I have owned one of those military-grade gunmetal grey cell phones that you can dunk in water and throw across the room (not that I would ever do that) for about . . .forever.
Daniel graciously upgraded my phone in a big way about three weeks ago; I'd requested unlimited texting but I got a lot lot more and it's been getting me into big trouble ever since.
The touch screen is mind boggling. I moved apps to my home page without even knowing how I did it. I am so so so not a techie and Jacob deftly sent my first few texts for me.
Then I proceeded to almost send my niece a happy birthday message in which the auto correct changed "miss you" to &#!####.
After that I switched all of my texting to Spanish. I would type "would" and it would say: "add 'would' to dictionary?" (Why was the question in English? I don't know. That's why it took me so long to figure out that I'd changed the language to Spanish. Er, Espanol. Si, si.)
During this time, Daniel also got a new phone which he instantly hated and has since returned. But not before he missed about 47 business phone calls because he couldn't hear the ringer and managed to stand up my brother's family for a dinner date.
About one week into the tele-honeymoon, I discovered voice texting. Wow, what an invention. Press the speaker button, talk, and press send. I was suddenly in love with my phone.
There have been a few problems with this.
The first one that comes to mind was when I asked Jacob to do something and he didn't respond. When pressed, he said "Oh, sorry Mom, I thought you were voice texting."
Well, then, since I can't "touch text" it also makes me the butt of my friends' jokes because they get to watch stuff like this.
Is Loren coming?
I don't know.
Hayley, can you text her?
Me: (trying to type. failing. give up. hold phone to face and enunciate clearly) "HI LOOREN. I HOPE YOU COME BECAUSE ITS ALWAYS MORE FUN IF YOU ARE THERE."
(Friends laugh uproariously because it looks quite weird.)
Voice texting has gotten me into trouble with Daniel, too.
Some of Cambria's little friends were coming to our house and I was originally supposed to pick them up. I was doing a little clarifying via voice text in the kitchen:
So you are picking Camille up then, not me?
Daniel, from dining room: "What? I didn't even know I was supposed to."
Me: "What, Daniel?"
"I didn't know I was supposed to pick Camille up. I didn't even know she was coming."
Me: "You aren't supposed to pick her up. What are you talking about?!!"
Daniel, a little exasperated. "Hayley I just heard you clearly say, So you are picking Camille up then, not me."
Ohhhhhhhhh. Right. I did say that. To my phone.
And hopefully. . . this is the last embarrassing texting story for a long long time:
On a gorgeous Wednesday night Deeann and I are charging around the Y outdoor trails and Daniel texts me that I should enjoy my time and the kids are all asleep.
I don't want to voice text because I don't want Deeann to keep making fun of me so I try to text him back "okay." Or rather "OK."
WHAAAMMMP.
Suddenly I am nearly knocked flat.
By a gangster?
Wildlife?
Another walker?
Nope.
I ran right into a metal bollard.
And I repeat, some people should never upgrade their phones.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Saturday, March 24, 2012
written in stone
I think about my littlest man still.
Like. . .
every.
single.
day.
If not every single hour.
Cuz a mamma can't forget her baby I can't erase his little face from my memory.
I don't want to.
He comes up easily in conversation and we smile looking at his pictures.
We paid for an Easter lily in his memory and I wear his name on a necklace close to my heart.
I tried to let Eli wear some of his clothes. . . I thought maybe it would seem normal and almost cool. It wasn't. All I could see was Gabe and his dimples, and I don't want to be superimposing one son upon the other.
We sketched out the words to his gravestone this week.
It will be beautiful and succinct and perfect and terribly wrong.
I'm glad we've waited.
I hated his unmarked grave and yet hated the stone that would make his death so final.
But it's time now.
This week Jacob drew this picture in one of his schoolbooks:
I sucked in my breath when I saw it and snuck a look at his face.
Innocent.
(Probably feeling happy with the muscle tone he gave to his own arms.)
But this was monumental to me because this is the first time he hasn't included Gabe.
So does it take two years for a child to heal and move on?
It's good and it's not good and I've tried to rationalize that this was not his best artwork so maybe he was just being lazy and not wanting to draw one more stick figure.
I didn't say anything.
I decided long ago not to force the children to grieve or heal on anyone's schedule but their own and the reality of our family being what JD's stick summary shows is. . . well . . . reality.
So in light of writing our son's beautiful name in stone and the family of five on the schoolwork sketch, this was a special gift:
{Gabe's tree. . .}
Like. . .
every.
single.
day.
If not every single hour.
I don't want to.
He comes up easily in conversation and we smile looking at his pictures.
We paid for an Easter lily in his memory and I wear his name on a necklace close to my heart.
I tried to let Eli wear some of his clothes. . . I thought maybe it would seem normal and almost cool. It wasn't. All I could see was Gabe and his dimples, and I don't want to be superimposing one son upon the other.
We sketched out the words to his gravestone this week.
It will be beautiful and succinct and perfect and terribly wrong.
I'm glad we've waited.
I hated his unmarked grave and yet hated the stone that would make his death so final.
But it's time now.
This week Jacob drew this picture in one of his schoolbooks:
Innocent.
(Probably feeling happy with the muscle tone he gave to his own arms.)
But this was monumental to me because this is the first time he hasn't included Gabe.
So does it take two years for a child to heal and move on?
It's good and it's not good and I've tried to rationalize that this was not his best artwork so maybe he was just being lazy and not wanting to draw one more stick figure.
I didn't say anything.
I decided long ago not to force the children to grieve or heal on anyone's schedule but their own and the reality of our family being what JD's stick summary shows is. . . well . . . reality.
So in light of writing our son's beautiful name in stone and the family of five on the schoolwork sketch, this was a special gift:
{Gabe's tree. . .}
love you, my little man
miss you
like you can't imagine
feel the hole
feel the burn
feel the ache
know that you are happy
whole
walking
running
you don't care that you didn't grow up
(but I do)
still catch my breath
still touch your hair
still see your little self
still wish that you were here
we're going to put this big rock up
where we laid you down
and we will try to summarize your little life
in a few short lines.
I need a lot more space than that.
your life brought me so much joy, my son. . .
you still bring so much joy.
when I hear this
I know that even though
(in a way)
your star burned down
you
are
singing
blessing
and honor
and glory
forever to our God.
So while we choose what to write in stone
we are so thankful that your days were written in His book
and that our names are written on His hands
(and you, my baby, are written on my heart forever)
I love you, Gabriel James.
Love, Mommy
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
God's Not Dead (and other quandaries)
All you KLove listeners out there have definitely heard this song by now, super catchy and super fun. . .
God's not dead
He's surely alive
Livin' on the inside
(roarin' like a lion)
and very very. . . ah. . .
puzzling to hear your seven year old belting out.
Daniel and I were exchangingnervous oh no we are becoming our parents thoughtful glances as Peter Furler rock whispers He's surely alive and I was thinking oh my goodness of all the songs on the radio why do my kids have to love this one?
Jacob was sensing the awkward moment and impending radio dial switch and he leaned forward, straining on his seatbelt: "You know, guys, this song is just such a good reminder. You know, the words are."
Maybe he'll be a negotiator when he grows up.
Seriously, I wonder about decisions like this every day.
