Tuesday's Tip

I am not naturally gifted with home meal planning. And I don't just LOVE to cook. Put these two things together, with several mouths that are dependent upon me, and it makes for a rather humorous recipe. My answer? Tuesdays' Tip.

How to freeze portions into useable dinner batches, with a faster thaw time for those of us not gifted with tomorrow night's menu already planned. I am only going to address chicken, and hamburger in this post since our family's budget does not allow us to utilize many other cuts of meat on a regular enough basis for me to include. In other words, when steak is for sale, we eat it fresh! 

Chicken: I was amazed at the price difference between whole chickens, and boneless skinless chicken breast. But how do you really utilize a whole chicken in a practical manner? If you poach your chicken, and then shred the meat, you can freeze the already cooked meat into portions useable in your recipes. The shredded meat is incredibly moist, easily used in all your casserole/ rice/ fajita recipes, and costs soooo much less then breasts. Here's how you do it:

-wash your chicken in cool water, and discard any giblets included

-place breast side down in a large (4qt or bigger) stock pot

-fill pot with enough cold water to come half-way up chicken (cold water is better)

-cover, turn on high heat to bring to a boil

-turn down heat, and simmer for an hour+ (depending on size of your chicken)

-turn off heat, let sit for another hour with lid ajar

-dump entire pot into a large strainer (this allows water to drain, and you don't loose any chicken bits - if you are really savvy you can save this water for the beginnings of homemade chicken broth)

-put on a pair of disposable gloves (this part gets messy, and using disposable gloves make clean-up much easier! Plus, you can whisk them off if a child needs you in a hurry.)

-pull chicken meat off of bone, discarding skin, or undesirable pieces

-separate shredded chicken into two piles

-place each pile into a freezer ziplock bag in a single flat layer, and freeze flat for faster defrost/ thaw time

Hamburger: Whether you buy your hamburger in bulk, or in the smaller 1 pound packages, transferring your meat to freezer ziplock bags (I used a food-saver for years, and unless you are storing meat for over a month it doesn't make a noticeable difference) helps in a couple key areas! Once you have transferred your meat squish it into a flat sheet, taking up the entire square of baggie. Freezing your meat this way does two things: economizes the room in your freezer (they stack very easily both horizontally, or standing up vertically); and cuts down significantly on you defrost/ thaw time. It also seems to lessen the formation of icicles on the meat.

Girl Play Boy Play

Girl Play

Scene 1: interior day; box of plastic animals or dolls in miniature scale; two girls sitting across from one another cross-legged in smart outfits - no stains.

Girl 1 (in British accent) - Oh dear, Brianna! I must get my hair done today or it will never do for the ball. Could you please take care of this mess?

Girl 2 (also in British accent) - Of course. Here, you sit right down and let me take care of everything.

Girl 1 - Can my pony come as well? She needs a set and curl.

Girl 2 - Oh, I would love to have her. She can come into the special part of my salon made for ponies. I just had it put in yesterday.

Girl 1 - She can be a little shy. I will call her.

Girl 2 - I have a pony too. Maybe they can be friends.

Boy Play

Scene 1: outdoor day; one of each strewn on grass: skateboard, bike, scooter, helmet, large stick, wooden rifle; two boys in holey jeans and grass-stained shirts are standing close to one another; one of them is bleeding.

Boy 1 (guttural) - Hiya!

Boy 2 (also guttural) - Umph!

Boy 1 - ARRGGH!

Boy 2 - Pshew! Pshew!

Boy 1 - Oooo!

Boy 2 - Yeeeeeaaaaaa!!

Dinner

Leah has never before eaten dinner. At least that is how it may appear to outside observers of my daughter's favorite eating routine. Leah prefers to eat her meals spread out - over, say, 4 days. During days one through three she subsists on a small bowl of oatmeal, two pieces of homemade bread, and perhaps some carrots for a days worth of nutrition. She never complains of being hungry; and will eagerly look forward to whatever meal I made only to eat the approximate serving size of an underdeveloped turtle. It's not very impressive. But then, lo and behold, day four arrives and she grows a second stomach to accommodate the extra food ingested for the occasion. Tonight's meal: Fish and Rice

3 battered and fried filets

2 cups of rice

1 cup sliced carrots

3 thick slices of homemade bread (I should note that this bread is made from fresh milled wheat, and one slice is roughly equivalent to an entire loaf of store-bought bread)

12 ounces of milk

When she finally completed her marathon event we asked her if she was full.

Hmmmm... maybe.

She had eaten more than anyone else at the table - save her father. It was his fourth day, too.

Tuesday's Tip

I have been challenged to find something even a college girl could put to use. I am prepared with this Tuesday's Tip.

Keep a small "essentials" bag with you at all times. Here's what you need:

-See-through plastic make-up bag (mine is pink *grin*). Using the see-through version makes finding items a snap. 

-baby finger nail clippers (they work just as well for hang nails, and on the go needs but are smaller)

-a couple of band-aids (if you can't raid your kids' first aid drawer go all out and splurge on Care Bear, or Lightening MacQueen)

-small pill bottle with 2 doses of all pertinent over-the-counter meds you might take such as tylenol, advil, sinus and allergy, antacid, and dramamine

-tweezers

-chap stick

-eye drops

-floss (think bigger than oral hygiene... need to tie a mattress on top of your car, and in a rush?)

Of course there are other things that may apply to you personally, but try and keep it small. The idea is not to pack an overnight bag, but to genuinely limit yourself to items that are necessary in a pinch. Think MacGyver.

Spray or Stream?

There is a universally recognized division of camps in this world - the dividing line a clear mark in the sand. Do you prefer cats, or dogs? Drink tea, or coffee? Early bird, or night owl? Spray, or stream?

This last one was not previously understood by myself until my husband so clearly, consistently, and stubbornly insisted on it. What is it, you ask? It is the way you prefer the water to flow out of the kitchen sink, when given the option.

In the process of our kitchen overhaul we purchased a beautiful farmhouse stainless steel sink. This wonderful addition required a new faucet, as the previous one was tired, scratched, and rather ugly. Our choice was an elegant arching faucet. The designers used a minimalist look, so the whole package has a sleek, no nonsense feel to it. But they didn't want to skimp on amenities, and included a detaching nozzle built into the stem, as well as hidden buttons that switch the water between spray and stream. Brilliant.

Christopher and I both really enjoy the new kitchen sink functionality. Being able to pull the nozzle out to rinse the sink is invaluable. And I greatly appreciate the spray option when needing to rinse off an exceptionally soiled utensil, or plate. But the pay-off for this is water splattering everywhere from the height, and pressure of the spray bouncing off dishes, and even the sink itself. Apparently my husband has not received this memo.

I began noticing that every time I turned the faucet on after he had been using the sink the spray option was always activated. I thought it odd that he was consistently stuck rinsing the aforementioned " exceptionally soiled utensil, or plate," but thought nothing more of it. A week passed, then another, and another until finally I was watching him do dishes one evening and noticed the faucet was permanently switched to spray.

