Cowboys wake at dawn. They have responsibilities. They tend to the cattle and herd. Their guns and lassos are in their holsters. But I think they wait until after they've had their coffee before the hooting and hollering.
I am watching the sun rise with my oldest son. He woke early this morning and the sky was just beginning to get light. I asked if he wanted to watch the sun rise with me. Together we sat quietly on the couch and watched as the small streak of orange got wider and wider in the sky. We whispered about snow and what the morning looks like in the winter and who was awake with us in the world. Soon the birds were chirping and the world was blue. The baby started crying and we moved upstairs to watch from the window while I fed the babe. Sitting in the rocking chair with my first born and last born, I breathed in the peace. I looked at my son's profile in the window as the glow of morning shown on his face. He was wearing a pirate eye patch and sleep was in his hair. I took a mental picture, hoping to be able to hold in my mind a moment in time that is gone almost as soon as its begun. He asked me about Christmas and toys and whatever else popped into his head. I wondered how a child's brain worked. And for 2 more minutes we sat in peace and stillness in that time of the morning when anything is possible and sun rises again on a very old earth making all feel new. As if it's the first morning on the first day.
But that was at 5 am. It's now not even 7:00 and my 5 year old is awake. Holster on, gun in belt. My 7 year old is brandishing two pistols. The baby has found a non food item to chew on. I can not argue them their enthusiasm. The cowboys also wake at dawn. But I think they have their coffee before the hooting and hollering.
"There are moments when I'm completely at peace, but that's before my children wake up and they'll have none of that"-Brian Andreas (The Story People)
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Monday, May 16, 2011
The Messy Mom
I looked good. It was mother's day. I had a pretty dress on, My boys were in nice outfits. My hair was done. I was feeling good about myself. We were going to church where people would see how nice my family and I looked. I started to congratulate myself early on this accomplishment. In fact, I had been congratulating myself early a lot recently.
Over the mother's day weekend I had a birthday party for my 3 year old and 1 year old. I found pictures of Robot cakes on another blog. This woman had four boys also, and she too was wearing a dress and her boys were all in suits. She looked fabulous. And the pictures of her sons' birthday party were perfect. I was inspired by this so I took the robot cake idea and planned my birthday party. I envisioned my little robot cakes and how cute they would be. How people would see pictures and say, "you made those?" How I would post these pictures on my blog and show all my readers that I in fact can do something that doesn't end in a mess, a breakdown or poop. How accomplished I would feel at throwing two parties in one weekend, making all the food and keeping my house clean. I started congratulating myself early.
I got fruit and veggie kabobs made, no problem. I got the robot cakes made and iced and decorated. They looked...not as good as the other lady's. The icing was dripping off. The licorice eyes were falling off their face and dropping on the wobbly, too large, poorly painted cake stands I made. My 3 year old saw them and ate the ear off one. It looked as if my 7 year old son had made them. I felt embarrassed as I thought of my premature celebration. These were going on my blog, but once again as a medicinal remedy for my perfectionist readers who needed to feel that failure was acceptable. After that I didn't have any time to finish the meal, decorate or clean. I threw up some balloons and crepe paper and had my husband and son whip up some robots real quick that hung carelessly from the ceiling as if they had been at the gallows.
And here I was on Sunday morning, less that 24 hours after the Robot Cakes congratulating myself on my quick recovery and looking fabulous for Mother's Day service at our church. Now, this dress was a hand-me-down from my sister (younger sister) so the "with it" factor has already been knocked down 10%. I decided due to the nature of the dress and snug fit (knock down another 10%) that I would go bra-less. I am somewhere between a C and D. A D may sound all fine and dandy but you can imagine after breastfeeding 4 children what the deflation factor is on a D boob. Envision a thin Dollar Store special of a water balloon clinging to the faucet as it's being overfilled and pulled to it's maximum capacity. Those are my boobs, bra-less in a tight dress.
During a break in the service I went to the restroom. Looking into the mirror was all I needed to have all the coolness sucked right out of me. Symmetrically lined up under each boob was a perfectly round sweat mark that had seeped through my dress. Yup, I got sweaty boobs and now everyone can see it. What could I do? I tucked the dress up under my balloons and pulled my sweater tight over chest, kept my arms down at my sides and walked out of the bathroom.
Two weeks after the party, the crepe paper is still clinging for dear life to the ceiling, my house looks like I've just moved in and can't figure out where anything should go, and I can't find the dress I wore on Mother's Day.
Over the mother's day weekend I had a birthday party for my 3 year old and 1 year old. I found pictures of Robot cakes on another blog. This woman had four boys also, and she too was wearing a dress and her boys were all in suits. She looked fabulous. And the pictures of her sons' birthday party were perfect. I was inspired by this so I took the robot cake idea and planned my birthday party. I envisioned my little robot cakes and how cute they would be. How people would see pictures and say, "you made those?" How I would post these pictures on my blog and show all my readers that I in fact can do something that doesn't end in a mess, a breakdown or poop. How accomplished I would feel at throwing two parties in one weekend, making all the food and keeping my house clean. I started congratulating myself early.
