Rizzerd

I NEVER thought I'd have a lizard in my house. At least not in the 'pet' capacity. But, parenting is all about surprising yourself. This isn't the story of how the lizard came to reside in my house - that's a story that only Cole and I find interesting. This post is just because I find myself amazed at how a reptile can so endear himself to naysayers. Chad and I had serious reservations about having the lizard in our home. Two other pets and a 3-year-old seemed like an insurmountable number of death traps for a new tiny, soft-sided, scurrying animal. But Cole won with his research, good grades, respectful attitude, and long eyelashes (those eyelashes are going to be the death of me).

Right from the pet store, we knew this little guy was going to be funny. When we walked over to him, he started scratching at the cage like a crazy person in a padded cell. I've read all about bearded dragons and I know this behavior is common, but until you've seen it in action - and especially seen it while watching other bearded dragons just sit like lumps on their basking rocks, you can't imagine how cute it is.

Because he's a lizard, he has a constant look of curiosity. He's always tilting his head when you move and running toward the movement in the room to check it out. He doesn't hide or cower at all. When we brought him home, we looked like the other bearded dragons at the pet store; climbing all over one another to get a better look at him. There the 6 of us were, admiring and pointing out the obvious to the room. "Look, he just jumped from that branch to that other branch!" "Oh, see how he tilts his head every time we talk?" And my favorite; Cade's continuous use of the sentence, "I unna hold de rizzerd! I unna hold de rizzerd!"

Even watching him eat live crickets is the highlight of our family time. We wait until he's caught one and we all say, "Om nom nom nom" and then laugh like we are all stand up comics.

I've been the the pet store no less than 6 times since we bought the lizard looking for easier ways to feed him, and better ways to make sure he's warm or cool, or humid enough. I'm not at all sure Cole is any more excited than Chad and I about the new pet. In fact, whenever Cole takes Bumbledore (that's his name) out of his terrarium, Chad magically appears and pretty much takes over.

It's official, we are a lizard household. Here are some pictures of Bumbledore, the Bearded Dragon.


Here's his sexy picture:

Highways with God

I think I could start all of my posts with "My life is loud." It's a good place to start. It sets the mood quickly without a lot of words. I hear lots of talk about how busy we all are as a culture, though, so maybe your life is loud, too. Even my inner life is loud. When the kids are asleep, I still have thoughts, fears, worries, dreams, and to do lists running through my mind like a freight train. I never slow down because my life is always ahead of me and I'm running to keep up.

Because my life is so loud, I have an unenforced 'no music' law in my truck. No one agrees on music choices and playing music can actually create noise instead of melody. It's rare when we are all sing the same song without someone complaining. If we sing songs Cade knows (Itsy Bitsy Spider), Pearce is rolling his eyes. If we sing songs that Pearce likes (Bruno Mars), Cade is yelling, "It's too loud (translation: Iss too roud!)!

We normally skip the music in the car and just talk over each other.

It's because of this I enjoy road trips on my own so much. I plug in my iPod and play my favorite songs. It's in this time alone that God usually finds me. I'm vegging out - zoning on the highway and a song will come on. Because it's on my iPod, it's always a song I'm familiar with, but for some reason, it hits me anew.

And I'm helpless to what happens next. The song will speak to me. I mean, REALLY speak to me. Right where I am in my life. One of the funny musings I've discovered about these moments is how quickly it happens. I'm just sitting there singing and the words will disappear in my throat. A gurgle comes out instead. Water literally bursts forth from my eyes. My nose abruptly stops up and starts running at the same time.

I'm suddenly hyper-aware of the people driving in the lanes next to me, but I'm too afraid to make eye contact with them because I'm really leaking. From my eyes and nose. Why is the Kleenex box on the floorboard!?!?!? Gargh!!!!

I should change the song, compose myself, and slow a little so the people to my left and right will be far ahead of the sobbing, silently singing stranger. But I don't. I turn it up, I listen more deeply, soak in the moisture from the air around me in order to create even more tears.

Then, there is a peace. A knowledge that God is with me in the song and in my heart - and even leaking out of my eyes. I am emptied of all the noise and then filled with peace and sometimes revelation. I am grateful for those moments of restoration - regardless of what the drivers around me think. And regardless of an almost guaranteed lack of available Kleenex.

Exit Stage Left

Kids go through stages. I know this. I've raised enough boys to be comfortable with this statement. Kids go through stages. Simple.

But Cade...I pause to run my hands through my hair to see if it's falling out in patches...Cade is going to END ME, PEOPLE.

It's a never-ending transition from one horrific stage to another. As soon as he was old enough crawl, he discovered the dog water and food. And for almost a year, he splashed, dumped, and even drank the dog's water. He took immense joy in putting the dog food into the water and stirring it around. He loved to put other random things into the dog water. Stuffed animals, DVD's, army men, hairbrushes. You're judging, right? You're giving the computer monitor an incredulous look and asking, "A year, Dori? Why didn't you just MOVE the food and water?" I guess the answer is part 'I never had to do that for three other boys' and part 'Where am I going to move it where a 26 pound Pomeranian can get to it, but Cade can't?'

That finally subsided, but before I could celebrate, we began the arduous task of making sure that Cade didn't choke to death on a daily basis. Everything went into the child's mouth. And I mean E-ver-y-thin-g. Dog food, balls, weeble wobbles, rabbit pellets from the back yard, old milk, checkers, coins, soap. Yes, soap. He'd put it in his mouth, make a face, look at it and proceed to put it back in his mouth just to reassure himself it did, in fact, taste that bad. Then Legos. OMG - the legos. Lego men heads, weapons, tires, blocks, trees, etc. Protein isn't really the "building block" to Cade's muscle - it's Legos.

