Joining The Family

Romans 10:9 says, "That if you confess with your mouth, 'Jesus is Lord,' and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved."

Saved from what?

That was the question Caleb has been wrestling with for some time. Through consistent time in church, countless conversations with his father and me, and I am sure not a little amount of wonder and frustration on his own part, he simply could not understand what was so bad about him that he needed a savior. After all, he is a pretty good kid. And he knows it. Come to think of it, why do any of us need a savior?

Sin.

It's a pretty small little word. And it makes me less palatable to some, perhaps you. That's okay. I am learning that God's approval means far more to me than man's. I am endeavoring to teach that lesson to my children as well - including Caleb. You see, he had a pretty common assumption about his worth; namely that because he wasn't so bad he really did deserve to be given a pardon for any wrongs he may have committed. You know, the ole hardened-criminal-turned-reformed-man-so-let-me-out-of-prison-early deal. Only it was easier for Caleb since he wasn't a hardened criminal (except to Mary). After all, what can a nearly 7 year old really do that is so offensive to a loving God that he would be committed to an eternal torment without a savior's forgiveness? I can see the logic in that question.

The problem is the measurement used for justification. We are pitifully limited, as humans, to truly understand much of anything outside of our own experiential scope. And let's face it, many times we are limited in understanding things even within our experiential scope. But one of the biggest mistakes we make in determining our worth is to lay ourselves beside one another and declare, with much pomp and circumstance, "I'm better than you are." Don't forget the 3rd grade-playground sing-songy voice. That is essentially what we say when we declare to the heavens, "I'm good enough to receive the blessings and glories of everything this life has to offer, and everything a life after death can bring because I wasn't that bad. I mean, did you get a load of that guy over there? He left his wife because he just didn't love her anymore. I stuck with my spouse even through that nasty business of bankruptcy. I'm better than he is. Oh, and check out my neighbor! She yells at her kids constantly, taking off at all hours of the night to do who knows what, while I had the patience and presence of mind to remain faithful to my own children, even when they rebelled against me. I'm better than she is. And don't even get me started on my co-workers, parents, and the vast majority of my friends. I regularly prove through my actions that I make better choices than they do. So... bring on the good stuff." Here is the problem with all that:

God is perfect.

God is the fullness of perfection, justice and love. So, when we go to Him and state our reasons for receiving a pardon they suddenly don't fly. While you might have felt pretty hot standing next to the local juvenile delinquent you can't even stand when you are in the presence of an all-mighty, most powerful and holy God. And the clincher is that no matter how hard we try from here on out, we will always have a past that keeps reminding us of how utterly unattainable perfection is for us.

Yep, we need a savior. In fact, we need not simply a little "s" savior, but a big "S" Savior.

In order to be saved from my own imperfection I can't merely have another imperfect human offer to make me perfect. The old saying, "two wrongs don't make a right" comes in handy to illustrate the simplicity of this concept. This would be akin to accepting the pledge of an already convicted criminal for the veracity of a tried criminal's character, and then the convicted criminal accepting any penalty the other fellow may deserve. Umm, yeah, that's not going to cut it. If we all thought justice could be served with this our prison systems would be empty. Nope, I need to be made perfect through the power of God. But it is God that requires me to be perfect. How does that work?

Romans 5:8 says, "But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us."

Yep, Jesus Christ, the bodily incarnation of the Deity (Col 2:9), willingly sacrificed himself for me so that I might be justified before a holy God. He required perfection from me, then supplied perfection for me. Caleb began to understand that through the past several months until finally, a few nights ago he came to us and confessed his need for a Savior.

Caleb realized that he could never be perfect. And he knew, as all humans do (Romans 1:2) that there is a Divine Master who is perfect. He began to desire reconciliation with his God, and trusted through faith that his God desired reconciliation with him, providing Christ as the mediator. As a result, Caleb was reborn spiritually.

On May 2, 2010 Caleb Joseph Randall became my brother in Christ.

Welcome to the family, son.

Future Reminiscence

I am know there will be numerous things I miss about teeny people. I am able to realize that I probably don't appreciate several of those things right now. Christopher and I joke, often, about the noise level in our home now, and the way quiet will sound when it is deafening. I can't imagine being done with mispronounced words, baby burbles, sweet kisses, lullabies, first steps, and a million other insignificant treasures. Someday I will move on from this season, and my heart will break just a little each time I mark the passing of another milestone - for the last time.

Yes, there will most certainly be tears.

But, I can assure you, there are some things I won't miss. For instance, I am pretty sure that cleaning other people's bodily fluids can go the way of the dodo without a single thought of whimsical nostalgia. Greasy, Costco-pizza hands wiping across my sleeve will cause nary a tear to spring to this eye when that last meal is finished. Screaming. Yep, screaming and all its variants (including the whisper-yell my children do when I am trying to take a "nap") will be joyfully ushered out my front door.

Buh-bye.

Why do I bring this up? Because birthing and raising small children is not the eternal-season-of-contentment-if only-I could-figure-that-out. Heaven will not be me, slouched over a crib in 5-day old dirty sweats barely hanging onto sanity trying to coo an exhausted yet stubborn infant to sleep. I'm pretty sure I will have clean hair more than once a week, too.

I genuinely appreciate sage counsel, and even well-meant idioms can have their place. However, I really have grown weary of hearing, "You will miss it all when they are gone." No. I promise you, I won't miss it all. I will miss parts of it. I will be surprised by some of the things I do miss.

But I will never miss poop smeared across the wall, crib, bunk bed, face and floor... for the 4th time in a week. And that's okay.

