When God Hands You Lemons, Smile

I had plans today. Plans to get out and do something fun. Just the kids and I. Toby had another engagement he was committed to and I thought to myself, "It's rare on a weekend when it's just the kids and I." So I thought something fun and out-of-the-ordinary was in order.

But, then my plans changed. I was left with no vehicle. "Hmmmm," I wondered. "Now what?"

I was tempted to be a tad miffed and even grumble. The temptation came to fruition and I did express my irritation ever so slightly. It seems to be the trend of my life lately... get plans, crash plans, no plans.

Inwardly, I made desperate exasperations like, "Why can't I just have a normal life? Why can't things just be predictable?? Why can't we just have a fun day?" And as I selfishly mused and grumbled in my heart on these depressing thoughts, I was convicted to think in a more logical sense.

And I came to a million-dollar answer to that age old question: What is normal life??

Normal life, as I have come to realize for myself, is when no loved one close to me is dying or has recently died. All the other little hiccups and bumps and bruises in life are really pale in comparison to what the death of a loved one can do to you.

The heart ache. The pain. The constant reality of death. The uncertainty of life. The dooming despair of another sad funeral. The quickly-emptying Kleenex boxes. The "I-don't-want-to-go-through-another-day" feeling. The despair. Death of a loved one really is one of THE worst things a person can go through. Even if the departed one is in Heaven. Goodbyes are just cruel.

As I observed my little disappointment today and the trite way I felt slighted because I had plans change once again, I thought, "Really Court, no one died; quit acting like they did."

And so the kids and I did things like sweep the porch. (Toddlers are easily entertained.) And in the process of sweeping the floor, the littlest one found a spider in the milk can. He stayed happily occupied with that for quite some time. He went on to do things like look for other bugs. Next thing I knew, he had a leash fastened to a log and he was dragging the whole contraption down the side walk. The older two played "marching band." And happily played and helped me tidy the porch.

I was pleased to find that it doesn't take a "day away from home" to make life more fun. That you don't need a vehicle to get to a fun place. That kids don't need a trip into town to feel like the day was fun. I knew all this stuff before but never really agreed with it. My bad.

It's funny how easy it is to 'make lemonade' when you right your attitude after life God hands you lemons. It gives life a normalcy feeling that is otherwise lost in the fray of change and despair. And it makes you realize that life really isn't as bad as you'd like to think it is.

Life IS uncertain. But, a smile doesn't have to be.

And The Point Is....?

I thought when I started back into blogging a few weeks ago, I would be divinely inspired with an ability to blog on a regular basis. It's funny how I base my plans on mere thoughts that hold no promise of fruition. Real funny.

So I tried to think up some blogging material. You know, something that held the slightest indication that it could make sense. Or be worth reading.

It dawned on me I could write about everything I've been doing offline around here. But, my life really isn't THAT interesting and I haven't taken pictures with my camera lately. So. No pictorial update today. Or journaled account of my life, for that matter.

(I have no idea where this blog is going just now and I can't guarantee anything that won't be mumble jumbled. You are welcome to go on to the next blog in your bloglines if you wish to do so. Feel free to check your friends' facebook status too. Or even take a walk out to your mailbox and see if there's any "snail" mail waiting for you.)

It's funny how in our day and age, we have to indicate what electronic device we used to take pictures. We also have to indicate what kind of specie-of-living-thing identifies with our mail out in THE mailbox (ie., snail.) Don't get lost with me here... let me explain...

You may notice I said in one of the paragraphs above that "I haven't taken pictures with my camera lately." That sounds like a rather redundant and pointless thing to point out. What else do you take pictures with, right? The question you should consider is, "What do you do with a camera besides to take pictures?" Because there are more devices to use to take pictures with than just a camera. And there are more devices to hold mail than just a mailbox at the end of your driveway.

The one device I'm thinking of in the "take a picture" department is an item that starts with "p" and sounds like "f." Real tricky clue, I know. When you get that word figured out, you are welcome to read on.

The mail thing I'm thinking about is something that starts with "in" and ends with "box." Why don't they just call end-of-your-driveway-mailbox-mail mail and that "inbox" mail stuff "instantmail" or"cheetamail" or "superchargedandfullofcaffiene racehorse mail" etc.? Why do we have to call good, old fashioned mailbox mail, snailmail? It's just not fair to change the name of something that's always been.

