Happy Easters

I will always put an S at the end of Easters. Thank you Nacho Libre for life changing knowledge.
So many people celebrate Easters, and I am glad. Even when I feel like shopping at the Costcos, but they are closed for the day, I am glad because it means they are celebrating Easters. More people should. Close down I mean.
Take me for instance. I am on my couch. I got onto my couch as soon as I got home from church. I only got up to make scalloped corn and eat a spoon full of frosting. I watched Adventures in Babysitting with my three oldest children. Then. I closed down. Big time. Crashed right out. It's what every Sunday should be like.
It's not easy. The sabbath. Not everyone can handle it. But we are all supposed to be in it. And close down. Like the Costcos.
Just try it. For one whole Sunday, refuse to work, say no to chores, lay around and hang out with your family. Go to the park. Eat. Watch a good movie. Have conversation. Invite a friend or another family over and close down.
Happy Easters.

Blech

I made up that word. It's the sound I make when something is gross or lame or more than I feel like handling at the moment.
It's the noise in my throat when I hear Beth Moore tell me she waited 16 years between hearing God's call and finally stepping into it.

It's the sound I feel when I think of my friend's 17 year old who just arrived to his temporary, but long term, room. In prison.
It's the feeling I have listening to my stomach grumble knowing two of my boys threw up this week (one on the counter. One on the carpet. Cool. )
It's the feeling I have all the way to my bones when God so subtly reminds me of the writing I have before me that I am procrastinating like a freaking champion.
It's the noise that represents the disappointment when I realize I am living out Paul's ever cryptic "I do what I do not want to do…" which always makes me think of Abbott and Costello.

It's the sound in my gut when I know I am supposed to be doing something else. I don't know fully what. But I miss my kids. I am either supposed to stay home and give up on this full time life of teaching or pray for better organization and six more arms to be a full-time working mom of five children.

Blech.

I went to a job interview because I love teaching English as a second language, and there was an opening for a part-time professor. Two things happened.

I spent one hour in the chair: ten minutes interviewing and being offered the job and 50 minutes counseling my interviewer. She is nearly old enough to be my mother and a wife and a mother of one child. She is a very impressive woman who spent that time asking me how I maintain balance of work and family. Amazingly, I had some answers. Rather God knew what she needed to hear. She was amazed when I said I couldn't work four nights a week because my husband and kids are my priority. She couldn't understand my choice. She spoke of her hurting daughter who always complained of missing her because she worked so much. It was a glimpse into a life I have been mindful to avoid, but also a life eerily mirroring parts of my own all of a sudden. Under my breath I mumbled. Can you guess it? Yes.

Blech. And then,

I caught a glimpse of an alternate life.
Maybe I could stay home. We could lose our car payment (which we loathe anyway) and I could homeschool my littlest rugrats again and make a little extra dough as a professor and (and this is just the cherry) watch my new neighbor's brand new. Teeny tiny. Gray Brown baby. What? That's his name. I am not kidding, nor would I want to be. He's the best baby currently in the world.

I would cut my salary in half. I would lower my expenses only a smidgeon. But my family would be overly blessed (if I do say so myself). And then today wouldn't have ripped my heart a bit tinier and made the word Blech wrench in my throat.

Instead it would have felt perfectly at home spending time with Samuel. I teared up in the backyard when he helped me fill a bird feeder. Something is not quite right.
Blech.

Is This What It's Coming To?

 A blog post every two weeks? Who ever heard of such a thing?? Working moms, that's who. I have many questions, most having nothing to do with anything significant. Instead, I will leave you with this roll of pictures as proof that I am actually living life and not holed up on my bed wishing for summer.

This girl drinks coffee. I think it's too late for her. Judge me if you'd like, but she is gearing up for Stanford. She is one of the most amazing people any of us will ever know. She is brilliant without being socially weird. Stars aligned for this one.

 This boy is leaving. I hate it and I love it all at once. It hurts so much I might just cut that heart right off my sweater and give it to him when he leaves. He is beautiful and smart and hilarious and I am so grateful that he is the oldest boy in our family. He has always been my favorite. His mom said I wasn't allowed to play favorites, but when you grow up with a kid, and wake up ten times a night to give him back his pacifier, and try to give him a little smooch and he slips you his 8 month old tongue, you tend to stay connected. It works because there is a chance he is my favorite over my own children even! Good luck buddy. Have fun finding your dad, er. Going to college.

