I originally posted the following on February 3, 2009 but I believe it to be a true depiction of my thoughts these days. Someone who will always remain close to my heart was diagnosed with Stage 4 Bone Cancer. She has weeks to live.
She is nearing the time of her departure, unless God works a miracle to keep her on this earth a little longer. But her reward in heaven is great. If it hadn't been for this dear soul, I would not be a believer in Christ. I feel I owe a level of gratitude nothing on earth can compare to. And that's one more reason I look forward to seeing her in heaven one day.
I grieve but not as one who has no hope. I grieve for her children, her husband, her young grand child, her pain. But I hope in the promise of eternal life. May God comfort their hearts and restore their pain with peace...
Death.
It's one of those subjects most of us avoid talking about. It makes us uncomfortable. Uneasy. Sometimes fearful. The unknown of what our future holds is too heavy to think about.
But death is just part of life, really.
It's ironic how death can effect you even if you or none of your loved ones die. It can be a story told to you by a friend. An article in the newspaper. A glance at the obituaries.
What always gets me are the "untimely" deaths as we seem to classify any death that happens before age 75. And we stumble around, grappling in the reality of the cruelty of death and ask, "Why God?"
While observing the most tragic story I have ever heard, I kept stuttering those 2 little words... "Why God?" And then it dawned on me as I reflected on the brevity of life, the cruelty of death and the utter desire for destruction that the Evil One has for each one of us, God is not the author of confusion. He does not find joy in tormenting our lives with sorrow. He is not even capable of filling our lives with sorrow. He is a God of good.
In the beginning of time, God gave man free choice. We have the right to choose what we like. What we don't like. What we want. What we don't want. He made a point of proving that we have such a free choice in life when He sent His Son to earth and let us decide what we wanted to do with the Jesus of Nazareth.
And in the process of time, we took the very life of Jesus and wrenched every drop of blood from His body to prove that we were in control. That even God's own Son could not reconcile our vile hearts to the God of Love. And God let us.
What we didn't realize was that every drop of blood that was spent, did not drop into a forgotten vortex of time and eternity. It was collected and saved for the remission of our sins so that even while we were dead in our hearts towards the love of God, that love was still attainable through the very Son we destroyed. That blood was collected for me. For you.
All we had to do was take it in repentance and forgiveness of sin.
But yet we live in a fallen world. We have free choices. We decide our eternal fate. We decide what we will do with that Jesus of Nazareth. And God wills it that way because He gave us that choice.
That choice came when sin entered the world. When the Evil One told the first woman in history that she could be like God if she just disobeyed His one simple command, man then became like God. Since that day, we see the destruction of evil and we see the glory of good. Not to the extent that God does but close enough to understand that God obviously had the greater knowledge of such matters to begin with. We have regretted everyday since that desire to be like God. To know like God. To see like God. We can't handle the reality of cruelty. Of death. Of pain. Of loss.
We are human. We lack the infinite ability of thinking powers that move us on from today. That give us a glimpse into the future. We work to put food on our tables just for today. We work to bring up the stock market. We work to avoid the probability of death. Of grief. Of pain. But, God's work involves an eternal life that far expands a drop of the drop of the tiniest droplet in the expansive bucket of time.
In God's world, time has no end. In our world, time is everything. And when time ends for a living soul on earth, death has won. We can't contemplate the cruelty of separation. Of loss. Of grief so sharp that even taking a breath of air is an effort beyond a natural ability to just breathe.
Then we ask, "Why God?"
And God sits on His throne comforting broken hearts and grieving for the loss of our joy and wishing we could understand as He does. To understand that when sin came into the world, our free will forced the process of life and death. That pain and suffering was not His plan. That God did not make man to be alone.
Satan is the prince and the power of the air. Yet God is the life that lives within us.... "... And God breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul." Just like we forced the very life out of God's Son and assumed we had finally conquered a power greater than us, so Satan moves to destroy our physical lives in hopes of conquering a power greater than himself. He is the accuser of the brethren. The crux of all evil. The end of all good. His motive is to condemn, break down and destroy.
The capability of God to protect and defend us is often confined to the eternal soul. God promised us everlasting life and that life is beyond the kingdom of this world. And He protects and keeps our hearts for His kingdom. His power. His glory. Life on earth is a passage to Heaven and God's will is that none would perish but that all would have eternal life. We don't live in eternal life until we soar beyond the confines of human flesh and blood.
The blessing of love. The companionship of marriage. The beauty of life manifested in the birth of a child are all the goodness of God that can still be enjoyed in a sin-fallen world. They give us a taste of perfection and what our bodies were created for: eternal life.
But, we will never understand death while we still live. Death is a comprehension of knowledge beyond the human brain of our understanding. We were not designed to know death. To experience death. To see death. To cause death. Man is a "living soul" and God's design made it that way. We can not embrace death because nothing within us can welcome the shards of pain that death is.
The fact that death hurts is because we are not inoculated to it's powers. It was never intended to be understood but because of our free choice over the process of time, we have all experienced death in some way. Whether through a family member or a close friend or a spouse, death has visited each one of us.
When the "Why God" questions crowd our minds, the reality that God does not design sorrow and does not thrive in our grief should be ever present on our mind. Considering we live in such a sin-sick and fallen world, we should ask "Why God?" when we close our eyes at night in the arms of our lover. When we go to sleep knowing that all is well in the world we live in and the circle of people we inhabit.
But, since we think it's normal to experience complete goodness, we don't notice the luxuries of life like health and safety and the love of a life-long spouse. Why? Because God created us to live, to be, to desire, to have everything good.
And death is not a part He originally created us to have in His perfect blue-print of creation. Because death is cruel. Death hurts. Death separates. Death destroys. Death is the epitome of evil. It is the opposite of good.
We will never understand the purpose and planning of death. Why? Because only God has conquered death. Because God is only good.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
FLEXIBILITY 101
If I could, I would take a class that would give me an education on the #1 important ingredient to life, health and the pursuit of happiness. And that ingredient I would learn would be called:
FLEXIBILITY
My highly educated teacher would lecture on the following statement:
"We all realize that there are more than just ONE important ingredient to life just like there's more than one important ingredient in chocolate chip cookies. Take flour for example... flour is usually the first ingredient listed on therecipe requirements for cookies. We all know that. Another important addition is baking soda because it's vital to the leaven needed to produce a slight raise in the structure of the cookie itself. The chemistry the baking soda produces causes the cookie to manufacture fibers in which it raises at a certain temperature and then conforms and holds to the shape it grew to. We also need sugar. Sugar appeals to the taste buds and takes the cookie out of the "health food" category and puts the cookie in a "dessert food" category. This is important to the life and welfare of the cookie because how many meals in our country today automatically offer a "health menu" at the end of the entree? None. But you will find a "dessert menu" offered at most diners today. This is important to the production and consumption of each individual cookie destined to be created. But chocolate... chocolate is vital to the purpose, the value and the final completion of the chocolate chip cookie. What would the blend of flour and baking soda and sugar be without chocolate chips? It would be a lump of flour, baking soda and sugar. This is proof we need chocolate, students."
Of course, the point of the professor would be understood by all and it would so obviously apply to the topic in our class that day: Flexibility. It would also apply to any student studying how to become a professional chocolate chip cookie maker. And it would appeal to the general public that insists on funding the production and education of good chocolate. It would be a great class to take because so many people with so many different educational pursuits, could benefit from such a knowledgeable professor.
The tests I'd take after that class would reflect my understanding of the concept of Flexibility through the professor's thorough presentation and I would probably pass the test with flying colors... like a parrot passes by high in the sky.
My education of this would give me strong beliefs that being flexible should effect our everyday life like the h2O we drink effects our general health. Without flexibility, we will never learn how to bend over backwards. And we all know how handy it is to bend over backwards when we need to reach the floor behind us without turning around
Flexibility will influence the following:
How and when we look at freedom... "Do I need this shower or am I just looking for a break?"
How and why we look at fat... "Do I need to lose weight or do I just not like the way my stomach bulges and folds and hangs over my waistline."
How and where we look for fun... "Is there true purpose in an expensive vacation or do I just not like getting the mail everyday?"
How and what we call our favorite... "Am I eating this ice cream because I like it or is it truly my favorite?"
These and other attributes play into how we're flexible.
When we're flexible, we eat ice cream because we need a break and can't find the bathroom under the pile of toilet paper the two year old piled in the toilet.
When we're flexible, we walk to the mailbox every week or two so we can check the "in a weekly exercise program" box on the doctor's form.
When we're flexible, we enjoy noticing the way fat clings to our bodies like a school of jelly fish because it helps take our mind off the beach side vacation we'd really like to go on.
When we're flexible, we enjoy being cooped up for days in our house with sick kids because we embrace the slogan, "Freedom is never free."
Flexibility lends itself in many different ways to our perspectives, our entertainment views, our attitudes and our over all mental health.
Like when your daughter comes gasping and banging and pounding on the door, hardly able to catch her breath so she canscream hysterically tenderly call for her mother. And you get to the door and you find her wildly hopping on her feet like she's painfully jumping on hot coals. You notice she's gasping and huffing like something horrible is happening and you realize she's possibly getting her feet chopped off. And so you ask her what's going on in her young little life as she bounces energetically in a six foot circle on the cement porch floor. And you ask with concern in your voice because you care for her well being and you want her to know that you really do think she's a normal child. You articulate your question carefully as if an acting-out-of-her-mind-child would be able to answer your question sanely because you enunciated the 't' in "WHAT HAPPENED."
And she replies in a breathy way, like a jogger sounds when they're jogging, "H-h-h-h I h-h-h-h-h-h h-h-h-h-hurt h-h-h-h-h-h-h my-hhh-h-h-h fo-h-h-ooo-h-h-ttt h-h-h-h-h." (translated: I hurt my foot.)
You observe her with a keen eye and notice that the foot she's huffing about would have to include at least one of the two feet she's bouncing wildly on.
Because you forgot that stand up comedy usually has some form of sense and sanity to it, and you really don't want to go crazy from all the excitement your children cause in your life, you find yourself laughing hysterically that your child would choose to express her pain in such an energetic and healthy way. While using the banged up, chopped off foot to propel her into the air.
Flexibility gives you the ability to accept the comedy of the situation as you turn to go back inside the house while your banged-up-foot-child bounces off the porch and down the steps, nursing what she believes to be a badly hurt foot. While jumping on it.
Flexibility forces you to see the obvious when all you notice is everything that's not there. Like when your son drills you about the moon as if he thinks you're some scientist or something. He begins a breathless string of questions on if the moon could crush the house and what would happen if you shot the moon and does the moon roll and how does the moon just stay up in the sky and does it just 'stick' there and how big is the moon and can you shoot the moon, can you?
Flexibility helps you see that your child is not a mad scientist even if he has every indication of becoming one.
Flexibility helps you understand the deep and vast brain behind the erratic and usually irrelevant questions.
Flexibility helps you embrace the opportunity of gazing lovingly into the pool of dark brown eyes that look up to you and sincerely believe with all their heart that you, of all people, are the wealth of knowledge they've been searching for all of their 5 little years of life.
Flexibility is such a great tool to carry through life and something everyone should get a PHD on. An education in Flexibility would give great resume references because everyone would want to hire the Flexibility person.
But, I would learn that Flexibility forces you to understand that you will probably never be able to take a class on Flexibility because there is no class out there devoted primarily to the topic of Flexibility. Flexibility is just too hard to teach. Frankly, flexibility does not fit in a box or a text book. It's just too flexible to do so.
But by accepting this hard, cruel fact, I am proving my understanding of Flexibility.
And I'm flexible enough to accept that I will never get an education on the #1 important ingredient for life: Flexibility.
FLEXIBILITY
My highly educated teacher would lecture on the following statement:
"We all realize that there are more than just ONE important ingredient to life just like there's more than one important ingredient in chocolate chip cookies. Take flour for example... flour is usually the first ingredient listed on the
Of course, the point of the professor would be understood by all and it would so obviously apply to the topic in our class that day: Flexibility. It would also apply to any student studying how to become a professional chocolate chip cookie maker. And it would appeal to the general public that insists on funding the production and education of good chocolate. It would be a great class to take because so many people with so many different educational pursuits, could benefit from such a knowledgeable professor.
The tests I'd take after that class would reflect my understanding of the concept of Flexibility through the professor's thorough presentation and I would probably pass the test with flying colors... like a parrot passes by high in the sky.
My education of this would give me strong beliefs that being flexible should effect our everyday life like the h2O we drink effects our general health. Without flexibility, we will never learn how to bend over backwards. And we all know how handy it is to bend over backwards when we need to reach the floor behind us without turning around
Flexibility will influence the following:
How and when we look at freedom... "Do I need this shower or am I just looking for a break?"
How and why we look at fat... "Do I need to lose weight or do I just not like the way my stomach bulges and folds and hangs over my waistline."
How and where we look for fun... "Is there true purpose in an expensive vacation or do I just not like getting the mail everyday?"
How and what we call our favorite... "Am I eating this ice cream because I like it or is it truly my favorite?"
These and other attributes play into how we're flexible.
When we're flexible, we eat ice cream because we need a break and can't find the bathroom under the pile of toilet paper the two year old piled in the toilet.
When we're flexible, we walk to the mailbox every week or two so we can check the "in a weekly exercise program" box on the doctor's form.
When we're flexible, we enjoy noticing the way fat clings to our bodies like a school of jelly fish because it helps take our mind off the beach side vacation we'd really like to go on.
When we're flexible, we enjoy being cooped up for days in our house with sick kids because we embrace the slogan, "Freedom is never free."
Flexibility lends itself in many different ways to our perspectives, our entertainment views, our attitudes and our over all mental health.
Like when your daughter comes gasping and banging and pounding on the door, hardly able to catch her breath so she can
And she replies in a breathy way, like a jogger sounds when they're jogging, "H-h-h-h I h-h-h-h-h-h h-h-h-h-hurt h-h-h-h-h-h-h my-hhh-h-h-h fo-h-h-ooo-h-h-ttt h-h-h-h-h." (translated: I hurt my foot.)
You observe her with a keen eye and notice that the foot she's huffing about would have to include at least one of the two feet she's bouncing wildly on.
Because you forgot that stand up comedy usually has some form of sense and sanity to it, and you really don't want to go crazy from all the excitement your children cause in your life, you find yourself laughing hysterically that your child would choose to express her pain in such an energetic and healthy way. While using the banged up, chopped off foot to propel her into the air.
Flexibility gives you the ability to accept the comedy of the situation as you turn to go back inside the house while your banged-up-foot-child bounces off the porch and down the steps, nursing what she believes to be a badly hurt foot. While jumping on it.
Flexibility forces you to see the obvious when all you notice is everything that's not there. Like when your son drills you about the moon as if he thinks you're some scientist or something. He begins a breathless string of questions on if the moon could crush the house and what would happen if you shot the moon and does the moon roll and how does the moon just stay up in the sky and does it just 'stick' there and how big is the moon and can you shoot the moon, can you?
Flexibility helps you see that your child is not a mad scientist even if he has every indication of becoming one.
Flexibility helps you understand the deep and vast brain behind the erratic and usually irrelevant questions.
