Mixed blessings

Sometime close to Christmas last year, someone in our family decided it would be a good idea to spend Christmas in Colorado and have everyone come to us for a change. In my naive mind I was thrilled with the idea of not having to pack and travel. But about a week before Christmas this year, I realized that not traveling meant hosting, and I wasn't sure I was ready for that either! But alas, we survived. We had a wonderful Christmas with John's parents and both sisters and their boyfriends in our home. I made my first official holiday dinner (all the big ones have been in other places so far in our 9 1/2 years of marriage) and ended up being less stressed than I had anticipated. We even had snow all day on Christmas -- it was beautiful and white!

Having all this family in town has definitely been a blessing -- but a mixed blessing. It has been great to catch up and spend time with my in-laws that we haven't had in some time. The time I've spent with my youngest sister-in-law (who feels like a little sister to me) has been refreshing and good for both of us. Lucy has had playmates galore, and I've had several extra sets of hands to hold and entertain Josiah. It's been great for all of that.

On the flip side, this is the first chance I have had in more than a week to sit at the computer, to think in sweet silence, and to type my thoughts. Being an introvert, I haven't had that essential time to myself to recharge, and that has been hard, especially in a 2-bedroom condo. I've discovered over the years that I'm really good at faking it for a few days, but when I start to wind down, it gets harder for me to make decisions (especially for groups of people) and to initiate conversation. I don't get to spend my time alone in God's Word like I want to, my prayer life falls apart, I become emotional much more easily, I can't achieve the order in my home that I thrive on, and recently I also noticed it gets harder for me to tame my temper with the kids.

So, for a few moments, both kids are napping, and everyone else is out of the house doing other things. I'm sure that after everyone leaves to return to their various dwellings, I will return to feelings of isolation and loneliness, but for this moment I'm going to cherish this sweet, sweet solitude and silence!

Chestnuts roasting

I've been testing a theory this week, and now that I'm convinced of its validity I'm going to share it with you.

Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire is a song with magical powers!

I remembered a few days ago that I sang this to Lucy when she was a baby. I was trying to think of a lullaby one night when she was 6 or 7 months old and, because it was near Christmas, I had carols and other Christmas tunes rattling around in my head. I started to sing this to her, and it fit nicely with my side-to-side sway as I rocked her around the room, so I stuck with it and realized she loved it! It put her to sleep before I had even reached the "for kids from one to 92" line. I stuck with it long after the tree had been taken down and the lights put away, though I felt a little silly singing "Merry Christmas to you" in the middle of March.

So as Joey was fussing a few nights ago, this memory came to me and I began to sing, in my best throaty lounge-singer voice,

"Chestnuts roasting on an open fire,
Jack Frost nipping at your nose...."

I tell you, he had been crying nonstop for over a half hour and nothing I had tried was working, but by the time I reached "Yuletide carols being sung by a choir" he had stopped and his eyes were closed! I thought it was just a fluke, or maybe he was thinking, "Okay, okay, I'll stop if you stop!" But the next day, it worked again! I've used this rediscovery almost every day this week.

So, I'm telling you, something soothing, something calming, something magical about those chestnuts....

Adventures in shipping

Picture this: me, two big boxes filled with Christmas gifts, an energetic 3-year-old, 17 pounds of baby in his car seat, and a busy UPS counter. I survived!

Over the last couple of days, I have spent a good deal of time wrapping, writing notes, and boxing up Christmas gifts for our family members who we won't see during the holidays. It's something that I rather enjoy, making sure to label and stack everything like puzzle pieces in the box and filling it with packing peanuts and those fun little bags full of air. That, to me, is the fun part. Getting it to the "box store," as Lucy calls it, isn't as much fun. The thought of it kind of stresses me out. So when I woke up this morning and realized that I forgot to send the packages with John, I knew it had to be done, and I started to psych myself up for it...and pray.

I hurried to get myself and Lucy ready while Joey was sleeping, knowing that our amount of time once he woke up was limited to about 1 1/2 hours -- the amount of time he is usually awake and happy before getting ready to nap again. But he woke up a little early (of course) and it took me nearly an hour after that to finish taping and labeling the boxes, to get our shoes and jackets on, to get the boxes down the stairs and out to the parking lot, and to get us out the door. Time was ticking! But so far so good.

We arrived at the UPS building, which is just a little over a mile from our house, and [insert angelic choir here] there was a parking place right in front of the doors! I unloaded the boxes first and took them inside to the last open computer (no line!). I went back out and got the kids and brought them inside. Joey was mesmerized by the lights on the ceiling (got to love the simple pleasures of a baby!) and Lucy was taking very seriously her role to 'guard the boxes.' I raced through the computer shipping station questions and headed over to the line to pay. It felt like a Red Sea experience -- what seemed like a crowded room and long line suddenly opened up before me and we only had to wait behind one person!

