The Pepper Patch

The Way of the Cowboy

2011-08-10T04:25:00.000-07:00

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)

The Messy Mom

2011-05-16T20:31:00.000-07:00

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.

A Reminder You're a Mother of Boys-1st Installment

2011-04-11T20:56:00.001-07:00

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

You Win

2011-04-09T20:38:00.000-07:00

"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.

Goodbye to the boys

2011-02-24T19:00:00.000-08:00

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!

It's all About the Gift

2010-12-13T19:06:00.000-08:00

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

Baby Brain and the Blame Game

2010-11-17T17:29:00.000-08:00

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."

Rite of Passage

2010-11-03T18:53:00.000-07:00

We recently had an all American Saturday;we cleaned out the garage. It's one of those family activities you see people doing on television. I felt sort of silly telling people "we cleaned out the garage this weekend." I don't know if it was a culmination of being ashamed that we had so much stuff this sort of thing was necessary or that we have a garage at all. Whatever the case, the amplified space surrounding the recently swept cement floor opened my eyes to another rite of boyhood.

Having no male heirs of his own, my dad has leaped into being a grandfather of boys. Wrestling, growling, shouting, shooting, throwing, killing, and exploring the realms of the nasal cavity are all things that he has encouraged with gusto. The fatherly advice he gave me was to let them behave this way as much as possible. That it was necessary to boys' development and it's the way they are wired, emotionally, physically and spiritually. I am not a male and had no brothers, so on his word and with good faith I too leaped into being a mother of boys and all that it may bring me. Within reason I try not to discourage the talk of bodily functions. If they want to knock themselves unconscious wrestling then I only ask that they do it outside. And to cope with their death defying feats on the swing set, I just simply look away.

The other day was particularly hard for me to stay out of however. For my first baby shower, I received a life sized Kangaroo stuffed animal, complete with a baby Joey in its pocket. It's definitely a collectors item and I treasure it. She mostly stands in a corner of the bedroom as decoration. Recently my four year old has asked to sleep with it, which I welcome,as this is an appropriate way to play with a stuffed animal. But the other day this lovely kangaroo mama became the enemy to my super hero and pirate boys. She was punished by being burnt at the stake and then eaten for breakfast. Though amidst a violent game, my darlings did not forget their manners as they offered me spoonfuls of cooked kangaroo flesh. They suggested the eye ball as the most appetizing. I was disgusted and thought the whole thing was barbaric especially since the kangaroo was carrying young. However, I remembered my father's words and did my best not to discourage them with my reviling. This must be a rite of passage through boyhood into becoming a man. And there are some things that even men still retain the right to.

As soon as the brooms were put away and my husband and I stood back to admire our work of cleaning the garage, my six year old hopped on his bike and started riding around in circles in the middle of the floor. He was so excited and just kept saying how cool it was that now he could ride his bike in the garage. He said this as if he had known for a long time this was a possibility and had been deprived some life long boyhood right. Soon, all three of my children were chasing each other on wheels around the garage. Later that evening as I was making dinner I heard my husband call my name loudly and almost urgently from somewhere. I ran outside sure of some disaster and met him in the garage. But I did not meet him face to face. No, I had to look down at the floor because there he was with all the kids riding around in circles too on a Plasma Car.

"What?!", I ask incredulously.
"Oh nothing, I just wanted you to see me."

The next day I was looking for him and found him again in the garage, this time by himself riding around in circles. And I suppose if ever he can't be located this is where I should look, for this is his right.

No Rest for the Wicked and the Righteous Don't Need None

2010-10-16T10:44:00.000-07:00

Four has completely knocked me off my feet. I am astounded at the amount of energy it takes to look after this many young children. In one night I was up every 2 hours. I went to bed at an early and responsible 10:00,. 12:00-4 year old falls out of bed crying in heap on the floor. Put him back to bed. Wakes up 2 year old who is so upset I have to go downstairs with him and watch TV! 12:30- back in bed 2:00-baby wakes up 4:00-put baby back in bed 6:00-baby wakes up again. 8:00 time to get up. So, it's no wonder I haven't cleaned the house in a long time. I loathe cleaning one particular room and now, because of neglect, I actually had to use a razor blade to scrape the dirt off the floor. ( I can hear my mom moaning). The other day I realized it had been three days since I showered. I had a friend coming over, hadn't washed my face and just threw some clothing on without a bra much to my husband's delight. "You got anything under there?" "no. leave me alone." The other day when friends arrived, my two year old greeted them bottomless in the front yard. His dingaling bouncing around just under his shirt. He must have left his pants by the pile of pretzels on the ground that he was eating. The other night I came upstairs to find him in my bed, asleep. A permanent marker was open in his hand and his forehead was solid black. His hair was purple for a day. Yesterday he took a bite out of four pears and just left them lying around the house. And there are, unbeknown to me, pools of urine around the house where he has evaded the toilet. I have washed 8 pairs of pants in one day;twice! There also is some obsession with rubbing greasy matter into his hair. In one day he smeared peanut butter, lotion and Alfredo all over his head. The Alfredo was after his bath, so he took two in a matter of 30 minutes. The next day it was candle wax. The next,butter which he found from crawling up onto the counter. The floor is in such bad condition because he sneaks into the closet and pulls all the craft stuff out of the drawer, markers everywhere-more marker on his head and on the wall. I hate army men! They are all over the house all the time. I step on them, vacuum them, throw them in the trash and the two year old is the one who dumps them out; his next stop after dumping the markers. Then he's off to dump the chalk on top of the granola that fell off the table this morning at breadfast. I thought he was quietly eating his dinner, when in reality he was crumbling up his meal into tiny pieces and shoving them into his sippy cup full of water. I was tempted to blend it all together into a smoothie and make him drink it. But food is harmless. When my cell phone makes into a cup of water, then it's war. For the second time since I've had this phone it's taken a bath. But at least I have an old backup iphone just in case.
"Mom!" "Elliot (4 year old) dropped the iphone into the toilet. I got it out though (6 year old)."

Truth and Fiction

2010-10-14T10:44:00.001-07:00

Everyone wants to be like the woman in Proverbs 31. That is God's woman, the ideal woman. She has it all together.She gets up early. She dresses well. She is business savvy. She raises her family, feeds her husband, makes money, is artisitc, is respected and well known and looks good. We all should be like her.
So, we compare ourselves to all the other women out there. We read Facebook statuses that say "I did this, this and this, all while doing this, this and this with my child/children." So, we try to top it. We start feeling guilty that we aren't doing those things with our life with our kids. We want to be perfect. Martha Stewart, Angelina Jolie and Mother Theresa all in one. And soon, it becomes a competition among women.

There is a tiny, tiny, tiny little portion of a verse in that passage that is overlooked. Culturally it was normal, but in today's society we skim over it so fast we might as well erase it. It says,"...and portions for her servant girls." Servant girls? What is that?

Well, way back, most people had those. Hired help we call it now. They also had community. Women would work together, birth together, sing, play, cook, beautify, eat, together. I blame the women's liberation movement for changing this. It said, "We are independent; we can do anything a man can; we can do it all and we want to." I'm thankful for what came out of it. Voting, dressing freely, making equal salary, having an equal relationship with my husband. Sure, I'm grateful for a lot of it. But I don't want to do it all on my own. Now, one has to be someone of affluence to have regular hired help. And if you admit you need it, you are admitting you can't do it all!

We need each other. It's not a competition, it's a camaraderie. We are all in this together and what we can gather and learn from each other is priceless. It's unique; it's a treasure; and we were meant to do it together.

I willingly admit I do not have it all together. Yet, every time i sit down to write I'm fearful. "Should I really tell them what I'm about to tell them?" "Shouldn't I have it more together than this?" "They're gonna think we're dysfunctional." The words of well meaning people still haunt me. "I couldn't live in that house." "You need to do better." "I know people who had all boys and their house didn't look like this."
But, if we all just for one second let it all hang out we would get a glimpse of the struggle we all share. Then we'd be encouraged by one anothers' strengths instead of being discouraged by our own weaknesses. We would celebrate each other. And, I think, we would ask for help.

That being said....Help?

Pbbbth!

2010-10-05T19:35:00.000-07:00

For days I've been trying to write and keep ending my sentences half way with a ppbbth! You know what I'm talking about, the noise your tongue makes blowing air between your lips. PPPPBbBBththth!

I don't want to just come on here and write anything that comes into my lil ol' head. Yes, it may seem that way (I'm not an accomplished writer...yet). But I really plan these entries out. I want to be funny, charming, candid and land a publication simply by wit alone.

