It’s time for a baby . . .

but there isn’t one.  I’ll stick that right up front, lest anyone get excited.

But it’s time.  Ruth will be precisely 2 1/2 tomorrow.  Isaac was one week shy of 2 1/2 when Hannah was born.  Hannah was one month and one week shy of 2 1/2 when Ruth was born.  (Makes it look like we are such good planners.  We’re not.)  So.  Now Ruth is 2 1/2.  And I’m supposed to have a newborn.  I can feel it.  I can feel this empty space where a newborn would go.

It’s hard.  It’s hard to explain and it’s hard to come to terms with.  We made a very conscious, a very well-thought-out decision to stop at three children.  And on some level I know it was the right decision, but I’ve been sad about it.  And right now, when my pattern indicates it’s time to be adding someone new to the family, it’s particularly sad.

I think it’s a mixture of being robbed and of being a failure that haunts me.  This decision we made, this likely very wise decision we made, was built upon some circumstances that seem to be either totally beyond our control, or entirely in my control, depending on the day, depending on my mood.  Whichever it was, this decision was not made because I looked at my family with three children and said, “Yes.  That’s the right number.”  And I think I feel that.

Pregnancy was really not good for me.  And, therefore, really not good for my family.  Completely debilitated by morning sickness and depression, pregnancy means, for me, essentially a year of sitting on the couch (the “year” because it also includes the first three months with a newborn who eats near continuously).  For my children it means 9 months with a near useless, totally miserable mommy.  One who is able and willing to do little else but sit and snuggle.  For my husband it means having to be not only the sole monetary provider, but also the sole caretaker of his young family for the better part of a year.

When I was in late pregnancy with Ruth, we decided we couldn’t all do this again.  None of us.  Ry didn’t want to see me that miserable ever again.  I didn’t want to rob of their mother the three children in my arms for the sake of another in my womb.  And I didn’t ever again want to watch my beloved, generous, loving husband weighed down by the burdens of a congregation and the full responsibilities for our family.  I was still pregnant when we made the decision, and part of me thought maybe we should wait until we weren’t in the throes of pregnancy before we made our decision permanent, but I vividly recall the rest of me believing wholeheartedly that it was best that we make the decision while we were in the throes of pregnancy misery lest we forget just how bad it was.

And now.  Now I think I have forgotten just how bad it was.  But I don’t forget how amazing it is to have a whole new little person in my arms and at my breast and in our family.  And I also feel so better armed for the pregnancy journey now that I know going in that pregnancy creates depression in me.  Maybe I could take an antidepressant while I’m pregnant and actually have an enjoyable pregnancy experience.  And I now have all these crunchy resources for dealing with morning sickness, maybe I could even do pregnancy without feeling like vomiting all day every day from weeks 7 through 22.  All of these what if’s . . . But the decision’s been made and ratified, and I’m not sure any of us would really be willing to take the chance on the what if’s.

Yet still.  It makes me sad.  I watch births on TV, I read birth stories online, and I cry.  I cry that I will never do it again.  I mourn the baby that never will be.  I give myself a sound beating for not having been better at it.  For not having been better at accomplishing the biological task my body was designed to do.  And I beg God for a miracle.  There.  I admit it.  I beg God for a miracle baby.  We have, after all, one more empty chair at our table.  Of course, then I give myself a sound beating for being so greedy.  For not being simply grateful for and satisfied with the three wonderfully healthy babies we have, and the fact that I have held each and every one of my babies, when I know so many women who haven’t had that much, ones who never got to hold their breathing babies, ones who held them for far too short a time.  Then I try to remind myself of these thoughts.

Sigh.  Pity party.  And you know what?  That may be all I have here.  I’m still not ready to see the hope in it, to see the Good News of it.  I’m just not.  I’m having my pity party  today.  I wanted a fourth baby, and, because I can’t be pregnant without inflicting profound misery on my whole family, I can’t have one.  Or, maybe I didn’t want a fourth baby, maybe I just wanted the opportunity to think about having a fourth baby in terms of normal questions like, “Do we have enough room in our house?”  “Do we want to start all over again?”  “Is somebody still missing here?”   But because of my pregnancies, that really wasn’t an option.  And I’m mad.  And sad.  And not very glad at all.  I guess crummy pregnancy symptoms are part of the Fall.  And as such, they should piss me off.   And they do.

