The plague

Deuteronomy 28:15, 42

"But it shall come about, if you do not obey the LORD your God, to observe to do all His commandments and His statutes with which I charge you today, that all these curses will come upon you and overtake you: ... The cricket shall possess all your trees and the produce of your ground."

I do not know what central Texas did to offend the Almighty, but...

All those little black specks and that full black runner across the corner and up the wall: yup, crickets. I apologize for the poor quality of the picture, but I didn't dare roll down the window for fear that the buzzing swarm might carry off my Hannah.

And this is only one building. You should see our grocery store. The entire outside wall was black with crickets. They swarmed over the pumpkins like... well... locusts. We will be celebrating Halloween with Styrofoam pumpkins this year... in our hermetically sealed house... with lots and lots of Raid.

Apparently, every year with football season comes cricket season (because of course I couldn't move somewhere that had football season and guinea pig season. Why'd it have to be bugs?!). The problem is, it seems most of the indigenous population is oblivious to the chirping plague. They brush them off their veggies, they drop their children off in hop-filled nurseries, they walk into stores as if the sidewalk beneath their feet isn't making a gag-reflex inducing squish crick crack squash sound.

Justin and I are thinking of making signs and standing on the street corners: ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WITH BUGGY FEAR! or maybe something simpler, like: THIS IS NOT OK!

I want people to understand that this is not normal. I want them to be freaking out. I need them to repent in dust and ashes or whatever Biblical humility might be required to end the plague. Because if the same swarms had appeared in Egypt, Pharaoh would have sent the Israelites away to freedom riding on the back of his very own camel.

After a very chirpy, hoppy church service Justin asked if I had known about the crickets would I still have moved us here. My keen sense of our relationship smelled a trap. I suspected he wanted some sort of confession out of me. I suspected he was on to me. Feeling very clever, I evasively shared my disdain for the bugs, avoiding any life-change discussion.

"I wouldn't have!" he declared. "This is NOT OKAY!"

Or maybe I could just be honest with my husband, like he is with me. Maybe I could not suspect him of being a devious little twerp like I am.

But here we are. And here are the crickets. And we have been informed they will not be leaving any time soon. And neither will we. -whimper- Just repent already Texas!!!

Texas Anniversary

At 4:00 am on September 30, 2015 we rolled into T. Texas after leaving everything we knew, sending our belongings along to some unknown residence, calling two locksmiths, being stopped by two police officers, breaking one AC, nearly hitting several deer, and Christian-cussing-out a paper, fold-it-up Texas map that tried to send us to Mexico. The journey entailed 35 of the more miserable hours of our young lives. But there we were.

And here we are. One year later.

In some ways, it feels like the construction of a new life has been a much speedier process than 365 days. In other ways I can't believe it's only twelve months later.

In the last year I have had to be an adult, and make big adulty decisions, and kill big adulty bugs that I didn't have to kill when I was a kid.

In the last year we bought a new house, a new chreuck (as a Hannah with a rapidly colonizing Texas accent calls our Ford), and an antique store's worth of new old furniture and decor... including a chicken box, which still sits ever-so-judgmentally on our breakfast table.

I've visited 15 different churches, found one to call home, and made sweet friends there, who challenge me, and forgive me, and love me. Which mostly makes up for the three months of ridiculous theology I endured in every whack-a-doodle sanctuary in central Texas.

I wrote a Bible study. I attempted to get said study published. I baulked at the soul-crushing horrors of the modern Christian publishing market, and ate lots of chocolate to get my mojo back. And then I wrote another Bible study. Because maybe it would be better the second time?

I drove myself to an unknown city, navigated through said city to find an unknown zoo. Watched my two minions fall in love with said zoo, and drove back twenty more times. For a woman both horribly shy and directionally challenged, this was quite the feat.

 Justin gave CPR to infants. So I fell in love with him again and more.

I put my flipflops in every water feature in central Texas. This was the summer of wet sandals. Splash pad, water park, river, lake, pool, water guns... you name it, it soaked us. Sounds fun? Sure, as a necessity for survival in the Texas summer. It was fun in the same way that breathing is kind of a gas.

We played at every park in central Texas. We walked to them; we drove to them. We played in the rain, in the wind, and in the sun. We played in a house, and yes, with a mouse.

We spent over $4000 on car repairs. I had inexplicable excruciating headaches for a month. Justin had heart palpitations. Hannah got some weird Texas disease. She was also cured of all her allergies except peanuts. Noah started school. We bought a grill. And a truck. And a chicken box. We lived life.

I loved my God, who does not abandon His exiles. I loved my kids, having the opportunity to be with them all day, every day... every day... all day. I loved my husband, who I see anew and all the more amazing every day. I loved my church, though probably not half as much as she has loved me.

All in all, we could probably do another year.

His Worst Date Imaginable

So here's a fun mental exercise to see how well you know your significant other.

On the show The Office Jim knows everything about Pam, what she likes and more importantly, what she doesn't like. When Andy decides to ask Pam out, he seeks out Jim for advice. Jim proceeds to tell Andy to do and be everything that Pam hates. She sweetly endures the barrage of horrible advances, unwilling to spoil Jim's fun.

If someone wanted to ask out your significant other (or would-be significant other) on a date, what horrible things would you tell them to ensure their absolute failure?

For Justin: "Okay sweetie, here's what you have to do..."

Arrive in the following ensemble: denim jacket, sequined tube top, and mom capris with embroidery around the bottom hem. Accessorize with big hoop earrings, a chunky metal chain necklace, a lot of bangling charm bracelets, and (at this point Justin visibly shuddered) a couple toe rings. Also carry a purse that wouldn't be qualifiable as an airport carry-on, and would be all kinds of blinged out.

Drive to Applebees in conversational silence. Allow the blaring of cheap and easy pop music to fill the car. And be sure to drum along on the dashboard with your very acrylic nails... on the offbeats.

Once in the restaurant, make sure the conversation centers on the truth in your feelings, a myriad of complex topics upon which your opinions are both stalwartly immobile and utterly unsubstantiated, and how tomorrow never comes. Emphasize consumer culture; denounce bravery and hard work. Make sure you appear to be the victim of every situation life throws at you.

It would also help if you think you have every medical condition known to man. Hypochondria is the new sexy. Be sure to tell him you have an undiagnosed allergy to gluten and that wheat makes you sleepy and fat.

When he agrees (because every gentleman has his breaking point), be sure to ridicule him loudly enough for the entire restaurant to hear.

Tell lots of "m'urse" jokes.

After a delightful plate of spinach cooked in vinegar and baloney sandwiches heaped with raw onions and topped with mayo (because they totally serve that at Applebees, right?) leave the table an appalling disaster. Make sure it is as messy as possible. Excuse the untidiness with a laugh and rudely remark that it's the waiter's job to clean it up. And when he tries to tip well tell him he is throwing his money away. They don't work hard enough to get a tip.

Use slang whenever possible. And please, for the love of God, don't pronounce the 't' in mountains.

Back at your door, with no subtlety, invite him into your unkempt trailer, which if possible should be illuminated in the flickering glow of florescent lights. Place the large terrareum holding your sweet pet baby, a twelve foot boa constrictor, clearly within view.

With Firefly flickering on the TV in the background, put on all your charm. Raise your eyebrows and flick your tongue out to reveal a large metal tongue stud.

