Doorknob Theory

Recently my husband and I made a purchase. 

(Before I continue... the point of this post is not to say "Lookie, lookie! I got something new." Au contraire. The point is to talk about how we purchase things.)

*ahem*

Dan and I love to save money, but we also like quality. These two desires are sometimes mutually exclusive.

When I was preparing for Eve's arrival, I used Morgan's old crib (which I bought at a yard sale for $20) but bought a new stroller (which cost much more than $20). I had a stroller from Morgan, but it was breaking and it had a hard time turning. As I debated about whether I should use the old or buy the new, I used my old theory of purchasing: The Doorknob Theory.

The Doorknob Theory is essentially this: If the item in question is something you'll touch every day (or see, or smell...) then make sure it's something you'll enjoy. If you buy something cheap just to save a buck but every time you use it you dread it, then the purchase wasn't worth it in my book. The Doorknob Theory. 

This way of purchasing works for me and Dan. I ended up buying the stroller new as cheaply as I could and I have loved every. single. time. I pull it out of the car to use it. Love it. Very thankful for it. 

But I digress: The purchase Dan and I recently made was a media center. 

I shopped Craig*slist.

We shopped at discount furniture places. 

We shopped at department stores. 

We even shopped at a great outlet and tried to convince ourselves for a whole 5 minutes that a cheap, scratched, dented media center would work just fine. 

But *ding, ding, ding*... the Doorbell Theory warned us that every time we opened the rickety DVD drawer, we would hate the purchase. 

So we bought a new one. The price was fair. Not a bargain, but fair. And you know what? We love it. In fact, the new media center has so much storage that we were able to consolidate TWO other media centers we had been using and repurpose one for Eve's room. Now THAT's a good feeling.

Well, that's our way of shopping. I'm curious about others.

Kindergarten Jitters

My daughter will be entering kindergarten next year. 

I wish I were more excited. 

If I were the homeschool type, I would totally homeschool her. My husband and I both agree that it wouldn't be a good idea for us. 

So Dan and I visited two private schools for her. 

We liked the first one. But not for her. 

The second one was also okay. But only just.

Secret option C is the public school right behind our house. 

I received a packet of information for this public elementary school. There are 23 pages of information to fill out or read. 

Twenty three. 

I guess it should give me confidence that the school we're choosing is thorough, but-- may I be honest?- my natural inclination is to think that the choice we're making for her now will affect her for the rest. of. her. life. I mean... I only had to fill out one, maybe two forms in order to get married. But twenty three?

In an ideal world, I would have the perfect combination of homeschool, private and public school for her. All of the good facets of these schools, none of the bad. Ideally speaking.

It's my momma's heart.

Neighborhood Cookout

"I am a dyed-in-the-wool _________."

Foodie

Control Freak

Overwhelmed Domestic

Social Butterfly

I'm not sure how I'd fill in the blank. One week I'm really good at staying healthy. Another week I'm really good at communicating with my spouse or friends. And some weeks I'm really good at apologizing a lot. 

What I can say is that if you give me a small group of friends, some good food and a meaningful (but not completely burdensome) conversation... something feels right. 

And being a Domesticator (it is a word, I tells ya), I'm tossed between spur of the moment playdates, an adorable but sometimes fussy infant and scraps of food that I manage to swallow between phone calls. If they had a 12 step program for "How to Sit Down and Eat a Decent Meal", I would totally go. 

Point is: I'm hungry. 

Hungry for meaningful friendships. 

Hungry for food. Good food. 

And I'm hungry for rest. 

So last Thursday, a couple of us neighbor ladies were shooting the breeze outside talking with giddy anticipation about the 80 degree day that was forecasted. I threw the idea out there: "Hey ladies... let's have a potluck tomorrow. I'll bring the burgers for grilling." 

In keeping with the "eating" theme, they gobbled up the idea. 

One person brought buns. Another brought veggies and fruit. I brought the meat. The day was great. Kids ran outside like the crazy sunshine-starved Chicagoans that they were. We ate. We laughed. We idiomatically shot the breeze. 

It was a hit. There was even talk of doing this regularly in the summer. 

I'm totally digging this way of hospitality. I don't have the energy to have people over all the time while wild children run around my house. But if you give me a good backyard, food, folks and fun... I'd say this calls for a repeat.

