MamaHolly's Monogram

My Automated Car Unloading System

2011-11-17T10:07:00.000-08:00

We came home from a camping trip a few weeks ago. Since John is 12, we expect him to help us unload the dirty clothes and groceries. It's not a lot of work. If everyone helps we get done in about 10-15 minutes. We have light things Hannah can carry and even Cote gets in on the action.

But wow, John did an amazing job of making it a miserable for everyone. He complained and berated us. He spent five minutes getting himself a glass of water and even sat down to play video games. He was upset because he didn't think Hannah was pulling her weight so he took her stuffed animal from her and placed it above the curtain rod in her room because he thought "it was a distraction to her."

I got to thinking that every time we bring home groceries, it is the same thing, but not as intense as a camping trip. My mother and I did some John brainstorming that night. We talked about how groceries were not as routine as just coming home on a normal day and camping was even more out of the normal. We talked about how it wasn't really much work and he always imagines it's way worse than it actually is. I recalled my own aversion to having to unload in those instances too. Together, we came up with a new plan.

Now, the kids have each been assigned 2 or 3 cloth grocery bags and special loading/unloading laundry baskets for more bulky items. Their items have been color coded with pieces of duct tape.

They love the new system. I don't even forget my cloth bags when we go to the store anymore because they each want to carry their own.

There are no timelines on how quickly they need to unload when we get home but they know they aren't supposed to go past the kitchen until their bags are back in the van. Each child carries in his or her bags and unloads them *gently* onto the counter or the table in the kitchen and takes the bags back outside. Then, I put all the groceries away.

John is more comfortable because it seems equal to him that Hannah has the same number of bags as him, even if they don't contain as much. He knows that no matter how slowly she moves, she's not manipulating her way out of work. He also isn't afraid I'm going to keep him working for hours or doing ungodly amounts. He knows he has three bags, no more than that.

It has worked very well. No one is jealous of the other. When I was in college, we talked about giving children ownership. I didn't even think about this when I was doing it, but those little pieces of colored duct tape have given them more than a new assigned task. They've given them ownership in the process. We've even used the duct tape to label eye glass cases and their favorite sword fighting sticks.

What kinds of things have you done to stream line having the children participate in the responsibility side of the family equation?

Historically, I've always hated history

2011-09-29T08:06:00.000-07:00

My father is a history buff. When he discusses history, it comes to life. His passion is contagious and I learn more than I ever did from a text book or a history class in high school or college.

I'm familiar with all the reasons everyone spouts about how those who don't know history are doomed to repeat it. And so with the heavy obligation of preventing my son from repeating regrettable history we dutifully studied it in our homeschooling.

I've read more philosophies of education in my college career and in my quest to be the best home educator possible than I can count. Some say history should be studied in chronological order, creating a time line for the children to gain perspective. Others say one should start social studies by exploring out from the child's own experiences, moving from families to neighborhoods to city to state to American history and eventually world history.

I didn't have to do all this research to teach my children to read. I ADORE reading, so I did what came naturally, I read to my children. Later we've danced between whole language and phonics using moves from both as was dictated by the learning styles and needs of my children.

History is different for me. It is a study I embarked upon with reluctance and foreboding and, dare I say, great ignorance. I can not tell you how many times I've approached a new history lesson and have been amazed at how little I know.

The reason I am so baffled by this is because I was an exceptional student, yes, even in history. I was a National Merit Finalist which meant the state university I attended was eager to grant me a full academic scholarship. I don't say that to brag. I say that to make a point. In theory, that puts me in the category of students who got the most out of their educational experiences. I was not a slacker who didn't pay attention.

I'm not faulting teachers, I'm faulting the way education as a whole perceives the study of history and then projects that to the students. I viewed it as a collection of trivial information which had no impact on my current life. As an A student in my middle school history class, I embarked on a personal study of the Ancient Olympics for my history fair project. I did it well. I learned a lot. I also learned, after I submitted the project, that the class I had been taking for months was American history therefore my project was disqualified. How does a student with an A in a class not even know what the class was about?

In high school, I had a combined studies class that endeavored to combine the time periods of history and literature. They had fantastic aspirations but those studies were never combined. The history teacher had a love of Chinese dynasties and the literature teacher a love of Shakespeare.

As I've escaped the need to ensure progress with tests and my special needs child has helped me to remember to tailor education to the individual, I've tried to redeem the combined studies program's lofty goals. We study literature from the time period in history or historical fiction about that period as we study the history. We also travel with my husband on his business trips and try to cement the information by visiting historical sites like we did this month when we visited Boston and reviewed our Revolutionary War studies.

I recall from my teacher training that children (and adults, for that matter) need to be able to connect new information to prior learning in order to retain that information. I look at John's interests and experiences as a framework for attaching new information. I've come to see history as a way of making connections.

He recently expressed an interest in the atomic bomb. Part of me recoiled, thinking it was too macabre a subject. But the other part of me said this was a chance to attach a lot of other learning. Since then, we've studied WWII, read some great historical fiction, discussed the human aspect and effects of the bombs, the decisions which led to the bombings, the Holocaust and on and on. John keeps a journal in the form of writing only one sentence a day of something important he remembers from what we've read together. Much like a test, it doesn't really demonstrate what he has actually learned. That comes out in meaningful conversations and connections that have impressed me and made me so glad I'm finally understanding the importance of history.

In Boston, we visited a haunting Holocaust memorial. It was the same week John was finishing reading Number the Stars. The memorial consisted of six glass towers which represent the six death camps. Each column has one million numbers etched in the glass representing a Jew who was killed.

We had an amazing time, especially as we were there on the anniversary of 9/11. We talked about both events as we used multiplication to find an area of numbers which was roughly equivalent to 3,000. It was such a small place for so many numbers. We talked about the horrible loss of life on 9/11 and how many people that was. Then I stood with my hands blocking out that space and we tried to view it in comparison to the enormity represented by all six towers. I found it difficult to breathe.

We read the quotes of survivors inscribed on the towers and discussed the tiny lights that looked like stars coming up through the grates below each column. We noted how the columns were beautiful but reminded us somewhat eerily of chimneys.

It has been obvious to me that I'm much better for having studied history with my son. I always have the impression that John is learning and making these connections as well. Today, we discussed Japan's bombing of Pearl Harbor as well as their invasion of the Philippines. We talked about the death march of 80,000 people. a very sober John remarked about the similarity to the Trail of Tears, recognizing the evil despite the difference of time periods and continents.

A chill runs down my spine as I finally realize for myself just how important and fascinating a study of history truly is. I no longer consider it a burdensome obligation to teach my children to learn from history. I consider it an honor and a privilege to learn right alongside them. And any insight we might glean by taking a detour to explore the Holocaust on a field trip intended to study the Revolution certainly won't be disqualified just because it wasn't on the syllabus.

I Defaced the 100 Easy Lessons

2011-09-28T07:24:00.000-07:00

This is my second time using Teach Your Child to Read in 100 Easy Lessons. I need it to last at least through one more child. I love the content but the large paperback book is quite cumbersome. I've dreamed about it being an ipad app or at least an ebook. If anyone figures that out, please let me know.

I was just making due until we took a week long trip to Boston recently. I only wanted to take enough lessons for the week, but I couldn't copy it easily on our scanner because of the book's unwieldiness. I lugged that heavy burden to Boston and back. I vowed I would never do that again.

This morning I committed a book-loving sin, I dismantled the entire thing. It's in a binder now, where I can prop it up more easily or take out the pages I need and put them back in again. Plus, if a page starts to get damaged, I can always scan it and put a fresh copy in the binder.

Nothing's Bugging Her Now

2011-09-09T09:54:00.000-07:00

I've been meaning to post for a while about why I like camping so much. Sure, I love the great outdoors but I love even more what it does for my children. Campgrounds afford John freedom to explore on foot as well as with his bicycle. He makes friends quickly in a laid-back environment where he isn't having to face prejudices from kids who have experienced his previous social awkwardnesses. Every campground is a clean slate in which to practice interacting with his peers. Cote's curiosity is absolutely sparked by being outside which encourages her cognitive and motor development. But the focus of today's post is Hannah.

She's been hesitantly interested in the world of bugs and critters for a long time. She would look on in horrified fascination from behind my shoulder at some specimen. I was always sure to offer her a chance to touch the bug or frog but it was usually summarily declined. Occasionally she'd extend a quivering hand, only to chicken-out at the last moment amidst squeals of terror.

There is something to be said for desensitization therapy. Apparently living every weekend in a box in the woods since July has worked some magic. A few weekends ago, the kids found an Assassin Beetle and I heard an excited giggle as she said, "Quick, John, you need to catch it!" I knew her interest was increasing as she kept clamoring for my attention to her discoveries, "Mom, look at this little guy!" and "Hey, I wonder if a frog lives in there."

I hadn't realized the gradual disappearance of screams upon encountering wildlife until she found me in the bathhouse after my shower one morning over Labor Day weekend. I had noticed a tiny salamander on the wall. I pointed out my visitor to Hannah. I was a little sad the bug cullecting jar was nowhere near. It didn't bother her though. "Oh Mom, stand back, I'm gonna capture this little baby friend!" With surprise I watched as my previously squeamish daughter cornered that lizard and scooped him up into her bare hands. She beamed, "John's gonna love this guy!" She ran all the way back to the camper. Two days later she was demonstrating to Cote how roly-poly bugs could crawl up her arm. And our library book choices seem to feature a lot more insects.

That's why I love camping.

Pider-Shishies

2011-06-02T10:03:00.001-07:00

I've added a new blog. This one will concentrate on sharing insights I'm gaining on living with John specifically and learning how to speak Aspergers.

Pider-Shishies

Asperger's Syndrome

2011-04-21T10:29:00.000-07:00

While John was in the hospital several weeks ago, he was diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome in addition to the Bipolar diagnosis he's had for years. Those two words have been a Godsend to me. Being as I was trained as a special educator, I knew what those words meant immediately. They explained so many of the quirks that Bipolar didn't exactly encompass. It meant he really didn't get it (whatever the particular it of the day was) even though I'd explained it a million times. It meant I hadn't failed as a mother or a teacher and that he wasn't being disobedient in the ways I had presumed. It was a big moment for me and it changed so much about our relationship without ever changing anything about John.

Immediately, my school teacher mode kicked in and I went to work. Unfortunately, I kind of left a few people in the dust as I ran ahead. I think some of them understood some of why I was relieved but didn't quite understand why I was so different in my interactions with John as well as my greatly increased hope. (And my new busy infatuation with scheduling.)

At one point, a dear friend who also has a newly diagnosed Aspie, questioned me, "How do I know when he's being disobedient and when he's doing something due to Asperger's?" I tried my best in the moment but I think my attempt at helping her understand fell flat.

Two weeks later, my husband asked nearly the same question. But I'd been mulling it over for a while and realized the problem wasn't my answer but that the question was leading us all in the wrong direction.

You see, you will never be able to separate what is Asperger's and what is the individual child. The truth is that whatever is inappropriate behavior, is simply inappropriate behavior. It needs to change into an appropriate behavior. The diagnosis helps me to understand that the way I've been trying to train my son on appropriate behavior was never going to work. I could consequence till the cows come home (trust me, they had been mooing loudly and milling around my kitchen for years). Dealing with him as one would expect to deal with most children doesn't work.

I think, at first, my husband felt like I was excusing a lot of John's behaviors. No, just because I stopped yelling, scolding, removing privileges and sending him to his room, doesn't mean I was choosing to let him get away with it.

Since I've known John, I've seen the same pattern repeat. He makes a simple, normal mistake. (Or sometimes not so normal, but seemingly innocent enough). I then try to correct or steer him in the right direction and he then PANICS. He reacts in such bizarre and over the top ways, breaking 15 other rules and endangering himself and those around him in the process.

Nowadays, I tend to notice a problem area and think, "Hmm, he doesn't get this. I need to find a way to teach it to him." So I do what I can to calm him down. Or just wait out what is going on. Or simply non-emotionally try to explain it in the frankest and most simple of terms. He's a smart boy. He grasps certain things so easily and it was frustrating before because one had to assume he was not doing what other children naturally do on purpose. I mean, at least have the decency to act sheepish when I catch you in the act. Maybe, sometimes, it was on purpose. Either way, he needs to be taught an appropriate behavior instead.

Since his diagnosis, I've worked on his panicking and running out of the room when I say something he doesn't like. Fifteen times one afternoon, I walked calmly to wherever he ran and silently and gently and strongly took his hand. I pulled him back to where we had been talking and said, "It is rude to run away when someone is talking." Then I continued where I had been interrupted.

The fifteenth time (after doing this his entire life and my punishing him repeatedly and explaining) he took three panicked steps away and came immediately back. He said, "Running away is rude." I smiled and continued whatever it was. Whenever he runs away I repeat the process. Never again has it taken 15 times in a day and most days it doesn't even happen anymore but sometimes it does. He does, after all, have a lifetime of the habit and still suffers a great deal of anxiety.

In special education, there is a concept called remediation and accommodation. Remediation says you work on the parts where there are deficits. If they are behind in math, you go to the highest level they have mastered and work to help them develop new skills. You don't get angry because they are in fifth grade and haven't yet mastered simply addition, you just keep working at whatever pace is necessary to help them continue to move forward. In the meantime you offer accommodation. For a child who cannot walk, you offer a wheel chair, walker or crutches while you may still offer physical therapy to help them support their body weight on their legs, and so on. In John's case, remediation comes in the form of explaining what behaviors are unacceptable and showing what to do instead. And accommodation comes in the form of making his environment as predictable and safe to him as possible.

Now, a rigid schedule and very explicit rules are frequently preferred by children with Asperger's Syndrome, but it is obvious that you don't want to always give into that inflexibility and need for routine because they will never be able to handle any changes. So it is a balancing act. You hold as many things as possible in a predictable manner while you make small incremental changes. He feels safer and less anxious and many of the behavior issues are lessened just for that fact.

In the meantime, when I notice something is not right, I try to find out the reason. Because John thinks so differently than myself and most people, I'm usually surprised to find out why he's doing something. He was tilting his head back and forth in a sneering, disrespectful manner when I said something he didn't like. It was very easy to assume he was just being rude and nasty.

But he probably saw a teenager in real life or on TV and saw it as the way you respond when someone says something you don't like. He was executing it perfectly and in the right context but had no idea of the meaning behind his actions. And when I got angry at him, it bothered him and made him panic and usually run away. Suddenly, it dawned on me one afternoon. "John," I said in my non-judgmental, teacher voice, "tilting your head back and forth like that is just as rude as sticking your tongue out at someone." He looked shocked and then regretful. Sincerely and sweetly he responded, "I wasn't meaning to be rude, Mom." I told him I knew that now and thought I should explain that it wasn't appropriate. We are still working on polite ways to show you disagree with what someone is saying.

I'll probably have more examples to share as John and I continue to learn how to communicate with one another and I try to help him navigate the social world that eludes him so. For now, I hope that this might help some of you see a new way to interact with children on the Spectrum.

And maybe have a little sympathy for that mom who has a stressed out kiddo and is choosing to deal with that behavior in a way that will change it for life as opposed to "making" them apologize to the kid they threw sand at or whatever consequence seems appropriate to our experience with neuro-typical children. In fact, maybe those kids could use the same kind of teaching rather than punishing consideration.

I'm having to rethink all sorts of things these days.

Emergency Mail

2011-04-20T06:59:00.000-07:00

You may recall Hannah's roller coaster experience with the U.S. Postal Service. You can read about it here and here. She has remained utterly fascinated with the magical silver box that brings good tidings of great joy.

Today, as on many days, she doodled across several pages and stuffed them in an envelope. She's been working on writing names and wrote completely unassisted "Hannah" and "Audrey" to indicate the letter was intended for her cousin. She slapped a huge Tinker Bell sticker (from her dental visit the other day) in the upper right corner. Then she asked if she could put it in the mailbox.

I agreed and she skipped out to the garage while John and I completed math. Breathlessly, a few minutes later she ran back into the house. "Mom! We have a problem! The mail lady turned off her car. She wants to help me but she doesn't have the number it goes to."

Wow, that girl has quite an imagination, I thought. Nevertheless, I stood up and peered at the end of the driveway. There sat the car with a flashing yellow light on top.

OH NO! Well, I couldn't let Hannah down. I slapped a tiny looking address with what I hope is the correct zip code under the enormous "AUDREY" and a return address in the proper place. I put a stamp on the corner and gave her the envelope.

She ran back out and handed her envelope to the carrier. The woman smiled and said, "Alright! Now I think I can help you. It has a stamp and I know where to take this."

I stepped out the front door and called a thank you to her. And she waved and grinned and said, "Don't worry, we'll take care of her!"

I LOVE the U.S. Postal Service and that sweet lady who sat during her busy and demanding schedule and waited for five minutes to make a little girl's whole day.

A friendly letter?

2011-04-13T12:42:00.000-07:00

Today's writing assignment was to write a friendly letter. Specifically, this letter was to ask one family member for a gift for another family member. The student was to detail why the recipient was deserving of said gift.

Here is John's letter. He seems not to have lost his touch since the tales of Thunderblot.

4/13/11

Dear Grandma Missy,

I'm asking for money for comic books for Uncle Ben because I missed his birthday. I would love to do it myself but I don't have any money.

He can't buy it himself because Aunt Stefi took all his money. He needs to get out of the house a little while. There's a new comic book he really wants. I am asking you because I trust you better than anyone else.

Love,

John

Life Lessons at the Learning Lab

2011-04-06T15:36:00.000-07:00

Here, at Laughner Learning Labs, we believe in tailoring an educational experience to the unique cognitive and developmental needs of each student. We are willing to work with any age student, espousing a wholehearted commitment to the full spectrum of life-long learning.

Student Profile: COTE LAUGHNER

Cote is a lovely, inquisitive child (Age: 14.5 months) who has recently demonstrated a keen interest in art. She has been given access to appropriate art supplies and the freedom to create without criticism. Her art seems to be broadening in scope both cognitively and physically as she acquaints herself more fully with the medium. Her instruction also includes proper usage of tools and care of one's personal workspace.

Photographs are shared below from a lesson when Miss Laughner learned that markers are only to be used while standing properly at the easel. These are rare educational insights directly from our lab. They are realistic depictions of the learning experience, which certainly isn't always easy. Prepare yourself. These photos may be too graphic for sensitive viewers. Rest assured, in the end, Miss Laughner successfully learns her lesson and blooms creatively and artistically while submitting to the rigorous standards of her elite learning environment.

Student is given instruction to leave markers at the easel station for the fourth time.

Student looks in anxious denial to classmate for support.

Student demonstrates sudden awareness of the instructor's commitment to proper marker storage.

Student experiences momentary crisis of faith in her ability to meet the standard.

Student resigns herself to compliance with a tear in her eye.

Student has demonstrated responsibility and is happily back to work contributing to a growing body of valuable artistic expression from the students at Laughner Learning Labs.

Now accepting applications.

Ms. Hannah, Master Instructor

2011-03-21T05:53:00.000-07:00

Sure, she's adorable.

One might even say "wonderfully precocious".

It all starts with a sweetly condescending, "Casey, you are going to be my helper today, because we have a lot to do with this marker..."

The next thing you know, we all have post-it note name tags and are sitting under the tutelage of a four-year-old iron-fisted schoolmarm.

Oh, and apparently my name is Casey. That's spelled I-J-A-M-H-O-N-A-I, FYI.

Do you have an Ascenta?

2011-03-16T19:09:00.000-07:00

Today, Hannah drew a lovely picture. I'm sure it was inspired by the fact we reread Welcome with Love, a beautiful story book about a homebirth. A year ago, Hannah was captivated by Cote's birth. She reenacted it many different ways over the first few months of her sister's life. She even struggled with important decisions like sometimes she gave birth in a hospital and sometimes at home. Each time, I was amused and heartwarmed by her sweet antics.

Obviously, an appreciation for the miracle of birth has once again settled on her mind. She gleefully brought me her drawing and began narrating:

"This is me, with a baby in my belly. This is my ascenta feeding the baby (indicating the blob floating over her head and tethered by some sort of squiggly line). This is my honey holding my hand. And... this is the menwife."

Ahhh! Yeah, I dream about another birth too, child after my own heart.

Explaining Bipolar Disorder to Children

2011-03-13T12:54:00.001-07:00

My son, John, is in an acute treatment facility. It is a psychiatric hospital. A lot of children who know and love John are learning some new vocabulary, like Bipolar and mental illness. It's terribly confusing to them, I'm sure. One of his friends prayed for John's headache to go away soon. (Which is an incredibly sweet and innocent thing!) It's confusing to most adults. So, I thought I'd try to help, in case any of you are confused or have children you would like to explain it to. (I know it's really long, please pick which parts you'd like to share with them or modify with examples that apply to your own children.)

John has something called Bipolar Disorder. It affects how happy, sad, angry and worried he is. He doesn't have anything wrong that you can see, like a broken arm or a runny nose or a cut or a bruise. He doesn't even have an IV and isn't staying in a hospital bed.

When you find out you get to have cookies, it probably makes you happy. When you find out your grandma is coming for a visit you might be even happier. And when you find out you are getting to go to Disney World, you might get so happy that you run around, dance, start dreaming about what to pack and sorta get hyper. Something in John's brain gets confused and he can get Disney World happy over having a snack. Or he gets so excited about an idea that he does dangerous science experiments without adults.

When you drop a penny and can't find it, you might get a little sad. When Mom cooks something for dinner you don't like, you might be more sad. When your friend is really sick or a pet dies, you might get very, very sad. Sometimes dropping a penny can make John very, very sad. Or something very bad can happen and John doesn't even seem to care.

Different things probably make you different levels of angry. Sometimes John gets very angry about something that isn't very important. If someone bumps into him or teases him, he might think they did it on purpose and are trying to be mean. So he might hit, kick, scream or do something mean. When he gets angry like that, his brain thinks little kids are big, mean and scary like full-size bad guy grownups. This doesn't make it ok for John to hit and kick but it might help you understand that he's not doing it on purpose. It is important to tell an adult if you see John acting in ways that don't seem right to you.

Sometimes John worries about things that are adult problems. He worries if there is enough money for groceries. He worries that we might run out of gas or get lost. If he has a nice toy, he worries that people are going to steal it. He worries that people aren't going to be his friends or that he might hurt his friends or his sisters. He worries that his Mom and Dad don't really love him. (But they love him, very, very much!)

When the Bipolar is really bad, he can be sad, happy, scared, and angry for no reason at all. Last week, John started doing that and he was afraid because he got so angry that he might hurt his little sister. It is really scary to be that out of control of how you feel.

The day he went to the hospital, John even got confused about which parts of his life were pretend and which parts were real. Sometimes he knew and sometimes he didn't. He also has hallucinations which is kinda like having nightmares while you are awake. On Wednesday, last week, John got so sad and scared, he wanted to stop living.

Now he is in a hospital where they are giving him medicine to help his brain figure out the emotions better, so he won't get too angry, sad, scared, or happy. They are also doing classes with him to teach him to know the difference between regular angry feelings and too angry Bipolar feelings. The people in the hospital watch him all the time so he can't accidentally hurt anybody or hurt himself until the medicine starts to help him. He will be staying there until he is safer and until he stops having those daytime nightmares and he isn't confused about which things are pretend and which things are real.

It is very hard work for him to do. His brain is telling him that someone has been very mean to him and that he is very, very angry but he has to stop and tell his brain that isn't right and to calm down and look for special clues to let him know it's not as bad as his brain thinks it is.

He is very tired of the hospital and wants to come home very soon. He misses his friends and family. They keep him very safe and are helping him but nobody wants to ever be in a hospital. You can pray that his medicines will work right and that he will learn the special clues so he won't get so angry, sad and worried.

Tiny Baby Undies

2011-03-06T14:02:00.000-08:00

Cote spends most of her time out of diapers. It makes it so much easier for frequent potty trips. Unfortunately, we've not found a great bottom-covering solution, so she usually wears an unsnapped onesie and babylegs. Cote is a very small 13 month old. The smallest training pants and underwear in most stores are 2T/3T. It is going to be quite some time before she'll be able to wear those. I've read the suggestion to buy that size and try washing multiple times in hot water, but I've never had much luck getting them to shrink.

I've considered buying tiny underwear from some various places on the internet. The EC Store carries some for around $8 a pair. And Noonee Wilga also makes some for the same price. $8 seems really expensive for children's underwear.

She also has instructions on her website for making undies out of t-shirts. I've been meaning to go get some elastic and the supplies to make the panties but I had an epiphany. I decided it might be simpler and less expensive to buy a package of toddler underwear and make them smaller.

And that's what I did. It cost about $8 for 10 pairs of underwear and about a half hour of work.

