That first year after having a baby was oh so difficult. And not just because I had a tiny little person relying on me for every single thing. A tiny baby who projectile vomitted on me, the couch, the floor, the walls, and his crib 24/7. A lovely little thing who wouldn't let me sleep. Who abused my chest as he took a full month to learn how to nurse properly. And me without a single friend or relative closer than a two hour drive. Yes, it was difficult.
But the difficulty was compounded by my husband, who just has to learn everything the hard way.
Not once in my life had I ever had a problem with my weight until I was pregnant with Phoenix. I started as a lean, muscular thing, but gained 45 pounds by the end of those nine months. Three months after delivery, I celebrated my birthday. My present from Hubby... a bathroom scale.
In the words of my children, epic fail.
As I stood over him, ready to beat the tar out of him with that bathroom scale, I gave him a moment to give any last words.
"Honey, I saw that you were losing all kinds of weight, and I thought you'd be excited to see just how much you'd lost."
I put the scale down, and Hubby and I had a bit of a chat. Something to do with never assuming I want to know anything about my weight. And a heads up that he better never get me a gym membership either.
Every birthday since then, I have received nothing but happy, positive gifts, like jewelry, plane tickets, or camera equipment.
After many similar types of missteps with his emotionally volatile wife, I thought we were good to go when Mother's Day rolled around. He knew that I wasn't the kind of person to want lots of fanfare or dazzling gifts. It shouldn't have been hard for him to pull it together.
Two days before the holiday, he approached me and said, "A guy from work has invited me to go to a game on Sunday. I'm guessing it's OK with you."
Me (the woman who has spent the last eight months getting puked on and not sleeping to raise his firstborn son): "You mean Mother's Day?"
Him: "Yes. I thought you'd want to take Phoenix out to do something fun."
Me:
(I just looked at him, completely astounded. My brain was having such a hard time processing that ridiculous statement that I couldn't even form a sentence to answer him.)
Luckily for him, I didn't have to. By now he could recognize the "You sir, are an idiot," look on my face, called the guy back, and declined the invitation.
Hubby and I had yet another chat. Something to do with the fact that I am alone with our baby every day of the week. The last thing I want to do on Mother's Day is spend it alone with our baby.
For the last several years, the routine has been breakfast in bed (which, honestly, is more for the kids. Do you know how hard it is to eat waffles in bed while trying to read the paper? But, they are just so stinkin' cute, bringing everything up, seating themselves all around the bed, expectantly waiting for me to take the first bite and tell them how delicious it is. They'd watch me eat the whole darn thing if Hubby didn't corral them downstairs to let me eat in peace.) then church, and home again. After they change clothes, Hubby takes them out to the store to pick out flowers, which they will plant in the front flower beds. (After they spend an hour or so weeding and cleaning out those flower beds.) Finally, some mulch and the big reveal. Throughout, I get to read a book, take a nap, call my mom, and whatever else my little heart desires.
My biggest gift each year: a day that I don't have to make a single decision. I don't have to decide what or when we are going to eat. No one is allowed to ask me a question starting with the words, "Can I". It has been the one day a year my brain gets to take a break.
This year, our routine is being derailed. Two of the boys have soccer tournaments all weekend, and the first game Sunday is at 8:00am.
Hubby has learned. When we found out about the tournament, he offered to take all of the kids to the games so I could have a day to myself.
Luckily for him, I have learned, too. Mother's Day is a day that has been put on the calendar by society. Hubby is so very good at letting me know that he appreciates what I do as a mom each and every day. And the kids are so very good at letting me know how much they love me.
I don't need a day to myself, most especially when it would mean Hubby has to wake 6 kids at 5:30 in the morning to get them ready to spend an entire day at the soccer fields.
I'll take the soccer players to the soccer games and meet him for church that night.
But I'm leaving the rest of them at home.
I may not get a day without decisions, but I really do want my flowers.
Have a lovely Mother's Day!
I'd love to hear how you spent your day.
Saturday, May 12, 2012
Thursday, May 10, 2012
We'll Take What We Can Get
Hubby hasn't lost his touch. He knows how to woo his lady.
The other night, the little boys were in bed, the big kids were occupied with homework, snacks, and whatnot. Hubby came to me with that look in his eyes and asked, "Would you like to come outside and weed with me?"
And he really meant come outside and weed the garden.
Twenty-five years ago, I was in a high school typing class. There were only five people in the class, one of whom was a boy on the swim team with me. I didn't really know him, as I was a year behind him in school, and not much chatting can happen while swimming laps. But since the other three students were a bit on the odd side, we sat together. That boy ended up taking me on my first date.
We went out for pizza with another couple, neither of whom I knew. While there, the other girl told me that the guy she was with was being a jerk lately, they weren't getting along and would probably break up soon. Awesome.
After dinner we went to the jerk's house to watch a movie. The jerk sat in a recliner, the girlfriend sat in a rocking chair across the room, and we sat on the couch. During the movie, you could tell that the girl was upset. She just rocked and rocked in that chair, until she ended up practically in the other room. Oh, and the movie we watched? "Carrie" The one with the girl who gets her period for the first time at school and is terrorized by the girls in the locker room. Not exactly what one would call a "date night" movie.
Despite the bad start, I agreed to go on another date with him. And another. And another.
