Iced Tea and a Midnight Moon

I am like a glass of sweet iced tea on a dimly lit screened-in porch on a Midwestern summer night that sounds of cicadas and smells of field corn and moist cut hay. The night is more still than a night should even be capable of on a planet that spins around a star. The moon is full and covered, like everything else, in a thick, humid haze; and I am beaded with sweat that meets up like mountain streams that meet lowland rivers to run toward steamier places. I am the only thing that is cool around these parts, and I am quickly and steadily losing my cool as my sweetness becomes well watered down.

As I walk I breathe what could only be considered water vapor. It smells and even tastes earthy - like the dirt from which it is rising so silently on a night so wide open with possibilities it could only end in the deepest of sleep. The dogs skitter in front of me and behind me - exploring all the sounds and smells the darkness affords with night vision keen and obviously superior to mine.  All I can see are their silhouettes moving silently through the dewy grass on a path dimly lit by a mist-shrouded Midwestern moon and a few obliging fireflies twilnkling intermittently to the rhythm of eternity... which is, of course, as unpredictable as it is lovely.  The soft soles of my shoes give way to the crumbled limestone rock on the gravel path beneath my feet in a stillness so soft that not even the dust stirs beneath my soles.  

These are the things inherent in fondest memories - the place in the mind and outside the body where temporal meets eternal and where man-made meets heaven-sent.  These... the very reason that God conceived of blessing us with a terrestrial existence and which consumed Him in a yearning to experience such an existence for Himself.  These are the things that I will remember fondly in a hospital bed one day and forget completely in a heavenly home the next.

Love You First...

Tonight we were at a friend's house - our children all playing together.  Levi came upstairs from the basement where they had been playing with big tears in his eyes.  He reported that one of the other children had told him, "I hate you."  This helped explain the tears.  Levi approached the other child's mother and said, "____ hates me."  She replied, "No, I'm sure he doesn't hate you.  What would make you think he hates you?"  Levi replied, "He told me, 'I hate you.'"  Well, she handled it quickly and graciously, and all was well again.


On the way home, my husband said to me, "Levi kept saying, 'I don't wanna die.  Dad, I don't wanna die.' I kept telling him, not to worry and that he wasn't going to die, but it made me wonder why would he think he was going to die."  I pondered this along with my husband until I realized I knew why he had said it.  I said, "I never think he's actually listening to me, but I guess even when he is he misunderstands me anyway."  Mark asked what I meant, and I explained it this way:  A few months ago he said, "I hate you," to me when he was mad at me for not letting him do something he wanted to do.  I took him by his hands, looked in his eyes, and I said, "Do you want mommy to die?"  He said, "No."  I said (as my parents had once told me), "When you tell someone that you hate them it means that you wish they were dead.  If you don't wish I was dead, then you shouldn't say that you hate me."  It would seem that in Levi's mind this translated to the incredibly scary and markedly morbid, "If someone says that they hate you, you're going to die," which, I'm sorry to say, does sound similar to what I told him the other day and which also, incidentally, accounts for the presence of tears earlier that evening.  It's a shame they can't get in your head and understand what you're actually trying to communicate.  I have a tendency to say things without thinking - probably a lot more often than I imagine.  In fact, I'd say I'm either on one end of the spectrum or the other with that... I either think too little before I speak or think way too much before I speak.


Earlier tonight, as we were sitting at the kitchen counter at my friend's house, Levi looked up at me lovingly and said, "Mom, I love you so much."  Then he puckered up for me to give him a kiss, which I happily did.  I wondered what brought on such a burst of unwarranted affection.  Then I began to overthink all of it, and, as I was in thought about how much I'm learning about males and how they seem to take a woman totally for granted and then pour out short bursts of affection for seemingly no reason at all, and just when I thought I might be on the brink of solving an age-old mystery, Levi interrupted my musings with, "Mom, people love people that love them first."  Simple, succinct, and true.  Don't you love how kids give you easy truth upside your head?


1 John 4:19 says, referring to God, "We love Him because He first loved us."
Jeremiah 31:3 says, "The LORD appeared to us in the past, saying: "I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with loving-kindness."

I guess the Bible agrees with Levi.  "People love people that love them first."  Love is a remarkable thing - that we love at all... in this ugly, fallen state.  I tend to believe we can't unless He first loves and lives in us.  In human terms, somebody has to start the love, right? I mean, God loved us first, but sometimes we have to step out and choose to love another person first.  If you're a parent, you know who loved whom first... and who always will.