After vomiting profusely all over the doorstep, Justin will excuse himself to gargle lots and lots of whiskey. ... which you should offer him from your pantry.

Poop

I am trying to counteract Texas with a gym membership.

The problem is I am counteracting the gym membership with brownies. It is a vicious delicious cycle.

I had already biked 10 miles (without going anywhere, which is really a neat trick). I was two-thirds of the way into my pec flies and ten minutes into watching the Pioneer Woman make white chocolate raspberry bars when my phone buzzed. It was the childcare facility at the gym.

"Your daughter has... um..."

It was the "um" of an arachnophobe in a large room with a tarantula. It was a fearful "um", but one not entirely certain of whether death would be imminent.

The clearly childless girl tried again: "Your daughter has pooped, and I think it's on her pants." This last phrase was said in wonderment and disbelief, as if that very thing she had witnessed was not truly possible according to the laws of physics.

I abandoned my pecs and gluttony to end the childcare attendant's potentially paradigm-altering situation. I entered the playroom, and was welcomed by a familiar smell. Diaper. However, I'd smelled worse. As a mom of a three-year-old and a two-year-old, there's always been worse. Hannah greeted me showing no particular disquietude. "I stinky!" she declared.

"So I gathered." I replied very formally. I grabbed a diaper, some pants, and wipes, and headed into the bathroom. (I will note that the previously mentioned childcare attendant was huddled in the corner of the room, trying not to look like she was cowering.)

I laid Hannah down on the change table, but immediately noted that her landing had a certain squish about it, that was not normal for my twiggy little girl. I stood her back up and noticed the first smudge darkening the table.

I stripped Hannah of her jacket and noticed brown on the inside of it. Fun. I decided not to investigate further, quickly I stripped off her shirt, shoes, socks, and pants. If it had penetrated to her jacket, all other articles were to be considered contaminated.

Hannah is not stable. The proof is all over her shins. Her legs are riddled with the bruises and scraps of clumsiness that would earn her a social worker in any doctor's office. For some reason changing tables are made with contours. Which sucks. When you're daughter is covered in her own poop.

She slipped and my hand went to her low back to steady her. Gross. I'll have to burn those fingers later. She tottered again. Again, I reached out to steady her, but higher up this time. More gross. More digit burning required. Having learned my lesson, when she threatened to fall a third time, I threw my hands up and stepped back. You're on your own kid. (Star quality parenting here.)

My encounters with the offensive element had led me to ask the question asked by conspiracy theorists and double agents everywhere: just how high up does this thing go? And much like the spies, I was not pleased with the answers I received.

My gaze travelled from my daughters diaper line, to her lumbar spine, to her shoulder blades. Poop, poop, poop. Reluctantly, my eyes scaled up to her hairline.

Ah crap.

There it was: flecks of brown in the wispy tangles of her hair.

Supermoms get it. We see trouble, we square our shoulders, and we plunge ahead. Nothing scares supermoms.

However... every amazing mom, in a moment of crisis, has at least one second where their confident swagger retreats to the corner, starts rocking back and forth declaring a breathless succession of, "I shouldn't have to do this. Ishouldn'thavetodothis!"

But no one came to rescue me. No one appeared who had any more reason to have to handle all this poop than me. The poop fairy did not appear to wave her magic wand and make it all not so disgusting. So I squared my shoulders and dove in.

Half a package of wipes and a bottle of hand sanitizer later I had a mostly clean daughter. I washed her hair with foaming hand cleanser, scrubbed my hands like they had been soaked in bubonic plague, and dressed my little girl. Mostly.

The lack of smell was misleading. When I first walked in I thought, "This poor newb with no children is making a mountain out of a mole hill." But she was right to fear. It was a mountain. A big brownish-orange poo mountain. In my overconfidence I neglected to bring a new shirt for my girl.

I slowly pushed open the bathroom door, and my shameless daughter ran out half dressed, put her hands on her knees, juttered her teeth forward and laughed like a hissing cockroach. If the attendant had backed any further in the corner, she would have been scaling the wall. I whipped out a Minnie Mouse shirt, popped it over my maniac's beautiful little head and asked very nicely if she would kindly stop being a detriment to the planet's population boom.

The poo clothes went into a plastic bag. We gathered our stuff, thanked the poor, nice lady, and left.

All the mom's out there right now are like, "Yeah, we all have a poop story. Mine was in a gas station." Or a swimming pool. Or the backyard.

But here's the thing: I haven't opened the bag. I just can't do it. It is sitting there on the dryer all poopy and nasty and stinky, and I.CAN'T.OPEN.IT. The me in the corner keeps winning the fight every time I go to handle it.

"I shouldn't have to do this! Ishouldn'thavetodothis!" Where is the poop fairy who does laundry? Shouldn't there be a service that does this, that takes nasty pooped on clothes and washes them in a big, terrible machine, and returns them under your pillow while you sleep? If moms wrote fairytales that's what would happen.

You are a better mom than me! Because we all have a poop story, but I can't end it. I can't face that demon and be done with it. I don't know what to do. I am failing at momhood with every stinky second that bag sits there. At this point I think I would rather throw the whole thing in the trash than try and fix it. Who cares that it contains one of Hannah's two jackets? She still has one left! ... for now.

big man

There is an attending named Dr. Warren (name changed) in the PICU at Justin's hospital, who has the "old nurse demeanor." She thinks paper charting is where it's at. She doesn't smile too often for fear of losing all her hard-earned terror. No nonsense, to the point, lives are on the line. She is an older woman, unmarried, no children, whip-thin, keen eyes, mouth a line, peering over those glasses at the underlings scuttering about beneath her. She is excellent at her job. She DOES save lives. She is NOT Patch Adams.

This week Justin has been on 1:1 care with a six-week-old baby girl. 1:1 means that this child is not doing well, and it is Justin's job to sit next to her and make sure she doesn't die. He has no other patients or responsibility, just this: make sure she is breathing and her heart beats.

Dr. Warren came into the room the other night, and Justin snapped to attention. The piercing face took in the entire situation.

Dr. Warren's face suddenly and horrifically broke into a sunny disposition. "Well, how is my big man and the little baby girl?" she asked jovially.

......

Justin stared at the woman as if elves were crawling out of her ears. Dr. Warren, continued as if she had not just interrupted the flow of reality. She went over the baby's chart, checked the patient and left.

"WHAT?!" Justin sputtered out at the closed door. "Are we there yet? I didn't think anyone got there with you!"

The shudder was still visible as my husband relayed the traumatic story to me. He assured me years of intensive counseling might not set it right.

Everyone likes him! I swear that He is secretly Captain America, everybody's best friend. (Except of course for Iron Man. But give Justin and Tony Stark a week together, and I bet my husband would be Stark's "Big Man" too. ... Which is really all I need right now: my husband engaging in superhero bro-mances.) So to the rest of the planet: I know he's adorable, endearing, strong, smart, and funny, but lay off. The Big Man's mine!

there: a minion's tale

Have you ever flown with two toddlers? There is one simple way to make this be an effortless and smooth experience...

Don't.

I stood at the edge of the security line, which loomed like a fire-breathing dragon, out to consume all morality, sanity, and hope. Justin hugged each of the kids, instructed them to obey mama, and then tickled them until they would forget all previous directions. He wrapped me up in a big hug and said, "I'll miss you."

Yes. Yes, you will miss me... when this whole flying affair actually rears up its villainous head and kills me. Offer some nice poetry at my eulogy.

