I will have clean hair more than once a week, too.

I genuinely appreciate sage counsel, and even well-meant idioms can have their place. However, I really have grown weary of hearing, "You will miss it all when they are gone." No. I promise you, I won't miss it all. I will miss parts of it. I will be surprised by some of the things I do miss.

But I will never miss poop smeared across the wall, crib, bunk bed, face and floor... for the 4th time in a week. And that's okay.

Josiah The Gypsy

2010-03-17T22:06:00.000-07:00

I posted a status to my facebook page, stating that Josiah was a gypsy. One of my friends commented that there was obviously a story behind my statement, and by the way, what a great title my status would make for the book. I took her words to heart, and sat down to pen this little ditty. Every word is true.

A little boy, no more than 2,

Whose mama loved him, through and through

Was often called, by that same mom

A crazy, little gypsy bomb.

Josiah Boy (JB for short),

Loved to play all kinds of sport;

Like drawing on white walls with pen

Though Mama always scolded him.

Broken toys and books were found

Strewn across the house’s ground,

And Mama cried from every room,

“JB the gypsies must presume

That I will love you even though

You bring to me unending woe.”

Her youngest son would turn and grin,

Melting Mama’s heart within.

So, he again would race away

Finding somewhere new to play.

The Other Leah & Mary

2010-03-16T13:06:00.000-07:00

I overheard the following conversation yesterday...

Leah:
Mary, we broke Princess Mirabella's special jacket.

Mary:
No, we didn't.

Leah:
Yes, we did. Remember, we pulled off the sleeves.

Mary:
No, we didn't.

Leah:
Mary! It is broken, and we did it.

Mary:
No, Leah, that was the OTHER Leah and Mary.

Leah:
Oh. Okay.

Why Big Families Are Easier

2010-03-12T18:05:00.000-08:00

I read this little ditty, written by Matthew Archbold, on my friend Julie's blog. It so humorously captures the (in)sanity of our home.

Why big families are easier:

Patience. I never have to teach patience. My children know that I can’t drop everything for them if I have a baby in my arms.

Work Ethic. My children have learned to work because there are always chores to do in a small house packed with little messy lunatics. And they all learn quickly that sometimes they have to clean up a mess even though they didn’t make it.

Humility. My children have learned it’s not always their turn. They’ve accepted they can’t always get their way because other people have to get their way sometimes. They’ve learned that some children are better at certain things than they are.

Foreign language skills. You can learn a lot of Spanish by watching ten years of Dora the Explorer that you just can’t pick up in two. And now with the Diego spin off I’m practically fluent.

Laughter. The children have learned to laugh at the insane non sequiturs of younger siblings. They’ve learned that laughing just feels better when seven people are doing it along with you.

Competition. Do I really need to go into this? Everything is a competition in big families. The children compete over who reads faster, who drinks their milk faster, who gets to the bathroom first…etc. Everything is a competition and they’re all keeping score.

Balance. The floor of the front room of my home is a minefield of toys and childhood paraphernalia. Just walking through the room requires great skill and balance. I’m absolutely convinced my two year old will be a favorite for Gold on the balance beam in the 2016 Olympics. (She might have to lay off the cookies a little but I’ll deal with that later.)

Life isn’t fair. Sometimes you just give it to the baby because you want a little quiet. Not all the time. But sometimes.

Just say “No.” Being able to say “no” may be the most undervalued skill in this world. The need to be liked is pervasive. The need to be cool even more so. Having brothers and sisters teaches children to say “no” about 143 times a day. It’s a good skill.

Praying. They learn that nothing beats praying together as a family.

Nature/Nurture. Having many children has taught me that nature has a lot more to do with who my kids are than nurture. This is helpful, especially when your children misbehave you don’t have to feel bad about it. Just say “Stupid nature!!!” and blame your spouse’s genes.

Name calling. You can occasionally call your child by the wrong name and still not be considered a terrible parent. They know who you mean just from your tone. Sometimes if you need something done you can call the wrong name and someone will still show up. That helps.

Spying. My children have learned that they can’t get away with anything. I have spies who look a lot like them who are willing to drop the dime on them for anything. Even at school I’ve got a child in just about every grade. If they do something I’ll hear. That keeps them nervous. And I like keeping my kids a little nervous.

Friendship. The children have many friends. They’ve got girly friends, crying friends, fun loving friends, consoling friends, and crazy friends. And they all have the same last name. And they’ll be there forever for each other. No matter what.

Love. I think my children have learned to love because there are others around them to love and who love them. I honestly can think of no better way to teach children to love than siblings.

Someday

2010-03-03T19:45:00.000-08:00

You know those stories that you share, sides splitting with laughter, from your childhood? Not the ones that were funny at the time, rather the ones where you were thoroughly "busted". However, the striking absurdity of the moment bleeds through the years, and the hilarity simply can not be denied. I have a few from my own childhood. I have heard several from my friends and husband. And I know that through the parenting of my seven little people I am again experiencing them...

Today was just such a time.

The rain is slowly driving my entire family crazy. Through this time I have worked hard to maintain balance in my expectations. After all, the kids can't get outside to unleash their energy. Loud noise and rambunctious activities are going to be the norm. After an exceptionally boisterous morning I prepared to move into a rowdy afternoon, so you can imagine my surprise when Phoebe and Josiah both went down for their naps without any fuss. With the two little ones fast asleep, a break in the weather for my three middles to get some much needed outdoor time, and my older girls working on school I was lulled into a false sense of security.

I enjoyed the blissful quiet, making much needed use of it managing our banking.

A couple of hours later I needed to grab something out of the garage. The older girls were playing on the computer, Josiah and Phoebe were still napping and presumably the middles were somewhere outside.

I opened the garage door, and simply stared at what my eyes beheld.

Caleb, Leah and Mary decided the garage needed to be cleaned. However, instead of actually taking care of their messes, throwing away old art projects, finding the long lost matches to shoes shoved in the corners they thought the floor was in need of mopping. Okay, I am willing to admit that from time to time a thorough cleansing of said floor might be in order. But remember, this is the middle of winter, and it is raining outside... translated: Not The Right Time To Mop The Floor. Add to this the ever charming ingenuity of my scheming children and you get things like: mopping using rain water; mopping with paint rollers; mopping more than simply the floor.

Yes, indeed, I will one day hurt myself laughing silly over the mighty spectacle of my garage covered in rainwater run-off from the upside down lid of a large plastic container used to house outdoor toys. It will seem hysterical that my son thought using the meticulously cleaned roller brushes as a "mop" to roll water (carefully procured from the upside down lid mentioned above - which, it should be noted, had been brought into the garage and perched on a card table for convenient reloading) over the floor, carpet, suitcases, needing-to-be-broken-down cardboard boxes, refrigerator, washing machine, and card table was a good idea. Indeed, Mary's decision to sweep the area I use as a laundry room with her shedding, straw broom will send me into irrepressible giggles afresh. The sheer determination to touch every exposed surface with dirty water will be humor defined.

Someday.

The Accidental Slap

2010-03-02T13:00:00.000-08:00

I love it when my kids confess... especially when they haven't been "caught" first. Leah just came inside, already crying with shame over what she needed to share.

I accidentally slapped Mary...

*I stare at her with the What-More-Do-You-Need-To-Say look. She takes a deep breath, between sobs, and continues.*

...in the head...

*More staring, deeper breathing, harder sobs.*

...with my baby doll...

You accidentally slapped Mary in the head with your baby doll?

...because I was angry.

I think the term, "accident" is perhaps too liberally applied.

Oatmeal

2010-03-01T13:00:00.000-08:00

Oatmeal. Apparently it is all the rage. I first noticed the advertisements for, "Slow-Cooked, Steel-Cut Oatmeal" several months ago while standing in line at a Jamba Juice. Then, so as not to miss out on the latest health-nut obsession, Starbucks introduced their version of cooked, oaty perfection. Still, between Jamba Juice and Starbucks you are handling a boutique crowd - one that is generally thinking beyond the quick fast-food fix.

Whoa! Then I saw the advertisements for oatmeal at McDonald's!

McDonald's? Really?

Yep, even the MacDaddy of fast food is trying to cash in on the health conscious craze sweeping through the breakfast options.

The reason I find all this particularly amusing is not because I doubt the validity of oatmeal's claims to be a delicious, hearty, and nutritious breakfast item. I chuckle because my own family began eating slow-cooked, steel-cut oatmeal long before it was trendy. We started utilizing this robust, steaming bowl of goodness as a means to stretch our dollar while providing nutrition far beyond the typical breakfast cereal. And since so many of my children suffer from allergies particularly noted for breakfast preparation (read: eggs and dairy), oatmeal seemed the ideal solution. Only Mary, and her severe allergy to oats, is left out of our morning ritual.

We like ours with sukanat and cold-pressed flax seed oil.

A Cautionary Tale

2010-02-26T10:00:00.000-08:00

Many of you are already aware of my consistent failure to pick the best check-out line in any given store. I should actually restate this and say that many of you are aware of my consistent failure to pick any line besides the slowest, longest, and most complicated check-out line in any given store. If you are not in the know please check out this POST before proceeding.

I still have not learned my lesson.

There are new examples for my line-picking saga practically daily. Well, every time I pick a line to be exact. I take it in stride, and don't really think it merits an entire post just to say, "Yep, it happened again." But yesterday was a new one for me.

I ran to the grocery store for a few necessities. I decided to go through the self-check, and just as I began loading my few items onto the black ribbon of death (see the above post for that explanation) a man came up behind me holding a single loaf of bread.

A. Single. Loaf. Of. Bread.

Now, I have been me for my whole life, and I know that my line will be delayed. But I feel badly for those people who are not me, and innocently get in line behind my shopping cart believing they have chosen an efficient line. I tend to apologize in advance to these people, warning them away from the imminent danger that I represent. In fact, during one such conversation in Costco the woman behind me stated, "Oh sweetie, you can't believe that. You have to make your own luck with the stars." Um... yeah. The line still took three times as long as any other with the customer in front of me arguing over which pack of ladies shavers were represented in the latest coupon circular.

So, I took pity on this poor unsuspecting soul, and told him that he could go ahead of me. He was obviously surprised, and graciously accepted my offer with a flourish of thankful tidings. He popped up to the check-out machine, ran his loaf of bread across the scanner and dropped it into a bag.

*Item Not Found*

He ran the loaf of bread again. This time the machine recognized the loaf. I shook off the sense of impending doom. "See," I thought to myself, "it was just a glitch. It really isn't always about me." The gentleman proceeded to the checkout screen, and selected the cash payment option. "Perfect! How much easier can you get than pay by cash?"

*Payment Not Recognized*

He shrugged, sheepishly smiling at me as if to apologize for his transaction not going as smoothly as my invitation to allow him to proceed me should make it. I smiled back. It could still just be an unrelated glitch.

Again, he chose the cash payment. The screen blinked, proceeding momentarily to the *Payment Not Recognized* message before thinking better of it and moving to the directions for inserting your cash into the kiosk. The man began to place his perfectly smooth, freshly minted $5 dollar bill into the slot.

*Invalid Payment. Please Remove.*

He stood, staring at the slot where his perfectly smooth, freshly minted $5 dollar bill had disappeared seconds earlier, waiting for the kiosk to spit it back out.

*Invalid Payment. Please Remove.*

The perfectly smooth, freshly minted $5 dollar bill remained inside the beast.

*Please Remove Your Items.*

He picked up his single loaf of bread.

*Item Removed Unexpectedly. Please Return Item.*

He replaced his single loaf of bread.

*Please Choose A Payment Option.*

By this time I knew this was no random glitch in the system. This poor man had to experience these baffling complications, while purchasing his single loaf of bread with cash, in order for me to rest in the assurance that God has not chosen to move on from his pet game of checkout guerrilla warfare.