As I write this, my world is in critter havoc.  My son is outside skinning his first raccoon - which he treed earlier and is now skinning.  The thought makes me lose my stomach, and I am as disgusted as he is thrilled.  He came in a few minutes ago to ask my help learning how to tan the hide.  I did my best to find the information he needed despite my sincere belief that the tail hanging over his bed will remind me of the fact that he probably killed a mommy raccoon whose babies are starving somewhere.  In addition, my girls' hamster has, once again, managed to escape his living quarters.  He has a new, plush living quarters with little colorful plastic tunnels that lead a dozen different directions.  This, however, is not enough for Nibbles.  He likes the wide open spaces of closet-land and laundry mountain.  He likes the lush landscape of carpet and ceiling where, around each bend, awaits a hungry dog, curious toddler or some other menacing, life-threatening adventure.  In fact, the dog managed to chase him out of the laundry room and he literally scampered over my feet not three minutes ago and is hunkered down under my oven as I type.  He is a fiendish rodent.  No matter how much the children love him first, he cannot love them back.  Now I'm off to love them by figuring out how to get Nibbles back from under the oven.  Wonder if I turn it on and toast his buns if he'll run out to accept the peace offering of grapes I put tantalizingly close to the front of it?  I doubt it.  From the looks of it, he's spent his day eating a variety of new offerings, including hair pretties, Barbie clothes, and some delicious cardboard boxes.  He may not have the stomach for grapes.  But, if my dog is any judge of that, he can spend all day eating underwear and still have room for a couple grapes.  

Incognito

Recently Levi (4) went from keeping his underoos dry all night for about a whole month to peeing in them every, single night.  True to his style as a child who can do nothing halfway, when he wets the bed he really wets the bed.  We put training pants on him every night - which used to be a "just in case..." kind of thing.  Now it's more like a "in the absolute certainty that..." kind of thing.  Despite the nightly presence of these training pants - which I affectionately refer to as his "bigggg undies", because that's what they are... BIG... so big they look like they should belong to a grown man and so thick that an elderly camel would be hard pressed to over-wet them - he still manages to wet his sheets, comforter, mattress pad, and even sometimes his pillowcase.  Levi and Violet have shared a bedroom since Violet was born, and she refuses to move into her big girl bed.  She likes the pack-n-play, and hasn't busted out the ends of it yet.  So he began to discover that her big girl bed was available (and incidentally the only dry bed-surface in the room), and, once he'd wet his own bed he would proceed to move on to Violet's big-girl bed and wet it too.  These kinds of things make for lovely mornings... that go something like this.  (5:30 AM door slam, second door slam, toilet lid bangs open, tinkle, tinkle, toilet lid bangs shut, toilet flushes, bed jostles, covers move, Levi jumps into bed with me, and I notice a pungent urine smell.)  Me:  "Levi?  Did you wet the bed?"  Levi:  "Yeah, but then I got into Violet's bed.  Then I woke up and changed my clothes."  (Loosely translated, "Yeah, and I didn't like the wetness.  So I got into Violet's dry bed which I ended up peeing in too.  Then, when I saw a sliver of sunlight through the drapes I decided it was time for everyone to wake up.  So I got up, turned on the bedroom light, rummaged through every item of clothing I own, and decided on the third outfit that I tried on.  I think Violet might have woken up about that time.  Then I decided I better slam some doors to make sure she was good and awake.  Then I passed one whole bathroom on the way to your bedroom so that I could go in your bathroom."  Why he slams his bedroom door, my bedroom door, but leaves the bathroom doors wide open?   The world may never know.)


Some parents might complain if a toddler wakes them up to change their clothes and bedclothes fortnightly.  I would appreciate that.  It might save me from having to clean up two or three messes in the morning instead of one, but that would be too easy, wouldn't it?  He has to do things "my byself".  I would love to bask in the warmth of my little guy in bed next to me, but the smell of urine reminds me I now have three sets of sheets to wash instead of just one at 1:00AM.


I bring up all this urine talk, because it was through this recent bed-wetting trauma that I came to find out a secret about one of my girls.  This child is a heavy sleeper/sleep walker.  Because of this, she had trouble with bed wetting until she was 6.  We eventually stumbled onto a small alarm that would wake her if she started to wet the bed, and it worked like a charm.  She started waking up to go to the bathroom at night instead of wetting her bed.  If we stopped using it, however, she often regressed in about a week or so.  Once, however, during one of her regressions, I was looking for the alarm and couldn't find it.  I just figured I had misplaced it (like I often do) or that one of the kids had wandered off with it and that someday I might find it in the bottom of a toy box somewhere.  Over time, I came to the delusion that I had probably packed it away in the original box neatly somewhere - so neatly that I had forgotten where I put it.  The problem?  When I went to look for it this week, I found the box but there was no alarm inside the box.  Consequently, I asked her if she had any idea where it was.  She said, "You know, I think I might."  She proceeded to close her bedroom door.  She emerged about 3 minutes later with the alarm and an armful of old, long-since soiled underwear.  She said, "Yeah, I hid these a couple years back."  I looked at her in disbelief and asked, "Where on earth did you hide all these?"  She hesitated before answering like telling me would quite possibly ruin a perfectly good hiding place.  "Under my dresser," she simply stated.  There is a low lip in the bottom of her dresser - much to small for my hands to fit underneath it.  It was perfect for her little hands though.  She said, "I didn't want you to know I was still wetting, because I hated wearing this thing" (holding up the alarm).  It surprised me how devious she was about hiding the evidence of her bed wetting.


