Y2K8

Remember Y2K? New Years Eve 1999. The Man and I were dating and were downtown at a party. I remember the countdown and being surprised that the lights didn't go out and nothing exploded at midnight. I walked to the window to look out at the city, and everything was as it had been. I think I was kind of disappointed after all the fanfare, the months of speculation, that there wasn't even a flicker. This was us in the wee hours of the new millennium.
Four years and one wedding later, there were 2 babies on the way by New Years Eve 2003. My due date wasn't until February 18, but the twins were ready to come and I was camped out in the hospital, waiting for their arrival.
I have no shame. Seriously, who does this? Nobody is holding a gun to my head. I am freely sharing this photo with the world. Why am I doing this? I must be crazy. Or alone on New Years Eve because my husband has to work. Yeah, that must be it.

The twins came 2 days later. And January 2 forever marked my before and after; the space in between 'just me' and 'mommy'; the day held by neither side.

And so I am a bit of a sentimental sap. Because now, New Year's Eve no longer just represents the last day of the year. It is the day before the day before our lives changed forever. So I guess our dramatic Y2K came a few years late...our world was tilted on its axis a bit and all sense of control was lost with that first cry. I can't remember life before them. I can't imagine life without them.

I apologize for any nightmares you may have as a result of the above photo. And as long as I'm documenting New Year's Eve's, here's another from earlier tonight to take your mind of the alien stomach. And yes, that is a banana peel on my mantle. And a baggie of cheerios. And Christmas garland with all the froofroo taken out because I've only half-way un-decorated...The Nester would not approve. So happy new year to you. Now I'm off to plan a birthday party for a couple of four year olds.

mr. clean

Here he is on Christmas day. Just a few hours earlier, he had opened his gifts...or should I say 'gift'. That's right. The dust buster was a hit. A HIT, I tell you.

After a brief tutorial, he was ready.

He dust busted the toys.

He dust busted the ottoman...see how fast he goes? Look at him bust that dust!

He dust busted up.

He dust busted down.

He dust busted the kitchen table...

...with a respectable pause just long enough to check out the truck that daddy conveniently placed half-opened within his reach.

And then later, when it was time to snuggle before bed, well...you get it. [Please ignore the fact that he still uses a bottle before he goes to bed. I know he is 18 months old. I know he is going to have buck teeth. I know, I KNOW. But...he's a baby. He's my baby, my last baby...because I will not be pregnant again. (Notice how I recently included pregnancy in a list that also included depression, starvation, and homelessness. I do not want to be pregnant again.) ok. Brackets and parenthesis are over.]

So much for trucks. That truck was purple, anyway. Meanwhile, in other Christmas present news, there were 2 very happy little twins on Christmas night.
No, she's not scared of it. Yes, she did sleep with it. No, it isn't soft. Yes, it is made of rubber. And yes, it was covered with a pink blanket to keep it warm in the night.

do you see what i see?

This is Baby Luke. Yes, I think we will call him Baby until he finds a girl and gets married and has babies of his own. And maybe even after that. This is a rotten photo...the lighting and such. But it had to be posted for all to see. DO YOU SEE? My son is playing with polly pocket clothes. And loving it. It's nothing new, really. This morning he was walking happily along in pink, plastic high heels. He does surprisingly well in them. He is the classic over-looked, under-bought-for 3rd child. Boy toys are limited in our house. Poor baby.

I am happy to report that an assortment of trains, trucks and tools are waiting under our tree for his masculine delight. And a pretend dust buster. He loves the dust buster.

the not-so-silent night

It would have been a silent, holy night...that is, until Joseph threw up and Mary got a fever.

The girls had their Christmas play at preschool yesterday. (I use the word 'play' very loosely in this context...imagine it to be a verb rather than a noun). It was fun to watch as long as you remember that the actors are not even as old as the baking soda in the back of my fridge...way too old for baking soda, not so old for people.

So even though the cast was young and inexperienced, all the nativity characters were accounted for: a too-tall-for-her-age Mary; a small, red-headed Joseph; a donkey who walked on his hind legs. I spent the first 3 minutes of the play trying to figure out why Joseph had construction paper ears and who is that red-headed kid supposed to be? Jesus? Then the teacher motioned for the donkey to crawl and the scene became much more familiar.

