Survival of the Fittest

Something blogworthy occurred to me today and, for the first time in awhile, I am trying to find the motivation to write about it.  I realize that "blogworthy" is a very loose term.  While one person might find a reason to blog about a flea market find or a craft project finished, I tend to desire a deeper lesson inside a regular story to make it worth the time to journal it.  The whole blog world still mystifies me in some sense.  I rarely have time to read blogs.  However, in the rare case that I do, my expectations defy their own meeting.  I want to read something that is not controversial.  After all, if I wanted my mind changed, I wouldn't have my own blog.  (I hope you find this as ironic as I do.)  I don't read for stress.  I read for stress-relief.  Second, I want to read something that is not too lengthy.  I could never read my own blog, for instance, because I'd be interrupted at the most interesting parts (if I thought I was interesting which, of course, I do) by someone who needs a nose (or some other part of their body) wiped, kissed, or investigated for signs of injury.  Interruptions aren't so bad when I'm doing something boring, but if I'm interested in what I'm doing, interruptions are more than a little annoying and essentially unacceptable.  Third, if I'm going to read a blog it needs to grab my attention... which is not all that easy to do.  It can be about the mundane, as long as it's done with flare, but I prefer it to be junk food for my mind.  Therefore, it must not be good or "worthy" for the most part.  That's what those guilt-inducing e-mail forwards that shame me out of buying pre-bagged baby carrots or purchasing gasoline at the BP are for.  


Part of my confusion about blogging is whether or not this is a permanent medium.  I mean, I may have said this before, but I can't tell you how disturbing I find it that 5 generations from now a descendant of mine might lose reverence for my memory over my fear of balloons and pit toilets and the awesome dance moves I threw down to the pizza place juke box playing the music of "D. Ghetto".  What confuses me even further is why anyone bothers to read what I'm writing right now.  Will someone other than my mom (who might occasionally read out of obligation or fear that I might refer to my last blog in passing conversation and she have no idea what I'm talking about) actually read this?  And, if so, why?


So you might wonder why I would write if I doubt the value in it and fear its possible outcomes.  I do it to put some thoughts in order.  I sometimes need to stand back from my life and try to objectively put my thoughts in order.  For me, writing is a way to do that.  I think that's probably true of many, if not most hobby bloggers.  


What I actually meant to write about today was that my Austin started driving this past week.  I took him to get his driver's permit on Saturday morning, and, despite being short on a bit of the "essential" paperwork (which it seems wasn't so essential after all), the kind (yes, surprising) lady behind the DMV desk gave him his test sheet - which he passed without missing any - and handed him a learner's permit.  I knew he was turning cartwheels on the inside, but he didn't crack a smile until we were walking out the door.  He said, "I couldn't let those people think I was a big dork."  I love how teenagers think everything is embarrassing... it makes them so much more fun to embarrass.  Like he'd be the first 15-year-old to crack a smile after getting his permit?  Yes, those people who like to make fun of others who are enjoying momentous life milestones - they're lurking around every corner.  Ah, me... to be young and self-conscious again...


I'm not sure what had come over me, but before he took the test, I handed Austin the keys and asked him if he wanted to drive home.  I think I wanted him to know I believed he could ace the test, as I could tell he was nervous.  He said, "No," and pushed them back at me.  Again, permit in hand, he handed the keys back to me, and said he was too nervous to drive.  So I drove him to lunch, and we sat and talked about "regular stuff" till he said, "Okay, I want to drive now."  So we flipped roles, and I started to be the nervous one.  Now, I don't know about you, but I seem to remember driving with my instructor for several hours before being given my permit.  Nowadays, in Illinois, at least, you don't have to have one minute of drive time with the teacher before you receive your permit.  So there we are - in the parking lot - now I'm the sweaty one.  He drove us around town, to a birthday party, and back home without major incident.  There were a few hairy, scary moments for this mama... especially when he decided he wanted to wait to turn left on green until he got an arrow.  The plain old green light was not quite green enough for him.


