mind over clutter

I just filled an entire empty yard sale bin with trash. From my car. And I don't mean the kind of trash you can sell. I'm talking wrappers, napkins (both used and unused), junk mail, graham crackers, two fast food cups half full with water and a perfectly good swim diaper...but, well...it's November. And that is just the stuff I threw away. No need to go into detail about all the toys, DVDs and 47 pink and purple sweaters I brought back into the house.

There is unfortunately a direct correlation between the state of my car and the state of my mind. So it felt good to finally purge my car of clutter. My mind is another matter. I tried to open my mailbox with my key remote yesterday. And I was confused when it didn't work. I explained to the girls in my Bible study this morning why I left my coat in my car but how I wished I didn't and was going on and on until one amused member pointed out that my coat was hanging on the back of my chair. And so it was.

My family and I are wanting to be intentional this holiday season about keeping things simple, joyful, peaceful, fun. But I have been stressing already. Why? I want to make sure things are simple, joyful, peaceful...you get it. So my mind is filled with plans and recipes and what to pack when we go to my parents for Thanksgiving and whether we should just get a fake tree and how to get my almost-four-year-old to relax and poop on the potty already and how much more laundry could there possibly be? A great example of how one anxious thought can become a really bad day. No wonder my mind is cluttered.

But in the midst of it all, there is One who is reminding me that HE IS and I am not. That His yoke is easy and His burden is light. What a relief. So come, let us adore Him.

another november birthday

Growing up shopping with my sister, if I would see a shirt or a pair of shoes I thought I liked, I would test it out by holding it up for her to see in order to get her reaction. If it was favorable, I liked it. If it was not, I suddenly saw the merchandise from a new perspective...namely, hers. And being nearly 4 years her junior, hers seemed to be the only one that mattered. If I am completely honest, it still is to a certain degree.

If you ask her about it, she will undoubtedly roll her eyes and disclaim her good taste as simply having distinct opinions about her...opinions. Maybe that is actually the thing I admire: she knows what she likes and what she dislikes. No apologies. No explanation required. I think that says something about her personality, and probably mine as well.

Her birthday was last week. She is the most fun person to shop for. My goal is always to choose something that won't end up in her yard sale pile (she's an addict too...where do you think I got it?) This year, I decided to forgo housewares and fashion and went with books instead: a Southern Living recipe book and Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility. You can't go wrong with food and culture, right?

And by the way...it is 5:15 am. My son is interpreting nighttime as time-to-get-up-and-play time. He's asleep now. I, however, am not.

my addiction (part 3)

I know you've been waiting with baited breath. I know you wish you had been able to come. I know you've been wondering if I am one of those people who exaggerates and blows things out of proportion just to be funny. Let me assure you, I am not.
This was the book section. See the plastic bin on the bottom right? There were 5 of those which were also filled with books. There were 4 boxes filled with sermon tapes by various speakers. There was a section just for lamps. There was a small but respectable area for things that have red in them. See...
I'll spare you the rest of the yard sale photos. Suffice it to say, there was a little something for everyone. And I am proud to announce a breakthrough. It could have been due to my lack of time but I choose to believe I have changed. Because I only took one bin...ONE BIN, people.

And I felt free. I know it sounds stupid and that maybe I'm making it up to make a good point...but truth is, I really did enjoy the day more with less of my stuff there. It was kind of nice to be able to say I don't know how much that is...ask the lady in the jean jacket.

And then I sat back in my seat and drank my hot and delicious coffee....guess I've got another addiction to work on.

my addiction (part 2)

Something is seriously wrong with me.

Context: John's mom has been bitten by the de-clutter bug and, against her better judgment (as well as that of my father-in-law) has decided to have a yard sale. And when Sherry has a yard sale, she really rolls out the red carpet (albeit stained and slightly faded). There are lamps. There are desks. There are more place mats than any human would need in lifetime. And the books....oh, the many books she has to sell! And though he is ever the voice of reason and frowns upon having "strangers in the driveway, looking through windows and rummaging through stuff", my father-in-law always comes through in the end and makes awesome signs...guiding the masses, leading them to the junk mecca of the Triad.

But she couldn't do it alone. She needed help to place, to price, to collect money, to clean up afterward. And being the loving and willing daughter-in-law, I offered to be at her disposal for the better part of the weekend. So it would seem that I would be able to keep my focus, to show up to help, to be available. But I am more than just a loving and willing daughter-in-law.

I am an addict.

It is not possible for me to show up empty handed at this open air market, this antique road show, this carport store with multiple tables filled with trash and treasures. And so I prepare to load up my car yet again, with bins filled with outgrown clothes and worn out knick knacks...items I could have sold in any one of the previous 3 sales I've recently been a part of, but for whatever reason, haven't declared themselves as useless to me until now.

But it isn't just the $48 I will most likely earn. It is the excitement of waking up while it is still dark, of sipping hot coffee in the brisk November morning, of hanging out with John's mom and sister and watching as people haul away our junk for us while we get paid. Granted, the amount we make will never compensate for the number of hours we put in to this small production. But add to that the thrill of the sell and the satisfaction of knowing my attic is a little less bulging and I think I come out on top.

Even so, this is the last yard sale I will ever have. Absolutely, never, ever again. It's not worth it.

(Sale is this Saturday! Please come! You won't be sorry! It will be so worth it!)

celebrating her

I met her at my sister's wedding. I was the maid of honor and she was the guest book attendant. I was immediately drawn to her and by nights end, we had agreed to be roommates. She was a year older than me so, by age alone she was automatically cool. She already had a year of college behind her which somehow gave me confidence by association going into my freshman year.

She was fun and funny, playful and vivacious, blond and gorgeous. She was dramatic, jealous, passionate and, by the standards of our small Bible college in South Carolina, she could be downright scandalous.

It was little things that bonded us at first: we wore the same size shoes and could share clothes and both had an unnatural love for our favorite musicals, often acting them out for one another in our small, girly decorated dorm room...entertainment we resorted to as we had no car between us, nothing within walking distance of campus and we weren't allowed to have TVs. But we shared a lot more than just a room during those years in college. We shared dreams and drama, heartache and heart breaks as well as a love for the Lord.

As the years have passed, we have graduated and grown up. I have watched as she remained fiercely loyal to those she loved, even if she had been hurt by them. She has taught me to play more, laugh harder and not take myself so seriously. She is beautifully human.

These days we only get to see each other about once a year. Two years ago we went to New York and ate pizza in Brooklyn and saw Wicked on Broadway. Last year she came here for a weekend (with me and my 3 kids...not exactly a walk down 5th Avenue, but still). We keep in touch fairly regularly and always pick up where we left off no matter how long its been. She continues to always always have better stories than anyone I know. For example, strange woman asks her "Will you take a picture of my mom and I for me?" Sure. No big deal...unless strange woman is Queen Latifah. Or accidentally walking in on another woman in an unlocked bathroom stall...again, no big deal. Unless, of course that other woman is Cindy Crawford (or was it Brooke Shields?). True stories...they're always true stories.

She is one of my favorite people and today is her birthday. We've been together on her birthday for the last few years...but not this one. She is on her end of the country and I am on mine. She celebrates with friends I may one day meet but will never know. It is right that she has people there, I have people here, and that our lives have continued. But I miss her. And I am sad that she is no longer a part of my everyday. But I am thankful for her influence, her heart, and her hilarious take on life.

Happy birthday, friend.

something about the bride

We just returned from an out of town wedding where the man was the best man. We know the groom pretty well, but we've only met the bride once. Regardless of who you know best, when you're at a wedding, you don't take photos of the groom, really...not unless he's standing next to the bride. She is somewhat of a shy girl and I get the feeling she isn't crazy about being in the spotlight. But I couldn't resist taking photos whenever she was in my line of sight. I just love bride photos and today was no exception.