My girls were the angels and there were sheep and 3 wise men and an inn keeper (the only one with actual lines). As chaotic as it was, I felt myself relax and watch the story retold through these little ones. It was enjoyable. The girls even posed for a photo after the show in their intricately designed costumes with their friend, Julia.
It wasn't until we were sitting down after the performance, eating our cookies with red punch when I heard it, the words that historically send me into a tailspin of anxiety and a strong tendency to overuse hand sanitizer: Joseph just threw up over there...and Mary has a fever. I immediately put down my punch that had mysteriously begun to taste like bile flavored kool-aid. I looked at John: We gotta get outta here. Quick.

And that's just what we did.

fly to my rescue and crash through the wall

I had a new friend come over this morning. She's the best kind of new friend. She brought me a really large coffee. From Starbucks. And cinnamon rolls. She is a mom as well, but her kids are in middle school. She asked me a question and I found myself excited to answer her because it was a real question that required real, cohesive thought. And I began to share from my heart about things I have learned and am still learning...and what I was saying was profound and smart and vulnerable...but for some reason she was not nodding thoughtfully. Rather, she was smiling, almost laughing. Why, you ask?

Turns out she was distracted by my pacing from one needy child to the next. As I was talking, evidently I also pried open one mouth, pulled one baby from the dining room table (4 times), settled 3 arguments, dressed 2 polly pockets and took 147 steps while pacing the floor and I didn't even realize it until she opened her mouth and said these beautiful words:

"There's a reason why the laundry doesn't get done."

And it was nice for someone who's been there to recognize that which I already know...that I can work hard all day and still get nothing done. The only proof that I worked at all is my sore back, tired feet and, of course, piles of laundry...if that even makes any sense.

So here I am at 8:30 pm and it feels like midnight. Blinking takes effort. I'm tightly clinching my jaw as I type and I. can't. stop. This life is exhausting. And I'm not even sick or pregnant or depressed or dying of starvation or homeless. But I still need a hero. Good thing I've got one.

I've thrown myself headlong into Your arms -
I'm celebrating Your rescue.
Psalm 13:5 The Message

How life-giving it is to know I have someplace else to throw myself headlong into other than my bed. Besides, it isn't made and the sheets are dirty.

title quote from Chris Rice's I Need a Hero

sisterly love

o little town

But you, Bethlehem Ephrathah, though you are little among the thousands of Judah, Yet out of you shall come forth to Me the One to be Ruler in Israel...And this One shall be peace.
Micah 5:2,5

It was last year about this time. I was driving and thinking, a rare moment alone in the car....trying to sort through the difference in my head between what was true and what was simply a product of my often over-active emotions. I was stuck in a dark place where the idea of the hope and joy of Christmas seemed to be an illusion at best. I had Christmas music on in the background and the second verse to this song struck me in particular.

How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is giv'n!
So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of His heav'n.
No ear may hear His coming, but in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive Him still,
The dear Christ enters in.

And in that moment alone in my car, the reality of Christmas and the hope of all believers seemed to connect for me like never before. Because there was a real day when a real baby was born in a real stable from a real woman. And He was a real human and a real King who came to bring real life. So I celebrate the day He was born to die so that I might have life. Not just life forever with Him, but life on this real day, in my car, in the midst of my emotional rut...He offers me the choice of death or life, conflict or peace, hope or despair. Without Christmas, there would be no choice...defeat would be my only option.

What a beautiful thing to celebrate the birth of a King who offers so much, who is so much...to remember that from that little town that wasn't even big enough to be included among the clans of Judah would come One who is called Peace.

As I continued to drive, it began to seem as though she was singing about me and not a little town called Bethlehem. Small, insignificant... yet among the sometimes dark streets of my soul shines His everlasting light. He chooses to be born in me, to reside in the manger of my heart so that life and peace are made available to me in limitless supply.

my day in pictures

These are the cinnamon rolls I made this morning with Alisa. I am considering it to be a trial run, as my mom and sister and I are planning to make them just before Christmas. Of course, I will be 15 pounds heavier by then, as this recipe makes 8 tins of rolls. While they were cooking, I took a few photos for some friends' Christmas card.
I think that was a good one. Then I headed over to my sister-in-laws house for her birthday. She's married to John's brother. Here they are in Spain on their wedding day 4 years ago.
John's mom and sister and I helped her decorate her house for Christmas. She mentioned she was so glad we enjoy decorating, because she certainly doesn't. I asked her what brings her joy to the same extent. And in her thick, Spanish accent, she answered me, "Studying. I love to study." I suppose that's why she's the university professor with 2 masters degrees and I'm the one with the cute house. And I guess when you love to study and don't care about decorating, then you also don't care when your husband builds a putting green in your backyard. Don't believe me?
There it is, baby. Green in all its glory. But back to my day. The girls had fun with their cousin, as always.
Then later, when we came home, we had carolers. We've never had carolers....some freshmen girls from the youth group. And it was great, albeit a bit strange to have people singing to me on my porch. But great. And they left these behind.
And, unfortunately, they're gonna be ON my behind. Along with 8 tins of cinnamon rolls. At least Santa will have some company.