Today, we were on our way to where my husband and dad work - at a nuclear power plant near our home.  We were going on a field trip with some other home schooling families.  As we were driving there, Levi said, "Mom, why is it called rain?"  I replied, "I don't know.  Because it is."  His next question: "Why is God making it rain?"  Now, he has shown keen interest in "why" questions lately.  I don't remember this phase with my older children, but that, of course, doesn't mean it didn't happen.  I rather suspect that it is likely they went through it, but that I was about 4 years less crotchety then than I am now.  "Why is God making it rain???"  My temptation is to answer these types of questions in one of four standard parental styles, "gross oversimplification", "gross over-explanation", "sarcasm", or "the deity pass".  These would look something like this:
gross oversimplification:  "Because he likes to water His garden."
gross over-explanation:  "Because the earth is our home, and it needs water for all of its life to function properly.  This happens by means of a thing called the water cycle wherein water from rivers, lakes, streams, and the ocean end up forming clouds through a process called evaporation.  Can you say evaporation?...  When it evaporates, it forms into clouds which range in types from stratus to cumulonimbus.  Can you say, cumulonimbus?  These clouds eventually become heavier and heavier and then, through a process called condensation fall as rain to the earth.  Can you say condensation?"
sarcasm:  "Because God thought that going to the park for you kids to run off some steam after sitting through a 90 minute lecture-style field trip to a nuclear plant would be too easy for mommy today."  
the deity pass:  "Because God can do what He wants, and He wants it to rain today."  (It's obvious by the very form of the question that Levi has already received the deity pass about why it's raining.)


On this occasion, I chose the first option, because it was the shortest and cutest.  Levi was unsatisfied and decided he had a better answer to his own question than I did.  It went something like this, "Mom, God isn't making it rain.  The clouds are making it rain.  And God made the clouds."  Well, this satisfied us both for the time being... and was, incidentally, way better than my answer.


We think things are a certain way... "There is a way that seems right to a man, but in the end it leads to death." (Proverbs 14:12, 16:25)  We think things are right.  We are certain.  We press on in deceiving ourselves and/or others, because we find it easier than telling the truth.  Our garden reminds me of this fact.  We often find what I like to call "imitator" weeds growing next to the good plants in our garden.  These weeds look so similar to the plants around them that I often leave them in place for a week or two in order to determine their identity for certain.  (Mature plants look much different than baby plants, I'm finding.)  This is also true of "Christians".  I many times find it easier to take a person at their word, be it a "Christian" author or a "Christian" speaker or even a "Christian" pastor.  I want to believe that if they think that's what they are, then they must be.  I want to be accepting.  I want to have my arms open.  I want to be a sponge.  But these people say they're "Christians":

Do you think they are?  Some people will say it's not our place to judge them.  Well, I imagine it's something more like knowing than judging.  Jesus says in Matthew 7 and Matthew 12 that "you will know them by their fruit".  A person's words/claims don't make him/her a Christian.  Neither do their actions alone.  It's only by what's inside coming to the place where it shows itself on the outside that helps me "know".  In the mean time, I won't put my faith or hope in anyone but Christ.  I can't hope in a preacher, an author, a dynamic speaker, or a church or movement.  In addition, I'm finding that God thinks it's very important that I stay in His Word daily so that I can tell the difference between real and counterfeit "truths".  There are so many "worthy" movements, causes, and people toward which I could give time, money, and energy.  There are so many "plants" that grow up together and look similar for a long time.   Ephesians 5 exhorts us to be "imitators of God, as dearly loved children".  What better reason to want to imitate God than because He dearly loves us as children?  And how can I imitate One of Whom I only hear about second-, third-, or fourth-hand but never truly seek to know at a personal level?


