Play the guitar Reagan

Some days you just don't want to play air guitar.

I can't stop watching this. 

Grant is okay. 

He has a bruise under his armpit but it won't hinder his dreams of being band leader.

The Problem with Four-Year-Olds

The problem with four-year-olds is that they are so breathtakingly cute one moment. 

And the next moment, one might feel they belong in a kennel. 

In a straight-jacket.

One moment they might squish your cheeks and tell you what a good mom you are, how beautiful you are and how they never want to leave home. And the next moment, they might take advantage of your time in the shower to take a basketfull of your poor woman's no-bake cookies, crumble them to pieces, and then blissfully run through the house throwing those chocolaty crumbs of goodness into the air shouting, "Happy Birthday! You are married now! Happy Birthday and wedding day!" And, even though you vacuum like a mad woman, threaten their very life and pull out your own hair in penance...a fine, strong line of sugar ants will greet you the next morning to remind you of how thoroughly those crumbs were disbursed.

One moment, while walking into the grocery store for a late night milk run, they might comment on how beautiful the moon is. The next moment they might be lying on the floor screaming that it was their turn to sit in the grocery kart and that they never get anything they want. You will once again be the crazy lady with five kids in the grocery store, and why are you out so late anyway? And, are those all your kids? And, *ah* you poor thing...

One moment they will adoringly watch you put those groceries away, jabbering on and on about how thankful they are for the food in their house. The next moment, you might be gathering a search party for said four-year-old because they mysteriously vanished. You will panic. Then you will discover a locked bedroom door, with seemingly no inhabitant. After unlocking the door you might discover that the flattery from before was all a ruse. For all that time they were really planning on sneaking off with a chocolate bar, locking themselves in a bedroom, hiding under a bed and devouring the melting candy in minutes. If only they had thought to rid themselves of incriminating evidence such as the smears of chocolate on their face, hands and carpet beneath their belly. The candy wrapper clutched in their hands...

One moment you won't be able to stop looking at their impish grin and unabashed joy while they, "help" you wash dishes by hand. Cloaked in the apron of honor, bubbles up to their elbows, water haloed around their feet on the floor, absolute happiness radiating from their fingertips and ears, heart-shaped clouds filled with rainbows, butterflies and unicorns hanging over their head. They will assure you that they won't leave until every dish is washed. They will see rainbows in the bubbles and lose their concentration for minutes at a time. "O! There's another one! I see a rainbow!!" They will talk about how happy they are now that they are big enough to help wash dishes. You might laugh to yourself, knowing how long this joy in doing chores will last. But, even you will have to acknowledge  the wonderfulness of a child like yours. And then, the next moment they might fill every cup in a cupcake pan with dish soap, also engaging their younger sister in the experiment. They will tell you slowly  and seriously that they were pretending to be assassin spies, and the soap was poison for their cupcakes. You won't know what bothers you more; the soapy mess on hands, counter and pans or the toddler assassin spies.

And then, one morning you will wake up to the usual chaos and run a load of dishes into the dishwasher.

You might hear an unusual, muted sound. Like water spraying a wet blanket.

Something won't be right.

You will look and see that there are most definitely bubbles coming out of that dishwasher.

You will know how they got there.

You will see the bottle of dish soap. Hear the confession. Hope that it doesn't ruin your semi-new dishwasher.

Maybe stomp your feet.

Maybe laugh.

You will know that this time is short.

And, as much as you rail, "train," "discipline," dole out consequences, and take away *gasp* t.v. for the day.

You will know that this child is some of the best days of your life.

You will know that when this time is over, the moon might never look the same.

That the quiet, empty house with no messes will break you heart.

You will know that going to the grocery store without tantrums will be heaven.

Oops.

Okay, so not everything will lose its luster in life.

You will know that depression, deployments, moves, messes, chaos, sadness, uncertainty. All those things were made worthwhile with the reality of living for something, someone, or someones bigger than yourself.

The problem with four-year-olds is that they trick you into enjoying  life.

They make you see the moon, share your love of chocolate, imagine cupcake assassins,  look for rainbows in bubbles, see washing dishes as an adventure, and view the dishwasher as a machine of wonder.

Six Banana Peels

Someday...

When you are recovering from a really intense THIRTY minute workout.

I mean, *phew.*

You get the kids on the bus.

You feed the babies...