all i want for Christmas

And so it begins. I went Christmas shopping yesterday and it kind of snowed. I mean, it was 40 degrees out so I have no idea how it happened. And you had to look really hard to actually see the snowflakes. But it did snow. I took that as a good sign. I had high hopes for my shopping outing. After all, expectations were extremely high...here is the request list I had to work from:

Twin B:
three dinosaurs
one farm
one dollhouse
a small boat

And shorter but no less complex...

Twin A:
three Diegos
rainbow hair

The rainbow hair is no joke. She tells me she wants her hair to be every color of the rainbow (with brown on the sides). Whatever happened to a pair of skates? A dolly? Two front teeth? Needless to say, Wal-Mart was fresh out of live dinosaurs.

a follow up

Attention everyone. I just received this important document via email from my sister. If it makes no sense to you, then read this. Regardless, I have to ask...which mask do you think is better? And though I know this photo offers incriminating evidence to the contrary, I do have a neck...for the record.

thankful in all things

They come into the world helpless to feed themselves, to clothe themselves, to control their own bladder. They are dependent on us for everything. And everything they have needed has been provided. It has been a tough road with twins and a baby (who is really not a baby anymore, but that's another post). It has been a challenging, exciting, blessed four years. And it is sweet, because at the ages they are now, they still think we know everything, can fix everything, can make everything better. I like that they think that.

But it is hard work knowing everything, fixing everything, making everything better. It's a thankless job in many ways. A great job, but a thankless one.

So when it comes time for them to verbalize to their preschool teacher what it is they are thankful for, I am tempted to take offense. But all I can do is shake my head and smile.

love at first sip

It was December of 2002. We met in a Starbucks in NYC, the city that never sleeps. (Perhaps because of you...?) I didn't expect you would have such an affect on me. But now, I find myself looking for you after every Halloween...anticipating your return.

You are chocolate. You are coffee. You are peppermint. You are a cup of Christmas; a walk through an evergreen forest; a rich, minty reminder that life is good. In the midst of a hectic shopping experience, one sip of you and...clarity. Other drinks aspire to be like you because you are perfect.

You are also nearly half of my recommended daily caloric intake.

This has been an unfortunate discovery.

as requested

Here is the new cut. This photo was taken today by our awesome friend Alisa. Just so you know, the long part in the front was originally a lot longer. I made her cut more off. The back is pretty short. I know I don't look too bothered here...that is because the man is standing in front of me just out of the shot. And he makes me happy.

a bit of a rant

Dear Girl Who Cut My Hair For The First Time Today,

I gave you the benefit of the doubt when you sprayed me in the face with the hair wash thing...it happens, I suppose. And the mermaid that was tattood on your arm didn't even phase me. But when I specifically said that I part my hair on the left, I did not secretly mean I part it on the right. And when I told you I don't like long layers in the front, I did not secretly mean I really wanted long layers in the front.

And, while I'm at it, my husband is a youth pastor. It is his full time job. He doesn't just do it on Sundays. It is not a hobby. It is not a leisure past-time. He does not work at a high school as a teacher during the week. He gets paid to be a youth pastor. Full time. Yes, it is his only job.

Maybe you were having a bad day. I understand that. Maybe you just broke up with your boyfriend or your cat ran away or your mom has cancer or you had a sprained ankle or I look like the girl you hated in high school. I know any one of those things could be true. My heart understands that. But my hair does not. That is why I won't be seeing you again.

Emily
_____________________________________________________________

Dear Girl Who Has Cut My Hair For The Past Five Years (aka Kelly),

I miss you. I am sorry I couldn't be patient and wait til you had an opening in December. I will wait next time. You are worth it. You are wonderful and worth it and I love you.

Emily

'cause you got personality

I recently took a test to see what my personality is. That's right, I just don't know...I can't decide. I need a test to tell me. One of the questions was if I am sometimes accused of being too indecisive or too rigid. And I vacillated...hmmm, I don't know. I guess it depends on the situation. Well, then again....Then I grew a brain and clicked yes, I am sometimes accused of being too indecisive.

Another question asked if I feel comfortable leaving my options open or after having made a decision. Um, are you kidding me? You mean there are people who would actually rather leave their options open than make a decision? Because I know I took a long time to decide whether or not I was indecisive, but I sure felt better after having made the decision. A lot better. Maybe that's why I worry so much about making decisions sometimes...because it HAS to be made or I can't rest.

