December Hath A One Year Old

There is a little baby in the house who is responsible for my weary lids and my full heart.

She is now a one year old. And she has me absolutely smitten.

Today, for the very first time, she said "Mama".

Well, okay, she has said "mama" before but it doesn't count because 1) she said to to an inanimate object and 2) she said it with a whiny, tired voice.

Here's why today's version counts: I came into her room to pick her up from her nap. She jumped up and down wildly in her crib and said, "Mama" in a happy voice.

I spent a great deal of the afternoon marveling at this child.

I do that. I marvel.

And I usually do it one child at a time.

Plus, Morgan was playing with a friend and not around. It was the "Mommy Marvel at Eve Hour."

I marveled at how Eve has learned to get our attention from her play yard.

Sometimes she poops her pants and smiles at us expectantly.

Sometimes she throws her toys of the yard and gives us a puppy dog look.

Much to our chagrin, she has recently discovered that if she sticks her little index fingers far, far down her throat she will make a very gross gagging sound. And gross gagging sounds sometimes accompany gagging liquid. But most importantly, it gets attention.

Can she walk, you ask. Yes and no.

Can she? Yes.

Will she? Uh-uh.

My stubborn sidekick will only step sure-footedly when big sister is around and she doesn't actually know that she's walked to her. She prefers to remain a quadruped for the time being.

But I do have this: She dances. A lot.

Any slightest beat or sound make her cock her head to and fro like a clock pendulum. Help her if she's listening to something faster; she could put Eddie Van H*alen to shame. Or so I gather.

This age is endlessly fun. The smallest change in octave to my voice will cause her to crawl wildly away from me. And then, just when I'm about to catch her, she becomes scared and runs AT me. It's a technique that I hope she kicks in the near future as it signals daredevilish tendencies.

She's smart, I just know it. Sometimes her eyes give off that glazed expression, but only when she's plain tuckered out. She manages to say Dan's name ("dada") with a sing-songy tone that begs to have his credit card. He responds in such ooey gooey fashion (who wouldn't?) that I check our credit report regularly to make sure he hasn't done so. Seriously, it's a love fest here.

But the frosting on Eve's cake is definitely Morgan. I'm pretty sure that Eve would grow another set of arms if it meant she could touch Morgan all the more. She loves her. She wants to be like her. She plays with Morgan's toys and follows her around the house. It's absolutely precious. And while I'm loathe to admit that the coming years will have me begging for Eve to not follow her sister, for now it's darn cute.

So there you have it. In the midst of a crazy December, there was given to us a one year old.

December

It's been a very different December.

Other Decembers began with a slow crescendo on December 1st featuring Christmas music and baking of cookies and became progressively faster with Christmas parties and cookie swaps. By December 23rd, the flurry of activities turned into a mad dash for the last perfect gifts, a resolution to not spend quite as much the next year and culminated into a joyous frenzied Christmas Day.

But this December, I am worn. It started with a family funeral. Somehow funerals tend to sap more than just a day of visiting loved ones. It's so much more.

And then the month snowballed into a bevy of bereavements from there. I managed to putter into Christmas Eve a bit threadbare. I took a moment to pour some melted chocolate onto a cookie sheet, sprinkle it with crushed candy canes and crack it into pieces for our Christmas Eve night. An hour later we were calling the plumber due to our basement which decided to flood.

With God's help I managed to keep my head screwed on straight throughout this December. And by God's grace, I walked through it. He held my hand at my grandfather's grave. He enabled me to show love to friends who are very important to me, who are struggling. And in a large, watery puddle in the basement, He kept me from crying as my husband and I held each other in the flood.

In retrospect, there really isn't a more appropriate way to spend Christmas Eve than threadbare, poor and tired. There just isn't.

After Christmas, I was reading Morgan a new Bible. It's the Storybook Bible and it's perfect for the kid who says, "I've heard this story before." Absolutely perfect.

As I read Morgan the story of Abraham and Sarah, I wept. I've heard this story 100,000 times if I've heard it once. It was brand new to me. The book refers to God's saving hand as "the Secret Rescue Plan" and calls Jesus the "Rescuer"... It's an adventure book about love. It sees the big picture of each story. It's marvelous.

I read her many stories from this Bible. I couldn't stop. "Why are you crying, Mom?" my daughter asked. "Because I'm happy," was all I could tell her.

Because I'm threadbare.

And poor.

And washed out.

And He rescues me.

Three a.m.

It's in the 3 o'clock morning hour here at the Dykstra House.

My Morgan gently knocked on the door and asked to open her Christmas presents. "Just your stocking," I told her. Aw, heck, I'd show her. I got dressed and came downstairs.

Little sister cried; she wanted to be part of the action. I gave her a warm bottle and watched Morgan open her stocking. The excitement, the glee... it was all worth it.

Now little sister is back in bed and momma is soon to follow.

But the excitement of my Morgan will be treasured in my heart.

Christmas Spirit

This morning, in the true spirit of Christmas, I barked at Morgan. *sigh*

I made "crazy face".

Not familiar with "crazy face"? T'aint pretty.

It's the face of a momma who is on the brink of insanity. If you take a roll of Scotch tape and apply it to your face haphazardly in order to rearrange your features, then you'll have perfectly imitated "crazy face". Add a convincing growl and you're on your way to the funny farm.

I knew at the moment that "crazy face" made its appearance that I needed to mend my relationship with Morgan. Fast.

I asked Morgan, "Would you like to go on a date with Mommy?" She did. (Thankfully, whew!)

Then I called the sitter across the street and asked her to come to my house at 11:30.

Because the Christmas movie I wanted to take Morgan to started at 12:30.

I grimaced at the freezing rain. I said a prayer of safety and we were off.

I forgot how wonderful it was to be alone with Morgan. I forgot the feel of her hand in mine. And I forgot how much fun it is to let her choose her very own candy at the theater. *Big, wide eyes of excitement.*

We found our seat in the theater. We saw a lousy movie. It was scary and not Christmassy.

But it didn't matter. We were in it together. Disappointing movies and inclement weather. Together.

It's been a crazy December, but I think I found a Christmas spirit in that moment. She was under my nose all along.