Seriously though, sometimes I wonder what kind of age of technology my kids will have when they grow older. Will there even be such a thing as a laptop computer? Will phones even slightly resemble the contemporary phones we have now? Will mailboxes only be used for yard decoration? Will the tires on our cars today be displayed in the next generation's landscaping just like those old iron wheels are displayed in our yards? Will you be able to open a door without pushing a button? What about chairs... will they still have 4 legs?

It's weird how technology, as nice and good as it is, only instills fears of uncertainty in some people. It doesn't always bring the kind of hope and change the computer engineers would like us to think there is.

Education will probably change too. Pencils and old fashioned rulers will be replaced with, well, who knows what. Kids will never learn how to read Roman Numerals. Such a shame. Especially since us adults use Roman Numerals everyday of the week, all the time, all day long. Seriously, what would we do without Roman Numerals?! And arithmetic... will kids even know that word? I have this feeling that math books will be condensed in fancy, schmancy, rigged up calculators. Which really isn't a bad idea because seriously, have YOU used algebra since you graduated from high school?

And blogging... will there even be such a thing as blogging 60 years from now? What if a person's thoughts were immediately flashed onto an electronic device and published to the entire world for all to see? What if there were no filter between a person's brain and their expression of thought? What if their fears and inner most thoughts about mail and education and cameras just spilled out in a mumbled jumbled form and any person subject to reading it had to decipher the logic behind it?

What an awful way to live that would be...

God Knows

Life's strange twists and turns seem to be overtaking at times. But, when I remember we've been sent forth as sheep in the midst of wolves, it's no wonder this ole' world can be a cruel place.

Yesterday's message in church was on being Christ's disciple and the cost that is. I've been thinking about that cost but even more so, the cost paid by the Lamb of God. As sheep we can follow a Shepherd Who Himself knew all our grief and pain. Because He Himself was the Lamb sacrificed for my sin. For your sin.

And as each pathway comes into my life, I can know without a doubt that the Great Shepherd has already gone before me and will only allow into my life what He Himself has approved.

"Everything that comes to us has already been filtered through the loving hands of our Father." (A frequent statement a dear friend shared often with me during her time on earth. After a harsh trial with cancer, she now knows the physical presence of being with her Father.)

I ran across this poem recently and thought the timing of finding it was profound...

Fear not, little flock, He goeth ahead,
your Shepherd selecteth the path you must tread;
the waters of Marah He'll sweeten for thee,
He drank all the bitter in Gethsemane.

Fear not, little flock, whatever your lot,
He enters all rooms, "the doors being shut;"
He never forsakes; He never is gone,
So count on His presence in darkness and dawn.

-Paul Radar

Seasons Of Life

People talk about "seasons of life" and the way they talk, it almost seems like "seasons" only change once in awhile. But, I have come to realize that life with Alex and his two older siblings, provides many opportunities for the seasons in life to change repeatedly. Time after time. Over and over. In one day.

For instance, the day he impressed us all with his amazing abilities to survive the incredible day he seemed to have planned out well for himself, was only a fraction of the true intellect of his 23 month old brain.

Since that amazing day, he has continued to throw himself whole-heartily into the goodness that life is for a one-year-old graduating to become a two-year-old.

Forks, knives and running out the front door are three of the main things he indulges in frequently. But then, it didn't help when the front of our glass stove exploded into a million shards of glass and Alex discovered the wonderful fun that can be found by digging tiny pieces of glass out of hard to reach places. He retrieved enough of a handful that he was able to tinkle them into a large, glass jar. The sound it created was delicately delightful and he was impressed with his exploration.

This all happened in the course of time it took for Alex's mother to use the bathroom. Alex knows how to use his time wisely and the course of action he takes at a moment's notice puts even the most brave Navy SEAL to shame.

So much so that after the glass incident, I looked up from the creative musical mess my son had made with tinkling glass and I saw the hand writing on my dining room wall. It said, "People who survive the age of two, have a much better chance at living."

