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.

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!

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. ...

Best Day Yet, Which Could Have Been Better

Texas did not start out as overly kind. It put crickets in the ceiling, and no furniture in the house, and confusing one way roads with bored police officers. However, we are settling in, and things are looking up.

We found a zoo. This was a good day.

We decided to buy a membership because thus far besides parks and walking around the mall, Texas is dull. There is a park by the lake where we can go swimming... I'm sure it will be lovely in July... When half of it isn't under water.

Back to the zoo. There will be more of this...

And more of these guys...

And maybe there will be more of Jennifer. Grrr.

We were leaving the giraffes. This is not as easy a task as it sounds. (On the way home I asked Noah four times what his favorite part of the zoo was and I got four different answers from bears, to fish, to yee-haw horse [my son is becoming a Texan, see above photo]. However, when I asked Hannah four times what her favorite part of the zoo was, she responded exactly the same each time: "Gee-Raff.") As we headed down the boardwalk a young mom with a boy in a stroller passed us, she smiled politely and I said hello. We proceeded toward the elephants.

But a moment later the same young woman came jogging back to us. "Hey, I just wanted to ask, do you live in Waco?" I shook my head and told her we are in Temple. "Oh," she said disappointed. "Our church is having a Harvest Festival with candy, games, and rides, and I thought your kids might love it. You'd be so welcome to come." And, at this moment, I considered moving to Waco. We talked for about ten minutes about us moving here and struggling to find a church, and she said she would definitely pray for us, that we would find a home soon. We said we would pray for her neck and shoulder that she would get relief from the chronic pain (which means her church doesn't believe in the gift of healing, hurray!). This was the first conversation I've had with an adult other than Justin since moving here. Noah started getting antsy to see the rhinos, so I apologetically said farewell. She helped her boy say goodbye and Jesus loves you.

And my half desperate brain thought, "Yeah? Well, I hate you. (yes I am devolving in maturity) How dare you be the only person in this state you has shown a vested interest in our well-being, while living over an hour away from us. How dare you be nice and kind and saved and live in Waco? Curse you, potential friend, who lives in another city.

When I got home Justin asked if I got her number. ... Curse me and my years of awkward, anti-socialness that has made me too culturally illiterate to realize I can ask for a freakin' number.

But other than missing out on a friend, the zoo was a good day.

The new normal

Texas is nice just before it rains. The air is just a little stickier, but the temperature cools to jeans and t-shirt degrees Fahrenheit. There are little pinpricks of rain drops every few minutes, and the wind blows. It is a decent kind of wind. It is the kind of wind that reminds you, no matter how often you brush your hair, you're still just the little tomboy who can't keep kept. Texas and I could be friends if it could muster the decency to rain more.

Normal used to be waking up at 4:30am. It was dropping my kids off at 5:00; it was being to work by 6:00. Normal was fixing everyone's problems, filing, emailing, tracking, smiling and nodding politely. Normal used to be grabbing the kids, seeing them and the husband for a few hours, sleeping and repeating. It wasn't a bad normal.

But this is better.

Normal is now juice and milk and Doc McStuffins during breakfast. Normal is puppets, books, and blankies. This is the new routine:

And yes, that's Hannah throwing pebbles at her brother through her legs as she hangs upside down.

These are the faces I spend my days with:

And this is what we do all day:

And here is us practicing our future career as baby models:

 

Hannah is not so good at working the camera yet. She's too busy sliding, swinging, and causing trouble.

There are tantrums too. There's tears, wooden spoons, and time outs. Hopefully, those will lessen as we learn how to be stay at home mommies and somewhat civilized little human beings.

I was afraid to stay at home with them. I was afraid that we wouldn't have anything to do, that we would be bored, that I would be overwhelmed by the hard moments and lessons.

Noah and Hannah have been the least frustrating part of this whole frustrating move. The appliance guys, and the mortgage guys, and the crazy cat lady, and the utility guys, and the church folk could all take a few lessons from my little munchie munches: Be decent and give lots of snuggles, and the mommy on the edge is much more manageable. ...

Not saying I need snuggles from the appliance guys. That would be weird.

An Anomaly

An unusual occurrence just overtook me. Bed time for my kids was forty minutes ago. Normally, this is a blessed time of day that I look forward to with eager anticipation. I love my children, I find them hilarious, inspiring, and amazing... and exhausting. There have been more days than I would like to admit, where I chanted in my head, "Just make it to 6:30. Just to 6:30."