We didn't go on official dates for long, but we were rarely apart. We were on the same sports teams. We hung out with a big group of friends. My parents adored him, so he was allowed to babysit my little sisters with me.
Then he left for college seven hours away. We were old and wise beyond our years, for when it was my turn to go to college, we decided not to go to the same one. We didn't want to stay together out of habit, but wanted to make sure that we really were supposed to be together.
Dates then became phone calls each night. A rare weekend that we could get to the other's school. Christmas and summer breaks jam packed with time together.
Once I graduated, we finally got married. For the first time in five years, we got to live in the same state.
Those first four years of marriage before kids were so much fun. Hubby got much better at finding things to do for our "dates". While living in Arkansas, he took me to the one mountain in Little Rock in order to watch a meteor shower. We once hopped a plane to spend a weekend in Seattle. We would go for long bike rides. Take day or week trips through the country, with no itinerary, no reservations. We'd simply stop when the mood struck. We lived large in Bermuda for seven months. We ate out at great restaurants. We went snorkling off the beach. We spent a day hiking all along the coast. We would play tennis at a little park near our apartment, then immediately jump into the ocean.
Even when Hubby was in graduate school, I was working seven days a week to put him through, and we were dirt poor, we had our dates. We no longer went to fancy restaurants, but we did go to Fazoli's. We would go golfing at a cheap little course in town. Hiking at nearby state parks was always fun.
And then Phoenix was born.
We moved to Indianapolis after Hubby graduated and got a job here. I was eight months pregnant, we didn't know a soul, and the closest relative was two hours away. For a long time, we didn't have any dates alone. We still did fun things, but with a little baby that spit up non-stop, those things were very limited.
Hubby has always been very good at scheduling weekend getaways for us, though. At least once every other year we have a grandma stay with the kids while we take a weekend to ourselves, usually just in downtown Indianapolis. Once, though, Hubby surprised me with a long weekend to NYC to see some Broadway shows. And for our 10th anniversary, we spent a week in Maine.
Once we bought a house and joined a church, we were able to go out a bit. With all of those itty-bitty kids, though, the cost of a sitter was pricey, if we could find one that was able to handle four itty-bitty kids.
Finally, we found a couple with whom we could trade sitter time. One night at 8:00 I would go to their house, where their kids would already be in bed. I'd read a book or watch TV in peace, without looking at a house full of things I needed to do while the other couple went out. The following week, one of them would come to our house and do the same. Since it was late, a dinner and a movie was about all we could do, but it was a dinner and a movie with just the two of us.
We always thought that once the kids got older and we didn't need to hire a sitter, it would be so much easier to go out on dates. How wrong we were. It's even harder! They have activities almost every night of the week. And as they get older, those activities go later and later into the night. We are just too darn tired to drag ourselves out at 9:30.
Hubby and I have always been the best of friends. And we firmly believe that we must put our marriage before the kids. Our goal is to raise them to be independent, so they will move out in a timely fashion. We are together for the rest of our lives. We need to keep that friendship.
So, we take our moments alone when we can get them.
And when we are weeding the garden, we are guaranteed to have some uninterrupted time to talk and catch up.
The kids are too smart to risk coming outside to ask for something They know there is always the possiblity of being told to get a bucket and help us.
Have a lovely day!
The other night, the little boys were in bed, the big kids were occupied with homework, snacks, and whatnot. Hubby came to me with that look in his eyes and asked, "Would you like to come outside and weed with me?"
And he really meant come outside and weed the garden.
Twenty-five years ago, I was in a high school typing class. There were only five people in the class, one of whom was a boy on the swim team with me. I didn't really know him, as I was a year behind him in school, and not much chatting can happen while swimming laps. But since the other three students were a bit on the odd side, we sat together. That boy ended up taking me on my first date.
We went out for pizza with another couple, neither of whom I knew. While there, the other girl told me that the guy she was with was being a jerk lately, they weren't getting along and would probably break up soon. Awesome.
After dinner we went to the jerk's house to watch a movie. The jerk sat in a recliner, the girlfriend sat in a rocking chair across the room, and we sat on the couch. During the movie, you could tell that the girl was upset. She just rocked and rocked in that chair, until she ended up practically in the other room. Oh, and the movie we watched? "Carrie" The one with the girl who gets her period for the first time at school and is terrorized by the girls in the locker room. Not exactly what one would call a "date night" movie.
Despite the bad start, I agreed to go on another date with him. And another. And another.
 |
| My 16th birthday, one month after our first date. |
Then he left for college seven hours away. We were old and wise beyond our years, for when it was my turn to go to college, we decided not to go to the same one. We didn't want to stay together out of habit, but wanted to make sure that we really were supposed to be together.
Dates then became phone calls each night. A rare weekend that we could get to the other's school. Christmas and summer breaks jam packed with time together.
Once I graduated, we finally got married. For the first time in five years, we got to live in the same state.
Those first four years of marriage before kids were so much fun. Hubby got much better at finding things to do for our "dates". While living in Arkansas, he took me to the one mountain in Little Rock in order to watch a meteor shower. We once hopped a plane to spend a weekend in Seattle. We would go for long bike rides. Take day or week trips through the country, with no itinerary, no reservations. We'd simply stop when the mood struck. We lived large in Bermuda for seven months. We ate out at great restaurants. We went snorkling off the beach. We spent a day hiking all along the coast. We would play tennis at a little park near our apartment, then immediately jump into the ocean.
