Christmas Break- Day 1

It's the time of year when people talk about the ways the Holidays delight their senses.  Wafting holly candles, pine garland, cinnamon.... twinkling lights, tumbling snowflakes, decorative wreaths... festive carols and traditional hymns...

Those people don't have kids.

Basically, the familiar sensory experience in OUR home is, well, to put it simply, Stimulating.

No one else ever mentions the sound of ornaments crashing together when a ball goes flying through the living room, but it regularly happens here.  The Monkey in the Middle is just not tall enough to screen drop kicks from the 3 year old.  He doesn't mean to be destructive... he just has awesome aim. Even from 2 rooms away, I am quite adept at knowing when it's just brass ornaments, or when I have to jump up and grab the vacuum cleaner.

There are traditional Holiday tastes and smells, but here there is also the constant "stick" that is gnawed on candy canes, still in wrappers. Or globs of glitter glue that won't fully dry.  Or the rejected fancy candy with the gooey centers that taste like "yuck" ("Well, then stay out of your father's Ghirardelli!").   I want to scream when asked for the 15th time, "Mom, where's MY candy?"  It's only 9 am.  I should spare myself the agony and just eat the stuff myself.  But how then should I handle the situation when I hear "Why is the baby carrying around a bottle of ketchup?" 

Our one-horse open sleigh is real enough.  The circle loop that links the sitting room-living room-dining room-computer room is a first class obstacle course for the new Radio Flyer wagon.  I've been told not to overreact:  Speeding is of little concern since the thing actually has seatbelts.  Doesn't candy count as an accelerant?

I don't hear other households lament that, now that it's Christmas break, they are the loudest family on the planet. Well, maybe other families do have such complaints, but I certainly wouldn't be able to hear about them.  The din here can be deafening.

Am I the only person who drinks a beer to STOP my head from spinning?

My poor husband. 
The man is a professional who runs a building with nearly 400 children in it, aged 7 and under.  SEVEN AND UNDER.  It's a RESPITE compared to here.  I'd ask him what his thoughts are about this apparent juxtaposition of his life's work, but I think he went to have a beer.

Elfin Magic

For the third year in a row, The Elves have arrived.

While I suppose they could arrive anytime, they hitch a ride to our house with St. Nicholas on the eve of December 6th.  This is when the empty shoes that make up a huge array surrounding the Christmas tree skirt are filled the next morning with gold chocolate coins, favorite candies, and old-fashioned bottles of Coca-Cola.  Merryn and Andy squealed aloud this year when they spied the 12 inch NorthPoleans nestled in their own stockings hanging by the Christmas tree.

Brownie and Charlie supposedly were sent to make sure the Krenz kids are good and kind in the days leading up to Christmas.  However, even though we have never actually seen them move, these elves have been known to cause mischief and commotion all over our house!

Last year they baked brownies, and made good use of the abundance of powdered sugar strewn everywhere by also making snow angels on the kitchen table.  Somehow, one snow-filled night, they snuck outside and had a blast in the snow, which they smartly preserved inside.  Merryn eventually found them in the freezer with a mound of snowballs and a stuffed polar bear too.  We've also found them in the refrigerator with fresh sugar cookie dough for the kids, and they even provided a cookie cutter shaped like an elf!

If the snow was not in the forecast, they made their own winter wonderland by TP-ing the livingroom or having marshmallow wars.  Other mornings we found them watching a big stack of Christmas movies and eating microwave popcorn, or playing the Wii.  They had even figured out how to make their own Wii Mii profiles!

They've played Scrabble (the whole board was a criss-cross of Christmas and winter words), decorated the children's bedrooms with lights and sparkly ornaments, switched out all the drawers in every dresser of the house (imagine the difficulties of getting to school on time THAT morning), and actually ordered themselves a Pizza Hut pizza.  (The empty pizza box and the car parked crooked in the driveway were proof of it!). 

I won't soon forget, however, the night they spent cutting huge letters out of colored pieces of paper, using every one of our decorative craft scissors with scalloped and sharp-toothed edges.  Nearly 30 letters!  It was a jaw-dropping sight to first see the scissors and rolls of messed up tape and residual scraps that literally covered the entire floor of the sitting room, the room into which everyone enters our home.  But on a single wall, the fruit of their labor:  "JESUS IS THE REASON FOR THE SEASON".

I left that pile of stuff on the floor there all day, and the graffiti until The Epiphany.

The elves come during a busy and often stress-filled time of year.  The calendar is jam-packed with meetings and programs and practices and games and shopping and commitments and festive parties.  We're often rushed and hurried and heavily burdened.  On tired, wintery nights, those elves add to the list.

However, I'm sincerely grateful for the opportunity to host them.  They bring joy and expectation every morning to our children, and they provide these weary parents an opportunity to remember how to just be PLAYFUL.  Afterall, we're anticipating the arrival of Jesus who truly brings Joy to the World.

And that, for me, is really a gift.

Decorating with a Purpose

Last night we finally accomplished some real Christmas decorating.  We assembled and fluffed 14 artificial Christmas trees, hung 15 wreaths topped by red velvet bows, strung 30 feet of garland,  and fashioned a rather large, 20 piece nativity scene with camels big enough for Finan to mount.

Now, before anyone starts organizing charter buses to visit our embellished holiday home, I have to correct any misconceptions that our house actually looks this festive.  However, St. Joseph Church looks terrific!

For the last several years, the parish priest here has asked our family to set up the Giving Tree.  We make about 75 paper ornaments in various shapes, and on each one write a suggested item for needy people in our community.  Winter clothing such as gloves and scarves, hats and socks are listed, and parishioners take the ornaments and return gifts, all of which are donated to the local food pantry.  On the first Wednesday of Advent, we decorate the Giving Tree when the rest of the church is being adorned too.

The children love this evening.  They enjoy the small group of older church members who have been doing this every year since... well, forever.  They thrill at the opportunity to pull out boxes from the eerie church basement, as well as peek around the pipe organ in the huge choir loft.  They get to scale ladders and crawl under pews, and even use loud voices IN CHURCH. 

They also get to experience what it feels like to really contribute to something meaningful.

So, even though our own Christmas tree is ornamentless and may stay that way until Valentine's Day (when we get around to taking it down), I don't mind at all.  We've already got a jump on fostering the holiday spirit, and we've been blessed with the gift of anticipation and the magic that is Christmas. 

And I have not had to vaccuum up a single shattered ornament....
yet.

Project Runway

I first realized she could do it when she emerged from the living room with a squished stick of butter in her hands and a big smile on her face.  Unless she was able to manuever the huge hose on the Dyson vaccuum, the butter stunt meant she could scale the kitchen counter.  And I was right.

The next time (or, what I THINK is the "next time"), I was able to catch her with the element of surprise.  The bar stool had already been pushed across the room, and the baby was standing ON the counter talking to the birds outside the kitchen window.  I didn't want to startle her into falling, so I clamped my lips shut and gulped down my scream. 

Over the years I have learned you can kind of expect this sort of dare devil behavior from small children, because at this age they are formulating thoughts and exercising preferences.  Still, it's a shocker when you realize your baby can actually implement a plan.

The most recent exploit, though, really had me wondering about personalities that accompany these behaviors.  I understand that if the child is hungry, she'll find a way to get into the secured cereal cabinet and dump 3 pounds of Cheerios on the floor, and a few in the bowl too.  I can see how if she wants to make dessert  like the big sisters she'll pull out the vegetable oil which is loosely capped from the last set of Brownie Bakers (who also did not secure the cereal cabinet).  Babies mimic the people around them, which is why in this house no one can ever find their own toothbrush.

But what do you make of a baby who is pleased as punch to have you enter the Hub of the Household to see her prancing up and down the dining room table as if it were Project Runway?

(Un)Frozen Dinners

My daughter's friends were visiting in the midst of a dinner preparation. I think we were having stir-fry or something, and the counter was cluttered with veggies to be cut, and salad to be chopped.

One of the girls exclaimed, "Your family eats so organic!" and I just laughed.  We are far from that. I don't exclusively buy food specifically labeled as organic... I don't go out of my way to shop in specialty stores... I can't incur the expense of higher priced foods labeled as organic... How in the world could she perceive us as organic eaters?

"Well," she said, "you make your own food!"

And then it dawned on me.... she was referring to the fact that we buy very little pre-packaged and processed foods. (And we eat a lot of fresh salads).