Maybe as Ruth rounds the corner away from 2 1/2, away from the age at which kids become big brothers and sisters around here, maybe it will become less painful.  Maybe as she gets older and easier and we start spending all night every night with just the two of us in our own bed and everyone is using the toilet independently and everyone can put on their own shoes and socks and so on, and so forth . . . maybe it will grow less painful and I will grow more content with our family of five.  I hope (and pray) that I don’t endlessly continue to look at that sixth chair at the dining room table longing to fill it with another offspring.  I hope and pray I can sincerely look at it and desire to fill it with a stranger in need of a place to sit and eat.

So maybe I do have some hope here after all.  A little bit.

Big Enough God, And How!

So as briefly alluded to in my last desperate post, my husband was out of town this past week. He left around two on Sunday afternoon and returned at nine o’clock last night. The anticipation of this trip was part of what sent me off the deep end on Sunday. I am so not that mother.  You know, the one who does everything around the house, all the cooking, everything to take care of the kids, is the only one whose sleep is disturbed by children that go bump in the night.  I am so not that mother.

I am the mother whose husband picks up food from the grocery store on his way home from work, walks in the door and gets to cooking.  Except on the evenings I throw the children to him and take on the task of cooking the food before I cook the children.  And except for the evenings I throw the children and the dinner prep at him and hide away somewhere.  I’m that mother.

So, when the Daddy leaves town, things change around here.  The whole system changes.  And it scares me.

But you know what?  This week was amazing.  Starting with the eye-opening encounter with God on a beautiful country road on Sunday and continuing on through to Thursday:  miraculous intervention.  Miraculous patience, miraculous drive.  All week long I kept my eyes on the two feet right in front of me, paying no attention to the days-without-husband that stretched before me.  In fact, the hardest day was yesterday when I knew it was almost over and I kept looking past the task at hand and toward the top of the knoll.  It was then that I began tripping, losing momentum.

Until that point, I simply did what was right before me.  Change this diaper, not “Urgh, all these diapers!!!“  Toddler decides to awaken 3 1/2 hours before I go to sleep?  OK.  Get up and love on sleepless toddler.  Don’t think about how tired you’re going to feel all day long.

Maybe some of you are saying, “Well, of course!”  But this is not my way.  This is one of my biggest struggles, to get so lost in the scope of the entire task (whatever it is) that I’m left paralyzed and unable to take a single step toward accomplishing it.  Not so this week.  This week I took things one thing, one moment at a time.  I did set some longterm goals, however.  1.  My husband will come home to a house neater and cleaner than the one he left and 2.  I will get all of these clean clothes folded and put away.  And I surpassed these goals by a mile.  One pile of toys at a time.  One basket of clothes at a time.  When I looked in my room full of clean clothes yesterday (and I do mean full) I didn’t succumb to paralysis, I picked one pile and got to work.

I can’t count the number of times this week I raised words of gratitude to the One I know was responsible for this transformation.  I really had been in a dark spot these last few weeks, going through a cycle of questioning all of my faith.  The whole thing, the whole God story, seemed so distant, so unreal to me.  And then I yelled at God on Sunday.  I did.  I yelled and argued and essentially told him I wasn’t buying what he was selling.

And how did he respond?  With a swift smite?  No.  With grace.  With grace sufficient and abundant.  With more grace than I knew I needed or could imagine available.  Without a doubt I know that God met me this week.  Met me on the pretty road to nowhere, with windmills off in the distance and brown hay on either side.  Met me in each gross never-ending-this-kid-eats-entirely-too-much-fiber diaper.  In every solo bedtime with crazed toddler and tired olders.  In every minute of each and every day.  His grace was sufficient.

His grace is sufficient.  For yesterday, today, and tomorrow.  Praise be to God!

Big Enough God

So I ran away from home this morning. Well, I didn’t really run, more a quick walk. And it wasn’t really away from home, it was away from my family. They were parked in the mini-van next to the church. I kid you not.