I got fruit and veggie kabobs made, no problem. I got the robot cakes made and iced and decorated. They looked...not as good as the other lady's. The icing was dripping off. The licorice eyes were falling off their face and dropping on the wobbly, too large, poorly painted cake stands I made. My 3 year old saw them and ate the ear off one. It looked as if my 7 year old son had made them. I felt embarrassed as I thought of my premature celebration. These were going on my blog, but once again as a medicinal remedy for my perfectionist readers who needed to feel that failure was acceptable. After that I didn't have any time to finish the meal, decorate or clean. I threw up some balloons and crepe paper and had my husband and son whip up some robots real quick that hung carelessly from the ceiling as if they had been at the gallows.
And here I was on Sunday morning, less that 24 hours after the Robot Cakes congratulating myself on my quick recovery and looking fabulous for Mother's Day service at our church. Now, this dress was a hand-me-down from my sister (younger sister) so the "with it" factor has already been knocked down 10%. I decided due to the nature of the dress and snug fit (knock down another 10%) that I would go bra-less. I am somewhere between a C and D. A D may sound all fine and dandy but you can imagine after breastfeeding 4 children what the deflation factor is on a D boob. Envision a thin Dollar Store special of a water balloon clinging to the faucet as it's being overfilled and pulled to it's maximum capacity. Those are my boobs, bra-less in a tight dress.
During a break in the service I went to the restroom. Looking into the mirror was all I needed to have all the coolness sucked right out of me. Symmetrically lined up under each boob was a perfectly round sweat mark that had seeped through my dress. Yup, I got sweaty boobs and now everyone can see it. What could I do? I tucked the dress up under my balloons and pulled my sweater tight over chest, kept my arms down at my sides and walked out of the bathroom.
Two weeks after the party, the crepe paper is still clinging for dear life to the ceiling, my house looks like I've just moved in and can't figure out where anything should go, and I can't find the dress I wore on Mother's Day.
Monday, April 11, 2011
A Reminder You're a Mother of Boys-1st Installment
This week I was reminded I was a mother of boys when...
3.)My father told me my dvd cases were covered in finger prints and snot
2.)I woke up to find my 2 year old playing with my tampons ....gun...drumstick...gun...drumstick
1.)My absolute favorite reminder this week...I was injured by a piece of bread
3.)My father told me my dvd cases were covered in finger prints and snot
2.)I woke up to find my 2 year old playing with my tampons ....gun...drumstick...gun...drumstick
1.)My absolute favorite reminder this week...I was injured by a piece of bread
Saturday, April 9, 2011
You Win
"Lets play a little game," said my friend. She texted me this late one night as I was about to check some e-mail, keyboard in my lap. My friend has four boys also. This includes a set of twins...2 year old twins.
"What is the worst mess you had to clean up/found today?"she continued.
"This is fun," said I. "Ummm, nothing too bad today. My two year old was finger painting with his dinner on my mom's glass table and ate an old piece of candy he found on the bottom of the toy box, but that's it, not too bad."
"Ha Ha! That actually mad me LOL. Fantastic."
"I'm guessing you have a pretty bad one."
" The twins throwing handfuls of mac n cheese (glad it was only on the table and not the carpet)."
"Oh...wait, can I take mine back? I just went to type on the computer and there's some kind of oily substance all over the keys and my desk."
"And when I sent them in to wash their hands I came back to find they had spit their banana into the sink, blocking the drain and causing the water to overflow ALL over the bathroom floor...3 large towels worth of clean up
and banana pieces floating."
I could see this scenario clearly in my head all too well. I was very thankful it wasn't me.
"What did you do? Did you freak?"
"I tried so hard not to yell that I ended up growling like a rabid animal horrible under my breath."
" I'm really laughing here, you win. YOU WIN!"
"What was the oil? Tell me, tell me!"
" Oh...sexual lubricant..."
"Yes!!! We have a winner."
And so we built up each others' spirits by arguing who should win this comparative war of worst scenarios. We both win, but only because we have one another.
"What is the worst mess you had to clean up/found today?"she continued.
"This is fun," said I. "Ummm, nothing too bad today. My two year old was finger painting with his dinner on my mom's glass table and ate an old piece of candy he found on the bottom of the toy box, but that's it, not too bad."
"Ha Ha! That actually mad me LOL. Fantastic."
"I'm guessing you have a pretty bad one."
" The twins throwing handfuls of mac n cheese (glad it was only on the table and not the carpet)."