Even when Hubby was in graduate school, I was working seven days a week to put him through, and we were dirt poor, we had our dates. We no longer went to fancy restaurants, but we did go to Fazoli's. We would go golfing at a cheap little course in town. Hiking at nearby state parks was always fun.
And then Phoenix was born.
We moved to Indianapolis after Hubby graduated and got a job here. I was eight months pregnant, we didn't know a soul, and the closest relative was two hours away. For a long time, we didn't have any dates alone. We still did fun things, but with a little baby that spit up non-stop, those things were very limited.
Hubby has always been very good at scheduling weekend getaways for us, though. At least once every other year we have a grandma stay with the kids while we take a weekend to ourselves, usually just in downtown Indianapolis. Once, though, Hubby surprised me with a long weekend to NYC to see some Broadway shows. And for our 10th anniversary, we spent a week in Maine.
Once we bought a house and joined a church, we were able to go out a bit. With all of those itty-bitty kids, though, the cost of a sitter was pricey, if we could find one that was able to handle four itty-bitty kids.
 |
| When we first moved to the farm. |
 |
| No sitters lived nearby. |
Finally, we found a couple with whom we could trade sitter time. One night at 8:00 I would go to their house, where their kids would already be in bed. I'd read a book or watch TV in peace, without looking at a house full of things I needed to do while the other couple went out. The following week, one of them would come to our house and do the same. Since it was late, a dinner and a movie was about all we could do, but it was a dinner and a movie with just the two of us.
We always thought that once the kids got older and we didn't need to hire a sitter, it would be so much easier to go out on dates. How wrong we were. It's even harder! They have activities almost every night of the week. And as they get older, those activities go later and later into the night. We are just too darn tired to drag ourselves out at 9:30.
Hubby and I have always been the best of friends. And we firmly believe that we must put our marriage before the kids. Our goal is to raise them to be independent, so they will move out in a timely fashion. We are together for the rest of our lives. We need to keep that friendship.
So, we take our moments alone when we can get them.
And when we are weeding the garden, we are guaranteed to have some uninterrupted time to talk and catch up.
The kids are too smart to risk coming outside to ask for something They know there is always the possiblity of being told to get a bucket and help us.
Have a lovely day!
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Sorry Kids, But I Do Have a Favorite Age
There is a reason I have six children.
I love having a toddler and a preschooler in the house.
No one else on the planet would be ecstatic about a ten minute drive in a 2001, stinky, dented, radioless minivan that has sat in our yard unused for over a year.
We finally got the minivan up and running again, so we drove it to the little boys' soccer time. They about passed out they were so excited. To the boys, the minivan was just a very large lawn ornament. They had no idea that one was actually supposed to ride in it. Oh, and the things it offers that the big van can't!
"I can touch Cuckoo!"
"The lights are funny!"
"The doors open all by themselves!"
"Did it just lock all by itself?"
"I don't fall down when I climb out by myself!"
Who but a toddler and a preschooler would like to collect and place grass clippings in the garden?
Watching a preschooler trying to figure out how to read is just plain adorable.
Turken had an alphabet book out the other day. He was going through each page, looking at the picture, then saying what he thought the word was with an exaggerated pronunciation.
For example, c-c-c-cat. When he got to the picture of a whale with water coming out of the blowhole, he started out w-w-w-wet. Then w-w-w-water. Each time I thought he had it, but instead of w-w-w-whale, I heard d-d-d-dolphin.
My favorite was mew-mew-mew-music. It was a picture of a xylaphone.
I am forever amazed at how a little brain sees things that we don't even think about.
The other day, Turken was showing off his new counting skill. He got through the twenties just fine, but then things got rocky. Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, threety-zero, threety-one, threety-two. Forty went just fine, but then we were back to fivety-zero, fivety-one... We were good about keeping our "isn't he cute?" giggles to ourselves until he got to 100. Which, in case you didn't know, is tenty-zero.
It breaks my heart to think that in just a couple of years, I won't have any little boys running up to tell me:
"Mom, I can burp whenever I want." As in, on command, just like Giant.
"Mom, listen. Whoo! Whoo!" I thought he was showing me that he knew how to make an owl sound until he added, "I whistled without a whistle!"
Conversations with preschoolers are unlike any you will have with older children or adults.
When feeding the pigs the other day, we had this little exchange:
"Mom, why do we have pigs?"
"So we can eat their meat."
"When will they start laying it?"
(I'll give you a minute to get that mental picture out of your head.)
Yesterday, the sweetest words a two year old can say were spoken by Cuckoo for the very first time.
"I have to go potty!!!"
Don't get too excited. This morning he peed all over the chair while eating breakfast.
While I'm excited to get past the potty training milestone, I will sorely miss the way he copies grown-ups.
My mom and her friend started a conversation while in the car with the kids last week. Cuckoo hollered at her, "Shhh. I'm on the phone!" She immediately stopped talking, he jabbered into his pretend phone for a bit, put it in his lap, then told her, "OK, I'm off now. You can talk."
(Huh, wonder where he got that?)
