Advanced Plumbingly Disinclined

In a Sunday school class on marriage I said that the Husband is not a fix it guy. I meant this as a great compliment. When I am distressed, when I have a problem, when I just need to rage, he listens with patience and tenderness, he holds me, and he does not fix it. When I am done being despicably dramatic, then he will sit down with me, and we will set about putting the universe right. But at the start he is singularly the most comforting, empathetic creature on our planet, like a big panda bear... except chiseled out of granite like a Greek god... like Panda, the lesser know god of being an incredible husband and patron guardian of softball players... I digress.

What I did not mean is that Justin does not fix stuff around the house. He does. Oh, does he. It's part of his divine character. ... I am not sure if I mean that statement in a christian way or if I am referring back to my earlier pagan reference. Somehow this all went very wrong.

The Husband fixes cars, he digs up and repairs sprinklers (Often. There are two seasons in our house: Winter and Lowe's.), he lays carpet, nails up dry wall, balances washers, sews up couch cushions, and clips dog claws. He unclogs toilets, catches mice, hangs shelves, and threatens our Apple T.V. box with various hammers and mallets, until, quite embarrassed (and terrified), it starts working again (under the threat of Mjölnir). The fact that he has had to do all of these things, and most several many times, is really just a little sad.

The thing is, he just doesn't have that kind of time anymore. Time not spent studying, eating, or sleeping (or some combination of those three) is stolen for his wife, children, and brief stints as a church drummer. Most of the time now shelves remain unhung, the Apple TV stays haughtily broken,  the mice have to catch themselves, and the washer spins tipsy-turvy making that joyful, repetitive thunking sound - you know, the one that makes you want to gather your children and put out a For Sale sign. I don't know how to fix anything, and after a few misadventures, Justin prefers I just not try. Our home owner's insurance just doesn't cover acts of idiocy.

So when the bathtub started filling up, I ignored it. With water sloshing around my ankles, I sang a happy song in my head and kept my eyes up. When Dumpster jumped in the tub after showers and drank his heart's content, I closed my eyes and backed away. When the tub gurgled Liquid Plumber, like a child gurgles Cool-aid, sipped it down and remained stubbornly un-drain-y, I took deep breaths and contented to ten.

Finally, the Husband had enough. He took three minutes to assess, plan, and implement a solution.

Voila:

And yes, oh yes, that is a golf tee. I have no idea what the red thing is, but I am sure it also served a purpose for which it was not designed.

Oi. I don't know what else to say. This is where we are. And by grace we have golf tees from carefree spring days.

What kind of blog do you think I'm running here?!?!

Several times in the last few months things have happened. Private things. Hysterical things. After I finish wiping the tears from my eyes and the Husband's snickers die down he will announce, "You should put that in your blog." This will cause me to look at him like several furry woodland creatures are peeking out of his ears. The conversation will inevitably end with the title of this post being spewed out of my mouth in rancid shock. "I'm sure you could make it appropriate. And it would be so funny!" he will encourage.

At this point, having somewhat recovered my faculties, I will begin the construction of said post in my head, framing in subtle allusions and allegorical characters, nailing down euphemisms, and trying to paint hilarious pictures without any imagery at all. ...

And then I think of all the people, people I know, complete strangers, clergy and saints, the prim and proper, decent, law-abiding folk who just want to go through life knowing that they are slightly better than someone (and I, happy to oblige, will be that someone for them). I think of you, and I just can't write it. Hives start bursting forth on my chest. My throat goes dry. I blush.

What kind of blog am I running here? I already posted about my red undies; isn't that enough?!?!

I would say, "My pastor's wife reads this blog!", but that is less scandalous an indictment than you would imagine. If I were to say, "My former pastor's wife reads this blog!" then we would have a problem. They are just different folk, not better nor worse, just from different worlds. My pastor's wife actually wrote out the phrase condom mobile in a board game at our women's retreat. Our former pastor's wife only wears dresses to church. When our former pastor's wife came over for dinner I hid our copy of Firefly. When our current pastor's wife came over her husband pointed enthusiastically, and she said, "That is awesome!" Our pastor has a small Serenity replica on his key chain. Somewhere deep inside me, joy blooms.

But these are things that no clergyman nor his significant other could read without blushing.

How do you post the hysterical story of how the bed was broken when good christian women read this blog? How do you post the saga of yeah football does it for us when your mom is going to see it? And how do you relay the epic lube theft caper when one day your daughter might look back at these blogs, shriek "I did what?", and then need very intensive, very expensive therapy for the rest of her known life?

I'm just saying, this is a family-friendly blog. But we really don't live a family-friendly life.

The devil's in the batter

I am hoping that no one going to our church Christmas event reads my blog before tomorrow. Otherwise, we will have a lot of questionable chocolate chip cookie brownies leftover.

It was doomed from the start.

Because everything I touch lately seems under a curse of doom.

And women's ministry is destined to destroy me.

I volunteered to make chocolate chip cookies for our Christmas tea. Wanting to offer the freshest cookie possible, a treat above reproach, a treat that would silence the critics (and anyone in women's ministry knows that the critics are generally everyone within a twenty square mile radius of your event). ... (And silencing them is impossible.) ... (Just telling it like it is), I put off baking them until tonight.

For a brief backstory: my mother actually volunteered me to bake chocolate chip cookies because in her opinion I make the world's best. There are not a lot of things for which I suffer pride, but cookies are one. The following occurrences are therefore either a) discipline from my God for the mortification of my pride or b) a spiritual attack from the forces of darkness set to deter me from my spiritual duty of baking sweet treats.

I decided to one and a half my recipe. I thought this would maybe leave a few cookies for my dear husband. The trouble was five-fold:

1. Not enough brown sugar. The brown sugar I did have was sugar-glued into the bottom of the container and required me to chip it out in entirely appetizing chunks. When I whipped it into the batter, there were delightful little lumps of tooth-chippingly hard crystallized sugar.

2. I doubled the eggs and vanilla. I had been one and a halfing everything else. I looked quizzically down into the bowl wondering why it was so soupy until I glanced at the two egg shells beside me. Oh. Right. Snot-rocket. (What? I'm raising a two-year-old. My cuss words have to be creative.)

3. Not enough flour. I needed four cups. I had two and a half. Ever the improvising artist, I decided to substitute Bisquick for the rest of the flour. ... Not entirely interchangeable.

4. I did not have enough semi-sweet chips. I used some milk chips instead. Okay, really no worries here.

5. I was changing a diaper when the timer went off. It didn't matter anyway. My generally fluffy, airy, decadent cookies were tissue paper thin, crumbly, and dark brown. Grrr. The next batch I just spread in a pan and prayed for the best.

They look survivable, but I make no promises as to edibility.

So what do you think: discipline, attack, or natural consequences of my own stupidity?

I'm Allergic to the State

I did not want to spoil my daughter's first birthday post with bitterness and complaining, so here is the post-birthday apocalyptic story complete with sarcasm and perhaps a few ungodly attitudes (which I decided to share with my pastor's wife; because I really didn't want the leaders of our church to have a good opinion of me anyway [insert spit-wielding raspberry]).

Hannah has had some violent reactions (including projectile vomiting, major congestion and sneezing, hives, anemia, and general miserableness) to several foods including milk and nutter butters. (Before you start judging, no, I did not give my one year old a whole nutter butter cookie. It was a bite-sized nutter butter, and she begged me for it with Bambi eyes... until the puking commenced at which point she looked at me as if I had purposefully tried to poison her with arsenic. And then I proceeded to feel like the best mother ever.)

At her one year appointment the pediatrician recommended that we do an allergy test to make sure she doesn't have future and more ER-visit-inducing reactions. So I took my daughter to the lab for a blood draw. Of course, she picked this day to be the sweetest, gentlest, most endearing child ever born. Just in case I wasn't already going to feel absolutely terrible about this. She wanted to be sure as she gazed up at me with those singularly amazing blue eyes and adorable two toothed smile that I felt, in fact, like the best mother ever.