Lucy continued to entertain herself by playing hopscotch on the tile floor, until she suddenly stopped and looked at me and said, "Mommy, I have to go potty." Uh oh. I looked around. Nothing. We had just gone before leaving home, so I knew it couldn't have been that urgent. I encouraged her to take a deep breath and try her best to wait, and the moment passed without incident. It was then that I realized I had left my diaper bag at home and had no resources for dealing with a potential potty disaster!

Well, the man at the counter took care of us quickly and politely, and he even returned my wishes for a Merry Christmas with a smile. With my arms free of boxes, I picked up Joey in the car seat and took Lucy by the hand, and I turned around to see the line behind us extended all the way to the door. We had come at the perfect time! We were back at home in a grand total of less than 30 minutes.

God gets all the glory for this one! I could pretend it's because I'm SuperMom, but with the kind of Bah-Humbuggy mood I've been in, and the ornery behavior we've been seeing from Lucy lately, and the sheer unpredictability of having a 4-month-old, there is nothing I could have done in and of myself to make it happen. My kids' cooperation, the front parking space, the short line when we arrived -- it was clearly a gift from God! I've noticed that when I pray, even for the 'little' things and God shows me He can do it, then I have no choice but to give Him all the glory! And I'm give Him thanks for leaving us all with smiles on our faces and a dreaded task completed.

That Night

We received a printed poem a few years ago that I framed and have aimed to display each year at Christmas, but because the artwork is brown and black (not red and green) I usually end up putting it back in the box in lieu of more festive-looking decorations. Despite how silly that sounds, I love this poem, so this year I thought I'd share it with you here and hope you enjoy it, too, as you contemplate what Christ's birth means to you....

That Night
(Author unknown)

That night when in the Judean skies
The mystic star dispensed its light,
A blind man moved in his sleep
And dreamed that he had sight.

That night when shepherds heard the song
Of hosts angelic choiring near,
A deaf man stirred in slumber's spell
And dreamed that he could hear.

That night when in the cattle stall
Slept child and mother cheek by jowl,
A cripple turned his twisted limbs
And dreamed that he was whole.

That night when o'er the newborn babe
The tender Mary rose to lean
A loathsome leper smiled in sleep
And dreamed that he was clean.

That night when to the mother's breast
The little King was held secure,
A harlot slept a happy sleep
And dreamed that she was pure.

That night when in the manger lay
The sanctified who came to save,
A man moved in the sleep of death
And dreamed there was no grave.

Traditions

I knew our fate was sealed at lunch today when my daughter prayed: "...and thank you that we can go to Georgetown today to cut down our Christmas tree..." John and I exchanged a glance before the Amen, a knowing glance that said it didn't matter if the snow had begun to fall, or that there was a windchill of 8 degrees, or that it would mean skipping her nap. We had to go.

I was beginning to get used to the idea this morning. I even had our snow gear out of the closet and ready to go, with new plans on how to keep my son warm by making him into an immovable bundle. John has been bugging me for weeks about our newest "tradition." By this I mean we did it last year, so somehow having done it ONE TIME, it has become an annual family ritual. If you read my previous "Bah Humbug" entry, you'll know how I was feeling about this idea already. But I was beginning to soften and think that maybe it would be a fun family outing after all.

Then John went for a run this morning and came home with icicles on his goatee. Suddenly, he wasn't sure we should be going. But by the time she had prayed her prayer, the deal was sealed.

We piled into our CR-V with multiple layers of clothes, boots, hats, mittens, and scarves. The flurries didn't seem so threatening, but by the time we were entering the mountains, traffic was slowing down and the snow was drifting across the road in white waves. All told, it took us just a little over an hour -- a little longer than usual -- to reach Georgetown, but both kids napped on the way. Bonus!

Because we had done this last year, we knew where to go and what the rules were. By the time we arrived at the property that belongs to a friend-of-our-friends, the snow was falling steadily in clumps and we had to park on the road so we wouldn't get stuck in the plow drifts. I was ready to take the saw to the first tree we came to, but we walked about 5 minutes farther, found the perfect little tree, shook the snow from its boughs, snapped a few quick pictures, and high-tailed it back to the warmth of our car!

We were wet and freezing cold from those few minutes in the mountain air, but we had our perfect little Charlie Brown tree, and had done for the second time what may become a family tradition.