While I love my big kids, and I love the conversations and things we can do now that they are older, they just aren't as fun to hold in my lap. Oh how I love it when a toddler wants to cuddle up and sit for a spell.
This time of toddlerhood is flying by. I'm going to savor every little, exciting moment. Especially moments like the drive in the minivan to their weekly Happy Feet Storytime with a Soccer Ball.
Have a lovely day!
I love having a toddler and a preschooler in the house.
No one else on the planet would be ecstatic about a ten minute drive in a 2001, stinky, dented, radioless minivan that has sat in our yard unused for over a year.
We finally got the minivan up and running again, so we drove it to the little boys' soccer time. They about passed out they were so excited. To the boys, the minivan was just a very large lawn ornament. They had no idea that one was actually supposed to ride in it. Oh, and the things it offers that the big van can't!
"I can touch Cuckoo!"
"The lights are funny!"
"The doors open all by themselves!"
"Did it just lock all by itself?"
"I don't fall down when I climb out by myself!"
Who but a toddler and a preschooler would like to collect and place grass clippings in the garden?
Watching a preschooler trying to figure out how to read is just plain adorable.
Turken had an alphabet book out the other day. He was going through each page, looking at the picture, then saying what he thought the word was with an exaggerated pronunciation.
For example, c-c-c-cat. When he got to the picture of a whale with water coming out of the blowhole, he started out w-w-w-wet. Then w-w-w-water. Each time I thought he had it, but instead of w-w-w-whale, I heard d-d-d-dolphin.
My favorite was mew-mew-mew-music. It was a picture of a xylaphone.
I am forever amazed at how a little brain sees things that we don't even think about.
The other day, Turken was showing off his new counting skill. He got through the twenties just fine, but then things got rocky. Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, threety-zero, threety-one, threety-two. Forty went just fine, but then we were back to fivety-zero, fivety-one... We were good about keeping our "isn't he cute?" giggles to ourselves until he got to 100. Which, in case you didn't know, is tenty-zero.
It breaks my heart to think that in just a couple of years, I won't have any little boys running up to tell me:
"Mom, I can burp whenever I want." As in, on command, just like Giant.
"Mom, listen. Whoo! Whoo!" I thought he was showing me that he knew how to make an owl sound until he added, "I whistled without a whistle!"
Conversations with preschoolers are unlike any you will have with older children or adults.
When feeding the pigs the other day, we had this little exchange:
"Mom, why do we have pigs?"
"So we can eat their meat."
"When will they start laying it?"
(I'll give you a minute to get that mental picture out of your head.)
 |
| Yes, this is Cuckoo, not Turken, but I wanted to show off the pigs. |
Yesterday, the sweetest words a two year old can say were spoken by Cuckoo for the very first time.
"I have to go potty!!!"
Don't get too excited. This morning he peed all over the chair while eating breakfast.
While I'm excited to get past the potty training milestone, I will sorely miss the way he copies grown-ups.
My mom and her friend started a conversation while in the car with the kids last week. Cuckoo hollered at her, "Shhh. I'm on the phone!" She immediately stopped talking, he jabbered into his pretend phone for a bit, put it in his lap, then told her, "OK, I'm off now. You can talk."
(Huh, wonder where he got that?)
While I love my big kids, and I love the conversations and things we can do now that they are older, they just aren't as fun to hold in my lap. Oh how I love it when a toddler wants to cuddle up and sit for a spell.
This time of toddlerhood is flying by. I'm going to savor every little, exciting moment. Especially moments like the drive in the minivan to their weekly Happy Feet Storytime with a Soccer Ball.
 |
| This move is called "Stop Bob." |
 |
| One game they play is "Fox and Rabbits." One person is the fox, and he kicks the ball towards the others, who are trying to hop to the other side without getting hit by the ball. Cuckoo decided that the balls had to be lined up perfectly before the game could begin. |
 |
| The coach was very patient in letting Cuckoo get everything organized. |
 |
| Probably because Cuckoo is his little shadow, hanging on every word, throughout the session. |
Have a lovely day!
Monday, May 7, 2012
Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy
The kids and I had a wonderful three day weekend (thanks to the lack of snow this winter) of purging and problem solving. We just can't stop smiling we're so happy about it.*
I haven't been very good about keeping on top of the kids and their chores. They noticed. Things have gone downhill around here. So this weekend was used to get things back on track.
We problem solved.
Problem Number 1:
The children and I have very different definitions of common phrases. For example, I understand the command, "Make your bed." to mean pull all sheets and blankets up tight, tuck in the long sides, arrange pillows and stuffed animals and throw blankets neatly on the bed. They believe that it means yank the top blanket up over the ball of sheets underneath, pay no attention to the pillows, and leave everything that was kicked off the bed during the night where it lay. I always thought that "tidy your room" included picking up anything that is on the floor and put it away. They seem to think it means pick up one thing and put it somewhere else. If someone told me to put my clean clothes away, I would gently place the neatly folded clothes in the proper drawers. They find it to mean violently shove clothes into already overflowing drawers, leaving the drawers open for excess to spill out.
The solution:
The kids had a refresher course on what my definitions are. Their rooms (and dressers) were completely cleaned out. I showed them what a made bed looks like, and we got rid of anything that didn't have a "home" in the room. From now on, they don't leave for school until their rooms pass inspection.
