Rocks In My Dryer

Odd Blessings

Each night at bedtime, before we say prayers with our kids, we sing the Doxology together.  In case you aren't familiar with it, the words begin, "Praise God from whom all blessings flow..."  But last night, I listened to my children sing it and realized that all this time my seven-year-old son has been singing it, "Praise God from whom ODD blessings flow..."

I suppressed a giggle and came downstairs to tell Hubs about it.  Though the more I thought about it, the more I realized there's some good theology in his little slip-up.  Praise God for the odd blessings--the ones that sneak up on us, the ones that don't even look like blessings until they're long past us.   Praise Him for the mixed bag, the curvy road, the speed bumps of life.  Sometimes the odd blessings are the best ones.

The Epic Tale Of the Flesh-Eating Ladybugs and Their Untimely Demise

My four-year-old son Joseph received a lady bug farm for Christmas this year.  The day after Christmas we mailed in his certificate for the ladybugs that would fill it up, and he eagerly checked the mailbox every day.  A couple of weeks later, a bulky package arrived bearing a huge stamp on the front:  "Live Larvae Enclosed:  OPEN IMMEDIATELY."  (It's not everyday you find larvae in your mailbox--good times, I'm tellin' you.)

We carefully followed the enclosed instructions to the letter.  The ladybugs were teeny little larvae; the booklet told us we could expect them to become pupa in a couple of weeks, then full-fledged lady bugs a few days after that.  My son, whose heart is extra-tender toward any living thing, checked his larvae many times a day for progress, sleeping with the farm under his bed for protection.  And I breathed many little prayers:  Please let them live, please let them live...

And they lived.  Just as the instruction booklet promised, they shortly turned into pupa, then dramatically, in a few hours, little lady bugs.  Joseph was beyond overjoyed.  But here is something you probably didn't know about adorable little ladybugs:  they're cannibals.  Only about half the larvae made it to full-grown ladybugs, so the grown ones crawled around and ate the dead bodies of their peers who weren't so lucky.  And thankfully, my sensitive boy just said, "Look, they're playing!" as the carcass feast ensued.

And here's another, um, interesting little factoid about ladybugs:  they poop in enormous quanitity.  I mean, they're tiny little poops, but they are everywhere.  You don't notice this when they're outside crawling around your flower pots, but when they're in an enclosed little farm on your kitchen table where you feed your family--trust me, you notice.

So, the other day, Joseph was carrying his ladybug farm across our entryway.  But he had opened the top, for some reason. He slipped on a rug and fell, and the lady bug farm flew across the room, landing upside down on the floor.  Thousands of little ladybug poops, and dozens of half-eaten carcasses, scattered all over the floor.  The wood floor.  The brown, hard-to-make-out-where-the-bugs-and-poops-and-corpses-are floor.  The floor my baby daughter crawls around on all day.  You see where this is going.

Big brother Stephen came to the rescue and searched out as many live ladybugs as we could find, which wasn't many.  But Wicked Mommy had to get out the vacuum cleaner and suck up the poops and the carcasses (remember, he had no idea they were dead because I didn't have the heart to tell him), and yes, a few live ladybugs, while my sensitive boy wailed in the background, "Mommy, NOOOOOOOO!"  Now there is a moment for the therapy couch someday. 

The moral of this story?  Perhaps there is a profound one, but I'm at a loss.  I'm coping with the fact that there is likely still much ladybug poop in my entry way, tucked into nooks and crannies.  And a traumatized four-year-old boy living under my roof.  This motherhood business isn't always pretty, is it? 

Thanks, Honey.

The other night, my oldest son was reading a book, when he asked, "What does gossip mean?"  My Hubs, without so much as a pause, said, "Son, it's another word for BLOG!"

Hmmm...do I detect a little resentment?

A Vocabulary Lesson

Parenthood changes your heart, your mind, your body, your bank account, your furniture, your backseat, your carpet, your TV-watching, your (ahem!) love life, your wardrobe and your sleep.  But it also forever alters your vocabulary.   My brother and I used to roll our eyes at our parents when they used our "baby words" in place of the right ones--"macky-noo" for vacuum, "pension stick" for thermometer, etc.  Yet here I am, a mother, and I find our family's vocabulary permanently transformed by my children's bumbling and adorable way of saying things.   Here is a small sampling of some family favorites ("real" word in green):

Mean poopy -- diarrhea

Daddy juice -- Dr. Pepper

Kee-nonnies -- chicken nuggets

Giant weck-tangle -- big-screen TV

Hock-a-doo -- helicopter

Baby Bobs -- cherry tomatoes (think Veggie Tales)

Smashed potatoes -- mashed potatoes

Homa-homa -- Oklahoma (where we live)

Chicken-chicken-pie-pie -- chicken pot pie

Licka-nodeon -- Nickelodeon

So, here's where it gets fun.  Admit it, you all do it too.  In my comments section, share the funny terms your kids created that you'll still be using when they're in college.