First, I turned the underwear inside out. I had a pair of bloomers from a dress Cote wears. She's been wearing those bloomers as undies. So I just measured against those. I put pins in the waist band to indicate where the seams would start on both hips. Then I measured the distance from the crotch end of the leg hole to the hip end and pulled the front and back together so the leg elastic lined up.

Next, I just eyeballed a straight stitch between the two points. I really didn't try to do anything exact. I was trying to do something quick and easy.

Then I cut the panties about a half inch allowance and zizag stitched the edges.

Here's a comparison of the original size and the new size. Yeah, the rise is really long but, hey, they get the job done.

And, here are some action pics: (She seems to really like them, except they have to come all the way off when she's on the potty.)

DMV-Aerobics

2011-02-22T08:40:00.000-08:00

My driver's license and my debit card went missing, probably with the help of a certain spritely four-year-old. I spent a week looking and agonizing, knowing it was surely in the house or the car. Finally, we called the bank and they deactivated our current debit cards, promising to send new ones in seven-to-ten days. Thankfully, Theo thought to get us ATM cards when he went in to withdraw some cash.

On Friday afternoon, we went to the DMV. I have aged significantly enough since my last photo that it was time to renew anyway. I stood in line for a half hour and moved one space. Then it was closing time and they "would be happy to put me on a no-wait list for Tuesday morning". (Monday was President's Day.) I was also informed I probably wouldn't be cited for not having it with me but the decision is left to the officer's discretion.

Tuesday morning, I decided to visit the express DMV rather than take my chances with the "no-wait list". I knew I would need to park on the street so I grabbed a handful of quarters, my brood and my checkbook. I detest parallel parking but I hate standing in line for hours with three children more. We circled the courthouse and found a convenient spot requiring us to cross no more than two streets.

I wrapped Cote up nicely. I lent John my jacket since he forgot his. I helped Hannah get out of her carseat and don her hot pink butterfly wings to go with her blue and white dress and turquoise tights.

We entered the courthouse to find they required airport-style security screening. The two guards were very friendly and allowed me to keep wearing the baby and Hannah to keep wearing her wings. As I walked into the room for license renewals, I noticed four stations of smiling employees, ready to serve. The nice lady at station 1 invited me over. She began to work on my form. I told her how nice this was and that we'd been to the one on Bonny Oaks Drive on Friday. She gave me a sympathetic nod, knowing the full ramifications of that remark.

I asked to borrow a pen so that I might go ahead and fill out the check. **Blink, Pause** "We can't take checks," she said. "We aren't actually the department of safety. We can take cash, debit or credit cards."

Now it was my turn to blink. Seriously? No checks?! It's the county court clerk's office. There was a big sign saying to make checks payable to Bill Knowles, County Court Clerk. But there is no sense in arguing. This is why they won't let you take guns into the courthouse, I suppose. "Um, okay. Well, I guess we'll be back."

Crossed two streets. Removed Wings. Removed baby. Strapped in baby. Strapped in preschooler. Forfeited the meter money Drove to the bank where I had to wait until someone left so I could park and use the walk-up ATM. Drove back to the courthouse. Circled. Found new tighter space in which to parallel park. Unstrapped baby, wrapped her up. Unstrapped Hannah, replaced wings. Crossed one street. Entered building.

Wow, the guards remembered us. I suppose we were quite the spectacle. I was with a school-aged child during school hours. I had a baby strapped to me. And Hannah, well, was quite the riot of colors, frills and flamboyance.

Finally, the photo and the renewal went off without a hitch. And I guess we got a little more exercise than we had planned. The whole ordeal probably took less time than the "no-wait list" at Bonny Oaks. And now I have a new driver's license with a baby's head poised just below camera and the opportunity to practice coolness under pressure. I might just borrow those hot pink wings for myself.

pics

2011-01-25T13:53:00.001-08:00

http://barefootinbluegrass.smugmug.com/Babies/Cote-1-Year/15565978_VTwCa#1167862027_7FZXi

Funcycle Party

2011-01-23T17:59:00.000-08:00

Cote turned one this week! I can't believe she is that old. We decided to celebrate in a unique way.

The e-invitation went out with this explanation:

We are celebrating Cote's birthday with a funcycle in leiu of a traditional birthday party. Please bring any toys or household items your would like to declutter from your home. Our family certainly has a lot of extra stuff after the holidays.

We will set up items like a free garage sale in our house. We will let Cote go "shopping" among the items first and then other children and finally, our adult guests. We will share the things we aren't using anymore. Maybe some of us will find treasures.

Anything left will be donated to a local thrift store. We want it to be fun and casual for everyone. Please do not feel you have to bring anything. Please limit your number of donations to one truckload. ;)

We got a lot of positive feedback on the idea and we were eager to see how it would work.

Some of our family members arrived early and spent some time entertaining and being entertained by our children. Each person carried in at least one offering to our event. There was something more casual and less flamboyant about the lack of glitzy wrapping paper and gift bags. It was almost as if the presents themselves were casually dressed, barefoot even. Natural and comfortable. The focus was on the relationship with each person instead of the appetizing mystery package in their arms. There were no expectations, just loved ones who held some momento or contribution in their arms.

The school room was set up with display tables and everyone placed their items somewhere while obviously checking out the goods at the same time. Some guests immediately smiled when they saw an item that piqued their own interest. It was all the fun of a garage sale without the uncertainty of asking, "How much ya want fer this?" It was a community sharing with one another. It was personal.

It strikes me how fittingly this gathering mirrored the warm, casualness of Cote's homebirth. That night, a year ago, some of the same people sat and enjoyed each others company, barefoot or in slippers, sitting on comfortable furniture. Those loved ones waited with me, projecting their love and encouragement as I labored and Cote traveled to meet us. There was laughter, compassion, remembrances. It was intimate and busy and lovely.

More friends and family arrived at our party with humble and joyful offerings. These were items from their own homes. Sure, those items had originally come from a store somewhere. But they had gone home, been loved and broken in.

At this point, I can't remember whether we ate or went "shopping" first. We enjoyed some homemade meatballs, mixed fruit and a lovely cake, designed with the allergies and special needs of all the children present.

It's all kind of mixed up in my mind with easy conversations and happy children enjoying each other's company. Some babies got fussy and were nursed. Some babies were wrapped up lovingly on their mother's backs. Children ran around inside and outside. Just like her birth, it was intimate and busy and lovely.

I took Cote into the "shop" and her body immediately leaned in my arms as she reached for a plastic telephone. I picked a few items I thought she'd like and she picked up a plush Mr. Spock which she owned before I put him in the donation bag. She'd never really shown interest in him before. Yesterday, she picked him up and declared "Dada!" as she lovingly regarded the Star Trek character, causing many to erupt in laughter.

The other two babies selected some items and then the older guests shopped. Liam found a toy lawn mower. Two-year-old Addie found several items including an Ab Roller! Nine-year-old Micah selected a nice mini mag-lite box set. Then she and her sister picked some items for their brothers who didn't make it to the party. John chose a tea pot with matching mugs in a rooster motif. Hannah found a princess hopscotch set. I inherited a friend's set of drinking glasses. My mother snagged a yogurt maker while my grandmother chose a board game to play with her friends in her retirement community. My mother-in-law found a decoration or two. Twelve-year-old Christopher took home a fog machine and some button-up shirts.

I'm not sure what everyone chose or even if everyone chose something. We have very few items left and plan to drop them off at Goodwill tomorrow. Thank you all who celebrated with us. We had a lovely, busy time remembering the birth of our Buttercup one year ago. Happy birthday, Cote Elise!

To see more pictures of the event, click here.

We've Dyed and Gone to Playsilk Heaven

2010-12-22T09:37:00.000-08:00

I've shared some more about playsilks in a previous post. Now we are finally ready to dye!

I used the ideas from the Artful Parent's blog about dyeing with Kool-aid, but I changed a few things. I also have some other comments to add.

First I soaked the silks in a pot with some hot water and some vinegar for about thirty minutes.

In the meantime, I gathered up a bunch of containers. The kids put three packets of Kool-aid in each container and I added a splash of white vinegar. My rudimentary understanding is that the acid in the vinegar helps to set the color. Maybe someone who understands the process more can comment.

I kept water going in my stock pot and in my tea kettle so I had a fresh supply of hot water all the time. When I got some hot water, I'd pour it in the container and stir to make sure the kool-aid was dissolved. We didn't do that with the first one and there are some purple spots in the middle of the blue. Then we added a silk to the container and stirred and waited.

Another interesting point of information I learned is that Kool-aid will dye animal fibers but not plant fibers. So if your silks are hemmed with cotton thread, the cotton will stay white. I understand a lot of people dye wool yarn with Kool-aid as well.

Hannah had never seen Kool-aid packets until we went to a friend's house and she used drink mix packages to color salt dough we turned into Christmas tree ornaments. Upon questioning Hannah, I realized she has no other concept for Kool-aid other than as a colorant. That makes me giggle.

We left the silks to soak while we kept adding water and silks to new colors and jars. Different colors soaked in faster than others, which is something I had already read about. The lemon-lime turned a nice shade of green and the surrounding water went clear almost immediately. The lemonade was also fast. The purple and blue took a lot longer and the water became cloudy instead of clear. I just left them until the water lightened up a bunch or the color looked nice when I pulled the silk up.

We discovered the more water in the container, the more room the silk had to move around and that gave a much more even dye job. We had one orange one that didn't get stirred much and was in a small container. So I dyed it again with three more packets. It was more vibrant and the dye was the most even of the bunch.

Also, remember to have your children wash their hands after dealing with the Kool-aid powder, before they touch anything else. John helped me spread out this yellow silk with purple powder on his hands.

They are hanging up to dry in places all over the house and back porch. After an hour, the first ones were mostly dry. I can't wait to get them down and play with them. Oh, and they smell positively lovely, as well.

Here is a color guide.

Orange=Orange
Ice Blue Lemonade=Blue (The lighter blue was done with only one packet, the other one had three)
Cherry=Red (We only had two packets of cherry)
Grape=Purple
Lemonade = Yellow
Lemon-Lime= Green

Play Silks

2010-12-22T08:42:00.000-08:00

I've heard about them for years. When I checked the prices of some ready-made play silks, I decided I could keep them in the realm of things I'd heard about. But... I kept hearing and hearing and hearing... and those silks I had looked at were absolutely gorgeous.

So finally I considered getting some and asked friends about the idea. Surely my 11-year-old son was too old for them. But then again, he had really enjoyed trying to juggle silks at a children's museum a while ago. I decided to get some as the sharing gift for Christmas for our three children (11-year-old boy, 4-year-old girl and 11-month-old girl.) A friend had mentioned you could get blank silks from Dharma Trading Company and dye them with Kool-aid. That was certainly much more affordable. Plus, I thought John would at least enjoy the dyeing process.

I ordered four 21.5" squares, two 44" squares, and two 22" X 90" pieces. It was a whopping $32 plus shipping. They shipped fast. I got them in about three days. We gathered up some kool-aid.

The children were a little confused about what they were when they opened the package. I was quick to defend them, "They look boring now. Just wait, tomorrow we are going to soak them in Kool-aid and turn them into bright colors. You can make them into all sorts of things, including forts..."

Hannah went back to her other gifts. Cote chewed on some packaging. But John rubbed some of the silk against his face for a few minutes. He hopped up and ran to his room with one in tow. He quickly tied it around his neck to make a cape and ran all over the house.

A few minutes later, Hannah attached one to her grandmother exclaiming what a beautiful princess dress she was wearing. Hannah got assistance tying one in a sash around her self. That sash quickly turned into a rebozo for carrying her baby doll.

I have high hopes for this toy, if there was this much creativity and enjoyment when they were still boring white.

I have separated the dyeing experience into a separate post. If you've heard of playsilks before, I would heartily encourage you to consider doing something more than hear about them.

Here's the post on dyeing : We've Dyed and Gone to Playsilk Heaven

Are you ready?

2010-12-17T18:57:00.000-08:00

Theo and I had a date tonight. It was so refreshing to spend time alone together, even if we did use the time to finish up some Christmas errands. We were in the car, having a lovely conversation. We discussed our how our days had gone and our plans for Christmas travel as well as some odds and ends we still needed to pick up.

One of the gifts we have for the children is a set of blank play silks. I reminded him that we needed to pick up some kool-aid packets for to use as coloring for the silks.

About that time, he veered into the turn lane to prepare to cross three lanes of on-coming traffic. He drew his breath in sharply, grabbed the steering wheel and said, "Are you ready to dye...?"

Now you have understand this was spoken, not written. What I heard was a crazed husband about to dart across three lanes of traffic, asking if I was ready to die. I told him in no uncertain terms I was indeed, NOT ready to die.

When I realized it wasn't a death threat (not his style) or some sick joke (definitely his style), it was very, very funny. We've been laughing about it all evening.

The Holidays Aren't Happy for Everyone

2010-12-14T11:57:00.001-08:00

Guest Blogger: John Laughner

Please welcome Mr. Laughner to the blog. He has written a few stories before. You may recall the robot suit series and the misdeeds of ThunderBlot. He returns with his take on man versus nature. Please enjoy.

It was two days before Thanksgiving and Tom, the turkey, was on old McDonald's farm. Tom was afraid of being eaten for Thanksgiving, so he hid in the hay field. He was scared the farmer would find him. He was shaking and hunched down. He thought about what it would be like to be eaten.

On Thanksgiving morning, the farmer awoke to look for his turkey and he was gone. He looked in the barn, down the driveway, and under the porch. He gave up and ate sausage instead. He knew the turkey chickened out.

Tom came back when the farmer came out to get some milk from the cows. The farmer looked at Tom and said, "I really wish I could have eaten you. At least there is another family that wants you for Christmas."

The Holidays Aren't Happy for Everyone.

2010-12-14T11:43:00.000-08:00

'Cuz That's How I Roll

2010-12-08T10:30:00.000-08:00

I found an activity for John and I to spend time together. It's kayaking. Actually it's quite popular in Chattanooga, as evidenced by the fact I saw 20-30 boats in a swimming pool at our university last night during our first roll class.

First we were instructed to put on these skirts made out of something like wet suit material with a large misshapen rubber tutu hanging off of it. Then we put on our PFD's. (That's lifejacket to the uninitiated.) We learned a little about different boats and drain plugs and where to put our knees inside these boats.

Then our new friend/instructor, Liz, took us to the edge of the pool and explained how we were to get into our boats. Saving the details, I'll just say getting in a kayak is not exactly like getting into a canoe. John's first attempt could be called a full immersion baptism into a new sport. I was a little more graceful. I only lost my balance on my second attempt to mount my giant kazoo.

Liz explained very matter-of-factly that our first skill to learn was called the "wet entry". Yep, that's exactly what it sounds like. Now that we had tried so hard to get into our boats, we were now going to get right back out of them. She demonstrated leaning forward and leaning to one side to roll upside down and then "pull yourself out of the boat just like you pull off your pants".

John flipped and apparently got his pants off just fine, which is a relief because he's not that coordinated about undressing on land. Then it was my turn. I surfaced, thinking that wasn't so bad, to find my long-time friend's son, row up and congratulate me for a job well done. Yes! I smiled, thinking I do a great job falling out of perfectly good boats!

Liz demonstrated, with the easy balance and coordination of a mountain-climbing Olympic gymnast, how to get back in our boats from the water. I indulged her and attempted several times even though she insisted I didn't have to. John was delighted to find I could not mount the plastic torpedo and spent the next hour and fifteen minutes trying to do something his mother couldn't.

Meanwhile, Liz moved onto showing me how to attach my skirt to the boat. That was fun and made me feel like a real kayaker. The next step, of course, was how to fall out of the boat when the skirt was attached.

Apparently, the goal of kayaking is to view the river from an upside down position. Anyway, it was again with the pulling off of the pants analogy. Only, to my estimation, this was more like tugging and yanking off your wet, skinny jeans when you are still way too early postpartum, while holding your breath. Simple, Liz, very simple.

Satisfied at my remarkable ability to fall out, we moved onto flipping over while staying in. Apparently, it's all in the hips. She demonstrated how to use the nose of someone else's boat to hold one's head up to breathe while one's boat is still capsized. This only added to my theory that this sport is somewhat akin to inverted snorkeling.

Now, I was supposed to flip my boat back to right while keeping my head resting on the nose of her boat. I'm going to call that "underwater boat yoga". When my boat was flipped, I was to once again sit up. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

John was still trying to mount his kayak from the water.

When I had sufficiently flipped my hips, it was time to discuss kayaking distress. Aha, someone involved with this sport had, in fact, figured out that too much hanging upside down from a capsized boat could be too much of a good thing.

I was instructed to flip completely upside down, bring my hands out of the water and bang loudly on my boat three times. That would alert my kayaking buddies I was finished holding my breath and needed their assistance. Then I was to rub my hands back and forth along the length of my boat.

At that point, my "buddy" would ram the nose of his or her kayak into the side of mine. I would then take hold of said boat, assuming my hands still have gripping power after a potential direct hit, and pull myself to the correct angle and lift myself to breathe and perform that little hip-flipping stunt we had already practiced.

Liz waited and smiled in that encouraging way that says, "I know what I've just asked you to do is complete insanity, but I have training and certification so I know you will do it. Plus you did sign the waiver."

I'm fuzzy on the next part. I remember banging my hands on the boat. The rest was done completely by instinct or guardian angel (I'm not sure which).

I found myself upright once more, hearing distant and water-filled sounds of "Good job. Would you like to do it again?" But all I could do was think how it felt like I had tried to Neti Pot the entire pool. I finally understood the reason behind those nose plugs I saw on other kayakers.

Liz gave me some upside-down reprieve to work on my paddling skills and tried to talk John into trying something other than taming his florescent green bucking bronco. I paddled around amidst all those kayaks feeling somewhat like a plastic toy in the bathtub of an overindulged child.

My sinuses dumped a fair amount of chlorinated water down my throat and my hearing had returned so I decided I was up to attempting the "buddy rescue" again. In my mind it should be called banging-on-the-boat-while-drowning-and-waiting-for-the-miracle-to-happen.

Whatever.

She had training and certifications and I HAD signed a waiver... She also had pity on me and lent me her nose plugs.

Ahh, that was much less like drowning than the first time.

John paddled around and fell in on accident a couple of times. (Why not on purpose like a normal kayaker?) But it was obvious he was ready to go. So we drained our boats and returned the rest of our equipment and got dressed.

He really thought this sport was for the birds. (Weird, swimming, upside down birds, I suppose.) But I bought him some hot chocolate on the way home and now he's gung-ho to go back next week. I am too. Right after I purchase some noseplugs.

****Update**** I've been reminded it's actually called a wet exit, not a wet entry. I blame it on losing the hearing in my clogged ears and adrenaline pumping through my veins. I recommend if you want to learn about kayaking for real, you don't do it through my blog. ****

Laundry Update

2010-12-01T17:28:00.000-08:00

A couple of people have asked how my new hamper system was working after my laundry post.

It's better. It doesn't take away the laundry pain completely. If nothing gets folded, it is still easier to find in separate baskets. I discovered that everyone has different time frames they need clothes. Hannah has enough clothes she doesn't need me to do laundry for a loooong time. The baby has lots of clothes but she goes through them quickly and because they are separated, I'm better about stain treating them and remember to check them over before they go in the dryer.

Theo and I hang all of our clothes except shorts and underclothing so I started doing a little presorting and just washing tops and bottoms and I realized we have enough underwear to go twice as long and get a full load of socks and underwear. And because our clothes are big...each item I hang up makes a big dent in the basket.

It also takes a lot of the emergency out of the laundry. One or more of us use to discover there wasn't anything clean to wear but I might have already had a load going. I wasn't sure if the load in the washer had what was necessary or not. I would frequently find myself in dire need of pants only to find out that the current load had three of my shirts and no pants.

It's easy to determine what needs to be washed and prioritize. I'm still not getting things folded fresh from the dryer but the piles are small, homogeneous, and they don't scare me, so I don't put them in the corner next to the bed, hoping they will magically disappear.

Last night I had a load of clean diapers sitting on the floor at the foot of my bed and a load of kitchen laundry (we don't use paper napkins or paper towels except rarely) was on the bed. I normally would have shoved the stuff off the bed and cowered beneath the sheets dreading my domestic duty.

But, I thought, eh, it's just a stack of towels and napkins. I'll see how fast I can get them done. It was less than five minutes. I tackled the diapers during the day today when I had a spare moment and it really didn't take a long time.

No, it's not perfect. But I currently have all the clean laundry put away before I need to start more. You can mark my grade card with a "shows improvement" and a big ole smilie face.

Laundry Epiphany

2010-11-17T18:33:00.000-08:00

I've heard it called Mt. Washmore. And while mountain is an accurate description, my mountain is always Foldmore. I can process my laundry through the washer and dryer like nobody's business. It's the next step which revels the lesser part of my character and forces my husband to play a game he calls laundry gopher when he looks for his outfit for the day. It's a game, he assures me, that he is not fond of.

Before you suggest her, yes, I'm friends with Ms. Flylady. Okay, well, acquaintances with her. I know I'm not supposed to have a mountain to fold because I'm supposed to fold it right after it comes out of the dryer. Tell that to the baby who is trying to climb the piano. It just ceases to be an emergency for me once those clothes are clean and dry.

I see the pile (and that's just half of it) and quickly remember that I have many, many other pressing duties. Yep, just about anything other than face those menacing, wrinkled piles of cotton.

I had an epiphany today, though. It came from my mother-in-law, who we store in our basement. (Don't judge. She has a rockin' three bedroom apartment down there. Your mother-in-law should be so lucky.)

A week ago, she threw some of my niece's clothes in with a load of our laundry. I went outside to supervise the girls in the yard. When I came back, I found her folding the load.

*GASP*

She's always so nice and always wanting to help but I find it really embarrassing. One, when anyone comes in and helps me with housework I feel it is a commentary on my competency. Second, those are my underwear, eeek!!! Third, she never let's her place look like mine or her laundry pile up.

But, whatever she thinks, she's never mean. She's always encouraging. She's really a great mother-in-law. I've enjoyed having her living with us for years, yes, voluntarily. I don't know why I'm embarrassed. She's watched me give birth. Twice.

So today, I made a comment about working my way into the pile of clean clothes and telling her the washer was available. She said she was thinking when she folded that load last week that it took FOREVER. She had said to herself, "Wow, I know why she gets behind on this!"

That made me pause. She thought it was daunting. Why? She doesn't have trouble with her own piles of laundry. What was the difference?

I realized, occasionally, I'll do a load with just tops and bottoms for Theo and I. Those are so easy to deal with. Each item makes a dent in the load and they are all essentially the same to handle. That is more like her laundry.

I know I love diaper laundry. (Sounds weird to my disposable loving friends, I'm sure.) It's streamlined: a pile for covers, a pile for prefolds, a pile for wipes. There are no decisions involved, just a repeated motion that completes the task quickly. Even loads of towels and loads of napkins and dishtowels are easy.

So, I've decided, I'm doing each child's laundry separately. John does his already but I help him fold. It's not bad because it's all sized the same. He does pants. I do shirts.

Starting tomorrow, even the baby is getting her own laundry hamper. We'll see if this will make things better. Regardless, I paid with a little embarrassment and got some empathy and a ray of hope in the never-ending laundry cycle.

What do you do to make folding laundry easier?

Dangerous friends

2010-11-16T11:35:00.000-08:00

I have friends who have homeless people for friends, volunteer at a crisis pregnancy center and do all sorts of other good in our community. Those friends inspire me and challenge me. I think part of me wishes we'd stop getting close to them. They take risks and do dangerous things. Too bad that Theo and I really like them and they keep teaching us more ways to love people. They love Jesus and that love spills out onto everyone around them.

It's easy to just feel guilty and try to justify all that we have. We are pretty good stewards of our money and Theo works very hard. We give a good percentage of our money to charities and missions. But I'm no longer worrying about those justifications.

We are blessed. We are richly and lovingly blessed. When I move past the guilt and the justification, I am becoming joyfully grateful for what we've been given. It's okay for us to enjoy it. But I will not close myself off from the world and revel in my riches. There's a whole world that He died to save and I've been busy hiding from as many of them as possible.

It's starting to sink in that Jesus really meant for us to do those things He mentioned. We are supposed to take care of the poor (amongst other tasks) and not sit around and wait for the government or some other organization to do it for us. It is affecting my heart and therefore starting to change more of my outward behavior. An example of that is illustrated in my Bowl of Rice post.

Then it rained the other day. It rained really hard. It was cold, dreary and the most rain I've seen in a long time. Normally, I would have only thought about how we were going to have to stay inside the whole day.

But something new struck me. I had images of people stuck out in that rain, huddled down in the cold dreariness with nowhere else to go. My gratefulness welled up and I thanked God for the blessing of our water-proof shelter and prayed for the people represented by those mental images.