Advent

Recently it has been difficult for me to blog. Somehow, the blogs I love to read in bloggyland make me feel as if life, though difficult, can be easily summed up in a few paragraphs. That which is distasteful to blog about can be easily omitted. Cute stories of my children can gloss over other feelings which are boring to blog about. And to read.

So, I don't blog.

I don't have cute pics of children, festive recipes to share or a humdinger of a revelation. But I do have this:

I am a wicked-tired stay-at-home mother.

Can I say that in bloggyland? It's not comforting or funny or exciting and there's nothing redemptive about it... but it's true. I'm tired.

Each day I make choices to keep my day more simple and each day I'm completely humbled by how much craziness is in the air.

Snow pants. Seriously. Who knew snow pants would cause so much havoc?

And baby nap schedules. Or worse yet, skipping the nap.

A husband who is overly active in church.

A deep pang of grief at the loss of two people in my life.

A hellfire anger for the miscarriage of my friend.

Schedules. Responsibilities. Feeling lost.

It's too much. The prayers have barely left my mouth when another wave comes.

So my husband and I have been taking small steps towards sanity:

We decided to skip the company party.

And another Christmas get together.

We decided to watch a movie together at home. It took us three sessions and two days, but we finally finished a 2 hour movie we had been wanting to watch.

This morning I sat on my couch, opened the word of God and wept. I said a prayer in my heart that went something like this Christmas carol:

"Oh come, oh come, Emmanuel, and ransom captive Emily."

For everyone who asks receives,

and he who seeks finds,

and to him who knocks it will be opened.

Luke 11:10, The Bible

Fog

A little fairy came to me and granted me one wish.

"One wish?" I clarified.

"Just one," she said.

"Then I wish I could remember the past month."

"Impossible," she said and exploded into a thousand pieces of light.

_______________________

Here's what I can gather from the evidence:

There was some sort of big festivity that happened here last week. There were pieces of a large, cooked bird in my fridge and little containers of leftover side dishes. Must have been a big dinner as far as I can tell.

And there are new toys and clothes scattered here and there along with bits of wrapping paper. An early Christmas must have arrived as well.

From the near-empty chicken nugget bag in my freezer, it's apparent that a certain child has been trying out her new teeth with great vigor. Hard crumbs of food under the high chair also indicate some life form with a voracious appetite has been there. A knowing bend in my back suggests that I've been bending over to clean up said floor a lot. Just a hunch. (Couldn't resist the pun.)

From the "size 7" youth pants in the laundry, I deduce there is another little girl who is growing quite tall. There are crayon drawn pictures sitting on various high tables around the home... obviously an attempt to keep littler hands of prey from them. There are little stories as well, written in a language locally known as "kindergarten-ese." It's adorable.

There was a very handsome man in bed with me this morning. He has a wedding ring on his finger (as do I) and appears to be nonplussed by my presence. It appears we are married. He's very cute.

It's a little foggy around here, but I'd say we're hanging in there. And that's probably all a mother can hope for at this moment.

Renewed Vows

I was talking to a friend a few weeks ago about marriage.

About how sometimes man and wife just coexist in the same house, trying to make sense of the beauty and responsibilities of life.

Not much connection.

Fortunately, Dan and I have been able to have little snatches of time here and there to strengthen us... Little moments that strengthen our laughter and help us release our responsibilities, that help us see the real us.

Nearly a decade ago I pledged my love and faithfulness to Dan. Today the vows are a little more specific, but no less precious:

I, Emily, take you Dan, to be my wedded husband. To have and to hold, from this day forward,

For dirty laundry-bin-clothes-shopping or clean drawer-ed clothes,

For humdrum evenings or chaotic black Friday morning shopping,

For VISA bills or lottery wins,

For silent weeping in hospitals or joyfully wrestling a baby into clothes,

For minivan or sports car,

For beer gut or six pack abs,

For exhausting birthday parties as well as movies-in-bed,

For the appearance of white hairs on our heads or wrinkles on our faces,

to love and to cherish 'till death do us part.

And hereto I pledge you my faithfulness.

Friendship

There's a continuous blog going on in my head but the connection of my head to my hands to the keyboard is difficult of late. Is it lame to say that I have been a mother 6 years and it still surprises me how much joy and work it is?

As usual, I digress.

Recently I met with a group of women. A really cool group of women who I like very much. I like their differences and their ideas and their vim and vigor. (I've always wanted to say that... "vim and vigor"... tickles the tongue, it does.)

So as I was meeting with this group of women, the subject turned to food. My ears perked right up. How to make dinners. How to get good deals on food. That sort of thing.

I'm a self confessed foodie.

I'm not afraid of a little fat.

And I'm not afraid of cooking something for two hours if it means it's wicked good.

I wanted to hear about flavors and richness and the beauty of taste and texture. I wanted to hear about obsessions with coconut or mishaps with caramel.

As the conversation continued, I didn't really hear anyone say, "Oh man... you have GOT to try this such and such..."

Instead I heard words like "quick" and "easy" and "just open a can of..."

I became very quiet. And, can I confess, I felt really sad.

"Emily, this is ridiculous. You stop being such a food snob. Listen up, girl. You may learn something new," I told myself. But the loneliness stayed. And it seemed to grow.

Fast forward a day. My friend Ann and I are talking on the phone. She tells me, "Hey Em, I made a gluten free carrot cake recipe for you. It's pretty good."

"You did? You made one for me?" I don't think I've had a good gluten-free baked item since I went glutenless a month ago.

"Yep... I can't get it out of the pan, but the taste is really good. I found some special flour at the Whole Foods store. Did you know you can buy bulk spices there? And if you just need a little, you can do that, too!" Ann is such a foodie.

"But Ann, you're not gluten free," I said, putting two-and-two together.

She laughed.

"So you went out of your way to make a special cake for me?"

More laughter. I was deeply touched.

"Well... I like the challenge," she offered. Did I mention that she's modest?

The next day I ate some of the best darn carrot cake known to man. It was sensual and had layers of flavor that hit your tongue at different times--it was earthly and moist and somehow chocolatey. It was amazing.