On the way to town for an orthodontist visit today, an overwhelming desire pray for Austin overtook me.  What for?  Everything - his future job, his future wife, his safety, his welfare, his happiness... his walk.  It's not that this is the first time I've ever felt the need to pray for him.  What surprised me was the "why" of the desire.  I'm not a good person.  The good within me is not of me.  It is despite me.  It would be foolish for me to take credit for whatever good God inspires in me.  


I've been suffering the ill effects of what appears to be a food-borne illness since I returned from what seems may have been an ill-fated trip to the Bahamas in May.  These effects include but have not been limited to daily fevers, stomach upset, and headaches.  While ignoring these symptoms for three months did not make them go away, letting it slip to the doctor that I had made a trip overseas did get me a one way trip to the "infectious disease specialist"...   By the way, if you want to get someone to leave you alone, you might try mentioning that you have been seeing an infectious disease specialist to track down a pathogen of unknown origin that may or may not reside in, on, or around your person.  

A sun-toasted, smiling, Bahaman me... pathogen unawares.

The fact that there are ugly things that reside in us all is not a surprise to any of us.  We like to think that we're basically good and that we're corrupted only by our own environment.  This not only lacks Scriptural basis, but is a fairly obvious untruth if you ask me.  The Psalmist states clearly in Psalm 51:5 "Behold, I was brought forth in iniquity, And in sin my mother conceived me."  In Job 14:4, Job laments, "'Who can make the clean out of the unclean? No one!'"  and again in Job 15:14, "'What is man that he should be pure, or he that is born of a woman that he should be righteous?'" In other words, if you take two sinful people and put them together, will there offspring be born sinless?  Not so much.


I bought some boxing gloves at a rummage sale Saturday.  There were two pair of over-sized gloves that I thought Mark and the boys would like to use when they're wrestling around in the basement.  When I brought the gloves home to show my 4 year old son, he was thrilled.  He was so thrilled, in fact, that his bedtime prayer consisted entirely of the words, "Dear Lord, thank you for some punching things and that mom bought us some punching things and thank you for mom and that we can punch things now with our punching things."  He was also quite excited at the prospect, as he told me this morning, of punching people who "be's mean to me".  After trying to recall the alien thought that overtook me the day of the imprudent purchase, I tried to explain to him that they were only for fair play with dad and Austin and anyone else who really and truly wants to be sucker punched in the gut.  He seemed to comprehend.  Ask me if I feel that way when I'm posting photos of an injured sister in a later blog.  


Here are some of my favorite photos of the ugly things that reside in us:

Levi - obviously peeved at other people having "FUN"

Claire's artist rendering of a one-sided snowball fight

I took this photo of a woman left askew on a Goldwing outside Menard's in the misty rain.
What's ugly, you ask?  The man who left her out there while he went in for "just a second".

Yes, even chewing with your mouth open... is ugly.

And now for some of my favorite photos of GOOD things that live in us, by God's grace alone:

Fresh Starts

Levi sharing his water with Violet

brotherly love

The thoughts that followed my urge to pray for Austin were jumbled up, but in there somewhere was a thought about the ludicrousness of the evolutionary process - in any form.  "Survival of the fittest", you see, is all well and good as an explanation for the baser evil instincts of man - for mothers who leave their newborns in trash cans and such things, but it is sorely lacking in explanation for the finest acts of love and beauty... or for love or beauty or feelings at all, for that matter.  Survival of the fittest doesn't account for parents who raise orphaned children as their own or for a soldier who pulls a dying brother off the battlefield.  It makes no allowances for social programs or "welfare" or charity of any form at all.  It bids the weak and burdened to retreat and die so that the rest of us might live better lives.  It is sorely lacking to explain any emotion aside from anger or fear... particularly any positive emotions.