I posted my thankfulness in a status update and my dangerous friend mentioned visiting his less fortunate friends and needing to check in on them. Theo and I finally had a chance to discuss it today. We have plans to send some money to our friend's ministry to help buy some tarps. (Pretty soon, we are going to have to meet some of these friends.) We were casually having this conversation at lunch with the children present. We've had a lot more talk about homelessness and hunger lately.

We finished our lunch and started to clean up. John disappeared. He's not generally a fan of cleaning up. When he returned, I asked where he'd been. He held out his hand with some wadded up dollar bills and said, "Here, I want to give this to the poor people."

I've been crying off and on, ever since. My John who's need for security based on his early life experiences, causes him to hang on to material possessions and obsess about food and to never fully trust in our love as his parents, brought the money he works so hard to attain with a look of tender compassion on his face. As we change and become more generous, as our hearts melt for Christ, his does too. A lesson I've tried for years to instill in him sprouts dramatically when I begin to finally practice what I preach.

Want to see some of the friends of my friends who John wants to help? godsjester.net

A Bowl of Rice

2010-11-16T09:58:00.000-08:00

A few years ago, our family drastically switched from eating the Standard American Diet to one of mostly whole, unprocessed foods. We still eat a lot of food and we still spend a lot of money for it. Our total food bill didn't increase because we used to go out to eat very frequently. We don't go nearly as often now but we buy a lot of food and it is high quality.

I've been concerned about waste for a while. When we started losing lots of weight, I eschewed the "clean your plate" philosophy. It's a wise move for someone recovering from obesity. Sure, some food might go to waste but I frequently stated the excess was going to waste on my body or outside of it. I knew my body didn't need so much excess. But that was just the beginning of my journey.

Last year my father saw someone speak about how the French use 8 inch plates and Americans use 10 inch plates. He changed his mindset and lost significant weight. For a few months, I've been using smaller plates as much as possible.

John, for any number of possible reasons, is obsessed with food. I learned a few years ago, I could give him lots of snacks before dinner but it was never enough to fill him up and he would complain how little was available at dinner. I found if I took the same amount of food and put it all together on a plate, his eyes widened at the prospect of all that bounty.

When I switched to smaller plates, no one complained, not even John. In fact, everyone seemed more satisfied after meals. It was like they were happy their plates were so full. Sometimes, I even serve food on saucers for lunch. Still, no one seems to notice. Sometimes, like today, the kids gasp with joy because they think they are getting so much food. Complaints about being hungry before dinner have remained the same.

But then...

A few weeks ago, a friend posted a message on Facebook from The Simple Way about 50 Ways to Become the Answer to our Prayers. Number one and number forty-three impacted me. The first one suggested fasting and remembering the two billion people who live on less than a dollar a day. The latter mentioned eating only a bowl of rice per day for a period of time and remembering those who are starving.

I realized It wasn't a good idea to fast and nurse at the same time, so I opted to fast seconds at meals. I reasoned that there was no possible way to eat a full plate of food, even a small one, and still be actually hungry. Now, I finish most meals without a full feeling.

I find myself thinking how I'd really like to have just a little bit more of such and such. Then I say, sometimes out loud, that what I just had was way better than one bowl of rice all day. Then, I find I've really had enough. My stomache doesn't ache and I feel quite nice, actually.

I've started to talk more about the hungry with the children. I've been conscious of how much food I put on our plates and not just try to fill them up. Our meal time prayers include prayers for those who don't have as much to eat.

My plan is to see how much we are saving by eating less food and find ways to feed the hungry with the difference. I've found my appetite has seriously diminished and that I slow down and savor my food more.

Theo and I had a date the other night. At dinner, at a Mexican restaurant, Theo chose to forego his combination fajitas and chose from the pic two combo that came with rice and beans because his appetite has been affected too. I almost chose the pick two but realized the rice had butter (Cote's food allergies govern many of my food choices). I decided to order a la carte. I ordered one tamale and an order of refried beans. It was actually too much food! And our bill was $13 when it would have normally cost around $25 - $30.

Today, for lunch, I made quesadillas with shredded cheese and leftover grilled steak. I sliced steak that John didn't want the other night (it was about four ounces) in the food processor and mixed with some cheese. I've been able to use the mixture to make quesadillas for two separate meals for both kids. My 8 oz steak will end up feeding me about four different meals.

I served a total of three small quesadillas, one apple with peanut butter, a large handful of spinach, a few cherry tomatoes, one carrot and some salad dressing for lunch today. I fed myself and my three kids with that amount of food.

Before you think I'm cheating anyone, go back and look at the picture. No one went hungry. We had plenty. There was no waste on the plates or on our bodies. No one complained. Instead of "rounding up for the hungry" at the grocery checkout, I'm going to continue rounding down at my meals. It's better for both of us.

What are your thoughts on ways we could all help those less fortunate than ourselves?

All By Myself

2010-11-13T10:07:00.000-08:00

The other day, John wasn't feeling well, so he took a nap. My mother-in-law offered to watch Hannah and my visiting 4-year-old niece for a little while.

And then Cote fell asleep.

Clouds parted.

Music played.

I was going to nap but it felt cheap to waste the moment on sleep. So I took a bath. I was giddy as I fantasized about my garden tub. I ran toward my bathroom, stripping as I went. (Ok, I know, you didn't need that image. But I had to paint a picture to express my excitement. You will have to deal with it.)

I enjoyed about 15-20 minutes of luxurious, hot, steamy water AND silence AND solitude. I felt like I was getting away with something illicit when I realized there were absolutely no plastic toys floating in my water. I sneered at those toys as they wished they could join in the fun. "Not today, my friends, you only get to watch and eat your little plastic hearts out."

Cote cried and I realized my activities (or lack thereof) must come to an end, but as I quickly wrapped a towel around my body I found myself creating a parody of Eric Carmen's "All By Myself."

My new lyrics aren't a complete redo of the song but I've been singing them for three days and they make me happy. I know some of my Mommy friends will appreciate them. If I had some sort of musical ability beyond that of being able to totally rock the melody of "Mary Had a Little Lamb" on the piano, I'd perform it for you.

All by myself, I took a bath 
All by myself today at four 
All by myself, and I wanna PEE 
All by myself...

Not-so-happy Anniversary

2010-11-10T06:00:00.000-08:00

**Miscarriage discussed**

I was on the phone with my mother. I was hiding in the bathroom. My miscarriage was a few weeks behind me and I was angry. I called her because I was blindingly angry and I knew that anger was one of the stages of grief. I was angry that I was in that stage. She reminded me that it was a stage of grief and her reminder made me angry.

What was the good of knowing the stages of grief if I couldn't somehow acknowledge what was going on and pray and skip that part? I mean, logically, it seemed like I could do that. Unfortunately, it just doesn't work that way.

It's like a developmental stage. Head control. Sit up. Crawl. Walk. You gotta go through them. Well, granted, some skip one or two but only because that is determined by their own personal physiological development.

I remember watching my mother place a toy in front of my cousin's four month old baby. It was made for older babies, but she could tell he was interested in it. In an act of curiosity and kindness she brought it over to him. It was obvious he knew what to do to activate it and was very motivate to play with it. Unfortunately, his motor skills didn't match his cognitive skills and it frustrated him greatly. In the end, it was a greater kindness to take the toy away.

I was learning a very important lesson. We all develop in our own way, on our own timetables. Just knowing the stages of grief would not exempt me from them. You know what? It still doesn't.

Oh, I've learned all about loss. It's part and parcel with raising a son with the particular issues mine has. It's part of my training and my interest as a foster parent. It's part of my training as a special education teacher. It's part of my experience as a parent of a child with special needs, the aunt of a child who has battled stage four cancer and the experience of grieving three babies I'll not meet this side of heaven.

One of the things I've learned about is anniversaries. No, not the happy wedding anniversary kind. I'm talking about anniversaries of losses and traumas. Children who have experienced the loss of a parent, even very early in life (early enough they can't remember) experience difficult emotions on the anniversaries of that loss. Even if it isn't the same date, it will be the same time of year.

We can move on. We can pray, forgive and work through them. But the scars usually remain. Why are they still there? I don't know. Maybe to remind us of our human frailty. Maybe because of our human frailty.

We don't know how those scars, physical or emotional, will manifest themselves. But eventually, given enough time, we get familiar with our scars and learn to deal with them.

When I experienced my first miscarriage, I read a lot about miscarriages and joined forums for women who had experienced such losses. You never know what will trigger a wave a grief, especially if the loss is recent. Shortly after my miscarriage, I cracked an egg for breakfast and I was immediately overcome by tremendous sobs. For a dear friend of mine, it was a big glass of iced tea.

I found holding babies and baby dolls to be very comforting, which surprised many people around me. On the other hand, I thought baby showers were going to be okay but I found them to be immeasurably torturous. I excused myself so I didn't traumatize the poor mother to be. I almost refused to have a baby shower when I was pregnant with Hannah because baby showers were so hard for me.

Many people warned of the emotional trauma that may accompany the due date. That date came and went with a somber acknowledgement but no worse than many days.

But as I approached Thanksgiving the first year after my loss, I became increasingly out of sorts. I experienced mood swings and an unidentified sense of anxiety. I found myself withdrawing from activities. I found myself unable to accomplish every day tasks and it made me angry. It went on for a few weeks.

A few days before Thanksgiving, when I, super-party-loving girl, declared I didn't want to participate in the holiday. I didn't want to get together with family. My husband kindly dug my hand out of the melted heap of tears and angst. He held my hand and asked WHY I didn't want to celebrate. He already knew the answer that I didn't and he wanted me to realize it on my own.

The year before, I found out the day he left the country for a mission trip that the new life I was so excited about inside of me was no longer alive but my pregnancy was continuing for a while nonetheless. I was waiting for a miscarriage. My husband returned after two weeks and it still had not begun.

I was finding I was able to breathe occasionally. I found an amazing outpouring of support as people stepped up to fill in the gap while my husband was away. We went to Thanksgiving dinner at my grandmother's house with a sense of bittersweet thanksgiving. I was cramping a little on the drive, but that had been happening for several days by then.

I was sitting at the dinner table, enjoying the loving company of my family. Someone made a light-hearted joke and I found myself able to laugh and enjoy it for the first time since my news. The physical action of the laugh coincided with the beginning of my physical loss. My laugh ended in a gasp. It was several hours before things calmed down enough I could leave the bathroom and ride home to continue the experience. It was what I had wanted and dreaded for weeks. It was cleansing and traumatic at the same time.

I was experiencing a grieving anniversary. It wasn't what I expected. I wasn't even thinking about losing my baby. Oh but the scar was aching. And it aches every year, usually, about this time. It happens to varying degrees depending on what else is going on in my life. It's happening right now.

So please understand that I'm extra sensitive. If I say things that seem harsh, please know that I don't mean them and I am trying to be aware of my extra sensitivity and moodiness. One minute I find myself overwhelmed by the most mundane of tasks, and other times I'm my normal gung-ho, lively self.

Last night, my husband wrapped his arms around me as I tried to express how I was so thankful for my babies and that it wasn't due to thoughts of this specific baby anymore and it wasn't fair that this was still happening and causing me pain six years later. But mostly I sobbed.

And today, the sun shines and I think sweet thoughts and the friend I thought I lost yesterday because of a super sensitive move on my part said she wasn't angry and willing to reconcile this morning.

I love Thanksgiving. I love that my thankfulness is all the more poignant for me each year, because of this experience. But I hate that old aching scar. (By the way, I experienced another loss over Thanksgiving two years ago.) Usually, it gets a little better when I realize what is going on.

I always try to remind myself to get ready beforehand but life seems to be going so well, I can't imagine a very large wave of grief striking out of nowhere. But sometimes it does. And it's usually more after a year when the anniversary isn't so bad. Last year I was pregnant with Cote. I've found pregnancy does a pretty good job of distracting me. But the next year takes me by surprise, maybe because I think "Last year wasn't so bad. Maybe I'll be exempt this year".

There are some who say I should just get over it. I'd sincerely love to. But I think comparing it to labor and not fighting the waves and understanding this process is necessary for some reason, helps me to grow and release an unbelievable amount pain slowly and safely which could not be dealt with in a few "acceptable" weeks right after my loss.

K'nexsions

2010-11-08T06:00:00.000-08:00

The events involving the glue gun, the subsequent blog post, as well as the responses to it via facebook and the blog have given me the opportunity to further hone my parenting skills. I don't know what I was hoping for when I posted.

A lot of emotions went through my head before I wrote that entry. One emotion was admiration for my son's creativity. Another was fear for his safety and, as my dear sister-in-law was not shy to mention, the safety of my home and everyone in it. Yet another emotion was the enjoyment of experiencing yet another story I can share with the world.

I guess I was kinda hoping for some kind of King Solomon-split-the-baby-geniousness that would drive the point home and ensure my son would never sneak behind my back and do something potentially destructive again. Oh, and because it was still fresh for me... also, I would have enjoyed a side order of vindication.

The truth is that this particular incident happened between nine months and a year ago. (We are certain it was in our old home but he didn't get the K'nex until Christmas.) In the life of a child, that is a very long time. The particular situation and development that led to this particular crime simply no longer exists.

John is not the same person he was a year ago. But, as some of you point out, consequences exist regardless of how long ago the event happened. We certainly don't want to teach our children that if they remain in hiding long enough, they can dodge their responsibilities.

The wonderful discussion and observations by people who love my family caused me to reflect. And that's always an opportunity for growth.

Given time to reflect, I have to examine my purposes. Whenever I discover one of my children has done something wrong, I have a desire to dole out a punishment. (Or get back at them...) And conversely I desire to dole out a reward when they have done something right.

What I have learned in 9 years of parenting, is that punishments and rewards aren't necessary for every behavior. One can praise and reward too little as well as too much. It is the same with punishment.

When I was in college, we talked a lot about behavior and discipline. One important discussion was the definition of punishment. Punishment is a consequence enacted after a behavior which lessens the likelihood of that behavior happening again.

Upon remembering this, I realized I don't need to punish John for sticking a plastic toy in a glue gun. The liklihood of that specific infraction happening again is unbelievably low. Whatever experiment he was testing, he completed. He satisfied his curiosity. He won't need to do it again.

So I have to look at what is the real issue here. The real issue is that he broke a stated rule and then lied to cover it up. That part we're going to work on. And guess what, we have lots of opportunities around here to practice.

If we are talking about a police/societal situation, we can't deal with intent. We only have the law. But in this case, I'm a parent... and my job is to teach. So intention is actually very much to the point. I desire my children to operate morally and be responsible for their decisions.

The beauty of homeschooling and having my children with me so much is that I have a chance to see these character flaws magnified in our daily lives so that it becomes obvious they must be dealt with. Ironically, these are two areas (breaking stated rules and lying to conceal) we have been focusing on with John for a few months.

The consequence of this pattern of behavior is already being dealt with. The discovery of this particular act just solidifies our need to stay the course. But one thing it did bring to light was to remind me of John's need to experiment physically with things.

So we had a talk with John the day after my blog entry, reminding him that we have rules for his safety not to curb his joy. We talked about practices that we have in place to remind him how important it is to obey. We also expressed our understanding of his need to find out how things work.

So we have a new class at Laughner Learning Labs called things John wants to know. And we will endeavor to walk him through the scientific process to ask questions, hypothosize, test. And if something doesn't work, we are going to help him research why.

So, be prepared. He's been wanting to light an aluminum can full of dry leaves on fire for a while. He thinks he can make a fire starter. Sounds like a perfect subject to start studying. Safety will be our first consideration, of course. I guess you could say we've decided to fight fire with fire.

Do they make baby-sized safety goggles?

Halloween Scares Me

2010-10-28T03:30:00.000-07:00

Halloween scares me. It scares me because I can't make a firm decision one way or another about whether I should participate in any way as a Christian. During my childhood, I alternated years of costume wearing, only wearing Biblical costumes and stoic avoidance of acknowledging the day was even happening. It seems my parents were just as confused as I am about how to handle Halloween.

Every year, I am presented with deeper and darker tales about how evil it is and how its celebration has Pagan roots and how some of my friends will not be participating in something Occult-ish. You may have firm convictions regarding this. For that, I envy you. (Yes, it's as okay to envy your convictions as it is to covet someone's prayers.)

Here's my problem with those arguments: what about Christmas Trees and Easter Bunnies? Every time I encounter an article or argument about the evil origins of Halloween, I'm smacked upside the face with the equally evil origins of Easter bunnies and Christmas Trees. (Seriously, start digging....)

And yet, many of the same people who are living, dead set against Halloween because of its Pagan origins, decorate cakes with bunnies at Easter, decorate and hunt eggs and bring evergreens into their homes each year at Christmas. (Yes, I said living dead in discussing Halloween)

And the argument is, of course, that those activities have been appropriated by Christians. We have our own spiritually acceptable ways of looking at Christmas decorations. Even the fertility symbol that is the egg and the Easter bunny have been adopted as representations of the empty tomb. (Actually, I can't remember why we justify the bunny.)

As far as I know, we aren't called to celebrate Christ's birth but we are called to remember His death, burial and resurrection. And we pervert the memory with a bunch of silly antics that, upon closer inspection, turn out to be not so silly and all the more disturbing.

If we must have some traditional activities to participate in on Easter, the last thing we should be doing is eating HAM! We should be eating lamb with bitter herbs and either actually spreading its blood on our door posts or at least doing it symbolically and thanking the Lord that He became our Passover Lamb. Has it ever occurred to anyone that the Person who fulfilled the Mosaic law might be offended by our flouting it on the day we celebrate His rising from dying for our inability to follow such laws?

But this same Lord spoke to Paul about all of us Gentiles and explained that circumcision was unnecessary and why it was okay to share in salvation while still being unclean in our choice of foods.

If we can choose to ignore the original meaning behind symbols for holidays we consider to be Holy, perhaps we can choose to ignore the meanings on another day. (Or again, maybe we should drop them all.) I agree, worshipping and fantasizing dark spirits or using superstitions like lit, carved pumpkins to "protect" ourselves from evil is a bad idea when we actually should be relying only on the Blood of Christ. I leave those arguments for people who have more ambiguity about those things.

On the other hand, carving up a pumpkin and putting a candle inside is an endeavor innocent enough in itself. (Though some of my friends shy even away from doing that. But Christmas trees are ok. Seriously, look into the original reason people brought the trees inside in the first place.) And let's not forget that Jesus was, by any evidence, not born on December 25th. Or even at that time of year. That date was chosen simply because it DID correspond with a dark holiday already being celebrated. How's that for situational ethics?

So, let me say, I've come to the conclusion that however I feel about Halloween, I must also feel about most of my traditional, cultural expressions at Christmas and Easter. Intellectually and spiritually, if I must give up one, I must give up the others as well. And since I've not come to the conclusion that is necessary, I choose to participate in some things that go on at Halloween.

I choose to participate in a cultural expression where we get to dress up. There is no other culturally acceptable time during the year where so many adults put on costumes and get so playful. I'd be in favor of costume parties once a month, not tied to any spiritual overtones... just a chance to pretend and be playful.

We don't dress up to confuse the spirits. We dress up because it's fun. We dress up to amuse and impress each other with our creativity. My baby will be an octopus and I will be the ocean as I carry her this year. How cool is that?!

I choose to dress up and to minimize my children's exposure to candy. In reality, the need to have gobs and gobs of candy is the scariest part of Halloween for me. I mean, my family was given a certain deliverance from obesity and gluttony by choosing to avoid processed foods and refined sugars, yet, you all say that part is harmless. Celebrating the macabre? I'll leave that to your conscience and your own blog.

I choose to forego ghosts and ghouls and the decidedly nightmarish things associated with Halloween. I choose to pray for those in a lost and dying world. I choose to do that on more than one night per year. I also choose to be in the world but not of it. I try to live according to my conscience, the conviction the Holy Spirit brings.

I thank you all who remind me to be careful in my behavior each year as this date approaches because I would hate to continue to participate thoughtlessly. But I also urge you not to fall prey to superstition yourself and allow Satan to own a day of the year because of fear. Why does he get October 31st? Why does he get costumes and candy?

For those who argue that church Fall Festivals and Trunk or Treat programs are simply teaching our children that they need something just because the world is having it, you're right. I don't think we should have be having alternatives simply because the world is having something. But on the other hand, cultural appropriation seems to be something we're fairly comfortable with in most situations.

To Punish or Not to Punish?

2010-10-27T11:40:00.000-07:00

Ok, so, I have a hypothetical question for you...

Yeah, you're right.

Who am I kidding?

It's not hypothetical at all.

It didn't happen to a friend of mine. It happened to me, today. Well, I found out it happened today. The event happened a while ago. I think I need your help.

Hannah has a beautiful crown she received as a party favor from a friend's birthday party. It was broken by a sibling. We can't remember who. It may have been both. But that's neither here nor there. The point is that it needed repair.

After a twenty minute stint where I fought valiantly to open a previously used (and now sealed) tube of super glue with a 9 month old sitting on my lap, I decided perhaps super glue wasn't the correct tool for the job. I announced my defeat energetically, "Aha! What Mommy needs is the glue gun!" The stupid, faulty tube of super glue is now in the trash.

Immediately, John opened his own trusty tool box (pictured above) and proffered his glue gun. This tool kit is a thing of beauty. It has been useful numerous times over the years. He used Christmas money to purchase it, years ago, when he was still too young to really use it. Hmm, I suppose he's still too young. So it resides in the school room where he is under strict orders to not even open the box unsupervised.

Always pleased to find some way to let John provide assistance and feel useful, I readily agreed that his glue gun was the perfect solution. Immediately, my Mom-dar went off.

"John, where are the glue sticks?"

"Someone must have taken them out of there."

Interesting how Someone is always an available scapegoat... but then again, I do weird stuff I can't always remember, so I may have been the guilty party. John plugged in the gun and offered to fix the crown for me. I wasn't prepared to hand over the reigns just yet (plastic tiara stakes are pretty high). I was already thinking of another project where he could try his hand as using the tool.

The first thing I noticed was that the gun was taking a long time to heat up. Already five minutes had passed and there was no molten pool on the sacrificial piece of junk mail. On closer inspection, I realized the little metal rest was missing. Someone's name was once again invoked.

At last I saw a little purple goo at the tip of the gun. My heartbeat quickened as it recognized foul play while my head still rationalized, I don't remember having purple glue sticks... I inquired as to the origin of the purple goo.

"Oh... I thought you knew about that. Remember, I melted one of my K'nex pieces through there. I'm pretty sure you said it was ok, but you may have been absorbed with the computer or something."

Plausible deniability plus blame shifting. GOOD. Almost as classic as Someone.

So, what do I do, now? Is there a plastic melting, sneaking statute of limitations? We have no idea when it happened. But to me, it happened today. Should I super glue him to his bed? Too bad the tube is permanently sealed.

Someone's in the Kitchen with Dina

2010-10-20T14:15:00.000-07:00

...and she's probably fed up with all that infernal banjo strumming!

Some say the kitchen is the heart of the home. It is very true in our home. It's the center of activity. Stuff and people are always coming in and going out. There is the constant processing of groceries, food prep, cleaning, cooking, cleaning and eating. (And cleaning.) And my children are always close to my heart, which means they are always in my kitchen.

Sometimes I love having them in there with me. Sometimes I consider hiring a nanny (just for meal prep). I wouldn't give up cooking. I love it too much. But, alas, I view training them as my job, so they are eagerly invited to be present, welcomed to participate and required to help clean.

Today, I'm making Garlic Soup. Cote and I are a little under the weather. I'm a firm believer in the healing power of garlic and homemade chicken broth so I'm following my friend Mary's advice and finally trying this recipe.

Because he's had years of training, I actually trust John with many food prep activities. Since I was busy helping clean up Cote from another round of regurgitation, I asked John to chop the potatoes. He chopped potatoes and celery and assisted with other activities when I made it back to the kitchen. He's obviously a wonderful help in the kitchen.

Hannah, I have my hopes, will eventually be a major help as well. She always brings a chair over and stands at the counter, involved in everything possible. If she sees me get out garlic, she finds and brings me the garlic press. She offers to stir and pour. Sometimes she stirs and pours despite my admonitions not to. She is always a willing taste-tester.

She's thrilled when she sees stock simmering on the stove. She eats the carrots wilted by hours of simmering as I let the chicken cool for deboning. That girl can debone a chicken almost as fast as me. She puts the bones in the correct bowl, rightly separating the refuse from the valuable meat. Unfortunately, she believes the place for the good chicken is in her mouth. I have to work quickly to stay ahead of her and not lose too much chicken to her "wages".

Tonight, she was working diligently. Suddenly, she straightened her body and looked intensely at me. She said, "Mom, this chicken is having a homebirth." I was never able to discern what exactly caused her to make that connection but I did laugh. It reminds me she is experiencing a lot of life and learning all the time.