Ry was still in the church, due out any second, the kids were buckled up after yet another frustratingly exhausting and demoralizing Sunday morning at church. Everyday around here has felt that way lately. I don’t know if it’s Isaac’s transition home from school for the summer, his and Hannah’s transition to spending all day every day with one another, the unfortunate clashing of their disparate developmental stages, their mother’s status as a total, certifiable basket case, or all of the above. Whatever the source, these last couple of weeks have been hard. Really, deep in my soul hard.

This morning I hit a wall.

After another crummy Sunday at church—we’ve been in a crummy pattern for the last two months or so, prior to that Sunday morning was a happy, happy time in our family. . . .After another crummy Sunday at church, I was returning to the minivan after helping close up the church, barring the door (literally), and before I even got within reach of the thing, I could hear it. The whining. The yelling. The he said/she said/mommy solve this problem for us cries. And I hit the wall.

I shut the van doors and kept walking. And walking. And walking. I can’t say for sure but I’m thinking I made it two miles.

Up the hill I stormed, walking as fast as my legs could carry me. Too furious overwhelmed frustrated defeated—I’m not really sure—to form thoughts. Just blind fury, or rage, or I don’t even know if there was anger in it. But it was blind. And it was overpowering.

Down the hill I began to cry out. Why? Why oh why oh why did I agree to have children, God?! I’m sorry. I’m sorry I told you I wanted to have children for you. I shouldn’t have had children. I’m totally incapable of being a mother.

Lee, you know I don’t make mistakes. You know I knew what I was doing when I gave you these children.

Yeah, I know. I know they’re really your children. Your children you’ve given to me for a time to guide and teach. But I just can’t do it. And I don’t know if I really believe that anyway. I mean in my head, yeah, but when it comes to the day-to-day? I’m not so sure. I think I still think I’m responsible for how they turn out. I don’t think I really believe all this stuff I spout off on all the time. I’m just saying it.

Huff, puff, huff . . . Uphill I climb. I just can’t do this I can’t do this I can’t do this. I am such a horrid, horrid mother. I’m doing something horribly wrong. I can’t do this by myself. I can’t make it through the week without my husband I can’t I can’t even do it with him home. I can’t I suck I can’t.

I see daisies on the side of the road. Consider the lilies of the field. Yeah, yeah, don’t worry about tomorrow. Fine, sure. But I can’t even make it through the right now. I know I’m supposed to lean in to you. My grace is sufficient. I know that. I hear that. Maybe I don’t know it. I don’t see how. I don’t hear it, I don’t feel it. I just can’t get through the every moment of every day.

Down the hill I go. Trod trod trodding. I just can’t do it. Fine, don’t worry about tomorrow. I know that. But I can’t do right now. When they’re screaming and whining at each other and Ruth the Wonder Will is yelling NO! at me and screaming at me, what in the world am I doing? What am I raising? Ugh. And look at that big hill, another big hill . . .

Don’t look at the whole hill in front of you. Just look immediately in front of you, just right in front of your feet. Don’t worry that you’re going up hill. Just take every step forward, I will get you over the hill.

Oh. This little two-foot square of asphalt in front of me is not a hill, it’s just a couple of steps to take. I won’t look at the hill in front of me, that way it won’t overwhelm me. Just take the steps to cross this square of asphalt right in front of me. . .

Yes. That’s it. Just the steps right in front of you. I will give you what you need right now, let me worry about where you’re going. These are my children too. I can get them where I want to get them in spite of you. Let me worry about the hill, about the long range. You deal with the moment to moment.

Yeah, but that’s not exactly true. I do have to worry about how these kids are going to make their future decisions, how they’re going to deal with conflict, how they will face the world.

You are not their only influence. You are not in charge of the universe, Little Miss Reformed Girl.

Oh. Well. I don’t want to screw it up. I don’t. I don’t want to turn them away from you because I am loving them so badly all in your name.

Just focus on the steps in front of you. I will get you over the hill.

Wow. I made it up that big hill. It’s flat now. I can breathe more easily. And I hear the tell-tale squeak of my minivan breaks behind me. A kind and gentle man looks out the window and asks if I want a ride.

Then I eavesdrop on a conversation in the back of the minivan.

“God is everywhere Hannah. He could be sitting right here next to us. There’s only one God, but he’s everywhere.”

“Is he over there by the bushes?”

“He could be, you never know.”