Tonight, both kids were feeling particularly whiny. I think the Purple Tornado was over-tired from a day of destruction and mayhem and being too adorable for words. The boy-cub was having a rough time: mommy cut off the tomato supply after only six, the nasty copyright people pulled Josh and the Big Wall from YouTube, and... well he has an intense weather pattern for a sister. It's a rough life. We managed to get them fed, milked up, "clean handsed", and we had our moment with Hulk and Elmo. (Noah has an Incredible Hulk toothbrush. The toothpaste is Sesame Street. When he is ready to brush his teeth, Noah will put on his deepest, growliest voice and bellow out "HULK 'n ElmOOOO!" Sometimes he will add Cookie Monster, Big Bird, and Iron Man into the mix. Curiously, the only Sesame Street character left out of the toothy inventory is Super Grover. [Who I think would be a smashing addition to the Avengers... Maybe they could trade and send Captain America to Sesame Street... "I don't wike it!"]) From there diaper changes, prayers, kisses, and winding up butterfly mobiles commenced. Then finally the doors were closed, and I slumped into the ten minute post bedtime fuzz.

Now it's 7:30. Usually, the time I take on evening adventures (Bible study, working out, gardening, pounding junk food, and watching Chopped reruns). But tonight, I was overwhelmed with the desire to go back into Noah's room and hang out with my best buddy boy. It's been a rough time, lately. The roller-coaster of this past year in our life has taken another cheek flapping dive, leaving my stomach and my hope back on the last peak. I'm clenching my teeth for the next hard twist, white-knuckling anything solid in front of me, and just praying we don't get flipped upside down again. There are so many blessings we have, but having to count them so often is wearing on me.

This week it has been little things, miniscule, "blips on the radar of our lives" according to my mother. But tonight it's been hard mustering the good cheer to not devour an entire pan of rice krispie treats. Or a full container of feta cheese (I know, I have problems).

I want to hang out with my son. Even in the midst of the whines, they give me such joy. I want to read The Little Blue Truck for the 8,000th time, and have Noah make all the animal sound effects. I want to have him drive his trains down my arm like a railroad track with a chugga-chugga. I want to enter the great monkey and teddy bear debate he is currently hosting, and confirm once and for all who is the fluffiest and snuggliest.

His troubles are simple, not irrelevant, just simple. His moods change quickly, the darkness never lasts too long. He still giggles at things I think are funny, but am too grown up to laugh at. His world is full of light, and drama, and color, and fresh wonder. I just want to be with my Little Man for awhile and remember that he is utterly amazing, that life itself is singularly phenomenal.

But for right now, I have to be a parent. We have a schedule to keep. We have order and discipline to maintain. I have to offer him consistent boundaries enough to keep him safe in a world so free it is paralyzing. I have to be an example of putting aside one's own needs for the better of someone else: because ultimately, it is better that he get some sleep, that he have a routine, that he understand night time and obedience and independence.

Of course, once he falls asleep, all bets are off. He's a deep sleeper, and it wouldn't be the first time I've tiptoed into his room, re-covered him with a blanket, and thanked the God outside of the roller coaster for the twists and turns that made me this Little Man's mother.

The Littlest Avengers

The trouble with reading stories to my children is becoming apparent. Noah's favorite books are: David and Goliath, Gideon, The Little Blue Truck, The Mighty Avengers, and Thor. As we read The Avengers we got to a page where the Avengers were fighting on Asgard. Thor was battling his vile brother, Iron Man had taken on a dragon, and Captain America was fending off a burst of magic with his shield. I pointed excitedly to the page and cried, "Noah, look! The Hulk is smashing a frost giant!" Noah contemplated a moment and clarified, "Goliath." Uh oh.

"No no, buddy, this is a frost giant, and that's the hulk."

My son pointed at the hulk and said, "David."

So if anyone knows how to clarify fiction from historical reality for a two and a half year old let me know.

I would just stop reading the Avengers, but my kids love them. Noah knows all their names and at least one interesting fact about each. His first and still best joke is:

Me: What color is Iron Man?

Noah: Pink!

Even Hannah is learning their names now. There is nothing so adorable as seeing my 18 month old in her little ballet skirt, hair in pigtails that stick up like antennae, point to the book and squeal with glee, "HULK SMASH!"

Perhaps they connect so well with these characters because they are in fact baby superheros. Noah is Circuit, master of technology. 