 If I weren't so old, this girl and I would be identical twins. She is just weird. The end.

 This boy is showing me he wants to be Joey Tribbiani when he grows up. And no. He didn't use these air quotes correctly. "Good morning" Brilliant.

 Oh, do pirates not lead your school chapel? Hmmm. Sad. Of course this boy posed with the girl.

 And what the what?! This girl (left) attended her first formal dance. She is about to be 15. She went with a gamut of girls. Or a gaggle of girls. Or...what do you call a largish, smallish group of teenage girls who teeter between "boys have cooties" and "oh. my. look at his arms"? That's who she went with.

Forgetful Lucy

Sometimes I feel like a character from that movie 50 First Dates. Remember that little gem? One of the most giggle enhancing movies I've seen. Some of the characters have amnesia or can only recall their oldest memories. No new memories.

I feel like that sometimes. Ok. Often. I am forgetting everything that matters. I can't remember my kids as babies. I loved them so much just for being babies. And now I can't remember any of it.

I can't remember what it felt like to date my husband. We have been together almost twenty years. We have been together more years than we lived without one another. I know I loved dating him. I was a giddy idiot. But I can't remember.

I can't remember the answers my kids or students give me when I ask them the question. Any question. And I realized this morning that I am not looking intently enough. I am not paying close enough attention. I am the man James spoke of in chapter one. I have looked in the mirror and, once I turn, I immediately forget what I look like. Crazy? Lame maybe, but not crazy.
Picture the scene.
I am standing on the playground attending to the lunch recess crowd. There's the group of taggers, diggers, ponies, and the jungle gymmers. It's a good time for everyone except me. I want a break. I am watching the clock. I check my watch, but while I am looking a student starts talking. I put my watch down and then realize I looked with my eyes, but can't recall the time.
I look at my watch. One of my children comes up to hug me. I put my watch down and again I wonder what time it is. Are you sensing a pattern?
I HAVE to know what time it is. I look at my watch. Determined to pay attention. I look but look up right away because someone is crying. A boy fell down.
And guess what. I still have no idea what time it is.
I am not looking intently enough.
I want to be intentional. I want to look with eyes that see. I want to see and retain and be able to do something with all of that.
I want short and long and forever memories. I need to sear them into my mind so I can keep them forever.
I'll let you know how it goes.

Balancing Acts ain't for Ninnies

I don't know why it never occurred to me that I would still be a full time mother, with full time mother needs, dealings, responsibilities, handlings, and beeswax once I became a full time worker. I don't mind working and earning my keep. And really, I LOVE teaching. So much. My husband and I both remark regularly how blessed we are to be in careers we love.

The problem is that if I am fully devoted to teaching, something at home tends to slip. Usually that is my husband, but only because he doesn't get in my face and whine or act out irrationally when he isn't cuddled enough. I appreciate this about him. Apparently some husbands are this way. Weird but true.

Anyway, tonight I interviewed for a position as a part time professor teaching English as a second language. It's totally my bag. But as God typically does with my mouth, our conversation ended up sounding a lot less like her interviewing ME for this position of teaching and more like her interviewing me asking for parenting help.

I told her I would LOVE to teach four nights a week, alas, my priority is my family. She agreed that this is as it should be, and added, "How do you keep them priority with so many kids!?"

We discussed teenagers and compared her one to my nearly three. She clutched her chest in mock freak out at the though of more than one child. It wouldn't make a difference in my house if we had one or five, or seven for that matter. God covers what we can't as long as we are making the choices we need to in order to make family a priority.
I explained that this looks different in every house, but in ours it's family dinners and being around to talk about nonsense when our kids have saved those purely nonsensical stories all day just to share them with me. "You are priority" looks like little notes to my family members, showing an interest in their accomplishments, and reenacting scenes from Mulan on video (only I sing off camera while Samuel moves his mouth in perfect timing) while we wait for dinner to cook.
"You are priority" reeks of balance. Everybody must have it. Every BODY must have it. Don't let your teeter totter too far to the top while you chase after career goals and your perfect tan. Teach your children balance. Use your time to love others. Really. And pray for wisdom about balance. It's no longer just an act in a circus.
Because I am baby stepping my way toward balance, I am fully prepared to celebrate my boy's birthday tomorrow.