At the lab I was instructed to wrap Hannah up straight-jacket style on my lap, while one nurse held her arm, and the other inserted a javelin through her skin. I think there must have been a shortage on surgical equipment at the factory, and one clever foreman decided that 18 inch sewer pipes once bleached out could substitute for infant needles. My brave girl did an amazing job. She hardly cried at all, except when they took her slinky away. (The slinky will need further discussion later, but for now, suffice it to say, most of our known world revolves around blankies, pacifiers, and this one orange slinky.) Attached to the needle was a syringe that could hold about 2 liters, and I think they really wanted to fill it up. Just as I was about to ask if my daughter might need some of that left in her system, the nurse removed the tube and capped it. Phew. She then attached another 2 liter coke bottle to the needle and milked a little more out of her. "Y'all got a hungry brood of vampires in the back somewhere? Is this for your world renowned 1 million leach collection? STOP!" my brain screamed. However, my brave baby sat grumpy yet patient until they were done, and then fiercely retrieved her slinky.

Both nurses said what an incredible job she did, and that she was one of the best babies they've ever had in the lab. Well, yes, she is awesome. That's what I've been saying. We sent our regards to the vampires and left.

Monday yielded the results of Baby Brave's blood draw. Drum roll please. Hannah is allergic to: milk, soy, eggs, wheat, peanuts, cashews, and latex. WHAT??!!! Cashews???!!!! Oh no, how ever will we circumvent all of the millions of cashews littering back alleys and seedy side-streets just waiting to jump out and mug sweet, innocent baby girls who happened to end up in the nutty side of town? How will we ever avoid all those darn cashews? I mean milk, sure, who wants to eat ice cream, yogurt, cheese, and butter on a regular basis? Wheat: no problem! It's not like wheat is in ever possible side dish or sandwich conceived by man. And really, no one cooks ANYTHING in peanut oil nowadays. Everyone secretly hates Reeses Peanut Butter cups, no loss there. But oh, oh, turn your laughter to mourning and your joy to gloom, what ever are we to do about this cashew allergy. (I promised you sarcasm, and sarcasm is what I deliver. You're welcome.)

As Justin is out of a job at the moment we are on WIC. It has been an absolute blessing. However, after the six pints of blood they took out of my sweetie bear and telling me she's allergic to everything but peas, my mood was not improved by our visit to the WIC office. I had to leave work early, pick up Hannah's lab results, deliver a copy of the nutrition prescription form to her pediatrician, wait for the pediatrician to elect almond milk for Hannah to drink, go pick up my kids, take prescription, tired children, and lab results to WIC office, only to be told they will not provide almond milk. In fact, for situations like hers, there are only two brands of formula they will cover. ...My my, but wouldn't that have been some nice information to have at the start of this process four hours and half a tank of gas ago. So now, the woman toting two children on the verge of tantrums, a diaper bag, and her hopes and dreams about gets to drive herself back across town to the pediatrician, explain to them why she needs the same form filled out again, and drive back to WIC with said form. Oh, and I don't want my daughter to have formula. I would rather keep nursing her. But WIC doesn't support nursing after one year of age. So we no longer get any food for me or baby food for Hannah. But Hannah does get vouchers for whole wheat cereal, peanut butter, and eggs. ...

And that's when I killed them, your honor.

I know we are among the richest people on earth. I have a wonderful family, the support of friends, a roof over our heads, and plenty of food to put on the table (just not anything with milk, nuts, wheat, eggs, or soy in it). My key to success during this era of our lives has been to maintain genuine gratitude to our God who provides. But sometimes I get so weary of actively having to recall blessings. Sometimes it is exhausting being optimistic. Sometimes life just sucks. And for so many reasons today is that sometime.

Happy First Hannah

Somehow this little miracle turned one:

My daughter is brave and beautiful and sweet and temperamental and funny and simply the most amazing thing to ever grace this green earth. She must be taking after her father.

I am not the kind of mom who gets weepy because her little baby is growing up. My children astonish me ever day. I look forward to each morning to see what they have learned, what personality quirk will come through, what utter silliness will be engaged in for the pure delight of mama and the King. While I cannot deny that my energy levels long for the pre-rolling days, my heart is in awe of what God has accomplished in this Little Man and Baby Girl.

For example: Noah read the word END. Thomas was finishing (of course. because why would we ever want to watch anything else. ever. again. until I'm sixty, and I'm trying to throw my son and his model trains out of our basement.), and big bright letters appeared on the screen: THE END. Noah pointed and declared quite matter-of-factly to me, "e - nnnnnn - Duh." And lest you think he just recognized the shape of the word and didn't really read per say, I went through all of his story books, flipped to the last page and not one of them had the words: THE END. Yes, I am raising a genius.

And yes, I'm the kind of person that will flip to the last page of over twenty children's books just to prove a point. And I might even have said "HA!" out loud as if all of his stuffed animals had been doubting me and needed to be put in their place.

For another example: Baby girl signs "all done" when she is done eating. The only problem is she believes 'all done' is some kind of magic word/movement that instantly removes any article of offense away from her and banishes it to outer darkness with the Dragon and our old Subaru. "No, sweetie-bear," I must patiently explain. "You are not all done after one bite of applesauce." Astonishment covers her tiny features. She waves her arms again just in case the magic didn't work the first time. Mommy continues to sit there still holding a spoon heaped with appley offense. Despondent that her transcendent teleporter is no longer functional, she throws her head back in a contortionist back bend with a mighty squeak of dissatisfaction.

And Hannah wants to do baby yoga,

which is awesome.


Happy birthday Baby Girl. You are my complete joy.

Sometimes through the haze

It is not easy.

When Hannah has already finished her cereal, but is still crying, Noah is burying his head in his blanket refusing to eat, and Dumpster is barking at the door to go out. When I have Bible study to finish, but I have to schedule meetings at work, but I have to clean the house, but we haven’t had any food in our fridge for five days (and I mean, no food, unless you want to eat plain pureed pumpkin with hot sauce). When I hug Justin hello and kiss him goodbye within the same five minutes. When Noah has a cold and does not sleep all night (again, not exaggerating, the.boy.did.not.sleep!), Hannah is having a growth spurt and demands milk at 2:00am, and the mice wonder why I won’t just leave Dumpster’s food on the ground like a decent hostess. This is when it is not easy. We are living in the haze.

One of my very dear friends got excellent, fantastic, the-best-possible-news this week. While others weep for joy, dance for jubilation, and sing an anthem to our Yahweh, I smile softly as if far off, watching a butterfly land across a field. I experience joy for her as if glancing at another universe, strange and distant, behind billows of ‘this isn’t easy.’

I miss my husband. I’ve been thinking of sending him postcards at the hospital. My son is a heart-breaker when sick… and I’m pretty sure he knows it. I don’t know how to provide for my daughter after she turns one (which is ridiculously, ludicrously soon). I don’t know how to follow at this moment, when I am watching my feet drag one front, and then the other, and then, hopefully, usually, the other.

I know it isn’t plague. I know it isn’t war. I know it isn’t need and famine and death and any other horses being bridled back by the long-suffering hand of a compassionate King. But it is alone. And it is weak. And it is not easy.

But sometimes through the haze…

Hannah dances. She takes a few wobbly steps, throws her head back and forth, claps her hands, and falls straight down to her bottom. She grins up at me and blows a kiss. And just this once, Noah decides instead of pushing her out of the way, he will kiss her on the cheek.

Noah will recite his alphabet, which as we all know goes “A B C D P Cu(Q) S S S E F G…” and so on.

Dumpster will curl up at my feet when I lay down to sleep because Justin is not there, and a bulldog makes you feel, if nothing else, secure.

I will catch a glimpse of my husband, and he will be the same strong, smart, fun, godly man I remember, if a little more tired, and I will be engulfed in love for him… so much so that I can’t speak.

Sometimes through the haze, God will woo me back towards the light, through the jaws of distress, with moments of miracles and breaths of truth in the wind. His Word will stand. His promise, His Son will stand in my life, and there is no haze that can contain the Captain of Light.

Plumbingly Disinclined

There it was, gurgling gleefully at me, traitorous and foul, our kitchen sink.

Perhaps I should start at the beginning: Justin is doing his clinicals. He is working in the ICU tonight. He is saving lives, I am using a plunger. ...Noah is screaming.

I am supposed to be at Bible study.