We finally got a supervisor to come and clear the machine with a fantastic amount of secret codes and key turning. The gentleman was able to get the machine to return his change for the perfectly smooth, freshly minted $5 dollar bill, and he left with his single loaf of bread.

Let this be a cautionary tale for you:

Don't ever let me do you any favors if we ever happen to stand next to one another in a line.

Crazy Hair!

2010-02-23T16:03:00.000-08:00

Our children are heavily involved in our church's AWANA program. I love it... except for all the additional extra-curricular activities. For instance, each year we have the Mayflower Boat races, AWANA Grand Prix, and Crazy Hair and Feet Night. Mostly these added "fun" nights create more opportunity for me to be the cruel, heartless parent of Cinderella fame. I am the one who reminds them that creating the Millennium Falcon out of a pine wood block in 12 hours is really not possible. Equally impossible is the tall sails ship where the height of the sails is roughly equivalent to the length of the boat, and the depth of the keel is approximately 0. Am I the only one who sees a slight problem with that design? And so, year after year we muddle through the expectations, tears, hopes, and time required by these sadistic events - meant to inspire family unity and childhood memories.

Well, I finally had enough of the Monster Mother profile, and this year's Crazy Hair night was something to behold! I am utterly thankful that I have a full year to recover.

Lessons

2010-02-23T15:28:00.000-08:00

While Letters From Odd may have taken a retreat of silence don't be fooled into thinking nothing was happening. Several lessons made themselves abundantly clear in the time spanning the last blog entry and today. For instance, did you know that it really isn't wise to leave the hot tub cover off for the entire night?

Lesson #673

Even when you have diaper cream ointment on your fingers, are multitasking to the tune of 7 queued functions, and are trying to cram in more opportunities for your girls to enjoy their out of town friends it is still quite necessary for the cover to be replaced on the hot tub when you are done using it. The poor motor must have run nearly non-stop trying to keep the temp up during the night!

Lesson #674

Even though it might sound like a cute idea to let a 3 year old, 4 year old and 5 year old sleep in the same bed for a treat the truth is: it isn't. Claire, one of our visiting out of towners, Leah and Mary all huddled into the top bunk of the girls' bed to enjoy some girly time. We presumed they would eventually fall asleep, exhausted from a long day of playing together outside. We were wrong. Exhaustion only took over when threatened discipline overrode their exuberance for more giggling, and at nearly 12:30 in the morning they finally gave up the ghost.

Lesson #675

While it may seem to be a perfectly sane idea to swing from a long rope by your teeth you must tell yourself (over and over) that it is actually insane until that truth is embedded in your brain. If you are Caleb it will only finally make it to your brain after you have lost a tooth.

Bunk Beds

2010-02-07T22:59:00.000-08:00

I don't mean to complain. Okay, maybe I do.

How on earth do you efficiently change the sheets on bunk beds - Specifically the top bunk (I find I am rather proficient with the bottom one)?

We have used bunk beds for seven years. That may not sound like a long time, but in terms of sheet changes it may as well be an eternity. And since my torture wasn't enough I went ahead and added a second set. These are full over full bunks, so managing the top mattress is even more cumbersome and awkward. O Joy!

I often wonder, as I again rationalize why I don't need to change those sheets just yet, if other parents allow their bunk bed using children to wallow in filth the way I do. I can't possibly be alone. Am I the only one missing the brilliant light bulb?

I come to your with my query because the unthinkable happened in my house last night. One of the children got sick in the top bunk. Ugh! I always loved the way my mom would put me in the bath while she changed my sheets. After the scary and uncomfortable ordeal it felt so good to climb into a clean bed. I want that for my own children. In fact, I did that for my own children until they moved into bunk beds. Now I have to opt for the pallet-on-the-floor version of a clean bed until morning when I can wrest the mattress over the guard rail, hoist the comforter back onto the bed, travel up and down a step stool countless times, and finally stretch myself out on the bottom bunk poking and pulling the blankets until they are smooth on top. I have finally learned how to manage the twin bunk by myself, but the double bunk is impossible to do alone. That just affirms the ridiculousness of this situation. How absurd is it that we need two adults to change a set of sheets?

There must be a better way...

Torpedos

2010-01-30T21:13:00.000-08:00

Tonight at dinner we were discussing the relative merits of spiders. Well, mostly we were all bemoaning how icky spiders are, regardless of their food-chain necessity. Hannah made the astute observation that what really bothered people was the fact that spiders suck blood.

Leah was the first to comment. Bear in mind that earlier in this same conversation she made the rather outrageous statement that she LOVED spiders.

Ewwww. Yeah, that's icky. I don't like that.

So, you don't love spiders anymore, Leah?

Well, what I really don't like are the flying spiders that land on you, here (points to her arm), and then eat your blood. You know, torpedos.

Leah continued eating her dinner. The rest of us all stopped, staring at her with a mixed expression of bewilderment and humor.

Torpedos?

Yeah, torpedos.

You maybe mean, mosquitos?

Oh, uh huh, mosquitos.

She never stopped eating, and when Christopher and I erupted in laughter it was her turn to stare at us in bewilderment. I will never again look the same way at a mosquito.

Is That Entirely Necessary?

2010-01-29T14:30:00.000-08:00

After 6 children Christopher and I decided it was time to purchase a baby bottle/toy sanitizer. Best not rush into these decisions too quickly. Actually, the impetus came from ongoing complications I experienced while nursing Josiah. I must use a special piece of equipment for nursing because of unsustainable milk supply issues. The product, called a Supplemental Nursing System (SNS), is a life saver for moms like me. However, it contains incredibly small tubes that must be cleaned regularly. This is so much easier said than done. I contracted thrush with Josiah, and simply could not get it to go away because I could never get these tiny tubes consistently clean. I ultimately had to wean in order to fully care for both me and Josiah appropriately.

I was determined to not let that happen again.

So, Christopher and I strolled through the Babies R Us across the street from the hospital, pushing our tiny 5 day old Phoebe in the cart, and spending a few quiet moments as a family of three before heading home for the rest of our lives while we looked for a home sanitizer that could clean my SNS parts. We found the perfect model, easily used for pacifiers, small teething toys, and most especially my long SNS tubes.

There is only one problem.

The designers of this model recognized, rightly so, that parents would probably wish to be notified when the sanitizing cycle was complete. In order to accomplish this feat they assigned red, yellow then green lights to come on during the different times of the cycle. Perfect. Now what would be really great, the developers thought, would be a beep that could alert parents who might not have the time to sit and stare at the progression of lights. Again, perfect. They then outsourced this single task to a man who sits in a small dark room, alone, and with nothing to do but test the sounds of different beeps. He long ago came upon a favorite one that had never really been given its time in the sun. He was saving it for the perfect project, knowing it would be something too special to waste on a microwave, the preheat function of an iron, or even a cell phone menu. I know this because the individual who programmed our sanitizer chose to alert parents through a beep that sounds 16 times.

Sixteen times.

It takes a full 60 seconds for the beeping to finish alerting every adult in the neighborhood that my SNS tubes are sanitized.

I am happy to report that I have not experienced a lick of thrush through nursing Phoebe. I do believe a lot of this has to do with my new management of the the SNS tubes. And I am utterly thankful for the 16 beeps, which keep me in the know every time my sanitizer is finished. I was really concerned that I might miss the moment it ended, but am so relieved to find that the designers took all necessary precautions.

Tuesday's Tip

2010-01-26T07:00:00.000-08:00

Ha! You thought I forgot, didn't you. It's okay, you can admit it - I have ignored you for quite some time. So, what tip could I have for this Tuesday?

Put your meal plan on your calendar - preferably the one you carry in your purse.

I always knew the value of a meal plan was practically limitless. It relieves stress, gives your shopping some guidance, allows you to make use of coupons or sales more efficiently... really, you could just add up all the pros right here and the list would be way too long for this blog. I was once again reminded of the need to have a meal plan by my very helpful husband who, while being entirely willing to help in so many areas, really can't stand walking into his house after work and finding there is no dinner in sight. Better even than that is when he is met with, "What should I fix for dinner, babe?" Yes, I need to honor his time, and our family's 9 bellies better.

However, there is a con. Two to be precise.

1 - making it.

2 - keeping it.

I tackled the first over a couple of days, pulling out the ole pen and paper to once again write down our meal choices that everyone generally likes, are easy to make, and fit with our finances. I assigned each to a day, rotated through a 2-week cycle, and even provided some easy "outs" for nights when things just might be a little too crazy for Duck a l'Orange. Great! I sighed contentedly at my accomplished piece of work before realizing I had only won half the battle.

A help for the other half of that battle (where I traditionally fail) is this Tuesday's Tip.

Keeping a meal plan is about buying your groceries in a way that makes sure you have all the items in stock when it comes to Thursday, and meatloaf is on the menu. Ingredients, side dish options, perhaps dessert all need to be handy if the value of pre-planning is going to pay off. Otherwise you are stuck with more stress. Now, instead of throwing something together with little fuss you either: a) cheat, and use another day's menu, for which you have ingredients, thereby creating editing/grocery work in your plan for the remaining week or b) you feel the compulsion to make a last minute dash to the store in order to fulfill the menu plan. I am sure we can all relate to how thoroughly pleasant last-minute, dinnertime grocery shopping is.

So, I literally wrote down every day's meal plan from now until kingdom come in my personal calendar. This isn't as impressive as it sounds. I use an iTouch, and I just repeated the meals indefinitely. The reason I did this is because I often find myself coming or going from one errand or another, and stopping in at the store isn't any skin off my nose. Now I don't have to rely on always having a prepared list before I can dash in and grab a few things for upcoming meals, saving me from the dinnertime blues!

The Fat Chance Plan

2010-01-23T21:18:00.000-08:00

Caleb: Mama, I have a plan and I'm not going to tell you.

Mama: Fine, don't tell me.

Caleb: Okay, I'll tell you.

His word is like oak.

(By the way, the "plan" involved using his new Nerf gun in the house during the wee hours of the morning before anyone else awoke.

Repeat after me: Fat. Chance.)

Just a Little Off The Top

2010-01-22T22:00:00.000-08:00

I noticed Leah walk through the kitchen as I started to prepare for dinner. Something was amuck with her hair.

Leah?

Huh? (She paused long enough to scrunch her face into its characteristic look of questioning - nose crinkled, mouth half open with one side drawn up towards her cheek. It's not the prettiest thing you have ever seen, I assure you.)

What is wrong with your hair?

Uh.

Come here, Leah. (I wait for her to come to me before noting that there is definitely a thatch of bangs no longer attached). Is your hair cut?

Um... (begins to cry) yes!

Leah! What were you doing cutting your hair? (No answer. More tears.) You need to go to my room and wait for me.

I must confess that the pathetic look of pure misery, coupled with her new do were enough to make me start laughing right then! I had to hide my chuckles behind a cupboard door for fear of being found out. Moments later I was composed enough (read: dinner prep was at an appropriately "pausable" place) and I went to get the whole scoop from her.

Leah, what happened?

Caleb cut it.

(Oh, this was better than I imagined...)

Caleb? Caleb cut your hair?

Yes!

Did you say, "No!"?

Uh huh. I told him I didn't think it was a good idea, but he did it anyway.

(It just keeps going! Leah is trying to convince me that SHE was the voice of reason behind her brother's unsolicited assault on her hair. Classic.)

Alright. You stay here while I go talk to Caleb.

(As I left the room I felt pretty good that my threat of actually talking to the accused would send shivers up her scape-goat using spine.)

Caleb?

Yep.

Did you cut your sister's hair?

Yep.

You cut Leah's hair?

Uh huh.

(I am baffled. Caleb is standing in front of me, batting not an eye lash while revealing the darker workings of his mind.)

Where did you cut it?

In the garage.

What did you do with the hair?

I stuffed it under the shelves.

Did she tell you not to?

