Christopher

Everyone needs acclamation from time to time. Being told that you are special, appreciated and loved can give your morale such a necessary boost - even for those whose primary love language doesn't include words of affirmation. I always want to make sure those closest to me know how much I adore them! You simply can't overstate your unconditional love. So, I thought I would make an acrostic for each of my children, and my husband, to communicate publicly my affection.

I'll start with my beloved husband.

C

     clean. Not just cleanliness from showering, although that's nice too, but a cleanliness of the mind. Christopher doesn't use off-color humor, foul language, or inappropriate references in any of his communication. He honors and respects others with words that edify.

H

     helpful. For anyone new to the block, we have seven children. That's a lot of diapers. That's a lot of dishes. That's a lot of everything. Christopher isn't squeamish about getting his hands dirty with the business of our life. Rather than passing off the responsibility to the womenfolk, he readily helps me.

R

     responsible. I am consistently amazed at my husband's ongoing dedication to provide for his family. Most mornings find him awake hours before anyone else in the house. He takes on the inconvenience of going early to work so he can be home sooner. And he never complains about the financial responsibility placed on his shoulders as a result of our family size, or our decision to keep me at home.

I

     intelligent. Christopher is just plain smart!

S

     strong. Recently, the two of us were talking about how important it is for a man to feel strong - not just physically, but mentally, emotionally and spiritually as well. Christopher has all four in spades. He exercises discipline in his physical workouts. He grows spiritually strong through his personal devotion to Christ. His humility develops his emotional fortitude. And his willingness to be a life-long learner ensures his mental acuteness.

T

     tender. This daddy loves to snuggle with all his children. He doesn't dismiss his sons from needing his physical touch. He listens to each of the girls' make-believe stories with the appropriate expression of pure rapture. Holding a baby is second nature to him.

O

     open. Christopher is disarmingly honest. He doesn't hide behind false pretenses, or play games to curry favor with people. He is the real deal.

P

     playful. I don't think I have met someone more willing to get silly. Laughter is his second language, and he uses it liberally. He loves to look for the comedy in life, and truly appreciates the absurd. His children's jokes can have him laughing for hours. Just ask him about the bone guy.

H

     harmonious. Christopher is much better than I am at being a peacemaker. He doesn't pout or act like a child if his feelings are hurt, but speaks his thoughts so that we can maintain open lines of communication. He is willing to quickly acknowledge when he is wrong, and repents with sincerity so there can be reconciliation.

E

     enjoyable. I simply love hanging out with him. Whether it is staying home, going on a date, or even running errands the time spent with him just flies. His conversational style is effortless, and his interest in what's important for me is equal to his willingness to share from his own life. 

R

     relaxed. Ever the optimist, he balances my tendency to think the worst when things aren't going my way. His easy-going style keeps him from getting quickly overwhelmed by our houseful of children, even when I sneak away for a weekend alone! He knows how to spend a quiet evening at home; while his adventurer heart loves a good road trip he is equally at ease in our living room.

    

Cooking

Bethany is learning to cook. And, truth be told, she has a definite knack for it. Her favorite is eggs. She has learned to scramble them something delicious. Her younger brothers are quite smitten with them. Most mornings now find her cooking eggs for at least Josiah and Caleb, but she often offers them to her daddy and me!

Here is the menu she created to help us in our selections.

The Buy-Back Box

I am learning to streamline some of the training that goes into parenting. The more children we have the more necessary it becomes to have a system that can manage details without my constant intervention. With that in mind I created the Buy-Back Box. Pure genius, if I do say so myself. It has alleviated a huge amount of angst in me, and my home is suddenly de-cluttered and clean. Let me explain.

Once upon a time my children were asked to clean up their belongings. They went about their task with relative ease, and in just a few short minutes completed their chore. Well, completed might be a strong word for what they accomplished - namely, half of the necessary cleaning. So, I reminded them to finish the job. They went about their task with slight murmurings, but in just a few short minutes had completed their chore. Well, completed might be a strong word to use for what they accomplished - namely, three-quarters of the necessary cleaning. So, I reminded them to finish the job. They went about their task with thinly veiled sighs and groans, but in just a few short minutes had completed their chore. Well, completed might be a strong work for what they accomplished...