I thought this would be a long post, but starting at the beginning has summed things up better than I imagined. We tried to pulverize something that is apparently unpulverizable, the sink backed up and foulness floated in our kitchen. I was just going to let it go. I'm sure there is nothing the husband would like better than to come home after a hospital shift and unclog a growling sink that smells worse than my growling bulldog (but only just barely). However, once Noah threw his bottle into the fetid water, and I had to fish it out, we voted and decided that the sink needed fixing. (Yes, we vote in our house. But you earn votes based on height and the ability to take yourself to the bathroom. Ergo, while the boy has two votes and Hannah has one, Mommy has three bazillion, and usually wins. [Unless daddy is voting because he's a giant and gets four kagillion bazillion and two-thirds votes.] We don't vote based on math skills because Noah would pass me up in about six months).

I then sent a request out on facebook for anyone available, close, and plumbingly inclined to come save us before we had to start bailing. The replies included: I can be there tomorrow, two comments from sweet women that they themselves know how to unclog drains and could instruct me how (and you know this made me feel like a capable, intelligent, independent woman, who just happens to need to curl up in a closet and cry every now and then), and one bizarre statement that I should track all of the calamities over the next nine and a half months while Justin is swamped by school, so we can laugh about it one day. The sadist who left this comment, seemed to think we would one day understand how God's grace and provision had been all over us at this time. She is right. But I don't have to like it.

Finally, I got a hold of my wonderful, wonderful, wonderful father, who came over, plunged the thing out and got all factors flowing freely again. Did I mention he's great?

I mean awesome...

Like the great kings of old...

Just making sure I'm clear on this point.

Wisdom is often finding a balance between extremes. The extremes I was facing were a plunger, Liquid Plumber, and my ever-so-mechanically-inclined brain attempting to redeem the situation and dumping nasty water out the kitchen window all night.

I decided to make cookies. That seems like a reasonable compromise between the previous options.

Being chip-less, I settled on no-bake cookies. I pulled out my measuring cups, wrapped a bandana around my nose to keep out the stink (and so the five-year-old part of my brain could play Butch Cassidy and the Cookie Kid, shooting people with egg beater guns all night), and gathered the ingredients.

Then the final straw started floating down out of the sky and in eloquent camel-speak I humphed "NOOOoooo!!!!" Grabbing the oatmeal container, I gave it a little shake. It rat-a-tat-tatted like a disappointing maraca. Now, after twenty-nine years on this green earth, I have learned a thing or two (okay, I've learned three things total, that still counts). One of the things I know is what two cups of dry oatmeal sounds like in a cardboard Quaker can. It shooshes gently, like soft waves tugging at heavy sand. Two cups of oatmeal doesn't shake it like latin percussion. Not enough oatmeal makes that concerning sound.

In the words of Elrond, "And there will be no cookies for you."

The point is, I think I will take the Facebook sadist's advice and record things from this year, so one day, as promised, I will look back in laughter and think, "Remember the time I wanted to make cookies, but didn't have any oatmeal? God was so good then." ... Or something like that. Fair warning: this blog could get sarcastic.

In the middle of the night when ... finds me

At the end of my previous post I wrote the following: "I am excited for what will be accomplished in a week and a half... I am excited. And I am unafraid." I imagine therefore, that the subsequent retreat calamities are in fact entirely my fault. Apologies to all retreat goers.

Except not really. Because I am still unafraid.

This year our annual women's retreat began like any other: searching for the edibles that were inadvertently left at the church and requesting several attendees run to the store for us. However, it weren't no thang. (Okay, the missing accouterments were the coffee pot cord and coffee, and we are Baptist, so it was kind of a thang. But with a Wal-mart just down the street, we staved off any withdrawal induced rioting. [Again, with the plug-in issues. Why can coffee pots and cell phones not run on the same type of charger. It's 2014 people! Coffee pots should come with USB ports and wi-fi... or at least IV drip bags.]) Everyone had chocolate cake and ice cream, we worshiped, we praised, we encouraged, loved, and listened, and then there was a rousing game of Telestrations (just in case we were concerned with becoming too spiritual). All in all, a grand time was had.

Next day? Not so much.

It all started with the mention that a certain unwanted vermin of the "sleep tight, don't let 'em bite" variety had been seen. Our ministry team leader and I slipped quietly into the room, and checked the bed, peeling back covers, lifting mattresses, and generally accusing every ball of lint of being buggy, vile, and committing heinous crimes against humanity. We dug the squashed offender out of the trash, and all but performed a complete crime scene investigation. My compadre got out her phone and googled images of bed bugs for comparison (although I still hold that we should be able to do this on our coffee pot without needing to lug around obnoxious phones). It was, in fact, beddy and buggy.

We informed several others on our team, and then, ninja-style, we slunk from room to room and tossed the beds. Nothing. Our ever wise leader, spoke to her quite godly husband and determined we should probably still inform folk that one was found, though the circumstances of its presence were somewhat suspect. One at a time we started letting people in on the occurrences of the afternoon (like the fact that we ransacked their rooms while they were out... oh yeah, our ministry team is not above creepy). I assumed people would check their beds, find, as we had, nothing, and return to their crafty, gamey, sleepy diversions.

I am really a bad assumer. I should give up the habit.

Another little monster was found, on a different floor of the house, and another on a different floor of the house.

And our fearless leader of this merry band of misfits began to crack.

As the bug infestation exploded all over everything (please don't visualize that), too much unfolded to be relayed in a blog that I want my four readers to finish reading at some point. The summary is: we decided to stay, those who wanted to go went, and we declared to the Adversary that this weekend would not be a win in his score book. And we ate pumpkin cobbler with equal conviction.

The thing I do want to address is this: while most were kind, understanding, courageous, and godly in what was a rather nasty situation, there was also certainly some major paranoia, panic, and irrational behavior, as human beings lunged to grasp any small sense of control they could exercise over things to big and wonderful for them.

At some point we have to live a life of faith. Human beings really have very limited control over reality. We cannot control nature in all of its cruelty and annoyances: the floods will rise, the fires will burn, the bugs will crawl. We cannot control other people: their reactions, their emotions, their choices are beyond are grasp. We cannot control our God, for as Lucy reminds us: "He is not tame, but He is good." All we can control is what we choose to do about Jesus Christ. Can we trust Him to be Captain of our lives or not? I will not live a life of fear. That is not the legacy I want to leave for my children. For those who have been entrusted to me, I want to show that life can be victorious, that Yahweh is closer than a brother and greater than the universe. As my children watch me I want them to see a woman of fierce bravery, who can laugh at the days to come; because her God is greater than herself, and she really believes this.

My daughter is still nursing, so she went with me this weekend. Her bed was a pack and play. I met our leader and her mother in the bathroom as we got ready in the morning, and I offered them the options I had come up with for this fabric-covered, potentially buggy object. 1. Trust that the Lord does not have more children in our future and leave it there. 2. Rub the entire bloody thing down with alcohol until the fumes have killed enough brain cells that I just don't care anymore. (A point of my own failure: unlike my God, my tongue is not tame nor good. "Who will rescue me from this body of death?") 3. Trust that if God has bedbugs planned for my future that they will come crawling out of the woodwork, no effort on my part will stop them, and I will be okay with this.

This is what we forget. God is Sovereign and Good. His will cannot be thwarted, and honestly, why would we want to. If I do not end up with bed bugs in the next year, I will praise God. If I do have little critters nipping in the night, I will still praise God. When Yahweh is the Lord of your life; you can be unafraid. He alone makes us brave. At some point we have to choose: will you live a life of fear, or will you live a life of faith.

Outnumbered in Retreat

Part of my responsibility on our church's Women's Ministry Team is to help organize, facilitate, make brownies for, lead worship at, and generally agonize over every detail of the annual fall women's retreat. (I'm not kidding. Our fearless leader made everyone sign a contract at the beginning of the year. I didn't actually read through it, but I am sure at some point it mentions retreat brownies frosted with agony. ... and given the nature of our fearless leader, I probably signed away a child to her as well. ... which, since we are in the midst of a bout with teething, I could really be okay with.) The retreat is a week and a half away, and whilest all the details have been considered, the finances to accomplish said details are not what you would call... um... there.

Since our first retreat six years ago we have grown every year. Steadily, God has been faithfully increasing our numbers. It is a wonderful trouble to have. Two years ago we all stayed in one house and a third of our blessed attendees slept on the floor. (I slept on a couch, but lest you think I am a spoiled little Women's Ministry Team princess, the couch was in a closet and was about eighteen inches away from my six week old child. Loads of retreating happening there.) Last year there were so many women we rented two houses and shuttled folks back and forth. This did not turn out so grand, but, I believe, God still used this time, the speaker, and the fellowship to encourage, bless, and challenge his people.