"Oh...wait, can I take mine back? I just went to type on the computer and there's some kind of oily substance all over the keys and my desk."
"And when I sent them in to wash their hands I came back to find they had spit their banana into the sink, blocking the drain and causing the water to overflow ALL over the bathroom floor...3 large towels worth of clean up
and banana pieces floating."
I could see this scenario clearly in my head all too well. I was very thankful it wasn't me.
"What did you do? Did you freak?"
"I tried so hard not to yell that I ended up growling like a rabid animal horrible under my breath."
" I'm really laughing here, you win. YOU WIN!"
"What was the oil? Tell me, tell me!"
" Oh...sexual lubricant..."
"Yes!!! We have a winner."
And so we built up each others' spirits by arguing who should win this comparative war of worst scenarios. We both win, but only because we have one another.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Goodbye to the boys
My husband got a vasectomy today. It was a huge decision...for me. My friends were congratulating me on "worry free sex", but I didn't know if I should celebrate. This was it. The last time I will breastfeed. The last infant held in my arms. The last flutter of life in my womb. Was it okay to celebrate the destruction of life-creating ability? Why are we happy that we have not only decided not to make more babies but have gone through surgical methods to prevent it? It seemed so determined. It is so permanent. These are all questions I struggled with. The doubt that kept me from receiving the heart felt wishes.
The day of his consultation I wrestled and pondered; thankful I still had time to think it through further. But at the end of the day I knew it was the right decision for us. So, I mourned what was gone and then embraced what was before me.
Now, currently before me is a specimen cup. I pondered what a man must go through to de-fertilize himself. Two emotions wrestled with each other to gain a holding pattern in my mind. 1.) pity and sympathy...that this man has to strip down and bare all before a quirky doctor, a grumpy nurse and an attractive female medical student who was there to observe. The pain and discomfort he must feel and how I would do everything in my wifely power to make him comfortable while he was recovering.
2.) Total and complete disregard and satisfied vengence. Now this impregnator would get only a mild taste of what the female must endure to not only bring humans into the world but stay healthy and on top of her complicated and hormonal body which he should lovingly and reverently adore.
I settled somewhere in the middle. The informational pamphlet he was given helped the latter emotion win. View the opening illustration I have provided for you. This sums it up. After his long and painful procedure, he was instructed to "take it easy"..cue my wifely duties of serving him bon bons while he sits in his easy chair. Really?
Despite my narcissism, evil enjoyment and mockery of said procedure; I must admit I married a real man. Women are heros, silent sufferers, powerful, strong, complicated and above all sacrificial. We live our life unsung, "un"-thanked and do it all with a smile. It's absurd that this simple 20 minute procedure should be given so much awe, attention and reverence except that so few men are "man" enough to do it. So for that, I thank my man. You stand above the rest. For you, I will endure staring at this specimen cup on my dresser for another 4 weeks. Worry-free sex? Bring it on!
Monday, December 13, 2010
It's all About the Gift
Every year growing up it was about what my dad was going to get my mom for Christmas. It was always a surprise, always a big deal, and always a sacrifice. We would all huddle together biting our nails and holding our breath as we would watch her open her gift from Dad Christmas morning. We were usually involved somehow; counseling him in this most important decision.
One Christmas I remember him coming to my room to ask my advice regarding a particularly hard decision he had to make. He could get the earrings she really wanted and one other small gift or just the sweater she really wanted. Getting both would be a financial stretch. He was pretty torn up about it and we sat there pondering what would mean more to her. He got both gifts that Christmas. I don't know how. I will never forget that sweater. She wore it for years. And in my teenage years I borrowed the earrings.
Christmas was always a miracle. Every year my parents would warn us we wouldn't be getting very much. And every year the presents seemed plentiful. Even the year we took half our money to buy a family with six children shoes;there was plenty under the tree. And with that warning every gift was treasured and appreciated and the reality of Christ's birth was that much more in the center of our holiday.
Many Christmas Eves ago, my parents invited people over who had nowhere to go. We ate, we drank and my dad read O Henry's The Gift of the Magi. For over 10 years my father has read that story every Christmas Eve. I never tire of hearing it. It's about giving when it hurts, when it costs all you have. It's about the foolishness of Christmas.
I can't think of a better way to celebrate Christmas than sacrificing to give a gift. The foolishness of spending your time and money on a tangible item, or elaborate feast in these hard economic times echos loudly the glory of the gift the Christ child. As my children rip into presents this year, no matter how few or how many I know that I'm planting seeds of faith in their hearts. That when they are grown they will look back at when they were young and their parents reached deep into their pockets and sacrificed more than they ever knew. Just like I do now. The memory of father's glowing face, my mom's shock and surprise. As little girls seeing love so generous it warmed the room and our hearts. A shining example of the richness of a life in Christ.