Flexibility helps you embrace the opportunity of gazing lovingly into the pool of dark brown eyes that look up to you and sincerely believe with all their heart that you, of all people, are the wealth of knowledge they've been searching for all of their 5 little years of life.
Flexibility is such a great tool to carry through life and something everyone should get a PHD on. An education in Flexibility would give great resume references because everyone would want to hire the Flexibility person.
But, I would learn that Flexibility forces you to understand that you will probably never be able to take a class on Flexibility because there is no class out there devoted primarily to the topic of Flexibility. Flexibility is just too hard to teach. Frankly, flexibility does not fit in a box or a text book. It's just too flexible to do so.
But by accepting this hard, cruel fact, I am proving my understanding of Flexibility.
And I'm flexible enough to accept that I will never get an education on the #1 important ingredient for life: Flexibility.
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
Dogs Really Don't Go To Heaven After All
Sometimes I have those days where nothing seems to go right. I wake up in the morning to the sound of the dog barking and kids frantically chattering. That's a bad sound combination to wake up to. I've learned 2 things from those kinds of days:
#1: Always wake up before the kids
#2: Never sleep later than the kids
As I looked out the window on that bright sunny morning that I just happened to commit both
You try waking up and the first thing you see is a headless, dead kitten hanging out of your dog's mouth. Seriously, try it. See if your day turns out nice.
After bucketing the fragment of the once-cute-kitten, we went inside for breakfast. I pretty much had no appetite after seeing that disgusting kitten but the kids seemed undaunted. In their enthusiasm to eat, an entire bag of cereal spilled gracefully all over the badly stained carpeted dining room. Which, reminds me... don't get me started on carpeted dining rooms because I really don't have too many good things to say about them. Or the people who would even think to put carpet in a dining room.
From then on, the day went down hill. If it wasn't one catastrophe, something greater and more dangerous was happening. Of course it sulked me into a "why is this happening to me" mood which made me feel guilty because I frequently like to remind myself of all the true hardship in the world and the fact that I really have NO hardship at all compared to other mothers. Like my poor mother cat... her darling baby had just been killed by a ravaging dog. At least all my children's heads were accounted for.
Seriously though, there are mothers all over who have it far worse than I... either they live in a battle torn country or they have a terminal illness or their children have all died or they have no home to raise their children in or they have no loving father to share parenthood with or they have no understanding of how to raise children or they're lonely childless women, arms aching to hold a child. I knew I didn't have it bad so I scolded myself soundly for sulking.
It was also about 100 degrees that day with full sun. My brave husband was battling a high, hot roof a good distance away and being the good husband that he is, I wanted to reward him with a cool refreshing drink.
So, I packed up the kids, departed from our comfortable air conditioned house and we began our little journey. Now, in case you think this seems mild and peaceful and mothering and kind, I think you should understand that you have no idea what it's like to ride in our van when all the kids are in there. And they're not sleeping. Or eating.
First of all, they yell (in order to be heard, of course), "Cold air on please" over and over until you turn the cold air on. And "cold air on please" literally means, turn the thermostat to 60F and turn the fan on full blast. If you adjust the fan at all or make the air slightly stray from freezing cold, you will immediately hear a simultaneous, "coldaironplease" chorus from the back of the van.
And they do this of course, to survive because if for some reason there should be any trace of anything warm in the van, they will surely die of a complete heat stroke. So we "coldaironplease" all the way to our destination and we "coldaironplease" all the way back home again.
While their hair is standing on end from the force of air blowing on their little heads, they begin a series of lessons. They question about all the deer in the woods. And what would we do if there was a bear trying to get in our house. And how many lions are probably over in that field. And what kind of thing is that tractor pulling? And why do we have to take the semi road? (Interstate) And why are they building a field with all that dirt? And "Mom are you going speed limit?" And what kind of plants are in that field? And what would happen if we turned the head lights off and drove in the dark. And WHO put that moon up there. And do skunks bite?
You must understand that these questions are being bombarded to the front of the van over the roar of the A/C fans. If there's any music or radio on at the same time, they just yell their questions louder. If they can't hear your answer (which is typical), they will repeat the question as many times as they need to. Pretty soon everyone in the van is hollering and yelling in an attempt to achieve ultimate communication and we travel merely down the road like one, little, happy family.
Alex chimes in quoting a phrase from a little "Old McDonald tractor" that goes, "Uh-oh, I can't drive" when you put the cow or the duck or the pig in the driver's seat. Like a broken record, he repeats that over and over from his cracker crumbed carseat.
It usually goes like this until Janae has to puke, which happens on any ride over 5 minutes long. There's usually a mad scramble for a cup or a bag or a box or a something to toss back to her. She then hangs her mouth over the cup or the bag or the box or whatever it is and sits there mostly quietly for the rest of the trip, giving us a running dialogue on the puke situation.
Funny thing how she never has puked in the van, except for the one time she was sick with pneumonia. The puke-into-object is completely psychological and we only give it to her for her own peace of mind. And our sanity. Hearing, "I need to go puke" mile after mile gets a little disturbing. The situation is purely mental on her end but anything to squelch her mad puke panic gives us a better ride. And helps us not go mental with her.
Of course, on such days as we were having that day, Landon and Janae gained another 7 notches in their brain capacity and began to delve into the deep questions. Like "where's hell?" And "how do we go to heaven?" And "how do we sin?" And other such brain exercising questions. While mentally trying to lead my children through the Romans road... or some other such process of salvation, I was rather overwhelmed by their barrage of comments revealing their understanding of the whole situation.
Meanwhile, I was trying to stay on the road and find the job site with no directions. And little cell phone coverage. And no GPS.
I was deep in thought and trying to capture the moment to the best of my ability. I mean seriously, when someone asks you how to know God, don't you just tell them? Realizing that my children are quite young and have a very impressionable mind, I had to make this moment count. I thought I was answering them well enough until I heard Janae start tattling...
"Mom, Landon is going to send me to hell... Landon is going to send me to hell... Mom, Landon is going to send me to hell..."
I scolded Landon and assured Janae no such thing would happen.
He argued back, stating he COULD send her there and would because of what she had done to him. (Some minor offence... I'm sure. I don't remember the details now.)
I explained only God sent people there and actually, He doesn't really send them; they choose to go by not accepting God's love for them.
Landon had a reason why Janae fell into the same category and assured Janae again he was sending her to hell.
In case you are concerned about my son's ability to show love and forgiveness, you need to understand he had no concept of hell at that point. Hell was just a bad place for bad people. And in the process of understanding his mind on the subject and the fact he wanted to send his sister there, whom he really does love, I grew to understand a child's idea of God, hell and heaven.
My mind failed to reach into the innermost parts of my being and recollect a good way of explaining to my kids right then in the middle of our errand HOW bad hell was, WHY people go there and WHAT God has to do with it. So I copped out. I told them both that no one knows for sure where hell is.
The bright and brilliant boy in the back seat exclaimed, "Well, I can find it then and Janae's going there."
Keeping myself upright in my seat in order to keep from pounding my head on the dashboard, I concentrated on not driving off the road. My head pounded from the noise and din of the van and I was overwhelmed with the responsibility of cementing into my children the concept of a loving God, heaven and hell. It was a complex situation and as I explained in even greater detail how BAD hell is and how GOOD God is, I realized even more that in order to really understand the horribleness of hell, you must understand the loveliness of God. And when you understand how loving God is, you have a better understanding of how awful hell is. Both go hand in hand. I kept it simple and filed the whole topic away with plans to bring it up later.
I thought they understood it all better and felt content with the level of understanding in the conversation. I was equally pleased Landon was no longer sending Janae to hell and was relieved to have that discussion over with. As we left the job site, I heard an ongoing argument happening over the din of the fans in the back seat...
"Janae, listen to me: Elly (the dog) is NOT a Christian," Landon said, quite strongly.
She retorted with a smart remark and made Landon even more firm. He sighed heavily to reinforce his statement and said, "NO Janae: dogs CANNOT be Christians!"
Landon seemed to be handling his own but I backed him up. We began to discuss that dogs aren't Christians, therefore they're not going to heaven. Who would've thought on a mild little errand to bring water to their daddy, these 4 and 5 year olds would explode into such complex little beings?
As we "coldaironplease" all the way back home, deeper and more difficult questions circled our little van. After completing our errand and putting the littles down to bed (which was no small feat), Landon and I went out back to bury the kitten.
After listening to him eulogize the kitten all day about how she was his best friend and how nice of cat she was and how much we needed to shoot the dog's brains out since she wasn't thinking when she killed the kitten, I assumed the burial would be somewhat emotional.
It wasn't.
Landon recommended putting a sign up for everyone to read that said 'the kitten was buried here.' When I constructed a little cross, he thought that was a neat sign to put over the kitten's grave. That way no kids would dig a hole right there and end up digging up the kitten, or so he said. He was really concerned about stray neighbor kids digging a random hole that would end up right over that kitten. She stunk badly by this time so Landon wanted to be sure she stayed under the ground where no one could smell her.
As the day drew to a close, I ended up making another errand up to my hard working husband. He asked me to bring supper up to the crew working so I obliged and made the trek again in my "coldaironplease" van with my chattering children. On our way home, I listened to a story on the radio about a man who's wife and 4 children were swept away in a flash flood.
Just like that, his perfect, wonderful world was gone. Gone.
It was pounded into me again that as long as I have my dear children and adoring husband surrounding and overwhelming my life with all their goodness and personality, I am one blessed woman. Never mind the fact I feel like pounding my head on the dashboard. Or wake up to a dead kitten. Or grow tired after listening to a barrage of questions about the moon. Or hell. Or dogs being Christians. Life is good.
And you know what? Even if dogs really don't go to heaven, life still is good.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
That Dysfuntional Kitchen
Sometimes I get this overwhelming urge to tear remove the cabinet doors off my cupboards. Other times I feel obnoxious adventurously diligent to scheme a way to take down the wall that slices our kitchen into tiny fragments of square footage. Other times I strive to be content by merely loading the dishwasher which results in a more open feeling since the 3' of counter space no longer is covered in dirty dishes.
These urges come when I sense myself being suffocated by the closed in feeling my kitchen boasts of. And pretty much anything would make it feel more open.
I've toyed with the idea of moving the fridge out. Seriously, count how many cultures you know of that don't have a fridge. They survive, right? Just think of the counter space I could create where the fridge sits now!
I've thought about using a hammer and hacking air holes into walls. But I knew my carpenter husband wouldn't like the unprofessional look that would give.
I've put off baking and doing any major cooking. The results usually produce tight quarters and insufficient food any way.I even accidentally removed the entire front glass from our stove. That gave me about two extra inches of knee space in the vicinity of the stove but it also eliminated the insulation feature on the front of the oven. I learned fast that burning your knee once is all you need to always take an 18" bypass of the stove every time you waltz through your kitchen.
I've dreamed of creating an outdoor kitchen. But that would cost more than removing that wall that makes my kitchen a tiny cracker box. And what would we do about the flies?
I've threatened to ban myself from the kitchen. You know, the whole "out of sight, out of mind" theory? That doesn't work when mealtime rolls around and everyone wants food from the kitchen.
I've resigned myself to experience my kitchen as a Shrine of Contentment. On the stove I daily sacrifice my unthankful spirit and offer up my 5'x8' kitchen as a piddly incense. I wear a smile to brighten up the dark corner of our house we call our kitchen in hopes of making up for the poor lighting. I've determined to forgive the manufacturer who created the homogeneous light that takes up half the ceiling but only gives off about 13watts of brightness. Seriously.
I inch around the kitchen like a sardine in it's tin can. Only using the bare minimum of space for the traffic I create from one side of the 5' wide room to the other side. I've realized I can basically rock from side to side in order to use the sink and stove at the same time. I've looked for ways to find convenience in my kitchen. But it ends up resulting in the same disappointment a convenience store gives - seriously, how convenient is it to spend $4 for a bag of popcorn you could get at the grocery store for 99 cents?
That's how my kitchen is. It's like a convenience-store-four-dollar-popcorn-bag disappointment.
I hear Scandinavian Open Shelving Kitchens are the in thing. Did you know that? I didn't but when I heard it, I knew it had to be true. I mentally calculated how I could bring Scandinavian hope to my Cave Man Kitchen. But the problem remained. That wall is just in the way.
See...
There's no place to put open shelves unless I remove the fridge and the stove. But what would a kitchen be without a fridge or stove? It would be a utility room. Or a wet pantry.
So, I sigh and remember the many cultures that don't even have a kitchen. And I wonder what they'd be able to do with a kitchen like mine. It dawns on me that really the only thing I lack in my kitchen, isn't space or counter top. Rather, it's a I-can-make-this-work attitude.
But man, how much better I can make this work if I didn't have that wall in the way...
These urges come when I sense myself being suffocated by the closed in feeling my kitchen boasts of. And pretty much anything would make it feel more open.
I've toyed with the idea of moving the fridge out. Seriously, count how many cultures you know of that don't have a fridge. They survive, right? Just think of the counter space I could create where the fridge sits now!
I've thought about using a hammer and hacking air holes into walls. But I knew my carpenter husband wouldn't like the unprofessional look that would give.
I've put off baking and doing any major cooking. The results usually produce tight quarters and insufficient food any way.I even accidentally removed the entire front glass from our stove. That gave me about two extra inches of knee space in the vicinity of the stove but it also eliminated the insulation feature on the front of the oven. I learned fast that burning your knee once is all you need to always take an 18" bypass of the stove every time you waltz through your kitchen.
I've dreamed of creating an outdoor kitchen. But that would cost more than removing that wall that makes my kitchen a tiny cracker box. And what would we do about the flies?
I've threatened to ban myself from the kitchen. You know, the whole "out of sight, out of mind" theory? That doesn't work when mealtime rolls around and everyone wants food from the kitchen.
I've resigned myself to experience my kitchen as a Shrine of Contentment. On the stove I daily sacrifice my unthankful spirit and offer up my 5'x8' kitchen as a piddly incense. I wear a smile to brighten up the dark corner of our house we call our kitchen in hopes of making up for the poor lighting. I've determined to forgive the manufacturer who created the homogeneous light that takes up half the ceiling but only gives off about 13watts of brightness. Seriously.
I inch around the kitchen like a sardine in it's tin can. Only using the bare minimum of space for the traffic I create from one side of the 5' wide room to the other side. I've realized I can basically rock from side to side in order to use the sink and stove at the same time. I've looked for ways to find convenience in my kitchen. But it ends up resulting in the same disappointment a convenience store gives - seriously, how convenient is it to spend $4 for a bag of popcorn you could get at the grocery store for 99 cents?
That's how my kitchen is. It's like a convenience-store-four-dollar-popcorn-bag disappointment.
I hear Scandinavian Open Shelving Kitchens are the in thing. Did you know that? I didn't but when I heard it, I knew it had to be true. I mentally calculated how I could bring Scandinavian hope to my Cave Man Kitchen. But the problem remained. That wall is just in the way.
See...
There's no place to put open shelves unless I remove the fridge and the stove. But what would a kitchen be without a fridge or stove? It would be a utility room. Or a wet pantry.