With the steady incline our team undertook a quest to find a house big enough, inexpensive enough, in a good location, and suited to as many people's needs/interests as we possibly could (and we figured if we satisfied at least two ladies we would be doing rather well). With the process bathed in prayer we found a new mansion with beds for sixty people, 8 bathrooms, a big worship space, and it was only an hour away from the valley. We started signing women up four weeks ago. With one more week left, we have twenty less registered than last year. As my son would say, "Uh oh!"

In true Peter fashion, I strapped my sword to my hip (right under the baby sling) and set off to rescue the retreat. I posted to every facebook wall, sent emails, prayed, encouraged, coerced, mentioned casually that I'm armed, and in all other ways implored women to come retreating. As I completed my onslaught, thought one of the day flashed through my mind: "Wouldn't it be awesome if I got all these women to come to the retreat?"

Not a full second later, I literally heard Priscilla Shirer's voice in my head as she paraphrased God's message to Gideon, "You might actually have the audacity to think you had something to do with it." I feel I would be much holier if the mind that God has given me was just a few seconds quicker witted than my flesh. Proceed to the dropping of one very foolish forehead onto one very solid table.

God says that He will accomplish mighty things, He will deliver, He is the One who knows the beginning from the end, by His hand the mouths of lions are shut, and in our weakness His strength is perfected.

I find it funny that our team is now outnumbered by too few. It is my prayer that God would use our weaknesses: our planning, our limits, our exhaustion, the worries of life that make us think we don't have the time or energy for His work, as a foundation to build a monument to His great Name. I am excited for what will be accomplished in a week and a half. I am thrilled for those almost thirty women who are coming to meet God and to see the valley through His eyes. I anticipate a new perspective, a new day, a new hope, uncried tears, laughs that have been bubbling up flying out to the joy of our hearts and God's. I am excited. And I am unafraid. And I have nothing to do with it.

The Things I've Learned

My husband introduced me to many wonders of the world previously unknown in my small life. Like the mighty Chewbacca, the first wonders I think of are food-related: sushi, avocados, Indian food, and macaroni and tomato juice... okay, macaroni and tomato juice is not a wonder of the world, but when I can feed our entire family dinner for less than a dollar and leave the three of them smiling happily, it's pretty close to wonderful. Even the little one, who has no teeth (not sure what she's waiting on; life really opens up when you get teeth), loves it all smashed up and even nastier than usual. *

He also introduced me to sports. I knew sports existed, but I had no concept of how satisfying it is to see a 350 pound lineman smashing the enemy's quarterback like an over-boiled potato. (Ah, similes.) Since hooking up with Justin, I have experienced the desire to throw ball, putter, driver, bag, cart, and universe into a water hazard after recording yet another snowman. My voice has been shattered by screaming "GO UTES!" and "ATTA KID, Travis!" for hours at a time. And, I have had softball threads etched into my tibia and humerus as I attempt to stop a speeding line-drive with every conceivable appendage except the one with the glove on it. (Is your head considered an appendage?)

Thirdly, Justin has opened the door to the world of Marvel heroes, which the incredible Hulk succeeded in smashing shut behind me. I cannot remember the last movie we saw that did not have a superhero or a hobbit in it.

What do you say to the man who daily brings you so much joy that your heart might burst... like a bowl of mac and tom shattering on the floor... like it was smashed with a line drive... like The Thing and Hulk got in a fight over it and scattered it to the corners of the universe?... But in a good way.

I love him. Lots. And if he ever tries to leave, I'll kick him. Hard. And I never thought, after six years, I would still be so smitten. Happy Anniversary, husband. You've done so many amazing and important things for me and in my life... none of which are listed above.

* Think this sounds odd? It is. Read more about mac and tom here: http://ririerantings.blogspot.com/2013/06/macaroni-and-tomato-juice.html.

Overpacking

Growing up with a little sister who is severely handicapped, I learned the value of over packing. Going to church on Sunday mornings required a sherpa. Sending her to school was a mass undertaking. A trip to Yellowstone?... Forget about it; we had two car-top carriers and the back and sides of a van packed to the rafters... or whatever it is that forms the top of a van... emergency lights? Even more than with a normally able-bodied child, with an alternately-abled child there is no telling what may happen, and you have to plan for every possibility. You have to take warm clothes and blankets in case it is cold and light clothes in case it is hot. You have to take an extra sleeping bag, more insulating mats, several many food options, diapers, clothes for diaper fails, special chair, special wheelchair, toys, distractions, etc, etc.

Because of this need to prepare for every eventuality, I learned to over pack. I would take the biggest bag I could find on trips and would have to sit on it in order to zipper it closed. My first real confrontation with this understanding came on my trip to New Zealand with Youth For Christ. After I raised my support and got my passport, YFC sent me a duffle bag. I was allowed to fill this bag and then bring a sleeping bag along with me. And that was it.

I started to compile the things I would need for a month away from home in a foreign land. It began massing in a heap in the center of my room. Seven pairs of pants (they promised laundry once a week... this did not happen... it did rain every single day however, which is kind of like laundry, right?), ten shirts, three jackets, three pairs of shoes, two skirts, and necessary under-riggin's. That was just the clothes. Then, I had to think about other necessities: my wave iron, a blow dryer, plug adapters and a voltage converter so I could plug in said hair toys (really, what is so wrong with everyone having the same plugs/sockets? I suspect when the aliens visit they will go back to their home-world pub and report to all their alien buddies, "Earth? Don't even bother! All their technology plugs into different types of sockets. They're a mess!" I feel in our galactic marketing scheme, nonstandard plugs are really holding us back from our target audience... I digress.) hair gel, hair spray, shower stuff, camera, extra memory card, extra battery, YFC binder, food in case the apocalypse occurred or our flight was downed in the Pacific and we had to swim to a deserted island and survival depended on the food I brought and coconuts (the food I brought being a cup of mini Oreos and a Reese's Fastbreak... and yes, we would be doomed, but we would die happy). Oh, and my Bible. Maybe an important thing to bring on a missions trip.

Needless to say, I got two pairs of pants and a couple shirts in the bag, then felt the weight of hopelessness bearing down on me. I relinquished the need to have perfectly straight, smooth hair on a humid pacific island in the wet season, I selected one pair of shoes aside from the ones I would wear on the plane, and I broke my toothbrush in half. The latter action did nothing to save space, but did accomplish something for venting frustration. In the end I took that one duffle bag and my sleeping bag and soldiered off into the unknown (with maybe just a few extra pairs of socks accidentally rolled up in my sleeping bag. "How did those get there?" she asks with innocent doe eyes.)

I have grown better at being less prepared, and I have come to appreciate the spontaneity and creativity it takes to survive inside of limits. As I have matured (a little) I see this psychology for what it is: a need for control. Limited in my mortal humanity in a vast, unpredictable, and often unkind world, I have a mental imperative to be prepared to exert control, to bring down order, to fend off the discomfort of uncertainty with the range of stuffs I carry on my back. This leaves little space to exercise the range of faith I carry in my heart, or the vastness of God's strength and grace. Perfectionism is a desire for control, and it leaves very little room for the beauty of life as Christ's child.

Priscilla Shirer calls it God-margin: the space between your abilities, your talents, your time, your resources, and what God has asked you to do. She states one of the beautiful paradoxes of the Christian life: "God does not call us to do hard stuff; He calls us to do impossible stuff," and at the same time, "You don't need all the things you thought you would need." Gideon faced the army of the Midianites (a paltry 135,000) with 32,000 men. But, "The Lord said to Gideon, 'You have too many men. I cannot deliver Midian into their hands, or Israel would boast against me, 'My own strength has saved me.'" The Lord cut Gideon's men down to 300, and said "Now you are ready."

My 300 is living on one small (from my perspective on the hillside) income for the next nine months, my 300 is being for all intents a single mom, my 300 is the raging battle of perfection, control, and stock-piling in the face of a God who has declared that He will provide for my heart, my spirit, and my family. In my weakness, God, may your strength be perfected!

How to Bathe a Pair of Scalawags

"How to's" seem an easy way to describe the impossibility of being a parent, thus, below I give you: "How to Bathe a Pair of Scalawags."