This made me appreciate that we are really giving our kids a gift in making our own meals!  Further, they acquire knowledge and skills when they assist us, and their confidence in working in the kitchen grows too.

 And here I thought I was just saving money....

Deep Thoughts

Kel and Andy were driving past our local cemetery when Andy asked,
"Why do they bury dead people in the ground?"

Ahhh... life, death, respect, honor, grief, family, sadness, remembrance.

Kel pondered how to approach answering this question when Andy suddenly answered it himself:

"Well, I guess if they put them in the trees,
they would fall on the cars!"

Wopes

We have endured rain and rain and rain.  Flooded crop fields, muddied ruts in the driveway, running water in the basement... and everyone is affected, especially moms who would much rather be outside with the children.  So when there IS sun on the ground, the kids and I are out the door, usually taking long strolls through our quiet streets mid-morning.

F:  Look at that!  A wing!  In a wee!
G:  It won't fall down.  It has a wope.  The wope will hold it up.
F:   Can you wing on that wing?  Way high?
G:  Oh, yea.  Tires off twactors are good for dat.

"Just Turned" three year old boys love the puddles the rain leaves behind.
G:  I got me fwee wocks!
F:  I got two.
G:  Look how they jump on the water!
F:  Look how they make big wipples!

"Just Turned" three year old boys even know who is home mid-morning and who enjoys their visits.
F:  We want to go dat way.
G:  Okay. 
F:  I want to go see Zosul.
G:  Yea!
F:  I want to get popdorn balls at Zosul's house.
G:  YEA!!!!!!
F:  Then we go over dere.
G:  Okay.
F:  We get dookies and juice at Grammy's house. 
G:  And see the dogs!
F:  And the dat!
G:  And she has twucks!
F:  And dars!
G:  YEA!!!

Most comments from "Just Turned" three year old boys end in exclamation points.  They like to pause and watch a group of landscapers carve out sections of yards.  They like noticing squirrels on telephone poles.  They like listening to the sounds effusing from a water fountain in someone's front yard and discussing whether or not you should drink from it. 

For little boys, taking a long walk, mid-morning, is a good thing after days and days of rain.  But it's even better for moms who need an "out of the box" perspective so she doesn't feel like she's at the end of her wope.

The Candy

The Countdown. 
The Collection. 
The Candy.

So, we didn't have any crazed monsters emerging from hibernation that made my children run like mad to any house with a lit porch light.  However, we still ended up with a lot of Halloween candy.  It's a simple matter of mathematics; amassed candy is exponential with 7 Trick-or-Treaters (even when one is only collecting canned food items for the local food pantry).

Once The Run is done, the kids find a spot on the living room floor and dump the contents of their pillowcases, forming mounds of what will next be categorized sweets... the Gum, the Suckers, the Chewies, the Sours, the Chocolate (ah, if they only knew that this should be partitioned out into "Good Chocolate" and "Fake Chocolate"), the Others, and finally the Icky Stuff With Coconut for Dad.

After bartering and trading with each other, my kids are happy to share their Loot with me, and sometimes they don't even know it.  Afterall, I have easy access to the bowl on top of the refrigerator.  It's a sick secret Halloween desire, but every year I wish the kids would just eat it all that night and thus get  it quickly out of the house. 

I make myself an oath to only have a few pieces of  the "good" stuff (Twix, Payday, Baby Ruth, Kit Kat... Oh! I didn't know there were Snickers with Almonds!).  I swear off the lesser candy.  Really.  But after the likes of the elites are gone, I'll give in to a few of the mini M&Ms, Whoppers, and Twizzlers.  

And that's it.

But long after the costumes have been put away and the decorations taken down, Ziplock bags of candy will still linger in the dark hidden recesses of cabinets and closets. The children will have forgotten, but unfortunately I won't, and eventually I'll finally succumb to the Necco Wafers and the molasses laced confections of Mary Janes and Peanut Butter Kisses (you know the ones... in the black and orange wrappers.)  

It's truly the bottom of the barrel,

And it's creepy down there.

The Countdown

There are a few approaches to how we look at Halloween.  There's the horrifying, utterly grotesque side of goblins and ghouls and bloodied body parts alluded to in the Sunday newspaper flyers and on the Walmart shelves.  Then there's the cute, sweet side of rolls of Smarties, making handprint spiders, and weeks of trying on princess and froggie costumes from our stored Halloween tubs.  Depending upon the time of day, it's all fun.

We have neighbors down the street who really go all out in decorating their front yard.  Mr. B. spends all of October setting up his own cemetery, stringing huge spider webs, inflating the Grim Reaper's chariot, and installing batteries in the eye-blinking/ghost-howling/mummy-shaking/rat-gnawing ornamentations that adorn his trees and front porch. 

At night it's justifiably spooky.  But in the light of day it's absolutely fascinating, and our daily walks either start or end up with a prolonged visit at "The Halloween House".  We hope Mr. B. doesn't tire of our pestering, because his efforts have given a lot of joy to the children in this house.  He has ramped up the kids' Halloween Anticipation volume single-handedly (and you'll find the other hand, gooped in fake blood, hanging out of the wishing well by the sidewalk). 

The anticipation, though, is less about flying bats and all about getting The Loot.  Our little town really gets into the spirit and is known for super generous candy distribution.  Older couples spend days in front of their TVs assembling bags of goodies and trinkets to pass out to Trick-or-Treaters.  At some houses you'll get cans of pop, gift certificates, or even full sized candy bars.  And when you Trick-or-Treat at a house, you don't get one measley piece of candy, you might get handfuls!  Even better, you might get offered the whole bowl to grab as you wish!

All this, of course, has the potential to demonize even the loveliest of princesses.  But the reason people are so generous is because they know one another.  On All Hallow's Eve, people visit at doorsteps before moving on to the next home.  They dote and fuss over the children and take pictures. The Spidermen and Harry Potters and Cinderellas are kids you've been watching grow up for years and years now.  And when some of these kids are old enough to drive, they still come around to visit and collect canned food for the local food pantry.  You get a sense of "Neighborhood",  and on one thrilling night you get to see the bare bones of what makes up your community. 

And you find yourself looking forward to The Countdown.

Our Garbageguys

We are still cleaning out after 6 inches of rain water swooshed into our basement.  (Take note:  Rubbermaid totes are not truly waterproof if they float and then tip.)  And while I was able to salvage lots of things, much of it required laundering. I am the Queen of Laundry. 

The rest had to be pitched.  Big Black Bags of Stuff, now in a trash heap...  Stuff I've been holding onto "for one day" when I can do things like cross-stitch again without fear of children picking up stray supplies and using them to puncture their siblings' body parts.  It's a gross thought, but it could happen.

Okay, maybe that's the only thing I regret losing... the supplies, that is.  The rest of it really was excess and should have been donated somewhere a long time ago.  I'll do my best not to cringe when it all gets set out at the curb, not because I regret the loss, but because our Garbageguys will have to pick it all up. 

I love our Garbageguys, and so does my family.  We'll hear Josh and crew in their huge garbage crusher truck clamber up the street.  My kids will drop what they're doing and run to the front porch windows hoping to catch a glimpse..."The Garbageguys are here!!!!  THE GARBAGEGUYS ARE HERE!!!".  Or, if we're already outside, the kids will run up to the sidewalk's edge for a real close view.  They'll be greeted with a huge "HELLO!!!"  and "Are you kids having fun today??"  And then their big eyes will watch in awe as the men haul our big green bags and cans over their shoulders and toss them like paper wads into the mouth of the machine.  A lever will be pulled, and a claw-toothed arm will screech and squeal and engulf  the stuff that came from our house.

The kids will step back a bit, because it's noisy and intimidating.  But the men will grab the now empty cans and lids and race them up to the front of our house, taking care on especially windy days to ensure they won't tumble back into the street.  One of the Garbageguys might run over to the kids for a whole Victory Lane of High 5's.  Waving goodbye, the Garbageguys will hop back on their ride and clamber to the next row of houses, and they will hear me, and all the children, yelling "THANK YOU" and "THANK YOU SOME MORE".

If we are lucky, we will see them again when we are out on our walk, and don't you know our Garbageguys will beep the horn and wave to us across several streets.  They're good like that.

Tomorrow night our family will unfortunately be setting out more garbage than usual, and my conscience is tweaked because of it.  While we do Reduce/Reuse/Recycle, what is left over is put on our Garbageguys, and for me those are the first real faces of who has to deal with "too much waste".