About that time, the soup started to boil and I asked John to stir it and turn it down. He asked what temperature I wanted it. I said if it was high, then to turn it down to medium. He quickly complied, noting, "Yeah, high is to get things hot. Medium is to keep it going. And low is just for amateurs."

Despite my frustrations, I am always glad that I have invited them into the heart of the heart-of-my-home, letting them participate rather than simply witness. They make me laugh and I see them learning. And well, they teach me things as well. Cooking with children in the room heats things up and keeps them going. Cooking by oneself, well, that's for amateurs.

Free for All

2010-10-18T16:34:00.000-07:00

We are a family who loves to play games. We have an armoire full of boardgames, cardgames and puzzles in the school room. Tonight, I settled down to play a game with the kids for the first time in what seemed like forever. My first thought when we began playing Yahtzee! Free for All was Why don't I do this more often?

Oh.
Yeah.
I.
Remember.
Now.

I have a four year old and a nine month old.

Playing board games with them around is less like entertainment and more like character training. Tonight, Hannah deemed herself fit and ready for duty in the vacant seat at the table. I patiently encouraged John that she would only play as long as she could keep herself in line. My other charge was wide-eyed and in full octopus arm mode as she made for those tasty looking dice.

I found myself saying, "Oh, it's my turn again?" Then I held Cote close to my body while I shifted that side from the table and rolled my dice. I examined them to realize I had three sixes and a one and a four. Suddenly, I realized that Cote had snaked her hand around my body and was drooling as she lunged nearly out of my arms in hopes of attaining a forbidden cube.

It was at that moment, Hannah reached over and decided she didn't like the card she'd earned on her last turn and decided to exchange it. I ordered Hannah to stop and threatened her with eviction from the game. I slid the dice a little further from the edge of the table and promptly picked up those three sixes I had and rolled them again. Oh well, at least no one was choking and no one was being throttled.

This scenario played out a few times with minor variations and I remembered why I always say the baby has to nurse at game time and suggest that Theo and the kids get started without me.

John was very patient with the whole situation but I felt vaguely as if he was making the most of it. I know I couldn't possibly have been able to count but it sure seemed like he took more than three rolls a time or two. I think I also noticed a four turn into a five to become a yahtzee. But what do I know, I had bigger fish to fry.

Shortly before her four-year-old attention span led her to forsake our game, Hannah really got into the role. She cupped her five dice gleefully in her tiny hands and shook for all she was worth. As she threw them on the table she blurted, "I'm gonna take my baby to Venice!"

I began to laugh hysterically and wonder what had inspired that outburst. I asked her if she said Venice (just to be sure) and she nodded. She repeated, becoming even more animated, "I'm gonna take my baby to Venice, Son!"

John just smiled patronizingly at me, "Dad said last time, 'I'm gonna take my son to Vegas, baby!'"

I decided he can. I'll stay home and nurse the baby.

Confessions from the Land of Everything is Okay

2010-10-17T09:48:00.000-07:00

A few years ago, I had a Sunday school teacher who said during a discussion that we needed to not complain or show sadness or be depressed around non-believers because we need them to see we aren't in the same boat with them. The theory was that they want to come over to our boat.

It seriously rubbed me the wrong way. Immediately, I protested. We are in the same boat! They are looking to see how we deal with it, not pretend that all our worldly troubles go away the moment we accept Christ.

So, that's how deep our faith is? That we must fake who we are and what life is like in order to convince others that following Christ is worthwhile. That sounds more like a Pharisee than Christ to me. Though my spirit screamed NO, and knew it was wrong, my flesh has operated that way most of my Christian walk.

The Bible says that we are to confess our sins one to another. It also says the rain falls on the just and the unjust. We aren't promised that we won't mourn, but that we do not mourn like the world.

Yes, sin is deeply intertwined with our illness. It is a result of the Fall. We live in a sinful world and all struggle and our afflicted by sin and with sin. I don't know if what you are dealing with is the result of specific sin you committed, or your ancestors committed or simply so that God may demonstrate His power, or maybe it IS because you are faithful (Anyone remember Job?) or just because the rain falls where it falls.

Regardless, I can share your burdens. I am in the boat with you. I am both an amazing, wonderful daughter of the King and a miserable wretch of a person. Why is it when we are rescued by Christ's love, we don't turn around and bring our fellow boat riders with us? Is it because we are actually trusting in something other than Christ's redeeming love who takes us where we are and how we are and continues to work on us?

My recent blog entry regarding John's Bipolar got a lot of response from dear friends. Apparently, I've not been living transparently enough. James 5:16 (NIV) says, "Therefore confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous man is powerful and effective."

God's Word Translation says "those who have God's approval" in place of righteous. What is righteous? Abraham believed God and it was counted as righteousness. Abraham was granted approval by God and certainly wan't perfect. Maybe we'd have more healing if we had more sick people (people who admit they are sick).

Our deepest relationships are with the people who know us best. They are with the people who see us with bed head and bad breath and love us anyway. We Christians are supposed to be brothers and sisters but no one lets their guard down to get comfortable enough to live together. Only Christ can rescue us from these problems in our lives so lets show our Daddy our boo boos and let him make them better and stop worrying about what the one in line near us might think. Did it occur to you they are in need of His help too?

So I'll follow my sister Jenifer's lead.

I am Holly. I am smart and capable and extremely lazy because of it. I don't have to work as hard as others at many things so I sit back, procrastinate. I'm used to doing things right (or so they appear right) so I avoid doing anything that seems hard to me. I don't want you to know I'm not perfect so you only see me do the things I'm good at or confident about. And I judge people who don't do as well as me. It makes me feel better about my shortcomings. (For a little while.)

I have been miraculously delivered from many emotional issues, physical issues and morbid obesity by an answer to prayer in how to change my diet a few years ago. I lost 80 pounds easily, painlessly as long as I obeyed what I knew to be right. I still struggle with desires and an unwillingness to admit that just a little won't hurt me. When I have a little, I have serious obsessive, compulsive eating problems. I dream about food and will result to lying and sneaking to get what I want when I am in that mode. I've been doing a lot of "just a little bits" lately.

I love my children desperately and am thrilled to be blessed with them and desire God to bless me with more. Sometimes when they don't do what I want, I scream at them and threaten them, use my size and authority, in the hopes they will fear me and comply. It never works well (other than the fearing part). :( Not cool, I want you all to think I'm super mom. My kids already know I'm not but they do love me.

I have been gifted with the ability to write well and I'm afraid to commit to doing it more and working on getting published. I have seen God do amazing things in me and the people around me but have been unwilling to devote daily (weekly even?) time to prayer and Bible reading. I am afraid of all the very serious needs of people around me and what I may have to do to help, so I try not to pay attention. Love my happy little bubble.

I have a wonderful husband with his own flaws and have attended lots of marriage conferences and read books. I think we have a great marriage that will last but must admit I haven't given it much attention. So I've allowed some hurts and miscommunications to get in the way and I've turned apathetic toward my dear one and have chosen to spend more time with just about anything than my husband. Because there have never been problems, we've not devoted time to marriage preservation that we should. We've been married for fifteen years and have become nothing much more than roommates lately.

I'll have you know that the answer to our way of eating came after a period of confession about my eating and my inability to do it on my own. So there you have it. There are some of my flaws that I'd really prefer to keep to myself. Please heal the wounds in my life, Dear God. When I admit these flaws it keeps me from ignoring them. Let me know what to let go of and have the courage to work on the parts that I need to work on. Give me righteous brothers and sisters who can both pray for me and hold my hand, keep me accountable while we ride in this boat together. Make me righteous so that I can return the favor.

What my kid can do that your kid can't

2010-10-08T10:18:00.000-07:00

So I posted today on Facebook that I love Fridays because John knows he gets to play video games after school so he gets up and starts working before I even get out of bed. I listened to a webinar yesterday about the lies that homeschooling moms believe. One lie is that no one else has the troubles they have and everyone else's children are further ahead. Facebook can exacerbate the problem when people are posting about their wonderful vacations and children's progress.

I realized very quickly that I tend to post only the good stuff. I'll have you know that our struggles in parenthood and fosterparenthood have been harrowing. I am THRILLED when good stuff happens and I have to share it with someone because I'm so excited. I focus on what's good because that gets me through the day.

Let me give you some history. John spent 8 months in the foster care system before we met him. During that time, one social worker indicated that he was in more than 20 homes though the record states it is less. John has been diagnosed and treated for Reactive Attachment Disorder and Bipolar Disorder.

Despite my hippie biases against pharmaceutical intervention, my boy takes very a powerful atypical antipsychotic and lithium each day. There are side effects both short term and long term that make my head spin but we opted for something that would limit his tendency to unstrap his seat belt and beat me with objects while I am driving. He once covered my eyes while I was driving because I told him he was going to have to eat dinner before dessert. (Which was always the case.) Then there were the two times he tried to get out of a moving car because he was so desperately angry.

I've had the police called because I was restraining him while taking him out of a store to keep him from hurting himself and me. I told him to stop climbing on the furniture in the store or he would need to ride in the grocery cart. Then he tried to pull a glass shelved baker's rack over on top of himself. He's told me before that he wanted to hurt me with a knife and that he wanted to hurt himself with a knife. He was mean to the cat. Simple disappointments or overstimulation would lead to rages that lasted for hours.

I've requested police assistance and he has run and hidden from them. One policeman kindly suggested I might consider medication for him. Yeah, well, the one he was on was being weaned down because he'd been stable and we wanted him on as few medications as possible. The doctors and I now refer to that medication as the "anti-police" drug. We don't need police intervention when he's on it.

And trust me, it isn't a matter of consistency. Theo's grandmother once noted, "Why does he behave like that? Throwing fits? He knows they never give in."

He's had imaginary friends that we eventually realized were visual hallucinations. He had days and weeks at age 5 that involved him rocking, staring out the window and crying all day. He's had times where I've woken up at three in the morning to find him doing experiments involving light bulbs. He once decided to build a ray gun by sticking metal wires into an electrical outlet. And there are other issues I'm very reluctant to talk about in public.

To say there have been dark times would be a grave understatement. There have been prayers upon prayers. I've read so many books on raising boys and overstimulated children and on bonding and attachments and Bipolar. I've literally loaned out enough of those books to other mothers in need that I could be considered a public library. I take what works and move on.

Frequently, what works only works for a while because this isn't behavior related. It is a mood disorder. It isn't based on rationality. Behavioral intervention works when people are actually making decisions. Nearly anything would send him into a panic. Flight or fight isn't really a decision, it's an instinct. We've done bonding activities that have offered some help to calm him down. By the way, there are plenty of books out there about what to do if your child is being bullied but I found nothing about what to do if your child was the bully.

When John wasn't panicking he was a well-behaved and very reasonable child. That's why it was so hard to watch him go through this. I only once experienced that kind of rage where my eyes turned dark and I could feel myself detach from my senses. It was during one of these dark periods of John's severe instability and I had just experienced my first miscarriage. There was no thinking. There was only anger and then there was extreme embarrassment and guilt afterwards. My John used to experience that rage within himself daily.

Medication staved off the worst of the worst of the symptoms but I still had never seen him stable. Then an answer to prayer came when we agreed to change our diets. It wasn't with the idea of helping his Bipolar, it was seriously where we were led by God. Within three weeks we saw him stable for the first time ever. Nevermind that I had asked numerous health professionals about nutrition and they all said, "Well, it won't hurt him but it won't make any difference in his behavior. I'm very pleased to say that they were wrong.

As his moods settled it became evident that some of the struggles John had with learning weren't all related to mood. After great efforts at home (I am a trained special educator, afterall) we finally decided to get some testing. Turns out that John's written expression skills and visual motor coordination are in the .2 percentile. To help you grasp that concept, I'll say that at that time, my 10 year old boy and my 3 year old girl could have drawn pictures and you wouldn't have been able to guess which one was the artist. It was handy in that it reinforced my decisions to have him answer me verbally in most subjects and to eschew cursive handwriting for typing.

But how do I get from the picture I've painted here, to the amazing, confident, well-balanced boy I'm getting to know today? There have been a lot of little helps and strategies and medications and good whole foods that have helped but I'm going to have to answer with a big I. DON'T. KNOW. But recently, I'm starting to have some suspicions.

Despite using myriad phonics programs and my own adapted reading plans and timed fluency exercises, my fifth grader was struggling to read at a second grade level this spring. And we were happy because that was progress. He was two and a half years behind in math. It was hard to get him to write his name more than once a day.

Yet, suddenly, he'll be only a year behind in math by Christmas and he's typing 9 words per minute and starting to write paragraphs on paper. And he's blasted past a fifth grade reading level to being able to comprehend and tackle pretty much any popular fiction on the shelf.

I wasn't sure if he was understanding a book he's been reading this week but he answered all the comprehension questions I could throw at him. I still thought that he might be getting the big concepts but not technically some of the words. Those thoughts were proven false when I started to read a chapter aloud to him last night and he indicated he had read to a certain point by saying, "Start here, Mom, where it says 'He abruptly...'".

Oh.... ABRUPTLY.... nevermind.

Let's not forget he's mostly a cooperative, normal 11-year-old boy. He has his moments which need correction. He still occasionally panics. But I now have a young man who gets up early on Friday to complete his school work as fast as he can, most of it independently. He used to go into hysterics when he just knew we were going to start anything challenging. He does his own laundry and is a huge contributing member of our family. His obsessive compulsiveness is well under control. He's a pleasure to be around. He does spat with his sister.... Oh wait, that's normal! :D

I thank God as I contemplate where John is now. And I remember a few books I read by Raymond Moore which highlighted studies that said boys specifically (it happens earlier in girls) reach some sort of developmental coordination around the age of 10-12. He said you could basically give a child no formal education up to that time and they could easily then catch up to their peers within six months. I nodded my head at the concept and felt pressured to pressure an education on my sick son.

I've done nothing new educationally in the last six months but to keep moving ahead with him at his own pace. But that pace has drastically accelerated. I think he's suddenly developmentally ready. I realize the One who made him, designed him well. It's hard in our society, but we really do need to lovingly and tenderly wait. Through no greatness of our own, our children will become who they are meant to be.

We can't teach them to walk but we can clap our hands when they try. We can pick them up and encourage them when they fall. They grow and learn, we've just got to love them, feed them, and present them with the next challenge. Be gentle on your children and yourself. They are individuals made by God. He put your family together and has equipped you to meet their needs. So let's stop comparing them.

For a limited time only

2010-08-18T14:14:00.000-07:00

Few words strike fear in this mother's heart like "Hey, Mom, I've got an idea." Today, after a moment of panic, I looked toward the speaker of those words and found a purple Bumbo chair clamped firmly to his head. This kind of thing happens when a creative, ten year old boy has two younger sisters. Wary of his intimidating headgear, I listened as he said, "If you had 18 guys with Bumbos on their heads, you could really move some furniture."

I'm sure he noticed my raised eyebrow and dubious demeanor. Let's face it, he also saw the "I'm totally going to blog this" look. (We'll just call it "wry". )

He dropped to all-fours and pressed his baby-equipment-clad head firmly against the couch. He struggled for a few minutes butting heads with his formidable, upholstered enemy. My wariness migrated to complete maternal, slap-happy giddiness as I found myself laughing enough to shake the baby sleeping in my arms.

Breathlessly he expanded the explanation, "Now. Imagine a guy here, there, and there and some others around the couch and I'm sure we could move this thing." By then, Hannah was getting impressed and ready to buy this couch-moving miracle product for three easy payments of $29.95. "Yes, John! You could! And a guy there and a guy there and a guy there," she squealed. Note to self: never let her watch infomercials.

Then my purple-festooned son got that deal-clenching gleam in his eye. He lowered his voice soberly, "Of course, you could wear a helmet but they might crack. Bumbos don't crack. But they also aren't manly..." I'm sure it'll be even less manly when I tell him Cote peed in that chair last night.

Waltzing Contentment

2010-08-08T18:25:00.000-07:00

Tonight, I find myself oddly content. I don't mean to imply my life is hard by using the word, "oddly". I realize I have so many material things and societal privileges to be thankful for. But I also know that depression doesn't need a reason to set in. So tonight I am thankful for sore feet and a crying baby because those things help me to focus on the things that are important.

I am reluctant to say Cote's first tooth is nearly ready to burst forth. I've been wrong before. But I gotta tell you, it seems a lot more serious this time. I know the bottle of Oragel says that fever and a runny nose aren't symptoms of teething, but, hey, Bottle, you aren't an experienced mother of three. I know teething when I see it. Or I know it when it has hit me upside the head since eleven last night and my sister proposes it might be the cause of the tiniest Laughner's recent angst.

But a persistent, teething baby makes you pull out all the stops and focus on her: her needs, her comfort, her pain, her sweetness, her utter dependence on her Mommy to make it better. And suddenly all the busyness stops. The kids are in bed and I find myself longing for a moment to read a new book and to put my feet up and take a breath before our week begins. Yet, the baby won't nurse. Won't sit. Won't sleep. Won't cuddle.

There is nothing to do but tie the baby on in the best baby accessory ever. I could do without just about every other material baby equipment, including diapers. A good baby carrier is absolutely necessary. The sobs immediately soften.

My husband sits down at the piano and works his musical, Daddy magic. I find myself dancing barefoot with a worn-out, hurting baby in my dining room cum school room. The lights are dim. The light from another room glints off the light fixture which now seems a lot more like a chandelier. The baby's head becomes ever more unstable until it drops heavily against my chest and she sighs as sleep brings welcome relief.

My limp, sweaty baby helps me to focus my thoughts without the distraction of Facebook or Instant Netflix on the two children asleep in their beds, my husband playing piano and singing and my God who is the author of my contentment. I have purpose. I am reminded. Sometimes it take a little pain to see the beauty in something. It is perspective. Not the teeth. Not the trouble.

Nothing but a moment to hear sweet music and find your body swaying and to offer comfort to another soul to realize the singular purpose of your own, particular calling; to know the love of a Father who cares when we hurt, even if it's something so minor as a tooth.

Philippians 4:12 "I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want."

The Minnesotans Mean It

2010-07-26T19:02:00.000-07:00

We are spending a week in Minneapolis, Minnesota. We frequently travel with Theo hither and yon while he speaks at and attends conferences across the U.S. and, very recently, even in Canada.

This morning, I drove our rental van to drop Theo off at the conference. Betty, our GPS, does a fair job of guiding us to our various destinations and we were following her well-informed advice this morning. Unfortunately, something about the streets in Minnesota have confused her. Since we arrived on Saturday, she's attempted to direct us the wrong way down a couple of streets. This is unusual behavior for Betty.

The worst part is when you don't obey her unvariably chipper yet authoritarian digital voice, it's kind of like when a mom has PMS and the kids are driving her crazy and she grits her teeth, tries to demonstrate self control, and wears a very thin veneer of NICE. Yeah, there's an edge. We all know it, Betty.

She violently spits, "Recalculating! Recalculating" from her speaker and an hourglass spins ominously while she "thinks" about what to do next. Sometimes u-turns ensue and great stress is had by all.

This morning Betty directed us to turn left where there was a clearly marked sign indicating "No Left Turns 7am-9am Monday-Friday." We found ourselves sitting at the intersection at 8 am, Monday morning. There was really very little traffic. Theo says, "Oh, I know it says no left turn but there isn't much traffic and I'm not sure how easily we can contend with a recalculation. Just go ahead."

I shrugged. I'm sure it was a similar gesture when Eve showed that new fruit to Adam in the garden. I turned left. And about 400 feet later, I saw a post man step into the middle of the road and hold his hand out in a stopping motion. I look questioningly at Theo because I've never seen a postman stop traffic before. He said, "Oh shoot, he's pulling you over". Still confused as to the identity of this man I say, "Why would he do that?"

"Because you made an illegal left turn."

Oh.... the postman is an undercover cop!

I pulled over and rolled down the window as he approached. I took note of his uniform and badge and marveled how closely it resembles a postal service uniform in Tennessee, but none of that mattered as he asked for my driver's license and insurance. My insurance card was, of course, where it always is. It was in the glove compartment of my van, in Tennessee.

He took my license to his police car, which actually was an undercover car, so you know I'm not completely crazy. As he started to walk away he said to keep looking for my insurance card. I was pretty sure we couldn't see Tennessee from here but Theo and I diligently scanned all the various cards in our wallets.

The officer walked back to the van and cavalierly stood in the middle of the streetlike a man who pulls people over without lights and a siren, and reminds us of the THREE signs indicating we were not to turn left. I was actively tucking my tail between my legs but Theo started to play the dumb tourist card by stating we were following the GPS.

With a stern glare, Mr. Officer raised his finger to his lips in a paternal shushing gesture and said, "It is my turn to talk. Your turn to listen." Yep, that definitely trumped the dumb tourist card. Theo's tail was now roughly looking like mine.

He was capitally unimpressed we were unable to produce our insurance card. Theo offered to call our insurance agent. Another glare. Seriously, Theo, just let the guy talk... "In Minnesota, we don't talk to people on the phone. I never know who I'm talking to. In Minnesota, you must always have your insurance card. Get it and keep it with you."

There was no "have a nice day" or "drive safe" or so much as a "you are free to leave". He returned to his post on the sidewalk to watch for the next person who dared to turn left at the wrong time of day.

Theo apologized to me several times before we dropped him off and we had to explain multiple times to the children that we, yes, had done something wrong and got in trouble. It was a very humbling lesson to realize we had read a rule and chosen to ignore it and then got caught right in front of the kids.

But I was able to use it as an object lesson. We talked about listening respectfully to members of authority. We talked about accepting responsibility for our actions despite the fact that someone else told me to do it. We talked about Adam and Eve.

Every couple of hours during the day, Hannah's barrage of questions started again. "Mommy, tell me about the law." I dutifully explained my misdeed and how I was very sorry and I was going to behave now. I also explained how God wants us to obey the laws of man as long as they don't go against His law.

"Mommy, do you remember when you and Daddy got in trouble but John and me were being good kids in the back seat?"

Yes, Hannah. I'd really like to forget.

"What did you do?"

Hannah, I turned left when I wasn't supposed to turn left. The sign said no left turn 7am-9am Monday-Friday.

"Does Lava melt everything?"

She's a three year old. I have no idea how lava was related but it came up every time.

Even John was tired of hearing about it and tried to answer at one point, with exasperation in his voice... "Mommy turned left when the sign said..."

When it came time to pick Theo up, the litany began once more. I called Theo to tell him we were on our way and that I was, in fact, exactly where I had been pulled over this morning. John looks surprised and confused, "Pulled over? Why?" Mommy's voice began to sound a little like Betty's. In a sweet yet barbed tone I staccatoed, "I. Turned. Left. When. I. Wasn't. Supposed. To."

Yeah, he dropped it. Smart boy.

As we pulled into the garage at our condo, Theo started to remark that I was a little close to the mirror. "I think you've done enough back seat driving today, don't you?"

Yeah, he's a smart boy, too.

A Vacation From Motherhood

2010-06-05T07:24:00.000-07:00

First I hear the clompity, skip noise of Hannah's plastic dress-up shoes against the tile in the kitchen and her voice gladly trilling, "Daaaadyyyy." I hear water running in the kitchen sink and the scrape, clank of a skillet being placed on the stove. I hear John's heavy-footed eagerness as he expectantly questions what is for breakfast. These sounds have been going on for a while, my subconscious tells me. I know, though, in an instant, those noises aren't what call me to a state of wakefulness.

There is a quiet grunting and writhing and the tiny fingernails-on-sheets sound as the baby claws her way into morning. It is a sound that would awaken only a mother but one that immediately shakes all the cobwebs from my leaden mind. Cote is stirring. I slip out of bed, noticing a tingly fullness in my left breast, just shy of painful. I walk to the crib near the foot of our bed. Cote needs her space, unlike her older sister, who stills enjoys coming in sometime in the wee hours of the morning and tucking her body as closely as possible to her father or myself.

I peer over the rail and touch her arm. Something tells me to savor this and not to ruin it with my voice. Her body immediately settles, her eyes open wide as she scans the gauzy light filtering through the blinds. She makes eye contact and reflexively breaks, one cheek at a time, into a wide smile. Her arms move from the mattress in concentration. With underwater slowness, she reaches toward me. I pick her up and she leans her warm body into mine, molding herself to my embrace. She rubs her downy head against my face.

The sounds of chaos and breakfast continue on the other side of the bedroom wall. I begin to trust that, this morning, in this moment, those sounds aren't coming for me. I take the prize nestled under my chin and lay her on my bed. We both hear the click as my nursing bra unfastens. I lie down, maintaining eye contact in preparation to nourish my baby.

She grins even wider. Her smile travels down her whole body, causing her legs to curl upwards. This motion causes her to flip to her side. With no guidance, save my availability, she expectantly latches on. It occurs to me that I am drinking in this experience as much as she is drinking my milk.