Once we realized that he wasn't putting so many things in his mouth, we were already into the "NO!" means "DO IT FASTER" stage.
Cade's translations:
"No, Cade, don't eat the dog food." = "Eat is before I can get to you!"
"No, Cade, don't jump on the couch!" = "Jump off the couch and run!"
"No, Cade, don't drink that milk from last night's dinner." = "DOWN IT!!! DOWN IT!!!!"

And finally, just when I'm starting to see some improvement in his reasoning skills, he starts potty training. This really isn't a behavioral stage. But Cade manages to make it a challenge. He's, well, he's VERY regular. He poops each night at around 9:00. And we put a pull up on him to avoid the underwear/poop debacle. The last week or so, he's decided that he needs to take the pull up off after he's pooped in it. And he's really quiet about it. We think he's sleeping until he says, "Mommy, I need to go poop." under the door. I walk into his darkened room and either step directly onto the pull up (always facing up where there's no avoiding maximum foot-coverage) or I walk into the 'Where in the world could Cade's stinky pull up be?' mystery. Why does he hide it???? WHY? He cheerfully smiles and says, "I went poop!" while I frantically check his hands, the bed, the furniture, and the toys. Do you know how many diseases are fecal in their origins??? Hazmat needs a secret tunnel to Cade's room.

So, I ponder these questions while I'm trying not to cry at the end of a day where I either spent it keeping Cade alive or cleaning up his hazardous waste - why is the last child the most challenging child??? And when will a good stage happen? And will I recognize it while I'm on anti-psychotic meds?

Unintentional Challenge (a.k.a. "I love you, man.")

I’m literally obligated by an implied challenge to post this. My son should know better. And perhaps he does. Perhaps he simply feigns horror at being the subject of my blog postings.

I should start by declaring how awesome Pearce is . He’s not mortified at almost 13 to be seen with me and even throws a gangly arm around me in rare displays of public affection. Even though the chemicals in his pre-teen body vehemently demand that he doesn’t; he still laughs at my jokes. And when we say goodbye on the phone – there is ALWAYS an ‘I love you.’ It’s a family thing. My parents and I say it to each other. Chad and I end our phone conversations that way. My brother and I tell each other when we speak on the phone. I say it to all my children if I’m on the phone with them. Pearce’s Dad also says it to him. And now, Pearce is in the habit. It’s muscle memory for him to end a phone conversation with ‘Love you.’

So, it was really a natural turn of events when earlier today, Pearce ended a phone conversation with one of his best guy buddies by saying, ‘Love you.’ I wish I had video of his facial expression as he realized what he’d said. I heard it and looked up. Chad heard it and looked up. Cole heard it and looked up. As realization struck and Pearce’s eyes exploded like popcorn, we all did the very supportive family thing. We howled with laughter. We might have even pointed and laughed. We laughed ourselves into tears. All this laughter while Pearce was frantically texting his buddy to explain in case he heard him as he was hanging up. Kuddos to his buddy, who responded with, “I didn’t hear it, but I love you too, bro.”

Pearce’s Dad called right at that moment and we all loudly encouraged Pearce to let him in on the hilarity, which he was hesitant to do. He finally gave in to our pressure and told his Dad, who I’m sure got a kick out of it. This was the moment when Pearce unintentionally challenged me to post this. He’s talking to his Dad and he dolefully says, “This will probably end up on Mom’s blog.”

What's a mom to do?

Growing Up

Today is a day of celebration. It's Cade's 3rd birthday. A landmark for sure. More than just a birthday, this day signifies the official end of the baby days in my house. I don't have a single child in the nursery at church now. Not a single kid in my house wears diapers.

There are no more sippy cups.

No more pacifiers.

No more quartered grapes!

Can I get an Amen!!

I might be more freaked out if it weren't for my older boys. Pearce, Cole, and Stone make me so proud - make me thankful for God's intervention (according to my parents, I deserve much, much worse in return for my childhood). I am not mourning the end of the baby days because of them.

I'm looking forward to seeing who this little boy becomes. I'm looking forward to knowing him as a person. I'm excited to see him grow into his humor, strengths, quirks. I'm looking forward to discovering his passions with him and encouraging his pursuits. And I'm looking forward to watching him become independent and confident in who he is aside from 'Dori's son.'

Cade Garret Young, I love you. You are wild and unpredictable and tenacious and unsinkable. You are more awesome than I could have dreamed. You are the reason the word 'awesome' was created.

Lost memory card - a spiritual lesson in love

I have to make a horrible, embarrassing confession. I lost a memory card at Saturday’s wedding. I changed out the card so I’d have a clean card for the ceremony and reception and the one with all the pre-wedding pictures is gone. I discovered it when I got home Saturday night. I was so excited about how beautiful the wedding was, I wanted to download the images immediately and work on them. After scouring the camera bag, my pockets, and the truck; I left messages with the wedding chapel’s office and then I laid awake in bed most of the night with knots in my stomach.

The next day, I sat through church much like a zombie. I remember thinking it would be easier to talk to God about the situation if it were a moral or character flaw – but I couldn’t figure out what lesson could be learned from losing a memory card. Other than a technical lesson. You can bet I have a 32G dedicated card in my camera’s second slot that’s set to duplicate so I never lose another image even if I change out the card in the first slot. Sorry for the run-on.

After church, I took my 10-year-old, Cole, with me to the chapel and reception sites to look for the card. We started at the reception place as a long shot, but a possibility.
As we were walking along the street, Cole said, “Have you asked God for help?”

I replied, “You mean help in finding the card?”