Yes.

(At this revelation I am stunned, for to have Caleb agree that Leah did in fact tell him not to means it's the gospel truth - and my daughter actually made the right choice... for once.)

And you did it anyway?

Uh huh.

Why?

Um... I guess, because I wanted to.

Son, did you have permission to use the scissors?

No.

Did you have permission to cut her hai - nevermind. (These are the things you say before you really think about what you are saying!) You never have permission to cut someone's hair, or cut your own. Do you understand?

Uh huh.

(Now what to do with him. After all, in most cases the victim of hairstyling crimes is also the perpetrator, and the several months it will take to renew a look of normalcy to their tresses is enough to saturate the point of, "Thou Shalt Leave Well Enough Alone." This was different.)

Son, you will be given a special haircut by Daddy when he gets home. I hope this helps you appreciate what you did to Leah.

I personally think he got off easy.

Love Languages

2010-01-16T15:10:00.000-08:00

I read a book some time ago called, The Five Love Languages written by Gary Chapman. It revolutionized my understanding of receiving and expressing love. The concept is very basic, but nevertheless incredibly difficult to actually realize. The main point is that we each are wired to receive love in a specific way, generally categorized into one of the following:

Gifts

Words of Affirmation

Physical Touch

Acts of Service

Quality Time

I think these categories are pretty self-explanatory - nonetheless, here is a brief description of each. GIFTS: Bethany is a classic Gifts. She makes little treasures for presents constantly, and even the smallest token, given as a gift, means the world to her. WORDS OF AFFIRMATION: Caleb couldn't be more transparent with his need for encouraging words. Telling him how proud we are of him, how much we love him, or how well he accomplished something sends him over the moon. PHYSICAL TOUCH: Leah loves to cuddle. She climbs up into our laps, Nana's lap, Jill's lap, even the laps of complete strangers. Holding hands, giving kisses, and being in close physical proximity are a must for her. ACTS OF SERVICE: My kids know that to bless me is to take care of stuff around the house - trash, vacuum, dishes, laundry, you name it... if you do it, I love it! QUALITY TIME: Hannah loves nothing better than to spend time in togetherness. Anything from conversing over recent events to a rousing game of Sorry can be used to satisfy her desires.

Of course there are nuances that create layers and diversity among these generic five. And there are also differences in how you relate to different people. For instance, I enjoy Acts Of Service from my children, Quality Time from my husband, and Words of Affirmation from my mom (don't bother me with Gifts... they mean practically nothing to me).

This was all incredibly illuminating the first time I was exposed to it. Christopher and I have very different love languages (Quality Time/Acts of Service v. Physical Touch/Words of Affirmation). This required some real work to specifically chose to do those things which meant value to the other. It is much easier for me to stop everything and participate in a discussion than to launch into a verbal treatise on all the ways I value and appreciate my husband. He can rub my back for hours but can't wrap his head around my need to talk.

And this is true with our kids as well.

Recently I found myself explaining the concept of love languages to Hannah. You see, if we don't consistently get what we need to feel loved then we tend to shut down, become angry or even bitter. The sad thing is that often it is not a matter of someone not loving you enough, but rather the means of communicating love missing its mark. Remember me and my husband? He could bring home flowers, a card, jewelry and symphony tickets every other week but I would still feel neglected and unloved! Why? Because I need him to sit across from me and genuinely ask me how I am doing. I need him to spend time listening to me and sharing with me more than anything else. When he does I am so much more capable of doing those things which mean the world to him.

Hannah and I are on very different planes in this season of life. She desperately wants Quality Time from me while I really want Acts Of Service from her. She doesn't want to do those little extras that speak love to me. They are boring and unrewarding. I don't want to spend another 30 minutes a night engaging with a child after a whole day of it. It is evident that neither one of us is working to serve the other person, and both of us are getting testy.

It was good to be reminded of the different ways people give and receive love. And my hope is that it empowers Hannah to better understand herself, and me as she grows older and more mature. I think it is a real asset to recognize that everybody is not wired the same as you. But, I am still the adult in our relationship - and the buck stops with me. So I have committed to spending time each day interacting with her in concerted ways. I know that as she grows more secure in feeling loved by me it will become easier for her to respond in kind.

It just never gets easy.

Missionaries

2010-01-05T10:00:00.000-08:00

Christopher and I have never felt personally attached to missions. We see the importance of them, and our church strongly supports them, so we kind of figured we would simply trust our church with our tithe and live vicariously through it. That all changed a few months ago when we met Jeff and Heidi Frazee. They have a heart for the Mali people in Africa, and just recently left after their commissioning service in San Jose. We are thrilled to see what God has in store for them.

Our attachment to them wasn't because of their desire to serve in Mali - we didn't know much about these people, or their needs. But rather there genuineness and willingness to be upfront with the uncertainty of what exactly God was doing with them. Jeff has a degree in visual art and uses the mediums of photographer and video beautifully. Heidi is a stay at home mom with her 5th baby on the way. They homeschool their small children. In other words, they aren't the missionaries we often see coming through First Baptist Church, Monterey. They struck us.

Christopher and I are now supporting the Frazees outside of our church giving. We have connected with Jeff and Heidi personally, and feel almost giddy with the prospect of being in their back pocket as they travel to France for a year (learning French) before continuing to Africa. Our heart to support them has obviously been communicated to our children. What a neat thing!

Hannah mentioned to me yesterday that she thinks she wants to be a missionary to Africa. I asked her why, and she simply replied that she, "just wanted to." Kenya was her nation of choice, and we chatted for a few minutes about the possibilities of this occupation. Then Caleb chimed in from the backseat.

I want to be a missionary too - to North Carolina.

Oh yeah, Caleb?

Yep. I am going to go there as soon as I learn the language.

Well, you let me know how that goes for you.

The Innocent Lie

2009-12-26T13:37:00.000-08:00

I have a bone to pick. You can skip this blog if you're not in the mood. I won't be offended. I think I just need to share with candor, and hopefully gentleness, something that really bothers me.

The Innocent Lie.

I am not speaking of those lies that children try to pass off on their parents. Rather, I am speaking of the lies parents participate in towards their children. And even more specifically, I am speaking of the lies spoken to make childhood myths come alive, and appear real for that season in life when the innocence of children is at its best.

Santa Clause.

Tooth Fairy.

Easter Bunny.

Leprechauns.

I don't find these innocuous. I am in the minority - at least it appears that way from my many conversations with acquaintances, relatives and friends. I came to think that perhaps I was simply a miser - a glory hog who didn't want to share any of the credit for her hard work with some red-suited, white-whiskered relative stranger who manages to show up when everything is peachy but doesn't stay around long enough to help clean up any of the mess.

It must be me.

But I still couldn't swallow it. I sat down and really thought about what my problem was with these traditions. I realized that the answer is in the fact that children are being lied to, encouraged by their parents (who are entrusted to teach them truth) to falsely believe something they know to be unreal. Okay, so we admit that these imaginary beings aren't real. Where's the harm in letting children use their imaginations to heighten the fun during these few short years?

Hey, let me be the first to say that I love imagination! My children regularly come up with all manner of games that create worlds outside of this one. They are princesses in far distant palaces, flying across the sky on magical beings. Or perhaps they are knights riding into the burning sunset made brilliant by two suns! Multi-colored robes, enchanted wands, and supernatural powers are the norm for a make-believe world worth it's weight in imagination. I happily encourage all these fancies! So, what's the difference between the Easter Bunny and a world filled with talking bunnies who each have their own special power?

I am not lying to them, telling them their talking bunnies are real.

The problem with a lie is that eventually the truth comes out. It always does. Perhaps it takes years rather than a few moments, but in the end... out it comes. And when it does you have broken trust. After all, a lie is a lie. But so many adults have gotten lost in the idea that the adventure of believing that lie is worth the pain and confusion when the truth comes to light.

How can we be so obtuse? I would imagine that my children are not vastly different from others. One of the largest lessons I am constantly working to teach is the value of truth. Lying in our home warrants a double dose of discipline - one for the disobedient action and the other for the lie. Our mantra is, "You will always get into more trouble if you lie." How can I work to train my children to understand the absolute necessity and value of truth if I am engaged in purposely falsifying facts in order to encourage my children to believe something that is a lie? How can my children utterly trust my word as they grow if they know, deep down inside, that I have not always been 100% honest with them?

Lastly, I fear the possible ramifications of these "innocent" lies on the trusting hearts of my children as they walk their own faith journeys. We tell our children that Santa Clause is real, but you can't see him. We tell our children that the Easter Bunny is real, but you can't see him. We tell our children that the Tooth Fairy and leprechauns are real, but you can't see them. We tell our children there is a God who is real, but you can't see him. Then we reveal that Santa Claus is a lie. We share that the Easter Bunny is fake. We finally let our kids in on the truth that the Tooth Fairy and leprechauns were all pretend.

But we somehow want our children to retain the truth that God is still real - He still exists even though everything else they used faith to trust in has been proven false by the very people who should have protected that unique ability to accept truth without jaded reservation. We inadvertently create cynical human beings who have the propensity to eye the world through a subconscious filter of distrust.

Do I exaggerate?

Perhaps not every child becomes disenchanted with the wonder and blessing of seeing the beauty beyond their own empirical observation, but I am unwilling to take the chance. I will not require from my children something I am unwilling to give to them in return.

Honesty.

Hectic

2009-12-21T20:58:00.000-08:00

Christmas is just around the corner. I realized this tonight as I prepare to wrap presents (no chuckling, snorting, finger pointing or comments from the peanut gallery welcomed). This time of year tends to take anyone's breath away with its sheer velocity of opportunistic events. Commitments abound and season's festivities overflow as one invitation after another arrives to join some worthy tradition guaranteed to spark holiday merriment in even the basest of scrooges.

In a word this time of year is: hectic.

In our home it is no different. Well, maybe a little different. After all we have seven little people to usher through the perils of traditions. On top of that we have three birthdays. Did you miss that?

Three Birthdays.

Bethany turns 9 in just a couple of days - December 23rd to be exact. She is planning a sleepover with a friend for the 22nd, and then a family dinner of her choice for the 23rd. She wants buttermilk pancakes for her meal. She happens to think that McDonald's pancakes are the best, and each year on her birthday I am forced to find a way to duplicate this nutritionless wonder of white flour. Mind you, I make pancakes rather often... from fresh milled whole wheat berries, honey, and cinnamon. Yeah.

Next comes Mary, who will be four (my fingers froze for an entire moment after typing that number) on the 27th. Her birthday falls on Sunday, which is usually roast night. She too gets to pick her meal of choice, but roast might be the winner. We happened to have it tonight (we were out of town last night) and she literally ate me under the table. I think she might be a carnivore at heart.

Hannah's birthday finally closes down the year on the 30th. She is going to Valley Fair Shopping Center with me, her best friend and her best friend's mom on the 28th. At nearly 11 the delights of shopping are opening up, and rather than take the booty in gifts she prefers the delights of cash. I can't say I blame her. I have long preferred the known gift of my own choosing over the surprise of someone else's pick. She is also speculating on going out to dinner rather than staying in. She's got good taste.

So, here I sit on the 21st with nearly 10 solid days of festivities before me. I'm pooped just writing about it. But I'll see you on the flip side with some great tales to share!

Star Wars

2009-12-15T13:00:00.000-08:00

When you asked Caleb what his favorite movie was he would answer either Star Wars, or Robin Hood. There was nothing terribly shocking in those selections, except that he had never seen Star Wars! Undaunted, as he often is, the truth of Star Wars being one of his most favorite movies simply resonated in his soul, and didn't require the actual viewing for proof.

We finally decided it was time to test his devotion with the real deal.

The first episode he watched was the original Star Wars. I was at book club. He was riveted, my husband tells me, and I definitely heard quite a bit about the story the next day. He even said this to me a few days following:

Mama, can me and you have time to watch a movie, just the two of us?

