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.