Rocks In My Dryer

Car Talk

Last week the kids and I were doing the after-school dash when Stephen leaned forward and the following conversation ensued...

Stephen:  Mom, what's "puberty"?

Me:  [in my head] Really, Lord?  Do we have to do this now?  I thought this conversation would happen between Stephen, Hubs and me in front of a roaring campfire on a Special Occasion sometime in the distant future, NOT on our way to karate with a two year old singing in the backseat and...wait a minute, was that a peanut butter cracker that just flew past my shoulder?

Me:  [aloud]  Puberty is when you reach a certain age and your body starts changing.

Stephen:  Oh.  [Thoughtful pause]  I think I'm going through puberty.

Me:  Really?  We'll you're only seven, Stephen.  I kind of doubt it. 

Stephen:  But my shoes are getting tight.  That's a body change.

Ah, now if only the true woes of puberty could be solved with a trip to Payless...

Works For Me: One More Christmas Idea

I'm re-running an idea I shared over a year ago, but it's such a good one it warrants dusting off out of the archives.

Last Christmas, my sister-in-law L (who, by the way, took up all the thin, beautiful, artistic genes in our family, but I love her anyway) made the most incredible gifts for my children.  A month before Christmas, she asked them to draw and color a picture of a character--any character.  Adam drew Mario from Nintendo, Stephen drew SpongeBob, and Joseph made up something all his own.  We mailed them to her, and she used their drawings to create patterns...and then she re-created their little creatures in pillow form.  My kids went nuts for them and they still love them.  Here's a picture: 

I wish I could show you Joseph's original drawing (and I suppose I could, if I wanted to spend two hours digging through last year's keepsake box, which I do not.)  If you could see it, you would be amazed at how faithful L's sewn rendition was to Joseph's original. 

Have an idea you'd like to share with Bloggityville?  Leave a link below!  WFMW guidelines can be found here.  And yes, you're more than welcome to grab this new WFMW graphic off my site for use on your own.

(By the way, I've had several people e-mail me recently for the links to my Jesse Tree posts from a few weeks ago.  If you're looking for them, you can find them here and here.)

It's Cute In a Two Year Old

It's been a few years since I was the mother of a toddler, but Corrie is graciously re-initiating me into the delightful quirks of having a two year old in the house. 

These days, it's critically important to her that we all stop whatever we're doing to verbally acknowledge whatever she's talking about.  If we do not, she will repeat herself over and over, the volume dramatically increasing until we do.  For example, when we're outside, she says (growing louder with each word), "Sky.  Sky.  SKY.  SKY.  SKY-Y-Y-Y-Y..." until I say, "Yes, darlin', I see the sky."

Or, whenever our dog walks into the room (EVERY time):  "Woof.  Woof.  WOOF.  WOOF.  WO-O-O-O-F...."  And we answer "Yes, Corrie, the dog says woof."  I truly think she would continue barking all afternoon until we acknowledged her.

The greatest infraction is if we do not stop the rotation of the very Earth itself and run to the TV with her EVERY time Joe finds a clue:  "A cwoo.  A cwoo.  A CWOO!  A CWOO!  A CW-O-O-O-O!...."  "Yes, darlin', praise the Lord in Heaven, Joe has found a clue."

As with all toddler behavior, I laugh to imagine what it would be like if we never outgrew these tendencies.  Can you imagine if every time I went into Wal Mart I said, "Bath towels on sale.  Bath towels on sale.  BATH TOWELS ON SALE.  BATH TOWELS ON SA-A-A-A-ALE!..." until everyone in the store ran to agree with me? 

Though as I write those very words, I have to wonder if that tendency isn't just a little bit responsible for my desire to write a blog.  I sit here typing in my kitchen, in my sweats, saying, "My kids are cute.  My kids are cute.  MY KIDS ARE CUTE.  MY KIDS ARE CU-U-U-UTE!"  Agree with me!  Leave a comment!  Affirm me! 

Alright, so maybe I haven't outgrown it after all...

Just HOW, Exactly...

...does one manage to eat a waffle like this:

I'm telling y'all, my children have SKILLS.

In Which I Write About My Little Brother On His Birthday So He Will Stop Complaining That I Never Blog About Him

As I child, I dreaded Communion.  Not on any serious, theological grounds, but because my little brother Reed sat next to me and cracked me up.  EVERY TIME.  And the only thing worse than cracking up during church was cracking up during Communion during church.  I would feel my dad's hand on my shoulder get tighter and tighter and...ouch, Dad! 

And so I dreaded Communion.