She had taken a moment to rest her legs after the ceremony.

I also like photos that tell a story.

It's kind of blurry, but it says always a bridesmaid...doesn't it?

the princesses and the pea

on halloween

Most of my Halloweens have been spent in dark back rooms with shades pulled, vaguely lit by the blue glow of the TV. We didn't trick-or-treat and we didn't hand out candy. We didn't celebrate Halloween. We hid, basically.

There was one year, however, when we were allowed to dress up. I don't know why. Kids don't question these things. I was a barbie. I had a mask with holes for eyes, nose and a tiny tease of a slit at the mouth, just big enough to stick your tongue through but not big enough to get it back out again. I remember having to choose between seeing or breathing because the one-size-fits-no-one mask was too big. I think it also came with a plastic apron "dress". My sister tells me we fought over my mask that day, I think because the painted plastic hair was better somehow. I'm not sure why I won that fight. I probably cried. But I'm sure she will comment to this.

Last night I went to Target to get candy to give to the trick-or-treaters in our neighborhood. Warning: there are indeed brightly colored Christmas ornaments displayed next to the ceramic pumpkins in the seasonal section. Just so you know. I happened to remember just before I left that the baby needs a toothbrush for his 6 teeth. So I bought 4 bags of candy and 2 toothbrushes. I thought it was funny and mentioned it to the cashier. She didn't laugh. I also shopped for some earrings to wear to a wedding this weekend. I found the perfect ones and almost bought them...until I realized they were cuff links. Oh, well.

So yeah...we won't be hiding out in the back room tonight. Its a good thing, since we don't really have a back room. I think giving out candy will be a great way to continue to connect with some of our neighbors. And you know what Halloween means? It means tomorrow is November and I can officially listen to Christmas music.

I know, I'm worse than Target.

our trip to the mountains

I am not a traveling person these days. I think I was at one time. On personality tests I always end up sounding a lot more spontaneous about things like than I really am. I think I just remember how I was at 19 and answer the questions accordingly. Back then, the idea of jumping in the car or on a plane and going somewhere fun was exhilarating. Not that I really ever did that. But I liked the idea of it. These days, the idea of it just gives me a headache. I think it is the having-three-kids thing.

With this in mind, we took a day trip to the mountains over the weekend. In a day. With three kids. There and back. In a day. To the mountains. Did I mention the three kids? Little ones?

For a lot of people like us who only live a few hours drive from the mountains, the trip is really no big deal. Even with kids. But for me, non-spontaneous-trip girl....it was kind of a deal. It wasn't even technically spontaneous. We have talked about doing it for a while, but didn't plan to do it for sure until a few days ahead. A few days. In my book, that qualifies as spontaneous.

I have to say, I am so glad we went. There were loose plans involving lunch at a place where The Man knows the owner, driving along the parkway, seeing the pretty leaves, playing at the park in Blowing Rock, getting ice cream and driving home. Turns out we got hungry on the way up so we ate at KFC instead. Not exactly quaint. But for the most part, our day was a delight. Beautiful weather, content kids (most of the time), really hot husband.

I enjoyed admiring him from across the park as he followed the baby around and I hung with the girls. I remember driving to the mountains with him the first month we started dating. With just the two of us, it hardly qualified as a trip...I remember wishing the drive was longer so I could just be with him.

Not so on this trip. Not that I didn't enjoy being with him, but I certainly wasn't wishing for the drive to be longer. A lot of change 8 years brings. The company may be different, but the scenery was the same. What a gift to be able to share with our kids their first autumn in the mountains.

you got all that from a bumper sticker?

Ever feel like your attempts at something new are threatened by the fact that so many other people are not only already doing it, but they are doing it better? I was behind a car today with a bumper sticker that read "I run 26.2 miles." Putting aside my initial confusion (Run? You run 26.2 miles? Like, as in right now? Present tense? Really?), my thoughts after reading this were as follows:

Wow. 26.2 miles. I wonder how far that is? If I started running right now, where would I stop and it be 26.2 miles? I could run a marathon. If I trained. How would you train for that? Where would I begin? How long would it take? Think of all the people who have already run marathons and who are (according to the bumper sticker) in the process of running marathons and how far behind am I already in being able to run a marathon so what's the point?

And then the light turned green and I forgot about it.

I have no desire to run a marathon, let me assure you. But it has made me think. How many things in the world have not been done because people are afraid to start? What are we afraid of? That we won't win the marathon? That we won't be the best dancer ever? Write the best book ever? Be the best cook ever?

Or worse...maybe I'll look stupid.

Or worse worse...maybe it isn't that so many other people are doing it better, maybe it's that no other people are doing it at all. And the idea of being the first is just too...much.

It's easy for me to get stuck there...to forget that success does not necessarily lie in the outcome of the attempt. And I won't even say it is found in the mere fact that I attempted it...because maybe my reasons for doing so were wrong in the first place. But the Lord, He has plans for me. Plans to prosper, to give hope and a future. Will I allow my fear of attempting something to hinder or delay those plans?

Here's a newsflash worthy of remembering: I don't have to be the best. And it's ok to be the first. Because life isn't about how I compare with you or them or myself, for that matter. And when its not about me, the fear seems to lose its power and life becomes a lot more fun.

to have her peach and eat it, too

She was in a really bad mood. And in the midst of it, she realized she wanted a peach. Just a peach. She would have much preferred to be capable of cutting it and serving it for herself. But she is 3, so she could not. All she had to do was say "Mommy, may I please have a peach?" That's it. Seven words.

But she would not.

She tried every other possible tactic. "Mommy, gimme some peach! I want it right now! I want a peach! I WILL have a peach. Give! It! To! Me!"

But I would not.

I repeated to her the requirement for receiving in this situation: "All you have to do is ask 'Mommy, may I please have a peach?' " In other words, you must ask. You may not demand it. This won't happen on your terms. After all, if she could get it on her own, all she gets is a peach. Ultimately, I want more for her.

Why does the Lord want me to ask Him for things? He already knows what I need, why can't He simply give it? There are, in fact, so many things He generously gives without my asking, things I wouldn't even think for which to ask. But I take and enjoy them anyway, many times not realizing they came from His hand. So I get the "thing", but often times I miss the blessing. Sometimes I think He wants me to ask so that when I receive, there is no doubt about who gave it. It is a lesson in dependence...a reminder that there is Another upon which I am called to rest. He is the Giver.

I wanted to give her the peach.

But not just that...I wanted her to recognize that I wanted to give her the peach. But I also wanted her to have the blessing of asking, then receiving. And I wanted her to understand, ultimately, that all I have is hers...and she is loved.

After many tears, much screaming and a bit of encouragement, she conceded. Though muffled and soft, her request was spoken and granted. She got the peach...but I think the a hug and the high five meant a lot more.

Because afterwards, though she tried to hide it, she was smiling.

long days, short years

I spoke with a mother of teenagers on the phone tonight. It was nearly 6pm and she apologized for interrupting our dinner. I assured her our dinner had ended long ago and we were on our way to bath time. She seemed to pause on the phone, and then sigh with a mix of memory and longing. "I wish we had a reason to eat early at our house. I miss those days." And I knew what she meant.

Though her children still live at home, they can drive now and they have grown. They eat with their friends, at odd hours, on the run, or not at all. They have places to be, things to do, day timers of their own. They have deadlines to keep, relationships to pursue, tests to ace, things to prove. They are eager for life to begin. And their mother...well, she is watching and waiting and available. And she is preparing for the day when her babies leave the house and are on their own for real.

I don't always enjoy the life stage that I am in. But tonight, I can't get enough of it. I am breathing in his downy scent in a desperate attempt to hold on. I am watching the girls play make-believe with barbie dolls and baby bears. Their faces so soft, doughy, flawless. I am praying for their spouses, for the mothers of their spouses..women who are just like me somewhere in the world, taking care of these little ones during days that seem to go on forever.