So, I sigh and remember the many cultures that don't even have a kitchen. And I wonder what they'd be able to do with a kitchen like mine. It dawns on me that really the only thing I lack in my kitchen, isn't space or counter top. Rather, it's a I-can-make-this-work attitude.
But man, how much better I can make this work if I didn't have that wall in the way...
Monday, June 08, 2009
When Life Changes, God Doesn't
It all started the day we... well, I'm not sure exactly which day that was, come to think of it. Hmm. It must've been a big day though because it sure started a lot of stuff.
Then again, maybe it wasn't a big day. Maybe it was just a normal day with nothing out of the ordinary happening. Funny thing how it is when you sit down and look back at life and remember an era filled with bumps and bangs and bruises but yet you realize you can never pin it back to a beginning. A turning point. Or even a period at the end of a sentence.
Life just changed. Just like that.
But then you remember back to events that took place. Events that turned out to be individual steps on a certain stairway in life. And as each event unfolded, a new step was created where you found your life at. Then suddenly, the stairway ends and just like that, an era has ended. Life goes on and you go with it.
I know I'm speakingpathetic poetic and mysterious but certainly, there has GOT to be a good reason why I haven't updated for a month or two, right?
On a side note, I have completely recovered from Mono, hosted company ever since my recovery, put in a garden, reorganized my house, planted flowers, worked on landscaping, took a 22 hour round trip, saw Lake Michigan and watched my husband turn another year older. Not to mention a few other activities.
It's been a good year but not unmixed with sorrow. Realities of religion and the grace of Christ have been two of our main focuses, the latter more than the former. God gently leads His dear children along and we have vividly seen His hand leading those He calls His own.
To summarize the happenings of the last two months, is hard to do in a nutshell. And hard (if not unwise) to do on the world wide web. It's kinda like ripping a scab off your skin and saying, "Okay everybody, have at it!"
A few of you have wondered what's happened with my blog and why I haven't updated for so long. I am open for any dialogue or discussion done privately as for the reasons I've been away for so long. My blog isn't about personal details though (besides Alex chasing the cat with forks, etc.).
Oh, and in case I didn't convey this right, there was never any intention on NOT blogging nor do I plan to quit blogging in the future. My mind was just too full of other things to be able to digest anything worth typing out on blogger.com. It would've read something like this: ";lkj iowop ijhen ipfld polk dpoks..." A pile of used kleenex probably would've sat on my desk next to the computer on one side and the shelf in front of my head would've had a head shaped indentation where my head had specifically been put a time or two (or three). A browser window for a Bible study reference site would've been tabbed to bloggers tab while I blogged and I would've copied and pasted most of the Bible into my blog (I would've left out the battle scenes in the Old Testament. And the genealogies.) Oh and coffee... there would've been tanks of coffee fueling me on. By the way, if anyone wonders what Bible site is the easiest to navigate when you're studying half the New Testament at once, www.biblegateway.com is worth your look. I've been at that site in the last few weeks more than I've been to my bed.
I am excited about life. About God. About the gospel. There is peace and calm in my life where that had been confusion and strife. I am hopeful about the future. For the first time in a long time, the future looks bright and certain.
And I've experienced the promise of John 10:10: "Jesus said, "the thief cometh not, but for to steal, and to kill, and to destroy: I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly."
Do YOU know Jesus meant that verse when He said it?
Then again, maybe it wasn't a big day. Maybe it was just a normal day with nothing out of the ordinary happening. Funny thing how it is when you sit down and look back at life and remember an era filled with bumps and bangs and bruises but yet you realize you can never pin it back to a beginning. A turning point. Or even a period at the end of a sentence.
Life just changed. Just like that.
But then you remember back to events that took place. Events that turned out to be individual steps on a certain stairway in life. And as each event unfolded, a new step was created where you found your life at. Then suddenly, the stairway ends and just like that, an era has ended. Life goes on and you go with it.
I know I'm speaking
On a side note, I have completely recovered from Mono, hosted company ever since my recovery, put in a garden, reorganized my house, planted flowers, worked on landscaping, took a 22 hour round trip, saw Lake Michigan and watched my husband turn another year older. Not to mention a few other activities.
It's been a good year but not unmixed with sorrow. Realities of religion and the grace of Christ have been two of our main focuses, the latter more than the former. God gently leads His dear children along and we have vividly seen His hand leading those He calls His own.
To summarize the happenings of the last two months, is hard to do in a nutshell. And hard (if not unwise) to do on the world wide web. It's kinda like ripping a scab off your skin and saying, "Okay everybody, have at it!"
A few of you have wondered what's happened with my blog and why I haven't updated for so long. I am open for any dialogue or discussion done privately as for the reasons I've been away for so long. My blog isn't about personal details though (besides Alex chasing the cat with forks, etc.).
Oh, and in case I didn't convey this right, there was never any intention on NOT blogging nor do I plan to quit blogging in the future. My mind was just too full of other things to be able to digest anything worth typing out on blogger.com. It would've read something like this: ";lkj iowop ijhen ipfld polk dpoks..." A pile of used kleenex probably would've sat on my desk next to the computer on one side and the shelf in front of my head would've had a head shaped indentation where my head had specifically been put a time or two (or three). A browser window for a Bible study reference site would've been tabbed to bloggers tab while I blogged and I would've copied and pasted most of the Bible into my blog (I would've left out the battle scenes in the Old Testament. And the genealogies.) Oh and coffee... there would've been tanks of coffee fueling me on. By the way, if anyone wonders what Bible site is the easiest to navigate when you're studying half the New Testament at once, www.biblegateway.com is worth your look. I've been at that site in the last few weeks more than I've been to my bed.
I am excited about life. About God. About the gospel. There is peace and calm in my life where that had been confusion and strife. I am hopeful about the future. For the first time in a long time, the future looks bright and certain.
And I've experienced the promise of John 10:10: "Jesus said, "the thief cometh not, but for to steal, and to kill, and to destroy: I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly."
Do YOU know Jesus meant that verse when He said it?
Thursday, April 30, 2009
On Alex, Forks and Cats... and other things
Today is one of those days where you make coffee in the morning (as usual) and then by mid-afternoon you make another pot (not as usual) in order to survive.
And no, I'm not dealing with the pandemic flu scare either -- I am educated and well informed as you can be too. Nor am I under stress or overwhelmed with circumstances out of my control.
Rather, I am merely surviving. Swine flu has nothing on me today, seriously.
It all started this morning when this little 2 1/2 foot-tall guy was tenderly carried upstairs in his daddy's arms. The darling little stinker had WMD (Worst Morning Doo-doo) and since that can tend to wreck havoc on the surrounding air circulating our home, I knew it would be the traditional WMD if I didn't do something about it fast.
It was either change the diaper or light a bonfire of scented candles to cover the awful small. I knew the candle part wouldn't be ideal since we do have small children in the house so I opted for plan A: change the diaper.
That's when it all started.
He refused to be cleansed from hisiniquity putrid, dirty diaper. Knowing my child would love to spend the day with doo-doo smeared all over his as-soft-as-a-baby's-butt butt, I denied him the privilege, crossed his boundaries and cleansed the tender skin of the harsh toxins that naturally make up WMD. I was also thinking of the house, which I know is selfish of me.
After that, everything just went down hill from there.
He mutilated his much-starved-after banana, smearing entrails of banana on his tray. Yes, "banans" (as Alex affectionately calls them) have entrails. I'll take a picture next time if you don't believe me.
Then I gave him a strawberry. A delicious, juicy, RED-all-the-way-through, strawberry. He took a few chomps, chucked a bite under the dining table (which was across the room from where he safely sits in his high chair) and then slung the rest across the top of the table, smearing the whole way until it landed in front of his sister. It left an impressive trail of nice, juicy, red juice.
(That boy has quite the throw. And aim.)
Entwined through-out the banana and strawberry feast were loud, robust, healthy, deafening shouts of "MOM!" If you want to know what it sounds like, tell the person sitting closest to you to shout "mom" as loud as they can. Then ask them to repeat that for at least 20 minutes. And then hope your phone rings so you can try to carry on an important conversation with an important person. But make sure that the person sitting closest to you continues to yell "mom."
Around that same time in the morning, the originally planned appointment for later in the day to have our gas line repaired (since our house was beginning to smell like a propane plant, thanks to some leaky pipes), was suddenly moved to 5 minutes from right then. A path needed to be cleared through the toysartfully arranged left laying on the family room floor.
By this time, Alex was standing on his high chair tray, still yelling, shouting and hollering "mom."
Now, Grandpas are a great thing, they really are. And when it comes to having 2 1/2 foot-tall people like Alex around, Grandpas are a REALLY great thing. Amazingly enough, we actually had such a Grandpa on hand to rescue Alex from his high chair and set him free to have the run of the house. Alex was happy and so was the Grandpa. They had a brief time of enjoying the morning together and admiring each other but then as soon as Grandpa stepped away from his desk, Alex returned the favor Grandpa had previously shown him and proceeded to climb up to the desk and tear apart random pieces of important things. Grandpa was amazed with Alex's speed and swift thinking in handling the opportunity to sabotage Grandpa's important desk.
(Grandpas are too forgiving and very biased.)
After that, Alex climbed up to the silverware basket and with a look of glee and contempt on hisinnocent determined little face, he selected a sturdy fork and trailed the cat down. I'll leave you to your imagination as to what happened next because I'm sure you understand that a 2 1/2 foot-tall person, a fork and a cat are not a good combination. Especially when it's all located behind the couch.
As I continued to tackle my day... cleaning the bathroom, making lunch, saving the cat, answering phones and cleaning the kitchen... Alex kept his schedule going as well. He made a trek to the basement and checked out Toby's computer, offering a few insights on the important business document Toby had open in Word. Or maybe that was Quick Books? Whatever it was, Alex had it done in less than 7 seconds so obviously the program isn't very child proof.
Alex was greatly interested in the kind gas people that were here to repair our old gas lines and showed his appreciation by climbing their ladder and checking out their tools.
Then he came upstairs, satsweetly smugly next to the very-bloated-with-pregnancy-cat and held onto her tail in a very affectionate manner. It was a very strong bond. As in a I-will-love-you-forever-and-never-let-you-go kind of way.
Soon after that he became ravenously hungry for cheese and demanded a piece of the moldy cheese I was carving off of a cheese block. So I put him in his high chair, selected a pinch of healthy cheese and allowed him a good protein snack. Of course, that was all after he said "please" for the cheese.
That arrangement went well until Alex's dear and favorite sister innocently snitched a single string of the pile of cheese on his tray. He voice broke out like a rash on a poison ivy victim.
Over lunch time, Alex refused to eat his cheesy mashed potatoes. I coaxed him. I forced him. I urged him. He refused the bites of food or would take take them into his mouth, mix a nice blend of saliva with the spuds and then smear the entire biteful out on his hand. Like lotion. He also soaked himself with the leak-proof sippy cup of water proving that even sippy cups now days aren't child proof.
When his dad came home (after I had labored fruitlessly on training him to eat his food), Toby simply looked at him and said, "Alex, you take a bite." Those were 5 magic words that Alex understood to mean, "I must shovel my food in now or I may forever lose all of my third-born privileges in this family."
Disheartened by my lack of ability to train this child to eat a small pile of mashed potatoes, the Grandpa assured me not to worry; he said it's the male image that a father has which imparts godly fear on a young child. Bummer for me since I don't tend to have a very male image.
As the afternoon rounded to a close and nap time began to appear more obvious in the horizon of this beautiful day, Alex disappeared. Enjoying the lack ofstress excitement for a few brief minutes, I tried not to be too anxious as I looked for him. He had been under Grandpa's bed earlier affectionately chasing the cat the down so I wasn't too worried. I comforted myself with the illusion that he was still there and hoping that cat was smart enough not to be there.
Just then Alex came screeching across the house at top speed with wet hands. He's such a smart little inventor and his energetic spirit towards life is so inspiring. Unfortunately, I noted immediately that he was heading directly from the bathroom.
Upon investigation, the bathroom I had just scrubbed down earlier was in need of more cleaning. A yellow-tinted color of liquid blended with the water in the toilet bowl and around the perimeter of the toilet there were flecks of generous sprinkles of liquid. It all had a familiar faint tinge of a certain smell too.
Nice. What an adventurous child I have.
So, I disinfected his hands first and held him at the sink trying to control the water pressure as he lunged for each faucet handle and showered himself and the vicinity with a powerful spray of water that neither he nor I nor the vicinity expected.
After that, my mind went blank. Overall, I have vague memories ofswimming against white water rapids underwater finding him at the top of the bunk bed ladder 2 seconds after I turned my back (something he's NEVER climbed before) and I have another memory of him escaping out the front door, across the porch and down the steps all within the perimeter of about 9.5 seconds.
He continually peppered his daily activities with affectionate cat care, close examination of important documents on Grandpa's desk and snatching food items out of the fridge in a blink of an eye.
Fearing for his life and concerned with the wild adventurous nature Alex had suddenly possessed, I denied him anymore opportunities to try his hand at more inventions.
With a bright smile on his face and soft, cuddly "ganky" under his chin, he drifted off to slumber land while I groped feebly to the faint smell of coffee wafting through the air in my mind's nose.
So now you understand why I'd make coffee in the middle of the day and enjoy it to the fullest with rich, creamy caramel syrup, cool whip, a shot of caramel flavoring and real fresh whipping cream. And you'd also understand why I didn't feel guilty while drinking it: Alex gives me every reason to enjoy life to the fullest.
Just look at his example.
And no, I'm not dealing with the pandemic flu scare either -- I am educated and well informed as you can be too. Nor am I under stress or overwhelmed with circumstances out of my control.
Rather, I am merely surviving. Swine flu has nothing on me today, seriously.
It all started this morning when this little 2 1/2 foot-tall guy was tenderly carried upstairs in his daddy's arms. The darling little stinker had WMD (Worst Morning Doo-doo) and since that can tend to wreck havoc on the surrounding air circulating our home, I knew it would be the traditional WMD if I didn't do something about it fast.
It was either change the diaper or light a bonfire of scented candles to cover the awful small. I knew the candle part wouldn't be ideal since we do have small children in the house so I opted for plan A: change the diaper.
That's when it all started.
He refused to be cleansed from his
After that, everything just went down hill from there.
He mutilated his much-starved-after banana, smearing entrails of banana on his tray. Yes, "banans" (as Alex affectionately calls them) have entrails. I'll take a picture next time if you don't believe me.
Then I gave him a strawberry. A delicious, juicy, RED-all-the-way-through, strawberry. He took a few chomps, chucked a bite under the dining table (which was across the room from where he safely sits in his high chair) and then slung the rest across the top of the table, smearing the whole way until it landed in front of his sister. It left an impressive trail of nice, juicy, red juice.
(That boy has quite the throw. And aim.)
Entwined through-out the banana and strawberry feast were loud, robust, healthy, deafening shouts of "MOM!" If you want to know what it sounds like, tell the person sitting closest to you to shout "mom" as loud as they can. Then ask them to repeat that for at least 20 minutes. And then hope your phone rings so you can try to carry on an important conversation with an important person. But make sure that the person sitting closest to you continues to yell "mom."