______________________

Special thanks to Sandy of Reluctant Entertainer who encourages her readers to show hospitality in meaningful (but not overdone) ways. She's my hospitality hero.

Sisters

Flirt Tea

When I was single, I loved to flirt. I didn't do anything over the top--except for once when I played tag with a guy's best friend in the dark and got shinned by a log. (What is it with women thinking they can get to a man through his best friend? Lame, lame, lame.)

Anyhoooo...

Once I became Dan's right hand woman, I turned the flirties "off" with all others and let Dan become the target of my womanly wiles.

We got married and I found that I still wanted to flirt with him.

A year into our marriage, I found that my heart still leapt when he walked into a room.

After several years I began to wonder when this man would stop making me act so goofy.

Last week we went to a furniture store and an older saleswoman helped us. She told us about this line of furniture and invited us to look online. The name of the furniture was Hoo*ker. We were able to suppress our fifth-grade smirks. But then the woman continued, "Make sure you go to Hoo*ker Furniture.com and not just Hoo*ker.com." Her gaze was penetrating as if she were warning us.

At that moment, I knew I could not look at Dan. I made eye contact with another piece of furniture and managed to suppress the laughter until Dan and I got in the car. He has that effect on me.

A few years ago a friend visited our house and opened the medicine cabinet of our bathroom. (Yeah, I don't know why people do that either.) He found some little notes that I wrote to Dan inside the cabinet. They said things like "hubba hubba" and how lucky I was. My friend wished that his relationship with his wife was like that. It thought about that comment for a moment. And then I told him, "You know, I'm only mirroring what he does to me. He fills my cup and makes me feel special."

And he does. Dan writes me emails. Sends facebook remarks. And I love reading his online vernacular because I can absolutely picture him saying it.

This morning I watched him pull out of the garage; I do that almost every morning. I don't know why I do that... I guess it's because we're never quite finished with a conversation when he's leaving for work. When Morgan is with me, sometimes we come up with a mini dance routine to do when he leaves. One more smile from him as he zooms off.

I love this man. I love how he still drives a 1997 Corolla (the ultimate of man-mobiles) because he considers a paid-for car more important than his ego. I love how he wields the most amazing patience with me, with Morgan... and I'm sure, eventually, with Eve. I love his humor. I love that he wants to be a part of our family. I've never heard him even allude to "woman's work". Heck... he'll even get those items at the grocery store... and every woman on earth knows what I mean by "those items". Uh-huh. He's that guy.

*swoon*

So why I am writing this post? Well... because life is full of ho-hum days. I'm grateful for a man who helps us dodge the national average of marital unhappiness and keep life focused on the good.

*Have a good day at work, Sweetie.*

All in a Tuesday

My daughter has just informed me that she hates me. It's the first time she has ever said this.

My initial reaction would be to give her "what for" and give her a reason for hating me.

But I know that what she meant to say was that she hates how this morning started; she doesn't hate me.

The morning started chaotically. I jumped with a start at 6:30 and yelled downstairs: "Dan! You're going to be late for work! You need to get dressed."

Turns out he was already showered. And dressed. And about to head out the door.

How did I not hear him?

I came downstairs to a Morgan who was half a shot shy from being a human espresso. Lands, this child has energy. "Hi-Mom-Guess-what-Daddy-gave-me-He-gave-me-medicine-and-a-vitamin-And-can_I-kiss-Eve?" Something like that. I forget her exact words.

I not-so-secretly covet her energy.

I gave the Bottomless-Pit (aka- "Baby Eve") a Mommy sandwich and some rice cereal.

I gave Morgan Rice Krispies. Somewhere between the "If you get up one more time from the table" warning and "I hate you" there were little rice shaped cereal pieces that rained through the air and covered the floor.

*Breathe*

The hate statement rushed through me. I vividly remember the adrenaline rush as I told my own parents that same phrase. The words bolted up my lungs and past my lips before I could put the guard on them. I never meant it. I meant I hate being told "no". I meant I hate being the child instead of the parent. I didn't hate them.

And so this morning, I put my daughter in time-out and I recalled my parents' forgiveness. I must have told them a hundred times that I hated them. I'm sure I told them a hundred times a hundred that I loved them, but the hate phrase is so poisonous, it seems like more.