He said, “Yes.”

I answered, “I feel kind of funny asking God to help me find a memory card.”

He replied, “You should. You always tell us that we can go to God about anything we need help with.”

I literally stopped walking and just looked at Cole. And he looked at me. Then he shrugged. So, we prayed. I told God that what I really wanted was to find the card, but if he couldn’t help me with that, to help me with the words I would need to talk to the client. Then, I asked God to give the client a gracious heart. And I thanked him for Cole.

We didn’t find the card and I came home to another long, sleepless night of worry. Before I went to bed, Cole asked me if I would pray with him. He prayed his normal prayer of thanksgiving to God and then added a prayer for me and my conversation with the client.

Today, I made that call and when I got off the phone, I cried like a baby. The mother of the bride was so gracious. She was so honestly amazing, I just cried out of gratitude and relief.

To think, on Sunday morning I didn’t know what kind of lesson I could learn from a lost memory card.

First, I have a son who not only listens to me, but reminds me of my own lessons. We can go to God with anything. Cole’s reminder to me was a magical, childlike expression of his innocence and trust. And his prayer for me was an expression of his love and concern for me. I’m humbled and honored to be his mother.

Second, I learned that there are people in this world who receive bad news and don’t even stutter before offering their grace. I’m inspired to follow suit.

So many more lessons still being processed, but those were the biggies.

Praise be to God.

On the other side of the lens

Everyone has a picture taker in their family, right? The one who is never in the pictures because they are always behind the lens? I'm that person. I'm bizarrely absent from my life in the albums I like to scrapbook. And, deciding to take pictures as a secondary profession didn't do me any favors.

This weekend, I took Chad to Missouri for his 40th. His best friend from high school, Scott, went with us along with his wife. Katherine and I had LOTS of free time on our hands as Chad and Scott fished both days we were there. Along with all the beautiful photos of the property we took, we decided to do a mini photo shoot of each other.

Katherine is photogenic. Pause. There's weight in that sentence. Katherine is photogenic. Me? Not so much. I'm too uncomfortable...too goofy for photgenicness (I know it's not a word). Behold the awkwardness...



Here's my attempt at the hair flip. Kind of doesn't work in a still shot.



Here's my attempt to 'just act natural'.




Here's my flirty attempt at the pouty lips thing.


Here's...well, I don't really know what this is.



This may be my attempt to do some GQ-type modeling. Might have worked better with an actual watch.


More awesome magazine modeling.


Here's the result of my 'being playful.' These two sticks were having an epic imaginary battle. What's more playful than that?


Here's my contemplative look. I'm contemplating the stickness of the stick.


Action shot. Too bad there's so much backside.

And finally, the only picture that turned out really well. Note the obvious lack of my face.

I'm so sorry, baby...

You might remember the post from a few years ago where I compared Stone to a shark on an eating frenzy. It was one of those shots that you take of your children and really should delete it from the electronic universe. It should be forgotten. For their sake and yours as a parent.

I, however, have something twisted in me. I keep these pictures and sometimes even blog about them. I shouldn't. I should do as my more responsible fellow mothers do and only blog about the awesome things.

But, you know me. So, here we go.

The other day, Chad was taking some pictures of me, Stone, and Cade in our cowboy boots. We got a few cute ones, even though I couldn't get both kids to do the same thing with their boots. One wanted to sit with them forward while the other one wanted to lay on his tummy. C'est la vie. Cade ended up crawling toward Daddy and Daddy kept the camera shooting (yay, Daddy!). We got a few really cute shots...and then this one:










What the...? Is THIS my child? The one I refer to in terms of cuteness to other people? Is this really the product of my genetics? Good gracious, it can't be. Look at that mouth? It really is...just...kind of wrong. It HAS to be the angle of the shot. Those teeth CAN NOT be that bad. I mean, they are kind of straight, but just not at all right.

I stare in morbid fascination and nod my head in this decision: it has to be Chad's genes. I'll take credit for all the cute pictures and we'll just chalk this one up to Dad.

Then, I'm packing for a trip and I find this in my sock drawer.




It's spectacular, isn't it? Truly horrific beyond words. This was my mouth in 1985. It was taken by the orthodontist who then tortured me for 6 years. It took 6 years to correct...well, all that.

Chad, babe, I'm sorry for so quickly throwing the blame onto your shoulders. I mean, yes, you are from Arkansas and therefore an easy target for teeth jokes, but it was wrong and I apologize.

Cade, baby, I'm sorry for forgetting my roots. The ones that were attached to these teeth. I'm sorry for the braces you are going to have to endure because of me. I'm sorry for staring at your picture with such macabre concentration and not seeing the true resemblance. The good news is that lots of money will go toward your smile if you truly do take after Mommy.

Here, just because he really is unbearably cute. I'll even let Daddy have the credit.

Princess Generation Agitation

As the mother of four boys, it's natural to wonder about my future daughters-in-law. What will they be like? What will their interests be? Will they have a sense of humor? What flavor will they add to our family's crazy soup? I spend time trying to raise my boys to be independent and self-sufficient. I want them to fall in love without the apron string attachment to a mother. I'm as intentional as I know how to be in raising them to be the kind of men who will enjoy their lives and their future partners without mommy issues.

And that is why I'm so concerned about this Princess Generation. A generation of pink, tiara-wearing, frilly, lacy girls with major expectation issues.

I know that Cinderella and Snow White were around in my day. And I can't say I was immune to the lure of the white dress and the perfect wedding day. But did you know Disney went from $300 million to $4 billion since they began marketing their female characters as 'Disney Princesses'? Did you know that Disney has a line of wedding gowns? You go to their site and 'choose a princess' to view a gown.