He's 12. Or he will be in about 20 hours.

Sometimes I confuse even myself

Do you ever look around after you buy something great and ask yourself "why didn't we do this sooner?!"

We were given a bed by some friends years and years ago. We planned to get side tables. Those are important. Instead we didn't. We were given a set. Not as pretty as our bed, but we don't complain at free furniture.

Then. The day came when we sold those bad boys and we used cheap shelving from target. It looked cute. Did the job. But we passed them on when we moved. Again.

Since July, we have had no side tables. Cardboard boxes, but no tables. HUGE boxes. But cardboard is cardboard people. It's dusty in a way that cannot be cleaned. It's dented down the center and it caves in creating a hole from which I cannot retrieve my most favorite possessions. Chapstick. Pens. My arm. Cardboard doesn't discriminate.

The day came when The Man said we could buy some. "Be wise with our funds woman!" He said. Well. He didn't. But I wish he spoke with me like this.

We shopped. We price checked. We made a face like we were smelling a glass of milk that came from a cow who got into the onion pasture. (Thanks Napoleon). And then we left. Because guess what. Side tables are dumb expensive. It's a level of silliness I want no part of. Except that I really want side tables.

Many stores and thrift store diving passed and no good.
The cheapest we found was $50 for used and $79 for new. And we didn't remotely like those.
Then we went to ikea and my room is amazing. For reals. So pretty. And organized and helpful and efficient and grown up. No longer am I a bachelor drowning in cardboard. I'm an adult! With adult furniture. Amen.

Dear Reader

Today my husband recapped a conversation he had with himself recently. (I can't explain this). He figured out we spend about 1/3 of our day sleeping, 1/3 of our time working at a paid job, and much of the last 1/3 of our time on caring for our children, our crap, and responsibilities we don't even really care about. This leaves about 20 minutes a day for something meaningful. Really? How about some extra sleep, because that makes me a little tired to even think about.

Here is what I have been spending my 1/3+1/3+(1/3-20 minutes) on:

The private school at which I work has foreign exchange students who want to learn English, so they can stay here for a decade and attend university. For some, it happens at a slower pace. So, three days a week, I tutor after school.

My eldest kid transferred from said private school to an amazingly intense program at a local high school. It's an International Baccalaureate program which translates to really smart, really hard, and two years of college credits when she graduates. Win win. I drive her some days. Pick her up others.

My husband has been picking up every shift he possibly can. We have debt that is weighing us down. Suffocating actually. We are done with it. We are taking the long road and paying off debt before we get into a new house. We are saving a deposit and funneling money into our savings account. Unfortunately it's a very small funnel with more of a leak than a flow. Baby steps. This translates to full time parent. Of course The man is still around to pick me up with sweet conversation via the telephone.

In the next three months, over half of us have birthdays. And our anniversary. And Easter. And spring break. It's usually a bit hectic, but this year is a little different because I work full time. Oh. And by different I meant worse. We are throwing them a surprise Harry Potter themed birthday dinner where the entrance to our party is through a brick wall that reads Platform 9 3/4.

My book. It's not taking as much of my time as I want it to, but still. Time.

I don't know about you, but I would really like to have 1/3 of my day back. This is crazy.

The book I am Reading

Sometimes I read a book, and I underline and take notes and it is exciting. Other times, I purchase a book and have it sit on the box I call bedside table. Trying it on. I don't read it. When you read it, you have to do it. If you sing it, you have to live it.

I knew I needed time to adjust and prepare for this book. It's called Anything. It's written by Jennie Allen. I think I still like her. I can't say for sure yet, because I am only about 2o pages in. If she keeps making me sigh heavily with conviction, the tides could turn. I may pull out my angry (with myself) eyebrows and blame her for her honesty. I'll call it judging, but she doesn't know me. She is just delivering the goods. It's my armpits that are all sweaty with frustration.

Here's a quote:

"I did wonder sometimes, when I closed my eyes and let it get scary quiet, if I was missing the best things, the things that mattered most, because I was afraid. "

She means she was saying no thanks to the gifts God gave her because they hurt or were scary or seemed too sad. Most have the desire to love others, share a cup of coffee, and maybe even help someone move. Hospitality. That's a light hearted spiritual gift.

