I was once accused of being a real weirdo by my child. I took offense. It's not that I'm weird. It's that my circumstances are. Sometimes we just need someone outside of family to shed perspective and humor on an otherwise depressing situation. The only hope I have for my sanity is in knowing that my friend Sheri wades through these same uncanny waters as I do.

Dear Anna,
We have barf.
Nathan threw up at midnight last night. It went on for every 30 minutes until 6 this morning. I slept for 1 hour last night. And school starts tomorrow.
Signed,
It figures

Dear Sheri,
Haven't we always said that if we plan anything of significance, we will be plagued by an unfortunate event? This is no different, is it?
I would have brought you some coffee to help get through your day, but I'm beginning to think the stars have aligned against us, because it just so happens that I busted my French Press this morning.
Signed,
It's Futile

Dear Anna,
The saga continues. I found Ben playing in the yard with his head in the same bucket that Nathan vomited in last night. I scrubbed out his mouth with a soapy rag and then made him a turkey sandwich for lunch today.
I just now noticed on the package of turkey that it's 2 weeks past the "use by" date. CRAP. Nothing has happened for several hours, but past experience has taught me that all vomit happens around midnight. I won't consider this over until tomorrow.
Don't worry about the coffee. Whiskey is stronger, and it doesn't require a French Press.
Signed,
Job the Afflicted

Dear Sheri,
What did you do to turn God's wrath against you?
Signed,
Eliphaz

Dear Anna,
Nothing. But life is turning around. The boys are both doing fine, and Brett's boss gave him the day off tomorrow. We are going on a date while they're at school. I can hardly wait!
And in case you're wondering what we'll do on our date, we're going to Costco to get new tires put on the van. YEEEEHAW! Maybe a nice lunch as well, preferably not at the Costco snack bar.
Signed,
Friend of God

Dear Sheri,
So glad things are turning around for you. On a separate note, the boys and I ate Sonic hamburgers for lunch today. That meal will be revisiting me all day long, I just know it.
Signed,
Bloated

Dear Anna,
You know how I told you that Brett got the day off today? Well guess what he's doing? He's in bed sick with the stomach crap. I can't believe this. Nice, long holiday weekend we'll have. I really, really hate life right now. We had planned to go to a baseball game tonight and then go somewhere fun to spend the night on Saturday. What the heck am I supposed to do to entertain the boys all freakin' weekend by myself????? AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH.
Signed,
Just Shoot Me

Dear Sheri,
Please refer to my original comment about significant plans and unfortunate events. You just so happen to be the recipient of a violent stomach virus that knows you have plans. I feel for you. I really do. Would you like to know why?
One hour ago, my parents took all three of my children for the weekend so Adam and I could spend a much needed weekend alone, and you'll never believe...my stomach just gurgled.
Signed,
It Figures

Can I just take a moment to tell you about something I think is very worthwhile?

A few years ago I stumbled upon this blog by Shaun Groves. Does that name sound familiar?

If not, don't fret. Until two years ago, I didn't know who he was either.

Here's the thing about Shaun. I enjoy reading his blog. I laugh at his wit, and his honesty is refreshing. But more than that, I love that his message boils down to his faith in Christ, through the funny, the unplanned, and especially the hard places of life.

He's more than a blogger though. He's also a singer/songwriter and a spokesperson for Compassion International, where he travels to impoverished countries in order to give a voice to children living within the grips of poverty.

It was during a trip to Ethiopia with Compassion International (see video below), that served as inspiration for Shaun's newest album Third World Symphony.

Shaun Groves - Third World Symphony (Ethiopia Story) from Shaun Groves on Vimeo.

This album is the antithesis to today's cookie-cutter music industry. It brings us to those hard places, causes us to take a look at our own souls, and for that reason, sheds new light on us as followers of Christ. I can't speak of it highly enough.



You can listen to the album here: Third World Symphony.

And if you like it, go on over here and buy it.

I cleaned the bathroom earlier today. Things just got weird from that point on.

A few minutes after walking out of that bathroom, a child walked in and had a case of explosive diarrhea. I cleaned the bathroom again.

As if that wasn’t enough, I decided to tempt fate and vacuum the carpet. I was nearly done when the vacuum sucked up a metal object started smoking. As I bent down to examine the damage, another child ran through the house, his hands full of confetti.

“What are you doing?” I hollered.

“An art project,” he said.

“You just made the carpet a part of your art project. Keep it at the table!”

“Mom, can I have your sticker?”

“What sticker?”

“The one on your back. I need it for my art project.”

“There’s a sticker on my back?”

“Yes. I put it there this morning before swim lessons.”

