Love Covers A Multitude

Just a few hours ago, the bedtime routine involved this - much crying, cajoling, hissing, threatening, spanking...all delightful ways in which to end my two little treasures' day and send them off with wishes of sweet dreams and no bed bug bites.

Truly, it is not always that bad, just on the days when naps were too short or ignored altogether. Because those seem to lead to sneaking into your brother's room to play basketball and dump Mr. Potato Head's body parts all over the floor. More than once. More than twice, in fact.

Tyler eventually emerged from his room a final time, little flecks of poop on his hands and two-year-old explanations that can basically be summed up with, "I pooped. And, I touched it." More than twice, in fact, by the looks of it.

Sigh.

Bath #2. In less than an hour. And, despite all the vigorous scrubbing (of him and his room) and hot water, I swear one can never escape the reality that there are little flecks of poop all over this house. There is simply no way to clean all of it - even with Lysol wipes, vinegar water and the steam cleaner, whom I love. I just know the poop has made its way into the fibers of our carpet, of our blankets, of our clothes and of our souls.

But, you know, I guess I welcome the poop. Because with the poop comes a lot of kisses. Like the kind Tyler planted on my cheeks tonight each time I threatened to deliver death by tickles if he didn't. With the poop comes sweaty boys clambering for a spot on their mommy's lap, begging for the tickles. And, with the poop comes a feeling of, "What did I ever do before the poop?"

Sigh.

Tonight, I am thankful for the poop.

The Cast...

The Cast of 2009... is off...
and the Gig'Em is restored!

I Blame It On The Blue Ones

I have a confession....I've gained weight in a bad way. It's one thing to pack on poundage if you're pregnant, trying to quit smoking or competing in the NFL combine. I am none of those. The truth is, chocolate is my weakness and I am like every kind of bad hormonal woman when I am stressed and can't find an ounce of chocolate in the house. And it straight up needs to be milk chocolate, not that dark healthy stuff.

There have been a number of things the last five weeks that have spurred on this self soothing method o' mine...stress over the stomach bug that attacked my whole family and even sent Tyler to the ER, the loss of a pregnancy, Noah's thumb surgery, setting up the Africa exhibit at church, planning for the Children of the World Choir and...potty training.

I confess, I am that mom that rewards her child with candy for peeing in the pot. I said it and I own it. Now, just so you know I've got a little bit of good mothering in me, I've done the sticker charts, the high octave praise, the high fives, the over-exuberant jumping and the hugs. But sometimes a momma has to have a little more ammo in her stockpile. Because, I ask you, what is more motivational than a milk chocolatey gem all wrapped in a high fructose, colorful shell?

It only becomes a problem when Momma finds her way to the 42 oz. bag of pure heaven around 3:00 every afternoon, when two little men have been played out with bike rides, trampolining, tickle wars, playground visits and hide and seek and yet still find it pure insanity that said Momma expects them to nap. So that she can also nap. Because - read that run-on sentence again - just the thought of all that energy expenditure makes me tired!

I wish I could tell you the 42 oz. bag was in our house way back in 2008, but that would be a straight up fib. Because my people know that T wasn't potty training way back then. And, while T has been doing pretty well in his training, he ain't no potty training whiz (I couldn't wait to use that pun). And, since I'm not rewarding myself for my own potty habits, it all comes down to the 3:00 crazy hour when I need me some sugar.

I've always believed "everything in moderation." If heaping handfuls of M&M's is doing it in moderation, I'd better start doing some moderatin' in this:

And find a better stress busting weapon in this:

Needing Forgiveness

What a day. The kind of day that involves a lot of spilled stuff...goldfish, gasoline (left out by the lawn mower by mistake), spaghetti, strawberries, torn pear tree branches, sibling rivalry, lots of urine to clean...and all this on the week I have to finish details on the kids' choir coming this weekend.

My patience was thin. Hair thin. Hair that's been over-processed thin.

And then this...his third bath of the day...

Tyler dumped water out of the tub and got it on a considerable amount of floor.

As I helped him clean, I heard a crash in the kitchen. The lunch I was microwaving...

I rushed into the kitchen to see the damage. I knew, I knew this was an accident. It happened because Noah was trying to help. Yet, though I could keep my voice down, the frustration in my voice was still present. Noah, sensitive child, picked up on it, and quickly said, "I'm sorry, Mommy," as I not so sensitively slammed the food back on the plate. Again, his sweet voice says, almost begs, "I'm sorry."

I manage a tight, "It's okay, Noah. It was an accident. I know you didn't mean to do it."

Then, "Mommy, do you forgive me?"

"Yes, Noah, of course I forgive you. I love you. I will always forgive you," yet I walk away as I say it, in a hurry to get back to the mess in the bathroom.

"Does God forgive me?"

I pause. Whoa. Whoa.