Now I know it's frowned upon in nutritious circles to be an emotional eater, but I can honestly say that I rarely eat a bit of food in which I don't have an emotion. I really don't know how to stop being an emotional eater. That being said, when I ate this cake I nearly cried for the goodness of it. Each bite confirmed friendship and fellowship and goodness and creativity. My tongue did a happy dance, it did.

Later, I called my mother and told her the two stories. I don't have to explain "foodie" to my Mom. She called me into the fold with her love of cooking years ago. And I didn't have to explain the friendship part, either. We just ate the story up.

God's Grace, Anew

I've pictured the grace of God for a long time like this: a gentle, loving father figure stooping to pick up the pieces of a person covered in filth, wiping him clean. The spirit is somber and sobering.

But today I have a new picture:

My daughter Eve, who is desperately social, was sitting in her wheeled exersaucer. While I was checking email in the office, my clever infant found a way to scoot until she reached the door frame where she repeatedly bang, bang, banged on the door, giggling with glee at the sight of me. She had messed her pants but didn't seem to care. But she was completely delighted to be in the sight of me, bumping around awkwardly in the wheeled toy.

I love this image. I picture God delighting in His children as we seek His face eagerly and awkwardly, as we shriek in joy at His presence and as we come to Him even though we're dirty... We come to Him because we're dirty and social and in need of Him to pick us up and love us.

Thank you, God, for little Eve and this new picture of grace.

Stay at Home Ponderings

It's 11 o'clock in the morning. I've just returned from the gym and, honestly, I should shower. It's one of the plusses of being a stay-at-home mom: I can do whatever I want, whenever I want. *cough, gag, snort and all manner of eye rolling*

The minuses to being a stay at home mom are the same as the plusses: (flexibility) because one moment you're on-top-of-the-world with organizational ecstasy and the next moment you're reluctantly giving the two-hour slot you allocated to (whatever) to the tire center with a nail in the tire. *Boring*

So I'm seizing this moment to blog.

Recently, I was reflecting on what life was like one year ago. I was somber. And weepy. And happy. And crazy. The happy little hormonal rainbow that we call pregnancy was a joy ride for all involved.

I was reflecting on this as I watched my nearly one-year old baby pull tissues out of the box with great glee. About how I couldn't possibly have pictured this feisty little girl in my life, about how I clung religiously to this grainy sonogram picture of her gnawing on her fist and loved what I knew of her. The sonogram picture is still on my fridge from one year ago. One day I'll take it down, but not now. I have reasons which the heart alone knows for keeping it up there.

Much happens in a year. I'm up to my eyeballs in childproofing this house from my wonderfully curious infant. She adores SOS pads, at least the emptying of them from the box. She loves to chew on the ottoman and this little wood finial from Dan's chess table. She's got an adorable temper which I will blog about in a year with different feelings, I'm sure. And she dances with this odd flip-flop of the head that makes you wonder if she's got a tick. Again, adorable.

Last year I sat in her nearly-perfect nursery that smelled like fresh paint and rubbed my belly with all the holy ponderings befit of a mother-to-be. And this year I can barely keep the diaper bin empty as I wrestle my infant to the changing table.

The heart is amazing in it's capabilities, isn't it?

Last year, the quiet ponderings.

This year, I still ponder, but it's done in little snatches of time... a photo I snagged which remains in my constipated digital camera, a scrap of paper with a mad jumble of words on it which reminds me to tell Dan a funny story. That sort of thing.

What joy, to be a part of life, to ride the waves of God's goodness and to marvel at how he fills the heart again. And again. And again.

Friday

It is Friday morning.

Even if this day kicks my tush like it did every day this week, tomorrow is Saturday.

Saturday= Dan.

Dan= help.

Saturday is good.

I am eager to cleanse the house of the sickness that became this week.

When sickness hits our homestead, we are in triage mode.

Dishes only get done out of absolute necessity.

We eat whatever the freezer offers us.

When fresh fruit and veg are gone, they are gone.

I have worn the same jeans all week long. Denim is the ultimate in fabric forgiveness but even this pair could use some rest. And a wash.

I can see the horizon of health and will welcome it with open arms. There is something about the opening of curtains and letting light stream in and picking up laundry off of the floor that lends itself to reclaiming health and home.

With Comet cleanser in hand, I will oust the virus from our bathrooms. Truthfully, it may do absolutely nothing. But I'm not setting out the welcome mat for it, either. Begone, you terrible health-taker.

With some extra rest for my little one, perhaps today will be the day that she'll eat well and fuss less.

If nothing else, it's Friday. Beautiful Friday.

Sick Week

This is the fourth day in which my infant daughter has been sick. In fact, at this very moment she is fighting sleep. Her tired pink eyelids don't know that she is sleepy so she is wailing, pleading with me to pick her up and let her play.

Earlier this morning I sat on the floor with her and just let myself be a present mother. I just sat there. She crawled to me and then away from me to a toy. Then back and forth, back and forth, just to make sure I was still there.

At one point she stood eye to eye with me and turned red in the face while she grunted. I was oddly honored that Eve felt comfortable enough to do her business with me present. I laughed inwardly at her beautiful shamelessness.

Being a mother is, in my opinion, one of the oddest jobs on earth.

I smile as my shiny-faced infant holds out her arms to me and immediately thrusts her face onto my shirt, rubbing her runny nose all over it.

I sometimes smile, sometimes grumble at the sound of Cheerios crunching under my feet on the kitchen floor. "Missed a few," I say to myself. At other times, I'm so dogged tired from the day that I forget or downright refuse to wipe up the food from the floor.

Cheerios.

Banana pieces.

Whole chunks of chicken nuggets.

I justify the food on the floor with a Biblical story I learned as a kid: Kind Boaz told his workers to leave sheaves of wheat behind the harvest so that poor Ruth could find some food.

And so do I.

I laugh at Eve's strength when I bring the bulb syringe to her nose. With surprising speed, she whips her head left and right to avert the inevitable. If I use a tissue, she rips it right out of my hand and throws it on the floor so I can't clean her face. Feisty little one.

My favorite moment with her is right when she wakes up. We hug. I pat her back and she pats mine. It makes me smile every time.