Unfinshed business

Just about anyone who looks at my daughter will tell me how much she looks like me. I even had a stranger tell me that if it weren't for the age difference we could be twins. (That might be stretching it a bit.) Not only does she look like me, she IS me in so many little ways. When my brother and his family were here for a visit a few weeks ago, he told me he could remember me at her age (he is 3 years older than me) and that it was uncanny -- almost frightening -- how much she was acting just like I did as a child. Sometimes I think I know a little too well what is going on in that little head of hers, and I can even remember doing some of the quirky things she does that now drive me crazy!

One of those fabulous little traits is being a saver. I'm not talking about money here, unfortunately. I'm talking about treats and other random items that apparently have special meaning to her. The reason I was just thinking about this is because I opened our freezer to find a half-eaten popsicle that we got two weeks ago from a nurse who was trying to keep her happy while my inflamed eye was examined. It was one of those 'twin pops' that has two sticks and can be broken in half. She enjoyed the part she ate so much that she decided to save the rest of it for later. It went into a styrofoam cup and into my bag, then into our freezer when we got home.

But that's not the only thing she saves. I find things like tiny remnants of suckers carefully re-wrapped, special coloring pages untouched by crayons, and post-it notes from daddy's office. Sometimes she will only eat half a cookie and want me to put the soggy uneaten half back in the bag. When she received a sticker yesterday for being a good girl while her brother got his shots at the doctor, she didn't peel it off its backing and proudly wear it; she asked me to put it in my bag "for later."

I have to reluctantly admit that I understand this mindset. I remember "rationing" the candy I got for Halloween each year so much so that I'd end up throwing most of it out on October 30th of the following year, just so I could have an empty bucket to get the new stuff in. I think I was afraid it would run out and I'd have nothing to fall back on when that sweet tooth craving came upon me. And I clearly remember when I was 12, saving one of my cat's whiskers in a special box along with the kleenex I used to wipe my tears when I found out he had been hit by a car. Don't laugh! At the time it meant something to me... Something...

So, yes, she gets it from me. But as an adult this kind of thing drives me crazy! I try to tell her, "Wear that sticker! You earned it!" or "Eat those last three M&Ms now because you can't have them just before bedtime!" Mostly I just don't want a house full of half-used or half-eaten stuff and crumpled wrappers with remnants of treats, but I don't dare throw them away because this girl remembers -- sometimes eons later -- and I don't want to be responsible for the tears!

Now, on to more pressing matters: who is going to eat that popsicle? Or is it destined to become a permanent fixture in our home?

Bah Humbug

After being away from home for 11 days, I'm back at home and realizing that we are now 'officially' in the Christmas season. I know that it starts earlier and earlier each year in the world around us, but I have always resisted pulling down my boxes of decorations and popping my Christmas CDs in the stereo until the day after Thanksgiving. Instead of shopping with the insane masses, I stay home and get myself in the Christmas spirit. Obviously, this year we weren't home on the day after Thanksgiving, so now that I am home I'm contemplating when and how I'm going to go about this Christmas business...

I've been asking myself for the last few days: "What is the minimum I can get away with in decorating without feeling like I am cheating my family of Christmas spirit or adding my name to a list with the likes of Ebenezer Scrooge?" I'm trying to figure out if it's just my exhaustion talking after our travels, or if I just want to focus the energy that I do have on more important things... like baking cookies. Or perhaps it's the fact that with an extra little person in our home this year, and all the gear that comes with having a baby around, I can't seem to imagine where in the world we would put a WHOLE tree! Wouldn't a nice garland around the fireplace and hanging stockings be enough?

My next question has been: "Do I really have to go shopping in the holiday madness?" Each year I resolve to have my Christmas shopping DONE before the 1st of December, but that has yet to happen. Don't get me wrong -- I love to shop for other people and to give them something unique or practical that they wouldn't get for themselves. But again, who wouldn't rather stay home and make chocolate dipped pretzels and caramel pecan turtles? I do know that as some of my family members have asked me what I want for Christmas, my gut tendency has been to say "Absolutely nothing!" I'm confident that stems from the fact that we are living in a home with next to zero storage space and I feel like for every item brought in the door something else has to go.

Are my kids young enough that I won't scar them for life by minimizing the decor? Or should I put my own Bah Humbug-ness aside to cherish the joy of watching my daughter hang ornaments on the tree? Should I tell everyone not to get a gift for me because I truly don't NEED anything? Or will I steal the joy of giving that I so enjoy doing for others?