No, it doesn't surprise me at all that bad, ugly things live inside us all.  What does amaze me is that good things do.  How and why does God waste His time with what we so often see as the "lost cause" that is humanity.  John 2:24-25 says, "²⁴ But Jesus did not commit Himself to them, because He knew all men, ²⁵ and had no need that anyone should testify of man, for He knew what was in man."  Jesus, despite knowing "what was in man" decided we were worth dying for.  That is the remarkable power that is at the fingertips of those who walk by His strength and through whom He lives His life.  We can choose sacrificial love, by God's grace, when we don't feel it.  And by this same Grace, we can choose kindness when we feel unkind, forgiveness when we're hurt, and rest when we feel anxious.  I am so glad I don't have to rely on my nonexistent "goodness" to transform me.  After all, I was born unrighteous and haven't become righteous by any "right doing" of my own.  Jesus' sacrifice ransomed my impurity and made it purity.  So, the next time you do something "right" or "good", get lost... in the wonder of how that could have possibly happened and give glory to the One who is responsible for it.

Who Loves Ya, Baby?

Yesterday Mark and I had the opportunity to spend 24 hours or so together - alone.  This hasn’t happened in quite awhile, as we’ve been busy and much of what would normally be opportunities for alone time is swallowed up with obligations relating to work or school preparation or family.  That being said, my mom offered to watch the kids overnight so we could go do something.  

These situations provide us with the exciting opportunity to pick a place to go, which is at the same time great and incredibly frustrating.  This magical place (which, by the way, doesn’t exist) can’t be too far, but it shouldn’t be too close either.  We can go to close places any time, and usually do.  It should be something we both enjoy doing, which, for us, isn’t that difficult to manage.  It should be something that isn’t overrun with other people’s children.  After all, why have a babysitter and then go hang out with someone else’s children.  It should be somewhere outside if the weather is nice and inside if the weather is cold or rainy.  Lastly, we both prefer something that provides some sort of physical or mental challenge or stimulation (museums, craft shows, antique stores, hiking, swimming, etc).  In other words, if there was an indoor/outdoor adults-only museum/water park within 100 miles of our home, we’d be all over it.  

We decided to get a late breakfast and head to Starved Rock State Park in Utica, which is one of the most beautiful places the midwest has to offer.  It offers a museum, hiking trails, and river activities.  We thought it’d a great way to spend a beautiful day... and so did, from the looks of things, 90% of south suburban Chicago.  We waited in a traffic jam for a half hour just to get into the park.  Proving that Chicagoans aren’t satisfied to leave their traffic jams in the city.  They like to bring them out into the wilderness - after all, it wouldn’t be fair to keep all that smog, noise, and chaos to themselves.  So after waiting to get into the park, there was not a parking spot, legal or illegal, to be had in the whole of the two massive parking lots available at Starved Rock.  So we turned around and headed back to the main highway.  I suggested we try out a cemetery where we could at least change out of our Sunday morning clothes and into some hiking clothes.  