“Is he there on the side of the road, next to that dog?”

“Yep. He’s there next to that dog.”

“Maybe he’s taking care of the dog.”

“Sure he’s taking care of the dog. He’s taking care of everybody. You can’t see him, but you know. This you know: that he’s there, he’s always there with you.”

“Isaac, how come we talk to God and he can hear us but we can’t hear him?”

“Well, Hannah, the thing is, sometimes if you’re very quiet and you listen very carefully and you pray to God and you’re very quiet and you listen, you can hear him talking to you. He’s everywhere.”

Even following a renegade mommy as she runs away from home. Even sitting in a dirty smelly minivan with a sweaty mommy and tired children. Speaking to the renegade mommy through the sweet faith of her children. Reminding her both that she’s never out of his reach, and that she must not have been doing such a horrible job after all.

Cup of Coffee, Computer, and Screaming Kids . . .

That’s my morning in a nutshell. Really not nearly as nice as a quiet house, a laptop, and a glass of wine.

Well. The coffee is nice. As I was sitting here, once again the thought ran through my head: What in the world did I do before I started drinking coffee? And why did it take so long to start? What about all those lost years? The coffee is very nice indeed.

The computer . . . see how I just called it Computer? So impersonal, so utilitarian. No “purple lap-dwelling companion.” Because it’s not my pretty purple lap-dwelling companion. It’s my husband’s big and black and clunky and not-the-least-bit-shiny computer. It’s essentially his right hand. His cell phone is his left. (He is left handed, so consider that when assigning value.) He never leaves home without his cell phone. Except the day before yesterday. When that anomaly, combined with the neat-and-tidy condition of not one, but two of my downstairs rooms and the complicated, from-scratch dinner concoction I made and had bubbling on the stove, left me concerned that I had three of the four horses of the apocalypse covered right in my very own house. But I digress . . .

Point is, Ry rarely leaves home without his computer. He uses it to work at work, he uses it to work at home, he uses it to work while parked out in front of the library to use their wireless internet, he uses it while he waits for his car to get serviced. It’s his. I don’t feel like I’m violating it or anything, he has no relationship with the thing. It’s just a box. A way for him to work. Consequently it has no personality for me either.

And using it reminds me what a colossal disappointment my own, pretty-in-purple companion has been. I’ve had it 14 months. And I think it has spent 4 (possibly more) of those months completely inoperable. Not 4 months in a row; four months distributed over three episodes. Which makes me think it really has been more than 4 months of failure. My friend arrived so pretty, so pristine. She (yes, apparently, she is a she. Who knew?) represented independence and industry. Finally I could write or do internet stuff whenever I wanted, on my schedule, not Ry’s. I had big dreams.

Alas. They’ve been dashed. Possibly because I’m not as industrious as I’d hoped. But mostly–I’m sure–because even if I were industrious, my purple friend would fail me. Just seize up and turn black. Or cut off her own life support system, refusing to speak to the little square portals of electricity scattered about my house. And she calls herself a friend!!!

Alas alack and woe is I, why’d my purple lap-dwelling companion have to die?

Ha. I’m not sure she’s actually dead. I think she just needs a new life-support cord. And definitely a battery. But at this point I just want to give her the help she apparently is crying out for and just throw her out the window myself. It seems more merciful at this point.

Never buy a computer make a friend based on how pretty she is. Words to live by, my friends. Words to live by. Also I don’t recommend making friends based solely on your husband’s three-minute analysis and no research whatever. Again, I’m just abounding in wisdom this morning. It must be the coffee.

Or. The fact that I’m no longer listening to screaming kids. I’ve banished them to the attic. Cruel, cruel mommy. Oh. Did I not mention the attic is also their bedroom? Possibly not so mean. Well. I guess it depends on how you define banishment and what parenting books you’ve been reading lately. So many parenting philosophies floating through my brain . . .