Justin had stumbled in from an ER shift and collapsed in bed at 6:45am. It was now 7:15am, and I was desperately trying to get my kids together and out of the house without making the usual atom bomb exploding racket that accompanies our mornings. As I got Hannah ready Noah wandered in and pulled out a little people house. We got this toy secondhand, and it has never worked. It's supposed to make house-like sounds when you push the pink buttons, but in a year of owning it, it has been utterly silent. A smile of relief crossed my face. He selected a quiet toy, finally! In the still of the morning, suddenly a telephone rang loudly. It wasn't my ringtone, or Justin's. I looked around furiously for the offensive and LOUD ringing. It wouldn't stop! I looked down and saw Noah pushing down the pink telephone in the house's living room. He grinned at me. Then he pushed down on the pink washing machine and it blared a swishing sound through the house. (My actual washing machine isn't that loud!) I snagged the bewitched toy and handed the child my Ipod.

My Ipod is special. The on/off button is broken. You have to hold the menu button down for a good fifteen seconds before the screen will blink to life (which will only happen 75% of the time). And it freezes. Daily. It is at once a blessing and the bane of my existence. There have been times when I seriously considered smashing it against a light post and being free of it. When I handed it to my son, I assumed he would not have the patience or know-how to get it to turn on (since half the time I can't). I turned back to Hannah for five seconds. I swear, it was only five seconds! Suddenly Abi's mix song 1, Blaggards, "Big Strong Man" blasted out. (Just keep walking, nothing to see here.) I whirled on my son in disbelief. "How did you do that?" I wailed. Noah, dropped his head and froze. Chiding my poor parenting skills, I lowered my voice. "It's ok, buddy. Here, you can keep it." I said retrieving the mutinous device and handing it to him.

I hustled the kids off to Nana's house for the morning so daddy could manage some sleep. I was drying dishes and chatting with my mother, when she stopped cold and uttered, "What the ...?" Their gas fireplace was burning brightly. I was about to scold Noah for turning it on, when my mother informed me that the fireplace had been broken for months.

Someone get that kid a cape with a screwdriver on it! Circuit strikes again!

And we all already know that Hannah is the Purple Tornado. She has the unique gift of destroying everything. Perhaps the two of them will grow to be arch enemies: Noah on a continual quest to bring order and electronic light to the universe as his baby sister spins destruction and chaos in a pretty purple vortex.

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!

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?)

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.

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.

My Minion

Disclaimer: I don't own Disney, Despicable Me or any actual minions. If I did, my family would live on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, shouting scalawagian threats at one another over tourists' heads, and stealing their mouse shaped creamsicles.

Noah has become that guy who poses questions to himself and then answers them. However, English is not his strong suit yet, so it sounds like my son is one of those Disney minions from Despicable Me having a conversation with himself. What is even funnier is how much he looks like a minion, sort of like a round, pale pill with big eyes. And adorable. Cute up-to-here adorable. The conversations go something like this:

Curious Noah: "Da brag?"
Noah Know-It-All: "Da basho yang ana."
Curious Noah: "Oh..."

Curious Noah: "Da Ding?"
Noah Know-It-All: "Dish duc wanna brag da nana."
Curious Noah: "BA!?"
Noah Know-It-All: "NANANANANANA..." giggles "Head!" (smacks himself on the noggin')

This posing and answers of questions with himself will go on for a good ten minutes before he has sorted out all the mysteries of the universe (including why the duck wants a banana on his head [why to brag about, of course]).

Justin thinks that Noah has a minion language all his own that makes perfect, eloquent sense in his head and to other minions. Since they do not make Munchkin Minion Rosetta Stone, I have to struggle through deciphering his sentences all on my own. The worst part is he will spew out a good fifteen word sentence with a subject and predicate, prepositional phrases, demonstrative adjectives; the works. Then he will stare at me with those big beautiful minion eyes in anticipation of a response. The longer I delay in confirming or denying his theory of reality, the more that cherub face falls. To reduce the number of these heart crushing misunderstandings, I have translated several key words below:

Du - 'Duck'
Ish - 'Fish'
Nana - 'Banana', or my mother, this word is contextually dependent.
Long, loud, glass-shattering shriek - 'Well, that didn't go as I had planned, perhaps this world is not the malleable, gently solace I had imagined... And why would anyone put the silverware drawer way up there, where I can't have at the spoons. Crazy people.'

Thirty Minutes

There is a great deal of whining, and fussing, and otherwise grumping about our house this week. The, for the moment, littlest Ririe is teething and has a nasty little cold. It's difficult to explain what the general unhappiness of a child does to his mother. It's exhausting, heart-breaking, frustrating, utterly grrrsome. Said mother being the size of a walrus with a glandular problem, doesn't help. The husband, realizing that my nerves were shot and my patience was thin, offered to take the Little Sicko, so I could have thirty minutes to myself. I just laughed.