"The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magis." O'Henry "The Gift of the Magi"
http://www.auburn.edu/~vestmon/Gift_of_the_Magi.html
One Christmas I remember him coming to my room to ask my advice regarding a particularly hard decision he had to make. He could get the earrings she really wanted and one other small gift or just the sweater she really wanted. Getting both would be a financial stretch. He was pretty torn up about it and we sat there pondering what would mean more to her. He got both gifts that Christmas. I don't know how. I will never forget that sweater. She wore it for years. And in my teenage years I borrowed the earrings.
Christmas was always a miracle. Every year my parents would warn us we wouldn't be getting very much. And every year the presents seemed plentiful. Even the year we took half our money to buy a family with six children shoes;there was plenty under the tree. And with that warning every gift was treasured and appreciated and the reality of Christ's birth was that much more in the center of our holiday.
Many Christmas Eves ago, my parents invited people over who had nowhere to go. We ate, we drank and my dad read O Henry's The Gift of the Magi. For over 10 years my father has read that story every Christmas Eve. I never tire of hearing it. It's about giving when it hurts, when it costs all you have. It's about the foolishness of Christmas.
I can't think of a better way to celebrate Christmas than sacrificing to give a gift. The foolishness of spending your time and money on a tangible item, or elaborate feast in these hard economic times echos loudly the glory of the gift the Christ child. As my children rip into presents this year, no matter how few or how many I know that I'm planting seeds of faith in their hearts. That when they are grown they will look back at when they were young and their parents reached deep into their pockets and sacrificed more than they ever knew. Just like I do now. The memory of father's glowing face, my mom's shock and surprise. As little girls seeing love so generous it warmed the room and our hearts. A shining example of the richness of a life in Christ.
"The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magis." O'Henry "The Gift of the Magi"
http://www.auburn.edu/~vestmon/Gift_of_the_Magi.html
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Baby Brain and the Blame Game
Kids are great...for blaming stuff on. "My house is a mess."-you have four children. "Sorry I'm late"-you have four children. "I didn't even do my hair today."-you have four children. "I can't find my phone."-you have kids. And even if the event wasn't a direct result of your children you can blame it on "baby brain." "you remember so and so from College..."-no, baby brain. "We were supposed to meet at 10"-sorry, baby brain. "I told you this last week"- I don't remember, baby brain.
Basically, I blame everything I can on my kids. Even the two year old with shoes on the wrong feet. Who cares that he can't even put his own shoes on? I'll blame that one on "baby brain."
Ever buy natural peanut butter? The oil always goes to the top. I turn it upside down so it goes to the bottom but it still doesn't mix in. But once, I had a great idea. I thought if I put one whisk of a hand held electric mixer into the peanut butter jar and turned it on low, the peanut butter would be easily mixed. I was careful to check that the mixer was turned off before I plugged it in. But alas, my brain and my actions did not coincide. In slow motion I watched my hand plug in the mixer while the other hand tried to turn the power from High to Off. Picture tsunami. Avalanche. Hurricane. Power Washing. In less than a second the entire kitchen was plastered in peanut butter. Plastered! My kids just stood there staring with wide eyes; mouths open. I was drenched. I also was shocked. I didn't move. My hand dripping with peanut butter, I stood there at the kitchen counter afraid to survey the damage. Finally I looked around. Where to start? The ceiling? The creases of where the wood seams met on the cabinetry? My clothes?
"I wish I could blame this on you guys so I didn't feel like such an..." I trailed off, not wanting to use that word in front of my kids but my six year old son finished my sentence in the most sorrowful and dejected voice he could muster, "idiot."
Basically, I blame everything I can on my kids. Even the two year old with shoes on the wrong feet. Who cares that he can't even put his own shoes on? I'll blame that one on "baby brain."
Ever buy natural peanut butter? The oil always goes to the top. I turn it upside down so it goes to the bottom but it still doesn't mix in. But once, I had a great idea. I thought if I put one whisk of a hand held electric mixer into the peanut butter jar and turned it on low, the peanut butter would be easily mixed. I was careful to check that the mixer was turned off before I plugged it in. But alas, my brain and my actions did not coincide. In slow motion I watched my hand plug in the mixer while the other hand tried to turn the power from High to Off. Picture tsunami. Avalanche. Hurricane. Power Washing. In less than a second the entire kitchen was plastered in peanut butter. Plastered! My kids just stood there staring with wide eyes; mouths open. I was drenched. I also was shocked. I didn't move. My hand dripping with peanut butter, I stood there at the kitchen counter afraid to survey the damage. Finally I looked around. Where to start? The ceiling? The creases of where the wood seams met on the cabinetry? My clothes?
"I wish I could blame this on you guys so I didn't feel like such an..." I trailed off, not wanting to use that word in front of my kids but my six year old son finished my sentence in the most sorrowful and dejected voice he could muster, "idiot."
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