Josiah The Gypsy

I posted a status to my facebook page, stating that Josiah was a gypsy. One of my friends commented that there was obviously a story behind my statement, and by the way, what a great title my status would make for the book. I took her words to heart, and sat down to pen this little ditty. Every word is true.

A little boy, no more than 2,

Whose mama loved him, through and through

Was often called, by that same mom

A crazy, little gypsy bomb.

Josiah Boy (JB for short),

Loved to play all kinds of sport;

Like drawing on white walls with pen

Though Mama always scolded him.

Broken toys and books were found

Strewn across the house’s ground,

And Mama cried from every room,

“JB the gypsies must presume

That I will love you even though

You bring to me unending woe.”

Her youngest son would turn and grin,

Melting Mama’s heart within.

So, he again would race away

Finding somewhere new to play.

The Other Leah & Mary

I overheard the following conversation yesterday...


Leah:
Mary, we broke Princess Mirabella's special jacket.

Mary:
No, we didn't.

Leah:
Yes, we did. Remember, we pulled off the sleeves.

Mary:
No, we didn't.

Leah:
Mary! It is broken, and we did it.

Mary:
No, Leah, that was the OTHER Leah and Mary.

Leah:
Oh. Okay.

Why Big Families Are Easier

I read this little ditty, written by Matthew Archbold,  on my friend Julie's blog. It so humorously captures the (in)sanity of our home.

Why big families are easier:

Patience. I never have to teach patience. My children know that I can’t drop everything for them if I have a baby in my arms.

Work Ethic. My children have learned to work because there are always chores to do in a small house packed with little messy lunatics. And they all learn quickly that sometimes they have to clean up a mess even though they didn’t make it.

Humility. My children have learned it’s not always their turn. They’ve accepted they can’t always get their way because other people have to get their way sometimes. They’ve learned that some children are better at certain things than they are.

Foreign language skills. You can learn a lot of Spanish by watching ten years of Dora the Explorer that you just can’t pick up in two. And now with the Diego spin off I’m practically fluent.

Laughter. The children have learned to laugh at the insane non sequiturs of younger siblings. They’ve learned that laughing just feels better when seven people are doing it along with you.

Competition. Do I really need to go into this? Everything is a competition in big families. The children compete over who reads faster, who drinks their milk faster, who gets to the bathroom first…etc. Everything is a competition and they’re all keeping score.

Balance. The floor of the front room of my home is a minefield of toys and childhood paraphernalia. Just walking through the room requires great skill and balance. I’m absolutely convinced my two year old will be a favorite for Gold on the balance beam in the 2016 Olympics. (She might have to lay off the cookies a little but I’ll deal with that later.)

Life isn’t fair. Sometimes you just give it to the baby because you want a little quiet. Not all the time. But sometimes.

Just say “No.” Being able to say “no” may be the most undervalued skill in this world. The need to be liked is pervasive. The need to be cool even more so. Having brothers and sisters teaches children to say “no” about 143 times a day. It’s a good skill.

Praying. They learn that nothing beats praying together as a family.

Nature/Nurture. Having many children has taught me that nature has a lot more to do with who my kids are than nurture. This is helpful, especially when your children misbehave you don’t have to feel bad about it. Just say “Stupid nature!!!” and blame your spouse’s genes.

Name calling. You can occasionally call your child by the wrong name and still not be considered a terrible parent. They know who you mean just from your tone. Sometimes if you need something done you can call the wrong name and someone will still show up. That helps.

Spying. My children have learned that they can’t get away with anything. I have spies who look a lot like them who are willing to drop the dime on them for anything. Even at school I’ve got a child in just about every grade. If they do something I’ll hear. That keeps them nervous. And I like keeping my kids a little nervous.

Friendship. The children have many friends. They’ve got girly friends, crying friends, fun loving friends, consoling friends, and crazy friends. And they all have the same last name. And they’ll be there forever for each other. No matter what.

Love. I think my children have learned to love because there are others around them to love and who love them. I honestly can think of no better way to teach children to love than siblings.

Someday

You know those stories that you share, sides splitting with laughter, from your childhood? Not the ones that were funny at the time, rather the ones where you were thoroughly "busted". However, the striking absurdity of the moment bleeds through the years, and the hilarity simply can not be denied. I have a few from my own childhood. I have heard several from my friends and husband. And I know that through the parenting of my seven little people I am again experiencing them...

Today was just such a time.

The rain is slowly driving my entire family crazy. Through this time I have worked hard to maintain balance in my expectations. After all, the kids can't get outside to unleash their energy. Loud noise and rambunctious activities are going to be the norm. After an exceptionally boisterous morning I prepared to move into a rowdy afternoon, so you can imagine my surprise when Phoebe and Josiah both went down for their naps without any fuss. With the two little ones fast asleep, a break in the weather for my three middles to get some much needed outdoor time, and my older girls working on school I was lulled into a false sense of security.

I enjoyed the blissful quiet, making much needed use of it managing our banking.

A couple of hours later I needed to grab something out of the garage. The older girls were playing on the computer, Josiah and Phoebe were still napping and presumably the middles were somewhere outside.

I opened the garage door, and simply stared at what my eyes beheld.

Caleb, Leah and Mary decided the garage needed to be cleaned. However, instead of actually taking care of their messes, throwing away old art projects, finding the long lost matches to shoes shoved in the corners they thought the floor was in need of mopping. Okay, I am willing to admit that from time to time a thorough cleansing of said floor might be in order. But remember, this is the middle of winter, and it is raining outside... translated: Not The Right Time To Mop The Floor. Add to this the ever charming ingenuity of my scheming children and you get things like: mopping using rain water; mopping with paint rollers; mopping more than simply the floor.