I think the future generations of men owe Disney execs a good punch in the nose. While I am training my boys to lower the toilet lid and do their own laundry, a generation of girls is being taught they deserve to be put on a pedestal and that Prince Charming exists to make all their dreams come true.

Where are the tomboys? Where are the girls who can climb trees and play football? Where are the girls who come home with scraped knees and messy hair? Where is this girl?



Don't get me wrong, not all princesses are bad influences. I just think we are focusing on the wrong ones. If you want your daughter to love a princess and still grow up to be the kind of woman who challenges conformity and doesn't rely on my son to fulfill her every wish, please let me introduce to you Princess Leia. A princess your daughter can look up to. Brassy, independent, commanding; all while still managing to stun men with her beauty. And sure, she needed re s cuing, but it was from imprisonment for leading a revolution against an evil empire. This the kind of princess I want for my boys.



Maybe it would be helpful to see the difference between a Disney Princess Wife and a Princess Leia Wife. Here are some examples of situations between a husband and either kind of wife:

Scenario 1
Husband: "Hey, I'm thinking about going deer hunting with Dad. Sure would be nice to have some venison this year.
Princess Leia Wife: "Here, use my gun. Your gun doesn't have the firepower necessary to bring a deer down in one shot."
or
Disney Princess Wife: "Hunting? How can you go out and kill the innocent animals of the forest? How can you murder Bambi? You obviously aren't the man I thought you were."

Scenario 2
Husband: "Hey, I'm thinking about getting a motorcycle. What are your thoughts on that?"
Princess Leia Wife: "I grew up riding four wheelers with my dad in the woods, so I know first hand how awesome it feels to have the wind in your hair and speed at your fingertips."
or
Disney Princess Wife: "Motorcycles are for thugs! And they are dangerous. And if you get hurt, who will draw me a bath of rainwater and take me to Victoria's Secret for more pink nightshirts and rub my feet with lavender oil? You obviously aren't the man I thought you were."

Scenario 3
Husband: "For my birthday, I'd really like to stay in and hang out. You alright with that?
Princess Leia Wife: "Sure, and I can bring out the gold bikini if you want."
or
Disney Princess Wife: "But I thought we'd go out on a date. It's a special night and we should celebrate by going to my favorite restaurant and then to the new Matthew McConaughey movie. You obviously aren't the man I thought you were."

Please, I beg you, if you are one of the parents raising daughters ; go the route of Princess Leia. Teach your daughters about the princesses that are awesome.

**Oh, I forgot to tell you! I wrote this last week, but wanted to tweak it before posting it. After I sent it to my mom to proof read, I opened Parenting Magazine and on page 20, there was a little article about this same stuff. Their top pick for Power Princess - you know it - Princess Leia.**

Loves like a hurricane

Sometimes, I find a Christian song I love, but doesn’t make complete sense to me. David Crowder’s music does this to me a lot. For instance, he sings a song called How He Loves Us (written by John Mark McMillan) that has been a favorite of mine since I heard it the first time. But, I admit some of the concepts in the song are lost on me. For instance:

He is jealous for me,
Loves like a hurricane, I am a tree
Bending beneath the weight of his wind and mercy.

Loves like a hurricane? I am a tree? That sounds really scary. And painful. And not at all like the image of a cuddly, lovable God I’ve created and put in a nice mental gift box.

And further in the song

We are His portion and He is our prize,
Drawn to redemption by the grace in His eyes,
If grace is an ocean, we’re all sinking.
So Heaven meets earth like a sloppy wet kiss,
And my heart turns violently inside of my chest

I’m not used to words like ‘sinking’ and ‘violently’ used in a positive connotation in my Christian rock. So, I’m loving the song and just ignoring the scary words that vary from my experience of God.

I have to give you a little background before I continue. I’m a believer because I have felt God. I know people believe for different reasons, but mine is a feeling thing where I’ve felt his presence in me and around me. Over the years, I’ve felt him more sporadically, and thankfully I’ve had wise spiritual friends who’ve taught me through scripture that I won’t always feel God, but he’s nevertheless always there. I’ve disciplined myself to worship even in the dry spells. I’m thankful to have learned that lesson. But this latest dry spell has lasted so long, I feel like a cartoon character dragging myself across the desert toward more desert with no oasis (or even mirage) in sight. You can bet I’ve been praying for God to throw me a tidbit of instant gratification. I’ve argued that he created me with the ADHD and he needs to accommodate it. I’ve begged to feel him again; to have my thirst quenched; to feel the relief of a sprinkle in the desert.

Yesterday, God answered my prayers. And I have to say, I know his timing is perfect, but it’s not always my favorite.

More background needed. When I started singing with the Praise Team at my church, maybe a handful of people in our congregation sang aloud. On a really good Sunday, you might hear those three or four voices singing loudly, but otherwise, our congregation was VERY quiet. As a Praise Team, we prayed for God’s voice to fill the sanctuary through the congregation. We prayed for God to use us as his instruments. We prayed for God’s spirit to flow in our church and congregation. God’s faithfulness on those prayers is evident. Through the years, the congregation’s voice has become loud enough that we took moments in songs to back away from the microphones to listen to them. Each time we did, I was grateful for the gift of God’s presence and faithfulness.

Back to yesterday. Remember I’m crawling in the desert, desperate for a sprinkling of God’s touch. We sang a song that I love called Mighty to Save (it’s got great lyrics, too). It’s one of my favorite songs because there’s a moment when the song goes from loud to quiet and I back away from the microphone to hear the voice of the congregation. Yesterday, it was a sea of music washing over me. The sound was crushingly beautiful – it was the sound of God’s voice filling the sanctuary. It was the lavish response to my cry for God’s touch. It was a hurricane and I was a tree.

