When a 'Working Sign' Would Be Nice

Yesterday I was driving down a vacant gravel road and while going through a vacant gravel intersection, I noticed down another vacant gravel road, a sign.

Yes, a sign.

It wasn't a sign from God either but an actual, literal sign.

I saw no people. Or trucks. Or any other signs. Basically, that vacant gravel road seemed every bit as empty as vacant can be and every bit as gravelly as gravel can be.

But the sign indicated otherwise.

The sign said: Men Working.

Now, I never know what to do when I see a sign like that.

Instinctively I look to see what kind of work the men are doing. And then when I look beyond the sign and see men working, I want to say, "Well duh, even a woman can see he's working without the sign informing her of that."

Then I look at the sign and wonder if I'm supposed to stand reverently, put my hand over my heart and sing the National Anthem.

Or do I say a prayer?

Do I stop my vehicle and observe a moment of silence?

Do I tread reverently past the working men with a look of admiration on my face?

Am I supposed to honk and cheer and wave out my open window while praising the working men.... "Good job! Keep it up! It's lookin' great!!"

Maybe the sign is actually printed in braille as well so that blind people driving by that can't see the men working, will know they actually are because the sign will tell them that.

Or maybe the sign is indicating that the men are indeed working and summarizes this message:

In case there is any doubt in any one person's mind about the piles of dirt, large construction equipment, and the dirty orange hard hats bobbing around the vicinity of the construction site, these men are in deed and in fact WORKING; they aren't just playing with dirt.

Or better yet, maybe it's because men have such a one track mind that they can't work AND watch for traffic at the same time. So basically a "Men Working" sign is similar to a "Children at Play" sign. It's your responsibility not to run over any of the Men Working.

Perhaps because the men took so long to get to the job, they put the sign up so that anyone that was pressuring them to get the job done will see they don't need to say anymore. The Men are Working. Finally. And the sign says that.

Maybe yesterday was actually an indication that the men were working on getting the work done but hadn't shown up yet. Kinda like a yeah-we'll-be-right-on-it-so-here's-a-sign-to-prove-that and then you can quit bugging them and wondering if that road will ever be completed.

And then I had to count how many times I've seen a "Women Working" sign. I couldn't even use one finger and I had 10 waiting to be counted. Is it because women never work? That men are doing all the work? That would be pathetic to make the men do all our work, even if they did get to use a sign while they worked.

It suddenly dawned on me that women work too. It's not that they work harder than men or that men work harder then the women either. They both just do their jobs.

So, I decided to patten a "Women Working" sign for all the hard working women I know. Next time you wash dishes, do laundry, clean your house, sweep the front porch, paint a room, make a meal or fill the van with gas, you can set out your sign.

Because I mean really, men are supposed to build roads and do their work; women are supposed to do all their jobs too. But, why don't women get any signs?

If you tell me it's because men use dangerous equipment and powerful tools, I'll ask * you what a women does that isn't dangerous.

To prove my point, the little * above indicates the exact time that my baby dropped a stack of Corelle bowls on his bare little feet and had shattered glass spread in a vicinity 5 feet around him. His mother (a woman) bravely dove barefoot into the midst of the shards and rescued the curious little boy from the slivers of pain intending to inject their sharpness into the fatness of his tender feet.

Tell me what isn't dangerous about that.

And the worse part is, the whole time that mother cleaned up the mess and used loud equipment to suck up the barbed needles embedded in the carpet, she also made sure the other children were safe. Not only was she doing a disaster relief project but she was also protecting the citizens in the destruction zone. While enforcing the law, she also defended the innocent that had actually caused the predicament of the day.

And, of course, there were no signs. No tangible pieces of proof that decreed loud and clear that "Women Working" was going on.

Then again, women are usually too busy and too distracted too responsible to make a point to get a sign out, set it up and let everyone read it while they work. They usually just get the job done and wish they had a sign that proved they were working and actually don't even think about a sign. Because, in the time it would take to get a sign out and set it up where everyone could read it, she'd first have to teach the kids what the letters "W-o-m-e-n-W-o-r-k-i-n-g" sounds like and how to read it and give the proper definition of what it means. By the time that was done, it would be time to clean up another disaster start another project.

So, if men have time to set up "Men Working" signs, then maybe they aren't quite as busy as women? And maybe they know that but they don't want the women to feel unequal with them so they compensate for the uneven balance by putting up a sign.

Then again, maybe OSHA mandates it and the reason they don't mandate it in my house is because this still is the land of the free and the home of the brave mothers who walk on shards of glass in order to rescue innocent children.

But, I'm still thinking of making that sign...

How Big Is Your God?

You know, it's hard sometimes to hit those points in life where it feels like every where you look, go and see, you are surrounded by leaves. And I'm not talking about Autumn or literally as in "tree leaves" but figuratively speaking, of course. (I am waxing quite poetic here... bear with me.)

The truth is, they are actually more real and more life impacting than the maple leaves laying in my backyard tonight that should be raked and stuffed into a scare crow sometime tomorrow since the weather is supposed to be nice.

Despite trying to ignore these leaves, I feel like each one is being turned over and a new side is showing. Some turn with grief. Others with practical change. Still others with joy.

Yet in the past few months, I have been so amazed at the ways God has answered prayers. Prayers I never thought could ever have answers. It's almost as if I hope to pray about something but don't know how to really ask God or tell God or convey to God any of what I'm thinking, and then He hears my heart and then answers... as in, literally answering an impossible prayer!

Even down to the exact words. Like tonight I was thinking about a situation Toby and I are facing. "Lord, I really want to get in touch with my husband," I prayed honestly in desperation. (If you think I'm honest and open on my blog, I'm even more honest and open with God. If you don't believe me, just ask God.) Not 20 minutes later, my husband came to me and through the course of conversation said, "Honey, we just really need to get in touch again." (deja vu anyone?) And not only did he say it but he laid out a practical way to actually make that idea more than just a "oh that's a nice thing to say to your spouse" kind of thing.

The first plan of action? We set a coffee date. And coffee dates always makes us both talk, not just the one of us.

Dealing with parenting 3 toddlers and running a business that often keeps Toby gone 14 hours a day and then feeling the need to have friends and socialize on top of the effort we as a couple make to keep our marriage strong, is a juggling act more complicated than any circus act you'll see.

(Even writing that is complicated: I just spent 10 minutes trying to figure out how to word the above paragraph so it wouldn't look entirely confusing and then I'd be admitted to a mental institution because of the concern of my dear readers here that you'd have to spend the next 10 minutes trying to figure out what I meant by describing a 4 piece juggling act called 'my life.')

Okay, if that doesn't make sense, you are now qualified expected to move on to the next paragraph, please.

Knowing that the God who ordained the universe in a set motion and plan that was meant to incorporate even the craziest of my days, is an awesome comprehension... especially when your prayers are answered, your storms are ceased and your anxiety melts to peace.

And that same God who controls the universe, sees fit to lay on your husband's heart a prayer you just prayed not an hour before, all makes you wonder if you really know how big your God is.

It could all end right there and I'd still be impressed. But it's just like God to compile the most ironic bonus package when I least expect it, and He followed the prayer up by an unexpected early morning coffee date all uninfluenced by me.

No wonder I can't sleep tonight.

She Perceiveth That Her Merchandise is Good

Part of the mid-life crisis era I'm in right now, has influenced an idea called: "Save Money." Ever heard of it? I had heard of it but I thought it was for people that were setting aside money to buy something expensive. Or people with big families and lots of mouths to feed. Or people that *liked* clipping coupons. I guess I didn't know that saving money was an option everyone should think about. And choose.

Toby had mentioned a couple times that we needed a budget. Being the wife that I'm striving to be, I agreed. "Oh yes honey, a budget is what we need." Although in the back of my mind I was thinking, what in the world is a budget for??? What is a budget???

So, as I thought about saving money, I thought it was great idea. I mean, who doesn't like to put more money in their savings account, right? But I just kept grocery shopping like the food was going out of style. The only improvement I made was I quit shopping weekly and started only grocery shopping twice a month. I also cut back on my "run to Lincoln and go shopping" sprints. But, nothing was really helping.

Until a friend mentioned in passing she was going into town to get some awesome sales at a grocery store in Lincoln. And then I remembered what "saving money" meant.

It was the last day of the sale so I quickly wrapped up everything I was going to do for the day but hadn't done yet and jumped in the van and ran into town. Thankfully it was a rain day (Toby was home) and thankfully I left at nap time so I was alone, by myself. My brain was not functioning on high that day though because I was extremely tired and the rain on my windshield was droning my thoughts. If I would've been sharper, I may have made better sale choices at the store but even with my gray-and-cloudy-thanks-to-the-rain brain, I still got some amazing deals.

Before I got married, I did most of my family's grocery shopping. The method I aimed for and actually was pretty good at keeping was 'only buy what's on sale and stock up.' Then I got married. And I didn't have much storage for food. And I was still learning what Toby's favorite dishes were. And what foods he didn't like. And I was realizing that buying for 9 people and buying for 2 was a huge difference in your budget. And then I forgot what "saving money" meant when it comes to food.

Until the other day. Finding dirt cheap prices on chicken breasts, canned foods, flour and frozen veggies amazed me. I was so excited to be buying all that stuff and not spending THAT much! I am officially addicted to sale prices now.