This all started just over a year ago when I saw Julie and Julia. You might remember. It's completely cliche to start a blog after you've have seen that movie, I realize that. But I felt like I had to do something, anything, other than what I was doing. I am moved by food, excellent cooking, creating fantastic menus and movies like such. So, as I set up my blog I'm jumping up and down shouting "I'm doing something, I'm doing something (see first blog entry)." A year later, 25 followers, and about 80% less blog entries than anticipated, I'm still doing the same thing. Which is NOT writing about cooking, food, and occasionally children; but writing about children, raising children, what children do, what they don't do, how if affects me, how I don't want to talk about children, and occasionally food. But I found the more outlandish and horrifying my stories were, the more people seemed to enjoy them. The desire to write about anything other than my real, very messy life has taken a back seat and I almost crave, CRAVE, another disastrous situation to occur so I can entertain the masses.

My husband "approved" my last blog entry. The conversation went something like this:
"You can't say that"
"Why not?"
"People are going to think we're dysfunctional."
"We are dysfunctional."
"Yea, but you don't have to tell people that."
"Everyone is dysfunctional."
"Well soon you're gonna thrive on being dysfunctional because people like it so much."
I adjusted my blog accordingly.

So, what started out to be an outlet for my creativity is still an outlet for my creativity only in a way I wanted to avoid. I thought I'd write about the time I made the perfect roast beef. Searing it on all sides, before cooking it for 2 hours to a juicy, melting glory. Instead I wrote about the increase of men in my life and how I needed more...vaginae around. I wanted to write about the Julia Child recipe I made for Christmas Eve, with a feverish, sick 2 year old, while pregnant. Instead, I was too tired and skipped the holidays entirely.

About once a week, I evaluate my life. What I would be doing if I weren't a stay at home mom. Am I doing enough of other things? Too much? I should be doing things better. Oh shut up! I'm awesome. What should my husband be doing? What should....it goes on and on until one of my kids interrupts the brain war and I leave it for next week. I also have these brain wars mid-waking in the mornings.
"I should get up. Millions of moms across America are already up. They're accomplishing things. I should get up, it's a reasonable hour. I should get up because the 2 year old is screaming and the other two are fighting."

It's a sick little game I play. Every morning, if there's nothing pressing, I fight the urge to crawl back into bed. This is a big risk my friends. It is risky business to set your children free in the house while you attempt sleep. It's not really sleep anyway because you can hear things crashing in your subconscious or every five minutes one of the kids comes in asking you a question like "where is my baseball underwear?" And if you do manage twenty more minutes of sleep it most likely will end badly for you. You will pay for it later in some way or another.

It was on a particularly bad morning that I chose to get back in bed. We had to be somewhere in three hours so I thought I had extra time. That was my first mistake. You must allow an hour for unforeseen events. And while I was upstairs getting ready I heard a familiar sound. Not one I like to hear, but I recognized it. The sound of an entire box of Cheerios cascading to the floor like a waterfall. Again, my two year old. He's found every possible way to climb up onto the counter tops. The drawer handles and the trash can are all a means to get into sharp objects or open bags of food. However messy the situation may seem I used it to my advantage and figured a mountain of Cheerios on the floor would be entertainment for at least 10 minutes so I could finish getting ready. So, I left them there for him to eat off the floor.

I had the baby in my arms when I came down again. He spits up more than he keeps down and he decided that topping the Cheerio sundae with some of his own whipped cream would be a good idea. God loves me cuz it missed my pants. I have two pairs of pants that fit me since I had a baby and the fit is debatable (you'd think all the running up and down the stairs would help). So, now I'm not sure whether to sweep up Cheerios or mop up spit up. Hey, what can I say? These are the major decisions I'm making in my life right now. I also thought about sweeping them up and dumping them back into the box because that was $5 box of organic cereal! But whatever dirt and residue that got mixed in there would negate spending $5 on organic cereal anyway. The pesticides would be less harmful than toxins on my floor. And yes, I did say earlier that I let him eat the Cheerios off the floor.
OK, still sweeping. But the bag had a hole in it and out they all fell like sand through a sieve. And there was a trail of crumbs that led out into the living room where my four year old had used them as some sort of skating device to propel him into the next room.

I did it! I just blogged about food and children. Just living the dream.

joy and perseverance

2010-09-22T20:06:00.000-07:00

I have recently been having panic attacks. I never knew what these were, didn't understand when people had them, and generally shrugged in disbelief when someone would experience one. I am laid back, and am affected in no such way by the many trials of this world. I laugh in the face of mayhem, "ha ha ha!" Until today. I had had it! I was through! My heart was racing, I wanted to scream, or cry, or laugh hysterically, I wasn't sure. Definitely wanted to break something, maybe even punch someone. I was losing it, fast.

I drove to the grocery store with tears burning my eyes and a pain in my chest. Surely, I would not survive another day. I cried over my failures as a mother, over my imperfect marriage, over my failures to keep it together, over the fact that I was crying. I parked the car and got out, angry and hurt. I looked over my shoulder to see a young dad pushing his two small ones in a shopping cart. A million things passed through my mind about a dad in a grocery store wearing a backpack. But they fled in a moment when not far behind was his wife. Her head was shaved, obviously from chemo, and she was wheeling behind them in a motorized cart, a sweet smile on her face. I wept bitterly. I wept for them, for their situation, for my shame in how I was handling mine, I wept with relief also.

This verse haunts me, I hate it. It nags me, it challenges me, I would like to rip it out of the Bible. Saint Paul irritates me. It was presented this scripture on a ribbon at a woman's retreat. I was desperate for an answer. Some encouragement from God. Anything, to reassure me I would make it through my trying time. I was 7 months pregnant, tired and alone-my husband working every minute until the baby would come. I read the reference on the ribbon-James 1:2-5. "Wait a minute, I know what that verse says. It can't be. I'll read it just in case." I opened the Bible and read, "Consider it pure jo...." SLAM! I ran out of the back of the church sobbing and threw the Bible on the floor. Was God laughing at me? Was he saying my problem was silly? That I should be stronger?
"Consider it pure joy, my bothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. If any of you lacks wisdom, he should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to him."
It took me a long time to bring myself to open the Bible again and read the entire scripture. But today, seeing that woman, today I understand that verse. Today, I am strengthened. I will persevere and I am joyful to do so.

Imperfection is better

2010-08-31T21:08:00.000-07:00

Ok, so a very lovely lady, who I like very much and know only as an acquaintance heard me speak at my church the one night I shared (some blog post back in October i think). A few months later she and I were exchanging pleasantries, small talk and she said to me. "I heard you speak on Wed. I just couldn't live in that house". Huh! I wonder what scared her? Was it the Poop Files, the dead mouse in the heater, or the copious amounts of food on the floor I might have mentioned? Now, I knew she meant it as a uh compliment..well, she meant to be kind. But of course, how do you respond to that? I must have made a face because she back-pedaled a little and said, "oh you can do it. I just mean that I couldn't (emphasis on I). Still not sure what she meant. But I like her. She's had her own grievances with her children.

I know by blogging I run the risk of giving off the wrong impression about myself, my house, my children and how I view the world. I can expect people to think I'm a total lunatic, a slob, irresponsible, weird, or composed, strong, perfect or funny. I write personally but this is not a diary. I'm not exposing myself to the world just a little bit of my life I lay before you all. And i purposefully write about the crazy, messy, cluttered parts of my life because no one wants to read about how perfect one's life is. You want to read about how someone else messed up their zucchini bread and had to dump the entire thing in the trash after an hour of labor, because then you feel better about yourself. C'mon, you know you do. So, in doing this i risk having people tell me "they couldn't live in my house."

I have good days! Just last week, I made a meal for some people. Spanish rice, chicken soup and chocolate chip cookies all from scratch of course with ingredients from my garden. I also, cleaned the whole house, including washing the floors (which I loathe) while my children played quietly and calmly with their toys and puzzles and each other. i went out that evening to a social gathering and had the babysitter all set up with dinner for the kids (a separate one from what I made for the family). It was a great day, I got so much accomplished....Now, don't you feel good about yourself? NO!

The next week I made a meal for people. I woke early and first made zucchini bread but misjudged the amount of zucchini and though it baked brown and beautiful it was completely inedible. I threw it away. I made the same meal, but without dessert and delivered it late with a screaming infant and three hungry kids in the car. I had to go grocery shopping during rush hour to get the last ingredient for this meal and dropped it off and ran out without so much as a hello to the people I delivered it to. Then I had to go to the Wine Store with all the kids. Can I just say this should never never be done. An entire store with nothing but glass bottles full of expensive liquid and four children under 6 with roaming hands and clumsy feet. Do NOT DO THIS!
I was exhausted by the time I got to my destination and went to bed with all the groceries still in their bags in the kitchen, and all the food still out on the counter from cooking and dirty pots in the sink. I had mounds of laundry everywhere and all the lights were on.

Now, how do you feel? Better? Good! Do you want to hear about my garden that looks like a jungle and my patio full of weeds? How about the broken innards to my toilet or the screen door with the handle that comes off? My personal favorite is the baseboard that constantly gets knocked off the wall and lays on the floor with a few bent scraggly nails poking out of it. I just walk by and kick it back into the wall. Sure, I have good days. But do you really want to hear about them? I don't mind sharing with you the other kind. Please help yourself to some laughter and ego boosts.