I was overwhelmed. And tears sprang forth. It was like the overflow of the hurricane coming from my eyes. I was unable to continue the song and for the first time since I’ve been in the Praise Team, I was unable to compose myself at all. I was sinking in the ocean of voices, who thankfully finished the song in my place. The congregation became a beautiful metaphor for how God carries us through when we are unable to go further on our own.

I sat down – completely embarrassed – worried I’d made people feel uncomfortable (we aren’t a charismatic church where people freely and openly sob like I had done). It took me awhile to realize the reaction I had was God; the voices were a gift; and being embarrassed was unnecessary. Which brings me to the last lines of the song:

I don’t have time to maintain these regrets,
When I think about the way…
He loves us.

I get it now. I totally get the lyrics.

Grown up, but still a kid

Friday was a good day. It was the kind of day that comes and goes and when you look back on it, you think, "Man, I loved that day." And it wasn't that anything amazing happened, but the gathering of all the little memories makes for one big nice one.

My parents were in because sick kids prevented us from traveling last weekend. So, I decided it was finally my turn to cook Christmas dinner. My first turkey and all the accompanying dishes. It's a dizzying task; coordinating what goes in first, at what temperature, for how long,etc. I'm really glad my mom was there to help me navigate the unknown paths. However, she did not take over, make suggestions or changes, or look exasperated at me once. She sat over at the dining room table looking amused for most of the day. And my Dad, who can't sit still unless there's an old western on the tube, came in and did all the chopping, dicing, and cubing for the recipes. I'm so grateful not to have cubed the sweet potatoes! So at that one point, it was me and Dad, who's busy, but unobtrusive presence are both positive and endearing.

And when it was all done, we sat down to a dinner table that looked completely alien to us.

A roasted turkey (who has his own story from being frozen the morning I started cooking to not quite done when I took him out of the oven) that I made by combining recipes I found from Martha Stewart and The Barefoot Contessa. Just a friendly note here; if you've never made your own turkey before, you can't just buy it the night before and expect to cook it early the next morning. It has to thaw for days.

A corn casserol and sweet potato casserole I found on the internet.

A Yankee Stuffing recipe (Horror #1) made from sourdough bread instead of cornbread (Horror #2) that I found on - wait for it - a BLOG (Oh, the horror!).

There was only one pie, not enough wine for dinner because we started drinking it at 10:00 that morning, and we forgot to open the can of cranberry sauce.

But, my family being the amazing people they are, all ate without making any comments about how different my meal was from our traditional Christmas dinner. Everyone had something nice to say (even Pearce and Cole) and we enjoyed our meal.

I was feeling very happy about having completed and eaten my first Christmas dinner. I was feeling very grown up. I felt very much the matriarch at that moment. And then my mom walked up to me and looked me in the eyes and said, "I'm proud of you." The feeling of being grown up didn't disappear, but I enjoyed the rush of child-like warmth to hear her say those words. In that moment, I was both grown up, but still a kid.

Worry chorizo

I worry. It's kind of what I do. I worry I'm not a good mom. A good wife. A good friend. A good person. A good Christian. Sometimes my worry overwhelms me and when I become overwhelmed, I feel out of control. That's the worst. Being out of control. Feeling helpless and hopeless is like holding my breath. Or like when my brother used to roll me up into a blanket so tight that I couldn't unroll myself.

Sometimes I'm overwhelmed by noise. By responsibility. By expectations. By anger. By jealousy. When I'm out of control of myself in these ways, it's like being wrapped too tightly in a guilt blanket. I become a guilt chorizo.

Tonight, I walked a prayer labyrinth; which is something I've never done. I asked God to tell me what to pray about. As I approached the center, I was focusing on all the above things - the things that wrap me up. The words 'out of control' came to mind and on their heels, the words, 'God is in control.'

This isn't a Christmas miracle post. My epiphany won't change the circumstances that cause my worry nor their frequency. And I don't know that I'm going to stop worrying or feeling less out of control. But, knowing that God is never out of control gave me peace. Peace that is still with me. Peace I can pass on. Peace that might still be in me the next time the blanket of guilt and worry comes calling.

God is in control.

Tomorrow, I will worry, even though I don't need to and it doesn't do any good. I will worry about my 12-year-old having his first girlfriend. About my sick great-aunt. About money. About singing off key at church. About cooking my first Christmas goose.

But God will not worry.

There is peace in that.

Psalm 46

1 God is our refuge and strength,
an ever-present help in trouble.
2 Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way
and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea,
3 though its waters roar and foam
and the mountains quake with their surging.

4 There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God,
the holy place where the Most High dwells.
5 God is within her, she will not fall;
God will help her at break of day.
6 Nations are in uproar, kingdoms fall;
he lifts his voice, the earth melts.

7 The LORD Almighty is with us;
the God of Jacob is our fortress.

8 Come and see what the LORD has done,
the desolations he has brought on the earth.
9 He makes wars cease
to the ends of the earth.
He breaks the bow and shatters the spear;
he burns the shields[d] with fire.
10 He says, “Be still, and know that I am God;
I will be exalted among the nations,
I will be exalted in the earth.”

11 The LORD Almighty is with us;
the God of Jacob is our fortress.

Sneaky Stocking Stalkers

I love my childhood stocking. My Dad’s mom made it and it’s the symbol of Christmas magic to me. The stocking is my favorite part of Christmas morning. No matter how many presents were under the tree, Christmas always felt like it started when we, wide-eyed with anticipation, carefully pulled out each treasure from within the stocking. And Christmas always felt like it ended when the last item had been dug out, the bottom of the stocking checked, rechecked, and triple checked for emptiness. There were still presents under the tree, and I loved them, but the anticipation and excitement of the stocking was unrivaled.