CRUSHED. The boy is crushed. And so am I.

Whoa. Wow. The power of a Mom and her words.

All mommies have moments where we totally mess up. Where we break down so quickly what we spend our days and prayers trying to build up. I know this, I know all mommies mess up. But, these are my boys and it doesn't matter to me that all mommies make mistakes. In this moment, all I know is that I love my boys and I never want my words to hurt them. My boys' sense of security and esteem shattered by my impatient reaction. All for silly stuff. All for nothing. What does it matter that there's water on the floor? What does it matter that the food got dumped on the stove?

Whoa. Sigh.

My granny used to say, "You won't know it 100 years from now." I use that often to remind myself that this is all so temporary. So fading. So unimportant.

But I have my moments when the craziness of parenting overwhelms me and I find myself having to ask forgiveness yet again. Find myself having to rebuild the tender feelings that crumble when Mommy forgets that the people, not the things, matter.

Noah, do you forgive me?

Tyler, do you forgive me?

God, I know You forgive me. I know You always forgive me. I know You love me. I know You know I didn't mean to mess up. Help me be better tomorrow. Help me see my boys in the big picture and know that someday, as the more experienced moms tell me, I really will miss the spills and chaos. Maybe not the urine, but the rest.

Help me show You to them, by being more patient, more loving, less temporary. Less me. More You.

Because of Scottish Rite Children's Hospital

Friday was a big day in our household. A day I will always remember and Noah will always forget. Mostly due to the anesthestic and the happy juice they gave him. Friday, Noah had his first surgery.

And I survived, too, bless your heart for worrying about me.

About a year ago, Brian was tracing the boys' hands for a card for me (melt with me over that one). He started tracing Noah's hand and asked him to straighten his thumb as he outlined it. Noah couldn't get it out of it's cocked position so Brian gave it a go, but it would not budge. Not a bit. Brian asked why he couldn't straighten it and Noah casually explained, "That's just the way God made me, Daddy." (Melt with me over that one, too).

You know, we'd actually noticed the crooked thumb long before, but had always assumed he just couldn't maneuver his Gig 'Em all the way right. Three year olds are still working on that thing called coordination (Unfortunately, as am I. Step Aerobics would like me to stick to aerobics and not bother with the step, it's that bad) so we just assumed he would eventually get it. Imagine the guilt we felt when we finally really noticed it and took him to his pediatrician where we learned that the crooked Gig 'Em was really a trigger thumb (swollen sheath around a tendon) and it was so severe, she recommended surgery because it wouldn't get better on its own. She said a lot of things, but here's what I heard...

Trigger thumb...blah, blah. Surgery...Not a problem now...blah, blah...surgery...but will affect writing later...blah, blah, blah...

SURGERY.

For My Boy.

As I absorbed the notion and tried not to cry (while also keeping Tyler out of the shiny-metal-ooh-it-has-a-step-pedal-for-my-feet-I-want-to-touch-it-several-times-while-my-germaphobic-mommy-dry-heaves trash can) the doctor slipped out of the room to follow up on an idea she had. When she returned, she said she'd been able to get us into Scottish Rite Children's Hospital, home of the best pediatric hand surgeons in the area. And, by so doing, she introduced me to a whole new reason to be thankful I live in America.

Dallas, you thought we had it good with J.R. Ewing and Southfork Ranch! BTW, I've been on their grand tour...which would have been especially exciting if I'd ever laid eyes on even one episode of Dallas. I got curious and just reading a blurb about J.R. on Wikipedia makes me want to take a swig of Noah's codeine. Oh, my word. Read just one paragraph from another Wikipedia entry and see what I mean...

"Before Jock's death, Sue Ellen Ewing left J.R., taking John Ross to live at the Southern Cross Ranch near San Angelo, TX, the home of her new boyfriend, rodeo cowboy Dusty Farlow. In an attempt to steal back John Ross, J.R. took Miss Ellie on a visit, where she first met Dusty's father, Clayton Farlow. Later she and Clayton settled a problem caused by J.R. involving Clayton's refineries. When Clayton helped Sue Ellen as she reconciled with J.R., he and Miss Ellie became friendly and eventually started dating. In 1984, two years after Jock's death, Miss Ellie married Clayton Farlow, despite the attempts of J.R. and Clayton's sister, Jessica Montfort, to stop the wedding."

I think I need me some codeine to recover from that blurb. Because all I just got was, "blah, blah, rodeo cowboy...blah, blah, dating...blah, blah, wedding."

And a headache. Thus, the codeine.

Anyway, back to my original point. Because Dallas doesn't really qualify as a reason that America Rocks. Unless you are someone's wonderful mother-in-law who shall remain nameless.