Today, Claire came out to my garden with me.  As she was teetering precariously along the edges of my raised beds, her tan skin clad in a damp bathing suit, her blond highlights giving evidence of the carefree days of childhood summer... I was lamenting the sad state of my cucumber plants. I had originally planted a couple of them too closely together, and their root systems had joined... stunting their growth.  So I separated them a few days ago.  Now both sets are doing miserably.  Their leaves, which had been so strong and beautiful (albeit too small) only a few days before were, today, mostly brown and whithered.  Claire said to me, "Mom, are you just going to pick off those dying leaves and let the root and stem form a new set of healthy leaves?"  I was dazed (as usual) and it took me a few seconds to process what she had said.  As one who is new to gardening, I felt myself a little nervous to do this.  Why would I remove the only sign of life these plants had?  Too quickly I responded, "I'm not comfortable doing that."  She asked, "Why not?"  I said, "Well, I'm not sure they would grow new leaves, and I don't want to kill them altogether."  She said, "Well, I think they will.  You know why?"  "Why?" I asked.  She said, "Because when I pulled weeds with you, you told me that if I don't get the root system and stem of the weeds, they'll just grow back.  So why would your cucumbers be any different?  I think you should pick off the dying leaves, and they'll grow back."  Well, one can hardly fight good logic like that.


Truths are universal and only found in the Author of Truth... whether it be that plants grow back from good roots or that "you will know them by their fruits" or that we should "be imitators of God".  James 4:8 exhorts us, "⁸ Draw near to God and He will draw near to you. Cleanse your hands, you sinners; and purify your hearts, you double-minded."  This passage reminds me not to fool myself into thinking that by following a movement I'm following God.  It makes it clear to me that there are no shortcuts or wide paths to God... only through Jesus's shed blood and a long walk down a narrow (sometimes lonely) road where few follow.  It also comforts me that there actually is a simple formula that is universally true when it comes to getting closer to God... I need to take off my masks... and remove the pretenses that tell me I'm "good"... then I can narrow my focus to a single mind - that of drawing near to God alone.

Running Amuck

There have been so many things happening in our lives lately that I've barely had time to think - much less write about it.  So let me try to catch you up on our happenin's.  

I went on a vacation to the Bahamas.

We did some light reading.

We planted some raised bed gardens.

We planted some fruit trees and bushes.

We graduated one, handsome, young man from 8th grade into high school.

The hubby and I got away for a couple days of R and R.

Oh, and then there's the ever-present antics of these two.

especially this one..

But especially this one

Let it suffice to say that these last few months have been busy ones - good ones, but busy nevertheless.  

Now that the warm weather seems to be here to stay for awhile, we've been enjoying some good times outside.  Levi (4) seems to think that, in order to have a good time anywhere he must be wearing a certain pair of stunning, red, sports shorts.  These little beauties have a set of shiny, white, racing stripes down the sides.  He hasn't said a word, but I suspect that they make him feel a little more like Lightning McQueen.  If they end up in the washing machine (which they mysteriously happen to do during bath time about every other day), he moans and wails and seeks them out until they are dry.  He has a couple pairs of backup shorts that will do in a pinch, but he much prefers his beloved red ones.  These shorts have been the source of quite a bit of woe lately, especially since the days (and especially the evenings) have gotten cooler.  He hasn't been allowed to wear them much.  A few nights ago, he asked Mark if he could wear them to bed.  Mark replied, "You better ask mom.  I don't think she'll want you to wear those to bed tonight."  Levi said, "Wait... are you the boss, or is mom the boss?"  This comes from the boy who is always very miffed if he thinks he's being "bossed" by anyone.  He likes to tell me, "Mom, I just don't like to be bossed, because I like to do what I like to do.  Don't you know that?"  Then I try, to no avail of course, to explain that we tell him what he can and can't do in order to keep him healthy and safe.  There are a variety of opinions of how Mark should have answered that question.  He answered something to the effect of, "I am.  Now put on these sweatpants."  Which, call me old-fashioned, is fine with me.  I am glad I don't have to be "the boss", and I'm glad the buck stops somewhere else.

I am always thankful that the kids are healthy, but sometimes I'm a little vexed that they are so sharp.  Violet likes to pull hair.  Last night in the van, Violet started pulling Claire's hair... HARD.  Claire was screeching, and I was telling Violet from the front seat, "Let go of Claire's hair."  She just laughed and pulled harder.  So I said, "Claire, pull her hair!"  Claire asked, "What?"  "Pull her hair!" I shouted above the din.  (I couldn't stop Violet, and I thought if she knew how it felt she might not keep doing it.)  Claire reluctantly tugged lightly on Violet's hair.  Violet smiled and pulled Claire's with more force.  Sadie said, "Claire, you gotta do it till she screams like you're screamin'... till she screams ouch."  Claire looked skeptical and continued to pull lightly on Violet's hair.  Violet, smiled big and said in an exaggerated tone in her adorable baby talk, "Oh, ouch!  Ooo... it hurts!"  Then she laughed manically.  We all burst out laughing too.  This ended the hair-pulling... at least for that time.