As I reflect on this week, I don't see much in the way of what I have done. I suppose every mother feels that way when there is sickness in the house. But I see that through her mucous-rivered face she feels happy and safe. She even dances. That's all a mother could ask for on days like this.

Morgan Tells It...

I couldn't help but smile that Morgan "got" this about being married. *So* Proud:

Emily: "Morgan, when you have babies, can I snuggle them and take care of them?

Morgan: "Yep. 'Cause me and my husband are going to go on a little vacation."

Emily: "Yeah? Where are you going?"

Morgan: "I don't know. Maybe just go out for dinner."

Emily: "What restaurant?" (Expecting her to say McDonalds...)

Morgan: "I don't know..." (I can tell she doesn't know what restaurants grownups go to on date nights.)

Emily: "And then what?"

Morgan: "Then we'll come home, put on our jammies and brush our teeth and go to bed."

Of course, Morgan. Of course. That sounds delightful.

____________________

Morgan had gas issues (both ends) while visiting grandparents last month. The whole visit consisted of her yelling "Excuse me" loudly in the house so all could hear. I told Morgan that unless people were, um, "bothered" by it, you don't need to say "excuse me".

Fast forward a few weeks at the dinner table:

Morgan: "Dad, did you hear me burp? 'Cause I need to say 'excuse me' if you did."

Oh, for the love of Pete... She thinks of everything.

Nit Pick

A few weeks ago, my mother was in town. Before she came she suggested, "Why don't you two go out and spend the night in some bed and breakfast? Get a night away?"

"I couldn't," I told her.

But then I thought about what a rare gift this was:
Dan.
Me.
Sans children for a night.
It sounded good.

I called her back and accepted.

When the time came for Dan and I to leave for our night away, I was so excited. Dan had booked a night at the new Trump hotel in downtown Chicago and was taking me to his favorite sushi restaurant for dinner. Eeeek!

We weren't able to leave for our date until later in the afternoon. The day was filled with its usual busyness. When the time came to leave, we hoisted the suitcases into our Corolla and dashed down the road for a quick fill-up before we left. We were eager to reach the city before traffic got too backed up.

"Um, Dan? I can't find the gift certificate to the spa, " I said sheepishly. I really didn't want to stop our journey already. We were in "flee" mode.
But I married a patient man who didn't even "harumph" at the thought. We turned around and retrieved the gift certificate.

Okay, NOW we were off.

It had been a while since I had gotten away with Dan for a night.
And it had been a while since I had sat in our 11 year old Toyota Corolla.
It was loud and small and, well, perfect for the short trips to the train station Dan makes every morning. It had no radio and so it offered Dan and I an opportunity to talk and laugh, albeit loudly.

We arrived at the city in less than an hour which really impressed me for Friday night traffic. "There's the Trump!" Dan pointed to a tall, impressive building on the skyline.
I was starving and eager to check into the hotel.
We saw The Trump quite a bit that evening. From the south, from the north, from every whichway direction imaginable. The only part of the hotel we couldn't find was, well, the front door.

Grrr.

Recall earler comment about Dan's patience? Well, he married an opposite.

I could feel a hot impatience in my chest. He didn't get directions? The GPS on Dan's phone wasn't entirely clear. And if you're familiar with Chicago, then you know that some streets have upper and lower levels.

It was at this moment that I realized that I had to set the tone for my attitude for the weekend. The patience I fell in love with in Dan (the patience that enabled him to turn the car around and get the gift certificate I forgot to bring) was also the patience that allowed him to not be frazzled by the adventure of being lost for nearly an hour in the city.

I watched as we passed our hotel again and again.
I looked at my dear husband, cramping his tall frame into a too-small car and being totally non-plussed at our being lost in Chicago. It was probably at that moment that I softened, enjoyed the ride and let him take the lead.

From the moment I decided to stop being negative (in the name of "efficiency"), the air in the car became easier to breathe.
Dan and I laughed more.
I enjoyed the ride and the view.
And when we finally reached our destination, we were able to laugh when we saw that the price of parking our yabba-dabba-do car was almost more than the car was worth. "Hey, we don't do this everyday," my easy-going husband said.

We took out our luggage and stepped into a very nice hotel with very pretty things.
Clean things.
Happy people.
Lovely smells.
Warm eucalyptus towelettes upon our arrival. (You have got to try this.)
A pillow menu, of all things.

But what mattered most was the smile on my face, the smile on his face and the opportunity to rejuvenate with my favorite man on earth.

If I had continued to nitpick, I would have missed the view from our hotel room window.

More importantly, I would've missed the big picture.

Dining Room

I love decorating my dining room for the holidays.

It says, "Pay attention... something special is happening."

It's warm. It's inviting. And it's my favorite thing to do.

This year I bought these sconces to help balance the long wall above my buffet.

I'm all for using whatever you already have in your house for decor so....

when I really really wanted some tall pillar candles, I fudged.

I set two on top of each other. (Shhhhh.)

And then I added mixed nuts to keep them in place.

These pumpkins and corn were bought in Iowa at a darling farm.

And the feed-sack-turned-runner?

I bought that beauty on my birthday this year in Charleston at an antique shop.

I love the graphics on it.

I doubt I'll use it on a real table setting, however because antique burlap doesn't like to be washed. So I learned. *wink, wink*

And then after having all this decorating fun over the past month,

I realized that that darn patch on the other dining room wall it still unpainted.

Drives me batty. Like putting makeup on half your face.

But I have plans, yes I do. Plans.

Tissue Encounter

"Tra la la la la... Nothing to see here folks. Just an innocent baby. Playing with tissues."

"What is on my hand? Don't you people clean the floor?

Seriously! It's like a pig pen here. Wait, let me taste it."

"Ith very thticky."

"I have got to inspect this stuff."

"Okay, let me try again. Down the gullet you go."

"I was right the first time.

Nast-o."

"I have GOT to get this taste out of mouth."

Disclaimer regarding the cocktail shaker: It was shiny... what'd you expect? :)

Morgan's Not So Private Journal

Nothing like a "My Little Pony" to warn you

not to drink and drive.

