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Howling Racoons, the Hebrew Alphabet and Jumbo Lego’s

Daddy has an "owie" and he laid on my blocks all day.

Stumbling down the stairs, blurry eyed and heading straight for the coffee pot, I heard a large howl –sort of like a wounded raccoon. Slightly stunned and now jolted wide awake I scanned the house to search for the suffering animal. 

“Yeeeoowww,” groaned my husband from the sofa. “Uuuuuuggggghhhh, I hurt my back really bad.”

Now realizing I had found the raccoon, I started on the coffee prep. “What happened sweetie?”

“I sneezed and my back went out,” cried my dearest. “I can’t move.”

“Ok, we’ll get you to the doctor today,” I replied and hurried on with my morning activities, stopping every two minutes to cater to my husband’s needs. Fortunately, Tim had the Hebrew alphabet to study for a seminary test so he primarily occupied himself with groaning and singing like a raspy Israeli preschooler.

As I walked in the door after taking the two older kids to school, I was greeted with the screaming raccoon again and a terrified toddler while my husband sprawled on the ground writhing in pain and laying on two buckets worth of jumbo Lego’s. This time, I knew it was serious.

I grabbed the baby and soothed her and tried to comfort my screeching husband who had injured himself further trying to build a Lego skyscraper. After a muscle relaxer and a strong dose of ibuprofen, I was finally able to pull out every last block stabbing him in the back (a process which took well over an hour). I left him on the floor, covered him with a blanket and fed him applesauce and Top Ramen.

When it was time to take him to the doctor, my ten year-old daughter and I loaded him into the back of the Expedition (like a yelping two by four) and I found myself driving for thirty minutes under excessive paranoia of getting into an accident and launching my unseat-belted husband out the hatchback. He was in so much pain he simply rolled around the back and whimpered in Hebrew.

We somehow managed to drag and hobble Tim into the doctor’s office (fortunately directly into a waiting room) and hoisted him up on the table.  The doctor arrived, pronounced it a herniated disk and prescribed some shots, physical therapy, and heavy medication to deal with the spasms and tremendous pain.

As soon as the doc mentioned shots, my husband’s ears perked up. “What? Shots? I don’t like shots!”

The doctor chuckled, “well, that’s what will work the fastest.” It’s not like you can run away.”

So while my daughters closed their eyes, my sweetie got poked in the buttocks with two huge needles by Nurse Ratchet, who seemed to enjoy making my poor exposed sweetie suffer more.

I held Tim’s hand (secretly glanced at his cute butt) and he squeezed my hand back hard in terror. I think it’s adorable that bigstrongbold men are afraid of little shots.

And some little part of me relished caring for my usually very capable and efficient husband.  It’s nice to feel needed.

Later that night, when daddy acted grumpier than usual, I explained to my daughter Faith (who got her feelings hurt while doing math homework) that men are cranky when they are hurt or sick or tired or injured. “It’s just a part of their nature, darling”

Faith sighed, “Boy mom, men are a lot of work.”

I thought about my darling husband and smiled. “Yep, but a good one is worth it all.”

Just then, we heard Tim struggling to make his way up the stairs (despite the excruciating pain) to apologize to Faith and tuck her in.

My heart ached at his effort to love our little girl.  “Yep, Faith, this man is definitely worth it.”

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Baby vs. Puppy?

Next month, my husband Tim and I will have a rather important discussion –do we try to get pregnant and go for a fourth child or do we cry “uncle,” say three children is enough and buy a puppy instead?

Decisions, decisions…

My friend Page says if I have to even ask the question I’m not ready to have another child. Which I agree with in theory, but my biological clock is ticking very loudly and at thirty-nine years old I’m terrified of my uterus crashing when I hit forty.

Bong, bong…you’re out if time lady.

In theory, I would love another child but selfishly I would also like to wait a few more years because I have a lot going on right now. 

But life isn’t like that.  Some decisions have an expiration date.

 I know all these Hollywood starlets have babies at sixty, but I’m pretty sure I don’t have the money for Depends and diapers all at the same time. Besides, I really don’t want my poor kid to have to constantly explain that’s I’m not his grandma and make excuses why his daddy drinks prune juice instead of beer after the ball games.

Did I say “his?” Oh right, that’s because Tim wants a boy child too, just to make it more complicated.

I would also like to ensure this pregnancy is free from any debilitating nausea, with no blood disorder (which has plagued me in all my other pregnancies) and no gas (seriously –the elephant farts are the absolute worst part of being preggers) If I could guarantee all of this…I might be open to another munchkin.