Not to mention the fact that on the same trip (which means I was saving fuel as well), I was able to sell a few baby items to a baby store and I made the exact amount of money on them that I had tried to make on them at my garage sale. Another amazing-money-saving-money-making-deal was that I had bought one item for $4 at Goodwill. We used it for as long as we needed to and then I sold it to this store for $8 because Goodwill had way underpriced it. The cool thing is, I didn't set the price either; the store owner looks over the merchandise and then prints up what she'll give you for each item. I was stoked.

The same friend who told me about the grocery sales is also a CVS shopper, which is something I've wanted to get into for a long time but didn't know anyone personally in my area that was doing it. The whole ECB point thing and coupon clipping made NO sense to me but I grilled my friend on what to do, where to start and what not to do. The only thing I felt guilty for when we were done talking was the fact that I had thrown out the Sunday newspaper coupons that week. (Actually, I've done that for a long time...) Seeing the way the system really is, made me realize how fun it would be to shop this way and how much it made sense.

So, I guess I'm getting into a "frugal knack" which is something I've always admired in many of the blogs I read but I didn't know where to start. I'm really aiming for the whole Proverbs 31 Woman thing and think it's amazing how God has brought people into my life that are exactly the encouragement and influence I need to have wisdom in knowing how to LIVE the P31 way. My next plan is to write up a detailed menu, stay up to date on sale flyer's and even store food in rubber maid bins in my basement if that's the only place I have to put my good deals.

Unless it's frozen or refrigerated... "The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her, so that he shall have no need of spoil. She will do him good and not evil all the days of her life..." Proverbs 31:11-12

Just think of how clean my fridge will have to get to be now. Nice.

The Dream Come True Post

I had a dream last night that I blogged like, twice in one day. Or maybe it was two days in a row that I blogged. I can't remember for sure. Either way, I thought I'd make my dream come true and blog again today.

I really have nothing significant to say. Other than the fact that I was just supervising putting silverware away and again noticed the handy hooks I adhered to the inside of my cupboard doors in order to locate some type of convenience in my kitchen.

It also helps to have the scissors handy BUT out of the kids reach at the same time. It was definitely worth the $0.97 the scissors hook cost.

Not to mention that it pleased my husband (almost as much as it does when I scratch his back) when he saw that I hung an entire set of our measuring cups up. He likes to make pancakes and waffles with the kids every once in a while and thinks that the places I have stuff in our kitchen are so inconvenient. I always tell him that he's free to find a better place for things but when you only have one cupboard in the kitchen to put all your baking stuff in, there's really not a lot of options. He was impressed with the new hook system.

The rest of the hooks hold small nails, a handy tool, flashlight, tape, wire whisk, vegetable peeler, electric mixer beaters and another two pairs of small scissors. My favorite nail holds a darling little 2009 calender that I plan to use as a prayer calender to remind me to pray for some of my single friends. Each day of the week is allotted to a friend. I can't wait for the new year to start because it's high time these girls get married.

Speaking of supervising 'putting silverware away' (referring to the second paragraph in this post... in case you're wondering how I'm possibly following a train-of-thought), I have finally decided that in order for Janae to have something productive to do in the morning that requires minimal supervision on my part so I can blog instead so I can make breakfast instead, I must run the dishwasher the night before. That way, there is always a dishwasher to empty in the morning.

Today was a little rough for her to accept her "put silverware away" Chore Card. At first she couldn't stand up and get to the kitchen. Then she couldn't find her stool. Then she went under the rug in the dining room and said I couldn't find her. Then she said she didn't want to paint when her work was done after all so she figured she just didn't have to work now. When she finally took the card and got it done, she was on a roll. Just now I watched her remember where to put the ice cream scoop and went out of her way to put it away. It gave me a flashahead (opposite of flashback) to what she'll be capable of doing in a couple years.

Anyway, not sure how that signifies a significant blog post subject but hey, at least my dream of blogging two days in a row is finally a reality.

On Gnat Traps, Chore Cards and a Sister-in-love

So it was one of those days that started before the night had even ended. A screaming, crying baby on the other side of the wall, brutally jerked me from dreamland and into the shaky world of just-opened-my-eyes-what's-going-on-in-here.

As I laid in my warm, soft bed next to my nice, strong husband, I listened to the baby cry. I was listening but yet I wasn't, you know. Finally, Toby made me aware of reality and said something like, "You know, I think he was sick last night when I put him to bed." Then I was awake.

And boy, was Toby right.

A 101.8 fever and a sopping wet diaper and pajamas, definitely had put this baby over the edge. A clean diaper, a cool onesie, a drop or two of ear drops in each ear (wasn't sure if he had an ear ache or not) and some Motrine, made his little world a lot better. Topped off with a cuddle from mommy and daddy and then getting some warm milk, he thought life was pretty good again. It's always nice to know you make a good difference in someone's life.

I came back to bed after putting Alex back in his and laid on my pillow and immediately noticed Toby had instinctively turned the radio on apparently when he woke up. All kinds of cool topics were being discussed and then the news came on.

I get completely distracted from being able to sleep when the radio is on. Toby turns the radio on and then goes to sleep. It's like his little signal to the whole world that he is sleeping... "I'm sleeping! Can't you hear my radio is on?!"

Tossing and turning and trying to zone out the radio, did not make it easy for me to get back to sleep. Finally, I asked my husband to turn the radio down which he did in a rather fumbling, sleepy way.

A while later, Toby got up to leave for work and Landon came in our room and informed me he would put his DRY pull-up away when he got home from work with Dad. I thought it was cute that he made a point to let me know he wasn't neglecting his work for me to do.

As I was trying to pull myself together from the sleepiness that had invaded me, thanks to the early morning interruption of the sick baby, Janae came in right after Landon. She had a bowl of left over grape fruit peels somebody had left on the counter and she wondered if she could have some.

I told her she could have a grapfruit and then I started getting up to get ready for my day as well as Janae's. She came in shortly after carrying a pint jar and she wondered if she could eat cereal in it. She said she thought it would be fun. "Oh child..." I mused in my half working head.

Slipping out of bed made me suddenly aware that something wet and cold had been spilled on my bed and on my clean sheets! It was pink in color and looked like juice but smelled like pickles.

As I investigated the kitchen, Janae and my bedroom, it all came clear.

Step 1: I had made a gnat trap with red wine vinegar and soap. I had used a banana peel as a lure into my trap which was in a bowl in the kitchen on the counter.

Step 2: Somebody saw the fermenting banana peel and decided to add to my newly acquired compost endeavors so they put their grapefruit peels in it. (like I would be making compost...?!)

Step 3: Somebody else saw the grapefruit peels and got hungry and used the bowl as an identification tool to explain to somebody else what they wanted to eat.

In the process of Step 3, the gnat trap was spilled on my bed.

And now somebody has 2 loads of laundry, thanks to all the bedding that will get washed today.

After I got Janae her breakfast, I checked on Alex and noticed Landon's pajama stuff on the living room floor. I also noticed the "dry" pull-up laying on the carpet. I picked it up: it wasn't dry. Not. at. all.

My kids have no concept of wet or dry. Seriously. They think something is wet or dry based on what you want it to be. If you send them to wash their hands and they come back with completely dry hands, they say they got their hands wet with water if you asked them if they used water. If they do use water and they come out with sopping wet hands, they say they dried them on the towel.

And if you ask them if their pull-up is dry in the morning, their answer is completely relative to what they think you want to hear.

Moving right along to post breakfast time, I looked over to a very quiet Janae and found her heavily licking the sugar shaker. Thinking I was just going to have to wash the lid, I was a little disgusted to find that she had heavily saturated some of the sugar inside. What is it with this girl? She is a sugar addict. She definitely has a sweet tooth.

So, after the 2 loads of laundry she created for me this morning and the contents of a sugar bowl wasted, I think she's ready to do her fair share of work today in order to make up for the extra work she created for me.

Which brings to something I've been wanting to post about lately...

Toby woke up one morning with a profound thought and immediately stated to his sleeping wife, "Honey, chore cards; that's what you need for the kids!" I was still dreaming of sleep and wondering what time of night it was so the topic of "chore cards" was as far away from my mind as the desire to get out of bed was.

Not Toby.

He was as ambitious and excited as Toby gets... which on a scale of 1-10 and 10 being the greatest, he was at a 2+, maybe.

After the fog cleared and my mind grasped the statement he had said to me while I was still sleeping, I set out to make these "Chore Cards."

First of all, I wrote a list of jobs my kids are capable of doing: tidy room, unload dishwasher, set the table, etc.

Then I wrote each job on a recipe card.

Next, I decorated each card with stickers that somehow correlated with the chore. I didn't have a sticker of a puppy so for the "feed and water dog" card, I used a sippy cup sticker, a cookie and a ball. It was tacky; not creative, but it worked.

Finally, I had them laminated and they are sturdy and kid-proof!

The lamination part is what made them so wonderful and easy to use and I was so glad my sister-in-love did it for me. She often uses an over-night service plan that she has for basically everyone she knows. She's the kind of person that if you need it tomorrow, she'll stay up all night and get it done for you. She's determined and stubborn and always gets the job done right. Most people know us as sister-in-'laws' but 'law' makes it sound so legalized and like we're only connected through the law. Or like some certified paper is what makes us sisters. When in reality, a sister is someone who basically shares your life with you and is in your heart at night when you go to bed and then in the morning when you wake up, they're still there. Just like your sister always was when you were a kid. Life's ups and downs, pursuits and set backs, successes and failures are all shared best with a sister. Because only a sister will stick with you through all that. Needless to say, I am very blessed to have a sister like that who even was capable of laminating my Chore Cards.