Around that same time in the morning, the originally planned appointment for later in the day to have our gas line repaired (since our house was beginning to smell like a propane plant, thanks to some leaky pipes), was suddenly moved to 5 minutes from right then. A path needed to be cleared through the toys
By this time, Alex was standing on his high chair tray, still yelling, shouting and hollering "mom."
Now, Grandpas are a great thing, they really are. And when it comes to having 2 1/2 foot-tall people like Alex around, Grandpas are a REALLY great thing. Amazingly enough, we actually had such a Grandpa on hand to rescue Alex from his high chair and set him free to have the run of the house. Alex was happy and so was the Grandpa. They had a brief time of enjoying the morning together and admiring each other but then as soon as Grandpa stepped away from his desk, Alex returned the favor Grandpa had previously shown him and proceeded to climb up to the desk and tear apart random pieces of important things. Grandpa was amazed with Alex's speed and swift thinking in handling the opportunity to sabotage Grandpa's important desk.
(Grandpas are too forgiving and very biased.)
After that, Alex climbed up to the silverware basket and with a look of glee and contempt on his
As I continued to tackle my day... cleaning the bathroom, making lunch, saving the cat, answering phones and cleaning the kitchen... Alex kept his schedule going as well. He made a trek to the basement and checked out Toby's computer, offering a few insights on the important business document Toby had open in Word. Or maybe that was Quick Books? Whatever it was, Alex had it done in less than 7 seconds so obviously the program isn't very child proof.
Alex was greatly interested in the kind gas people that were here to repair our old gas lines and showed his appreciation by climbing their ladder and checking out their tools.
Then he came upstairs, sat
Soon after that he became ravenously hungry for cheese and demanded a piece of the moldy cheese I was carving off of a cheese block. So I put him in his high chair, selected a pinch of healthy cheese and allowed him a good protein snack. Of course, that was all after he said "please" for the cheese.
That arrangement went well until Alex's dear and favorite sister innocently snitched a single string of the pile of cheese on his tray. He voice broke out like a rash on a poison ivy victim.
Over lunch time, Alex refused to eat his cheesy mashed potatoes. I coaxed him. I forced him. I urged him. He refused the bites of food or would take take them into his mouth, mix a nice blend of saliva with the spuds and then smear the entire biteful out on his hand. Like lotion. He also soaked himself with the leak-proof sippy cup of water proving that even sippy cups now days aren't child proof.
When his dad came home (after I had labored fruitlessly on training him to eat his food), Toby simply looked at him and said, "Alex, you take a bite." Those were 5 magic words that Alex understood to mean, "I must shovel my food in now or I may forever lose all of my third-born privileges in this family."
Disheartened by my lack of ability to train this child to eat a small pile of mashed potatoes, the Grandpa assured me not to worry; he said it's the male image that a father has which imparts godly fear on a young child. Bummer for me since I don't tend to have a very male image.
As the afternoon rounded to a close and nap time began to appear more obvious in the horizon of this beautiful day, Alex disappeared. Enjoying the lack of
Just then Alex came screeching across the house at top speed with wet hands. He's such a smart little inventor and his energetic spirit towards life is so inspiring. Unfortunately, I noted immediately that he was heading directly from the bathroom.
Upon investigation, the bathroom I had just scrubbed down earlier was in need of more cleaning. A yellow-tinted color of liquid blended with the water in the toilet bowl and around the perimeter of the toilet there were flecks of generous sprinkles of liquid. It all had a familiar faint tinge of a certain smell too.
Nice. What an adventurous child I have.
So, I disinfected his hands first and held him at the sink trying to control the water pressure as he lunged for each faucet handle and showered himself and the vicinity with a powerful spray of water that neither he nor I nor the vicinity expected.
After that, my mind went blank. Overall, I have vague memories of
He continually peppered his daily activities with affectionate cat care, close examination of important documents on Grandpa's desk and snatching food items out of the fridge in a blink of an eye.
Fearing for his life and concerned with the wild adventurous nature Alex had suddenly possessed, I denied him anymore opportunities to try his hand at more inventions.
With a bright smile on his face and soft, cuddly "ganky" under his chin, he drifted off to slumber land while I groped feebly to the faint smell of coffee wafting through the air in my mind's nose.
So now you understand why I'd make coffee in the middle of the day and enjoy it to the fullest with rich, creamy caramel syrup, cool whip, a shot of caramel flavoring and real fresh whipping cream. And you'd also understand why I didn't feel guilty while drinking it: Alex gives me every reason to enjoy life to the fullest.
Just look at his example.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Confessions of a Mom with Mono II
I am thinking of starting a "Moms with Mono" support group so that Moms with Mono will have a place to go for information and support on how to deal with Mono while being a Mom. Not that I think I have all the support or information that a Mom with Mono needs to cope with life but that's my point: I don't. I need a support group.
Of course, this support group would have to be located in a cyber sort of place since all Moms with Mono know how hard it is to get out of the housejust to nab their two year old from the street just to get the mail so to have to GO someplace to get help for mono, would be a contradiction. I mean seriously, if you can GO to a "support group" while suffering with an infection in your body, you probably aren't feeling very sick. But with mono, you do feel sick. So you stay in your chair and surf for "Moms with Mono" support groups.
Me: Hi. My name is Courtney
Group: Hi Cooourtneeeey!
Me: It has been 2 days since I've had a fever.
Group: Yay!!! (cyber claps -- whatever those are)
I spend a lot of time in a soft chair with a warm laptop on my --you guessed it-- lap. I dream about laundry and lysoling my house and vacuuming 7 day old cookie crumbs and cleaning the toilet all while trying to slurp down coffee, which by the way, tastes disgusting now. And as I sit here, I realize I'm a changed woman: I don't like coffee anymore. This makes me sad and perpetual sadness always makes me depressed and depression always makes me crave a dark hole with a bowl of worms in it. And then I just want to eat dirt.
So I do mental exercises called TTB (Think The Best) and chant to myself, "think the best, think the best, think the best..." and such as and therefore. Rome wasn't built in a day so why should I get better in a day, right? I just worry that my java pot won't forgive me...
As I sit and rest and try to relax (yes, those are three very different things) I have learned a lot from reading, talking (phone) and more reading and deep thinking.
First off, just sitting doesn't cause a person to rest and simply sitting and resting doesn't cause a person to relax. You have toget rid of the kids set your mind to just stop thinking before you can relax and make your rest worth wasting time sitting over. (Yes, I thought long and hard over this paragraph.)
Now, for me to enjoy sitting and allowing my body to rest thus finding a way to relax, I have to feel somewhat productive. So I've taken up a few hobbies. Namely one called, Researching The Web On Any Topic That Interests You.
:: I have learned how to compost guinea pig manure and what cold compost means. Now to just be able to get out in the garden...
:: I have studied my Bible at lengths and in directions I haven't had the occasion to study in for a long, long time.
:: I have realized that my stove has not turned on in days, thus proving that the time I'd spend cooking, I'm spending resting... thanks to dear friends who have cared for us so well.
:: I have fallen asleep while laying on the deck in the sun; an invigorating nap experience. And no, I didn't over heat or become a lobster. Vitamin D is good for me, you see.
:: I have learned that sitting in one position in your recliner for 1 1/2 hours will make you feel like you just ate Thanksgiving dinner. Weird, I know.
:: I have learned a lot of stuff.
And now, slowly as I get my strength back, I enjoy the freedom to not be confined to my chair and laptop so much. I'm amazed at how good one feels when they don't have a constant fever. I am glad to see the callouses on my thumbs from opening the ibuprofen bottles are finally gone. And I don't feel the overwhelming "you'll never get better" feelings anymore either.
But, I have to say from one Mom with Mono to another Mom without Mono: enjoy each fun hour you spend playing with your kids at the park. Moms with Mono would give anything to not have to pay to spend time with their kids like that. My next milestone is just that. To stop paying for something I already spent hours in labor for: my kids.
I can tell I'm getting there. Watch out world...
Of course, this support group would have to be located in a cyber sort of place since all Moms with Mono know how hard it is to get out of the house
Me: Hi. My name is Courtney
Group: Hi Cooourtneeeey!
Me: It has been 2 days since I've had a fever.
Group: Yay!!! (cyber claps -- whatever those are)
I spend a lot of time in a soft chair with a warm laptop on my --you guessed it-- lap. I dream about laundry and lysoling my house and vacuuming 7 day old cookie crumbs and cleaning the toilet all while trying to slurp down coffee, which by the way, tastes disgusting now. And as I sit here, I realize I'm a changed woman: I don't like coffee anymore. This makes me sad and perpetual sadness always makes me depressed and depression always makes me crave a dark hole with a bowl of worms in it. And then I just want to eat dirt.
So I do mental exercises called TTB (Think The Best) and chant to myself, "think the best, think the best, think the best..." and such as and therefore. Rome wasn't built in a day so why should I get better in a day, right? I just worry that my java pot won't forgive me...
As I sit and rest and try to relax (yes, those are three very different things) I have learned a lot from reading, talking (phone) and more reading and deep thinking.
First off, just sitting doesn't cause a person to rest and simply sitting and resting doesn't cause a person to relax. You have to
Now, for me to enjoy sitting and allowing my body to rest thus finding a way to relax, I have to feel somewhat productive. So I've taken up a few hobbies. Namely one called, Researching The Web On Any Topic That Interests You.
:: I have learned how to compost guinea pig manure and what cold compost means. Now to just be able to get out in the garden...
:: I have studied my Bible at lengths and in directions I haven't had the occasion to study in for a long, long time.
:: I have realized that my stove has not turned on in days, thus proving that the time I'd spend cooking, I'm spending resting... thanks to dear friends who have cared for us so well.
:: I have fallen asleep while laying on the deck in the sun; an invigorating nap experience. And no, I didn't over heat or become a lobster. Vitamin D is good for me, you see.
:: I have learned that sitting in one position in your recliner for 1 1/2 hours will make you feel like you just ate Thanksgiving dinner. Weird, I know.
:: I have learned a lot of stuff.
And now, slowly as I get my strength back, I enjoy the freedom to not be confined to my chair and laptop so much. I'm amazed at how good one feels when they don't have a constant fever. I am glad to see the callouses on my thumbs from opening the ibuprofen bottles are finally gone. And I don't feel the overwhelming "you'll never get better" feelings anymore either.
But, I have to say from one Mom with Mono to another Mom without Mono: enjoy each fun hour you spend playing with your kids at the park. Moms with Mono would give anything to not have to pay to spend time with their kids like that. My next milestone is just that. To stop paying for something I already spent hours in labor for: my kids.
I can tell I'm getting there. Watch out world...
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
"WARNING: This Building is Under Baby Monitor Surveillance"
Our house is fairly small in it's structural frame but it boasts a sound barrier feature few homes are capable of possessing. And though it is ideal for certain times of the day, there are other times when it's not so nice.
I'm thinking specifically of the 9pm to 9am time frame that's it's not so nice.
In our house, all members of the juvenile category typically take up residence at 9pm in their segregated rooms: boys go to the boys room and girls go to the girls room (we only have one girl; the plural part of "girls room" is something yet to be born.)
Then the adults have free time to relax, clean, sleep, do a project, etc. The sound barrier feature in our house is so functional you could even take up a vacuuming hobby or tackle that Tchaikovsky piano piece you've always wanted to play.
But, then when all is dark in the house and everyone is in their own respective beds and rooms, it is physically impossible (without sonar hearing) to detect any sound coming from the juvenile quarters of our home. So, unless the child in distress shrieks loud, long cries from his room or just comes upstairs, turns on all the lights, strips his night clothes off and sits at the dining room table screaming his head off while re-enacting an alien abduction, his cries are not heard. (A scene played out more than once by a certain child in our home.)
That's where the Baby Monitor comes in.
A great invention, the Baby Monitor is, keeping parents informed of all subtle and secret noises coming from rooms undetected by the natural ear yet not transmitting any sounds into the sleeping children's rooms.
And last night was the first night we slept with peace of mind knowing our home was under the listening ear of the Baby Monitor.
As the last glow of light dimmed to complete darkness, Toby fell asleep and I was attempting in my feverish pursuits to follow soon after. The quilt and down comforter and other quilt and heavy pillow sitting next to me coupled with the warm, sleeping man on the other side of me, all were helping relieve the shivering air I felt in my cozy bed. And just as soon as I began to feel comfortable and a bit dozy, a sound began to come through on the Baby Monitor.
That was when I wished we had a sign on the outside of our home saying, "Warning: This Building is Under Baby Monitor Surveillance" because all non-illiterate potential intruders would read that sign, and would never succumb to the title of "Intruder" but would remain innocent bystanders or perhaps be part of the Moonlight Joggers Association.
The sound was identical to a steak knife chopping a bedroom window lock. Or similar to a screw driver hacking a hole into plexi-glass window panes. I never heard the aluminium window blinds hanging on both children's bedrooms windowsfor security purposes give their signature metallic rustle. I also never heard gun shots either so I assumed if the intruder was indeed using pre-historic measures to enter the premises of our home, I predicted I had ample time to address the situation in a post adrenalin frame of mind.
That's when the sound stopped.
The warm, sleeping man laying next to me let out a guttural sigh in his sleep about 7 minutes later. It was identical to what the potential intruder downstairs would've made and in a mad frenzy, I almostgrabbed a broom went in stealth mode and snuck down stairs just to make sure the intruder didn't take another breath really wasn't an intruder after all but then I remembered that the sound didn't actually come from the Baby Monitor but rather from the warm, sleeping man laying next to me.
My heart resumed normal beating.
Several minutes later, the chopping sound began again. Apparently the potential intruder had taken a bit of a coffee break between attempts at breaking open my children's windows. I laid there wondering how long it would take for the steak knife to get dull or the aluminum window blinds to send me their signature signal.
The sound stopped.
Several other mysterious noises transmitted clearly over the Baby Monitor for the next few hours. A machete scraped a metal lock somewhere in our basement. The classic metal on metal made me realize the intruder had upgraded his tools-for-the-trade and would soon make an appearance.
Alex cried a time or two and in my fitful sleep I failed to recognize the risk his life was in considering that if an intruder would be lawless enough to break into a sleeping home, he'd be cruel enough to pluck hair from my baby's head leaving him to writhe in agony.
With each vocal sound heard over the Baby Monitor, the warm, sleeping man laying next to me would jump from his pillow and loudly declare a string of unintelligible long words at the Baby Monitor. A sense of urgency would overcome him but he'd always fall back on his pillow and toss himself back into a fitful slumber of sleep.
At one point, Alex made himself known loud and clear on the Baby Monitor and shivering under the blankets held tightly around my neck, I poked the warm, sleeping man next to me who was uttering garbled English words at me that I didn't understand. I plead with him to check on the youngest member of our prodigy who was being heard routinely over the baby monitor but my requests were met with noncooperation.
He stubbornly refused since he's a second born, you know.
As my fever progressed into the night, my mouth became perpetually parched. Weird dreams playing over and over in my head finally thrust me to the edge of my bed in a sitting position. I groped to the bathroom and then to the kitchen for a cool drink.
Disgusted that my second born husband was too stubborn to go down and check on our wailing child earlier, I clung tightly to a heavy bathrobe and stumbled down stairs, shivering with a fever.