We went to a secluded hillside cemetery and changed clothes and wandered around looking at old graves for about 90 minutes.  Then we decided to walk the shops for a bit.  We both needed to use the restroom, and every store and shop we entered had the “no public restrooms available” sign in the window.  Finally, we spied the Lasalle County Historical Museum... which was nice but I really just hoped had a bathroom.  As soon as I walked in the door, there was a sign with a box that said “admission $1.00 for adults and $.50 for children” - guarded by a nice lady who told me all about what they had in the museum - which, for a small museum was a nice variety of things - from a carriage in which Lincoln had ridden, to a propeller that Charles Lindbergh broke when he ran out of gas in Lasalle County, to a desk on which Reagan had signed “blah, blah, blah” into law.  I only say “blah, blah, blah”, because it was about that time when I tuned out momentarily.  (Ridiculously long run-on sentence that would make my old English teacher cringe alert:)  I mean, I heard the whole Reagan and desk and the explanation that there are special desks on which particular pieces of legislation are signed into law and those desks are parts of historical collections, which made my mind wander to the question of whether or not it’s fiscally responsible for a government to purchase a new desk for every piece of legislation which may eventually be considered significant.  That thought and my pressing bladder-related needs and the fact that I was trying in vain to find a dollar in change in my ridiculously big purse to put in the box so she didn’t think that I wasn’t going to pay admission distracted me from paying attention to all the descriptive legislative details that I’m sure this volunteer had painstakingly memorized in order to regurgitate it quickly enough to keep the attention of the bladder-conscious that walk into the museum looking for naught but a bathroom break.  We spent a good hour at the museum as well, having found the bathrooms that we sought but being delightfully sidetracked by the rock that Chief So-And-So had liked to sit on when he came to visit a particular Utica, Illinois, family.  He would only eat the white-man’s food when he sat on this particular rock which was passed down for a couple generations in this family and eventually donated to the museum.  Sometimes I can’t help but get a chuckle out of the things that museums have.  I asked Mark if he thought that many years from now a rock that I sat on might be found outside a museum somewhere with a plaque explaining it’s less-than-obvious significance.  He said, “Um, do you sit on a rock?”  I said, “Well, no I guess I don’t.”  He replied, “Well, there’s your first problem.”  So I guess I need to find a rock suitable for sitting.  

I also like how museums like to use the words “might have” as if something that might have been used by someone famous is as good as something that was used by someone famous.  When I read the words “might have” or “like the ones used by”, I move onto the next dubiously qualifying museum relic.

However, this experience has caused me to rethink my dailies in light of the fact that the things I use - in the unlikely case I should ever become as famous as an Illiniwek chieftain of whom I had never heard - might become venerated by generations of people to come.  I have begun to daydream about plaques that read the likes of:

The Slagter Spatula

To the right is the remnants of the

early plastic spatula the likes of which 

Marcie might have used when making

the traditional family breakfast pancakes.  

It is believed that she stopped 

making pancakes almost entirely

in about 2011 when she took to 

receiving food prepared for her 

(perhaps using this same spatula) 

which she would only eat whilst sitting on the rock

made famous only by her sitting on it.

(This rock is also on display in the historical gardens next to the museum.)

Anyway, we enjoyed the museum which mostly consisted of enjoying each other enjoying the museum and followed it up with an ice cream sandwich at a local shop for lunch.  After visiting a few more places in town, we decided to brave the park again.  We took for granted that the fact there was no longer a 30 minute wait to get into the park and that there were several legal parking spaces available this time was a step in the right direction.  There were still way too many people there for my taste, and as I exclaimed, “You can’t throw a rock in this place without hitting a person,” and “Look at all these people with their dogs and puppies - just think of all the dog poop we can step in today,” Mark said, “Can we just go to the visitor’s center and see how it is?”  I reluctantly agreed, and we headed toward it.  People were bumping and jostling, and I was annoyed.  So we headed for a trail.  The trail head for most of the trails is in the same area, and it was so jam packed full of people that it looked like the Exodus.  This, coupled with the fact that there far fewer English speaking people than people who actually spoke English made it even stranger.  I mean, we’ve been hiking a lot lately but not with thousands of other people.  As we approached the end of the main trail head, there was a sign that read, “Last Trash Can - Dispose of Trash Now”.  We glanced over to see a recycle bin that was heaped over and onto the ground with empty water bottles.  It would have made a great photo had we remembered to get the camera out of the car.

We broke off onto some less crowded trails, and I really did end up enjoying myself despite making remarks about him leading me off into the wilderness with a bunch of strangers.  On the way back to the car a couple hours later, we ran into a large group of Jewish teenagers on a field trip with their synagogue.  I asked Mark if he thought that they would appreciate a joke about their heading into the wilderness for 40 years, and he said no.  So we skipped that.  We created our own passing lane, which was nice especially considering that as we were coming down the last trail some people with a dog that couldn’t walk down steep steps were trying to coax him (which wasn’t working) and were holding up a line of like 100 people... including us.   Passing lane in place, we were able to pass lame dogs, bulky strollers, and pregnant women with ease.  