(No idea. Don't ask.)

You r speshul to me, too.

"How to make a Book

Here is how to make a booke

Think uv wt you

wont to rit in your book

Then ritt it."

See? There's no reason for writer's block, silly writers.

"Boo and You stick together like glue."

I need to translate this because, honestly,

I fretted this morning when I thought her journal read: "Lick gloo".

Monday Prayer

Today I woke up and, for once, started my day right.

I had some time with hubs, in prayer. Had some laughs, too.

I needed to start this day with prayer because I'm a helpless rag of a woman.

Because my grandfather is dying.

Because my parents are divorcing.

Because my best efforts to love are tainted by tiredness and impossibility at times.

I needed to start this day with prayer because I had a wonderful weekend reconnecting with the man I married. Because we had an awesome dinner on Friday night with flavors I could never in a thousand years dream could be made and stayed at a posh hotel and marveled at the beauty of the city. I had to thank God for the amazing time of rejuvenation.

I needed to start this day with talking to God because the first on my list of to-do's this week are so mundane. Calling people about broken things. *Yawn* So uninspiring. So not posh.

I needed to start the day with God and me and Dan facing the same direction.

I have no idea what this week holds. Great big laughs at my infant daughter. Even bigger laughs as Morgan writes notes in her special way of spelling things. Bumpiness at family dynamics.

And more prayer.

Joyful, tearful, quiet, ecstatic, mundane and revelation-filled prayer.

There is Roast...

Morgan, the Menu Maker:
(Translation follows)

There is roast
and there is potatoes
Last but not least there is
corn and beef.

Perspective

It's Monday morning. I am under the delusion that the wonderful man who stayed home with me all weekend and helped with house and children is supposed to stay here.

I forget that there is a mortgage to be paid and, by golly, that I like a warm house.

So he goes to work. I'm thankful, of course, but I'm also fighting against the slump that is called Monday morning.

Come to think of it, I did this pre-children when I worked the nine-to-five. There was an unsaid rule that people should enter into the doors of corporate America on Monday morning with very quiet voices and coffee in tow. Then we'd take a few minutes to start up the computer, arrange the papers on the desk, check voice mail and slowly dip into the week. It was a transition that took the utmost delicacy.

Children do not know about this rule. But that's okay. I have embraced the chaos which I come to expect.

I have already done a stamping craft project with Morgan and given the baby a bath.

As I picked up my grumpy infant this morning, I noted with an "ugh" that she has a cold. She rubbed her fat fist through her runny nose to make her face somewhat glossy and fussed. Poor thing. "No gym for Mommy today," I noted.

In ten minutes, the doorbell will ring and two neighbor girls with bright faces will say good morning and immediately launch into something they did this weekend. While they're telling me about it, Morgan will be scrambling to get her coat on and the baby will be crying as I stuff her in her fleece body suit.

My natural response is to flee from the chaos, but the children are attached to the chaos. I want the children. I love them. I don't want the mess of the art, but I want the adorable drawings. I don't want the mounds of laundry, but I want the curiosity of my infant as she smears cake on her arms.

So I embrace them both. Package deal.

And I guess I'll embrace the Mondays that hold us as well.

As Long as She Thinks So...

Any takers on what "Eve is..."?

Vision

It's Sunday. I can see clearly now.

Okay, maybe not perfectly, but clearly enough.

My family spent this weekend with dear old friends in Michigan. We had hoped to meet some new friends there as well, but the cold season is upon us. That will have to wait for another day.

Point is: I went to Michigan with fuzzy vision and came back with clearer sight.

Here's how I know:
On the road trip back, I sat between the girls in the back seat. I laughed with Morgan. I can't remember the last time I laughed with her with no care for time. We giggled about nonsense words and blew bubbles with our gum. It was effortless fun. Not prepared or contrived or premeditated. Just fun.

On my other side was my bendy baby... she gnawed on her toes and laughed at me as I changed my voice and made overly dramatic faces. My, I'm blessed.

I looked in the front seat at Dan and thanked God for a kind husband. We haven't seen a lot of each other lately. The fog of life keeps me from seeing the blessings right in front of me. My, he's handsome. And funny. How in the world did I land such a gem? God's gift, for sure.

I'm unsure how a beautifully simple weekend with friends could adjust my vision so, but it did. Now I'm an evangelist of joy and fun and "oh-what-the-hey"... Something about living in the moment with 5 spunky children and 4 dedicated parents will revive life in anyone's soul.

We picked apples. Have I seen my husband so giddy? Apple juice dripped from his chin as he sunk his teeth into a very large Jonagold.

We ate food. Very good eats. My friend Sarah speaks "foodie" very well.

We laughed a great deal.

And tonight, when I came home, I saw something amazing: There are people in my house.
I didn't see Cheerios on the floor.
I didn't see laundry or bills or messyness.
I saw Dan and Morgan and Eve.

Thank God for friends and food and weekends.
And brand new eyesight.

Morning Mayhem

It's not an ordinary evening. I'm blasting "Do you want crying" (Katrina and the Waves) and dancing crazily for the benefit of my extremely-fussy, 'oh-my-land cut the tooth already' infant. It's only appropriate. She's smiling. I am, too.

The day didn't start with smiling.

Try as I might to get this precious kindergartener out the door on time, she manages to drop a woozy right before we leave almost every day.

"Mom, I can't find my glasses."

"Mom, I didn't want to wear my ponytail anymore" she tells me as her hair (still in the general shape of a pony tail, mind you) has a large, gentle kink in the middle of it.

My personal favorite:
"Mom, this doesn't fit, this doesn't fit, this doesn't fit..." followed by a child trying to clothe herself while she writhes on the floor. Outrageous.

Serenity, I say to myself.

"SERENITY, " I scream out loud.
That's right.
I scream.
I seem to be the only bloggy mother who struggles with an anger problem.
I scream. Totally frustrated.

I hate when I scream. I do everything in my power to not let the awful volcano rising up the back of my spine explode into my daughter's face. But I did. I screamed. "Where are your glasses? Why don't you have your glasses?" I ask her a bevy of questions to which I already know the answer: "I don't know," she cries.