Yes, indeed, I will one day hurt myself laughing silly over the mighty spectacle of my garage covered in rainwater run-off from the upside down lid of a large plastic container used to house outdoor toys. It will seem hysterical that my son thought using the meticulously cleaned roller brushes as a "mop" to roll water (carefully procured from the upside down lid mentioned above - which, it should be noted, had been brought into the garage and perched on a card table for convenient reloading) over the floor, carpet, suitcases, needing-to-be-broken-down cardboard boxes, refrigerator, washing machine, and card table was a good idea. Indeed, Mary's decision to sweep the area I use as a laundry room with her shedding, straw broom will send me into irrepressible giggles afresh. The sheer determination to touch every exposed surface with dirty water will be humor defined.

Someday.

The Accidental Slap

I love it when my kids confess... especially when they haven't been "caught" first. Leah just came inside, already crying with shame over what she needed to share.

I accidentally slapped Mary...

*I stare at her with the What-More-Do-You-Need-To-Say look. She takes a deep breath, between sobs, and continues.*

...in the head...

*More staring, deeper breathing, harder sobs.*

...with my baby doll...

You accidentally slapped Mary in the head with your baby doll?

...because I was angry.


I think the term, "accident" is perhaps too liberally applied.

Oatmeal

Oatmeal. Apparently it is all the rage. I first noticed the advertisements for, "Slow-Cooked, Steel-Cut Oatmeal" several months ago while standing in line at a Jamba Juice. Then, so as not to miss out on the latest health-nut obsession, Starbucks introduced their version of cooked, oaty perfection. Still, between Jamba Juice and Starbucks you are handling a boutique crowd - one that is generally thinking beyond the quick fast-food fix.

Whoa! Then I saw the advertisements for oatmeal at McDonald's!

McDonald's? Really?

Yep, even the MacDaddy of fast food is trying to cash in on the health conscious craze sweeping through the breakfast options.

The reason I find all this particularly amusing is not because I doubt the validity of oatmeal's claims to be a delicious, hearty, and nutritious breakfast item. I chuckle because my own family began eating slow-cooked, steel-cut oatmeal long before it was trendy. We started utilizing this robust, steaming bowl of goodness as a means to stretch our dollar while providing nutrition far beyond the typical breakfast cereal. And since so many of my children suffer from allergies particularly noted for breakfast preparation (read: eggs and dairy), oatmeal seemed the ideal solution. Only Mary, and her severe allergy to oats, is left out of our morning ritual.

We like ours with sukanat and cold-pressed flax seed oil. 

A Cautionary Tale

Many of you are already aware of my consistent failure to pick the best check-out line in any given store. I should actually restate this and say that many of you are aware of my consistent failure to pick any line besides the slowest, longest, and most complicated check-out line in any given store. If you are not in the know please check out this POST before proceeding.

I still have not learned my lesson.

There are new examples for my line-picking saga practically daily. Well, every time I pick a line to be exact. I take it in stride, and don't really think it merits an entire post just to say, "Yep, it happened again." But yesterday was a new one for me.

I ran to the grocery store for a few necessities. I decided to go through the self-check, and just as I began loading my few items onto the black ribbon of death (see the above post for that explanation) a man came up behind me holding a single loaf of bread.

A. Single. Loaf. Of. Bread.

Now, I have been me for my whole life, and I know that my line will be delayed. But I feel badly for those people who are not me, and innocently get in line behind my shopping cart believing they have chosen an efficient line. I tend to apologize in advance to these people, warning them away from the imminent danger that I represent. In fact, during one such conversation in Costco the woman behind me stated, "Oh sweetie, you can't believe that. You have to make your own luck with the stars." Um... yeah. The line still took three times as long as any other with the customer in front of me arguing over which pack of ladies shavers were represented in the latest coupon circular.

So, I took pity on this poor unsuspecting soul, and told him that he could go ahead of me. He was obviously surprised, and graciously accepted my offer with a flourish of thankful tidings. He popped up to the check-out machine, ran his loaf of bread across the scanner and dropped it into a bag.

*Item Not Found*

He ran the loaf of bread again. This time the machine recognized the loaf. I shook off the sense of impending doom. "See," I thought to myself, "it was just a glitch. It really isn't always about me." The gentleman proceeded to the checkout screen, and selected the cash payment option. "Perfect! How much easier can you get than pay by cash?"

*Payment Not Recognized*

He shrugged, sheepishly smiling at me as if to apologize for his transaction not going as smoothly as my invitation to allow him to proceed me should make it. I smiled back. It could still just be an unrelated glitch.

Again, he chose the cash payment. The screen blinked, proceeding momentarily to the *Payment Not Recognized* message before thinking better of it and moving to the directions for inserting your cash into the kiosk. The man began to place his perfectly smooth, freshly minted $5 dollar bill into the slot.

*Invalid Payment. Please Remove.*

He stood, staring at the slot where his perfectly smooth, freshly minted $5 dollar bill had disappeared seconds earlier, waiting for the kiosk to spit it back out.

*Invalid Payment. Please Remove.*

The perfectly smooth, freshly minted $5 dollar bill remained inside the beast.

*Please Remove Your Items.*

He picked up his single loaf of bread.

*Item Removed Unexpectedly. Please Return Item.*

He replaced his single loaf of bread.

*Please Choose A Payment Option.*

By this time I knew this was no random glitch in the system. This poor man had to experience these baffling complications, while purchasing his single loaf of bread with cash, in order for me to rest in the assurance that God has not chosen to move on from his pet game of checkout guerrilla warfare.