I hugged him a moment longer than necessary... how many seconds are in a moment? Is it, like, a thousand or fewer? The hug was clearly too long for my husband, who started the awkward hug ending cues. He was really going to do it. He was going to walk away, while I wrangled two children, two blankies, two monkeys, two juice cups, four carry-ons, one stroller, and ten dramamine pills through security, onto a plane, and across the country. ... Wait, I'm forgetting something... oh, me. Yes, I also have to wrangle me and my attitude problem onto that plane... without earning a strip search... which is really the challenging part.

A whole stack of little gray totes later, I exited security with two children, two blankies, two monkeys, two juice cups, three carry-ons, one stroller, and ten dramamine pills. Those observant of you who excel at math will note a slight variation between what entered security and what left it. At 3:45am I am neither observant, nor good at math, so the slight modulation of stuff eluded me.

Our plane was not leaving until 5:40am. Fun. Two hours to entertain the minions in an airport where nothing is open. We found our gate in two seconds. Then, we decided to walk. It was thirty minutes later as we passed a space ship that Noah swore looked like a lion (the very same one that ate Daniel's betrayers) that the PA buzzed: "If you recently passed through security checkpoint six and left a carryon, please return to retrieve it."

For half a second I actually thought, I don't really need that bag. It's not like we're going to the North Pole. It was then I looked down at my darling daughter's concerned face. Her kitty shirt was in that bag.

"Ah crap." I muttered, and we trekked half an hour back to security.

I needed juice to dissolve the dramamine, to drug my children. I'm not proud of that sentence.

We walked fifteen minutes back in the direction we had already gone to find an open store with orange juice that must have been squeezed from the rare golden oranges of Coranoque, which only grow once every seven years and are fertilized by a bee on the endangered species list. (This is the only logical reason why orange juice would ever need to cost that much.) We hoofed it fifteen minutes back to our gate, I engaged in alchemy, and I waited with perhaps too devious of a smile for my children to show signs of Aurora's slumber. ... They did not.

I changed Noah, but the process took so long that I did not have time to change Hannah. I'm sure that won't come back to bite me later on...

I wrangled our FOUR carryons, and all that other junk down the tunnel, Hannah boarded the plane, I folded up the stroller, Noah and I boarded the plane, we recovered Hannah from first class (a second later and she would have been sipping a martini and reading Forbes magazine), and found our seats.

It would be too much to detail the disaster that ensued. Therefore I will list the events and allow your imagination and desired chronology to supply the minutia.

Both children slept for forty-five minutes.
Hannah demanded goldfish.
Noah demanded goldfish.
Hannah ate Noah's goldfish.
Noah demanded fruit snacks.
Noah demanded the Ipad.
Hannah demanded the Ipad.
After being told to wait her turn, Hannah kicked the seat in front of her incessantly.
Hannah was strapped into her seatbelt.
Hannah stretch-armstrong-slid her way out of the seatbelt.
Unable to complete his dinosaur puzzle Noah kicked the seat in front of him.
Screaming.
Hannah peed through her diaper.
Mama cleaned the seat with baby wipes.
Hannah danced naked on the chair while mama tried to wrestle her into her kitty shirt.
Noah took his shoe off.
Mama threatened that all nakedness would end in death.
Hannah peed through her diaper again. (too much spiked punch)
Naked dancing.
No available weapons.
Baby wipes cleaning the seat.
Screaming.
Exasperation from the woman in front of us.
"Is this your first time flying?" condescendingly from the man in front of us.
Whimpering.
Turbulence.
Still.
Lots of turbulence.
Pretzels for Hannah and Noah, Cookies for Mama.
Pretzels for Hannah, cookies for Hannah, nothing for Mama.
Hannah demanded more goldfish.
Screaming (me).

I have now prepared a long and scathing letter for the makers of dramamine. Because this is all their fault.

switched at security

We just returned from a two week vacation to see Nana/Papa, Grandma/Grandpa, aunties, uncles, cousins, associate pastors, nursery workers, and pastor's wives. ... And mountains. Because the flat in Texas will just gnaw at you until suddenly you look down and find teeth marks in your soul. ... I'm not sure why we have to look downwardly to see our soul. Perhaps because it settles into our feet? That must be why I'm a dancer. Restless soul all saggin' in my toes.

It was a wonderful trip, one where we accomplished visiting with almost everyone and everything we have missed so dreadfully for six months. (I did not get to visit Coldstone. Which, really, was over half of the reason I was returning home. From the perspective of my cake-batter-and-reeses deprived tummy, the whole venture was a complete bust.)

It was such a supremely glorious trip... that I will never, ever go on vacation again.

I suspect that while walking through the metal detector in security, the magnetism (Is that what metal detectors run on? or is it radiation... or Kryptonite... Someone who took science in college let me know.) distorted the poles in my childrens' brains, replacing them with neurotic, spoiled, when-did-you-get-so-LOUD! munchkins. It must have been the security scanners which have resulted in such horrific behavior in my children now. It couldn't possibly have been this:

Or this...

I'm sure this had nothing to do with it...

I'm not sure what this is, but I bet it didn't make one smidgen of difference in the spoiling my children underwent...

No, I'm sure playing in a helicopter under the ever adoring gaze of grandparents was utterly unrelated to their current foulness of mood.

So you see, they had NO FUN AT ALL. And all that no fun has made mommy seem like the most exciting and interesting human being on the planet. They just cannot wait to jump out of bed in the morning and go adventuring with mama to... anticipation killing you?... Target! YEAH! And if they're extra good, we might take a side trip off the beaten path to... the GYM! WOOHOO!

No, Mama gets all the fun of re-disciplining the munchkins after weeks of wild entertainment, delicious pretzels for breakfast, and absolute adoration from every person they saw. Lucky Mama.

If anyone knows a traveling caravan that's currently looking for an incredibly bright three-year-old, and a two-year-old with more energy than an exploding star, let me know.

I know I shouldn't intervene

Noah is smart. Scary smart. He  had four Thomas the Tank Engine puzzles of 24 pieces each. He mixed them all together, so 96 pieces were mingling in a heap on the floor. Ten minutes later I returned to the room to find 4 completed Thomas puzzles. It's unnerving.

If you want Noah to sound extra wise, you ask him about trains, dinosaurs, or Noah's Ark. He is a little dino-encyclopedia.

When moms in this little Texas town get tired of sacrificing their children to the devouring wind, they take them to the mall. At the food court (which has three choices: Chinese, pizza, or frozen yogurt) there is a little Texas themed play area. There is a slide that looks like a barrel, a little tower of plastic hay bales, and a giant plastic bull kids can climb on. My kids love it. I took them there when we first moved here, before the truck containing their furniture, toys, books, and blankies arrived (it was a dark time in our little world). They played for almost an hour on these three little structures.

I took them back today, and several other kids were frolicking in the plastic rodeo as well. One was a blond girl, about five years old, who did nothing but growl, jump off a foot tall plastic horseshoe and flap her arms for fifteen minutes. It was the kid that makes you wonder.

Noah, the dino-king, is not to be out-growled. The girl was laying under the slide poking her head out to roar at anyone who passed by. The other kids ignored her, or took a wide path around her. Not my little man. He knelt down less than a foot from her face and declared with deep conviction, "ROAR!"