When music is making my kids shake their little bon bons instead of praising the Lord, do I
a) turn it off with a click, because I am Mom Almighty
b) be happy that they like songs with words that are good reminders
c) lecture (endless lectures) (so much talking I do) (so tired of talking) now children, yes I like this song and yes these words are good reminders but this is so not producing the fruits of righteousness in your lives and I'm not sure I like the Newsboys as music choices for a five year old and seven year old although it would be very different if you were sixteen and wanting to listen to them while you were working out but the bottom line is that we want our actions to glorify God and sometimes I don't think this music does that. . .
Tonight I'm not convinced that a, b or c are the correct answers and I'm praying that God will show me d).
Parenting is full of thesedaily hourly decisions.
This morning I left Bible Study and found Cambria in the gym, limply flopped over the basketball hoop base. I pretend that she's not pouting, but I know too well that she is. I ask her what's wrong and get nowhere and it's not the place to have a heart to heart and her little friends are asking if she can go outside with them and she goes.
I think.
I gather my stuff and my bags and my Eli David and head out to the parking lot, expecting to hunt her down from some little hideout on the church grounds; she isn't there.
She's sitting on her little booster seat in our van, by herself, buckled and looking out the window. She lifts a sullen limp hand to wave at her friends as they clamor to say goodbye and I shut the door and look in the rearview mirror at her little blond head and her pink -t-shirted self.
a) discipline for the attitude; you cannot behave like this
b) assume guilt; you are too pouty and you did not treat your friends in a kind way
c) blame some other child; what's the matter? did someone hurt you?
d). . . . .
We talked. She said she's bad at tag and always was "getting out." She was frustrated with the others and with herself too. I didn't cut her any slack and told her she just needed to run faster and that a bad attitude and being a poor sport during games was just not right.
Moments like those make me feel so inadequate as a mom. I feel like there's probably some deep moment I'm missing or a huge psychological barrier that I'm glossing over and later in life when they sit on the proverbial therapist's couch I'm going to come up in the conversation about two million times.
But then, later that afternoon, she brought me a piece of paper and a pen so I could write down a letter. She makes endless letters and cards, but can't spell yet and I'm very accustomed to writing down her little notes so that she can trot off and copy them down with pink and purple markers. I sit on the couch and she dictates:
I had fun with you today when we left church and we talked in the van. I love you Mom.
I look down at the words I've just written.
Maybe I make everything too complicated.
JD worked with Daniel this morning. He was sick with excitement looking forward to it. He came home at noon. And now my choices begin:
a) let him revel in the joy of having helped his daddy and read all afternoon on the couch
b) let him do half of his school work
c) keep our noses to the grindstone and do the normal allotment of pages
I choose c) and we sweat and we struggled all afternoon on this beautiful first day of spring and we finished at 5:53 pm and I wonder if there was a d) answer to that issue as well.
Mom, are you frustrated with me? he asks and I look over the counter at him.
No, I'm not frustrated with you, I'm frustrated with myself, I tell him. Parenting is full of tough decisions and sometimes I don't know if I'm making the right ones. Like it hurts my heart to know you're tired and hot and don't wanna do school and I wonder if it's the best thing to make you do it today. I don't know. But I love you.
He is happy and reveling in much accomplishment today, headed out with fully charged batteries for his remote controlled Hummer, sweaty and all boy. He grins.
It's okay, Mom. I know. It's hard. But guess what? You won't have to make tough decisions on your birthday. I've got stuff planned.
Oh that boy! He's gone and I yell after him that he's making me cry happy tears but he doesn't hear over the rrrrreeeeeeeeeeerrrooooommmmm of his car.
These are the things that drive me to God these days, these questions and wonderings and deep desires to do my part to raise my children to walk with Jesus and love Him with all of their hearts.
So.
That said, do you turn the radio up or down for God's Not Dead?
God's not dead
He's surely alive
Livin' on the inside
(roarin' like a lion)
and very very. . . ah. . .
puzzling to hear your seven year old belting out.
Daniel and I were exchanging
Jacob was sensing the awkward moment and impending radio dial switch and he leaned forward, straining on his seatbelt: "You know, guys, this song is just such a good reminder. You know, the words are."
Maybe he'll be a negotiator when he grows up.
Seriously, I wonder about decisions like this every day.
When music is making my kids shake their little bon bons instead of praising the Lord, do I
a) turn it off with a click, because I am Mom Almighty
b) be happy that they like songs with words that are good reminders
c) lecture (endless lectures) (so much talking I do) (so tired of talking) now children, yes I like this song and yes these words are good reminders but this is so not producing the fruits of righteousness in your lives and I'm not sure I like the Newsboys as music choices for a five year old and seven year old although it would be very different if you were sixteen and wanting to listen to them while you were working out but the bottom line is that we want our actions to glorify God and sometimes I don't think this music does that. . .
Tonight I'm not convinced that a, b or c are the correct answers and I'm praying that God will show me d).
Parenting is full of these
This morning I left Bible Study and found Cambria in the gym, limply flopped over the basketball hoop base. I pretend that she's not pouting, but I know too well that she is. I ask her what's wrong and get nowhere and it's not the place to have a heart to heart and her little friends are asking if she can go outside with them and she goes.
I think.
I gather my stuff and my bags and my Eli David and head out to the parking lot, expecting to hunt her down from some little hideout on the church grounds; she isn't there.
She's sitting on her little booster seat in our van, by herself, buckled and looking out the window. She lifts a sullen limp hand to wave at her friends as they clamor to say goodbye and I shut the door and look in the rearview mirror at her little blond head and her pink -t-shirted self.
a) discipline for the attitude; you cannot behave like this
b) assume guilt; you are too pouty and you did not treat your friends in a kind way
c) blame some other child; what's the matter? did someone hurt you?
d). . . . .
We talked. She said she's bad at tag and always was "getting out." She was frustrated with the others and with herself too. I didn't cut her any slack and told her she just needed to run faster and that a bad attitude and being a poor sport during games was just not right.
Moments like those make me feel so inadequate as a mom. I feel like there's probably some deep moment I'm missing or a huge psychological barrier that I'm glossing over and later in life when they sit on the proverbial therapist's couch I'm going to come up in the conversation about two million times.
But then, later that afternoon, she brought me a piece of paper and a pen so I could write down a letter. She makes endless letters and cards, but can't spell yet and I'm very accustomed to writing down her little notes so that she can trot off and copy them down with pink and purple markers. I sit on the couch and she dictates:
I had fun with you today when we left church and we talked in the van. I love you Mom.
I look down at the words I've just written.
Maybe I make everything too complicated.
JD worked with Daniel this morning. He was sick with excitement looking forward to it. He came home at noon. And now my choices begin:
a) let him revel in the joy of having helped his daddy and read all afternoon on the couch
b) let him do half of his school work
c) keep our noses to the grindstone and do the normal allotment of pages
I choose c) and we sweat and we struggled all afternoon on this beautiful first day of spring and we finished at 5:53 pm and I wonder if there was a d) answer to that issue as well.
Mom, are you frustrated with me? he asks and I look over the counter at him.
No, I'm not frustrated with you, I'm frustrated with myself, I tell him. Parenting is full of tough decisions and sometimes I don't know if I'm making the right ones. Like it hurts my heart to know you're tired and hot and don't wanna do school and I wonder if it's the best thing to make you do it today. I don't know. But I love you.
He is happy and reveling in much accomplishment today, headed out with fully charged batteries for his remote controlled Hummer, sweaty and all boy. He grins.
It's okay, Mom. I know. It's hard. But guess what? You won't have to make tough decisions on your birthday. I've got stuff planned.