Perhaps the most difficult question: I am mainly interested in human relationships or in things other than human relationships. I automatically clicked human relationships. And my test results reflect that. Lately, though, I have been wondering...which am I: people-oriented or task-oriented? In my head I'm people-oriented. But in my reality, I tend to focus on the tasks of the day rather than the (little) people by whom I am (constantly) surrounded. I don't know if its a coping mechanism or a personality trait, but sometimes I would rather windex the bathroom mirror than sit and chat with my 3 year olds. Then again, maybe it would say more about me if I actually windexed the entire mirror. But when I start to windex, I see the toilet needs to be cleaned, and the floor, and...then none of it is done completely, but all of it has been started. I think genuinely task-oriented people are organized and methodical and never leave a job undone. And that is not me.

I suppose I'm neither task-oriented nor people-oriented. I'm just dis-oriented. And I guess that is ok with me (I think...) Enough about me...what about you?

a moment

I love to watch her loosen up...even better when I have a camera handy.

wake me up before you go-go

I apologize in advance for the song that is now inevitably running through your head from the title quote. At first you might be thinking "oh yea! what a great song..." Trust me when I say by the time you finish this post, you will already be sick of it...especially when you realize those are the only words you remember.

So it is 4 am. I don't like being awake at this hour. But one of my children comes into our bedroom nearly every night these days and this time, I can't get back to sleep. She likes to snuggle. I guess I don't give her enough attention during the day or something so in order to get her needs met, she comes in the night. And it is getting very old. Although I think she may be nighttime potty training herself, which could be a perk of these disruptions.

She has been potty trained during the day for quite a while but she still wears pull-ups at night. Tonight during her usual nighttime sojourn, she told me she needed to go. So she got up from the bed and headed to the bathroom. I noticed her pull-up was dry which meant she hadn't gone until now (I know, obvious right? Give me a break, it's 4 am).

Her twin has not come quite so far and, for those of you who know me well, you know that the almost 4 year old who still refuses to number 2 in the potty has taken me to places I'd rather not go. I am open to any suggestions. But please don't be offended if I roll my eyes and say "HAHAHA" really loud and sarcastic like because we've. already. tried. that. As well as every possible version of that. But I will make an attempt to be gracious toward you for your considerations.

I hope it has worn off for you and that you have forgotten the tune by now. If you are like me, however, it may help to check this out simply to have words to go along with this terribly annoying melody. And if you were not yet born in 1984 or at least not old enough to know this song, please enjoy the peace and quiet that is in your head.

home

When my grandmother died, I remember my dad kept her old, worn out sneakers. Even as a young girl, I never questioned why he would do that. Looking at those shoes, even I saw her. They represented something to him, something more than what they were. I saw it, too. I suppose I come by it honestly...this habit of attaching sentimental importance to objects with no intrinsic value.

In my recent visits to my parents house, I have found myself looking around nostalgically, discovering with new eyes those things that capture memories for me...ordinary objects holding extraordinary worth.

It's the silver pot with black handles and copper bottom that she cooks the potatoes in. It is the upright piano they surprised me with in the 4th grade because my teacher told them that my octave and a half keyboard (that I could easily tuck under my arm) was too small.
It is my dad's brown office crammed full with inspired ideas and good intentions...with the rows of presidential biographies and stacks of un-hung picture frames lining the walls. It's the way her towels smell straight from the dryer. It's the white pillow cases with pink flowers. It's the VCR that is 20 years old and, while it still works, is always flashing a digital, green 12:00 because Mom isn't quite sure how to set it. And the smell of Pine-sol, Comet and lemon fresh Dawn will forever remind me of her and home and, for reasons I can't explain, peace.

And so I wonder what will it be for my children? What memories are they even now attaching to the stuff of our house and the cleaning products I choose to use?

There is a tree that stands tall in our front yard. In the summer, it nearly hides the house from the street and I have threatened more than once to have it removed. But it is a beautiful tree, especially this time of year. Here is a glimpse of it's yellowing leaves as seen through their bedroom window.Will this tree be a memory for them? Maybe. It would be great if it were the apron I wore while making cookies every afternoon or the Bible on my bedside table. I'm sure not...certainly it will be something more like the piles of laundry they had to step over every time they came into my bedroom. Regardless of what will come to represent home to them, the most important thing to me is that they know that they have a place where they belong.

Even if the thing that reminds them of that is a pair of my old, worn out sneakers.

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.