You remember how hard it was to go to sleep on Christmas Eve? Knowing that Santa was coming and yet knowing he wouldn’t come until I fell asleep was torture. It was like taking a NoDoz and a sleeping pill and hoping for the best. You know you need to sleep, but can’t. One Christmas, I had a particularly hard time staying asleep. My bedroom was on the second floor and opened to a balcony that overlooked the entire living room. Each time I’d awaken, I’d sneak out to see if Santa had come. On the third time, there it was. The Stocking. And although Santa had most likely brought me something awesome that was sitting out in plain sight, I couldn’t see anything else but the glittery, beckoning, felt and sequined embodiment of temptation. There’s something spectacular about the heft and shape of a filled stocking. My stocking had a rosy-cheeked Santa who always looked so fat and jolly when he was stuffed.

I deftly made my way downstairs and dared to peer into the depths of its wonder. I could see a Hello Kitty emblem, the traditional Book of Lifesavers, something fuzzy, and then…was that the top of a Star Wars figure? I could see the logo; I knew the familiar cardboard box. But I couldn’t quite see which character. I oh-so gently removed the top item from the stocking. I swear the sound of a Life Saver box coming out of a felt stocking was like a jet engine in the living room. I removed the Hello Kitty stationery set. Did it have bells on it? It was so loud! I removed the fuzzy thing and there it was. Luke Skywalker in the orange X-wing suit. I lovingly removed him from his sleeping place and marveled at him. Santa was truly amazing. I decided not to press my luck and place everything back in the stocking, but realized as I put Luke back that there was the bottom of a Star Wars figure box further down. Two Star Wars characters! Oh, Santa, surely I was naughtier than to deserve two! And that was it, the stocking was completely emptied and I sat among my loot so happy. An orange Luke Skywalker and a Chewbacca. I’m still aglow with the memory of that moment.

I replaced the items in my stocking, too caught up in my reverie to replace them in the correct sequence. That Christmas came and went and the next year, I made my trip downstairs to look at the stocking in the dead of night. To my surprise, everything on the top of the stocking was crinkly or honestly covered in bells. So, Santa knew. It felt like it took me an hour that year to go through my stocking noiselessly. I learned to replace the toys exactly as they came out, but it didn’t matter. Each year after that, Santa placed the noisiest treasures at the top of the stocking and each thing within it was put together like Jenga. One year, there was even a toy that spoke loudly when I moved it.

I don’t remember when my yearly sneaking tradition stopped, but it was well into high school. It’s a fond memory that my parents and I laugh at now, although I never dared to tell them when I was a child in case they had ways of communicating with Santa. My kids aren’t afraid of Santa, though; because they confessed to me that they have been planning and executing midnight raids on their stockings for the last few years. Strangely, knowing their secret keeps the magic going for me.

Tinsel stress

Reminiscing 'Wonder Years' style is hard to do when your parents are still alive (and reading your blog), so I hope my mom forgives me for this post. I hope she reads it in the voice of the guy who wrote and narrated 'A Christmas Story.' Otherwise, I might be presentless this Christmas.

Today, I hung tinsel on the Christmas tree. It was Chad's request. It was something he remembered fondly about the trees of his childhood. And as I opened the package, I was suddenly aware that I hadn't hung tinsel in all my adult life. Had it gone out of fashion? Had I just been too lazy to do it all these years? Who knew.

As I pulled out the first strands of tinsel, the stress came back in a vertigo shot (you know that shot in a movie where the actor suddenly realizes something and the background zooms while the actor stays the same size?) I flashed back to myself from probably 4th grade to my senior year of high school. The trimming of the tree in my house was a looked-forward-to event that always seemed to have a dark side.

There was the lighting nightmare. Year after year my father cursed and growled at the tangled mass of Christmas tree lights in his hands. They seemingly had no end or beginning. Or they had so many ends sticking out from every direction that he had no idea where to start. Every year he tried a new method of putting them away that might yield less stress the next year. There was the lights around the coffee can year. The lights around the extension cord frame year. There was even a year when dad was ahead of his time and just put the tree up with the lights still in it. Thank goodness for pre-lit trees. They saved our family.

There was the yearly garland conundrum, where mom tried new and innovative ways to strand the garland. Up and down the tree. Sort of tucked into the tree. Plain slapped onto the tree (when Derrick was in charge).

There was the ornament instruction each year. Ornaments were to be hung evenly from front to back and top to bottom. My ornaments were rehung every year as I never quite seemed to grasp the spacial concept my mom was going for.

But among all these stresses, none topped the tinsel. I dreaded tinsel time like no other. There were rules about how many strands were in one toss. There was a wrist flick method that escaped my mastery. There was the 'purposeful randomness.' You know what I'm talking about? My mom wanted the tinsel to look randomly placed - in a perfect way. We spent more time trying to make the tinsel look whimsical than we spent getting the tree out of the attic, watching dad hurl expletives around the room while lighting the tree, and all the decorating prior to tinsel time. I never got it right. I'd toss a clump of tinsel. Or I'd let too much fall to the floor. Inevitably, my mom would relieve me from tinsel duty and exasperatedly strip me of my box of tinsel. I can close my eyes and see my mom with the tinsel in her hand - alone because the rest of us were more afraid of her in that moment than we were when Dad was in his scariest lighting rant. She was the Cruella de Vil of tinsel. Maniacally flicking her wrist and reworking where the errant strands had randomly landed to make them look more random.