Using these cards has definitely given me a better perspective on my day. I don't have to think, "okay, what job can I give Landon to do right now?" I can just look at my stack of "Chore Cards" and give him a task. The kids immediately picked up on the "Chore Cards" idea and wouldn't do the job unless I gave them a card. That's why the lamination part is so nice because I don't have to worry about stickers getting peeled off, or cards bending or tearing. I can hand them their card and know they'll give it back in the same shape I gave it to them in.

My brain is randomly picking topics to blog about this morning and before you wonder how in the world this train wreck of thoughts was ever an official train-of-thoughts, I'll assure you that I just have a lot on my mind that I'm sorting through. I can literally be thinking of one bright and vivid revelation and suddenly, poof! it's gone and I totally forget what was just an important topic.

So, I'll close by saying my world is still a little crazy and my thoughts are still piled on a table somewhere and there are many pieces to the puzzle that I think are still missing.

I wonder if the kids took off with them just like they took off with my gnat trap?

Mid-life Crisis

For the sake of the readers that haven't given up on my blog, this is an update to let you know that a blog post will be coming soon.

I have been in a whirlwind of activity life lately and have finally realized that life is just that: a whirlwind. I need to quit calling this lifestyle of activity I live anything else besides life.

At the beginning of the month, I got a phone call from my sister saying that she was bored and having a strange urge. She just felt like sitting in her car for 10 hours all by herself and thought she'd make it productive by actually driving that entire time. We both thought and thought of a location that would just happen to be all of 10 hours from where her car was sitting and ironically, just like sisters do, unanimously came up at the same time with the same idea that she should come to our house. Voila.

Seriously, she was all alone with no husband (he had to go to training in another state) and wanted to replace that loneliness with quality time with her niece and nephews. We were very happy to accommodate her plans of visiting us although we almost said no because we knew it would be sad to see her go.

We had so much fun together. I often marvel at how well siblings connect throughout childhood and before marriage but I was even more amazed at how strong that connection stays even after one or both leave home and marry far and distant men. (So if any of you are holding out on getting married for this reason, I have proof that you really don't need to worry about sibling relationships. Now, go get married.)

One day Britt and I were playing a duet on the piano that we had never played together before. It was a rather bouncy rendition of Yankee Doodle, a song I had never played until Britt was plunking it out that day and making me follow suit. As we jammed along, suddenly at the same time and just after the line about the macaroni in his hat, we both got the urge to modulate the key up a half a step. Without missing a beat (or saying a word), we both suddenly, without warning, landed on the key of D. We do stuff like that all the time. It's almost freaky.

My husband thinks it's weird too and gets uncomfortable when we do freaky things like that. I think he just wants in the loop he just wants to concentrate on the book he's reading instead of having to hear us giggling uncontrollably every time we share a look, stay speechless and bust out laughing.

So, as you can see, I have been rather distracted and unable to blog. A blog post will be coming soon though since I do have a lot on my mind.

Until this blog is updated, another reason why I haven't posted lately is because I think I am going through a mid-life crisis. Now, how's that for an excuse for not blogging? I bet you've never heard that one before. (I should really copyright that one.)

If you've gone through a mid-life crisis, you would know how complicated and complex deep thoughts in the back of a mid-life crisis brain can be. There is just so much there to be sorted out that I'm thinking about calling for a cease fire. It can get rather exhausting to have one deep thought after another fire away in your head. It's like my brain has set up a firing range with a target on one end and several cases of bullets and a loud gun on the other. I'm not quite sure what kind of gun it is so when I get that figured out, I'll let you know. Regardless of the gun's make and model, it definitely has a precise and accurate barrel because it keeps hitting the bull's eye. And it's really loud.

I am not a public speaker at all so to write my whole heart out to all of you right now, is just not anywhere in my mental capability. Especially considering how much of my brain is being taken up as a target right now. And also because I do not know all who read my blog or where they're at in life and how or if they'll understand true honesty and forthrightness.

Truth is, I may actually know them but don't know they're reading here. I have noticed that often people flee the truth and hold on to ideals and then are shocked when you finally make it clear to them what the truth really is. And I don't like to find out after the fact that what I said was just too honest and open for someone to handle.

Yesterday in Church, a part in the sermon jumped out at me in the midst of juggling two very squirmy toddlers. The preacher was reading about the armour of God. My heart latched on to the part about truth. "Loins girded about with truth." It dawned on me just then that truth must be very important since the only thing girding and protecting the loins of a soldier of Christ is, truth.

But, why do people constantly shy away from the truth and instead grasp ideals, traditions, desires and facades?

Besides publicly bearing my soul here, another option would be to sit down and talk to each one of you individually. That sounds a lot more appealing. But, since I can't do that with everyone here because I don't know everyone that reads this and it's physcially impossible to make a point to talk to someone that you don't even know exists, I'll sort my thoughts, collect my thinking and endeavor to get to the bottom of the pile of bullets yet to be shot at that target.

It seems as though what makes this a "crisis" is the fact that it's like a "at a cross roads" experience of life. Yet at the same time, I could drop the gun, walk away from the firing range and send am atom bomb in to wipe out the thoughts that seem to have created the world that is my brain. That may be an easy way out actually and it is quite tempting. But, to do that would mean I gave in and gave up. I would essentially cease to think.

And that would be a tragedy.

So, I said all that to say I plan to update my blog soon. Which I guess by saying that here on my blog right now, I am basically doing NOW what I said I would do: update my blog.

I guess this blog now has a new post.

A Four Year Old's Email Account

The other morning shortly after Landon got up, he declared that he needed to check his email.

He was going to check his email.

He had to check his email.

He really needed to be on his email.

(Each space above identifies the part of the conversation where Landon's father explained in detail that Landon indeed did not have any email. None at all. There was no email for Landon to check. Basically, Landon had no email account.)

The younger Nelson insisted otherwise.

Later that day, I went to my computer to check it and found a whole newly designed home page.
Even my Google set up had changed.

New features.

A desktop weather program.

Calender.

News feed.

Time.

Calculator.

Even a "How To" section about making wallets out of duct tape.

I'm thinking we need to teach our computer savvy son that actually checking your email isn't quite as much fun as what he did. Although, I am enjoying all these new found features on my computer now.

(Don't tell him I just said that.)

A House Mouse

So I was up late last night. Who cares? I mean, what's new about being up late? I do it all the time.

But this time was for reasons other than the usual.

I have a entrepreneur child. He goes to work with his dad and comes home with broken cool tools, stale sweet pop, junk food a special treat... you name it; he's got it. He's always filthy dirty and tired and not hungry. He claims he doesn't need supper because he already ate. Upon further inspection, I learn that it's lunch he's referring to when he says he "already ate."

Anyway, the point is, usually his treasures and immediate post-work-upkeep are quite minimal yet indeed exciting.

Until yesterday.

I went out to the truck to meet them. It was dark. Landon was just getting out but he was chattering and excited about his latest treasure.

"Hey mom! Look at what I have!" he held out a small plastic cup. I could see two dark shapes but didn't think they were anything more than, well, I didn't know for sure.

Then he reached inside and pulled one out.

"Look, it's a baby mouse," and the thing perched comfortably in his hand.

Either these rodents were just too tired and exhausted from their day of child's play or this thing was actually adopting Landon as it's new mommy.

I glanced at Toby. He seemed completely natural and an unaffected by the two baby mice that just rode 50 miles in his truck LOOSE all the way home.

"We need to feed them some bread," Landon said. "They're hungry."

And that's what we did. Finding a nice warm spot on the stove in a nice little empty wipes container (that I had almost thrown out that day but thought I should save it for the "just perfect" need) and a nice little piece of bread made soggy by powdered goats milk and reverse osmosis water, the little mice settled right in.

At bedtime, I wondered if the now cool stove was going to be a good place for these tiny creatures and I racked my brain thinking of a warming device that wouldn't be a fire hazard.

I thought of a lamp. But I couldn't figure out how to hang a lamp upside down without drilling a hole in the ceiling or some other obvious spot.

I thought of a heating pad. But those aren't advised for small animals.

I thought of the guinea pig. But she could get mice lice from these babies.

I thought of the oven. But it had a butter spill in it that wouldn't be good to leave exposed to heat while we sleep.

I thought of the furnace. But we hadn't turned that on yet this season and I didn't think it was technically cold enough to do so.

I thought of getting up and turning the stove on throughout the night. But I didn't really want to lose that much sleep.

And then I thought of this laptop that seems to emit as much heat out of the vent thingy on the side as the low setting on our stove does. A perfect solution.

The baby mice snuggled in warmly next to their new heat. Just before I finally fell asleep, I slipped out to check on the baby mice and make sure they weren't too hot/cold.

And then I went to sleep wondering how many of them would be dead by morning.

Thankfully, it was only one who died but Landon didn't seem too concerned...

"I'll just have to find another one, I guess."

I guess he's starting a new business. Perhaps he can figure out how to get rid of sell off the filthy mice living freely in the basement???