Ahh, the many moods of me

2010-08-19T19:50:00.000-07:00

I had this brilliant idea that I would go to Chick Fil A for kids night then do my grocery shopping near there after they were all fed and happy.

The balloon men were there twisting away their colored latex and we were happily eating and watching. My oldest was tearing into his kids' meal toy with his teeth. How else are you supposed to open those packages? I thought he was doing a pretty good job and was watching all the kids lining up for balloons. I noticed a pretty woman, put together, cute dress, cute hair, two pretty children. Very nice. Then I noticed her walking over my direction and kneel down to my oldest son and ask if he needed help with his package. I was sort of taken aback but gave a polite chuckle and commented on how I wasn't really paying attention. "Well i just don't want him to choke", she says to me and then asks him again if he needs help. I'm very irritated at this point and tell her I can do it. "oh fine", she says and scoots away. REALLY lady? You're a stranger who approached my son without acknowledging me to save him from a potentially non-threatening choking hazard! I mean, I'm all for a good Samaritan stepping in and saving you in a hardship but...
So then I spent the rest of our meal contemplating if I was too laid back and would I have done that to someone,and that mom must have thought I was horrible, but really was it such a big deal? Huff.

So, off to the grocery store. A little girl in the playground at Chick Fil A told me the baby had a dirty diaper. Sure enough my two year old needed a diaper change but I didn't bring his size diapers just baby ones. In the bathroom with all four, change one, while other two wash hands, shush baby who's strapped on my front. Out of bathroom, grocery store child care closed (it is 8 at night, who's brilliant idea was it to go grocery shopping after bed time?), outside to get car shopping cart, back in store, man makes comment about "now that's what I call bonding', baby screaming, two year old climbing on shopping cart, 4 year old head hanging out into aisle, six year old wants apples. Pause for a moment to ask if this is worth it. Continue on, strap in kids, baby quiet, got apples. Nod at other customers while reading their thoughts "poor woman",
In the organic aisle I feel like my circus train appearance makes a little more sense. You know, "oh so natural, baby hanging off your front, children getting whole grain cereals for 5 dollars a box and putting them into the shopping cart where my dirty smelly two year old chews the steering wheel." People are less judgmental in that aisle.

But I can't stay there the whole time. The store is closing, yes it's 9:30 and I 'm checking out. The kids don't get to bed till 10:30! And the 4 year old is in tears. He's crying that he wants to stay up all night but his eyes are half shut. The two year old fell asleep on the way home, the baby just wants to eat and go to sleep but I have to unload the groceries and give baths. Alas, the wine is always gone. But at the end of the night, everyone was asleep,washed,fed. Food put away. I talked to a good friend on the way home and everything is fine. My kids did not choke, tomorrow is another day.

It's been a year since I started my blog. It was just after my birthday. I was motivated, excited. I thought I'd have 100 followers in a year, I was going to write weekly. It's been a year, I'm thirty now, I have 14 followers, I post bi-monthly (sometimes), I had a baby this year. I have no revelations about being thirty what I'm going to do this year or if my blog will turn into anything more than my rantings and ravings. Point of this blog? I don't know but I'm just wondering if being relaxed and laid back is really all that great or if it's the only asset. Plastic anyone?

2010-07-17T20:24:00.000-07:00

Three days old
Newly Named little bundle
My sleeping Cherub

Wish Granted

2010-07-17T19:11:00.000-07:00

Ok, I'm gonna have to skip birth 2 and 3 here and go straight to 4. Too much has happened, too many people want to know, and it's still fresh in my mind. But I really want to share (at some point) what I learned about birth, the revelation from God about it for all women, how I overcame my Cesarean and am now thankful for it. I don't want anyone thinking I'm clueless and angry at the medical community (ok I am but I have grace now) and telling me how thankful I should be for my "intervention". Got a lot to share....however, at another time. Here is the most glorious story of how my little olive branch came into the world.

At the beginning I asked my husband if he would be willing to have an unassisted birth. He wasn't quite comfortable with that and I was happy to have a midwife. I used someone new this time and am so so thankful. She's a young women with a new practice and absolutely energetic and into what she does-helps women bring their babies into the world. PLUS! She loves Jesus! When I would call her to tell her I was having contractions and give her a "heads up", she would say "ok, I'll be praying for you,"! How amazing is that? My practitioner is praying for me! We are on the same side.

This pregnancy was a little different than the others...I felt older. I turn thirty this year and this pregnancy I was tired, uncomfortable and an emotional wreck. My husband was gone a lot. Working long hours, traveling, working two/ three jobs. I was home, pregnant, sick and chasing three other kids.

But, God worked all and everything out in perfect timing because the month before I was due, my husband quit his job, started his own dream job business and had an entire month off-two weeks before the baby, two weeks after and then eased into work with normal hours able to come home whenever I needed or he desired (run on sentence there for sure).

I thought I would go early with this one. I had with the others. But 3 wks, 2 wks, 1 wk before due date came and went with contractions and constant teases that any day might be the day. Two days after the due date and I was still pregnant.
On May 3rd the midwife came and checked me and all those contractions had worked to my benefit cuz I was already 6 cm dilated! After she left the contractions came every 5 minutes but I had a birthday party to get ready for! My grandmother was in town. My youngest was turning two and and I had to go to the grocery store. So, I did, stopping the shopping cart to breathe every five minutes.

I got home and started cooking, leaning over the counter to breathe every five minutes. My sister arrived to help me get ready for the party and cocked her head when she saw me swaying back and forth while cutting the onions. "Are you sure you want to do this?" "Sure! It's nothing, just five minutes, It's been like this. Once I sit down it will slow down."
My husband made an executive decision and canceled the party and sent the food and our three boys over to my parents' house.
Once in the quiet and peace of an empty house we sat down to eat dinner.
When the midwife was there earlier she had mentioned the possibility of her not making it in time for the birth. We discussed this as we were eating and my husband expressed some concerns. I remembered an e-mail was waiting for me from a friend who had a planned unassisted home birth in another country. It was in my inbox and my husband read it allowed at the table. AS he read a a strong peace settled over the house. Like humidity you can cut with a spoon on a summer's day. The letter was all about their birth experience and how they prepared and had a wonderful birth just them and a few family members. By the end of the letter all fear had left my husband and he embraced the idea of the midwife not being there.

The rest of the night progressed slowly. Contractions ranging from 5-7 minutes apart. I got into the birth pool, got out of the birth pool, watched our tv shows, went to bed, couldn't sleep, got back into the birth pool and just waited through contractions. I told my husband there was no point in him sitting their watching me and to go into another room. I would call him when I needed him.

He sat down and picked up the baby name book one more time and read through starting with the letter z. I was laboring in the water and thought it odd how much this little guy was moving during a contraction when all of a sudden I heard a click, a pop like a chiropractic adjustment had just happened inside my pelvis and I yelped!
"I don't know what that was but call the midwife I just felt a click." While my husband is on the phone with her, I have a walloping contraction. So, the midwife (45 minutes away) sets out. From then on they were heavy, intense contractions. I sat on the toilet for twenty minutes and then back into the birthing pool to see if I could get a handle on them. But they just got stronger. "I'm gonna have to push the next time." So, I kneel down and lean over the side and my husband gets behind me also leaning over the pool. The next contraction I could feel my body pushing this baby out but I was able to breath through the contractions. It was an amazing feeling being able to not "add" to the pushing and just breathe while my body did all the work. And even though I'm screaming my head off, I could tell my pelvis was really open and I wasn't tearing-a different feeling than my other two births.

Three pushes ( maybe four) and I hear "Here's his head I can see his little lips! Here's your water! Here He comes!" and out he came into my husband arms. I turned around swabbed his mouth out with my finger ( he was a little blue) and held him to my chest. 10 minutes later in walks my midwife all smiles congratulating my husband.

There's no greater sense of accomplishment. It's what every woman should feel after giving birth no matter how the baby arrives or in what setting. Peace and confidence made this a fast, intense, but fear free experience. And for it to just be me and my husband was my greatest desire. I felt like in that moment I regained all the lost time from the past nine months when we weren't together and I was struggling to keep my head above water.

This not so little guy (8lbs. 2 oz my biggest baby yet) was slightly tilted, his head stuck in my pelvis. Because my water hadn't broken he was able to move around during a contraction and "click" into position. At the time that happened my husband (still reading through the baby name book) read the name "Oliver" it's meaning and then heard me yelp. When my husband read the baby's name, his spirit responded and he moved into alignment to be born. His spirit responded to his name being called out by his father from another room!

This story can sound pretty crazy but for our fourth birth experience it couldn't be better. While it was intense it was 45 minutes total! No tearing, a healthy baby and an experience my husband and I couldn't have shared more equally. I have learned so much. I am thankful for every brick in the pathway to my birth experiences and I hope to educate and encourage women everywhere to prepare and believe for a supernatural birth experience.