I pulled the 2 inch foam letter E off my back and asked, “You mean to tell me that I’ve been walking around all day with this on my shirt?!?”

“Sorry, Mom. I was just playing.”

“I don’t appreciate being made to look like a fool” I said.

I huffed and puffed then quickly turned to continue examining the vacuum when three pieces of confetti fell out of my hair and landed on my foot.

I’m beginning to feel like a cheap party favor.

I'm pretty sure I've lost my mind.

How do I know this?

The other day I found three cartons of unopened cottage cheese in my fridge. The following day I bought one more.

I've spent the last two months trying to bring order to my life, but gave up today after realizing that I can't even organize my purse.

I told Adam this the other day when he came home and found me mumbling to myself.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"I can't seem to get a grip on reality."

"It's completely understandable. Look at all the kids we have. You can't expect to care for all of them and come away unscathed."

"But that's the problem," I said as I picked spit-wads off the laundry room door. "I don't think they all belong to us."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well," I motioned toward the odd looking boy in the living room, "I grew suspicious today when I saw him licking our plunger. It took some digging, but sure enough, I found three birth certificates."

"And your point is?"

"My point is that we have three more kids than we have birth certificates!"

"How did this happen?"

"I don't know" I said, as I cleaned up a smashed yogurt tube, three chewed blueberries, an open faced peanut butter and jelly sandwich and nine foam darts from underneath the kitchen table. "But what concerns me most is that I can't tell you with absolute certainty which three are ours."

As I crawled out from underneath the table, a boy, whose underwear I have been washing since June 10th, came running down the stairs, jumped the last seven and landed with such force that three pictures fell off the wall.

"Son," Adam said, "if you jump off those stairs one more time, you will be grounded!"

Not wanting to embarrass him, I leaned in and whispered quietly in his ear, "Uh, Adam...I could be wrong, but I don't think he's one of ours."

He looked at me and said, "I think I've lost my mind."

See what I mean?

A funny thing happens when my child wants to earn money: He’ll do almost anything to get it.

After mowing our lawn, cleaning the bathroom and taking out the garbage, Isaiah realized he was still short on the money needed to buy his newest obsession: Beyblades.

“I still need a few more dollars, Mom. What else can I do?”

I racked my brain for a minute as I tried to figure out what other tedious chores I could get him to agree to, when it occurred to me that there was a fresh load of whites still in the dryer waiting to be folded.

It took him four armloads but he finally got the clothes to the couch, where he preceded to comment on his inability to fold such a huge amount of clothes. Suddenly he stopped short…

“Mom, do I have to fold your underwear?”

“I have to fold yours, don’t I?”

“Yeah but…ugh, this is worse than I thought.”

30 minutes later, as he was still bending over the couch folding the whites, Isaiah said, “I think you should owe me more money for folding all these clothes. It’s a lot, and my back is starting to hurt.”

“You’re almost done, just work through the pain.”

He finished folding the whites, and was getting ready to collect his money when he noticed 5 socks still sitting on the couch. As he sorted through them, looking under the couch and throw pillows for their matches, I could see the confusion set in.

“Where?...How?...This doesn’t make any sense. I can’t find the matches to these socks anywhere!”

I cackled. Isaiah didn’t appreciate it of course, but there was something so freeing about finally being understood by my children, that I couldn’t help myself.

A few days later Isaiah came running in the kitchen with two crumpled up socks in his hands. “You’ll never believe where I found these two socks!

I knew this was going to be good. “Where?”

“I found one on top of the ceiling fan, and another in the downspout on the side of the house. Isn’t that strange?”

I put my arm around his shoulder and leaned close.

“No son, finding the matches to those socks in a single load of laundry would be strange. That you found them in the downspout and on the ceiling fan makes perfect sense to me.”

There comes a time in life when change is inevitable; When we must swallow our pride, let go of what we hoped for in life, and admit defeat.

We were defeated today. Our pride was broken. The image we have tried so hard to keep up has been shattered, and yet, it came as no surprise. Both Adam and I knew this day would come, and I must say that in the past few weeks, we have even looked forward to it.

I would be lying if I said we didn't struggle with the reality of what our decision will mean. Please know that we didn't come to this conclusion lightly, but that this has been eight years in the making. We have weighed the pros and cons, but in the end, our mental health is of utmost importance. We have traveled down many roads searching for enjoyment and adventure, only to be met with frustration and weariness. So today, we find ourselves at a crossroads, and we thought you should know...

We bought a minivan.

There, I said it.

Upon admission of those words, I just told you that I am no longer hip, that I wipe butts and noses for a living, my office is my laundry room, my clothes are outdated, I don't own a matching pair of socks, and Neil Diamond's Greatest Hits is in my CD player.