Sure, Caleb. That would be nice.

We could maybe watch, Star Wars!

The opportunity presented itself sooner than I expected. Christopher took his four older daughters on a date to see, The Princess and The Frog. The afternoon was wide open, Josiah and Phoebe were both sleeping so I suggested that we watch, Empire Strikes Back. Caleb was game.

I am not sure what I enjoyed more - watching a great movie or watching my son watch a great movie. There were several wonderful moments during the 129 minutes, but these are the best three.

1: Nowhere did Caleb need to cover his eyes, shy away from the action, or ask me to fast-forward through one of the many fighting scenes. He watched, with great patience, and interest as Storm Troopers, Rebels, X-Wings, and Star Cruisers duked it out on our television screen. However, there was ONE time he felt compelled to cover his eyes with both hands... when Leia kissed Luke in front of Han after Luke's near death experience on Hoth. "Is it over yet?" he asked.

2: Luke lands on Dagobah and meets the, "cutest little green man" Caleb has ever seen. He chirps, coos, and sighs about the adorable creature, so excited to see the green character on film. Suddenly, he stares wide-eyed at me and proclaims, "THAT'S Yoda!!" Oh, to watch the movie again for the first time.

3: The great moment of truth drew closer, and I sat on the edge of my seat waiting for the moment I knew was coming... and went. Caleb didn't say anything when Darth revealed his identity. I realized quickly that it was because he didn't really understand what was said, so I rewind and coax him through the dialogue, until finally his eyes brighten with the truth. Darth is Luke's father! He literally falls out of his chair and onto the floor in his melodramatic way. Then he sits back up, stares at the screen open-mouthed and says, "So, Luke has to do whatever Darth says, now?" Apparently I have done my job right, and children obeying their parents will last well into his adulthood.

I love it!

Our Backyard

2009-12-13T12:56:00.001-08:00

This is probably not breaking news to many of you, but it still surprises me to look out my window and see my new backyard! I am so thrilled with the final results. However, it hasn't always been lovely to stare out my window.

When we first looked at our home there was more potential than actual value. The entire house was run down, in need of some serious love. The backyard was no different. A random paver patio surrounding small fruit trees planted under a clothesline was only one part of the haphazard design. Other gems included a raised butterfly garden shaped, well, like a circle drawn by my 3 year old. The side yard was a mishmash of hard-packed dirt flower beds, widely varied paver styles, and weeds. To say it was ugly would be an understatement. There were two poured concrete patios, one attached directly to the house and one tucked into the back corner of the yard. The second smaller one must have been poured to create a foundation for a shed. This might have been a nice touch, except it was irregularly shaped and sat at odd angles to the fence line. Ugh.

We bought our home as a foreclosure. The money we were saving ourselves from a non-standard sale would be spent caring for the run-down state of the house. Things like refinishing the hardwood floors, replacing all the kitchen appliances, and painting the entire inside of the house were no-brainers. Purchasing a substantially smaller home than we previously lived in meant we had to find living space in every nook, so the backyard was also one of the projects planned from the very beginning, the vision being that it would provide an extension of sorts to the living space inside. However, once the inside of the house was functional the outside got somewhat forgotten.

Josiah was the impetus behind reviewing our project. His boy-ness required constant supervision, and activity. A secured, safe backyard was the only choice to continue enjoying our little boy. We also realized that our decision to home educate meant sacrifices in certain activities that required balance. Physical fitness, and kinesthetic learning were factors we took seriously. We set to work researching play structures, discussing ideas, and refining our vision for the space. Finally we settled upon a design that took into consideration the needs of the yard, our budget, and as much aesthetics as possible.

We found a company called CedarWorks located in Maine. They work with individual families to create play structures that are uniquely designed for their specific needs. Through them we drew plans for a play set sturdy enough for all 7 of our children. Using white cedar, a naturally splinter-free and rot resistance wood, the structure would last through all my children and be available for my grandchildren! This would become the central focus of our yard, and create a wonderful diversion for all our children.

Adding the elements to surround the play structure was our next task. We chose commercial playground quality cedar chips for the base of the play set. Our trampoline was also nestled into the pit made from these chips. A paver path wrapped the house, and bordered the pit so someone could access the far side yard without traipsing through wood chips. We also purchased new large pavers for the other side yard, creating a useable space for storage, and easy accessibility. I desperately wanted something green to look at, so a strip of lawn was added behind the larger concrete patio - the only thing we kept from the original backyard. The final touch was a gift from my mom - her perfectly working 6 person hot tub!

So, we are now complete. I added the photo album on the right side of the blog. Take a peek. And if you are in the neighborhood please drop by. Make sure to bring the kids, and your suits!

And So It Begins...

2009-11-25T15:14:00.001-08:00

I didn't think I would like it as much as I did. I wasn't prepared for the sense of satisfaction, completion, or excitement I felt when it was over. But here I sit, on the other side of 50,000 words, and I can hardly believe it!

I finished my NaNoWriMo project a full week early, pushing out an unheard of (to me, anyway - if you are a cyborg that regularly manages this feat, I don't want to hear it) 10k words in a staggering 5 hours. FIVE HOURS. I wanted to finish while at a NaNoWriMo event called the Night Of Writing Dangerously write-a-thon in San Francisco this past weekend. I thought it would be neat to have my final hurrah happen with other Wrimos. I won't be doing that again (the 10k in 5 hours, not the event). However, I will be writing for NaNoWriMo again.

And what am I going to do with my current manuscript, you ask?

Edit. Edit. Edit.

I can hardly wait to begin. I knew I really enjoyed writing, but I wasn't expecting it to so fully engage my heart. I really love the story I am weaving, learning the characters, and watching as my protagonist did things for which I was utterly unprepared.

Here is my nod to an Acknowledgements page:

Thanks to my wonderful husband, who gave me the time I needed to stick my nose in my laptop... again. My kids were great, giving me inspiration, and laughing at the right parts when I read sections out loud. My parents were a wonderful support, giving me the financial gift of attending the NaNoWriMo write-a-thon. My mom, Jill and Carolyn were the best in sacrificing their schedules to watch my crazy seven children, giving me and Christopher the first 2-night stay away from the kids in 9 years. Birthing a baby doesn't count for that one. Thanks to all my friends who told me I could do it! Especially when I was convinced the story line roughly resembled Dog Chow - Dog Chow being the more appetizing.

And so it begins... the work of turning this burly manuscript into a sleek thing of beauty.

Changing The Layout

2009-11-12T17:42:00.000-08:00

Just ignore all the proverbial clutter and dust. I am working on changing the blog, and blundering my way through html, xml, and all manner of other mls. Hopefully, you will soon see something pretty.

Boys. Bricks. Bees.

2009-11-12T11:24:00.000-08:00

Before you read any further you MUST watch this video.

Did you watch it? No?

Go. Watch. The. Video.

I own this particular DVD (which has several incredibly humorous skits on it) but I saw this clip on YouTube, first. In fact, I laughed so hard at the, "throw a brick at my head" part that I had to watch it again just to hear everything. I particularly loved it because I have a boy, and he would do something like this! In fact, let me give you a recent example.

This past weekend Bethany came bursting through the door, and announced that she needed my tweezers because Caleb had a bee stinger in his hand.

He has a what?

A bee stinger in his hand. He got stung.

In a few moments Caleb came along, holding his hand out for me to see. Sure enough, stuck into the pad of his palm was not only a stinger but the entire rear end of the bee it had once been attached to.

Umm... wow, Caleb!

Yeah. I know.

Thankfully you aren't allergic to bee stings (we didn't know that before this incident). How on earth did this happen?

Oh, I was catching bees.

blink. blink.

You were what?

I was catching bees.

On purpose?

Yeah.

I was doing this: He made his hands perfectly still, and mimicked holding them next to a flower where a bee sat. Suddenly he cupped his hands together, and showed me, rather triumphantly, his hold on the imaginary bee.

Did you not think you would get a bee sting from this activity?

Caleb looked at me perplexed. I waited for the answer. I figured he was mulling over my profound question, and realizing the foolishness of his behavior. In fact, he was trying to understand how I could be so dull. He decided to explain the obvious:

I didn't get stung the other times I did it.

We will be listening for the whistle of flying bricks.

NaNoWriMo

2009-11-08T15:56:00.000-08:00

National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo (pronounced nay-no-rye-moe) is taking place right now! November 1st through November 30th finds over 100,000 people frantically trying to fill roughly 175 blank pages with 50,000 words. I am one of them.

I decided to write a book. Several of you have been fearless in your encouragement of this endeavor, and I appreciate your sentiments. I am still very unsure of how this will play itself out, but for better or worse I am committed to writing 50,000 words over the coarse of 30 days. The basic rules are as follows:

-No writing can take place outside of 11/1 to 11/30 except plot outlines, or character sketches. I chose to do away with this acceptable medium of novel insurance, and simply jumped in with both feet last Sunday night.

-The book has to be an original piece of fiction, and can not be a left-over project from a previously unsuccessful NaNoWriMo year. Since this is my first year participating in NaNoWriMo, and certainly my first attempt at writing a book, this rule doesn't apply to me. However, should my grasp of sanity prove too tenuous I have a lovely piece of plagiarism I am prepared to enter under my own name. Did I just write that out loud?

-The book must include 50,000 words (per the official NaNoWriMo word counter) by midnight, local time, November 30th. It can not be the same word written 50,000 times. I checked. So far I have 14,720, but I am fairly certain only 7 of them will last past the first edit.

The last point NaNoWriMo makes is that this project is purposely about the pursuit of the Frantic Novel. In order to complete a novel of this length, in this amount of time, you can't expect perfection. In fact, quite frankly, you can't really expect much at all - except a high word count. So don't think you are getting a copy of my Newberry Medal earning novel on December 1st. However, I have decided to take the book, when complete, through an editing process and see if anything sticks.

So, wish me well! You may send sustenance to my family, since they will be without a mother/ cooker/ nurse/ laundress/ wife/ home manager/ maid for the remaining 3 weeks.

Bless-Up'ed

2009-11-08T15:52:00.001-08:00

Phoebe did the oh-so-cute sneeze with a little hiccup yesterday morning. As most babies her age can testify, it is hard business, and requires at least a teaspoon full of milky spit-up to complete satisfactorily. Mary watched her then announced:

Watch out, Mama! Phoebe bless-up'ed.

The Gift

2009-10-27T14:54:00.000-07:00

Every human is given a gift. That gift can either be hoarded, or in turn given away. Ironically the gift is best used when we take something ourselves. What is it?

Personal Responsibility.

When we choose to take responsibility for our actions, our mistakes, our children, our misfortunes, our decisions, our consequences, ultimately our life we give a rare gift. Indeed, it is becoming rarer in our day and age. Our personal responsibility frees our family members, coworkers, friends, colleagues, fellow human beings to live their lives without the suffocating burden of our lives. After all, each person is given only their own life to live for good reason. To try and live the lives of others is not fair to them - or us. We simply are not designed to carry the load of multiple people. However, it is evident that many do not recognize, or understand this rather simple fact. Even scarier than the lack of recognition is the blatant deception people chose to engage in to convince themselves they are not really the ones responsible for their own messes. I am surrounded by examples, and when looked at through the simplicity of a 3 year old the concept doesn't require a master's degree to grasp. Shall we?

Mary makes a mess of Polly Pocket. Mary decides she wants to play something else. It will take Mary several minutes to clean up her mess, which is not an immediately appealing reality. Mary recognizes she is not capable of stowing the container of Polly Pocket because the shelf is higher than she is tall. Mary illogically concludes that the restraints on her ability to accomplish the final aspect of the clean-up clears her of all responsibility to take care of the mess. Mary leaves the room to get herself a new toy, blaming Leah for the mess since she happened to play with Mary for 3 minutes during the time Mary had out all the Polly Pocket.