We finally got a supervisor to come and clear the machine with a fantastic amount of secret codes and key turning. The gentleman was able to get the machine to return his change for the perfectly smooth, freshly minted $5 dollar bill, and he left with his single loaf of bread.

Let this be a cautionary tale for you:

 Don't ever let me do you any favors if we ever happen to stand next to one another in a line.

Crazy Hair!

Our children are heavily involved in our church's AWANA program. I love it... except for all the additional extra-curricular activities. For instance, each year we have the Mayflower Boat races, AWANA Grand Prix, and Crazy Hair and Feet Night. Mostly these added "fun" nights create more opportunity for me to be the cruel, heartless parent of Cinderella fame. I am the one who reminds them that creating the Millennium Falcon out of a pine wood block in 12 hours is really not possible. Equally impossible is the tall sails ship where the height of the sails is roughly equivalent to the length of the boat, and the depth of the keel is approximately 0. Am I the only one who sees a slight problem with that design? And so, year after year we muddle through the expectations, tears, hopes, and time required by these sadistic events - meant to inspire family unity and childhood memories.

Well, I finally had enough of the Monster Mother profile, and this year's Crazy Hair night was something to behold! I am utterly thankful that I have a full year to recover.

Lessons

While Letters From Odd may have taken a retreat of silence don't be fooled into thinking nothing was happening. Several lessons made themselves abundantly clear in the time spanning the last blog entry and today. For instance, did you know that it really isn't wise to leave the hot tub cover off for the entire night?

Lesson #673

     Even when you have diaper cream ointment on your fingers, are multitasking to the tune of 7 queued functions, and are trying to cram in more opportunities for your girls to enjoy their out of town friends it is still quite necessary for the cover to be replaced on the hot tub when you are done using it. The poor motor must have run nearly non-stop trying to keep the temp up during the night!

Lesson #674

     Even though it might sound like a cute idea to let a 3 year old, 4 year old and 5 year old sleep in the same bed for a treat the truth is: it isn't. Claire, one of our visiting out of towners, Leah and Mary all huddled into the top bunk of the girls' bed to enjoy some girly time. We presumed they would eventually fall asleep, exhausted from a long day of playing together outside. We were wrong. Exhaustion only took over when threatened discipline overrode their exuberance for more giggling, and at nearly 12:30 in the morning they finally gave up the ghost.

Lesson #675

     While it may seem to be a perfectly sane idea to swing from a long rope by your teeth you must tell yourself (over and over) that it is actually insane until that truth is embedded in your brain. If you are Caleb it will only finally make it to your brain after you have lost a tooth.

Bunk Beds

I don't mean to complain. Okay, maybe I do.

How on earth do you efficiently change the sheets on bunk beds - Specifically the top bunk (I find I am rather proficient with the bottom one)?

We have used bunk beds for seven years. That may not sound like a long time, but in terms of sheet changes it may as well be an eternity. And since my torture wasn't enough I went ahead and added a second set. These are full over full bunks, so managing the top mattress is even more cumbersome and awkward. O Joy!

I often wonder, as I again rationalize why I don't need to change those sheets just yet, if other parents allow their bunk bed using children to wallow in filth the way I do. I can't possibly be alone. Am I the only one missing the brilliant light bulb?

I come to your with my query because the unthinkable happened in my house last night. One of the children got sick in the top bunk. Ugh! I always loved the way my mom would put me in the bath while she changed my sheets. After the scary and uncomfortable ordeal it felt so good to climb into a clean bed. I want that for my own children. In fact, I did that for my own children until they moved into bunk beds. Now I have to opt for the pallet-on-the-floor version of a clean bed until morning when I can wrest the mattress over the guard rail, hoist the comforter back onto the bed, travel up and down a step stool countless times, and finally stretch myself out on the bottom bunk poking and pulling the blankets until they are smooth on top. I have finally learned how to manage the twin bunk by myself, but the double bunk is impossible to do alone. That just affirms the ridiculousness of this situation. How absurd is it that we need two adults to change a set of sheets?

There must be a better way...

Torpedos

Tonight at dinner we were discussing the relative merits of spiders. Well, mostly we were all bemoaning how icky spiders are, regardless of their food-chain necessity. Hannah made the astute observation that what really bothered people was the fact that spiders suck blood.

Leah was the first to comment. Bear in mind that earlier in this same conversation she made the rather outrageous statement that she LOVED spiders.

Ewwww. Yeah, that's icky. I don't like that.

So, you don't love spiders anymore, Leah?

Well, what I really don't like are the flying spiders that land on you, here (points to her arm), and then eat your blood. You know, torpedos. 

Leah continued eating her dinner. The rest of us all stopped, staring at her with a mixed expression of bewilderment and humor.

Torpedos?

Yeah, torpedos.

You maybe mean, mosquitos?

Oh, uh huh, mosquitos.

She never stopped eating, and when Christopher and I erupted in laughter it was her turn to stare at us in bewilderment. I will never again look the same way at a mosquito.

Is That Entirely Necessary?

After 6 children Christopher and I decided it was time to purchase a baby bottle/toy sanitizer. Best not rush into these decisions too quickly. Actually, the impetus came from ongoing complications I experienced while nursing Josiah. I must use a special piece of equipment for nursing because of unsustainable milk supply issues. The product, called a Supplemental Nursing System (SNS), is a life saver for moms like me. However, it contains incredibly small tubes that must be cleaned regularly. This is so much easier said than done. I contracted thrush with Josiah, and simply could not get it to go away because I could never get these tiny tubes consistently clean. I ultimately had to wean in order to fully care for both me and Josiah appropriately.

I was determined to not let that happen again.