But you know, they won't. So tonight, after a full day of play and poop, I am thankful.

geriatrics, here i come

I'm getting old.

Let me put this into context. I spent almost 3 hours at the coliseum last night with a group of girls who are slightly (ok, a lot) younger than me. All still single, except one. There were strobe lights. There was really loud music. There was lots of dancing. Yes, I paid real money for a ticket to see So You Think You Can Dance on tour.

And it was awesome.

But I'm getting old. My initial clue to this inevitable fact surfaced during the opening number when my first thought was they could turn the music down a little. Followed by those flashing strobes are blinding and slightly panic inducing. Then, of course, I perused the room for the closest exit, just in case. Finally, I began to wonder what time I'd be able to get to bed. Not to mention the exaggerated yet involuntary flinching my body experienced every time one of the dancers danced too close to the edge of the stage. Then this morning, when I woke up, I noticed that my lower back was tight and sore. Those darn uncomfortable coliseum seats...

And that's when it hit me. Weaved in between my enjoyment of the paso dobles, pirouettes and krumping were the thoughts of an old woman. They came naturally, without effort. Wasn't there a time when I could stay out really late and listen to really loud music and watch strobe lights without needing medication?

It was tons of fun, don't get me wrong. I'll just have to stick to 3 year old dance recitals if I want to feel as though I'm in my element.

making evil out of nothing at all

Dear lady in front of me in line at Target,

I'm sorry I stuck my tongue out at you behind your back. It's just that when my child was screaming Mommy, I want that big hairband! over and over at the top of her lungs and you glanced down at her with a blank expression, I interpreted it as a hey- loud- and-obnoxious- little-girl-stop-screaming-and-acting-so-spoiled-and-let-me-shop-in -peace-and-why-can't-you-get-her-under-control-you-bad-mom-you glance.

But then when we walked out of the store and you stopped me in the parking lot and told me how beautiful my kids were and gently said to my daughter "Your mommy is doing the best she can" well, I started to feel bad. Really bad.

So, I'm sorry for turning your innocent glance into an evil one. Next time I will be careful not to project thoughts onto others that are, in fact, my own. Thank you for offering your support to a stranger in the Target parking lot. And for not turning around when I was leaning aggressively toward you with my tongue aimed at the back of your head.

Sincerely,
Emily

blame it on asthma.

We ran out of apple juice about 2 days ago. I am blaming my baby's asthma for my failure to go to the store (and for being late to bible study and for not finishing the laundry and for not returning phone calls and for...) It's amazing how many things I have found to blame on asthma. It's been great. Not the asthma, but the blaming. People are lenient on a mom who has a baby with asthma. Between you and me, it's not been that bad...initially its a bit scary, but once he saw the doctor and got his medicine, he still plays like normal and eats like normal and sleeps like normal. I guess our days have been pretty normal in the midst of the asthma. Except for the 10 minutes 3 times a day that I have to sit with him and give him his breathing treatment with the nebulizer, our routine hasn't actually changed at all. But its been a great excuse to be lazy without feeling guilty.

Nebulizer? My spell check doesn't recognize this word. (and I just spelled 'spell check' wrong, by the way). Neb-u-li-zer. Right? Ok, now I'm laughing. Did I make the word up? Could it really be called a nebulizer? I hear a deep, slow and dramatic voice echoing in my head "I will use my galactic nebulizer to penetrate the deflector shield..."

Oh my. Needless to say, tonight I finally made it to the grocery store and have replenished our apple juice supply. They are happy to not have to drink only water anymore. (The nerve of a mom to offer her kids cold, clean, abundant water. You would think I had said "you can either have milk or pee" by their reaction). Now they can finally have their watered-down apple juice.

And, more importantly, the baby is beginning to breathe much better. Guess I'm going to have to find another scapegoat.

my addiction

I told myself I wasn't going to do this. So they're having a neighborhood yard sale...I thought. I'll go down, hang out, be with my parents and sister, shop a little. Be easy. I just had a yard sale in July. I don't need to sell anything else. I'll donate it.

Then I thought, well, maybe I'll just sell a few things. And before I know it, I'm searching my house for things to add to my plastic bins full of junk. I no longer see the items in my home as useful. They are turning into quarters before my very eyes. Could I get 50 cents out of that? Yea, maybe. My heartbeat quickens as I picture them coming by the car fulls, rummaging through my valuable crap. As I price my items, I imagine the buyer trying to talk me down from a dollar to 50 cents and I hear myself saying "Not yet. It's too early." Ha. I dare them to try to get 50 cents out of me, those cheapskates.

And I become a woman crazed. What happened to being easy? Going down to hang out? Its just. Not. Possible. Because its a neighborhood yardsale. They will come in droves with their fanny packs full of quarters and ones. And I just can't help myself.

Must sell. Must sell. Must. Sell.....

starting young

It's from Emmy night, the stars on the red carpet. (If you click on it, you can see it better). I like to look at all the pretty dresses (who cares about the Emmys?) On of my girls wanted to look at my "mazagine" too...I asked her which dress was her favorite. She picks the 3 on the right and then says, "Look at alllll theeeese Barbies!"

I hadn't thought of it, but it's true. They do all look like Barbies (or as she would say, 'bobbies'). Except if you look closely, Eva Longoria's head looks freakishly big in comparison to Katherine Heigl's. That's because real women AREN'T ALL THE SAME HEIGHT. There's got to be at least a foot difference between them. But you certainly wouldn't know it from the magazine.

there were never such devoted sisters.

My girls have been fighting a lot lately. Like, A LOT. I guess I kind of get it...for three and a half years they have done everything together. It all started when they were conceived at the same time. Kind of crazy if you let yourself think about it. Two eggs? Both fertilized? Are you kidding me?

Then when they came out, they had to share us and the attention. No sooner would I be gazing into one pair of dark eyes than the other one would need something.
They still take baths together. Here's a shot from before they could even sit up on their own. Glad those days are over.
They shared a crib when they first came home from the hospital...until they started rolling over. It didn't matter how far apart we placed them, they always seemed to find each other by the morning.They still have never spent one night apart. And they are getting on each others nerves. And that gets on my nerves.

It also makes me think of my own sister. She is almost four years older than I am. Funny how back then, those almost-four-years meant I thought braces were cool and I was a tag-a-long and she got to do everything and she basically hung the moon.

Yeah. She's the one with the cool braces. I'm the...other one.

I just saw her last weekend. Seeing her reminded me to remember to miss her. And missing her I am. I don't like my town as much without her in it. And it makes me think about my girls and how they are together almost too much...but how when they grow up, they won't be.

Our almost-four-year age difference is pretty insignificant now. I know better than to think braces are cool and we do things together now rather than me tagging along. One thing hasn't changed, though...I pretty much still think she hung the moon.
You didn't seriously think I could end with that last picture, did you?

plotlines in my life

Tonight our oldest twin tearfully refused a bath for fear that her "fingernails might come off". They were freshly painted yesterday by her Nanny...I knew what she meant. You have to pick your battles. These days, it seems I'm losing the ones I pick but whatever. She's asleep now...dirty hair; fingernails intact.

Now that they are all sleeping (husband included), I thought I'd take a moment and offer a few updates.

I talked with the bride. Turns out she's a really gracious and forgiving person. Good thing. I guess I already knew that, but it's still a relief to have talked with her and offer my appropriate apologies for my lack of...well, just for my lack. I'd post a photo from her wedding here, but I wasn't there. So this is me. Moving on. Starting now.