Problem Number 2:
Library books. All over my house and van. Distracting my children from things they should be doing, like chores, homework, or playing outside. Racking up lots of fines because the children don't collect them all on library day and magically find a stack four days after they are due.
The solution:
A library box and a home librarian. The kids are still allowed to check out as many books as they like from the library, but when they get home the books go into a plastic tote. One child is the librarian for the three weeks before the books are due. Each child is allowed one book at a time. If he wants a new one, he must go through the librarian. The librarian is also in charge of reminding me three days before the books are due, in order to give me notice to fit a library run into our schedule.
Problem Number 3:
Back when the kids were younger, we put a soccer box on the landing. All shin guards, uniforms, and socks were kept there. It worked very well for many years. But then they started playing travel, which came with practice uniforms. And the kids grew, so lots more uniforms, socks, and shin guards accumulated in the box. Each and every day, at least one child has practice. Each and every day at least one child digs through the soccer box to find the right size, matching socks, and his own shin guards. And when I say dig, I mean like a dog, throwing everything that isn't what he's looking for somewhere behind him. And because they are children, they left those discarded items where they landed. Each and every day. Each and every child.
The solution.
No more community soccer box. I folded each and every shirt and pair of shorts, I matched all of the socks. Each of the kids took three of the uniforms that were the right size, including socks and shin guards. I wrote their initials on each piece, and they put their three uniforms in their newly organized dressers. The rest went into the basement with the outgrown cleats to wait for the day that they are needed again. Every Saturday morning, the newly assigned laundry boy will wash all of the uniforms and distribute them to their rightful owners.
Happiness is checking something off a to-do list, especially when that something is a fabulously organized kids' bedroom. Only makes me want to check off some more. I'm sure the kids will be just as happy as I am to get Phase Two of Operation Get This House Under Control under way.
*Yeah, I lied. The kids certainly are not happy about it. But I certainly appreciate their cheesing it up for me in the photos.
Have a lovely, happy day!
I haven't been very good about keeping on top of the kids and their chores. They noticed. Things have gone downhill around here. So this weekend was used to get things back on track.
We problem solved.
Problem Number 1:
The children and I have very different definitions of common phrases. For example, I understand the command, "Make your bed." to mean pull all sheets and blankets up tight, tuck in the long sides, arrange pillows and stuffed animals and throw blankets neatly on the bed. They believe that it means yank the top blanket up over the ball of sheets underneath, pay no attention to the pillows, and leave everything that was kicked off the bed during the night where it lay. I always thought that "tidy your room" included picking up anything that is on the floor and put it away. They seem to think it means pick up one thing and put it somewhere else. If someone told me to put my clean clothes away, I would gently place the neatly folded clothes in the proper drawers. They find it to mean violently shove clothes into already overflowing drawers, leaving the drawers open for excess to spill out.
The solution:
The kids had a refresher course on what my definitions are. Their rooms (and dressers) were completely cleaned out. I showed them what a made bed looks like, and we got rid of anything that didn't have a "home" in the room. From now on, they don't leave for school until their rooms pass inspection.
 |
| Happy kids making Turken's bed. |
 |
| Happy Phoenix folding and purging the clothes from his dresser. |
Problem Number 2:
Library books. All over my house and van. Distracting my children from things they should be doing, like chores, homework, or playing outside. Racking up lots of fines because the children don't collect them all on library day and magically find a stack four days after they are due.
The solution:
A library box and a home librarian. The kids are still allowed to check out as many books as they like from the library, but when they get home the books go into a plastic tote. One child is the librarian for the three weeks before the books are due. Each child is allowed one book at a time. If he wants a new one, he must go through the librarian. The librarian is also in charge of reminding me three days before the books are due, in order to give me notice to fit a library run into our schedule.
 |
| Happy Star getting a book from Happy Librarian Buttercup |
Problem Number 3:
Back when the kids were younger, we put a soccer box on the landing. All shin guards, uniforms, and socks were kept there. It worked very well for many years. But then they started playing travel, which came with practice uniforms. And the kids grew, so lots more uniforms, socks, and shin guards accumulated in the box. Each and every day, at least one child has practice. Each and every day at least one child digs through the soccer box to find the right size, matching socks, and his own shin guards. And when I say dig, I mean like a dog, throwing everything that isn't what he's looking for somewhere behind him. And because they are children, they left those discarded items where they landed. Each and every day. Each and every child.
The solution.
No more community soccer box. I folded each and every shirt and pair of shorts, I matched all of the socks. Each of the kids took three of the uniforms that were the right size, including socks and shin guards. I wrote their initials on each piece, and they put their three uniforms in their newly organized dressers. The rest went into the basement with the outgrown cleats to wait for the day that they are needed again. Every Saturday morning, the newly assigned laundry boy will wash all of the uniforms and distribute them to their rightful owners.
 |
| Happy Giant putting his uniforms away. |
 |
| Happy Phoenix getting the laundry together. |
*Yeah, I lied. The kids certainly are not happy about it. But I certainly appreciate their cheesing it up for me in the photos.
Have a lovely, happy day!