I think of the Isrealites wandering the desert and about the manna God provided them. It was the only thing they ate. It satisfied their every need, in the early days, before they begged for meat. It was exactly enough, never too much or too little.

I sense Cote's enjoyment and gratitude. We communicate with our eyes and bodies. She doesn't yet speak my language and I don't remember hers. Eventually, in the busyness of life, she'll learn to speak because it is more expedient than waiting for these stolen moments. For right now we share a mutual wonder as we mimic the smiling creases in the corners of one another's eyes. I follow her gaze as she examines the blanket, her own hand, and the spinning shadows above the ceiling fan. Her dimpled hand gropes unhurriedly until it finds and clasps onto my finger.

The narrator in my head, whose voice often compels me to write, begins to compare and make observations. I need to both capture and express this exchange. I cherish what I come to realize is the kind of vacation we are all looking for. It energizes me and makes me eager to go reconnect with the other, more noisy, more hurried members of my family. It is restful and prepares me to go back to work.

My baby and I have traveled to a destination that reminds me of somewhere. Golden streets. Perfect gardens. A glassy sea. Complete acceptance. This connection reminds me of cool mornings with the One who has given me life. You see, this intimate experience was much too large to be fully consumed by a baby and her mother. I have to share it. I have to describe it and beckon others to it, who, like me, tend to forget to slow down and just "be".

This morning we are.

I am.

Is this why He is I Am?

Event Amber: She gets her appetite back.

2010-05-21T06:52:00.001-07:00

Last night we grilled out and ate dinner on the back porch. Amber ate all of the food on her plate, and seconds and thirds...
Apparently, her tummy is on the mend.

After dinner, the girls shared a much-needed bath.

Freshly cleaned, warm in their nightgowns, Hannah asked why I was "crombing" Amber's hair first. The truth was that she was the girl closest to my reach. But Amber responded haughtily, "It is because I am a wizziter." Five minutes later, I realized she said visitor and was very amused.

Amber picked a cute library book before bed about two girls on their first sleepover. How appropriate was that?! They went to sleep well. I explained that if Amber woke up in the morning and Hannah wasn't in the room that she could come find me in my room. She was happy and calm and was looking forward to Mommy coming to pick her up tomorrow.

Oddly enough, my four month old slept eight solid hours last night. Hannah slept a good solid four hours before she got up and made her way to snuggle in our bed. I was up at six to feed the baby and did a few chores and checked facebook and climbed back in bed about 7:15. Theo got up at 7:45, stretched, looked puzzled and pointed to the floor on my side of the bed. "Amber is over there." I leaned over and there was that sweet little blondie and her stuffed beaver sitting quietly on the floor.

"Good morning."
She smiled.
"Did you come in here right when you woke up?"
She nodded.
"Are you sad?"
She shook her head.
"Do you want to come up here?"
She nodded and climbed in.
"Your Mommy is coming to get you today."
"I know."

She smiled and snuggled up. After a few minutes, Amber said, "I want to eat breakfast in my pajamas because that is what I usually do." (When I told her mother, she said Amber normally changes into day time clothes before she's out of her room. LOL) I asked Amber what she wanted for breakfast and she gave me a whole big list of stuff. I laughed and decided I had better get started on that order.

As I started to prepare breakfast I got the Amber Callan random fact of the day, "We saw a grand-daddy-long-legs in the garage. They are the most poisonous of all spiders but their mouths are so small they can't bite youmans." Then she skipped off merrily with Hannah. They came back a few minutes later to ask if they could have breakfast on the porch. I thought it was an excellent idea.

When I took their trays out to them, they giggled with excitement. Amber could barely put the strawberry down long enough to pray. She surveyed her tray which contained yogurt with fresh blueberries, orange juice, steel cut oatmeal, bacon, eggs, 1/4 banana and a strawberry. "Where's our bread?" she asked. I laughed! "Coming right up!" She finished all her food and then had another serving of yogurt with blueberries.

I'm guess they now have enough energy to get through the morning. That's good because they are going to play with the cooking toys and water again. They don't know it yet, but later, we are going to make play-doh.

Day 2: Event Amber

2010-05-20T07:10:00.000-07:00

Look, her pink napkin is in her lap.

I think it is interesting that cleaning makes Amber happy. LOL

The blogger at MamaHolly's Monogram brings you real life. There is no joy without pain. So we we bring it to you raw and real. We hit a glitch. But we've recovered. Event Amber can't be drama without actually experiencing some drama...

Last night, Amber's tummy was a little off and she had to potty multiple times so we came home from small group and got a prescription from her Mommy and Daddy to feed her some yogurt and other specific foods to see if it helped. She didn't seem to be in any pain so we all took a wait and see approach. She was fine last night and slept through the night well.

Hannah woke up some time while the sky was still black (as Hannahs are wont to do) and came into bed with us. I decide that was a good thing so the girls wouldn't wake each other up too early. Theo told me Amber was awake, looking at books on the shelf when he left for work. I thought she was enjoying a peaceful morning, so I left her to her own devices.

Hannah woke at 8:30, thank the Merciful Lord. Immediately, she went in search of her friend. Very quickly afterwards, I heard sobs. I was pretty sure it was a grumpy, just wakened Hannah upset that Amber was playing with her toys. I went to play referee but as I stepped around the corner, there stood Hannah with a concerned look on her face and Amber mid-wail, wearing a ballet leotard. "What's wrong, Amber? Is your belly hurting? What happened? Are you alright?"

"I. Want. My. Mommy! I want my house." Pant, Pant. More sobs. She wasn't clutching her stomache and I saw no obvious injuries so I diagnosed acute homesickness brought on by loneliness. I wondered if Amber had been quietly entertaining herself in an effort not to bother anyone and became quite lonely in the process. And when she saw Hannah she let out the angst that had been growing in her solitude.

Oh no, I had to think fast. Even if we got Mommy to come right now, no packing, no last minute diaper changes, she's a couple of hours away. So I say, "Amber, Mommy said you needed some more yogurt this morning. Would you like some?" She stopped crying, sniffed quickly and said yes in a clear voice. Head high, she followed me to the kitchen. She eagerly gobbled some yogurt and was smiling and hugging her stuffed beaver.

I decided it might be safe to investigate. I asked what had made her so sad. I could see the immediate, physical change as her face clouded and a bubble rose in her throat. "I. Want. My. Mommy! I want my house." Uh, Oh.

"Amber, would you also like some toast?" I mean, food worked last time... "Yes, I would, Mrs. Waufiner." Phew. Ok, don't mention the homesickness and you can keep the illness at bay. I realized distraction was the key. I offered them the opportunity to watch a veggietales video. They politely declined. NOT!

They cuddled up on the couch and enjoyed a video. Amber was quick to point out that she and Murray did not watch videos first thing in the morning. Yeah, I thought, but Mommy has Mommy-ness with her at all times and the best I could offer was distraction and Mrs. Wafiner-ness. I said, "Well, it's just a special thing for right now. Is that okay with you?" Of course it was. But I knew she'd throw me under the bus with a quick "Mommy, Mrs. Waufiner lets us watch movies first thing in the morning," as soon as they were reunited.

I gathered my wits while they watched and decided they could take a tandem bath in my garden tub after the movie. But John woke up and used all the hot water. Silly son!

After the movie, Hannah wanted a princess dress which instantly became contagious. Hannah's room is, of course, a disaster from all the increased girliness living in it. I suggested they take the cooking toys on the back porch and have a tea party. The troops were invigorated. Morale greatly improved. Dishes were gathered. Tiny chairs were slung over shoulders and lots of buffalo stomp-skipping ensued. I even lugged the enormous plastic kitchen out there.

But then the coup de grace: I offered them water to wash dishes and pour from the tea pots. OH YEAH! The Laughner house is the happiest place on earth once again. Well, until the next bit of drama happens. And rest assured, you will hear it here first. Thank you, loyal readers.

Update: Event Amber

2010-05-19T13:38:00.000-07:00

We have had a busy, busy day. We went to library and picked out books. Then the Penguin Players from Dollywood came to put on a play at the library. We went grocery shopping, had a picnic and they played on the playground.

After that, we came home and everyone took a nap.

Finally, finally, we have princess dresses, fancy shoes, and time to read books!

Event Amber

2010-05-19T10:50:00.000-07:00

We've borrowed an extra little person for three days. Amber is Hannah's dear friend who is on her first multi-night sleepover. It's a little touch and go when a four year old commits to staying two hours away from her parents. Dear Amber is gung ho and ready to go wherever adventure may lead. Her willingness, nay, eagerness to embark on this journey is a testament to the loving, confident attachment she has to her family. She's just a gem.

The girls giggled and talked as much as any pair of grown women on the drive home. They rode happily strapped to pink carseats in the very back of the van, sometimes holding hands. Nothing compares to preschool conversations. Nowhere else can you hear an interchange like this, filled with Amber's soft r's and Hannah's lisped th's:

"Hannah, there is white powder in the garden and you absolutely must not get near it. We used to get near it. But you can't now."
Hannah murmurs some acknowledgement and then responds with, "My purple socks don't fit me anymore." To which, Amber replies, "I don't really like tomatoes..."

They did finally fall into comatose slumber about 10 o'clock. When we got home we changed them into pajamas and put them to bed. Hannah awoke at 4:30 and came to ask if they could put on their princess dresses. I quickly explained that it was still the middle of the night and she needed to go back to sleep. She ran ahead as I took her back to her newly double occupied room. She flipped on the overhead lights and stripped the covers from her sleeping friend with a great flourish. There were a few tears as I firmly told her she must remain in bed and not turn on the lights until the sky was blue. Amber just curled back up as I replaced her missing bedclothes.

At 6:54, according to the blurry numbers on my alarm clock, Hannah came stomp/skipping into my room, sounding, for all the world, like a herd of tutu-clad buffalo. "The sky is blue! It's morning time! Can we put on our princess dresses now?!" The princess dresses are some newly acquired hand-me-down church/Easter dresses from a cousin.

"You need to put on your regular girl clothes because we are going to the library to watch the 'Llama Llama Red Pajama' play."

This was met with squealed delight and a rushed request for permission to pass this information along to "Ammer". Again, with the stampede-skip-pound noise. It was lucky they both had regular-girl-knit-rainbow-striped dresses. And thus we launched ourselves into day one of Event Amber.

Brother Wears Her Out

2010-05-17T09:50:00.000-07:00

I started cooking lunch while John and Hannah played with the baby. John came in carrying her and said she was crying and wanted him to hold her. So he walked around with her for a while and she calmed down. He sat in a kitchen chair and she immediately started screaming.

With a harried look, somewhat reminiscent of a new parent, he said, "See?! She wants me to hold her and walk around. She won't let me sit down." I'm still unsure why this was suddenly his burden to bear, but I wasn't going to let the opportunity slip for John to help out with a duty he seemed willing and capable of taking. He complained that his arms were tired.

Suddenly a light bulb went off. I remembered the sling I made for John when Hannah was a baby. It was just fun and cute then, but now he could really carry the baby and be a big help. And I certainly can't stand holding a baby for very long without a carrier.

"John, what about your sling?" Immediately he handed Cote to me and ran out of the room and came back swathed in yellow tencel twill. It was twisted but we got him straightened out and added Cote to the sling.

He started walking and she mellowed out. After a few minutes I realized that maybe the learning curve for a sling and the one shouldered-ness of the carry might not serve him as well. He was uncomfortable letting go and his arms were still getting tired though he said it was much better.

We tried the Mei Tai next and he was much more comfortable. He did laps around the house and started singing to her. Within 10 minutes she was sound asleep. He said, "I'd be willing to do that again, but I was about to burst into flames."

"Oh," I replied, "You need a solarveil mei tai!"

His face lit up. "If they make 'em in that, yeah, bring it on!" I'm a little afraid John might start surfing the for sale or trade boards. Thank you, Buddy, you are an awesome big brother.

The Right Kind of Conversation

2010-05-10T07:33:00.000-07:00

We were unpacking our school materials from a recent trip and John noticed his weekly spelling chart wasn't in its designated orange folder. He had also not completed the checklist indicating he had finished one of the tasks. He pointed toward the sheet and said, "I write those last week already."

We've spoken proper English in front of the boy, at every opportunity, since we've known him. All the research says that he will eventually pick up our language patterns and begin to use them himself. It has led to his boasting quite a hefty vocabulary for a ten-year-old. However, irregular verb tenses and other grammatical glitches continue despite our best attempts.

Occasionally, I'll give in to my impulses and say something like, "John, I wrote those last week." That usually garners a response like "No, you didn't. I did." So I decided to take another tack this morning.

"John, what is the past tense of the word write?" I queried, in my most patient and instructive voice.

With an eager-to-please-star-pupil grin he proudly stated, "WRONG!"

Obviously, my work here is not did. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

A Mousse Came to Dinner

2010-04-16T16:22:00.000-07:00

So Mr. Future Chef, once again, picked up a cook book from the library. John is quite the fan of food and very interested in cooking. He asked if we could make the chocolate mousse in the book. So we bought the ingredients and planned to make it dairy-free so that I could have some.

This afternoon, Miss Patti and Miss Denise came to visit us. Before they left, he offered to make them some fruit skewers. I had no idea what he was suggesting, especially because I didn't realize we even had skewers. But it was in his book. He whipped up banana/apple skewers and presented them to our guests before they left.

Apparently he was in a cooking mood, because the mousse was started and I really had no choice but to assist or deal with the aftermath.

John checked the recipe to be sure he had all the ingredients gathered.

Then he rocked the double boiler.

There was a whole lot of shakin' and stirrin' and whiskin' goin' on.

Hannah ate peanuts.

The instructions said to whisk the egg whites until they formed stiff peaks. But it should have said to whisk until stiff peaks or your baby falls unconscious, whichever happens first.

Hannah volunteered for cleanup duty.

Chef John says, "Bon Appetit!"

It's all fun and games until the natural consequences set in.

2010-04-09T12:28:00.001-07:00

Let's Do Lunch

2010-04-07T09:50:00.000-07:00

Today, Cote and I had lunch with a dear girlfriend and her baby. We sat at a quaint little table in a delightful restaurant. There was a posh, purple table cloth made out of a pillowcase. It is rare to find a friend who has so many of the same passions and interests as I do. We both unashamedly nurse in public. We discussed our recent homebirths and realized that we have both recently moved to new homes. What was even more surprising was when I took Cote to use her potty, I found out my friend also practices elimination communication. She's not into whole foods though. Everything she ate was plastic.

It was a lovely meal with a lovely lady.

Road Rash

2010-04-04T17:23:00.000-07:00

My father is a fan of war wounds. When we were young, my sister and I encountered the occasional, inevitable injury. Neither one of us ever broke a bone but we sure had our fair share of bumps, bruises, cuts and scrapes.

When either one of us did get hurt, my father would cheer. It sounds hideous, I'm sure, but it was never in jest or to make light of our pain. It was a loving expression of how impressed he was with our toughness as we encountered adversity. He would whoop and with a smile on his face, acknowledge our pain with a sharp intake of breath through his teeth and say, "Ouch, that was a good one!" He'd give us a loving hug and then go with us as he encouraged us to "walk it off."

Then he'd analyze the type of mark or scar it was going to leave. Pretty soon, he'd be exposing his shin to reveal some representative scar of his own and be sharing with enthusiasm the story of how the mark came to be. We'd engage in a weird, father-daughter dance of battle scar one-upmanship. I remember that we'd be smiling, snuggled up together, and talk wistfully of how I'd share my most recent pratfall with my future children.

The story telling would then ensue. With fatherly admiration, he'd tell my mother or anyone else he could find, how fast I was going or how high I had climbed or how bravely I had approached something right before I received my wound.

My father's bizarre behavior served two purposes. First it removed the fear and much of the pain associated with the injury. It also instilled a desire to go farther and work harder the next time.

He views wounds, I believe, as trophies from life. They are the evidence that we engaged ourselves in our world and didn't hide or shrink from what experience was laid at our feet. Scars are the marks of courage in the eyes of my father. And while I believe he felt each scrape I got as a child, he found it also a source of fatherly pride at having a wild, tough, amazing daughter.

I find myself having the same reaction with my children. I know how it feels when they fall. Owwww! I wince as I share that moment of breathlessness. And then I immediately swell with pride as I think how tough they were being right before the moment of impact and how, with my encouragement they will square up and look life right back in the face and do it again shortly afterward. I find I have an irresistible urge to bare an odd knee and tell my story. I also find myself saying, "Your Grandpa is going to be so impressed with that one."

This weekend John had one of those moments. He had been rocking our cul-de-sac with his scooter. Wind whipped through his hair. He was smiling and full of life as he experienced the fun and freedom of riding after practicing for over a year to get to this point. He rode to a spot high on the hill and zoomed downward at top speeds. He rounded the corner and popped up onto our driveway before he spilled into a magnificent tumble of knees and elbows.

It hurt. But it was the hurt of one embracing life. He put the scooter away for the day but he will be back out there again to face that driveway with Olympic determination worthy of the scars he now bears. He did tell me that it hurt like crazy this morning in the shower because the scrape was so deep the water was actually hitting flesh. That's my son! He is amazing and tough. And I'm proud of him. You should have seen how fast he was going!

Oh, by the way, since he's always been relatively slow (not faster than walking) on his scooter before, we've never required a helmet at home. He'll be wearing one now. We're about going higher, faster, further but we are about doing it safely.

P.S.

2010-04-02T12:17:00.000-07:00

It's been two days since the postal tragedy at Forest Breeze. But guess what has happened!

Yes, that's right! Hannah's easter card from Gram-Gram arrived. It's even better than a deliciously Easter-yellow envelope. It was in a perfect three-year-old-princess pink envelope. After I read the card to her twenty times, she "read" it aloud herself another twenty times. Then she sat for a while, staring at the card with a sweet, wistful smile on her face, shaking her head occasionally. She sighed and quoted, "Love, Gram-Gram." and said, "I love Gram-Gram."

Then she hopped up eagerly and said, "Mommy, we have to mail this to someone else!" She went to the back porch and put it in the "mailbox" and retrieved it. She's been stuffing envelopes with index cards and playing postwoman ever since.

You Don't Have Mail!

2010-03-31T14:38:00.000-07:00

Birds were singing. Trees were blooming. The woods were beckoning. There was nothing to do but tie the baby on and go for a walk. Even the baby was having a fantastic time as she wiggled to position herself so she could lean over and watch the woodland floor as we went.

At the bottom of the hill behind our house is a small trickle of water. It's hardly even a creek. But the kids think of it as a roaring river and fancy themselves master explorers. They hopped back and forth over the water and gathered sticks, sang songs and played their hearts out. They were looking hot and thirsty. I was just thinking it was time to leave when Hannah decided she needed to pee.

I told her to pull her skirt down (doesn't every girl wear an aqua skirt with built in shorts and red glitter shoes on hikes?) and I'd help her get in the right position or she'd pee on her clothes. Of course, while I was issuing this warning, her clothes were getting the abuse I was trying to avoid. Self satisfied and a little giddy because she loves peeing in the woods, she pulled her skirt back up. The horror on her face told me she realized her mistake. Hannah detests having even minimally moist clothing and this outfit had gotten well-doused.

I had to do some fast talking to convince her that walking home through the briars completely naked was a bad idea. I even told her that I had peed on my clothes in the woods too and knew how she felt. I told her the story on the trek home. She was distracted from her misery by my tale. She was most amused to know that it was when I was a grown-up.

Upon reaching the house and catching back up with John, we decided to go to the mailbox before we went inside. John raced to the box and revealed two deliciously, Easter-yellow envelopes. Ahhh, this was the perfect way to lift Hannah's spirits after her misadventure. I smiled, realizing that Theo's grandmother had once again graced us with her impeccable thoughtfulness. She sends all the great-grandchildren cards on every, single holiday and birthday. I do believe she singlehandedly keeps Hallmark in business.

I never thought I'd regret teaching my eldest child to read. He ceremoniously held out the two envelopes and said, "This one is for John. That's me. And this one is for .... Cote? Mom, does that say Cote? Hmmm, I guess Hannah didn't get one."

Oh yeah, there's the brink and that's my daughter going right on over it. There was high-pitched wailing the likes of which can only be accomplished by a three-year-old female. I comforted her and tried to reassure her that hers was coming amidst her sorrowful chanting "Where's my mails? Where's my mails?"

I hugged. I consoled. I gave her ice water. I pointed out the twig stuck in the toe of my tennis shoe. At long last my patience and dedication wavered, so I took a picture and started writing a blog entry in my head... don't judge me.

She's at long last recovered and as I write, has been playing in the backyard. She must be okay because I was just given a beautiful, wilty dandelion by a happy girl wearing red glitter shoes. And I'm calling Theo to see if he might pick up a card on the way home.

Babies Should be Savored

2010-03-25T18:29:00.000-07:00

The baby slept in a bouncy chair while I tried to quickly make some lunch. I was bustling in the kitchen when the familiar strains of a row began in the living room.

I was frustrated that the older two were at each other's throats again and worried they would wake the baby. I came around the corner demanding, "What's the problem here?" And found the kids huddled as close as possible to the baby, one on either side. Both were as mad as hornets and the baby was as pleased as punch to be in the middle of all the action.

There was the usual blank stares and attempts to look innocent. And then John laid it out straight, "Mom, Hannah's hoarding the baby."

Inwardly, I chuckled.

Outwardly, I scowled.

Sternly, I spoke.

"No one needs to hoard the baby. Leave her alone so she can sleep and I can get lunch ready." I concluded with my routine mom threat, "Find something to do by yourselves or I will find something for you. "

It has been a few weeks since that incident. I had believed baby-hoarding and accusations of baby- hoarding were a thing of the past (grandparents notwithstanding, of course). Perhaps it's because the baby isn't quite as novel as she was brand-new-out-of-the-box. Perhaps the kids are busier in the new house. Perhaps they haven't had the chance since I wear her most of the time. But today, it happened again. Cote was happily cooing and kicking on the carpeted floor of my closet while I folded and put away clothes.

It doesn't matter where I hide. The older two always find me. John was first. He was thrilled to see his baby sister available and in a good mood. He planted himself on the floor beside her, reciprocating the coos and smiles. Hannah came tearing into the room, beside herself to find TWO siblings on the floor. She was pretty sure that meant a good time was about to be had. My heart swelled at the Norman Rockwell-ness of it all.

Then it started. Bickering. Rivalry. Name-calling. Cries of injustice. In an episode of deja vu, I uttered the parental inquest once again, "What's the problem here?"

This time Hannah answered as self-righteous as John did the previous time, "Mommy, John's horking the baby down."

Inwardly, I.....

Oh, who am I kidding? There was nothing inward. I just plain, down-right, laughed out loud. I burst into peals of maniacal mom laughter. Sometimes, that's all you can do.

Smokin' Step Aerobics

2010-03-18T10:47:00.001-07:00

Fitness guru, Holly Laughner explains how a stay-at-home mother of three can manage a smokin' step aerobics workout session at the same time she prepares breakfast. Her amazing personal narrative is located below:

I discovered this great new exercise program after we moved into our new home. Our large rancher with basement walkout provides the maximum area to get the most of my morning routine.

First, I turned on the stove and placed peppered, nitrate-free bacon in the pan. Then I poured drinks and began to crack eggs. I noticed the bacon was beginning to smoke a little, so I removed it from the heat and scrambled the eggs.

About then, I realized it was time to get loud and get moving. Just about any step aerobics class is going to have those two elements: loudness and lots of movement. I propose my exercise program, however, includes those two components with a flair that has been previously unseen.

The rhythm of my workout was not dictated by some heavily-syncopated modern music. It was dictated by a smoke alarm. Immediately, I slid a kitchen chair under the source of the noise and waved the white flag of surrender in its face. The sound subsided. I got down out of the chair as I noticed the smoke alarm in the garage beginning to sound and the one near the children's bedrooms. I ran to open every door on the main level and back to the source of it all in the kitchen because it was howling again.

Up a chair. Wave! And off the chair and sprint. And open the garage door. And up another chair. Smell the burn! Whooohooooo. Feeling good now, kids?! We're like the healthiest members of this neighborhood before nine a.m. And one more time. Up the chair. Rest in the higher altitude. You've earned it, you multitasking dynamo!

So as I panted from atop the improvised ladder, I marveled in the amazing stillness and cloud of peppered bacon aromas wafting around me. And then I heard it. There was a sound. A shrill repetitive beeping sound from the belly of the beast. How the heck is that possible? Smoke rises, right?