More income might be nice too (because babies are expensive) and a nanny would be extremely desirable. We might need to add an extra room over the garage to have somewhere to put the child and the nanny. Cha-Ching!

The obstacles seem insurmountable.

So, we come back to the puppy. I like dogs. I have a yard and a dog run (though I need to fix our fence). But my husband seems very resistant to this canine conversation, which leads me to believe he really wants another child.

And sometimes all the good reasons not to do something fall away in light of love.  

Either way –it should make for an interesting conversation.

Let me know what your vote is.  Baby or puppy?

 

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Patience-what parents have when there are witnesses

 

I think it was Bill Cosby who used to jest (in reference to his children) “I brought you into this world and I can take you out of it.” I never really connected with that statement, joking aside, until one of my own little angels turned into a teenager.

Because the truth is… Sometimes I want to throttle my kids or at least shake them really hard for the emotional trauma they put me through. Like on Tuesday for instance.

I got off work, drove a delightful 50 minute commute home, picked up the baby from daycare and pulled into my driveway. As I walked up to the front door, keys in hand, I stopped dead in my tracks when I heard piercing screams. It sounded like someone was killing my daughter.

Panicking, I put my key in the door and jiggled it, trying to unlock it as quickly as possible to rescue my darling girl. But my key is cranky and it sticks (and I gave the good one to the kids, because I’m a loving mom or possibly a lazy mom for not getting another one made). Of course now, in the most urgent and frightful of all moments the stupid key wouldn’t budge an inch.

The shrieks were growing in volume and the thumping of my heart reverberated in my ears. I started to pound on the door and yell at the top of my lungs for help. Tears were pouring down my face and the baby was bawling at my feet in fear. The thought flashed through my mind of someone violently attacking my baby girl.

Adrenaline was racing through my veins. I looked around and saw the front window as my only option. I furtively glanced around for something to smash the window with, when the door swung open in my face and there stood my ten-year old daughter, red-faced and laughing uproariously with her teenaged brother.

I collapsed on the front door stoop after yelling at my children at the top of my lungs “I thought you were dying. What the BAD WORD(1) were you doing?”

Their faces turned red in shame and they pointed to the playroom where the baby’s blocks were now strewn all over.  There were blocks in the bookcase, on top of pictures and blocks hanging off the potted plants. “We were having a block fight mom.”

I saw an ice bag on the floor. “What’s that for?” I choked out.

“Kyle threw a block at my face,” Faith whimpered.

I sat on the floor and wept and let my kids wallow in the guilt of tormenting their mom.

Then I really let loose. I cried tears of relief that my sweet Faith was alive, tears of frustration for their utter (and very normal) childishness and most of all, I cried big gulpy sobs because the truth is I am not there for them after school to protect them from imaginary intruders.

I am at work and it kills me.

And this burden on my mother’s heart feels like the weight of the world.

My husband walked in amidst the chaos and I finally started to chipper up and then ultimately laugh.

I guess it could have been worse. It could have been a dart fight.

[1] I actually said “hell” but you thought it was the “F word” didn’t you? I’m making real progress here people!

 

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First Crush

“So Brayden, I hear you think I look like I princess,” said my daughter Faith to our young neighbor.

Brayden gulped and sat up in his chair. “I, um did I say that?” He looked at his mom in panic and gave her the mini eye roll for letting the cat out of the bag.

It was no secret that Brayden adored my ten-year old daughter, but this was the first time he had been caught in the act of his crush.

Faith gave a tinkling laugh and tossed her long golden locks over her shoulder.  Four year-old Brayden looked dazed as if fairies had dusted him with smitten powder. He squared his shoulders and looked at his dad with newfound determination, ready to slay dragons and fight for his princess.

“Dad, I don’t think we can be friends anymore,” Brayden stated, now serious and reflective in his demeanor.

“Why not bud?” Brayden’s father Tyler replied.

“Well dad, I don’t like boys anymore so we don’t have anything in common.” Braden suggested.

Tyler nodded his head and played along with his boy, “its ok bud, we can still be friends. Because guess what?  I like girls too!  That’s why I married your mommy.”

Brayden looked relieved. “Oh that’s good dad.”

Tyler looked at his son with a proud smile and recognized this was the big moment Brayden needed to court his girl. “Who are you going to marry Bray?” he asked.

Brayden took a deep breath and owned his intentions, taking his first bold step towards manhood. “I am going to marry Faith!” he exclaimed with a swoon and a giggle.

And the table erupted in glorious laughter and a bit of wistfulness.

Because we all remember our first crush.