Disturbing News

With pirates sailing the high seas in little row boats and taking over war ships, and the government talking about bail-outs when frankly, it's impossible to bail out of an already sunk ship, we are doing a little bit of our own survival experiments here on the home front.

Ever tell a small child to wash their hands and called after them, "Remember to use water"? I said that the other day. AFTER finding slimy soap dripping off of small hands eager to help with a kitchen project.

Have you ever opened your freezer only to have a heavy, sopping, you-got-your-money's-worth-out-that Pull up fall off the top of the fridge where a small child had obviously thrown it when you told them to throw it in the trash? Making a mental note: "Smart Intelligent Bright Genius Child, please throw your icky diaper in the garbage -- remember, the trash can is not the fridge, honey!" Maybe this is a normal thing to have happen in American homes but it was the first time that type of thing happened here.

And then as you wander around your home, aimlessly making supper, folding laundry, vacuuming, baking bread and wiping up continual messes in the bathroom, your Mother Radar Instinct kicks in and you are alerted through closed doors and tight walls that your child is in distress. Serious distress: the dog is chewing the diaper right off your baby's butt through a fence.

So, you rescue the child, send him back to his play only to notice that he intentionally makes himself available for the dog to chew his butt. It's like saving innocent people only to watch them run right back into the hands of wicked men.

Then while enjoying a nice little chat with your neighbor in her front yard, you give your whining baby a "toy" to play with: his sister's Croc. It's not like he was going to chew on it or anything; maybe just play catch or something. You notice that the shoe is wet inside. But, you chalk it up to the dew left over from the morning -- even though the ground is exceptionally dry where you're standing. When you arrive home 20 minutes later, you learn quite quickly that the sister who owns the Crocs had indeed had an 'accident' in the neighbor's front lawn. "And that's all I'm going to say about that."

But what tops it all was my inability to cope with life for two days.

For two whole days (and believe me, TWO days is a lot of time for a kid to figure a few things out about pulling strings and cutting corners on rules) I had a fever and aches in places I didn't know existed. Plus, I had a headache, leaky nose that kept me connected to a Kleenex box like a scuba diver under water is connected to his oxygen tank, fatigue as in drop-where-ever-you-are-and-sleep, and a bladder infection that made me feel like I was in a perpetual state of internal fire which basically makes one feel every bit of half dead. Topped off with the virus that made me feel half dead as well, I knew for sure I was a goner.

But the kids didn't.

They continued their lively banter through out the day, knocking the baby down so they could sit on him playing with the baby, feeding the baby raw bread dough helping me make bread, peeing everywhere but in the toilet building my character about laundry, demanding pie for breakfast teaching me to mean no when I say no and just overall being lively, energetic healthy kids.

And now that my energy is back up to normal, I think I can handle it from here quite easily... as long as no body else gets sick!

Magic, Mold and Markers

I really have no reason to blog today. No subject to talk about. Nothing to expound on.

Why?

I am still reeling from the stench of cleaning a disgusting, slimy, moldy, brown, black, gooey floor drain in the basement. While smelling the mouse pee wafting on the stale breeze in the basement. While stuffing 3 rotting mops (that sat too close to the fermenting drain) into a garbage pale with a cloud of flies swarming the air.

After pouring straight bleach on the drain and the floor near the vicinity of the drain and mentally complimenting my kids for their kindness to one another while I worked on such an awful job and thanking the Lord for such sweet children and thinking how wonderful it was going to be to have one of those "extra and unexpected jobs" done for the day.

Yeah, it was after all that, that I came upstairs for a few more cleaning supplies to find:

2 kids

A black magic marker

Art work

Where?

My hope chest. (the design resembled a gun. A very science fiction-post modern design.)

The white tray on Janae's doll high chair. (a 3-year-old's attempt at a star. It had about 6 cool points.)

A pale pink Little Tykes chair. (the design was similar to one of those activity book mazes and/or the way an electric stove's coil is shaped.)

Did you know they call it Permanent Black Magic Marker for a reason? I'm still trying to figure the magic part out because it was anything but magical. Definitely Permanent. Definitely Black. Definitely Markered. But definitely no Magic.

Directional Dialogue

In The Good Life state of Nebraska, I seem to be directionally deprived. I can take the winding, hilly, swampy, wooded roads of Wisconsin that make absolutely no sense (what's the difference between County Rd. S and County Rd. SS?) but when it comes to the square mile grid road system of Nebraska, I need a GPS and a compass and a cell phone.

Today was no different.

Toby asked me if I wanted to go out for supper tonight with him. That was not even a question in my book. But since he seemed to be waiting for an answer, I said yes. He said I'd have to pick him up from work. And since I'd be skipping the entire hassle of making supper just to pick my husband up from work, no big deal, right?

Wrong.

There are two things Toby and I do not agree on or see eye to eye on.

Number 1: (we have the next 60 years to figure out what this one is.)

Number 2: Directions.

We just don't agree on directions. When he gives me driving directions, they make no sense. When I tell him that he is not making sense, he doesn't agree with me.

I asked him for the directions to his work site today. Suddenly, peeling potatoes and making fresh french bread and stuffing a chicken seemed so much easier than they normally do.

He told me he was working in Bennett. And, thanks to http://www.craigslist.com/, I know where Bennett is. Our backyard fire pit comes from Bennett, NE.

So, if he is working in Bennett, this should be easy, right? Wrong.

"The road that goes through Bennett, take that straight south out of town," he said.

Okay, that was a mistake right there. We have no compass in our van. I do not know which direction south-out-of-Bennett is.

"Would that be hwy 2?" I asked him, trying to verify the correct road.

"No," he said. "Here's what you do..." he began his directions. "Take Hwy 77 to Roka Road which it actually has an exit off the highway. Take that road until it "t's" -- it should be just a short way down. Turn right and then turn left on that road and go six or seven miles. Then there's a high way -- we're not sure if it's 43 or 143 but it's a paved road and you turn east there. Your goal is to keep going east. There's a road... uh... 148th street and the highway is a mile past there. Just stay on the paved road. Watch for the Douglas sign which will tell you to turn left but turn right towards Stagecoach. The house number is xxxxx -- which actually honey, if you look up Google maps, you can see a picture of the guy's house."

"Um, yeah.... uh, okay, uh, well...ummmm..." I said, trying to decipher the ink I had just transcribed from the telephone onto a piece of paper.

"That's it. That's how you get here," he told me, as if that clarified everything on my scribbled piece of paper.

"Okay, so when I turn off hwy 77," I began the direction re-run, "Which way do I turn?"

"The road "t's" a short way down and you turn right there," he replied, completely not answering my question.

I tried again, "Yeah, but off of Hwy 77, which way do I t...."

He cut me off and answered, "Oh, you go east there -- you want to keep going east."

"Yeah, but east is which direction?" I needed clarification.

"Uh, that would be left, honey," he answered, in a tone that said I should know that already.

"Okay so then after I turn on Roka road and I go left, the road t's and I turn right, which road am I turning on when I turn left again and how far down is that?" I asked, trying to make as much understandable sense as I could.

"Well, you just stay on Roka road and follow that," was his answer.

"So that road I turn left on shortly after the Roka road "t's" is actually Roka road again?" I clarified.

"Yeah, I think so. Something like that. It's like a quarter-of-a-mile or a half-a-mile down that road before you turn left," he answered.

(Meanwhile I'm creating a mental image in my head trying to get a aerial view of the road system at this intersection.)

"Okay, gotcha," I responded.

"Now this highway," I began into another chapter of this complicated directional dialogue, "is it highway 43 or highway 143 or highway 148?"

"I. Don't. Know. Honey," he answered, enunciating every word.

"Okay so then where does this 148 number come in?" I asked, wondering if this was another one of his land marks.

"The Unknown Highway is a mile past 148th street," he explained. "Just stay on the paved roads," he repeated again.

And then I remembered that when Toby gives directions, he uses more land marks than street intersections. He uses land marks found 2 miles down the road behind a paint peeling barn sitting on a rusty tractor. He uses houses 3 blocks over to give you a reference point to the house he is working on that day. He uses everything as landmarks. And he always says north, south east and west instead of left or right..."That tractor west of the barn is facing south of where the house on the east side of the street sits."

I looked again at my directions, trying to make sense of them.

"You know honey," Toby began, "If you would just write it down as I tell you, then you'd have the directions." (as if I hadn't thought of that already...)

I almost choked. "Uh, honey? I write them down completely as you tell me but that doesn't help at all... believe me."

As I hung up, I was trying to figure out what Bennett Nebraska had to do with this job site since it was never mentioned in the directions and how much driving time should be allowed to get to this place and how would I know if I was on the right road that he had no name for but I was supposed to drive it for 6-7 miles. I noticed the screen on my phone and saw that it took him 10 minutes to tell me how to get to this place and I still had no clue how to get there.

And then I decided that since we agree on pretty much everything besides directions, I would do my part and eliminate that one thing. Of course I can't technically agree with him on this because if I don't understand how to get to a place he is directing me to, no amount of agreeableness will get me to his job site, unfortunately.

I'll eliminate the problem altogether, I decided. I came up with two solutions:

Number 1: Never go to the job site

Number 2: Get a GPS

Number 1 is really not an option. I mean, I am a loving wife, he is a loving husband. We like to see each other and spend time together like loving couples do. Especially if it involves eating supper out.