Step 1: Obtain a pair of filthy scalawags. This shouldn't be difficult. The young female crawls everywhere and through everything. Her socks and suits which start white will conclude the day a dusky gray (if we're lucky). Also, she is utterly amused by spitting at the most inopportune moments, like seconds after taking a bite of pureed peas. And she co-owns a bulldog. Enough said. The bulldog co-owner is a boy. And loves eating macaroni and cheese with his fingers. Enough said.

Elect to bathe the boy first. Gather accouterments of tub-time: towel, green incredible-hulk soap, blueberry-faced sponge, cup, duck, boat, Q-tips, clean clothes, fresh diaper, water, boy. Gathering the final item will take the most effort as, the second he learns it is bath time, he will run screaming into the kitchen and fold himself into armadillo defense. Carry/roll said boy into the bathroom. Once he sees the duck all will be well with the universe again. Remove child's clothes and diaper, leave in a pile on the floor while rushing to get momentarily not screaming child into the tub.

Wet the blueberry sponge. You will be distracted, so the boy will take the opportunity to snatch the cup fill it up and poor the contents out... not in the tub, on the floor, and over his clothes and diaper, and around the electronic scale, drenching the bathmat... cause if Noah has to be wet, so does everything else. Watch the water soak through his clothes and diaper lying on the floor. Sigh. The distraction of watching your bathroom being baptized will turn your gaze to the door, where a dirty little munchkin is wriggling her way towards you with a squinty grin on her face. Panic. "No no, Hannah!" you will cry out. This will upset her. Greatly. Pushing herself into a seated position, the baby will proceed to poke out her bottom lip and cry. Wonder why it isn't fair or proper for you to do that.

Now, you are faced with a dilemma: daughter crawling towards you needs to be removed to a safe safer location (there is no really safe place for a child outside of the arms of our King. I'm sure my children could accidentally injure themselves in a padded room wearing a straight jacket), whilst boy child should not be left alone standing in a tub of water. ... Oh, did I forget to mention aforementioned boy scalawag refuses to sit down during baths? This is one of those battles you chose not to fight. The inevitable concussion will eloquently fight this war for you soon. Reject every mothering instinct, snatch the daughter up and throw her in her crib across the hall. She will begin wailing. Return to the bathroom. In the, literally, three seconds where you are out of Noah's sight line, his universe will fold, stars will crash from the sky, and he will wail like you were gone for eons leaving him to his doom. Sigh.

Calm the child down by giving him his green hulk soap. Curious, he will rub it across his forearm. As his skin turns green he will grin jubilantly. Grin jubilantly. Sometimes it's nice to be a clever mom. Wash child with Johnson's baby soap as he continues turning his belly and right arm green. Come to the part of the bath where you must wash the boy's hair. Take a deep breath. Looking innocently in every direction but at the cup, ladle up some water. Still smiling sweetly cup your hand at the top of the child's forehead and start pouring water. Shrieking will ensue. Quickly check to make sure the contents of the cup are not in fact boiling acid masquerading as water. Wonder why child is shrieking as if being showered in boiling acid. One more cup full, and then assure the tortured soul in front of you that for the moment we are "all done". Still shushing his quivering form, lather his hair with soap. Scrub all those divinely perfect golden locks. Feel immense love in your heart. Time to rinse. Crud.

There are two options here: 1-Slowly and carefully trickle water down, trying to avoid his face while gently cooing "Almost done" repeatedly. 2-Dowse him and get it done with. Elect option two. Know everyone is judging you. Be okay with that.

Once the dowsing is complete, wrap Noah up in a towel and take him to the change table. The crying will stop when you hand him the baby lotion bottle. He considers whether to drum on the bottle or pry it open and eat the lotion. He chooses to drum. Exhale in relief. Dry him, diaper him and clothe him. Lastly, clean his ears; because the kid makes an unnatural amount of ear wax. Wonder how it is even possible that he can hear. Consider his obedience infractions over the last few weeks. Maybe he can't hear. Wouldn't that be a nice excuse instead of admitting your child has a willful sin nature.

And done. Yeah!

Step 2: Collect items for baby girl's bath: blue sink tub, washrag, duck, towel, clean clothes, diaper, soap, pacifier, water, girl. As you gather up the girl her crying will instantly stop, and she will smile at you adoringly. At once be utterly frustrated and totally smitten. Remove baby girl's clothes and diaper. Carry her into the kitchen. Notice a suddenly warm and damp patch on your belly. Yeah, she totally just pee-d on you. That's how we roll in this house. Fill the tub with water and insert baby.

Baby girl will look at water as if she has never seen this anomaly before, and will curiously poke one very articulate finger down, breaking the surface of the water. Content that it will not kill her, Hannah will raise both hands high in the air and smash them down into the tub. Remove your sopping wet shirt. Snag a dish towel from the counter and place it on the floor. You've played this game before, and there is nothing like slipping all over the kitchen while trying to carry your best baby girl back to her room. You ain't no fool. ... this time.

Proceed with the washing of girl child. She is much less a pain about the whole scenario than her brother. Of course you will not escape dry. Scrub a dub all her little baby rolls. Love her completely. Be grateful that she with all her splashing and Noah with all his shrieking have been entrusted to you with the most important charge ever given: parent. Once the bath is done, collect the hooded bath towel, and fit the little hood over her adorable noodle. While you are trying to wrap up the rest of her, she will fiercely seize the towel from her head and plunge it into the bath water. Your glare will meet her grin like a fire extinguisher in the face a flame thrower. Scoop up naked, dripping wet Hannah, cradle her to you (it all dries in the end... at least in Utah), and retrieve another towel. Dry, lotion, diaper, and clothe the baby girl. And done. Yeah!

Hear the sound of the first born playing with the bulldog, offender of all senses. Sigh.

Manic Little Man Feet

I don't know what it is like living with someone who is bipolar, but I imagine it is not too unlike living with a two-year-old. Thankfully, we caught him in his manic state for your entertainment. I have a dancing drummer in the making. Wahoo!

 

 

Happy birthday to my Little Man, my Baby Buddy, Mr. Noah!

Stuck

There are some dear friends of ours who are going through a hard time in their lives and marriage. They are both wonderful, amazing people, and this seems to have come out of left field (although we are very outside the situation). It is a solemn reminder that no marriage is invincible. As Justin and I prayed for them, for reconciliation, and for God to make the wrongs right, we were reminded to pray for one another and our small family too. This was our dinner prayer, and as it ended and Justin headed for the tuna (alas, yes, I am serving tuna for dinner. We will all turn into cats... and then I'll be allergic to myself.), I warned him, "You're stuck with me, though, okay? I'm not going anywhere."

The Husband laughed, gave me a hug, and told me, "I was just about to say, 'Poor girl, you're stuck with me.'" We are stuck with one another. Which I am pretty okay with.

We are facing a hard ten months ahead. Due to the greed and selfishness of a select few and a host of political issues that I don't fully understand, Justin's school is closing. The doors shut at the close of business May 31st, 2015. My husband has a year and a half of classes that he still needs to take, so the faculty very graciously came up with a plan to squeeze it all in before then. It will be a hideous ten months. The volume of material to read/learn, the time in class, and the completion of clinical hours means he will be a ghost around our home, and for added fun, not able to work. We will be living on my income. We have already decided to cancel all gifts for each other, we are getting rid of every little extra, and we are trying to find ways to work more now.

As we head into this time I am beyond thankful to be stuck with such an amazing man. For him, because we see the Light at the end of the tunnel, I can do this. With God's power we will outlast. I am so excited to see the other side as we prepare for ministry and service on the mission field. I am excited to see the man my husband becomes, how my children grow, how I change. When it all ends, I am excited to sleep in sometimes, and have ESPN so we can watch Ute games and baseball!

It's not just the end I am looking forward to, however. That is the hope. But I know the next ten months are life too. In the next year there will be laughter I wouldn't trade for the world, and tears that break me down. There will be family, and friends, and work, and play. There will be Christmas with a Charlie Brown tree and two beautiful shining faces, glowing in its twinkling light. When we first decided this was the road we would take, I had in mind to squeeze my eyes shut, plunge on, and hope it all came out all right in the end. However, I realize there is too much to see in ten months. I will not spend the next year blind. I will spend it stuck. And happily, happily so.

Grace and Giggles

It's hard being almost two.