But guess what? I don't care.

We now own a vehicle that's larger than a bathtub. I have a mirror that allows me to see any person, at any given moment, sitting in the back of my car. I have a third row seat that gives my boys room to stretch out, which cuts down on the backseat fighting by at least 90%.

Of all the things my new minivan has given me, I must say that the swagger has been the best!




Don't be jealous!

"All the world's a stage and most of us are desperately unrehearsed."
Sean O'Casey

Of all the major life stressors that have occurred in our family in the past year; Adding a new member to our family, moving to a new state, starting a new job, attending a new school, selling a house and buying a house, I must say that they pale in comparison to this one horrible stress inducing situation:

Learning a new dishwasher rack system.

The dishwasher in our old house was conveniently placed to the left of the sink, and I became very efficient at loading it: Scrape. Rinse. Load. Repeat.

Our new dishwasher however, is on the opposite side, forcing my wrist/twist action to move to my right hand and throwing me completely off my game: Scrape. Rinse. Twist this way. Curse. Twist that way. Curse again. Rearrange the damn dishes. Push the rack in. Curse. Pull the rack out. Find the cup that is too tall. Tell myself that my old dishwasher could handle large cups. Wash the cup by hand. Fill said cup with water to take my blood pressure medication. Glare at my dishwasher then walk away cursing.

As you can see, my new dishwasher has consumed so much of my time that I have yet to figure out how to deal with other pressing matters that go along with moving. For example, when vacuuming my house, is it more efficient to start at the front and work my way to the back or vice versa? Can I vacuum the entire upstairs without having to change outlets? If so, which outlet would it be? When I’m standing in my kitchen and I need to use the restroom, is it quicker to walk to the left or right of my island. And where on earth did my paring knife go? The last time I saw it, it was in my kitchen in Boise. While the rest of my kitchen utensils arrived in Bend, my paring knife did not.

I have racked my brain for over 2 weeks trying to figure out what happened to it, and I am left with this theory, and this theory only:

The dishwasher did it!

I swirl my fingers in the red paint sitting on a paper plate in my lap, and as I lift my eyes to the blank canvas in front of me, she says to me, “Have you ever stopped to look at a pansy. I mean, really look?”

I think about all the changes we have been through in the last year, the For-Sale sign in my yard and the taking down of pictures on walls. “I can’t say that I have”, I respond.

Putting yellow paint to blank canvas, she says, “The colors are absolutely amazing. If you get close enough, and look down into the center, you will see some that seem to have faces; others have streaks of color that run throughout, and then there are the ones that just have white tips. They are all so different. I love taking the time to look at them.”

Unsure of the form my painting would take, I began creating as I told her about the picture I took a few years ago of a white flower on my Magnolia tree. How, upon closer examination, I noticed that its center wasn’t white at all, but streaked with pale pink that extended from the center to the tip of the flower. “I was amazed”, I said, “that what I thought was just a white flower among hundreds of other white flowers, had a unique design all its own. How easy it is for us to miss the true beauty in all things when we don’t take the time to look closely.”

In the midst of the stories and laughter of a dozen women and their paint stained hands, I catch a glimpse of her canvas, and it is filled with green vines surrounding a large yellow pansy. My eyes are fixed on the orange and red streaks coming from its center, adding a new dimension to the large yellow pansy, and at once I realize that this is what it means to be known and seen.

I pause for a few minutes to collect my thoughts. “When are you moving?” another woman asks. “Two weeks” I say. Noticing that my painting has taken the form of a tree, and the tips of each branch have been dotted with different colored flowers, I sense that it is completed, and that it’s time to move on, but I struggle to let it go.

For it is in this place that I am known. Through bearing children and soul, these relationships have grown up around me, their colors imprinted on my heart, adding a depth to life that cannot be found until one looks. I mean, really looks.

Sensing that I am finished, the instructor walks over and takes my painting. As she walks away, I glance up in hopes of seeing my picture once more, but in its place hangs a blank canvas.

To the tens of people that read this blog: I am still here. I promise.

I really do have intentions of writing regularly, and believe me, I have some fodder for this blog, its just that those intentions have been buried under three years worth of laundry and the frustration that consumes me with the constant stepping in puddles of pee on the floor in the boys’ bathroom.

Are there any other mothers out there who are also perplexed by their boys’ inability to keep a steady stream of urine in the toilet? I cannot be the only one who doesn’t quite understand this.