I stepped on a Littlest Pet Shop toy (read: roofing tack) as I headed to bed.

AHHHH!!

Normally I would seriously debate waking the whole house for a stern lecture while fuming over the negligence of my children. Of course waking Phoebe to prove a point about diligence would only make my night worse, so I usually settled for putting the toy away myself and then reminding my children the following day about their gross misbehavior. The result was often blank stares, muffled apologies, and a general acceptance of the need to, "do it better next time."

The next time went something startlingly similar to the first time.

After three or four of these cycles I would finally reach my breaking point and declare war on all the clutter in the house. Kids were sent scurrying for every stray toy under every bed. The outside, inside and underside of the house was straightened, vacuumed and polished. I ruthlessly threw the detritus of their childhood into the garbage. I ranted about cleanliness, thoroughness and several other obligatory "ness"es known to be so effective in these parental tirades. It felt wonderful.

The problem was my ridiculous notion that I had actually effected real change in my children. All you seasoned parents out there can now stop laughing at me. Eventually I came to recognize the simple fact that my temper tantrums were simply not aiding in getting the job done. Something needed to change. So, I instituted the Buy-Back Box.

And peace is reigning in my home.

Grown Up

Leah and Mary are playing together in the other room. Mary is deciding to assert her ownership over a few My Little Ponies, and Leah is becoming more and more upset. Finally I hear Mary concede:

Sure, you can play with them, Leah... when you're grown up.

But Mary! (she's working herself into tears) I won't be grown up for years. It is going to be at least 20 years before I am grown up!

I know. (Mary says - nonchalantly and without a hint of pity) You'll just have to wait.

Crazy Boy

Caleb is a crazy boy. Seriously. I hear other families talking about their boys, and how they do wild things, but Caleb takes the cake. Besides lacking impulse control, short term memory, and fear he has this uncanny ability to chose only those activities that could kill him.

Case in point.

The kids were playing in the backyard and schoolroom one afternoon while I was trying to get some rest with the two smallest children. Our home has hardwood floors, so noise travels. As a result we use white-noise machines to help reduce break-through sounds during naps and bedtime. The kids adopted the nickname "train" and so they are called to this day. Anywho, I had my train on but could still hear the muffled sounds of kids playing hard. A couple of times I thought about getting up and asking them to be quieter, but they were getting along and that was more important than silence. Then, just as I was falling asleep I heard someone running upstairs.

Wait. I don't have an upstairs.

I heard it again.

I sat up to really listen, but couldn't quite make out what I was hearing. I could tell there were kids on the trampoline outside of my window. I could tell there were kids in the schoolroom laughing. I could hear someone squealing on the swing. Everything seemed normal. I laid back down, and started to drift to sleep once more when I again heard the thump-thump-thump of someone running "upstairs." I finally realized that it was someone running down the hall, but the hardwood floors and train combination were distorting the sounds. I settled in for my nap.

An hour later I emerged from the back bedroom. I was met by Bethany telling me that Mr. Coleman came over to say that he saw Caleb on the roof.

Nice.

I sat down with Caleb to get the scoop.

Apparently I wasn't as crazy as I thought when I heard someone running "upstairs." Caleb had used the brick arch over our side yard gate to climb onto our roof. Running around on the top of the roof didn't make the "fun enough" cut, so he decided to use the roof as a diving board onto the trampoline. That was more like it! In fact, it was so much "fun enough" that he talked his younger sister, Leah, into taking the plunge and together they began a circuit of roof-jump-trampoline-roof-jump-trampoline...

I am not convinced that this is ordinary boy-ness.

non sequitur

Mama, watch my dance.

Okay, Leah.

Lala tra-lala laaa (singing her own theme music)

That's beautiful! Well done.

Yep, because my superhero is cooking.



Don't look for an explanation. There is none.