I cannot count the number of times I have told Noah this in the midst of a crisis over the last few weeks. His head is at counter height, his feet walk without his brain guiding, baby sister borrows without asking, and sometimes we have squash for dinner. It's a rough life. And he's sure we know about it.

At a family gathering a few weeks ago after an altercation involving a glass door and a dog bell, my sweet little boy hauled off and slapped me across the face. In shock, I grabbed his hand and motioned to my husband that it was time to go... NOW. It was time to go somewhere with fewer witnesses. And no death penalty for murder one.

When we got home, settled every one down and got the kids in bed, I went back to my Dobson literature. I'm not saying his words are inspired; I do not believe he speaks gospel... but he is pretty close. Concerning the terrible two's he said, "I am a firm believer in the judicious use of grace (and humor) in parent-child relationships. In a world in which children are often pushed to grow up too fast, too soon, their spirits can dry out like prunes beneath the constant gaze of critical eyes. It is refreshing to see parents temper their inclination for harshness with a measure of "unmerited favor." There is always room for more loving forgiveness within our homes. Likewise, there's nothing that rejuvenates the parched, delicate spirits of children faster than when a lighthearted spirit pervades the home and regular laughter fills its halls." (Dr. James Dobson, Family Talk, Solid Answers.)

I knew this. I honestly think we know much more than we would admit. Often, forgetfulness, business, and failure to really think about the problems presented to us makes us believe we do not know. So whether forgetful or unthinking, I managed to forget that it is kind of hard being two. The world gets very big very fast. Time suddenly exists, and it refuses to wait or hurry. There are wonders and disasters, learning to fear and learning to love. There are icky foods that mommy says are good, dreaded baths, and early bedtimes. As I teach my Little Man kindness, maybe he could use a little demonstration. Mommy, can you be kind, understanding, firm but loving, gentle and cautious, and loads and loads of fun?

It is an impossible task, this raising a little man and lady. Knowing when to discipline is not easy (and yes, I do think, in the future, hitting requires discipline... maybe not death, but discipline). Knowing when to show mercy, when to offer grace, and when to laugh and laugh is not simple. It has been easier though with these thoughts in my head. My children are a wonder, and they are learning day by day how to be more wonderful. More than concerned for the terrible two’s I am excited to see what this Little Man becomes when he is not so little anymore.

Summer pics

Last post was a lot of jabbering, so this post will be more pictury, just to shake things up. Justin is playing in a softball tournament with his work. Here are his loyal fans paying so much attention (yes, that's his game going on behind us).

I cannot tell you how difficult it is to take a group selfie, when one member of the groups has arms too short to hold the camera far enough away to squeeze all our selfies in, one member is grouching because he is not allowed to lick the camera, and one keeps counting blades of grass with her big toe. It's like trying to take a selfie in a mental institution.

And before we move on, I feel I should apologize for Little Man's 'Luke Skywalkert/Aunt Beru' haircut. I am aware it's not his best look. He still wears it better than Mark Hamill though.

This is Baby Girl, and Big Little Man at Lagoon... speaking of not our best look ever..

My kids have a polar magnetization to water. They are part water monkey... (is that a real thing?)

August Showers Bring Great Glowers

It all depends on your perspective.

After a flight to New Zealand, whereon I ceased to exist for the span of one day (and why does that always happen on Saturday?), got pelted by a Thor-grade thunder storm, took a 2:00am detour to Fiji, and finally landed in Auckland exhausted, starving, and brimming with excitement for the adventures ahead, all I really wanted out of life was a shower. ... and maybe a kiwi. ... the fruit, not the other kind. ... I mean seriously, who would land after such a traumatic plane ride and want to snuggle up to ... a rare, flightless, soda straw beaked bird? ... and not the other, other kind either.

(It just now occurs to me that you have to understand New Zealand slang to think that joke was at all funny. Sorry.)

After our brief NewZea orientation (wherein the kiwi joke was explained to us [if you're really curious I can attach a power point presentation outlining the nuance of meanings, which infuses humor into all previous phraseology]), we went to the Marae. If you've never experienced a Maori greeting and welcome onto the Marae, it is beautiful, moving, haunting, and warm, a curious juxtaposition of forgotten worlds and those to come (except with sloppier sneakers, because I swear, it NEVER stops raining in New Zealand). My need for a shower was lost in feelings of awe and honor, family and community, fear and food. However, once we had been through the welcome ceremony, a huge meal, singing and dancing together, and a philosophical lesson from the story-teller, my shower craving had returned. A short-circuit in my brain was processing all information in a binary of 'shower' / 'bed.' (For example, when asked my name it would come out: -shower-shower-bed-shower-bed-bed-bed-shower.)

So for the first time in three days (well, four according to the calendar, but that pesky oblivion doesn't count), shampoo and razor in hand I stepped into a shower. Allow me to set the scene: Outdoors, top half of a wooden crate set over a drain, dingy tile walls, 'that's a curtain?!' shower curtain, COLD water - adjust - COLDER water. And Jethro. Jethro is the wee froggy who lives under the wooden crate. And Roland. Roland is an enormous unfolding spider who lives on the shower wall... with about 50 of his buddies. I was having a Cirith Ungol, Forbidden Forest shower.

In all honesty, I found it most entertaining. It was an adventure. Abi's love adventure! Of course there were spiders in the freezing shower, that's how adventures work. How else would you know you were on an adventure if there weren't creepies in the dirty hole where you are supposed to get clean? Adventures require frogs in the shower. They serve the same function as parakeets in the coal mines. If the frog passes out, it's time to go. With all the balance of a ninja, you angle your back out of the freezing spray, and your leg crooked in front of you so you can manage to shave slice your legs with the utterly chilly razor. It was fun!

Flash forward to last night. Finally, I gave up on getting my sweet baby to go to sleep. After a very hard week, I peeled off my clothes, swept back the 'that's what a curtain is supposed to look like' shower curtain, and stared into the eyes of a very broken faucet. So here's a sentence I hope none of you ever have to write: my dog ate my shower. He jumped in and either smacked or bit the water gusher part and broke off the little bits that make it shoot from the top. (That is my advanced plumbing vocabulary coming into play. Sorry, if I left any of you behind with my elevated, PVC diction.)

Justin was doing homework. I think at this point, that should be a given. Despondently, I gathered my shampoo and razor (and a few other necessities), wrapped a towel around me and trudged downstairs to use the other shower. Allow me to set the scene: Indoors, clean white, 'you can't see me' door, COLD water - adjust - COLDER water - adjust oppositely - warm water, and only a few unsightly insect corpses. All in all, from a neutral perspective, better.

But it wasn't better. It was all worsely all over. It was one of the more wrathful showers I can recall in my brief history. I seethed at the small space, cursed that I had to use all my ballet training to shave my legs, and grumped at the innocent deadlings swirling down the drain. When it was all over I swung the door open. BAD IDEA. BRRRR COLD! I snatched my towel from the floor. Oh, did I mention the shower kind of leaks? How silly of me to leave that glorious detail out! So my towel was wet and probably about 32.5 degrees Fahrenheit. And so without a stitch of clothing on, hair dripping wet, and eyes blazing red I stormed away, leaving the offending shower to sulk in its steaminess.

It's all about context. I will endure most anything in the name of adventure. I will endure it with the joy encouraged in New Testament letters. Sans adventure, there is very little I will tolerate.

Frozen

The latest lapse in blogging is brought to you by the stomach flu, unemployment, and the numbers 9-1-1. I don't feel like expanding on any of those topics. Rather, let's just move on, you and I. (At this point I don't particularly expect any 'you's' to be left.)

And despite the title of this blog, there will be no snow queens or talking snowmen roving about in it. Hence, if you were reading in hopes of Disney magic, alas, there will be none. Only Noah magic.

Noah is a ham. A real ham. Cover him in pineapple, and you could serve him for the holidays. Let's not, but you could. He has locomotives of energy, trucks of charisma, and toasters of crazy ('cause how else would you measure crazy?). Typically, to wind down before bed, he runs full speed from one couch to the other throwing himself head first into the cushions, before charging back to his point of origin and repeating the process. (And I will sadly include that he doesn't always land on the couch. Sometimes his beautiful block is hurtled headlong into carpet and/or load-bearing wall.) When we are driving in the car, he chats our ears off about this, that, and what the monkey says - oo, oo, oo, ee, ee, ee. When, in the throes of frustration, he cannot remove the lid from his beloved bubble wand, he screams, a hearty, masculine, baby shriek that shakes the rafters. Then he grins and eats the bubbles. He is a ham.