Hospital birth pics

2010-04-29T18:07:00.000-07:00

looking pink and perfect, no worse for the wear

on his way to the nursery

unbothered by all the poking and prodding

Anticipation, Ideals, and Dreams

2010-03-30T17:46:00.000-07:00

In anticipation of the birth of my new son, I thought it time to record the birth experiences of my last three. Motherhood is a journey for all. And for me the life-altering experience began with the birth of my first. Until they clone a human and release it into society, there's only one way to get into this world...through a mother. The birth experience changed me, my perception of women, our power, God's plan and the medical community.
Up until now, I've kept my blog lighthearted and funny. My attempt to help everyone who reads and myself be at ease and laughing. But when it comes to matters of the heart, I've been slightly aloof.
I open this to you now to offer hope, healing and information to mothers everywhere. Whether your child was born yesterday or thirty years ago, birth affected you and still does. My journey has been a healing one, an enlightening one and a powerful one. It's even added another dimension to my life's call-the desire to empower women in birth. So, thank you for reading and for passing this along to those you know it could help.

Ideals and Dreams

Before I was even married I had a pretty clear idea of how I wanted my birth experience to go. As natural as possible. So, when we found we were expecting our first I began my planning and preparation for a natural childbirth. I was seeing a midwife who practiced at a hospital that allowed water births. I was thrilled and began my research to feign off any of those who would discourage me.
I opted out of the insurance covered Lamaze classes and paid out of pocket for a nine week course with a Bradley instructor. In this class we learned everything. The pros and cons of epidurals, ivs, episiotemies (no pros there)as well as routine practices they perform on the baby. We learned terms like "effaced" and "dilated" and how to time our own contractions. We practiced methods to help us relax, we learned positions to relieve pain and open our pelvis to let the baby down. The husbands were actively involved in all this too. I learned to eat a lot of protein and was given books that no doctor or nurse had recommended. I was educated and aware and ready to fight off anyone who wanted to push a routine hospital birth on me.

As most practices require, I saw every doctor and midwife in the practice. I wrote a birth plan and had them all sign off on it.

No drugs
No bath for the baby
No vitamin K shot
Ask to be given the baby immediately for nursing
No intervention-breaking water, pitocen, etc.

as well as some other things I can't remember. Most of the doctors smiled politely and said they would try but argued most of the points.

I went to my regular visits. Was measured, weighed, listen to heart, sent home. No talk of prenatal vitamins, or inquiry on my diet, no information about things I should/could be doing now to prepare my body for the baby, and no information on prevention of potential problems..like pre-eclampsia. Just in and out...hope you're researching because your'e on your own for information. Routine tests without explanation were done like the sugar test for diabetes and the GroupB Strep test. Very little information was given to me and I asked little. One, because I didn't know what to ask. Two, because I thought I had educated myself enough. Three, because naively I thought nothing would go wrong. I was doing everything right and better than most. I had taken this birth into my own hands.

A month before my due date they found protein in my urine and elevated blood pressure. They explained I had the beginnings of pre-eclampsia and told me to go home and take it easy. I had quit working my fourteen hour day jobs by this time which they were happy to hear. I read about pre-eclampsia in "What to Expect When You're Expecting". It wasn't even given a page. A paragraph explained the symptoms and that there was nothing that could be done. The only way to get rid of it was to deliver the baby.

In two weeks I went back and my levels were all still elevated. The midwife (the one I really liked and stayed at the practice for) told me that she was sending me to the hospital just to get the baby's heart rate monitored for an hour. She would order lunch for me. I didn't think to ask what the heart rate should be, or what would happen if it looked like there was a problem, how long I would be there, or why she was concerned.
I called my husband to tell him. When he asked if he should come I said "no" I would be home after the test.

Two hours I lay in a room listening to the beeping and whirring of the machine. I was starving, hadn't eaten breakfast, was wondering when they were going to come in and bring me lunch.

They came in finally, only to say the baby would be delivered today. I would not be able to have a water birth because of my condition. I would need to be hooked up the a prenatal monitor the entire time and lie on my side. I just said "ok, can I call my husband". Alone in the hospital and on their phone I called my husband to say they were delivering me and to get over here. I began sobbing.
The midwife asked why I was crying. I told her I wasn't ready. She asked how much two more weeks could have prepared me.

They put me in a room and put gel on my cervix so i would begin dilating. I laid on my left side and waited for my husband and for food. My husband came, my family came. No food came. For about two hours I lay there. My sister read me stories, my husband held my hand, my mom rubbed my head. After getting up to go the bathroom too many times they catheterized me. It hurt, but they said it shouldn't. Then they gave me an iv drip and pitocen. The next three hours I laid on my left side stiff and uncomfortable, unable to move, hunger pains in my stomach, waves of nausea and shivers came over me. Only my mom and husband were in the room. I turned to my mom and said "I can't do this". I heard her whispering to someone that "I had a long time left" and she was worried I had said that already. The midwife massaged my back which relieved some pain but I wanted to die every time a contraction came.

After five hours, the doctor came in and said he wanted to do a c-sec. I had only dilated a centimeter. I was relieved. Why fight it? What was the point? This wasn't the birth I wanted. I was miserable. I roused myself enough to sit up and sign a paper. I don't know what it said.

Into surgery they wheeled me at 1am. The anesthesiologist had to be woken and called in which he was angry about. In the middle of a contraction he hit me on the back a couple of times and told me to sit up. He saw me as a laboring cow who had interrupted his sleep. They told my mom later that he was the best one even if he was grouchy. All of a sudden, my misery was gone, i couldn't feel anything below my waist and I was awake and alert. But they strapped me down and put up a sheet. There would be no holding my baby after he was born. I had some sort of reaction to the epidural and started itching everywhere but couldn't scratch because my hands were tied. The nurse did her best to scratch for me.
I felt some tugging and pulling. I thought it was the baby kicking but then I realized it was them cutting into me. Without my asking, the doctor assured me that this was a small incision and that I would be able to wear a bikini again. Why did he think that was a concern of mine at this moment? How about can I have a kid again? I heard the Doctor say "we've got a double wrap" and my husband told me he quickly unlooped the umbilical chord from around the baby's neck. And then, they presented a little wrapped up bundle to me. I looked at him upside down as they held him over my head. He was trying so hard to open his eyes in that bright room. He didn't cry just tried over and over to open his eyes. I tried to touch him but my hands were tied.

The pediatrician and my husband went out of the room while they stitched me up. Two hours later I got to hold him. I don't know what they did with him all that time. Measurements, pricks, cold instruments and bright lights. But when I got him, he was perfect and small. I awkwardly put him to my breast. It pinched, but he seemed to get the hang of it. I didn't sleep much either. He and I stared into each others eyes late at night when everyone was asleep. I wondered what he saw.

The next few days dragged by. The next day recovery was hard. I couldn't stand, but lying in the hospital bed was killing me. I had visitors that evening and was happy to see them. One of the nurses yelled at me for not feeding the baby sooner. Four days I was in the hospital as they waited for my blood pressure to go down. I didn't think I could lie in that bed another day. My husband asked if I was happy about the baby. I know I was, but I think being in there was depressing. On the last day a lactation consultant came in and sat with me for fifteen minutes while I fed the baby. She was like an angel. I had nurse after nurse coming in and showing me how to breast feed. Telling me I was doing it right even though I was bleeding a raw. The lactation consultant was sweet and encouraging and shared with me her birth experiences. We had the same views on a lot of things.
Finally they released me.

Driving home was surreal. The hospital was a half hour away. It was winter and my mom had almost crashed on the way home the night he was born because of the ice. We still don't know how the truck missed her. My husband drove slow and I sat in the back with the baby. He took a pacifier on the way home which only confused him when we he tried to nurse again.

I was restricted to my bed for the next two weeks. No stairs, no driving, walking some was ok. I loved this little 5lb 11.5 oz perfect boy, but being home was blue. I felt like my body was mourning or something. I couldn't shake the weird feelings that I couldn't name.

I wasn't angry about my birth. I kept thinking of all the possible things that could have gone wrong to try to convince myself this was God ordained. I went to back to the doctor a week later. One I never met before saw me this time. My blood pressure was still high, but he didn't say anything, just sent me home. People brought meals and thanked God he was ok, no doubt trying to make me feel better I didn't have the birth I anticipated. I was just happy it was over and he was here. I'd try a natural birth next time.

This is the end of my story for now. I'll post pictures next and the beginning of my journey to healing.

This story may sound typical to you. It is typical. For some, it's just what has to be done to have a baby. It's not unusual, or unexpected, or out of the ordinary, or even unnatural. This is how birth is supposed to be for many. It took me a long time to sort through my feelings. Was I angry? Was this c-section unnecessary? What could I have done differently? Many questions came later but so did answers and revelation.