Thursday, May 3, 2012
I Can Explain
Dear Neighbors and Anyone Else Who Drives by our House,
I feel I must explain the state of our yard. I am well aware that the grass/weeds are a foot tall. I could say that it is because we have been in the middle of a health scare recently and haven't had time. I could also remind you that it has rained four out of the last six days. But we all know that I would be lying if I used those excuses. My yard will look like this all year. So sorry.
Here's why:
1. To explain the fact that only part of the yard gets done at a time, I have two little boys at home with me all day and six acres to mow. I can only mow for a maximum of 45 minutes before boredom, fighting, and general mayhem stops my progress.
2. To explain the patchwork quilt look to the yard, kids move. Mowing near the children is dangerous. (I once almost killed a child with a 100 year old piece of rusty metal that flew out from underneath the mower. The child was IN THE HOUSE! The metal zipped right through a sheet of plexiglass and the glass window and sprayed the glass all over the game room in our house. The same room that Hubby had just left with the baby.) Let's say I start by mowing the orchard while the kids color with chalk on the front porch. When those children move to the field to play baseball, I have to move to a completely new part of the yard immediately so as not to accidentally kill them with shrapnel. The 45 minute rule from above prevents me from getting back to the orchard to finish the area in a timely fashion.
3. To explain the fact that I don't mow every day to get it done, I hate to mow our yard. You would, too, if it was your yard. I like to mow in general. What mother of six wouldn't like a few hours of time to soak up the fresh air in peace and quiet? (The very loud sound of the mower is simply white noise. Anybody with more than one child knows that.) But my yard is booby-trapped. It doesn't want to be mowed. The driveway is lined with both osage-orange and mulberry trees. One looks like she has lost a fight to a vicious cat after mowing around them. The osage-orange trees have inch-long thorns that tear at any exposed skin they can find. If no skin is showing, they go after the clothing or the hair. And they reach down for you. Every year we trim those blasted trees back, and every year they droop down to get us. And that's just the start. In the fall they have their ginormous hedgeapples to drop on you. Bruises on top of scratches. The mulberries are thrown in just in case you manage to make it through the thorns. Mulberry juice stains clothes and skin and hair.
And once past the 300 yard driveway of death, one must then tackle the field of poison ivy. Doesn't matter what you wear. This poison ivy will get you every time. It is approximately one and a half acres of three-leaved, well-trained plants patiently waiting to hop on anyone who tries to mow them down. These leaves use any bit of a breeze (which there always is on a farm in the middle of nowhere) to hurl themselves onto the mower. Where they find any teeny-tiny opening they can to wiggle in, invite their friends, and roll around the unsuspecting doofus simply trying to keep her yard tidy. I cannot tell you how many times I have had poison ivy on the inside of my thighs, on my face, on my arms, my belly, and my rear end from that awful field.
And once past that, one must mow the actual part of the yard that we use. Where the kids play and the dogs run free. Where those kids and dogs leave every imaginable toy, stick, yard tool, random piece of metal, bucket, milk jug, downspout, gym mat, croquet ball, jump rope, or bike for me to either move or accidentally run over. Let's just say that it is no fun at all to untangle a large piece of garden hose that the dog chewed off of the hose-holder out of the blades of a Dixie Chopper.
But, Neighbor and Anyone Else Who Drives by oue House, don't think that I'm not doing something productive in the time I spend avoiding the yard duties. See, I blog. And at least a few people seem to like what I say.
Suzie Q at The White House nominated me for the Liebster Blog Award. (Thank you!)
So, Neighbor and Anyone Else Who Drives by our House, please show mercy when you complain to your spouses, children, pastors, friends, and people you meet in line at the grocery store about me and my yard. I'm not lazy. (or a redneck) I may just have an event coming up, and scratches, bruises, mulberry juice, poison ivy, and torn up fingers from digging things out of the mower would really take away from my outfit.
Sincerely,
Your Neighbor Who Didn't Know What She Was Getting Into When She Bought This House
P.S. About the Liebster Blog Award...
It is to recognize folks that are new to blogging/have less than 200 followers.
The rules are:
1. Thank the person who gave you the award and link back to their blog.
I feel I must explain the state of our yard. I am well aware that the grass/weeds are a foot tall. I could say that it is because we have been in the middle of a health scare recently and haven't had time. I could also remind you that it has rained four out of the last six days. But we all know that I would be lying if I used those excuses. My yard will look like this all year. So sorry.
Here's why:
1. To explain the fact that only part of the yard gets done at a time, I have two little boys at home with me all day and six acres to mow. I can only mow for a maximum of 45 minutes before boredom, fighting, and general mayhem stops my progress.
2. To explain the patchwork quilt look to the yard, kids move. Mowing near the children is dangerous. (I once almost killed a child with a 100 year old piece of rusty metal that flew out from underneath the mower. The child was IN THE HOUSE! The metal zipped right through a sheet of plexiglass and the glass window and sprayed the glass all over the game room in our house. The same room that Hubby had just left with the baby.) Let's say I start by mowing the orchard while the kids color with chalk on the front porch. When those children move to the field to play baseball, I have to move to a completely new part of the yard immediately so as not to accidentally kill them with shrapnel. The 45 minute rule from above prevents me from getting back to the orchard to finish the area in a timely fashion.