I think being a parent means getting a second chance at life... getting a chance to be a forgiver because (if you've had good parents) you've had so many times of being on the receiving end of forgiveness.

I love my Morgan. I love her energy, her honesty, her zest for life. And I love the forgiveness that brings us closer together.

*Breathe*

Life, Part I

Here's my IVF story:

A year ago this month, I nervously awaited a phone call.

I had just spent the previous 2 months preparing my body with drug injections. The hope of having another life in our family was too burdensome, so I did the injections robotically.

When the day came for us to go to the clinic to harvest the burgeoning eggs, the hope was no less heavy. I was glad for Dan's presence. He has a way of knowing when to be silent and when to make light of the situation. But, that's why he's mine.

They harvested 11 eggs. We joked that they were the 11 faithful disciples.

We prayed for those 11 eggs.

It's hard to know how to pray for 11 eggs. We didn't want 11 children. So we left it in the hands of Him who made those marvelous pieces of life in the first place.

A few days later we received the first call: Seven of the eggs were doing well. Seven. More prayer.

A day or so later we were told that 4 were viable. We were told to come in for the next procedure: the transfer.

The whole week felt like a lot of numbers and phone calls and prayer. It was an intensely surreal week.

By the time we got to the office, three of the eggs were okay for transfer. Hmmm... We didn't feel that we would be ready for triplets. The staff assured us that they only transplanted enough eggs that they felt would give us one healthy embryo. More prayer.

About a week later, blood work revealed the result. I received this phone call:
"Mrs. Dykstra?"
"Yes."
"We received the results from your blood work. We needed your numbers to double."
"My numbers doubled?"
"No... Your numbers tripled. It appears you are pregnant."
"My numbers tripled? Am I pregnant with more than one?"
"We're not sure. We need you to come it for an ultrasound."

I called my mother and we wept with the good news.

The ultrasound revealed two sacs. It appeared that we might be having twins. Yikes.

My husband told me later (MUCH later) that he prayed that only one baby would be entering our life; he didn't feel that twins would be good for us.

The next week's ultrasound revealed one embryo. One little sac. One little embryo that started from a group of eleven, and then seven, four, three, two... One.

We had to name this little one "Life". We had to name her Eve. My, how she fought.

We fought for her. She fought for us.

Life.

This is the box of drugs that came in the mail. It's a little intimidating.

Dan was a trooper and helped me with my shots. I called it "Baby Juice".

To anyone unawares, this is simply a picture of me, Morgan and an Easter Bunny. However, what I remember about this picture was that I couldn't button my cords and could barely zipper them because the IVF drugs had caused such swelling in my abdomen. I was glad to wear a long coat to hide my secret.

Dear Eve

I've debated about writing this post for a long time. But then I reasoned that this post is for Eve... both now and when she is old enough to read it. And so I wrote it:

Dear Eve,

You are four months old now. I can't possibly put into words how much you have changed my life, but I'll certainly try. 

My main goal upon your arrival was to see if I could breastfeed. I had trouble with your sister in this realm, but with you, there was a different flow, no pun intended. We connected a bit more easily. For the first few months of feedings, the flow of milk was exceeded only slightly by the flow of joyful tears which dripped onto your precious little frame. I couldn't believe that I should have the honor of being your mother. You seemed too perfect, too amazing. 

Today we have the feeding down pat. You're a bit playful lately and paw at my neck and head with your free hand while you eat. It's adorable. You love to touch, touch, touch. 

You still like to maintain a feeding or two in the night, but it's fairly efficient. When I go to change you in the dim darkness of the room, your feet pump excitedly as your little eyes try to adjust to the amount of light. You long for me to play with you and speak, but if I do, I know I'll get you too pumped up for bedtime. Again: adorable. 

I'm a bit weary, but I've chalked that up to the next few years of my life as my energy level concedes to yours. Your little legs kick with a staccato vigor that seems impossible for your young age. My womb, however, recalls their swift strength. You love to pump, pump, pump your chubby stems in the bouncy seat and watch the dangling toys bounce above you. You are pure life, my dear. Your name is apt. 

One of my favorite parts about being your mother is knowing that in a matter of seconds I can calm you simply by holding you close. There's something spiritual, delicious and powerful about the connection a mother and baby have. And for all the emotional and physical feeding I offer you, you certainly give it back in spades. The love a baby has for its mother is astounding. I see now why some people love having gobs of babies in their house. It can be addicting.

