a word of prayer

Putting Oliver to bed tonight, I asked if he wanted to pray too.  ”What do I say?” he asked.  A good question,  especially for someone who’s just nearly three.  ”Just tell God what you are thankful for,” I told him.   Keep it simple.  

“Okay.  Um, thank you God for boats and sailboats, and for TV and Wonderpets.  And thank you God for lunch, and cookies and dinner, and monsters.  Oh! No, not for monsters {opens eyes and looks at me like, is that okay?}, aaaand for windows and for skylights.  A-men.”  

 

Then I went in to tuck Stella in, and  her prayer went like this “Dear God, thank you for this day and this life, and the whole world.  I pray that you will love the people who love you, and that all the people will be full of compassion and humility in their hearts.  Amen.”  No joke.  

 

I love my ‘job.’

rats!

Turns out we have a rat in the house.  I wish instead, i could say “a mouse in the house,” (well, not as much as obviously i wish we had ZERO rodents in the house,) not only b/c a mouse in the house sounds much cuter, but also is somehow much less nasty.

The first incident was after church one night.  We got home around 7:30 pm, not quite dark yet, and as he was putting his shoes away Oliver hollered and nearly climbed the wall;  he was freaked out.  We asked what he’d seen, and he told us, “It was a little squirrel running faster and faster!”  Was it inside or outside?  I asked, thinking that since we have several sliding glass doors to the deck, maybe something (an actual squirrel, perhaps) had caught his eye from outside.  His voice all shaky, he answered, “Inside.  Outside.  No, it was inside.”

The eyewitness of an almost-three year old is not always the most reliable.  It’s not that I didn’t believe him, but there wasn’t much to go on, really.  So we forgot about it.  Till the next morning, when we awoke to find that something had gotten into the bananas on the counter.  This is not okay.

Now we know it is (gulp) a rat:   Brian went to the D.I.Y Exterminator store (on Oleander, in case you wondered,) and has gone back two more times.  The owner/operator of the store has, specimens of the um, evidence the vermin leave behind, for the customer’s convenience, of course, which B was able to compare with what we’ve (ugh!) found in order to buy the right trap.

The right trap, the D.I.Y pest-guy said, it a large piece of sticky paper, made specially for this purpose.  “You smear just a dab of peanut butter on it,” he said.  “Not too much, now or he’ll be able to lean around the paper and lick it off, ya know.” (Pest-guy pantomimes a rat licking peanut butter off sticky paper.)

We (and please know that by “we” i mean Brian) baited and set the glue traps,  (Thanks, babe!) and proceeded to sleep with one eye open.  Did i mention pest-guy also said “Yeah, they squeal when they get caught.”  (blech.)  We tossed, we turned;  we heard everything (old-house creaking noises, the kids breathing and rolling over, the crickets outside,) and we heard nothing.  We caught fur and a tail.  “Aw this is nasty,” Brian said, “Do you want to see it?”  Um, no way Jose.

Back to the D.I.Y pest place.  More glue traps, pest-guy seems to think this is really the way to go.  “What are we gonna catch him one appendage at a time?” I asked.  “And do you think after he spent enough time on that glue paper to chew off his own tail that he’ll take the bait again?”  Brian says he doesn’t think they’re that smart.  But we had those things out three nights running, and we got nothing.  Nor did we see any signs.  So maybe, we thought, he just decided to go back into the wild.

But I’ll admit, when I walk up the stairs at night I kinda watch my back, expecting to see a rodent out for revenge, with a bandaged tail-stump and a crazy look in his beady eyes.  Somehow in my image, he’s got a pirate-style eye patch and a peg leg too.

Well, after another banana incident, we decided to spring (ha!) for the old school mousetrap, jumbo version.  At this very moment, they’re baited, and we’re waiting– and a little anxious, a little horrified, a little violated– to put this episode to rest.

UPDATE:  So, we caught a rodent of (apparently) usual size,  (The spring-action trap was baited with taco meat, FYI.  TMI?  I dunno, i thought it was funny.) but WITH A TAIL.  Oh, sweet Lord.

the big one.

