Tossed Salad

This year, we're learning about Countries and Cultures for the girls's school time. I say "we", because I'm either learning or relearning things that I either never knew or have long since forgotten.

The first country/culture we're studying this year is our own - that of North America, specifically the USA. Today, while reading one of our school books, I read a phrase that said, "The United States is often referred to as a 'melting pot', because so many cultures make their homes here. However, it would be more accurately called a 'tossed salad', because cultures in the U.S. are encouraged to maintain their individuality and not just blend in with our culture." They looked at me with a blank stare. I looked at them with the same blank stare as I was trying to process the author intent. Then I was wondering, "Who in the world expects a child to understand this metaphor? I barely understand it." "Melting pot" - I pretty much understand that, but more on a cliche level than actual understanding, but "tossed salad"? I think my stomach is starting to growl.

Anyway, I asked the girls, "So, did you understand that last part?" This was met with a corporate "No," from them. I said, "Well, it's kind of like this for example: Pinatas..." (insert anticipatory smiles from girls - as though I might have one hidden behind my back) "Pinatas are a game for celebrating birthdays in Mexico, but when Mexicans came to America, we didn't say to them, 'No. We don't do pinatas in America. Here's a baseball glove and some cake and ice cream. Happy Birthday.' We said, 'Hey, that looks like fun. Let me take a whack at that thing.' So I guess that makes us a tossed salad." Claire said, "Makes me want to hit one right now." "Well," I said, "part of being a tossed salad means that we could walk into Walmart right now and buy a pinata off the shelf." I probably lost them somewhere in the vegetable metaphor there, but we all agreed on one thing: life with pinatas is far superior to life without pinatas. This led to some great conversations about how Mexicans also have fun hats and take naps in the afternoon. The nap thing actually got me pretty much totally sold on moving further south. I don't play much baseball anyway. Naps are more my speed.

Another story that we enjoyed was about how the Navajo nation have a custom in which the first time a baby laughs out loud they have a huge celebration. Here's the kicker: The person who made the baby laugh is the one who has to pay for the party. As much as I adore laughter, I think this custom reveals the Navajo to be a people group who deeply value our God-given sense of humor in a very tangible way.

So - I guess I think that, despite all the cultural differences we have in the United States, we have no excuse not to feel richer and more deeply blessed than any nation on earth because of the wealth of opportunity to experience a wide range of cultures. Despite the fact that we don't all look the same or have the same customs or belief systems, we have the opportunity to enjoy the best of what so many cultures have to offer. It seems to me that other cultures bring their best with them when they come to the U.S.A. - food, games, traditions, and art - just to name a few. I guess I'm glad to be part of this "tossed salad" - even if just a nut.

Cheating on the Eye Exam

I know I'm supposed to go to the eye doctor once a year, but the truth is that I avoid it until I have no more contacts and they force me to come back to get more. Then I have to go through the same eye exam that I have endured for many years now. My optometrist has been my optometrist (with the exception of the few years post high school when I had no insurance) since I was a child. What strikes me about optometrists is that they must have that very unique personality trait that necessitates a daily routine - to the max. They don't mind having a job that is essentially the same, day in, day out, month after month, year after year, every working day of their lives. Just writing it makes me bored. I am not, as you can tell, wired to be one of these types of people. I'm lucky if I make the same recipe twice - ever in my life. My family routinely asks me to make something I made a few months back, because it was a favorite, and I'm lucky if I can remember what it even was or where the recipe originated. I like surprises. They make me feel alive. This makes motherhood my ideal career, I guess. No two days alike...

I think my eye doctor is great. He fascinates me. First of all, I have infinite respect for anyone who can handle looking at the human eye - which gives me the creeps. I like to watch him work. While other doctors have long since computerized their records, my guy keeps meticulous, detailed, hand-written notes on my every visit. I have no doubt that he has record of my very first visit somewhere in that dogeared, inch-thick, manilla file folder. He talks to me using numbers and codes that I cannot possibly understand. He tells me all the dots and decimal points of my eye measurements. Cool - 47.53 this time. That's a relief. Oh, wait. Is that bad? He insists on taking my contacts out and putting them back in by himself. This drives me bonkers, but I endure it like a kid endures a spit bath from mom. He always gives me two tissues - one for each eye. His procedure is flawless and completely predictable. We'll probably both have alzheimer's someday, but people will actually notice his. We have grown older together. When I was a child, he seemed so young. I babysat his children when I was in high school. He is my parents's age, and, because I only see him once every year or two, he seems to age faster than they do. His hair has grayed. His hairline and pants have gotten higher while his eyebrows have gotten lower. He's becoming "cute"... like I think most older men do.