But I blinked, the writing disappeared and I was suddenly alerted to a new and exciting dilemma going on out in the driveway. It involved two adventurous children aiding and abetting two illegal piles of sharp tinkling glass. Glass identical to the fugitive glass Alex was attending.

Since this time, I have decided to avoid using the bathroom as that seems to only create easily-given-into-temptations and as a good mother, I have decided that my children need...

5-5-09 10:37 pm

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Just like that, the blog ends there. I have no idea how the author planned to finish it. Perhaps she needed to go save a life again that day. Or maybe those kids found more broken glass. Some things in life we'll never know, I guess.

I found this piece of drafted blog in my draft bin and decided to brush it off and attempt to polish it up. It's hard to polish up something that's been sitting in the bottom of a stale blog bin for over two months though.

Episodes described in the above story are common occurrences of my day. Each day is a life changing saving event. And we still end up with bumps and bruises and blood. It's a wonder anyone survives.

But yet, I have an inkling of a feeling that this season of life we're in now, will only last for a short time. Kids grow up and get old! The nerve of them... And instead of worrying about them playing with broken glass, parents worry about much bigger things like, um, you know, dangerous stuff like matches or... um, (that doesn't sound very scary)... Well, just fill in the blank with something really scary.

Or maybe parents grow old and worry about their kids who grew old and now play with small children that play with broken glass? Now that's something to worry about right there.

No wonder my parents have graying hair. Man! I hope my grand kids treat their parents better than my parents grand kids treat these parents.

The Subway Experience

I have undocumented proof that Subway Sandwich Servers must take a "Make-Customer-Service-Not-Your-Forte" class. Across the United States of America, this great land we live in, I have had the occasion to visit all most of the Subways along I-80. And across the board land, they all have the. exact. same. customer. service. rating in my book.

First of all, the way they look at you abruptly with plastic-gloved-hands-hanging in mid air while asking you, "What kind of sandwich do you want?" And of course, since they're making you feel obligated to answer quickly by holding their arm out with a hand extended towards the bread shelf, you start stuttering and mumbling wondering what kind of sandwich you do actually want. All the while pitying their extended arm that is sure to get a cramp in it.

In your mind you can just SEE their foot tapping anxiously on the floor.

So, you say, "Uh, um, the, um, yeah, ah, what kind of bread do you have?"

And they look at you with this shocked look on their face and answer you as if you've never been to a Subway before in your life. With a quick tongue, they roll off a bunch of words and you hear something about Italian and oatmeal and flat bread and herbs.

So you pick a bread, like wheat or white since that's the only kind you know off the top of your head, and they happen to grab it abruptly from it's nestled little bread shelf and hack into it with a huge knife. And then they stare at you again.

You don't know if you should ask them how they're day is going, how long they've worked at Subway, if they like working at Subway, if they ever feel like their hands get too sweaty with the gloves on, what town they're from, etc. Before you have a chance to engage in any friendly conversation, they ask what you'd like on your sandwich with this lets-get-down-to-business air about them.

You start to answer but then realize that there's a whole butcher shop of meat organized neatly in all those little tin containers so you ask politely what kind of meat they have.

They look at you like you've never in your life even heard of Subway.

So you pick a meat and then they wonder if you want cheese. Of course you want cheese but they have to know what kind of cheese you want. You say the name of one of the cheeses they listed off to you and then they slide your sandwich quickly down to the veggie side of the sandwich bar and head back to intimidate help the next customer.

The Subway Veggie Specialist asks you what you want on your sandwich. And since you heard a customer ahead of you say "everything but the..." you decided to try that answer.

So with a ready answer you say, "Everything but the..." and before you can say what thing you do NOT want, the Subway Veggie Specialist happens to grab a very generous handful of the very thing you do NOT want on your sandwich before you can even say "lettuce."

You find your heart beating faster, your palms getting sweaty and your voice getting weak. With all the strength you can muster, you squeak, "No, um, ah... everyth--ah, not the lettuce though."

As you look at the veggies neatly housed in each tin container, you recognize a few other things you wouldn't like so you name off a handful of ingredients you do NOT want on your sandwich. You just know your Subway Veggie Specialist is thinking in the back of her mind, "Didn't I hear you say 'everything'?"