Too much to blog about

I really need to blog! I've been gone from home for just over a week, and there has been so much that I've been wanting to write about, but so little time, and so few internet connections! So many things, like our visit in Madison with our dear friends the Joneses, celebrating life and introducing our newest family editions who are only 14 hours apart in age; like being reunited with my neighbor and best friend from my growing-up years after 18 years apart; like seeing all three of my children's great-grandparents and lots of multi-generational photos taken; like a chaotic but laughter-filled Thanksgiving day; like sleeping on 4 different beds in 4 states in 4 days (oh, the kinks in my back and neck!); like hearing my daughter tell my mother that the best part of our trip was "coming back to Grandma's house" (no, I did NOT put her up to that!). But I'm about to hit the hay, so it'll have to wait another day!

I'm an easy target

When your family is involved in ministry, I think it must be a direct opening to invite Satan to attack at the most inopportune times. And he doesn't just target those in ministry, he takes aim at family and loved ones, particularly when ministry needs take priority for a time. I've always known that and felt it, and I've seen it happen to so many others I've worked with. I remember when I was working at YFC and my boss would leave town, it would be just at those times that his family's basement would flood, or the garage door would fall on the car, or his kid would break an arm playing soccer. When we had African staff gathering for a training conference or in the States to do fundraising, that's when illness would hit their family back home, a car accident would take the life of another staff member, or some other tragedy would befall. I easily recognize one of the more severe times when it happened to me: when my dad had open-heart surgery a few days before I was scheduled to leave to live in Kenya for several months, and then my grandpa passed away the night before I departed, I didn't want to leave my family (especially my mom who was both grieving for her father and caring for my dad), but I knew God wanted me in Kenya and I had to make that choice to go.

I've kind of had one of those days, on a much smaller scale, but I didn't really realize it until now. As this is the busiest week of my husband's year, and today the one day of the week when he truly needed to focus on presenting his information to the International Board who are in town, this is the day that I wake up with my eye half swollen shut. I'm terrible with this kind of stuff. I'm a pretty healthy person, so when something happens to me like this I feel like I'm at a total loss. I become overly emotional, don't know where to go for care, don't know which card to use to pay for it and I completely draw a blank on how insurance works as a whole. I want my hubby to do it for me, or at least with me, and on a day like today that just couldn't happen. So I lose my temper with my daughter, grumble about spending half of the day before we leave town at urgent care, and resent the organization that is not only my husband's employer but also practically our family!

Looking back at my morning, I wish I would have recognized it earlier this time for what it was. I should have prayed first and asked God for guidance (instead of asking my busy husband who had a few other things on his plate). But I suppose this is part of the learning process, and I certainly have plenty of room to grow. And since I don't anticipate his employment changing anytime soon, I'll also have plenty of time to do it in, and, unfortunately, probably plenty more opportunities.

Grenades of life

Hearing from several friends who have had a rough week, I'm reminded of a story I heard a few months ago from a gal in my Bible study. She was visiting her son at the military academy he attended for 'parents weekend' that they turned into a sort of boot camp for the visiting family members. The parents were then able to see the kinds of things their sons were challenged with in their time there.

One of the activities was launching paint-filled grenades at a stationary tank. This mother was a bit intimidated by the huge grenade launcher balanced in her small untrained arms, but a cadet was there to assist and encourage her. She had five chances. The first grenade hit the tank with a huge orange splash of paint, and she felt pretty good about herself. But the other four all fell short, splattering on the ground all around the foot of the tank.

She was greatly discouraged by this until the cadet assisting her spoke up. He said, "No, ma'am, you did very well! It isn't the direct hits that matter so much, but the ones that impede the tank's progress."

Isn't that so true of our lives? I know that I go through times where there is so much garbage going on around me that my thoughts are constantly dwelling on it. And isn't that exactly what the Enemy wants? We may not always take a direct hit, but we get so bogged down and distracted by the "grenades" that are landing all around us. I admit that I often end up looking at the hole left by the bomb's blast, or searching the sky for where the next one might come from. He wants us to lose our focus on God and instead fix our thoughts on the joyless circumstances around us. That's so easy to do!

Instead... Hebrews 12:2 "Let us fix our eyes on Jesus...."

Closet Cookie-Eater

I love chocolate chip cookies. They are one of my comfort foods, my weaknesses, my favorites. As much as we try to eat healthfully in our home, they are one of a few things that I can't--won't--give up. During my daughter's naptime today, I found myself finishing off the last of the chocolate chip cookies. I looked at the clock and realized she could be waking up at any moment and walking into the room, and so I quickly buried the evidence in the trash can. (She actually likes to open the lid and look in there sometimes, just for fun, so I have to hide things sometimes under other less attractive trash.) I was actually nervous about getting caught by my 3-year-old! How bad is that?! I'm a closet cookie-eater... Is there a support group for that?

