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.

Here's to...

Flowers from strangers. 

I ended up having surgery just before Jason came home. Another soldier's parents sent me flowers.           

Who does that?

First day home. 

Fighting over his lap.

First day back at work. 

I woke up in the middle of the night to help a crying kid. I couldn't stop laughing that he'd written a reminder to himself to put toast on the plate for breakfast.

To really be able to say, "All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth..."

Kids not fighting, and saying, "Take a picture of me, too!"

Not needing pants to be cool.

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.

Real Sportsmanship

Tonight I had been putting off playing catch with Lincoln. Had to make dinner. Had to chat with a friend. Had to clean up dinner...blah, blah, blah. So, I finally got that urgent feeling of inadequacy. That feeling you get when your kid is old enough to remember how you blew him or her off. When you realize they aren't two and incapable of remembering what they had for breakfast. I guess guilt and pride can be good motivators.

That, and I heard him throwing the baseball on the roof. Which was annoying.

So, I headed out to play catch. Something I think I've done maybe three or four times my whole life. He kept giving me  pointers. Which was annoying.

We had been playing for about 15 minutes. Him grinning ear to ear. Me having to run after the ball. Which was annoying. 

When...I heard a little kid saying, "Eh? Eh?"

That's Amharic for, "Hey, I know I'm too little and wimpy to play. But I really think I'd be an asset to your team."

Reagan had been standing there watching us play. Managed to put on Lincoln's batting glove...and stood patiently waiting to be included.

    



 

   

And, yes. I've pretty much given up on braids this past month. This is what her hair has looked like a lot lately. I try to fluff it up when we go out...but a majority of the time she has bed-head fro.

Don't judge me.

I'll get it right someday.

So, Lincoln and I included her in a little triangle of catch. 'Course she was no good at it. She was happily oblivious. Now, SHE was grinning ear to ear. And, if it seemed like Lincoln or I weren't throwing the ball to her often enough...she would emphatically pat her belly and say, "Eh! Eh!" Din-Din! Mah-Maaaah!"

So we played. And...it wasn't very annoying.

It was more...cute.

Precious.

Nice.

While we were outside...some other kid had a bathroom emergency and I had to go be the maid.

When I came out awhile later...they were still playing.

I know it's just catch. 

And, I know that families should love each other. So, I'm not sure I can put into words how good this makes me feel.

My son loves his sister. He loves her a lot. He includes her. She wants to be included. 

We are family. 

Sometimes that hits me randomly and hard. It's mind boggling.

 I get so caught up in the mechanics of having kids. The failures. The getting from point a., to point b. The feelings of inadequacy. Just being plain dog tired and sometimes depressed. Racking my brain on how to work better as a family. To have a home that isn't so chaotic. I start looking for validation ANYWHERE but home. When you are a stay at home mom...yeah sure, you know your job is important. But it's also just A dimension of who you are. I think being a mother will be one of the biggest investments and pouring out of self I will ever take part in. Still...still...it's not ALL of me. It's hard. And, it can seem WAY too big of a job.

 Yet, sometimes, if I would just get up...

Move. 

Play. 

Watch. 

Be humbled.

It would be so much more fun.

My tank was filled to the brim by my children tonight. It cost nothing. It was free. 

Waiting for me. 

I almost missed it...

It's hard for me to imagine...

But there are things in my life that are better than medication (I think). 

Better than organization (again--perhaps). 

Better than chocolate (just slightly).

Better than a nap (usually).

Better than calm.

Those things are...little glimpses of love in its most naked form. 

Oh sure. 

I see PLENTY of ugly, selfish, angry, tattley, lazy..."normal," behaviors, too. Sometimes by looking in the mirror. Sometimes acted out by little people.

But on days like today...they are a drop in the bucket.

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.)

Moments such as these...

Sometimes...

After we've gotten up at the butt-crack of dawn...

When I've helped with homework, made five breakfasts, prayed and sent three kids off to school...