A squirt of oil and vinegar and a couple shakes of salt and pepper and your sandwich is swaddled up in a nice, crisp sandwich paper and with that, slid into a bag. You remark to yourself that you never thought to put salt and pepper on a cold meat sandwich at home, maybe you should try it.

And then comes the bill. You have no clue how they tally up your order or decide how much you should pay to have that kind of sandwich but you did notice the $4-foot-long advertisements in the window. At Pizza Parlors, you normally pay to have each kind of topping put on your pizza but at Subway, you hope the same rule doesn't apply. Because remember? You did say "everything on it."

When your two 6" sandwiches and half a dozen cookies and two little bags of chips comes to close to $14, you decide that maybe trying a little salt and pepper on your cold meat sandwiches at home would actually save you money.



And the feeling of intimidation.

On Hard Heads, Hard Cement and Hard Days

It's one of those days where it's four in the afternoon and caramel syrup is sloppily trailing down the side of my coffee cup. And I don't care. I lick my fingers and wipe them on my lap before tapping on the keyboard. I rarely have caramel syrup with my coffee and I rarely have coffee at four in the afternoon and caramel syrup rarely trails down the side of my cup after it explodes it's self all over the vicinity of my cup when I attempt to just take a little bit. But, some days just don't go the way of calmness and collectiveness. It's on those kinds of days you need caffeine and caramel. At least I do.

Today started out pretty sweet. I had the house to myself after my most amazing, dashing, handsome good husband (he hates when I gush like that) left for work with our charming little son. I actually drank a civilized cup of coffee for about an hour and read my Bible and was encouraged and enlightened in several Psalms and Proverbs. It's been years since I read the Proverb for the day so found it inspiring to pick it up again.

After that, I actually showered in a very civilized manner and of all things even fixed my hair. Our bed was made, the house was presentable and then the kids started waking up. Even then, things seemed calm and collected. I felt a twinge of illness though - like slight nausea - but chalked it up to my vitamins that I had been godly smart enough to take earlier.

Things went fine until I gave Alex watermelon for breakfast.

Watermelon is a nutritional way to start the day and I made no apologies for it at all. Except for the seeds that were in the "seeded" watermelon. I showed Al Baby where to put his seeds on his tray (in a nifty little cup holder) and then went on to do something else.

I made a few phone calls and while trying to carry on a civilized conversation, I motioned for Janae to turn the music down in the kitchen. A lively choir of children were making a joyful noise over on the CD player and I waved my hand indicating the volume needed to be lowered. She batted at something in the air with a smirk on her face and continued singing right along.

I got off the phone and I asked if she knows what I mean when I wave my hand at her like I did when I was on the phone. She admitted she did; that I meant turn it down but then she said, "But I told you Mom to just go to the other room."

Nausea continued to wave over me and I wondered about that little box you get in the pharmacy section at the store that basically tells you if your life is drastically changing or not. I quickly pushed the thought out when I came back to Alex and found that the only watermelon seeds in the cup holder were the ones I put there and the rest were in an even layer across the floor surrounding the high chair.

Way to go, Alex. He's got the spitting-seeds-talent down, that's for sure.

Next, I washed him up (which was no small feat) and sent him out the back door with Janae. By this time, I had full fledged nausea and began to see visions of another seed spitting adorable little Nelson child. After cleaning up the seeds that had been planted all over the dining room carpet (whoever started the carpet-in-dining-rooms phase should have a class action law suit against them), I looked out the window to check on my healthy and rambunctious kids. They were playing quite nicely until I really looked out the window and got a better look at what they were doing and realized the situation was not good.

See, just the other day, I had neatly re-arranged all the landscaping bricks to perfectly line the edge of the wood chip part of our yard. The bricks had all been trampled and over turned thanks to small people and animals. So, I trimmed the yard up and fixed the bricks and was glad to have the yard back in place again.

The same thing happened again this morning -- the bricks were all over-turned and messed up.

The culprits were pleased though; the effort to over-turn each brick had produced an impressive sized cricket and that very same cricket was cupped carefully in a little hand and brought into my the house and placed in a nice, clean jar.

I sent the little culprits back out to put the bricks back and assured them I would not hurt the cricket.