I froze, hoping it was a post-traumatic aural hallucination. But, my friends, it was not. The ceaseless racket continued to emanate from my basement, only barely muted by a single door to the echoing deep. My ten-year-old son was wide-eyed with excitement and the hopes that our homeschool might be cancelled for the day. My two-month-old baby was sitting, apparently underwhelmed by it all in her reclined highchair. My three-year-old daughter was standing horrified, mouth agape and hands over her ears. This was the quietest my three children have ever been at the same time and there was absolutely no way for me to enjoy the moment.

I dismounted and ran downstairs, only to find a First Alert alarm control panel informing me that the fire alarm was going off in my house. My dear little white box, you were not, in fact, the first alert by a long shot. But, I'd like to welcome you to the party anyway.

I happened to know that the security system is not connected to any outside service. Or at least I hoped that I was sure. If it was, I was very disappointed in the reaction time of the local volunteer fire department. I had half a mind to write them a letter.

I searched for an off button or a cancel button. I pressed several different buttons and called my husband, who laughed and asked, "What did you do? Burn some bacon?" After his extreme helpfulness, I proceeded to randomly press buttons and eventually the offending alarm ceased. I still have no idea which combination of commands ended the siren. I'm glad it did. Do you think the previous residents left me an owner's manual somewhere, in the event I ever have another impromptu exercise session?

Now ya'll sit down and stop acting ridiculous. It's time for breakfast. Yes, John, and then school. That, my little multi-age class of life learners, was our lesson on physical fitness and fire safety. Eat your bacon.

The Grand Opening of Sector 2

2010-03-15T11:24:00.000-07:00

We have moved into our new house in Chattanooga. The most exciting part is the formal dining room we have commandeered for the purpose of homeschooling. In our previous house, there was a schooling area but not a room dedicated as such. In an effort to make the room special and to commemorate the first day of schooling here, we are celebrating with an official grand opening.

John came up with a name for the room. Since this is the second place we are schooling, it is called "Sector 2". It sounds mysterious and official. Perfect! We also discussed the purpose of the room and prayed as we dedicated it to God and to our learning.

John baked a gluten-free, dairy-free cake with verbal assistance. Hannah hindered. (I mean "helped".) Hannah added a number 2 candle to the cake and asked if we could use a fire thingy and blow it out. Of course, I said yes. So we sang "Happy Schooling to Us" and they blew out the candle together.

There was a ribbon cutting ceremony. Both children used scissors to cut the ribbon in front of one of the entryways to Sector 2. Now they are creating commemorative pieces of artwork to hang in the room. Later, we'll play some board games.

I'm particularly fond of the wheeled teacher's chair which allows me to glide all over the room. It's almost as fun as roller skating. Nobody sits in the office chair but the teacher! No, and stop asking.

The principal was not available for pictures and was unable to be present at the ceremony. He was working in the financial department to ensure the schooling budget is met appropriately.

Grand opening photo gallery: Gallery

Why girls shouldn't pee standing up.

2009-12-18T18:10:00.000-08:00

I was having a conversation with a friend and she brought up something about her daughter having tried to pee standing up. Well, that brought a flash back to the following story. Out of extreme curiosity about how boys peed standing up, I tried it. I had no brothers so I simply had to use my imagination. Well, it worked poorly and ran down my legs. What a horrible mess. But the curiosity and the freedom of that act stayed with me into adulthood.

A few years ago my husband and son and I had been doing some hiking. It was always a big pain when I had to go pee outside because I had to go fairly far off trail to find good coverage, squat, and fight all sorts of factors to keep myself upright and dry.

But one day, I found on the internet, a quite ingenious device. It was called the Travelmate and it looked sort of like a medicine spoon with holes at both ends. The purpose was for women who were kayaking or hiking to have a more modest and easy way to pee in the woods. I was thrilled. I was so excited, in fact, I ordered one for myself and one for my mother. I knew she had secretly dreamed of being able to pee standing up as well. That, and she LOVES gadgets.

The package insert explained that I would need to practice. And practice I did. It felt quite silly and it was really hard to release those muscles after years of training to only do it in a squat or sitting position. One simply pressed the "spoon" end of the device up against the appropriate place on her body and aimed. Then she had only to tap or shake just a little to keep from dripping.

I was beside myself with excitement when we got ready for our next hike. My Travelmate device was snugly and discreetly tucked away in my front pants pocket. We hit the trails. I was sure to drink plenty of water since peeing outside was no longer going to be a harrowing ordeal for me. Before long, I felt the inevitable urge to water the trees. (I had heretofore only been able to water the grass, poison ivy, and dead leaves.)

I walked just a little ways off the trail and confidently applied my urination device whilst keeping my rear end covered and maintaining both dignity and balance. In a moment of excitement I willed myself to just let it go. Unfortunately, in my eagerness to be one of the boys, I had not placed the device snugly enough against my body to get a good seal. I had a stream of urine leaving the end of the tube and running all over my hands and down both legs. I used the hand sanitizer in my other pocket and sheepishly returned to my waiting family on the path.

Neither my son nor my husband would walk near me the rest of the hike. And wet jeans just weren't comfortable at all. I kept the device with plans to make a better go of it next time. But I could never bring myself to try it again. After a couple of years, I threw it away in disgust. Who needs a medicine spoon with holes on both ends? Too bad I tossed it. A friend of mine suggested it might be helpful during labor.

When I looked the device up on google, I was surprised to find there are all sorts of devices which might be more user friendly these days. Enjoying browsing. If you use one... please let me know how it goes. Here is a link to the Travelmate device so you can buy your own

http://www.whenyagottago.com/products/TravelMate.html .

Hannah Plans to Assault the Doctor

2009-12-03T08:22:00.001-08:00

Yesterday we had two well-child checks and my prenatal visit. As we got ready to leave, Hannah crossed her arms over her chest and declared with a pouty lip, "I'm not want to go to your puntment."

That's okay, I explained, we were going to her "puntment" right then. She uttered back something about not liking doctors. (Keep in mind the child has never had a shot in her life.) I tried to soften the blow by demonstrating how he'd take a stethoscope and put it on her chest to listen to her heartbeat. In shock, she blurted, "BUT I'm not have a baby."

Um, well, that's true. Babies aren't the only people with heartbeats...

She seemed resigned to the trip so I finished strapping her into her five point harness and we drove down the road. After a few minutes of silence, Hannah remarked that it was raining and wondered if she could take her umbrella into the doctor's office. I was relieved she was no longer insisting she wasn't going to go and readily agreed the umbrella would be a great thing to take in.

There were about ten more minutes of silence. Then seemingly out of nowhere, my sweet girl who likes to dress in beautiful clothes and secretly rearrange all the ornaments on my Christmas tree, says in a slow, deliberate monotone, "I don't like doctors. I will poke him with my umbrella."

We had a talk about how that wouldn't be nice at all and how we weren't going to hurt the doctor. When we arrived, she was terribly disappointed, "Awwww man, it's not raining anymore...." I explained it was still okay to take the umbrella in but we were going to leave it in the waiting room so the doctor would stay safe. Luckily this doctor runs on schedule so there wasn't enough time for her to plot an alternative attack.

I suppose Hannah deemed the "puntment" non-poke worthy. Dr. Schindler was on his best behavior when I warned him of the potential danger of my umbrella wielding three-year-old. Plus she got stickers so the situation was somewhat redeemed. But on the way home she realized she'd been robbed of the experience of peeing in a cup. Ahhhhhh, it's a hard life being a three year old.

Pregnant Bowling

2009-11-13T06:54:00.000-08:00

We went bowling the other day. When your belly exceeds the size and weight of the bowling ball, it might be time to put away these sorts of things until after the baby is born. We had a fantastic time, though I did ache a little afterwards. Please, no one tell my chiropractor what I was doing.

Please enjoy the pictures! Notice almost all the John photos are blurry. He's a speed bowler. Hannah had time to leave for Starbucks between the two rolls of each frame. LOL She sure loved going "Bullying"

Odor Free Preschooler

2009-11-12T07:19:00.000-08:00

I, for one, believe in good hygiene. I'm a little dubious of all the chemically laden products out there. I tend to eschew chemicals and fragrances. I use baking soda in lieu of deodorant. But I am believer in cleanliness, nevertheless.

It is interesting to note which of our priorities get passed on to our children without much thought from ourselves. Today, Hannah had a potty miss. They don't happen often and it is usually because she is very distracted by something. I was contemplating what might have held her attention to cause her to do the thing she personally hates so much, when her naked self came to me for help redressing.

At that moment I had a strong, emotional sense of appreciation and longing for my husband. I wondered if it had something to do with some random, strange pregnancy hormones when I realized Hannah didn't smell quite... like... Hannah. This was outside the realm of the presence or absence of ammoniacal urine smells.

So as I maneuvered my cumbersome abdomen so I could bend to assist my little girl, I sniffed deeply. It might be illogical to sniff a child, but it is some maternal imperative that requires I find the source of all unusual scents. At once, loving thoughts of my husband sprang to my mind.

Aha, that was it. "Hannah, did you use Daddy's deodorant?"

"Yesth! He will be thso happy at me! He will like my armpits!"

So the pants wetting was related to an attempt at armpit hygiene. I get that now. And, I have a good plan for when Theo is out of town. Just lather the girl in his deodorant and sniff till my heart's content. Nevermind all the chemicals I can't pronounce, the man does smell good.

Hannah washed her own hands

2009-10-21T12:21:00.000-07:00

Hannah got wide-eyed and sorta jumped as she blurted, "I half a pee-pee!" She tore off to the bathroom only to leave and run to the other end of the house for her footstool. She came back lugging the large wooden object. A few seconds later, I heard the tinkling sound of success from the next room.

I heard her move the footstool to the sink and the hand washing began. I didn't pay much attention as the sound of running water is apparently somewhat hypnotic. After what must have been an inordinate amount of time, I called, "Hannah, I'm sure your hands are clean now. Turn off the water, please."

She immediately complied and I was confident in my parent prowess. You know how that goes.

Pride...

Fall...

I heard the slick wringing of still soapy hands and suggested she turn the water on and rinse off quickly. Next I heard joyous three-year-old giggles and "Bubble, bubble, bubble" in a sweet sing-song. Ok, it was well overdue that I stood to investigate.

Half an industrial-sized box of baking soda, entire container of hand soap, lots of water, one footstool and an Elmo shirt = Sudsy Happy Hannah. She's mastered the lather, now on to rinse and repeat.

Celebrating and remembering.

2009-09-16T09:35:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, thirteen members of my family gathered at the courthouse in Sevierville. I was grinning as we got out of our car. Then I realized all the other people in the parking lot were not smiling and I remembered that a trip to court is only very rarely a reason to smile. But our contingent of 13 had plenty cause.

We were there to witness the finalization of my niece's adoption. She's been home with her Mommy and Daddy for six months now. And her name now officially matches what we've been calling her all this time.

I believe it was particularly poignant for John and Theo and I. We were in the same building six years ago swearing to continue being a family as we had already been doing for the two years before that. That was six years ago. And John remembers the event.

When we told him where we were going yesterday morning, he asked, "Oh, like when we did my adoption... when I went up and hugged the judge? -- Of course, everyone probably does that."

No my dear son, I don't believe hugging the judge is a normal course of action in any proceeding.

After we pledged to be John's "official" parents, an almost four-year-old John rushed toward the front of the courtroom. Our flabbergasted attorney managed a quick "Your Honor, May John approach the bench?!"

He flew around the bench, climbing into the judge's lap and hugged his neck and uttered a breathless "Thank You!" Our fast-thinking DCS worker snapped a photo.

And let the record reflect that no one remembered John at the courthouse yesterday by name or looks. But as soon as we mentioned the hugging of the judge... both the judge and the attorney grinned as widely as we were and insisted they indeed remembered the event. No John, you rarely do anything that everybody else does. And that's only one of the many things we love about you.

Thank you Addie for sharing your adoption day with us. You and John will always have this special way of entering our family to share.

Pictures from John's Adoption Day: August 13, 2003 In the group photo, Addie's parents are on the far right second and back row. :D They had no idea they'd be back there for their own child in six years.

Of Napkins, Movies, and a Hannah

2009-08-08T17:34:00.000-07:00

Tonight we rented a movie for the family to watch together. I was in the kitchen picking up a little and preparing popcorn and drinks. I didn't have as big a lunch as the boys (Mexican buffet -- the big dweebs), so I pulled out the rotisserie chicken from Earth Fare and started enjoying a little cold chicken.

Then Hannah sauntered slowly into the kitchen. Sauntering is how she generally moves so it wasn't terribly surprising. "Whatcha eatin', Mom?" Of course I offered her some chicken too. She polished off a wing and reached for more. I obliged. We chit-chatted while we ate and gathered movie snacks.

Finally, Hannah, covered in a rotisserie spice beard, with greasy fingers reaches into the drawer where we keep cloth napkins and explains that she needs one. I offered her a plate, but she said that no, she just wanted a "napakin". She sauntered back out of the kitchen.

A little while later I arrived in the bedroom for the movie. Theo said,

"She spilled kombucha all over the couch. I sent her to the kitchen to get a napkin. And about twenty minutes later, after I cleaned it all up, she came back with a napkin and a chicken bone."

Hahahaha. That's my girl. No reason to hurry, ever. But she's responsible enough at age two to remember the reason she originally came to the kitchen. Theo still doesn't know my side of the story. I'll have to share it with him in a few minutes, when he's done playing piano.

Minister of Music

2009-08-06T17:57:00.000-07:00

(Warning: miscarriage discussed if that is a sensitive topic for anyone.)

The house is dark. The children are in bed. Theo is out of town. And yet, I am listening to him play guitar and sing praise songs on a CD he made five years ago. He is the minister of music in our house.

In November 2004, Theo went on his first foreign mission trip. I really wanted to go but had a small son with special needs and I was pregnant with our first biological child. It was best for me to stay home.

Theo and I knew it would be difficult for John to be without his Daddy for almost two weeks. John adored Theo and could barely wait for him to come home everyday after work. Every night Theo played piano or guitar and sang praise and worship songs after John was in bed.

At that time, John's bed was against the wall the piano was on. He would lay with his body pressed to that wall to feel the vibrations as the piano played. John always fell asleep quickly, before Theo was finished playing. At the end of the music, he would turn off the night light in John's room and say "Good night, my precious child," into the room as he went to our room.

Knowing how important this ritual was to a boy who had suffered so many attachment issues, he made some special provisions that I had no idea about. He wrote a letter to us each individually to open each day of his absence. Each letter revealed the location of the following day's letter. John's note always included some stickers too. With the first letter, I discovered Theo had created a CD of himself playing his nightly music, complete with the good night wish to his precious child.

Theo had no idea how important that CD and letters would become while he was in Romania. While he was on the plane, moving farther and farther from us, I found out that I was going to miscarry. We discussed his coming home but I insisted I needed him to follow through with what he was doing, though I missed him and wanted him terribly.

It was a time that allowed many, many people in my family and church family and other friends to care for me in ways they would not have done if Theo had been here. Love and support poured in. My mother-in-law and I developed a very special and tight bond as she cared for me in his absence. After the first few nights, I wanted to be back at my own house to mourn by myself and I found myself so greatly soothed by Theo's CD, as I'm sure John was.

The time passed in a haze and Theo was home for the hard part when I actually miscarried on Thanksgiving Day, a couple of days after he returned. Since then, I've miscarried twice more. Once on an anniversary of the first.

I've also had a healthy pregnancy that gave us Hannah. I'm now pregnant for the fifth time and find myself reminiscing as Theo is out of town. This baby has a heartbeat and has lived longer than any of the three we won't meet until heaven.

What a comfort to hear his voice, his words of praise for our God, the comfort of songs he's been singing for years. This time the CD soothes two children to sleep and also soothes a pregnant wife who has been changed and improved though she now bears more scars than when the music was originally recorded.

Thank You, Father for providing me with such a provider. Thank you, Theo for being my husband of 14 years and my love for 18. I really look forward to your live music ministry when you return. Good night, my precious husband. I miss you.

Homeschooling Hannah?

2009-08-06T07:18:00.000-07:00

It's been quite funny to watch the schooling that Hannah has "caught" simply by watching her brother's education. Bible is our first subject of the day. Of course, I invite Hannah to sit on the couch with John while I pray and tell a Bible story and draw horrible stick figures to represent the action on our whiteboard/easel.

Most of the time, my spirited two-year-old simply roams around and waits to have access to the dry erase markers. For months though, she's been hanging around long enough to pray and add her own amens. Then she usually gets up and is off to do something else.

Occasionally she stays nearby to listen whilst caring for naked Barbie's needs, whatever they might be. Naked Barbie almost always needs shoes and pistachios. That's just how Barbie rolls.

This morning Hannah firmly planted herself on the couch next to John. She was duly armed, not with a Naked Barbie, but with a pad of paper and a pencil. She gestured with her pencil as I paused to evaluate this new development and urged me with a nod and her sweet toddler voice, "Go on, Mommy. I'm ready."

I began the lesson with my stick-figure-Jesus, who always sports a goatee, in a boat telling parables in Capernaum. I asked John if he remembered what a parable was. My second student piped up, "I'm gonna write that down, but, go on."
She sat through the whole story, applauding when the grain fell on good soil.

Now: she's partially naked and playing with blocks. But I think Barbie might be dressed. Be prepared. It's a topsy, turvy world today!

John Writes Tragic Story

2009-08-04T18:26:00.000-07:00

Who knew that a four sentence story could end tragically? Who knew that it could end that way when the assignment was simply, "Please write four sentences about a bird who lives in our backyard."

I was a little nervous when I assigned this task to John. He has been very resistant about the whole writing thing. I had to limit the robot suit stories. I have had enough robot suits, hamsters wearing robot suits and robot suits that wear robot suits. So today's simple assignment was a little out of John's comfort zone.

He attacked the paper greedily as he wanted to play with his cousin. He wrote furiously while she ran around waiting for him to finish. I've never seen him churn out four sentences so fast in his life. Usually he whines and complains how he can't think of anything and then he whines and complains how he forgot whatever he finally came up with. But today, he only paused for some occasional spelling assistance. My curiosity was certainly piqued.

He smugly presented his writing like an inmate with discharge papers. And then I read the story (Thunderbolt is our cat):

A bird lives in my bakyard. He runs awy from Thunderblot. The brid flies awy from Thunderblot. thunderblot caught the brid.

Sure, he should have considered more than the occasional request for spelling assistance. Sure, there's a sentence begun with a lower case letter. One must, however, appreciate the ironic simplicity of the piece. I particularly like how he used repetition to get two sentences out of one concept. Hmmm, perhaps I sense a lesson on conjunctions sometime in the near future.

It's a genuine foray into nature versus nature. It's certainly not what I had expected. He did it willingly and with gusto. It was enough to warrant the end of his schoolwork for the afternoon and a fun romp with his little cousin.

I'm thinking of changing the cat's name to Thunderblot. It sounds even more dangerous than Thunderbolt.

Comfort Fit, My Rear!

2009-06-28T18:41:00.000-07:00

Don't get me wrong. You all must know that I love being pregnant. I mean my original goal was to have 19 children, because 20 might be over the top. But that doesn't stop me from suffering pregnancy symptoms or from whining just a little. While my epidural-free birth wasn't as painful as I imagined it could have been, I won't pretend it didn't hurt.

So onto to a slightly-amused-at-my-own-predicament style rant about maternity clothes. Last time, my maternity clothes rant was because I couldn't find any pants with pockets. Now there are pockets everywhere but I can't stand the comfort fit waist.

Comfort fit, my rear. And I mean that. The problem is my rear. I have a flat butt. Well, no butt really.

And this is not a form of bragging. I know there are lots of women out there who have the opposite problem. I understand these things as I'm quite ample in the breast department and basically am never, ever able to wear a shirt that buttons in the front. I lost 80 pounds and retained G cups. So don't hate me for my non-existent derriere.

I also realize women who are heavy-chested sometimes wish they had less and women who are small-breasted sometimes wish they had more. Women who have curly hair can wish it was straight and vice versa.

But this time it has nothing to do with vanity, other than my not wanting to be naked in public. The enthusiastic sales woman at Motherhood Maternity said this new style was wonderful because there were no seams to rub or annoy anywhere around the entire waist of these miracle pants. I hadn't remembered being rubbed the wrong way by the seams in my pants before, but hey, I'm always up for anything that promotes more comfort. (Except epidurals, I suppose...)

The first issue, though minor in comparison to my main complaint is related to thermodynamics. (I don't know if that word applies here, but I'm going with it anyway.) All that extra fabric has to go somewhere. I can either roll it down and have one of those bulging, digging rolls similar to what happens after an entire day of control top panty hose, or I can stretch out the miles of miraculously expansive material to just under my breasts. Everyday of this very hot summer, due to the "comfort fit", I wear at least two layers of clothing over my already incubating belly. I didn't need the help maintaining my core body temperature, really.

The other more important issue involves my butt. Apparently I will not stretch that tube sock-like band out enough to hold these things up until I'm roughly nine months pregnant. Every few minutes, I have to hike them up because the crotch ends up somewhere close to my knees and I have trouble walking.

Remember that scene from Mary Poppins where Dick Van Dyke stretches his white pants down to his knees and dances with the cartoon penguins? Yeah, that's me. I know I will eventually waddle. It's bad enough I'm showing this soon, let's not have a wardrobe malfunction related waddle in the first trimester. I'd prefer a little dignity, please.

The tails of my shirts ride up in the back whilst the pants ride down and I end up showing that not-so-comfy-or-fitting-waistband off like I'm a gansta poser. My toddler uses my baggy butt fabric as a handle. I need help!

Anyone else feel my pain? Any companies making maternity clothes with a simple belly panel like they used to? Oh, and it wouldn't hurt if they came with pockets.

The shirts are cute though. You win some, you lose some.

Things are going swimmingly!

2009-06-19T11:18:00.000-07:00

Wow, it's like the ghost of athletics past has come to visit me. I used to be the one racing. I used to be the one with dry, green hair. I used to be the one slipping into a cold pool every morning. I've gone back in time to watch it all again, only it's from the outside. I'm the mother of the swimmer now. And it's not a little weird.

It's taken John a long time to reach the point where we've come to believe he can emotionally handle the rigors of participating in a sport with his peers. I still wince when it is time to wake him up for the pool after a particularly hard day.

But each morning, he gets up without complaint and dons his cute, little snug speedos. (The long ones are in, nowadays. They're called jammers, I believe). He leaves the van before I've turned off the engine and is in the pool before Hannah and I slowly approach the deck.

His first day in practice went pretty much as I expected. He cried. Hard. Sobbed. Twice. And said he was never coming back. Since then, he's only had two more crying spells and they were very, very minor and somewhat age appropriate.

On Wednesday, John participated in his first swim meet ever. He was lined up behind the blocks. The heat right in front of him had just taken their marks, when the meet was halted due to thunder.

We spent the next two hours holed up in the van trying to wait out the intense lightning storm and hail. Don't let me forget to note that this pool was an hour away from our house. Hannah had a great time freely roaming the van and pushing all the buttons she could find. When I turned on the van Thursday morning, I was a little unsure of how to turn off the rear windshield wiper and I was tired of listening to rap music.

The meet was scheduled to be completed on Thursday but there was a 40% chance of rain. I hoped that he'd at least get to swim long enough to complete one roughly, 30-second journey down the pool this time. They were going to pick up right where they left off.

I asked if he was nervous. (I certainly was.) No. Though he'll cry at the drop of a hat and suffers from intense anxiety in most other areas of his life, apparently he has nerves of steel when it comes to racing. Go figure.

He stepped on the blocks. (He usually does his somewhat awkward bird legged leap from the wall.) He kept his arms in perfect stream line position over his head before the starter even told the swimmers to take their marks. The field was off. Three other boys, aged 9-10, shot into the water in sleek, shallow dives then erupted, all splashes and arms, several yards down the pool. John performed a gut-wrenching belly-flop/walk-on-the-water maneuver and had to start swimming from a near stop. He buried his head and stroked half the pool with no breath.

I knew it was coming. Eventually his need for oxygen would supersede his athletic ambition. He suddenly rolled to his side and breathed for what seemed like five minutes in the middle of the pool while his three competitors duked it out for first place at the wall. He put his face back in and swam with all the vigor he could muster. He never slowed, other than to breathe twice more and came in strong at the finish, long after the others has exited the pool.

I was proud of his courage, his dedication and his lack of upset at being last. I cried. It was the silent, swelling cry I always have when I watch the Olympics. Here is a swimmer with heart. And he was cheered for accordingly, by more people than his mother and his coach. He was nonchalant about the experience and ready for his other two events.

He also swam the 25 yard backstroke and the 25 yard breaststroke, even though he's never been instructed on the highly technical requirements of the latter. He came in last each time, undaunted. After the breaststroke, when he was disqualified due to flutter kicking and touching the wall with only one hand, he was thrilled. "Hey, Mom, that wasn't bad for my first time!" I LOVE that boy! So unselfconscious, so happy, so tough. I'm glad I'm finally getting to know him, even if it means schlepping him to meets across East Tennessee.