Cell Phone Sense

Our girls, probably like every other tween out there, are constantly inquiring about the date when they will receive their first cell phone. The discussions range from simple suggestion (You know, if I had a cell phone I could take Daisy for a walk, and if you needed me to come home early you could just call me on my phone.) to bribery (If you got me my own cell phone I would make sure to always answer your calls, and do whatever you asked.).

A few years ago a product called Firefly was introduced. The cell phone is specifically designed for kids, with no numerical keypad so only preprogrammed numbers can be accessed. My girls instantly recognized our "need" for this new phone, and Bethany, in particular, has been reminding us of the many features we must surely appreciate about it. Christopher and I keep touting the party line:

You are not getting a cell phone.

It's really that simple. The girls just don't require a phone. Their social calendar is not independent enough to necessitate one. On top of that, we feel rather strongly about developing independence. What does that have to do with cell phones? More and more adolescents are failing to achieve common sense, and logical problem solving skills. Why? We believe that a significant part of the problem is the false sense of security that comes when mom or dad answer all your questions - immediately. Changes in plans, unexpected possibilities, and circumstantial unforeseens are handled by calling home to receive instantaneous feedback on the right or wrong option. The problem is most clearly seen when you remove the potential for cell phone use (i.e. dead battery/no reception). We use these hypothetical situations to help our girls understand why we don't want them overly dependent on cell phones.

Yesterday, the conversation again turned to cell phones, and when the girls' archaic parents would get the knack and buy them one.

Never.

Bethany was utterly unimpressed with this answer and left the room, but Hannah hung on and played the game.

But it would really help you if I had a phone. Then you could call me whenever you needed anything.

Hannah, we have already gone over this however, we can do it again if you wish. When you are accustomed to using a cell phone for aid whenever you are in a questionable situation what happens when you no longer have the cell phone? Daddy and I want to be sure that you are safe without a cell phone before we allow you to have one. And until then, we aren't going to allow you into potentially unsafe situations with the false sense of security derived from a cell.

*blank stare from Hannah*

Okay, say you are driving along a road when suddenly your car breaks down. You are in an unfamiliar town, and your cell phone has no reception. What do you do?

Well, if you were accustomed to always having a cell phone then you would probably run to the nearest phone booth, and call a tow truck. But, if you knew how to solve the problem without using a cell phone then you would just siphon gas with your mouth and drive home.

Maybe we should buy them phones.

Writing

I really love to write. There is something immensely cathartic about organizing my thoughts into neat little packages that can easily be communicated to others. Well, "easily communicated to others" when I do it right. Unfortunately, I have a dilemma with engaging in one of my most satisfying past-times... it is diametrically opposed to my responsibilities. You see ideally I would spend a set amount of time each and every day scribbling out... something. Anything. But instead of doing just that I:

-nurse the baby.
-shuttle my children to and from events.
-home educate my kids.
-prepare nutritious meals for a small tribe.
-rock the baby.
-change the baby.
-scold the toddler.
-engage in a soul-searching conversation with my adolescent.
-check facebook.
-clean up the dishes from the nutritious meals I previously prepared.
-wash laundry.
-play tea-party with the smaller girls.
-chase the toddler.
-buy groceries.
-check email.
-answer the phone.
-answer the phone.
-answer the phone.
-prepare for bible study.
-vacuum.
-teach ethical behavior to the wayward son.
-imagine writing a quirky, hugely popular book of complied anecdotes from my children's lives.
-converse with my husband.
-sleep.

I am trying to find what I can cut out, and from my perspective I'm thinking sleep is overrated.

Absence Makes The Heart Grow Fonder

Is it true? Does absence make the heart grow fonder? If it does, then you should be absolutely enamored with me right about now! So, what has kept me from my adoring fans? Note my tongue in my cheek.

Life.

Yep, that about sums up all the stuff. There have been so many times I wished that this blog could simply stream from my thoughts. Alas, it has to actually be written. So, here is a summary of my thoughts surrounding life, and the details that have kept me from writing them down.

Phoebe.