Oh, hon your nozzle is on spray.

Yeah.

Well, don't you want to switch it to stream? It won't splash everywhere that way.

No. The spray works better.

You mean you choose the spray for everything?

Of course. Don't you?

No! The stream provides a much better wash, and makes way less mess.

So you turn the nozzle to stream all the time?

Turn it to stream? You mean you switch it back to spray?

We both stopped, and began laughing. Christopher thought the kids were playing with the nozzle, and constantly turning the water back to stream after he corrected it to spray. Its understood proper setting. I thought Christopher was forgetting to reset the nozzle from finishing some highly specialized task requiring the unique, but certainly not general purpose, use of the spray. We were in opposites camps!

I still use stream, almost without exception; and I am now convinced he turns it to spray even if only filling a glass of water for the kids to drink. Its okay though, since I am actively working to brainwash the children to recognize the superior choice.

Tuesday's Tip

This Tuesday's Tip is about my favorite chore... folding laundry. Ha! Is there any other activity more filled with monotonous boredom than folding millions of pairs of underwear? I know none.

So, I stopped.

Well, I stopped folding all those little things that our grandmothers ironed, like underwear and socks. Bibs and burpies went by the wayside as well. I purchased plastic tubs, drawer dividers, and cute baskets so each item has a contained home whether it is visible on a shelf in my living room, or tucked away in the closet. I buy one brand of white socks, and one brand of black socks for both my husband and son. This frees me from finding and pairing mates since every sock matches every other. The girls have chosen to spend a few minutes finding matches in order to have cute socks. Hey, more power to them *wink*. But honestly, when was the last time you thought to yourself:

Man, am I glad my underwear were folded because the time I spent doing that REALLY improved my day!

Exactly.

Night Terrors

There are few absolutes known about the phenomenon called night terrors. Pediatricians liken it to sleep walking, only with a rather dramatic twist. A child (adults can get them too, although it is not very common) will suddenly "wake" up screaming, and usually experiencing some manner of delusion that is incredibly terrifying. The causes are nebulous, including sleep deprivation, poor day-time routine, stress, and development of the imagination in toddler years. Experts agree that resolution of the night terror is best done with a hands-off approach. Trying to fully wake the child, intervene, and even talking to the child can exacerbate the terror, making it intensify or last longer. Parents are encouraged to "run interference", keeping the child safe from any stairs, windows, or other physical dangers. This sounds all fine and dandy until it is your precious 3 year old screaming that bugs are crawling all over her.

Mary experienced her first night terror about six months ago. She has had them two times since, with the last one occurring on Wednesday. Mary awoke at 4am, screaming so loudly she woke all of her sisters, and thrashing around in her bed frantically crying for us to, "get the bugs off!" Between 4:00 and 6:30 that morning she alternately dozed, and desperately sought to find the source of bugs in the bed. We moved her into our room, where she snuggled between her Daddy and me while we quietly explained over and over that there were no bugs. We prayed, we tried to rest, we felt terribly that Mary was seeing bugs, and we waited...

Our sweet girl finally collapsed from exhaustion at 7:20 in the morning. Of course it would be the one morning I have a commitment, and at 8:30 when I tried to get her up and dressed she was like jell-o, complaining, "Mama, I so tired." Tell me about it!

So now what do we do? Well, we are working to ensure that our activities during the day are not causing these disturbances at night. But perhaps more importantly that that, we are praying every night that our Lord remembers his word:

Psalm 4:8

I will lie down and sleep in peace, 

for you alone, O LORD, 

make me dwell in safety.

Tuesday's Tip

I realize that some of the things I have learned from trial and error over six children might help someone else... before they deliver their sixth child! I am beginning "Tuesday's Tip" in an effort to share what may be helpful to you. The first one is certainly one of my favorites!

Layered bed sheets. I think I would take this into my own bed if I could find a way to do it! I don't know how many of you love to change your child's crib sheets - especially when you have the added bonus of tying and untying the bumper pad, in the middle of the night, with a fussy baby who just threw up everywhere. No fun! This simple recipe takes loads of hassle out of this frustrating situation!

-Remove the crib mattress entirely and place a crib sized waterproof pad followed by a white sheet onto the mattress. Follow with alternating waterproof pads and colored/patterned crib sheets. I usually layer about 6 sheets. Now, every time your sweet one pees, throws up, or just needs a new sheet all you have to do is whisk off the top layer with pad to reveal underneath a completely clean sheet! When you get to the white sheet you know you are at the bottom. I recommend Carter's Waterproof Mattress Crib Pads as the most thorough in keeping larger messes, like a diaper that leaked at the beginning of nap, from seeping all the way through to the layer beneath. However, be aware that only plastic (which does not breathe well) is truly "waterproof" - everything else will leak eventually.

Replace the mattress, attached your bumper and voila, you have just beat the system. Now when that accident occurs you can have a clean sheet in a jiffy, without all the fuss.

Bethany's Composition

Bethany has learned how to use the camera. She is practicing her skills with composition. I think she shows promise in the still-life pharmaceutical advertising campaigns known world-wide for their keen eye on asymmetry, and motionless expressionism.

 

Temperature

As we are experiencing record highs in January (80 degrees), while other parts of our great nation are experiencing record lows (-50 in Maine) it got me to thinking about a quirk of my eldest son, Caleb. The concept of regulated body temperature didn't seem to make it into Caleb's brain mass, and so he insists on wearing shorts year round, regardless of the climate. To top even this the shorts are all swim shorts. This basically means any blast of air finds its way home in a jiffy! We occasionally insist on him wearing long pants, but I don't think he has ever initiated changing into warmer clothes. Perhaps this would be no big deal if Caleb stayed inside, where I generally manage the overall temperature for a year round comfort. But he would rather be outside, all day, every day, any day than stuck inside.

The flip side of this is how he dresses for bed. Once again, regardless of whether it is warm, cold, or hot he generally prefers to wear sweats. On top of this, he pulls the covers over his head and completely buries himself. The hotter, the better. He sweats so much in his bed that there are times he almost wonders (as do his poor parents) if he had an accident. Nope, just all that hydration that froze in his blood during the previous day's winter expedition... in shorts.

Like I said before, I don't think that part of his brain is working yet. Apparently I didn't get the activation code in my user's manual.

Bananas

Josiah likes bananas.

Really, really, really likes them.

He had already eaten 2 large jars of baby food along with some bagel, but when Daddy pulled out the bananas he still ate the whole thing.

I bet you didn't know that bananas tout being the world's favorite fruit. I am not sure if that is derived by global sales, or the empirical evidence procured from interviewing every person on the planet. Either way my son agrees.

I don't have to feel guilty over his love of this food since it rates as one of the most nutritious fruits available. The combination of high potassium, low sodium, good fiber, and vitamins like crazy, including a full range of the Bs, all work together to keep Josiah free of scurvy.

In fact, if my son is suffering from any of the following then bananas have the cure!

-Anaemia: High in iron, bananas can stimulate the production of haemoglobin in the blood and so helps in cases of anaemia.