But Reed's greatest Communion performance came when I was probably about 10, and he was 8.  The plate was passed, and I was already biting my lip so hard it nearly bled.  Don't look at Reed, don't look at Reed, I coached myself.  Suddenly, I felt a nudge in my left elbow.  Foolishly, I turned to look.  HE HAD SPILLED GRAPE JUICE DOWN THE FRONT OF HIS WHITE DRESS SHIRT.  I laughed out loud, very hard, and so did he.  And, as I recall, that little episode bought us not just a shoulder squeeze from Dad, but a Trip Out To The Foyer.

The delightful irony of this story is that my brother now serves Communion.  He is a dignified and thoughtful and profound pastor of a church in Missouri.  He is a gentle and attentive husband and father (who better not, by the way, ever give his daughters a hard time for laughing in church).  And he is a dear and genuine friend to me, one of the best I've ever had.  Not bad for someone who answered the phone for an entire year in ridiculous voices to humiliate his big sister in front of her friends (a little fact I share with all of Bloggityville only because I have been waiting twenty years to get him back). 

Happy birthday, little brother! 

Anyone Seen a Little Green Lizard?

After much fretting on my part, my two-year-old daughter Corrie's vocabulary is finally beginning to blossom.  But she still has plenty of gibberish to share with us, often using the same nonsensical words repeatedly.  A particular favorite of hers is "GEICO!"  Yes, that one.  But the funny part is that every time she says it, nine-year-old Adam shouts loudly and quickly, "FIFTEEN MINUTES ON THE PHONE COULD SAVE YOU FIFTEEN PERCENT OR MORE ON CAR INSURANCE!"  Corrie roars with laughter, shouts "GEICO!" again, and...well, you get where this is going. 

Shouldn't I be getting some commission for this?

And So It Turns Out I'm Not So Good At Trash Talkin'

This weekend, my beloved alma mater (Arkansas) is playing my friend BooMama's beloved alma mater (Mississippi State).  And we both really, really love our teams.  And we discussed privately, wouldn't it be fun to try and stir up some really big rivalry thing between our two blogs and trash talk at each other?

Except I'm sitting here at my computer thinking, trash talk?  Hmmmm....trash talk?  This is why I could never be a truly serious sports fanatic, because my version of trash talk is something like:

Hey there, BooMama, get ready for the Hawgs to slaughter the Dawgs.  But really, it's nothing personal, because I know your school is lovely and I'm sure the boys on your team have worked so hard, and I'd hate for your fans to be disappointed...

See?  I can't do it.  There's not a competitive bone in my body (at least, not where sports are concerned.  Trivial Pursuit is another story entirely.).  I want my team to win, of course, but I just really don't want the Other Guy to get his feelings hurt.

This annoys my Hubs, who would happily eat a big ol' bowl of Mississippi State for breakfast if he could.  Especially this game, which is a big one, because (he tells me) if we win this one and then beat Florida and LSU and then if Notre Dame and Rutgers all lose and the rotation of the earth can shift two inches to the left...the Razorbacks have a chance at the National Championship.

And so, stepping out of my comfort zone in the spirit of hoping for Good Things for my team, I say to BooMama:  WE WILL CLEAN YOUR PLATE.  WE WILL TURN YOU INSIDE OUT.  WE WILL RUN YOU SO HARD WE'LL HAVE TO CLEAN UP WITH A MOP WHEN WE'RE DONE.  I mean, if that's okay with you, because I know you're such a nice school...

Frazzled Oklahoma Housewife VS. The Pod People

Really, y'all are just cracking me up with your comments on this post.  Some of you suggested it might be edible (scary weed pie, anyone?), others said to keep it away from my kids because it's toxic.  And an alarming number of you agreed that the Pod People have landed in my front yard.  I was particularly fond of the idea that Tom Cruise might be inside.

Thankfully, I have a local friend who is a master gardener--she saw this picture and assured me it is a "weed seed pod".  She explained in an e-mail:

As the pod dries out it will begin to resemble a misshapen okra pod. It will pop open at the ribs to expose fluffy seeds that will land everywhere and sprout like mad for next year. (The invasion theory was not far off.)

But, being your Trusty Investigative Blogger, I must see this for myself.  So, donning my gloves for safety (I don't want any alien juice on my hands) I decided to cut into it.  I even used my beloved Cutco knife, because if I'm going toe-to-toe with the Pod People, I want only the finest weaponry:

Now, I've been joking about this, but I will confess that there was just a teensy part of me that was nervous as I sliced into it.  I halfway expected to hear an inhuman scream coming from the bowels of the mother ship.  But no screaming, and no alien lifeforms battling my Cutco.  Just a bunch of what are clearly little seeds.  Interestingly, the thing has an edible smell--kind of like cucumber.  But NO, we will not be having pod salad for Thanksgiving, thankyouverymuch.