EDITED TO ADD: Be sure you scroll down and see the hilarious comment by RSD...that's my brother!  His funny story about how my niece says "fork"...well, I'm laughing out loud.

Wilderness

Three and a half years ago, I began having panic attacks.  And by panic attacks, I don't mean brief moments of anxiety, I mean hours of debilitating, paralyzing fear.  After a few hours it would subside, leaving me spent and overcome with despair for an hour or two, and the cycle would begin again.

The strange thing was that there was no good "reason" this was happening to me.  I had a happy marriage, healthy children, a lovely home--by everyone else's standards, my life was charmed.  I had always been the girl with her act together--others came to me when things got rocky.  How could I possibly be the one going off the edge?

But I was.  Dramatically and suddenly, I was falling off the edge.   Things became so dark I could no longer care for my children--my mother had to come and help us manage.  My husband was a rock, but even his unwavering support wasn't enough to rescue me.  I spent my days huddled in a ball of anguish, feeling the waves of despair and panic wash over me, again and again.  I wanted, with all my heart, to die, and I thought about it constantly.  And to anyone who would listen, I would say, "This shouldn't be happening to me.  There's no reason for me to feel like this," as though if I said it often enough, it would all go away.

You see, I knew, as a Christian, that hard times would come.  I was prepared for that.  But these were supposed to be hard times that happened outside of me.  When the trials came, I thought  I should be able to retreat into my heart, my mind, the "safe place" where God offered comfort.  But this time, my heart and my mind were the war zones.  To retreat into them was only to be lost further. 

In the middle of this, a light switched on for me during a conversation with my brother.  I shared all this with him, wondering aloud where God was, and why I was left to wallow in my own despair.  And my brother said something that stopped me in my tracks:  "Sis, He's the God of the wilderness too."

Yes.  The God of the wilderness.  The God who brought his people, the Israelites, out of slavery and allowed them to wander aimlessly for 40 years in the most barren land imagineable.  Not because He was cruel, or mistaken, or inept--but because there are lessons that can only be learned in the wilderness. 

I stayed up late that night reading about the Israelites and their dark places.  The story that jumped out at me most (you can read the whole passage here in Exodus 14) was the story of their recent escape from Egypt.  The Egyptians were hot on the heels of the Israelites--their doom seemed sure.  But Moses confidently reminded them: 

"Do not be afraid. Stand firm and you will see the deliverance the LORD will bring you today. The Egyptians you see today you will never see again. The LORD will fight for you; you need only to be still."  (v. 13-14)

So, it turned out, I was experiencing God's presence, though not in the warm and fuzzy way I expected.  It was more like a helicopter rescue.  He was the guy on the ladder, hanging on desperately to me while the waters churned below.  If He let go, it meant sure death.  But if He would just hang on to me, then maybe, maybe I could make it out of this terrible place.

And He did hang on.  As I quit fighting my time in the wilderness and instead began to look around, He gradually led me to other side.  Through a variety of means including, yes, medication, He helped me climb out of that dark pit.  And now on the other side, I see so many reasons why I had to walk through that wilderness.  In my "charmed life", would I have ever seen the things I saw in that terrible place?  Would I have had to trust God for my very next breath, my very ability to survive?  Of couse not. 

The wilderness will come again, that is sure.  Maybe not in the form of depression and panic attacks, but it will come again.  We live in a fallen world where heartbreak and tragedy are unavoidable.  But the dark places don't seem so scary to me now, and the wilderness doesn't seem so wild.  I've been there.  I learned the lay of the land.  And I saw Who was there.

Holy cannoli, how'd THIS happen?

To my giddy pleasure but jaw-dropping shock, I've just learned I'm a finalist in not one, but six categories in the Share the Love Blog Awards.  Either this wonderful thing has really happened, or my mother has driven across the country, found Heather, and is hijacking the entire awards process.  Knowing my mother (who would be much more likely to drive across the country, find Heather, bake her a casserole and fold her towels), I'm left to assume that this is actually for real, and I have to tell you, I'm a sputtering, sheepish mess.  Thank you, so very much, whoever nominated me and voted for me.  Nine months ago I had never even laid eyes on a blog, and now here I am, nominated in the company of some extraordinary bloggers.  That's more kudos than I could've ever imagined. 