Poignant. Powerful. Piercing.

It made every day better just to catch a glimpse of our beloved.

Later that evening Faith tucked our little pajama clad Romeo into bed and read him a book.

And without a word, his contented smile and beaming face told the story of his heroic romance.

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Duck Hunting-Scrappy Sam

I just love Duck Chili mommy!

I’m a single mom this week to my three kiddos.  It’s been challenging to say the least. So far, we’ve only had one ‘girl” melt-down, one mommy melt-down (I was out of coffee-nuff said) and the boy and the baby have fared pretty well in the last thirty-six hours.

My husband Tim is out doing manly Wild at Heart shenanigans-namely shooting fowl in the wild of North Dakota. I can just picture him traipsing through the tick infested brush, spotting a flock of ducks, lifting his big rifle into the air and pulling the trigger on a poor defenseless duck. (Quack. Bang. Plop)

Sounds awesome!

And while he is out making sure I will have no room in my freezer for the foreseeable future, I am left to hold down the troops. (At least we get to eat whatever we want until he returns, because then it’s all downhill)

Kid-“What’s for dinner mom?” 

Me-“Duckloaf”

Kid-“Again?”

Me-“What’s wrong with duckloaf? You should be grateful we put food in your mouth and give you duck sandwiches to eat. There are a bazillion kids starving in the world”

Kid-“I wish I was one of them.”

Me-“Just wait until daddy goes venison hunting?”

Kid-“What’s a venison?”

Me-“I think it’s a type of big cat?”

Kid-“I love duckloaf!”

Me-“I thought so!”

Tomatoes are good in duckloaf, right mom?

So until Friday I will attempt to navigate pre-school drop-off (with a toy to share), middle school drama, and elementary school cliques. 

I will make sure all homework is done through subtle mind games and a few threats. I’ll change diapers, sing lullabies, and juggle football practice, cheerleading, high school open house, Willy Wonka rehearsals, and writing deadlines-all with a pained smile.

I will go to work, commute an hour each way, sing hymns, and somehow hopefully find the time to shower (probably not going to happen), buy more coffee or maybe steal pods from the office? (Just kidding) and write about the church bathing suit (an article I am dying to tackle).

I’m sure I’ll also fit in a quiet time and some scripture memorization. (Yeah right)

I’m pretty sure Jesus is in the trenches of motherhood. (This just has to be a spiritual test, right?)

And I will dream of my duck man and the day we are reunited (so that he can deal with all this kid nonsense for at least thirty minutes and I can take a very long bath).

How do you survive motherhood?

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Blessed

I’m in a wistful mood. Nostalgic. Teary. Reflective.

I lost a loved one today. It makes me want to hold onto my babies a little tighter, linger over beauty a bit longer, and enjoy the blessings I have been entrusted with.

A lovely tableau

Like antiqueing with my husband in Carlsbad on a surprise getaway.

Or snapping this shot of my friend Keri in her Halloween costume. (Seriously, she got this at Target and I am in awe.  She looks like a regal princess)

Like finding just the right pumpkin.

Kyle's blowing out his birthday candles

And celebrating the best thirteen years of my life with my cherished boy.

Like stopping on the side of a busy road to smell the flowers and look at a bug.

Or watching a beautiful bride float down the aisle toward her beloved.

And then taking a picture with her so I can remember how much it moved me.

Like my first-baby girl turning into a young-woman, despite me wanting to keep her locked in a castle far away from all the ogres, and dragons and eager suitors.

And I’m not even ready to acknowledge how fast the baby is growing up. (Amazing block skills for a 1 yr old, right?)

And then there is romance. 

Like my husband who still courts me, despite the busyness of life.

And my Father in heaven who pursues me with His relentless love.

Today I am wistful. Nostalgic. Teary. Reflective.

And most of all Blessed.