At the end of the night, when the stress of the tree trimming was over and my mom and dad had had a chance to recover, we looked in awe at our tree. It was always magical. Perfectly whimsical. Sparkly and mesmerizing. And my mom always got up every morning after it was decorated to plug in the lights so that as I came into the living room each morning through Christmas, the shiny, beautiful tree was there to greet me. And the tinsel sparkled happily and I didn't remember the stress of its conception.

Until today. And instead of stressing, I smiled, threw clumps of tinsel this way and that, and concocted this blog post while I worked.

A letter to the squatters in my home

Dear Germs,

I learned in a writing class in college that it’s best to start any letter with a compliment. In the spirit of creative letter-writing, I offer you this; you are indeed very powerful and tenacious. Your patience in waiting until one of my children is well to strike the others is pure evil genius.

I admit you’ve had your run of my house. You’ve had us sleepless with worry, frantically calling in grandparents for help, and constantly doling out money to our family doctor and the Green Oaks 24-hour Walgreens pharmacy. Your presence has led my doctor to make jokes about naming a wing of his office after us. Sure, laugh it up.

I have no doubt you are feeling rather smug about it all. We missed out on working at our church’s pumpkin patch, a fall festival, Trunk-Or-Treat, and Halloween altogether because of you. We missed a Halloween hayride party we go to every year because of you. We narrowly escaped your grasp at Thanksgiving – but were on antibiotics to combat your efforts to infiltrate us again. We missed two Christmas parties because of you. And now, we are manically trying to rid our house of you before Christmas starts in earnest.

I don’t allow the word ‘hate’ in my house, so I’ll say this; I abhor you. I loathe you. I detest you.

However, looking at the future with optimistic hope, I know your presence now almost guarantees my household freedom from your reign later. I know my youngest two boys will have the immune system that resembles Godzilla and your effectiveness will be something akin to Tokyo. You will fight with your armies of germs, but my kids’ adaptive immunity will annihilate you. What, not laughing now? You’ve already lost your hold on Pearce and Cole. You, with all your pathogenic schemes, haven’t been able to penetrate their stronghold of layered defense. It’s called immunological memory, my friend. Pearce and Cole’s bodies see you coming. And they giggle at you. That’s right. You are like a toddler playing Red Rover with the 1985 Chicago Bears* defensive line.

So, please enjoy your time, albeit short-lived, with my youngest two. Because soon, you will be an unpleasant, but distant memory.

Without regard,

Dori

*Anyone over 40 might argue that the 1970s Steel Curtain defense would have been a better example, but I’m a generation younger and the 85 Bears won the Super Bowl, so I ultimately chose them. Oh, and it’s my blog, so there.

Craftiness

I realized something this week while talking to a friend at work. I neither flaunt my girliness nor exploit my tomboyishness. So, I've made a decision to relate to my all-male household by learning how to fish and committing to camping (an activity I loved as a child). However, my family will have to excuse me while I 'fill up' the girly gas tank.

I decided to give crafting a try. I found a great How-To magazine and tore out several articles. I also found a few blogs that have amazing crafts. I'm not bragging. My first attempts at craftiness are pretty sad, but I know it'll get better (and the seams straighter) as I gain some experience. And there's the problem. My lack of attention span and impulsivity almost guarantee that these are the first and only attempts at these particular crafts. The gift tag took an hour. Who wants to spend an hour making gift tags? And the candle I'm turning over to my oldest boys to make as crafts for their teachers. I might reproduce the camera strap a few more times with alternate colors. If you need one, let me know and I'll make you one. You know, as long as straight seams aren't a big deal to you.

Here are the first attempts.




I actually like the way this one turned out. The kind of craft that doesn't have to have perfectly straight lines. I used tissue paper instead of all fabric and I think that'll look nice as it's burning.




DIY camera strap cover! It's kind of large and the seams aren't pretty. At all. But it looks decent in the picture! I made one for Baxter's strap and one for Baxter's older sister, Dee70 (shown here).





The gift tag that took an hour. Never, and I repeat, NEVER again. If your present has this gift tag on it, know that it represents an hour of my life. I hope that knowledge makes up for what is probably a poorly-made, hand-crafted gift.

Eye Level

It happened. There I stood bare-footed looking slightly up at Pearce in his tennis shoes. Truthfully, I didn’t notice it. I was just talking to my kid. But Pearce; he noticed it. He noticed it out loud.

Puberty embarrasses him. The infancy of a mustache on his top lip causes him anxiety. His voice breaking amuses him. But realizing he was eye level to mom was a rite of passage. A moment he realized he could hold over me. Literally.

The funny thing is that I still worry that he’ll have trouble putting the dishes away in the high places when unloads the dishwasher. Maybe I’m in denial. I need to reflect on that.

Here’s the funny freebie for you. My 12-year-old is about to be the tallest person in my house.

Waterworks

I have always prided myself on ‘keeping it together’ during times when other mothers shapeshift into blubbering heaps of maternal embarrassment. I don’t cry on the first day of school. I don’t cry at Pre-K graduations. Or K graduations. In fact, I die laughing every time I see the scene where Mr. Incredible gets lectured for missing his son’s 4th grade graduation:

Helen: I can't believe you don't want to go to your own son's graduation.
Bob: It's not a graduation. He is moving from the 4th grade to the 5th grade.
Helen: It's a ceremony!
Bob: It's psychotic!

In my never ending pursuit of full-disclosure with you, though, the real reason I relate to Bob (Mr. Incredible) and the reason I make fun of my maternal peers is that I’m secretly worried that there’s something WRONG with me. Why don’t I cry at these occasions? Why can’t I appreciate the momentousness of these milestones? What kind of monster mother am I??????