The movie we were waiting for? Well, it came. They were scared of the Beast, but held out hope until he turned nice. And we had a real movie night (or day, really). It is so refreshing to watch something other than Dora. I was pleased to discover I remembered so many of the songs after 15 years or so. Two girls weren't so pleased. I think "Shhhh, Mommy. We can't hear" was the exact phrase. At least it's in English.

And then there is my daily struggle with Good Mom. If only she would disappear into the archives like that blog post did. But she doesn't. Instead she hovers, lingering in my days the same way the smell of a dirty diaper lingers in the room after it has been taken to the trashcan outside. She weaves her way into my thoughts and leaves me feeling helpless to ever becoming more like her. Turns out Good Mom may be a good mom, but she isn't a very good friend.

I remember the words the Lord speaks to me, gentle and true. He brings life and hope and clarity.

And He doesn't hover. I like that.

returning to thursday nights

Coming home from school was always a part of the day I looked forward to when I was a kid. I remember sitting in my first grade classroom at the end of the day and hearing the big orange-yellow buses pull up in front of the school...lining up in predictable order to take us home. There seemed to be at least a small bit of excitement about going home every afternoon. There was sure to be Mom who would always have some type of snack for us. There was also another aspect to the after school routine at our house...TBS.

Every afternoon at 4:05, reruns of The Brady Bunch aired on TBS. (Remember when TBS did everything on the five?) Except I'm not sure if I knew at the time that they were reruns. Thus began my association of comfort and safety with a TV show. Shameful, I know.

It wasn't until years later that I became so hooked on another show. Not that I didn't watch TV during all those years...but I don't remember another show I really attached memories to like I did The Brady Bunch. Until the spring of 2002 when The Man and I began to watch the end of season 4 of Survivor with my sister and brother-in-law. It wasn't so much the show itself at that time. It was the fact that my sister and I now lived in the same town (which hadn't been true since I was in high school). And now we had a night, Thursday nights. That was our night...to hang out, eat dinner together, play with our nephews, and after they were tucked in, to turn on CBS and watch random people outwit, outplay, outlast.

We watched several seasons on Thursday nights together, until one particular Thursday afternoon I took a pregnancy test that turned out to be positive and 9 months (or so) later, we had twins. Evening outings became a thing of the past and our Thursday nights with my sister became Thursday nights at home. Watching Survivor, just the 2 of us...well, it wasn't the same. And so we stopped.

Thanks be to a certain female contestant on Survivor China premiering tonight for resurrecting our desire to watch. She happens to be a co-worker and friend of my parents. So I'm making a chocolate chip pie and inviting friends over to watch not-so-random people outwit, outplay, outlast.

It won't be the same as it once was...the glory days of the early seasons with my family. But it will be fun to have someone to cheer for.

quotable quotes

I realize that, of all the people in the world (more specifically those who read this blog), I am the one who most enjoys the things my kids say. I try to be sensitive to that, kind of the same way I try to avoid telling my labor and delivery stories in the midst of other moms. What is it with that anyway? All it takes is one pregnant woman in line at a children's consignment sale, and all of a sudden, 3 women are telling their labor stories simultaneously, not responding to one another except as an excuse to launch into their "Well, my water also broke at 3am and then we..." Drives me nuts. True story, by the way.

So, even though I realize I am the one who gets the most kicks over what comes out of the mouths of my babes, I thought the following snapshots into our days were worthy to share with the masses (all 10 of you). The following are things they've said in the past week, with a bonus quote from a fellow mom at the end:

• In the car, on the way to preschool, each twin has a doll. Their conversation, word for word:

AG: My mommy's home but my daddy's not...he died.
S: Oh. Maybe God can bring him back
AG: But you can't see him cuz He's all around.
S: I see Him under my bed.
AG: How 'bout you be God.
S: Ok. Hi. I'm God.
AG: Hey, how 'bout you be Mary.
S: Ok. I'm Mary. (singing) Mary had a little lamb, little lamb...

• Said in a loud whine, "Mommy, I really want to get in my mouth..."

• To my mom in the midst of crying while pointing to the air beside her, "Look! There's other me. See her? She's right there." (should I be worried?)

• Walking past a restaurant, one twin sweetly declares, "I smell a beeaaauutiful hot dog."

• And one more quote, not from my kids, but from a mom at a birthday party last weekend (also my personal favorite):

kid at party: Mommy, can I have another piece of cake?
Mom: No honey, I want you to have something healthy first. Here's a chicken nugget.

hurry up and be patient

When my parents first got their dog, Delly, I thought they had gone mad. My mom doesn't like dogs, at least thats what I thought. But they were living in Austin and we were all on the east coast and they were lonely. So they got a dog. I remember when she was a puppy and they would take her out to do her business, they would say the phrase "Hurry up, delly...hurry up!" real fast and sing-songy...they said it was her trigger to go ahead and pee or...whatever.

Sometimes I hear myself telling my girls to hurry up...but then I can't figure out why. There are those days when we are late to preschool or an appointment and I simply don't have time to wait for them to buckle their own car seat belt. But a lot of the time, we are going to the park or Target or someplace where time isn't a factor. Still, I hear those words come from my mouth...."Come on girls...hurry up. Put your shoes on, hurry up. Let's go to the car. Close the door. Come on! Hurry up!" Why do I do that?

I read something in the booklet that their Sunday school teacher sends home each week, and it said instead of telling your child to hurry up, give yourself a chance to slow down! Let your child set the pace.

Oh. I'd never thought of that. A chance to slow down. Now there's a novel idea.

great expectations

The girls have been with Nanny and Poppy for a few days. They come home today. I have missed them, but it has been a nice break. It has been hard not to overplan my time without them...you know, deciding all these undone projects will get done in the 2 days they are gone. Impossible as I still have one whole child around to take care of, as well as the usual daily life things. Besides, why can't I just "plan" to relax, enjoy, sit and be? Afterall, that is just as important...maybe even more. If I had more "sit and be" time, maybe I wouldn't, oh I don't know, forget to go to weddings and things like that.

there goes the bride

So its been a good weekend. Saturday especially. Time with friends with donuts and coffee. Took kids to the park. Pulled some weeds in the yard. Enjoyed a girls night out. Ate good food. Watched a chick flick. Today was a good day too. Church was good. Kids were happy. Husband was happy. Lunch out. Time at home. Baby napped. Girls played.

I sat down to clip coupons. I was content...proud that this day that has such potential to be hectic was turning out so nicely. Until I lifted up the coupons from my desk. And there, at the bottom of a small pile of papers, was an invitation. To a wedding. Of my friend. For yesterday.

As I held it in my hand, I could feel the blood rush out of my face, that creamy card stock mocking me with its swirly silver writing...silently accusing me with the words Saturday the eighth of September. My first instinct was to think of someone else to blame. Anyone but my own lack of organization for failing to transfer the wedding date from the card to my calendar. Surely they should have called the guests to remind us to come? But it was in vain. All I could think of was that while I was stuffing my stupid face with chicken florentine pizza and crying because Jane let Tom Lefroy go, my friend was living the most important day of her life. And I missed it. Because I forgot.

So here I am. Regretful, yes. Embarrassed, you better believe it. Sad for two reasons: because I know I disappointed her by not being there and also, because I'm disappointed myself. I wanted to be there. To meet her husband. To take photos for fun. To be a good friend.

I feel like a failure, an idiotic airhead. But I can't let myself stay there. I guess there just comes a point when I have to realize that I've made a mistake and, as much as I'd like to, I can't take it back. And so I wait...for my feelings to settle and for the color to return to my face.

And I go out and buy her a card to contain my well wishes and sincere apology, a wedding gift, and a box of chocolates.

still good, even though...

I am not the one to write about loss. I have friends who could write books on the topic. But not me. Still, there has been a loss. And today marks 10 years. So I feel compelled to write. And so I do.