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Just Being Real

I saw a Real House Wife from the OC yesterday at the grocery store. This lovely is my neighbor, if you count living in the track across the street as part of my hood, and I do, because somehow that makes me cooler (or maybe not).
We both had three kids trailing at our heels and our eyes met in a moment of “Lord have mercy on me,” or at least that’s what I was thinking with a crying baby, my son begging for coconut water that costs five dollars per eight ounces and my daughter trying to assemble the perfect cake making materials to create an atomic particle (will somebody please tell me how the crap am I supposed to make positive ions out of frosting?).
Right about then it hit me who she was and the “ding, ding, ding,” bell of acknowledgement traveled though my thick skull.
Trying not to be too obvious, I snuck copious glances and did the female version of celebrity gawking. She was dressed in fancy workout clothes (because that’s what you do when you are a hot reality star) and her long blonde extended tresses were flowing around her shoulders. She had lots of makeup on and was a perfect shade of bronze.
I, on the other hand, am proud to say I did not have snot or poop or pee on me. It was a good day.
We checked out around the same time and somehow ended up right next to each other in the parking lot. I walked over to my Nissan Xterra and she walked up to a white BMW and then realized it wasn’t hers.
She started mumbling cuss words under her breath and for the first time I saw a REAL woman. The scenario was funny and dumb and something I would do.
And for a moment, I connected with a single mom who struggles to remember where she parked the stinking car. And I know that feeling of panic all too well, that “Oh no, is this early Alzheimer’s setting in?”
I loved it! I love the MESS! I love it when we desperately need Jesus and I love it when people don’t have their act together and acknowledge it.
What I really want is a REALITY show where moms act like real moms.
• Real is: when they walk around all day with baby vomit on them and are too exhausted to care.
• Real is: when they show the parents pretending to be asleep when baby cries and then fighting over who will get up for the third time. “It is not my turn! It’s your turn jackwaggon.”
• Real is: when a mom prays for a girl who is a bad influence on her daughter to disappear and this bad girl moves and the mom shouts-“Yes Jesus Yes!!!!” and the daughter is baffled why her mom is having a big whoop dee doo in the kitchen because her friend (who didn’t even say goodbye) has just moved to Texas.
• Real is: when Facebook is the cause of endless arguments between teens and parents, and mom commandos the teen’s page and posts links to “Lord help me have a heart for the Poor and Needy.”
• Real is: when parents turn on Yo Gabba Gabba and park their baby in front of the TV and get crazy in the bathroom for five minutes because it’s the only time they have to be intimate.
• Real is: when neighbors come over and bawl and hug because it’s been a bad day and we pull out the Skinny Girl margarita mix and we encourage each other to forgive and forget, even when it’s tough and even when we know we are right.
• Real is: when real mommies and daddies fight and make up and pray and laugh at each other’s jokes, because mommy thinks daddy is freaking hysterical and adorable and the best thing, alongside Jesus and her babies, that has EVER happened to her.
I could go on and on… but for me, this would make REALITY TV far more real.

What real stuff do you think is missing on TV?

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It’s not as bad as it could be…

The Christmas my daughter Faith turned four, I succumbed to Barbie Guitar mania.  I was one of “those” parents who got in a bidding war on Amazon and eventually paid twice the retail value to score an overhyped piece of plastic that ended up buried in a storage unit: only to be unearthed years later- just in time for our littlest girl to rediscover it’s hokey Shania Twain belting wonders.

You would think after all this time, I would have figured out the words to the incessant songs on the guitar that my toddler plays over and over and over, but admittedly, I have an awful ear for lyrics, and am repeatedly caught making up my own version of songs and am then mocked by my family.

The other day was no different. Baby Kolby and I were rocking out to the guitar, swaying our hips and singing, “It’s not as bad as it could be, seems everybody’s bugging me.”

My husband looked up from his iPhone snorting, “What did you say? The song says “It’s ‘bout as bad as it could be.”

“Oh, well I like my version better,” I said sheepishly. “I guess I’m just an optimist.”

I flounced away and Kolby and I kept on dancing to our own tune. 

But later, I replayed our interaction and it made me think about how often we choose to hear what we want to hear, based on our own emotional paradigm and life experiences.

When I hear Shania’s song it takes me back to my own journey through abandonment and betrayal, divorce and struggling to survive as a single mom with health issues.  And I guess it’s all perspective, because even on a bad day, I’m pretty confident it’s not as bad as it could be. It could be total crap.

And so a few poopy diapers, teen stress, and pure exhaustion from our hectic life is still merely a gentle breeze ruffling my feathers, not a tornado picking me up and leaving me unconscious and naked thirty miles from home.

And I think I like being an optimist in a world full of cynics, and maybe its God’s little gift to those who choose to trust him for a grander purpose instead of turning to bitterness over life’s disappointments.

At Bible Study the other day, this woman showed up with a big cake for her friend’s fortieth birthday, but she was clearly frazzled from her ordeal with the baker. She explained that she had specifically called in and said she wanted the message to say “Forty and Fabulous.”

When she picked up the cake it read, “Forty and Flabulous!”

I guess some things get lost in a pessimist’s translation.