Vacation Day

I don't want to be a complainer, but I've been having some back trouble, and shoulder pain, and neck strain.  Not surprisingly, I'm a mom and it's easier to defer aches and pains for more convenient times.  Still, this started during my last pregnancy, the baby's already 18 months old, and I still don't have an open afternoon.  When I had several of those "THIS IS IT, I'LL NEVER BE ABLE TO GET OUT OF THIS COUCH" episodes, Kel insisted I not wait until Rosie could fetch me ibuprophen herself. 

X-rays were inconclusive, so I had to move on to plan B:  The MRI. 

At first I was actually looking forward to the test.  A quiet drive into town, lingering forever in a waiting room, not minding one bit because I can catch up on my 3 back issues of Good Housekeeping...  Sipping a cup of coffee from the cafeteria, browsing the gift shop... Then participating in a non-invasive assessment in which caring and professional technicians would make sure I was comfortable...  Perhaps catching a few Zzzz's during the test...  Stopping for a bite to eat on the way home...  By myself.

Basically, a vacation.

I wish.

I had to be up at 5 am, to be out of the house at 5:30, to arrive by 6, to avoid construction and park by 6:15, and to be checked in by 6:30.  Waking up to the same rain to which I fell asleep, I was dismayed to find some type of "leak" in the bathroom cabinetry, so dumping the contents into several large laundry baskets delayed my departure.  (The six inches in the basement Kel later found himself).

The rain pummeled the car on the drive into town, but I counted my blessings when I found a parking spot just a block from the hospital, and I actually felt a huge sense of accomplishment that I had arrived by 6:29!  (The Krenz's are noted for always running in, late.). 

I had forgotten my magazines, and had no interest in the hospital's Computer World, and Field and Stream.  But I still embraced the early morning quiet until Jeff appeared to escort me back to the MRI area located in the bowels of the hospital. 

Now, I'm pretty "long suffering", and if I ever get into a position of needing to suck it up and be a martyr, I have enough confidence in myself to think that I could do it without much of a whimper.

But let me tell you, the test started out with much difficulty for me, and about 2 seconds in I was hitting the panic button. All of my expectations of vacation days and catching Zzz's were dashed the minute he slid my strapped self into that paper towel tube of the MRI machine. 

Thankfully, Jeff offered me an opportunity to watch a little documentary dvd during the test.  He produced a pair of goggles which he strapped on my head, and before long I was swimming with the dolphins in the coral reefs of the Fiji Islands.

Vacation.

Motivation

One of our big summer projects this year involved hooking up electricity to the ceiling fans and overhead lighting in every room on the main floor of this old house, including the enclosed front porch. (Mind you, the ceiling fans and overhead lighting were already there and had been for years... but that's another story of self-sacrifice).

By the time Kel finished cutting into tiles and through plaster, repainting the ceilings was necessary, but that made the walls look awfully blah and dingy, so a different color scheme ended up making the fabric on the couch just "pop". And while we were at it (since the two front rooms were already empty of furniture) we refinished the wood floors in those rooms too. This is how we get things done, and a little rewiring job becomes Extreme Home Makeover. 

When we first moved into this house with its exterior of gross white tiles and icky green trim, the landscaping was made up entirely of rocks, discarded railway ties, scraggly shrubs, and broken cement walkways. I recall the time I pruned an overgrown forsythia bush outside our kitchen door. The kids and I would nearly poke our eyes out as we maneuvered around the limbs to approach the slanted steps and crooked backdoor. A quick "clip clip" with a pair of over-sized shears and I had that problem taken care of.

Boy, was Kel surprised when he got home from work! Typically he would appreciate my efforts, but this time he strained to hold his tongue and applaud my ambition.  That overly cropped forsythia couldn't hide the fact that I'm really not a great gardener.  However, it's funny to think that the space we now enjoy outside that reconstructed kitchen door is a direct result of a bad pruning job.  If only I had a "Before" picture!

As having nine kids might indicate, this Krenz family has been known for a willingness to take on more than minimally necessary.  We live big. I hesitate adding, however, that the kitchen ceiling still has a hole in it the exact shape of Brennan's foot, there is only one piece of crown moulding in there, and the windows have yet to be primed and painted. That remodel started in the summer of '02.  But we'll get to it, eventually.  We're just not motivated enough... yet.

When you put forth such effort (Kel doing the work, me keeping the kids out of the way), you hope things stay "nice" for a while. In our house, I realize that keeping things nice (landscape pruning not withstanding) is an especially idyllic notion, but I am entitled to hope for the best. Really, it's only October and the smell of the paint of the summer project is still fresh in my memory. So when I recently caught a glimpse of our 9 foot living room ceiling and saw what looked like WRITING, my initial reaction was "WHICH DERELICT DID THIS??"


(Note: Some might find it remarkable that I wasn't the least bit surprised there might be a scrawled message on the ceiling. Others might appreciate that what is utterly inconceivable in parents' wildest dreams actually does occur as fanciful thoughts to their children, and my kids happen to be the kind to act on them.)

After closer look I could see that this was really an index card adhered to the ceiling with 12 inches of strapping tape, and to my surprise it included Kel's handwriting!  "Palming the ceiling will give the girls a great vertical jump for volleyball!" he explained.  Considering Brennan's dunking skills started with hanging from the transom frames, I believe him.

I wonder what it would take to get the roof over the upstairs bathroom reshingled? 

Inspiration. Motivation.
It's all about what moves you.

Struggle

Ya know, I have been unofficially shooting for every Tuesday, and every Thursday, at the very least.  Maybe a push back to Friday if we get too busy.  Just twice a week. 

But the posts have been a little infrequent lately, and I apologize if you have been disappointed when you might pop in looking for an uplifting note, new perspective, or a belly laugh. 

I just have not been writing.

It's not that I have not wanted to.  I have not been idle.
And, I can always make time.
Really, it's
Same old, same old here.
However, I've been attending to other concerns.

Many people about whom I care deeply are really struggling. 
Poor health, depression, uncertainty.
Loss of employment, loss of insurance, loss of direction.
Loss of a child, a spouse, a parent.
Moving, staying, change.
Grief.

Yet, during this same time, I am inspired by the action of faith, of compassion, of genuine love of neighbor.

So,
If you would, please, take a brief moment and offer a prayer of special intention for someone you may not even know... for that unnamed person who needs your prayer the most, right now, for this very moment.

It is all For Good.

Memories (unedited)

Just a few minutes in the Krenz household... for real.

The Parable

Dedicated to all those who help, who love.

Once upon a time there was a little bitty boy born to very wealthy parents, whose wealth, in its entirety, was made up of love and their treasure of 8 children. This little boy was given a funny little name and welcomed into the numerous arms of his family members.

The baby was sweet and showed great promise of someday growing into his huge hands. But on the 14th day of his life, baby Finan struggled.

The doctor with the big smile and bigger shoulders said, "Oh how I love this baby. But we need to call for help." An ambulance whisked him from his doctor's little rural office to the hospital in the big city.

The sirens announced his arrival and the nurses scurried to prepare a room. The doctor with the serious eyebrows said, "I just don't know what to do for this little baby with the funny name. I am calling for help."

Help came with big propellers and a flight team. They scooped up the wires and monitors and gently placed the baby in a very special box that was like a car seat for the clouds. The mommy's tears tumbled down her cheeks when she had to say goodbye to her baby. The mommy and daddy held each other outside as they watched the helicopter hover above the hospital and then thrust into the skies.

The mommy and daddy thought the baby arrived all alone at the new bigger hospital. But, a Servant In Black with a fuzzy face was already waiting there. Together they asked The Father, "Please let Your Good be shown in all of this."

The hours turned into days turned into weeks. Many doctors and many nurses took care of baby Finan. They had expert hands and trained eyes, but few answers. There was no one else to ask for help. The pacing doctor with the thinking face and thick words said, "We wait. You pray." A sweet Cookie sang to the baby and cried with the mommy. In the dark and quiet of the hospital nights, nurse Priscilla the Cinderella prayed too.


"Take him home," said Dr. Cross. "There's nothing else we can do for him here."

One day a special package arrived in the mail. Inside was a big blue shirt with red letters. On a card with a picture of a helicopter was written "Sorry we didn't have a smaller size! We hope Finan is doing better. Best wishes, your Flight Crew."