The little blond was momentarily taken aback. Quickly recovering, she roared back. I didn't know where her parents were; no one was in the general vicinity. And I'm not going to be the mom that intervenes for her baby. So I let them roar it out. This went on for some time. After every growl the girl would check to see if Noah was defeated. He would scrunch up his beautiful little face and unleash an equal if not greater GRRRR. If his three-year-old mind could grasp sarcasm, I'm sure he would have pointed at his manic little sister biting the plastic bull, and uttered, "I live with that! You think a couple wussy growls are enough to scare me?"

Finally the girl wriggled out from under the slide. "I am a BIG dinosaur!" Noah declared triumphantly.

"No!" the girl said, straightening up to her full three foot height. "I'm five years old, already. I'm bigger than you." As if to prove her point, she stood very close to him and tried to tower. "I am the BIG dinosaur. I am a big FLYING dinosaur." she stated rather pompously.

Noah quirked an incredulous eyebrow (I wonder where he got that from). "You mean a pterodactyl?" he replied. It was said in a way that proves he perhaps gets sarcasm better than I thought. It was said with an attitude implying, "You mean a pterodactyl, idiot?" And then he turned back to me and ignored her. The great she-dino had succumbed.

I don't want to raise that kid, the smart one, who has to rub everyone's nose in it. I don't want to raise the brilliant jerk. I'm not raising Sheldon from the Big Bang Theory.

But in a moment of blatant parental failure, I gave the boy a high five.

She was being a punk. And it gives me a slight bit of comfort that when playground time comes, my little man won't stand for it.

...Let's just hope that high five doesn't earn him his first bloody nose.

When life gives you lemons...

Lest, based on my last post, you thought the husband infallible, we decided we'd best try the Frisbee golf thing again.

In Justin's brain it is the most logical thing in the world: you go throw a Frisbee in a basket eighteen times. Like golf, but cheap! (Actually, no. Not cheap. After driving around a park we saw several dudes playing Frisbee golf. They had a backpack: a specially designed Frisbee golf back pack with slots for all your nifty discs [like a putter, a driver, and a mid range. Someone drunk invented this sport.] And a drink holder... cause we being sweaty? In comparison, what Justin and I have been calling Frisbee golf is akin to whacking a gopher in a hole with a tree branch, and calling it golf.)

This whole issue has become rather personal for my man. He can throw anything: baseballs, boomerangs, footballs, javelins, pint-sized wife... I'd fight back if I could find some stilts and a muscle suit. We even play Frisbee in the backyard, and he does a fine job of it. However, when confronted with a basket nestled 425 feet away... this happens:

 



This may appear to  be a man stoically pondering the mysteries of the universe in a serene rural setting. But it is in fact a man searching for his Frisbee.

Ah ha! Found it!

 

What? You don't see it? It's green. That should help.

Or maybe that's the orange one... nope, I'm pretty sure the orange one was up river a few yards. This must be the green one.

Ever creative and never one to give up, my husband decided to retrieve a long stick from the middle of the river and use it to lever the Frisbee back to safety. Having no success in acquiring the long stick, the man determined to snag a longer stick in order to retrieve the long stick, in order to lever the Frisbee out.

 

The pictures don't offer his efforts fair credit. The embankment was six feet high. And his children were continually lining up in lemming fashion to jump off the edge, which distracted from the delicate rescue and recovery process.

Justin claims to be a realist, but there's some certain part of him, which wins key battles and allows optimism to peek out into the bright light of day. Life stole the Frisbees, it muddied his flip flops, cut up his baby girl on some branches, and sullied his masculine "I'll rock any sport" pride...

But God gave him a new walking stick.

The Man Makes Dinner

I should have known after all his sneakiness that something was up for our first Valentine's Day. However, I am sadly gullible. Someone should make me a gullible hat, and then a matching shirt that says, "Be nice, it's no fun, when she can't fight back."

He said we were going somewhere for a nice dinner. I went shopping for a gorgeous dress. I piled my curled hair on my head, put on make-up, donned spikey black heels, and waited with breathless anticipation (or I waited with some other bosom-heaving cliché). He showed up in a tie. That's how you know it's serious.

As we drove he said he had to pick up something from home. This is the point when those not blessed with an over active gullibility, would have raised a finger and declared triumphantly "Ah ha!" I merely smiled, refolded my fingers into knots and dug them further into my lap. At his house, Justin asked if I wanted to go in with him. Again, those cleverer type folk would have asked a snarky, "Why?" with arms folded over there chest and a knowing eyebrow quirk.

I innocently murmured, "Sure,"  and fumbled with the door handle. Thankfully, Justin is a gentleman, he showed that troublesome door handle who was boss.

He pulled open the door to his home, and ushered me in. The first thing that hit me was the scent of flowers. A lot of flowers. There were four vases of roses and baby's breath in ever imaginable color. There was a bit of an apology on his part. He hoped I wasn't disappointed that he was making dinner. He hoped I didn't feel the dress, make up, and heels were a waste.

Because I dress up for the restaurant? Silly boy.

Like an explorer in the heart of the Amazon, I parted the tangle of roses to see two  places set, candles were lit, and wine was poured. He made Cajun-spiced salmon, herbed potatoes, and grilled asparagus. It was delicious. And romantic. And amazing. And, well, whatever other positive adjectives human kind has or will invent for studly men who can cook and look great in ties.

That night was the first time we said "I love you." It was supposed to be the night of our first kiss, however, a few nights earlier, when attempting to kiss my cheek in the dark, Justin "missed." And I'll let him have his delusion because it was sufficiently fairytale.

Eight years later... I have the flu. I'm achy, and sniffling, and sore throaty, and vomity. Romantic. With yakking.

However, the man is still a stud. While I read stories to the kids he made dinner.

 

 

It is salmon with garlic orange crème sauce, herbed sweet potatoes, and grilled asparagus. And there were candles.

He made the candles this afternoon while I napped. Out of limbs he pruned off our trees.

Who does that?

Why did this man marry me?

He is still a sweet, romantic, stud. Eight years later I still mean every, "I love you," with my whole heart.

Although this romantic Valentine's dinner had a few extra guests at the table:



I traded roses for babies.
Which is cool, I guess.

What the Texas Wind Devours

The day started with a broken dish. Then things went bad. The Little Hurricane is attempting to dump the bottle. I suppose that is an inaccurate statement: mommy is trying to dump the bottle for the Hurricane. She is screaming. A lot. Because sun and moon and tide and seasons have revolved around, ebbed to, and changed with that bottle. My hand pauses several moments longer than normal as I twist her doorknob open in the morning. Psyching myself up for the shrieking storm to greet my milkless self. Noah isn't ready to be potty trained. I've pleaded, I've forced, I've bribed, but the Little Man is just not ready. Alas, I realized this as he stood in front of his potty peeing on his shoes. (I promise I will delete this blog before y'all are old enough to care to read it, my precious munchkins.)

Justin, after a frustrating night on the hunt, pawed home, growled, and stalked off into his den. Not wanting to rouse the beast, I determined to keep the pups quiet... Me and my nob-noggined determinations.

A parade with a poorly-trained, but very proud high school marching band could have tromped their way through our living room with more grace and quietude than me attempting to get shoes, jackets, and ... oh really again?... pants on all of us. I hovered an ear over the bedroom door, to see if the werewolf was, by some miraculous anomaly, sleeping. I heard nothing. It wasn't the nothing of sleeping, though. It was the nothing of a man trying very hard not to turn into the Incredible Hulk. We hurried out. Before daddy decided to SMASH.

