Our family is leaving today for our annual beach vacation in Hilton Head. This year, we’ve invited my parents to join us for the whole week. A single friend of ours is coming with us just for this weekend, and my niece and her best friend are joining us next Friday overnight. One of my sisters, Toni, is planning on coming on Monday for the day and is hoping to drag my other sister, Trina, along with her. It should be fun, albeit busy, but I won't be Posting for a week. Have a good week and I'll be on-line again September 4.
Speaking of busy, yesterday was one for the records books. It was our 10th Anniversary (Yay, yay!) as well as the anniversary of some dear friends, the Francis’, and the birthday of my dear friend Andree’s eldest child, Elaine. Elaine is Dane’s age, in his class in school, and I’ve known her since she was in the womb. Happy Birthday, my sweet Elaine.
Anyway, since we are leaving today for the beach, Don and I celebrated our anniversary a couple of weeks ago with a trip to St. Simon’s Island. Last night we had dinner reservations for 5:45 at one of the nicer restaurants in town, Calvert’s, and a babysitter was coming at 5:00. Our friend, Ken, decided to take the kids to dinner at Golden Corral along with the sitter around 6:00. Don and I figured we’d be home by 8:00 p.m.
The day started out as frenetic as usual. Daelyn woke up Thursday from his nap with croup which had worsened during the night. By Friday morning, he was miserable and wanted Mommy’s attention (at 6:15, I might add). I sent him in to get Don to warm apple juice up for him, since Don was already up and working at the computer. Daddy got him a poptart before running out the door to take his car to the garage.
I got up and started my long list of chores. Yes, I am a list person. Yesterday, while at the doctor’s office waiting to be seen, I made a long list of everything that needed to be done, at a minimum, for us to peacefully get out the door this morning, including writing this Post. Some things went marvelously well, but there were constant interruptions from Daelyn who needed attention. He just felt miserable.
I was trying to get caught up on Don’s ironing when he returned home from the garage, without his car. Apparently, there was a serious problem with it and he finally had to leave it behind and walk home. He informed me that he was on his way to get his allergy shot and had several errands to run, including Sam’s and Wal-Mart and asked if I needed anything. Silly boy! You’re going to Wal-Mart. Of course I need something.
I began a list of the items I needed, including new underwear for Deanna and school socks for Dane. Don asked several pertinent questions, including color of these items. So, I wrote brand name, type, color, sex, and size down, taking up several lines on the list. You may notice that color came before sex. Bad choice when writing something for Don.
Don: “White girl’s, as opposed to Polynesian girl’s or East Indian girl’s?”
It took me a minute, as usual, to figure out his humor. Okay, okay. Maybe I should have said “girl’s underwear, white”. But it was not a commentary on Deanna’s race, just the color underwear I wanted him to buy.
He took off, with my van, while I tried to finish my chores in the house. Concerned that Daelyn seemed to be getting worse, I called his doctor’s office to see if we might need to run him in before we left town. Of course!! But the only time they had left was 4:00 p.m. - right in the middle of his naptime, not to mention, it’d be a miracle if I got home in time for my anniversary date.
So, what to do? Do I do my hair and makeup and dress for my date before the doctor’s appointment? If so, at least I’d be ready to go as soon as we got home. But I might look pretty strange at the doctor’s office dressed for dinner at a nice restaurant. And I still had to fit in cleaning out the van, vacuuming it thoroughly (I clean it out before every trip), getting Don’s anniversary card, and his gift.
At 12:17, I was still sitting in my pajamas (not that unusual, really), not making much progress. I fed the kids, quickly got my bath, washed and dried my hair, and threw on shorts. Don popped in with the van. I got Daelyn down for his nap, grabbed Deanna, and took off to get Don's card and present. Some people may not have thought a present was necessary - after all, we went away for three days two weeks ago, our present to each other - but there have been several Anniversaries when we've been in the throes of trying to get to the beach and Don has shown up with presents for me and I had nothing for him. This was my chance to redeem myself.
I ran to the local drugstore to pick up a nice card. But, since I was last there, they've done away with their beautiful assortment of cards and now have only a limited selection, with nothing appropriate to this occasion. I quickly scrapped that idea and moved on to get his present. As you may know about me, I'm a terrible romantic, thus the new key to Don's shed I was having made for him. I presented the lady at the counter of the Locksmith's with his key and told her I needed a duplicate. She looked over the key and said, "The problem here, ma'am, is that this is a key to a European lock and we can't duplicate keys to European locks. We don't even have a similar key to use for the duplicate. I'll try my best, but there's no guarantee it's going to work. I really need the lock to attempt this duplicate." She needs the lock?!? She obviously has no idea what I went through to get the KEY. Don was using it at the time I left and I had to remove it from the lock, hoping he wouldn't need to relock his shed and notice the missing key. While removing the key, he appeared in the shed to ask me what I was doing. I gave some lame answer about checking out Deanna's bike to get it ready for our trip. He looked suspicious and then asked me where I was going. I refused to tell him. Now, they need the LOCK? I begged the woman please to try. I only had 45 minutes total before we had to leave for Daelyn's appointment and I had already struck out on his card.