This example seems so obvious, does it not? Mary clearly has responsibility to clean up the Polly Pocket as best she can, and then take the initiative to ask for help in the small step of putting the container away. But what appears clearly in this scenario somehow gets lost in translation with only a minor adjustment of content.

Mary makes a mess of her finances. Mary decides she wants to purchase something else. It will take Mary several months to clean up her mess, which is not an immediately appealing reality. Mary recognizes she is not capable of immediately paying off the debt because the debt is greater than she is rich. Mary illogically concludes that the restraints on her ability to immediately pay off the debt clears her of all responsibility to take care of the mess. Mary files bankruptcy, and then complains of how high the credit card companies charge on interest.

Here we see Mary doing the exact same thing as when she played with her Polly Pocket! Mary should do whatever she can to rid herself of the debt she herself made. She could ask for help from debt consolidation, or credit counseling if the task was too great for her to handle independently, but her choices in spending are for her to pay - not someone else. This same concept works towards parents with children, and the responsibility often laid at the feet of the local public school to raise our children with social and moral values. I want to train my children that it is not nearly as much the other person's fault as our fallen nature would have us believe. Ultimately, the choices we make in spending time reading, playing on the computer, or watching television correlate directly with the loss of time to spend managing commitments, fulfilling obligations, and finishes projects. Trust me, no one forces me to play on facebook. Equally, it is no one's job to force me to responsibly manage my grocery shopping so my children have dinner.

I want to be ever vigilant in giving away the gift of personal responsibility - choosing to free others from the burden of my life's choices.

Once Upon An eBay

2009-10-25T07:00:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time a young girl was wed. She received many gifts, but none satisfied her heart as much as the beautiful calla lily vase, not even originally purposed for her. Alas, as careful as she was she didn't see the evil witch, and with a single wave of her pointed finger the powerful sorceress smashed the girl's lovely vase. Heartbroken, the young girl vowed to fix the vase, but it seemed hopeless until... eBay.

Perhaps you think the story above must be part of a child's fairy tale, but I promise it is nothing short of the truth! Read, and judge for yourself.

I was married in 1997. Among the many generous gifts given to me and my husband was a Lenox Woodland vase. I will apologize now if this happens to be the starring piece in your collection, but it looked like a head of Romaine lettuce to me. I was genuinely disappointed because I thought it very sophisticated to have my own Lenox vase. After all, Lenox is something you have when you are an adult! But this vase was... ugly. I reluctantly took it back to Macy's, thinking perhaps I could exchange it for more of my dishes, but when I walked into the store I saw the most beautiful vase sitting alone on a small table. The calla lily vase was on sale, marked down because it was discontinued. I couldn't believe my eyes! The charming sculpture was especially touching to me because the calla lily was our wedding's theme, playing a role in our invitations, cake server, and the champaign flutes we gave to each of our guests. It remains my favorite flower. Needless to say, I lost no time exchanging my small, porcelain head of lettuce for the last of my calla lily vases Macy's would ever carry.

I spent the next few years displaying my vase with pride. One day, after a display of flowers had faded, I sat the vase on my counter next to my sink. I needed to wash it, but before I could get to it Hannah, only a small child at the time, was hungry for bananas. Taking a banana from its bunch I began to tug, noting to myself the precarious position my elbow held with the vase. The bananas, not quite ripe, were refusing to give up their most prized member. Determined to outwit the yellow fruit I gave it one last strong yank, releasing it from its bunch while simultaneously watching in slow-motion horror as my elbow made contact with the vase. It fell neatly onto its side and immediately broke on the tile counter.

I literally cried.

I was sick with myself for being so prideful. Had I simply heeded that small voice of caution, and placed the vase safely away from my elbow it would not have broken. I gently carried the pieces to my table, determined to salvage what I could. Using a tube of glue, patience, and a few more tears I managed to piece the vase back together enough for display - though it certainly was no longer water tight. Later that night I thought about checking into replacing the vase altogether, but the vase's discontinued state made it impossible to find on any website.

Over the following years I kept the vase for show, saddened each time I received a bouquet and was unable to use it properly. I didn't realize that as the years passed the glue I used for the original repair was slowly drying out, losing its bond, until one fateful day, about 3 year ago, my eldest daughter inadvertently knocked it over and the vase re-broke along the original break lines. Once again my beautiful vase was lying in pieces. I had continued checking websites, replacement catalogs, and even eBay in an attempt to find my vase but never saw anything even remotely like it. I couldn't even find the official Lenox name for the design! But I thought I might be in better shape to repair the vase this time, as I had recently learned of a woman who did museum quality repair work on ceramics. She was an artist herself, and owned a small studio with her own kiln. The vase's shards fit perfectly together, creating nearly invisible seams. I just knew that in the hands of a professional my vase could finally come back to life!

Boy, was I wrong.

I was almost as disappointed with her repair as when the vase was originally broken. The workmanship was shoddy, and while the inside looked neater than when I had glued it the outside carried long jagged scars. I could no longer hide its brokenness. However, I remained unwilling to get rid of it. I loyally placed it back in the center of my shelf, and grew more determined to someday find a thoroughly acceptable solution.

Last week I unpacked the final box from moving over a year ago, and wrapped with lovingkindness inside was my calla lily vase. We don't have a single display cabinet in our new house, having lost several hundred square feet of living space in the move. So, I placed it in a seat of honor among my other breakables tucked carefully in an upper cabinet. In the process I reassessed the damage done by the restoration artist. It got me thinking, again, about my desire to see the vase fully restored but it also reminded me that nearly 10 years of searching had not even produced a specific title.

And then came today.

Relaxing on a lazy Saturday afternoon, the idea suddenly caught me to check out eBay. I occasionally like to see what auctions might be of interest. For instance Josiah, our ever wayward child, is slowly destroying all my wonderful Richard Scarry circa 1970 books. The new ones just aren't the same, having yielded to political correctness. After discovering a boxed set of my four favorites I was about to call it a day when I typed, as I have at least 3000 times before:

Lenox calla lily vase

The screen blanked as the results were being pulled. I knew what I would see once the page refreshed - 0 results with exact matches. There would also be the 72 results containing, "calla lily" in the description, which I would scroll through just to make sure someone hadn't inadvertently listed the vase without the manufacturer's name. It was always the same...

And then the screen blazed back with a single match showing. Immediately next to the title was a thumbnail picture of my vase. My vase! I froze, and simply stared at those beautiful pixels. Once my shock was overcome I could hardly get to the listing fast enough. I scanned the listing, noting the price (acceptable - even reasonable), condition (new in the box), shipping charges (appropriate), seller's rating (great), auction time (1 day left of a 14 day list), number of bids... number of bids? I stopped. There were no bids. The auction was listed as a, "Buy Now" or bid sale. I practically shouted to Christopher, sitting a mere 7 feet away from me, "Can you believe this?" I clicked, "Buy Now," hurriedly finished the transaction, and practically hyperventilated waiting for my confirmation email to arrive!

UPS better drive fast.

Cracked... or... Not Cracked

2009-10-15T21:00:00.000-07:00

I remember the first time I heard my children saying this over and over and over again.

Cracked?

Or not cracked?

Cracked?

Or not cracked?

It started between Bethany and Hannah, but within a few moments there was a chorus of, "cracked, or not cracked?" floating out of my dining room. My curiosity got the best of me, and I poked my head around the kitchen wall to see what was cracked... or not cracked.

Graham crackers.

My kids were taking turns trying to fool their siblings by making them guess if the graham cracker they held in their hand was whole, or had been broken and then pressed back together to appear complete. At first I thought the game would lose its charm rather quickly, and doubted the ability of Mary or Leah to truly participate. Oh my, was I wrong! Some 7 months later I will still hear these words echoing out of the dining room any time I serve graham crackers - and all the children just love it!

Go figure.

Apology

2009-10-07T11:40:00.001-07:00

I have learned an important - albeit occasionally difficult - life lesson: apologize to my children. I mean really sincerely admitting when I have blown it, and going to them in the same way I go to my spouse, friends, or other family members. Treating my children with the respect, and dignity I expect from my peers helps build a foundation for healthy adult relationships in my children's lives. And it ensures that I remain humble, recognizing that while I am an authority over my little people I am still under authority myself.

I distinctly remember the first time I asked for forgiveness from Hannah. She was little more than 2, and I had lost my temper over a minor infraction. Rather than calmly managing the situation I flew off the handle, yelling inappropriately. Now, Hannah needed to have her disobedience addressed, and this was the point that caught me! If I apologized, telling her it had been wrong for me to act out the way I had would I be, in essence, stating that she had done nothing wrong? And if I repented how could I move forward with any further discipline? These questions had me stumped, but I knew that I had acted poorly towards her, and that if I didn't step forward and acknowledge the ways I was wrong I would continue to justify reasons to slide out of personal responsibility. Once down that road it can be terribly difficult to retrace your steps!

Since that first time it has become so much easier to recognize my faults to the children. After all, it isn't like they aren't keenly aware of the ways I mess up. The least I can do is not add, "carries a double standard" to the list! I knew that it was the right thing to do, but what I wasn't expecting was the freedom that comes from genuinely repenting to my children for the ways I walk in sin against them. It is such a relief to tell them that I was wrong, that I am not perfect, and that I don't have all the answers. The other side benefit to honoring my children through repentance is the practice it gives my children in forgiving. Besides the work they must do in learning to forgive one another, learning to forgive me (who generally trespasses against them in "justice" issues, which are far different from "relational" issues often present in their interactions with their siblings) provides them with important skills for a healthy adulthood. Learning to engage in reconciliation with a sibling is essential for healthy peer relationships; but learning to forgive a parent will carry over into their ability to rightly associate with all authorities placed in their life. That's pretty important!

However, of all the reasons (and beneficial results) listed above for seeking the forgiveness of my children the most vital pertains to the connection my parenting has with the Divine. Our God never sins against us. He never makes a mistake. He never has anything but our absolute best in store for us. Parents represent the first image of a caring, provider God to their children. I am sure we can all remember the time when our parents were, quite literally, perfect! If they said we were wrong, then you can be sure we were wrong. Period. How dangerous to not clarify the truth. And then again, when we realized our parents were fallible, but continued to act in a manner suggesting they were always right, how dangerous to not clarify the truth. Both of these realities can be fodder for a broken relationship with Christ.

So, I continue to apologize, acknowledge my sin, and repent to my children. They are wonderful in their responsiveness. And they receive the opportunity to taste the grace given to the forgiver towards the forgiven. I highly recommend it for everyone.

Remiss

2009-10-01T14:19:00.000-07:00

I have been remiss. I am so sorry to all my blog readers for deserting you these past weeks! I have missed writing, and it appears that some have missed reading. So what possible excuse do I have for my altogether abrupt leave of absence?

Life.

Yes, it really is that simple. No under or overstatements necessary. Occasionally I do have to actually live with all seven of my children, and as much as I enjoy coming up with unique and catchy posts the truth is that my priority is in my home, with my family, and off the computer. This is hard for me to accept. I look at other writers who are prolific in their number of entries, details, pictures, blah blah blah... and I wonder what on earth is wrong with me. Why can't I manage to write something every day?

It certainly isn't a result of too little food for thought. Only yesterday I had a conversation with my son about praying for dead people - and why we don't. My backyard has undergone a monumental landscaping overhaul which came to completion only this past week. I went on my first ever personal retreat, and loved it! And of course peppered onto all of this are the many overheard comments, witnessed moments, and general happenings of my family. Lots has transpired since last we chatted. I promise to work on bringing much of it to you through the next few weeks.

As to what the future holds, I can't promise that another unexplained hiatus will never occur. That whole, "priorities" thing keeps rearing its head, beckoning me to take advantage of the here and now before it is then and gone.

Thanks for traveling the road with me.