Oh that boy! He's gone and I yell after him that he's making me cry happy tears but he doesn't hear over the rrrrreeeeeeeeeeerrrooooommmmm of his car.
These are the things that drive me to God these days, these questions and wonderings and deep desires to do my part to raise my children to walk with Jesus and love Him with all of their hearts.
So.
That said, do you turn the radio up or down for God's Not Dead?
Monday, March 19, 2012
dreams. jobs. more selfishness.
I feel tears running down the inside of my nose as I listen to someone talk about doing their dream job.
I try to explain it to Daniel later, from the safety of my home, curled up on our leather couch, the children asleep. {finally}
The tears push again and I find myself amazed as I verbalize my selfishness.
I just feel like life is . . . out of my control.
Like I just never got to choose. . . . and now I am just stuck. . . and I wanted to write. . . and now I teach. . . but I'm not a teacher. . .
And it's all so thankless and these little people are so thankless sometimes.
And the monotony can just be mind numbing.
This is why I read deep stuff, I thought today as I laid on the floor with Eli, pressing a push and go rattle up and down, up and down, up and down, just so I can prove to myself that I'm not going crazy.
You can laugh with me, I'm sure, or look back and remember; you can worry that I am going crazy; you may think I'm a little selfish, and there you will be absolutely correct.
My husband {gently} points out that laziness and selfishness keep us from our dreams and the only one keeping me from writing is me.
I want to argue with him.
I want to say that The Children demand everything.
I want to say that Hospitality leaves me no time.
I want to say that Grief has stolen my motivation.
I want to say that Teaching has exhausted my capacity to think.
I want to give excuses, but there are none, and there are four fingers pointing back at me if I even start to blame.
I can get up earlier,
I can be purposeful,
I can engage my brain instead of lulling it to sleep,
I can just write.
Though my creative nature defies and strains against order and discipline, it is dying without it.
Scheduled creativity. . . . .? (cue screaming clip) Fortunately, creative people are always up for a new idea and though I really am reluctant, I'm giving it a try.
So you may find more around here, my little quiet corner and my idea springboard, my little blog where I can dump my thoughts and sort out life.
And confess my selfishness.
I try to explain it to Daniel later, from the safety of my home, curled up on our leather couch, the children asleep. {finally}
The tears push again and I find myself amazed as I verbalize my selfishness.
I just feel like life is . . . out of my control.
Like I just never got to choose. . . . and now I am just stuck. . . and I wanted to write. . . and now I teach. . . but I'm not a teacher. . .
And it's all so thankless and these little people are so thankless sometimes.
And the monotony can just be mind numbing.
This is why I read deep stuff, I thought today as I laid on the floor with Eli, pressing a push and go rattle up and down, up and down, up and down, just so I can prove to myself that I'm not going crazy.
You can laugh with me, I'm sure, or look back and remember; you can worry that I am going crazy; you may think I'm a little selfish, and there you will be absolutely correct.
My husband {gently} points out that laziness and selfishness keep us from our dreams and the only one keeping me from writing is me.
I want to argue with him.
I want to say that The Children demand everything.
I want to say that Hospitality leaves me no time.
I want to say that Grief has stolen my motivation.
I want to say that Teaching has exhausted my capacity to think.
I want to give excuses, but there are none, and there are four fingers pointing back at me if I even start to blame.
I can get up earlier,
I can be purposeful,
I can engage my brain instead of lulling it to sleep,
I can just write.
Though my creative nature defies and strains against order and discipline, it is dying without it.
Scheduled creativity. . . . .? (cue screaming clip) Fortunately, creative people are always up for a new idea and though I really am reluctant, I'm giving it a try.
So you may find more around here, my little quiet corner and my idea springboard, my little blog where I can dump my thoughts and sort out life.
And confess my selfishness.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
the red & pink dinner: what selfishness steals
1) How much God has brought us through in the past year. So much darkness and pain and fear. He carried. Last year when I wrote about love being more than red tissue paper my world was literally crumbling around me as I watched my husband's struggle to cope with his own grief and his own inability to save the world. Someday. . . I'll be brave enough to spill it all out here. But for now. . . my heart overflows with gratefulness to a God that is real and cares and rescues. I have lived some of the darkest moments I could have imagined and at the end of that tunnel as well as the middle He is faithful and true.
2) Last year on the fourteenth, I went to Walgreens and bought one of those pink little $7.99 boxes that tell you that life is going to change and another little person is on the way. I cannot even begin to describe all of the emotion and anguish that went into those moments. . . I did get pulled over on my way home from the drugstore by a nice officer from the MPD. Good grief, I have so many unfortunate incidents with speed limits and my husband's colleagues. They're so nice to me. (Or maybe nice to Daniel.)
February 2011 was a surreal mixture of hope and despair for me.
And this year I remember and ache with thankfulness that the despair didn't stay, that God is continuing to give hope and purpose to our days.
And it doesn't matter.
Maybe I am finally growing up? I cringe to remember the hoops my poor man jumped through to dazzle his new bride and the unreal expectations I had. Oh the selfishness our society promotes. Oh how the poor guys can never measure up.
At any rate, this was one of my
I sent the kids & Daniel brown paper bag invitations tied up with pink crepe paper:
Valentine Dinner
our house
6:30pm
must wear red or pink
and did my best to transform our dining room into Restaurant H. I stole Cambria's shell chandelier out of her room and managed to hang it over the table (very very cool effect: now I want one in every room). 
Welcome to Restaurant H
Triple Layer Pizzeria Pepperoni
(in a heart shape)
Breadsticks Parmesan & Marinara
Choice of Drinks:
Cherry Soda or Sweetest Tea
Dessert Menu:
Leave-it-to-Beaver Chocolate Chip Cookies & Milk
I didn't have time to run errands so I just made dinner out of what I had in the fridge. It worked. No salad or greens was a little weird, but I think it only bothered me.
Jacob, ever aware of trends: "Dad, did you know that Happy Joes is even delivering heart shaped pizzas tonight?"
Cambria came to the table in a pink turtleneck dress with pink bracelets and a pink necklace and an awful lot of pink eyeshadow from a play make-up kit.
I grabbed my standby black dress and tied a pink ribbon on my boring hairdo - voila waitress/hostess Hayley. {I told the kids I wished I would have remembered my nametag from my receptionist days at the CPC Pregnancy Resources center; would have looked more official. JD: "We can imagine it on you, Mom."}
Oh such a fun dinner. Something is very magical about changing up the ordinary.
And we even had a jukebox, something that intrigues the kids every.single.time we eat at the Texas Roadhouse. *If you ever need a jukebox, Spotify is a fabulous stand-in. The kids got to make requests and we had a pretty sweet playlist.
Oh How He Loves Us
(David Crowder)
O the Deep Deep Love of Jesus
(2nd Chapter)
What Love Really Means
(JJ Heller)
I Will Be Here
(Steven Curtis Chapman)
Still the One
(Shania Twain)
I told Cambria and Jacob that the very first time Daniel twirled me all the way around in a circle, we were seeing each other after months apart and
looks like we made it
look how far we've come my baby
they said we'd never make it
but just look at us holding on
still together
still going strong
still the one i run to
the one that I belong to
still the one i want for life
was blaring over the airport sound system.
(Poor TSA agents.)