-Blood Pressure: This unique tropical fruit is extremely high in potassium yet low in salt, making it the perfect food for helping to beat blood pressure. So much so, the US Food and Drug Administration has just allowed the banana industry to make official claims for the fruit's ability to reduce the risk of blood pressure and stroke.

-Brain Power: 200 students at an English school were helped through their exams this year by eating bananas at breakfast, break and lunch in a bid to boost their brain power. Research has shown that the potassium-packed fruit can assist learning by making pupils more alert. (Those results are certainly conclusive with the staggering statistic based on 200 individual accounts!)

-Constipation: High in fiber, including bananas in the diet can help restore normal bowel action, helping to overcome the problem without resorting to laxatives.

-Depression: According to a recent survey undertaken by MIND amongst people suffering from depression, many felt much better after eating a banana. This is because bananas contain tryptophan, a type of protein that the body converts into serotonin - known to make you relax, improve your mood and generally make you feel happier.

-Hangovers: One of the quickest ways of curing a hangover is to make a banana milkshake, sweetened with honey. The banana calms the stomach and, with the help of the honey, builds up depleted blood sugar levels, while the milk soothes and re-hydrates your system.

-Heartburn: Bananas have a natural antacid effect in the body so if you suffer from heart-burn, try eating a banana for soothing relief.

-Morning Sickness: Snacking on bananas between meals helps to keep blood sugar levels up and avoid morning sickness. (Apparently no other food is capable of keeping your blood sugar levels up between meals.)

-Mosquito bites: Before reaching for the insect bite cream, try rubbing the affected area with the inside of a banana skin. Many people find it amazingly successful at reducing swelling and irritation.

-Nerves: Bananas are high in B vitamins that help calm the nervous system.

-PMS: Forget the pills - eat a banana. The vitamin B6 it contains regulates blood glucose levels, which can affect your mood.

-Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD): Bananas can help SAD sufferers because they contain the natural mood enhancer, trypotophan.

-Smoking: Bananas can also help people trying to give up smoking, as the high levels of Vitamin C, A1, B6, B12 they contain, as well as the potassium and magnesium found in them, help the body recover from the effects of nicotine withdrawal.

-Stress: Potassium is a vital mineral, which helps normalise the heartbeat, sends oxygen to the brain and regulates your body's water-balance. When we are stressed, our metabolic rate rises, thereby reducing our potassium levels. These can be re-balanced with the help of a high-potassium banana snack. (I prefer to simply remove the stress.)

-Strokes: According to research in "The New England Journal of Medicine"eating bananas as part of a regular diet can cut the risk of death by strokes by as much as 40%!

-Ulcers: The banana is used as the dietary food against intestinal disorders because of its soft texture and smoothness. It is the only raw fruit that can be eaten without distress in over-chronic ulcer cases. It also neutralises over-acidity and reduces irritation by coating the lining of the stomach.

-Warts: Those keen on natural alternatives swear that, if you want to kill off a wart, take a piece of banana skin and place it on the wart, with the yellow side out. Carefully hold the skin in place with a plaster or surgical tape!

Basically, I have accomplished my job as a mother by introducing him to bananas. Aren't I good?

The Plan

Children pick up on the little sayings you use. I have a tendency to say, "here is the plan..." and then proceed to lay out whatever I have in mind for the hour/day/week. My husband caught on to this idiosyncrasy of mine, and now asks me, "what's the plan?" Is it any wonder then that my children now have plans of their own? Leah began about four months ago, and has now transferred this routine to her sister, Mary, where each night after the girls have done their bedtime preparations, and are getting tucked into bed they must tell Daddy the plan. They can not tell him before they are in bed. In fact they can not tell him before he says the Lord's prayer with them. But heaven forbid if he forgets to hear the plan, and leaves the room uneducated. We have, on a number of occasions, heard Leah's whimpers turn into a full blown cry only to discover the cause is her aggrieved spirit at not sharing the plan with Daddy. Sometimes I count - but not usually.

So what is the plan? Tonight's plan looks almost identical to each night's predecessor, and should stand in good stead as an example of any night.

Daddy, I have to tell you the plan.

What is it, Leah?

After I wake up, and eat breakfast, and do Psalm, and watch a movie, and eat lunch, and Mary takes a nap, and I play with puzzles, and I play with Polly Pocket, and we go to the park, and I eat dinner, and I take a bath. That's the plan okay, Daddy?

Okay, Leah.

Mary's is a bit less robust, but nevertheless worth mentioning.

*whispering loud enough to wake the dead*

Daddy, I haffa tell you plan!

Okay, Mary. What is the plan?

Affer I wake up, an I eat bwekfest, an I do Psalm, an I eat bwekfest, an I watch movie, an I go outside, an I watch movie, an I eat bwekfest. OKAY, DADDY? *once again, making sure she is whispering for our neighbors to hear*

Okay, Mary. That's a good plan.

And so another night ends in our home. We prepare to follow the plan for the coming new day, including the retelling of the plan for the next, and the next, and the next day to come.

Poison Oak

I was informed somewhat on the sly that there was concern over my petering spirituality since I had missed church for the past few weeks. Thankfully the informer shared that they read the blog, and understood that I was sick - though the possibility of healing through a greater movement of faith on my part certainly could be entertained *wink*. I have felt like quite the heathen as my husband rushes out the door for another churchy event while I sit by and wave. Tonight, again, I was the waver.

I have poison oak. I grew up understanding all too clearly how the results of contact with the dreaded poison oak plant, bush, vine, sentient green villainous monster works. I have managed to steer clear of this dreaded rash for nearly 20 years. Obvioulsy I am doing something right! So here is the clincher: I reacted to firewood I was picking up which had no visible poison oak present, and had sat in someone's garage for two years. TWO YEARS. To say I am sensitive is a wee bit of an understatement. But I digress.

Monday morning I thought I would start honing my fire-making skills (insert link to the blog Christopher needs to write about how we are now heating our home with fire for most evenings, and his transformation into a frontier man - axe included) and so I grabbed a couple armfuls of firewood, and brought them inside. By Monday afternoon my arms were itchy, but I thought nothing of it. I was outside most of the day the previous Wednesday and Thursday, and thought perhaps I got a bit of a sunburn which was beginning to heal. However, by Monday night right before bed I suddenly caught myself itching elsewhere, and the dreaded idea sprang, completely unbiden and even with slight denial, that I had poison oak. I ran to the bathroom and had a good look at myself in the mirror. Sure enough, a rash had spread up my arms and across much of my trunk. By the time I went to bed I knew I had it on my arms, trunk, parts of my legs, one earlobe, and both sides of my hands. Yes, palms are a lovely place to get an irritatingly burning, itchy rash.