Knowing nausea can be caused by taking vitamins on an empty stomach (check), being exposed to the flu (check), and is also the sign of early pregnancy (?), I decided to do something about the predicament and test accordingly. I can't take a test to prove that the vitamins in my stomach are indeed the cause nor can I take an at-home test to show if my immune system is fighting off a bug. But, I CAN take a pregnancy test.

So I did.

While waiting for the test results to see if I passed or not, I looked outside to check on the progress of the re-landscaping-brick-project. It was quite impressive.

"Mommy, we're building a sand castle," Janae informed me as I looked on in shock to see all the bricks were in a neat stack about 10 feet from where the majority of them needed to go. A nice, tall wall was just being finished up with Alex being the chief builder and I watched in horror as he hoisted a brick a good foot-and-a-half off the ground and at the top of the teetering "sand castle." I cringed when I noticed his helpless bare feet were within a straight-gravity-influenced-bulls-eye-shot of the brick.

I redirected Janae and went back to the bathroom to check on the test results. Envisioning an overwhelming herd of small brick layers taking over our suburbia back yard, I was quite relieved to see a single, solitary line indicating that our family has only one brick layer/landscape-project-demolish-er. At least at this point.

Another trek out the back door lead me to find the bricks in a pile. An it-looks-like-a-tornado-just-went-through looking pile.

I again redirected Janae and learned it was quite impossible for her to finish the job she started. Even though she could over-turn each brick, she was quite incapable of putting each brick back in it's place. And even though she could carry the bricks several feet in order to build a meticulous sand castle, she was quite incapable of carrying them back again and putting them in a straight line on the ground.

You see, she was hot. And then she needed a drink. And then she needed her coat. And then her feet hurt. And then she couldn't pick the bricks up. And then she needed to go to the bathroom. And then she needed to eat lunch. And then she wanted to pick tomatoes. And then she thought Alex should help her. And then she decided to throw wood chips instead.

I consistently re-directed her motives and got her to realize that she absolutely had to pick each brick up and put it back. She resisted until I told her she'd have no lunch all day if she didn't get her bricks put back.

Within minutes, she had the job completed. I was impressed and coveting 2 lines on that pregnancy test I took earlier. Which would of course indicate the potential of another partner in crime life-long friend for Janae. With behaviour like this, she deserves a sister, I thought to myself.

After that, things didn't seem quite as monumental as the brick episode did. It's funny how big issues like an entire landscaping project uprooted by your four-year-old, helps put all of life into perspective.

Janae's cricket did attempt to bite half her hand off just before it got loose in the house. I had no idea crickets could bite. Until today. That was quite exciting because she wouldn't let go of it and screamed her head off while it was biting her. I had to use half a roll of toilet paper just to grab it because I. can't. stand. the. way. bugs. feel. when. you. touch. them.

Then, an un-named child succeeded in damaging the bathroom sink drain so bad when they washed their hands from the cricket goop, there is absolutely no way water will drain from the sink. Probably ever again. I'm hoping this means we need a whole new vanity, sink, faucet and medicine cabinet now.

While swinging on the porch swing a little while later, I watched Alex out of the corner of my eye while he flipped over the back of the swing. I turned to look just in time to see the top of his cute little head, land soundly on the cement floor just under the porch swing. It was a very slow motion-ish event and turned out to be a pretty emotional moment. No one has ever done this on our swing before so I'm wondering where he got the idea from.

After that, we came inside and while I gave cooking instructions over the phone to one of my stay-at-home-mom colleagues, a shattering crash shook the house. I inspected it immediately and upon investigation found that for reasons beyond what human reasoning can compute, a cord to a little lamp sitting in the corner of the dining room had amazingly wrapped itself around a chair leg. When the chair was moved, as is oft to happen to a chair at the dining room table, the lamp crashed to the floor. And voila! it broke the glass shade. Just like that.

A guilty child, who shall remain nameless for now, expressed audibly that they really did need that chair and they said it in a tone that basically confirmed they really didn't care about the lamp. The now shattered-with-glass-pieces-in-the-carpet lamp.

I happened to talk to my husband right around that time, you know, the father of all these healthy little children, and I informed him that if he came home to a telephone number on the dining room table tonight, it was the number to the daycare I took the kids too. He just said, "Okay, sounds good Honey! Gotta run!"