So, Christopher and I strolled through the Babies R Us across the street from the hospital, pushing our tiny 5 day old Phoebe in the cart, and spending a few quiet moments as a family of three before heading home for the rest of our lives while we looked for a home sanitizer that could clean my SNS parts. We found the perfect model, easily used for pacifiers, small teething toys, and most especially my long SNS tubes.

There is only one problem.

The designers of this model recognized, rightly so, that parents would probably wish to be notified when the sanitizing cycle was complete. In order to accomplish this feat they assigned red, yellow then green lights to come on during the different times of the cycle. Perfect. Now what would be really great, the developers thought, would be a beep that could alert parents who might not have the time to sit and stare at the progression of lights. Again, perfect. They then outsourced this single task to a man who sits in a small dark room, alone, and with nothing to do but test the sounds of different beeps. He long ago came upon a favorite one that had never really been given its time in the sun. He was saving it for the perfect project, knowing it would be something too special to waste on a microwave, the preheat function of an iron, or even a cell phone menu. I know this because the individual who programmed our sanitizer chose to alert parents through a beep that sounds 16 times.

Sixteen times.

It takes a full 60 seconds for the beeping to finish alerting every adult in the neighborhood that my SNS tubes are sanitized.

I am happy to report that I have not experienced a lick of thrush through nursing Phoebe. I do believe a lot of this has to do with my new management of the the SNS tubes. And I am utterly thankful for the 16 beeps, which keep me in the know every time my sanitizer is finished. I was really concerned that I might miss the moment it ended, but am so relieved to find that the designers took all necessary precautions.

Tuesday's Tip

Ha! You thought I forgot, didn't you. It's okay, you can admit it - I have ignored you for quite some time. So, what tip could I have for this Tuesday?

Put your meal plan on your calendar - preferably the one you carry in your purse.

I always knew the value of a meal plan was practically limitless. It relieves stress, gives your shopping some guidance, allows you to make use of coupons or sales more efficiently... really, you could just add up all the pros right here and the list would be way too long for this blog. I was once again reminded of the need to have a meal plan by my very helpful husband who, while being entirely willing to help in so many areas, really can't stand walking into his house after work and finding there is no dinner in sight. Better even than that is when he is met with, "What should I fix for dinner, babe?" Yes, I need to honor his time, and our family's 9 bellies better.

However, there is a con. Two to be precise.

1 - making it.

2 - keeping it.

I tackled the first over a couple of days, pulling out the ole pen and paper to once again write down our meal choices that everyone generally likes, are easy to make, and fit with our finances. I assigned each to a day, rotated through a 2-week cycle, and even provided some easy "outs" for nights when things just might be a little too crazy for Duck a l'Orange. Great! I sighed contentedly at my accomplished piece of work before realizing I had only won half the battle.

A help for the other half of that battle (where I traditionally fail) is this Tuesday's Tip.

Keeping a meal plan is about buying your groceries in a way that makes sure you have all the items in stock when it comes to Thursday, and meatloaf is on the menu. Ingredients, side dish options, perhaps dessert all need to be handy if the value of pre-planning is going to pay off. Otherwise you are stuck with more stress. Now, instead of throwing something together with little fuss you either: a) cheat, and use another day's menu, for which you have ingredients, thereby creating editing/grocery work in your plan for the remaining week or b) you feel the compulsion to make a last minute dash to the store in order to fulfill the menu plan. I am sure we can all relate to how thoroughly pleasant last-minute, dinnertime grocery shopping is.

So, I literally wrote down every day's meal plan from now until kingdom come in my personal calendar. This isn't as impressive as it sounds. I use an iTouch, and I just repeated the meals indefinitely. The reason I did this is because I often find myself coming or going from one errand or another, and stopping in at the store isn't any skin off my nose. Now I don't have to rely on always having a prepared list before I can dash in and grab a few things for upcoming meals, saving me from the dinnertime blues!

The Fat Chance Plan

Caleb: Mama, I have a plan and I'm not going to tell you.

Mama: Fine, don't tell me.

Caleb: Okay, I'll tell you.

His word is like oak.

(By the way, the "plan" involved using his new Nerf gun in the house during the wee hours of the morning before anyone else awoke.

Repeat after me: Fat. Chance.)

Just a Little Off The Top

I noticed Leah walk through the kitchen as I started to prepare for dinner. Something was amuck with her hair.

Leah?

Huh? (She paused long enough to scrunch her face into its characteristic look of questioning - nose crinkled, mouth half open with one side drawn up towards her cheek. It's not the prettiest thing you have ever seen, I assure you.)

What is wrong with your hair?

Uh.

Come here, Leah. (I wait for her to come to me before noting that there is definitely a thatch of bangs no longer attached). Is your hair cut?

Um... (begins to cry) yes!

Leah! What were you doing cutting your hair? (No answer. More tears.) You need to go to my room and wait for me.

I must confess that the pathetic look of pure misery, coupled with her new do were enough to make me start laughing right then! I had to hide my chuckles behind a cupboard door for fear of being found out. Moments later I was composed enough (read: dinner prep was at an appropriately "pausable" place) and I went to get the whole scoop from her.

Leah, what happened?

Caleb cut it.

(Oh, this was better than I imagined...)

Caleb? Caleb cut your hair?

Yes!

Did you say, "No!"?

Uh huh. I told him I didn't think it was a good idea, but he did it anyway.

(It just keeps going! Leah is trying to convince me that SHE was the voice of reason behind her brother's unsolicited assault on her hair. Classic.)

Alright. You stay here while I go talk to Caleb.