3. To explain the fact that I don't mow every day to get it done, I hate to mow our yard. You would, too, if it was your yard. I like to mow in general. What mother of six wouldn't like a few hours of time to soak up the fresh air in peace and quiet? (The very loud sound of the mower is simply white noise. Anybody with more than one child knows that.) But my yard is booby-trapped. It doesn't want to be mowed. The driveway is lined with both osage-orange and mulberry trees. One looks like she has lost a fight to a vicious cat after mowing around them. The osage-orange trees have inch-long thorns that tear at any exposed skin they can find. If no skin is showing, they go after the clothing or the hair. And they reach down for you. Every year we trim those blasted trees back, and every year they droop down to get us. And that's just the start. In the fall they have their ginormous hedgeapples to drop on you. Bruises on top of scratches. The mulberries are thrown in just in case you manage to make it through the thorns. Mulberry juice stains clothes and skin and hair.
And once past the 300 yard driveway of death, one must then tackle the field of poison ivy. Doesn't matter what you wear. This poison ivy will get you every time. It is approximately one and a half acres of three-leaved, well-trained plants patiently waiting to hop on anyone who tries to mow them down. These leaves use any bit of a breeze (which there always is on a farm in the middle of nowhere) to hurl themselves onto the mower. Where they find any teeny-tiny opening they can to wiggle in, invite their friends, and roll around the unsuspecting doofus simply trying to keep her yard tidy. I cannot tell you how many times I have had poison ivy on the inside of my thighs, on my face, on my arms, my belly, and my rear end from that awful field.
And once past that, one must mow the actual part of the yard that we use. Where the kids play and the dogs run free. Where those kids and dogs leave every imaginable toy, stick, yard tool, random piece of metal, bucket, milk jug, downspout, gym mat, croquet ball, jump rope, or bike for me to either move or accidentally run over. Let's just say that it is no fun at all to untangle a large piece of garden hose that the dog chewed off of the hose-holder out of the blades of a Dixie Chopper.
But, Neighbor and Anyone Else Who Drives by oue House, don't think that I'm not doing something productive in the time I spend avoiding the yard duties. See, I blog. And at least a few people seem to like what I say.
Suzie Q at The White House nominated me for the Liebster Blog Award. (Thank you!)
So, Neighbor and Anyone Else Who Drives by our House, please show mercy when you complain to your spouses, children, pastors, friends, and people you meet in line at the grocery store about me and my yard. I'm not lazy. (or a redneck) I may just have an event coming up, and scratches, bruises, mulberry juice, poison ivy, and torn up fingers from digging things out of the mower would really take away from my outfit.
Sincerely,
Your Neighbor Who Didn't Know What She Was Getting Into When She Bought This House
P.S. About the Liebster Blog Award...
It is to recognize folks that are new to blogging/have less than 200 followers.
The rules are:
1. Thank the person who gave you the award and link back to their blog.
2. Copy & paste the award to your blog.
3. Nominate 3-5 further blogs and let them know by leaving a comment.
I shall nominate (roll the drums please)
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Her Heart Will Go On
It has been a loooong day, but I want to let you know how things went today.
Thank you for all of the prayers, well wishes, and encouragement.
Buttercup has what looks to be an isolated premature ventricular contraction. (PVC)
Even though her heart is skipping more than a second grade jump roper (three ventricular contractions in six seconds), they don't seem to be occuring right in a row. GOOD SIGN.
The echocardiogram showed that her blood is being pumped out normally.
She is on a heart monitor for 24 hours, during which she is to behave normally and track her activities in a log book.
She went to soccer practice and everything.
One benefit is that she is being nicer to Star. She doesn't want to have to write down that her heart rate is elevated because she was fighting with her brother.
Friday we will send the monitor in, and will have the final results next week.
As for the trouble breathing at practice, the doctor wants us to have her checked for sports-induced asthma.
All in all, we are thrilled.
Have a lovely day!
Thank you for all of the prayers, well wishes, and encouragement.
Buttercup has what looks to be an isolated premature ventricular contraction. (PVC)
Even though her heart is skipping more than a second grade jump roper (three ventricular contractions in six seconds), they don't seem to be occuring right in a row. GOOD SIGN.
The echocardiogram showed that her blood is being pumped out normally.
She is on a heart monitor for 24 hours, during which she is to behave normally and track her activities in a log book.
She went to soccer practice and everything.
One benefit is that she is being nicer to Star. She doesn't want to have to write down that her heart rate is elevated because she was fighting with her brother.
Friday we will send the monitor in, and will have the final results next week.
As for the trouble breathing at practice, the doctor wants us to have her checked for sports-induced asthma.
All in all, we are thrilled.
Have a lovely day!
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Well That Was a Fine Good Morning
Nothing says, "Do well on those ISTEP tests today!" like a mommy meltdown.
You would think that with the health scare we are currently going through, I would become the kindest, gentlest mother on the planet. Just wanting to hug and cuddle and smile and chat with my kids. While that is what I want, that is not my reality.
I am touchy, on edge, less patient, and overwhelmed. My parenting logic has gone out the window. Let's give a little example.
One of my unnamed children has been sleeping in a sleeping bag for the last four nights. I had him strip the bed and throw the sheets in the wash on Friday. His sheets are washed and dried on the side of his bed. And yet he has been sleeping in a sleeping bag instead of simply putting the sheets on his bed. In my normal state, I would recognize that he wasn't home for even two minutes after school yesterday and didn't get to bed until 11:00 last night. (He went to the Pacer's playoff game with Hubby last night.) I normally would have chatted with him after school today, when he had hours and hours of free time to get the bed put back together.