Heather says that the actual voting for the final winner will be up and running later in the day, so head on over when you can and look at all the finalists.  I'm quite sure I'll have more to say about this later (once my feet come back down to earth), but in the meantime I'm glowing.  Women bloggers are a powerful breed--varied ages, faiths, challenges, life goals, but we're just brave (or is it nutty?) enough to lay it all bare for the world to read.  I'm profoundly honored to be in your ranks. 

Family Friendly Blogroll

One For the Text Books

Today let's discuss a widely-known but rarely documented phenomenon that every mother has experienced.  I would like to propose to the American Academy of Pediatrics that we call this disorder, heretofore unnamed, Make-a-fool-of-mommyitis.  Let's discuss.

Say, for example, your four-year-old son spends the entire weekend fever-ridden with a sore throat.  By the time Monday morning arrives, he is miserably ill and couch-prone.  Neither of you has slept, so you fall asleep on the couch during Go, Diego, Go and fail to call the pediatrician the minute they open.  You finally call, only to find that you must beg and plead for them to squeeze you in, which they cannot do until 3 pm.  Meanwhile, your four-year-old patient has begun wailing "my froat! my froat!", and spends the rest of the day in agony.

Bear with me, this is where the disorder becomes serious.

Appointment time rolls around, and you manage to make arrangements for the older kids to play at a friend's house, because of course, they are home from school today (research shows that the likelihood of Make-a-fool-of-mommyitis is directly proportional to the amount of trouble you took to get to the doctor).  You, the patient, and the baby drive to the doctor on sheets of solid ice (see statement, before) and skate across the parking lot.  You reach the waiting room, by which time your little patient is whimpering in agony.  As you check in, he wails, "I fink my froat is bleeding!"  and all the other mothers gather their children so they will not catch your child's Ebola.  Finally, finally, they call you back to the exam room.  Oh, you are relieved--your precious child will finally be cared for!  But a funny thing has happened.

Your child is no longer sick.

Apparently, there is a miraculous healing agent floating in the air of exam rooms that causes children to become instantly well right before the doctor comes in.  The little boy who, one hour ago, was writhing in agony on the couch is now having sword fights using tongue depressors and pressing every button on the exam table.  He is laughing and making goofy faces while you explain to the nurse how miserable he is feeling.  She leaves, and you find yourself grabbing your child and saying through gritted teeth, "You'd better start acting sick, right now!" 

As I said, this is a frequently occurring phenomenon that is deserving of its place in the medical text books.  With a footnote, of course, that the only cure for Make-a-fool-of-mommyitis appears to be a Waste-a-co-pay-ectomy.

What I want to know is...

...is it possible for a preschooler to eat too many chicken nuggets?  Because if it is, I think we're reaching the limit.  I mean, I'm just wondering if at some point his skin will start smelling like McNuggets--or worse, what if he starts clucking?  Or crying tears of barbeque dipping sauce?  This could be serious.

Give me some hope.

Random Friday Wrap-Up

First of all, I have something I must get off my chest  (You might want to scoot back from your computer, because I'm going to yell....)

"HELLO OUT THERE, AMERICAN MEDIA--DO YOU HEAR ME?  THIS IS NOT A STORY ANYMORE.  IT WAS A STORY, THE DAY IT HAPPENED, BUT NOW IT'S JUST A MOLEHILL YOU HAVE TURNED INTO A REALLY, REALLY ANNOYING MOUNTAIN .  IN CASE YOU'VE FORGOTTEN, THERE IS A WAR IN IRAQ, OLYMPICS IN ITALY, AND BIRD FLU IN ASIA.  THOSE ARE STORIES.  SO STOP IT, RIGHT NOW, BEFORE I COUNT TO FIVE, OR I WILL PULL THIS MINI-VAN OVER AND...."  ...oh, sorry, wrong audience.  But before I leave this subject behind, I do have to show you this bumper sticker my dad sent me:

Next, today is the last day to enter the sweepstakes for the HGTV Dream Home.  Here are the pictures of it.  When I win it, which I certainly will, I will invite you all over for coffee right before I sell it to cover the taxes.

Lastly, it was a dramatic day in my little corner of the blogosphere.  Some friends of mine had a few flames thrown at them, and they were hurt (and no, I'm not including any links--this pot has been stirred enough for one day).  If you have no idea what I'm talking about, consider yourself blessed that you missed the drama.  But if you do know, may I direct you to the loveliest thing I've read in a long time, over at Days to Come.

Oh, this really is the last thing.  Voting is almost over in the Share the Love Blog Awards you only have a couple of days left to vote.  Heather has worked very, very hard to pull off these awards, and my hat is off to her.  Head on over there to see a varied and interesting group of nominees, and do a little bloggin'...