Some of the mommy's tears fell on the blue shirt with red letters, for she held in her hands a reminder that her baby might never grow to wear this gift. But she was deeply touched by the kindness of these strangers, humbled by the all the Love that was coming from all over the world. So, the mommy carefully packed away that blue shirt, and then tended to the needs of the people in her busy home.

Time passed, but not without a few miracles.
That baby did get better, and he's still growing into his hands.
And the mommy has not forgotten.

"Remember where your treasure is,

there your heart is also."

Matthew 6:21

Update

Merryn had a very gratifying experience planting a pinto bean.

(Her mom learned a lot from that as well).

Merryn did indeed inspire her dad to landscape in the backyard.

(See DH's response in the comment section of earlier post entitled "Spirited Sprouts").

Merryn successfully managed to plant without incident involving the neighbor's cable line.

(Not so for Dad).

Sigh.

Easy Access

Rosie, 17 months, approached me today with a cucumber in her ear and the instructions, "Hiiiiiiiii Nanny!" And then she handed it to me so I could talk to Kel's mom.

Luckily, it was a plastic cucumber from the play kitchen, and not a real cucumber from my refrigerator. If it were a real cucumber from the real kitchen, then my life would have taken a truly awful turn: it's never good when babies help themselves to the contents of your large appliances.

I remember one summer day, when all the windows were open. If you can picture it, we live in a house that's about 150 years old, and these old pulley system windows run nearly floor to ceiling. In fact, a 17 month old can easily see out, and neighbors see in. Some might consider that a little too much exposure, but I was grateful when our dear "great aunt"-type neighbor Nancy calmly called over our adjacent yards: "Kelly, I think Ally has a few eggs in your windowsill". Sure enough, that 17 month old baby was making scrambled eggs for us, with real eggs, and she was nowhere near the kitchen. (However, I'm not convinced she didn't get some help opening the fridge from a few bigger brothers.) I was actually kind of impressed that she walked through the whole house before breaking them in the window sill.

I guess it's safe to report not much has changed for me in these 15 years, from my oldest daughter's antics and now to my youngest. Children watch everything you do and innocently make their own attempts to follow along, although I'm quite sure my kids never saw me make eggs in the toyroom or talk in a cucumber. What is different is that I am slightly more calm about these efforts at independence and don't nearly over-react as much as I did in the earlier years (which honestly isn't saying too much).

Maybe I'm more wise, maybe I'm just more numb. What I do know is this: eggs and cucumbers are easy. But, I do draw the line at anything involving a gallon of milk.

Fashionista...Not

Did you see that episode of Project Runway, in which the fashion designer Vincenzia had to create a contemporary cultural commentary using various fabrics and icons? The model's too short shorts had a "Bob the Builder" logo, the funky pajama top had a green T-Rex, the jacket tossed haughtily over the shoulder had a light-up Spiderman that blinked and pulsed with every shimmery movement down the catwalk, and the model wore brown with orange crocs... on the wrong feet.

Ok... That wasn't Project Runway. That was my 3 year old in the emergency room last night. (I don't even watch Project Runway, so my apologies if I might have misrepresented the show, a little.)

The emergency turned out okay (x-rays, no foreign objects, heavy hitter antibiotics), but sitting in that waiting room holding a child in that "get up" got me thinking about my own blue crocs at home, even though I wear them on the right feet.

I shouldn't be so misleading; I can appreciate beautiful fabrics and artful design. It's just that I've never been a slave to fashion. It's hard to care about quality clothing when a nice blouse is going to end up with jelly fingerprints on it, or blood. No, if I'm a slave to anything, it's laundry, and I actually don't even mind that.

Since I would not have picked this condition for myself, I'm convinced I've been wired for it since the beginning of time, prepared and genetically inclined to not fuss too much. What else could a Junior High girl evolve into when she wears a Women's size 10 shoe in the 6th grade? (I got a brief reprieve when the Unisex style of the late '70's was widely accepted, but even a Men's 8 shoe still made my big feet look, well, really big.) My mother's efforts to comfort, offered with an eye wink, were of little consolation: "Oh, you will have even greater under-standing!"

(Prophetic? I wear a 13 now. It is all her fault!... even if I do have greater understanding).

I can remember the angst of shoe shopping, needing to go to "special" stores that only carry "old lady" orthopedic styles. (Nothing against those shoes; I'll legitimately need them some day). I died a thousand deaths and suffered even more disappointments; I'm sure I made my mother suffer too, or at least I tried. As a result of never having anything trendy to wear on my feet, the rest of my closet naturally followed suit.

I never thought I would be thankful for it, but I am. My life would be immeasurably more difficult if I were too fussy about things, or attempted to keep up pretenses more than I already do, albeit futilely. The jelly on my shirt? It might come out, or not.

I think I'm a better mother for it, but my children are threatening to nominate me for What Not To Wear.

Spirited Sprouts

My daughter came home from school today, proud to share with me the contents of a crumpled up piece of Kleenex.

And I almost missed it...
I almost dismissed it...
the moment, the meaning.

I was actually a little too preoccupied to pay much attention. I'd spent much of the afternoon contemplating different blog ideas and none were clicking. It's not that I didn't have anything to write about; I've had some big themes this week of death and dying, dashed expectations, and family moving. I posted a Facebook status about my need for inspiration, and then mused for a while over the response from a friend who basically accused me of being up to my armpits in it, and he added "You're lucky" or something like that. He mentioned his own Italian children and said, "Well, it still seems to happen a lot more than I should allow, to lose my inspiration." Or something like that. Ispirazione. Our spirited children, should we pay attention, inspiring us, making us look again.

Where did she go?
"Merryn?"

Hmmm.
On the kitchen counter was a silly over sized 101 Dalmatians souvenir cup from about 8 years ago when I took Ally to see Disney on Ice. Why do we even still have this around? Probably because the snowcone it held was, like, $15 and I still haven't gotten my money's worth out of it.

I was ready to toss it into the sink when I looked at the bottom. Inside was a little pinto bean.
Now, where did that come from?

Merryn reentered the kitchen. "Mom! Look at this! The seed opens up and there's a seed coat and inside you can see part of this root and some of this black stuff and Look! It's growing! and see this little part here from the germination? And guess what! We can plant it!"

And I really marveled at this cool seed, the two symmetrical pieces, the tiny root, the bitty stem, the little leaf all growing inside. It's all there, waiting for the right mix of dirt and nurturing and attention and warmth... like ideas... like children...

I got all distracted again, by a phone call and strewn backpacks and a three year old driving a Jeep in reverse. And when I glanced out my kitchen window, I saw her.

I grabbed my camera and headed outside, because she really made me look, and now I really wanted to see.


It occurred to me that this child has a lot of confidence. First, she is excited about what she is learning and does a pretty nice job putting thoughts into words to explain it. Second, she has a "Can-Do" attitude that doesn't get distracted by protocol or phone calls. Third, she has the confidence that if she plants a seed, it will grow. Even if it's literally in the middle of a backyard that has a dozen children running through it and lawn maintenance guys who don't care if they plow over baseball mitts or bean sprouts.


I realized I've got a few bean sprouts myself.


So, tonight when I sat down at the computer and started writing again, it came a little easier, once I started paying attention to my inspiration.


Grow, little seed. Grow.

Potluck Pride

The best way to get someone to attend a meeting is to entice them with food. You want a big turnout? Advertise a family potluck, because everyone KNOWS the food will be bountiful and delicious. It's a matter of pride. What person with any sense of self-esteem would not care about what is going to be consumed out of her conspicuously name labeled crock pot? (I love when the really confident attendees bring along pre-printed recipe cards for those of us who inquire about their delectable dish). I know ladies who ponder for weeks what they are going to showcase. Entire parish cookbooks have been created to document and publicly record who can lay claim to the best chili recipe or tortellini salad.

We've been attending our elementary school's potlucks for about 15 years. For a few years there (back in the mid-90's or so), about 10% of the foods on the buffet had protein, and the other 90% had chocolate chips. No one ever complained about the inordinate amount of desserts on the dinner table, but we couldn't conduct a meeting for all the wild indians in the room.

Then a brilliant mom had the idea of assigning food categories to various grade levels, making sure the younger grades got the entrees, and the 8th graders got the desserts. And because every single kindergarten parent attends with their extended family (we're all excited about Little Andy at long last going to school, you know), there finally seemed to be enough main dishes to go around again.