Several years back, I realized that I had inadvertently memorized the eye chart at the doctor's office. The 40/20 line for nearsightedness is O F L C T, 30/20 is A P E O T F, and 20/20 is T Z V E C L. The 20/20 line for farsightedness is H T V P F R U (which is the only line he ever asks me, since I have 20/20 reading vision). I have a somewhat photographic memory. Written text is specifically committed easily to my memory. I don't know how, only seeing it every year or two, it committed itself to my memory, but it did. I debated on whether or not this knowledge was harming my ability to honestly have my vision tested. I mean, I never intentionally cheated on the exam, but once I started to read the first letter, the others would just fall out of my mouth - like the Pledge of Allegiance or my Social Security number would. In fact, I found myself almost trying to see a different letter on the chart so that I could make myself question it. It never worked.

Finally, two years ago, I decided to tell him that I had the eye chart memorized. He didn't believe me. He's not a laugher, but he did manage a smirk and a "oh..." He said something to the effect of that he doubted I really did or that it would effect my results at all, and went about giving the eye test again. Lately though, I've noticed that my vision isn't as clear as I'd like it to be. I decided to bring it up again this morning at my appointment. This time, I said it to the receptionist first. I just blurted it out during the part when I'm supposed to be sitting quietly, reading a magazine. "I memorized the eye chart." She said, "Excuse me?" I said, "I have the eye chart memorized." She laughed, as though she thought I was just being silly (which is not out of the question). I said, "O-F-L-C-T. H-T-V-P-F-R-U." She and the other receptionist both stopped dead in their tracks. I said jokingly, "I can read it from here." Then I smiled and laughed and they both started laughing raucously and trading jokes about what he was going to do with me now. Oddly though, laughing with these ladies about this ridiculous situation gave me the courage I needed to tell the doctor again, with more confidence, that I had memorized his chart.

This story has a good ending. When I explained the situation, he said, "Wow. You're in luck. We just changed out the machines last week, and the new machine has a whole new chart." Whew! That was relief. Finally, I felt like I got a good exam. Turns out, I might be being overcorrected, since my eyesight is actually improving with age, which he says tends to happen to people who were nearsighted since childhood.

This situation, like so many others, causes me to think. Could I have successfully made myself see D-P-L-O-T instead of O-F-L-C-T in order to get better "perspective"? Could I have suppressed what I knew was absolutely true in order to try to get a true evaluation of my eyesight? In broader realms, "Can a person suppress what he or she knows to be true in order to try to gain a more truthful goal?" The idea of it seems ridiculous to me. Yet it happens quite often these days. Truth is viewed to be subjective. "You see it this way, but I see it this way," thinking... What happens, is that a person attempts to ditch what they've always believed in order to try to find a better "truth". From my experience, if you ever knew what the truth about something was, looking harder won't lead you to a better or truer truth. You might find additional, related truths, but you won't find a different one. Because that is the nature of the word, the concept - truth. It's nature is constant, unchanging, and final. If you have children, you might have noticed that they are sure and dogmatic and more honest (sometimes to your chagrin) than any adult. That's because they don't let anyone prevailing opinion or peer pressure lead them to look for something else.

I took Levi to his neurologist yesterday. The doctor asked him some questions I was sure he wouldn't be able to answer - at his age and maturity level, but I was wrong. He was quite capable of giving answers far above what I thought he would be able.

The doctor asked, "Levi, what do you think of your medicine?"

Levi responded, "Um, I think that it's pretty yucky."

He elaborated, "When I have a headache, I hold between my eyes and I cry and say, 'Daddy, I need some medicine,' and daddy goes to get some medicine, and then I take it, and I feel better. For awhile, it was very yucky, but mom got some flavor in it, and now it's not as yucky anymore, but it's still yucky."

Doctor looked at me and said, "Is he in school?"

I said, "Not yet."

He said, "He's ready."

Levi didn't say what he thought the doctor wanted to hear. He hasn't been conditioned to curb his honesty yet. He isn't yet at my girls's age where they are quiet about what they think around other adults - for fear of rejection or having the "wrong" answer. He told the truth, from his perspective. It was a subjective truth, an opinion, but he gave it unabashed, without fear of rejection.

If you are blessed enough to ever have the truth about something, don't look for a different one - because it'll just be a lie. Live by it. Let it change your life... or just use it to cheat on the eye exam.

Rainy Days and Weddings

This week has been a long week for me. My husband has been working my least favorite shift - afternoons. I feel like a single mom most of the week when he works this shift, because dinner, bath time, bed time - the most challenging times of our days - are not shouldered by anyone else. It was also a full week of starting school, some volunteer responsibilities, doctor appointments, and soccer practices too. To top it off, tonight there was a wedding - an outdoor wedding.

First of all, I'm no wedding humbug, and I usually find a way to enjoy myself at weddings, but they are not my favorite occasion to attend. I think there's a stereotype that women love to go to weddings, and doubtless some do, but I would definitely not fall into that category. However, like I kept telling myself last night, you don't go to people's occasions (weddings, funerals, etc.) for yourself. You go for them.