No, really. She has taken my life by storm, and does not seem remotely interested in giving it back to me. I thought that I would have this whole infant thing cracked after 6 babies. How difficult could a seventh child be? Wow, was that the wrong question to ask!

Phoebe is proving to be my humbler. She evades all my best efforts at parenting, and reduces me to a blubbering pile of jell-o. Schedules and routines - out the door. Independence - not even remotely. What happened? Where did all my best intentions of a well-ordered home go? At nearly 16 months she still doesn't consistently sleep through the night. She won't regularly eat well. It is anyone's guess whether she is going to play contentedly or whine in frustration through the afternoon. And to top it off she insists on climbing onto anything vertical. Anything. Vertical. The result of all of this sanctification is me spending much of my time wandering the house bleary-eyed and confused. Should I try to get her to take a nap, or try to feed her? Should I rock her, or leave her be? Should I...

So, my blogging life continues to get pushed to the back burner. I continue to promise myself that someday I will write to my heart's content. Someday I will post every day. 

Yeah. And someday I won't think that leaving the house with only one spot on the front of my wrinkled shirt counts as, "dressed for success."

Office Space

Christopher is moving up in the world. His responsibilities are growing at work, and prospects are opening up with each new day. He recently made a strategic career move by transferring to a new division within the Defense Manpower Data Center (DMDC - part of the Department of Defense). While nothing has changed in his externals (he still sits at the same desk) the job he is doing (at that same desk) is constantly throwing him curve balls. Christopher thrives on challenge and change - together they make a heady cocktail for success. Meeting with high-level executives and briefing department chiefs are fast becoming norms in his business day. His supervisor recognized his need for more versatility from standard government protocol, and assigned him a Blackberry and laptop to help facilitate efficacy in and out of his office.

Our family has also seen some changes as a result of his new position. The introduction of travel to the East Coast for week-long business meetings was thought to be temporary when he first accepted the transfer. We now understand it to be much more permanent in nature, and are preparing for the long haul with bi-monthly trips to D.C.; Boyers, Pennsylvania; and both Arlington and Alexandria, Virginia. A significantly more exciting change is the decision Christopher made to go back to school, and earn his Masters. He enrolled in National Defense University, and will begin classes this fall!

We felt like all this elbow-rubbing with the big-wigs deserved a more dedicated place for work at home. He needed space to comfortably make long-distant conference calls to colleagues in D.C., and the privacy for dedicated focus on high-profile projects. We made the plunge, sacrificed in-demand space and created Christopher's new home office. We put together his desk, network connectivity, phone system and computer so that he can easily access his work from the comforts of our home.

I really think it's a fantastic solution.

Baseball

Caleb finished his first official season of baseball. He exuberantly reminded us of every practice, every game. We knew that he would probably enjoy himself, but we weren't expecting him to be so naturally gifted at the sport. It made it all the more pleasurable for us to watch each week as he grew in his hitting capabilities. His fielding still needs quite a bit of polishing. In tee-ball the definition of, "call it" means everyone screams in unison, throwing punches if another fielder (especially the fielder who would naturally have the right of way in the play) dares to catch the ball. One play saw Caleb, positioned as pitcher, fling himself onto a throng of boys trying to snatch a ball from a fellow teammate in left field.

Left. Field.

I played ball for a few years, and am pretty sure that the pitcher doesn't ever back-up the left fielder. Perhaps I misunderstood my son's noble intentions.

On the sidelines we laughed ourselves to tears watching the players swing at anything resembling a baseball; lolligag to first base and then sit upon the bag; converse so intently with the opposing team's 3rd baseman that the runner was passed by his own teammate on the way home; and run in circles to avoid being tagged out. It was great fun, and every week we looked forward to bundling the family up for another game. We are excited for next year!