The spring of 1993 was the spring I turned 16, got my braces off, made the varsity cheer leading squad, went to my first prom and had my first legitimate boyfriend. His best friends' name was Chris, and Chris was dating my best friend, Heather. Needless to say, the four of us became pretty close.

Chris was not the kind of guy with whom I would have naturally been friends. He could be kind of a jerk, actually. He was really funny, but often times at other peoples' expense (it was high school, after all). He always said I had a big nose but thought it was ok to say because he had a big nose too. He was talented and popular...captain and keeper on the varsity soccer team, voted most outspoken in the senior superlatives. He liked to party. After a while, we saw a softer side of him. I was there when he was baptized. He was charming and, if you could get past being the brunt of his jokes, he was pretty easy to like. Over that year, he became one of my closest friends at a time in life when friends were everything.

Eventually, we all went off to college and lived separate lives. A year or so after I had last seen him, I was watching the news along with the rest of the world as we learned of the death of princess Diana. A short time later, Mother Teresa died as well. And I watched loss and grief on TV. But I was far removed, disconnected, aware but unaffected.

Little did I know that during that same time, on a small college campus in Tennessee, there was a motorcycle accident. And so while the world was mourning the loss of a princess and a saint, those who knew this funny, witty, talented, sarcastic college guy...well, we were mourning too.

Now its been 10 years. So what's my point? I guess just that he should be here. Somewhere in the world, he should be laughing and loving a wife and having kids and living. And I'm not naive enough to think that he and I would still be in touch because we probably wouldn't. But I should be able to google his name on a curious Saturday afternoon and find a blip of an article from a random newspaper about when his baby daughter was born or his name listed in an online college graduation bulletin or maybe even his stats in a bio about the US Olympic soccer team or his run on Survivor or...something.

I guess that's the nature of death. There is a place in the world where it seems like they are supposed to be but they aren't. I don't even care where that place is. Just somewhere. But then, who am I to say what is supposed to be or not be? And so I sit and remember, reflecting on his life and who he was to me and those who knew him...and I trust that, even though it doesn't make it feel any less of a loss, I trust that the Lord knows. And He sees. And He is still good.

a glimpse of him

This is a picture of the books on his bedside table. Usually they are stacked higher than this. Most of the time there is at least one commentary in the mix. The one on the bottom is his journal. And in the morning when I make the bed after he has gone to work, I typically put some of them away, back on the shelf to minimize the clutter.

But not today. Today, I noticed them. Consequently, I noticed him.

He likes stories...stories about Jesus, stories about people he knows in real life. But put a fiction book in front of him and he breaks into a cold sweat. He would much rather read a text book than a novel. My dad is like that, too. I so don't get that. But I have kind of grown to really love that about him. I'm not sure why.

So this is me, remembering just one of the many reasons why I fell in love with him.

Happy birthday, my love.

so much for dancing like nobody's watching.

Dance camp.

The girls have been looking forward to it for a week or so and to be honest, I have as well...pink images in my head of them twirling in tutus side by side. Monday went surprisingly well. By "well" I mean they went. They did the craft. They ate the snack. They didn't cry.

The teacher told me there was a glitch on Tuesday, with an incident in the middle of class where one twin didn't want to let go of her sisters' hand, so by Wednesday morning, I got the "I don't want to wear a tutu" speech. When I asked her what she would like to do, she said nothing, only made a motion with her hands, as if holding an imaginary baseball bat. So that left little miss thing on her own, to navigate through the rest of the week, sister-less.

It didn't phase her much. She came down the stairs every morning this week, tutu in hand. Aside from the multiple hugs and kisses she asked for before I dropped her off each morning, she willingly walked into her class and remained there without tears.

One thing she hasn't done all week, however, is actually dance. She simply stood in class (or sat, at times), interested but disengaged. I found myself to be slightly irritated by this. What's the big deal? Why won't she just have fun and be a kid? Why so serious? I wondered how the recital would go at the end of the week with parents watching. I fully expected her to find us in the audience and walk directly to us, refusing to remain in the spotlight. I was prepared for that.

Instead, she simply did that which she had done all week. She stood there. I think in some way, she believed she was performing, showing us what she has been doing at dance camp. But while watching her stand there in the midst of twirling girls in tutus, I found myself to be overcome with compassion for this small brunette, standing with purpose, focused intently on those dancing around her, determined to be there in the midst of the dancers but just as determined not to dance. I know how much she truly enjoys being there. I know how much she loves to dance. What I don't understand is what causes one girl to dance while the other stands motionless, paralyzed with uncertainty?

The mommy in me dismisses her behavior as shyness or maybe even stubbornness. But watching her today, I think I saw her. Really saw her. Not as my daughter, but as a person. A girl. And I could relate with her. In fact, I saw myself in her. And I felt the feelings with her...of wanting to be a part of something, maybe even thinking I am a part. But of not fully experiencing the fullness of the dance because of fear or anxiety or expectations. But I saw her courage to continue to stand in the midst of her fear.

And for different reasons than I thought I would be, I was proud.

looking for a princess in a yellow dress

I love movies. Whether its a new release in the theater or an old favorite on DVD, I enjoy a good movie. It should come as no surprise, then, that I have been wanting to have a movie night with our girls for quite some time now. And I don't mean Dora or Calliou or any other show that comes on Nickelodeon or PBS. I mean a real movie.

So far, not so good.

It all began last Friday night when I was trying to think of a movie we could watch together that wouldn't be too scary, but would last longer than 15 minutes. The Little Mermaid? No, the octopus lady is too big and has slanty eyebrows. (They know slanty eyebrows=mean). Besides, my girls are skittish during the 30 minute Ariel cartoon that comes on TV. The Lion King? No way. Lion daddy dies. Mean hyenas. Snow White? Sketch old lady in a hooded cape. Bambi? Yeah, you get my point.

I finally settled on Beauty and the Beast. I figured that, though the beast is scary, maybe the fact that he ends up being good in the end would make up for it. So I headed to Blockbuster, twins in tow, to pick out the movie to watch that very night. We walked straight to the Kids/Family aisle...the girls immediately began to talk at once. "Mommy! Let's buy this one! No, this one!" (as one of them dropped Dora in France for Dora at the Beach). Have I mentioned I want to watch a m-o-v-i-e? Have I mentioned we have 893 Dora's on DVD at our house?

I ignored their requests and continued to search for the "b"s...only to discover that Beauty and the Beast was not on the shelf. It wasn't just checked out either. Out of stock, the lady told me. So as we drove home that night (with Miss Spider and Strawberry Shortcake), I became determined to find this movie to watch with my girls. I checked Target, Wal-Mart, even online. It began to be clear to me that ole' Disney has pulled a fast one and locked the vault on the sale of this movie.

But even Disney can't control eBay.

That's right. I got it on eBay for pretty much the price I'd pay for it in the store. But its coming from Malaysia.

I really hope its in English. I'll keep you posted.

Good Mom vs. Me

Ever feel like a really bad mom? I'm not talking jail time or anything. Just that feeling like there is a Good Mom somewhere out there who would never do or be what I do...or am.

Good Mom makes breakfast and smiles a lot. Good Mom always remembers to notice, compliment, and encourage. She is fun and funny. She plays polly pockets with pleasure and even makes suggestions for pretend scenarios to make the play go longer. Her patience is limitless and she never raises her voice. She wakes up early every morning and spends time with Jesus. She is consistent and kind. She makes cookies from scratch. She plays outside even when its really hot. She builds forts with blankets in the living room. Her house is always clean, her produce is always fresh and she has a garden with flowers and vegetables. She can sing. She makes puppets out of socks. Her kids never watch tv because they are totally satisfied to listen to the riveting, captivating stories that their Good Mom makes up. Every night.