I had intended many fun and energy-expending adventures out  on the town. But it was windy. To those of you shoveling eighteen inches of snow, this may sound rather wussy, but let me assure you: Texas wind is mean. I think the wind in Texas wasn't loved by its mother or was picked on in Junior High by the big popular weather patterns.  It's got a chip on it's shoulder.  The wind here is just plain ill-tempered. We had to go to H.E.B. to get peanut butter. (For you non-Texans, H.E.B. is Texas' grocery store. It stands for "here everything's better." Or "Hell, everything's buttery." Texans have a reckless disregard for nutrition.  H.E.B. should really stand for: Here, Eat your Beef.) The entire walk from our car into the store was filled with Noah's screaming because the wind was gnawing his ears  off and starting in on his cheeks. I couldn't bring myself to drag them all over in that miserable gale, so we went home.

Ok, not true. We had to stop at the credit union first. In outer darkness, next to our Beast Wagon, will be the Texell Credit Union.

Then I dragged them home.

Which is when the day, their attitudes, and my parenting went from phenomenal to utterly awesome (please don't make me tell you that's sarcasm).

We ended up here:

Oh yeah, that is the Hurricane in fuzzy pink kitty slippers, and the Wild Thing in dinosaur feet and a buffalo hat riding in the double stroller with the visor in front of them because it sort of blocks that foul-tempered wind. And what pray-do-tell is blocking that vicious breeze from mommy? Nothing. Because mommy doesn't care. Because they are out of the house and not crying, not waking up daddy, not smacking the dog, and not having a pushing tug-of-war with their beautiful little craniums.

There are several excellent sources of parental advice who declare that we must avoid "Desperation Parenting."

Which sounds like very wise counsel. Like, "Just give it to the Lord." Great. Any practical idea on how the raving, foaming, blubbering mess in the corner might go about that very mature process?

Back to desperation parenting. There are some simple things you can do to avoid desperation parenting.

1. Don't have a husband who works nights and has to sleep during the day so he doesn't make some exhaustion-induced mistake like, you know, injecting his peanut butter and jelly sandwich into someone's vent tube.

2. Don't have a bulldog who has a biological compulsion to bark at every squirrel, lizard, doorbell, and gust of wind in a five mile radius.

3. Don't leave behind your entire support system, baby sitting team, and pep-talk club, and move yourself halfway across the country to where people are different and use phrases like "all y'all", which is chalk-board-scratchingly poor grammar, and maddeningly redundant.

4. Don't move to little Podunk, Texas where there is nothing to do.

5. Don't allow gustering winds to occur.

6. Don't have two children that are less than fifteen months apart.

7. Don't have a two year old.

8. Don't have a three year old.

9. In fact, the very best way to avoid desperation parenting is to not have any children at all. It's really the only way to be sure.

The desperation isn't in dealing with your children. I love them. Even in my madness I want the best for them. The desperation really unhinges its gaping maw when the lies begin to assail. "Terrible mother. Terrible wife. Terrible Christian." The lies are like the wind, but their assault begins inside and gnaws it's way out. You would think I would know love well enough to stand in the face of the lies. But sometimes, us big adulty people need child reminders. We need truth in small moments, said simply... with asparaguses. (Asparagi? Asparagigies? Asparageet?)

I cried when I watched Veggie Tales, folks. That's where I am at. First off I cried tears of joy that everyone was seated, quiet, and free of senseless violence for a span of time greater than 6 seconds. Then I cried because Lenny's mom sang him this song after his horrible day:

When your day's been a mess and you feel it intensely,
Don't forget Whose you are and Who loves you immensely.
God made you His child and you're treasured as such
You're precious, you're cherished, He loves you so much!

And this is the day the Lord has made
You're special to Him you'll be okay
Tomorrow will dawn, and He'll love you still.
Things will get better I promise they will.

Okay, so I wasn't a blubbering mess. There wasn't snot flying, and gasping, and a saline puddle forming below me. Maybe just a tear trickled out. Because that is just the kind of thing my mom would say.

Tomorrow will dawn, and He'll love me still.
Things will get better, I promise they will.

Although, these aren't my favorite lyrics of Robin Good and His Not-so-Merry Men. That would be:

Covered with love
sealed against troubles
sheltered in a cloud of bubbles, bubbles, bubbles
safe inside the arms of my bubble, bubble, bubble rap!

Weekend activities in Middle Earth

My Mac died. It was a wonderful little Mac. And cheap, because I'm a girl, and really what is the point to being a girl if you can't conjure up a few sniffling tears and get $150 knocked off the price of your already discounted laptop? Nurturing, artistry, fierceness, and beauty? Is the trouble of femininity really worth these virtues? No, but 150 bucks certainly is. Because I have my head on straight. And a scathing sense of reality.

Back to the point: my Mac died. And it made me sad. I've been a-coaxing and a-conjuring, a-begging and a-threatening with various sized mallets, but she won't comeback to me. The need to blog has finally outweighed my despisal of Justin's Intel. I don't like it, but I have no choice. My muse has the flu again, and words are just vomiting out everywhere... it's been a long time, I need to get back into the swing of not being a weirdo. Bear with me.

One final excuse before we continue: the spacebar on this maleficent, Windows 10 monstrosity is a wee bit sticky. (Kind of like that Farside cartoon where one sinner in hell murmurs to the other, "Man, the coffee's cold. They thought of everything!" Windows 10 left no pang unprodded.) Ergo, if you come to a word that is a paragraph long, know that I am not just making things up again. I am being thwarted. By a machine. Which is poetic, and maddening... and rather cliché.

It was bone-chilling cold here, so Justin decided it was a perfect day to take up Frisbee golf. We put several coats and hats on everyone and soldiered out to a Frisbee golf course. I'm not sure if this has ever come up, but I am a dis-embodied Frisbee-ist. When a human being loses their proprioceptors, they are no longer able to act physically in the world without visually focusing on the limbs/joints needing to move. (It's a thing. Again, I'm not making this up.) The brain via it's five primary senses has to willfully urge the body to act. That is how I play Frisbee. My eyes scream rather telekinetically at my wrist to break with enough whip to project the Frisbee forward, but to stop before I throw the rebellious disc into the next county off to my right. Disc games are exhausting. So much effort.

But the husband grew up throwing whatever was put in his hands, so he cannot empathize with my body's active betrayal of my conscious mind. And he brings kids back to life on a daily basis, so he gets to pick our recreational activities. ... Which is a pretty good system.

Thus we tromped. Over the frozen earth. Ears being gnawed on by the wind. To play eighteen holes of Frisbee golf. It took me nine throws to sink my "putter" Frisbee into the basket on the first hole.

It was then I lost my cherub-like demeanor.

And then this happened on the second hole.

In case that picture is unclear:

An Ent stole my Frisbee. And he put it in the 32.5 degree water down an embankment; because at some point inmy life I must have stepped on an acorn.

I would have included my lack of proximity to the hole in this picture, but the hole is behind me about three miles away on the other side of the Misty Mountains. As I trudged back up the embankment, Justin asked, "Are we done, then?" Oh, baby. Are we done.

Alas proprioception, you carried me through the Narrows in Converses, but Frisbee golf in Fangorn has bested you.