One of the benefits of Potluck dinners is that you bring one dish but feast on 80. But, part of my dilemma is that when you have a big family, you're also going to have children in several grade levels. So, when Kindergarten through 2nd grade is assigned entrees, and 3-4th bring side dishes, and 5-6th bring fruits and salads, and 7-8th bring desserts, well, I'm basically bringing dinner.

When I posted this fact as a status on my Facebook, the responses were immediate. (Okay, most of them were all LOLOLOLOLs). But, there were many other people weighing in, also legitimately short on time, and who, in desperation, have actually pondered the drive-thru menu at McDonald's for their own Potluck dilemmas.

My sister who is literally always "on the fly" (she's a flight attendant for American Airlines) recommended stopping at Kentucky Fried Chicken: "Get the KFC Big Meal Deal... all your grade levels are covered!" My other sister recommended combining grade level requirements into one 9x13 casserole, "and bring some cookies." I love their ingenuity. I was also amused by a few other comments that included "Eat your own dinner at home and attend the book fair afterwards", and from one over-extended mom, "I would drop out of TPO".

I just couldn't consider not attending, even when my bean bake is not blue ribbon standard and my strawberry jello is only "special" because I put Cool Whip on top. Potlucks are informal, "nothing matches", and "anything goes" imperfection, which my family finds comforting. Where else can your children consume an 8 course meal while visiting friends at 6 different tables, even when the "meal" is a scoop of macaroni, Jello Jigglers in the shape of race cars, and a dozen cookies?

As for me, I love the endless food choices, but I love the sense of community more. Maybe that's where the pride comes from: togetherness, belonging. There's something intimate and special about sharing a meal. It bonds us, like a big family dinner table.

So, we won't be skipping out on too many Potlucks, even if it means ordering a pizza from a favorite local joint and picking it up on our way into town. The kids love pizza! (I may not even take my name off the outside of the pizza box.) Afterall, I figure we've got about 14 more years of grade school potlucks, and sometimes I get a little busy.

Thoughtful Gifts

Yesterday was my birthday.

I honestly did not take much notice in anticipation of the day. I hazily noted a Wednesday or so, nestled in around a few volleyball games, basketball and gymnastic practices, fast food work schedules, and some other weekly events. I don't need anyone to fuss over the day... but the kids sure do enjoy a party, and all you really need for that is something with a candle in it. I think that when "Potty Parties" are regular occurrences, kids just are wired for celebrations of any kind.

Then my mom shared with me that the date would be 09-09-09. How cool is that? And, I would be turning 45 (the sum of which is 9). To top it all off, I would be celebrating with my 9 children.

She encouraged me to buy a lottery ticket.

Well, I must share that I won, and big. No, not with a lottery ticket, but with an outpouring of love and good wishes all day long.

The day started with most of my family rushing out the door, but left behind was a beautiful card (which, Dear Reader, I delighted in... rather than fret over the money spent on it). The card was nestled amongst 10, yes TEN, lavender plants to spruce up my backyard. After I stuck my nose in them and took in the heavenly smell, I texted my husband, "wowowowowowowow!" He replied, "Any more surprises?"

A few hours later, my oldest son easily got out of bed (now THAT is a perfect gift for this mom), and said he would join me taking the kids on some errands. He helped me load them all up in car seats and boosters and seat belts, and we made sure everyone had on two shoes. He asked if I had CDs in the car, which I absolutely do not. The speakers are so awful that I actually CRINGE listening to any music on them. Besides, The Big White Van can't play CDs. It's ultra antiquated, outfitted with a cassette player that has a nickel in it and won't play anything except "clicking". Clicking, on bad speakers. I would rather have morning sickness.

I was a little amused that he hopped into the driver's seat of MY van, I guess intending to chauffeur me around. When he put the key in and turned the ignition, my ears, I knew, were playing tricks on me. Sting! (the musician). Booming! SOUNDING AWESOME! It took a moment to realize that not only did I have a cd playing stereo, there were new speakers installed as well!

We headed up Route 66. Over my left shoulder, all I could see were a few tossled hair inches of five little heads bobbing to the bass beat. Can you imagine being so deeply delighted that you were moved to tears? No, it wasn't just the music... it was the incredible thoughtfulness and efforts that went into celebrating me and the things that give me joy. Wow.

There was a feast of a dinner later, and angel food cake heaped in whipped cream and fresh raspberries. And then my children spilled the beans about the ways they were involved in the surprises of the day, including the flat tire, that wasn't. And there were phone calls and greeting cards and pop-in visits from friends. There were Facebook Birthday Wishes and text messages too. In fact, the whole day was just showered in thoughtful people who shared that they were thinking of me and went out of their way to tell me so.

Even better than winning mega-millions, by the day's end I felt like the richest woman on the face of the earth.
What a delight.

The Shape of My Heart

There was a time in the midst of my knee-deep childrearing years that I lost who I was. Like many other moms of small children, I would enter the survival mode, hunker down in the trenches, and wait out the storms. I didn't know I liked lavender.

I remember a specific turning point when I had come up for air and tried to number the things that gave me joy. In my stupor, I had to resort to asking the One Who Knows Me Best, "Kel, what do I like?" He actually came up with a decent list, which reminded me of a few other things, and this set me on the right path to being attentive again. And without my asking, he built me a really big swing in my backyard, because the height, and the pendulum, and the breeze, and the tickle give me joy. When he installed rock speakers outside and I could listen to Sting, well, that sent me over the moon.

The trick I've found to being open to joy is just being in the present. Children are especially skilled at this. The walk to the park is not just about getting to the park; it's about how many bugs can be found along the way. Children see alphabet letters in their macaroni, and they appreciate the dinosaur shaped clouds. They are excellent teachers about the importance of laughing out loud, dancing to music that moves you, and delighting in little clever surprises.

Delighting is a "no strings attached" gift which I make room to embrace. It allows me to appreciate the richness of my life and the depth of gratitude in my heart. My capacity to love, and be generous, is then increased. In fact, Delighting makes me light-hearted... all because I am willing to pay attention.

To this end, I've realized I like to have in my life a little awe, and cleverness, and music too. I like to watch the gifts of passionate and talented people. I like my heart to be shaped as a result. And that is why THIS delighted me:

Shape of my heart
(click here)

Enjoy!

"You should have your own show!"

You can't imagine the number of times people have remarked that our family should have its own TV show.

I guess they are referring to the popularity of numerous Big Family shows that pepper the TV Guide selections.... cute kids with matching outfits, nice parents, and perks in Disney World. A show about our family? I couldn't think of a WORSE idea.

For selfish reasons, I couldn't have a camera crew in here. They would be capturing hard evidence that I have a low tolerance for shoes littered at the door and garbage tossed lazily behind the couch, and even worse, that my children would actually do that! Producers would also expose to the world that my children learn to write their names on the dust that clings to the TV screen. There is no June Cleaver in pearls here... just a poorly dressed mom who is sorely lacking many answers to life's child rearing questions.

Of course there would be other characters on the show. But, tell me what could be so interesting about an Abe Lincoln sized man, the father of nine, who makes a living as the principal at a school with 360 children (all of whom are aged 6 and under). Hey! Maybe a few people would watch if it were shown during cold and flu season. It could be entitled "The Germinator", and sponsored by Clorox wipes and Kleenex. Now THAT'S reality TV. Still, would you really want to watch that?

My kids are performers though; just imagine what they would do with a Nielsen rated audience. They already love to entertain each other with their silly skits, funny jokes, amazing card tricks and karaoke. Our oldest could astound you with his abdominal muscles contorted to look like a skull. The 11 year old can do the splits AGAINST THE WALL. The 3 year old speaks Spanish, sort of. (At least that's what we think he speaks when he yells at the TV: "Dora, ciudado!" Really, her father is just not in that many episodes for a "See you Dad!" translation.) I wonder if shooting squirrels out of trees is considered entertainment?

We do have some cultured skills: The 13 year old can bring you to tears with her rendition of Les Miserables' "On My Own" or Phantom's "Think of Me". Her sister's just as good with contemporary Christian music. And the 8 year old can program the Casio for Bach's Minuet and can even follow along the lit keys. We also have a clarinet player, guitar strummer, and a couple trumpet tooters, but only one person ever practices. Every single family member dances, sometimes while not even waiting in line for the bathroom.