I had hoped for denial to cause it not to happen (as is usually the goal with denial.  at least in my [embarrassingly large amount of] experience), or to at least cause a delay of a few months.  But it had to happen: Asher’s first birthday.  It’s a joyous occasion, no doubt, but also definitely bittersweet.  For one, i could not accept the fact that his first year has passed so swiftly.

When Stella was first born, even before, I recall lots of “old people” (empty nest and beyond) cautioning, “enjoy every moment.  They grow up so fast.”  And i knew they were all right.  I have made every effort to do that, to seize the moments and never wish them away (though of course there occasionally whole days filled with that.  The really hard ones.)    In spite of all those moments seized and savored, the year flew on by, marking my heart with sweet memories to recall but never re-live.

From the day he was born, Asher has been such a sweet baby, stereotypical in a good way– he who is loves to play with his feet and giggle at his big sister, he who would snuggle and coo at bedtime and who recently lay on the floor at my feet and fell asleep when he got tired during small group.   (I mean, i thought babies could do that stuff, but  i love actually experiencing it!)

As Ash was demolishing his slice of birthday cake (vanilla with chocolate buttercream frosting), Brian remarked, “well, this is the last 1st birthday.”  Laughing, but not joking.  Ever faithful in her stance on this issue, Stella says, “No dad,  you’ll have one more.”

I guess i could consider the possibility that he could be right about that.  But I haven’t yet.

At one + one day, Asher is cheerful (though he has hit separation anxiety and gets edgy when Brian or I leave the room), goofy (making silly faces and loving the attention he gets), noisy, determined (doesn’t realize he’s smaller than his siblings and wants to keep up with everything they do.  And he climbs everything,) empathetic (he’ll start to fuss when he hears either Stell or Oliver get upset).  He can take 3-4 steps but if i try to get him to, he looks at me like i’m crazy and immediately drops to crawling.   He has a few words:  mo (more), ba (ball), nuh (snack, or food), wawa (water– the ocean, the bath, the sprinkler…) mama and something i think means Stella;  also likes to hum or “aaaah” along to music, which is fun, and has started clapping and dancing too (again, loves the attention this brings).

So, as it goes, i’ll embrace the memories of my baby’s bygone babyhood and look forward to what’s next. (maybe someday we’ll no longer have a kid in diapers?  everyone will be able to drink from regular (not sippy) cups, and go to bed with no special (pacifiers, blankies) accessories?  imagine!)

And really, one is so fun.  This is the age i always call “every little thing [he] does is  magic,” because every day seems to hold so much discovery and excitement.  And, well, at one they can’t really talk yet.

So, cheers and here goes, and thank God for this past sweet year!

frust and rust

Oliver asked me the other day if he could draw with me. I was journaling while the kids rested/napped when he woke up, trotted downstairs and climbed up into the chair next to me. Of course he could! Perfect. We will “draw” together. He asked me to draw a “2″ then after I’d inked the numeral, he got so angry! “No! That not a two! That not how it goes!” And it was downhill from there.

Hmm. It’s moments like this, I thought, when I really don’t know what to do with you. Misunderstandings are so frequent with a toddler, and meltdowns and freak-outs. And after enough of those, or in the morning before i’ve got my head on straight yet, or when I’m just having a hard time keeping it together on my own, things get pretty tough.  I end up yelling and swiftly regretting it and having to ask forgiveness from my startled littles. Well, I have prayed for humility…

Of course, I did point out to Oliver that “Yes it is!  That is what a “2″ looks like.”  As if that were going to help.  And then I laughed at the fact that I was trying to reason with him on that issue.  Which is better than getting aggravated at his sour mood, which happened with unusual frequency over the weekend.

Having caught the “little cold” that has circulated amongst our circle of friends, I find myself attempting to continue on with life as usual but at about 1/2 power.  Today, energy is returning, and at least I don’t feel like my head is floating somewhere in the clouds, but my head still feels like the gears are rusted together.  The brain part, that is;  my actual physical head is still kinda gunky.   I can’t smell or taste, and everything sounds echo-y.  You know this feeling?  Altered reality.  It’s weird.