Full disclosure time. I haven't worn underwear in 2 days. Not because I just like to not wear underwear but because I haven't any that are clean. I haven't worn matching socks in 3 years. I pulled out 9 individual socks from my drawer the other day. Nine. All different. My one year old is in danger of being kicked out of the nursery at church. He bites. One of my 3 year olds has a really bad habit of talking back. A lot. Neither of my girls will let daddy help them brush their teeth without throwing a fit. It HAS to be mommy. I have had the same butter knife in my dishwasher for 2 weeks. Some unidentifiable food is stuck to one side. It's just too much to wash it by hand. My car has ants. Too many Chick-fil-a french fries.

I am distracted, discouraged, and maybe a bit lonely. I am in desperate need...mainly for patience...a patience that seems just out of my grasp, impossible to acheive. All things I don't like to admit, especially on a forum like this. And so I sat tonight. With an intention to just "be still and know that He is God". I opened my Beth Moore bible study book (the study that I quit 2 weeks ago because I couldn't finish a weeks worth of study in a week and I didn't have a sitter for my kids anyway.) And there it was, 1 Timothy 1:16. And this is what He said to me:

Jesus Christ came into the world to save sinners. I'm proof...of someone who could never have made it apart from sheer mercy. And now he shows me off--evidence of his endless patience--to those who are right on the edge of trusting him forever.

My children are "right on the edge of trusting him forever". And by His Holy Spirit, He wants to display His unlimited, endless patience in me as an example for them. I don't know how He does it. But I do know this--that maybe instead of trying to be more like Good Mom, I could begin to let Jesus be Jesus in me.

Meanwhile, I'm going to find some clean underwear.

March up to the gate and bid it open.

My favorite movie as a girl was The Wizard of Oz. One of the networks always aired it on a Friday night in the fall. So every Saturday towards the end of the summer, I would find the TV guide section of the newspaper and check the listings for Friday night. We had no VCR, no blockbuster, no netflix. If I missed it, that was it for a whole year. Missing it was not an option.

I remember the night before the movie came on, my knees would ache and I couldn't sleep for all the excitement. I loved the music, especially the quick, high-pitched chorus that played when they first glimpsed the Emerald City right after the snow wakes them up in the poppy field....You're out of the woods, You're out of the dark, You're out of the night! Step into the sun, step into the light!

I idolized Dorothy...her dark, swiss cake roll ponytails that changed lengths drastically from scene to scene; she was patient, loving and kind; her voice, her dress, her dog. She was beautiful and perfect.

I've thought about this movie a lot as I have grown up. The Scarecrow wanted a brain, the Tin Man, a heart. The Lion longed for courage and all Dorothy wanted was to find a way home. They followed yellow brick roads, ran from flying monkeys and even risked their lives to get the broomstick of the Wicked Witch just like the Wizard asked them to...who really was no Wizard at all. They did it all because they longed for something they did not have. In the end, though, we learn along with them that they had it all along, they just didn't know it.

After all, the Scarecrow was often the one to devise all the plans, the Tin Man rusted from crying real, heartfelt tears and the Lion found the courage to save Dorothy all before they even met the Wizard. Dorothy was the most obvious of all. She couldn't take a step without being aware of those shiny, ruby slippers. Still, when she finally sees Glenda, she cries out for help and is told she's always had the power to go back to Kansas. The slippers she had had all along were the very means by which she would make her way home.

But she didn't know it.

I can relate. As a believer, sometimes I find myself living a defeated, burden-filled life, unaware of the victory I already have in Christ.

His divine power has granted to us everything pertaining to LIFE and godliness, through the true knowledge of Him who called us by His own glory and goodness.
1 Peter 1:3

a story bigger than mine

Another memory.

I am in 9th grade English class and we are reading The Glass Menagerie. I’ve just been assigned to read the part of Laura Wingfield. I always hated reading plays out loud in the cold, fluorescent classroom. It was all so…unnatural. I always ended up reading the descriptive stuff in the brackets on accident. I don’t know which I hated more: when there were too many characters and everyone had to double up on parts (you get to be the bagboy, girl with the basket and man #2) or when there weren’t enough characters to go around and you didn’t get a part at all and just had to listen to the monotone.

I much preferred reading plays alone, in my own head, so I not only could imagine the scenes playing out like a movie but I got to be every character. You know how it is in the classroom: you are assigned the part of Laura Wingfield so instead of listening to the story and following along as the action plays out, you find yourself skipping ahead, marking all of Laura’s lines, sure that you can clearly pronounce all the words in the script so as not to make a fool of yourself…until you become aware of the long pause that has settled in on the classroom and someone mercifully whispers “Hey, aren’t you Laura? Go!” And you’ve kind of missed it, the very thing you’ve been preparing for, however small.

Sometimes I feel that way in life. I can get so focused on my part, my role, my purpose, my story, that I miss the bigger story. The bigger story that isn’t just the bigger story, but it is THE ONLY STORY. Because “It isn't a flood, it's not a tornado, Mother. I'm just not popular like you were in Blue Mountain” makes no sense if you say it out of the context of the whole play. Yeah, I had a moment with the attention on me…but so what? That isn’t a story, it's only a part...a fragmant of a story. To me, my story only makes sense in the context of a story that is bigger than mine.

God has a story He is writing and He has saved a part just for me! There are days when I falsely believe I would rather BE the story than just play a part, but I think there is relief in realizing that we get to be a part of something bigger than ourselves. And as I trust Him to live in and through me, there is no concern as to whether I will be able to pronounce all the words.

learning from a memory

I'm 16. Just got my braces off. Its the summer of 1993.

I'm driving in my parents' black, Chevy Spectrum (the extra car)...complete with no a/c (or heat). I swear that car was made of plastic. Cheap, thin plastic...like a Barbie car without the stickers. But one thing it definitely did have was a working tape player. And when you're 16 with straight teeth, that's all you need.

I remember driving with my window (manually) rolled (halfway) down (if you rolled it all the way, the door would fly open) along the winding, two lane back roads in Columbia, South Carolina. I can still hear the bagpipe and the strange, haunting, off-beat sound of Peter Gabriel's Come Talk To Me mixing with the wind that pushed its way heavy past me, through my window and out the other side.

That memory came to my mind today as I drove my kids to chic-fil-a in my Honda Pilot. I rolled my window down for a breeze before the a/c kicked in and one of my girls called out to me, "Mommy, turn the music on..." How does she know that a window down on a summer day means music? I guess I've taught her that, without trying, of course.

It makes me wonder what else I'm teaching them without trying...

one of a thousand lives

Lately I have realized that the time had come to sort through and get rid of some of the girls clothes from when they were born. I have gotten rid of a lot already, but the stuff from their first year has been sitting in plastic storage boxes in the attic. Knowing I couldn't part with all of it, I told myself to just keep those things that held meaning or special memories. I was surprised to discover which items that turned out to be.

Having twin girls will bring outfits out of the woodwork. I was given more matching dresses, jackets, and cute-never-worn hats than I know what to do with. All so small, so detailed, so matching. But it wasn't the baby Gap outfits that are hard to let go of. It was only when I opened the box labled "6-12 months pjs and onesies" that my eyes welled up and I had to pause and remember. What is it about those worn out, pink, kitty cat jammies with a stain on the sleeve that so swiftly bring tears?

It was like those jammies hold something within them. The babies are growing up, but the jammies are still there, small and faded, as if worn only last night. The jammies represent so much...clean, wet hair after a bath; snuggle time with milk and mommy; sweet dream wishes and baby blankets.

I don't know what it is about the jammies. But I have to keep them, at least for now. Nobody else would want them anyway. But I look at them, folded away in a plastic bin, and realize we live a thousand lives in one lifetime...and one of those lives has already passed me by. While I lived it, I could hardly wait for it to pass; the sleepless nights, the feedings, the culture shock of firstime motherhood...the first year of having twins. Now that it's over, I can never get it back.