Mine is words. I speak. I write. I dream, and God asks me to say something about it. The problem is what He wants me to say is usually a little intrusive. It's cut. its dry. I have to work to make it encouraging. It's uncomfortable. And not just for them.

I have caught myself thinking the words "take it away, Lord". I wanted a new gift. How about hospitality. I could make scones (no. Actually I can't). I could beautifully display some cookies (also a lie). I could enjoy having women over for breakfast (it's as if I have never met myself and watched with my own eyes as I said help yourself and watched my guests get their own cereal).

The fact is, this is my gift. God gave it. And he can take it away, but he would rather help my heart to handle it so he can be honored. In my life. And theirs. Whoever "they" are at that moment. By saying no thanks, I am Jonah. That guy, who every time I read his story, I think he is a doofus. Because he was.

I don't want to be Jonah or any other "got it wrong" from the Bible. I'm a work in progress.

But I am swimming to Ninevah if I have to. Who's goin with me?

Jesus told the little girl, who everyone thought was dead, to get up. I wrote it on my arm. I am going to keep writing it on my arm, because I think it's what I am supposed to be doing. Getting up. Go. No more staying. I am done staying.

Smell That?

That my friend is the winds of change. Thankfully, things around here aren't changing as much as they have over the past couple of years. Seriously, if I have to move again, I may combust. Why isn't combust a word? Weird. Anyway, you get my point. I want to settle. So many people are against settling, but honestly, sometimes it's the best thing a girl can do for her family.

Let's settle people. Let's be average. Let's not move every two years. Can we try that? We aren't military. We aren't missionaries. We aren't any M word that requires frequent moves. I just want to be. There's nothing that comes after that statement. I just want to be and that is all.

So, we are staying in our house for at least another year, unless God sends us some sort of miraculous home and the money with which to purchase it.

No, the change I am talking about is much less stressful. First, my mid-kid cut all her hairs off. For reals. All of it. She wants to be the girl from Ferris Bueller's Day Off. You remember? The girl Mr. Rooney mistakes for Ferris at the pizza parlor. He says something crude behind her back like, "the gig is up. Your a&& is mine." To which she calmly replies by spitting a straw full of pop into his face. CLASSIC. Anyway, that's who she used as her point of reference.

I don't make the rules.

Also, on the list of change is Izzy's school. She has been a proud student of Excel Christian School for the last semester of school. She has loved it and done so well. But when the opportunity to attend the IB program at Wooster High School, she couldn't pass it up. Perhaps she is looking for more art in her high school experiences

Maybe she wants more opportunities for performing arts

and maybe she is just needing a few tips on how to get through her high school years

I can't say for certain. But really, I think she wants to be part of something that scares her a little while asking her to become a better version of herself. Last year, she called herself shy. Lies. This year she knows she is brave and funny and cool. My only real prayer is that she stays true to her faith and grows closer to God. And doesn't find any interesting boys.

Dearest Husband, You are a Great Father

Men believe lies as often as women. Did you know that? For some reason I am always thrown when my husband, or any man, talk about a fear or insecurity. Among a man’s topmost insecurities is his belief that he is not a good enough father. I hate hearing this. I have heard men say it. I have heard my own husband say it. 

Sometimes we are able to look at a lie from the enemy and know right away how fake it is. There is no purchase to the words because they are simply absurd, and we know it. Other times, the enemy picks the most subtle things and attaches them to the end of a pin. It’s small at first, so we don’t totally notice, but after a while, the pin pricks turn into a deep, festering wound leaving us too injured to think clearly. I believe most insecurities follow this pattern, and the only way to see through the lies, get past the nonsense, and gain perspective is to face them head on. Sometimes it takes an outsider. 

So here you go men. Here is what we love about you as a father. Here is why you are a good father. Here is why we are proud to have our boys (and girls) follow in your footsteps:

• You make pancakes, just because.
• You snuggle your teenagers, even when they pretend it’s weird.
•  
• You are willing to do housework and be a taxicab "dad" (says your daughter)
• You notice your daughter and tell her she is pretty.
• You pray for our family.
•  
• You have never shied away from changing a diaper. Well, maybe once.
• You teach your boy to do proper pushups.
• You take the time to tell them invaluable knowledge such as “righty tighty, lefty loosy.”
• You are terrified of your girls dating.
• You help me calm down when I am terrified of your girls dating.
• You are willing to take every girl in the Troop 127 out on the lake, no matter how full the boat feels.
• You will work outside in the freezing cold putting up Christmas lights, taking down Christmas lights, pulling weeds, digging holes, changing the oil, and fixing whatever we break.
• You are always willing to play air guitar and sing a, 80’s big hair rock band lick.
• You teach your kids to vacuum so the lines look nice.
• Your pride shows when you introduce your children…and your wife.
• You have nicknames for each of your kids that no one else gets to use.
• You take one of them with you when you run an errand.
• You insist they call you daddy, no matter how old they get, and you ignore them as if they never spoke if they try to call you anything else.
• You say, “Go for it,” even when some of their ideas seem out there.
• You know everything about everything, and you pass it on.
• You point out the mechanics of things to your boys, and ask them questions so they have to figure out their own answers.   
•  
• You will work three jobs, so I can stay home with our babies. 
•  
• You notice wild animals, even the really camouflaged ones, teaching them to take a minute and enjoy the world around them.
• You take your girls on dates.
• You whisper advice to your boys when they take me on dates.
• You teach them to leave a place cleaner than they left it, especially in nature.
• You hold the door for us, always, without fail, and tell your boys to do the same.
• You are here when you could have left.
• You say, “I love you,” and you mean it. 

Feel free to add to this list.  Please do.

Reviews A'la Me

Book: I am reading Wuthering Heights. I like it. It's the unabridged, originally intended version. Emily Bronte(dot dot) wrote the book. Publishers mocked her to her face. Told her to stick to poetry because it is womanly. She only listened a little. Her sister listened less. Sing it sister suffragette. She re-published her sister's originally intended work after Emily died, and guess what. It takes all my brain power to read it. She is brilliant. Her characters are diverse and feisty and beautiful. I have to look up words. But I am going to finish it. There are creepy factors to it. I wasn't expecting that. There is romance. I knew that would happen. So far, I give it 3.5 out of 5 cups of coffee. I don't blame the book. I blame my inability to speak like the English of the 1800s.

Television: I am watching the show Parenthood. I haven't missed one. I love it so much. It's my family: dysfunction, nosy family members, drama, hilarity, sarcasm, mockery- all in the name of love. It's about four grown siblings and their families. Right now, one of the sad story lines revolves around Christina- one of the mammas. She has cancer and she is going through chemo. She is the mother of three and usually pretty neurotic. Tonight, she decided to go out with her sis-in-laws to forget about her problems, but, three drinks in, her hair started falling out. The next shot was her shaving her head. It hurt my heart so much. It was just shocking and so real and so where my life could be right now.  I just can't help thinking how differently my tests could have been. How differently my family could be functioning. Our prayers could be for healing and not praises of health. If you like to laugh and cry in the same show, Parenthood is your show. I give it 4.5 out of 5 cups of coffee.

Movie: I finally saw Les Mis. I loved it a lot. There were a couple minutes when I felt too awkward watching the leading men sing into each others' faces. I am just going to be blunt. Their next move should have been a kiss it was so intense. There is a tiny chance I pictured them as cowboys with a broken back on a mountain somewheres. The women stole the show. That is for realz. They were raw and gut wrenching. Equal to their performances were Cohen and Carter. Brilliant. Some people cried. Not me. According to my husband there are two types of people in this world. Those who choose a warm heart and cold feet, and those who choose for their toes to be toasty therefore leaving their heart as cold as a dead stone. My feet are always hot. What do you want from me people? Watch the movie. I give it 4.0 out of 5 cups of coffee.

Music: I can't get enough of Bryan and Katie Torwalt. I don't completely love every one of their songs, but of the five I have purchased, I can't get enough. Their writing is splendid and legit. Their harmony is stellar. Their folky style makes my heart happy. If you need to jazz up your worship play list, check them out. I give them 4.5 out of 5 cups of coffee.

I wanna…

My throat hurts. Everyone around here has had colds. The entire break, people have been coughing on me and forgetting to wash hands. We have gone through several tissue boxes and bottles of hand soap. We have emptied vitamin bottles and orange juice jugs.
And now my throat hurts.
I wanna hole up for two days straight and do nothing but avoid sickness.
I wanna watch endless episodes of Friday Night Lights, my Christmas present.
I wanna hire someone to take down my Christmas lights and snap my fingers like Mary Poppins and simply smile as all of my decorations dance their way into the storage bin.
I wanna go to the massage lady, and then drive over to the chiropractor man.
And then I wanna get back in my bed to eat soup someone else made. With chicken and veggies and hot broth.
Then I wanna dream of an island that let's me sleep on its beach, where the sun is never in my eyes.
Anyone? Could you use a break to recover from your break before going back to work? Yawn.