Until people arrive. It is no wonder that with Justin for a father and me for a mother, the poor lad is terminally shy. He never had a chance. When approached by someone he doesn't know or doesn't spend a lot of time around, my Little Man freezes solid. He will not move a muscle. It is honestly somewhat concerning. He'll stay there for a long, long time. Frozen. I don't know how his little muscles do it. He can be stuck with his arm straight out, and I am sure all the blood will have drained out of it pooling in his little sneakers, and still the lad will not budge. He is going to kick trash at freeze tag and red light/green light when he goes to school.

His next action will either be to move only his eyeballs, peering up through long lashes and a shaggy mane to see if his foe is gone or seems less scary on second glance, or to melt into a puddle of silent tears. It is a toss up as to which action will occur, and sometimes one follows the other. That's super funsies.

He would make an excellent figurehead. The Good Ship Noah, sailing the seven seas, led into gale and adventure by a curiously lifelike figurehead of the most adorable, frozen little scalawag every seen.

Grand Ambitions

Last night the husband sighed and said, "You know, if we had a whole day off without the kids or school or work, I bet we could..."

Before he concluded the sentence my brain jumped into annoying Google mode trying to guess the end of his sentence before he could get there.

"... plant our garden and clean the entire house."
"... go hiking and have a picnic in the mountains."
"... actually enjoy what married couples get to enjoy legally and without moral condemnation."

How did his sentence actually end? "... sleep the entire day."

Oh. Well. Yes, that actually sounds like the best of all possible options. Good plan, sir!

She-friend

Women bond over complaining and criticism. We grumble about men and their infantile obsession with explosions, violence, and mayhem. No one could bond over such atrocious behavior! Yet women are worse. Without the grace of our Savior and the love of Jesus Christ in our hearts, we bond over interpersonal explosions, emotional violence, and petty complaining mayhem. It's uglier than any video game, more brutal than any slasher flick, more appalling than a night watching the WWF. But bad attitudes and petty disputes bring women outside of God's mercy together like peanut butter and jelly.

This is the kind of female relationships I am used to. I grew up with unbelieving, incredibly liberal dancer friends. Each of them beautiful, empathetic, gentle, and amazing in her own way. Combined, all this femininity has the disastrous potential of C-4. I couldn't relate to the women at church, those who seemed to have it all together, like I could to the women in the trenches, trying to survive like me. Rarely, did I partake in the slamming, complaining festivities. But there I sat: listening, absorbing, thinking this kind of gossip and malice were normal, were what made girls close.

For mother's day Justin (bless him all the way to his socks) stayed home with the kids while I went out with a wonderful friend. We saw a movie and went out to eat. Over a delightful (and somewhat ridiculous) amount of sushi we chatted about life and got to know one another better. Then, she said it... "I've always felt you were your own person, not swayed by the crowd, not compromising." (Paraphrase. She was more eloquent. I wish I had been wearing a wire, so I could catch her exact phraseology and meaning... I imagine wearing a wire would have cancelled the possibility of Indian food next week, though.)

She complimented me. Un-solicited and with sincere admiration, she gave me a true compliment. I don't know what external Abi was doing. Probably, she smiled thankfully, or shook her head as if to say 'oh thank you, but not really.' Internal Abi was panicking.

What do I do now? She is so nice. I should compliment her back... You too? I think you're smart? Sweet? Cool? The kind of person who wouldn't point out that COOL hasn't been cool since the 90's?

I think the best of this friend, but I am so unused to receiving and giving genuine compliments. And isn't that a little sad. What a difference to be in the presence of a sister with a genuine heart and wonderful spirit. She is not the church face that most people show; she is in the trenches. But she is not alone in the trenches. The One who makes us family has given us hope and that hope let's us see with a spirit of goodness and compassion and patience... sometimes. Often enough to make this woman look different, sound different, live differently than every other close female friend I have had.

So we will be having more coffee or sushi or whatever other excuse to hang out. Because I need practicing reminding people of how genuinely incredible they are, and I imagine she needs practicing hearing such things.

Spidey Sense

I have never liked Spiderman much. That has nothing to do with this blog, it is just something I told a friend today and felt would be worth repeating. Irrational, much?

Often, my children prove to me that they are far more in tune to the extra-physical world around us than I, and often I am wondering if they have been bitten by a sense-heightening, radioactive spider. Okay, perhaps 'often' is an over statement. There probably aren't many folks on the planet who think of sentences like that 'often'. But I've thought it at least twice. And thoughts are so few and far between as of late that thinking the same thing twice makes that idea, regardless of how bizarre, a majority of my collective ideations. So there. The majority of my brainlings are about radioactive spiders, my kids, and superheroes I don't even like. How very unspiritual of me.

Justin has class Monday and Wednesday from 6:00-8:00pm. Noah's bedtime is 7:30, and Hannah generally goes down to sleep shortly after that. Mommy feeds them and gets jammies on them, mommy tucks them in, and if screaming ensues ('if'... haha), mommy rocks them, shushes them, hands them milk, or starts cramming towels under the door to block the sound. As far as reality presents they don't know where daddy is until the next morning.

But somehow they feel he is there.

The first clinical rotation for Justin's class started Thursday night at 6:00pm and ended at 3:30am. From there he drove to work and played with ecoli and other viruses until 11:30am. To my foolish and ever optimistic assumption, this night would be like any other. (Except Dumpster would get to sleep on the big bed with me because, I am, in my heart of hearts, a coward, afraid of the dark, the light, and staplers that make too loud a crack. If I still lived in the deep south with all its toothless flora and fauna, I would most certainly be accused of being 'yella'.) I got the younglings into their beds, got myself ready for bed and laid down. To my surprise Dumpster did not come and offer his courageous (albeit stench-ridden) presence on the bed to guard his mistress from the foes of night. And from there nothing went as I had foreseen.

Noah woke up screaming. And again. Third time's the charm. And third time he brought Hannah with him. And then she decided the day ought to start at 3:00am and sleep was no longer an option.

If you want to see a desperate woman, imagine this blogger, scampering back and forth from room to room, scratching Noah's back and shushing him, diving next door to give Hannah her pacifier back, dodging a curious bulldog (traitor!) as she runs back to re-wrap Noah in his blanket. One would finally be quiet, and the other one would let out a shriek just piercing enough to awaken the first, and start the strange series of events again. The carpet in our hallway is now sadly worn, the warpath through the jungle, showing the slogging of two tired boots from battle to battle.

How do they know that daddy is away? It has to be extra-sensory.

Justin is a presence in the house: a strong tower, a source of security, and encouragement, and provision. He isn't perfect, he doesn't make perfect decisions, but there is never a time when I wish he was somewhere else. I never want a break from him. Even when he spends hours studying in the basement, or working in the yard we know he is a whisper away. I suppose the kids are just like me. I don't sleep when he isn't here. It's not just that he calms our fears. It's not that he is some megawatt superhero, and I'm laying down beside ... I just realized there is no superhero name with which I can complete this sentence and not draw serious repercussions... . He's just a dad. A good one. And everything is better when dad's around.

I went out with some ladies to see the movie Mom's Night Out (more on this to come). I had the thought that someone should make a movie like this about dads. Then it occurred to me that would be the worst selling movie ever. Moms want to see movies where moms are lifted up. And dads... dads want to see movies where stuff is blown up. That knocks out almost all of the potential audience

Dads are important, more than we as a society are willing to believe. I'm as feminist as the next girl. I know I am smart, strong, capable, beautiful, a fighter, independent (all and only by grace). But I cannot imagine trying to accomplish this impossible task of raising two children filled with potential all alone. So this Mother's Day, despite the fact that he gets a day in June, I want to honor my husband, a dad, a good one, who makes everything better.