But I can keep the jammies.

i'd rather be sleeping.

So awake. So very awake. Looking around my dark room, bored. Never be bored at 11:35 pm. Be ASLEEP.

I think it's the Rocky Road ice cream that I ate at 9pm that is causing me trouble. My sister thinks it's wrong to have chunks of nuts in ice cream. It's like, an interruption. Tell me about it.

I'm not normally awake now. At least not now that we have passed the newborn stage with our baby and entered into the big baby stage (what do you call the "bigger than a newborn, not yet a toddler" person?)

I looked at the clock at 11:22 and decided that if at 11:32 I was still awake, I would get up and do something. The following is a loose outline of my thoughts during that time.:

I like The Man's new office. He needs to take a coffeemaker there. To make his own coffee. If I had a job and an office, I would be sure to take a coffeemaker into the office with me to make my own coffee in the mornings. What a great idea that is! But can you do that? It seems like maybe you can't, like its a fire hazard. What? You're so stupid, if you can have a coffeemaker in the breakroom, then you can have one in your own office. I worked in an office once. Nobody brought their own coffeemaker. Why not? I would! But wait, I didn't. But I would now. And leave creamer in the fridge. Maybe I would just make coffee in the breakroom. A full pot? Everyone could just drink it. A half pot? What if I had to pee and came back and it was gone? I could just make a lot every morning and wait until it brews and take the first cup, who cares if others drink it? But then, I would become the coffeemaker. Not the coffeemaker. The Coffee Maker. The one who makes the coffee. How do you spell "coffeemaker"? Maybe I should call it a "coffeepot". What time is it?

Only 11:29. I'm getting up anyway.

i'm not a baby, i'm a big girl...night, night

I've been worried about it for over a year now. I've read segments in several books on ideas about how to do it. I've had endless conversations with my mommy friends about their experiences. I've talked with professionals.

I've even prayed about it.

And then last night, just before I was ready to tuck her in and say goodnight she very clearly and precisely said "Mommy, I don't want to use my paci anymore. It has hair on it."

Seeing as how we've had false starts in the past, my response was not the gushing of "What a big girl you are!!" followed by an immediate trip to the trashcan that you might expect. Besides, where was the screaming and gnashing of teeth that I've heard tell about? Where were the tricks? The "lets tie paci to a balloon string for the babies in the sky"? The paci fairy? The sleepless nights? The bribes and promises of rewards to come?

Instead, I looked at her with raised eyebrows and said, "Well, are you sure?" And she responded that yes, she was sure...and she took her lovey that I handed to her and happily sent me away, paci in hand, dumbfounded.

That was last night. And today, with a little bit of prodding and a lot of cuddling, her sister decided to do the same thing. Tearful yet determined. I can relate.

Because I am finding myself to be strangely tearful over the decision my girls have made. As freeing as it is for me, I just wonder how can these little girls be old enough to make a decision like this? To me, it's just a paci. But to them, its a friend. A comfort. A companion in the night. Where is the motivation to give that up (besides the polly pocket cars I got them at Target)?

And just like that, this day that marks 6 years of marriage between John and I and the anniversary of my Grandpa's death has also become the day that our twin girls grow up a little bit more...and teach their mommy a thing or two about letting go.

Jesus, desitin and a callaway hat

Trusting Jesus to live in and through me can’t be simply a declaration of what I believe to be true…it has to have hands and feet. Sometimes my faith has to risk getting dirty and being...ordinary. That simply happens in the everyday, living life things.

Today, Jesus wears nikes and a callaway golf hat in Gulfport, MS.

Or a white t-shirt and a pony-tail in Charlotte, NC…and “Christ IN you, the hope of glory” becomes a reality and not just a verse. Because where is Jesus’ influence on earth if not through us? How else do we “life out” the life of Christ if not through our everyday, mundane tasks? But even those things take strength and energy, sometimes more than the big things. I am thankful that He doesn't just give me strength, He IS my strength.

So, The Man helps lead a group of 100+ new friends in Hurricane Katrina relief work in Gulfport and gladly enters into potentially awkward conversations with students he just met.

And I pack up clothes to finish out the last leg of our vacation, put desitin on a diaper rash that just won't go away and plan meals for when he comes home next week.

Not because I am capable, not because he is confident, but because we are His.

if you hate feet, don't read this

I'm learning to accept my feet. All my life, I've not been a big fan...feet. Yuck. But one cold morning in January, I had two babies 7 weeks early. And one of them, though she was only 4 pounds, came out with thin, long feet..a tiny replica of her mother's.

I remember 2 days after delivery, the swelling had finally gone down in my feet and ankles and I swung my legs over the side of the hospital bed and slipped my feet into my pink, fuzzy slippers. It was the first time I had seen them look almost normal in several months. And I was so pleased as they immediately made me think of my tiny daughter sleeping in the NICU on the 2nd floor of the hospital. She was so slight and dainty, and I had only known her for a few days...it was hard to imagine that something about her was already so...familiar.

I began to take ownership of my feet (did I really just say that sentence?) And then last week on a family vacation, I saw my aunt who I haven't seen in several years and she joyfully pointed to the ground below me and said, "Those are my feet! At least, 15 years ago those were my feet! My young feet..." And I was pleased. She also mentioned that her mother, my grandmother, wore size 7...just like me. Pleased again.

So my feet are skinny and my big toe is slightly too long. But they are my inheritance and I am passing them on.

made to worship

Praise the Lord, O my soul. O Lord my God, you are very great;
you are clothed with splendor and majesty.
He wraps himself in light as with a garment;
he stretches out the heavens like a tent and lays the beams of his upper chambers on their waters.
He makes the clouds his chariot and rides on the wings of the wind.
He set the earth on its foundations; it can never be moved.
The moon marks off the seasons, and the sun knows when to go down.
May the glory of the Lord endure forever;
May the Lord rejoice in his works.
I will sing to the Lord all my life;
I will sing praise to my God as long as I live.
May my meditation be pleasing to him, as I rejoice in the Lord.
Praise the Lord, O my soul.
Praise the Lord.

from psalm 104

the un-birthday

When the girls turned one, it was a big day. Their birthday fell on a Sunday and we had them dedicated at church that morning complete with family from out of town, a big lunch at our house afterwards, lots of presents and most of all, each girl got her own cake: one was chocolate and the other was vanilla.

Our baby turned one last Friday. His cake was put in the grocery bag upside down. You can imagine the damage. I was sad for a moment, but then later my sister fixed it and I didn't feel quite as guilty. Not that it was exactly my fault that his cake had a hole in it, and not that it was even that big of a deal in and of itself. It simply represented sort of how this birthday was for him. We are out of town, away from home and our normal routine.

He has presents, but they remain unopened as of today. He did have a piece of cake, and got all messy, but he was so tired that he went to bed early that night. I know, he's only one. He won't remember. True. Still, I rue the day he sees the pictures from his sisters' first birthday. Oh well. Happy Birthday, baby.

me and my baby

from oblivious to loser in 2 seconds flat

Why is it that you can be walking along, minding your own business, waiting for your vanilla latte in line at Starbucks, pleasantly unaware of your own shortcomings and insecurities...until you look slightly up and to the left and there is Katie Holmes standing next to you and all of a sudden, you feel like a loser. The "you" in the story is, of course, me. Several years ago (before Tom Cruise but after "Dawson's Creek") I was shoulder to shoulder with Katie Holmes in the starbucks of the Charlotte airport. Actually, it was more like my shoulder to her elbow. I remember wishing I hadn't worn flip flops...they only give me about 1/2 inch on my 5 foot 3 inch height.