When I was young and I did something wrong I received something awful... it was called "discipline" or a "punishment".  A person rarely hears such barbaric words anymore.  I find that people still dole out the types of things that were considered punishment, but these things are given words like "consequence".  I have children in a wide variety of age ranges.  These children have lied, cheated, hit, screamed, thrown tantrums, disobeyed, disrespected, been unkind, been hateful, and just about any other wrong in a child's grasp.  I don't think they do those bad things because they've seen me do those things.  I think they do them because they are wrong-doers.  In fact, the majority of those things I don't even do anymore... especially the hitting and tantrum throwing.  In those ways, they are worse than I am.  On the bright side, they are often also right-doers.  Which, in many cases, makes them worlds better than I am.  My oldest daughter Sadie (10) likes to "motivate" others.  That's a nice way of saying that she likes to control other people, but she does it in such a way that leaves those around her (especially Levi) thinking, "I just did what she told me to do, and I liked it.  What just happened here?"  In fact, her most recent motivational tool for positive reinforcement is a chart she made on the felt board.  In this chart, everyone in our family was assigned a color.  Each person receives a heart if they do something loving or kind and a star if they do something helpful or otherwise unobjectionable.  I think it's great.  Sadie did reveal her intent to remove these hearts or stars if anyone did something worthy of their removal.  Notice that Levi  (green) got right to work earning his reward points.

We've tried another type of positive reinforcement in our home.  It had to do with earning points (in the form of marbles) to earn prizes based on their interests.  This worked nicely for awhile until it turned into a thing where everything they did needed to be accompanied by a reward of some type.  From Claire asking for a reward for cleaning up her own messes to Austin asking if he'd get paid to carol to shut-ins at Christmastime, it just wasn't gaining the desired effect.  In fact, it was bringing out something very negative in my children - GREED.  Come to think of it, maybe it's brought about something negative in me - bribery?  (Notice, I capitalize their wrong and not my own.)  This method of positive reinforcement has gone by the wayside for the time being.

There are undoubtedly parents who enjoy correcting their children.  These are the parents (almost always mothers or presumably female caregivers) that I see at Walmart who can't stop - even for two seconds - hollering and/or talking down to the miserable, little "heathen" in, on, and/or around their shopping cart.  They can be heard from aisles around shouting... "Caleb, stop touching those apples!"  "Ashley, put that back!"  "Do you even have any idea how annoying you are?!"  "Joshua, sit down and shut up!"  They say things most kids can't even understand like, "Oh, you need to get over yourself!"  Where do they come up with this hideous jargon, much less assume that the children will respond to it with a, "Yes, mother dearest.  Your wish is my command."  So many times I glimpse this (usually) woman - often by herself or with a mother in tow.  If there happens to be a man at all, he's skulking several feet back hoping no one (especially not "old yeller") notices him, else she turn her miserable wrath on him... bossing him and treating him like an imbecile.  

I, on the other hand, would rather take a beating than correct any of my children.  This often results in me not doing it when it probably should be done.  Thus (if you've read any of my previous blogs), you can see why children are oft times running amuck.  However, they are happy, as far as I can tell, and they aren't making anyone else miserable either (including me), and that's pretty much the best I'm going to be able to do at this stage in my life with the many children I have.  

There are, of course, moments when character issues must be dealt with, of course.  After all, I can't have these people living with me for the rest of their lives because they are too obnoxious for anyone to tolerate, can I?  So we stick with the biggies, for the most part... things we don't want them to do to others:  ie. hitting, lying/cheating, disrespect, etc.   

In the last couple of months, my 15 year old has struggled with anger toward his mother, who, incidentally, I am not... as she likes to remind me.  Inevitably, after a particularly frustrating day with her, he displays anger or mistrust or disrespect (or any combination of these) with me.  If you know Austin, you know that these things are most generally out of character for him.  Austin is usually an optimist - finding the best in every situation.  He has become a little more jaded in the past few years, as adolescents often do.  However, he usually still finds a bright side.  This has historically made him extremely difficult to correct.  I often joke that if I would put him in the cellar, he'd make friends with the rats.  This basically means that if we take away his electronics, he says, "Oh, that's good.  I've had some reading I wanted to catch up on anyway."  He's not just saying it.  He means it.  He has had to live this way - as one tends to learn to do when often faced with disappointment.  