Scrubs, Socks, Mittens, and the Wizard

A glance at the current state of our family through four articles of clothing(ish):

Scrubs - The Husband: Justin is embroiled in a tear down, drag out, shoot 'em up street fight with nursing school. This semester is the peak before we start getting to head downhill to the blessed light at the end of the tunnel. He has to wear scrubs to every class and his clinical rotation. The thing is, despite being given high blood pressure and elevated cortisol levels from school, my husband is built like a Greek statue. He keeps grumbling about stress (and my cookies) making him fat. Right, like if the 'David' put on a couple after arm wrestling a bear and a lion. He is tall and trim. Ever since I've known him he has been tall and trim. There are certain less civilized regions of the world where men have been executed for lesser crimes. Like Hollywood. I digress. We buy him size X-Large scrubs because he can't stand the tantalizing glimpse of tube sock peeking haughtily out from under his cuffs. While X-large pants are long enough (barely)*, both he and I and Dumpster could stand in the waist with room to spare... now there's an image. And here's one: my scrubby clad adonis:

(He's the tall cute one in the back.)

Socks - The Blogger: We decided since our softball team tends to disappoint in the winning area of the game, we should try to make it excel in the fun area of the game. Step one: get Abi some awesome softball socks.

Really, what else needs to be said. I traipsed about the field all night in hot pink knee-high socks. It's a living.

Mittens - Baby Girl: Shortly after her four month doctor appointment, Hannah developed some skin problems. It started on her face and has spread to most the rest of her body. A lesser (meaning less cute)  girl would be in a sad state, but Hannah wears her rough, flaky, and red skin like a champ (an adorable champ). The worst part is she scratches at her face when it itches. For any of you who have little ones, you know how hard it is to keep baby nails short enough that they can't claw themselves to within an inch of your sanity. So, in order to save her face and my nerves we have been putting mittens on her for the last few weeks. We take them off so she can play, and if her skin has a good day. Otherwise, Hannah has some version of mittens on most of the time. Like so:

And yes, she is wearing boy clothes. That's what happens with babies: they wear everything they own in one week and then spit up on the last God-forsaken outfit... or worse. Usually worse.

The Wizard - Baby Noah: (Before we get to the explanation, I apologize that I don't have a picture for this section. I'm having a devise transferring issue. Next post about Little Man, I'll get a good Noah pic up. Until then, our imaginations are woefully underused; dust yours off and make this as cute, funny, or boring as you want.) Noah loves his blankets. He's on a sure path to being the next Linus in Peanuts. He's not partial, and will drag any available scrap of fabric around, but there is one for which he has a slight preference: It is white with blue and silver stars all over and a blue trim. Lately he has taken to wrapping this blanket around his shoulders before scampering about the house chanting all manner of incomprehensible incantations. Shy of one pointy hat, he looks like a little wizard ready to turn Dumpy into a toad (not too much challenge, really entry level magic. The same thing could be done with a razor and a bowl of water).

There you have it: us by garment.

* Justin spent a year in New Zealand. I swear he left at a respectable 6' 2", but returned at an uncanny 6'4". And this was when he was 25 years old. It is just wrong for anyone to have a growth spurt that late in life. I swear he found the One Ring that instead of unusually long life, makes someone concerningly tall.

Baby Mutant: Tornado

The last thirty minutes have been spent with me holding baby girl tightly to my chest and trying to prevent heart attack aftershocks. I'm sure this is one of those moments I probably shouldn't blog about because child protective services will be banging on my door seconds after it is published.

Children are miraculous in their ability to learn, experiment, and live without defeat or fear. Miraculous: always, but not necessarily the good kind of miracle.

Hannah has been rolling from her tummy to her back for a couple weeks now. She is much more optimistic about tummy time than Noah was. Sometimes, we can't keep her on her back. I have only seen her roll from her belly to her back once. It seemed an exhaustive effort, and she was disinclined to ever try it again. Therefore, from past experience, I assumed my daughter to be capable of moving at her best about three feet in either direction.

I want her to be able to move about and explore her world, so I will lay her down on a big blanket in the middle of the floor. Tonight the blanket was positioned like so:

Any of you who have had young children can probably already see where we are going with this. In my defense, the perspective on this photograph doesn't show that the blanket is five feet long, the distance past that to the left corner of the stairs is over six feet, and I was sitting next to Hannah playing at the edge of the blanket furthest from the stairs.

From the kitchen, Noah started begging for some milk. There was a cup ready in the fridge for him, so I got up to grab it, and hand it to him. It took me all of one minute.

I heard Hannah make a noise from the living room, so I patted Noah on the head and looked over. There was my baby girl at the far left corner of the stairs (because that's the highest point, silly mommy)  one leg dangling over the edge, most of her body laying under the railing, trying to roll over and away one more time. I freaked. I don't think that the English language has the letters to form the sound that I shrieked as I dashed into the living room, slid baby girl out from under the railing, and crushed her to my chest. Noah, baby girl's fellow daredevil, looked at me with big eyes that said, "What is your problem? That looks like fun!"

Still, I am trying to conceive of how she could cover more than eleven feet in less than sixty seconds. I think I have an X-Men child, who's mutant name is Tornado. She has some kind of super stable inner ear canal and super-physics rotational musculature. I've started designing her hero outfit in my head. "The Pink Tornado." It's adorable.

She's fine.   See:

I had a coronary, but she's fine.

After strapping her tightly into her bouncer (just in case the Pink Tornado decided to strike again), I retrieved the walker from the basement and the pack n play from Noah's room. She has lost her free range Hannah privileges. Blanket time only occurs now when mommy or daddy is within arm's reach.

Beauty and the Beast - meow

It's Friday night, and I am standing in my nothings staring into a dresser full of blessings (you can call them clothes if you're feeling dull). Big date with the husband? Night out with the girls? Yes and no. I'm sure Justin considers the first softball game of the season a date, and if by "the girls" you mean my hardcore fellow softball chica sluggers, then yes to both. April games are always tricky. You don't want to wear long pants and give everyone the impression that your legs haven't seen the sun or a razor since sometime in September (they have, right?). However, you also don't want to traipse out onto the field in your lil' shawty shawt shorts, and be standing on two perfectly Else icicles five minutes into the game.

Yeah, because I'm totally that girl who empties her wardrobe onto the bed looking for the perfect softball outfit to play in what weather.com claims will be a torrential downpour. And really, bright yellow jerseys built for a size small, who is six feet four inches tall: not helping.

So now I am at the softball game and the little droplets have starting splashing down. I am in knee length white shorts, a long sleeve gray t-shirt, a hoodie, and my jersey. I am wearing socks that only barely sneak over my heel and shiny black cleats. This will all come into play as I come into play.

Five minutes into the start of the game the following things will happen:
1. Friendly little droplets will turn into Hurricane Irene.
2. My gray shirt will ride up to the middle of my ribcage.
3. My batting gloves will be soaked, so there is NO WAY I am reaching up to fix said offending gray garment.
4. A player will slide into me at first spraying my white shorts with nice sandy red mud.
5. Nice sandy red mud will lodge itself between the flesh of my achilles tendon and the heel of my cleats, rubbing my ankles raw and, as an added bonus, bloody.

Do you have the visual picture? Just imagine a kitten in an over sized bright yellow smock, drowned wet, frozen cold, and starting to hiss at inanimate objects.

Now, it is Saturday morning. Formerly drenched kitten has her long hair curled/waved and pulled up Princess Buttercup style. She is in a bright pink dress (say what?!), four inch white heels with bows on the top (get out!), and she is wearing... wait for it... make up (shut the front door!!!).

In January our women's ministry team decided to hold a generations women's conference on April 26th. I must have, in a moment of temporary dissociative disorder volunteered to speak at this conference. Or they may have kidnapped me and forced me to speak at gunpoint. Someone should pat down our team for weaponry before I claim any responsibility for my actions. Either way, today I stood there in pink and heels with big hair and war paint, speaking.

It was all very surreal. In my mind I am the drowned kitten. People will say things like, "Oh you look lovely," and I have to try very hard to not stare at them like a dog listening to a high-pitched whistle. In my mind I am still the tomboy sliding through mud, and making fun of girls who do insane things like wear four inch heels they will have to stand in for forty-five minutes in front of fifty women. I suppose there are hints of our every reality marking us as we drift from form to form. Under the strappy stilettos are the scrap marks of red mud. The graceful, slender hand holding a microphone as I share a distinctly feminine story is starting to turn blue with the bruise of a misplayed out at second. And the sweeping locks falling in waves about my shoulders are only really that curly because I left them out in the driving rain far too long.

A mentor of mine once told me, "First God made you a woman, then He made you an athlete." Actually, first I think He made me His, and everything else (make up or mud) is just window dressing.

Oh... and we worshipped. Lots. Which is nice.