(As I left the room I felt pretty good that my threat of actually talking to the accused would send shivers up her scape-goat using spine.)

Caleb?

Yep.

Did you cut your sister's hair?

Yep.

You cut Leah's hair?

Uh huh.

(I am baffled. Caleb is standing in front of me, batting not an eye lash while revealing the darker workings of his mind.)

Where did you cut it?

In the garage.

What did you do with the hair?

I stuffed it under the shelves.

Did she tell you not to?

Yes.

(At this revelation I am stunned, for to have Caleb agree that Leah did in fact tell him not to means it's the gospel truth - and my daughter actually made the right choice... for once.)

And you did it anyway?

Uh huh.

Why?

Um... I guess, because I wanted to.

Son, did you have permission to use the scissors?

No.

Did you have permission to cut her hai - nevermind. (These are the things you say before you really think about what you are saying!) You never have permission to cut someone's hair, or cut your own. Do you understand?

Uh huh.

(Now what to do with him. After all, in most cases the victim of hairstyling crimes is also the perpetrator, and the several months it will take to renew a look of normalcy to their tresses is enough to saturate the point of, "Thou Shalt Leave Well Enough Alone." This was different.)

Son, you will be given a special haircut by Daddy when he gets home. I hope this helps you appreciate what you did to Leah.

I personally think he got off easy.

Love Languages

I read a book some time ago called, The Five Love Languages written by Gary Chapman. It revolutionized my understanding of receiving and expressing love. The concept is very basic, but nevertheless incredibly difficult to actually realize. The main point is that we each are wired to receive love in a specific way, generally categorized into one of the following:

Gifts

Words of Affirmation

Physical Touch

Acts of Service

Quality Time

I think these categories are pretty self-explanatory - nonetheless, here is a brief description of each. GIFTS: Bethany is a classic Gifts. She makes little treasures for presents constantly, and even the smallest token, given as a gift, means the world to her. WORDS OF AFFIRMATION: Caleb couldn't be more transparent with his need for encouraging words. Telling him how proud we are of him, how much we love him, or how well he accomplished something sends him over the moon. PHYSICAL TOUCH: Leah loves to cuddle. She climbs up into our laps, Nana's lap, Jill's lap, even the laps of complete strangers. Holding hands, giving kisses, and being in close physical proximity are a must for her. ACTS OF SERVICE: My kids know that to bless me is to take care of stuff around the house - trash, vacuum, dishes, laundry, you name it... if you do it, I love it! QUALITY TIME: Hannah loves nothing better than to spend time in togetherness. Anything from conversing over recent events to a rousing game of Sorry can be used to satisfy her desires.

Of course there are nuances that create layers and diversity among these generic five. And there are also differences in how you relate to different people. For instance, I enjoy Acts Of Service from my children, Quality Time from my husband, and Words of Affirmation from my mom (don't bother me with Gifts... they mean practically nothing to me).

This was all incredibly illuminating the first time I was exposed to it. Christopher and I have very different love languages (Quality Time/Acts of Service v. Physical Touch/Words of Affirmation). This required some real work to specifically chose to do those things which meant value to the other. It is much easier for me to stop everything and participate in a discussion than to launch into a verbal treatise on all the ways I value and appreciate my husband. He can rub my back for hours but can't wrap his head around my need to talk.

And this is true with our kids as well.

Recently I found myself explaining the concept of love languages to Hannah. You see, if we don't consistently get what we need to feel loved then we tend to shut down, become angry or even bitter. The sad thing is that often it is not a matter of someone not loving you enough, but rather the means of communicating love missing its mark. Remember me and my husband? He could bring home flowers, a card, jewelry and symphony tickets every other week but I would still feel neglected and unloved! Why? Because I need him to sit across from me and genuinely ask me how I am doing. I need him to spend time listening to me and sharing with me more than anything else. When he does I am so much more capable of doing those things which mean the world to him.

Hannah and I are on very different planes in this season of life. She desperately wants Quality Time from me while I really want Acts Of Service from her. She doesn't want to do those little extras that speak love to me. They are boring and unrewarding. I don't want to spend another 30 minutes a night engaging with a child after a whole day of it. It is evident that neither one of us is working to serve the other person, and both of us are getting testy.

It was good to be reminded of the different ways people give and receive love. And my hope is that it empowers Hannah to better understand herself, and me as she grows older and more mature. I think it is a real asset to recognize that everybody is not wired the same as you. But, I am still the adult in our relationship - and the buck stops with me. So I have committed to spending time each day interacting with her in concerted ways. I know that as she grows more secure in feeling loved by me it will become easier for her to respond in kind.

It just never gets easy.

Missionaries

Christopher and I have never felt personally attached to missions. We see the importance of them, and our church strongly supports them, so we kind of figured we would simply trust our church with our tithe and live vicariously through it. That all changed a few months ago when we met Jeff and Heidi Frazee. They have a heart for the Mali people in Africa, and just recently left after their commissioning service in San Jose. We are thrilled to see what God has in store for them.

Our attachment to them wasn't because of their desire to serve in Mali - we didn't know much about these people, or their needs. But rather there genuineness and willingness to be upfront with the uncertainty of what exactly God was doing with them. Jeff has a degree in visual art and uses the mediums of photographer and video beautifully. Heidi is a stay at home mom with her 5th baby on the way. They homeschool their small children. In other words, they aren't the missionaries we often see coming through First Baptist Church, Monterey. They struck us.

Christopher and I are now supporting the Frazees outside of our church giving. We have connected with Jeff and Heidi personally, and feel almost giddy with the prospect of being in their back pocket as they travel to France for a year (learning French) before continuing to Africa. Our heart to support them has obviously been communicated to our children. What a neat thing!