Unless Justin single-handedly reaches through the Matrix to Neo-like massage some kid's heart back to beating, I get to pick the next pass-time. And it will not involve any throwing of any kind... okay, maybe throwing pizza dough. I can't imagine how that could go wrong...

To Tutu 2

Somehow it has been two years since you were born, little hurricane. Yes, time has gone fast, but it also seems like ages have past in those two years. You've done so much living for only being two, you've seen so much for a little baby weather pattern.

You've picked up your small world and moved it across the country to another small world. I am unsure what Texas has done to deserve this, but it must have been really terrible. You left best friend cousins behind to follow daddy across the big planet. You will grow up thinking Texas is home. But Texas isn't your home, lovely. Utah isn't either. From abounding grace and any amount of faithfulness, I pray that your real home will be at mommy's side in eternity, where "the wolf will live with the lamb, the leopard will lie down with the goat, the calf and the lion and the yearling together; and a little child will lead them." Not that you can't do that now. The lions seem quite enthralled by you. But mommy will panic less when you stick your hand in the viper's pit in eternity.

You've survived nursing school. Not you personally, but you survived daddy's nursing school. It's funny to think that the brief moment of our lives encapsulated by this God-led endeavor is all you have known. You won't remember the nights when mommy got up to console you because daddy was at clinicals. You won't remember the first day you were here on this planet, and mommy woke to feed you, while daddy studied in the corner. Your mind won't recall the war that raged as daddy fought his demons, and mommy battled the alone, and God handed us a victory built of courage and miracles. You won't remember, but we will tell you again and again. Because the only way to fall in love with Yahweh is to know Him and to see Him move. You will see things I could never dream. And I pray that you learn to love your weakness that builds a monument to the strength of the One who made you and will make you new.

You've lived through allergies... so far. Milk, soy, wheat, eggs, peanuts, cashews, latex, mangoes. Do you know how hard you make it to bake a birthday cake? You will have rice rusks with dairy free frosting for your special day. But the real treat will be the venison sausage we get you at the barbecue joint down the street. The lions recognize their own: a little, baby, carnivore, weather pattern. grrr.

I'm proud, and afraid, and amazed, and in love, and furious, and worshipping. Often all at the same time. Hannah, you are strong-willed. Hear this daughter: you are strong. As strong as He has made you. And this world will shift when you speak, mountains can crumble in your faith, seas will be broken by the clench of your chubby little baby fist... If you give your spirit to your Captain. Love Him, sweetie bear. There is no better home for your soul.

The Promiscuous Wife: A Culture of Church Leavers

We just took another swing at a new church in Texas, and were called on strike seven. When you try seven churches without success in a new place, you begin to question whether you are perhaps being too picky, looking for something that does not exist, or even, if you are outside the will of God in this place. None of these are reasonable assumptions, but as the depressing succession of Sundays rolls past, leaving you no closer to fellowship than when you started, you do wonder.

Combine with this the struggles of the church you just left in Utah, and theories start forming in the mind. Why is it so challenging to find a "good" church? What makes a "good" church? Why do people seem to leave churches like cable companies for the next best thing? Anyone who has spent any amount of time in an evangelical christian church knows that we live in a modern culture of church leavers. When did this become not only acceptable, but our right as believers?

In Ephesians 5 the relationship between Christ and the church is given as a parallel to the relationship between husbands and wives. The church is the bride of Christ. Christ gave himself up for her, loves her, nourishes her, and is encouraging her to greater things, to a more perfect life. The church in turn offers beautiful submission to Christ, serves His plan before her own, and acts in obedience to the will of the One who gave everything for her good. It is an incredible picture of temporal marriage and eternal submission.

Why not view the relationship between a believer and the church the same way? It is not necessarily written down in Scripture, it is just my own perspective, but from my studies it seems consistent with the character of God and His plan for us.

Why it is hard to find a "good" church (and what that means):

I have heard so many people say of churches, both those following the will of God and those in disobedience in some area (or many areas), that they walked in and it just "felt right." There are many variations of this idea: "I felt such peace here", "I experienced joy here the second I came in", "the people were so kind, it felt like home". This is the love at first sight church relationship. You walk in and something elemental or temporal feeds your senses and emotions. You have an "experience" that leaves you feeling blissful, loved, and comfortable. Love at first sight in finding a church is just like love at first sight when seeing a person. You have a connection based on the appearance or demeanor of an individual that sparks an emotional response. It feels very good, and it feels very real.

But it isn't.

I'm not saying that love at first sight cannot work, but there has to be substance, character, and perseverance behind the initial experience. We love entering a new relationship and having the exciting, romantic feeling, but it will not outlast the superficialness of infatuation.

Something will happen, and the church will not "feel right" anymore. They will hire a staff member that you don't like. They will not manage funds in a way you approve. Someone will be unkind, and suddenly the church that was so loving, doesn't feel so much like home.

In relationships, this is why we have a culture where 50% of marriages end in divorce. He changes, she changes, annoying habits appear, old grudges poke out, and suddenly the emotional high of love at first sight vanishes in a cloud of the drudgery of life. Perhaps this is the same reason we change churches like we change our socks: because it was based on emotion and appearances from the beginning.

Emotions are so tempting. We visited a church that was the right size, had people our age, sang songs I knew and loved, had a dynamic time of worship, and had a women's ministry. It felt wonderful. I was thoroughly encouraged by being there. Sure, they had a woman give a devotional in authority over men. Yes, they believed in the miraculous gifts as still relevant for today. Okay, so the pastor read into the text, to pull out what he needed it to say. But it felt so wonderful. So much like home.

Justin and I will not attend that church again. Because one day they will pick a song I despise. One day one of these nice people will be a jerk. One day they will get much bigger or much smaller and it won't feel so homey. And when that day comes (as it will in every single church. Let me say it again: it will happen in every church!), there will be no reason to stay. There is no substance there, no commitment to truth, no commitment to the will of God over the tug of modern thought. So regardless of how desperate I am for a home, how desperate I am for the love of other Christians, it is better to be patient now, to avoid pain later.

And that's really why it is hard to find a church. Because you have to wait and pick the right one. Before I was married the primary piece of relational advice strong, mature Christians gave me was this: pick a man you can joyfully submit to in all things. The work of making a marriage work is a lot easier when you do it before ever walking down the aisle. I would die for my husband. I would live in poverty or pain or peril for my husband. I would live this life day to day unchanged doing dishes, vacuuming floors, and never seeing a glimmer of excitement because my husband is awesome! He strives with his every living breath to care for me as Christ cared for the church. Our marriage rocks; because we waited for substance, quality, and character.

You want to stay at your church forever? Pick a church worth staying at. Pick a good church.

And there is only one thing that makes a good church: unflinching, unwavering commitment to the complete, inerrant truth of God's word.

Everything else is in there. A church that hungrily devours the word of God will worship with passion. It doesn't matter if it is with organ or drums or guitar or didgeridoo, it will be with passion. A church in love with the Bible will love you unconditionally and forgive your faults and work to restore you to fellowship because that is what God has asked in His book. A church who knows their Bible and has let it saturate their minds to the point of effecting every decision made will handle finances, ministries, missions, and discipline in the will of God. Maybe not the way you like, but in His plan.

There is no perfect church, just like there is no perfect spouse. But pick a good one, and you will find yourself able to forgive every fault, committed to this home until the end of all things; because there is integrity under it all.