I treasure these moments as much I can. I doubt I'll be afforded another opportunity to raise a child again and so I must soak up the last bits of every stage with my whole self. 

Well, I could write pages upon pages of how wonderful you are, but I must go to bed. Another wonderful day awaits. Another day for you to grow one step closer to grasping that toy with your fist or learning to roll over. And I must go to sleep so I can be awake for as MUCH of it as possible.

Love you, little one

Mommy

Craft Day

Morgan and I were stuck inside the other day. It was sunny, but cold. And little Eve was sleeping. Stuck.

I took a look at our dining room. I love to prepare holiday tables early so I can enjoy them all week. My mother did that and I adopted the tradition as my own. 

The table was pretty, but it lacked something. Hmmmm...

Perhaps it needed a personal touch. Nothing a little paper towel roll can't handle. 

(Huh?)

You're not goin' in the recycling bin today, Mr. Paper Towel Roll.

Today you're going to make a decoration.

And with the help of Mr. Green Construction Paper, 

you're not gonna look too shabby.

When you can't find good Easter grass, make some.

Voila! Grass within, & yellow shell on the outside.

And some itsy bitsy pieces of pink tissue paper wadded on the bottom...

We made a cup. 

Little fingers help fill the cup with love. Love of mints, that is.

So pretty.

Wouldn't be complete without some naming...

Little hands write little words on little pieces of paper.

And then the sun came out some more...

The Mother Inside

In my camera I have 30 pictures to download, optimize and display which would make you think that I'm a creative, energetic and fun momma. They're really fun and inspiring. But I can't do that right now because I'm in one of those moods. 

If you're anything like me, you know the one. After a nice cycle of balance and rest and peace for several days, one foot trips the other and the weeks snowballs into a potpourri of half done life. Well meant intentions stay in the realm of intentions: Eating healthier works until some distressing news finds solace in the pantry. Balancing between rest and play becomes a half-baked attempt in which one is never really asleep or awake. 

I swear that that statement about "half done life" is in the job description of every mother. The job starts off easily enough: "Oh, c'mon honey... a baby sounds like so much fun!" There are baby showers which allude to the work ahead but are cleverly disguised in fresh and funky prints. Then the mother-to-be watches one too many Friends episodes in which parenting is considered cute and coordinated and is caught unawares.

Now before someone sounds "Don't be hatin'"... I'm not. In fact, I was just thinking in the car today that I really, really love being a mother. I love how Morgan brings me back to the basics of living. I love how Eve is just pure life. I love the downscaling & the simplifying; I love taking care of their little bodies and minds and feeding the kindling of their spirits. Love it.

I guess my beef with parenting is that I'm not too good with letting go of my old life. Sometimes I have my own tantrum when I want to design on my schedule, my budget, my terms. I don't want to cook dinner quickly. I want it to be slow and methodical and relaxing. And while I'm at it: I want all my ingredients to be pre-measured like they show on those half hour Food Network cooking shows.

Yesterday I saw this über cool Easter cake project which involves cake mix, frosting, lollipop sticks, melted chocolates and little candies. Just reading the supply list should have caused me to run for cover. But no, no... the little "oh-its-so-pretty-can-I-have-it" girl inside me surfaced and before I knew it, I was twenty bucks lighter at Jo*anns Fabric store contemplating when the dickens I'm going to have time to make these buggers. 

I'm torn... Do I feed the messy artist in me or tell her to wait for her rainy day to come? 

I wrestle. A lot.

Just now I remembered this verse from Romans (7:21-23), which describes what I feel a great deal:

So I find this law at work: When I want to do good, evil is right there with me. For in my inner being I delight in God's law; but I see another law at work in the members of my body, waging war against the law of my mind and making me a prisoner of the law of sin at work within my members.

Now I'm not calling pleasure or creativity "sin". It's not that. 

But I do recognize that I want. It. All. 

I want perfection and, well, I can't have it. Not here. Not possible. 

So for today, if I want to embrace my child, I'm going to embrace the cold that comes with her. And if I want to enjoy making some crazy lollypop-cake delights, then there's a mess to clean up. They're all one big bundle called life. 

That's all for now. Soon I'll have those fun blog posts that are cooped up in my camera and mind, but for now... a little honesty and a little nap. :)

Heart of a Momma

Before I was a mom:

I was a perfect parent. 