And you think, "Wow. I'm really tired. That's pathetic. I shouldn't be tired from thirty minutes on an elliptical. But...I am really tired."

When you look  at the dirty kitchen you should be cleaning and children you should be dressing, and think again, "I am really tired."

When the t.v. that is mounted to the wall starts beckoning you with promises of free babysitting. When it promises you that your children will be so entertained by whatever it is spewking out--they won't think to cause havok. When it tempts you with thoughts of sleeping past six a.m. for the first time in a month.

Do the right thing and say, "GET BEHIND ME SATAN!!"

Or you may or may not wake up from THE most blissful slumber by the little voice of your son saying, "Mom. I so, so sorry. I so, so, so, sorry. I was haynding from da turtain rod...and it fell. It fell ALL da way down. I pulled it from da wall. I so sorry. So, so, so sorry."

You may or may not run out into the living room really ticked off, only to find the curtain rod was indeed pulled, "...all da way down." And you may or may not find your daughter covered in not one...not two...but three very expensive, goopy hair products. You may find that she found it necessary to cover her entire face, portions of her legs, her hands, and her arms. But not a drop in her hair. As that was the only part of her body she couldn't reach with precision. You may find that goop on carpet, on the couch, and on her sister's coloring books.

And finally, you may decide that no, you will not take any pictures of the event, because...you are too angry.  And they aren't even cute. Little punks. Little deviant, destructive, disastrous children. Why do they have to act so...so...so much their age?

Is it so wrong to leave a 22-month-old and a three-and-a-half-year-old alone for almost two hours? Unattended, and only supervised in that you groggily remember saying yes, they could have more bananas and to please put the peels in the trash can. You were present in body...but your spirit was far away. Dreaming of a clean house, swimming in a triathlon and beating EVERYONE, and finally getting to pick your husband up from the airport for R&R.

Not that any of this happened to me.

I would never be such a delinquent parent.

And, IF I were...I suspect that this would teach me a lesson or two...

(By the way. I found SIX banana peels in the trash can this morning. SIX.)

What a difference 278 days make

 A few days ago, Lincoln had stayed up late to do his homework. While I kept him company, I started going through home videos. I came across this first one of Reagan. She had been home for six days. I can't get over how hurt and withdrawn she seemed. I had forgotten what her cry had sounded like. That apathetic, "Uh. Uh. Uh. Uh."

 When we first met our daughter, we had no context of who she was. What she looked like when she was truly happy. What she looked like when she was truly sad.

Now I know.

At the time, I was thankful that six days later (after arriving in the U.S.), she seemed happier. She wasn't sick, she didn't have a fever, or that oozing sore on her mouth. She opened up more and more every day. The other kids loved her. I was just glad to be home.

But now I watch this video and it sucks the air out of my lungs. It hurts my heart. I knew that she'd be grieving. I just didn't know what that would look like.  

This is what it looked like. 

 

I know it might not seem like much. 

But it's the difference between confusion, pain, hopelessness and heartache. 

And, confidence, determination, intimacy and happiness.

It's the difference between a smile brought on by fleeting entertainment. And one brought on by trust and joy.

She was hurting.

I remember now, how she would withdraw and stare off into nothing. How she would turn away. I remember that deep, pitted, scared feeling...that maybe something was really, really wrong. That maybe it was something I couldn't help her with.

___________________________________________

And then here's today. A friend of mine had posted the Katy Perry cover of, "Fireworks," on her facebook page. Grant asked me to, "beedio" him dancing to the, "moon, moon, moon song." Sorry it's so long. Grant doesn't even dance very much. What I couldn't stop smiling at is Reagan. 

    

Sometimes we need a reminder of how far we've come.

I know that with all my children...we are in a lifelong journey together. 

I know it's not over.

But to quote Confucius, "The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step."

If I haven't lost you already with my insane amount of cheesiness, don't worry. I'm done. :)

I'm just happy.

Fatboy

Grant makes me crazy.

Tonight he seriously risked life and limb 18 different times by sneaking out of bed to ask ridiculous questions like, "Are we dowing have candy for breakfast tomorrow?"

To try and butter me up, "I dust want to tell you, you are bery, bery bootiful." 

Or because he had to go potty for the millionth time. 

(That's code for him wanting to sing on the pot.)

He is a lot of work.

But, dang if he didn't make up for that by being so stinkin' cute and funny.