Don’t even give your kid that inch, lest he take the mile. Don’t ever let your kid out of your sight for one millisecond. Kids’ brains are turning to mush from too much TV, too much direction, too much supervision, not enough free time. You are in control! You are in charge! You are NOT in control! You are NOT in charge! You are in a relationship, you are listening, you are responding. Don’t shame. Do shame so they know what kind of icky creepy worm they are. Beat the spit will out of them on a regular basis so they know they need a Savior and turn to him despite the fact that you’ve demonstrated to them that people with authority over you will only beat the spit will right out of you and don’t even try to reconcile the fact that this wonderful God made you but you’re essentially a stinky heap of dung that needs to be completely overhauled and reshaped entirely to fit one standard mold that all of God’s myriad humans need to be broken shaped into and OH whatever you do, don’t ask me who’s going around whapping me with a stick for my every infraction. Gentle gentle gentle Grace grace grace. Go to work, have your own life. Stay home for a time. Stay home for good. Public school. Private school. Home school. Un-school. . . .

I’m tapped out. I think that about covers it for now.

So I banished the screaming children to the attic. They were screaming and whining and crying happily, all part of their game. I just couldn’t listen to it anymore. It could be the coffee has me edgy, but I’m not willing to explore that right now. It could just be the screaming. And coming off of an inside-all-pouring-rainy-day yesterday. But I told them to take their screaming game upstairs and they happily went. They even asked if the toddler could come. Sure. Take the two year old up two flights of steps to engage in your throwing-each-other-around game two floors above my head where I can’t hear her, let alone see her in case she slams her head and needs a return trip to the ER. I just read this article yesterday about how I shouldn’t be so overprotective of my kids. . . .

Convenient. Maybe it does pay to have a wide variety of perspectives at my disposal after all.

The continuing saaaaga of a mom who has gone to the dogs . . .

File this in the same category as my two girls with their apples and Sesame Street. Did I create a category for that yet? What to call it . . . Dreams Disintegrated . . . Good Intentions v. Brick Wall of Reality . . . Wonder-Mom, the Later Years . . .

Today’s installment?  What, exactly, constitutes a healthy lunch?

With Isaac, I thought out every morsel.  Processed white flour would never cross his lips.   Not on my watch, anyway.  (Well, except for the occasional sweet treat.  Mostly in the form of Krispy Kremes kindly brought by Auntie Marilyn.)  Each meal, planned.  All day, circling the food groups, round and round we’d go, accentuating the proteins, being selective with the carbs.

Do you know what Hannah had for lunch today?  Her favorite.  (Which, of course, indicates this is not a one-time thing.)  A ketchup sandwich with a pickle on the side.  Nice.  This is what it’s come down to, ladies and gentlemen:  counting ketchup as a fruit and pickles as a vegetable.  At least the bread is a grainy whole wheat.  But now I just let her wash the whole thing down with some old-fashioned salt-and-mush-in-a-can, reconstituted condensed chicken noodle soup.  I’m making no effort to get anything else into her.  I think I’m losing my steam.

I truly, from the bottom of my heart, do not think this has to happen to every mom.  I resented the people who told me when I was obsessing over Isaac’s diet that this is how things would go.  I still kind of resent it, because I didn’t ask, and I really don’t think it was inevitable.  I think it speaks more to me and the stage of life I’m hitting than moms in general.  And really, calorie for calorie, my kids still do really well.  But today?  In my current dissatisfied-with-life-in-general mood?  Yeah.  Hannah had a lunch of champions.  And I think I’m OK with that.

At least she used a spoon to eat her soup. 

Sooo . . . What silliness to talk about today?

Because silliness seems to be all I’m capable of today.

Well . . . there’s the fact that my dear husband made coffee again today.  While I was sleeping an extra 45 minutes, making up for the time I spent up with Ruth last night.  He also made hot cereal and straightened the kitchen some.  After thanking him, I said, “So should I blog about this, too?”  “It wouldn’t hurt.”    So here it is.  He’s the bestest man ever.  Really.  I got it good.

And . . . there’s the fact that as I write this my two girls are locked in the living room–one on the couch, one wandering around aimlessly–eating whole apples and watching Sesame Street.  Yep.  Exactly how I pictured my mornings as a progressive stay-at-home mom back when I had only one wee one to care for.  We used to have snack times.  We used to only eat at the table.  A toddler, especially, would never be out and about, wandering with food at random times.  And eating while watching TV?  Scandalous!  Certainly not!