Shortly after that, Janae helped herself and Alex to the bottle of vitamins in the fridge. She seems to have taken hers and Alex's health in her own hands and I guess they'll be good and healthy for sure now.

As I was changing Alex's diaper before nap time awhile later, his clean diaper completely disappeared.

"I put it in my trash can," Janae said with a smirk on her face as she saw me frantically tear around the house looking for one of the THE very last diapers we have in the house right now.

With that, I plopped the two of them in their beds and went upstairs to take a break vacuum fleas. A lit candle, a cleaned up house and reclining on the couch all make me think that I just may still be part of the civilized breed of occupants in this house. Even if I do have sticky fingers from my out-of-ordinary cup of coffee on what I hope will always be an out-of-ordinary kind of day.

But, what really did me in was the fact that just as I'm completing this blog, Janae woke up from her nap a little too soon. Soon as in, only-an-hour-long-nap type of soon. After eating her snack of buttered raisin bread, she found my Blackberry, attempted to delete my call log and succeeded at putting buttered fingers between my phone glove and my phone.

"Janae, don't touch Mommy's phone!" I wailed as I wiped smeared butter off the little Blackberry keys, "It costs a lot of money!"

To which she replied, "No, phones don't cost lots of money; only houses do."

She went on to say, "Then, don't put your phone where I can touch it," in an attempt to excuse her disobedience. She then wandered off and scraped the paint off the built-in hutch in our dining room with her bare finger.

I sigh and and wonder where the paint can is so I can patch the white scrape on the hutch. Of course I was planning on painting today, right? And I muse to myself, while she stands here giving me all the reasons why she really needs a sucker, that the test I took earlier actually could've had two lines.

Sweet.

About That Facelift...

Just so you privileged bloglines.com readers (or other such blog reader support-ers) know that you should come directly to my blog at www.coeurdcourt.blogspot.com

I would hate for all my hard work to go un-appreciated, if you know what I mean.

On The Frontline with Fleas

I know it's rare that I blog anymore so it's probably rare that anyone reads my blog anymore. It's probably better this way because there's a topic on my mind that I think I'd probably like few people to know about.

So why blog about it for all the world to see, right? The only excuse reason I can come up with is because it's therapy for me. Seriously. It beats having to pay my therapist this week.

You see, I am blessed to live in a wonderful country. America's my home and for that I'm grateful. The city I live in is a cute, little country-farm-folk-mid-western town with a cobblestone street right down the middle of town. The lawns are well cared for. No gangs roam the streets. Mangy dogs are unheard of. The neighbors are kind, thoughtful and considerate. Everyone keeps our town looking modern and civilized.

We have electricity, running water, carpeted homes, dishwashers, wash machines and freezers. We have indoor kitchens complete with a refrigerator and some of our sinks even have a garbage disposal. We have air conditioned homes and vehicles and a reliable heat source in the winter. We lack nothing when it comes to civilization standards and nothing in our town reflects anything close to a third-world-country-type issue.

Basically, we appear to lead a clean, sterile, modern life. It's all so perfect.

But, despite living in our nostalgic little town with all of our modern conveniences, the house on our street that we call home inhabits an infestation. A horrible infestation.

It's so bad, we find them in our beds, our carpets, our furniture. We finally put a bounty on them and anyone willing to catch one and drown it, gets a penny. One hunt will get you over $0.65, easy.

You can stand in different places of our house and feel like your standing in popcorn. Or feel like sand is being thrown at your feet. The infestation thunders your skin with it's existence and you feel like a giant, living pin cushion. Or like a lab specimen that gets it's blood drawn on a constant basis. You feel like the lively hood of an entire population of something sub-human.

You itch constantly. You fidget consistently. You can't stand to be in your house. You know, that place you call home.

The infestation I'm referring to is called, fleas.

So. We decided to exterminate the fleas and get "flea foggers." We planned the day accordingly, arranged the house just so in order to fully utilize the foggers and we followed the instructions carefully. You have to keep your house sealed up for 2 hours while the foggers fatally fog the flea's family farm's factory and facilities.

The fleas only got worse. They upped flea larvae. They increased flea bites. They attacked the victims of this house with even greater vengeance.