Hannah mentioned to me yesterday that she thinks she wants to be a missionary to Africa. I asked her why, and she simply replied that she, "just wanted to." Kenya was her nation of choice, and we chatted for a few minutes about the possibilities of this occupation. Then Caleb chimed in from the backseat.

I want to be a missionary too - to North Carolina.

Oh yeah, Caleb?

Yep. I am going to go there as soon as I learn the language.

Well, you let me know how that goes for you.

The Innocent Lie

I have a bone to pick. You can skip this blog if you're not in the mood. I won't be offended. I think I just need to share with candor, and hopefully gentleness, something that really bothers me.

The Innocent Lie.

I am not speaking of those lies that children try to pass off on their parents. Rather, I am speaking of the lies parents participate in towards their children. And even more specifically, I am speaking of the lies spoken to make childhood myths come alive, and appear real for that season in life when the innocence of children is at its best.

Santa Clause.

Tooth Fairy.

Easter Bunny.

Leprechauns.

I don't find these innocuous. I am in the minority - at least it appears that way from my many conversations with acquaintances, relatives and friends. I came to think that perhaps I was simply a miser - a glory hog who didn't want to share any of the credit for her hard work with some red-suited, white-whiskered relative stranger who manages to show up when everything is peachy but doesn't stay around long enough to help clean up any of the mess.

It must be me.

But I still couldn't swallow it. I sat down and really thought about what my problem was with these traditions. I realized that the answer is in the fact that children are being lied to, encouraged by their parents (who are entrusted to teach them truth) to falsely believe something they know to be unreal. Okay, so we admit that these imaginary beings aren't real. Where's the harm in letting children use their imaginations to heighten the fun during these few short years?

Hey, let me be the first to say that I love imagination! My children regularly come up with all manner of games that create worlds outside of this one. They are princesses in far distant palaces, flying across the sky on magical beings. Or perhaps they are knights riding into the burning sunset made brilliant by two suns! Multi-colored robes, enchanted wands, and supernatural powers are the norm for a make-believe world worth it's weight in imagination. I happily encourage all these fancies! So, what's the difference between the Easter Bunny and a world filled with talking bunnies who each have their own special power?

I am not lying to them, telling them their talking bunnies are real.

The problem with a lie is that eventually the truth comes out. It always does. Perhaps it takes years rather than a few moments, but in the end... out it comes. And when it does you have broken trust. After all, a lie is a lie. But so many adults have gotten lost in the idea that the adventure of believing that lie is worth the pain and confusion when the truth comes to light.

How can we be so obtuse? I would imagine that my children are not vastly different from others. One of the largest lessons I am constantly working to teach is the value of truth. Lying in our home warrants a double dose of discipline - one for the disobedient action and the other for the lie. Our mantra is, "You will always get into more trouble if you lie." How can I work to train my children to understand the absolute necessity and value of truth if I am engaged in purposely falsifying facts in order to encourage my children to believe something that is a lie? How can my children utterly trust my word as they grow if they know, deep down inside, that I have not always been 100% honest with them?

Lastly, I fear the possible ramifications of these "innocent" lies on the trusting hearts of my children as they walk their own faith journeys. We tell our children that Santa Clause is real, but you can't see him. We tell our children that the Easter Bunny is real, but you can't see him. We tell our children that the Tooth Fairy and leprechauns are real, but you can't see them. We tell our children there is a God who is real, but you can't see him. Then we reveal that Santa Claus is a lie. We share that the Easter Bunny is fake. We finally let our kids in on the truth that the Tooth Fairy and leprechauns were all pretend.

But we somehow want our children to retain the truth that God is still real - He still exists even though everything else they used faith to trust in has been proven false by the very people who should have protected that unique ability to accept truth without jaded reservation. We inadvertently create cynical human beings who have the propensity to eye the world through a subconscious filter of distrust.

Do I exaggerate?

Perhaps not every child becomes disenchanted with the wonder and blessing of seeing the beauty beyond their own empirical observation, but I am unwilling to take the chance. I will not require from my children something I am unwilling to give to them in return.

Honesty.

Hectic

Christmas is just around the corner. I realized this tonight as I prepare to wrap presents (no chuckling, snorting, finger pointing or comments from the peanut gallery welcomed). This time of year tends to take anyone's breath away with its sheer velocity of opportunistic events. Commitments abound and season's festivities overflow as one invitation after another arrives to join some worthy tradition guaranteed to spark holiday merriment in even the basest of scrooges.

In a word this time of year is: hectic.

In our home it is no different. Well, maybe a little different. After all we have seven little people to usher through the perils of traditions. On top of that we have three birthdays. Did you miss that?

Three Birthdays.

Bethany turns 9 in just a couple of days - December 23rd to be exact. She is planning a sleepover with a friend for the 22nd, and then a family dinner of her choice for the 23rd. She wants buttermilk pancakes for her meal. She happens to think that McDonald's pancakes are the best, and each year on her birthday I am forced to find a way to duplicate this nutritionless wonder of white flour. Mind you, I make pancakes rather often... from fresh milled whole wheat berries, honey, and cinnamon. Yeah.

Next comes Mary, who will be four (my fingers froze for an entire moment after typing that number) on the 27th. Her birthday falls on Sunday, which is usually roast night. She too gets to pick her meal of choice, but roast might be the winner. We happened to have it tonight (we were out of town last night) and she literally ate me under the table. I think she might be a carnivore at heart.