My grandmas wanted to go, but my grandpas are wedding humbugs, and they didn't want to attend. So I offered to chauffeur Grandmas to the event - which was a bit over two hours north of where we live. The drive up was uneventful, but we could see clouds looming all around us, and encountered a few sprinkles here and there.

When we arrived, we made the first of a couple restroom visits that night. The wedding was scheduled to be held about 500 yards from a pavilion, in front of a koi pond and waterfall, on the banks of the Mississippi River. Eagle Point Park - it was a beautiful location, surrounded by rocky, limestone ledges and overhangs that would have provided lovely places to sit... if only...

We were instructed, as the bride arrived, to make our way down to the koi pond and find a place to sit. I was loaded down with three children, two grandmas, a purse, a diaper bag, and a lunchbox (with snacks and drinks in case of noisy kids), a cute pair of shoes, and a semi-decent hairdo. Reluctantly, I followed the groom's parents and the groomsmen in our informal trek to the koi pond area. As the koi pond was in sight, Levi started to run toward it in order to explore it. What else would a three year old boy do? Had the words "sensible shoes" entered my thoughts earlier that day during wardrobe selection, I could have possibly prevented his next antics, but they didn't, and I found myself unable to run and chase after him. So I just said a quick prayer that he wouldn't fall into the pond before I got there. I was trying to manage the maternal glare that often times will stop a child in his or her tracks before potential embarrassment ensues. However, this only works if the child is looking at you and not at the brightly colored fish inside the pond, whose edges he is skillfully, if not menacingly, treading. This is the first line of offense before the, sometimes necessary, always humiliating, redneck mom holler, with wording that can range from a simple, "Now you get down from there!" to the more threatening and infinitely more tacky, "You better get off that wall 'fore I snatch you baldheaded!" I haven't ever gotten to use the second one, but I think I could work it into my rotation if necessary. Anyway, I did end up having to resort to some type of holler - can't remember now exactly what that was, but he reluctantly stepped away from the pond, and, as we headed over to the rocky overhangs, the sky opened up and poured down heavy rain.

I tucked the children and our bags, as best I could, under the short, rocky overhangs to keep them dry. They, of course, weren't the most cooperative, as they didn't realize the rain was as heavy as it was. I stood outside the rocks being soaked to the skin, water pouring down my hair and into my eyes. It was at that moment that Levi decided to crawl into a hole between the rocks. When he emerged on the other side, he was covered in spider webs and little spiders were crawling on him. As I tried to remove the webs and brush off the spiders, he heard me say the word "spiders" and started dancing around squealing that he had spiders on him. That's when I asked him to jump to me - off the ledge. I grabbed him around the ribs as he jumped to me and his head bounced off of my forehead with a sickening sound. The pain radiated through my head and down my neck as the rain still fell in force, and I tucked him again under a rock ledge. I said another prayer for the rain to let up so that we could go back to where the grandmas were - under some trees closer to the pavilion, as we had been faster in coming down the hill than they.

As I looked at the sidewalk leading back up the hill - now covered in mud and mud puddles - I wanted to burst into tears. However, the rain backed off for a moment, and we started to make our way back up the hill. Levi got distracted again near the water fall, and a few more verbal threats got us back on our way. We met the grandmas, one of whom was having a terrible time with the walk, as she suffers from severe back pain. I slowed down to wait for her, while carrying Violet and trying to hold Grandma's arm. Despite the rain it was still a hot day, and combined with the stress, when we arrived back at the top, I felt sweat (or was it rain?) sliding down my back. I was soaked to the skin, the kids were dirty from the rocks, and I was in the midst of feeling disgusted with the whole situation when the preacher announced that they were going to start the ceremony in the pavilion right that moment. So we had to head into the pavilion and stand on one side or the other, as there were no chairs. You don't think much about your shoes unless they are hurting you, and then that's the only thing in the world you can think of at all. We stood for the next half hour or so, and I heard a few words the pastor said and every word my children said. Levi behaved quite well for having not had a nap and desperately wishing he was outside playing on the playground equipment. I held Violet the entire time, and it just made my feet feel as though I had gained 25 pounds.