Now, if I get the GPS, I will not tell him I have it because I want him to still give me directions. I'll write them down, say, "Yeah, Yeah, Yeah, Okay perfect. Those directions are great. We should have no problem getting there. You are so smart honey" the whole way through his complicated directional dialogue.

So, yeah. This GPS will be an investment in our marriage. A tool to keep communication open. A program to unify our direction conversations. A practical system to keep us on the same road (pun). A time saving technique because he won't have to spend 10 minutes telling me how to get to a job site that will take probably only 20 minutes to drive. A way to help us understand each other better.

And we will never have to disagree again because there won't be anything to argue about since the GPS will be responsible for me getting lost. Not my charming, loving, smart husband who I trust with all my heart and who was so kind to take me on a date... if I can find him sitting on a roof out in the middle of a cornfield somewhere in Nebraska.

What Roofers Can't Do, Plumbers Can

We had this pipe in our basement. And it leaked more weeks than I wish to count for days. Dripping in our basement making a gigantic puddle causing some condensation, this pipe continued to drip. And drip. And drip. You know how pipes do that every once in awhile just to let a little pressure off because they're old?

Well, this pipe started dripping and like most pipes do, it continued dripping. For some reason, it is not a self correcting/sealing pipe.

So, considering the plumping expertise of the people that live in this house, we began utilizing an amazing feature. I mean seriously folks, I can't believe this plumbing repair option is not marketed yet. A person could really make a lot of money off advertising this, not to mention doing seminars, classes and home demonstrations.

What this Amazing Plumbing Repairs For Dummies involves is a strategically placed bucket that is positioned exactly in the precise angle and latitude and longitude of the impending drips coming from the invisible leak in the pipe. It takes quite a bit of concentration and investigating and calculating but once you do it a time or two, it is worth the effort.

My well experienced recommendation (and believe me, I have a lot of experience with this) would be to get several buckets and place them in the general vicinity of the drips. Although one bucket is better than none, several are better than one.

As mentioned already, this leak had been going on for several weeks a few days and the man of the house determined after some encouragement from his wife on his own that it was probably a good time to contact some professional help. AKA: plumber.

Of course, you can always hope that a leaky pipe will fix itself and I am pleased to say that we definitely gave this pipe time to heal his leak. We are such patient people, in fact, that we waited for a really long time. The Automated Reseal in the pipe just didn't happen.

Amazingly, the leak got worse. Instead of dumping the bucket a couple times a week, we were dumping it several times a day.

So the plumber came on Thursday and in no time flat, he has conquered the leaky pipe that was rotting the floor joists, growing mold up above it in the bathroom and sopping the basement floor with it's continual dripping.

Now, I hate to succumb to the "I told you so" mentality that often befalls those of us that "Told them so" but when "they" didn't listen and then it turns up that "I told you so" was right... well, the only thing you can say is, "I told you so."

What makes me refer to this is that prior to calling the plumber and prior to the plumber getting to our house and prior to finding mold in the bathroom, I had mentioned to the man of the house that perhaps he should just double check and make sure this wasn't a homeowner repair job. Toby had already decided on that and thought it would be wise to personally investigate the leak because you know how a person hates to pay an unnecessary plumbing bill, right?

My dear, brave husband checked it out one day and diagnosed the problem as an Overspilling Copper Dilemma (OCD). Considering he does not have the tools for OCD (such as a torch and other copper repairing tools), he deemed the plumber invasion a wise idea.

"You know how I am with plumbing, honey," he said. To which I calculated in my head: Toby + Plumbing = Disaster. This mental picture had built so vividly above my head that Toby could see it too so I had to immediately delete that explicit picture and say, "Leaky Roofs + Toby = Paradise." He breathed a sigh of relief to know that I am still the cheerleader for the team he's on.

Bob the Plumber is a really nice guy. He really is. Once he took pity on me and our snake filled yard and he told me how he had hit a snake with his own lawn mower and never had snakes in his yard again. I took his advice. It worked. This guy knows his stuff. And Thursday was no exception.

He had a truck full of copper fittings and copper pipes and copper this and copper that so he was ready. Entering the house armed with a flashlight, he went right downstairs to the problem. Within no time, he was upstairs and in the bathroom.

His diagnosis?

Well, you know that pipe-tube-thingy that attaches your toilet to the water supply right behind the toilet? Yeah, go look in your bathroom and you'll see what I mean. That gray/silver (depending on the year it was made) pipe-tube-thingy had malfunctioned. So as the water entered the toilet, some of it slipped out and ran down the OUTSIDE of the tube-pipe-thingy and followed down through the narrow hole in the floor drilled just for accommodating that tube-pipe-thingy and then it dripped downstairs into our Bucket Invention right past that OCD copper pipe.

The repair plan?

Unscrew the tube-pipe-thingy
Toss in bathroom trash can
Screw in new tube-pipe-thingy
And then empty that bucket in the basement one last time.

I looked at Toby and smirked smiled gleefully lovingly but didn't say a thing. I could tell what he was thinking.

The mold is gone. The basement is dry. The pipe-tube-thingy gleams a bright shiny silver behind the toilet. So pretty. It feels good to have such a modern upgrade in our old house.

A Week Gone A-Wry

So it wasn't exactly the most productive week of my life, but by Friday, at least we had all 50 toes and 50 fingers accounted for before the next week began.

And that's saying a lot. If you would've been hanging around the place and getting a full scoop of what happened, you'd be checking on your fingers too.

First off on Monday, we ha----- no wait. Let's start on Sunday...

While away on leave for Britt's wedding, I got the word that I am the new teacher for my new Sunday School class. And what that means is that I have to count the students ladies in my class, tally the offering and then start the lesson. Not a huge deal at all -- it's not like I have to stand behind a podium and give a chalk talk or anything. Teaching that first Sunday's lesson I actually enjoyed. A lot. I think I tend to talk way too much to not enjoy something like this.

The only time this designated responsibility may become a difficult thing is when one of the kids wakes up sick Sunday morning, the dog runs away, the van won't start and I can't find my Sunday School book 5 minutes before class starts. Other than that, I think it'll be okay for at least a year.

Like we always do on Sunday afternoons, we enjoyed nap time. Well, Janae and Alex enjoyed nap time; I attempted to enjoy it while Landon attempted to not enjoy it. Let's just say I had a pretty disturbing nap.

Monday came like it usually does after Sunday and what did we find but rain! rain! and more rain! That automatically entitles Dad to a day of bookwork in the basement while the green grass outside grows greener. After a full day of putting in a pretty big quota of bookwork, I dragged the half-decomposed-man up from the basement where he had practically fermented and we went on a nice family walk.

So, not much exciting has happened in the week so far. Wait till you hear about Tuesday...

Okay, so Tuesday comes and before I was even out of my early morning bed, I learn the dreadful news that my dear loving husband is SICK! With the flu. As he dresses for work and heads out the door I strongly suggest lovingly imply that perhaps today would be a good day to take advantage of those sick days he never uses when he's sick and call the boss and tell him he thinks that this time he may just have a rare and infectious disease and should perhaps stay home so as not to start an epidemic or anything.

I have a few strong feelings about Toby's boss and my conclusion is that the guy must be a work-a-holic who drives his workers to near fatality. Why? Because Toby rarely calls in sick. Oh wait... I guess he is the boss. Well, never mind on that theory then.

So, he goes out the door with a can of toxic waste pop and leaves. Just like that. He's gone. I wave to my "in sickness" husband while I watch him wearily head to the work force.

About an hour later, I call him. You know, just to make sure he's still breathing and everything. I could hear the strain and pain in his voice when he weakly informed me in just a few words, "I'm coming home, honey."

I made every effort I could to not retaliate back, "I TOLD YOU SO," but the only thing I seemed to stifle was, well, I guess it all came out like that. (I wanted him to know that I'm always right that I was going to be glad to see him.)

He came home and though I made every effort to dote on him, he resisted all suggestions of health and wellness that I recommended and instead, went back down to the fermenting basement and had a pretty steady PC Diet. (Eat as much Pop and Candy while using the Personal Computer.)

Now folks, I should've put my foot down, really, I should've. But apart from nailing my foot to the floor, it just doesn't stay down. But, by Wednesday, my normally submissive spirit exploded into a fervent devotion to my husband's well being and I did just that: painfully nailed my foot to the floor.

He soon was happily stuffed full of vitamins and tea and everything else in the kitchen that I knew he'd hate eating that was supposed to help him feel better. By bedtime on Wednesday, he was feeling much better.

But, back to Wednesday... so I'm running around like a beheaded chicken trying to keep the kids in line, keep Toby alive and get my work done.

Alex was a bear. Janae was playing wedding. Landon was hunting in the backyard. Okay, now all three of those activities take a lot of focus on my part. And in the midst of all that, Alex got ink written on his face, Janae had ink circles on her arm, Landon found the scissors, and Janae's very own quilt that I made for her got cut in half.

I was pretty much beside myself with with feelings of anger and retaliation shock but I kept my feelings on my sleeve in check and made it quite clear that SCISSORS were off limit as well as FINGERS and QUILTS and anything that was designed to be used more than once. Basically, they can play with Styrofoam plates and empty toilet paper rolls.