Today, after calling my dermatologist, getting on a topical corticosteroid, using Calahyst, and praying fervently for the second coming of Christ, I can report that I have the rash almost from head to foot. My face, neck, ears, back, arms, hands, trunk, legs, feet, between my toes, and even on my soles all bear the lovely markings of this post-Eden world. I was actually mentally prepared for this since it has never been my experience to contain the rash more than keeping it on me, and not transferring it to, say, the walls. I will say, with the caveat that I can deny this statement in another few days if it fails to hold true, that the quickness with which I started used my topical steroid (I snuck some of the kids' for their excema before my own came through) seems to be keeping the rash from blistering. I think this is good since one medical source said any effort to minimize the rash's symptoms once blisters formed was useless. Of course I also try to use this as a possible sign that I am not suffering from the dreaded reaction, but one scratch proves this dream wrong - with that oh-so-familiar relief/burn/itches worse that accompanies any such action. For now I am trying to gear myself up for the standard 3 week recovery cycle, and hoping that maybe I might be spared... even if only a few days.

Divine Comedy

I know that God has a certain sense of humor reserved most especially for weary, often overwhelmed mothers bearing a striking resemblance to myself. It shines in the absurd, ridiculous, and comedic events of my every day "normal" life. But sometimes it comes through someone else's voice. A little bit of God smiling down on me. I just experienced one such moment.

A couple of nights ago I had myself a good little yap at the children over their eating habits. Between allergies (this one can't have any dairy, that one is deathly allergic to oatmeal, don't forget the carrots, corn, potatoes, eggs, peanuts, lamb - well that's not hard - but spices like pepper and garlic salt can be insidious, and add to it peas, citrus, bananas, and tomatoes), and the almost constant childhood disease of discontentment you have a recipe for one exhausted Mama! Try as I might to fix wholesome, allergen free meals which appeal to everyone the outcome, more often than not, is at least one of my precious children complaining about what is before them. Now, this might not be a problem if I was of the school that allowed children to define for themselves what constituted breakfast, lunch and dinner. It might also be less of a hazard if I was independently wealthy, and able to afford all the specialty foods which my children adore (like beef bologna). But, as it were, I believe one of my principle jobs is training my children to work within the parameters of established boundaries, like sitting at the table and eating at meal times rather than roaming through the kitchen foraging like wild beasts. And I also believe that sacrifice is part of every person's inheritance on this earth, so opening my children's eyes to it at an early age by showing them that our budget can not afford wheat chex breakfast cereal every morning prepares them for a more seamless transition into productive adulthood. I value these concepts very much. They are the reason I make many of my decisions surrounding meal planning, preparation, and serving. Unfortunately, regardless of how altruistic, valuable, legitimate, or otherwise trusted these concepts are it does not change the fact that I am the one listening to my children, once again, complain about some (or every) aspect of their mealtime. And so I snapped night before last, when, after a grueling day of caulking and painting kitchen cabinet doors, I had made ham with homemade glaze, green beans, and pineapple chunks so my children could receive nutrition outside of intravenous infusion (which is sounding better every day) only to be met with lackluster appreciation, and waning appetites. I should note the irony that this dinner, under most other circumstances, is not only acceptable but preferred by my family. So the rejection stung all the worse that in my attempt to serve my loved ones by taking the time to think through and prepare a meal they enjoyed it was eaten thanklessly.

I had enough! Towards the very end of the meal I took a handful of sliced ham pieces, chewed to leave the outer edge (and consequently a large portion of meat deemed to close for consumption) and threw them back on the table. "I have had enough of this kind of pickiness from all of you! I make a dinner you all like only to have you whine about the glaze, the edge, the texture, the whatever. I make homemade bread so you can refuse to eat the crust. I make hot cereal each morning only to listen to you complain about how much more you prefer cold packaged cereal. You want McDonald's, pizza, bagels, anything other than the food I work to prepare for you at home. I am fed up with it!" Practically in tears I began clearing the table in such earnest that children scattered to guarantee their survival. Of course one particular child's voluntary conversation with me about their regret over my hurt feelings, and their corresponding responsibility along with a good night's sleep helped me feel much better in the morning. I was bolstered to look in the face of another day's meal planning, even though I was leery of the inevitable confrontation it would bring. That's when God decided it was time I saw him smiling - reminding me that while I may be exhausted, overwhelmed, and even taken for granted He sees me, sharing my joys and my sorrows, and gently giving me perspective for a soul that can laugh, rather than cry at life's little lessons.

I stayed home from church this morning due to a bad head-cold suffered by myself, and my two littlest ones. When my husband arrived home, toting the rest of our gang in his wake, he plopped a book on the table and absent-mindedly mentioned that it was a house warming gift from some friends of ours. It looked like a children's book. A house warming gift? I was baffled. I picked it up, and chuckled at the book's cover illustration showing seven children sitting around a table in varying states of eating. The name? The Seven Silly Eaters. Not chuckling quite so much as before I opened the book, and literally almost cried as I read the sweet verses of a family with seven children whose mother tried so hard to accommodate each little person's idiosyncrasies surrounding their food choices. For many other families it takes the familiar to the absurd through the unusual number of children, but for me, in my 5th month of pregnancy with  baby #7, it was almost perfectly applicable. Even with its fairy tale ending the hysterical anecdotes of a mother caring for her brood touched my heart with the humor of my own situation. I know that someday I will look back on these days of meal planning, staring at simply my husband across an empty table, and marvel with laughter at how we managed to feed all those children so many years ago. Divine comedy allows me to giggle now at what will surely make my sides ache in another decade... or two.

Home Sick

Mary, Josiah and I are home sick. The rest of the family went to church. It has been a fun morning, even with schmoutz, coughs, and sneezes. I don't often get the opportunity to spend this much quiet time with only one or two of my children. Josiah went down for an early nap, and it has been me and Mary for the rest of the morning. We watched Horton Hears a Who on dvd, read Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, and played puzzles. We sang the Mary Ellen song together, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and the alphabet song. We cuddled, giggled, and smiled at one another. Yep - it has been a sweet morning!

Aleese Gahvey-gup

Words only carry the meaning given by the immediate speaker. This concept is part of our post-modern heritage, and makes conversation nigh on impossible for anyone taking this truth to heart. For instance, I can say, "I love my husband" but, if my definition of husband is different than yours we can not truly communicate since we are essentially speaking different languages. Our home is full of this peculiar style of conversation - one person saying something quite plain while the rest of our family stands utterly perplexed. I had no idea it was rooted in our society's continuing disconnect with absolute truth, but I see now how intimately the two are related. I first noticed it when I was a nanny in the early years of my marriage. Amanda, the 2 year old I cared for, clearly asked for, "deerie-oos."

You want deerie-oos?

Yes.

Deerie-oos?

Yes! Deerie-oos!!!

We played the dance for several hysterical moments before I finally grasped the meaning she assigned to this word, "You mean cheerios?"

Yes! 

Amanda let out an exasperated sigh, "Deerie-oos." The nearly audible "duh" punctuated the word.

Fast-forward to our own 2 year old, Hannah, when she began asserting her likes, and dislikes: Dip.

Dip?

Diiiiip!

You don't want this?

Dip!!

I took a stab in the dark, "You mean nope?" She nodded emphatically with that same piecing look Amanda held years earlier. The one that says, "How many times do we need to go over it?"