Tomorrow is Stella’s first day of preschool.  She’s been looking forward to this for an entire year!  And I thought I’d feel kind of melancholy and overly reflective about my baby growing up, but really i just feel like it’s time.  She is ready to spend time with  kids her age, to do things tailored to her age level and not her age + two-and-a-half + eleven months.  And surprisingly, life will continue on after the occasion comes and goes:  we have our regular small group, plans that evening, and somewhere in there I have a 45-min. run scheduled.  (Note to self:  must feel 100% by tomorrow morning.  Busy day!)

worked

I’d never seen Judas (the one who betrayed Jesus for money) contrasted with Mary, (Martha’s sister.  The one who hung out with Jesus instead of stressing out about dinner.)  But there they are, right in the same passage (John 12 1-8).  In Having a Mary Heart in a Martha World, author Joanna Weaver lists the differences:

“Consider the… differences between the hearts of Mary and Judas.  Which kind of heart do you have?  Is it extravagant with gratitude or tightfisted with greed?

Mary came with abandon.  Judas came with an agenda.  Mary heard what Jesus was saying– and she responded.  Judas heard but didn’t understand.  Mary held nothing back.  Judas gave nothing up.

Instead of being shamed by Mary’s extravagance, Judas became critical of what she gave.  His greed warped his perception.  ‘If we find ourselves becoming critical of other people,’ [William] Barclay says, ‘we should stop examining them, and start examining ourselves.’”

I added the italics because that was the kicker for me.  The part where the wind kind of got knocked out of me, since I’d just realized I am awfully prone to a Judas heart, but it didn’t stop there.  Because also, I get embarrassed for Mary and her vulnerable, messy kind of love for Christ.

I was quite relieved to hear, talking about this with friends, that I’m not alone in my feelings.  But I don’t want to seek relief from the weight of conviction.  I mean, I want to, but really, the goal is surrender.  What is my “alabaster flask?”  What is of value to me, fit to be poured out at the feet of Jesus?

babylove

i was going to say, “It’s not every day you walk into a room and see someone’s whole face light up with joy at the simple fact you are there.” But then i realized that does happen every day, because i have a baby. (Who is somehow 11 months old already.) And a baby is one person who does seem to appreciate what he’s got in a mom.

Now, that will break down pretty quickly, and by two it’s spotty at best. Oliver, for example, will tackle me and jump on my back, which is pretty sweet since his primary love language is wrestling. But then two seconds later he’s cussing me out, not with actual swear words, but his own version. (His current fave is “shut up.” He’ll try to be sneaky and abbreviate with “S’up,” which is not, in that tone of voice, a greeting, but a swear. He does not get away with this.) And Stella will savor some mommy moments, but then suddenly she’s way too cool for me. Yeah, already. And the demands; the mom-as-my-personal-vending machine type thing: “more water, mom! No, i meant water with ice! With iiiiiiice!” there’s no end. And don’t talk to me about teenagers.

But a baby. That’s one guy who appreciates mom. I walk in the room and his eyes light up, and he reaches for me. If he’s on the ground, he’ll crawl over any obstacle. If someone else is holding him, he nearly swims through the air to find my arms.

Before nap time, he looks at me and grabs my nose and lips with wonder, pats my arm and beams with pride at this trick, then rests his head on my shoulder and hums along while i sing, and every note sounds like a love song.

still unpacking

It’s not even that I’ve done it all that much, but it sure feels like it. We moved kinda quickly; it went like this: Move day was set for Thursday. Saturday before, Brian went to the new house to spray for bugs, and came home saying, “I’m so ready to move.” Now when my husband says something like that, he really really means it.

I, of course, had been putting off the monstrous task of packing, since the thought of it alone was so daunting that I just wanted to just sit on the couch and eat cookies instead. And maybe did.