Angels in the grocery store

2010-03-10T17:33:00.000-08:00

I was cranky. I think it started at the consignment shop. I acted like one of those bitchy women- over-attached to their junky clothing that isn't gonna sell anyway. But the girl did just tell me "they aren't accepting mens" while hanging up half of the mens' clothes I had just brought in.
I then proceeded to the grocery store. I was checking the older two boys into the play room and I dropped my glove. I knew I dropped my glove and I was going to pick it up when I had a free hand. But, some lady came up behind me and leaning over to pick it up, said "you dropped your glove, here you go." I felt annoyed.

I continued through the store with the baby. A lady in the produce aisle, was smiling at him and made one of those general 'don't-know-what-to-say' comments, "He looks like he's going to fall asleep." I didn't bother to explain he just woke up from a 5 minute nap in the car...I smiled weakly.

A socially awkward store worker was attempting to make the baby laugh and said something...socially awkward. I got out of the aisle as fast as I could.

I mother of an infant smiled at me as she passed, no doubt getting a glimpse of her own future seeing me pregnant pushing a toddler. I wasn't in the mood to be sentimental.

I checked out and was picking up the older boys. As I turned around, the woman in line behind me said "Oh my goodness you look fantastic, I didn't even know you were pregnant until you turned around!" Ok, that made me feel good. My grumpiness wore off a little. In fact, it wore off enough to listen to the bank lady who stopped me to talk about switching banks while in the same breath said "you have your hands full".

I grabbed some food from the cafe and we all sat down to eat in the store. I noticed a grandmother with her grandson at the table next to me. I tried not to notice her noticing me. A few minutes into my meal, the grandmother got up to leave and stopped at my table. "Excuse me, but I just have to admire you. You're doing such a good job with your boys. You're trying to feed them well. (She must have said that based on the few cucumbers I threw in with the mac and cheese). You're all sitting quietly here together. And how are you planning on doing it when your next one comes?" I stammered something about not knowing. "Well, judging by how it's going now, I'm sure you will do just fine."

Angels come in all shapes and sizes. Mine that day, came dressed as a grandmother. Besides a boost of self-confidence and renewed appreciation for humankind, I was reminded of the power of a kind word.

What if we really told people what we were thinking...I mean the nice things. The things you think when you pass someone in the store, on the street. What if you randomly stopped someone and told them how pretty they were, or what a great job they were doing? What would happen if we were the ones with the nice words?
I guess I realized that I wanted to be the person who lifted someone's day, not just the recipient. And thanks to my angel for that.

Katie vs. Life

2010-02-25T19:56:00.002-08:00

This is how quite a few of my conversations go, Me:" I need to...(fill in the blank)" Other person: "Well why don't you just..." Me again..." i know, I just haven't yet."

Let me tell you why "I don't just". Has anyone else besides me noticed how things just aren't simple? Currently, I need to make a dentist appointment for myself and my kids, I need to hang up three monogrammed coat hooks, I need to sew a sash for my curtain. Fairly simple things. Well, procrastination was a problem earlier in my life, but add kids to the mix and I'll tell why "I just don't". And hanging coat hooks is no biggy. Nail and hammer right? But usually what happens is, you can't find the hammer and once you find it, you dump the box of nails and have to scramble to pick them up before the baby eats them,and while your picking them up the 2 year old finds the hammer. when you've finally shooshed everyone out of the room, and have a hammer and nails, you realize you need an extra pair of hands to level the hooks for you, or you can't find the stud...so on and so forth. All for a simple "why don't you just hang them up?"

One day I really tried to get some projects done. I was feeling ambitious. Some week long company had just left,I felt the need to clean, and ambition got the best of me. In my high school English class I learned that ambition will kill you, i should have heeded the warning. I began with a simple project. I hung a clock up in the playroom. All I needed was a stool, a hammer and nails, a battery and set the clock. And guess what? I did it with success. It was ticking away on the wall, so happy. That little success spurred me on to look elsewhere above my head and that's when i decided to tackle a much bigger project...the chandelier. Yes, I didn't want the chandelier in the play room anymore, I wanted the kids' sun CEILING LIGHT. I figured since the wiring was already there, taking off a chandelier to put up a much simpler ceiling light wouldn't be hard. I crawled up there, unscrewed this and that, managed to get the heavy thing down and no one was hurt. Meantime the kids are playing at my feet and the baby is climbing on the ladder every chance he gets. But so far, so good. The chandelier is down, now for the sun lamp. I begin connecting the wires with those...well, wire connector thingys. I drop one in the toy box somewhere and can't find it. Note here that at this point my blog title should be called, Katie vs. Domestication. Of course, the drawer where I had seen them a hundred times, was void of them, so into the garage I go to search for more connectors.
My boys behind me, we march to the garage. I open the door and upon entering, hear a loud crash to my left catch a furry tail race across the garage as brooms and rakes come clattering down. To my right is a large pile of evidence of a wild animal. Too big for a squirrel in my opinion. Now, the title should be changed to Katie vs. The Wild. The boys are excited because now they think we have a pet raccoon. I am not excited because I have to get this animal out of the garage and clean up it's little present! I open the big garage door and go inside to get cleaning supplies. As I'm mopping and scrubbing I'm really praying the furry thing has gone out of the garage and won't come attack me while I'm in there.

I do get it all cleaned and go outside to throw away the paper towels and other mess. But alas, maggots have taken over the trash can! Maggots are my nemesis, they have accosted me two other times in my life and I can't seem to escape their creepy crawly nastiness. And here they were squirming around in my trash can. I have too much dignity to leave them there for the trash man. So, gloves on, I go to town scrubbing out the trash can with the hose. I really can't recall what the kids are doing at the moment. They might have been playing in the maggot water, or running in the street. But now, it's Katie vs. Life.

Finally, the trash is out, the can is clean, haven't seen my furry friend and I head back inside with the connectors. I do in fact, get all the wiring and the dumb light up. So, proud of myself, and exhausted i decide to take a shower. Between the ceiling plaster, maggots and animal droppings in the summer heat, I feel pretty gross.

Fresh and clean I come out of the shower to see half the sun (ceiling lamp)laying on the floor. And that, my friends, is why I "just don't".

Traditions

2010-02-15T19:12:00.000-08:00

My grandmother takes the time to cut out comics and articles of all kinds and send them to me. She loves reading and debating, and educating herself. So, as a good little granddaughter; I thought I would print off my blog and send it to her for Christmas. A good read, some food for thought, and mostly laughs. She would love it...so I thought.
On Christmas eve I got a message on my phone..."Katie, I received your gift. It made me quite sad. I raised five children and never had such troubles. And I got a nap every day." Only a few days later she called my mother to tell her about some lunch guests she had over. They brought their five year old little boy. "And he didn't poop,"she says. I don't know if she meant he didn't poop at her house, on the floor or had transcended the need to poop altogether. Whatever the case, she didn't get it. She didn't get it at all.

She comes from another era. The era where you didn't talk about your kids. Raising children was not some great accomplishment and stay at home moms were praised for anything other than being a mom. Most of the time I really actually appreciate her point of view. "Ignore your kids"...I can agree with that. "Don't talk about your kids at a social event"...okay, you have a point. "Parents are in control, not kids"...definitely like that one. And in this modern age of parenting I think we can learn a lot from our grandparents about raising children. But what my grandmother didn't have was the right to talk about being a mother. No amazement, or wonder, no support group after labor and delivery...it was all expected of her without praise.

Well, I don't want to talk about politics (as my grandmother suggests is appropriate conversation at a dinner party), but I don't want to talk about what my kids did all day either (ok, so I blog, but that's different). But no one wants to hear about how wonderful and perfect your kids are, or your life...sorry Grandma. Life is about the mess-ups, the fop-as, the failures. The Comics wouldn't be funny if everyone's life went perfectly. And that's what I write about...cuz life happens and we all need comic relief.

I'm glad I am in an era where we do praise motherhood and children (even if unbalanced) because I can talk about all the gross stuff my kids do, and someone will laugh. It's apparent that my grandmother conveniently forgot when her middle child (my mother) burst through the sliding glass door, or when her son bashed the the heads off her Parisian porcelain cherubs, or when she gave her first child her first bath and as an inexperienced mother freaked out when her little baby went under the water for a second. Well, she remembers but these are not the great things to be talked about I guess.

Anyway, just a messy thought pattern to get myself back on the blog trail. Thank you all for laughing and rejoicing with me in imperfections.