Growing

2009-09-09T11:00:00.000-07:00

Phoebe began turning from tummy to back a couple of days ago! I can hardly believe she is big enough to have these milestones already marked in her baby book - or at least they could be marked in her baby book if I actually got her baby book out and marked them! The point is, Phoebe is growing, changing, moving through her little world of discoveries with each new first just around the bend. I adore watching my children grow. It is easy to see the changes of little people when they are very young. One day an infant suddenly flips over, sees the world from a whole new vantage point, and breaks into a grin. But my older ones are changing with no less mind-boggling rapidity. Everything from the sudden realization of fingers to the conscious recognition that delayed gratification isn't a monster, my children keep me humble as they pursue life with a passion.

Hannah is starting 5th grade! Since when did I become the mother of a nearly 11 year old daughter? Her sense of style and personality are blossoming, as more and and more she discovers ways to express herself through choice of wardrobe and accessory. She has gained so much perspective in the last year, and continues to work tirelessly alongside of me with all the other little ones. Hannah is growing in selflessness, and love for her siblings, and respect for her parents. She sacrificially owns her position as eldest in our big family.

Bethany is barely containing her joy at beginning the 3rd grade. This is mostly due to the fact that I do not assign rigid academics until this grade level. I strongly recommend, and practice a school of thought called, "Delayed Academics," which is an entire post in itself! I mention it only to give background for why this school year, in particular, has Bethany fired up, because she now has real assignments, with real homework, and real lessons! She is growing into her academics with real enthusiasm. Where once she did not care much for prolonged reading, now she constantly steals opportunities with her current book. The written word has begun to open its treasure chest of booty for her. Bethany is growing in enjoyment of academic study.

Caleb never stops growing. He daily mounts an attack against the civilized world, daring it to surrender its finest discoveries. Most recently the new frontier is Legos, and the magically limitless combination of ways you can build all manner of war-making machines with these gems. I remember when Duplo blocks hardly held his attention, with the fine motor skills required to fit the pieces together nowhere near engaging enough for his interest. Now most afternoons find him parked in front of a sprawling expanse of tiny blocks, working to engage just the right torque on some lever as to render the Lego villain headless.

Leah is growing through some tough spots. She fell back to needing her thumb-guards, stubbornly holding onto the habit of sucking her thumb at night. And while she cries just about every time we remind her of their necessity other areas have seen huge improvements in her maturity. I never thought I would be able to allow her freedom away from the strict confines of our house for fear that her natural curiosity, and total lack of impulse control would carry her to Neverland before I could stop her. I am happy to report that she can be trusted (mostly) in the front yard, and knows the distance between Miss Voula's and Miss Pee's house is fair game for running amuck.

Mary is no longer, "babyish." This is her word! Shortly after turning three she wanted to know when she would be old enough to turn four. I answered that she had to grow for an entire year. She took this to heart, and each day reminds me that she is, "not babyish today. I can be four soon!" It breaks my heart on some days to think of my Mary Ellen as a four year old. I know it will come too soon. In the meantime I am enjoying all her wonderful 3 year old-ness! I love this age, when all things adult are mimicked with no end to the comedy. I nurse Phoebe, she nurses her doll. I cook dinner, she creates plastic culinary art. I grab my purse to run an errand, she struts around the living room, sans clothes, carrying her prized Coach.

Josiah has transformed from my chubby baby boy to a full-blown toddler overnight. Running through my house, terrorizing all of us, Josiah fears nothing. Or almost nothing. Josiah is learning the rules! I didn't think it was possible, but this blazing ball of energy has actually begun to take seriously our voice commands for ceasing and desisting many activities. He no longer runs away at breakneck speeds when confronted with impending discipline, either. His language development continues to refine itself, and I am positive we may yet receive intelligible communication from him! Until then his positively dashing good looks will easily keep him in my good graces.

Yes, each of these magnificent human beings is changing, growing every day. They remind me that life is not dull, fixed, or boring but something to be experienced afresh each new morning. Time changes me, and I grow through the years right along with my children. I am so glad for their lives, and the way God's grace sovereignly chose to place their soul in my heart.

Tuesday's Tip

2009-09-08T07:00:00.000-07:00

Vacuum.

I live in a home with all hardwood floors so vacuuming, for me, is an absolute necessity - or at least it is if I don't want a sandbox in each child's bed, not to mention my own boudoir. But I have come to appreciate vacuuming in a far greater capacity, and the time I save is worthy of note in this, Tuesday's Tip.

I vacuum everything! Those special attachments that come with your machine are not just decorative items, but actually have design merit for specific purposes outside of whisking away trekked in dirt from your floors. Here is what I have found works at the end of my hose:

Small brush-lined nozzle - countertops, and tables. I no longer waste my time wiping up crumbs after meals... I vacuum them! Cleaning the table with a hot rag after the offending debris has been removed is so much easier than multiple trips to the garbage, washrag full of particulates.

Small brush - dusting, dusting, dusting. I vacuum end tables, bed moldings, baseboards, and even appliances rather than wiping, spraying, or paper towel-ing. The brush does a fairly decent job getting into intricate wood cuts, and I know I am not simply wiping around the dust.

Long skinny tube - my dryer's lint trap gets nicely cleaned with this treasure. It is also a gem for window and sliding door tracks.

Be creative with your Hoover, and you just might find a shortcut in your own cleaning routine.

This Old Man

2009-09-04T09:12:00.000-07:00

Tuesday's Tip

2009-09-01T07:00:00.000-07:00

We go through liquid hand soap at an alarming rate. I seem to have two options available: let my kids have dirty hands OR buy soap like it is going out of style. The first option is entirely unacceptable. The second is not much more appealing than the first. What's a thrift-minded mom of many to do?

Some of my more savvy counterparts would say, "Use bar soap. It is much more cost effective, minimizes waste, and does a great job to boot." They would be right, except that bar soap also adds the bonus of leaving nasty residue everywhere it sits. Gross.

Then I spied this little gem, and knew I had hit pay dirt. It uses a 1:4 ratio of liquid hand soap and water to create a soapy foam that kids love to use. I figured I could pick the dispenser up at Target or perhaps WalMart, but no such luck. However, what I did see surprised me! Apparently these large box stores have learned about this lovely device as well, and are now marketing their own super-diluted hand soap in foaming dispensers. Bingo.

I bought a container, used up the included soap in a little less than 20 minutes, and replaced it with my own solution. You can buy the foaming soap refills, but the cost is ridiculous for something you can simply make. Buying full strength liquid hand soap refills in the large quantities, diluting it with water, and using the special dispenser means I can have BOTH clean little hands, and pennies in my pocket! I love it.

Dinner

2009-08-30T22:22:00.000-07:00

I cheated at dinner tonight. Christopher is out of town again, and I wasn't in the mood to try and wrestle a full-fledged meal from my pantry shelves. Instead I contrived something resembling sound nutrition using:

Kraft Mac and Cheese

Ball Park Turkey Franks

Ore-Ida Tater Tots

I will state for the record that not even this kid-inspired version of Nirvana made the 100% satisfied cut. Everyone had a combination of the above mentioned morsels, but no single eater ate all three. However, Caleb (who is allergic to dairy, and so was forced through genetic disqualification to partake in only 2/3 of the meal's delicacies) announced the following:

This is the BEST meal in my WHOLE life.

Why do I bother?

non sequitur

2009-08-27T14:35:00.000-07:00

We were sitting around the dinner table last night when I noticed two, clean slices in Mary's shirt. They corresponded exactly with the snips a pair of scissors would make. Both Leah and Mary share the shirt, marking the culprit as one of these two little people. I didn't bother addressing anyone else at the table, for obvious reasons.

Mary, did you cut your shirt?

No.

Are you sure you didn't play with scissors today?

No, I didn't. Serious.

(This is her favorite additive to any statement, giving it instant merit regardless of its actual validity.)

Leah, did you cut this shirt with scissors?

Huh-uh. I didn't even do that at all!

Are you sure, Leah?

Yep, I am so sure! I did NOT touch it with scissors. No way.

(She excitedly swung her hands across her chest in the universal body language for: none, stop, no, I didn't do it, et al.)

Mary, are you sure you didn't use scissors to cut this shirt?

Serious. I didn't. Serious.

I looked between the girls, wondering which line of questioning I should travel next when Caleb decided to announce his own innocence in the debacle:

I have no revolve in this plate!

We are still unsure of exactly what expression he was trying to use, but it certainly got us laughing.

Schizophrenia, And Other Hair Maladies

2009-08-23T07:00:00.000-07:00

I used to have beautiful, silky hair.

I spent hours, more money than I care to remember, and copious amounts of styling aid to have perfect, lovely hair. It was smooth, styled, and generally worn fashionably coiffed.

I also had no children - or very few.

I am now lucky if I manage to get the whole mess dry before something earth shattering interrupts me. By earth shattering I refer to the truly magnificent, like ill-gotten lego booty in Josiah's mouth.

As a result of this ongoing abuse my hair has developed several alarming conditions!

Schizophrenia.

It hallucinates about the "good ole days", believing it can once again find that long lost luster if only the right conditioner were used.

Multiple Personality Disorder.

It has created at least 3 separate hair types: curly, straight and wiry; all on top of my single head. None of them communicates with the others, leaving each blissfully unaware that it occupies only 1/3 of my head at any given point.

Bipolar Disorder.

There are manic days, and then there are depressed days. I never know whether my hair will be one gigantic frizz ball, like I stuck my finger in the light socket all night, or hang, sallow and limp, without a breathe of volume.

Alzheimer's Disease.

My hair is progressively losing its identity to dementia. It doesn't remember whether it likes to: be up or down; use a certain conditioner from one day to the next; get curled with an iron or rollers; stay smooth through the night or freak out into cowlicks. And every new birth sends it over an edge further down the path of total insanity.

Obviously I could resolve one or two of these, but certainly not all of them! I have tried psychotropic leave in conditioners, shock treatment with diffusers, and group therapy with multiple styling products, but to no avail. I am afraid my hair has reached a point of no return.

Just one more thing to add to the list of, "Things they never tell you about having kids."

Wisdom

2009-08-19T23:20:00.000-07:00

Today, during our morning devotions we studied Proverbs chapter 2. Like much of the book of Proverbs this particular passage exhorts the reader to gain wisdom, seeking for it like silver or hidden treasure. I wanted to impress upon the children the value, and importance of applying themselves to gleaning biblical wisdom. At the end of our conversation I noticed that Leah was particularly animated in her response to my query about why wisdom was so important. I decided to ask her, specifically, why she believed wisdom was valuable.

Because wisdom is what keeps you from falling off the bird.

*keeping a straight face* And how does wisdom do that?

*without skipping a beat* Because wisdom is what keeps you from jumping out of the airplane onto the bird's back - which can't hold you and so it flies low - and then you fall off, and land on a pile of gold.

*here Caleb sighs before uttering the following* Oh, Leah! Gold's not real.

And so ended our theology lesson of the day.

How Do You Do It?

2009-08-05T13:00:00.000-07:00

People are constantly asking me, "How do you do it?" The question is usually posed after they learn about my large family. If it slipped by on that revelation the fact that I homeschool definitely gets it! The assumption is that home education must be so much more difficult than public or classical private education. I was recently reminded why this isn't true. Running around, picking this child up from here and dropping the other child over there, packing up younger siblings in order to drop older siblings at their appointments/camp, organizing fun with friends, and maintaining my regular household routines has plum tuckered me out this summer! I can't imagine trying to do it all with 8 hours of the day taken away for school.

The following is a cute anecdote using a slight twist to the ole, "How do you do it?" question. I thought it befitting.

Author Unknown

Two women meet at a playground, where their children are swinging and playing ball. The women are sitting on a bench watching. Eventually, they begin to talk.