We were soon in the throws of another 2 year old (apparently 2 is the age generally accepted for assigning new meaning to words, and expecting the world to conform without any explanation). Bethany was given to tummy aches, which seemed to correlate almost exactly with bedtime. Each evening, within 10 minutes of being tucked in tight, she would meander out to the living room and explain that her tummy hooted. After a week of this we asked her what would make her feel better.

A spot.

A spot? What's a spot?

A spot! 

At this she pointed to the cupboard and emphatically restated the obvious, "a spot." So I lifted her up to the cupboard, that she might show me this alchemist's dream of tummy settlers, when she pulled from the shelf the bottle of Tums Antacid tablets. 

You want one of these?

She nodded her head vigorously, and then held the tablet in her little hand and restated its true name, "spot."

And so the list continues until a couple nights ago our current 2 year old exclaimed from the backseat of the van, "Aleese gahvey-gup!"

What?

Aleese gavey-gup.

I have no idea what you are saying, Mary.

I wanna hear Aleese gavey-gup!

We listen to Christmas music in our vehicles from the weekend proceeding Thanksgiving until Christmas. We own several great cds, one of them being Time Life's A Treasury of Christmas. It has all the classics, both new and old. Our whole family gets giddy when we prepare to take it out for the season. I began skipping through the songs until at last Mary laughed in delight that, "Aleese Gahvey-gup" was playing. I was apparently pronouncing it wrong all these years when I called it, Feliz Navidad.

We are now faced with a difficult situation. If we want true communication our society tells us we must agree on the definitions of the words we use. I used to believe chips went into dip. A spot was a small circular drop or stain of a substance different from the surrounding material. Deerie-oos and Aleese Gahvey-gup were gibberish. However, if I continue in those truths I will be unable to participate in conversation with my children. This is obviously unacceptable. And so our home has plunged into relativity, ignoring the standards set by absolute truth and embracing with abandon the definitions set forth by the speaker.

Professional Wrestler

Caleb: Mama, do you think that I would be a good wrestler with adults?

Me: Hmmm, no I don't think that is a good idea.

Caleb: Why?

Me: Because you are still a boy. Wrestling against men would hurt you.

Caleb: No, I mean when I grow up... like when I am 152, or 50. After I have grown that much do you think I would be a good wrestler?

Me: At 152 I think you will be an excellent wrestler.

Mary Ellen Is Two

Mary Ellen is two. This may seem obvious to you, as it clearly states in the sidebar that her birthday is December 27th. In fact, she is nearing three even as we speak. But she has hit two in her personality, and so as to make sure she doesn't miss anything she has hit it particularly HARD.

Mary is our most stubborn, rebellious, and downright naughty child to date. She makes Leah look positively tame! We didn't catch on in the early days to the extent of her unruliness because she hid behind the cloyingly sweet exterior of a petite, blonde haired, blue eyed, quiet child. She spoke later than my other children, and when she did it was in a tiny voice coveted by Whos all over the world. Boy, were we bamboozled - not so, anymore!

Mary screams when anything is not going her way; and I mean screams. She refuses to wear anything she did not pick out herself. Mary squawks at sitting down for dinner, standing up for getting dressed, laying down for going to sleep, and in all other instances willfully chooses to be contrary to the generally accepted norms of body placement protocol. But to all this I would be willing to turn a blind eye if she would but stay (prone positioning being optional) in her bed for nap and bedtime.

Mary hoodwinked the tent! We finally took the silly thing down, and instructed her to stay put. This worked marginally well if you count success being quiet and out of bed versus being loud and out of bed - either way she was constantly out of bed. When we moved it was apparent that her crib was not going to make it into the new room. We transitioned her rather abruptly into Leah's big girl bed, moving Leah to one of the bunks. Mary was thrilled. Of course, I don't know that she has spent more than 5 minutes in it over the past 4 weeks.

The other night I finally had enough. I was tired, feeling icky from the pregnancy, irritated with the still chaotic interior of our home, and generally fed up with my little ogre. I told Christopher that I thought we needed to bring back the crib. He wasn't here to listen to her stomp around with her sister's boots on during nap time. He didn't have to deal with picking up every toy she destroyed during her quiet time. He wasn't listening to the heartbreak of her sisters that once again their diary, doll, game, book, dress, stuffed animal, or blanket was taken hostage and had war crimes committed against it while in her camp. Yep, I was done.

Christopher brought me back to reason, as he does so often. He reminded me that putting her back in the crib would not solve the problem, and would probably only make matters worse. He pointed out that she needed some better boundaries (like a stone wall), and firmer consequences (I'm thinking Siberia).

That's all fine for you to suggest, but I am the one home alone with her! I am the one that has to manage adding this to my already packed day!

You're right, hon. Well, I think our only other choice is clear - military grade reform school.

I am making inquiries in the morning... unless she kisses me first.

Or, You Can Just Cut The Counter

After nearly 2 months of living with WalMart Classic Rooster vinyl tablecloths tacked to the sub-counter of my kitchen we are getting tile! Not just tile, but beautiful gloss 8x8 inch white tile that stretches from one end of the counters to the other, up the backsplash and across the window sill. Ahhhh....

Of course, as anyone knows who has done tiling (or watched in wonder as someone else did it) laying tile requires more than just dividing the counter's square footage by the tile measurements to come up with the amount of rough material necessary. One of the more important steps is a mysterious, and deeply guarded secret that tradesmen alone know the power of called, "setting center." This task precisely determines the spot where every eye ever to enter your home will rest. It does not matter if you have purple ostrich feathers protruding from the ceiling in the upper-left corner of your entry, if center is not placed correctly in your kitchen all guests will immediately recognize your foible, and comment ruthlessly on the inadequacy of your feng-shui. It's important stuff.

So our tile setter came last night to "set center", and begin the rough layout for our counters. The general rule is that the kitchen's sink is used as the central mark, and everything radiates out from it. In fact, this has become such a trend that many architects are designing the sink to be an obvious focal point of the kitchen layout. Our home was apparently not designed by an architect, since the sink is not center for anything from our cupboards to counter length. And because our non-architect also lost all of his issues to Architecture Digest (before reading any), there is no true center to the kitchen... anywhere. This makes tile layout somewhat complicated. But our tile master was up for the task, and began giving us option after choice on how we could set center. The final plan took into consideration the peninsula that stands center stage when entering our kitchen, and therefore makes an ideal radiating point. Then my naivete over tile setting became glaringly obvious as once again I was asked where I wanted full to begin. Um... what? Because our counters don't run in only one direction we had to decide where we were going to start with full tiles. This means deciding whether to have full tiles at the base of the counters, at the top of the peninsula, or at the joint of the peninsula to the counter because, once again, our non-architect/ghetto designer did not own a tape measure which would have helped him logically choose coordinating depths and widths for the varying countertops. We were stumped. The eye was automatically drawn to the peninsula, making it the perfect selection to receive all full tile priority, but that left a sliver running the entire length of my sink counter which was, admittedly, ugly. And then it happened! The reality of home ownership came down like an angel singing Glory Hallelujah. Our tile setter suggested we cut about two inches from the overhang of the peninsula to allow for a full tile at both the peninsula's end AND the sink-counter. It was brilliant. Christopher and I stood stone still for a full 30 seconds trying to grapple with the reality that we could simply cut our counter to match our tile, rather than the more acceptable version of cutting the tile to match the counter. It was our house!