Yesterday was Valentine's Day, and I was tired of being in the house. So we decided to load up and drive to post to return library books. I also wanted to listen to a CD of a sermon from our hometown church, my friend had  just sent me.

When your husband's deployed, there is no greater feeling of control and  freedom, than when your kids are buckled in their carseats...and not fighting, whining or crying.

Beautiful, beautiful day. 

Or night.

It was perfect.

The kind of night you would beg to play outside just a little bit longer in as a child. The kind of night you would wander with friends through as a teenager. Having deep discussions. One-upping each other with dares.

The kind that gives hope of spring to people everywhere.

This is the time of year, I find myself thinking, "If only Louisiana stayed like this...I wouldn't want to leave."

But, back to Grant:

After the library, we drove around a bit, and eventually I remembered that I hadn't fed my children. So, we decided to try out a restaurant we'd never been to in town, "Fatboy and Skinny's."

Kinda cheap. Free drinks for the kids. Greasy, good diner.

 Awesome customer service.

While I was washing Grant's hands after he'd gone potty, he looked up into the mirror and said, "I hope dey yike my style."

"Who? The people in the restaurant?"

"Yeah. I dust hope dey yike my style."

I laughed and told him he had great style...and people would be crazy not to like it.

After we sat back down and a few minutes later he said,
 "Oh mom. I really hope dat people call me fat boy. "

"What?"

"I SAID, I REALLY HOPE YOU CALL ME FAT BOY!!!! "

"FAT BOY!! "

"FAT. "

"BOY. "

*Looking around* 

"Hey mom! Dat guy is fat, too!!"

*My arm shooting across the table, over his mouth*

"Okay! Shhh! I get it."

*whispering* 

"Why do you want people to call you a fat boy?" 

(totally forgetting where we were eating) 

"Because he has da best style! AND I dust love fat boys!!!" 

Then I looked down and saw the Fatboy and Skinny characters on the table. *Aaah.*


( A few minutes later, probably because I was ignoring earlier requests to go-- with the logic that he had just gone. ) 

"Oh mom!! Oh mom!! I gotta go to da bafroom again. "

"I have to go NOW! "

"I have to GRAB MY BUTT...BECAUSE POOP is dowing to come out of it. OH my doodness!! TAKE ME to da bafroom!! OH my doodness!!"

 "Shhh! Grant. Calm down buddy. Let's go, I will take you potty again. "

"Please don't yell about poop anymore. Shhh!"

 "OKAY!!! I WILL NOT TALK ABOUT POOP."

"I WILL HOLD MY BUTT WIT DIS HAND, AND YOU CAN HOLD MY 'ODDER HAND TO TAKE ME POTTY!!!!" 

"Oh my doodness mom. I hafta dow so bad...thank-you."

Aww. You're welcome Grant. 

I don't care that this is my third trip to the bathroom.

I don't care that I haven't had a single bite of food yet.

I don't care that everyone is staring in horror at your proclamations of fatness and poo.

Because...

you...

are...

worth it all.

Super Prayers

 A few minutes ago, I was lying down with Grant for his nap. He popped his little head up out of bed and said, "MOM! Yet's pray!"

DearYord,
Thank-you for yetting Jack and Lincoln have a dood day at school. Thank-you for Kennedy. Thank-you for my new house and new windows. Thank-you for my new beds to syeep on. Dear Yord, thank-you for all my toys. Thank-you for a new heart. Thank-you for Reagan syeeping in her bed. Thank-you for daddy in Affs-danistan. Dear Yord, I yuv you. AMEN!

"So, um Grant, what do you mean, Thank-you for a new heart?  Did you get a new heart?'

 "I don't yeally know yet. But, MOM! I 'tink that I know where He dets our new hearts. He dets them from the BYUE CORE!!!"

"The blue core? Like in the movie, Astro Boy?"

"Uh-huh. Dats what He puts in people."

I didn't even try to explain physical, spiritual or blue cored hearts to him. I just enjoyed his perspective for a few moments.

My boys always seem to blur theology and super-heroes at this age. Jack prayed, "Dear God, pyease make me a byue superhero when I drow up." Every single time we prayed. For two years straight. He would make elaborate visitation plans for us. So that while he was doing his job as a superhero; he could still see his family. Lincoln later confessed to me that whenever Jack prayed that prayer, he would pray for it not to happen. Apparently, he was worried that if Jack was a superhero--he might get killed by a super villain. And, that's never good.