So by Sunday afternoon, he’s arranged for his burly little brother to help move “just one load” after dinner. We went to the beach, had a nice dinner with family at PT’s, and then moved half the furniture out of the house. I packed a couple boxes during the kids’ naptime Monday, but mostly focused on getting whatever was immediately needed; we moved beds, breakfasts, soap, towels, clothes and toys after work Monday night, and spent the night.

Awesomely enough, the very first night, everyone felt right at home and slept like normal people. I decided not to bother the kids with the moving process, and only worked on move-ish stuff when they were asleep, so we just did regular stuff during the day. So i wasn’t really faced with the actual packing until the next day, when i returned to the ‘old house’ to grab a few boxes (that is: to sort through, and pack, and then grab them), and immediately wanted to throw everything we own away. Eventually I came to grips with the fact that yes, we probably do want our winter wardrobes and Important Papers and kitchen gadgets and stuff, and started packing.

Now, having fetched all that back here (to the ‘new house,’) it looks worse than ever, having marred the previously nice-and-tidy place we had started out so well in. And then we traveled to charlotte this weekend for a wedding, which was great all the way around, and now we’re back. And on top of the boxes and bins of stuff, we have bags to unpack as well. Maybe it will all get assimilated and cleaned up and beautiful in the next few days, but at the very least, i’m not just going to sit on the couch with the cookies this time.

Just when we were feeling the most hopeless about our house-hunt, feeling like every option that might work was so forced: houses needing more work than we hoped, houses costing more than we hoped. We sat down that night, wanting just to give up on the house-hunt, and about an hour later, we got a phone call. Someone had heard we might be looking for a place, and happened to have a house for rent. Would we be interested? We went to look the next day.

“I know it’s not the most beautiful place,” he said, “I won’t be offended if you don’t like it.” It looks like a mountain house from the 70s, which is not necessarily a bad thing. But it’s surprisingly close to the beach. And it has two screened porches. “We love it!” we told him, and we’re moving in in about a week and a half.

Last week we were on vacation with my family. It was awesome. But as soon as we got back, i began to realize that on top of all the regular demands of our life, packing and preparing to move had to happen some time, too.

So, i’ve spent two days this week painting the new place, trying to make the most change for the least effort. I may have underestimated the amount of difficulty of painting bedrooms nearly devoid of right angles, (the roof line slopes in in those rooms) but I did my best to practice diligence and Thank God, it does look great.

We are excited about everything but the actual packing part, and so, so thankful. And covered in splotches of paint. Oh, wait, that’s just me.

and he never knew

I made the simplest, hardest goal this morning: to do just one thing at a time.

I was determined not to do ‘the usual,’ a scenario in which I: monitor the kids’ breakfast, leave it on the table while i check my email, get distracted by the kettle whistling for my French press, consider grabbing something to eat but remember that packing lunch for the day’s outing is more urgent, and then get distracted from lunch packing by the sticky hands needing washed and the restless morning-energy quarrels needing moderation. And it goes on and on ’till we leave the house, which looks a bit like we were forced to evacuate immediately leaving toys on the floor, dishes in the sink and crumbs who-knows-where, coffee mugs half-full and beds unmade.

That was not to be the case today. Now i’ll say this: I love a clean house. I really do. But the main reason i aspire to pick up before walking out the door is to create a feeling of “oh, it’s good to be home” for Brian when he comes home. At first this idea almost felt like a joke. The idea of a home inhabited by three small people and their various possessions and messes of natural cause, a wife who has a penchant for organizing the home by use of the proven “piles” method (hey, there’s free counter space!); a home with forest green counter-tops which is painted the landlord’s choice of yellowish, grayish and mint greenish shades; the idea of this home being inviting and welcoming felt impossible. And it’s not really about the bad colors; it’s really about us and the mess associated with us.