Amazingly, all was well in each child's bedroom.
As I was just turning around to leave the girls room, a wild haired and wild eyed man dashed into the room. His manly composure signaled he detected certain danger yet he groped undirected around the room.
It was Toby. I scolded him quietly, expressing the fact I would've never come downstairs to check on the kids if I would've known he was going to do it anyway.
He apologized profusely, explained he never heard me ask him to go downstairs. He seemed quite sympathetic towards his feverish wife so I excused his behaviour and forgave him because I'm just that way.
As we headed back upstairs, he scratched his head and with a confused look on his face said, "I came downstairs because I thought I heard something."
A wonderful thing, that Baby Monitor is.
I'm thinking specifically of the 9pm to 9am time frame that's it's not so nice.
In our house, all members of the juvenile category typically take up residence at 9pm in their segregated rooms: boys go to the boys room and girls go to the girls room (we only have one girl; the plural part of "girls room" is something yet to be born.)
Then the adults have free time to relax, clean, sleep, do a project, etc. The sound barrier feature in our house is so functional you could even take up a vacuuming hobby or tackle that Tchaikovsky piano piece you've always wanted to play.
But, then when all is dark in the house and everyone is in their own respective beds and rooms, it is physically impossible (without sonar hearing) to detect any sound coming from the juvenile quarters of our home. So, unless the child in distress shrieks loud, long cries from his room or just comes upstairs, turns on all the lights, strips his night clothes off and sits at the dining room table screaming his head off while re-enacting an alien abduction, his cries are not heard. (A scene played out more than once by a certain child in our home.)
That's where the Baby Monitor comes in.
A great invention, the Baby Monitor is, keeping parents informed of all subtle and secret noises coming from rooms undetected by the natural ear yet not transmitting any sounds into the sleeping children's rooms.
And last night was the first night we slept with peace of mind knowing our home was under the listening ear of the Baby Monitor.
As the last glow of light dimmed to complete darkness, Toby fell asleep and I was attempting in my feverish pursuits to follow soon after. The quilt and down comforter and other quilt and heavy pillow sitting next to me coupled with the warm, sleeping man on the other side of me, all were helping relieve the shivering air I felt in my cozy bed. And just as soon as I began to feel comfortable and a bit dozy, a sound began to come through on the Baby Monitor.
That was when I wished we had a sign on the outside of our home saying, "Warning: This Building is Under Baby Monitor Surveillance" because all non-illiterate potential intruders would read that sign, and would never succumb to the title of "Intruder" but would remain innocent bystanders or perhaps be part of the Moonlight Joggers Association.
The sound was identical to a steak knife chopping a bedroom window lock. Or similar to a screw driver hacking a hole into plexi-glass window panes. I never heard the aluminium window blinds hanging on both children's bedrooms windows
That's when the sound stopped.
The warm, sleeping man laying next to me let out a guttural sigh in his sleep about 7 minutes later. It was identical to what the potential intruder downstairs would've made and in a mad frenzy, I almost
My heart resumed normal beating.
Several minutes later, the chopping sound began again. Apparently the potential intruder had taken a bit of a coffee break between attempts at breaking open my children's windows. I laid there wondering how long it would take for the steak knife to get dull or the aluminum window blinds to send me their signature signal.
The sound stopped.
Several other mysterious noises transmitted clearly over the Baby Monitor for the next few hours. A machete scraped a metal lock somewhere in our basement. The classic metal on metal made me realize the intruder had upgraded his tools-for-the-trade and would soon make an appearance.
Alex cried a time or two and in my fitful sleep I failed to recognize the risk his life was in considering that if an intruder would be lawless enough to break into a sleeping home, he'd be cruel enough to pluck hair from my baby's head leaving him to writhe in agony.
With each vocal sound heard over the Baby Monitor, the warm, sleeping man laying next to me would jump from his pillow and loudly declare a string of unintelligible long words at the Baby Monitor. A sense of urgency would overcome him but he'd always fall back on his pillow and toss himself back into a fitful slumber of sleep.
At one point, Alex made himself known loud and clear on the Baby Monitor and shivering under the blankets held tightly around my neck, I poked the warm, sleeping man next to me who was uttering garbled English words at me that I didn't understand. I plead with him to check on the youngest member of our prodigy who was being heard routinely over the baby monitor but my requests were met with noncooperation.
He stubbornly refused since he's a second born, you know.
As my fever progressed into the night, my mouth became perpetually parched. Weird dreams playing over and over in my head finally thrust me to the edge of my bed in a sitting position. I groped to the bathroom and then to the kitchen for a cool drink.
Disgusted that my second born husband was too stubborn to go down and check on our wailing child earlier, I clung tightly to a heavy bathrobe and stumbled down stairs, shivering with a fever.
Amazingly, all was well in each child's bedroom.
As I was just turning around to leave the girls room, a wild haired and wild eyed man dashed into the room. His manly composure signaled he detected certain danger yet he groped undirected around the room.
It was Toby. I scolded him quietly, expressing the fact I would've never come downstairs to check on the kids if I would've known he was going to do it anyway.
He apologized profusely, explained he never heard me ask him to go downstairs. He seemed quite sympathetic towards his feverish wife so I excused his behaviour and forgave him because I'm just that way.
As we headed back upstairs, he scratched his head and with a confused look on his face said, "I came downstairs because I thought I heard something."
A wonderful thing, that Baby Monitor is.
Thursday, April 09, 2009
Confessions of a Mom with Mono
Mono is a funny sounding name for a virus that I've done very little research on. I'm not sure if I'm a) scared to find out what I'd read or b) would feel helpless once I did know more or c) just too tired to read online for that long. For whatever reason, I'm not well read up on the topic.
But, I have lived, breathed, slept and sweated a mono-type virus for the past 3 weeks so I think that's why I'm self certifying myself to write these Confessions.
Mono attacks the immune system (I do know that) but how and why, is unknown to most (if not all) people. I have never been in contact with someone who has a virus like mine nor do I randomly drink out of random cups of random people's drinks when I'm randomly in public. I don't even drink out of public drinking fountains, for that matter. Mono is typically spread through saliva so you tell me how I got mono if I haven't been kissing random people or drinking out of random cups.
Mono has a constant fever pattern that is physically draining although the pattern is inconsistent. Some days I wake up sick; other days I wake up well for a couple hours. Some days my fever is only 99; other days I have a hard time keeping it away from 102. Coupled with that is extreme fatigue, a pounding head ache, frequent dizziness and growing physical weakness that seems to get worse every day.
Opening the fridge takes effort. Screwing lids into place is hard. Locking doors is a strain. Rolling over in bed is a huge job. Walking hurts, even slowly. Talking is draining -- my voice takes muscles I don't have. I feel so weak.
Little accomplishments are noticed though -- like tonight I made mac and cheese for supper and felt like the world's best gourmet cook. And I did it all while the ibuprofen I took 8 hours before was wearing off. I even washed the pans. But, even though it seems like success, that's physically exhausting to the point of it not being worth it. I pretty much just have to go to bed after that.
Mono also attacks your brain (I do know that from personal experience). Everything is a big deal and either leaves a Mom with Mono in tears or slumped in a dark hole of depression or both. Like at night when my husband puts the kids to bed, as soon as everyone walks out of the room, I burst into tears mourning the passing of another day in my kid's life that I didn't make any worthy investment in. The guilt. The fear. The sadness. The loneliness for a fun family night. It's a heavy load. And the brain power it takes to process these feelings has completely deserted me.
Spiraling into a whirlwind of what I'm sure are pointless fears, I find myself growing steadily lower. And then I start worrying about things like if I'm pregnant or not and finally after worrying about it for 2 days, I breathlessly take a test. I've never prayed so hard that the double lines would not appear. Shoving the memory of the frequent 102 fevers into the back of my head, I wait anxiously, telling God, "No baby should have to go through this! No baby should have to go through this!" I have never been so relieved after finding a negative test result. That to me was actually a little confirmation that God is still good and does know what's best for me. And for my children.
Rain or shine, the weather doesn't really effect a Mom with Mono. It's all alike to her. It all seems grey and gloomy. Although sunshine does feel good on a warm day, the brightness of the sun and the blue sky seem insignificant to the dark day it feels inside a Mom with Mono: if you can't enjoy it with your family, what's the point?
Resting and drinking fluids are easy to do for mono victims. I am so thirsty and so tired and could drink all the time and sleep forever. Of course you can't rest much when you drink a lot so the balance is usually soon found when dealing with mono.
And then come the aches and pains of laying in bed for so many hours out of a day. It feels like slats or springs or hard object are protruding from my pillow-top mattress and needles are sticking in my feet. So angling my legs in a different direction, I find temporary relief only to learn a little later that both feet are sleeping. If I google mono-type viruses, I'll find out if bad circulation goes with the virus. Otherwise, I see now how people get bed sores from being in bed for long periods of time.
It may be recommended to exercise which is something that would feel good to do in this warm, spring air. Yet even when I feel like doing it, and then do it, I spike a fever and suffer for several days, slowly getting back to the point I was before I exerted myself. Rest and relaxation are all a person with mono can do... poor circulation or not.
And finally, remembering that even though I may be helpless to care for myself, helpless to care for my children and helpless to care for my husband, God is not helpless to care for me AND all I care about. I confess thankfully that I am finding moment-by-moment comfort in that.
Disclaimer: I do know that I do NOT have the Epstein Barr Virus Mono and there is a bit of a difference between that and what the doctor diagnosed me with: a Mono-type virus. From what I understand, my spleen is not effected like it would be with the "main" mono virus which is caused by the Epstein Barr Virus.
But, I have lived, breathed, slept and sweated a mono-type virus for the past 3 weeks so I think that's why I'm self certifying myself to write these Confessions.
Mono attacks the immune system (I do know that) but how and why, is unknown to most (if not all) people. I have never been in contact with someone who has a virus like mine nor do I randomly drink out of random cups of random people's drinks when I'm randomly in public. I don't even drink out of public drinking fountains, for that matter. Mono is typically spread through saliva so you tell me how I got mono if I haven't been kissing random people or drinking out of random cups.
Mono has a constant fever pattern that is physically draining although the pattern is inconsistent. Some days I wake up sick; other days I wake up well for a couple hours. Some days my fever is only 99; other days I have a hard time keeping it away from 102. Coupled with that is extreme fatigue, a pounding head ache, frequent dizziness and growing physical weakness that seems to get worse every day.
Opening the fridge takes effort. Screwing lids into place is hard. Locking doors is a strain. Rolling over in bed is a huge job. Walking hurts, even slowly. Talking is draining -- my voice takes muscles I don't have. I feel so weak.
Little accomplishments are noticed though -- like tonight I made mac and cheese for supper and felt like the world's best gourmet cook. And I did it all while the ibuprofen I took 8 hours before was wearing off. I even washed the pans. But, even though it seems like success, that's physically exhausting to the point of it not being worth it. I pretty much just have to go to bed after that.
Mono also attacks your brain (I do know that from personal experience). Everything is a big deal and either leaves a Mom with Mono in tears or slumped in a dark hole of depression or both. Like at night when my husband puts the kids to bed, as soon as everyone walks out of the room, I burst into tears mourning the passing of another day in my kid's life that I didn't make any worthy investment in. The guilt. The fear. The sadness. The loneliness for a fun family night. It's a heavy load. And the brain power it takes to process these feelings has completely deserted me.
Spiraling into a whirlwind of what I'm sure are pointless fears, I find myself growing steadily lower. And then I start worrying about things like if I'm pregnant or not and finally after worrying about it for 2 days, I breathlessly take a test. I've never prayed so hard that the double lines would not appear. Shoving the memory of the frequent 102 fevers into the back of my head, I wait anxiously, telling God, "No baby should have to go through this! No baby should have to go through this!" I have never been so relieved after finding a negative test result. That to me was actually a little confirmation that God is still good and does know what's best for me. And for my children.
Rain or shine, the weather doesn't really effect a Mom with Mono. It's all alike to her. It all seems grey and gloomy. Although sunshine does feel good on a warm day, the brightness of the sun and the blue sky seem insignificant to the dark day it feels inside a Mom with Mono: if you can't enjoy it with your family, what's the point?
Resting and drinking fluids are easy to do for mono victims. I am so thirsty and so tired and could drink all the time and sleep forever. Of course you can't rest much when you drink a lot so the balance is usually soon found when dealing with mono.
And then come the aches and pains of laying in bed for so many hours out of a day. It feels like slats or springs or hard object are protruding from my pillow-top mattress and needles are sticking in my feet. So angling my legs in a different direction, I find temporary relief only to learn a little later that both feet are sleeping. If I google mono-type viruses, I'll find out if bad circulation goes with the virus. Otherwise, I see now how people get bed sores from being in bed for long periods of time.
It may be recommended to exercise which is something that would feel good to do in this warm, spring air. Yet even when I feel like doing it, and then do it, I spike a fever and suffer for several days, slowly getting back to the point I was before I exerted myself. Rest and relaxation are all a person with mono can do... poor circulation or not.
And finally, remembering that even though I may be helpless to care for myself, helpless to care for my children and helpless to care for my husband, God is not helpless to care for me AND all I care about. I confess thankfully that I am finding moment-by-moment comfort in that.
Disclaimer: I do know that I do NOT have the Epstein Barr Virus Mono and there is a bit of a difference between that and what the doctor diagnosed me with: a Mono-type virus. From what I understand, my spleen is not effected like it would be with the "main" mono virus which is caused by the Epstein Barr Virus.
Thursday, April 02, 2009
On Fevers, Fortuneless Fate And Felines
I don't tend to focus on my feelings when composing a blog post but today's post is the product entirely of intense, aggravated feelings.
Now that you've been warned, read on.
So, I had the flu. No big deal, right? Having the flu SHOULDN'T be a big deal but for me, it was. The main reason was because I had 3 quite healthy children in my house every minute I was sick.
Okay, so I thanked God for their health and I didn't want to discredit their healthy approach to life but man, it was hard to keep up with their approach.
Miracle of miracles, somehow the day had ended with a completed laundry project. That in and of itself is an incredible feat. Even for a healthy person. All my laundry was done, folded and put away. And as I patted myself merely on the back and thanked the good Lord for helping me achieve such an unreachable goal, I decided to tackle the avalanche of toys in our house.
Now, even for a healthy person, that is not an easy task. So to be unhealthy and achy and sore, this experience was unlike anything I had experienced in a long time. Actually, I think I've read books about people who scaled impossible mountains but it's been awhile since I had such leisure reading time so I could be wrong about my recollections of such unbelievable success.
By sheer instinct, I tackled the toys.
After telling Janae5,000 times a certain number of time to pick up a certain toy, I realized she'd pick it up (if I was lucky) and them move it to a new location (if I was luckier.) But, the toy was never put away. That's the key word here folks: putaway. I noticed a lot of toys were also being moved but not putaway. (I know that's two words but for the sake of simplicity, we are combining them into one single word.)
That was it. I had enough. It was over.
I charged across the basement to a neat roll of trash bags and declared war on all the toys. As many toys as possible were going in a garbage bag.