So. We decided to exterminate the fleas and get stronger "flea foggers." The kind of foggers where you seal the house for 4 hours instead of 2. And you set 8 off at once instead of just 2.

I stripped all the beds and piled the bedding in the middle of the living room. I collected all the throw rugs and piled them on the bedding in the middle of the living room. I gathered chair pads and throw blankets and piled them on the rugs piled on the bedding in the middle of the living room. I picked up any fabric-type object under the beds that could possible be a flea factory and piled it on the chair pads and throw blankets piled on the rugs piled on the bedding in the middle of the living room.

There was an Eiffel tower sized pile in the middle of the living room.

It was a big job collecting all that stuff, cleaning out under beds, moving furniture to get to hard-to-reach places and I was tempted to give up because it felt so futile. And exhausting. And pointless.

But, then another flea would bite my ankle and I'd remember once again why I was on this mission.

Before you start on a flea raid, I found that it helps to do something like fix your hair or put on a cute skirt or spray some perfume because you'll then feel at least half civilized.

With a vengeance we attacked the fleas. 8 bombs went off at once and we fled our house for several hours. We patronized a local laundromat and activated 17 loads of laundry. We folded it all and neatly piled it in laundry baskets. And in random stacks around the van.

Upon arriving home, we aired our house out, like the directions said, before bringing the kids back in. While opening windows in the few short minutes I was in the house, a words-can't-describe-how-terrible-he-is flea bit my foot. The fleas are undaunted!

After the house aired out, Toby and I meticulously vacuumed all the rugs and carpets, steps, mattresses, cushions, nooks, crannies, you name it. Fleas continued to bite. We carefully made the beds with only the bare necessity blankets (I have a thing for a pile of blankets on a bed) and bagged up the rest of the blankets and quilts in large plastic garbage bags.

The fleas continued to bite.

To this day, they have only worsened. If I go on a blog strike again, don't take it lightly. Maybe give me a call or text or email or something just to make sure we haven't been taken hostage. Or carried off as war refugees.

Nothing would surprise me, really. These fleas are possessed and certainly the cause of our sure demise. I'm ready to put a for-sale sign up and sell our house as a scientific lab to some poor college student who is researching the evolving species called, the flea. Or maybe just send a notice to the city clerk that our house should be condemned. Not sure the city clerk would care to know but at least I'd feel better informing someone that our home has become a flea bag and we're the unlucky victims that get to live in it. And the city clerk does sound like an official sounding name for an official sounding person.

So. With that, our therapy appointment has ended. Come back soon for another life changing account of this far-fetched-flea-fairytale. The festivities are sure to continue.

My Blogging Debut

So, I decided to make a come back. You know, a come back to the blogging world. I have nothing to blog about today but since I do have a blog, then certainly I'm entitled to blog about whatever I want. Even if it means to blog about nothing.

My brain is like a wilted flower that got too much rain and then stood in the sun for too many days without rain until it got completely dry and then was suddenly watered on by a dog. Just kind of limp and burned out and wilty. If you don't know what that looks like, plant a flower, over water it for 6 days and then set it on the picnic table to dry out in the sun. When it's dry, set what's left of the flower out in the middle of the yard and just wait for a willing neighbor dog. Take a picture and tag it with my name. Now you have an idea.

There's no reason why I'd have to look like this either. Or feel like this. I mean, we did only have a nasty cold for a week and if Toby wasn't getting me up during the night to mumble at me in some strange language, Janae was trying to slip into MY side of the bed for a middle-of-the-night snuggle. Not to mention the fact that my normal eleven-o-clock-bedtime was rudely switched to 2am. I know; my bad.

But that cold was sure a doozy. We all had it but my dear Toby had it the worst. He didn't take too well to my doctoring abilities since I also was under the weather and seemed to fail to remember any type of effective cold treatment. I caught him guzzling cough and cold syrup right out of the bottle one day and soundly scolded effectively reasoned with him as to the anti-health benefits of such practice.

When my head cleared a bit, a faint memory of something called Bite A Man Sea flashed a merry tune in my head. I kept hitting my forehead trying to remember why I was experiencing Deja vu all over again when it dawned on me that the memory stick in my brain was a little coated with snot cold drainage and I was hearing the message unclearly. So, I de-coded the message and sounded out "Vitamin C!" I took that as a sign that I should give Toby some vitamin C. And I continued to do so until the promptings ceased.