Sleepyhead

Phoebe was just agitated. We couldn't figure out the problem. All through dinner we tried to coax her into contentedness with crackers, a water cup, her pacifier, and any number of crazy faces and words. She would have nothing to do with any of it. Exasperated, we finally gave up and prepared to battle our way to the end of the meal with her fussing in her high chair. At some point she quieted down, but by then the rest of our children were making such a ruckus trying to talk over one another that we didn't even notice. The last child finished, and all the kids eagerly asked to be excused. As soon as I gave the word 6 chairs went sliding across the wood floor in unison, followed by the clatter of 6 plates and glasses being cleared. On the way back into the dining room for more dishes Bethany said, "Ah! Look at Phoebe!"

We all turned towards the high chair to discover the reason for her blissful silence.

Necessary Accommodations

It is a little warm on our lovely peninsula this weekend. When I say, "a little warm" I do not mean the mid-80s that many of you consider the definition of warm. Those temperatures are obviously relative to your heat, which hits the 100s plus during your summer. No, I refer to the blazing inferno of 72 degrees fahrenheit (with breeze). Hey, I never said we were heavy weights in the heat department. That's why we life were we do.

But I digress.

Leah came up to me holding a rubber band in her hand and asking me, quite seriously:

Mama, can you please put my hair up in a ponytail? I need you to because Bethany said if I don't have it put up then the back of my neck will suppocate!

She looks at me with her, "Can you believe it?" expression of incredulity. Then she calmly tosses this out as she walks away:

Or worse... the Sahara Desert.

Daisy the Dog

Many of you may already know this, but adding a member to the family certainly bears repeating. Daisy the Dog became a Randall on April 11, 2010. This is more auspicious than merely adopting a pet... I mean, why would I write a blog about it unless there was a story?

Once upon a time I wanted a dog. I mean I really wanted a dog. I asked. I begged. I cajoiled. I persuaded. I argued. I begged again, until I finally got the hint that Christopher was not going to budge on the issue. Sure, he had some valid points, if you call severe allergies and possible exacerbation of Hannah's asthma legit. I think he was just putting me off. Among some of his other reasons were the recognition that a dog would add a level of responsibility he just wasn't sure we were ready to take on. We already had 4 kids. I'll let that sink in.

Four kids.

But, God started to speak to my heart, and convicted me that I would certainly not appreciate the games I was playing if the roles were reversed. Christopher had his reasons, and I needed to respect them. I wasn't going to enjoy any pet if it came into our home without the full acceptance of my husband. And, grrrrr, I also realized I was not honoring him in front of our children. While it was perfectly fine for me to point to Christopher as the authority behind the decision to refrain from getting a pet, it was not fine for me to make a point of showing the children my own disagreement with the decision over and over again. I decided to shut my mouth, and pray. Novel idea, I know.

A few years later we started looking at buying a house. In the middle of several pro v. con discussions Christopher noted that a pro to buying was the freedom to finally own a dog. I was stunned! I had no idea this was still on his radar. I immediately put in my plug to buy. Thankfully there were several other obvious factors pointing towards a decision to buy, so our mortgage isn't based solely on the ideal of a four-legged companion. However, I will admit that during every walk-through we went on during that laborious process the idea of how a dog would fit in the house was at the forefront of my mind. When we finally found our home the backyard was a shambles, and it was obvious we were not prepared to bring home a dog until some serious work had been completed. That work ended up taking us over a year from the time we closed escrow until we breathed a sigh of relief that it was finished.

The day we waved good-bye to our landscape contractors I turned to Christopher and asked if he was ready to make good on his promise. He smiled, and said he was happy to start looking for our family's canine member.

Woohoo!

I did tons of research, read tons of articles, spoke with my allergist, friends, and breeders before settling on a Cairn Terrier as the perfect pet for our home. We started looking earnestly for sellers with reputable breeding practices, and were shocked to discover that our puppy was going to cost us more than some of our children to bring home. Registration fees, initial vet fees, transportation fees, and finally adoption fees all added up to one expensive outlay. To his credit, my husband was willing to move forward, but this time it was me that just couldn't bring myself to take the plunge. I have no condemnation in my heart for AKC registered pets, and fully intend to own one myself someday - but not today.