And so we did.

One Year Old!

Josiah is one year old today. I can hardly believe it. He has grown so quickly, warming our lives with his smiles, personality, quirks, and habits for 12 months. I can literally look back to yesterday when I delivered him. I remember last week when I took the pregnancy test that told us we were expecting our son. How did it go so fast?

I remember nursing and rocking him to sleep in the middle of the night. Now he is eating graham crackers!

I can still see his beautiful infant smile. Now the smile lighting up his face has 8 teeth included.

His cuddles have been traded for independence.

The tiny onesies outgrown for jeans.

My littlest baby is a full grown toddler. He loves to walk everywhere. He explores everything. Nothing is safe from his mouth! He is babbling, saying Dada when he is happy and Momma when he is sad. His laugh has a belly chuckle to it that melts anyone's heart. I miss the tiny baby I brought home from the hospital. But I am thrilled to pieces at the idea of watching him continue to grow, change, and experience the next stage in his precious life.

My Order

In case you are stopping at Starbucks on your way through Marina my order is:

tall

nonfat

4 pump

no water

extra foam

chai

Thanks.

Whoever Loves God Must Also Love His Brother

1 John 4:21 says, "And he has given us this command: Whoever loves God must also love his brother."

One of our strongest missions is to teach our children how to love their siblings. I grew up as an only child, and can remember so well the desire I had for brothers and sisters. I envied the giggles underneath the blankets, or the shared stories of a history that began at birth. I longed for the camaraderie that comes with sharing everything from toothpaste to nosebleeds. I automatically thought that having siblings was the only part of the equation necessary for close and lasting relationships between children of the same parents. Ha!

Christopher has two sisters, and while he loves them both he wasn't raised with an understanding for the priority of building friendship into those relationships. He remembers the prevailing philosophy was more, "as long as it doesn't get loud enough to bother mom or dad," than one of, "is this encouraging a deepening of mutual affection for one another." There has been much pain and regret for loss of friendship over years spent in unconnectedness. He automatically thought siblings would tolerate one another, but gain their true friends from outside the home. Ha!

We were both wrong. Big surprise there *wink*. God has truly opened our eyes to better understand his design in family, and the relationships built in a home that loves him, and respects one another. We don't have delusions that our children's only dear friends must come from inside our nest. That would be absurd, not to mention unhealthy. But we are quick to point out to our children that their siblings will always be their brothers and sisters, regardless of whatever else might happen. And we don't believe that children can simply be left to forge those relationships alone. Children need training in how to be friendly with their family members just like they need training in every other venture from brushing their hair to addressing an audience. Learning to seek forgiveness, not harboring a grudge, communicating expectations, and genuinely thinking of another person first do not come naturally to anyone, let alone a rather self-absorbed little person. As parents we must take the initiative to teach our children the value in their brothers and sisters. For us, in particular, it is vital that we acknowledge the reality of sacrifice necessary from the entire family as a result of our choices to trust God for our family size. The payoff is no different for me, than it is for my children. I am willing to give up comforts and conveniences for another human being - and I want my children to want the same thing. But as an adult I have the advantage of perspective, and control. So, we try to be diligent in our communication with each child about the reasons why we have submitted to the conviction we hold so dear. And in the midst of it, we also work to allow them the most enjoyable fruit of our decision - the blessing of real relationships with all their siblings.

Only time will ultimately tell if we have done our job well. But I am so excited as more and more of my children's spontaneous responses are centered around the friendships with their family members. A couple of night's ago was a perfect example. Caleb and Bethany were scheming all day on how they could have a "sleepover" with each other. They were so well-behaved that I knew it was the night to allow them this treat. When I went into their room to check on them before bed their were fast asleep in each other's arms. What a precious picture of brotherly love!

A Man's Home Is His Castle

Our many friends, family members, and even acquaintances have been so endearing in their interest over our transition into our new home. The most commonly asked questions is:

Are you getting settled in your home?

Christopher and I both struggle with how to answer this question. On the one hand, we don't want to appear as though we aren't getting anything done by answering, "Ha! Settled? Are you kidding? We aren't anywhere NEAR settled! We still have boxes in every room, the countertops in the kitchen are raw plywood with vinyl tablecloths (WalMart rooster print!) tacked to the top, all three bedrooms need paint, the garage is an overflow of yet-to-be-unpacked boxes mixed with yet-to-be-finished-using-them tools on top of all the normal garagy stuff you find in a family our size (think clothing - each gender, every size 0-10), the window covering are ordered but sheets still hang over the bedroom windows, and so on and so on goes the list.

But, we have gotten used to our new freeway exit. The kids have met other children in our neighborhood and become fast friends. The ease of cleaning our new hardwood floors continually reminds us of the blessing in purchasing an older home with oak short boards already installed. We realize every time we chose a color, put a nail in the wall, look out at the dirt pit which is our backyard right now, that this house belongs to us. We own it! And we are settling into that feeling very nicely.

We are excited to finish a few more projects on our list of priorities for the home. Of course there is always something around the bend! We have are our eye on certain landmarkers that will definitely carry a sigh of relief for their completion. However, we are excited that no one can come in and tell us how to manage our house. No one can intrude on our property for the sake of an "inspection." No one tells me what they are, or are not going to do in my house. I am settling very nicely into that freedom.

All in all, we are getting settled. It is taking much longer than anticipated in some areas, but the process is a reminder that Rome wasn't built in a day. And at the end of it all, the house is really just the outside shell for what a man's REAL castle is: his home, which is his family; and in that, we are completely settled.

Little Feet

Your house must be a zoo!

At the surface this statement is innocuous. Indeed, a house with 12 little feet can certainly be a bit lively at times. However, I recently saw something more subtle, and probably unconscious in the disparagement our society continues placing on large families. By mere merit of belonging to a large family, many erroneously buy into the belief that children cease to exist as independent beings. This could not be further from the truth. Please indulge me while I demonstrate a possible heart attitude at the foundation of this all too popular off-the-cuff remark.

A zoo is, by definition, a place full of wild animals meant to be enjoyed from a distance, but never embraced as a home for humans. It contains bars, fences, and gates to keep contact to a minimum. The architect's design of any zoo has one primary focal point - to give visitors a seamless window into another's habitat without actually endangering the viewer of inclusion in the scene. And at the bottom of it all there is the dehumanizing effect of equating the pitter-patter of children's fee to the dull thud of hooves, the eerie scraping of talons, and the wily tread of paws.

My little feet are not a pack of wolves, nor a herd of elephants, neither are they a flock of geese. This is, I assume, perfectly evident to you. I also assume it is perfectly evident to our culture, at large. What I do not believe is so evident are the individual lives attached to each set of little feet, making them not merely members of the "Mob", but perfectly ordained, indispensable people with a unique purpose as different from any other human on this planet as you.