Yet, i have resolved to improve my follow through in these matters, and thus, this morning did make sure to wash every last bottle and breakfast dish before hustling the crew out to the pool. Oh, won’t it be beautiful, i mused. Brian will come home, see the tidy house and the best of last night’s leftovers left for him, and remember how very awesome i am. He’ll probably be itching to show his appreciation by providing limitless back rubs and watching a chick flick. I mean, it’s not like i’ve never cleaned up the house before, but i’ll admit to a tendency to leave a trail of destruction, especially in getting the kids out the door in the morning. (Thus the goal for this morning).

And sure ‘nough, when i called him around lunch time, he was on the way to a lunch meeting. I had the reactive thought that the morning’s labor was in vain. And i remembered, somehow, just then, the missing link: integrity. Doing things right, and not just for recognition. The “servant heart” that seeks a reward is really just a diva in disguise.

week in words

I’ve tried to write witty and I’ve tried to write eloquent, but the long and the short of it is that my brain is a little fried.  So i’ve stopped trying to say it all, and decided just to say something.

As i was typing that, i mis-typed brain (oh, and just did it again!) as brian.  Which is nearly accurate, actually, since Brian was out sick for most of the week.  And by out sick, i mean that after getting sick just at the end of the workday Wednesday (just when we were allll looking very much forward to Daddy coming home for the day) he laid down on the couch and did not move (except to the other couch and then back again,) or speak (except for to request more Tylenol and perhaps a little something to eat “Cook it bland. I need bland,” he said,) for the better part of four days.

I felt much like a single mom to four kids.  Oh boy.  Today he’s finally feeling a good bit better, and we had a family picnic in the park followed by a little play time at the beach, which was therapeutic for all of us.

And speaking of boys, especially the two-and-a-half year-old variety, are just not the same when Daddy is out of bounds for four days.   Oliver, my little wild man, has been especially wild.  I think his intentions are pure, but he’s been trying to “teach” Asher to walk by picking him up (which is actually really funny, particularly since Asher thinks so too), and so eager to share his food with his little brother.  I think now that Ash is on the move, Oliver is just happy to be able to play with him more, which is adorable. But it can tend to drive me a bit crazy, “No, you can’t feed Asher your chips, he’s too little,”  and then “Oliver, please don’t carry Asher, he’s too big.”

Also this week I weaned Asher, who will be ten months old on Friday.  This is bittersweet, but I am happy with the decision, as is Asher:  the bottle is much easier to to move around with, and provides a quicker, fuller and steadier meal.  He’s crawling and pulling up all over, constantly smiling that killer smile with the crinkly eyes, and just added “Dada” to his vocabulary.  (Preceded by Mama and something similar to Hi!, and also “nah- nah” seems to mean “I’m hungry.”) And i’m so glad to have read this blog post around the same time, which i very much relate to.

And yesterday Tom and Martha B were married, which was beautiful and sweet and so much fun.   I was thrilled to be there for it all, and thinking of how i’ve known both of them since they were teenagers, seen the progression of the relationship from the start, and then seeing them all grown up and dressed up and radiant I felt almost maternal,  a little nostalgic and very proud.

Martha and i met her freshman year, and our small group met from then ’till they all graduated a little over a year ago.  It was sweet to see most of our small group together in one place again, to catch up and laugh and to dance together, and to be reminded how beautiful it has been to watch those girls grow into beautiful and firmly rooted women of God, and a great group of friends.

Stella was the flower girl, a role she fully embraced.  She walked down that aisle with such poise and ran right to “My friend Tom,”  as she says, for a hug before assuming her post next to the maid of honor.  And there she stood, quietly and perfectly poised, till just moments before the ceremony finished, she bolted back down the aisle toward me, saying in a stage whisper, “Mom!  I gotta go potty!”    Both Martha and Tom have known Stella since before she was born and now there she was, dressed most beautifully in her sweet flower girl dress and saying “Yep!  Oh, thank you!” when folks told her she looked beautiful, dancing (oh so much like her daddy!) like crazy on the dance floor, and everyone commenting how grown-up she is.  And again, there i was, maternal, nostalgic and proud;  amazed that my baby girl is not really a baby at all, and so happy with the girl she’s growing to be.