War sucks

This weekend my hubby and I watched two movies. Flags of our Fathers and Letters from Iwo Jima -- two sides of the same true story of the battle for Iwo Jima in World War II. We started with Flags and were so intrigued by it that we were pausing the movie to Google questions we had. We were both overwhelmed with the statistics and the story so much so that the next night we got Letters. I could hardly wait until the kids were in bed so we could put it in. Sounds morbid, perhaps, especially since they were both rated R for violence (it is, after all, war). But there's something really cool about a movie made by a big-name producer that has ties to my personal family history. You see, my grandfather was in the Navy in World War II. He was either one of those men who didn't talk much about his experience after returning home, or I was too young to ask the right questions (not to mention that I didn't really appreciate history as a subject until I became and adult). But I learned a few years ago at my grandpa's funeral that he was on one of the ships that evacuated American soldiers off Iwo Jima after the battle. Needless to say, the true story depicted in these movies intrigued me, and seeing the ships at sea on the screen made me thinking of my grandpa and wonder about his experience.

Even though it was hard to watch the carnage -- twice -- the movies both did an excellent job of doing more than just retracing the battle lines and telling the story. They got inside the minds of the soldiers and made me think about things like heroism and patriotism and honor and what they truly mean vs. the trite terms they become when we misuse them. I couldn't help but shake my head over and over at the similarities of the fears and struggles and hopes of the men on both sides. When we finished watching the second one, I think the first thing out of my mouth besides a sigh was my not-so-terribly-intelligent comment that I thought pretty much summed up how I felt: "War sucks."

Boy, if that doesn't make you want to watch these movies I don't know what will! Okay, I'm being facetious, but seriously, if you're looking for something more than just a few hours of entertainment or something that might make you think (gasp!), then I'd cautiously venture to recommend these. Definitely watch Flags of our Fathers first (the American soldier's perspective) and then Letters from Iwo Jima (the Japanese soldier's perspective). I'd be interested to hear your thoughts, if you want to share them.

Not my best moment

I did something today that I told myself I wouldn't ever do again. I can't say I 'swore' or 'promised' I wouldn't do it, but I was hopeful that things would be different, that my resolve would be stronger, that I would ignore my inhibitions and the glare of the public eye.

I nursed my son in a public bathroom stall. Ugh.

When my daughter was a baby, she was a noisy, messy nurser, and she absolutely hated being hidden under a blanket or shawl when I was feeding her. Nothing could touch her head or face without her screaming and making a scene. So much for discreet nursing! I remember numerous times when we were out and about and I would take her into a bathroom to nurse, realizing there was just no other place to do it where I wouldn't be exposed to every passer-by. Sometimes I sat sideways on the edge of the seat and sometimes I just stood (she was super fast!). But I hated that feeling of desperation -- that there was no suitable place besides this echoing chamber of germ infestation to do what needed to be done.

But this time around I was determined to start when my son was young to get him accustomed to being covered up while nursing. I had a renewed resolve to be a positive example to the public that nursing can be done modestly and isn't shameful or unlawful. I had desperately hoped to find alternate private venues in public places. But just as we have no guarantee on how our children's personalities will turn out, we can't guarantee they will cooperate in infancy as we hope. And I have to admit that on this occasion I wasn't prepared to even try.

At the mall today after church, we were having lunch in the food court and I knew it was time for a diaper change. But he wanted something more, and looking at my watch I knew he was not going to sit quietly through the rest of our lunch unless he got it. Both our car and any department store offering the luxury of a real 'rest' room were too far away. After a quick diaper change, desperation led to a hasty decision, for the sake of my eardrums and the looks I was getting that said have-you-no-control-over-your-own-child? I slipped into the last stall in the corner and closed the door. Ugh. I managed to balance by leaning against one wall and putting my foot up on the bar of the other wall to bear the bulk of his weight, so at least I didn't have to sit. And as my son contentedly ate, I felt that I had let us both down -- and we were only 3 1/2 months into this his life! But I also felt relief that I had satisfied his need and could return to my family and actually enjoy the rest of my lunch.

I hear one of the ritzy stores at the other end of the mall has bug cushy couches in their ladies' room. Perhaps next time we are there I'll have to check it out... BEFORE lunch.

Sleep: Friend or Enemy?

Last night I only got a few hours of sleep due to the sniffles. My 3-month-old son has a little cold, but even "little colds" can turn into nightmares in the middle of the night. With the dry Denver air, liquid snot quickly becomes something more akin to cement, and breathing becomes difficult for him, scary for me to listen to. But alas, we made it through another night. After a night like that, daylight seems to reveal both relief and despair. Even after my rather large mug of java, I was still a bit of a grump.