I happened to glance at Cambria's face and her eyes were shining. I was caught off guard by her interest. Oh. . . what a feeling to know that your mommy and daddy love each other. I think of all of the yuckiness and the mundane that she hears out of my mouth and I resolve that she will hear more of this, more of the love stuff.
In the joy of preparing beauty for my children and my man I actually forgot about myself
and lo and behold I got surprised too.
They had little packages for me, lovingly wrapped in brown paper sacks.
50 tea light candles (from Jacob)
Triple Berry (think pink) candle (from Cambria)
gorgeous roses from my man
a card that they all signed
Daniel
and Jacob Daniel
and Cambria
and Gabe
and Eli
and seeing all of those precious names and knowing my husband knows my heart so well. . . yep, the tears overflowed.
Tears because they love me so much;
Tears because God is so good;
Tears because of all the years my selfishness ruined and stole moments like these;
Tears because I have been given so so so much;
Tears because he loves me so much.
Best February 14th ever.
*And FYI, you don't have to go out on the town to love your man. You knew that, though.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
attempted sunday restfulness
I love them. If Daniel is home I usually escape to the library and lose myself in the labyrinth of books and hushed voices. (What are hushed voices? I don't hear those very often.)
Today is a Sunday afternoon sans Daniel so I gotta create my own respite. I poured myself some coffee and even though my screen keeps getting covered up every two minutes by the American Girl Doll catalogue {"Mom, look at this one. This is the one that has a tipi."} I'm hoping to log some moments and quotes from the week that I don't want to forget.
For Cambria, each day begins with the crisis of what to wear. On Tuesday, I heard her muttering to herself as she stuffed something back in her drawer, "Well, can't wear that cuz Clare's gonna be there." I never did find out why that mattered, but a bigger problem was her choice of outfit for gym class on Friday. Polka dot dress + Cambria - leggings or bloomers + tumbling + exasperated, judgemental glances at me from the instructors = bad mom moment for the week.
JD is always thinking deeply. It is disturbing sometimes, especially to someone like me who doesn't tend to take life too seriously. Yesterday: "Dad, I have just been wondering this. Does Satan smoke?" I laughed out loud which didn't help Daniel respond with the gravity the question required, I'm sure.
Other thoughts from Jacob:
"Is there a word made with only vowels? No, I don't mean "I" and "A", I mean with several vowels, Mom."
*standing on stairway after being tucked in for the night* "Mom. Hi. Do anteaters eat ants? That question has just been sitting in my head."
To Cambria: "Be careful when you swim in Hawaii. I've heard there are killer whales there."
He delights in keeping tabs on current events, news and weather, and then name dropping. This is hilarious to me because he usually gets something wrong. Cases in point: Justin Biever, Nitt Romney and Moot Gingrich are a few recent goof-ups.
Today, riding the wave of my praise for good behavior, he tried for some further brownie points: "Mom, I don't really enjoy watching videos anymore. I just like playing with craft popsicle sticks and being creative." {This smacks of the smashingly popular "Homeschool Ryan Gosling" to me.}
Speaking of Cambria. . . I feel so tested as a mom by her style of learning and her needs right now. She is so sensitive and if not handled correctly and gently, quickly becomes pouty. She needs so much cuddling and time and love and endless reading of books. She wants so bad to be with me. If I start make supper I find myself wincing as I hear the inevitable scccr-scraping of pulling a chair up to the counter.
Why do I brace myself for it? I asked Daniel one day as I found myself clenching my teeth while giving instructions to stir and be careful and not to "lick and stick" fingers. I should be rejoicing to have a little girl who wants to help me and wants to be near me.
There are all sorts of reasons for my exasperation (the main one of course, being sin) but what it all boils down to for me is my selfish heart. My friend Wendi wrote about this humanness on Thursday and helped me feel less alone. I am not the only mamma who feels so inadequate to reach and meet all of these needs.
I am off to try and win over the unending laundry battle; then off to surprise my man by showing up at his Financial Peace University class. [He's been requesting that I come. I said no. I said absolutely no. I said I don't have time for one more Dave Ramsey class. This week I've been -once again- humbled by my own selfishness and the grace of God in my life. A tiny bit of unselfishness is not going to hurt me. So I told the kids I was going to show up at his class today and not to tell Daddy and there might not be childcare for them today so would they be okay playing with the iPad and sitting quietly? Jacob: "Oh, sure, Mom. Actually I have always wanted to sit in on an FPU class."]
*** news flash. just talked to Daniel and he isn't going. Grrreat. That means that I have to come up with another Valentine's Day gift for him. Ha ha ha. Although I am glad I found out. Showing up at his class with three children and no Daniel would be an even greater exercise in unselfishness and grace. ***
Well. . . the laundry hasn't changed plans, it's still patiently waiting for me.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
February Thoughts
Looking at the above pictures make me want to change the paint color in our living room. I've been toying with the grey idea. And the next minute I feel exhausted by the idea of painting and decide that tan is fine. Sometimes I wonder where the girl who loved to flip houses went. (Maybe she is turning thirty?!)
You can also see that window on the wall; it's from my mom and dad's farmhouse. I'm in the middle of wiping off the Christmas song my mom wrote on it, mulling over what I should write on next. Thinking about this quote:
I will confess
I do not see Who I believe
but I have a choice to make
and I choose to believe
until someday I shall see
(taken from Little Mama's blog)
And then, of course, my Eli. . . oh such joy he is. So many rolls! Squishing him is. . . like dessert.
"Hi, Mamma. . . I do believe I've outgrown these 0-3 month onesies."
(could he be any more bald?)
Game invented by JD & Cambria: Eli - Eli - O (to the tune of Old MacDonald)
Oh the endless entertainment of having a sister who does your own personal puppet shows.
"Oh, no. Seems like I got too many friends!" (that caption courtesy of JD)
This little hat (I bought it from this Etsy shop for $12) just never gets old. I think it's the cutest baby thing I've ever bought.
I'm in the middle of this book right now. . . so thankful that God gives me grace; how often I fall short in giving grace to my children. This has been a refreshing read for me. Many parenting books leave me overwhelmed with "things to do" and "ground I've lost." Dr. Kimmel's approach is hopeful and uplifting. I love how he applies this passage on grace to parenting. I've never read Titus 2:11-14 through "mommy lenses" but I'm glad I have now!
For the grace of God that brings salvation has appeared to all men.
It teaches us to say "No" to ungodliness and worldly passions, and teaches
us to live self-controlled, upright and godly lives in this present age,
while we wait for the blessed hope - the glorious appearing of our great God
and Savior, Jesus Christ, Who gave Himself for us to redeem us from
all wickedness and to purify for himself a people that are His very own,
eager to do what is good.
Underneath the busy and the crazy, I struggle to find the balance between life and actually living,
between being married and having a marriage,
between housekeeping and making a home,
the balance between caring for my children and loving my man.
(If I ever find the secret, I'll be sure to pass it on.)
Saturday, January 21, 2012
oh such a copycat
I did this today with the kids.
Not my idea, wagon or house pictured above.
{But it's super super cute and we have one now.}
I've been thinking today about what a shameless copycat I am. . . it's really quite pathetic.
As a new gym member, do I come up with my own exercise routine? No, I trot after Deeann, panting trying to keep up, and just copy hers.
Do I come up with my own homeschool curriculum ideas? Nope, just copy my mother in law. If my kids graduate from college two years early like Daniel's little brothers with degrees in physics engineering and political science. . .I'm good with whatever curriculum got them to that point.