It seems like a tall order to do all this work. I already had to select a good spouse; I have to labor at finding a church too? Why bother? I can leave at any time and find one that I like better.

You work because of the reward. Because if you stick it out with your church you will grow closer to them than to your own family. They will stand by you in all things, and you will have the joy of using your gifts to bless others. You will have a place and a purpose and a hope. But even all of this is not the reward.

Your reward is that glory will be brought to the Name of our matchless, omni-loving, Creator God who bled on the cross, and defeated death for the sake of your one spirit. You will bring Him glory. And that is enough. That is enough to persevere. That is enough to struggle.

That ought to be enough to not step out on your church. I am guilty of it. Maybe there is something better out there, people our age, people like us, better worship, more moving sermons, convenient Bible study times, something else. I'm not saying it is adultery to visit another church. I'm saying it is adultery to visit another church with the intention of finding something better for yourself. It all comes back to selfishness. What about my needs? My preferences? My friends? What about my style, my voice, my heart? He was mean, she is boring, they are different. It doesn't suit me.

The reason God did not make me a pastor's wife is because I'm mean. He is working on me. But it's a process. So here it is: the mean:

Tough.

He wronged me.

Tough. That's your church. Take some initiative. Take some responsibility. Fix it. Don't abandon your marriage church because of one slight. Not because of two. Not because of seventy times seven (Matthew 18). It is not about you. It is about God's will: unity in the body (Ephesians 4). It is about the love of Christ covering a multitude of sins (1 Peter 4). Forgive as Christ forgave you (Ephesians 4).

I don't like the pastor's preaching.

Tough. Does he speak the truth? Does he challenge you to live your new life in Christ? Are you doing your part to study what he says, to read for yourself, to apply it daily, to meditate on his words and more importantly The Word all week? Your preference for his style is not reason enough to step out on your family. Tough.

I don't like all that clamor they call worship.

Tough. Do they praise the name of Jesus? Are you doing your part to fall flat on your face before God and pour out every blessing and adoration of which your human brain can conceive regardless of the clamor you yourself may be? I don't like his voice would not be a good enough reason to step out on your husband, don't use it to weasel out on your church.

Just like there is only one thing that makes a good church, there is only one reason for leaving a church: Failure of the leadership to adore the Word of God. If they let gross sin reign in the body, or if they teach any doctrine other than what is printed in the sixty-six books of God's revealed Bible, you get an out. That's it. And you best be about addressing the problem before sneaking off like a coward.

Too mean?

Sorry.

My point is this: God takes marriage seriously. He says he hates divorce (Malachi 2). He refuses to listen to men's prayers when they do not honor their wives (1 Peter 3). Marriage is the first divine institution He establishes, and He deems it physically, emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually a union not to be broken by men (Genesis 2). He takes purity in marriage seriously.

Perhaps if we viewed our relationship with our church as a marriage, we would begin to understand God's heart for our church and for us. He takes our choice to participate in the local body seriously. He gave us gifts for our church and for His glory. He gives us brothers and sisters so that the world might see His divine love and compassion poured out. When we leave our home, God takes it seriously. His will is this: "If possible, so far as it depends on you, be at peace with all men." (Romans 12:18) The call is somber, but the reward is joy. Love your church, friends. Really really love them. Understand the will of God. Really really really love.

An Ode to Bush's Chicken and the End of Humanity as We Know It

Justin and I travelled to Texas to look for a home two weeks before we moved here. Our realtor was stuck with us for the better part of 24 hours. And we were basically picking up our babies and dragging them to a whole new world so we had A LOT of questions. Justin asked about golf courses in central Texas, and whether there were any rock gyms. I asked about schools, churches, and modern dance companies. To his credit, Mr. Realtor was very knowledgeable. A strike against him: he had to ask what modern dance was. (And a little part of me, somewhere deep in my soul, gulped with dread.)

My husband was watching shops and homes go by out the window as we drove from house to house. "Oh, hey, Bush's chicken," he commented. "Is that like KFC?"

A look came over our realtor's face. It is the look of a man with a dark past, addiction from thirty years ago, creeping back into the consciousness. The look of a man facing his demons. "No," he croaked out. "Bush's chicken; that's where you go when you want to be really bad." (Note: Bush's is right next to Spec's, and the man said Bush's is where you go to be bad.) "Bush's makes KFC look like organic, grass-fed poultry."

The day of the semi-hurricane, when the traumas were pouring into the PICU at the hospital, and nurses were declaring that there would be the drinking of much rum that night, they ordered lunch for the floor. The lunch they selected was Bush's.

The problem with this town is that it closes on Sunday night. You can still drive through it, but don't expect to see any other human beings or open fine dining restaurants. The only things open on a Sunday night are the cheap, bag-less grocery store and Bush's.

So, by default, in spite of our better judgement, we decided to get Bush's. They don't have an intercom box at Bush's. They don't even have an organized lane. You just sort of pull up to the side of the restaurant, and wait nervously with both hands on the steering wheel. A Bush's henchman slinks up to your car with a blank piece of paper and a pen. He doesn't ask what you want, he just raises his eyebrows. You both know why you're there. You give your order. A six hundred pound man in overalls, who drove in on his tractor in stares through you, zombie-like, and licks his chops.

A moment later, the little chicken henchman returns carrying a concerningly large and oddly shaped bag. It either contains your order or a dead body. Perhaps it's some efficiency worked out between the fried chicken industry and the local morgue. Take dinner home in the same bag the EMTs carry you out in. You shudder as the exchange is completed, feeling you may have just negotiated a hostage release. You drive home quickly, open the frightful bag, and are greeted by this:

Chipper, huh?

Since moving to Texas I have gained some weight. It is a new culture here, there are many stresses, and I am home all day with people who think fruit snacks are ambrosia. I haven't gained a lot of weight, but enough to make me attempt some level of diet. 

But you pull that box out, and BLAM! Take that kale! I'll have to eat nothing but apples for the next week in order to recover.

We pulled out the standard Styrofoam containers of side dishes and popped them open. There was one family size container full of gravy. "What is this for?" I asked Justin. He demonstrated, now an expert in this masochism, that you are supposed to dunk the fried chicken in the gravy. In case you aren't satisfied with the current rate of your chosen destruction.

Halfway through dinner I saw a little container amongst the chicken and bread. "Ooh what's this?" I asked. (My stomach was hoping for applesauce, but my brain didn't let it get its' hopes up.) Justin plucked it from the grease and popped the top:

Huh. Back up gravy. Nifty.

In the next photos, my daughter will display appropriate posture for the consumption of Bush's chicken.

Noah is picky. Very picky. Any new food he tries, is a victory. I nearly died with glee when he ate a grilled cheese sandwich. Protein is his nemesis. No hamburger, no bacon, no ham, no turkey. No no no no.

The kid ate four Bush's Chicken chicken tenders:

And I said the following words to my child, my pride and joy, my baby buddy, the blessing I spent 21 hours giving birth to (18.5 of which were without an epidural): I HATE YOU.

Of course. Of course, the one protein he will eat will cause him a heart attack by the age of six.

So there you are. If you're looking for trouble in Texas, if you want to be really bad, Bush's is what you want.

I'm not that girl

I mean, I am that girl, but I'm not that girl that you hate. I'm that girl, but not so much that you smile politely while throwing up a little in your mouth.