Super heroes. Super villains. Blue cores. Red cores. Rocket feet. Lazar beam eyes.

Super prayers.

Super hearts.

It's all good.

Exhibit A

I'd like to title this, "Why we were late for church today."

Reagan's sportin' a bed head fro.

You can tell who was the mastermind by the guilt on his face.

This one is blurry, but Grant's face kills me.

Bobby Brown shadows and blush...

Every single lipstick, eyeshadow, lotion, foundation, gloss, mascara...that could be, was opened. You obviously can't see it, but most of the powder and chunks of lipstick ended up on the floor underneath. When I found them, Grant was furiously trying to get all the lids back on the containers. Like I wouldn't notice...

Not even sure what to do about this. Our vacuum's motor went out a few weeks ago. This is when they moved into the living room and got into Kennedy's makeup. It's some kind of creamy blush.

First attempt at washing it off. Reagan wasn't sure if they were still in trouble or not...

Third or fourth scrubbing. Grant knew he was free and clear.

 

I know they are cute and all...but please consider that while they were out joyriding around the house with makeup: Three Bobby Brown longwear gel eyeliners were sent to the graveyard, four tubes of lipstick were ruined, two mascaras, multiple shadows were turned to powder, the carpet was ruined, and two sections of wood trim were stained.  I wish I could sue them for damages. Little punks.

Okay. I'm sure the carpet and trim could probably be cleaned. So, in that case I'd like to sue them for pain and suffering.

This is why I can't have nice things, shouldn't wear makeup, and should just skip showering all together. 



Come to think of it, bad things always happen when I'm in the bathroom.

Grant

(Helping with the fence...)

Three-year-olds.

They are the most frustrating, lovely, observant, stupid, tender tyrants on the planet.

We keep changing sleeping arrangements around here. I'm in the biggest room in the house. Makes perfect sense that one person should have more square footage than three. Right? The two older boys are in one room. The three youngest share the third bedroom. And, then we have a, "school room."   The problem is; having three separate beds in the littles' room is too crowded. There's no breathing room. They can't play with their toys. It feels claustrophobic.

So, two nights ago I took down Grant's bed, and decided he could sleep with Kennedy until we got our hands on a bunkbed.

Sounds like a great idea in theory. I mean...my grandparents probably had to share a bed with their siblings, right? My little brothers and sisters sure did. I did! (Although I happened to be smooshed in age between an older brother and a younger brother...I got my own room in quite a few houses. Haha. Sucks to be you, younger-Sarah-siblings!)

Eh.

Copious amounts of fighting insued. "She's touching me!" "No! HE'S touching me!" "KEN-NEDDY! You gotsta scoooot o-ber!" "Grant, you are too hot! Get on your side of the bed...now!"

*smack* *SMACK!* *Wahh* *Waah*

You get the picture.

Tonight I decided Grant should just sleep with me.

This boy can cause thunder storms in our house in seconds. He is loud. Devious. Has the attention span of a flea. Did I say he was loud? He can be consuming to everyone around him. In other words: he's pretty much like all three-year-olds I've known.

However... I had forgotten how tender, precious, sweet, imaginative, silly, entertaining and awesome he can be.

Tonight we laid in bed and turned our tickled buttons on and off (that would be your nose), talked about how many different kinds of Spidermans there are (three, in case you didn't know), discussed his favorite movies,  I was then quizzed on them, and asked to repeat them verbatim forwards and backwards.  His imagination is brilliant. His little body curled and spooned next to mine brought me absolute peace. I could have died a happy woman tonight...listening to my son jabber sleepily into slumber. He reminded me why this job is so amazing. He calmed every fiber of my being. He gave me hope...

I forget that my babies grow in phases. They ebb and flow. Their love language's develop and change. Grant's closeness now makes me really excited for Ray's next stage. Not to hurry up and be over with where she's at right now...but just excited that everything's not set in stone. Grant wasn't all that much of a cuddler as an infant.  I know that the pendulum tends to swing away...and then come back. Even if she ends up being less than crazy about touch. I'm gonna keep trying. I'm going to keep making, "physical touch deposits" in her little bank. I don't know yet all that is in store for our relationship.

And for once...that doesn't fill me with fear.



That makes me happy.