The Gospel According To Joseph

Sharing my faith with my children is one of my favorite things about being a mother.  But sometimes, expressing the beauty of the Gospel to a five-year-old boy with the attention span of a fruit fly leaves me shaking my head.  The following conversation actually happened this week:

Joseph:  Do people have eyeballs in Heaven?

Me:  Probably not like we have them now, but we will certainly be able to see what is going on around us in Heaven. 

Joseph:  Do people sleep on clouds?

Me:  I don't know.  Maybe.  The Bible doesn't tell us a whole lot of specific things about Heaven, but we know it will be a million times better than earth.

Joseph:  Bad guys in jail don't go to Heaven.

Me:  Well, they do if they ask God to forgive them for their sins and ask Jesus into their heart.  We're all sinners, whether we're a bad guy in jail or not...

Joseph:  If they don't love Jesus, they'll go to hell and the devil will keep them in a cave.

Me:  Well, something like that.  Do you understand how we get to Heaven?

Joseph:  You die.

Me:  Well, yes, but how do you get to go there when you die?

Joseph:  You love Jesus.

Me:  [thinking we're finally getting somewhere]  Yes, you love Jesus, and you ask him to forgive you for your sins, and you invite Him to live in your heart.

Joseph:  So are we happy that Jesus died on the cross?

Now, there's one for the theologians.  Any takers?

Me:  I'm not happy that Jesus had to suffer, but I'm sure thankful he was willing to go through that to pay for my sins.

Joseph:  [Thoughtful pause].  Oh.  So, are ninjas real?

And...evidently the moment has passed.

What In The Heck...?

(If you're looking for Works-For-Me Wednesday, just scroll on down--it's the next entry).

I have a climbing rose bush that climbs up the front corner of my house.  This time of year, when I'm too lazy preoccupied to weed, climbing weeds tend to overtake it.  But this year, hanging from the climbing weed, I have found this:

There are three of these strange-looking cocoon-type things that are, as you can see, quite large (I showed my hand to give you an idea of scale).  I have never seen anything like them.  They're kind of creepy. 

So, you horticultural-types out there--what is this?  Some sort of other-worldly flower about to burst into bloom?  Or are alien spawn hatching in my front yard?  Because y'all, the holidays are coming, and I do not have time to fight Evil Pod People.

Works For Me: Christmas Edition!

Welcome to the first annual Christmas Edition of Works-For-Me Wednesday, in which we share ideas that will make your holidays so smooth that you're guaranteed to be speaking to your family members in January!  Wait, no guarantees...but they're still very good ideas.

Here's my simple little tip--

Is anyone else annoyed by the way toys are packaged these days?  When I was a kid, you could pull the toy right out of the box.  Nowadays you need a screwdriver, wire cutters and a degree in mechanical engineering to get the dang baby doll out of the package.  This is especially pleasant when you have a five year old jumping up and down next to you squealing, "Hurry! Hurry!"  This year I'm going to take all the toys OUT OF THE BOXES before I wrap the gifts.  That way the kids have access to their toys right away.  And I have less trash to clean up on Christmas morning.

I'd love to hear your clever holiday tip (or two or three or four...)  Just leave a link below!  Guidelines still apply, and they can be found here.

I know last week's WFMW got a bit gimped up in its display.  The real live Mr. Linky himself has helped me figure out a (fingers crossed!) solution.  If at any point you can't see both columns below, please send me an e-mail.  Thanks!

Taking Christmas Card Pictures With Four Children OR "Thank You, Lord, For Photoshop"

So, we attempted to take Christmas card pictures this past weekend.  Aren't I so together and ahead of schedule, I bragged to myself, as I spent all Sunday afternoon getting ready for the pictures.  Corrie's napped was perfectly timed so she'd be cheerful at 4 pm.  I ironed the kids' clothes.  Everyone was showered with blow-dried hair, thankyouverymuch.  Yes, we were all quite ready for an afternoon of collecting photographic evidence of what a happy and clean-cut family we are. 

We planned to take the pictures at a local office park that has beautiful landscaping, a big pond with a fountain, and geese.  But I forgot something:  where there are geese, there is goose poop. 

We had been out of the car exactly 7 seconds when Stephen reported that he had stepped in goose poop.  No problem, I told him, just watch where you're going and we'll clean your shoes when we're done.  Then Adam stepped in it.  I'm gritting my teeth at this point, but I'm keeping my patience.  Barely.

We got the kids set up for the first picture.  Hubs set Corrie down, and she took off across the grass chasing the geese.  The geese, of course, seeing a chubby two year old running toward them shouting, flew away quickly.  Corrie was devastated, and she began crying.

And crying. 

And then wailing. 

We tried every trick in our parenting repertoire to calm her.  All she could do was point at the geese watching from a safe distance and scream as if the geese were tearing off her limbs, not merely running from her. 