No, I'm convinced we should avoid more publicity. To the next person who says "You should have your own show," please don't take offense when I laugh out loud. Truly, I think we are on display enough (like, every Sunday when we're walking in late to Mass), and I already have enough Reality without having to do a show about it too.

I will, however, contemplate signing on for a cleverly scripted TV series about clean and well behaved children, and a mom who has dinner on the table every evening at 5, as dad waltzes through the front door and plops his briefcase on the dust-free coffee table.

Oh, never mind.
June already did that.

Optimum Disposition

I'm not a pill taker. It doesn't even occur to me to take a Tylenol for an ache, pain, or, if with codeine, vacation. If my eyebrows are furrowed, and one eye is a slit, Kel might say, "It looks like you have a headache. Do you want me to get you something?" But honestly, I'm just not aware enough to know it for myself.

That's why, I think, I can be a mom of nine. I just keep plowing through, not realizing that what I deal with in a single day is quadruple what some other moms might encounter. I guess if I did stop to notice, I might get a tad bit overwhelmed.

These last few days, however, I've been feeling a little run down. My nerves feel frayed. Nothing tastes good (now, there's a big flag). There's a pressure encompassing my entire head, and it's not because I'm wearing Andy's new Optimus Prime Transformers Helmet with Activated Voice Changer, even though I bet I would look better in it. Heck, maybe I would look exactly the same in it. That's just how I'm feeling.

This is nothing new. Many moms can empathize. Your needs are set aside for the Good of the Cause. You drag yourself out of bed because life must go on. Same old, same old. But it's the Quality of life for the family members which makes me pause. And really, who wants a grumpy mom? A snippy wife?


Enough already. This sounds like complaining. I'm going to go hunt down a Sudafed, and start playing.

Finan, can you take my picture?

Kitchen Help

Kel likes to drool over the Williams-Sonoma catalogue. They represent some wonderful products that have a huge "cool" factor. He gets sucked into the top-of-the-line grill gadgets and specialized tools, smartly designed utensils, and hard-to-find ethnic cookware.

Like the Ebelskiver pan he got for his birthday.

Today, on this leisurely Saturday morning, he is breaking out the new cookware to try his hand at making these Scandinavian treats, fluffy little pancakes you can fill with jam or fruit or cheese. (Williams-Sonoma also fills them with chocolate ganache, as if we would ever have THAT hanging around in our pantry. We always have chocolate chips.)

You whisk flour and other batter ingredients in one bowl. In the Kitchen Aid you beat egg whites "until stiff but not dry peaks form". Then you carefully combine the whites with the batter "in two additions." When you pour the batter into the wells of the pan, you dollop a teaspoon of the filling of your choice in the center, followed by another tablespoon of the batter. The video on the Williams Sonoma website is very helpful in demonstrating how to use two wooden skewers to roll the Ebleskiver over in the pan to cook on both sides.

I will tell you I love these Ebelskivers, especially the blueberry ones that have some powdered sugar on top. I also love hearing Finan pronounce these treats: "EbbaSibers..... Evvaskeebas... Escabobbers.... PANCAKES."

Stop in and join us.

Pests

The whole family enjoyed a peek at our daughter's high school varsity volleyball team at their scrimmage last night. It's kind of striking to see the young woman she is becoming, and seems like only yesterday she was just starting kindergarten.

But, there was no time for in-depth recollections. It was getting late when we piled into our van to head home.

Six year old Andy sat "in the way back." He's typically a smiley, giggly, dimpled cheek kid. Maybe he has been so tired from nearly a whole week of kindergarten, but his tolerance for the two sisters sitting in front of him was quite thin.

Now, all families with two or more children hear the same things: "Mommmmmmm! She's copying me!" or "Mommmmmmm! He's looking at me!" I think even an "only child" must make up imaginary friends to bicker with.

Andy's solution to getting away from his family annoyances? He announced he's going to college.

Sigh.
Blink of an eye.

Chef BoyRdee

I kind of like to cook. I like to plan meals, purchase ingredients, fret and stew all day, and that goes for the food too. It's better when it's just me working in the kitchen until extra hands are needed for rolling out pie crust, kneading bread dough, or tossing a salad. Then I love being surrounded by a whole bunch of biological family and chosen family. We'll have wine, several carafes of coffee, appetizers, and a big meal followed by a wonderful dessert. This typically occurs on a Sunday when...

Okay, okay. I give. Really, that's admittedly romantic. It presupposes that I can devote that much attention to a particular task without distraction. It's based on an assumption that we have more in the pantry than pinto beans and peanut butter. Even more realistic, it presumes that the laundry is done, and that you can walk through the front door without having to use a shovel at the shoe pile.

My Monday through Friday routine is also hardly romantic. Each day is a an endless loop of Plan the food, Prepare the food, Serve the food, Clean-up the food, and roll my eyes at the "I'm hungry agains". And my clientele is such that their taste buds are not developed, and they don't want their food to touch.

So when dinner rolls around, I'm out of ideas unless it involves peanut butter. If a hunk of protein isn't thawing on the counter by 9 am, chances are we're having pancakes for dinner, and Kel is mixing the batter. I've been known to make several decent crock-pot meals, but again, that requires preparedness and a plan. I might get as far as having pulled something freezer-burned out of the basement, but Kel usually has to pull something edible out of the pot.

This is actually a great metaphor of our personalities. He's got a knack for throwing things together that inevitably come out wonderful. He can locate a few remote ingredients in the fridge and pantry, and pull together a dinner good enough for unexpected interlopers, usually of the teenage variety and hungry like a wolf. He cooks like his Grandma Mert used to cook: with every pot, pan, spatula, ladle, spoon, measuring cup, and mixing bowl within arm's reach (and he's got long arms). The place is a disaster. He doesn't even start with a clean sink full of warm sudsy water. He ransacks the clean dishes in the dishwasher, and he also uses specialized cookware for unspecified uses. Is it really worth it to pull out the blender and all the pieces for it? and the Kitchen Aide? and the Cuisinart food processor?

It's just like the man to love power tools.

But, I shall not complain. I better not complain. The natives are restless.... and hungry. And we're out of peanut butter.

School Supplies

I wish you could see my living room floor. I'd post a picture, but I can't see my living room floor. It's covered, totally covered, with an incredible amount of stuff.

Which reminds me.
Did you ever hear that old joke about the Chinese soldier who was in charge of procuring, maintaining and distributing his unit's military equipment? His superior thought he was doing an awful job and, even worse, the soldier was never at his post. It was later learned that the soldier was hiding out back behind the equipment tent, scaring every passerby who happened along. "Suuuuuupliiiiiiies!"

That's me, the infantry-mom, in charge of our unit's Supply Procurement, Maintenance, and Distribution. It's a lengthy job title (one of my many) and, in this household, a sometimes scary and labor intensive one. As I try to be a good steward of our family's expense account, I do my very best to "reduce, reuse, recycle," buy in bulk, and buy when the sales are hot.

That starts in July for school supplies, and you'll find me scouring slick Sunday ads for deals. All summer long I squirrel away bags of stuff and keep a running tally in my purse. When Walgreen's runs 10 count Papermate pens for .19 a pack (black, blue, red), I buy 20 packs. #2 lead pencils? 75 at a time. Two-pocket folders are 3 for $1? I get four times the amount the kids need, because folders get used up and need to be regularly replenished. Pencil boxes for 50 cents? Well, we still have decent pencil boxes from last year, so skip those.

And this is why you can't see my living room floor. It's covered with packs and stacks of Crayola markers (fine tip, and not), or Rose Art colored pencils, or pencil tip erasers, or spiral bound notebooks (1, 3 or 5 subjects, single or college ruled). Don't knock over my pile of Kleenex boxes and various styles of stainless steel round or pointed tip scissors. Loose leaf paper, graph paper, sketch paper, construction paper, copy paper: check check check check check.

I do all this with an ulterior motive: my kids don't have to accompany me to the store where the litany of "gotta haves" makes my head hurt. They shop in my living room from a wide assortment of supplies, filling their backpacks and checking off their own grade school list. This strategy has worked very well until today, when my entire family baulked at Andy having to use a particular pencil box leftover from someone last year.

"It's FINE," I insist.

"But it's PINK," Kieran says.

"It's red, and it's just a little faded. And see? Andy doesn't seem to mind!"

Maddie chimes in: "That's because he knows the rule."

"Yea," Merryn says. "You get what you get and you don't throw a fit."
(She's smug about her slick new pencil pouch anyway. It's pink with brown giraffe markings, and she lucked out receiving it as a birthday party favor. How smart is THAT mom?).