No, Dallas, you've got something way better than J.R. Ewing in 357 episodes* of pure destruction, terror and mayhem. You've got Scottish Rite Children's Hospital and it is AMAZING! In the 1920's, a group of Masons approached a doctor about treating polio patients regardless of their ability to pay. That idea bloomed to eventually include treatment for children affected by other orthopedic ailments. To date, they have treated over 180,000 Texas youngsters. 180,000 of Someone's Boy or Girl. ALL AT NO COST. All because of the generosity of people in the community. Not because of some bloated, poorly managed government program funded by tax payers. Solely because of the hearts of ordinary citizens who give out of the kindness of their altruistic hearts.

Where else but America?

Friday was a big day in our household. It was a day I'll never forget and one I want Noah and Tyler to learn about. I want them to hear about the generosity of people who provided Noah not only paid-for quality care, but also provided a hospital that is truly kid-oriented with its bright murals and free popcorn. These people know how to go all-out in loving kids. Noah went into the O.R. with a handmade Raggedy Andy doll (Brian would say stuffed animal), three Cars stickers and sporting a ski-themed gown. Pretty good set-up for a four year old, I'd say.

And I just can't say enough about the staff. I lost count of how many people tended to him in the O.R. and in post-op, but each approached Noah with soft, kind voices and gentle tickles. All spoke directly to him and made him feel special even as they explained the procedure to us. Each chose their words carefully so that Noah wouldn't have to hear words like "shot," "pain," "scared" or "throw up." They were very keen to what kids pick up on and how to put kids as much at ease as possible. Words matter and they were very gifted at choosing words that championed Noah instead of causing him anxiety. Where else can you not only find privately funded, quality healthcare, but also servantly motivated, quality attention?

No where else but America.

I hope my boys not only learn compassion and the blessing of giving, but that they learn to be grateful that they live in America. Because if every person could spend just a few days in Africa, for example, they would quickly learn that we have it really, really good here. Recession and all. And not just in terms of material possessions, but in terms of opportunity. I pray they appreciate that and those who live and sometimes die to give them that opportunity. We are truly, truly blessed here and I am grateful.

Plumb grateful. Two thumbs up grateful.

*J.R. Ewing is the only character to appear in all 357 episodes of the series. That's a lot of cheatin', rodeoin' and lyin' if you ask me. Except don't ask me because I haven't seen a single one of those 357 episodes.

Don't Call It A Comeback, I Been Walking For Years

So I decided to try running today. For years, I've never understood how people love or even enjoy running. Part of the problem could be that I live in Texas and we have this thing called humidity all but 18 days of the year. Part of it could be that pavement is hard on cartilage and I like not being able to feel a storm a brewin' in my knees at the tender age of 31. Whatever the reason, I just have never gotten into running. I do suppose I enjoyed it as a child because if there's anything teaching preschoolers has taught me, it's that kids love to run. Give them a large area and they will run back and forth between two walls. They need nothing else. But they also have boundless energy and I think I lost that around puberty.

That should tell you I've hated running for nearly two thirds of my life. That's a lot of time to hate something.

Today, I decided to forgive running and give it another try. It's too cold to swim, I don't have a gym membership and doing Pilates indoors feels too cooped up when we have all this gorgeous weather I don't want to waste. Brian and I were out on an errand so I had him pull over and drop me off, with no way to change my mind, just the long road ahead to get me home. Some people make their minds up to pursue a goal and that's enough motivation for them. Me? I make my husband ditch me on the side of a busy road, with no cell phone and no change with which to pay a taxi driver.

Is that really motivation or a sentencing? I haven't decided.

As I find housecleaning a lot more motivational when I listen to music, I decided to bring our iPod and see if that helped motivate my legs. (On a side note, why the companies who make ear buds don't go ahead and attach the foam covers themselves is beyond me. Because nothing strips away motivation like spending the first five minutes of your run trying to slip delicate little foam covers onto your earbuds without ripping or dropping them. But, I digress.)

Hip Hop is my preferred genre when trying to self motivate, but anything fast or with a good beat seems to work. I cranked Beyonce, Outkast, Amy Winehouse, Matt and Kim and Bob Marley. I was even tempted to listen to LL Cool J but then I decided it's hard to praise God for His creation when you've got LL in your ears. While he does end Mama Said Knock You Out with props to our Lord, "I gotta thank God 'cuz he gave me the strength to rock," he spends the other 93.8% of the song on "destruction, terror, and mayhem." I also wisely stayed away from Beck's Loser because it makes sense that hearing the phrase, "I'm a loser, baby," over and over does nothing but pyschological damage to someone trying to run 2.25 miles for the first time in her life.

I do, however, wish I'd thought it through better before I played Jordin Sparks' No Air. Because while the girl can sang, the irony of the lyrics was not lost on me. In fact, I felt like my lungs were singing the lyrics back to me...

Tell me how I'm supposed to breathe with no air

Can't live, can't breathe with no air

It's how I feel whenever you ain't there

There's no air, no air.