Despite all of this, I felt a little misty as the vows were said as the ceremony came to a close. They are the sweetest couple and so very deserving of the happiness they are enjoying. I was glad, despite it all, that we could witness this day. It was the first outdoor wedding I had ever attended, and it was rained out. I would have enjoyed having my husband's assist on this one, but then there would have just been another wet, whining person who wanted to go home whom I would have had to convince to stay for the sake of the couple in front. As it was, Levi was asking every 10 seconds if we could please go home. I finally agreed it was time to go home, and we headed for the last trip to the restroom. As we neared the restroom, Levi peeled off and went into the men's room. I shouted for him to come back out, and he shouted back that he wanted to use the stand-up potty the big boys use. I said, "But mommy can't come in there with you." He came to the doorway with his shorts around his ankles and said, "It's fine, mommy. You can just wait here." The bathrooms were the type with no doors, and I figured he was fairly safe if I stood near the entrance. He headed back in and finished his business uneventfully. I was thankful for the indoor plumbing of the bathrooms but found myself wanting to curse the inventor of the stainless steel toilet. Why do parks have these horrible things? No matter how long you sit on them, they never warm up.

Someday, maybe not very many years from now, this newlywed couple will likely have a similar experience to mine yesterday. Mark and I often have older people come over to our table at a restaurant or see us out in a store and say something to the effect of, "These are the best days of your life. Cherish them." I don't know if it's because we look flustered or if it's because we have so many children, but, for some reason, people say this to us fairly often. After they leave the table, I sometimes look at Mark and say, "Yeah, it's easy to say that when you spend your winters golfing and shopping in Florida." We smile and have a chuckle about it. However, when it comes down to it, and we're having a difficult moment, we have begun to take a deep breath, look at one another, and say, "These are the best days of our lives." It doesn't change our circumstances, but it gives us wider perspective.

Perspective, after all, is central to a healthy attitude. For instance, this week I was teaching the girls out of a book called Properties of Ecosystems. It was discussing the word "niche" and talking about how each animal, plant, and person has a niche in the community in which they live - something they provide to others or the world around them and something they take. We were discussing a few different animals and plants, and when I asked what the niche of a tree is, Claire replied, "It gives us toothpicks." This struck me funny, as, obviously she was right, but in such a small way. Her perspective was narrowly focused at that moment. We discussed it some more and came up with a broader vision which included shade, oxygen, shelter, etc., but toothpicks were still an important part of a tree's niche, according to Claire, even though we rarely even use a toothpick in our house. Isn't it funny how we can be 100% right about something but still miss the wider vision?

I missed the wider vision yesterday. I think this is not uncommon to the experience of man. I think God uses this to remind us that no matter how much we know about Him or about the world around us, it's still just a tiny portion of what is true about Him. That's what makes me in love with Him - the expanse of immeasurable that is Him.

Kisses and Substitutes

When I was 12, I was kissed for the first time... not by a dad or a granddad, but by an actual boy. He was 17. I don't remember much about it except for that it was by the lockers, it was very short, and I was dizzy afterward.

The thing is... I went to school in a small, private school. Our junior high and high school classes were all held on one side of the school building. Some of our larger assemblies were combined, as were all our recess/lunch breaks. This gave us a lot of time to intermingle among the wide age group. I was in 7th grade, and he was a Senior. What in the world, you ask? At the time, I had no idea why everyone felt that way - especially my poor, panicked parents. I tell you the truth, no semi-romantic relationship has ever been more cute than that silly one was.

Two weeks ago, I was finally getting a chance to go through some boxes that had long remained unpacked - probably from several moves ago. For some reason, in our last move, someone had put two odd boxes upstairs in our bedroom. To my shame, until two weeks ago, they had been in that same corner for over a year. I opened them up to go through them. Amongst some old cards, letters, and photos I found a particular card - a birthday card from that boy - my first kiss. You see, my parents had lectured him, following "the kiss heard round the world," (you see, when a senior kisses a 7th grader in the hallway, everyone knows it in 3 minutes flat) that he was not allowed to kiss me - at all - ever. I was reminded of this when I read the inside of the card. It read something to the effect of, "I got you the best gift I could think of - Hershey's Kisses. Since I'm not allowed to give you the real ones, these will have to do... although a poor substitute in my opinion."

A few months till graduation, and I never saw him again... until yesterday, that is, when his wife gave me a bracelet made of, what else? Hershey's Kisses.

About a year ago or so, I noticed that several of my friends on Facebook were friends with him, and I'm not sure which of us friend requested the other, but we became the kind of Facebook friends that you never really talk to - just look at pictures and info at first and see a status update here and there. A few months later, his wife friended me on Facebook, and I enjoyed her status posts and photos. They have a son who is Levi's age, and she enjoyed my posts about his antics. We became more like regular friends - just ones who hadn't met yet.

A few months back, she posted that she was making "PMS" bracelets. I had to ask, "What's that?" She posted a photo of these bracelets... they're made of Hershey's Kisses instead of jewels... a perfectly wonderful substitute, in my opinion.