Now, when my little kidlets saw myanger righteous indignation towards the cavity of toys (ie., toy box), they became quite concerned. In their effort to save as many toys from being cast into everlasting darkness, they began picking up toys quite rapidly and shoving them safely in the crooks of their little arms.
Lest you think I am a hard hearted mother who routinely throws her children's prize possessions (ie., toys) away, don't come to such a harsh conclusion so fast. These toys were not going to be thrown away. They were not even going to be GIVEN away. They were being permanently put away until I was ready to deal with their avalanching powers again.
But, my poor children only saw the trash bag. And the toys going into the trash bag. So, of course, they imagined the worse: a massive dumpster heaped high with bags of toys... watching the dumpster roll away and head towards the local landfill.... huge graters rolling over their bag of toys at the local dump... shredding their toys to tiny slivers of plastic and shards of doll hair leaving only their precious memories locked safely in the sorrowing little hearts of my children. (Wow, my poor kids could honestly have nightmares over this.)
I, on the other hand, imagined the best: a clean room. And not just ONE clean room but two! And not just two clean bedrooms but a clean family room! Which of course would mean the whole house could stay clean! And toy free!
Boy was I giddy.
In the process of time, Istressed explained to the children that I was putting the toys away that they never played with. After they saw that their favorite toys were remaining and that life wasn't quite as bad as that plastic garbage bag threatened it to be, things went much better after that.
I was just finishing in the boys room and noticing the pleasant aire my children now possessed since their home life had suddenly become much more predictable and somewhat Proverbs 31-ish without the reoccurring experience of one stubbing their toe on a stubborn tow truck or tripping on a stray jump rope or sinking their heal into a sink hole of sharp legos, when suddenly, my hand lighted on a damp comforter. A smelly damp comforter. A smells-like-cat-pee damp comforter.
It was at that moment in time that the earth's axle quit spinning. Time stopped. Air ceased to exist. Water dried up. Blood pooled to the top of my head. And I had a heart attack. Right there in my son's bedroom.
As I took a deep breath, everything began to turn again. A flame of energy sparked my temper. I was livid. I was angry. I was mad. A stupid cat had invaded the cleanliness of my home and I was helpless in her evilness on my abode. I was seriously quite mad. This point can't be stressed enough. But I tried to stay calm. You know, take it in stride like perfect mothers do all the time.
When the clock started ticking again, things proved to be far worse than initially thought. The cat's URINE had not only showered on the blanket but it had also penetrated another comforter. And an entire set of clean sheets. And the center of a once-clean mattress. All was saturated in the cat's URINE.
Truth be told, I had 3 more loads of laundry to do. And in my flu-ridden body, I had no energy wherewith to summon the lofty goals of duty. But, duty called and I attended it's beckon.
As I washed laundry and scrubbed the mattress and washed another load of laundry and continued to scrub and color-safe-bleach the mattress, my kind and ever thoughtfulcat loving sympathetic husband asked if there was a repellent to put on the mattress. You know, so the cat wouldn't "do it" again.
Expressing a little more feeling than intended I assured him there was a repellent.
"It's called lead and you put it right in the cat's head," I blurted out, "They never do it again after that."
Now, the only thing (and when I say only, I mean THE ONLY thing) that kept me from using the repellent right then was because I knew if I shot the cat in the head, it would end up a bloody mess. And another mess was not what I was looking for. Plus, I didn't know how to load the gun and I naturally assumed my usually helpful husband would be unwilling to help me learn that task right then.
So, for the next two days, I shopped for pet urine cleaners and washed the mattress and dried it with a fan and re-washed it again. And set the fan up to dry it again. And made sure the cat didn't visit it again. And finally put the bed back together.
As the fever cleared my brain, life began to seem a little more livable again several days later. Actually, now that I think of it, the fever is back and I'm not better like I planned on being. And the mattress never did get 100% clean. And the cat still roams the house freely. But, the one redeeming factor is that I can look back on that fateful day though. And looking back is a whole lot easier than looking on to it. Especially when such harsh feelings of murder possess your usually kind hearted being and drive you to imagine the worst terror techniques with which to plague your cat with for peeing URINE in an inexplicable place.
But we all survived. Even the stinking cat.
Now that you've been warned, read on.
So, I had the flu. No big deal, right? Having the flu SHOULDN'T be a big deal but for me, it was. The main reason was because I had 3 quite healthy children in my house every minute I was sick.
Okay, so I thanked God for their health and I didn't want to discredit their healthy approach to life but man, it was hard to keep up with their approach.
Miracle of miracles, somehow the day had ended with a completed laundry project. That in and of itself is an incredible feat. Even for a healthy person. All my laundry was done, folded and put away. And as I patted myself merely on the back and thanked the good Lord for helping me achieve such an unreachable goal, I decided to tackle the avalanche of toys in our house.
Now, even for a healthy person, that is not an easy task. So to be unhealthy and achy and sore, this experience was unlike anything I had experienced in a long time. Actually, I think I've read books about people who scaled impossible mountains but it's been awhile since I had such leisure reading time so I could be wrong about my recollections of such unbelievable success.
By sheer instinct, I tackled the toys.
After telling Janae
That was it. I had enough. It was over.
I charged across the basement to a neat roll of trash bags and declared war on all the toys. As many toys as possible were going in a garbage bag.
Now, when my little kidlets saw my
Lest you think I am a hard hearted mother who routinely throws her children's prize possessions (ie., toys) away, don't come to such a harsh conclusion so fast. These toys were not going to be thrown away. They were not even going to be GIVEN away. They were being permanently put away until I was ready to deal with their avalanching powers again.
But, my poor children only saw the trash bag. And the toys going into the trash bag. So, of course, they imagined the worse: a massive dumpster heaped high with bags of toys... watching the dumpster roll away and head towards the local landfill.... huge graters rolling over their bag of toys at the local dump... shredding their toys to tiny slivers of plastic and shards of doll hair leaving only their precious memories locked safely in the sorrowing little hearts of my children. (Wow, my poor kids could honestly have nightmares over this.)
I, on the other hand, imagined the best: a clean room. And not just ONE clean room but two! And not just two clean bedrooms but a clean family room! Which of course would mean the whole house could stay clean! And toy free!
Boy was I giddy.
In the process of time, I
I was just finishing in the boys room and noticing the pleasant aire my children now possessed since their home life had suddenly become much more predictable and somewhat Proverbs 31-ish without the reoccurring experience of one stubbing their toe on a stubborn tow truck or tripping on a stray jump rope or sinking their heal into a sink hole of sharp legos, when suddenly, my hand lighted on a damp comforter. A smelly damp comforter. A smells-like-cat-pee damp comforter.
It was at that moment in time that the earth's axle quit spinning. Time stopped. Air ceased to exist. Water dried up. Blood pooled to the top of my head. And I had a heart attack. Right there in my son's bedroom.
As I took a deep breath, everything began to turn again. A flame of energy sparked my temper. I was livid. I was angry. I was mad. A stupid cat had invaded the cleanliness of my home and I was helpless in her evilness on my abode. I was seriously quite mad. This point can't be stressed enough. But I tried to stay calm. You know, take it in stride like perfect mothers do all the time.
When the clock started ticking again, things proved to be far worse than initially thought. The cat's URINE had not only showered on the blanket but it had also penetrated another comforter. And an entire set of clean sheets. And the center of a once-clean mattress. All was saturated in the cat's URINE.
Truth be told, I had 3 more loads of laundry to do. And in my flu-ridden body, I had no energy wherewith to summon the lofty goals of duty. But, duty called and I attended it's beckon.
As I washed laundry and scrubbed the mattress and washed another load of laundry and continued to scrub and color-safe-bleach the mattress, my kind and ever thoughtful
Expressing a little more feeling than intended I assured him there was a repellent.
"It's called lead and you put it right in the cat's head," I blurted out, "They never do it again after that."
Now, the only thing (and when I say only, I mean THE ONLY thing) that kept me from using the repellent right then was because I knew if I shot the cat in the head, it would end up a bloody mess. And another mess was not what I was looking for. Plus, I didn't know how to load the gun and I naturally assumed my usually helpful husband would be unwilling to help me learn that task right then.
So, for the next two days, I shopped for pet urine cleaners and washed the mattress and dried it with a fan and re-washed it again. And set the fan up to dry it again. And made sure the cat didn't visit it again. And finally put the bed back together.
As the fever cleared my brain, life began to seem a little more livable again several days later. Actually, now that I think of it, the fever is back and I'm not better like I planned on being. And the mattress never did get 100% clean. And the cat still roams the house freely. But, the one redeeming factor is that I can look back on that fateful day though. And looking back is a whole lot easier than looking on to it. Especially when such harsh feelings of murder possess your usually kind hearted being and drive you to imagine the worst terror techniques with which to plague your cat with for peeing URINE in an inexplicable place.
But we all survived. Even the stinking cat.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Home Education: A Lifestyle of Learning (part 1)
"So are you going to home school or send your kids to school?" a question we are often asked as parents of pre-school children.
"Oh definitely home school," is the conditioned response that I say, wondering how there could be a different option. Then I remember that there are local private schools and even small town public schools both of which are ready options to our family.
Yet, homeschooling is the only option for us. The only choice we'd pick. Ever. It only seems natural that we would go that way, especially since both Toby and I are home school graduates. But, that's not the reason why we home school.
I love the idea of homeschooling. The opportunity to teach my kids to read, to count, to write, to... you get the idea. So when people ask me if we'll home school or not, I wonder what part about us doesn't have the "we're home schoolers" sign on it.
Then it dawned on me that according to our culture, home schoolers seem to have a "stereotype" personality and pre-schoolers don't typically exhibit that demeanor so therefore, they are exempt from the "geeky home schoolers" group and held up on a diving board that just may give them the luck of jumping into the public school education opportunity.
But nope, our kids are ready to launch into the vast orbit of home education. An education custom fit to each child based on personality, learning style and life goals. An education not limited to work books, text books or even a deluxe curriculum. An education uninfluenced by peer pressure, bullies and gym style sports.
People assume that the reason home schoolers home school is because they're afraid of blending their kids into a public social life. They want to shelter and isolate their kids. Protect their offspring from society. That is not our purpose at all. Our kids will have a social setting complete with friends their age, the option of organized sports and music lessons and the opportunity to make new friends all the time. Friends, games and "real" life are not found in a classroom: they're found in life that's not confined to an age group. Or a school grade. Or a social status.
And after a weekend attending a local home school conference, I feel renewed in a purpose, zeal and direction in homeschooling. In a handful of blog posts coming soon, I hope to capture a few of the highlights both Toby and I experienced at the conference.
Leading up to the conference, I felt overwhelmed. I knew there would be a huge number of booths to visit. Curriculum to peruse. Work books to pick out. Seminars to hear. So many things to take in. A big part of me was actually nervous to go. "How will I know what curriculum to pick?" was my biggest question. And the question that I wanted so desperately to answer because I KNEW that would be the final end to our pre-homeschooling journey.
Guess what? I left without having that question answered. And ironically enough, it's the last question on my mind now. Why? Because the purpose we have as a homeschooling family isn't going to be found in a work book. Or a curriculum. Or an answer key. Those things are some of the tools to bring the end result of education but they're not the only thing. I was inspired by this quote:
"Never let schooling interfere with your education." (Mark Twain)
Our goals in home educating our kids are summed up in a 3 step philosophy that was described by the director of Institute for Excellence in Writing, Andrew Pudewa, during one of the seminars:
:: Character
:: Knowledge
:: Skills
These three things are not taught in a work book. Or even in the best curriculum. They are taught in a balanced approach to education. Without character, knowledge and skills are futile. Without knowledge, character and skills are not retained. And without skills, character and knowledge are not communicated accurately. Here again, work books and curriculum can help to bring the results of a Character-Knowledge-Skills education but they are not the one and only option. Nor do they guarantee success in education.
The public school system has set up a status quo that all children from the ages of 6-17 must comply to. This concept is confined to a "conveyor belt education." And once a kid lags behind or even falls off the conveyor belt, he is pushed back until he can catch up.
Equally damaging, if a kid happens to go faster than the conveyor belt allows him to, he is thwarted and limited in his learning. He can't reach his full potential as an individual.
Public school offers a lot. They offer a one-size-fits-all learning experience that doesn't address who the kids are as an individual. The example was given that a 10 year old automatically has the number 4 on all his work books. If he can't keep up with the studies in his book, he gets behind. Behind what?! Work books are notorious to being too slow for a child. That results in a bored kid who is learning a fraction of what he could be learning. A work book can also be too fast for a child which of course produces a frustrated kid who hates school.
Many home school parents think that if they can create a learning environment at home comparable to their own schooling experience they had in a classroom, their kids will feel like school is important. That school is fun. That school is separate from mundane home life. Obviously, it is very hard to not do to our kids what was done to many of us who were raised in public or private school. We think an education is found in a work book and as long as our kids complete their work books, pass their tests and never lag behind other kids their age, they are successful home school kids.
A speaker (Andrew Pudewa) at the home school conference (whom I have quoted subtly several times in this blog already and who is MUST to listen to if he's ever in your area) has a degree in teaching. His concept and knowledge of the English language is above average. But, he admits himself that his "greatest handicap is his own education."
It was freeing to listen to his Two Step program for home school parents that get frustrated and wonder if they have the option of sending their kids to school. Parents can take this test before they make the decision to put their kids on the bus:
1:: Read all the text books your child would learn
2:: Sit through one day of class and observe the setting, teaching style and potential teacher and classmates
If you can approve of steps 1-2, you are ready to send your kids to public school.
Though private Christian schools are usually seen as a better option than public school, they still have adapted the one-size-fits-all methodology of teaching. The Conveyor Belt method is commonly used in these classroom settings as well. Competition is the driving force of our children's education. Many home schoolers have also taken this approach to educating their kids at home and hope to come up with different and more positive results than the public and private school settings. We can't do the same thing and expect different results.
So, answering the "will you home school or send your kids to school" question is an easy question to answer. It demands a yes-or-no type answer which is quite easy to give. But then there's the next question: "Why don't you send your kids to a good Christian school?" Up until this past weekend this was a little harder for me to articulate. Now I have the answer,
"Sometimes doing a good thing is the enemy of doing the best thing."
And that's why we'll home school.
"Oh definitely home school," is the conditioned response that I say, wondering how there could be a different option. Then I remember that there are local private schools and even small town public schools both of which are ready options to our family.
Yet, homeschooling is the only option for us. The only choice we'd pick. Ever. It only seems natural that we would go that way, especially since both Toby and I are home school graduates. But, that's not the reason why we home school.
I love the idea of homeschooling. The opportunity to teach my kids to read, to count, to write, to... you get the idea. So when people ask me if we'll home school or not, I wonder what part about us doesn't have the "we're home schoolers" sign on it.
Then it dawned on me that according to our culture, home schoolers seem to have a "stereotype" personality and pre-schoolers don't typically exhibit that demeanor so therefore, they are exempt from the "geeky home schoolers" group and held up on a diving board that just may give them the luck of jumping into the public school education opportunity.