"It's PINK!!!" Kel says. "He can't walk into a new school with a whole new batch of boys to befriend and have a pink pencil box."

That's it. This crowd won't listen to reason or even the extra-light jingle of coins in my pocketbook. Not even my suggestion of adhering SuperHero stickers on top of the faded red pencil box top will suffice.

While Kel rolls his eyes over my cheap disposition (admittedly at the expense of a poor 6 year old child), I march with consolation into the kitchen where the bulk art supplies are stored and produce a perfectly fine BLUE pencilbox.

"Suuuuuupliiiiiiies!"

The Brown Jug

Kel and I regularly get out together, which baffles many people who can't imagine parents of 9 children EVER getting a moment alone. Ten years ago I would have understood the awe. But, we've been blessed with having our children one at a time, over a period of about two decades. The result is, of course, that the nine babies are not babies all at once. We now have "older" children who regularly provide babysitting for little to no financial compensation save the McDonald's caramel sundae Dad might bring home, or the promise of a night out of their own.

As a couple we highly value our time together, even if it's just driving in a car. Lately, though, we've been avoiding the 30 minute drive into town and staying local. Of course, this greatly reduces the evening's options. Offerings in our stoplight-less small town include Subway, McDonald's, and $1 hotdogs with fill-up... which honestly, for me, is just one step above a diaper retrieving excursion from Walmart. Recently, however, we have happened across a little local gem called The Brown Jug. It's a tavern!

The attraction for me is not the typical tavern escapades of bellying up to a bar for a few Miller Lites. I understand the bar camaraderie of meeting people and having a few beers, but I've never regarded myself as a tavern type of person. No, I go for a different reason. The Brown Jug has weekly kitchen specials, and my new hands-down favorite is the Monday night Bacon Cheeseburger basket for $3.50, "run through the garden" and with a side of fries.* Honestly, the burger is delicious and more than satisfies that "I Gotta Have A Big Hunka Protein" craving. And add it up: even with a beer it's a cheap date.

Now, those who don't know me would be very surprised to see me sitting in a bar, especially on a Monday night. It just looks bad that a mother of nine starts her week out in a location that could raise a few eyebrows. Admittedly, it's not like this is Book Discussion Night at the library. But I'm not going to try to hide my big white 15 passenger van by parking out back, because those who know me know I drink at home. (And it's not because I'm ashamed that a few bottles in my wine collection are from Aldi.) My real friends already know that I'll rarely turn down an offering of a cold beer, or two. They know I've even stretched myself to enjoy the likes of a pomegranate martini or an iced tea infused vodka. I'm quick to admit I am an imbiber.** My real friends also know I'm just too cheap to pay double the price in a bar in exchange for smokey ambiance and the marginal excitement of watching electronic dart throwers.

Now, I doubt I'll end up being a pub crawler, but it surprises even me that I have come to enjoy grabbing a beer and a bite to eat at The Brown Jug. Even better, I fully expect a few of my friends will join me. And won't they be surprised when the bartender calls me by name when we walk in the door and take a seat at my usual table! "Hey, Nooooooorrrrmmmm!"
Cheers.


* "With everything". Fries are 75 cents extra.
** Before my husband gets pegged as being married to a lush, keep in mind that I've had extensive pregnancy/nursing interludes, so my drinking days have been quite numbered. Someday I'll catch up.

Grand Theft

I'm honored that so many of my readers are enjoying this blog (I do have a big family). It's a joy to write. A true surprise for me is that, not only do others like reading it, they actually care what I write! What a blessing. This blog likely won't reach extensive or international readership, so I think I can take a risk and put this out there: We take things that don't belong to us. And I won't lie: it's sometimes not intentional.

Just this afternoon I looked into the diaper bag to retrieve Rosie's outfit from yesterday, and found we have heisted a bible from our dear General Practitioner's office, albeit a display copy and one the office likely got for free. I'm not sure when it happened. Was it Monday when we were seen urgently because of a potential burst eardrum? Or was it Tuesday for two sports physicals, in two separate rooms, and I was distracted with 6 additional children in tow who weren't supposed to join me. And technically it wasn't a real Bible bible, but one of those Bible Story books with the "I Want To Purchase The Entire Reference Library" postcards tucked inside. The cards were all gone, but I swear we didn't take those. (And can I add, our doctor and staff are WONDERFUL).

Even small children can grasp the concept of respecting ownership and property. Just ask any verbal 18 month old who can articulate the word "MINE." Maturation and development help some when a child can sit in front of a TV long enough to watch an episode of Dora The Explorer. In my opinion, one of the most endearing characters on this Nickelodeon show is a bandit masked fox who pounces on the belongings of others. Everyone in the living room has to yell out loud "Swiper, No Swiping! SWIPER, NO SWIPING!!!", to which the little sly guy then hangs his head, snaps his fingers, and says "AWwww, man!" There's obvious disappointment in not getting what you want, but in real life you can't always take what you want either. Thanks for reinforcing that life lesson, Dora.

Today I heard Finan maneuvering what sounded like some heavy equipment into the back door, and my radar was up. Here is a "just turned" 3yr old successfully hauling into my kitchen a 5 foot-freestanding-adjustable-Fisher Price-basketball hoop, and dragging it across the wood floor to set up in the living room. All this, despite the "No Basketball Playing In The House" rule. To make matters worse, this is a basketball hoop I've never seen before. Recalling the abundant sports equipment owned by the two little boys next door, I was quite sure of the source of this particular apparatus. He's always sneaking over there anyway.

I reprimanded our child and explained that we just can't take things from the yards of other people. When he said, "It's MINE" I was quite sure this was a throwback to the distant memory days of when he was two... a week ago. "I know you like this, honey, but it's not ours," and I hauled that hoop back to the neighbor's garage door, relieved to find the garage door locked and thankful that Finan did not have breaking and entering to add to the infraction. Would you believe this scenario was repeated no less than two more times! What an insistent little boy!

To our credit, we also leave things that DO belong to us, like frayed storybooks under church pews, one sock on a grocery store floor, and half-filled sippy cups of milk. (My apologies if you are the one who finds it a few days later). But I need to add one more note about today's events, especially since I do have such a small, but devoted, readership: Kel's afternoon Status Update phone call filled me in on one little detail not previously mentioned. He lifted that basketball hoop out of a pile of garbage set out for pickup at the end of our street. He said Finan loved it when he presented it last night.

"AWwwwww, Man!"



.

Date Night

Relationship professionals and specifically those with marriage expertise highly recommend that spouses set aside time for one another. I think they are right. "Getaways", perhaps for an anniversary, are a good example. However, it's not a good idea to wait 4-5 years in between childless adventures as Kel and I do. Instead, experts suggest weekly "Date Nights", regularly scheduled time in which couples usually end up talking about their children even though they're not supposed to.

Now, there need not be anything fancy about these Date Nights. Tickets to a show followed by a nice dinner at a restaurant requiring reservations is not included in our weekly budget. Typically, Kel and I find ourselves on Friday nights going to Menards. If we haven't received a panicked phone call from one of our children, we might include a stroll afterwards through Borders Bookstore. They serve some great coffee with fluffy whip cream and a chocolate stick that gets gooey and melty at the bottom of the cup... a nice bonus after finishing the joe. If the weather is pleasant, we might visit a beautifully landscaped city park that has gardens and water features and is not designed around teeter-totters. That would be considered a really romantic Date Night, and we don't even need music to dance under La Luna. Let it be known, though, that we do have some standards. No longer allowed on ANY Date Night: a stop at Walmart. Going there just ruins everyone's mood.

On a rare occasion, we might actually plan something in advance and meet some dear friends for dinner. But, usually our adventures are last minute events in which we realize Kel needs a fastener or drill bit or a large piece of window glass. We assess the number of children in the house, determine if one constitutes babysitter status, and bolt out the door before the hardware store closes. It's hard to arrange a night out with another couple when we live like this, but we have some very nice friends who also need hardware.

Date Nights could be more romantic, but that's not the point. Getting out means getting a different perspective, even though it's easier to stay home, save money, and fall asleep watching TLC on separate TVs. And we need that change of perspective. Yes, we might spend too much time talking about the kids, but after the initial gripe, or rant, or expression of angst, we eventually conclude the night recollecting some cute remark or darling behavior. In between, we hold hands and find us. We end up fortifying the united front, critically essential for what we need to accomplish with those people at home. And, we can fix that broken window too. It's all good.