And the problem with getting no air is that your muscles start to cramp, you get shin splits, your cheeks feel really hot and the blood rushes to your extremities so that you get splotchy skin. And the problem with those is that they make you want to die. Like the decapitated baby bird I passed on the sidewalk. And, if there's one thing I'm sure of, it's that I'd hate to experience death at the hand of running.

Brian later told me it was 2.25 miles back to the house. Who knew they built Lake Forest that long? Wish I'd thought to check that before I cheerfully bounded out of the car and committed to all 2.25 of it. Sadly, for us non-runners, 2.25 miles is enough time to create a lot of oxygen sucking and some really committed shin splints. Before you get all complimentary of my accomplishment as a first-time runner taking on that bold a distance, I should confess that I ran about 1/3 of that and spent about 2/3 of it in a cool down walk, switching between the two. Because I read somewhere that cooling down is important. And, if I was going to give 2.25 miles my all, I dang sure wanted to do it right.

I really did give it my best effort, setting goals for myself along the way and trying to keep a positive attitude, like being thankful for the little butterfly that passed by my shin splint-affected pace. Still, I would not conclude that a love of running blossomed. In fact, I still hated it.

But as I turned a final corner and saw my blessed, air conditioned house, my attitude changed. I spotted an elderly couple making their way up the sidewalk. It was a precious, precious sight. The woman held tightly to her walker while her husband walked slowly alongside her, his presence her encouragement and security. I decided to continue my cool down another few blocks so I could watch. I made it across two blocks before they made it down half of one. As I watched, I found my way over to Chris Tomlin music and prayed for the couple. No longer was my attention on my screaming shin splints or my burning cheeks. Reality has a way of making you check yourself. While the old woman struggled to make her way down half a block, I had something new to be thankful for.

I could run. I can run. Maybe I can even learn to love to run.

As I turned homeward, I turned off the iPod and decided to listen to the music present in nature. I heard the wind as it passed over my ears, the birds chirping their songs and the leaves rustling as I passed under them. I took deep breaths (because I could finally breathe again) and felt my heart quiet.

I can't say that I decided to love running today, but at least I know I can appreciate it. And maybe I'll give it another shot next week.

When I can walk again.

I Can See Clearly Now...Except In Daylight

I'm letting my parents' dog entertain my boys while I stop to tell you I made my first trip to the eye doctor in more than a little while. It was either sport my three year old glasses out in public or pony up and buy some new contacts. I love Dr. Alan Upchurch of Alpha Optical. He served with me in South Africa on my first mission trip and treated the people there with such kindess, grace and gentleness, I knew I wanted to support his work here. Which might actually be a thoughtful gesture if I went to the eye doctor more than once every three years.

Anyway, I had the lovely experience of pupil dilation and they have this new thing called reverse dilation. Which, I was all over that because who wants to drive around town with their most precious cargo, all while wearing those huge shades they give you and while not being able to focus clearly? The nurse did give me fair warning that my eyes would be red for awhile. However, I didn't realize my eyes would still be sporting that bloodshot look (and still be dilated) when I went to watch Noah do his Easter egg hunt. I felt the need to either avoid all eye contact with other parents (which meant smiling pleasantly at the ground because I guess crazy is a little better than snobby) or to explain very loudly to Noah's teachers that I'd just been to the eye doctor and had not, in fact, spent my day drinking the hours away. Though between the red eyes and the whoozy feeling from my pupils being abnormally large, I may as well have had a little fun. (Just kidding, water is free and non fat, thank you very much).

Needless to say, I also didn't expect that after such an overcast morning, me and my newly dilated pupils would walk out to the brightest sunshine you can imagine. Yes, I planned that one well.

So, now I'm safely home with my precious cargo. Except that watching them chase and torture my parents' 12 year old, 10 lb. dog somehow makes them a little less precious. Thank you, First Learning teachers, for strategically planning those egg hunts and parties for the hour before they return home to their parents. My parents' dog would like to thank you as well.

They Let Me Make Four Of These?

So, I'm a lover of blogs. Give me side-splitting hilarity or heart-wrenching sadness, I will read your blog. The irony is, my love of blogs hasn't yet translated into a blog of my own. Technically, I guess I own four blogs now. Three were started over the years, but were quickly abandoned. Because I guess I've learned that people only read your blog if you write more than once a quarter. Or, unless you're related to me and then you're obligated no matter what.

Despite three previous attempts at coming up with a clever blog title and taking the time to write an entry or two on each, I've always failed to make it to a third entry. But, I drank Sunkist today and I should know by now that only leads to lying in the dark at midnight, writing blog entries in my head. So now I own four blogs. I've used up four clever blog titles no one else on Blogger can use. And I can't believe Blogger fell for it again.

You will likely see a second blog entry. The test is this, will there be a third?