But nope, our kids are ready to launch into the vast orbit of home education. An education custom fit to each child based on personality, learning style and life goals. An education not limited to work books, text books or even a deluxe curriculum. An education uninfluenced by peer pressure, bullies and gym style sports.
People assume that the reason home schoolers home school is because they're afraid of blending their kids into a public social life. They want to shelter and isolate their kids. Protect their offspring from society. That is not our purpose at all. Our kids will have a social setting complete with friends their age, the option of organized sports and music lessons and the opportunity to make new friends all the time. Friends, games and "real" life are not found in a classroom: they're found in life that's not confined to an age group. Or a school grade. Or a social status.
And after a weekend attending a local home school conference, I feel renewed in a purpose, zeal and direction in homeschooling. In a handful of blog posts coming soon, I hope to capture a few of the highlights both Toby and I experienced at the conference.
Leading up to the conference, I felt overwhelmed. I knew there would be a huge number of booths to visit. Curriculum to peruse. Work books to pick out. Seminars to hear. So many things to take in. A big part of me was actually nervous to go. "How will I know what curriculum to pick?" was my biggest question. And the question that I wanted so desperately to answer because I KNEW that would be the final end to our pre-homeschooling journey.
Guess what? I left without having that question answered. And ironically enough, it's the last question on my mind now. Why? Because the purpose we have as a homeschooling family isn't going to be found in a work book. Or a curriculum. Or an answer key. Those things are some of the tools to bring the end result of education but they're not the only thing. I was inspired by this quote:
"Never let schooling interfere with your education." (Mark Twain)
Our goals in home educating our kids are summed up in a 3 step philosophy that was described by the director of Institute for Excellence in Writing, Andrew Pudewa, during one of the seminars:
:: Character
:: Knowledge
:: Skills
These three things are not taught in a work book. Or even in the best curriculum. They are taught in a balanced approach to education. Without character, knowledge and skills are futile. Without knowledge, character and skills are not retained. And without skills, character and knowledge are not communicated accurately. Here again, work books and curriculum can help to bring the results of a Character-Knowledge-Skills education but they are not the one and only option. Nor do they guarantee success in education.
The public school system has set up a status quo that all children from the ages of 6-17 must comply to. This concept is confined to a "conveyor belt education." And once a kid lags behind or even falls off the conveyor belt, he is pushed back until he can catch up.
Equally damaging, if a kid happens to go faster than the conveyor belt allows him to, he is thwarted and limited in his learning. He can't reach his full potential as an individual.
Public school offers a lot. They offer a one-size-fits-all learning experience that doesn't address who the kids are as an individual. The example was given that a 10 year old automatically has the number 4 on all his work books. If he can't keep up with the studies in his book, he gets behind. Behind what?! Work books are notorious to being too slow for a child. That results in a bored kid who is learning a fraction of what he could be learning. A work book can also be too fast for a child which of course produces a frustrated kid who hates school.
Many home school parents think that if they can create a learning environment at home comparable to their own schooling experience they had in a classroom, their kids will feel like school is important. That school is fun. That school is separate from mundane home life. Obviously, it is very hard to not do to our kids what was done to many of us who were raised in public or private school. We think an education is found in a work book and as long as our kids complete their work books, pass their tests and never lag behind other kids their age, they are successful home school kids.
A speaker (Andrew Pudewa) at the home school conference (whom I have quoted subtly several times in this blog already and who is MUST to listen to if he's ever in your area) has a degree in teaching. His concept and knowledge of the English language is above average. But, he admits himself that his "greatest handicap is his own education."
It was freeing to listen to his Two Step program for home school parents that get frustrated and wonder if they have the option of sending their kids to school. Parents can take this test before they make the decision to put their kids on the bus:
1:: Read all the text books your child would learn
2:: Sit through one day of class and observe the setting, teaching style and potential teacher and classmates
If you can approve of steps 1-2, you are ready to send your kids to public school.
Though private Christian schools are usually seen as a better option than public school, they still have adapted the one-size-fits-all methodology of teaching. The Conveyor Belt method is commonly used in these classroom settings as well. Competition is the driving force of our children's education. Many home schoolers have also taken this approach to educating their kids at home and hope to come up with different and more positive results than the public and private school settings. We can't do the same thing and expect different results.
So, answering the "will you home school or send your kids to school" question is an easy question to answer. It demands a yes-or-no type answer which is quite easy to give. But then there's the next question: "Why don't you send your kids to a good Christian school?" Up until this past weekend this was a little harder for me to articulate. Now I have the answer,
"Sometimes doing a good thing is the enemy of doing the best thing."
And that's why we'll home school.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Highlights Things I Learned While Being Sick
:: If your regular body temp is barely above 97F, and you happen to find out that you have a body temperature of 99.6F, you are definitely sick.
:: When you suddenly feel achy all over for no obvious reason, you have either come down with the flu or you have the first symptoms of an incurable terminal illness.
:: Ibuprofen is God's gift to mankind: use it wisely and take it rarely.
:: Just because you feel better after taking ibuprofen, don't fool yourself into thinking that you are indeed better. It's a hoax.
:: Pesto sauce is good to eat when you're sick. It can't look any worse coming up as it does going down.
:: End-of-day frappiccinos are a good way to lift every one's spirit. And use up milk that will otherwise go bad tomorrow.
:: If your head hurts, your eye sockets are charged with pain, your eye balls shoot shards of agony down to your toes, the backs of your legs have that post-marathon-ache to them and you'd just rather sleep all day, don't worry: you have the flu.
:: Blogging in bed is not for the weak. Trust me on this, I know.
:: Just because no body believe you're sick, doesn't mean you're not sick.
:: The longer you keep the old fashioned mercury thermometer in your mouth, the higher the mercury rises. Weird.
:: If you're sick of being sick, don't use the mind-over-matter method on yourself. It doesn't work. You will end up sicker.
:: If your symptoms disappear for a few days and you think your better, watch out.
:: A dull, throbbing back ache, 99.6F fever and a post-marathon ache in your legs are three prime symptoms of sickness. Especially if you haven't run a marathon any time recently. Just be glad your eye sockets are better.
:: Vacillating between being cold and hot is a good practice system for young women. I bet it helps prepare you for menopause.
:: Never underestimate the power of a shower. Take one every hour to keep from being sour.
:: Short term memory loss is synonymous with a fever and it's not, um, I can't remember the point I was going to make... never mind. I can't even remember what synonymous means for sure right now. I must've learned that word pretty recently.
:: If you make your bed while harboring a fever, you will automatically lose favors in your day. People just assume you must not be THAT sick if you can make your bed.
:: 24 hour flu bugs are definitely better than 168 hour flu bugs.
:: Don't think hard; use calculators as much as possible. Especially for big numbers... like how many hours are in a week.
:: If you make mental notes in your head like how you're going to get from point A to point B and you notice that point A and point B are only a few feet apart, you probably have the flu. Or a dreaded incurable illness.
:: If you think you have spinal meningitis and can barely squint at the computer screen you just staggered to in order to read the list of symptoms, save yourself the hassle: without an incredibly high fever and frequent bouts of nausea, you are fine. Well, you're fine in the sense that you don't have spinal meningitis. Welcome to the flu.
:: If you never get sick, don't say that.
:: I had a little birdy, her name was Enza. I opened the window and Influenza!
:: Don't hang around sick people.
:: When everything hurts, don't forget to breath.
:: Always wash your hands after using the bathroom, wiping your nose, scratching your back, putting on your socks, touching a door knob, licking your fingers, scratching your ear, fixing your hair, sorting dirty laundry, sweeping the floor, brushing your teeth, buttoning your shirt and making your bed. You never know how the flu is going to spread.
:: Finally, at all costs, avoid the flu.
:: When you suddenly feel achy all over for no obvious reason, you have either come down with the flu or you have the first symptoms of an incurable terminal illness.
:: Ibuprofen is God's gift to mankind: use it wisely and take it rarely.
:: Just because you feel better after taking ibuprofen, don't fool yourself into thinking that you are indeed better. It's a hoax.
:: Pesto sauce is good to eat when you're sick. It can't look any worse coming up as it does going down.
:: End-of-day frappiccinos are a good way to lift every one's spirit. And use up milk that will otherwise go bad tomorrow.
:: If your head hurts, your eye sockets are charged with pain, your eye balls shoot shards of agony down to your toes, the backs of your legs have that post-marathon-ache to them and you'd just rather sleep all day, don't worry: you have the flu.
:: Blogging in bed is not for the weak. Trust me on this, I know.
:: Just because no body believe you're sick, doesn't mean you're not sick.
:: The longer you keep the old fashioned mercury thermometer in your mouth, the higher the mercury rises. Weird.
:: If you're sick of being sick, don't use the mind-over-matter method on yourself. It doesn't work. You will end up sicker.
:: If your symptoms disappear for a few days and you think your better, watch out.
:: A dull, throbbing back ache, 99.6F fever and a post-marathon ache in your legs are three prime symptoms of sickness. Especially if you haven't run a marathon any time recently. Just be glad your eye sockets are better.
:: Vacillating between being cold and hot is a good practice system for young women. I bet it helps prepare you for menopause.
:: Never underestimate the power of a shower. Take one every hour to keep from being sour.
:: Short term memory loss is synonymous with a fever and it's not, um, I can't remember the point I was going to make... never mind. I can't even remember what synonymous means for sure right now. I must've learned that word pretty recently.
:: If you make your bed while harboring a fever, you will automatically lose favors in your day. People just assume you must not be THAT sick if you can make your bed.
:: 24 hour flu bugs are definitely better than 168 hour flu bugs.
:: Don't think hard; use calculators as much as possible. Especially for big numbers... like how many hours are in a week.
:: If you make mental notes in your head like how you're going to get from point A to point B and you notice that point A and point B are only a few feet apart, you probably have the flu. Or a dreaded incurable illness.
:: If you think you have spinal meningitis and can barely squint at the computer screen you just staggered to in order to read the list of symptoms, save yourself the hassle: without an incredibly high fever and frequent bouts of nausea, you are fine. Well, you're fine in the sense that you don't have spinal meningitis. Welcome to the flu.
:: If you never get sick, don't say that.
:: I had a little birdy, her name was Enza. I opened the window and Influenza!
:: Don't hang around sick people.
:: When everything hurts, don't forget to breath.
:: Always wash your hands after using the bathroom, wiping your nose, scratching your back, putting on your socks, touching a door knob, licking your fingers, scratching your ear, fixing your hair, sorting dirty laundry, sweeping the floor, brushing your teeth, buttoning your shirt and making your bed. You never know how the flu is going to spread.
:: Finally, at all costs, avoid the flu.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Chewiest Brownies
Our favorite brownie recipe. Even a 7 year old I know enjoys making these.
1 cup cocoa
1 cup flour
2 cups white sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup melted butter
2 eggs
2 teaspoons vanilla
Combine all ingredients and mix well. Batter should be very thick and sticky.
Line 9x13 pan with greased parchment paper. Spread mixture into prepared pan.
Bake at 300 for 30 minutes. Garnish with 1/3 cup powdered sugar if desired.
These brownies are a rich chocolate brownie, very chewy and not cakey at all. Note the equal amount of cocoa to flour.
Thoroughly enjoyed without frosting.
1 cup cocoa
1 cup flour
2 cups white sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup melted butter
2 eggs
2 teaspoons vanilla
Combine all ingredients and mix well. Batter should be very thick and sticky.
Line 9x13 pan with greased parchment paper. Spread mixture into prepared pan.
Bake at 300 for 30 minutes. Garnish with 1/3 cup powdered sugar if desired.
These brownies are a rich chocolate brownie, very chewy and not cakey at all. Note the equal amount of cocoa to flour.
Thoroughly enjoyed without frosting.
Friday, March 20, 2009
When Foggy Brains and Guinea Pigs Don't Mix
Today Janae was holding our one and only breed-able female guinea pig.
And as she sat on the floor holding our one and only breed-able guinea pig in her lap, the guinea pig did what guinea pigs do: it jumped. And kinda started to run. You know, away from us.
Janae did what Janae does at all the wrong times. She just sat there. Now, had it been church or mealtime or a place and setting that requires "just sitting," she would've responded in a different manner. Or I should say, she would've likely responded in a different manner... I'm not God so how can I accurately predict the behavior of a person? Especially if the person is my own daughter, right?
As I lunged for the guinea pig and repositioned it in my daughters lap, I imagined a worse case scenario where the one and only breed-able guinea pig WOULD jump and run away and stay gone. And I mentally calculated the best formula that could be used to catch the run-a-way-pig.
In my sleep deprived, it's-been-a-long-day frame of mind, I decided the best solution would be to also let our one and only breed-able male guinea pig loose and hope he could find our one and only breed-able female guinea pig. Surelyfate instinct would lead them together.
Then, the two of them could do, well, what guinea pigs do best and from that union would likely spring forth an average of about 2-3 baby guinea pigs and voila: we'd have about 5 chances of catching a guinea pig thus improving our chances of catching awild loose pig.
My math skills have always been poor but I was impressed with the mental calculation that redundantly played over in my foggy brain that day. I concluded that our chance of retrieving a live pig and adding it to our diminished herd of guinea pigs would best be achieved if there were more than just one pig loose, but rather a generous amount of five.
As I assessed the repercussions of such reproductive activities, I wondered what the cat would think about this idea. Not that there's a connection or anything but when I thought of the cat, I was also reminded of the building inspector, should we ever need him for future projects. And what about the bank inspector should we ever decide to refinance? Or the tax assessor? Or even our friends should we ever have any of them over?
I decided an investment in live traps would be the most economical option because seriously, who wants to be involved in the topic of wild rumors of guinea pigs or to be known as The People Who Live In The House Crawling With Real Live Guinea Pigs?
For some reason, I sure don't.
I would hate to use our home as a guinea pig for what happens when guinea pigs get loose. That's not the Guinness-Book-of-World-Record's-page I would like to hold a title to. And if not even I would be impressed to hold that kind of popularity, who would?
And as she sat on the floor holding our one and only breed-able guinea pig in her lap, the guinea pig did what guinea pigs do: it jumped. And kinda started to run. You know, away from us.
Janae did what Janae does at all the wrong times. She just sat there. Now, had it been church or mealtime or a place and setting that requires "just sitting," she would've responded in a different manner. Or I should say, she would've likely responded in a different manner... I'm not God so how can I accurately predict the behavior of a person? Especially if the person is my own daughter, right?
As I lunged for the guinea pig and repositioned it in my daughters lap, I imagined a worse case scenario where the one and only breed-able guinea pig WOULD jump and run away and stay gone. And I mentally calculated the best formula that could be used to catch the run-a-way-pig.
In my sleep deprived, it's-been-a-long-day frame of mind, I decided the best solution would be to also let our one and only breed-able male guinea pig loose and hope he could find our one and only breed-able female guinea pig. Surely
Then, the two of them could do, well, what guinea pigs do best and from that union would likely spring forth an average of about 2-3 baby guinea pigs and voila: we'd have about 5 chances of catching a guinea pig thus improving our chances of catching a
My math skills have always been poor but I was impressed with the mental calculation that redundantly played over in my foggy brain that day. I concluded that our chance of retrieving a live pig and adding it to our diminished herd of guinea pigs would best be achieved if there were more than just one pig loose, but rather a generous amount of five.