So then on Thursday, Toby says he feels better and I am strangely looking forward to having a normal day again. While he gets ready to leave for work later in the day and not in the usual early morning (because the weather man called for rain all morning), I am moving around the house doing typical mom things. You know like making lunch, fixing my hair, finding a piece of wet-fruit-fly-covered-toilet-paper behind the toilet, cleaning the bathroom, noticing white fuzzy stuff on the bathroom wall, you know typical mom stuff...stuff? STUFF? growing on the bathroom wall? As in like fur stuff coming right up the wall?! What is going on? I thought this was America?

And then I remember that call someone (who's name I won't mention) made recently to the plumber. The Plumber that should've been here weeks before but he wasn't called until, well, like yesterday. (at a later time and a later date, I will perhaps delve into the details surrounding the leaky pipe.)

So then Friday and Saturday and Sunday roll around like they usually do on the weekend and with them came more rain. Thankfully, other than the rain, nothing was too eventful until Sunday night when Landon crawled in bed next to me with a bad stomach ache. A really bad stomach ache.

Deja vu? All over again...

Life Begins At Conception, or does it?

Ethical and moral issues are discussions most of us prefer to avoid. Morality and ethics have turned into "an-every-man-for-himself" kind of thing so it gives us greater reason to not step on toes when we promote or discourage certain issues. Especially when we have a faceless audience like blog readers. It is so much easier and more comfortable to keep silent.

But, I am using the vantage point I have here and breaking the status-quo of "every-man-for-himself" and taking it upon myself to speak the truth. I am really not concerned as to whether everyone that reads this will agree with me. Why? Because I believe that there is a tragedy happening day after day and I am doing nothing about it. Sometimes well meaning people just don't know the truth on matters that tend to be kept silent and I don't want to be guilty of keeping silent while knowing the truth about contraceptives and conception.

It may be shocking but there is a huge moral issue in many ultra-conservative people, the general public and lots of people in-be-tween. I'm not talking about people leaving their spouse to go sleep with another or about husbands having multiple wives. I am talking about moms destroying the life of their unborn. Whether it's at 9 days old or 9 months old, it doesn't matter. It's still a life. It's still a baby. And whether it's intentionally or unintentionally, it doesn't matter either.

Through research and discussions with medical doctors, I have learned the truth on something that is widely practiced but yet highly misunderstood.

First of all, the word "contraception" means that conception ALONE is stopped -- the egg is never fertilized. Stopping conception before it starts does not kill life. Hormonal Contraception (which it shouldn't be called anyway since it doesn't primarily impeded conception so therefore should not be called a contraceptive) has the ability and hormones of stopping the implantation of a fertilized egg(s) after it has been, unfortunately, conceived.

The bottom line is that life begins at conception and only God is the Giver and Taker of life. It doesn't matter if your doctor says a birth control is "safe" in supporting life or that a pill won't kill your baby; what your doctor doesn't tell you (unless you ask like I did) is this:

There are two basic kinds of hormonal birth control pills: (1) the combination pill which is made up of two synthetic hormones (estrogen and progestin) and (2) the progestin-only pill (sometimes called the minipill). The synthetic estrogen in the combination pill works to prevent the ovaries from releasing an egg. If no egg is released, there is nothing to be fertilized by sperm and the woman cannot get pregnant. In addition, the synthetic estrogen works by suppressing the body's normal hormonal pattern (which involves one egg being developed per menstrual cycle and released for possible fertilization).

The synthetic progestin (present in both types of pills) works to:

thicken the cervical mucus, which hinders the movement of sperm,

inhibit the egg's ability to travel through the fallopian tubes,

partially suppress the sperm's ability to unite with (and thereby fertilize) the egg, and

alter the uterine lining so (in the event that an egg is released and fertilized) the egg will likely not be able to implant into the uterine wall. (A fertilized egg would then be discharged with the rest of the menstrual blood.)

(found at GoAskAlice.com)

Not wanting to believe what "Alice" is informing in the above piece of research, I separately googled several different popular contraceptives commonly used and approved by the safety standards of the FDA and AMA and found her advice to be true for:

The Pill

The Mini Pill

The Nuva Ring

The Mirena IUD

The Patch

As you will find from the links above, the primary functions of all those methods is to prevent sperm from penetrating the cervix and to also disable ovulation. Now, these two functions are not moral and ethical issues -- human life is not being destroyed when contraception is used ONLY to impede conception. We all can hope that's all that is happening in each prevented pregnancy but the chance of that is highly unlikely and quite risky if you're banking a human life on it.

The fact that the lining of the mother's uterus is being changed to not accept a conceived egg is the function of these methods that makes hormone birth controls a non-option for a pro-life person. Why? Because life begins at conception.

To make the safest, warmest and most life sustaining place on earth for a new brand new life a habitation of destruction and rejection, is a tragedy. And worse yet, this tragedy is sitting in many Christian homes and churches today.

I have heard it said so many times by many well meaning people..."This new birth control method (insert name here) I'm using doesn't kill the baby; I asked my doctor and he said no!"

Of course your doctor is going to say no. A woman is unable to CARRY that pregnancy because the birth control her doctor gave her made it physically impossible to KEEP that baby that only had the chance to grow for short time. The baby is gone before the mother or the doctor even knew there was a conceived baby.

I found out myself when I asked my doctor and her doctoring partners. They all informed me in separate consultations that each birth control:

• Kills sperm
• Can effect the cycle, inhibiting ovulation
• Is backed up by making the uterus lining thin therefore insusceptible to a fertilized egg
  

"So if life begins at conception and I believe that it does, than using a birth control that is not supporting a fertilized egg, is wrong?" I asked a doctor.

The doctor nodded her head and said, "Right... if you believe that then you'd have to accept that this is destroying a life."

------------------------------------------------------------------------
For a very informative read, go here and find an in depth look at Contraception And The Christian and the captivating dialogue that takes place when conception occurs and how quickly it is destroyed when hormonal contraceptives are used.

"...If the fertilized egg is not allowed to implant in the uterus, it is being killed. The only difference between this and a later abortion is the size and stage of development of the tiny human offspring."

The writer also includes other information about birth control that does not kill a fertilized egg.

More Pro-Life information given by doctors can be found here. And here.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Disclaimer: I do not support or endorse other information that may be included on ALL the links above. Please do not abuse the links I listed to support a stand I am not endorsing through this post.

To Everything There is a Season...

Last night, I sat holding my breath at this computer, daring myself to look between the fingers that had been plastered to my whitened face.

I never knew that clicking "Save Changes" could so dramatically effect a person.

I almost felt tears well up inside somewhere when it fully dawned on my that the old look was gone. Forever. :'(

I breathed short, shallow breaths.

I felt my heart beat in hard, fast thumps.

Had I just lost all the 478 posts that I had written over the last three years?

Nope. They were all there.

But there was something else there too... It worked! The template transfer actually worked!

I found myself squealing hysterically at 11:00 at night and jumping up and down in my seat while Toby called to me from his lonely bed (which wasn't entirely lonely: he did have a computer with him) and wondered what I was doing.

Coeur d' Court had a new look and it was BROWN and PINK!!!! (and when I came back today, it was still Brown and Pink! Yay for html code that doesn't change in your sleep...)

So, for those of you that are scratching your head wondering what in the world the above jabbering is about, I know that you read my blog on Bloglines or some other blog alert thingy. The fact that you are scratching your head right now and the eyebrows on your forehead are screwed up funny, proves you are one of those blog lines blog readers. (this blog is under security camera use, by the way. Just kidding.)

I have a special invitation just for you savvy readers that use a blog update program. Yes, because YOU made the effort to put me in your blog lines, I am giving back to your great cause. Please accept my invitation just this once to personally visit my page directly and tell me what you think of this new look.

(Now, about www.bloglines.com .... I highly recommend such programs because A) they're easy to set up and B) you never have to visit any of your favorite blogs wondering if they've updated it or not: your blog program notifies you when you log into your account. A great and excellent and convenient time saver. Visit www.bloglines.com and set up your own account. Or use another program/website that someone else has recommended to you and see if I care that you didn't take my number ONE recommendation of www.bloglines.com. As long as you're saving time and spreading your metaphysical computer wings out a little more, I am pleased with your aspirations to blog savvyness whether you use www.bloglines.com or not.)

What War is to Me

9-11 is here again and we all tend to think back to that day and What I Was Doing When The Towers Fell. Yet the consequence of what changed that day was not fully known until about 2 years later when a whole army of troops entered the war zone that our enemy came from.

I vividly remember that particular day, in March of 2003, because I had just celebrated the happiest day of my life: my wedding day, and I felt almost guilty that I could be enjoying such happiness and bliss while other wives were saying goodbye to husbands they'd never see again. It's almost sad to realize that every time we celebrate our wedding anniversary, our nation commemorates another kind of anniversary, The War on Terror.

Have you ever read the news and found an article about troops heading into Iraq or Afghanistan or North Korea or some place where bullets fly and bombs explode? I'm sure you have. You can find those articles anywhere and if you miss today's edition, tomorrow will likely have something new about the war anyway.

Did you ever think twice about it when you saw a line of soldiers ready to take off on their mission? Did you ever just think in the back of your mind that it was their choice; they chose to be on the battle field so "what's the big deal" and then quickly scanned the page for another article? Did you ever think twice about a soldier going to war?