Each person has an identifiable print to their toes, similar to their fingers. There are no two sets identically alike, even in twins! My children do not look around them and think, "Now who are all these crazy people with whom I share a house." We don't memorize stripe patterns, or tag them for recognition by researchers. I doubt you look at the children in your home and wonder how you will ever keep them straight. Do you forget their names? How about their favorite story, or worst fear? Do you keep blanking on what they look like when you try to pick them out in a crowd? These are certainly ridiculous questions. But in bringing the subtle to the obvious I think the point can be made that often those questions are wondered about me, and my family. How can I keep them all straight? How can I remember all their food aversions? How do I manage all those kids? The answer is rather simple: the same way a mom with one manages her child. I consider myself the mother of six only children.

I have Hannah, an only child, who is bright and competent. She is a natural leader, and takes responsibility very seriously.

I have Bethany, an only child, who loves art and beauty. She gives generously from her heart in soft, gentle ways.

I have Caleb, an only child, whose robust energy stops only for bedtime. He genuinely encourages with uplifting words of affirmation, and recognizes the importance of verbal communication.

I have Leah, an only child, who finds the hilarity in nearly any situation. Her use of expressionism bears the mark of a master.

I have Mary, an only child, who never doubts her own mind. The confidence, and comfort of her own skin shines through an independent personality.

I have Josiah, an only child, whose smile is readily given to anyone. He is equally at home in the comfort of my arms, or wandering the house oblivious to anyone.

I have my only child due in April. What a wonder of delight their little feet will be when I first lay eyes on them.

These children are not an indescribable horde of wild beasts. They are not merely a noise level to be endured for a few moments, and them ignored. When someone asks me how I have the patience for them all, while they stand at my hip, it is essentially asking me why I would want to put myself through "such an ordeal" for no justifiable end. I have a beautifully justifiable end: little feet.

Tagged with Four

My friend Julie, who also writes a blog, was "tagged". She had to open her picture directory, choose the 4th file, then choose the 4th picture, and blog about the picture. In turn she "tagged" me to do the same. However, I am in a conundrum. I own a MacBook, and no longer have my pictures ordered in a directory with specific files. I use iPhoto, and at am immediate glance I have several hierarchical options for choosing photos. I can open up "Events", I can open up the "Albums" I have created, I can open up "All Photos" and simply blog about the 4th picture, or I can open up "Recent Events". All these options are shown along the sidebar, and not in the least organized in a manner making one more obviously the lead dog. So, in order to make sure I cover my bases I figured I would go ahead and do them all.

The first, in Events, is Leah. She is about 2 1/2 here, and putting on her daddy's socks and tevas. She LOVED shoes! She still loves shoes, including her pink cowboy boots she is almost outgrown, but insists on wearing almost everywhere anyway.

This is Hannah around 18months! Before we knew how sensitive her skin was we would give her bubble baths rather regularly. She loved the bubbles, and would gleefully play in the tub for nearly an hour. Our house was an old Victorian, and the tub was a cast-iron claw foot. That thing would keep the water warm for a full minute, which meant by the time she was ready to get out she was pickled, and freezing! It never bothered her.

This is Hannah with baby Caleb. He is about 2 weeks old here, with Hannah weighing at 4 1/2. Both Hannah and Bethany loved to hold their living baby doll. She is still such a great help in taking care of the little ones. Caleb was such an easy baby. He slept when he was supposed to - ate when he was supposed to - and generally coo'ed at everyone. We were smitten with our first son!

The last "folder" in my directory is Recent Downloads. This is the birth of my 6th child, second son, Josiah. My labor and delivery for this beloved son was the most difficult I have ever experienced. The complications surrounding the surprised arrival of Josiah on November 18th will have lasting ramifications on all future deliveries. But this moment was one of the sweetest I have ever experienced. And God was so prevalent in the midst of the entire ordeal. 

It's Good To Be Appreciated

I was sitting in Caleb and Josiah's bedroom this evening, working on more unpacking, when Caleb came over to my side and sweetly said,

I am glad you are alive, Mama.

Thank you, Caleb. Why do you say that?

Because if you weren't, who else would unpack all these boxes?

Um, yeah.  

Lesson #238

Lesson #238: Not all doorbells are wired equally.

Our doorbell was sorely lacking in usability when we bought our home. By the time the first crew of workers were through the actual fixture had vanished, and a new one was needed. In the numerous shopping adventures to Home Depot I picked up a simple, yet functional replacement that would cover the multiple holes created by its predecessors while providing an easy to use doorbell button. It sat in my home, along with several other Home Depot finds, for several days until today I finally had the chance to install it. I figured the less-than-ten-minutes it would take to attach a couple wires and screw it onto my door frame was a perfect project while girls were putting away laundry 

I am not sure how other homes are wired for doorbells but my home apparently insisted on using the thickest wire imaginable for the job. Instead of small copper wires easily bent for the contacts in the doorbell mine are thick enough to do the job of a 220 volt generator. Apparently the original installer believed if it is was good enough to do, then it was good enough to do overboard.

So, after the initial ten minutes came and went, and after I learned the finer nuances of my doorbell and how the button light, contacts, and housing fit together, and after I worked to fit the excess wire back into the wall, and after I silently vowed to never allow an electrician the satisfaction of wiring another doorbell for this home or any future home I might ever own, I installed my new button.

It works. I think that is the general ideal - but sadly I feel quite unappreciated for my 30+ minutes of labor for an obviously standard mount buzzer. Fortunately I have you to listen to my tirade so I don't feel completely invalidated! 

If No One Is Around To See The Hose Does It Still Spray Water?

As we drove home from church several weeks ago Caleb noted the vegetation along the side of the road. He was understandably curious about how the "wild" trees lived; and as we passed copses, bushes, and substantial undergrowth he wanted to know how they were watered.

When it rains it waters the wild plants.

Christopher reminded Caleb of our famous fog, noting that it is really moisture in the air, and how it serves to give water to the plants. Caleb thought about this and replied:

So they get water from that - and from the hoses.

No son (I explained superciliously) there are no hoses in the wild. God doesn't use hoses for the woods.

Except that hose, Mama.

Sure enough, as we drove by the paltry attempts at landscaping the overgrown patches of weeds by our (old) home there snaked a single solitary hose nearly hidden, but quite clearly observable by the ever humbling eye of my son.

Yes, Caleb, except that hose.

We're Here!

WOW - what a ride! I am sitting in my very own home, wondering how on earth I arrived in this place. I think back over the last several months, and it still seems a dream. How did we go from looking at buying in the next couple of years to closing escrow in 3 months? The only thing I know for sure is the prayers of the righteous, and my God, literally sustained us through one of the most difficult transitions Christopher and I have ever faced. Thank you to everyone out there that wrote encouraging emails, interceded on our behalf, and generally sat in the home stands and rooted for us. We could not have made it without you.