Rebellion

I guess we all have streaks of it in our lives, but sometimes I feel as if sometimes my rebellion bone is larger than the next guy.

I am not proud of it. Sometimes it's worked to my advantage, but usually it hurts people. Mostly me.

And it's never about anything important. I realize I haven't had any water. Instead of drinking some, I think "what would happen if I didn't?" Hmmm. Then I have a headache, my muscles tense, my belly aches.

Rebelling against drinking water is dumb and seemingly nothing, but then I think "what if it's something?" What if it's like my gateway drug to something just under the surface? Far fetched? Maybe.

But sometimes we can take a step off the line that God has laid down for us. The line that, if you look closely enough, has our name written in delicate writing. Our path. I see my name and even my directions.

But I am foolish and easily distracted. I console myself by telling myself what I need is just a tiny step off the line. But then I forget to step back where I belong.

And then I realize what I need is just one step off the line. Now I am two. And then three. And then four paces off my line. I can't look closely at it any more. I can't see my name. I can't see my directions. The only thing that will fix it is taking my steps right back to that line. And maybe taking a few swigs of water.

Maybe if I just kept drinking my water the whole time I would never need to crawl back to where I belong. I would be there all the time.

Dear Rachel

I think you are pretty. I like your style.

I am using my blog app again. In the words if the French feather duster "I have been burnt by you before!" There is a chance this will all erase before it posts. This may all be erased or not. Or it may work and be for… the opposite of not.

There are Christmas cooties in my house. Colds but still. Lots of coughing. Sniffles. Meds. Addison and I like to sport our colds the attractive way. Cold sores. Awesome.
But despite all this yuck, we are anxious for Christmas. We have played games and watched movies. We have wrapped presents and secretly shopped for each other. (We have returned purchases we shouldn't have bought because someone may or may not have bought us that as a Christmas present) oops. We have shared meals and snuggled over coffee and hot chocolate. We have squealed at the first snow flakes. We have pointed out the endless displays of Christmas lights. We have prayed for those closest to us and those we don't know. We have laughed and loved and taken time for one another.

Hopefully, when all is said and done. When the last present is opened. When the last ornament is tucked into a box and placed carefully back on our garage shelf. When we find ourselves looking forward To whatever lies ahead. Hopefully then we can say "this Christmas we made a difference." We taught our kids to love and give not beg and receive. We taught them to notice. To remember. To realize. Hopefully.

Merry Christmas friends. Be blessed.

Quirky Technology

Twice I typed out a reputable blog post. Twice I pushed post. Twice my app deleted them. GAH. And those pictures down there, those are supposed to be in between said posts. They came complete with captions and back stories. Well just forget it.

So anyway, here I sit trying to make up for lost time. It doesn't work, but that doesn't keep us from trying. Especially this time of year. I am feeling it more now that I am a full-time wife, full-time mamma, and full-time teacher. We have been doing our typical traditions of advent and tree hunting and making time for others. But I don't think this will work. Our traditions are going to have to shift a bit. Watching a Christmas movie every night won't work any more because most nights are a school night. Major let down. Should I be this sad that I don't have as much time for television?

Christmas Eve service is coming. Is this something I want to attend? It's probably a valid tradition. Not one that we have stuck to really, but a good one for some people. But sort of I would rather veg out with my kids and hubby at home. My mother in law is coming. Maybe she will have a preference.  I just don't want to be busy because the event seems like the right thing to do.

For now, I am going to snuggle up and watch National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. It's for the best. It's for the children. Look how much happier they are.

Saturday. Typical.

I try to savor every breath of my weekends. Some weekdays I don't get home until the dark is settling over my neighborhood. That means most of my minutes through the week are spent on others. I am ok with that. I signed up for this gig, and I did it with a cheesy grin of anticipation. Still. It's good to be the one held instead of doing all the holding.

We woke at our usual 7:15 this morning. This happens on Saturdays when the resident Jeep leaves for work. Muh goodness that's a mighty loud tail pipe you have there my friend.