W1: Hi. My name is Maggie. My kids are the three in red shirts –helps me keep track of them.

W2: (Smiles) I’m Patty. Mine are in the pink and yellow shirts. Do you come here a lot?

W1: Usually two or three times a week, after we go to the library.

W2: Wow! Where do you find the time?

W1: We homeschool, so we do it during the day most of the time.

W2: Some of my neighbors homeschool, but I send my kids to public school.

W1: How do you do it?

W2: It’s not easy. I go to all the PTA meetings, work with the kids every day after school, and stay really involved.

W1: But what about socialization? Aren’t you worried about them being cooped up all day with kids their own ages, never getting the opportunity for natural relationships?

W2: Well, yes. But I work hard to balance that. They have some friends who’re homeschooled, and we visit their grandparents almost every month.

W1: Sounds like you’re a very dedicated mom. But don’t you worry about all the opportunities they’re missing out on? I mean they’re so isolated from real life — how will they know what the world is like –what people do to make a living — how to get along with all different kinds of people?

W2: Oh, we discussed that at PTA, and we started a fund to bring real people into the classrooms. Last month we had a policeman and a doctor come in to talk to every class. And next month we’re having a woman from Japan and a man from Kenya come to speak.

W1: Oh, we met a man from Japan in the grocery store the other week, and he got to talking about his childhood in Tokyo. My kids were absolutely fascinated. We invited him to dinner and got to meet his wife and their three children.

W2: That’s nice. Hmm. Maybe we should plan some Japanese food for the lunchroom on Multicultural Day.

W1: Maybe your Japanese guest could eat with the children.

W2: Oh, no. She’s on a very tight schedule. She has two other schools to visit that day. It’s a systemwide thing we’re doing.

W1: Oh, I’m sorry. Well, maybe you’ll meet someone interesting in the grocery store sometime and you’ll end up having them over for dinner.

W2: I don’t think so. I never talk to people in the store –certainly not people who might not even speak my language. What if that Japanese man hadn’t spoken English?

W1: To tell you the truth, I never had time to think about it. Before I even saw him, my six-year-old had asked him what he was going to do with all the oranges he was buying.

W2: Your child talks to strangers?

W1: I was right there with him. He knows that as long as he’s with me, he can talk to anyone he wishes.

W2: But you’re developing dangerous habits in him. My children never talk to strangers.

W1: Not even when they’re with you?

W2: They’re never with me, except at home after school. So you see why it’s so important for them to understand that talking to strangers is a big no-no.

W1: Yes, I do. But if they were with you, they could get to meet interesting people and still be safe. They’d get a taste of the real world, in real settings. They’d also get a real feel for how to tell when a situation is dangerous or suspicious.

W2: They’ll get that in the third and fifth grades in their health courses.

W1: Well, I can tell you’re a very caring mom. Let me give you my number–if you ever want to talk, give me call. It was good to meet you.

Tuesday's Tip

2009-08-04T13:19:00.001-07:00

I wish I could say I had time to sit in the card store browsing for hours to find the perfect one for each occasion requiring a note. I don't. I used to get frazzled waiting until the last second to grab a card before dashing to the post office/event madly signing the note while driving. There has to be a better way!

I made a card binder, and while I am still not the world's best note giver (A word about "love languages" - gifts are not mine *wink*. They rarely enter my radar screen for me, or others.) I have come a long way with this simple tool. Many companies merchandise this little gem, but you can save money and make one yourself. All you need are:

-3-ring binder

-12 plastic paper protector pockets (say that 10 times fast)

-12 paper dividers (I like the ones in bright colors - and most of them have templates that your computer's software program recognizes so you can print the categories neatly right onto the dividers)

-assorted cards you have stashed in a box

Decide for which events you tend to send cards. List them out, then made a divider for each category. A few of my categories are Birthday, Condolence, Get well, and Congratulation. Place one plastic pocket behind each divider. Sort your cards into each category, and place the cards into the pockets. Voila!

Now, when you are in a crunch you can grab a card for that birthday party. Or you can send the congratulatory note without adding another errand to the card store. And the next time you are at a store with cards and have a few minutes to kill you can pick up some cute ones knowing you have a home for them when you get back to your house.

World's Best Mexican Flan

2009-07-31T15:21:00.001-07:00

Every good recipe has a story behind it. This one is no exception.

I craved flan while pregnant with Phoebe. Crème brûlée could tied me over, but in the back of my head that Mexican flan kept calling to me. Smooth, milky custard with that caramelized sugar coating. Yummy. The problem is that all the flan I could get my hands on was watery, lumpy, bland, and sorely lacking in caramelized sauce. And then I realized what the real problem was - I was craving my grandmother's flan.

That isn't a bad thing. Granny was recognized as our family's best cook. She went on to easily win the title from everyone else who ate her food. Granny loved to cook, and enjoyed trying out new recipes and combinations. Nothing intimidated her. But Granny died in 2005, leaving me quite helpless to get my hands on a piece of her flan. However, her recipes lived on, and I mentioned to my mom a few weeks ago about my desire to find this particular one. Jackpot! My aunt, who carries on the cooking legend, had it and was scheduled for a visit.

Auntie Gail, along with my mom, came over yesterday to keep me company. Gail offered to cook for me! She also told me she brought the recipe, and would make the flan for dessert! Mmmmm... the smells of pot roast bubbling on the stove, laughing with my mom and aunt as the two of them tried to work together... in a kitchen... that wasn't theirs... created a wonderful afternoon. Then it was time to fix the flan.

ROUND 1

My aunt was tenderly caring for the sugar that had to be caramelized in a cast iron pot. No exceptions on the pot. She explained that Granny learned it was the best place to manage the process. So while she stirred and stirred my mom and I were left to put together the custard. We were laughing so hard at my mom's effort to use my can opener that when we finally got around to combining the ingredients we just started dumping everything in sight. Oops. The first can of evaporated milk was fine, but that second was not.

Gail suddenly looked up. "Did you just put both cans in?" We had. And as Murphy's Law would have it we put them in over the 4 eggs, 2 egg yolks, and one can of sweetened condensed milk. The recipe was ruined, as would the mashed potatoes be if we didn't replace their can of evaporated milk. Thankfully my mom already knew she needed to run to the store for bacon (Gail's bacon, onion, and brown sugar green beans were also on the menu). Off she flew, and returned with the replacement cans of milk. We had, fortunately, saved the whipping cream from loss having caught the mistake before adding it.

ROUND 2.

I was nursing Phoebe when my mom returned, but had already diligently prepared the eggs for round two. Gail was left to manage the blender. How hard is it to manage a blender? Don't answer that. All the ingredients were combined into a smooth batter when Gail turned my blender carafe in an effort to release it from the base. The problem is that my carafe doesn't lock onto my base with a turn, it simply sits over the motor. Turning it disassembles the sealing disk from the bottom of the container, and before we knew what happened Gail let out a yelp as custard batter poured from the hole in the bottom of the pitcher. Back to the store -after we cleaned up the gooey mess oozing all over the counter and floor.

ROUND 3.

Again, I carefully prepared the eggs, adding the vanilla so when the cans of milk (along with the carton of heavy whipping cream) arrived we could get right to work. The caramelized sugar coated bowl sat near by, in case the kids tried to ruin, err, touch it again. I was in charge of the blender, so that any mishaps would be directly my fault, rather than just implied. We nearly lost the brew in another blender debacle. The flan has to bake in a water bath, which nearly became a water deluge. And Leah, who scrutinized every stage of production was particularly underfoot when we went to put the whole thing into the oven. My analog clock is breaking, and won't keep an accurate time so half way through baking I realized Gail was using it interchangeably with the digital clock. For a panicked second we thought we lost the whole kit and caboodle due to improper time management. But in the end it came out alive!

KNOCK OUT.

We waited until all the kids were in bed before serving out the flan. Gail, as Granny would do, was stubbornly objective in her self-critique. The sugar and custard could have cooked for 5 minutes less, was the consensus. Hey, if that's the ONLY thing you can come up with after our experience then I think congratulations are in order. I found it to be delectable, smooth, rich and creamy. It only took a year, and my daughter was already 3 months old, but I finally got my piece of flan.

Here is the recipe in case you too decide that only flan will do.

Old Fashioned Flan by Olive Hyler

-1 cup white sugar heated in a cast iron skillet until melted - stirring constantly. Pour into a 2qt round glass baking dish, tilting to coat bottom and sides. Set aside on a hot pad so you don't crack the glass.

Place the following in a blender, and process (not whip) thoroughly

-14 oz can sweet condensed milk

-5 oz can evaporated milk

-1 cup whipping cream

-4 eggs

-2 egg yolks

-1/2 tsp vanilla

Pour into bowl with caramelized sugar. Place bowl into a hot water bath, making sure water level comes at least 3/4 of the way up the bowl. Bake in preheated oven at 325 for 1 and 1/2 hours. If the top is browning to quickly you can cover it with foil (probably not necessary). Remove from oven and bath to allow to cool. When ready to serve loosen the caramel from the sides of the pan with a knife, then place a flat dish over the top, and flip the bowl upside down to release the flan. Pour the excess sauce over the top. Extra can be covered and refrigerated for a delicious treat the following day!

Alone

2009-07-31T10:00:00.000-07:00

Christopher has left the building.

My husband is an introvert. This may come as a surprise to some of you who know him. Let me assure you; he does not like groups, he is very uncomfortable chatting with strangers, and social interactions cost him a lot in emotional and spiritual energy. Nope, he would rather a quiet, intimate conversation which happens to pepper large stretches of solitude.

We have seven children.

He married an extrovert (reread everything above, but reverse it).

You can imagine how often he gets quiet, intimate conversations peppering his large stretches of solitude. Ha!

So he left. Actually he took time to enjoy one of his favorite pastimes - hiking. This week he is off to Inyo National Forest to climb 3 mountains, all of them highest points in their respective counties. It gives him time alone. He needs it! He comes home exhausted, bone weary and blistered, and even a little lonely. But he is also refreshed, more capable of enjoying and appreciating our family, and reconnected with God in a way that 20 feet above sea level fails to do.

I get to stay home with the kids. 20 feet above sea level is just fine for me.

But the alone time is good for me, too. I enjoy the quiet nights, the bed to myself, the dinner "cheats." I often find a project that requires concentrated focus, and throw myself into: repainting a section of the house; organizing that black hole in the laundry room; building some piece of furniture; or simply getting into a mad panic of spring cleaning. His being gone forces me to take on some of these more solitary tasks, because when he is home I would much rather be hanging out chatting than sticking my head in a bucket of ammonia all day.

I thought about what my Alone Project would be this time. I considered a major overhaul of our garage, but that requires the purchase of several shelving units, and we are really trying to cut down on expenses as we prepare for our backyard landscaping. There are still some smaller paint jobs left, however I am thoroughly uninspired for colors, and if I force myself to pick something I know I will end up with wasabi green and mustard yellow stripes distress painted across my hardwood floor. Yikes! I could list so many more "little things" that ought to get my attention, but I decided that my project this time was spending time with my kids.

I am working to really invest, emotionally, in my kids. It is so much easier for me to take care of their physical needs than their emotional ones. So, my Alone Project is to make a priority of hanging out with them. So far I have done puzzles with Leah, listened to 3 of the LONGEST dream sequences I think possible by Bethany, and appreciated a few of Caleb's new tricks on his skateboard. Tomorrow I am taking just Leah shopping with her birthday money. Josiah is getting extra hugs, and stories from me throughout each day. Mary got her hair cut today, and I used a blow-dryer when I was done to make it "fluffy." Finally, I am reading a book that Hannah just finished so we can talk about it when I am done.

I think this year's Alone Project is my best, yet.

A Successful Failure

2009-07-25T16:54:00.000-07:00

A successful failure.