Oh, and speaking of things that are beyond my comprehension, I want to fill you in on something that is very disturbing to me. It seems that after nearly 5 months of weekly speech therapy sessions, my daughter, who is now an American citizen, but hails from Russia with roots beginning in Uzbekistan, speaks more Korean Tae Kwon Do terms (thanks to Isaiah) than she does English.

I do not wish to discuss these things anymore.

Moving on to more pressing matters:

Adam has taken a job in Bend, Oregon so we are in the process of moving. We both grew up in Oregon, so we will be closer to family again and that will be nice. Also, I still own a few pairs of Birkenstocks and I do drive a Subaru with a bike rack on top, so we will fit in nicely. However, I have three issues with Oregon. They are:

1 – Not being able to pump my own gas. This drives me crazy.
2 - The speed limit is 10 mph slower than anywhere else in the country. In fact, a woman recently said to me that driving through Oregon is always a practice in patience. This is so incredibly true!
3 – Among all the wonderful friends we have met here, my best friend lives here in Idaho. She is my kindred spirit. Our boys are the same age, so we have grown up in this parenting thing together. We easily share our struggles as mothers, and our fears of messing our kids up for life, and also our most embarrassing moments, and then laugh hysterically at the ridiculousness of it all. The thought of not having her close to me makes my heart ache to the point that I can’t fully face it just yet. And that is the hardest part of it all.

Why do I tell you all of this? Because if my family ever becomes lost in the Oregon wilderness, you might have luck finding us if you do one of two things:

1 - Listen for the tiny girl with the deep voice speaking…uh, Korean.
2 - Stay on the lookout for pee stains spread out over a 5 foot radius. The only animals capable of such a feat are commonly referred to as Isaiah and Caleb.
3 - If the above doesn’t work, just call Sheri. She’ll find me.

And, well, I realize that’s three things, but I’m emotional, so you're just going to have to ignore me if I do things that don’t make sense right now.

I sit in the quiet of the office while Naomi naps soundly in her room. I can hear the sloshing and churning of the washing machine and the melodic hum of the dryer, both reminders of a busy household.

The clock ticks and I realize that it’s near time to cut carrots and potatoes for the roast that must be in the oven within thirty minutes if we plan on eating dinner tonight. The pressing needs of running a household are constant and my attitude struggles to keep up.

I rise out of my chair and something catches my eye on the screen; a picture of paradise with waves crashing in the distance, the sun warming the sand, and how badly I wish I were there, away from this cold, unsettled winter. And I see the caption under the picture: God is so good!

And indeed, He is good. But…

But what about the days when our bones ache from the relentless cold winds? Is God still good when our toes aren’t curled in the warm sands of paradise?

Is He still good when dishes spill over the sink and endless diapers need changing?

Is He still good when laundry piles high and money falls short?

When days are filled with appointments in hopes that a child walks and talks and a job becomes unfulfilling, what do we hope for?

Can we utter His holy name, without curse, when family threads unravel with the pain and ugliness of divorce, and relationships sever?

What about when the death of a beloved daughter brings a mother to her knees and her body atrophies with grief, and each morning, she is met with the realization that is isn’t a dream at all. When she is left with only memories, what then?

When my hands grow tired of folding laundry and my heart aches for the grief of a friend; When the weight of life becomes too much and I feel as though I just might rip open and spill out, I ponder these words:

“One act of thanksgiving
when things go wrong with us
is worth a thousand thanks when things
are agreeable to our inclinations.”
Saint John of Avila

I think about this word thanks. It leads me to Jesus’ feet, and suddenly I am in the room with him on the night of the last supper, and my eyes are opened.

Luke 22:17And he took a cup, and when he had given thanks he said, "Take this, and divide it among yourselves. 18 For I tell you that from now on I will not drink of the fruit of the vine until the kingdom of God comes." 19 And he took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to them, saying, "This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me."

On the night of his betrayal and the eve before his blood would be poured out, a sacrifice for us, he gave thanks…twice.

Why do I struggle to give thanks even once?

In a world where we measure God’s goodness by our current circumstances; how warm the sun is or how comfortable our lives are, we struggle to see the true depth of His goodness.

Happiness is fleeting. It’s here one moment and gone the next. But giving thanks – even when our hands are cracked and our hearts broken – allows us to see the God-beauty in the midst of the brokenness.

Yes, God is good. He’s good in paradise, when the sun shines heavy and warm, and our days are filled laughter and contentment. But true joy comes from knowing God and being thankful for His goodness even when the cold winds of life cover you like a dark blanket.

Psalm 100:4 Enter His gates with thanksgiving
and His courts with praise.
Give thanks to Him and praise His name.
5 For the LORD is good, and His love is eternal;
His faithfulness endures through all generations.