What could be better than this? Cheap pumpkins and cute kids!
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Helga the Cleaning Nazi

Seventy-four days ago I decided to be a good steward, get rid of our bi-monthly housekeeper, and try to shave off some rather unnecessary expenses from the budget.  Seventy-four days ago I realized I have some big issues, and seventy-four days ago (I now acknowledge), I became Helga the cleaning Nazi.

I blame it on my step-mom, a darling German woman who believes tidiness is sacred and dirt is of the devil.  I grew up in one of those homes-the kind where the living room was off limits-and if the mere trace of an errant footprint was spotted on the carpet, somehow frau-mama knew who had done it.  I rarely saw her without a broom-seriously, I think she slept with it.

One time my best friend in high school climbed in through the window and had a small but secret soiree when our family was out-of-town.  My friend cleaned up so well, none of us could tell the house had been violated, but my step-mom knew instantly, like one of those canine narcotic bloodhounds, she could smell the perpetrator and discern that her vacuum strokes on the carpet were millimeters off the usual pattern.  It was CSI, Bourne Identity, and Murder She Wrote all wrapped up in her calculating sweep of an eye and I was in serious awe of her super-power cleaning prowess.

But now here I am, years later, with a home full of mess-makers (i.e. my husband and three kiddos) trying to maintain the elusive façade of cleaning Holiness that was modeled to me in my tender and formative years. 

I have to be über clean like frau-mama. Right?  It’s my step-birth-right; my pseudo German legacy.

My husband pointed out that lately I have been muttering under my breath ferocious threats to the dust balls as I stroll around our home fixated on destroying suspicious specks with a Clorox wipey.  He says my obsession makes him feel like he can’t relax in his own home, because he might actually (gulp) mess it up. 

And if I’m really honest, he’s right. Sometimes when he walks in the door I just look at him and get mad. When he appears, it feels like he immediately starts creating havoc.  His backpack winds up on the floor and clothes too, his keys are dropped somewhere where he will never find them, cords are everywhere from iPhones, iPods, laptops and techie gear, cabinets are opened and never shut, dishes are left out,

And the best part is-he doesn’t even notice. I don’t know how, I mean it’s right there-this ginormous mess, like “how could you not see this?”  But he doesn’t. It’s like he’s blind to it.

And my kids do the same thing-all three of them.  It’s me against the dirt of the world and I’m so tired and it’s utterly exhausting being the only soldier in this battle, and I really, really…really miss my housekeeper, because she was my ally and I love her and I need her.

Because I miss being able to see a fully clean house (not half clean) and release it with a happy heart to get dirty again, because in the back of my mind I know it will be clean again in two weeks.  And I can still clean myself in between and then it will be really really clean. And cleanliness is next to Godliness-right?

Does anyone share my pain?

And does anyone have the number of a good cheap housekeeper? Because if I don’t get some help soon, the therapy alone for my cleaning neurosis will be more than the money I saved on getting rid of the help.

 

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Signs along the Road

So I’m driving to work, shooting up some popcorn prayers to the big guy, when I turn my head and see these cool signs. I roll down the window, grab my iPhone and snap a shot.

I’m transfixed. There’s a sign that says ONE WAY with an arrow that got a wee bit cut-off in the picture and another sign proclaiming WRONG WAY.

It’s like God is whispering to me (maybe because he knows I’m attracted to danger).

Sam-You can go down the wrong way, the long way and the hurts like hell way to find me or you can jump straight into my arms baby girl.

I sat at that sign until the cars honked behind me.

Each day I get to choose between life and death, beauty or destruction, love or selfishness…

Choices, decisions, judgements…

I can choose to make the extra effort and snuggle into to my husband’s arms tonight or pretend to be asleep. (Yes…I’m referring to sex for all of you scratching your head about what snuggling means)

I can bite back my critical comments when I come home to a ginormous mess after a long day at the office and instead simply say, “Hi there kiddos, I missed you.” (Breathe in peace, exhale bitchy mommy)

I can make the effort to call my friends when I’m sad or I can park my butt in front of a basket of chips, salsa, and a skinny margarita nursing my emotional boo-boos all alone at Casa Ranchera (Not that I would…just saying I might).

I can choose to take baby Kolby to the park, rub Faith’s back, or listen to my son Kyle go on and on about expensive blue Nike’s  until my head spins or I can check my Email and be distant mommy.

I can choose to not launch back verbal abuse to my co-worker after he has just asked me to cut up his steak for him at an office luncheon. (Ok, maybe that’s too much to ask of anybody?) 

I turned my car towards the ONE WAY sign.  At least for today, I’m heading in the right direction.

 Oh Jesus–I need HELP!

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