What I don't like about sleep is not just how I feel (tired, lethargic, headachy) or what it brings out in me (grumpiness, short temper), but how it drains the joy out of life. I love being a mom, and I wouldn't ever trade my kids for anything in the whole world. But I find it hard to play my part on days like this. I do the bare minimum to get by so we will all survive the day. No lullabyes for my baby, no exaggerated exclamations for my preschooler's antics, no extra effort to extract giggles and smiles, no creative ideas for playtime, no effort to make balanced meals (or even to enforce eating). Just survival. Period.

It hasn't been a bad day, but I certainly hope tomorrow brings improvement, at least in ME. It's too bad that sleep has to be such a factor in whether or not that will actually happen. I love my sleep, but I hate that I'm so dependent on it for whether or not I'll be a good mommy. It's my best friend when I get it, and my worst enemy when I don't.

Does it ever end???

Looking back on this week, I think the only day that I did NOT do laundry was yesterday. It seems like every day I'm doing at least one load, if not two or three. Now, how on earth does such a tiny little being as my nearly-3-month-old son generate so much extra laundry???

Hovering Hen

When I became a mother nearly three and a half years ago, I realized I would be raising my children in the world, but I didn't realize how hard it would be to protect them from it.

Lately I've been resisting the urge to hover over my sweet daughter when we play out in our condo courtyard. I see that the other two girls (ages 4 1/2 and 5) aren't being nice to her. She doesn't always realize it, thinking they are running from her as if they were playing tag. Or when they are bossy and she is innocently compliant. As a 3-year-old, she doesn't understand manipulation or false compliments. She doesn't understand why the command her to walk when she really just wants to run.

She doesn't understand, but I do.

I understand that they are making sport of my daughter. I understand that she wants so badly to play with them and doesn't know why they won't. I understand how sensitive she is and that she often teeters on the edge of an emotional breakdown if she grasps even a little of what is happening. I understand that it would be all too easy for me to interfere and tell those girls to be nice to her and demand that they include her, but that it wouldn't really solve the problem and she would still need to learn to deal with them on her own. I understand that she could easily follow their example and act the same way to a younger girl someday.

And it breaks my heart for her.

I want those girls to see who she is. That she is sweet and fun and has the most wonderful giggle when she lets it loose. That she is too young to know how to exclude other kids and she really just wants everyone to have fun together. That even though they sometimes make her cry, she still gets excited to see them and calls them her friends.

Those are the times that I want to take her away and shield her under my wing, like a mother hen protects her chicks before they are ready to withstand the cruel elements of the world. I want to scoop her up and wisk her away to a place where her tender heart can't be damaged. I want to say to her, "Come with me! I will play with you! I won't run from you! I love you!"

As I learn to trust God with her life, which is a daily struggle for me, I wonder how often He feels the same way about me. I search my surroundings for someone to approve of me, to love me, to make me feel good about myself, and I don't always come away with what I wish. I wonder if He wants to interfere to protect me, but I know that He watches as I learn to do it on my own. But He is always there, telling me, "Come to me! I know who you are and what you are worth! I can give you what I know you need! I will always be here for you and won't abandon you! I love you!"

Wherefore art thou, Internet?

Ugh. It's been a WHOLE WEEK since we've had internet service in our home. I've been going crazy, feeling disconnected from my family, my friends, and the whole world. I knew that I depend a great deal on the web, but realizing after a WHOLE WEEK exactly how dependent is kind of embarrassing. (Did I mention it's been a WHOLE WEEK???)

I rarely go outside without checking the temperature...online. (And yes, this time of year in Denver it changes that much from hour to hour.)
I have thrown away all my phonebooks because I just look up phone numbers and store information...online.
We watch missed episodes of The Office...online.
We even Google all our arguments -- not that we have that many. :)
And the worst of all is that Lucy has been sorely missing her reward time on PBSkids.org... and so have I!

Well, after hours on the phone with our provider and seeing if anyone in our neighborhood had an open wireless connection we could briefly 'borrow' and a weekend trip to John's office so I could hop on my email and see what I was missing, I'm back. And it is goooooood.

A scrapbooker by any other name...

As a full-time mom (and I mean FULL-time) I've been trying to figure out what sort of hobby I can participate in that will be fulfilling and yet not suck too much time out of my life which I can't afford. Running some ideas by my husband and some friends, I've heard a few times, "Well, aren't you a scrapbooker?"

Let me make this clear right now: I am not a scrapbooker. You see, I find a marked distinction between "being a scrapbooker" and "scrapbooking."