Well.  There they are.  Munch.  Crunch.  Slurp.  Drip.  And here I sit.  Writing and drinking coffee I didn’t even have to make.  Barefoot, make-up free, dirty dishes scattered about me.  Nice.  I am Super Mom.  Hear me . . . yawn.

Ruth has been wandering around eating all morning.  I’m hoping the fact that it’s all healthy food will make up for the steady stream of calories entering her little body.  She already had breakfast with Ry before I got up.  A banana was involved, I’m not sure what else.  But then she starts helping herself to stuff.  Like we have a freezer-on-the-bottom refrigerator/freezer.  So she just opens that door right up.  Grabbing a bag off the door, she lifts it up, looks at it:  frozen blueberries.  “NnnoooooO.”  Sets it back down.  Next bag:  frozen raspberries.  “Rapbeyies,” as she lifts the bag up to me.  Sure, why not?  I grab the bag, she grabs the bowl.  Today I insist on the table because for the last week and a half she’s been eating her frozen raspberries while sitting on the little stool on the floor.  But we’re civilized people, so I insist on the table.  And she even insists on the spoon.  Nice.  I don’t know how she eats raspberries frozen.  I get brain freeze just looking at her.

Now . . . couple of minutes later . . . Ruth wanders back out to the kitchen.  Opens up the pantry cabinet next to the fridge.  Pulls out the bottom drawer full of cans.  “Hmm.  NoooO.  NoooO.  Oo.  Deans.”  Picks up the can of kidney beans, hands it to me.  I grab the can, she grabs the bowl.  Again I insist on the table.  Again she insists on the spoon.  See?  We are civilized.

Hannah, of course, didn’t partake in all this snacking.  So, when 10:15 rolls around, she is ready for a snack.  She’d like an apple.  Well, then.  Full-of-berries-and-beans Ruth sees the apple.  She too would like an apple.  So there they are:  apples and Elmo.  I didn’t insist on the table.  And you don’t need a spoon for an apple.  And civilization is highly overrated.

Now, back to my coffee.  And my mess.  And tomorrow I’ll be a better mom and homemaker.  For afterall . . . tomorrow is another day.

And for today’s visual:  Ruth in the Living Room of the Perpetual Mess.

For the record, she has lovely silver and pink with bangles dress-up shoes under that blankie dress.

Never mind. I’m too old for this . . . um . . . stuff!

So I wrote the whole nicey nicey “Love my kids” post wherein I claim God gave me my kids in just the right order.

I’ve changed my mind.  Cuz I’m getting old.  And this littlest one is going to be the death of me.  I’m too tired for this nonsense.  (I know you will hear this in the tongue-in-cheek manner in which it is written.)

First off, let me start with the “How I Started my Day” story.  After being up with Ruth for about 45 minutes beginning at 4AM, Ry was kind and generous enough to let me sleep some more when he got up with Isaac at 7:00.  I woke up at 8:00 and when I went into the bathroom I found Ruth there.  Standing at the sink, trying desperately to reach the Dixie “dups” to get a “dink”.  So, I ask myself, “How did Ruth get here?  Where is Ry?  Why is she alone in the bathroom with Ry nowhere in sight?”  I asked myself these questions, but deep down inside, in those secret places you don’t want to go, I knew the answer.  I did.  She got herself out of her crib and I have to start thinking about a sleeping arrangement that allows her to roam free at will.  At two days shy of 22 months. . . . I can’t think about that now.  I’ll think about it tomorrow.  For after all . . .

I’ll just move right on to Ruthie’s other latest trick.  Taking off her diaper and pooping on the floor and demanding a “Tub!”  Nice.  Really really nice.  I’m afraid, much against my pottying philosophy, I’m going to have to get proactive on the potty-training-teaching-learning-who-cares-it’s-all-a-mess-anyway front.  Under advisement of my dear old curmudgeonly friend, I have generally put off potty-training till the kid was all but begging to do it.  I didn’t go quite as far as she went with her older two, where they were, literally, begging to use the potty and get big-girl gotchies.  My kids hadn’t quite reached begging, but Isaac was nearly 3 1/2 before I put any real, concerted effort into the process and Hannah was completely self-motivated when she decided it was time to use the toilet at 2 years and 7 months.  (I know the exact age because I vividly remember Ruth was only two months and I would never in a zillion and a half years have suggested pottying to Hannah at that point.)