Our move went incredibly well. We had several men from our church, and good friends, that showed up to lend their muscle for the better part of last Saturday. Then they left, and I sat in my great room (living/family/dining room) and saw nothing but boxes and out of place furniture. I look around me now, and I see mostly boxes and out of place furniture! All in good time.

The children are absolutely in love with their new backyard. Of course, it might have something to do with the fact that it is mostly dirt. Oh, and Caleb can play construction to his heart's content. We are working on taking apart a paver patio, so he is forever stacking, moving, building, and generally reeking mayhem with the loose pavers. No crushed toes or fingers - yet.

I am learning to live in a rather constant state of transition. Just when I think I might be able to finalize one project I am halted by the need to either manage a child, or the realization that the current project can't be finished until a separate project is completed. For instance: I can't unpack my linens until I finish cutting the shelves for the linen closet, which I can't do until I get particle board from Home Depot, which I can't do until I have a place in my garage to house it, which I can't do until I organize my garage, which I can't do until I have a solid 6 hours to work on it with my hubby, which I can't do until our children are gown. Therefore, the linens will remain in a stack on the edge of my dining room table until the end of the age. There are worse things in life.

We still need to order our tile for the kitchen counters (the raw plywood was covered by felt-backed vinyl table clothes with the "traditional WalMart Rooster" design last week! This makes for a much cleaner, albeit humorous, kitchen.). We still need to paint most of the rooms. We still need to organize furniture, pick out window coverings, get an area rug for our great room, put up pictures, hooks, and towel bars. We do not have established homes for much beyond basic necessities, our plumbing has already backed up in the bathroom, kitchen, and laundry room. The electrician has been to call at the tune of $1500 to fix an apparently "homegrown" job from the previous owners in splicing our disposal/dishwasher outlet into separate circuits, per code. I need to buy a digital thermostat, pick out a new doorbell, rearrange my children's wardrobes per new room assignments, and relabel drawers with my handy dandy Ptouch. The videos are still packed so the entire household has memorized Barbie as Rapunzel, Rescue Heros the Movie, and Mary Poppins. Our shower drain was installed incorrectly before the previous owners tiled, so we are all using the same shower in the hall bath, and none of our light switches are situated in logical locations.

BUT! We can hear the ocean from our driveway. The neighborhood is so quiet, with gracious neighbors. We love our beautiful hardwood floors, open floor plan, and brick fireplace. The home has wonderful bones, and we are throwing away our moving boxes! God is good.

(PS - We simply stayed up all night last night to find the 6 hours of uninterrupted time for our garage organization. If we stay up for the next 3 weeks, working through the wee hours of each night I think we might pull off the rest of the unpacking.) 

Demand To Close Escrow

Here I am, again writing about our journey through the wonderful world of home buying. This process has been, to say it gently, emotional. The ups of a God performing miracles on your behalf, and the lows of dealing with impossible after impossible situations has left Christopher and me spent. When we went into the escrow office last Thursday to sign papers all I really wanted was for this whole thing to be done.

The signing went fairly well, although our escrow agent was not in attendance, so rather than have all those final questions about financing, closing cost estimates, and quirky realty-speak explained we had John condescending to us with one comment, advising us with incorrect information the next, and always reminding us that it was, "good we brought our questions so we could make sure and get them answered." It was incredibly anticlimactic. But we persevered, knowing that in only a few more days the house would finally be ours!

On Monday we met with our realtor, Margarett, to have the final walk-through. We took a couple of pictures with the family in front of our soon to be new home, and as we began to part ways Margarett asked Christopher if he had told me about the last minute glitch facing our close date the following day. What glitch?

Apparently the selling bank (remember, we bought a foreclosure) was disagreeing about their point of responsibility for the pest work ordered, and performed, on the house. Their computer system said they did not approve it, and they were working to get the backup invoices from the actual work so they could issue an approval. "This is nothing to worry about," Margarett assured us. "The escrow company has already filed a special form that will allow them to fund and record on the same day. I had to deal with this in the purchase of my own home, and while it obviously isn't ideal it shouldn't cause any extraordinary problems." My first reaction was to clarify that we had a written contract which clearly spelled out the seller's financial obligation in paying for pest work. "Oh yes," Margarett confirmed, "they will approve the work, they just need to verify with their backup invoices before they can issue an approval." Famous last words.

Christopher decided to take the first portion of Tuesday off so he could be home when we received the call that we owned a home. We waited. We waited a little longer. Finally at about 11:30am Margarett called, but instead of the joyous proclamation that she had keys to bring us we were told that it might be just a bit longer before that approval came through. We were again assured there was nothing to worry about, that the approval would probably come through later that afternoon and we would close escrow the following day. She would call us as soon as she heard news either way. Christopher headed off to work with a heavy heart, and I made phone calls to rearrange the work we had already ordered to begin that day on the house. Both Christopher and I had that sinking feeling that this wasn't going to be easy.

We spoke with Margarett later that night, and found out that the approval was not coming through that day. Apparently Countrywide had a system wide glitch that they were aware of, and needed to fix. Why they didn't approve our contract, which they wrote, and fix the problem on their own time was driving me near to distraction. Basically the worksheet used between Countrywide and their listing agent wasn't synchronizing accurately, and while the listing agent had confirmation of the seller's commitment to pest work the sellers computer did not have this same confirmation. The point needs to be made again... we all had the same written contract which stated on page 4 that the seller was to order and pay for pest inspections, and section 1 repairs/remediation (basically those things that show active infestation of pests and/or damages directly related to active infestation). Once again Margarett assured us we should hear from Countrywide first thing in the morning.

Wednesday morning dawned with no news from Countrywide. It turned into Wednesday afternoon, still with no news from Countrywide. At this point we were being told that a manager higher up in the organization should have the approval form. We were getting fed up! This was our house. We had done everything to get our paperwork filed, get our money to escrow, manage all the disclosures, agree to all the fees, and finally be prepared to close on the date stipulated by our contract which was signed on July 25th! The ironic thing was that Countrywide made a huge stink in our initial requirements for making an offer that we be prepared to close within 45 days - no exceptions. So here we were, over 45 days later, and they were the ones making the exceptions. Not only making exceptions, but admittedly aware of the issue before our escrow was to close, but doing nothing to take care of it in a timely manner. Christopher realized we were going to just sit and wait until we decided to make it evident that we weren't going to sit and wait. He contacted Margarett and told her we needed to escalate this to the next level. Margarett prepared a Demand To Close Escrow and we filed it at 1:15pm on Wednesday giving the seller a countdown of 3 days until they were in complete breech of contract, and we could pursue legal recourse.

It is amazing what a single piece of paper can accomplish. At 6:30pm we suddenly had word from Countrywide that the approval for the pest work came through! We would close escrow the following day. We were relieved to be one step closer to the end of this process. Late the next morning we received the call that all the money was in escrow, and recording would happen at 1:30pm.

Margarett came over at 2:30 to give us our key, along with flowers, a new welcome mat, some champagne, and even "Just Moved" postcards she had made with the picture taken at our final walk-through. It was a neat moment.