Hannah's birthday finally closes down the year on the 30th. She is going to Valley Fair Shopping Center with me, her best friend and her best friend's mom on the 28th. At nearly 11 the delights of shopping are opening up, and rather than take the booty in gifts she prefers the delights of cash. I can't say I blame her. I have long preferred the known gift of my own choosing over the surprise of someone else's pick. She is also speculating on going out to dinner rather than staying in. She's got good taste.

So, here I sit on the 21st with nearly 10 solid days of festivities before me. I'm pooped just writing about it. But I'll see you on the flip side with some great tales to share!

Star Wars

When you asked Caleb what his favorite movie was he would answer either Star Wars, or Robin Hood. There was nothing terribly shocking in those selections, except that he had never seen Star Wars! Undaunted, as he often is, the truth of Star Wars being one of his most favorite movies simply resonated in his soul, and didn't require the actual viewing for proof.

We finally decided it was time to test his devotion with the real deal.

The first episode he watched was the original Star Wars. I was at book club. He was riveted, my husband tells me, and I definitely heard quite a bit about the story the next day. He even said this to me a few days following:

Mama, can me and you have time to watch a movie, just the two of us?

Sure, Caleb. That would be nice.

We could maybe watch, Star Wars!

The opportunity presented itself sooner than I expected. Christopher took his four older daughters on a date to see, The Princess and The Frog. The afternoon was wide open, Josiah and Phoebe were both sleeping so I suggested that we watch, Empire Strikes Back. Caleb was game.

I am not sure what I enjoyed more - watching a great movie or watching my son watch a great movie. There were several wonderful moments during the 129 minutes, but these are the best three.

1: Nowhere did Caleb need to cover his eyes, shy away from the action, or ask me to fast-forward through one of the many fighting scenes. He watched, with great patience, and interest as Storm Troopers, Rebels, X-Wings, and Star Cruisers duked it out on our television screen. However, there was ONE time he felt compelled to cover his eyes with both hands... when Leia kissed Luke in front of Han after Luke's near death experience on Hoth. "Is it over yet?" he asked.

2: Luke lands on Dagobah and meets the, "cutest little green man" Caleb has ever seen. He chirps, coos, and sighs about the adorable creature, so excited to see the green character on film. Suddenly, he stares wide-eyed at me and proclaims, "THAT'S Yoda!!" Oh, to watch the movie again for the first time.

3: The great moment of truth drew closer, and I sat on the edge of my seat waiting for the moment I knew was coming... and went. Caleb didn't say anything when Darth revealed his identity. I realized quickly that it was because he didn't really understand what was said, so I rewind and coax him through the dialogue, until finally his eyes brighten with the truth. Darth is Luke's father! He literally falls out of his chair and onto the floor in his melodramatic way. Then he sits back up, stares at the screen open-mouthed and says, "So, Luke has to do whatever Darth says, now?" Apparently I have done my job right, and children obeying their parents will last well into his adulthood.

I love it!

Our Backyard

This is probably not breaking news to many of you, but it still surprises me to look out my window and see my new backyard! I am so thrilled with the final results. However, it hasn't always been lovely to stare out my window.

When we first looked at our home there was more potential than actual value. The entire house was run down, in need of some serious love. The backyard was no different. A random paver patio surrounding small fruit trees planted under a clothesline was only one part of the haphazard design. Other gems included a raised butterfly garden shaped, well, like a circle drawn by my 3 year old. The side yard was a mishmash of hard-packed dirt flower beds, widely varied paver styles, and weeds. To say it was ugly would be an understatement. There were two poured concrete patios, one attached directly to the house and one tucked into the back corner of the yard. The second smaller one must have been poured to create a foundation for a shed. This might have been a nice touch, except it was irregularly shaped and sat at odd angles to the fence line. Ugh.

We bought our home as a foreclosure. The money we were saving ourselves from a non-standard sale would be spent caring for the run-down state of the house. Things like refinishing the hardwood floors, replacing all the kitchen appliances, and painting the entire inside of the house were no-brainers. Purchasing a substantially smaller home than we previously lived in meant we had to find living space in every nook, so the backyard was also one of the projects planned from the very beginning, the vision being that it would provide an extension of sorts to the living space inside. However, once the inside of the house was functional the outside got somewhat forgotten.

Josiah was the impetus behind reviewing our project. His boy-ness required constant supervision, and activity. A secured, safe backyard was the only choice to continue enjoying our little boy. We also realized that our decision to home educate meant sacrifices in certain activities that required balance. Physical fitness, and kinesthetic learning were factors we took seriously. We set to work researching play structures, discussing ideas, and refining our vision for the space. Finally we settled upon a design that took into consideration the needs of the yard, our budget, and as much aesthetics as possible.

We found a company called CedarWorks located in Maine. They work with individual families to create play structures that are uniquely designed for their specific needs. Through them we drew plans for a play set sturdy enough for all 7 of our children. Using white cedar, a naturally splinter-free and rot resistance wood, the structure would last through all my children and be available for my grandchildren! This would become the central focus of our yard, and create a wonderful diversion for all our children.

Adding the elements to surround the play structure was our next task. We chose commercial playground quality cedar chips for the base of the play set. Our trampoline was also nestled into the pit made from these chips. A paver path wrapped the house, and bordered the pit so someone could access the far side yard without traipsing through wood chips. We also purchased new large pavers for the other side yard, creating a useable space for storage, and easy accessibility. I desperately wanted something green to look at, so a strip of lawn was added behind the larger concrete patio - the only thing we kept from the original backyard. The final touch was a gift from my mom - her perfectly working 6 person hot tub!

So, we are now complete. I added the photo album on the right side of the blog. Take a peek. And if you are in the neighborhood please drop by. Make sure to bring the kids, and your suits!