The benefit of waiting so long?  It was really simple.  Both times.  Isaac more so than Hannah, with no . . . um . . . solid accidents.  Some bizzarro issues to overcome, but no horrific messes.

Now.  Ruthie.  Keeps taking her diaper off.  Sometimes right after she poops, sometimes right before.  Generally we’re not around when it happens, she’s with a sibling or two in the gated-off living room, so I’m not sure if she’s like, “Hey!  I need to poop!  I don’t want to mess up this here diaper!”  Or, if she takes her diaper off (“Because I can.”) and then just happens to poop.  But, the frequency of the pattern is beginning to make me wonder if it is indeed the former.  I have even found her in the process of stripping a diaper that has (obviously) just recently been made wet.

The third option, though, is that the few times she did it, before this past week when it’s become a habit, she went right from the poopy mess to the bathtub.  So part of me is wondering if she thinks she’s found the ticket to the joyous slice of heaven known as the “DUB!”  As in “If I take off this poopy diaper or take off this diaper and poop on the floor, then I get a DUUUUHB!!!”  I wouldn’t put this last one past her.  Which is why she now gets cleaned up in the living room with the help of some antibacterials.  Just in case.  Lest you scoff, let me tell you the tale of her older sister who, around 18 months, would literally force herself to poop every time she sat on the potty.  Every time.  Several times a day.  She watched Prudence do it and she figured that’s how you use the potty:  poo-poo and wee-wee every time.  Can I just say, “Ick!“?

Anyway, I’m too squeamish for all this.  I’m not a body person.  I mean sure, sure, I know, I know, mind-body-spirit, all one, holistic, yada yada.  I know this.  But I’d rather live in my brain and never have to deal with body stuff.  And potty-learning just gets downright icky.  But right now the alternative is turning my living room into one big litter box and that’s not so appealing either.  So.  Here we go.  One last time. . . .

My apologies for the quality of the pic.  She hopped right off the potty as soon as she saw me coming with the camera, but I couldn’t resist providing you with a glimpse of Ruth as she looked this morning watching her potty show.

I need to post more

That might be about all I have to say today.

Nahhh. Who am I kidding? I do need to post more though, for myself. I’m still reading my Calvin, though I’m falling behind. I was thinking about creating a whole new page for the Calvin stuff so as not to take away from the cute kids stuff. I have a backlog of quotes I want to get to and don’t.

All these I-want-to-but-don’t’s. I can’t for the life of me say what I do with my time, but I can tell you a whole long list of stuff I want to do with my time.  I suspect that’s the Mommy Theme Song.  It’s probably a lament.

So.  My new plan.  Limit my online stuff to intellectual exercise.  Some of it can be just plain fun, like this morning when I spent two hours reading an old and closed message board thread on a board that would have positively nothing to do with me because of where I stand theologically.  But there I sat.  Unable to post a response, but thinking through all sorts of responses.  Ry gave me time to just be by myself upstairs this morning while he got up with the kids and made pancakes (chocolate chip banana . . . mmmmm).  When I came down I described what I had been doing as exercise in the way a pick-up game of basketball is exercise.  It’s pure fun.  But it stretches muscles and raises your heartrate and burns calories.  Such was my reading this morning.  It stretched my intellectual, theological, and argumentation muscles.  And it was pure fun.  And I have nothing productive to show for it when it’s all said and done.  That’s when I hang my head in shame.

This whole “thinking” thing.  Hard to show a product.  But this morning’s exercise thread led me to drag 0ut an old seminary paper with a similar subject matter, which moves me toward further reflection on the topic informed by the other thoughts I have stirring around in my head.  Lots of ideas these days.  Lots and lots of ideas.

Thinking about the Trinity a lot.  The Trinity is coming at me from several different fronts, so I’m sorting things out.  Also thinking about Christian gender relations in general and in relation to the Trinity.  Now I’m thinking about non-foundationalist evangelism.  I’ll have to figure out if that’s related to the Trinity in any way.