I knew how to discipline, how to get the best deals, how to seize the day and transform a 70 year old creaky house into a warm and inviting space. Children would fit neatly within my future life with perfectly timed naps and minimal sickness and I would fit neatly within my pre-pregnancy jeans directly after birth.

When I became a mother:

I was the humbled parent. 

I quickly learned that children take up approximately 4000% more physical space that their body. They also take up 5 times more mental energy than it takes to fly an airplane in a thunderstorm (I surmise). And if my emotional heart could hold, say, 2 cups of love, I learned that it could hold more. Way more. 

I also learned that the formulas I clutched religiously for parenting advice needed to be tailored to my strong-willed child. I fought against letting go of some organization and the perfectly clean house in favor of helping my daughter ride the all-important tricycle.

When I doubled my offspring:*

I learned that the heart heals even better than it grieves. 

That an entire day can be filled with chaos but the laughter of my children for 2.5 seconds will make it a different day entirely.

I learned that dragging my brood to get the best deal at every store in Chicago will quickly make my little friends into my little fiends. (That's no typo.)

I'm learning that Toys*R*Us has nothin' on our family: rubber gloves become dress up clothes, foil can make robots out of ordinary boxes and, well, I better hide the checkbook because it looks an awful lot like a coloring book.

I learned that when I'm entirely frustrated with a sassy lassy, I need only fold the laundry to see that the little baby socks will soon become the big girl socks. Patience will make the time more soft.

And when patience is overdrawn, sometimes the solution is a nap, a movie time or some snacks. For everyone. 

And last of all, when I scorn efficiency or multi-tasking in favor of some blue corn chips, I'm pretty sure that I'm not the only bone-weary momma who is doing so. Just a hunch.

*(Those of you with, like, 4 kids will laugh at my relative ease)

Palm Sunday

When Dan and I lived in the Washington DC area, we attended a church that was very large. By Chicago standards, it wasn't a mega-church like Willow Creek Community Church, but certainly larger than the churches Dan and I were accustomed to as children.

The church was a beautiful building. It was all brick and had stately columns, impressive architecture and glorious stained glass windows. You might call it "traditional" and the people who attended there tended to be traditional as well. Hymns were sung. Rarely, if ever, were contemporary songs played. The pastor wore a dark robe and had a certain aura about him that demanded respect. Children loved him. 

My favorite time to attend this church was, hands down, Palm Sunday. 

Dan and I were Sunday School teachers for a group of first graders. The church was so big that the classes of first and second graders must have been 50 children. Maybe more. 

On Palm Sunday, someone would come by each class room and deliver the Palm leaves to the teachers. It was pure hysteria. 

We lined the children up and gave them each one palm leaf. The leaves were so large that they were roughly half the size of the children. The little boys immediately transformed their Palms into weapons and flew them wildly in the air. The little girls were equally delighted. The air was full of excitement. As teachers, we tried to keep the children from wildly ripping the Palms (or each other) to shreds, but the novelty of the situation was louder than us. 

We led the children to the back of the sanctuary doors. The children pawed like horses behind the starting gate. When the signal was given, the two large doors to the sanctuary were opened. Hundreds of children poured through the remaining crevices of the sanctuary.

They were expected to have some type of decorum.

They were expected to be quiet-ish.

They were not.

The room echoed with their thundering little footsteps.

The first to enter the room were little boys who sounded as though they were commanded to charge the pulpit. There was running and laughter and wildly waving leaves which hid equally wild children. The aisles were instantly transformed into a jungle.

It took a little while for the pastor to get the children a little more quiet in order for him to speak. He was a wise man and understood that the overwhelming joy and chaos that filled the room was not unlike the actual day when Jesus rode the streets. 

Any pretenses disappeared as the joy of the children filled the room and hearts of the people in it. 

__________________________

I'll try to remember this story as I work today. It's my job as a mother to keep clean clothes on my family's back and food on the table. And there's even an element of organization which makes my heart go pitter-patter. But the moment that I forget that the PEOPLE in the building are more important than the APPEARANCE of the building... then I've lost perspective. 

Prayer: God, give me the strength today to let joy reign in this house. Even at the expense of organization. Let great volumes of joy meet with happy, happy hearts.