I worry after reading Ann Voskamp that I'm going to blog like her. *hit return key five times* deep, thoughtful sentence. *hit return key five times*
Hmm. I try to copy my sister in law's unbelievably organized household.
I want to copy my mom's easy, relaxed hospitality.
I wish I could copy my little sisters' crazy-amazing hairstyles. (How do you backcomb again?)
I think about copying the mommy-bloggers like my friend Michelle who resolve to not spend any money in January. (I think I just heard my husband laughing his head off ten blocks away at the FD.)
Sigh.
Nothing's original here, folks. It's all duplicated from some other brilliant soul.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
when carpe diem seems like a good idea
Thud.
Little Eli fell.
The details aren't important; he cried and we both soothed him and worried a little.
Then he quit crying and started holding his breath with silent, jerky little sobs.
oh, Eli, don't do this. . . Daniel was telling him and my whole body went cold again.
We are going to get some help here. . . I was shaking, running for my phone. Couldn't find it. Couldn't find any phone. Wasn't thinking.
Yes, yes, call. Daniel is saying, just standing there, dazed, holding him.
We can get there faster ourselves, I say and start putting shoes on my man and starting the van and crying to my son to breathe and be okay.
Drive drive drive I say and then realize he can't drive while he holds him and I can't leave the kids so they have to come with us. I call them out of bed, hating the fear that they are going to feel and load them in. I am moving like the wind. I leave the door open and candles burning. I am not thinking.
Still jerky weird gasps from Eli.
I pray, out loud, and words stream out of my mouth as I drive the route I rode fourteen months ago to say goodbye to Gabe.
God, make him breathe,
You are a Healer, God.
God, I need my son,
God You are a Giver. . . be a Giver, God!
Daniel tells me to park at the ER and I refuse and drive to the double doors. Go, go go, just go get him in there. . .
I see my husband carry my son through those doors through a haze of tears as I park and I hate what he is reliving and I hate what I could find when I too, walk through those doors again.
I should have come back sooner, I think as I go in, realizing that I'm barefoot. I just couldn't bring myself to return. Daniel is here every other day. . . how does he do it? Same corridors, same trauma rooms, same little private family lounges where peoples nightmares start.
I find my husband and two nurses and I lean against the door jamb and take it all in. Eli is sitting up in Daniel's arms and making sad little coos to the nurses and they are all smiling and agreeing with Daniel that his respirations sound good but it's good to check and how far did he fall and they have a relaxed camaraderie from working together and everyone knowing why we're paranoid.
I am limp with relief and my face is wet with tears as I sit on the cot and hold him close to my heart.
He's okay? All that heart-stopping stress? The doctor looks so young and I feel so old and tired and weary. He says our son is fine and that he'll run any x-rays or scans that we would like, but really doesn't think it's necessary. Why was he jerking and not breathing? I ask and the doctor shrugs and laughs and says he was probably really mad. Eli. . .seriously. . .you took another couple years off my life and reinforced the need for my Loreal 5N.
I left the room, I left the emergency department, I walked out into the parking lot. . . retracing awful steps. But I was holding my son. I got into the van and held his face to mine and sobbed.
I know in my head that these are just childhood events that happen to everyone and and yet . . . he fell and immediately my mind spins an awful movie reel that my heart has already lived.
I'm sorry.
There's nothing we can do.
Going home with empty arms.
Newspaper notices with a photo of my baby.
Tiny grave.
I can't believe Eli's okay because I find myself always braced for the worst. It's eleven pm and I hold him and think back on my demanding words to God and wonder why He even answered. I don't deserve any of the good gifts He's already given me.
I am not entitled to my children.
My heart twists and I think of the sweet couple in our Compassionate Friends group who lost both of their little boys in a tragic car accident.
Their days are not promised.
I think of the Don't Carpe Diem post that has been wildly popular among all of my mamma friends and even though I totally agree and have so been there . . . I realize that each day is an incredible gift.
It all blurs together in my mind and I drift into a troubled sleep.
And unbelievably I dream of Gabe. This is a first for me. I have wished that I could dream about him because then I could have another memory, even though it wouldn't be real, only a figment of an exhausted imagination.
Someone brings him to a party as a gift to us.
I know he's there, but just assimilate him back into my little nest, like he never left at all.
There's crying and eating and unwrapping gifts and breaking up children's fights, smiling and taking pictures and then the party is over.
The nameless person who brought Gabe as a gift hands me a photo from the party of all of us together and I realize that he had been there.
Where is he?? Why didn't I go crazy with joy?? Why didn't I realize the gift??
He's not here anymore.
And I am left with only a picture, again.
I wake up and can't sleep again, disturbed by the realness of the dream and the reality of never seeing Gabe this side of Heaven.
Eli is wiggling and talking and I take him downstairs in the early morning dark and start some coffee; I lay him a blanket and sit next to him, my back propped against my favorite big chair, and I take it in. He laughs at my feet and I wave them at him. I pick him up and kiss him. I take in the moment. I feel the joy. I am still tingly with gratefulness and relief.
Daniel comes downstairs, headed to a long twenty four hours at work, fixing other peoples emergencies and seeing their raw grief and pain and he stops, too, and takes Eli in. He picks him up and holds him close. I tell him about my dream and cry against him, thankful for a man to lean on and love me through life.
And Saturday begins. Eli goes back to sleep. Cambria is up, asking in a demanding and whiny way for pancakes. I'm pretty sure I have poison ivy on my face (no idea how it got there). There are piles of laundry to fold and put away and beds to make and I don't feel super organized today.
It's real life, and it's not glamorized and I know that I will feel irritation today and I know the edgy surreal gratefulness for an uneventful ER visit will wear off and I won't always feel this thankful.
I will wish Eli would just stop crying.
I will say Cambria, you are entirely too old to be sucking your thumb! Take it out of your mouth!
I will say You will not say "I want pancakes and put syrup on top" to your mamma.
But that gratefulness is right there, under the surface, springing out in a big hurry when I realize how quickly life can change.
So if you're reading this, wallowing in bad attitudes and sleepless nights and groceries and runny noses and toddlerhood. . . I know.
I am too.
But just maybe carpe minute. In the middle of the crazy unending childhood drama of the diem.
Hug your babies.
Breathe them in.
Tell them you love them.
Kiss their little baby toes, their little preschooler noses, their little I'm-almost-seven-and-too-big-for-kisses cheeks.
Because tomorrow isn't promised and today -though long and weary and sometimes frustrating- today is what God has given.
Live it!
Little Eli fell.
The details aren't important; he cried and we both soothed him and worried a little.
Then he quit crying and started holding his breath with silent, jerky little sobs.
oh, Eli, don't do this. . . Daniel was telling him and my whole body went cold again.
We are going to get some help here. . . I was shaking, running for my phone. Couldn't find it. Couldn't find any phone. Wasn't thinking.
Yes, yes, call. Daniel is saying, just standing there, dazed, holding him.
We can get there faster ourselves, I say and start putting shoes on my man and starting the van and crying to my son to breathe and be okay.
Drive drive drive I say and then realize he can't drive while he holds him and I can't leave the kids so they have to come with us. I call them out of bed, hating the fear that they are going to feel and load them in. I am moving like the wind. I leave the door open and candles burning. I am not thinking.
Still jerky weird gasps from Eli.
I pray, out loud, and words stream out of my mouth as I drive the route I rode fourteen months ago to say goodbye to Gabe.