Standing next to her, I felt short and very unfamous. I spent the next 35 minutes before my plane boarded half-stalking her to her gate (it was only half-stalking because her gate was right next to mine...otherwise it would have been full-fledged-crazy-darting-behind-trashcans stalking). And I wasn't even that big of a fan. So what is that? There is a weird and irrational standard that we hold ourselves to but often times don't know it until BAM...there it is, right in front of you (or next to you in line at Starbucks) and you feel..."less than".

It isn't always in such memorable circumstances like seeing a Hollywood movie star at the airport. It can hit (and usually does) at odd times and in odd places where it isn't so obvious right away. There are times when I start out in a great mood and by the middle of the day, I am moody and irritable and can't figure out why...until I trace it back to a conversation with him, an interraction with her, a memory brought to the surface by a commerical or a song.

I can't put my finger on exactly what "it" is, but I'm certain it has to do with finding my identity in externals and in things and places other than my Creator. But I think I'll save that part for another post.

and so it begins

We have arrived in Hilton Head and are pleasantly surprised to have internet service at the condo (thank you Marriot next door). It has been good to be with my family away from home for a while. It is going to be a good 2 weeks. Good thing I don't believe in bad luck...as the trip began with one twin throwing up in the car after 6 hours of "Mommy, my tummy hurts" and "we need to stop, I have to poo-poo!" We did (stop). She didn't (poo-poo). Thankfully, we were only 5 minutes from the condo...a blessing. So far it has been a very pleasant time, filled with good nights of sleep, playing in the pool and at the beach and ice cream at the harbour. All the things are in place for a great vacation.

sick of goodbye

So its May now, and there are a lot of good things about May...the flowers, the weather for the most part, and the anticipation of weeks at the beach. But this year, May has symbolized the ending of a lot of things. Most significantly, The Man and I had our last Sunday at the church where we have spent all our married days. And, though we will remain in the same house and the same town, this job change is a big one....because it hasn't been "just a job", but a home. And I will miss them. To add to the sadness, the very church we are heading to is the same one my sister and her family are preparing to leave...as they are moving from here (where they have lived the past 5 years) to Charlotte.

Those are the socially acceptable sad goodbyes. But somehow this week, the day after the season finales of American Idol and Lost, I found myself short tempered and weepy. And I felt the same way after watching The Office finale and after the Gilmore Girls series finale party. (That one brought tears during the show itself.) What does that say about me that the sadness of my sister moving away doesn't hit until my favorite show takes a break for the summer?

just a kid

He'll be 1 in a month. His first year of potentially so many. I had a birthday last month. A fairly significant one, I think. People who, a few weeks before seemed so much older are now suddenly "my age". I like being 30 so far...more than I thought I would. I know technically it isn't really that much different from 29, but somehow, it feels different. I've been telling the girls in the high school small group I lead that once you turn 18, you sort of feel 18 forever. I know I do, on the inside anyway. Sometimes I look at my 3 kids and my house and my husband and I sort of giggle to myself and think "Don't people know? How could they let me bring these babies home from the hospital? I'm just a kid!" But I'm not just a kid. And sometimes that is sad to realize, but mostly lately, I'm thankful for these 30 years that I wear on my face and speak in my words. I feel a bit more real and more secure. One thing I've learned for sure is I sure have a lot to learn.

not even a pony

We pretty much have the pee pee in the potty thing down pat. But now my big dilemma revolves around the fact that the twins absolutely will not poopy in the potty. They know when its coming, they don’t have accidents in their big girl panties, they simply ask for a pull-up when its time to go. As they are visiting mom and dad in Charlotte, mom sweetly tempted one of them: “If you poo poo in the potty, you can have a piece of candy and we’ll go see the ponies!" to which she very deliberately responds “I don’t want candy and I don’t want a pony. I want my pull- up.” What could be better than a pony?! I just don't know what to do next.

the anti-potty training

Mommy accidently mentions the word "potty" and two-year-olds' eyes light up. "I wanna poo-poo in the potty seat!" She disappears around the corner.

Three and half seconds later, twin sister two-year-old delightfully says the exact same thing...and disappears around the corner.

Mommy balances nursing baby brother in one arm while he fights to finish his lunch and tries to help first two-year-old pull off shorts and very wet diaper. All the while, listening to accusing tone of two-year-old. "I do it! I do it mySELF!"

Mommy sighs, sits on bathroom floor, watches as two-year-old tries unsucessfully to do it herself.

Mommy stands up and helps two-year-old finish undressing and mount the potty seat.

Two-year-old smiles, grunts, smiles, grunts, laughs, sings "Twinkle, Twinkle, litte star" (complete with hand motions), proudly announces "I did it!", high fives twin sister (who is still singing), pulls 3 feet of toilet paper off from the wall, wipes (if you can call it that) jumps down from the potty seat and looks inside.

Potty is empty.

Two-year-old smiles again, announces her victory and runs out of bathroom naked from the waist down.

Twin two-year-old looks up at Mommy with big brown eyes. "I wanna poo-poo in the potty seat!"

Mommy looks at twin two-year-old. "Just go in your diaper."

10 little big things to surviving these postpartum days

10 Vanilla hazelnut creamer (sorry Kari) for my coffee in the morning. I am taking full advantage of the one cup of caffeine a day that they allow a nursing mommy.

9 The theme song to the show The Office...less because of the show, more because it means for the next 22-26 minutes, The Man and I are going to be together and laugh at random, stupid comedy.

8 My two year old, still in her crib, sweetly singing Happy Birthday to her baby bear...because that makes up for 10,000 times she will scream "NO!" at the top of her lungs today.

7 My select comfort back sleeper pillow...I think I'm in love. For the stop-and-go pattern of sleep that define these early days with a newborn, at least I know I have this perfect pillow to return to.

6 & 5 Netflix and (ok, I'm just gonna say it) People magazine. Yes, I not only read People, I have a subscription. In my defense, it was a gift from my mother-in-law.

4 The potted flowers on our porch...because I planted them and they are still alive (because The Man took pity on them and gives them water).

3 Target. It is my trip to Hawaii, my grand getaway.

2 The FlyLady...because a made bed, clean laundry and a shiny sink go a long way to helping me feel life is normal and organized on those days when I don't leave the house.

And the number one little big thing that has helped me survive the past 4 weeks:

1 Knowing this may be the last time...waking up in the wee hours of the morning and getting the fussy baby from his bassinet, feeding him until he is once again content and cleaning up the spitup that dripped down my leg when I got up to change his diaper all with only one eye slightly open becomes more bearable when I realize that, with each day that passes, this little baby in my arms grows older. And with 3 under 3, we will probably never have another one. And suddenly the draining cycle of sleep deprivation becomes an opportunity to remember that this crazy life routine we are in right now is temporary and fleeting. And just like that, the mundane becomes holy and sweet.

birth day eve

So much for an uneventful pregnancy. Our little one has decided he would rather lounge in my tummy with his back down than be upside down for the next few weeks. So we have decided to have another c-section and it is scheduled for tomorrow. I have approximately 12 more hours to be pregnant.

It seems like such an important moment in time. I didn't expect to know when I would have this baby, but with the recent turn of events (literally), I have come to accept and embrace this last minute change in my idea of a birth plan and we have enjoyed a big day of anticipation.

So what is one to do the day before she is to have a baby? I cleaned the toilet. And went to target. And gave my 2 year olds a french manicure. And ate shrimp and tiramisu. And I prayed a lot and cried at stupid things. And I have been thankful.

One thing I didn't do is watch the news for fear of seeing this.

so this is june

For the past 8 months I have been waiting for June. With 2 and 1/2 weeks to go til our son is due to arrive in the world, it is both strange and exciting to realize that his birth month is indeed here. We're "sittin' on ready" (as my mother-in-law from Mississippi likes to say) and I am happy to have had an extremely uneventful pregnancy this time around. After giving birth to twin girls a little over 2 years ago, I have come to appreciate no longer being such a novelty.