In my current state, I told him before school that he needed to roll up that sleeping bag this morning. Basically, that his days of laziness were coming to an end that very minute. Sure, now I see that it was a huge mistake, but I didn't foresee the spiral into disrespect, overreactions, and temper tantrums that it would set off. I didn't handle it well when he just messily rolled it and went to throw it in the closet. We actually got into a war of wills about how to roll up a sleeping bag. At 6:20 in the morning. A mature pair we were not. I didn't handle it well when he dropped to the floor with a wail of self-pity. Nope, didn't handle it well at all. In hindsight, listing off all of the consequences he's going to get this afternoon probably wasn't the best tactic for calming him down and getting the situation resolved.
I hate hindsight. Foresight is really so much more helpful.
Lest you think I was picking on just this one child, I'll also confess that the words, "If I find your wet towel on your bedroom floor yet again this morning, I will hurt you with it." came out of my mouth at some point. I said it in a very sweet tone, and we all knew I wouldn't have done it, but I got the point across. The perpetrator scurried up those stairs to get the towel back on the hook in the bathroom.
The two other kids must have seen the writing on the wall. When I came downstairs, they were in a flurry of activity, collecting library books and cleaning up the toys that were left out the night before.
The kisses and wishes of, "Have a good day!" as the kids walked out the door just didn't have the affect it usually does.
I need to remember this when the ISTEP scores come back.
I just can't explain to the kids where all this is coming from. I am so overwhelmed with this limbo we are in until we find the source of Buttercup's heart problems. We did get her appointment scheduled with the cardiologist for Wednesday afternoon, but the logistics of where the other five kids will be at that time only adds to my overwhelmed feeling. All of this on top of the normal taking care of six kids, 20 chickens, 4 pigs, two dogs, a house, a garden, and a yard, and things like wet towels and unmade beds send me over the edge.
This morning was my little wake up call to get myself together. To quit hiding the fact that I'm scared and just hug my babies. Look at Scripture instead of the clutter. Pray the worry away.
And apologize for my mistakes this morning.
Once again, forgiveness is a beautiful gift.
Have a lovely day.
You would think that with the health scare we are currently going through, I would become the kindest, gentlest mother on the planet. Just wanting to hug and cuddle and smile and chat with my kids. While that is what I want, that is not my reality.
I am touchy, on edge, less patient, and overwhelmed. My parenting logic has gone out the window. Let's give a little example.
One of my unnamed children has been sleeping in a sleeping bag for the last four nights. I had him strip the bed and throw the sheets in the wash on Friday. His sheets are washed and dried on the side of his bed. And yet he has been sleeping in a sleeping bag instead of simply putting the sheets on his bed. In my normal state, I would recognize that he wasn't home for even two minutes after school yesterday and didn't get to bed until 11:00 last night. (He went to the Pacer's playoff game with Hubby last night.) I normally would have chatted with him after school today, when he had hours and hours of free time to get the bed put back together.
In my current state, I told him before school that he needed to roll up that sleeping bag this morning. Basically, that his days of laziness were coming to an end that very minute. Sure, now I see that it was a huge mistake, but I didn't foresee the spiral into disrespect, overreactions, and temper tantrums that it would set off. I didn't handle it well when he just messily rolled it and went to throw it in the closet. We actually got into a war of wills about how to roll up a sleeping bag. At 6:20 in the morning. A mature pair we were not. I didn't handle it well when he dropped to the floor with a wail of self-pity. Nope, didn't handle it well at all. In hindsight, listing off all of the consequences he's going to get this afternoon probably wasn't the best tactic for calming him down and getting the situation resolved.
I hate hindsight. Foresight is really so much more helpful.
Lest you think I was picking on just this one child, I'll also confess that the words, "If I find your wet towel on your bedroom floor yet again this morning, I will hurt you with it." came out of my mouth at some point. I said it in a very sweet tone, and we all knew I wouldn't have done it, but I got the point across. The perpetrator scurried up those stairs to get the towel back on the hook in the bathroom.
The two other kids must have seen the writing on the wall. When I came downstairs, they were in a flurry of activity, collecting library books and cleaning up the toys that were left out the night before.
The kisses and wishes of, "Have a good day!" as the kids walked out the door just didn't have the affect it usually does.
I need to remember this when the ISTEP scores come back.
I just can't explain to the kids where all this is coming from. I am so overwhelmed with this limbo we are in until we find the source of Buttercup's heart problems. We did get her appointment scheduled with the cardiologist for Wednesday afternoon, but the logistics of where the other five kids will be at that time only adds to my overwhelmed feeling. All of this on top of the normal taking care of six kids, 20 chickens, 4 pigs, two dogs, a house, a garden, and a yard, and things like wet towels and unmade beds send me over the edge.
This morning was my little wake up call to get myself together. To quit hiding the fact that I'm scared and just hug my babies. Look at Scripture instead of the clutter. Pray the worry away.
And apologize for my mistakes this morning.
Once again, forgiveness is a beautiful gift.
Have a lovely day.
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