He lounged, ate, and frolicked with other kids for the remainder of the meet. There was plenty of good, healthy mud from the previous night's storm. He was the only one from our team that I saw approach the other team's camp and look for playmates. I also saw him shake hands with a swimmer from the other team and say, "Good Meet."

He is learning discipline and perseverance and about having fun. He knows this sport is about improving your personal best. He challenges and inspires me. I can't wait until Tuesday when I will bask my sweaty, pregnant body in the sun once again and scream "Go, John, Go!" till I am hoarse. And then I will drag our exhausted bodies back to the pool the following morning where we all will learn a little bit more about dedication and hard work.

Go Stingrays!

Nerves of Steel

2009-06-03T04:08:00.000-07:00

My labor with Hannah was induced mostly because there were no accelerations in her heartbeat. Yet, she was born were perfect Apgar scores. Since I've gotten to know my stealth baby, I've come to realize that her heart rate probably rarely accelerates even today.

In school I learned about lo-gain and high-gain personalities. Those with high-gain personalities receive more stimulation from a situation or experience than one would expect. Those with lo-gain personalities receive less stimulation from a situation than one would expect. They are the risk-takers. They seek out new and exciting things to do, all while seeming slightly bored.

John is the perfect example of a high-gain personality. John is an intense person and every event is the most thrilling, most terrifying, most sad thing in the whole world. Perhaps it's his personality. Perhaps it's a symptom of his emotional issues. But many of our family members have determined whether the correct present has been selected for John's birthday based on whether he exhibits the excited face rub or not. Evidenced by his earth shattering wails, I thought the poor boy was going to die right then and there with Marley when we went to see Marley and Me, thinking it was simply a sweet movie about a dog.

I've decided swimming is a great sport for John. There are only four strokes and only 25 meters of pool. Every practice is strikingly similar. It's safe and calm enough for him to enjoy. I think that's why he enjoys camping so much, he can go at his own pace and explore as his personality dictates. Amusement parks are too harried for this kid.

Hannah is closer to lo-gain than the other end of the spectrum. Nothing much excites her. I think she enjoys life all around her, but she likes to enjoy it from the height of the bookshelf or from the top of the kiddie roller-coaster. (She just isn't tall enough for the good stuff yet.) She moves slowly and sure-footedly. She calculates and takes risks. When Hannah experienced the rather intense Marley and Me she asked me several times in her sweet, mildly concerned voice, "Oh Mommy, that doggy is sick? They gonna fick it?"

She'd be the kind of person who would make a good surgeon or lifeguard or military leader. She is methodical and unflappable. When it is all just too much for nine-year-old John, and he goes to his room in hysterics, Hannah will calmly inform me that she will go check on him. Then she enters his rooms and says, "Awww John, you need a hug?" She sees and acts on what needs to be done and isn't influenced by the electric emotions buzzing all around her. Nerves of steel, that one. Nerves of steel.

On our recent camping trip, we took a beautiful train ride to a mining camp. Hannah adores trains almost as much as babies, shoes and letters and yet, she did not exhibit the behavior of an over-excited two-year-old, bouncing in the seat and giddily talking about being on a train. She was very absorbed in her surroundings and enjoying the experience. She staunchly insisted on standing in the seat and hanging half her body out the window for a good portion of the trip. My mother diligently held onto her so she could experience the ride safely from that angle.

Look at her face in the picture above as she watches the passing scenery with all the relish her lo-gain personality can muster. Don't worry, she is, in fact, having a fantastic time. I know, because when we talk about the trip, she calmly and assuredly says, "Again. I want to do that, again." Notice the lack of exclamation points.

Swamp Thing

2009-06-02T03:31:00.001-07:00

We went camping over Memorial Day weekend. My sister and her family came with us. So did my parents. We camped in a beautiful setting in the woods in Big South Fork National Park in Kentucky. But it was like we went camping without John. He spent most of the weekend in a swamp.

John is getting close to ten years old now. Only two summers ago, I was having to literally teach him how to have fun. Birthday parties often entailed a great deal of excitement only to end in toddler style tears and tantrums when something innocuous to everyone else would happen, like there would be skating at a skating party. It has been especially difficult as John is quite big for his age. He looks at least a year older than most of his same age peers.

Last Summer, I watched him play tag on the playground for the first time. And it didn't even end in tears. Then he began making friendships that he could maintain for a couple of hours without getting called mean names.

This summer, it's like Pinnochio has finally become a real boy. When John is in a social group at this point, most of the time, strangers would have absolutely no idea of John's issues and I'm very happy that's the case. It means he's having fun and he's growing emotionally.

Theo commented after our weekend that he was sad he didn't spend much time with John. Oh, but I wasn't sad at all. I posed the question, "When have we EVER done anything for three whole days where John was HAPPY the whole time?" It has never happened before. It's never even been close.

There were about ten boys in the campground aged 6-12. They played most of the weekend in a bog doing boy things. They caught salamanders and tadpoles. They chased the only two girls in the campground. They visited each other's campsites and played cards. They started at about 8 in the morning and John would wander back to camp exhausted and starving when it was finally dark around 10 pm. It was hard keeping him quiet and not knocking on doors before 8am.

Theo went to let him know that dinner was ready at one point and he said, "awwww, do I have to come?" Theo told him he was just letting him know that it was hot. He appeared a couple of hours later and wolfed down some food barely sitting long enough to warm the picnic table bench. The few family activities we did do that involved a ride in car or some other reason he had to sit still, meant he was sound asleep.

He was dirty and he stank. He was covered in mosquito bites and encountered a tick who decided it wanted to stay in a very private area. He was overtired. He was underfed. He hung out in a group of boys just as slime covered as himself. I was so proud! I can't wait to take him camping without us again!

And the girls just sat around reading trashy magazines.

Theo had a Hot Date on Saturday Night

2009-06-01T10:07:00.000-07:00

I just spoke to my Mary Kay lady/previous Pastor's wife. She's a wonderful, fun, bubbly lady with a great sense of humor. I'm always happier after I talk to her. I was downright giddy after our phone call today.

I had seen her son a couple of days ago. Theo and I were on a date and we stopped by the highly romantic destination of U.S. Cellular. It'd been a while since I'd seen Chris and I marvelled at how he was "all grown up". I think he's about 20 now and wasn't a scrawny teenager any more. He spoke with us for a few minutes and went to speak with an agent across the room.

I kept sneaking looks at him. Theo once taught this man in youth group. How weird that he looks so old... but Chris kept looking back and making eye contact. I decided I must be making him uncomfortable so I willed myself to look elsewhere.

I asked Terri if he'd mentioned seeing us. And she said that yes, Chris came home and told them he saw Theo. She asked if he was with anyone else, since they know so many of our local family members. He said yes, but he didn't know who she was. Trying to rule out people, she asked if the woman had red hair. No. So it wasn't Theo's sister or mother. She asked Chris to describe the lady.

Her immediate response was "Chris, that's Holly."

He said, "Mom, it's been a while since I've seen her. But I think I'd recognize her."

She asked if the lady had spikey hair and he confirmed it was so. She repeated, "Chris, that's Holly!"

He said something to the effect of "...if you say so..."

I have to wonder what he thought about the fact that Theo's pregnant girlfriend was so chatty with him and mentioned buying Mary Kay from his mother! I've been bursting out into random peals of laughter ever since I got off the phone!

This is a public service announcement in defense of my husband's reputation: In case you haven't seen me in a while, Theo is not dating another woman. I have lost 80 lbs. I have spikey hair and I now use accessories like purses and jewelry. I wear makeup and am pregnant.

For the time being, I still have a large mole on my chin. Until I get it removed, please feel free to use that as a reference point.

The first picture is roughly how I looked the last time Chris saw me! The second is sorta how I looked when Chris saw me on Saturday, minus the toddler and plus a preggo belly.

Fresh Flowers. Good Food. A Little Conversation.

2009-05-30T06:10:00.000-07:00

I think I'm going to like being a swim mom. It's kinda like being a soccer mom without the shin guards. And never you fear, I do have a minivan. We were on our daily "minivanation" into Sevierville for practice. That is when I spend time trying to keep my younger child awake and trying to avoid learning way too much about butune lighter enhanced robots and cars that transform into boats that transform into helicopters from my elder child all while navigating traffic.

The highlight of the trip was a phone call from Theo. He was headed home and asked if I had something planned for dinner. I explained there was a chicken thawing and he should feel free to go ahead and roast it.

We continued our trek. There was swimming, choking, goggle-adjusting and coloring whilst sitting on bleachers. Then we returned home. That trip involved wildly dramatic children's songs sung by myself in a continued effort to maintain consciousness on the part of a very, very tired two-year-old. At that point in the afternoon, John usually eats his snack and remains mum on all his typical plans to recreate his favorite super heroes using parts from gutted remote control toys.

We arrived home to find that Theo had the table set and a delicious hot dinner prepared. He made roasted chicken and baked potatoes coated in olive oil and sea salt. There was even a vase of melon-colored alstroemerias sitting in the middle of the table.

Immediately after shoving her first bite of chicken into her mouth, Hannah discovered the flowers. She deduced they were purchased exclusively for her. "Thank you, Flower...mmmm, yum...Daddy! I like chicken. Pretty."

We lavished our thanks on Theo for the hot dinner ready the moment we stepped in the door and discussed the day's schooling and practice and all those tid bits we share at dinner each day. Hannah was obviously still processing the glorious centerpiece.

"I touch it." She said as she slowly rose from her booster seat with a chubby hand extended toward the flowers.

"They are pretty, Hannah. They aren't for touching, just looking at." Her benefactor explained.

Deterred but not crestfallen, she returned to her seat and ate some potato. As she chewed, she apparently wanted to know more about the events surrounding her father's demonstration of love. She cocked her head and gestured with her fork, "You buy those at Wal-mart?"

Theo stifled a giggle and said, "No, I bought them at Food City."

At last, her questions were answered to her satisfaction. She nodded appreciatively. Many good things come from that grocery store. "Ahhhhhhh, Fooood City." She said breathily, as if to approve of his choice.

Good food. Fresh Flowers. A little conversation. It's what a toddler girl wants.

Weird Pregnancy Dreams

2009-05-29T01:00:00.000-07:00

So the weird pregnancy dreams have begun....

I had two in one night. The first involved a visit from John's biological parents which is really odd as I haven't heard from them in a couple of years and haven't seen them in about five years. We had a nice visit catching up and she showed me pictures of two little girls. Then she told me they were her youngest daughters and wondered if I'd adopt them too.

Then I had a dream about my sister, who, in real life, has recently adopted a beautiful little girl from Ethiopia. Stephani had researched and discovered a new way to increase the bonding between herself and her daughter. It was called the "re-womb" experience. The adoptive mother underwent surgery to open a cavity in her chest and the child was sewn up inside for a period of two to three months.

When I asked my sister why didn't they use the uterus instead of the chest, she had a perfectly rational explanation (for a weird dream). She said that there were organs in front of and behind the uterus making it too difficult to access during abdominal surgery. (Tell that to OB's who do C-sections everyday...) It made more sense to utilize the extra space behind the ribcage which is only used when you breathe deeply. Besides, the ribcage would also protect the child during the re-wombing.

So my sister underwent the surgery despite my desperate attempts to suggest she try a sling instead. She walked around for two months with a big pregnant chest containing a 22 lb one-year-old. She also touted the benefits of the experience rebooting her daughter's nutritional profile as she was a little undernourished when they met.

Two-months later, Addie was removed from her re-womb and was a fat, little, roly-poly baby. I never did find out how it impacted their attachment.

Please feel free to share your weird dreams!

Naming Babies

2009-05-28T06:11:00.000-07:00

The process of naming children is always interesting to me. My interest is renewed as I contemplate the name of the child I currently carry in my womb. I always thought I'd want to use creative, rare names for my children. And then my first child came pre-named. I really never expected that to happen when I envisioned my future family. But I never expected to become a foster/adoptive parent, either.

At first I was a little underwhelmed by what I perceived to be the most common boy's name in history. It grew on me, though. Actually, we offered John the opportunity during our adoption finalization, when John was four, to choose his own name but he chose to keep his original given name. I was glad. His birth parents were surprised and honored that we chose his original last name as his new middle name.

By the time of his adoption, we had decided that he was officially named after John the Baptist. If I were naming him as a newborn, that's what I would have done. And our first biological child's name was also a Biblical name: Hannah. I was thinking last night that both children have personalities and hearts similar to their namesakes.

John has certainly proven himself to be a man of the wilderness. He adores being outside and experiencing all the glory of the creation God has made. He has an uncanny ability to recognize spiritual truth. And just as his namesake jumped in the womb at the prescence of his savior, our John would also exhibit his joy in a very physical way. I see my John as one who is bold and audacious and sometimes poorly understood. If he strongly believes in something, he will not back down. He is also one who recognizes only ultimate authority, but when he does he will demonstrate humility and declare himself unworthy to even untie the sandals of the Son of God.

Hannah also shares traits with her Biblical namesake. She is named for the Hannah who prayed desperately for a child. I came to pray Hannah's words for my self after two pregnancy losses. Hannah was conceived not long after I began praying that prayer.

Hannah is a peaceful child, calm, quiet but one who makes known her desires. She will doggedly pursue her dreams and goals with a faithful steadfastness. As Samuel's future mother prayed unselfconsciously for a child from God, our Hannah is not a performer. She behaves in whatever way she behaves regardless of who is watching. Our Hannah also exhibits a love for children and babies. She spends a great deal of time each day caring for any representation she can find for her future children. She also sings to them about how Jesus loves them. I pray she will grow into the kind of mother who will choose to give her children over to the service of her Lord.

We never intended to begin a tradition of naming our children after Biblical characters, but I know our Lord designs all things and that His ways are higher than our ways. I believe we may continue in this tradition and I wonder now who is my third child. Is this an Isaiah who will have a willing heart and say, "Here am I, Lord, send me."? Or is he a Paul who will share his gospel with an unmatched passion and dedication? Or is this a Sarah in whom promises will be fulfilled and who will laugh. Or is this a Lydia or Rebekah or a wise, older Elizabeth who can mentor and support others in difficult times? Or is this Ruth with a fierce dedication and undying faith? Or is this a child who will stay with us for such a short time, we won't discover his earthly personality like some of his siblings before?

It will be a while before we know. We are opting this time to allow our child to be knit together in secret, without invasive tests and gender identification. But we can't wait to meet this gift from God. I pray that this child will have a name worthy of the plans his Father has for him.

(Or her, of course, just using the masculine pronoun convention)

My Personal 1198th Reason to Homeschool

2009-05-27T07:48:00.000-07:00

With any decisions I make as a parent, there are always doubts. That is even the case with things that I KNOW are right. Homeschooling a child with special needs has definitely been one of those situations riddled with uncertainty.

Last weekend we had a wonderfully exhausting camping trip and I decided to let John sleep in this morning to help him recover. When he sleeps in, I spend more time on the internet.... and then the kids find some things to entertain themselves while they wait for me to reenter reality.

Sometimes they do some pretty amazing things. This morning, they decided to share the rocking chair and Hannah asked John to read to her. They are already on book number two. It's a good thing Hannah tolerates Star Wars and Walle! Aren't they sweet?

2009-05-19T20:00:00.000-07:00

I stumbled onto this set of photos from last summer whilst looking for a photo I needed to blog this week. The kids and I spent the day picnicking and swimming in the river at Metcalf Bottoms.

We tied up the baby wrap into a hammock for the princess. And John body surfed the rapids till he developed quite colorful bruises on both of his newly skinny hips.

I packed homemade spaghetti in a thermos along with a bunch of guacamole. There were grapes and dark chocolate and lawn chairs. It was a great day. I sat on a little earthen landing, listening to my father excitedly share some historical tidbits which are forever lost to me. John continued to body surf and Hannah explored the rocky beach. She went around a large boulder to explore even more rocks.

From my perch, I could see she was perfectly safe. From my mother's perspective, she went around the boulder and dropped from view, possibly into the swirling current. Her instinct to rescue Hannah was flawless. Her foot placement however, I believe, causes her pain to this day.

We believe she lodged her foot under a tree root and pivoted in her attempt to run. Instead she broke her ankle and her thumb. She yelped and tried to get up again in concern for her granddaughter. She wouldn't lie still until I had yelled repeatedly that Hannah was okay. Only then, did she stop to consider herself and the cracking sound she heard when she fell.

It was a good day. We had a great time playing together and I saw sacrificial love. I'm just sorry my Mom got hurt in the process. Thank you, Mom. I love you. ... Even if you did tell me I had garlic breath as Dad and I helped you to the van. I hadn't planned on being quite that close to you after we ate that guacamole.

****This was a year ago. Mom has completely recovered. ****

So little time to blog

2009-05-12T20:54:00.000-07:00

Wow, time can really get away from a person. I've been busy!

OnWednesday night, Hannah developed a fever. It didn't go away all day Thursday. She was a pitiful, melty lump on my lap the entire day. She threw up one time early in the morning. I was sure she had the flu but it was a weird time for her to come down with something as the only logical source of exposure could have been church on Sunday.

She missed the fun on Friday. (Read below). And she was fever free for 24 hours by Saturday so she could be unquarantined to attend that day's fun. (Read Below)

By Sunday night, I was tickling her while we worked on a puzzle on the floor. She threw her head back and laughed.... and I spotted four little white peaks poking out of her gums in the upper, left side of the back of her mouth. I hadn't even considered teething! Poor baby!

On Friday, John had a field trip to the airplane museum in Sevierville with my father.

During the field trip we had a girl's day playing with new makeup colors with our favorite Mary Kay Lady, Terri Houser! My Mother's Day gift to Mom was a fresh face. She got to pick out eyeshadows, lipstick, gloss, lipliner, eyeliner, blush, bronzer and other fun stuff. I think she enjoyed it. It was especially cool how Terri adapted to Mom as a visual learner. She kept getting her attention and making eye contact and performing very visually for her. It was fantastic!

The party, at my sister's house, included my sister and her baby, my sister-in-law and her toddler, and my mother. After the party, John and Dad returned and we all had homemade pizza.

Then my sister-in-law shared that she was pregnant. I was very excited because Krista and I were pregnant at the same time before. I was pretty sure that this meant I'd be pregnant within the next four months. I certainly hoped that history would repeat itself.

On Saturday we celebrated Addie's birthday! We partied. Addie made a huge mess of herself with a purple-iced chocolate cupcake. Her mother made sure she was whisked away quickly by a grandmother who returned Addie after a quick scrub down and costume change. Addie played with her friends and cousins and was summarily passed about the room as relatives are wont to do with a baby who can't quite run fast enough to get away. John ate copious amounts of food and played video games.

On Sunday, we celebrated Mother's Day and Addie's church dedication. It's like Ben and Stefi are new proud parents or something. This was a totally Addie-centric weekend. >Giggle<

At the dedication, she wore a beautiful pink eyelet lace dress and did quite a number waving her father's tie in his face and also the preacher's.

We all went out to lunch afterward and were very surprised to find many restaurants in Pigeon Forge practically deserted, even on Mother's Day. We ate at the Flying Horse Grill and they handled the allergies wonderfully. None of their food is pre-marinated or pre-seasoned and they even bread their own chicken tenders so they grilled some gluten free ones for John.

Sunday Evening we celebrated my brother-in-law's 30th birthday. (Do I add the apostrophe to the brother or the law?) We had a great time with some friends and family. John had a great time playing with a little boy about his age, which is a great treat for him since he's always surrounded by toddler girls!

There were fireworks, which Hannah calls "fu#*erworks". Don't worry, I only had her repeat it a million times as all of the adults tried to snicker inconspicuously with their hands over their mouths.

On Monday we tried to get back into the swing of school but started late since we had all partied late the night before. At some point during the morning, I discovered that swim team sign ups started that day and we rushed around to get ready for that.

This will be John's first time ever participating in an organized sport. It doesn't hurt my feelings at all that it is the particular sport of my youth. He looks so cute in his new snazzy goggles and longie speedos. I'm so proud and excited for him!

On a whim, we went out to watch Star Trek in the theater! The show started at 7pm after we had a nice dinner on our front porch. By 8:05, Hannah had peed her pants, demanded water, refused to share with John and then loudly proclaimed she was indeed sharing, and then fell asleep. I was able to watch the second half of the movie with only the small distraction of a sweaty face plastered to my chest and neck and the tingling feeling of my sleeping limbs.

In a whirlwind rush of activity I arrived with a thud on Tuesday. On Tuesday afternoons, I pick up my share box from Green Man Farm and visit the farmer's market and the co-op. It was already scheduled to be a busy day.

But then, I noticed something I hadn't really paid attention to during my busy week. The evidence of my monthly fertility renewal had fizzled. I suddenly had reason to run to the neighborhood grocery store first thing this morning with one lanky nine-year-old in unmatched, wrinkly clothing and one shaggy-haired, be-stained two-year-old to pick up a fancy stick that I could bring home to urinate upon. How's that for a classy experience?!

Well, to add to my very, very busy week I spent a great deal of time jubilantly screaming and staring at the peed-upon stick! Praise God! I also had a few phone calls to make and some farmers to visit. Wow! What a great few days. Please forgive my not blogging it in real-time! :D

Writing on the Walls

2009-05-06T09:51:00.000-07:00

Some of you are familiar with Hannah's sneaky antics from this entry and also, this one, oh,and this one.
With that background, suffice it to say that I found Hannah drawing on her bedroom walls with sidewalk chalk. I had gone into her room to get her dressed for the day. As I took off her pajama top, I discovered the writing. "Oh.... Hannah..." I said with that slow, disappointed tone in my voice. "You aren't supposed to write on the walls." I finished dressing her and passed a half-hearted wipe across her drawings with the inside-out pajamas.

The. Chalk. Easily. Wiped. Off.

Enter the internal dialogue: Um, dilemma. Crossroads. Remember to be consistent. She simply should not draw on walls. But it wipes right off. What a fun thing to do. No, be responsible. You are the mom. But it's just so neat!

Finally, I plopped myself right there in the middle of the floor and drew all over my daughter's walls. It was so much fun! What freedom! I think she was so disturbed by my antics that she hasn't drawn on them since, even though she has my expressed permission to do just that as long as it is with chalk.

Really, you ought to give it a try. Void where prohibited. Restrictions may apply. Only tested on semi-gloss.

Big Girl Haircut

2009-05-05T04:27:00.000-07:00

First of all, I'd like to thank my hairdresser, "Mr. F", for helping me to break out of my old style and find my new spikey groove. So, when a guy totally takes me out of my comfort zone as far as my hairstyle goes, the agent of my first impressions, what's a girl to do? Why, take her two-year-old daughter to see him, of course! Truly, he gives a great cut. My hair spikes straight out of the shower. I knew his confident, creative hands would cut something cute into the shaggy canvas that was Hannah's hair.

Hannah was very excited all week about getting her hair cut. She even told people about it over the phone. I took her potty before we left for the salon, reminding her where we were going.

"We're going to go get your hair cut."

"Yes, it's Thussshhday!" lisped my eager daughter.

She was ready. She was all giggles and excitement in the car. Then John had to explain about the scissors and how Mr. F was going to cut her hair but it wasn't going to hurt. Yeah, that's the line that first teaches little kids that not everyone in the world is truthful. They know what follows isn't going to be pleasant. I briefly considered decapitating my own child with barber's shears. Hannah was somewhat more reserved as we approached our destination.

We arrived at the salon and met Hannah's makeover entourage: Grandma Kathy, Aunt Krista and Audrey. We entered the salon like over-proud ballet parents gushing and with cameras in hand. Yep, Hannah got the picture this was kind of a big deal. She marched in with all the celebrity she could muster. Then Mr. F spoke to her. Somehow she shinnied up my body and was in my arms with her head buried in my chest. Honestly, I don't remember picking her up.

It's okay, Mr. F has been here before. I sat down in the chair and held her in my lap while Mr. F offered Hannah her own comb to hold. She took it with wary reluctance. But then, in a stroke of brilliance, Mr. F offered her a sucker. With the gravity of a man accepting his last cigarette before execution, she partook of this small comfort. It became her focal point and she released her death grip on my collar with grim resignation.

Mr. F moved quickly and surely. I found ways to get her attention so she would hold her head in specific positions so he could create an undercut. It was over before I knew it and there was the blowing off of the debris and spraying of the hair. That was also a great move. Hannah adores hair spray. Upon her release, with still damp locks, Hannah danced as one celebrating salvation.

Hannah's entourage was headed to K-mart for some retail therapy. Her cute little bob went swinging against her neck. She suddenly looked so much older. She marched straight into Payless ahead of us. (Um, you have to follow if your child goes into a store without you.)