A few weeks ago, and non-coincidentally the day after Mother's Day, he lashed out at me as I was helping him clean his room... claiming that I didn't care about his things.  He then gave me more and more attitude until I just told him my usual, "Stop giving me that attitude," and walked upstairs to get away from the situation.  He had asked me earlier in the day to take him to a soccer game with some friends.  I had told him that we'd, "Wait and see."  As I climbed the stairs, fuming with anger, my flesh was screaming, "What is his problem?  Who does he think he is, and why in the world would he think that I'd take him to soccer now after the way he's being?"  I went into our bedroom to talk to my comatose (works nights) husband who mumbled a few unintelligible words before drifting back to dream land.  I then, as a last resort, asked God what he thought I should do.  As I waited for awhile I felt Him tugging at me to be full of grace and mercy and to seek to understand the root of his anger and mistrust.  "Just let him treat me this way?" my flesh asked sardonically.  That would set a bad precedent.  "No... just understand this isn't who he is.  It's what he's doing, and he probably doesn't even know why."  I sat down in the chair and he came up behind me and said the obligatory, I hope this will get her to take me to soccer, "I'm sorry." Long story short, I told him I loved him and that I cared very much about him and the things that are important to him.  I gave him a cookie and told him to go get into his soccer clothes.  He broke down and asked, "Why are you being so nice to mean when I was such a jerk?"  All I could think was, "I think this is what loving someone looks like."  

I don't claim to be perfect at knowing how to love people - not my husband, not my own children, and certainly not my step-son.  But I know the One who is the Author of Love.  He gives me the love I don't have in my often-depleted supply.  He is giving me supernatural abilities to love.  People like to tell me I'm such a great mom to Austin... that I'm such an amazing person, blah, blah, blah.  It's not true.  It's not me.  I am as human as everyone else.  I say and do things I regret.  But I'm certainly ready to admit those things, and we've become very good at apologies around this house.  It's pretty easy to love a person when they're cute, cuddly, and quiet.  It's much more difficult when they're breathing fire in your face.  It's true love when you're consistent in your behavior either way.

I've often felt somehow inferior to my children.  Sadie, for instance... she remembers everything.  If we are going on a picnic, she'll remember spoons for the yogurt, straws for the drinks, sippy cups for the baby, and (I kid you not) wet paper towels in a ziploc baggie for cleaning sticky fingers.  She is far superior to me in the area of organizational ability.  She is also better with kids (having none herself) than I am (having 5).  Tonight, for instance, the kids came home from the library (summer reading program) with parrots to color.  Levi (4) wanted to color his right away; so Sadie sat down with him at the small table with some colors to help him.  It was, however, 8:30 and time for bed.  As Mark announced bed time, Levi began to meltdown.  He started to cry, at which point (before Mark or I had to intervene), Sadie said, "Levi, you know I think daddy is right.  Your parrot probably had a long day and needs to have a rest before you color him.  It's going to be an important thing for him.  So he needs a nap first, okay?"  Then she ushered parrot away until the morning.  How could he argue?  Sadie's 10.  She, of course, knows all about what stresses out a parrot.  I think she might make a great hostage negotiator someday.  Somehow I think the phrase, "Now, I think that we're all a little tired and you might just want to put down that gun, and we can go get some ice cream," might be in her future.  Claire is good at everything she touches.  Austin is bold, brave, and (sometimes over) confident.  Who knows how the other two are going to overshadow me.  How great is that?  I might be fading in the mirror, but parts of me are remembering where I'm supposed to be going, convincing toddlers that felt boards are more fun than mud puddles, saying no to second helpings, and standing up (respectfully) to bullies.  All of me is having FUN as it all unfolds.

Last week, our oldest turned 15.  Thus begins a stage of my life for which I am scarcely ready... driver's ed, girls, jobs, independence, girls, buddies coming over to "hang out", and did I mention girls?  Ugh... I have to say it's been a rough couple of adolescent years.  Attitude problems, personal crises, emotional upheaval... and that's just me.  I wouldn't trade any of those problems for the world, for they are the things that test bonds and... more importantly even... create them.  

This evening, my 4 year old decided that, since he had peed in the toilet at the same time with daddy last night that he should try peeing with Claire (7).  As a result, I turned around to her screeching, "Levi!  Don't pee on me!" as he was peeing into the empty space behind where she was sitting.

Confused?  Bewildered?  Yes, these things would describe me.  BUT... I am convinced for myself and my children of Ephesians 2:10 ¹⁰ For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand so that we would walk in them.  I love the wording of the NASB... "so that we would walk in them." Good works aren't just something that we should pull out on Sundays or at Christmastime.  They are a lifestyle for us to "walk in".  It was a lifestyle that was prepared for us to do "in advance".  So, if we don't walk in it, who will?