God, make him breathe,
You are a Healer, God.
God, I need my son,
God You are a Giver. . . be a Giver, God!
Daniel tells me to park at the ER and I refuse and drive to the double doors. Go, go go, just go get him in there. . .
I see my husband carry my son through those doors through a haze of tears as I park and I hate what he is reliving and I hate what I could find when I too, walk through those doors again.
I should have come back sooner, I think as I go in, realizing that I'm barefoot. I just couldn't bring myself to return. Daniel is here every other day. . . how does he do it? Same corridors, same trauma rooms, same little private family lounges where peoples nightmares start.
I find my husband and two nurses and I lean against the door jamb and take it all in. Eli is sitting up in Daniel's arms and making sad little coos to the nurses and they are all smiling and agreeing with Daniel that his respirations sound good but it's good to check and how far did he fall and they have a relaxed camaraderie from working together and everyone knowing why we're paranoid.
I am limp with relief and my face is wet with tears as I sit on the cot and hold him close to my heart.
He's okay? All that heart-stopping stress? The doctor looks so young and I feel so old and tired and weary. He says our son is fine and that he'll run any x-rays or scans that we would like, but really doesn't think it's necessary. Why was he jerking and not breathing? I ask and the doctor shrugs and laughs and says he was probably really mad. Eli. . .seriously. . .you took another couple years off my life and reinforced the need for my Loreal 5N.
I left the room, I left the emergency department, I walked out into the parking lot. . . retracing awful steps. But I was holding my son. I got into the van and held his face to mine and sobbed.
I know in my head that these are just childhood events that happen to everyone and and yet . . . he fell and immediately my mind spins an awful movie reel that my heart has already lived.
I'm sorry.
There's nothing we can do.
Going home with empty arms.
Newspaper notices with a photo of my baby.
Tiny grave.
I can't believe Eli's okay because I find myself always braced for the worst. It's eleven pm and I hold him and think back on my demanding words to God and wonder why He even answered. I don't deserve any of the good gifts He's already given me.
I am not entitled to my children.
My heart twists and I think of the sweet couple in our Compassionate Friends group who lost both of their little boys in a tragic car accident.
Their days are not promised.
I think of the Don't Carpe Diem post that has been wildly popular among all of my mamma friends and even though I totally agree and have so been there . . . I realize that each day is an incredible gift.
It all blurs together in my mind and I drift into a troubled sleep.
And unbelievably I dream of Gabe. This is a first for me. I have wished that I could dream about him because then I could have another memory, even though it wouldn't be real, only a figment of an exhausted imagination.
Someone brings him to a party as a gift to us.
I know he's there, but just assimilate him back into my little nest, like he never left at all.
There's crying and eating and unwrapping gifts and breaking up children's fights, smiling and taking pictures and then the party is over.
The nameless person who brought Gabe as a gift hands me a photo from the party of all of us together and I realize that he had been there.
Where is he?? Why didn't I go crazy with joy?? Why didn't I realize the gift??
He's not here anymore.
And I am left with only a picture, again.
I wake up and can't sleep again, disturbed by the realness of the dream and the reality of never seeing Gabe this side of Heaven.
Eli is wiggling and talking and I take him downstairs in the early morning dark and start some coffee; I lay him a blanket and sit next to him, my back propped against my favorite big chair, and I take it in. He laughs at my feet and I wave them at him. I pick him up and kiss him. I take in the moment. I feel the joy. I am still tingly with gratefulness and relief.
Daniel comes downstairs, headed to a long twenty four hours at work, fixing other peoples emergencies and seeing their raw grief and pain and he stops, too, and takes Eli in. He picks him up and holds him close. I tell him about my dream and cry against him, thankful for a man to lean on and love me through life.
And Saturday begins. Eli goes back to sleep. Cambria is up, asking in a demanding and whiny way for pancakes. I'm pretty sure I have poison ivy on my face (no idea how it got there). There are piles of laundry to fold and put away and beds to make and I don't feel super organized today.
It's real life, and it's not glamorized and I know that I will feel irritation today and I know the edgy surreal gratefulness for an uneventful ER visit will wear off and I won't always feel this thankful.
I will wish Eli would just stop crying.
I will say Cambria, you are entirely too old to be sucking your thumb! Take it out of your mouth!
I will say You will not say "I want pancakes and put syrup on top" to your mamma.
But that gratefulness is right there, under the surface, springing out in a big hurry when I realize how quickly life can change.
So if you're reading this, wallowing in bad attitudes and sleepless nights and groceries and runny noses and toddlerhood. . . I know.
I am too.
But just maybe carpe minute. In the middle of the crazy unending childhood drama of the diem.
Hug your babies.
Breathe them in.
Tell them you love them.
Kiss their little baby toes, their little preschooler noses, their little I'm-almost-seven-and-too-big-for-kisses cheeks.
Because tomorrow isn't promised and today -though long and weary and sometimes frustrating- today is what God has given.
Live it!
Monday, January 2, 2012
{all things richly}
Leftover chex mix and Eli snuggles;
kids in bed and my value pack pecan pie candles from Walmart showing up Yankee;
living room a little bit bare from the lack of decorations and our tree;
I had great plans of compiling a massive 2011 faves list, complete with thumbnails of recipes, trips, music, and even purchases. . . but. . . it's not happening any time soon and since I'm in the middle of reading this amazing book. . .
. . .compiling that sort of list also seemed a bit narcissistic. As a side note, I am so challenged and convicted by Tim Willard and Jason Lacy's thoughtful critique of how our culture has damaged the individuality of people. It's an excellent read.
So I'll skip the sweet idea of my year in a nutshell (you didn't wanna read it anyway) and pass on my absolute favorite online reads from the past year. These posts were well worth my time and the words lingered for days and weeks after reading. Enjoy and be challenged!
On Forgiveness.
On Motherhood.
I absolutely can't wait to travel the world again, but this time, take a little pair of wide-eyes with me, and show them everything there is to see.
I can't wait to pursue my dreams and ambitions, but this time, teach a little soul along the way how to be a feminine woman in a feminist world.
I can't wait to be best friends with my little girl, and one day, best friends with a woman who will know me like no one has ever known me.
. . .it's possible to live a "wild ocean life". But just what exactly that looks like, may change.
. . .as your life changes, your vision changes too,
and you start to see things more clearly until one day, you realize, you are finding meaning and value in where you are, and what you're doing.
SHELLEY from FRAME OF MIND
On Being Real.
kids in bed and my value pack pecan pie candles from Walmart showing up Yankee;
living room a little bit bare from the lack of decorations and our tree;
I had great plans of compiling a massive 2011 faves list, complete with thumbnails of recipes, trips, music, and even purchases. . . but. . . it's not happening any time soon and since I'm in the middle of reading this amazing book. . .
. . .compiling that sort of list also seemed a bit narcissistic. As a side note, I am so challenged and convicted by Tim Willard and Jason Lacy's thoughtful critique of how our culture has damaged the individuality of people. It's an excellent read.
So I'll skip the sweet idea of my year in a nutshell (you didn't wanna read it anyway) and pass on my absolute favorite online reads from the past year. These posts were well worth my time and the words lingered for days and weeks after reading. Enjoy and be challenged!
On Forgiveness.
"I am a daughter failed and I am a parent failing
and I know it in ways now I never knew.