About a month ago, she mentioned that they would maybe like to come visit us next time they are in town. (They live on the East Coast.) I was happy at this prospect - meeting her in person and seeing him and their son. It would be really neat. We worked out the details in between times, and they came yesterday for brunch and a swim. We had a wonderful time getting acquainted/reacquainted. Mark and Austin enjoyed looking at some of his artistry - as he is an accomplished leather artisan. She brought me a PMS bracelet. I didn't put the kiss connection together until this evening as I was driving home from a wedding.

It's funny how life doesn't often turn out the way we think it might. At any one moment of life, we can think we have it all figured out or in hand - only to be surprised later by something totally different and infinitely perfect. That's where I am today - so happy and content with where God has me at this moment. It won't always be like this. I know that all seasons - even the best ones - are just that... seasons. Everything comes to an eventual end just as something new dawns. I'm so glad that God had better, more perfect plans for those two kids kissing in the hallway 20 years ago (ouch, that hurts to even admit) than we had for ourselves... a perfect substitute, in my opinion.

Ode to Wisconsin...

At the beginning of this year, prior to the Gulf Coast oil spill, we had made plans to spend two weeks this fall in Pensacola Beach. This is a trip we have made periodically with my parents and sister(s) since my little sister went to college in Pensacola several years ago. We enjoy that area very much. Needless to say, once the oil spill happened, we decided to change our plans - based on the uncertainty of how things would be on the Gulf Coast in the fall. I didn't like this change in plans. Mainly because it meant that we would be vacationing in the slightly less coastal, significantly more humid and buggy WISCONSIN. I have bad association with Wisconsin. When I was young, my aunt and uncle lived there and used to bring us up for visits. She had Illinois license plates on her car, and people shouted at and swore at us on a regular basis just for being from Illinois. There was no ambiguity how the majority of loud Wisconsinites felt about anyone from Illinois. Since then, I have had fun having a vendetta against Wisconsin. I like to make fun of Wisconsin for whatever reason I can find - from charging so much for state park admission, to all the roadside cheese markets, to whatever else seems handy at the time.

I had some great fun going over the Wisconsin State Fair website - that actually advertised "Illinois Day"... so that "all our friends from Illinois can get a discount on fair admission to enjoy our fair". All you have to do is present your Illinois driver's license to receive discounted admission. Um... exqueeze me? Like we don't have our own ridiculously obese bull and boar? Like we don't have our own blue ribbon jams, jellies, pies, and pastries? Like we don't have our own pork chops on a stick? Like we don't have our own deep fried snickers bars, twinkies, oreos, and pickles? Like we don't have our own life-sized Neil Armstrong carved completely out of butter? Like we don't have our own cow chip throwing contest? No, we need to drive hours away to go to yours. Like yours is better? What really annoyed me about the prospect of Illinois Day was that it was an obvious ploy to keep the Illinois riff-raff on one, specific day of the fair. They could have just as easily said, "In effort to keep the Illinoisans from tainting the rest of the fair, we're going to offer them a discount for a specific day. That way, they'll hopefully come that day, and we can actually enjoy the rest of the fair - Illinois free." I know for a fact that Iowa doesn't have an Illinois Day at their fair. We're welcome any day of the fair. Wisconsin State Fair, you can keep your Illinois Day.

When I say that I have fun having a vendetta against Wisconsin, the above paragraph is a perfect example of how that looks. It's not real anger or hatred. It's more like a good-natured ribbing. What I mean is, we live within about an hour of the Wisconsin border. We share much of the same agriculture, weather, terrain, and life experiences, but we still find reason to dislike one another. We're like feuding neighbors, and I find that terribly fun... in a Grumpy Old Men kind of way.

Two years ago this fall, Mark and I went to a beautiful bed and breakfast in Wisconsin for a few days. I was pregnant with Violet at the time. We decided we'd like to learn how to fly fish. So we went to Cabela's and bought thigh-high waders, flies, and poles. This was an interesting sight, I imagine, watching a pregnant woman sitting on a van tailgate putting on waders. Me and my bulbous belly - wading into the creeks trying to learn how to fly cast. We never caught a thing. We did, however, find a lot of new and creative places to go to the bathroom... pregnant - remember? We had studied up on this quite a bit, but we didn't catch a thing. I'm not sure it was the right time of year, considering we didn't even see a single fish.

My husband and I had only known one another for about 2 1/2 years, at this point, and had spent relatively little time alone together. We were still trying to figure out how to be vulnerable with one another. As a result, there are a few humorous stories I like to tell about that trip. You see, my husband likes TV, but we don't have regular TV channels. We just have DVD's, Netflix, etc. He looks forward, on our trips away, to watching a little television from the outside world. I neglected to mention that the only TV set in the entire bed and breakfast was in the common room that we shared with the rest of the guests. I believe his response when we arrived at the B&B and he arrived at this horrible conclusion was something to the effect of, "You mean I have to share one TV with a bunch of old people? Grrreat! Now what are we going to do here?" Perhaps the fact that he couldn't just relax in his skivvies and watch Letterman before bed was quite distressing... so distressing, in fact, that the slightest thought of the romantic few days I had hoped for did not even cross his mind. Our room did, however, have a hot tub... which I was very grateful to use - yes, even whilst pregnant. I was just starting to get bigger, and I had a case of the pregnant clutsies. I kept tripping and falling. When we were scouting a stream, I had been running toward him and fallen in a hole - landing flat on my face (and belly). After I got up, we had a good laugh over it, but it made me even more thankful for a hot tub at the end of the day.