As I assessed the repercussions of such reproductive activities, I wondered what the cat would think about this idea. Not that there's a connection or anything but when I thought of the cat, I was also reminded of the building inspector, should we ever need him for future projects. And what about the bank inspector should we ever decide to refinance? Or the tax assessor? Or even our friends should we ever have any of them over?
I decided an investment in live traps would be the most economical option because seriously, who wants to be involved in the topic of wild rumors of guinea pigs or to be known as The People Who Live In The House Crawling With Real Live Guinea Pigs?
For some reason, I sure don't.
I would hate to use our home as a guinea pig for what happens when guinea pigs get loose. That's not the Guinness-Book-of-World-Record's-page I would like to hold a title to. And if not even I would be impressed to hold that kind of popularity, who would?
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
A Feline Frenzy
I live with this guy who likes cats. And since this guy also happens to be my husband, I have to choose to like cats too. The only other option available is to hate the cat. But I have a sneaking suspicion that such arrangement would leave me feeling a little stressed out all day long. And I really don't want my husband to have to deal with that.
So I choose to like the cat. End of story.
Now, if it's a nice cat that always uses it's litter box on a regular basis and doesn't tear apart the leather recliner and doesn't infest the house with fleas, I can be cool with such a cat. I guess I assumed my litmus test for cat standards was just limited to those three things.
Until recently.
Actually, quite recently.
About 4 minutes ago, I realized that a fourth requirement has been evaluated and definitely certified for the Domesticated Feline Litmus (Aptitude) Test (Exam) -- or the DEFLATE test:
In order for the domesticated female feline to survive it's entire feline lifespan, it must never participate in the practice of fertility sounds and rituals. These sounds and rituals include but are not limited to:
So I choose to like the cat. End of story.
Now, if it's a nice cat that always uses it's litter box on a regular basis and doesn't tear apart the leather recliner and doesn't infest the house with fleas, I can be cool with such a cat. I guess I assumed my litmus test for cat standards was just limited to those three things.
Until recently.
Actually, quite recently.
About 4 minutes ago, I realized that a fourth requirement has been evaluated and definitely certified for the Domesticated Feline Litmus (Aptitude) Test (Exam) -- or the DEFLATE test:
In order for the domesticated female feline to survive it's entire feline lifespan, it must never participate in the practice of fertility sounds and rituals. These sounds and rituals include but are not limited to:
- Vocalized purring
- Incessant meowing
- Loud vocalized cat sounds that sound slightly robotic
- Weird vocalized cat sounds performed with lots of feline body movement
- Pounding on OUR bedroom door at night (especially during the 12:00am - 4:30am range)
- Insisting on pounding on said bedroom door at night
- Resuming annoying cat sounds
- Never stopping the vocalization of fertility mating call and feline body movement
- Vocalized purring blended with ghost-like-sounding meowing
- All above descriptions combined
If only I had started a college fund for my kids. Because, IF I had such a college fund, I would find it well worth it to spend on spaying this about to be killed annoying cat: who wants a parent who is known by the neighborhood children as the mom who killed the pet house cat with her bare hands?
I know my children sure don't. But right now, I really don't care...
"Here kitty, kitty..."
Monday, March 16, 2009
Where is the BRIGHT Side?
I am greatly irritated.
I don't easily get this irritated by something that is so completely out of my control.I actually never get irritated ever. I actually see the bright side of something even if it seems inevitably gloomy when I first look on. This time there is no bright side for me. This time I am irritated to the greatest dimension. And that is seriously irritated.
When I was a little girl Not long before I got married, I envisioned what my future home would look like. It would have tons of dimly lit lamps scattered through out the house and all bright-well-lit areas would demand a warm, homey glow while maintaining a healthy brightness. There was never going to be a green/blue hue to any room in my house. Except for maybe the garage since my husband would probably insist on it like most guys tend to do.
What I'm saying is I would never, ever, EVER have fluorescent light bulbs. Ever. I was a die-hard incandescent light-bulb fan. That was the only team I supported. Some people get excited abouta funny shaped a prolate spheroid shaped ball that bounces obnoxiously if it lands on the ground but wins a player a lot of money if he can catch it, throw it and kick it right. Not me. I'm all about the light bulb.
My greatest hero The most impressive inventor was Thomas Edison. Do you know how many times it took him to make the light bulb? Think about for awhile Google that and then try to grapple with the hard facts of life that all that work was for nothing. Why? Because some freak guy named Ed Hammer took too many trips into the laboratory and designed a complete onslaught to the world of incandescent. Seriously, that guy should drop the capitalization of the first letter of his last name, and drop a hammer on his project. Better yet, he could just drop himself on the whole thing and we all could be glad that a Hammer destroyed the sterile-mercury-infested-greenish/blue-hued world that is soon to be ours.
Oh the memories of the incandescent bulb... all the boxes and cartons of thin globes of glass that lined store shelves with the internal design created for human comfort. The glow of warm houses glittering with the brightness of one of the world's greatest inventions. The simplicity of changing out a life-well-lived bulb and swirling into it's place the newness of a white bulb.
All that's over folks.
Because of the federal energy bill former President George Bush signed into office, all incadescent light bulbs will be banned for production by the year 2014. You will now feel as much at home in a doctor's office as you do in your own home: the cold lighting will be identical. If you ever find yourself in jail, don't worry; the ambiance won't be any different than your own bedroom. Stores, hospitals, gas stations, convenience stores, they'll have the same thing in common with your own home: a green/blue glow.
Get to know where your toxic waste facilities are. In the event your new-lasts-for-nine-years-environment-friendly-fluorescent-bulb SHOULD go bad, it doesn't go in the trash like normal light bulbs do. Nope. These things need special attention. Being tortured by the wicked devices during their life-time isn't enough; at the time of their death, they are allotted a special burial and you end up having to baby them even more.
When it comes time to changing the light bulb that has completely messed up your world, don't handle the spiral-handle-of-death like you would the good ole' light bulb. That baby glowing in your house is infected with strains of mercury that in the event it should explode, it is recommended that you should leave the room for at least 15 minutes. If you can't leave, I imagine holding your breath for that long would suffice.
Where you can actually learn more about what I'm talking about.
Seriously. They recommend using wet paper towels, rubber gloves, sticky tape and a sealed plastic bag to clean up the toxic waste explosion of mercury flavored shards of glass. Of course this is after you have left the room for 15 minutes, allowing the chance of mercury contamination to go way down.
My question is, who will be the responsible citizen and transport the failed F-Bulbs sealed in a plastic bag to a toxic waste facility? The general public is unaware of the requirements demanded in order to safely destroy the F-Bulbs. The next thing that will happen is innocent people will be duped into arrests since they are handling toxic waste without certification, without degrees in Fluorescentology and without permits to retire the burned out bulbs in a waste-land.
The above link should help the general public understand the implication of theseevil new advances in technology. So we're saving our planet by 'going green' but how healthy can it be to leak mercury in our soil? How responsible is it to save the ozone layer (or whatever it is the environmentalists are trying to save through the F-Bulb) but infect our bodies with exposure to toxic chemicals? What about nature? Animals? Trees? The world we hope to pass on to our children?
I'm being totally irrational about this I'm trying to think like an environmentalists would in my attempts to understand the purpose, the sanity, the wisdom in inventing and implementing the fluorescent light bulb. I completely object and think that if some freak person decides to 'go green' with their lifestyle, fine. They have that right. And if they think the fluorescent light bulb enables them to 'go green' -- since one 100 watt F-Bulb only uses 23 watts of energy whereas one 100 watt I-Bulb uses all 100 watts of energy -- then all the more power to them.
That green/blue glow is a good picture of 'go green' since it shines for 9 years (according to the manufacturer) with a eery greenish hint. Have you ever observed somebody standing under a F-Bulb light? They're green. Their skin is green and even their hair will have hints of green. The walls have an inky green to them and the very air they breath seems to be tinted with green. Seriously, 'go green' is a good way to put it.
I, on the other hand, am in favor if the incandescent light bulb and forever it will hold a warm, glowing memory in my heart as I trod heavy-hearted onward into the years of soil contamination in our mercury laced environment. If I want to 'go green,' I'll plant a tree. Or paint a wall green. Or raise a garden. Or water the lawn.
The F-Bulb isn't for me. I'm holding a daily candle vigil for the passing of a good thing: the incandescent light bulb. May it forever rest in peace for the good deed it has served us all these years.
Down with Ed Hammer and all the politicians who insist on destroying my incandescent little world. Down with the F-Bulb.
I don't easily get this irritated by something that is so completely out of my control.
What I'm saying is I would never, ever, EVER have fluorescent light bulbs. Ever. I was a die-hard incandescent light-bulb fan. That was the only team I supported. Some people get excited about
Oh the memories of the incandescent bulb... all the boxes and cartons of thin globes of glass that lined store shelves with the internal design created for human comfort. The glow of warm houses glittering with the brightness of one of the world's greatest inventions. The simplicity of changing out a life-well-lived bulb and swirling into it's place the newness of a white bulb.
All that's over folks.
Because of the federal energy bill former President George Bush signed into office, all incadescent light bulbs will be banned for production by the year 2014. You will now feel as much at home in a doctor's office as you do in your own home: the cold lighting will be identical. If you ever find yourself in jail, don't worry; the ambiance won't be any different than your own bedroom. Stores, hospitals, gas stations, convenience stores, they'll have the same thing in common with your own home: a green/blue glow.
Get to know where your toxic waste facilities are. In the event your new-lasts-for-nine-years-environment-friendly-fluorescent-bulb SHOULD go bad, it doesn't go in the trash like normal light bulbs do. Nope. These things need special attention. Being tortured by the wicked devices during their life-time isn't enough; at the time of their death, they are allotted a special burial and you end up having to baby them even more.
When it comes time to changing the light bulb that has completely messed up your world, don't handle the spiral-handle-of-death like you would the good ole' light bulb. That baby glowing in your house is infected with strains of mercury that in the event it should explode, it is recommended that you should leave the room for at least 15 minutes. If you can't leave, I imagine holding your breath for that long would suffice.
Where you can actually learn more about what I'm talking about.
Seriously. They recommend using wet paper towels, rubber gloves, sticky tape and a sealed plastic bag to clean up the toxic waste explosion of mercury flavored shards of glass. Of course this is after you have left the room for 15 minutes, allowing the chance of mercury contamination to go way down.
My question is, who will be the responsible citizen and transport the failed F-Bulbs sealed in a plastic bag to a toxic waste facility? The general public is unaware of the requirements demanded in order to safely destroy the F-Bulbs. The next thing that will happen is innocent people will be duped into arrests since they are handling toxic waste without certification, without degrees in Fluorescentology and without permits to retire the burned out bulbs in a waste-land.
The above link should help the general public understand the implication of these
That green/blue glow is a good picture of 'go green' since it shines for 9 years (according to the manufacturer) with a eery greenish hint. Have you ever observed somebody standing under a F-Bulb light? They're green. Their skin is green and even their hair will have hints of green. The walls have an inky green to them and the very air they breath seems to be tinted with green. Seriously, 'go green' is a good way to put it.
I, on the other hand, am in favor if the incandescent light bulb and forever it will hold a warm, glowing memory in my heart as I trod heavy-hearted onward into the years of soil contamination in our mercury laced environment. If I want to 'go green,' I'll plant a tree. Or paint a wall green. Or raise a garden. Or water the lawn.
The F-Bulb isn't for me. I'm holding a daily candle vigil for the passing of a good thing: the incandescent light bulb. May it forever rest in peace for the good deed it has served us all these years.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Another Thing the Banks do Wrong
Have you ever dreaded going to the bank? Even to deposit a check? Or cash a check? I'm not talking about having to make a payment or groan over plummeting financial amounts or check in your savings account to find a dry barrel. I'm talking about going to the bank. Period.
I dread it. Every time. Even to cash or deposit a check.
And the dread has a little something to do with that basket of candy sitting by the drive-through window that my kids covet.
Why can't it be an option to give the kids a sticker? Or a pen? Or even an unused envelope they could lick and then taste the stuff that adheres the envelope shut? Why candy? All it is is cavity-causing-hyper-reactive sweet stuff on the end of a card board stick. Or, in other words, Dum-Dums. (perfect name, by the way.)
I put off going to the bank for days, simply because I don't want to have to go through the drive through, get candy, not give it to the kids (because it's meal time/they already have 4 cavities/they'll get sticky... etc.) and then have them chew me out the whole way home because their candy is not with them.
The latest convincing conversation I had with a certain then-four-year-old (he's 5 now) was, "Mom, I can reach it!" as he strained as far as he could in his strapped in car seat at the very back of the van. He was definitely a good 17 feet away. Okay, not quite that far but it may as well have been. I strained back at him with the candy in my hand and we were still 14 feet apart.
Don't worry; I avoided swerving into the oncoming traffic but had my hand slipped a mere inch, the catastrophe the Dum-Dum would've caused would be cause for a ban on Candy Giving Bank Ladies.
This is serious stuff, people. Somebody needs to stop the impending disaster those "sweet" ladies are liable to cause. I call for a boycott on banks until the baskets of candy are put in a secure metal location with a black rubber lid on top. In other words, in the dumpster.
Maybe this would also help the economy as well since mothers wouldn't be stretched to the end of themselves because their candy craving kids are begging them for the bank candy resulting in mothers making unwise business decisions like whether or not she should let the kids have the candy while she treats herself to $4 iced caramel machiatto on the way home from the bank.
I dread it. Every time. Even to cash or deposit a check.
And the dread has a little something to do with that basket of candy sitting by the drive-through window that my kids covet.
Why can't it be an option to give the kids a sticker? Or a pen? Or even an unused envelope they could lick and then taste the stuff that adheres the envelope shut? Why candy? All it is is cavity-causing-hyper-reactive sweet stuff on the end of a card board stick. Or, in other words, Dum-Dums. (perfect name, by the way.)
I put off going to the bank for days, simply because I don't want to have to go through the drive through, get candy, not give it to the kids (because it's meal time/they already have 4 cavities/they'll get sticky... etc.) and then have them chew me out the whole way home because their candy is not with them.
The latest convincing conversation I had with a certain then-four-year-old (he's 5 now) was, "Mom, I can reach it!" as he strained as far as he could in his strapped in car seat at the very back of the van. He was definitely a good 17 feet away. Okay, not quite that far but it may as well have been. I strained back at him with the candy in my hand and we were still 14 feet apart.
Don't worry; I avoided swerving into the oncoming traffic but had my hand slipped a mere inch, the catastrophe the Dum-Dum would've caused would be cause for a ban on Candy Giving Bank Ladies.
This is serious stuff, people. Somebody needs to stop the impending disaster those "sweet" ladies are liable to cause. I call for a boycott on banks until the baskets of candy are put in a secure metal location with a black rubber lid on top. In other words, in the dumpster.
Maybe this would also help the economy as well since mothers wouldn't be stretched to the end of themselves because their candy craving kids are begging them for the bank candy resulting in mothers making unwise business decisions like whether or not she should let the kids have the candy while she treats herself to $4 iced caramel machiatto on the way home from the bank.
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