What would I do with thirty selfish minutes? Take an uninterrupted shower? Make something sugary, delicious (and at this point nauseating)? Lay in bed trying to watch old episodes of "What Not to Wear", while my daughter does the marimba against my lungs? None of these seems like as good an option as reading The Monster at the End of this Book for the two hundredth time, or catching my wobbly walker and wiping his belligerent little nose. (FYI: he knows where his nose is now. It's all coming together.)

I worry about being a good mom. I wonder if I'm teaching him enough and the right things at the right times. I question my choice as I drive to work each day. I pray that I am patient enough, firm enough, fun enough. It's hard being imperfect (dreadfully imperfect) when you have another life in your hands.

But it's a little easier... everything is a little easier... when you have a wonderful Little Man.

Screaming in the Night

Three nights ago, I woke up to Noah fussing. I waited for him to get it out of his system, flip to his other side, and let the sleepies steal him back to a land where I assume he dreams of bananas monkeys. No theft to dreamland occurred. He kept right on crying. With a sigh I threw my legs out of bed, padded into his room, and let my eyes adjust to the dark. I gave him a pacifier and pulled his head out of the corner of the crib. He was still a mite bit unhappy, but I had to go to the bathroom.

From behind the closed bathroom door I heard it. It was the kind of screaming we usually associate with some combination of zombies and apocalypse. It was the kind of screaming that means needles, and death, and turnips are only moments away, their sharp pincers snapping. And it would.not.stop.

I scooped up my Little Man. Screaming. I stroked his head and bounced. Screaming. I sang, pleaded, prayed, tried the paci, tried his monkey friend, tried changing his diaper. Screaming. At this point Justin came in and asked, "What on Earth is wrong?" The side of me so consciously aware of the fact that it was after midnight spat, "Well, if I knew I wouldn't be holding a shrieking little banshee at 2:00am." The side of me that actually speaks and loves him so completely cried, "I don't know!"

Allow me to share the ridiculousness of my own mind in the seconds that followed:
   He's never screamed like this before, ever. Something is really wrong.
   He's ok. Babies cry.
   Not like this. Hormonal pregnant women being tortured with cruel implements don't cry like this.
   What if I have to take him to the ER?
   What if they find something wrong?
   What if they don't, and think I'm a bad mother?
   What if they take one look at my over-sized Bradley Hathaway t-shirt and Yellowstone      Huckleberry shorts and won't even let us in the hospital?

About this point, Justin had put Little Man in his car seat and was swinging him back and forth. In a few minutes he was calm enough to stop crying. A couple minutes after that he went back to sleep. He survived until morning, and lived a semi-happy day. . . And no one had to see my Huckleberry shorts.

And Justin once again proved that I married up.

FYI: it's teeth. He's cutting teeth on the top and just wants to be sure everyone in the valley knows how miserably unfair it is.

Noah's first Easter

I love Easter week. When I was little it heralded Easter baskets filled with candy, beautiful dresses and curly hair, singing at church, dyeing eggs, and Easter egg hunts. Easter was a day where it seemed like everyone felt a little more special, looked a little nicer, smiled a bit more. I hope Easter means all these things for Noah (well, maybe not the curly hair and dresses). I imagine we will spend hours together coloring eggs with blue fingers, tromping through the grass searching out chocolate-filled delights, and dressing up special in a wee suit and tie. He'll get an Easter bunny and just snuggle it to pieces. He'll get a basket and giggle with delight. But I hope as he grows, he will realize just why we can have such joy on Easter morning, that in the near memory of our laughter, our singing, and our ever-present hope is the bitterness of Good Friday.

As a little girl I knew why we had Easter. I knew the story of the Last Supper, the garden, and the trial. My little heart had cried when I heard how they beat Him, how they cursed Him, how He hung and died for my sins. With childlike faith I knew the story, and I thanked my Jesus. Yet, I feel it is only with age, as we begin to understand the bitterness of mortality, the hurt of life, and the true extent of our own darkness, that the Goodness of Friday becomes real. As Friday becomes all the more painful, Sunday becomes all the more miraculous.

I was happy on Easter as a child. I long for Noah to find that same happiness. Now, on Easter, my joy is inexplicable. I still love Easter egg hunts and dressing up with curly hair. So much more, now, I love that my Savior lives. What hope! What life! What jubiliation to know the story, and to know it is true! It isn't that I want my baby growing up too fast. He's doing that fine on his own. But I do hope that as childish happiness fades, true joy will be revealed in his heart. That he will find Easter his hope, his chance to face his living God and worship with a heart that knows what a costly price was paid, and what a victorious Savior we love.