Meeting new people is just terrible. Do those first few moments ever go well? There is another young man, who started in the PICU at the same time Justin did. They are going through an internship together, and so, see quite a bit of each other. He has a lovely little wife (who is taller than me) and a new baby boy. The unit decided to have a barbecue together and invite all the families. I nearly bounded into the car. Friend! Adult! Conversation! my brain silently cheered.

Upon arrival I met this sweet woman and put my best face forward; because who would ever want to start a relationship with someone as real as we are in the ick.

Yet, somehow the conversation kept turning me into that girl. I couldn't stop it. Probably because I am that girl. But I don't mean it like that.

You know that girl:

• The dancer/artist who thinks about space and time as if they were actual things.
• She has an MFA, and a BA, and  BFA, and hasn't had a concrete, rational thought since high school.
• She teaches Pilates, focuses on her breathing, and eats chopped salads with kale in them for lunch.
• Her daughter is gluten free.
• And dairy free.
• And soy free.
• Cause we're just that cool.

I hate that girl.

And she is me.

Every time my mouth started moving my brain wanted to interject:

• Yes, I'm a dancer, but I watch football, so it's ok. I'm not weird or anything.
• Yes, I have too many art degrees, but I don't think I'm better than you because I read Kant. (In fact, I might be a little worse.)
• Yes, I teach Pilates and eat kale, but I also play Battle for Middle Earth for 3 hour stretches, and I consume Swiss Rolls and pizza. Kind of a lot. So we're cool. Because I'm not really Kale Girl.
• Yes, my daughter is gluten free/soy free/milk free/peanut free/egg free/latex free/cashew free, but it's because she is medically allergic to all those things. It's not like I think I'm doing her any favors by not letting her eat macaroni and cheese. I want to be the junk food mom, but I also want my baby to live to see her second birthday.

But you can't talk like that because you sound conflicted and defensive. And I hate that girl too.

Maybe this is why I have no friends.

It made me feel just a little bit better when my husband started doing the same thing. We were talking about incredible desserts we had experienced (because sugar is always good for conversation), and he mentioned that we had the opportunity to devour the most awesome invention in human history while vacationing in Maui: mochi ice cream. (Oh, if only I had the time to describe the inexplicable joy of mochi ice cream to you. The pages of this blog could never sustain such delight.)

My usually cool husband, stuttered and paused. "I mean, this was our first vacation of any kind in three years. We don't do that kind of trip often... or ever really. We scrimped and saved and got a tax return. I had just graduated, and it was our anniversary. It's not like... we're... you know... people who go to Maui or anything."

Right. We're not those people.

We just are a little bit. Just this one time.

Meeting new people sucks.

I wish I could just be honest: I dance, I teach pilates, I eat health food, I have a daughter who can't have gluten, and I go to Maui. But I'm not that girl. I'm really just like you...

Who are you again? I missed it.

Growing Pains

Nursing school changed us. Our faith was made malleable, then firm. Our hearts were fired, broken, and reformed in the hands of His grace. We faced our demons, faced spiritual battles, and though bruised we were never crushed. He endures, and so we endured. But in all this it was our lives in his sovereignty. It was Justin's battle, it was my perseverance, it was providence for my children. It was a great war in a very small world. In our great weakness, He proved His strength. But it was only us.

The shifts are twelve hours now. And the man who returns home at the end of half a day is different than the man who awoke at 5:00am. Families with patients in the ICU are having a life defining and faith forming (or destroying) moment. The nurses in the ICU try very hard to be unchanged every moment of every day. It is an impossible task. Some part of your heart wants to be unaffected, some part of your spirit never wants to remain unmoved.

There are things he can't tell me: patient confidentiality. So he sidles around the facts, creeps to the edge of what he is allowed to say; because he has to say something. You cannot hold so many lives alone.

Last week he did CPR on an infant. Nurses, doctors, and respiratory therapists screamed at him: too fast, too slow, push harder, don't crack ribs! And with his own lungs he called a baby back to life. It was a hopeless endeavor. His God had already called the little one home. He didn't weep. But something in his eyes was hollow.

The snarling edges of a hurricane blew through our town. The relentless rain became heartless as a truck hydroplaned. Justin ran the halls of the ICU, fetching this, recovering that, calling for help. Trauma is the nice word for don't-look-too-close. He spread lidocaine over a young skull, preparation for a drill. He came home as calm and mellow as ever. He helped put the kids to bed, he had dinner with me. If you didn't look too close, you would never catch the emotional exhaustion leaking out of the cracks in his surface. My godly man, my rock, the fortress for my children and my heart, is now strong for other families, and stands unmovable for strangers.

She has CP. This one was not easy for me to hear. Blood. It is life when it is hidden. It is death when it is seen. And he saw. Too. Much. He told me he had never been so afraid. One patient, twelve hours, a life on egg shells. But he survived, and so did she. For now. We are constantly reminded: there is no promised tomorrow. Every breath is a blessing. And with every breath he is made new.

There are boys with cancer, and girls with diabetes. There is abuse, and accidents, and sicknesses that are no accident, but you wonder 'How could this be Your plan?'

And he has stood.

I have never loved him so completely. But even more I have never respected him so fully. I see the struggle, but just as clearly I see the courage. He is growing, changing, being made new for an end we cannot yet imagine. And I take it all in. I try to stand as strong and as tall. I try to listen every night without tears. I try to have some comfort available.

It is not easy.

But it is worth it.

Because I am seeing my husband with new eyes. And he is incredible.

Where the Wild Thing Is

In an effort to prepare my Little Man for preschool we are working on shapes and colors. He is very good with both. The only color he struggles with sometimes is gray (and really? is that even a color?). Justin will ask Noah in a very secretive manner, "Ok, Noah, what is something that is red?" Noah will peer back and forth from under his eyebrows and surreptitiously point to a Utah Ute blanket, or the top of his Jake and the Neverland Pirates cup. When he is right (which is always) we tell our bright lad that he has done a good job.

As a side note, the other day I was working in the office as my darling children were supposed to be sleeping. I heard Noah playing, story-telling, and the like. Then I heard the following exchange:

Noah: Ok, Monkey, what is something that is yellow?
Monkey: silence (but I assume there was gesturing going on because Noah followed up with...)
Noah: No, Monkey, that's not yellow, try again.
Monkey: silence (but more educated pointing)
Noah: That's right Monkey! The top of the boat is yellow. Good job, Monkey!
Me: muffled laughter and chortling

One day we asked Noah where is something that is green. His face broke into a big grin, and he pointed a finger at his little chubby kid smile. "Noah's teeth are green!" He declared.

Now, just to be clear, we brush our kids' teeth every night, and despite milk and juice addictions, their little chompers are pearly white. We aren't the kind of parents to just let their beloveds' teeth rot to green in their skulls.

"Your teeth are green?!" I asked aghast.

Noah grinned even bigger and nodded vigorously. He then informed me that he also has red eyes. And lifting his adorable pudgy wrists with digits flexing into a curl, he mentioned that he has claws. "What about your fingers?" I asked.

"No," he said in apparent distress. "Noah doesn't have fingers, Noah has claws. ... ROAR!"

And I'll buy that he's a monster. We can play this game for awhile. But my Little Man Monster is going to have to toughen up to make it in monster land. After pinching his forefinger in some Lego's, Noah ran over to me on the verge of tears and wailed, "I hurt my claw!" And yes, mommy had to kiss his claw better. ...