After I've taken a 22-month-old in for a chicken pox vaccine and then waited for THREE hours at the hospital while coordinating hospital records and preventing tag-a-long three-year-old from setting off the fire alarm,  TWICE...

When I've then gone and registered said 22-month-old with CYS (Child and Youth Services), signed a second and third grader up for baseball, looked at toys at the PX with 3-year-old, made it home just in time for naps and breakdowns...

When I spent said naps talking on the phone with banks and hospital records departments...

Picked up kids from school, helped with homework, taken five kids to McDonald's for sundaes to celebrate good grades, gone to church, and finally loaded children back into the van...

 Amidst:

"Shot gun!" 

"No, I called it!" 

"Mo-om! He hit me!"

"Why do I have to sit next to her?!"

"Can I watch Superman when I get home?"

"Can I have a snack when I get home?"

When that last buckle is clicked.

When the last of the four van doors has slammed shut.

Drowning out the sound of my precious cargo inside.

That precious. 

Precious cargo.
 

When I feel the cool night's breeze. 

When I hear the cicadas whirring and taunting me with their freedom.

Sometimes.

Some days.

In teeny moments of exhaustion.

As that last door slams.

My mind screams...

RUN!

(I like to imagine a crazy hillbilly laughing maniacally while running through a cornfield.)

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.

Fleeting

Since the three olders have started going to school, I've realized even more, what a hermit I am. I want to be outside. I love to have soulful conversations with friends. I crave time with my parents and siblings. I want to challenge myself, learn new things, make a difference in the world around me, and be apart of the general chaos of life. 

But...I honestly get lost in my family. It's not that I don't completely enjoy hanging out with other people. I never get tired of knowing someone better. Any someone. But, as much as it's made me insane to be here so constantly with the kids. I really, emphatically, truly enjoy the company of my children. 

I can't help but see them all as little clocks...slowly ticking away our time with each other.

I know. 

That's kind of depressing.

But...

   

  

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 Childhood is fleeting.

Ode to Spring Soccer

  (Twelve steps for cold, muddy misery:)

1. Rush through homework, skip dinner, change out of uniforms...

all...

because... 

of ... 

SPRING SOCCER. 

*Heavenly choir*

2. Dress five-year-old in heavily gauged plastic shields. Strategically place over shins.  
This is in case of attack.

3. Place expensive, uncomfortable, fashionable shoes on five-year-old's feet.  Attach dangerous spikes to bottom of said shoes to ward off assault from other participants. Feel comforted that five-year-old is wearing her shin shields for gosh sakes! Reason that the added mud and grass ALL over truck is worth it.

4. Important: Forget to dress children for Louisiana's freaking hot/cold, menopausal weather especially so you can win the idiot mom award...again. Leave house with light sweaters and jackets. Don't bother with hats, warm coats or any of that tomfoolery. It's February after all.

5. Drive to soccer. Psyche five-year-old into playing.

6. Get five children out of truck and navigate to one soccer field that is eight miles away from mode of transportation. Wait for five-year-old to rapidly dissolve into a puddle of blubbering incoherent tears (apparent fear of peers in cleats).

7. Bribe five-year-old with every imaginable toy, treat, and tantalizing temptation you can think of. Be flatly repudiated. The past five and a half years mean nothing. 

You are dead to her.

8. Spend 15 minutes playing soccer with other little people while simultaneously entertaining and freaking out baby on hip.

9. Throughout duration, ignore the five-year-old who sleeps in your home, and who is standing on sidelines, crying, blowing snot bubbles and complaining of low temperatures.

Pretend it's all so fun.

10. Last five minutes; give five-year-old your sweater to layer with and wipe nasal mucus on.

 11. Stop for a moment to ponder. To wonder why you're playing soccer with a bunch of midget people shorter than you are. Work through the name confusion of other girl on team named, "Sarah."  Realize sadly no one was cheering for you to begin with. 

12. Leave... towing five muddy, cold, whiny, and crying kids.

Yay spring soccer. 

YOU SUCK!

(Plus my sweater's all snotty.)

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.