My husband is a Renaissance man. He has many tastes and an amazing array of abilities. One of those abilities is tying knots. He can tie an impressive array of knots... from a slipknot to a hitching post knot to a hangman's noose. (Incidentally, if you ever need to form a lynch mob and you need someone with his unique ability, feel free to call.) He not only knows how to tie these many times complex knots, he also knows the history of these knots. He has 2 or 3 books on knots. He often takes his rope and books with us places. He took it on that trip to the B&B in Wisconsin. One evening, as I was filling the hot tub with warm water, and he was sitting on the bed - reading and tying, something funny happened. I went to step into the hot tub, but I slipped on a rug and fell in - quite loudly. I got a huge bruise on my leg and another on my arm. At the time, I wanted to scream in agony, but, because I was embarrassed, I managed a mimed, "owowowowowow!" I peeked out of the tub expecting him to be staring at me or laughing at me, but he still had his back to me - tying knots. He is very intense and focused and hadn't even noticed me falling loudly into the tub. I found myself with mixed emotions ranging from annoyance that he wasn't paying me any attention, relief that he wasn't paying me any attention, embarrassment at my clumsy blunder, and curiousity about what would have happened had I been rendered unconscious by my fall. I wondered how long it would have taken for him to stop tying knots and notice I wasn't around. Would I have drowned in the tub? What would he have told the paramedics when they arrived to find his pregnant wife bruised, waterlogged, and deceased in the hot tub? We still laugh about it, from time to time, making up scenarios of how that might have gone. I have a friend who asks me to tell that story sometimes. She nearly rolls on the floor laughing by the end of it - incredulous that he was paying me no attention at all as I nearly drowned in a dimly lit hot tub.

This most recent trip was spent on a lake and was quite fun - aside from dealing with the same weather and same mosquitoes we deal with at home. At least we had a TV in our room. :) It also had a hammock, which I find to be a welcome addition to any vacation. Levi was having a difficult time understanding what we were doing or where we were going. He thought we were going on "cation" to "Miss Consin's" house. In fact, when the caretaker of the cottage arrived, he was pretty sure that he was Miss Consin and that he needed to go talk to Miss Consin about his nice house.

Anyway, I guess I have Wisconsin to thank for some of the good memories I already have in our marriage and family life. Maybe Wisconsin and I will have to kiss and make up someday. Or maybe I'll have to take Levi and Violet to the Wisconsin State Fair wearing their new, favorite t-shirts.

Hamsters Have At Least 3 Lives

We have had a hamster since April of this year. I have come to think of her as Nibbles, the Miracle Hamster. She has earned this title quite handily, and yesterday was no exception.

You see, Nibbles likes to run away. Houdini might have been a better name for our talented hamster. She has escaped three, separate times to date. When I was gone on vacation with Austin to California in May and my parents were taking care of her, she ran out of water, and, understandably, staged an escape. My parents have mouse poison in small, childproof containers throughout the house. The fear of impending pet poisoning gripped my mom. They ransacked the house for her, and, when they were unable to locate her, my mom left Nibbles‘ cage on the floor, with the door open. She left the baby monitor on the floor near the cage so that she might hear her if she returned in the evening. She text messaged me to pray for Nibbles’s safe return. It seems funny to pray for the return of a hamster, but my girls had already become quite attached to Nibbles. So pray we did. Within an hour, I received a second text message proclaiming Nibbles's miraculous return. My mom had heard some scratching sounds on the monitor. She went downstairs to find Nibbles back inside her open cage. With that much house and that many food options, her return was surely not coincidence or blind luck. Was it?

A few weeks later, Nibbles managed to get her cage door open again and disappeared from the girls’s bedroom. They woke up and panicked, as our house has the same mouse poison and Nibbles was nowhere to be found. Lucky, our Boston Terrier, is particularly fond of Nibbles. Lucky is to Nibbles as Henry VIII was to turkey legs. On that occasion, we let Lucky loose to find Nibbles. Find her, he did... in the back of a toy moving van with some of his dog food. Nibbles had apparently stopped by the bag of dog food in the laundry room before making her way, jowls crammed with dog food, to the back of a moving van... ready to hit the road. I imagine that, for Lucky, the sight was like one out of a dream - appetizer and a meal... ala moving van.