If you're like me, probably not. Soldiers are made for war. Why act surprised or sad when you hear of a whole troop of them boarding a plane and heading to a war torn foreign country? We all know that's their job.

I used to not really think about it. I mean, I appreciated the fact that soldiers and military personnel were always on duty protecting my national freedom and life as I know it but I never felt very personal about news stories I'd read or hear. I would hear about the President sending more troops over and just assume he was getting the job done faster. I'd read about a soldier being killed and feel bad but then forget about him as soon as I turned the newspaper over. It was just the way things were and I was glad I didn't have to think about it.

But that all changed one day.

Now, every time I hear about more troops going over, more problems in the middle east, more battles being fought, my ears perk up. I think twice. My heart gets heavy and I look a little closer at the pictures of those men. I now realize that each soldier on the battlefield represents an entire family. A circle of friends. A unit of people. People that are praying for and worrying about that one soldier. A mother stays up nights praying for them. A father reads the news and hopes the critics aren't right in their prediction about the war. A wife fears for the safety of her husband that she won't see for another 10 months, at least.

I never really thought much about the news reports that would blast over the radio about another explosion in Baghdad. I mean, that seems to happen all the time there, right? But now, I won't be able to listen to a report like that without wondering who was killed and if I knew him.

And counting the days until he comes home.

And wishing that the newspaper would write more about the war and the facts that are happening constantly around the bunkers of that soldier I know.

War is hard. And war is real. But, when your little brother heads into it, you realize just how hard and real war really is. And how sad it makes your life.

But, yet how grateful you can feel knowing that your country's national freedom is being defended because your little brother is some place far from home where bullets fly. Where bombs explode. Where wrong is right.

And he's there in that battlefield, with that whole troop of brave men, so that you can stay free. So that your backyard is safe. You enjoy a grassy lawn while he disintegrates mine fields from one of those giant Humvee trucks. Because his dream is that someday that minefield will be a grassy slope. With carefree children playing freely without the danger of evil men producing death and destruction on their innocent lives. Children as innocent as mine will enjoy freedom someday too because someone brave made their home a safe place.

As if it wasn't already going to be bad enough having a loved one in a war zone, my loving and normally-laid-back-and-anti-trouble-causing-sister, went and fell in love and married a soldier scheduled to go over the same time our brother is. I now fully understand the seriousness of 'having all your eggs in one basket,' so to speak.

So, when most couples are enjoying the honeymoon phase of marriage, this couple will be parted because of the cost of freedom. A freedom I will never take for granted, ever again.

That's what war is to me.

All's Well That Ends Well If All Ends Well

Being home all day alone with my kids, really isn't that big of a deal. I mean, c'mon: it's my JOB. But, I usually tend to draw a line when it comes to being alone in the evening with the kids. Which is what happened recently.

Slated on schedule for the local jail ministry, Toby came home from work in time to grab a bite to eat, shower, say about 147 words to the kids and I (that is not very many words... trust me) and then he was off like a dirty sock to the county jail.

What was I supposed to do for 3 hours alone with his our kids? Yeah, I asked myself that a few times too.

First we went for a walk. But, on the walk, I felt guilty for leaving a foot of grass evenly standing in the front yard. Especially considering we just spent forty-some-bucks getting the lawn mower fixed not to mention that the grass had been mowed pre-wedding trip. (ie., 17 days ago.)

I debated mowing though; we have gone longer than 17 days between mowing's so was it a worthy investment to use a precious fuel propelled blade evenly across the yard? What about the budget? (what budget??? Toby is wondering as he reads this). What should I do with the kids while mowing? These questions and many other life altering questions stared me in the face as I trudged home with a kid loaded stroller and 3 wheeled bike strapped to my arm.

Entering the garage was my first insurmountable feat. Don't ask why but there's a stack of lumber in the garage designated for a certain house in our neighborhood. I guess the people are getting rooms built in their basement AND getting a remodeled kitchen. Lucky people! Why the lumber is in our garage is beyond me because we certainly have no need for new bedrooms and a kitchen.

Did I just say that?

Anyway, sitting in a nice neat stack of wood in our mouse laden garage is the future of my new kitchen and expanding finished basement. My dreamy eyes made it difficult to calculate the fact that I would in no way be able to cram the lawn mower between the wood and other garage paraphernalia so I did what most wise people crazy women do, I attempted to pick up the lawn mower. You know, just bend down, pick it up and carry it. Let's just say it was pretty heavy.

Plan B meant I had to go out the side door. But that didn't just mean open a door and push the mower out, end of story. It was a lot more complicated.

As I contemplated the brevity of mowing twelve inches of grass in our front yard, I was impressed to realize that my mind had the whole situation all calculated in my brain in the "Plan B Mow Yard" file. As complicated as that plan clearly was, it made me desperately want to scratch Plan B. So I tried a little harder with Plan A and literally tried to pick the mower up like I would pick up a laundry basket. That was just not an option.

Before I could open the door and push the mower out, Plan B style, I had to run into the house through the front door, charge through the house and out the back door, lock the dog in her kennel, open the twelve feet of side fence (which meant moving a basket ball hoop first), unlock the garage side door from the back-yard-side of the door, painstakingly shove the lawn mower precariously out the side door, perform a hair pin curve maneuver between the garage side door and through the narrow opening allowed by the 12 foot of now leaning green treated fencing and plow the mower down the driveway through the eight inches of fine gravel that some brainless person dumped in times past while my feet sank up to my knees past my shoe soles in the weighty, quick-sand-like gravel that was never intended for driveway use. Especially when you are alone with kids and attempting to mow with a push mower by yourself alone with the kids. (did I already say that?)

Anyway, primitive.

I mowed like a crazy person. Designing roads and alleys for the kids to run their dump trucks through was a blast. The grass was so high you could barely see their little heads bobbing up and down out in the middle of the yard, it embarrassed me. I knew their freshly mowed "roads" were well defined and they loved the exploration found in our little suburbia yard.

And I knew where they were the whole time; their squeals and screams of delight made it easy to keep an eye ear on them and did nothing to drown out the mower. My mower didn't hit any snakes (for once) and I patted myself on the back congratulating my decision to mow in the evening instead of the day time, thus avoiding the sunning snakes. The only thing to worry about were the huge crickets stampeding the yard. The blade got all wadded up with juicy cricket bodies and cricket guts were flying everywhere. Good fertilizer, I guess. That could explain why half way through, the self propelled mowing feature locked up. And we just payed part of that $40 to fix that. Must've been those crickets jamming things up inside the mower.

While Landon asked me deep, profound questions on who gets shot at jail when they're naughty, I worked hard on trimming the edge of the grass where the sod meets the sidewalk. That was a huge mess. A certain person I know (who's name I will not mention) has a deep infatuation with Roundup. He tends to use it pretty much where most people would use a Weed eater. We have an embarrassing yard uniquely designed edge all along our yard and it has turned a dead ugly brown an interesting color in about a fourteen inch strip all around the circumference of our yard. This was a one-of-a-kind display that I hope was a one-time-only application. You know, I'm all for personal individuality in landscaping and design but this was just a little too original.

Most people try NOT to have dead grass in their yard; this person attempts getting MORE dead grass in his yard. Most people spray FERTILIZER in their yard; this guy refuses to let his wife even WATER the yard let alone make it grow healthier with some hormone induced grass growing formula. Why? Because he hates mowing. He'll be the first to say it too -- just ask his wife or mother. Or you could ask the neighbors too; they know it pretty well... the poor souls they are having to put up with such an eye sore of a yard on their civilized street.

He hates mowing, like I said, and it's evident in the fact that his poor wife has no choice but to drag the kids out to the yard, strap the baby down in a safe place and then proceed to spray twelve inches of grass clippings and cricket guts all over their little plot in the universe while he the grass killing man reads the Bible to a law breaker.

But, after we got it all done, we celebrated with story time and popcorn. An innocent celebration, keen for peoples of all ages, but deceivingly dangerous I found.

While innocently retrieving an innocent mug from the innocent cupboard in which to innocently melt butter for the innocent popcorn (this was nothing illegal, folks), I did the most stupid thing inevitable: I smashed my face with the opening door. Like an innocent bystander with a clean record, I was punished for something I never did. I mean, yeah it was my hand swinging the door but what had my face done wrong to get a smack like that?

I learned the hard way that when you put your head close to the door, swing the door at your face at a very high speed and then lift your chin in order to peer up at the top shelf where the mugs are, you can result in hitting the left side of your right cheek bone. It leaves an immediate mark too, which is worth it so that the witnesses that didn't SEE what happened can know that you honestly did just crack your face open and you have proof of it for them to see now after the accident has taken place. Just try it and then look in the mirror quickly.

Landon saw the whole thing take place and calmly sat in his chair at the table watching me wishing he could have as much fun in the kitchen as I do impressed with my smart kitchen moves. The smart kid he is, he wisely asked me what I was doing. As if he couldn't tell that I was running around the house, banging my head on hard, wooden objects??! Such a fitting question, I mused in my fuming head that was pained by the sharp shooting pain caused by the violent door.