So the morning started badly.

And then I went to the mechanic expecting to dread every minute in the dirty waiting area but... I didn't. I had a very nice conversation for a half hour with a real down-to-earth lady. My, that was nice. So nice. She was a mother of three (now grown).

Feeling really impressed with this woman, I asked her, "So how did you raise three young children and maintain your sanity? Did you have any little luxuries?" I expected some real age-old advice. A little nugget of truth.

Here's the essence of what she said, "I didn't know what I was doing. Just get up every day and do what you need to do."

That's it? She could be an ad for Nike.

She added, "I read the kids a lot of books. There would be days where one would be sick and fussy and another would be crying. We just read books."

I sat there on that rainy day and thought, "You know, she may not have said anything special, but she did acknowledge that being a stay-at-homie is a crap shoot. You just do what you need to do each day whether you feel like it or not, hope you're doing the right thing in God's eyes and one day they grow up."

I'm home again now. The world isn't more sparkly like they show in the Dis*ney movies after someone has a revelation. But it's doable.

There are "do-overs" on the horizon.

There's always Katrina and the Waves.

And for today's mistakes, there's forgiveness.

Tis the Season

I'd like to dedicate this blog to the pharmaceuticals.

I have a cold. I did too much yesterday and my body is saying, "Whoa, baby, slow down."

Thankfully, there is cold medicine. (Hallelujah chorus.)

I love cold medicine because first it hits me straight between the eyes and makes me sleep. (Zzzzz)

And then it takes the aches and pains away. (Ahhhhh)

And then... then it makes me think in s-l-o-w m-o-t-i-o-n.

Today as I was driving the car on an errand I was thinking the following... very slowly:

"Hmmm, I wonder if I should be driving.

Was there a warning about 'operating a motor vehicle' while on these meds?

Who says 'motor vehicle' anyway? Just say 'wheels'.

Tra la la la la la.

Look at that bird! I like birds.

Is a baby crying? Why is there a baby in my car? Am I a mother?

Stress is such a fun word to say... Stresssssssss.

I think we'll have cereal for dinner. I like cereal dinners.

What gender am I?

Am I married?

I'm glad the lines on the road are yellow. So pretty."

Thank you, peace-in-a-box. How I owe thee.

Birthday Journal

Morgan's teacher has students whose birthday it is go home with (drumroll, please) the coveted birthday journal.
It's a big deal to these little kids. They write what they did on their big day.

Here's what I've found in this journal:

William
"...We opned presents. My favorite was the vehicle playset."

Jill
"I got my ears pierced! They are sparkly!..."

Daniel
"...I will have a party at Brunzwick on Saturday..."

and then, there is my daughter who began her entry thusly:
"I am going to hav lefdovr pink cake..."

Serenity.

Soup Days

This morning started with a bang. A rush. A 6am "quick-open-this-present" because your father has to leave for work.

Breakfast.

A crying baby. Teething, naturally.

A doorbell rings. Three different times.

The phone rings.

The morning is full of life and vim and vigor. I wouldn't want it any other way.

But then, I wouldn't mind a little slowness once in a while. A little quiet. Restoration.

Hush, busy morning.

After this morning's busyness, I had a hankering for some soup.

Roasted veggie soup.

Now if you're the "5 minute dinner" kind of person, may I gently suggest to you that you need this soup. Because this soup tastes like time and love and joy.

First, I cut up some veggies. Root veggies work great, but so do others.

Parsnips.

Carrots.

Celery.

Onion.

I know you're used to hearing amounts of things for recipes, but I'm resisting it. Fill up your cookie tray with veggie goodness. Keep it in a single layer. Like this:

Drizzle some olive oil on it and season it with a little salt. Not too much now.

Now, put it in the oven at 400 degrees for about a half hour.

When the veggies start to tenderize and turn brown, pull them out.

Use your nose and your eyes and a piercing fork as your guide.

Here, smell:

Now, put them in a generous stock pot and pour a half cup or so of white wine on them.

And then add some chicken stock to cover. Maybe a dash more.

Now taste it. Not quite right? Add a little oregano.

Put the soup on medium for a little while, say 20 minutes.

Now you can eat the soup just the way it is and it will be perfectly yummy.

But we want it to be masterful.

So add a little cream. The olive oil will float in little bubbles on the top. The veggies will look more vibrant, the stock will appear deeper.

If your windows are open, you may hear the doorbell ring because a neighbor just wanted to "drop by".

It's up to you if you answer it.

Party

This is what a six year old looks like.
Happy. Confident. Wearing purple.

And this is what decor from that six year old's party looks like:
Orange. Pink. Purple. Balloons, too.
With a My Little Pony theme.

And this?
This is the most decorated cake you've probably ever seen.
Morgan loved it. We put her mini Little Pony figures on them.

There were purple tutus.
And dancing.
And hats. She insisted on hats.

This is little sister, Eve. She's never seen a balloon before.

Here's some fun decor pompoms I found (on super sale!) but didn't know how to decorate with.
But then I put my thinking cap on...

The top of the cake had a Twizzler rainbow, pink marshmallow clouds and candles. Oh my.

The friends had fun making a craft!

And Morgan was delighted.
That's all we wanted, really.

We had a game to see which of two teams could make the tallest marshmallow tower using only marshmallows and glue, er, frosting.

The craziest, most wonderful six-year-old birthday cake ever.

Make a wish!

And take time to smell the craft flowers. (No, not really.)
The guests made these beautiful felt bouquets.

My, what fun we had.

And now, this Momma needs some sleep.

Gift Giving

This morning as I was putting on my earrings, I smiled to myself.

Last December before I gave birth to hope-made-flesh, I told my husband that I wanted him to come to the hospital with roses. What's more, I gave him specific instructions:

Me: "Dan, don't forget to bring me roses to the hospital, okay?"

Dan: "Okay, hon."

Me: "Red ones."

Dan: "Gotcha. Red ones."

Me: "Oh, and make sure they are in a vase, not that tissue stuff."

Dan: "Roses. Red. In a vase."

Me: "Arranged, not dumped in the vase."

Dan: (Laughing) "Anything else?"