As we approached the main trail, a European couple merged in front of us.  He carried an expensive camera and hummed a fantastic tune, and they both wore backpacks.  As she gestured toward an empty water bottle that he carried in his pack, it tumbled out of his pack and onto the sidewalk in front of us.  It bounced once and into the air at which point I grabbed for it, and after bobbling it a couple of times, caught it.  The man looked at me and declared loudly in a Scottish brogue, “Wow!  That was amazing.”  “Thanks,” I replied, and we kept walking.  I must say that the accent combined with those words directed toward me were a nice way to top off a great day.

We then proceeded to Red Lobster, to which my husband had purchased a gift certificate with award money from work.  I have to brag on him... as he would never brag on himself.  He was voted “master craftsman” by the management and guys in his shop at work, and received a $500 gift which he could divide up into gift certificates at various places.  He gave me $100 at Bed Bath and Beyond which I reluctantly :) spent on a featherbed and an iHome .  He also bought us one at Red Lobster which paid for all of our meal there.

The best part of this story is that we were able to enjoy the homecoming.  Everyone thinks they have the world’s best children... but they’re wrong.  We do.  Well, at least they’re best for us.  I often tell about the things they do that are bothersome or outlandish or ridiculously mischievous, but they never cease to amaze me - and not only in the “I can’t believe they did this” kind of way.  

Lately, Levi has been showing concern for others, and it’s like a newfound project he enjoys.  I returned from a doctor appointment a couple weeks back, and he said, “Mom, I’m wondering how you did at the doctor?”  When I took Violet on Friday, he asked, “So how did Violet do at the doctor?”  When Claire came home from her dad’s today, he said, “Claire, I’m so glad to see you again.”  He developed a fever at my mom’s house on Sunday evening, and on the way home he said, “Yeah, last night when I didn’t feel good Grandma kept telling me she was sorry.  I told her, ‘Grandma, it’s not your fault. You don’t have to keep saying sorry.’”  

Mondays are especially busy for me, as I take a meal to my hospice patients, drive into town and take a meal to my grandma with ALS, and take Austin to a 2 hour driver’s ed... all with family in tow.  So we were glad to get in the car after a long evening, and Levi sighed, “Ah, the whole family’s in the car and rollin’ home.  I like that.”  I like that he likes that.  Sometimes I just appreciate how literal he is, and how thankful he is for the little things that adults so often take for granted.  A few days ago his simple prayer at supper was, “Dear God, thanks for parents to hold hands with so that you don’t get runned over by cars.”  

Our family isn’t perfect.  It’s not always easy.  We’ve been coping with some big changes as my beloved Grandma has been diagnosed terminal with ALS.  We have always been very close to our grandparents, and this change has come at a heavy emotional cost.  But part of God’s grace to us in our times of struggle comes in the form of our children.  And in a society where children are often throwaways and cast-offs, I acknowledge the simple blessing that each of our children undeniably are.  They add a degree of levity to difficult situations and sometimes a much-needed distraction from the heavier cares of life.  If you find yourself getting frustrated, annoyed, or just plain tired of dealing with your kiddos, you’re in good company.  It happens to every parent, but as Austin opened the door for me as we entered his first driver’s ed class on Saturday and was met with a compliment from the teacher in front of all the students/parents present, it occurred to me that the difficulties of parenting eventually pay off in the rewards of a pleasant adolescent and even farther down the line an adult child who is truly your friend.  As my grandparents are experiencing, it can even someday include grandchildren who provide meals, accompaniment to doctor appointments, and house cleaning - all for love’s sweet sake.  None of these things happened overnight for my sweet grandparents.  They will have their 60th anniversary in December, God willing.  They have had their share of trials and trouble.  They have struggled through thick and thin. They only had one child, but they gave him all they had, and that was all it took to have a houseful of people loving on them in times of greatest difficulty.  How deep the Father’s love for us - that He enables us to love one another. 

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?