Continuing to stalk the SPCA for the possibility of a rescued Cairn (as well as rescue and private breeder sites) I happened to read a friend's status update from Facebook. Her husband is in the military, and will soon be transferred to another duty station. She noted that their loving beagle needed a new permanent home, and wondered if anyone might have some leads. Hmmm... I wrote her back and told her that we might be interested. She immediately responded, expressing her excitement at the possibility of their beloved pet going to a family with children and a backyard. It all seemed to be happening so quickly!

Now I needed to tell Christopher.

When I sprang the news on him his initial reaction was less than exuberant. Apparently the thought of a dog was still more appealing than the actuality of a dog. However, he very graciously agreed to stop by our friends' house and meet Daisy. The next evening saw us sitting in the M's living room playing with the sweetest dog. She was gentle, playful, and not given to barking - all merits that we found appealing, to say the least! We discussed Daisy all the way home, and decided that a trial was in order. I called Mrs. M the following day, and asked if we could take Daisy for the weekend.

We told the kids we were dog-sitting (which was technically true) but failed to mention a deeper purpose of seeing if Daisy integrated well with our home. All the children were overjoyed at the idea of a dog. They kept saying things like, "We can pretend she is ours!" Christopher and I smiled to ourselves. After three days we knew it was time to make a decision. She was quiet and very gentle with the children but her willingness to play seemed nonexistent. Christopher noted that he really liked how laid back she was, but even he recognized that our family required a slightly more engaging pet. We assumed she was slightly depressed with the absence of her original family, and when I called Mrs. M to confirm my hunch she agreed. Christopher and I spoke that night, and agreed that we wanted to keep her.

Daisy then confirmed that she wanted to stay with us.

About 2 weeks after we made her adoption final, Daisy escaped from our yard. It was night, and we didn't realize she was gone for over an hour. When we did discover her absence we were sick with dread. Mr. and Mrs. M warned us that Daisy liked to, "take off" and could sometimes be gone for quite some time. She always returned, they encouraged, but we were nervous that her sense of "home" was not yet defined enough for her to come back to us. Christopher and I scoured the neighborhood but with no success. I went home to make some phone calls while Christopher continued in the car. 

We realized there was a possibility that she would try to go back to the M's house, and I was scared that between her attempted Incredible Journey and the 350 foot acre open ranch across the street from our house I had a sinking dread that we had lost Daisy for good. Working hard to keep myself calm for the kids' sake I called everyone together in the living room, and explained that we needed to beseech God on behalf of our dog. We all got down on our knees in the middle of our living, and I began to pray to the Lord. Suddenly we heard a soft noise coming from the front door. My heart leapt to my throat as the possibility of what that noise could be came to my mind. I scrambled up, ran to the door and threw it open to reveal Daisy, scratching to be let in. She had been gone for over 2 hours.

Daisy had come home.

She is now happily a Randall. The trepidation we saw in her through those first several days has completely vanished. She plays with the children, loves to get lots of love from Christopher, and contentedly shares our life. We couldn't have asked for a better pet!

Conversations With A Genius

Christopher and I have decided that Leah must remain perpetually 5. Her precociousness is mixed with just the right amount of tender wonder and innocence. The following two conversations are, verbatim, discussions I had with her just today.

Mama, what is that flag next the the American flag?

The California Flag.

Wow, are we going to go to California?

We live in California.

Hey, Mama, I got an idea. We could take a trip in our van from America to California. And we could drive there, and when we got there we could visit friends. Only, if the friends weren't home, and it was raining, then we might get wet and could die! So we would have to get some food, and then go back to South America. But we might not be able to drive there, so we would have to drive to an airport so that we could fly back, so that none of our children die. You would be so sad if that happened, because you love us.

You are right. I do love you all so much.

Yep, I know. Because I am smarter than anyone.

***

Mama, I am going to have a headache in about an hour.

Really?

Yep. Right now my left brain might start to hurt. So in an hour it is going to be a headache.

Do you have a headache right now?

No. Just that I am going to have one in an hour.

How do you know you are going to have a headache in an hour?

Because my left brain is going to hurt.

Oh, okay. Thanks for letting me know.

You're welcome.

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...