The kids fared pretty well. They all got sick a few days before their parents did so when we were at our sickest, the kids by that time were back to feeling pretty perky. Real perky. Like, poop-all-over-the-house perky. Of course it would figure that I'd get a phone call at the same time, have a text to respond to on another phone and find out right then that my husband was leaving for the rest of the morning. I've tried to space out such abnormal happenings in my day but it never works. It's like the phone call just can't wait for the poop to get cleaned up and my text blocker just doesn't activate automatically when it's obvious I'm doing 23 other things right then.

Sunday rolled around and we were desperate for social interaction. You know, like church or something. Of course, hacking and sniffing and blowing snot everywhere wasn't a very presentable way to go to church so we decided that just getting out of the house would be the best idea.

We went to the lake and got a good dose of sun, 'presh air' (as Landon calls it) and water. We caught a couple dozen little fish because Toby accidentally dropped his line into a school of fish. I didn't know fish went to school on Sunday. Come to think of it, maybe they were having church...

Apparentely the preacher was preaching on the dangers of hooks with worms. Or maybe it was a teacher teaching the class on what to look for in a worm. Either way, Toby was an excellent assistant and aided the preacher/teacher in teaching the church/school the dangers of fishermen. The preacher/teacher used that time to inocculate the audience/class to the wilds of a baited hook and since each one of the parishoners/students were too young for the frying pan, the preacher/teacher was confident they would learn their lesson AND gain permanent freedom. So now there's an entire church/school of fish in a lake in Nebraska that will never bring joy to a fisherman's heart thanks to the hands-on, life-lessons they learned that day.

We played "catch and release" for an hour or so and the kids were thrilled with each little fish they pulled out of the water. I did the honors of pulling the hook out of the fish's mouth and was pleased with my abilities to handle live fish, bloody worms and staring at fish tonsils over and over. While I did that, Toby was casting in another line and setting the next kid up for their fishing experience. The four of us had a regular system down while Alex ate sunscreen fresh out of the tube. He's a little over cautious about the effect of a sunburn on his tongue.

My late grandpa, who was an avid fisherman, would be impressed with my fishing skills. I owe all my luck talent to him. I think it's genetic because nothing in me enjoys pulling sharp objects out of paper thin lips and reaching my fingers into toothless mouths of living things while they stare at me with huge, beady eyes. But when it comes to casting the line in, well, we just won't go there yet. (My Grandpa would NOT be impressed...)

The wind was blowing pretty strong that day (welcome to Nebraska) and there were hundreds several speed boats on the lake. That combination made for some pretty impressive waves. Bear in mind that I've never been to the ocean so it doesn't take much to impress me when it comes to waves. Even my bathtub can produce some pretty sweet waves.

The combination of the beautiful day (it wasn't too hot), the sound of the waves, the 'presh air' and the nice time to just be out together like one little happy family on a lake, made for a peaceful and relaxing day.

Not to mention that subconsiously it created many blogging moments. Which gave me a ticket back into the blogging world. Which is a good thing since how can a blogger have a blog if they never blog like a blogger should?

"I'm back," said the little fish as he swam swiftly from the treacherous shore. Never mind there's a hole in his lip and his scales are a little messed up; he's off the hook and no longer a fish-out-of-water. He's happy to dive right back into the life he loves.

And so am I.

Watch Out....

A face lift can only mean one thing, right?

Stay tuned because I have a hunch the blogger is back!

Repost: God is Good

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.

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 the recipe 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 can scream 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.

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 sins mistakes, I saw a limp, wet, thing hanging haphazardly out of the dogs mouth. Upon closer inspection, I learned it was one of our cat's kittens. Only it was missing it's head. And heartbeat. And a few other necessary things needed for life and the pursuit of happiness.

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.

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...

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 speaking pathetic 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?

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 his iniquity 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 toys artfully 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 his innocent 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, sat sweetly 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 of stress 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 of swimming 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.

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 house just 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 to get 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...

"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 windows for 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 almost grabbed 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.