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.

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.