If you are going to know anything about Hannah, you should know that she is obsessed with three things: babies, letters, and shoes. As long as I can remember, I could show Hannah toys in a store and she'd gleefully play with them for a minute and allow me to put them back on the shelf. In contrast, she would cry and cry when we would dare to leave any sole behind in the shoe department.

She recovered nicely from her ordeal with some nice, lime green flip-flops with large rhinestones. She knew they would go brilliantly with her Spring wardrobe though her mother tried to recommend some multi-colored floral sandals. A girl just knows when a pair of shoes are destined to become hers. At least they were less expensive than the sandals. (Despite my having not experienced trauma, I purchased some pretty zingy silver shoes, myself.)

It must have generally resonated as a positive experience for the girl. Yesterday, we were discussing how cute her new cut was and Hannah piped up. "I want a sucker. Mr. F cut my hair, give me sucker." She was crestfallen when my mother-in-law explained we had to let it grow some before she could get it cut again. She dipped her Hannah-safe bread in her homemade potato soup and dreamed of her next trip to the world of toddler glamor and sugared excess.

My Hardy Boys

2009-05-04T05:09:00.000-07:00

Not many people can say their child came with a book. We can. Most of the clothing John had when he came to us did not fit, but he had a sweet cardboard book about P.B. Bear. We have no idea in which of his many homes he acquired the book or his love of stories, but both came with him at the ripe old age of twenty months.

John always eagerly curled up beside us as we read to him from any number of books. It was a good thing because it encouraged good, appropriate touch and helped form some of the elusive attachment he so desperately needed with any caregiver. One cardboard book gave way to two or three cardboard books a night. That gave way to multiple picture books.... and then we graduated to chapter books and illustrated/abridged classics.

Nearly every night of his life with us, John has begged for more reading. While homeschooling, there are times, especially rainy days, that we declare it a reading day and take turns reading to each other. The ratio is something like five to one and I end up reading aloud till my throat is raw. John's been listening to chapter books since he was four. We've read through some of his favorites more than once. Though he understood little of the language specifically, he still enjoyed listening to Tom Sawyer just as old Mark Twain wrote it.

With all of John's mood changes, rages, difficulties and anxieties it has been hard for him to learn to read. I think that his well-ingrained love of stories has kept him motivated somewhere deep inside to persevere through the process. He's suddenly reading billboards and signs on buildings to his own surprise and delight. We can no longer spell things in front of him.

Though this is all happening a little behind his same-age peers, it is the same developmental process. We are on the cusp of watching him flip that switch to becoming a completely autonomous reader. The key then will be, as it is for all children once they can read, whether or not they want to read. I'm pretty sure John's got that part in the bag.

I think it's apt that a boy who's had to endure so much would particularly enjoy reading a series about the Hardy boys. I hope that autonomous reading switch flips soon because while Kate DiCamillo is a joy to read aloud, Frank W. Dixon's mysteries severely trip up both of John's parents' tongues.

John's Date with his Grandma

2009-05-01T05:02:00.000-07:00

Our family does a good job of trying to, at least occasionally, spend individual quality time with each of the children. Yesterday was John's turn for a date with his paternal grandmother.

During their time, he tried to convince her that they should play video games. The night before, however, we had discussed with John and his grandma that dates should include activities that were mutually enjoyable by both people. My mother-in-law was undaunted by John's attempts to coerce some video game time from her in leiu of watching a movie.

Kathy has been substitute teaching for a few months. It was only natural, at long last, she used her "teacher voice" to end John's obnoxious demands. John's reaction was quick and interesting and just plan hilarious.

"You've never yelled at me before" said John in a dumbfounded voice. "My feelings are kind of hurt. I don't know what to do."

His feelings apparently recovered and the incessent video game begging ended. They had a wonderful evening involving allergy-free yet horribly processed food and watching a movie. I also think my dear son spent some time developing a whole new respect for his grandmother.

It's hard to pull off no-nonsense and unequivocal fun at the same time. Kudos to the woman who raised and nurtured my husband. Good job last night, Grandma!

$5 Swag Photos!

2009-04-30T03:00:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I went to a jewelry/accessory sale at Children's Hospital. Everything there was $5 each. John helped me take a few pictures of my new fashion trinkets...

This is a very messy and eager Hannah modeling a necklace I purchased. The green earrings I'm wearing in some pictures below came with it. Hannah is still wearing that necklace right now. I may not be getting it back.

This was a full length shot to show the cool shoes I already had and the $5 "magic" shirt. I'm so diggin' this thing. It fit Hannah. And it was disturbingly pretty on John! It has some of my new yellow signature color in it.

This is a closer pic to show my bracelet and two rings. Five dollars each! Aren't they great?!

This is a really pretty turquoise and purple necklace. It has matching earrings but I put the big square hoops (?) on to show them to you all. I also got a large, white, wooden, painted bracelet that I forgot to photograph. I'll post when I get a picture of it. You may have to click on this photo to see the squares.

So much fun! :D

What a Girl Wants!

2009-04-29T00:00:00.000-07:00

You all remember what happened with my hair, right? Well, since then I've gotten interested in becoming hipper. I told you I needed a whole new personality to go with my spikes. And that personality had started to wane as my hair grew long enough to lose its oomph. Five weeks is entirely too long to wait between cuts with this sort of 'do. (I used to occasionally put off cutting my hair for up to 6 months.)

So yesterday, my dear hairdresser, Frankie, fixed my spikes to be sassy and bold once again and my desire to accessorize reignited. By the time you are reading this entry, I will have gotten up to run at 4:45 and then driven to Seymour to meet my sister-in-law at 6:30. We are going to the $5 accessory sale at East Tennessee Children's Hospital. I don't even know all the details but it supports the hospital and there are $5 purses and jewelry.

I'll be wearing a lime green tank with a short cropped denim jacket with cap sleeves and a white denim skirt and lime green kitten heels. I'll also be wearing a hot pink purse and earrings. This is all an attempt to be edgy enough to complement my hair. Only part of me thinks I'll just look plain, old doofy. I'm always afraid it's going to be obvious to everyone that my hairstyle was completely accidental. I'm out of my comfort zone trying to match the height of fashion my hair has reached. But in a totally fun, hot pink and lime green sort of way.

Last night I decided yellow would be my Spring wardrobe signature color. I've never really had a Spring wardrobe or a signature color. Do you see what Mr. Crazy Scissors has done to me?! So I'll be looking for some FAB yellow accessories. Of course, I'll photo my finds. You, my loyal followers, will be the first to see them.

So now I should say something glamourous and trendy as I sign off ---
Ciao?
TTFN?
Out?
Yo?

The Holl-ster has left the hizz-ouse.

Really.... I mean, I teach Sunday School.... what was he thinking?!?!?!

My "Babies"

2009-04-28T05:00:00.000-07:00

Hannah has made friends with my feet and subsequently, my hands. It all started when my toes "talked" to her one day to keep her busy while I was looking at something. Immediately, the idea that something even remotely life-like was talking to her was irresistible. She stopped what she was doing and regarded my feed in a whole new way. She froze, bent down with her face inches from my feet and said, "Hello... what did you say?"

Well, who could resist the fun amusement that was? I wiggled my toes and spoke at the same time. That was the first of many conversations my appendages have had with my daughter. Of course, my feet are smaller than Hannah, thereby putting them squarely into the category of baby. And woohooo, they were twins! She found an improvised imaginary bottle and "fed them" and rocked them and covered them with a blanket.

It's been months and my feet are still her babies, especially if I'm wearing sandals. When we get into the car, she asks if my babies are coming with us or if my babies are hot or cold based on the weather. If I sit cross-legged, she worries if the babies are okay. I just have to remind myself to speak life into an inanimate object not attached to me the next time I need to keep her busy for a few months.

The Evader

2009-04-27T05:44:00.000-07:00

Since we stayed in a hotel last week, there was a lot of excitement and consternation over the elevator. Elevators are always exciting anyway. We don't encounter elevators on a daily basis and here we found ourselves inside a moving, steely box multiple times daily.

There was the rush out of the hotel room and the race to be the first to push the button. Then there was the attempt to guess which set of doors would open. There was the rush to determine which floor number to push and be the first to depress that number. There was also the coup de grace of being rewarded with a backlit glow acknowledging the floor selection.

Hannah adored the elevator on a whole number of levels. For one thing she is obsessed with letters and she recognized several letters on the control panel. She loved the power of choosing and engaging our path to the destination. She looked at the shiny ceiling and identified each passenger by his reflection. She also loved trying to peer down in the crack between the floor and the elevator itself each time the doors opened.

So with all that elevator chafuer service, I had time to think. (Yeah, right) Why did they love so much this device that Hannah called the "evader"? And why was I so fascinated with her name for it? I thought about how an elevator could be like an evader. I think it is a diversion. It is an escape from the mundane. It's a little space-aged-feeling departure from what is normal.

The doors close, shutting us off from the place we've just been. Once those doors are closed and we begin to move, we can't go back without first going somewhere else. When the doors open, we are in a new place. It make look similar to the floor we just left, but we all know something has definitely changed and it's not just the elevation.

There is music in the elevator which doesn't match the music in our ipods or the hallway. Cellphone service usually ends in the elevator making it one of the last few places to evade this technology and continuous contact with society at large. I think somehow an elevator seems like we're cheating. We're being transported with almost no effort on our part.

When we climb up or down stairs we are aware of the work of moving from one place to another. We see and feel that progress in our straining muscles, lightly sweating bodies, and the glide of the handrail underneath our palms. We count stairs and flights of stairs.

The elevator is not like life. We do not leave our current spiritual or emotional circumstance only to be moved anesthesia-like to the next level. When we sleep through these transitions in real life, there are consequences. If we want to move a level, real life involves stairs: cold, hard, cinder-blocked, echoey, musty stairs. An elevator is a great, fascinating mirror-topped, soothing-musacked departure from reality. This time, can I be the one to push the button on the evader and feel that ticklish dip in my belly as gravity tries to remind me that I won't always be so lucky or so evasive?

A Pivotal Kitchen Experience

2009-04-25T04:00:00.000-07:00

What does a family of whole-fooders with food allergies eat when they travel as often as we do? Well, we start by finding a grocery store in town. Most of the time, we stay in a hotel that has a kitchenette. That takes the need for extreme creativity way down. Residence Inn by Marriott and Staybridge are two of our favorites. If we didn't have to worry about allergies, we'd take advantage of their free breakfasts which offer some "real food" choices alongside the super-processed cereals and pastries.

Our current kitchenette boasts a refrigerator, dishwasher, two stove eyes and a microwave. There is no need to worry about the all-important work triangle when designing a kitchen this small. Every thing is within reach from one position. In fact, I found I could load the dishwasher while browsing in the fridge and watching some nitrate-free bacon fry in a pan. The most important cooking skill in this type of kitchen, may well be the pivot. Once that step is mastered, the hotel cooking dance is a breeze.

A nice feature of hotel kitchenettes is the brand-new nature of most of the equipment. I have some fear that hotel kitchenettes may fade out of existence as they are obviously, severely underutilized by guests. The hotels shoot themselves in the feet with this particular issue. Staybridge offers a reception three nights a week as well as breakfast every day. It is apparent to me. most of the time. that I am using virgin cookware: shiny, unmarred pots and pans. Nearly universal to hotel stove tops is the weird two-eye configuration where the elements are off-level and you have to press them down into place before turning them on. Occasionally they'll spring back up during cooking! It makes the experience a little more exciting. But, not to worry, one can just pivot from whatever else she may be doing in the kitchen and deal with the launched burner.

Our current hotel was not expecting our family to stay in this room. Though we have a skillet, a saucepan, a large pot, two knives and a cutting board, we have table service for three. This works out alright for plates as Hannah simply uses a smaller bread plate for dinner. But it means that someone is using a spoon when a fork is called for, or a fork when a spoon is called for. That's been the adventure du jour for this particular hotel cooking experience.

Most of the time, we also have a table, not so in this efficient suite. The kids get their own version of mini-tables (end tables) in front of the couch and someone sits on the bed, plate in hand, while the other lucky duck gets an office chair at the desk. Heads or tails: you can choose appropriate silverware or the desk. It's a balancing act to maintain fairness. With Theo off to work before the kids are awake most mornings, the distribution of tableware (sans table, mind you) becomes easier as the number of people equals the number of dishes and cups for breakfast and lunch.

The other morning, based on what was left in the glass selection, I poured three servings of apple juice. Hannah drank from a coffee cup and John was offered a choice between the wine goblet and the 8 oz glass. I explained that they both contained the same amount but that .... I was going to say that the glasses were just different but John nodded his head knowingly and said "...but this one is classier." Goblet it was, for my nine-year-old son who is so well-versed in all things classy. I drank out of the short glass suddenly aware of feeling a little like a second-class citizen. I should be so lucky to drink from a goblet.

This week our temporary mini-kitchen has produced bacon and eggs, rice-pasta with grass-fed ground beef and red sauce, Thai curry salmon, and buffalo burger patties as entrees. Side dishes have included fresh green beans, salads, sweet potato slices fried in coconut oil, brussell sprouts (don't knock them till you've tried MY recipe), corn and broccoli. We also got a small grass-fed roast hoping there'd be an oven available. Never fear, the hotel has propane gas grills available in the courtyard. We'll grill it tonight. It's been marinating in half a bottle of salad dressing for two days. There have also been copious amounts of grapes, grapefruit, apples and bananas. When our creativity sags, we have allergy-friendly bread and peanut-butter.

We celebrated my birthday while we were in Atlanta this week. Without an oven and some of our staple ingredients, making an allergy-friendly cake just wasn't an option. While we can occasionally find cakes that are safe for one child or the other, quite elusive is the pre-made soy, dairy, gluten-free cake. So we enjoyed some coconut milk ice cream and some safe cookies. We had no candle though. The kids suggested I try to blow the cookies off of my ice cream. Ummm, how is that a win for the birthday girl who would have lost her cookies AND had to clean up the mess??? I ate my ice cream from a goblet (classy, you know) while sitting at the desk. I ended up with the fork but a girl can't exactly have it ALL, can she?

Stay tuned for our next adventure in cooking away from home: Parking lots and whole foods. They aren't mutually exclusive afterall!

My Favorite Accessory to Wear: Hannah

2009-04-24T05:12:00.000-07:00

Imagine cuddling and carrying your baby while she is just about weightless. Imagine the soft feel of fabric around both of you. Enjoy keeping her at eye level where you can interact almost constantly and teach her your language and how to interact socially. Imagine never lugging a car seat carrier or trying to maneuver a stroller through double doors or into a bathroom. Imagine parenting and nursing handsfree. I still wear Hannah but not nearly as much now that she's so independent.... I love babywearing.

She's nursing in two of the pictures below. Can you figure out which ones? Now that you are looking you probably can....but if I hadn't let you in on it, it still would have been a secret between just Hannah and me. How's that for discreetly nursing a toddler in public?

(You should be able to click on all of these images to see them larger. Enjoy!)

John vs. Cactus

2009-04-23T04:00:00.000-07:00

I couldn't resist after mentioning these pics in yesterday's post. Gates Pass in Tucson, AR.

The first photo is 2002.
The second photo is 2005.
Same boy. Same cactus. We gotta go back soon and measure again, don'tcha think?

Homeschooling Vacation

2009-04-21T20:43:00.000-07:00

We've travelled enough since John came to be our son that he once drew a picture for our preacher and it had the Marriott logo in front of our house. Hannah was six weeks old for our first 9 hour car trip. When John was five, he wistfully spoke of our old house back in California. (We've always lived in TN). We have pictures of John two years apart standing beside the same cactus in Tucson, Arizona.

So last week, we made an impromptu visit to Theo's grandmother (89 1/2 years old) in Warsaw, IN. My sister-in-law and mother-in-law were already going. So the kids and I sort of invited ourselves after Hannah mentioned she wanted to see Gram-Gram just like Audrey was. So we loaded up the truck and moved to.... well, you get the idea. Hannah made her suggestion on Easter Sunday after lunch. We were in the car Monday morning at 8:00 AM.

I didn't even attempt to do any school last week... oh well, many other children were on Spring Break anyway and we homeschool year-round just so we can do things like that. We drove home Saturday and were back on the road Sunday. This week we find ourselves in Atlanta, GA.

Ahhh, back into our normal routine. LOL But I did bring school with us. I've learned the quickest way to John's heart is through his stomach. I can speak to his well-ingrained survival habits by feeding the child good food on a routine basis. Food however is not the way to his mind: video games are. I've learned that I cannot force John to learn. But, I can withhold any videos or video game privileges until he has completed a certain amount of work. This week he's complained several times that he simply can't do school because he's on vacation. The poor boy. I've tried to explain that he's on vacation because he home schools.

Don't worry, I have one more bit of incentive for tomorrow. He has new goggles and the pool begs a little readin', writin' and 'rithmatic.

Power Outages

2009-04-21T17:08:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago we had a pretty intense thunderstorm. It was 9 PM dark at 5 PM. The wind blew. The muddy ruts in the backyard filled with rain. I saw some neighborhood cats and dogs go two by two past the house. And then the lights flickered.

Immediately my mood lightened. I was giddy as I started lighting candles. A rainy day doesn't normally make me feel happy. (Cosy maybe, not happy). It wasn't the rain lifting my spirits... it was the potential power outage.

I adore losing electricity. I know it might be my hippy leanings... but it stems from my childhood. When the power went out, it meant candles and creative cooking. In the winter it meant we huddled up together in sleeping bags in the same room. I love the quiet, close bonding it brought about in our family. It meant we played board games. It meant no one had anything to do but BE together. (No surprise my love language is "quality time".)

Some of my favorite memories are about being without electricity. We lived in a campground in 1988 and housed a group of tent-camping boy scouts in our apartment. We ate instant pudding because we couldn't cook. And after my mother mother's cabin fever reached it's highest point we walked to the grocery store. That is something we would never have done had there not been 15 inches of snow on the ground. During the ice storm of 1993, my future husband drove about a 1/2 mile or so from my house and walked in to whisk me away for a hot burger and a nice shower at his family's house.

The other night though, we didn't lose power. But you better believe, we did play a good game of Sorry. I'm thinking I might have to schedule some power free evenings on purpose.

P.S. Please don't tell my husband. He works for TVA (The largest public power utility in North America.)

Happy Easter!

2009-04-12T04:35:00.001-07:00

He is Risen! He is alive!

I'm Upset With my Sister-in-law

2009-04-10T03:00:00.000-07:00

Last night we had a traumatic experience involving Hannah's food allergies. No emergency room trip was involved, but the event has spurred several conversations amongst family members. This afternoon on the phone, my sister-in-law, Krista, and I rehashed the events surrounding the incident last night. I mentioned blogging about the event. And then she got "all up in my kool-aid".

She said that the information and experience I had as a mother of a child with food allergies was important and I needed to write about it. And that while my blog was entertaining, a wider audience needs this information. Then she used that burdensome word "gift". And there was something else about freelance and parenting magazines. She also mentioned my experiences as a mother of a child with Bipolar and so on.

Since we hung up, I've been preoccupied. Krista's comments have made me uncomfortable. I have that churning, exhilarating, exhausting thing happening in my gut. I feel like Frodo the moment he knew he had to leave the Shire. I'm in that part of most movies where there is a pivotal moment in the character's psyche when he knows/accepts a coming change. This is the part where inspirational music plays and I tear up and time is compressed as Rocky gets in shape and Nemo's dad decides he will stop at nothing to find his son.

Many things have nudged me toward this moment in my development. I've always been a storyteller and have enjoyed engaging those who have been willing to listen to me. I have felt stirrings of recognition as I've read others' writings: I have a voice like this. My favorite teacher told me she looked forward to reading my first book someday.

I once dreamed of being a freelance writer. My imagination fancied myself an unwashed, bath-robed mother of many, mopping up orange juice from my recently finished manuscript. I saw a woman dedicated to her family but who had something she absolutely must share with the world at large. But I had no idea what on Earth that woman wanted to say.

I started writing for myself and joined a group for creative writers in college. It was so nice to be around others who wrote. But the professor in charge said some very hurtful and damaging things about my writing. They weren't just editorial suggestions but personal attacks on my religion and choice of subject, on the value of my writing at all. I hope he was using some misguided approach to improve my writing. What it did, instead, was to quell my desire to write for anything but the assignments necessary to earn my degree.

Thanks to the Internet and such weirdly specific discussion forums as "Crunchy Christian Mamas" and parents who homeschool children with Bipolar Disorder, I began to write again. I found a loyal group of readers and fellow journeyers at Thebabywearer.com simple living forum where I wrote about and discussed our family's transition to whole foods.

The changes wrought by our diet have been so phenomenal that several people have suggested I write a book. John's therapist insists we should write together how diet has affected John's stability. I know our personal story is a compelling one. One friend questions each time I send her a long email when my novel is coming out. About the time I dismiss her comments as joking, she writes an email to say she really means it and believes I should write a book.

My cousin, Molly, wrote a book and I find myself impressed and a little jealous. She's living my dream, including the many children (well, I don't actually know about the bathrobe). I've yet to read her book. I need to order it. But I've been supremely impressed by her insights on her blog and some of her other writing.

The time that I spent quieted by a sharp-tongued teacher has not been dark. I have been observing and participating in most of my dream. I've developed new dreams and goals in addition. I've encountered challenges I did not anticipate. I have a wealth of life and commentary about that life to share. And I'm finding that my voice refuses to keep its peace.

Krista's kind but piercing and convicting words today have inevitably tipped the scales as their weight is added to the weight of those aforementioned comments. During that conversation, she may or may not have recalled that some of our earliest interactions (years before I met and later married her brother) were as fellow journalists on a middle school newsletter. I certainly know she's been a "victim" of my commentary on all sorts of topics from homeschooling to vaccination to marriage. She knows I have a voice. And I thank her for using hers to let me know and for screwing up my comfortable writing-just-on-the-internet life.

You Scratch My Back, I'll Scratch Yours

2009-04-09T08:35:00.000-07:00

My children have no concept of the typically figurative interpretation of the statement: You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours. For them, it is no esoteric exercise representing what it might mean to reciprocate favors for one another. It is a literal and enjoyable proposition. It is a beloved practice involving exposed spines and finger nails.

John has been a long-time partaker of all that is back-scratching and rubbing. Recently, when he's asked for a good scratch, Hannah has jumped in on the action. I find myself confronting two exposed backs and eager sighs as I wear my nails down tickling their spines. The requests were endless. Then epiphany struck. I suggested they scratch each other's backs.

Ahhhh, I suddenly have so much more time for myself. A few minutes ago, John asked politely if I might indulge his itch. I said I would when I finished checking email. Suddenly, Hannah, who had been reading a running magazine, piped up "I be happy to. I be happy to, John John!"

When it was her turn to receive the service, she said "Soooo nice. Sooo nice, John!".

Now that they have the concrete application, I'm going to work on helping them to generalize to other sibling cooperation. I know. I'm not holding my breath either. Not everything is as satisfying as a good back scratch. Hey, could you go a little to the left? Yeah... right there, ahhh.

I Feed my Children Frozen Peas

2009-04-08T03:00:00.000-07:00

Yeah. I know. I'm amazed, myself. They love them. That's why I find occasion to tell as many people as possible that I do this. I say it with a sense of wonder and amusement. But I never get the appropriate response. It's usually, "I fed my children frozen peas, too. There's nothing wrong with that. Don't feel bad."

Um, I don't feel bad. I'm seriously amused and trying to share something quirky and unusual about my children with you. I can typically clear up the confusion with this question: "But were they STILL frozen when you gave them to them?"

Then... I get the right response. "They eat them frozen?" Yes, that's what I tried to tell you a moment ago.

It all started because Hannah has two habits. One is an undying adoration for peas. The other habit is standing on a chair at the counter while I cook.

One day, I poured some peas into a pot but left it to the side while I tended something else on the stove. Hannah quickly lifted the lid and grabbed a handful of iced peas. I expected her to shiver with disgust and spit them out. To my confusion, she exclaimed with joy. Then she grabbed some more peas. I stopped her from eating the whole pan by offering her a bowl of her own frozen vegetables.

A few days later, I was on my way to Bible study and needed to pack her a snack. I packed some frozen peas. I explained to the care provider to give her the peas while they were still cold. I assured her that Hannah would, weirdly enough, eat them with great relish. When I returned to pick up Hannah, the woman said with amazement, "You weren't kidding about those peas. She ate them like candy!"

Hannah has made frozen peas seem so good that even John has developed a taste for this bizarre snack. I don't mind at all. It's healthy and super easy to fix. My kids come to me begging to eat frozen peas. Who could resist the weirdness and healthfulness of it all? Not I! Although, sometimes I insist they clean their rooms before they are "allowed" such an extravagant food.

(By the way, frozen corn is another crowd pleaser. Even their cousin, Audrey, finds it irresistible.)