Thankfully, I now know that the timing in my blubbering engine is just a little off. A case in point is last week’s PTA meeting. It was the kind of meeting where they bribe you to come by tacking on a musical program at the end. You know; the musical program with your child in it. So we went, as we’ve done since Pearce was in Kindergarten. For six years I have sat in the audience and not cried while other parents misted up and even shed a few poignant, dramatic tears proving that they love their kids more than I love mine. But during the last PTA meeting, something in me broke. And I mean broke. I was admiring the absolute genius of Cole’s performance. I was swelling. And then, the show ended and the choir teacher stood up to say thanks for coming. I thought of how great she is and how much I’ve enjoyed her shows over the years. And it hit me. Because Stone and Cade will go to a different elementary, this was the last of these performances at this school. And as the kids went into their completely awesome school song, I felt the heat rise in my face and I knew something terrible was imminent. It surprised me as my eyes were filled with alien moisture. Then, my attention was directed to Pearce, who was standing with a group of ‘alumni’ – all singing and doing the hand motions to the school chant. And I did one better than cry, people. I broke down. I drew a mixture of horrified and sympathetic looks from the people seated nearest me as I sobbed semi-quietly.

I had a cathartic realization. I realized how proud I was of my kids. I realized how much I appreciated the school and how much I’d miss it after this year is over. I realized that both my older children were flagship kids at that school and that they’d broken in those hallways, those classrooms, and those school songs. And the realization of it all broke me in a way I had no defense against. I was not the mother who makes other mothers feel bad for not crying. I was the mother other mothers look at and say, “Thank goodness I’m not that lady (or her kids).” I had a chance to compose myself as the Art teacher made announcements and the kids were ushered into the cafeteria for pick-up. I managed to make it through telling Cole how proud I was of him without more waterworks. But on the way home, when I was alone in the car, I cried more. This time in earnest, without the stares of others to deter me.

I’m pretty sure I cried enough to cover every event in the past I missed out on. And I know I’m covered for the rest of the school year, if not next year, too. Who knows, I might have unleashed something inside. I’ll get back to you on that. Stone has a pre-K graduation coming up.

"Sthuck? Sthuck???"

I started work last week and a few of my friends have told me that they can tell because the funny Facebook statuses and blog posts have all but stopped. Lucky for you, my kids never take a break from...well, being my kids. Thanks to Pearce for giving me a story that should satisfy you for weeks.

I consider myself very lucky. I have four boys and only Pearce has had stitches. Four boys and only Pearce has fractured a bone. Four boys and not one of them has ever had to have the fire department called to rescue him from a school desk. Until yesterday.

I'm sitting in a coworker's cubicle and I get a call from the dreaded number. Pearce's school calling. Again. It most likely means he's forgotten important school supplies or was 'excessively social' during class. I answer and it's the nurse. My first mental reaction is 'Whew...he's not in trouble.' The nurse begins with, "Pearce is fine. Your son is Frank, right? Goes by Pearce? Hold on, I need to make sure I'm talking to the right parent." She yells to someone in the background and comes back to the phone. "Ok, Pearce got his finger stuck in a desk and we tried ice to get it out. We tried soap and oil and are still unable to get it out, so (there's a pause)...we've called the fire department to come and assist and we are wondering if you can come up here."

And there it is. The reason I shouldn't have been relieved that it was the school nurse on the phone. Note to self - just because it's the school nurse doesn't mean my child isn't in trouble.

I call Chad and he comes to my rescue by flying out of his work to the school. He calls to tell me that Pearce is still stuck and that his finger is cut and swollen and that the firemen are deciding what to do. They've moved Pearce and the desk to the nurse's office. I'll just stop so you can enjoy the visual of the vice-principal and Pearce carrying the desk through the halls to the nurses office with his finger stuck in it.

By the time I get through my training (fifth day on the job, just to remind you) and get in the car, they've rescued Pearce from the desk by drilling holes in it then using what they called 'tiny jaws of life' to cut from hole to hole until they can bend it back and remove Pearce's manacled finger.

Chad informs me that he has 'good circulation and can feel the tip of his finger' but that we need to have it looked at by a doctor.

Why did Pearce stick his finger into a hole that was too small for his finger? Because his friend hid popcorn in the desk. Of course. Why did he think he'd be able to retrieve popcorn through a hole that was smaller than the popcorn (and his finger)? Because he's a boy and he has brain damage.

And my husband, the one who heroically left work to fly to Pearce's aid, did not lose his sarcastic wits. He took these pictures for posterity. And for your benefit. Enjoy.




Here he is giving the 'ok' sign. This was what Chad sent me to let me know Pearce was in good spirits.






And here is the finger. The desk top has been removed and you can see that his finger is too swollen to remove. And it's cut at the base where he tried to twist it out of the hole before calling the teacher's attention to his predicament.

There is so much more to this story. How the first fire truck didn't have the right tools and they had to call a second one. How Pearce almost passed out at one point. How the doctor lectured Pearce for 10 minutes about the importance of studying and not messing around in class. So much more, but you got the best part of the story. My kid's the one who got his tongue frozen to the proverbial light pole.

Just For Fun Friday

Each Friday, I'm going to post a picture I took that week that makes me smile - or laugh - or say 'Hmmmmm.' These won't be the most amazing pictures, just a warning!




Stone in glow-in-the-dark face paint. Boys LOVE glow-in-the-dark stuff. On the 4th of July, it was a the glow sticks that held their attention, not the fireworks. And this face paint was a huge hit, too. SPOOKY!