I’m in a stirrings zone.  I can feel God stirring me up, prompting me, poking me.  I’m on the cusp of something new, but I have no clear idea of what it is.  But my brain keeps stirring, stirring, stirring.  And while I walk around lost in my brain stirrings, the rest of the world spins right past me.  My house fell into total disarray–although we have recovered the downstairs–and my children are having more time in front of PBS than I prefer.  I’m living life as I think it.  I’m thinking and life is zooming in and out and past and all around me.  Yet I can feel Him.  Stirring, pushing, pulling, molding, calling, leading . . . and when I’m not feeling completely discomfited I’m feeling incredibly excited.

Now if I could just do a better job at living life as I think it.  As in, don’t lose the kids in the laundry piles that have mysteriously reappeared.  And go now and snuggle with Hannah as Ruth takes her first nap in a week.  So off I go.

I’m not sick yet . . .

but my poor, poor babies are still sick.  Hannah’s fever started Sunday morning, this afternoon she had a fever of 103.8.  Isaac’s fever started Monday, his hit 102+ this afternoon.  Ruth’s fever started Friday afternoon.  She was a slightly elevated 99.9 today.  Misery all around, these poor kids.  Actually, Ruthie is not too miserable anymore, which is somewhat unfortunate.  Well, let me put that another way before you lock me up.  Since Ruth was the first to get sick, she’s the first to get better.  So, now she’s mostly better and raring to go and the other two are pitiful couch lumps that Ruth keeps torturing.  Climbing on them, trying to steal their water bottles, trying to bite their toes.  Nice.  That last one, particularly.  So these poor pitiful creatures, moaning and whining out, “Noooo, Ruthie!”  *cough* *cough* *sniff*  And Ruthie screaming at the top of her lungs.  A battle cry?  Perhaps.

Poor, poor babies.  They’re going to the doctor tomorrow morning.  Normally I wait a week or more, but my sister had a fever for a week, was totally flattened, and our best guess is she has strep throat.  That and Ry called the doc today about asthmatic Isaac’s coughing and, after describing the whole thing, the guy there said “You need to bring them in.”  So.  We are.

Do you know one of the things I’ve learned through all this?  A mommy home with three small sick kids has no desire whatsoever to read or think intelligibly.  I’ve done my Calvin.  I have.  But mainly skimming and mostly failing to think about a single thing.  I’m playing facebook games and reading Madeleine L’Engle’s Many Waters from her “Time Quintet” that includes A Wrinkle in Time.  I’m reading through the series with my niece.  Enjoyable.  Nothing too taxing.  And that’s about where my brain is at this point.  That and a stimulating Dear Abby in today’s paper.  That’s what I’ve got going on here.  bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz  That’s the flatline of brain activity.  Well thought activity, anyway.

Do you know a second thing I’ve learned through all this?  There is a positive side to this sick kid thing–not that I would wish my kids sick, just trying to be a bit of an optimist here.  Sick kids?  Two of them were fast asleep by 6:45 PM.  Nice.  Ry is still up with Hannah who likes company while she falls asleep, but at this point he’s just sitting on her floor reading a book.  Nothing too taxing.  Of course, this would be remarkably good stuff if it weren’t for the fact that sick kids also means lots of waking up in the night due to fevers and pains and aches and coughs and lonesomeness.  So, early to bed, early to rise and rise and rise and rise some more before finally negotiating with spouse over who must drag himself out of bed first and who gets to catch a few extra z’s before starting all over again.  *yawn*

Here’s to better days:

A Halloween Snowman

Ruthie practices Being The Mommy

One of Ruthie’s joys lately is helping her dad empty the dishwasher. Really helping anyone empty the dishwasher, it’s just that her dad does it more. The challenge has been getting her to stop emptying the dishwasher after you’ve started re-filling it. “No, Ruthie, that’s dirty.” “No, thank you, Ruthie. We’re all done emptying now.” “That’s OK, Ruthie, those are yucky, let’s leave them there.” She’s almost getting the hang of it.

These past couple of weeks Ruth has taken on a lovey in addition to her beloved blankie. Her baby. So the other day I walked into the kitchen and found this:

Ruthie practicing being The Mommy. Now, I’ve already said her daddy does most of the dishwasher-emptying, so you know this is not about emptying the dishwasher as a Mommy. This is about emptying the dishwasher with a baby on your hip. That is being The Mommy. And she’s doing a fine job of it, too.