We moved to a different section of the grounds, toward the water, hoping the change in scenery would distract our hysterical girl.  All three boys stepped in more goose poop.  Joseph managed to get goose pop ON TOP OF his shoe, a feat I don't even want to understand.

We carefully moved to the edge of the pond.  Corrie wanted to throw sticks in the water, and I decided to work with this.  I barked at the boys to stand next to their  sister and throw sticks in the water, while I snapped candid shots of what I hoped would appear to be a lovely group of siblings having a nature moment together, NOT three boys with poop-covered shoes and their tear-stained little sister. 

I managed a couple of semi-acceptable shots before Corrie reached down to pick up another stick to throw, and brought her hand up FULL OF STEAMING FRESH GOOSE POOP.  Hubs and I, with visions of bird flu dancing in our heads, grabbed the screaming Corrie and sprinted back to the car (and the antibacterial hand gel), leaving the boys to chase geese to their hearts' content.  While we cleaned her up, they worked themselves into an absolutely frenzy--running and sweating and yelling and un-tucking shirts and stepping in enough goose poop to fertilize my front yard. 

Corrie, who realized she was now missing out on all the goosey fun, turned the decibel level of her meltdown up even further.  I wrestled her into the carseat, while Hubs corraled the now-dirty goose-chasers and scraped their shoes before letting them into the van. 

Weary, wind-blown and a bundle of nerves, Hubs and I collapsed into the front seat, while Corrie continued her hysteria and the boys shouted geese honks.  Hubs looked at me.  "What we should have done," he said, "is to have video-taped the last 45 minutes.  Instead of Christmas cards, we could upload it to YouTube, and send all our friends the link with the tag-line, Merry Friggin' Christmas."

And we laughed until we could hardly breathe. 

This is why I love that man.

And Then He Kissed Me

My nine-and-a-half-year-old son sat next to me in church last night.  I looked at him and noticed a piece of white fuzz in his hair.  I reached up, picked it out, and scratched him briefly on the head.  And then, without any prompting, without a look or a sound, he leaned over and kissed me quickly on the cheek. 

Just like that. 

I spend a lot of time wondering about this firstborn child of mine.  Am I pushing him too hard?  Not hard enough?  Does he resent how much time I spend with his siblings?  Is he making good choices?  Should we give him more priviliges?  The wheels in my momma-brain seldom stop spinning where this boy is concerned.

But then, in a moment so simple and sacred that I caught my breath, my boy kissed me on the cheek.  On his own. 

Just like that.

And I know we're doing fine.

Birthday Girl

The Sweetest Peach in Georgia is turning 40 today!  She's had a bumpy few months, but it's never stopped her from teaching us all much about thankfulness.  Head over to her blog and leave her a quick birthday greeting from Bloggityville!

Happy birthday, Peach!

Vic

I was drawn to Vic the first time I saw him, probably because he reminded me so much of my own grandfather.  His steps were slow--just a little--and his shoulders were slightly hunched, but his brown eyes still danced with the vigor of a younger man.

I first heard his story a few years ago, when we were each volunteering at our church's Vacation Bible School.  We were taking our breaks at the same time, and we sat next to each other.  I can't remember how it came up.  Did I ask him if he was a veteran?  Did he bring it up himself?  I don't recall.  What I do recall is that I spent the next hour next to him in motionless attention as he shared his war stories (literally, his war stories). 

He enlisted in the Army Air Corp (now the Air Force) when he was only seventeen, and he was sent to the Pacific.  He was a tail gunner in a B-29 when his plane was shot down over the ocean.  He and his crew floated for days in enemy territory, sharks circling them.  They were finally picked up by a U.S. ship.  There were dozens of other stories as well, too many to recount here, and I could never do them justice.  For the real story, you'd have to see the look in Vic's eyes when he describes the boys that didn't come home. 

As the years have passed, I've had many opportunities to hear more of Vic's stories, and not just those about the war.  He's told me about growing up in rural Florida during the Great Depression, when his mother would send him to school with only a jug of sugar water for lunch.  And how they once went without food for six days when his mother managed to kill a turtle with her bare hands--they ate it all, and they were thankful.

He hasn't just shared his stories; he's shared his heart with our family.  When I was in the hospital awaiting my daughter's arrival, he and his wife were the first ones to visit me.  When our family misses church, he calls to make sure we're okay.  When he learns that one of his old war buddies has passed away, he calls to tell me.  And I listen.  It's the very least I can do. 

I am richer because of my friendship with this dear man.  He has taught me much about sacrfice and strength and humility.  And he has reminded me what rich stories his generation carries tucked deep inside, if my generation would slow down long enough to hear.  This Veteran's Day, find someone who has a story to tell--and listen.