The Distracted Landscaper (Part One)

This year we decided to try our collective hand at raised bed gardening.  This is a new concept for us, but after fiddling with a ridiculous patch of weeds that was a garden in name only last year, we decided we needed to make a change.  We have heavier clay soil, which our realtor told us was just wonderfully high in nutrient and mineral value and would make our drinking water high in mineral value.  We soon discovered that meant that our water would look like orange juice, taste like blood, and smell like rotten eggs.  Oh, and it would clog every plumbing fixture known to man, dye our laundry orange for free, and leave white, chalky marks on any and all solid surfaces.  Bottom line, we ended up buying a sulfur clear and iron filter which worked beautifully on our water until its two year warranty expired earlier this month.

I digress... Our yard was landscaped nicely when we moved into our house.  Consequently, I cannot take much credit for what you'll see in these photos, but we try to maintain what was here.  However, I find some frustration with the fact that they never put down an ounce of landscaping plastic or weed control.  There was, however, plenty of pretty mulch - which is pretty much gone now.  My neighbor was nice enough to explain to me last year which of my plants was a weed and which was not a weed... that way I stopped pulling up the ground cover and watering the Burdock.  I then complained about the lack of weed stop/landscaping fabric to which she replied, "Oh, I prefer it that way too.  If your mulch washes away it just looks so tacky to have that fabric sticking out."  I wanted to say, "Well, yes, but I have 5 children, 4 pets, 3 vehicles, 2 stories of house, and 1 husband to maintain.  Tacky is what I would call an acceptable risk at the Slagter Park Zoo and Rodeo."  She has a point... but rock is looking like a better option than mulch anyway these days.

My husband, who is a hopeless "homebody", has had a variety of home bound hobbies since we've been married.  He is an accomplished mechanic, handyman, and knot expert.  Yes, I said, "knot expert".  He can not only tie about any knot on earth (including a hangman's noose - which means he's a handy guy to have around if you're fixin' to have a hangin' party), but he can also tell you the history of each knot and its standard usage.  He has a stack of books on knots.  In fact, he was reading one quite thoroughly when I slipped and fell into the hot tub at our bed and breakfast getaway in Wisconsin a few years ago... nearly killing myself.  He never noticed me writhing and yelping in pain.  I still like to tease him sometimes about how he would have explained that one to the coroner's office.  "You see, I was reading this fascinating book on knots..."  Anyway, he really likes to try to find hobbies that he can enjoy at home, and I absolutely love that about him.  He doesn't try to get away from us.  He enjoys his time with us, and he makes every effort to capitalize on those opportunities.  So this year, under his night stand looks like this:

As you can see, he is going to be an expert on vegetable gardening, composting, and all around "country living".  Isn't he adorable?  Now we do these things that, only years ago, I would found unbelievably square.  For instance, if he and I get a chance to get away on an overnight, we end up going to botanical gardens and arboretums.  We learn about trees and the history of the men who have loved trees... and we like it.

Our front landscaping is full of "ground cover" plants.  These plants are called ground cover, because they are supposedly low-lying plants that provide cover in areas that need it.  Our particular two types of ground cover should more appropriately be called shin cover or even knee cover, because they come up to this absurd height, and look frankly like a bunch of weeds to me.  As you can see, it's to the left of and behind the hostas in the photo below.  It comes halfway up my shepherd's shook.  It is out of control.

One thing I am particularly proud of is the growth of these two, gorgeous hostas.  

Aren't they fantastic?  Not that I have anything to do with how they are growing, and I haven't gotten a clear picture of whether or not I should be proud of them or ashamed of them.  It seems that all the gardening types I know who see them talk about how badly they need "separated".  I'm not sure why.  I think they are finally getting the point where they look like a shrub and not a small patch of weeds.  This pleases me.  So I will not be "separating" them any time soon.  

In between these two hostas I placed this rusty old trough that I found under the eaves and half-buried in the mud.  That was quite a job, let me tell you.  The previous owner had apparently filled this trough with our fantastic heavy clay soil... thus the sinkage... and the weeds took it from there.  There was no way anyone was lifting this monstrosity out of the mud.  I spent about an hour digging the clay soil out of the trough and putting it in our lawn cart and another half hour replacing it with potting mix and new flowers.  This photo was taken right after I found, planted, and painted it.  The hostas had not yet grown to their current size yet when it was taken 2 weeks ago.