The Pace

I really wish there was a significant caloric burn factor for pacing. The reality is, I would be so skinny.

I'm not referring to the act of simply stepping, or using your feet to measure distance, or even the rate of speed that distance is traveled. I'm referring to the intense ambulatory movements of worried parents, as defined by the last two decades of my life. I've paced waiting for fevers to drop when infants have been sick. I've paced waiting for phone calls to be returned when the clock approaches curfew. I've paced waiting for medical test results about internal hemangiomas and nerve-entwined cholesteatomas. And I'm pacing right now.

It seems like, mathematically speaking, pacing plus waiting is equal to the sum total of worry... or, in my case: 9x(P+w) = W. I would like to think I've evolved into a big enough person who is okay with waiting, okay with being patient, okay with "letting go". But truthfully, I'm not. I have a tough time subscribing to the "c'est la vie" approach to life, and I've never been good at math.

For me, there is a common denominator in circumstances that result in The Pace: I'm impatient waiting to DO something. I'm on the cusp of action, or decision, or just wrapping my head around news that might forever change the direction of my life. And there are the infinite conversations in my head: "How will I word this?" "Should I start making phone calls?" "Who can I ask for prayer?" "When should I call 911?" "What will be the length of punishment and does the garage need to be cleaned out again?" So I pace.

My guess is that this struggle comes from a Life Value of "giving 110%". I wrestle with the issues of parenting because I can't stop caring. Trying my hardest means trying more. Giving my best means surprising myself with what I'm capable of, not giving up, not giving in. My wise mother once told me that marriage is not 50/50, but 100/100, and to fully expect to have to pick up the slack and give more. But no one told me about the math of waiting, and how your heart can be fractured, and divided.

Tall Babies

There is a certain comfort about having an infant around. Well, not exactly "comfort". You worry yourself sick about every little squeak and whimper. You chalk up fussiness to gas, or teething, or potential fever with viral seizure. You learn to sleep with one eye open. So, I guess "comfort" is an inadequate term. But, at least the infant stays where you put her. That's what I mean by comfort. If you put her in the swing, she stays in the swing. Crib? Crib. Car seat? Car seat. Well, "car seat", only if the two year old doesn't drag it into another room so the baby can watch him pee all by himself in the big potty.

But, we have tall babies. And as soon as our infants start being mobile, the whole world changes. I recall one visit from my dear grandmother, who was absolutely appalled that our entire set of kitchen dining chairs were lasso-ed with a huge rope and intricate series of knots and loops. As she struggled to wrestle one chair free, she remarked with exasperation, "Why would you let the children DO this?" I just smiled and said, "Actually, Kel did it. So the baby won't get on the table." Nana had an Aha moment when she realized this was a safety measure, but she questioned our creativity.

Just as annoying are all the hook and eye locks at eye level (5'9" or higher) on every door in our house. These were installed when our 4th child, Kieran, was a tall baby. Not only could she maneuver simple locks on doors, she was quick to escape through them as well. The amount of "comfort" time with her was likely the shortest of all our babies. Kel still has some angst about the amount of time she was raised seat belted in her high chair. It's true that by her arrival we already had plenty to distract us... plenty to even sabotage us. But Nana doesn't even complain about all the locked doors now. Maybe they make her feel safer too.

Tall babies usually have long arms that accompany their stature. Rosie is no exception. For quite some time, she could reach a tall counter top from her high chair and unnecessarily scrunch up 125 crisp napkins all at once. (Please don't be offended if you are visiting and we offer you what looks like a used one. It's not. Honestly!) And for a few weeks now she has been able to access the buttons on the computer desk phone. It's a fancy schmancy one that looks like it should belong to a receptionist for a Fortune 500 company. It sits up at attention at an angle, it has a display screen you can see from across the room, and it has a myriad of buttons I don't have time to learn about. We bought it because the handset is actually connected to the phone, and the phone is connected to the wall. (We are always losing important things with buttons. But at least we can find one ringing phone now.) Rosie usually goes for the speaker button, but she has been known to call Papa once or twice. If you call and get a newly recorded answering machine message that is difficult to decipher, would you let me know? Now, even though I have knowledge of these SuperBaby powers which she possesses, it still totally took me by surprise today when I heard my prized camera clunk on the floor. I know I put it on the back corner of the computer desk, and even made sure to pull the neck strap up too. Honestly!

One would think I would be more preventative, considering all the tall babies I've cared for. Maybe I just suffer from a short memory. What I'm currently learning, however, is that tall babies become tall children. And it's awfully hard to shake your finger at a child who can look you straight in the eye.

Getaway

I don't know anyone who has ever said, "It's easy to get away". Even my single friends have a hard time escaping from Something for a day or two. For our family of eleven, it's exponentially difficult. Even harder still? When it's just me and Kel.

Of course, there's the initial concerns of expense, time away from earning income as well as the time spent spending it. And there are the concerns about actually finding a few open days on the calendar that would accomodate a small excursion. But the greater logistics involve our nine children and who possibly could manage managing them. We don't get many offers. And, we don't often get away.

Lucky for us, we have my mom, a retired 6th grade teacher who doesn't scare easily. She regards our home as a small classroom with laundry facilities. Over many childbearing years, she has made it possible to survive labor/delivery/first few days home. She has cooked and cleaned and taken kids on endless trips to McDonald's playland. She has covered carpool obligations and carted kids to doctor appointments. She comes through the front door with a huge sweeping announcement of her arrival, and arms laden with grocery bags full of ice cream (for breakfast) and junk food (for whenever the mood suits you). She lets the kids eat on my livingroom couch, but swears them to secrecy. She does not enforce bedtimes. She thinks absolutely everything my children do is interesting and fun.

And she lies.

She lies that she loves getting rose scented perfume or another frog gift. She lies that my children are helpful and well-behaved. She lies that she is available the 4th weekend in July for an anniversary getaway.

She also lies that everything is "Just fine" when we call home to make sure that the kids are following the rules (they aren't) and we left enough milk in the fridge (we haven't). Friday night, a mere 6 hours after our departure, I detected a slight shrill in her voice in the background when Kieran answered the phone: "Well, it's pouring down rain, Mom. Mimi says I have to get off the phone." My fast fingered texting and subsequent phone calls had my children informing me that "Well, the tornado sirens are going off and we're waking kids up to get into the basement" and then "The power is out", and then "We're waiting for an okay from the fire department."

She lies by ommission too. Not only is my mom selective about the kinds of details she shares, she is quite inclined to embrace a martyr approach, at least until she has to own up when someone else spills the beans. Saturday evening I got to speak to Maddie, and she is an experienced bean spiller. "Hi Sweetie! How was the picnic and pool party?" "Oh, it was lots of fun Mom, until the ambulance showed up." And, our dear screaming Mimi was heard yelling in the background, "I TOLD YOU NOT CALL YOUR MOTHER!"

By all accounts, we had at our door this weekend every local emergency service organization except the National Guard. But honestly, we would have had to read it in the newspaper first. Now, I've matured enough in my parenting to not get so bent out of shape over such news and information, and more than likely I'm just numb to it. Shoot, I live it.

But mom? I fear she may never want to return.
Or, at least she'll lie about it.

I Forgot My Camera

In honor of our 23 Wedding Anniversary, Kel found a way to solicit my mom's help in watching the children so we could enjoy a weekend in St. Louis.

But I forgot my camera.


No pictures of fireworks over the arch, the revelry and musicians on Laclead's Landing, or a foreign taxi driver from the casino. No pictures of the historic (but newly renovated) Mayfair hotel, back door tour of the Clydesdales at Annhauser-Busch, or Llewellyn's Irish Pub. No pictures of the reflecting pond in Forest Park, Chuck Close's amazing painting of Keith or Gerhard Richter's thoughtful grey glass reflection in the Art Museum. No pictures of the expansive city skyline, or tiny mosaic tiles at the Cathedral Basilica. (Or, the Archbishop giving us an anniversary blessing afterwards). No pictures to help me remember the characters in the European-like open market at Soulard's, nor the gorgeous fresh cut flowers, produce, meats, cheese, fish for sale. No pictures of us under the patio lights at the Italian restaurant on The Hill, nor meandering through the prayerful walkways at Our Lady of the Snows.

I don't have a photographic memory.
Fond memories will have to do.