After the second time Nibbles vanished, we wired her cage door shut. We weren’t entirely sure someone hadn’t just left the cage door open the first time. The second time, we realized she could get the door open herself.

Enter yesterday... We were instructing a friend on how to care for our pets when we leave on vacation in awhile. We arrived at the girls’s bedroom to find Nibbles gone from her cage... again. We explained Nibbles’s care anyway, in hopes of her eventual return. We searched again, but to no avail. Their room bears a certain cluttered quality, even when clean, that I attribute to the fact that they have 10 grandparents and about 20 aunts and uncles - all of whom are generous at birthdays and Christmas. There was no way we were finding that hamster. I put her cage on the floor with a carrot and hoped she might again decide to return home. At that point, she could have been anywhere in the house.

I take three pills at night before bed. Two are an herbal sleep aid, and one is a prescription pain reliever. As a result, I could likely sleep through an atomic explosion. At 4:32 this morning, I was suddenly awakened from a deep sleep. I started immediately to picture all of the possible scenarios of finding Nibbles. None of them were pleasant. In one scenario, a stench led us to the dead body of Nibbles. In another scenario, someone found her by stepping on her. In yet another, gruesome scenario, Violet found a dead hamster in a toy somewhere and started giving herself dead hamster highlights. As panic started to overwhelm me, I got the sense that I should be praying, not worrying. After all, Philippians 4:6 says, “ 6 Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God.” Now, I’m not one to claim I hear the audible voice of God. However, rarely I feel something - it’s more like a sense not my own. I felt, “Get up”. I thought, “Now? Nah.” I felt, “Get up... Get up... Get up...” I thought, “Well, I guess I could use the bathroom.” I got up, and, as I started toward the bathroom, I felt, “No... the girls’ room first.” I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was going to find Nibbles in that room at that moment. I have never had this kind of experience before, and I know it seems silly just typing it. If it hadn’t been immediately obvious where Nibbles was, I might have dismissed my premonition as leftovers of a vivid dream or something simple and explicable like that. I heard scratching as soon as I walked in the door. Next, I saw their nylon hamper wiggling and moving in the corner. As I approached it, Nibbles did a vertical leap of about 12 inches. It scared me, as I didn’t know she had it in her. She wanted out of that hamper. I moved the hamper toward her cage and lifted her into the cage. She was VERY thirsty and tired, and was thinner and bald in a couple places, but she was alive.

I came back to bed excited (as excited as one can be at 4:30 in the morning) to have found her and at the way it happened. Mark asked me, “What happened?” I told him, “The hamster was in their hamster...” I said this a couple of times, and he said, “What?” My sleepy stupor was interfering with my ability to string together a cohesive sentence.

It’s strange, the girls have all of a sudden been into these Zhu-Zhu pets. They look like hamsters, and they have little cars they drive and slides and things that you can buy as accessories. They love these furry, little fakes. All the while, the real thing sits in her cage barely being noticed - until she runs away and give us a scare. Fortunately for Nibbles, she was not forgotten by God. (Luke 5:6-7) 6"Are not five sparrows sold for two cents? Yet not one of them is forgotten before God. 7"Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Do not fear; you are more valuable than many sparrows. I would imagine that “hamsters” could be substituted in these verses too.

When I went back to bed, a song kept running through my head - one that I haven’t sung for as long as I can remember... an old hymn - the chorus of which goes, “The Longer I serve Him, the sweeter He grows. The more that I love Him more love He bestows...” Why that song? I’m not sure. I had not taken time out for devotions that night before bed. I felt a little pang of guilt that, even though God was not on my mind, I had never left His mind. Neither had my daughters’s hamster. My tiniest problem was on his radar screen. But to me, He doesn’t grow sweeter the longer I serve Him. I just am finally able to see what was there all along. He isn’t changing. I am. I am becoming more cognizant of His nature - the Truth that sets me free (and, ironically, returns hamsters to their captivity).

It’s said that cats have nine lives. I’m not sure how many hamsters have, but Nibbles has proved to have three, so far... and a more resilient rodent I haven’t seen since Jerry Mouse.