You'll notice that around them I also planted some other flowers... they are called peppermint stick zinnias and geraniums - I think.  This note should probably more appropriately be called "The Clueless Gardener".  I'm not even sure what size these flowers are going to get or how well they'll get along with the other flowers I planted in the trough.  Time will tell, I suppose.

My cute husband decided to plant some flowers indoors right after the winter when he decided to become a gardening expert.  They grew up quite nicely inside as he was talking to them daily and making sure they got plenty of Vitamin D.  Incidentally, this caused Claire some concern over Mark's sanity.)  I transplanted these (below) into the flower trough, and they are doing quite nicely.

It never ceases to amaze me how a person can just pull up a plant by the roots, pack some soil around it somewhere else, pour a little water on it, and voila... it starts growing there.  I feel like I should have to do something more... something significant.  Like?  I don't know, do a dance?  Wave a wand?  Sprinkle some kind of fairy dust?  Say some magic words?  Any which way, I suppose that's the way God made plants.  Who am I to argue?

Speaking of which, at the behest of my middle daughter, we planted the first fruit-bearing shrubs and trees in our yard this year.  Claire, who lost her beloved cat in a tragic pool drowning early this Spring asked me at Menard's one day, "Mom, do blueberry bushes live longer than cats?"  I wasn't sure of the answer to that question, but she decided that she'd like to try to have a pet blueberry bush instead of going for more cats.  I was all for that idea.  Less fur and poop, more shade and deliciousness?  Who could resist?  In addition, I found a great deal on my two favorite types of apple trees at the local nursery.  They were selling larger semi-dwarf Jonathan and Honey Crisp apple trees 4 for $100.  So I jumped on that.  It was a little late in the season to be planting apple trees, but I figured that between our magical, nutrient rich soil (which has just got to be good for something, right?) and my brilliant (did I mention handsome) husband, we could have apple trees and blueberry bushes in no time.  Thus began the planting of the Slagter Orchard...

 Levi stubbed his toe right before this photo, but he wanted me to take it anyway.  He likes to look at it about 5 times a day and laugh at himself and say, "Levi, there's nothing to cry about."  (So, no, I'm not just a mean mom.)

Claire and her "pet" blueberry bushes.

These are closeups of the blueberry bushes... you can see the tiny green berries.  I'm told we'll need to cover them with mesh to keep the birds away from them.  I'm not sure when to start doing that, but I'm sure I'll find out one day when I go out and my berries are all gone.  :)

 Here is the orchard in its current state.

These are some of my irises.  I'm told these are yet another landscaping faux pas, because they also need separating.  This set isn't too bad, but I have these EVERYWHERE.  The other side of the house is completely obscured by them.  So, if you need some irises, you know where to get them.  They are, I must say, gorgeous for about 14 days a year.  

 And here is my most recent sadness... rhubarb.  My mother-in-law planted this rhubarb in what was our "garden" last year.  Now it is even a worse patch of weeds than it was then.  As a result, our dear neighbor who mows our prairie grass for us decided to help out by mowing closer to the house.  If you didn't already guess, he mowed down my rhubarb.  I was about to harvest it a couple days ago.  She who hesitates is without rhubarb, I guess.  It is the green variety, and he probably thought it was burdock... which we also have and looks uncannily similar to rhubarb.  I had also just recently planted the other two new plants I got in this area... which are now nowhere to be found either.  We'll see if they turn up one of these days.

 rhubarb 1

 rhubarb 1

 rhubarb 2

 rhubarb 3

Now, if you'd like to see a set of hostas that could use some "separating", here is exhibit A:

This is under the huge deck (that needs replacing) and next to the patio around the pool.  They are pretty, but they apparently like the shade they get an awful lot.  It's a virtual jungle and perfect for the snakes and frogs who call it "home".  Yes, there is ground under there somewhere.

 This is a hydrangea bush that was here when we bought the house.  It drives me crazy.  It is a pruning headache.  It has beautiful white blooms in the late summer.  I want it to be purple or blue or pink though.  This is how I imagine they should be.  So I am going to try to figure out how to change the soil pH so they will bloom in color.





These are my impatients.  I planted them in with the "snow on the mountains" ground cover.  I tried to weed out most of the ground cover, but I am sure the impatients will take off soon and fill in all the dirt area there.  So I'm going to be liking those as they fill out a little.

This is going to be an asparagus patch in the next year or two... I hope.  I planted 10 plants.  So we'll see what comes of those.

I will blog later about our raised-bed gardening adventures.  This blog is a bit out of the realm of what I usually tell about, but it's our most recent happening, and it is what has kept me from doing much else... blog-wise.  So, if you have some commentary or advice, it'd be much appreciated.  If you're interested in taking some of my extra hostas or irises off my hands, please be my guest.