After popcorn evenly coated the dining room floor I had just vacuumed earlier that day, Toby came home. After he got the kids in bed and I was comfortably rubbing his feet, he wondered what I had occupied my time with while he was gone. Not wanting to think he didn't see the battle scarred face of his normally fair complected, loving wife and not wanting to believe that he could not decipher the smell of fresh cut grass I had arranged to greet him when he stepped out of the vehicle he had gone to jail in, I rubbed his feet pleasantly harder by taking all my aggravation out on his feet I navigated my eyeballs back to their sockets from where they had jumped from and vowed right then to invest in a whole barrel of Roundup.

Not wanting to discourage me when he heard me mumble something about mowing grass, he assured me he appreciated my effort but I should understand that in the dark he couldn't tell that I had mowed in the back behind the garage (!!!) because he came in the FRONT door.

"Honey, whoever said anything about behind the garage?" I asked him. Not waiting for his answer, I assured him... "Next time you mow, you won't have to worry about the front yard because I took care of that tonight."

He tried to look satisfied but I don't think he believed me until he went to work in the morning and saw for himself that yes, the crickets were dead the yard was mowed.

A Question Worth Asking

"What have I to do with thee,
Jesus
thou Son of the Most High God?"

A Matron Of Honor Recounts THE Wedding

It was a lovely day for a wedding. Perfect weather. Perfect sun. Perfect temperature. It honestly could not have been any better.

After a short night of sleep the night before, 3 of us girls piled out of the same bed and the 4 other room mates got up as well. The nice thing about going to bed at 2am and showering just before you crawl in your bed is the fact that you don’t need a shower a mere 5 hours later when the alarm goes off. It’s like a glorified nap. We saved water and time that way although we did lose sleep using this sleep vs. shower method.

A short hour and 45 minutes later found a whole passle of smiling, giggling girls spilling out of the same hotel room and bustling down to a waiting, shiny limo. A couple of us weighed our options and opted for coffee instead of a limo ride. Yeah, that's how important coffee can be to a person: instead of taking your first limo ride ever, you’d settle for coffee instead. I almost felt foolish mature watching the gawking hotel guests drool over the our limo while I slipped into a blue Corolla instead and went to a drive through coffee shop. But, my priorities were in order and that's all that mattered.

Arriving at the church we immediately plugged in irons, set up ironing boards, began fixing hair and spraying perfume. I personally became heavily intoxicated with the cloud of hair spray and perfume and nail polish that filled the room we were in but hey, at least we all looked nice and smelled good too.

After getting my hair done, I began to prepare for putting on my dress. The Dress. That bridesmaid dress I had slaved over along with my kind sister-in-law who had finished it up for me and made it fit perfect.

As I went to get my hand picked undergarments that I needed before putting the dress on, I found that they were no where. I looked everywhere I knew I had put them and they were entirely missing. I ran out to the limo that had just arrived with the male wedding attendants and interrogated the driver about the location of my clothing. The petrified driver kindly assured me my clothes were not in the luggage area as he nervously dodged my flailing arms and threatening jabs while preparing to step back in his limo. I searched the church foyer, the car I had come over to the church in and ransacked all the luggage and duffel bags that were not my own. But, nothing turned up. The clothes were missing.

I called a family member still at the hotel asking them to please check the room my clothes were last in. The clothes were gone. I just knew they were probably sitting in the corner of an elevator or laying strewn on a parking lot somewhere getting black tire marks on my much lacy necessary “clothing.”

I was desperate and really needed to be dressed and practicing the piano instead of running around like a chicken with my head cut off in search of lingerie. I finally decided to just go to the bathroom and think. While in my perfume intoxicated state of mind and feeling dizzy from all the smells and lack of fresh air, I found in that hazy bathroom that the clothes I needed were already where they were supposed to be: on me. I was so relieved that the embarrassment of the whole ordeal did nothing to keep me from relieving the worried bride and my fellow bridesmaids that this matron of honor had indeed accounted for everything she needed for this day. I was met with scoffing laughter instead of sighs of relief.

And I don't understand why.

Anyway, now the dress. The Moment had come. I put it on, stepped out of the bathroom for inspection. I was met with yeah-it’s-okay-but-are-you-sure-you-can’t-tighten-your-bra-straps type of reaction. Not the type of response a maiden of honor expects. Or appreciates.

I decided to try on a different dress. So, I grabbed another one laying over the back of a chair. That one was too tight.

I slipped out one last time, hoping I hadn’t lost/gained too much weight over the course of time that had lapsed since my dress was sewn and grabbed the next dress I could find. Finally, it fit. I am making a mental note to personalize matching dresses I make from now on in order to save on time and the embarrassment of trying on every pink dress I could lay my hands on. Bare in mind that this is moving closely to about an hour before the beginning of the wedding and I still needed to practice the piano –before guests arrived—and do the finishing touches on myself.

I zipped into the still empty sanctuary and ran to the piano, relieved I was alone to practice the song assigned to me by the bride for her special day. I began to play and suddenly out of no where, people dressed in black began flashing lights at me, zooming in on my playing and taking in the piano from different angles. That was an excellent practice set up because it made me feel like I was seriously performing and definitely on display. It was realistically intimidating which was what I needed to live in the moment of performance without actually performing.

My fingers glided perfectly and as the damper peddle faded the song at the end, the photographer began to tell me how much he liked that song and the arrangement he heard and how he had it on his Ipod and perhaps I could listen to it later on that day. It was the inspiration I needed and appreciated but didn’t expect.

Doing the finishing touches on myself, opening bridal attendant gifts and then racing to the kitchen to get a bite to eat in order to help eliminate a sure tendency of fainting, I realized this was it. The groom was visiting with his attendants and looked out-of-the-ordinarily sober and serious. I felt an advantage on my sister (the bride) because I got to talk to the groom and see him on HER wedding day before she did. HA! Wait! That was the point… duh.

Teetering on the gold, pointy heeled sandals strapped to my feet, I attempted to gracefully flit around and make sure everything was in line that I was in charge of: flower girl, ring bearers, husband-of-the-matron-of-honor, etc. I found myself happily accepting the steady strong arm of the brother-of-the-bride who also happened to be my brother too. Those darling sandals were for looks, not for wearing. But, if you had a handsome soldier to escort you around, you knew exactly how Cinderella must’ve felt.

Helping the bride put on her beautiful gown, I couldn't believe the miracle that takes place in a girl when she becomes a bride in that one single moment. It’s a transformation. The point in time when she enters that portal between single hood and marriage. The radiant beauty the dress inspires in the girl that is now The Bride is heavenly. It was HER day. And she looked every bit of it too.

The moment came for us to line up in the order of our attendant positions. And then the tears of happiness came. I have never in my life had obvious tears on my eyes because I was happy. I was petrified my make-up would run and began receiving directions from all kinds of friendly people on how to dab one's eyes when you wear the kind of make-up you are not used to wearing. The rest of the people I was with told me to just quit crying because if I cried, then they would cry too. I felt so responsible in my out of character state of my mind and quickly controlled my tears. And that make-up.

The music started. The Grandmothers were seated. It was too late now to do anything else. Everything had to be ready. The first attendants entered the church. And then the next. And then the next and so on and so forth until it was my turn.

I stepped out on the white runner with my sparkly, tipsy sandals while taking hold of the strong arm of the attendant I was attending with. Thankfully, he had a much more substantial base than I had and it allowed me to thrive in the moment of dainty heels, shimmering dress, climaxing processional music and the fact that my sister was getting married. Immediately, I felt all the excitement and emotion of such a special day and my smile felt like my face would break. I was so happy.

I remembered back a few years when I walked down the same aisle on the arm of my father to the smiling groom waiting for me at the front of the church. I looked over to where that groom sat watching me and saw that same smile and that darling wink. I was so happy.

This was Brittney's day. The day she had waited for. Her groom had a very pleased smile on his face when we met eyes and I could tell he partook of the same joy I had for Britt only his was deeper. He had so much love for her in his eyes. This man that had won my sister's heart was worthy of her affection. He was so happy and I could see in his eyes what a million words could never say: she's all mine now and I will cherish her forever.

In a shower of pink petals and bright, giggly smiles, the flower girl and ring bearer put on a delightful show of sprinkling flowers down the aisle runner. They were perfect. I had no idea those children could possess such perfection. Anyone could tell they delighted in the participation they had in their Aunt Beemoo's day and the joy they had was evident in the pink cloud of petals they were all the way down the aisle.

And then the bride. She was beautiful. Her hair was perfect. Her dress sparkled like a ray of sunshine. Her smile, her confidence, her happiness, her composure, her love... all were as evident as the sun was outside. She didn't take her eyes off her groom the whole way down the aisle. She was radiant. This was the moment of her life and she celebrated every minute of it. I was so happy.

The ceremony, special music and vows were all perfect. Nothing went wrong. The first kiss was beautiful and the smiles and peace the couple had together was so inspiring to watch. They were definitely on a good start to a great marriage.

I never knew a day could be so perfect. But it was. And I was so happy but even happier that the happiness didn't end when the last notes of the recessional died down. A good marriage is sure to follow this happy wedding and I look forward to at last having a married sibling and settling down to life as young married couples together.

As hard as it is to believe, I have an idea I'm not half as happy as Andy and Britt are though. And for some reason, that makes me real happy.

I would post a picture from the wedding but due to previously committed-to requests, I was unable to photograph any part of the wedding. I guess that's part of being IN the wedding: you can't take pictures OF the wedding yourself. So, I captured it the best I could in words although I do realize that a single picture is worth a thousand words.