Tough Love

2009-12-17T10:11:00.000-08:00

Do you remember as a kid when you were punished and it was absolutely colossal? The sobbing, screaming, jumping up and down, flinging yourself around violently...well I remember and today it happened with my son. I watched him throw a fit of violent proportions. I thought he might even get sick he was so angry. I have to admit in that moment I thought of backing down. I mean, honestly, what I had punished him with did not warrant this sort of response. What he did wasn't really that big of deal anyway. Wouldn't he still learn his lesson if I let it slide? Despite the voices of doubt in my head I held my ground. Maybe because I remember how it felt as a kid, and how mad I got; I was able to watch all this calmly, painful though it was. I also remember how my parents handled these situations. They said to me, "Katie we are your parents and it is our job to raise you as we think best. We will make mistakes but because we are your parents, you're just going to have to be OK with those mistakes and we'll do our best to work it out together."
Somehow, that brought me comfort. They were feeling their way through this parenting thing blindly just as I was feeling my way through life. The fact that someone else was in control was comforting. And this person at least could admit if they were wrong. So, remembering these words, I bucked up and let my son freak out for about an hour and then put him to bed with a hug and a kiss. He went to bed knowing I loved him and knowing someone would always be there to take care of him..he's not in control of his life and he didn't have to be..He's a kid!

Before we become parents we have these ideas of what a super parent is. We are going to play make believe and bake cookies, and go out on nature walks, we will always be there for them...and then we become parents. Only the super parents learn that to really be there for them sometimes you need to let them cry it out, you need to follow through and be the mean parent. You need to let them know they are not yet completely in control of their life and they don't have to be. Because you love them, you're going to let them be the kid, and you're going to be the parent!

Is Nothing Sacred?

2009-11-20T05:06:00.000-08:00

I have asked this question many times since my life as a mother. Most recently when I was sitting on the toilet puking into a trash can with one of my children pulling the roll of toilet paper down around him in heaps, one of them staring at me asking what I was doing and the other hurling himself against the bathroom door trying to get in!

But it's always during times of intimacy when I am faced with this ponder. You know what I mean. You've planned it perfectly, kids are down, candles are lit. You dare to get excited that tonight may be romantic and just as the contraception is going on...WAAAAHHHHH. And even if you try to ignore the crying the mood is ruined. Sure, you could go out to the couch but at that point it's only to say you actually accomplished something, not because it's enjoyable anymore. Or you surprisingly find yourself alone with your spouse and decide to take advantage of it until you're ducking under the covers because you hear tiny footsteps and see curious eyes peeking over the covers.

I used to make fun of that country song by Faith Hill and Tim McGraw "Let's Make Love All Night Long".."until all our strength is gone." I didn't get it. My strength is already gone before I get into bed for the night, I would kind of like to sleep please. But then I heard an interview with her and realized it takes them all night long to make love because her children (as she put it) have sex sonar sensors. They always just show up when you think the time is right. I think she described it perfectly. But I'm on a tangent now, and all you single people have stopped reading.

My kids have this annoying toy that says two things, "You know, I can hear with these things", and "Whoa!" It's a little plastic mammoth-Manny from Ice Age that goes off at the slightest bump and touch at all times of the day or night. One day I was cleaning out my underwear drawer and just throwing things over my head when I hear a "WHOA." I look, and there is little plastic Manny with a pair of black lace underwear around his neck! You know nothing is sacred when a plastic toy is getting excited about your black panties!

But I knew my life was changed forever when I woke up one morning to my two year old (who had crawled into bed with us) saying "look a balloon". Well, it was latex but...

Is Nothing Sacred?

Laugh it off!

2009-10-28T18:22:00.000-07:00

I was recently given the opportunity to speak to a group of women at our church and now, I share with you!

(I began the evening by sharing two stories from my blog.*)

Life Happens and how you handle it determines how peaceful your life is. Not what happens but how you handle it. I often get asked "how do you do it". I do it by finding as much to laugh at as I can. When crises arise, ask yourself..."will getting worked up about his situation make it any better for me?" You can respond to your life by saying "this stuff always happens to me" or looking for the positive in it, the funny, and the bizarre. You have a decision that moment to sit down and cry or get stressed out about the apparent mess or laugh.
My sons were playing outside and came running inside to tell me about a slug they found. I went outside to inspect it with them and then left them to further discovery. Just a few minutes later, my oldest ran in the house saying "Mommy! Elliot ate the slug!" Much questioning ensued, "did you" "didn't you"? Finally I just gave up and figured it would come out later. I sent out a text to my friends letting them know my recent incident and got responses like "OH MY!" " OH NO!" " I hope he's OK!" Later that day my oldest son confessed that his brother didn't really eat the slug, he was just kidding. Most of my friends responses were "Thank God!" But,I was a little disappointed. Why? These are some of my favorite memories. One, because they make good stories, but two, because when surrounded by the messy, unglamorous parts of life, I'm reminded of who I am. It's like the reality of life hits me and I look at what is around me and instead of seeing an incredible, incurable mess; I see three beautiful boys and I realize...I am blessed.
Sometimes I think how we respond to crisis comes down to the way Martha at the tomb of Lazarus spoke to Jesus: "Jesus, if you had only been here, my brother would not have died but I know even now that God will give you whatever you ask." It's an invitation for God to arise to the challenge. Let Him make something out of this. What's really amazing about Maratha's response to Jesus is the transformation that has taken place in her. Only weeks earlier she was preparing dinner for Jesus and got very upset that her sister Mary was not helping. When she complained to Jesus, He gently and sweetly scolded her saying, "Martha, you are worried about many things." He wasn't just correcting her behavior at present, He was calling out an issue in her life that needed to be dealt with..she was worrisome! Yet, now we see her at the grave of her brother transformed as she says "even now, I know that you can turn this situation into something different." She's allowing God to rise to the challenge of life!
Sometimes we get worked up about what could have happened or what might happen. Your child has a near miss with a car and you're grabbing them and holding them and thanking God and then later you really start to cry thinking about what could have happened. My oldest son, fell off the couch and bashed his head into the corner of the coffee table and had to get stitches at his eyebrow. Well, worry tells us to dwell on the fact that it could have been his eye, he could have been blinded. So you go home living in fear of your children falling and start padding every corner in sight! My parents and their friends were recounting a story of myself when I was little on a camping trip. I apparently took off running down some big hill where at the end was a lake! One of the friends started running after me and so did my dad and the friends husband. I was rescued of course and brought back up the hill safely where my mom came running and laughing. To this day, my dad clutches his chest saying, "you could have drowned!" And my mom still laughs. The point is that, your kid didn't blind themselves, they didn't fall into the lake, they're OK! The Bible says "therefore do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body what you will wear...do not worry about tomorrow for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own."
Now, if you see me in Target and one kid is hanging from the shopping cart, the other is screaming for some popcorn, and the other is ripping clothing off the hangers, will I be laughing? Probably not, but I'm not going to let that incident keep from going out with my children again.
Life is going to throw stuff at you all the time...just today in getting ready to come to church only an hour before it began=I'm trying to get dinner ready with one hand because the baby is crying and I have to hold him, while my middle son is pulling a sharp knife out of the drawer, and my oldest has just knocked over a glass vase while parading around the house in his cowboy costume and horse! This is life! I know some devastating, serious things do happen. But let God rise to the challenge. When you're husband loses his job, open a bottle of wine and celebrate what's coming next. As I was driving around today thinking about what I was going to say,I noticed the bumper sticker of the car in front of me which read, "Laughter is the best medicine." And beside this bumper sticker on the license plate was a handicap sign. If anyone knew about the best medicine, it was this person. It was the Lord saying to us..."Consider it pure joy my brothers whenever you face trials and tribulations of many kinds."

*Many people came up to me saying " I have never heard so many poop stories from one person!"

My favorite crazy day-this may qualify under the poop files

2009-10-21T18:36:00.000-07:00

I crashed on the couch, asleep before my cheeks hit the cushion. From somewhere in my daze, I hear a faint voice calling to me "Mommy, I have to go potty." "Ok, just go", I manage to call back. A few minutes later, "Mommy,I have to go potty." "Get out of bed and go, it's ok!"
I doze for a few seconds and then with a jolt I realize I better get upstairs and fast. Racing up the stairs, trying to get there to prevent what I know will happen!
Too late. There, with his hand in a claw-like position at his butt and a guilty expression on his face is my son. And on the floor lies a work of art. A perfectly crafted brown ball (so beautiful in fact it should be behind glass at a museum), sitting there unassumingly and getting every ounce of attention it deserved.
I'm angry, I'm stunned, I'm too tired to deal with this. But I do. I pick it up and find relief slightly when it leaves no residue on the carpet! I plop the mass into the toilet where it sinks down perfectly wedging itself into the opening at the bottom. The gods must be smiling at me, could this be really be that simple? I flush! The mound of poo does not move. Water rises to the top of the bowl...I flush again. And now, I'm begging the toilet not to overflow. What seemed simple has become disgusting. I go at it with a plunger, sloshing dirty water all over the floor and myself. Plunge, plunge, plunge until now it's just muck. I flush again and still it swirls around in a vortex of toddler toxins. And then I do the unthinkable. I reach down into the bowl and with a plastic knife, I c-u-t it up! Yes, this is the greatness I have risen to! The mess finally disappears down the drain and I attend to the mess on the floor.
I'm fuming. As I forcefully slosh the mop back and forth across the floor I think of a punishment. A punishment that will make him completely sorry for what he has put me through. Something to really drive this point home. I get madder and madder as I fight with the mop and my temper and the regret of a lost nap. And the punishments are gradually getting darker and darker in my mind.