NASA coined this phrase for the attempted Apollo 13 lunar mission, which fell woefully short of its original purpose, while still managing to bring the men back to earth safely. I find it particularly apropos for our beach excursion this afternoon. We fell miserably short of the expected outcome, but are home - alive.

Let me begin by stating that this particular season of life has grown difficult of late. Most families have small children for only a few years before moving on to independence. Our family is, 10+ years later, still knee deep in diapers, toddlers, nursings, and children who are in need of constant adult supervision. And don't forget, this isn't punctuated with years of respite due to large splits between siblings. 7 children in 10 years doesn't make for much rest! The hardest part is the desire to, "go and do," with our older children. But making that a reality while still managing, successfully, the needs of the younger children takes more than a little planning. And even then, as today will show, sometimes it simply doesn't work.

Pacific Grove has a wonderful tradition called, The Feast of Lanterns. The last Saturday of July sees the beach in PG loaded with people, entertainers, venders, and pageantry celebrating this 100+ year old custom (why they chose July, when our peninsula is notorious for cold, foggy, dreary days and even colder, foggier and drearier nights is beyond me - but they didn't think it suitable to ask my opinion, so on we go). My family is very connected with the Feast, and its continued success; currently my mom sits on the Board of Directors. We do not usually attend the event because a mere three weeks earlier sees us establishing a beachhead in Monterey, taking in the sun and surf with several other families for July 4th. However, Monterey cancelled fireworks this year, so our children were desperate for a beach experience. Had we discovered the answer key to this test sooner, we would have learned that the two are not interchangeable.

Our first mistake occurred before the actual day even dawned! Hannah and Bethany were invited to be a part of the processional parade for the night's crowning event on the pier. Rehearsal was set for 9am Saturday morning, which created a time-management nightmare. The sensible thing seemed obvious, and we gladly shipped the older girls off to my mom's house for the night. Because of her responsibilities with the event her presence was required first thing in the morning anyway; and she lives just a few minutes from Lover's Point, whereas we are some 10 miles away. What we didn't consider was the loss of my helpers the following morning, when I would need to pack 5 children, 6 years old and younger, along with all the supplies for a day of merry-making into the van, and haul everything to the beach by myself. Christopher was already at the beach, having arrived there before 8am in order to secure a patch of sand for us. I reminded myself that we did this same routine each July 4th, and once I arrived safely at our destination everything always came together. Surely the same would be true for today.

Ha!

So many things were different. Ironically the parking was a thousand times easier, the amenities at the beach far superior, vendors and food options more varied. Unfortunately these things paled when compared to our claustrophobic postage stamp sized plot, and the loss of other families to help in the supervision of our small children. The event touted live entertainment, which we found to be an obnoxiously loud, and unescapable drone. But, we were determined to make the best of it! With Phoebe screaming, and Josiah running amuck, Christopher dutifully slathered each child with sunscreen to prepare for fun in the "sun". During this ritual mistake number two came to light when we realized that Caleb's bathing suit was not packed. I foolishly told him that he could wade in the water with his jeans rolled up like shorts. After all it was cold, and even drizzly. How likely was it that Caleb would actually get in the water? Question: Do I have any sense?

30 minutes later saw Hannah (who chose to forego waiting on me with her bathing suit before dashing into the water in her jeans) scampering off with Josiah; Bethany grabbing Leah and Mary for an introduction to the waves; and Caleb running full throttle towards the surf. I sat down to try and nurse Phoebe, and take at least 3 deep breaths before planning lunch from the supplies I purchased just that morning. Mistake number three wasn't anything we had control over, but when fate is already against you then even the unrelated seems cosmically your fault.

We had our backs against a 5 foot high retaining wall, created to provide a large landing in the staircase down to the beach. Christopher was the first to notice water spilling over the wall some 6 feet to our left. We looked at the campers up on the landing, to see if perhaps one of them had tipped over a gallon or two of water. What we saw was a 3 inch wide pvc drain spout at the base of a service closet set into a higher retaining wall where the staircase actually began its descent. It was gushing water... and showed no signs of stopping.

The first few minutes gave us a slight chuckle. People had created a patchwork quilt out of the beach by 2pm Friday afternoon. Even at 1pm on Saturday most of these individual placemats were still unoccupied. The idea of someone showing up, over 24 hours later, to find their blanket soaking wet caught at us. They had cheated the game, even though the rules were in their favor - sometimes the rules are wrong. But this pause only lasted a short spell, as the water continued to fill every indentation of the sand, and creep ever closer to our towels. Christopher began digging a channel down the beach towards the sea. The water kept coming. Soon others further down began frantically pulling their blankets and chairs to the side, joining Christopher to train the water away from their belongings. We continued our own struggle to keep the water at bay, but even with the impromptu help of a friendly onlooker our already tiny beachhead shrank.

Just about the time Public Works showed up, opening the closet and unleashing a heretofore damned flood, Leah came back to camp carried by a total stranger. She was drenched from head to toe. The kind woman, wearing jeans and a tshirt, was soaked from her neck down. Leah had somehow divested herself of Bethany, and waded into the ocean alone. The woman had saved her from drowning! Crying, shivering, and scared Leah wanted nothing more than to cuddle with me, but I was still trying to nurse Phoebe, who wasn't taking to the great outdoors as a suitable cafe. Wrapping a towel around her we scanned the horizon to make sure all other Randalls were safe.

Caleb was frolicking in the waves, soaked in his jeans.

Hannah was holding Josiah, and taking him into the water in her jeans.

Mary was standing a little too close to the surf for our comfort.

And Bethany... where was Bethany?

Christopher spotted her on a rock outcropping, stranded because of the rising tide, and panicking. Her fear translated to instant action, and my husband immediately threw himself, chest deep, into the water to rescue her. After saving her, and another little girl, he returned to our spot just as Public Works shut off the water. Dripping wet and fully clothed down to his leather work boots (his crocs were still in his backpack) he reached into his pocket with a sinking expression on his face, and pulled out his brand new cell phone. Mistake number... who knows: Jumping into water with your cell phone.

We made the decision to go home. But, like Apollo 13, deciding to go home, and actually getting there are two different things.

Packing everything up in soaking wet clothes is almost as fun as packing everything up only an hour after unpacking. We got the joy of both! Christopher couldn't find where I parked the van, and wandered along Ocean View Blvd. nearly a half-mile, wet, barefoot and against traffic before realizing it. We almost lost Bethany's fleece jacket, causing us to wade through all the clothes four times. Once the younger kids were in the van Leah split a brand-new bag of oyster crackers in half, spilling the entire contents on the floor, and causing Josiah to wail in frustration over his lost snack. Phoebe began crying for the meal she refused while at the beach. We had to move the van from our loading position half way through the job in order to let a city vehicle pass. Christopher inadvertently ripped off a piece of edging for the glove compartment when I dropped him at his car, and a bottle of water, which was not closed properly, leaked out during our ride home. Our last mistake was forgetting the camera, so there are no pictures of our two-hour adventure.

So, where was the success? Is it that we made it home, with everyone alive? That's part of it, for sure! I can tell you now that it was no small feat to maneuver the obstacle course of packing, loading, managing, and ultimately driving 5 of our 7 children home, while also making sure that the two children remaining had enough clothing, money, and instruction to last another 8 hours at the beach. However, I think the greater success was in the realization that we weren't really fighting against the cosmos. Satan wants to steal our joy at every turn! No, I don't think it was a mistake for us to choose home, rather than fighting it out on Lover's Point. Too many factors came together to create an impossible-to-deal-with-and-have-fun environment that badly needed curtailing. Leaving was the sensible solution. But then to be faced with the drama that occurred only after that decision was made brought us to the edge of ourselves. Here was where the real success happened. Sitting in the van before driving home we prayed, recognizing the desire to lose our patience, and give in to the mounting frustration. And again, after arriving home, reminding ourselves that the only things lost were time, money, and convenience. Nothing we couldn't live without.

A successful failure. Yes, indeed.

non sequitur

2009-07-25T13:40:00.000-07:00

I posted under this title before. However, when you live in a house brimming full of illiterate miniature people non sequiturs are par for the course. So, I decided to make this a permanent fixture on Letters. These classics are from Leah while eating chicken noodle soup this afternoon.

Wow, this is so good I wish we had smaller bowls!

This juice is so good I can't even taste it! If you can't taste it then you have taste buds on your tongue.

Rambo Pets

2009-07-22T11:39:00.000-07:00

I know I have mentioned before the vast difference between girl play and boy play, but I heard the following pass between my daughters and son, which was worthy of note.

Location: Playroom interior scattered with Littlest Pet Shop and Legos

Time: Afternoon

Players: Leah, Mary, Caleb

Mary: Leah, come to my beauty shop. It is soooo pretty.

Leah: Oh, Mary! My hair needs to be brushed.

Mary: Okay, pretend my hair is already done, and I have a ribbon.

Leah: Your pet is so beautiful, Mary. That ribbon looks beautiful.

Mary: Thanks (tossing her Littlest Pet Shop pet's plastic hair).

Caleb: Then pretend that the ribbon turns into a sword! And then a dragon comes to eat you, and I have to kill the dragon. (He begins to slaughter the make-believe dragon with a Lego Knight, hacking the Littlest Pet Shop pets while he is at it.)

Mary: NOOOOO! Caleb, my ribbon is beautiful! I don't need a dragon.

Leah: CALEB! We're getting our hair done.

Caleb: Yeah, but you are going to fall into a boiling pot of army bullets and die, and I have to grab you with my axe so that I can kill the dragon. (Again, he proceeds to slam the girls' pets with his Lego man, slashing wildly at the air.)

Leah: Caleb, I already got saved from the bullets. I'm getting my hair done.

Mary: My ribbon saved me from the dragon.

Caleb continued the good fight for several more minutes before finally realizing that hairspray and ribbons can defeat anything.

Tuesday's Tip

2009-07-21T13:40:00.000-07:00

I am mixing my Tuesday's Tip with a real incident occurring in my family this past week. Josiah fell off a picnic table at a park, and landed -face first- below on the asphalt. Ouch! The left side of his face has several abrasions, his eye is swollen, and will undoubtably shift through several stages of coloring before the whole mess is healed. In short, he was badly hurt.

I was not there.

I send the kids on a walk each morning around our cul-de-sac, and this particular morning Bethany asked if she could take Josiah, Leah, Mary and Caleb across the street to the playground. I thought it a fine idea, and sent them on their way with my blessing. The kids know my rules about being outside of our street - even inside out street. They may not talk with strangers (we took the time to introduce them to everyone on our street), never go into someone's car or house, and if there are people milling around by where they are playing they must leave. Other than that, Hannah and Bethany are allowed free-range of our neighborhood so long as they can hear my train whistle calling them home. Caleb has to ask before he leaves our street, but he is usually granted permission when the mood strikes him for adventure. The littler ones can be out in the front with an older sister for supervision. Such was the circumstance surrounding Josiah's fall.

However, even when Josiah was brought back to the house, oozing from his entire cheek, the thought never came to me that I should be more stringent in my supervision requirements. Why not? Two things:

-Childhood is a messy adventure at times

-God really does watch over all of us

Josiah could have gotten the exact same injury if I had been at the park. He didn't even need to be at the park to get it! Our own home is full of potential wound-causing items, such as floors and walls. I can't watch every child for every second of the day. I don't think I should. I don't think it is my job to smooth every road, monitor every corner, assess every situation, circumstance, trial, inconvenience, struggle, or decision to determine whether my child can succeed at it, or not. I think my job is to regulate, with wisdom and love, those events he is exposed to so that I minimize lasting harm as much as possible, but not eliminate potential discomfort for it's own sake. The reality of serious harm in comparison with the fearfulness we instill in our children when our boundaries are too tight is out of proportion.

I would rather a few extra scrapes with independence than a perfect exterior, and a brain as fragile as an egg. So today's Tuesday Tip is:

Back Off.