Messy Perspective

I decided not to turn on the computer till afternoon yesterday. I had a few things on my agenda, and the computer, however useful for things like budgeting and paying bills, is not always conducive to a productive day. I started off by emptying the dishwasher and putting away dishes from yesterday. I was feeding kids breakfast in the midst of that. Then I started catching up on some laundry when I noticed a box of clothes on the laundry room floor that I had gotten out of the basement that needed sorting. I took the box to one of the kids' bedrooms for sorting and remembered that I wanted to clean bathrooms that morning too. I went to the bathroom in our bedroom and sprayed down the toilet (inside and out) with Clorox Cleanup to let it sit for awhile. I left the other bathroom for later in case the kids had to use it. I then went back to work in the kids' room to get that box of clothing sorted. I started to sort it when I realized that their drawers were too full to hold the new clothes. So I decided that I needed to clean out the drawers of things that were getting too small and put those things in another box to go downstairs. So I started to do that when I found some clothing in their closet in bags that also needed sorting. So I started to do that when I found some clothes that needed ironed and hung up in the closet. The children had been in and out of the various rooms I was in and out of to ask for a drink or to tell me a story, etc. the whole time, but it was then that I realized that I heard some bathroom cabinet doors opening and shutting. I figured it was one of the older kids getting a towel or some toilet paper or something, and I ignored it for about 2 minutes. Then I realized it was still going on, and I went to the main bathroom. There was nobody in it. I went to our bathroom and, to my horror, found Violet "helping" mom.

As background, my husband had one of those Clorox toilet wands when we got married. It's the type that you buy the disposable pads for the end of it, and then you just throw that pad away when you're done cleaning. I don't know for sure why he had one of those, as I'm almost certain that he has never cleaned a toilet. I guess maybe he bought it for his mom so she didn't have to bring her own when she came to clean his and Austin's bachelor pad. Either that, or he's a toilet cleaning whiz, and he's just been holding out on me all this time.

I don't know if Violet has watched me clean toilets but maybe once or twice. I usually try to save that job for when the little ones are either in the bath tub, high chair, or asleep, because I don't want them to get tempted to be "helpful". Apparently, she has absorbed what the routine is, because yesterday, as I walked into the bathroom, I found the box of extra Clorox pads open on the floor. I found the Clorox wand back under the cabinet where it usually is but soaking wet. The worst part was that, as she had evidently not been able figure out how to get the wand and pads together, she had taken the next best thing, a small, handheld scrub brush, from under the cabinet to clean the bathroom. She had given the toilet - inside and out - a through scrubbing, as well as everything around it - the magazine basket, walls, floor, rug, and - to my dismay - herself. As I arrived, she was brushing her hair with the scrub brush she had used for the toilet. She had toilet water (and Clorox Cleanup) running off her head in all directions and onto the new outfit I had just put on her. She had it running off her forehead and into her eyes and mouth. She met me with a huge, helpful smile, and some baby jibber jabber. I wish that my response had been able to match her glee. I believe it went something like, "Violet! Grooooooossss!!! GRRRRRR....."

All my germophobic mind could picture is germs running all over her and everything else and bleach burning her baby skin. I proceeded to strip her down and throw her in the shower and clean her thoroughly with baby soap. She was quite pleased at her helpfulness. I wrapped her in a towel and sent her out of the bathroom so that I could finish the clean up she had started.

Levi and Violet share a bedroom right now, and they have a small set of plastic drawers next to their dresser in which I store baby toiletries and items: nail clippers, lotions, creams, hair brushes, and hair pretties. On top of those drawers is a porcelain statue of Jesus with children around him that my grandma bought them at her favorite store - Everything's A Dollar. When I put them down for bed a few nights ago, he was apparently not very sleepy. When I went in their room the next morning, there was a white haze and a delightful smell. I immediately started coughing though as I sucked the white powder in through my nostrils and realized it was baby powder. The plastic drawers were open, and two bottles of baby powder were laying on their side on the floor of their room. His pillow and blanket were moved down next to Violet's pack-n-play, and when I lifted his pillow there was a mound of baby powder underneath. This was merely the tip of the iceberg. His bedding had been completely coated in the powder. Their carpeting was full of it. The plastic drawers and dresser had been coated with it, and the Jesus statue looked like it had been sitting out during a 3 inch baby powder storm. I got out the vacuum and spent quite awhile trying to get it all sucked up and into the bag. When I finished, a white haze permeated the whole first floor, and the vacuum bag was full of white powder.

My older daughters were easy toddlers. No toilets, no tantrums, no trouble... no writing on walls, no coloring in books, no tearing out pages... no eating non food items, no ripping out pet fur, no getting out of bed at bedtime. Before I had these last two children, I wasn't sure why people needed to put childproof locks on cabinets, drawers, and toilet lids. I didn't understand lids on garbage cans or those plastic doorknob covers. I didn't know why people said, "When they're quiet, that's when you have to worry about what they're doing." I have been schooled. I joke around about earning my "Boy Badge" when I got Austin and Levi. But I have also earned my "Busy Child Badge"... twice over. I'm fairly certain that God knew I needed to have a wider perspective of child-rearing. So that's what consoles me when I'm pulling plates and forks out of the trash, vacuuming baby powder, and mopping up toilet water. I'm getting perspective, and Violet's learning how to give herself blonde highlights. Sometimes I wish the easy ones had come second.

Well, I'm off to help clean up a hamster cage turned upside down on the floor. "Rodent Care Badge", here I come.