I pause here to mention that a little tiny thought passed through my angry musings. One that grew and pushed it's way to the center and took over. A thought that one day, i would find them in their room just sitting, just playing, just reading, just "Not" getting into trouble. And on that day I would remember my two little curious babies. I would remember the times they did everything they could to tear apart the house and challenge my athletic abilities. I would see these two grown boys sitting together like perfect human beings and wonder where the years had gone and in that moment wish to be taken back to the time when two angelic faces peered up at me from a devilish scheme. And this thought softened the blow of my traumatic experience and I put the mop down and went into the boy's room to hug them...

Good feelings gone! The baby, craftily, oh so craftily had opened a tub of lotion and was scooping large handfuls into his mouth as if it were Cool Whip, smearing it into his hair, the carpet and his brother's clothing-who by the way was sitting there now looking not so guilty. All I could think was that I hated to see the contents of that diaper later on. Off to clean another mess. What was I saying about wanting these times again?

Things don't come so easy these days

2009-10-14T18:13:00.000-07:00

Why does it take me so long to update my blog or check my e-mail or call the dentist or anything that seems trivial and easy? Because of the sheer difficulty of getting anything done that seems simple and without threat of disaster. Anything now comes with the threat of imminent doom...ok, maybe that's a little dramatic but NOTHING is easy anymore.
Case and point: I was trying to update my blog recently. My computer is in the basement which is our hang out room. TV is down there, bar, music, etc. While I am on the computer two disastrous things are happening. The baby, in a form that closely resembles Animal from the Muppets, is ripping every CD off the shelf and throwing it across the room. While I am trying to pick up broken cd cases and shards of plastic; he turns his attention to the dvds. When I have obtained control of the mess and distracted him, the middle child has decided to climb the dresser and knock over a vase of flowers and send water dripping down the side and into the carpet as he hangs for dear life from one of the drawer handles. At this point I just gave up the computer and herded everyone upstairs (ever see that Super Bowl commercial about herding cats?).
And again: My husband gave me his old iphone. I use it only as a camera and ipod. I don't mind my children playing with it under my supervision. Since none of the apps work I thought surely this couldn't have a disastrous end. But alas, it did! When I tried to use it I found they had somehow set up a password and locked it. This resulted in my husband having to reset my phone and losing all my recent photos.
And even more recently my friend came over to do my hair. I was racing around trying to get things accomplished before she arrived and was knee deep in summer and winter clothing. She came upstairs to talk to me for a moment and then we both headed downstairs but not before the two younger ones had ripped out all the foil from her supply box and were sitting in a sea of silver-happily crumpling up every piece and tossing them.
And more recent still: I was trying to get all three children and myself ready for a meeting when they all decide to demand my attention only a half hour before we must leave. The baby wakes up from his nap screaming and must be held while I try to make dinner with one hand. My middle one wants a piece of cheese and is holding a very sharp knife trying to cut it himself. The oldest is galloping around the house on his toy horse and knocks over a glass votive that, of course, breaks all over the floor.
So, to those wonderful readers and followers who have thought of giving up on me thinking I have given up on my blog, be it known, things just don't come so easy these days.

A Pang of Sorrow

2009-09-17T23:24:00.000-07:00

Many of my friends are in the place where they are ready to start a family or are newly pregnant. And any time I hear of this baby news i can't help but feel a pang of sorrow. Maybe because i know now of what it takes to be a mother. How something that you think will bring you and your husband closer together, sometimes leaves you fighting to keep your marriage in tact. How incredibly lonely the road can be. How you will be exhausted on levels you never knew existed and still have to operate at full capacity. How your body becomes something everyone else owns but you. How there is heartache. How what you gave up everything for sometimes feels like something that took everything away. How there is always guilt that you're somehow ruining a life. How you will be needed emotionally 24 hours a day and will go unappreciated for the first many years.
But it's only a pang because I also know the fullness of the heart. Of feeling tiny arms wrapped around your neck. Of listening to their toothless gums smack together when they eat. Of drinking deep the smell of milk on their pink lips and not being able to put them in their beds when the weight of their sleeping bodies is in your arms. The joy and pride at seeing small things accomplished like tying a shoe or clapping hands. The way your heart melts when they tell you they love you and being reassured that if given the choice knowing how hard it would be, how much it would take out of you, of all the sacrifices, that you would do it again and again and again.

"if ever i thought i was exhausted, i never knew exhaustion until now, if ever i thought i knew heartache I never knew it until now, if ever i thought i sacrificed i never did until now and if ever i thought i loved, i never loved truly until now."-Katie Horst

Cut Em' Some Slack

2009-09-16T18:29:00.000-07:00

I recently celebrated 7 years of marriage. We had a great anniversary celebration. And I was thinking about how I would define our relationship and how other people might see it. I gotta say I like it! We are honest, laid back, reasonable about our expectations and always always work stuff out. And I compare him to none...well usually. The thing is I have come to realize that wives..We need to cut em some slack!

I play a mind game where I go "ok, how does the amount of work I put in compare to what my husband did today. Can I take a nap, have I earned it? If I let him sleep in does that give me some leverage?" Sick I know, but it gets worse. There is a part of me and I think a part of a LOT of women where I want leverage. I love that technically he can't do everything I do. When he says "I don't know how you do it"...I like that. I also like to complain about the fact that I can do it and he can't. I mean c'mon we love to complain about what our husbands don't do. "OH My Gosh the house is such a mess when he's home. I left him for two hours to take care of the kids and when I got home nothing was done!" But if for some reason your husband is the kind of man who cooks dinner while putting a load of laundry in and tending to the childrens' homework then wouldn't you feel kind of...jealous, angry? There's nothing to complain about to your friends! Am I alone here in this?

The thing is we hover. My husband will offer to make dinner but then I'm over his shoulder telling him how to do it. Or, we say "you're in charge of the baby" but then we check in 20 minutes later only to find the baby doing something potentially dangerous in our eyes and we say "Good thing I looked in. He was about to..." Well, why did we ask them if we weren't gonna let them do it anyway? We want to be in control and we want to complain and we want to think how wonderful we are. And we are wonderful, we can do it all, but really, have you told your man how great he is lately and why?

It takes years, many many years to learn how to take care of a wife. And by the time he's getting really good at it, the kids are out of the house and you're ready to start a new life. Well, give him some credit. If he needs you to spell it out for him, then spell it out for him and don't hold it against him. Let's stop playing games and start appreciating what they are good at and what they do DO. Besides it's not our jobs to change them. They'll change on their own. Our job really is to be a good wife, and the best one we can be. Focus on how we can change.

I know, there are some terrible situations out there, there are men who are negligent and beat their wives and gamble their money away, but I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about good wives and good husbands who need to stop nitpicking and start appreciating. Cut em some slack girls, they deserve it!

The Poop Files: Third Installment

2009-09-03T18:28:00.000-07:00

My third child has gone through life fairly ordinarily. Of course by now falling down the steps three times, falling off my bed two times and getting lost in the house seem like no big deal. But soon after he started walking, he decided to let me know he had his own personality and was going to make his way in the world like his brothers. And because he is the youngest, he gets away with a lot, sneaky thing.
So, chasing him out of the bathroom became a regular occurrence. He loves, loves to grab the caps that cover the screws at the base of the toilet and walk around with them...IN HIS MOUTH! I gotta say, the first time i witnessed this, I was pretty grossed out but upon realizing his determination, I resorted to just trying to keep them clean ( now I realize I should have just gotten rid of them altogether, huh!) He loves the toilet brush and swishing his little hands around in the bowl and especially ducking his head in whenever his brothers take a leak as if he's trying to get a golden shower before it hits the water.
I am always shutting the door and commanding everyone else to do the same. And even now I could swear on this particular early morning (before my husband had even left for work, just the beginning of my day) the toilet was flushed, lid closed and door shut. But alas this is not true. My middle one had just used the toilet, I know cuz I wiped his butt ( one of those things we don't realized cost us our dignity until much later in life). I thought he flushed, really I did. But whatever the case it was about twenty minutes later when a little prick in my conscience told me to go to the bathroom and hope the baby wasn't' in there.
He was. Hand in the toilet, poop smeared on the side of the bowl, wet toilet paper hanging out the side of his mouth and his four little teeth were munching on something. I swiped his mouth practically gagging him but it was gone. I considered for a moment washing his mouth out with bleach. But all I could do was dunk him in the tub.
I could only hope this would boost his immune system.