If I rip apart the bridge of forgiveness for my own parents
with my own hands
I destroy the only way my children can come to me."
ANN from A HOLY EXPERIENCE
On Motherhood.
(Don't you just want to read her blog when her shoes are that cute?)
(on the wild ocean life vs. motherhood )
I absolutely can't wait to travel the world again, but this time, take a little pair of wide-eyes with me, and show them everything there is to see.
I can't wait to pursue my dreams and ambitions, but this time, teach a little soul along the way how to be a feminine woman in a feminist world.
I can't wait to be best friends with my little girl, and one day, best friends with a woman who will know me like no one has ever known me.
. . .it's possible to live a "wild ocean life". But just what exactly that looks like, may change.
. . .as your life changes, your vision changes too,
and you start to see things more clearly until one day, you realize, you are finding meaning and value in where you are, and what you're doing.
SHELLEY from FRAME OF MIND
(my beautiful childhood friend Wendi. . . beautiful inside and out)
It was all going
to be beautiful
with lightly
falling snow
and sugar
plums
and holly decking
the halls
and mistletoe
kisses
when we all
changed
out of our
matching pajamas
and into our
Sunday - Christmas Sunday - best.
Except we don't have
mistletoe.
. . . .
There was no snow.
Everything was brown.
Dave went to church by himself.
I managed the chaos of four little boys, most coughing, a few sick, and all a little hyped up on Christmas excitement.
And no one had matching pajamas. ;)
I took a deep breath, tried to erase preconceived notions of how it was
supposed to go, and breathed in my reality.
WENDI from EVERYDAY MIRACLES
And just cause I can't help it,
can I just give a shout out to
and
and
Dunkin Donuts Dark Coffee
and
Adele
and
and
chalkboard paint
and
Loreal 5N
and
the library
and
my Bible study group
and
Goodwill & Salvation Army
(and Forever 21 too)
for bringing beauty to my little world.
Trust. . . in God. . .Who gives us all things richly to enjoy.
I TIMOTHY 6:17b
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
12/28 fire update
*finally heard he was ok at 3 am, home at 8:30 am, safe, fed, my heart reassured, back out on the fireground tonight again cuz he can't stay away from it. Whew.
So glad our friend Troy is going to be okay. Scary night for everyone and I'm glad it's over.
So glad our friend Troy is going to be okay. Scary night for everyone and I'm glad it's over.
(please come home to me)
It's one am and I am sitting curled on my couch with my laptop saying things to myself like
You will keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee
and
this is it! it's too scary! do some other job!
and
clicking refresh on the different facebook statuses of my friends whose husbands are also out tonight
fighting fire and
making their wives crazy with worry.
A long, long time ago, I visited Daniel at the FD and they got called out while I was there. The address was on my way home, so I drove by the fire. There was a gray haze and the lights flashing made everything look ominous and eerie and even though at that time I was well accustomed to the fire service, I drove home f.r.e.a.k.ing out. There's something about seeing the stuff your man is walking into and your mind wickedly replaying those awful scenes from Ladder 49 (that I never should have watched). . . and after that night I told myself that I would never do that ever again.
Tonight. . . broke my promise to myself and oh I am getting sorrier by the minute. We returned our Christmas movies and Cambria begged to see Daddy. I called him and he said to stop by; we did and he came out to the van to chat with me and the kids. The alarm went off while we were there and I was like, oh, whatever, it's probably totally nothing and they get to see their cool dad be the engine driver and what kid doesn't dig that.
So we followed, at a subdued distance, Cambria informing me that when she grew up, her daddy {read: husband} would be a fighterfire and she would live right here in this area.
I started getting a bad feeling when they all just kept going. So often alarms get cancelled, everyone turns around and goes home, and it's just cool lights and wasted fuel. I like wasted fuel.
When I saw an orange glow coming out of one of the industrial buildings and the cops blocking the road I regretted my decision to follow. Lights flashing and gray haze and the weird odor of burning destruction and we turned around and came home. Stupid me.
And my guy goes in there. Oh please, be smart, be safe, don't let anyone be in there, just let the building burn, please be okay. . .
I put my babies to bed and hope to hear that everything is okay. I wait for a response to my texts. One of our friends is now in the hospital from burns. I am going c.r.a.z.y. After two hours, I get a garbled text from Daniel saying that he is ok and it's a BigveryBad fire.
Um, I knew that. . . please, please, come home to me.
I think that I'm so thankful I kissed him goodbye and I think that why on earth was he talking about life insurance and I think that I wish he'd get just a little bit hurt so he wouldn't be out there anymore and I'd know that he's okay and then I berate myself for thinking that. I think that I couldn't be a military wife and I think that I couldn't handle my husband being a cop and I think that he'll be so tired and crabby when he comes home and I eat four magic cookie bars and berate myself for that, too.
This will all be funny in the morning, right? He will have his big story to tell and I will be limp and groggy with relief and we will make some strong coffee for me and some cappuccino for him and we will just chill out and continue our Christmas vacation.
Please come home to me.
You will keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee
and
this is it! it's too scary! do some other job!
and
clicking refresh on the different facebook statuses of my friends whose husbands are also out tonight
fighting fire and
making their wives crazy with worry.
A long, long time ago, I visited Daniel at the FD and they got called out while I was there. The address was on my way home, so I drove by the fire. There was a gray haze and the lights flashing made everything look ominous and eerie and even though at that time I was well accustomed to the fire service, I drove home f.r.e.a.k.ing out. There's something about seeing the stuff your man is walking into and your mind wickedly replaying those awful scenes from Ladder 49 (that I never should have watched). . . and after that night I told myself that I would never do that ever again.
Tonight. . . broke my promise to myself and oh I am getting sorrier by the minute. We returned our Christmas movies and Cambria begged to see Daddy. I called him and he said to stop by; we did and he came out to the van to chat with me and the kids. The alarm went off while we were there and I was like, oh, whatever, it's probably totally nothing and they get to see their cool dad be the engine driver and what kid doesn't dig that.
So we followed, at a subdued distance, Cambria informing me that when she grew up, her daddy {read: husband} would be a fighterfire and she would live right here in this area.
I started getting a bad feeling when they all just kept going. So often alarms get cancelled, everyone turns around and goes home, and it's just cool lights and wasted fuel. I like wasted fuel.
When I saw an orange glow coming out of one of the industrial buildings and the cops blocking the road I regretted my decision to follow. Lights flashing and gray haze and the weird odor of burning destruction and we turned around and came home. Stupid me.
And my guy goes in there. Oh please, be smart, be safe, don't let anyone be in there, just let the building burn, please be okay. . .
I put my babies to bed and hope to hear that everything is okay. I wait for a response to my texts. One of our friends is now in the hospital from burns. I am going c.r.a.z.y. After two hours, I get a garbled text from Daniel saying that he is ok and it's a BigveryBad fire.
Um, I knew that. . . please, please, come home to me.
I think that I'm so thankful I kissed him goodbye and I think that why on earth was he talking about life insurance and I think that I wish he'd get just a little bit hurt so he wouldn't be out there anymore and I'd know that he's okay and then I berate myself for thinking that. I think that I couldn't be a military wife and I think that I couldn't handle my husband being a cop and I think that he'll be so tired and crabby when he comes home and I eat four magic cookie bars and berate myself for that, too.
This will all be funny in the morning, right? He will have his big story to tell and I will be limp and groggy with relief and we will make some strong coffee for me and some cappuccino for him and we will just chill out and continue our Christmas vacation.