I made pancakes. Checked some emails. Snuggled my coffee. Yes. I mean snuggled. Like it is a wooby and I am that kid off Mr. Mom.

I chatted with my kids and mumbled something about wanting a sign to know the right answer just as the sun crawled from behind an oversized-darker than usual cloud. Only then did I wish I would have asked for a sign for something more profound than drama show prices. It's like I was given a great chance to ask God anything at all and I settled for "Hey. Can I sit here?" Question session ended. BAH.

Alas. We accomplished. Jami Harder is my pal. She organizes and decorates. She is working with me on my house. So far I am trading her services for my crap. We accomplished much though, so I may have to find her a right nice present. She said our first sweep through the house should include sorting and purging, even the things we WANT.

She is mysterious, but her ways are brilliant. The two rooms we worked on today feel the relief of crud shoved in their crannies. Thank goodness.

To help her, we ran to the thrift store where I found a few treasures: a sweet headboard that is being disguised as a bookshelf, a copy of the book The Host by Stephenie Meyer, and a vintage sled. It's going to be beautiful hanging on my wall. Classic!!

Tonight we played a card game as a family (sans working daddy) and watched the first of many to come Christmas movies on tv. Love.

I am finally settled into bed listening to the pre-storm. The real storm is supposed to flood reno. Lord, you know what to do. Thanks for taking care of us. Amen

The Praying Wives (or wife to be) Club

Also known as PW(OWTB)C. Rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?

Hello girls! This is the place to share some info, ask some questions, and lift a sister up. SOLIDARITY SISTER! Maybe we could don sashes and sing Sister Suffragette together, I don't know, but I am so happy for every woman that has made a commitment to pray for her man over this next thirty days. Want more info? Want to join us? Click here.

Here are a few of my favorite thoughts so far.

pg. 14
"Many difficult things that happen in a marriage relationship are actually part of the enemy's plan set up for its demise."
It's just the truth. We do not war against flesh and blood. We do not war against our men. And if we ARE declaring war against our men, we are working for the devil. :/ too harsh? it's just the truth. And I want to be on the right side.

pg. 17
"A wife's prayers for her husband have a far greater effect on him than anyone else's..."
Our prayers for our husbands have divine gravity.

pg. 23
"It's your responsibility to pray. It's God's job to answer. Leave it in His hands."
The end.

How about you? Favorite moments? Not so favorite moments?

What Was That?

I hear singing. My six year old son is singing Taylor the Latte Boy by Kristin Chenoweth. It's from her show on broadway. Oh. You aren't familiar? Ha. Well my son is. Give him a ring and he will sing it to you.


I hear giggling. My kids are headed to bed. We don't always hear happiness during this process. And frankly I can't decide what is better. If they are sad, the don somber scowls and hide their faces in a pillow. We don't hear from them until morning. But when they are giggling, it means they are more hyper than I hoped for. They squeal and bang, on what? I don't have these answers. I just hear more banging when they are happy. I suppose, now that I write this, I prefer the happy. Because at least they fall asleep with smiles on their faces. Those are the nights I walk in to find my 11 year old son snuggling his little brother even though they have two perfectly legitimate mattresses. And my youngest son snuggling a hanger. You know the ones? With the velvet so nothing slips off? It's as it should be: a boy and his brother and his brother's hanger.

I hear heavy sighs. Izzy is a high schooler. She has high school duties. That means bigger duties. Better duties. She takes it all seriously. She is going to sigh a little more when she realizes I am going to bed. But the thing is I am just so tired. I don't drink enough water, so my belly aches, and I am tired. My self control couldn't fill a bottle cap. Yesterday I drank four cups of coffee. No water. Just coffee and a lot of it. Don't look at me. I am ashamed.

Ok ok. My husband is gonna die

If I don't clearly state that we are waiting for Santa. We are expecting Santa and not a little peanut. Sad really. But for the record, I would be just as happy to know we were expecting a little clown who would take our last name, but for now we will just wait in anticipation for the man with the bag. We are expecting Santa. The end.
Well. Not the end. I am also expecting a new tattoo with my birthday money. I am expecting to have a mellow Christmas. I am expecting my weight to fluctuate.

I am expecting my friend to tell me she is hopping on a plane with her new baby from Uganda.

I am expecting my kids to learn some instruments. See? I am expecting all sorts of things.