Me: "Dan, this is important to me. This is how I want you to give me the gift, okay?"

Dan: "Okay... Red roses. In a vase. Arranged nicely."

And so in the days before the great hope child arrived, I reminded Dan frequently of his gift to me. Truthfully, it became a chore. For both of us.

The day arrived. I gave birth to a loud, squishy full-of-life daughter and Dan arrived on cue with a large vase of long stemmed red roses arranged by a professional.

It was just what I wanted.

He set them on the table and did something like watch TV. I don't know. I remember thinking that it was totally anti-climatic.

See, back in January of that year when I pumped liquid hope (IVF drugs) into my abdomen, I thought that if this awful stuff could produce a child, then we were going all out in the celebration department. We weren't going to chince on things that mattered.
Like a really nice nursing chair.
Or really pretty decor.
Or red roses. Arranged. In a vase. Given to me after the baby was born.

After looking at the roses I determined that at the very least we could get a really pretty picture of us all (even Morgan) as we left the hospital. Something memorable.

It was memorable all right.

Dan had a seizure right there in the hospital. He was unable to drive home.

So we left the hospital, both Dan and me in wheelchairs, accepting help from very nice strangers. I put the baby on my lap and the red-roses-arranged-in-a-vase on the wheely hotel-looking cart.

When the time came for us to get a family picture in the lobby, I declined.
Due to a severe blizzard and subzero temps, Morgan couldn't be at the hospital with us.
Dan hadn't showered and was still fuzzy from the seizure.
I had just had a baby (Duh) and felt very, very frustrated that my fairy tale picture of the hospital stay had been quite different.

Fast forward a week.

It's Christmas Day. Dan can hardly wait to give me my gift. We agreed on a budget and I could tell from the small box he was about to give me that he probably spent the entirely of his budget on this item.

He must have.

Real pearl earrings. With small diamonds on the side.

He was beside himself with excitement. He told me about how he researched for the best pearls and then researched for the best price. He was absolutely elated.

Despite my athletic wear garb, I put on the pearl earrings and felt very special. And very happy.

My, so that's what it feels like to receive a gift. A true gift.

This morning as I put on my earrings, I smiled at this story.
At my neurotic-control-freak-hormonal tendencies.
And at my husband's bursting-with-excitement gift.

He could have given me dryer lint and it would have been a hundred times better than the gift I forced him to give me.

But even better was the gift of himself.

A Note

A rocky morning.

A mother brooding downstairs.

A little girl grumping upstairs.

And then, a three page note that a mother can read and perhaps you can decipher as well:

I still love mi famle

And I am sre fr mi mstax

So wil you forgiv me

Dear Lord, I'm crying.

Waiting

I am in stutter land, friends.

Every time I come to blog, the biggest, most amazing stories happening to me are, well, somewhat inappropriate to blog about. They're too intimate or personal or would break a confidence.

Rats.

So I'm waiting. I'm waiting for the drama to settle, for God's words to come to me (maybe they won't).

But what I can say is that God is immensely, completely, utterly enthralled with patching and improving relationships.

Today I was thinking about someone who I needed to write and *wham* there was an email from that person. Waiting for me.

And then on Facebook a friend told me that we had a rocky past and *wham* God's grace was there, covering over old scraped knee wounds with His perfect love. Bringing smiles to our faces and erasing years of hurt.

I'm waiting. And resting.

Like Elijah when he was being hunted down and the angel of the Lord told him to eat and then eat some more because the journey ahead was a doozy.

Or like Elijah when he waited for God's voice and finally found it in a quiet spot.

Waiting.

Birthday Coming

Shhh... It's rather late and the children are sleeping.

And me (giggling...) I am getting excited about a certain little girl's 6th birthday party.

I'm excited because I found some cute Martha Stewart decorations on super duper sale. The hubs isn't the biggest fan of her or of "giving to her coffers" (Lands, he's smart, isn't he?) but he likes when I say the word "sale". I like the word "cute", so it's win-win.

The kiddo wants "rainbow balloons" and a "My Little Pony party, please". She also wants a tiered birthday cake.
(Like a wedding cake, you ask? Yes, yes. She's crazy about weddings.)
I'm not a master cake baker, but I bought some rainbow Twizzlers (Oh please don't let Dan find them in the closest and eat them) which will make a beautiful rainbow somewhere on the pastry.
And some foil-wrapped toilet paper rolls will probably do for the columns on the tiered cake, doncha think?

Darn if JoAnns fabric didn't have those tempting 40% off coupons. Now my wallet is a bit lighter and my dining room table is heavier.
With 14 yards of purple tulle.
Soon to be tutus.

It's bound to be a crazy hour and a half of frosting, giggling, running and mayhem. I hope it's fun. I'm putting some loving into it.

Pics later, okay?

Days of Grace

A long time ago, my friend Sarah told me that God's grace comes in many different ways in motherhood. I wish I remembered verbatim how she put it, but the essence of her sentiment was that God provides for mothers.

I've never forgotten that conversation. Sarah probably has. She is a busy mother of three (Hi, Sar!) and probably forgets her gender most days due to exhaustion. So it meant a great deal when this friend and weary-but-wonderful mother would share this with me.

I thought of this yesterday as I was about to take Morgan to a birthday party. It was a bit of a rush to get there. I threw the baby in the car seat (no, I did not throw her...) and made haste to pick up another little girl and whisk ourselves to an hour and a half of birthday enchantment. The venue for this party was a really swanky little tea party place in Naperville. There are times when I roll my eyes at the hoity toity, but I was absolutely smitten by this darling little place. I'll spare you all the details, but know that there were purple walls, lots of sparkly things and real china cups. Oh my.

So as I dropped off my load (read: two little girls), I realized that I was footloose and fancy free. In downtown Naperville. With my little Eve. So fun.

I've been meaning to come here for some time because there's a special spice I needed for a recipe and, well, there's a Penzey's spice shop in Naperville. Can I tell you how much fun it was to go into a spice shop, tell them I needed Ancho Chile Powder and have the lady confidently ask "Small or large size?" *Swoon* I love it when I spend $3 in a hoity toity place but feel like I've spent $50.