Let me explain. To me a scrapbookER is one who has a closet or armoire full of paper, stickers, scissors, ribbon, grommets, stencils, markers, and a plethora of other materials of which I don't know the proper use of. She is one who gets together with others for the purpose of sharing materials and ideas to make a single picture into a piece of art. I admire her. I sometimes wish I had the creativity to be in such a class, but alas, I am NOT a scrapbooker. However, I do enjoy scrapbookING. And what is the difference, you ask? I find pretty 12x12 paper to go with a few photos, I glue them on the page and sometimes add a title, date, caption, or description, then I slide it into an album beyond the reach of my 3-year-old's fingerprints. For me it is not an on-going hobby. I often cram it all into a week or two each year. I gather pictures, ticket stubs, and other flat memerobilia, then in a frenzy I spend every moment of my kids' naptime and every free evening hour throwing the pages together, just to get it done and off my conscience!

Does that sound like a hobby to you? It's more of a guilt-laden activity, doing it to get it done to preserve the posterity of our precious memories. Though I must say it does work as a creative outlet for me during a time in life where coloring inside the lines seems to be what I do most often.

I'm currently in the midst of a scrapbooking week, and I have to say that it feels good to get it done. Soon I'll be able to put my few supplies back in the shoebox and wait until next year when I get the itch again. Honestly, I have to say I enjoy the challenge of fitting the pictures on the page just right, and I definitely enjoy when others look at my albums and say "You did a nice job." Maybe this time I won't put the box away. Maybe I'll expand my supplies and embelishments on my next album. Maybe it will become a more-than-once-a-year event... Nah!

Where it hurts

I never cease to be amazed at how God meets us where we are exactly when we need it. There are thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of men and women around the world reading the exact same words that I am this week in the Bible Study Fellowship (BSF) study notes, and yet they reach right out and grab ME. There are a few particular thoughts from this week's study that I read yesterday and am praying will continue to resonate throughout this week, month, year....

We are studying the book of Matthew this year, and in our 4th week we are still at the beginning, taking a fresh look at the birth of Jesus. What, you say, could possibly be new about his birth story? We are all quite familiar with it. We hear it every Christmas. But these thoughts helped me relate it to the identity struggles I'm facing right now:

"If Jesus, the Lord of Glory, was willing to be known as the son of a carpenter in an obscure town, are you willing to do some service for Him, however hidden and humble that service might be?"

"Are you willing to do your work today, realizing that just as Jesus showed all carpenters how the Son of God pleased God as a carpenter, so you as 'homemaker' or 'engineer' live today to show the people around you how the Son of God within you lives the homemaker's or engineer's life to the glory of God?"

"Do not say, 'I cannot do this in my circumstances.' God has put you there, and with God nothing is impossible. This is God's will for you; and if it is God's will, it is workable if you will cooperate with Him and let Him work it out through you..."

Wow, that really hits me where it hurts.

Who are these kids?

My dear friend Jen came over this morning with her son Gavin who is 18 days younger than Josiah. Because of the massive volume of family traffic we've had come through our home since Joey's birth, I've only been able to see Jen one time since Gavin was born. It was a wonderfully refreshing visit, and so beautifully comforting to be sharing this newborn time in life with one of my closest friends.

We sat and talked, alternating who was nursing, burping, and changing our sons. Then we laid them on the floor beside each other and watched them wiggle and coo and fuss and fidget, and I couldn't help but have visions of the years to come. I joked that they had no choice but to be friends, remembering how I played with my mom's best friend's kids all through our growing up years, whether we liked it or not (and we usually liked it). But I couldn't help but see these two wiggly babies and envision them as toddlers, running after each other or perhaps fighting over a treasured toy. I couldn't help but see them as school children tossing a ball to each other in one of our backyards. I couldn't help but see them as young men, sharing stories of pranks they pulled in college and talking about music and movies, and maybe even girls (tee hee).

I can't even count how many people have said the very same phrase: "Enjoy this time; they grow up so fast." And while the hours or individual days can sometimes feel like they drag on, it really does pass so quickly. I work hard to cherish this time and enjoy this phase in each of my kids' lives, and I often find myself having to stop wishing for the next new phase and take a deep breath to make the most of the moment I'm living in. But part of me is so excited and eager to see what God will do with them and who they will become as they grow. What will their interests be: trucks, dinosaurs, baseball? Will they go to college, beauty school, or become an auto mechanic? Will they live near us as they grow, or be a missionary in Africa?

Ah, I'd better put my imagination to rest before I get ahead of myself. Time to go change that diaper...

No More Nuggets!

Lucy didn't finish her dinner last night. She barely touched it, in fact. She was complaining that her tummy hurt, and that usually means she's gassy, but something in the way she was saying it made me second-guess that theory this time. Against our usual policy, I let her leave the table having eaten only about a quarter of a slice of cucumber, convincing Daddy that we shouldn't force it this time.

Call it mother's intuition, call it a hunch or a gut feeling (no pun intended), I just had a bad feeling about how the night would go.