Testosterone and Reality

2009-08-29T17:47:00.000-07:00

I have abandoned my husband. I left him upstairs alone to put the boys to bed. I have had enough. Reality: Twenty minute synopsis-I'm getting the baby ready for bed and notice a large cricket hopping around their room. We have a lot of them here. So, I try to catch the thing when it hops away underneath the heater. I get down on my hands and knees in that most attractive of positions when your butt is in the air and your pants are hanging down in the back like a plumber and all your childbirth given belly fat is pushed over your pants to peek under the heater. I don't see a cricket but I find something else, a dust bunny inside the baseboard. Maybe I should say dust mouse. There is a dead baby mouse in the heater of my children's room! But I don't have much time to ponder all the horrors of a mouse crawling around within a breath of my sleeping babes because my youngest is hanging from the bed his one leg caught in the bunk bed ladder.
My husband comes upstairs with the now squeaky clean elven child. I say now squeaky clean, because only moments earlier he had sprayed down the toilet and tub and floor with a stream of urine and then got down on the floor with it to wipe it up with a freshly washed beach towell. That was when the testosterone overload kicked in and why I went upstairs with the baby in the first place. But now, I have a dead mouse, a cricket, and my oldest whipping out his penis. "Mom look at this!" He says, as he pulls his underwear down just enough for his penis to be sticking out all curled up like a snail.
"That's it, I've had it-too much testosterone, I need some romance, I need a date, I..am leaving you now." And this my friends is my reality.

The Poop Files: Second Installment

2009-08-28T21:03:00.000-07:00

My second son was about 15 months old when he first scooped his poop. We were on a trip to my grandparents, a 2.5 hour drive from our home. Car is packed with snacks, movies, music, we are on a family trip and having fun. We are in New Jersey in the summer so we take advantage of the farm stands along the way. Peaches, I remember peaches. Messy, but easy snack to hold them over. We all had a peach, all four of us. We all finished our peaches and threw out the pits.
Then the car started smelling of peach, but it was potent, strangely potent. That's not peach, it's poop! Well, that makes sense the baby just ate a peach, must have slid right through him. But then I looked behind me to make sure he wasn't leaking. Or maybe it was my motherly instinct that something else was going on. Something else was going on.
My son had his hand down his diaper and was scooping, (yes scooping like you would shovel snow) peachy poop into his mouth. Handfuls were being shoved into his mouth like he knew in seconds we were going to pull that car over and ruin all his fun.
We did of course. Found a safe place to pull over and i got out the wipes and went to town. Shirt, and pants in a plastic bag and the windows down, we made it to my grandparents and took a bath.
My husband said " You may never turn your nose up on anything we ever try to feed you again; you just ate your own poop with glee."

The Poop Files First Installment

2009-08-18T17:38:00.001-07:00

I realized that at around the same age, all three of my boy discovered poop in a "hands on" sort of way.
You never know where those curious eyes are following and what observations they are storing in their brain. For my oldest it was where the dirty diapers went.
I had just finished changing him and left the room to wash my hands or something ( I'm sure whatever it was it only took two minutes). When I came back I found my son knee deep in poop. Diaper pail lid open, one hand inside the pail, one hand on the wall finger painting with a shade of brown. There was an open diaper on the floor with it's contents laying about and smeared into the rug. Poop was gushing out from behind his four teeth and smeared on his mouth making his mischievous grin even wider.
He took off when he saw me, my mouth open, stuttering and stammering. As he ran away, he left little poopy foot prints on the rug and down the hall. When I came to, I threw him in the tub, scrubbing him, the tub, the wall, the carpet and myself in the process until the tub would not drain properly and poop is floating on top of the water like ...floating islands.
The only solution to that was to get a bucket and throw this soup in the toilet. Yes I took the baby out of the bathwater.
I did not realize that day that this would be a regular occurrence in my life for years to come and would make great reading material some day. That day all I could think was...I don't remember, I must have blocked it out.

God in the Kitchen

2009-08-13T19:37:00.000-07:00

My sister inspired this blog today. She said that she realized there was a pattern of God speaking to her in the kitchen. And why not? We always say God will meet you where you are and for most moms, that's in the kitchen (I'm speaking literally of course). Whether you're a gourmet, gourmand, or marshmallow and fluff kind of girl-you're in the kitchen, most of the time. We all have different things we do well, crafts, sewing, speaking, administration, organization, cooking etc. And we all have a responsibility to do what we know and do it well. So, If I love to entertain and create delicious heart and soul warming food, then I should do it well.
In talking about "doing something" I had a revelation about what that means. Often we think that in order to be doing something with your life it has to be grand, it has to be on the map, it has to be recognized. But if we are doing what we love, if we are happy about what we are doing then damn it, it's something!
This is a simple truth, I know. One I know in my head and probably have preached to others, but one I still have to remind myself of daily.
Martin Norris* talks about art in the church needing to be more expansive; embracing arts of all kinds. So, I say why not cooking? Do not we talk all the time about things being a sweet fragrance, incense to the Lord? Cooking is my art form (lacking in many areas yes, but it's how I create). So, I have a responsibility to do it well and as unto the Lord. This is a phase of my life I'm in and a short one at that (mothering of young children). God is going to have to meet me where I'm at because He knows I'm not going anywhere out of the house much nor spending vast amounts of time in Bible study. I'm delighted that He will meet me in the kitchen. Most of all, I pray others will meet God through my food.

"Food"...follow up blog coming soon. Just to keep you thirsting for more!

" Do everything readily and cheerfully-no bickering, no second-guessing allowed! Go out into the world uncorrupted, a breath of fresh air in this squalid and polluted society. Provide people with a glimpse of good living and of the living God."Philippians 2 The Message

" There are things you do because they feel right and they may make no sense and they may make no money and it may be the real reason we are here: to love each other and to eat each other's cooking and say it was good." The Real Reason-Brian Andreas www.storypeople.com

* Martin Norris, Curious Fruit

Doing Something

2009-08-12T19:21:00.000-07:00

So, the whole point of this blog was so that I would feel like I was DOING SOMETHING! And as of last night when I posted it I felt like I was. I jumped up and down hugging my husband's neck shouting "I'm doing something I'm doing something!" Then I woke up this morning and felt like doing absolutely...nothing. Exhaustion clung to me like water droplets on the air when it's humid out. And when that happens I wander around the house from room to room, glancing at the messes only to walk away or stare blankly at the floor. It's awful. And usually I have a running reel going in my head about what I will say on my blog (before yesterday it's what I would say on the Oprah Show) but on days like this my thoughts are muddled and I can't even muster the strength to write a complete sentence. When I could keep my eyes open long enough to get through a book I started to plan dinner. Wasn't the second "whole point of this blog" to write about cooking? I started reading through the first Naked Chef only to get stopped on the bread section feeling discouraged because Jamie Oliver was only 20 when he published this book and he's telling me how make bread. I'm 29 and congratulating myself on writing a blog.
At 4:00 I felt somewhat rejuvenated and starving. And while I was thinking of the delicious bread I'd make for dinner or chocolate chip cookies I'd bake with the kids afterwords, in reality I was throwing in a frozen pizza and rescuing my 3 year old who had got his lip stuck in the corkscrew of a wine bottle opener.
Everything was put in perspective for me though when after dinner I and my two older boys went outside to watch the storm coming. We lay down on the grass and felt the earth move, watched a rainbow grow, and named clouds. This wasn't so bad. This was "doing something".

But now, at 10:00 my three year old is screaming my name over and over at the top of his lungs which woke up the baby and I'm desperately searching for a bottle of wine and feeling like a failure in every aspect of my life. But I did write on my blog for the second day in a row and that is "something". Maybe I'll get to that bread making tomorrow.

To Those Out There

2009-08-11T17:20:00.000-07:00

I always wondered how mommy bloggers had time. Now I know it's not a matter of time but of sanity. This blog and the name-Katie's Pepper Patch is my effort to combine my passion for cooking with my revelations on motherhood. Take the peppers in my garden the little firecrackers I have at my side and somehow combine the two. And also because I picked at least two bushels of peppers in my garden and the colors all looked so pretty in my sink I couldn't resist. ( Why do we plant gardens? I mean we plant rows upon rows of vegetables so that they sit and rot a harvest time because we've planted more than we know what to do with!) But I'll save that for a later date. Right now I just want to say that this is dedicated to my mom and sisters who take the time to read my e-mails and say how funny I am and that I should write about life and how it just rolls right over you and how I'm handling it.
On that note I got to say, watching hours of Nate and Kate plus 8 is not entertaining for me, nor is reading someone elses diary on their tough day with their kids. That's what I do, every day- kids; watching someone else do it is not my idea of entertainment. Yet, that's what I find myself writing about-life. Because getting it all out in print (or on TV if that's what you do) helps you deal with the mess of it all, and watching or reading about someone elses kid eating poop out of the toilet makes you realize you're not alone, and you're not crazy-or you are crazy but at least there are other crazy people out there too.
So, i will try to write with integrity and conviction and make this something that you will find worth reading.
Love to all,
Katie