Please come home to me.
Monday, December 26, 2011
more sugar? (orange pecan fudge)
Oh like you need more sugar right now.
I know.
But I like using my blog for a recipe dump. . . that way someone as disorganized as myself can always find that elusive favorite recipe without pulling the refrigerator away from the wall and fishing behind it.
This is (surprise) my mom's fudge recipe and it doesn't quite feel like Christmas without it.
Orange Pecan Fudge
6 cups semi sweet chocolate chips
2 7 oz. containers marshmallow creme
grated peel from one orange
2 teaspoons vanilla
2 cups toasted pecan pieces
3 cups sugar
2 sticks butter
1 1/3 cup evaporated milk
Butter a 9 x 13 pan.
Have first group of ingredients assembled in large bowl ready to pour quickly. *Tip: I always pour the chocolate chips into the bowl and then carefully scoop the marshmallow creme into a well in the chips so that when I'm ready to dump, I don't have to scrape any sticky residue off of the sides of the bowl.
Mix together second group of ingredients and bring to a gentle boil on medium heat. Boil for four to five minutes. Remove from heat, add chocolate chip mixture and stir briskly until chips are melted.
Working quickly, pour fudge mixture into the buttered pan and quickly spread out.
Let cool and cut into pieces.
I know.
But I like using my blog for a recipe dump. . . that way someone as disorganized as myself can always find that elusive favorite recipe without pulling the refrigerator away from the wall and fishing behind it.
This is (surprise) my mom's fudge recipe and it doesn't quite feel like Christmas without it.
Orange Pecan Fudge
6 cups semi sweet chocolate chips
2 7 oz. containers marshmallow creme
grated peel from one orange
2 teaspoons vanilla
2 cups toasted pecan pieces
3 cups sugar
2 sticks butter
1 1/3 cup evaporated milk
Butter a 9 x 13 pan.
Have first group of ingredients assembled in large bowl ready to pour quickly. *Tip: I always pour the chocolate chips into the bowl and then carefully scoop the marshmallow creme into a well in the chips so that when I'm ready to dump, I don't have to scrape any sticky residue off of the sides of the bowl.
Mix together second group of ingredients and bring to a gentle boil on medium heat. Boil for four to five minutes. Remove from heat, add chocolate chip mixture and stir briskly until chips are melted.
Working quickly, pour fudge mixture into the buttered pan and quickly spread out.
Let cool and cut into pieces.
Friday, December 16, 2011
five dozen whoopie pies
On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me:
one jpeg that won't format
two plumbing problems (think bathroom)
three gingerbread houses
four trips to classes
FIVE DOZEN WHOOPIE PIES
oh. . forget the numbering. . . (it wasn't rhyming anyway)
Cambria somersaulted off the couch. *into the Christmas tree* *ornaments flying*
Jacob told me today that when he grew up he would live in our town because he wanted his children to be near their grandparents. . . *long pause* {brown eyes} "plus then I would be close to you." awwwww. . .
Eli charmed all the helpers at Fareway. . . so much that they forgot to load the milk I paid for.
I had lunch with a girl friend and it's always a good day when you can have girl talk, queso, and lime in your Coke all in the same hour.
We missed out on our sappy Friday night Christmas movie because of bad attitudes and disobedience. I went to put the kids to bed and discovered Cambria's room a whirlwind of wrapping paper, ribbon, scissors, tape, gift tags and crumpled tissue. *add twenty minutes to bedtime routine*
I read two chapters in Rachel Jancovic's Loving the Little Years and was challenged that order and organization come from my attitude, not from what is actually happening. She words it much better than I do. (If you have littles, pop her book in your Amazon cart asap. I am loving it.)
And since its two minutes away from twelve o'clock (my nod to the Twelve Days of Christmas song) I'd better wrap this up and go finish my FIVE DOZEN WHOOPIE PIES.
*** My mom has been making these every year for as long as I can remember. She ties each little cake up with a birthday candle and red yarn . . .birthday cakes for Jesus.***
Here's the recipes I used tonight. (No one answered the phone at the home front so I had to look to Google. sniff sniff)
I used this recipe for the cakes and this one for the creme filling. And wow, are those little babies good. I had one since the Slim Fast I was going to have for a fourth meal wouldn't work since I didn't have any milk to mix it with. You know how it is.
Sweet dreams!
one jpeg that won't format
two plumbing problems (think bathroom)
three gingerbread houses
four trips to classes
FIVE DOZEN WHOOPIE PIES
oh. . forget the numbering. . . (it wasn't rhyming anyway)
Cambria somersaulted off the couch. *into the Christmas tree* *ornaments flying*
Jacob told me today that when he grew up he would live in our town because he wanted his children to be near their grandparents. . . *long pause* {brown eyes} "plus then I would be close to you." awwwww. . .
Eli charmed all the helpers at Fareway. . . so much that they forgot to load the milk I paid for.
I had lunch with a girl friend and it's always a good day when you can have girl talk, queso, and lime in your Coke all in the same hour.
We missed out on our sappy Friday night Christmas movie because of bad attitudes and disobedience. I went to put the kids to bed and discovered Cambria's room a whirlwind of wrapping paper, ribbon, scissors, tape, gift tags and crumpled tissue. *add twenty minutes to bedtime routine*
I read two chapters in Rachel Jancovic's Loving the Little Years and was challenged that order and organization come from my attitude, not from what is actually happening. She words it much better than I do. (If you have littles, pop her book in your Amazon cart asap. I am loving it.)
And since its two minutes away from twelve o'clock (my nod to the Twelve Days of Christmas song) I'd better wrap this up and go finish my FIVE DOZEN WHOOPIE PIES.
*** My mom has been making these every year for as long as I can remember. She ties each little cake up with a birthday candle and red yarn . . .birthday cakes for Jesus.***
Here's the recipes I used tonight. (No one answered the phone at the home front so I had to look to Google. sniff sniff)
I used this recipe for the cakes and this one for the creme filling. And wow, are those little babies good. I had one since the Slim Fast I was going to have for a fourth meal wouldn't work since I didn't have any milk to mix it with. You know how it is.
Sweet dreams!
Saturday, December 3, 2011
perfect christmas tree photo shoot (not)
Here is Eli. . . laughing at the crazy family he's joined. . .
And here's an attempt at getting a photo with the fam and our Christmas tree. . .
(not stolen this year)
and also the smallest e.v.e.r. . .
and not from a romantic tree farm, but from Menards
two balsam firs left, propped in the balsam fir corner. . .
(what, people? it's only December third!!!)
we took one. . .
and then we managed to get every head in the picture. . .
then we had to keep trying for a better one. . .
with the camera battery light flashing (story of my life)
and Jacob and Cambria were both trying to stand on the same chair
and Jacob fell off. You can see him in the lower left had corner.
He's crying.
And this last one. . . well. . . this is why we get other people to take pictures for us.
But I can't help but thank God for the joy that He's brought this year. . .
so thankful. . .
my heart is so full. . .
tonight we eat our annual Christmas tree enchiladas. . .
kids go to bed happily relatively peacefully
Daniel's having fun at his gym night. .
I put lights on the tree and cuddle Eli and turn Michael Buble up. . .
sitting here writing and eating peppermint patties (I think they're fat free)
and I just praise God.
So many empty places in my heart that He's filled.
Thankful for my crazy little family. . . each one.
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