Let me say a little more about our day. We stopped on the way home from church to pick up a few items from Wendy's dollar menu. Lucy had the chicken nuggets and finished 4 out of 5 of them, with the incentive that for each nugget she finished she got a whole french fry. Good stuff, huh? Well, after putting her to bed, still complaining of an aching tummy, we found ourselves rushing into her room just after 10 PM to, you guessed it, chicken nuggets all over the bed and a Lucy whose tummy didn't hurt anymore. Ugh.

I was SO grateful for that "intuition" that told me something was different about how she said her tummy hurt. Something told me not to force her to finish her dinner (or even to start it, for that matter). Instead of a couple of half-digested nuggets, we would have been dealing with a plate-full of lazagna. Double UGH!

The last time we encountered this scenario, when I was about 8 months pregnant, Lucy had eaten chicken nuggets for dinner. It doesn't take a sleuth to see the connection here. We have already virtually eliminated hot dogs from her diet for the same pattern, and now we're looking at processed chicken, too. The real deal -- all white meat chicken strips -- doesn't present a problem, but maybe there's something more in that processed, pressed and pre-formed meat that doesn't jive with her system. I don't blame her!

So, farewell nuggets! You won't be seeing the like's of my little girl's tastebuds for quite some time!

Back to the Hills

One of my desires that I expressed for this next year is to reconnect with some of the things that I feel make me who I am -- my hobbies and interests, and especially the things that John and I enjoy doing as a couple and pastimes we'd like our children to enjoy with us. So I took my first real step in that direction this morning. I left my poor-me-I-just-gave-birth attitude at home when we went for a hike as a family at Deer Creek Canyon in the foothills. It was fantastic and far better than I imagined! I've been in such terrible shape since Josiah was born that taking a 15-minute walk up the hill outside our neighborhood leaves me breathless and with a stitch in my side. Mind you, I'm usually pushing a stroller with nearly 45 pounds of humanity riding in it, but still. I thought it would be miserable to hike (at a higher altitude, too) and I wouldn't get far, but I was willing to give it a try so that we could actually do something as a family outside of our own yard. My stubborn resolve was quite useful. I strapped Josiah into the Snugli and we headed up the hill at Lucy's pace. We let her take time to explore the trail, notice the changing leaves, stop to listen to the flying grasshoppers, and admire the view as we got higher on the mountain. She made it 0.6 miles on her own feet--pretty great for a 3-year-old! I told John I wanted to go at least a mile before we turned around, so when he put Lucy in the Kelty backpack carrier I decided to push myself. That last four-tenths of a mile was great! Hard, but I did it! Then we turned around and headed back down, exhausted and happy...

Birthday Breakdown

There's nothing like having a birthday to make you reflect on, as Winnie the Pooh puts it, "where you've come from and where you're going to." (I'll forgive the bad grammar since he's so cuddly and adorable.) About a week ago that's exactly what I did, just as I seem to do every September to some degree. My birthday itself was great, and I had every reason to go to bed with a smile on my face. Instead, my husband and I stayed up late talking about who I am, who I was, and who I will become. My identity as a person has changed forever in the light of motherhood, but there are times I long for pieces of my 'former life' -- that person who was spontaneous and adventerous, who hiked and skied and went camping even when the temperature dipped below freezing at night, who had an athlete's physique, who looked forward to each trip to Africa and came home with renewed passion for the people there, who shared almost every adventure with her best friend, her husband. Somehow all of that has been whittled down to just one word: Mommy.

As I've shared this perpetual struggle with several friends this week, I know that I'm not alone. It's a season of life that demands for us to put aside much of the life we've had, including the interests we've shared with our friends and even our spouse, to pour ourselves into the new life that God has created through us: our children. And it's so worth it, but it's so hard!

In light of these ponderings, I feel a renewed desire to share more of these struggles that I keep to myself with others so we can help each other through this season. Someone has to put these feelings into words! I've been toying with the idea of starting a blog (again) on life and missions and motherhood and whatever God puts in my path to think and write about, to be myself and to be honest and transparent. So here I go (again).

I also have a great desire to work harder at finding new common ground with my husband--parts of his life that I no longer naturally share but that take a little extra effort to make 'ours.' (He is currently trying to talk me into trail running, which he picked up shortly before Lucy was born, and I'm still considering it. We do have a double jogging stroller...)

If you're curious, I chose this blog title as a double meaning: I know God has created me as a unique creature (thus "my original self" as in unique and one-of-a-kind). I also know that who I have been and the places in life I have come through before this metamorphosis (thus "my original self" as in who I originally was before I entered this new season of life) matter to me and to Him.