And then, someone gave me a G*ap gift card a while ago and I haven't been able to use it, so off I went to Gap to get baby girl a little outfit.

As I spent the hour and a half gladly strolling the streets with my baby, I felt thankful. Wow... there is that grace I needed. There is that spice I wanted. There is that bit of time I didn't think I'd get. There is a little gift to me... a little refreshment. Thank you, God.

Morgan Kay

Having two daughters in two very different stages of life is quite interesting. Baby Eve gets a fair bit of attention, so I have to be careful to watch my Morgan. She is changing just as quickly. For starters, my five year old daughter is a funny mix of girl + infant + woman.

There are times when she'll put on an outfit and my husband and I look at each other and send her right back up to her room for another go. She looks too, um, womanly.

She's five, folks.

Five.

I mean, she's nearly six, but that's no sixteen. My, how's she growing.

There are other times when she utilizes new words like, "for example" or some big word like "horrendous" and I have to keep my concentration on WHAT she is saying instead of smirking like the dorky proud parent that I am. "My child just used a multi-syllabic word correctly," I'm thinking. I look into her blue, strong eyes and realize that she wants to be thought of as, well, worth listening to. And she is. Believe me, she is.

But there are times when I realize that she is still very much a little girl. I recently started taking her to a girls club at our church. She was, by far, the youngest member. Other girls are in junior high. I smiled as my eldest daughter was invited to fill a plate with snacks at the end of the evening. Morgan had brought a friend to this evening's gathering. Between the two of them, the brownie tray was 10 brownies lighter. That's right: TEN. I smiled at how these little girls have not gotten to the "Am I fat" or "I'm watching my weight" thoughts that often infect girls. They love chocolate, by golly, and they're gonna fill their plates. (For those who are horrified at their gluttony, yes, yes, I did "help" them put some back.)

Tonight we were at a Chinese restaurant and a little boy (age: 8?) came up to Morgan and offered her a sticker. "Would you like this clown sticker?" he said. My Morgan hardly broke eye contact from her wonton soup as she said, "No thank you." Completely not flustered. As if she expected it. I marvel at this child. Totally unaware that this little boy probably liked her. (Oh, please... not this early.)

As I watch my little Morgan grow and become more independent, I release my hold. At times I release her reluctantly and at other times I think she can't grow quickly enough.

It's times when she shares her heart that I love this growing up process most of all. She'll giggle in an embarrassed way as she explains that she doesn't know anybody's name at school. I tell her that she'll learn; it's okay.

She'll ask me to put a ponytail in her hair. Then she asks me to put THREE ponytails in her hair. I gulp and wonder if I'll be brave enough to let her look the way she wants, even if it's bizarre.

When we're in the car, sometimes we'll break out into funny songs.

We'll laugh about how trees look naked in autumn. "Heehee... naked."

And when she's grumpy, we'll have contests to see who can be the grumpiest.

Naturally, we break out into laughter.

She's still at the age where she'll describe bodily functions without any shame. I'll spare the details, but know that she wants to educate us about the full and healthy functions of all ends of her body. 'Nuff said. Again: I love this child.

Morgan Kay: It's a joy to know you. Without you, I wouldn't see joy in the little things in life. I love how you walk into a room, decide you want to paint a picture, and immediately do so. I love how you put bright green socks on your feet even though they look ridiculously happy on your feet. And I love how you use 10 gallons of hairspray each morning to keep your cowlick from getting hair in your face.

You are my Morgan. And I am so glad you're in my life.

Title

It's easy in the muck of stay-at-home-ville to think that one is basically in a state of constant chaos for the purpose of proving entropy. I have a daily battle of will when my alarm clock (aka- my daughter, knocking gently at my bedroom door) reminds me that I should, in fact, admit that another day is upon me.

It doesn't help matters that my husband, in a gesture of goodwill towards my mush mind, reminded me that René Descartes declared his existence was based upon his ability to think. ("I think, therefore I am.") This gives me pause for two reasons: First, because most of the time I question if I can, in fact, think. The morning hours especially give me reason to question this as I put the milk in the snack cabinet and the dry goods in the fridge. Secondly, I don't know if I can trust a man who goes by the name René... sounds too girly to me.

But I digress.

Today, in a state of optimistic thinking, I told myself that my repetitive house keeping efforts certainly have merit. I decided to reframe my situation by renaming my efforts into titles that I might find in the world or marketplace. I reason that I will respect my efforts more.

This proved a bit difficult when I was checking out my groceries at Mei*jer today. A particularly lonely cashier gabbed incessantly about her opinions of the president, the safety of baby toys and about how helpful plastic bags can be for using in the bathroom trash. I'm not hatin' on the lonely out there, but I do use the checkout time to add my groceries before hearing the grand total. With careful concentration, I turned down the volume of my chatty friend and determined the sum of my groceries within two dollars. Thoroughly amazed at my abilities, I determined that such mind control is only found in Star Wars episodes. I must be... a Jedi.

Wow, this was getting fun.

Later, I listened to my baby's sounds as she crawled around the house. I noticed that her gibberish turned from a squealish "GLA GLU BLA" to a whispery "as soo foo" tone. (Alert! Alert!) I was able to determine her exact location and that she was about to bring a wad of fuzz to her already open mouth. With such deft hearing, I reasoned that I would make... an excellent bat or, barring that, a Navy Seal.

I mentally went down the list of how many ways I benefit the family:

Appeasing a rowdy playdate crowd with Goldfish crackers: Crowd Control

Feeding the never-full-baby: Sinkhole Management

Turning away youth at my front door (in a nice way) as they try to sell me lame, expensive products: Sandbag Piler

Taking money from my clothing budget and using it for my housewares budget: Chief Financial Officer

Using my index finger to wipe food off my baby's face. Eating said food: Recycling Managment

Using same index finger to scoop non-food out of baby's clamped-shut mouth: Bill Collector

Raiding my daughter's closet to find where the smell is coming from: K-9 Officer

and, finally, using superb phone skills to maneuver through a sticky insurance situation: Bee Keeper

Whew. I feel better about myself already.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a sleeping daughter. My mind-control is telling me to get off the computer. :)