She made the duplicate and we took off and headed to Big Lots to find a card. We also got a small gift bag and flew outta there, arriving home at 3:20 (we had to leave at 3:30) to find my sister, Toni, visiting. I ran out to the shed, tried the key, which fit better than the original (Thanks be to God), and ran back in the house to say hello before waking the baby and heading out again. So much for all my pondering about whether to dress before the appointment. No hair done, no makeup on, looking like an outcast from a Surfer's Convention, I picked a screaming, shaking Daelyn up and carried him to the van.
To cut to the chase, Daelyn has PNEUMONIA and is WHEEZING. I never would have dreamed, but I'm very thankful the Lord was watching over us and gave me the sense to take him to the doctors before we left for Hilton Head. We came home with several prescriptions (arriving at 5:10) and Don was visiting with the babysitter, a single friend of mine that's never kept our children before. I asked her to follow me around while I dressed. Thank goodness I had laid my dress and shoes out. In three minutes, I was dressed and started my hair and makeup while giving directions about the children. Don and I walked out the door at 5:35 for 5:45 dinner reservations. We arrived at the restaurant at 5:50 - not TOO bad, all things considered.
After a wonderful, romantic dinner and a great time with my best friend, Don and I checked the time (it was 8:23) and decided to run to Wal-Mart quickly to check the Clearance Aisle for Christmas presents. We were home by 9:05 with several presents hid away in his trunk.
Daelyn was asleep on the couch and the other two were watching a movie. The babysitter had her purse on her shoulder (does this mean something?) but said the children were very good. We visited for a while and then Daelyn woke up, burning up and crying uncontrollably. Don ran out quick to pick up his antibiotic while I gave him a dose of Advil (blue raspberry flavored, after our fiasco with grape Tylenol). When Don returned, I drew 3/4 tsp. in a syringe and squirted it into Daelyn's mouth, making sure he swallowed this time. I decided we'd go snuggle in my bed, so we started down the hallway when he stopped suddenly and began vomiting - the antibiotic and the Advil.
What to do? He has pneumonia, has to have antibiotics, but can't hold them down. The nurse on call was recommending taking him to the emergency room for a shot of antibiotics. It's not that I don't think nurses know what their talking about, but I've found that the doctors often have suggestions that require less severe measures than what the nurses on call recommend. (Nurses have liability issues the doctors are less concerned about.) I asked her please to call the doctor so we could run all this by her before our jaunt to the E.R. She reluctantly agreed. The doctor, my new hero, said to put the baby to bed and try again this morning. She called more antibiotic into the drugstore for us to pick up on our way out of town.
We can only hope this will work but I liked the option better than staying home or spending last night in the E.R. So we're about 12 hours behind on packing up, but Don was pleased with his new key and card. Several people asked him what his anniversary present was. Don, my man of few words, held up the key. The same response from everyone - quizzical eyebrows, half smiles, and then the questions, "What is that the key to?" I'm sure some of them expected the answer to be, "My new car" or "a vacation house". Don told our waitress it was a key to his shed. She smiled and said, "Oh, you got a new shed. How nice." Don replied, "No. I got the shed 2 years ago. This is just a key to it." Quizzical eyebrows yet again, with a hint of confusion behind the eyes.
Okay, so not everyone is as romantic as me. Maybe someday the world will catch up.
Saturday, August 27, 2005
Friday, August 26, 2005
Just for Fun
Yesterday I was getting my allergy shot, with all three children in tow, and another woman struck up a conversation with me about children. She told me that she had pulled into the parking lot at her pediatrician’s office and her toddler asked what the sign in front of them said.
Mother: “It says, ‘Patient Parking Only’.”
Toddler: “Mama, you can’t park here. You’re not patient.”
It reminded me, I have no idea why, of a time when Deanna was a toddler. We had all been pretty sick with colds and runny noses for several weeks. We were
visiting my sister and Deanna was kneeling on the floor, cuddling my sister’s beagle dog. She gave him a big kiss on his wet nose, then looked puzzled. She jumped up from the floor, ran and got a Kleenex, held it to the dog’s nose and, in her most motherly voice, bellowed, “Blow!”
Then there was the time that my father and I were stopped at a very long stoplight on our way somewhere. Deanna was buckled in her carseat in the back of the van. Grandpa and I were deep in conversation when Deanna yelled, “School bus. There goes a school bus.” She was enamored by school buses and yelled everytime she saw one. I glanced up to see a bus driving past us on the intersecting road. I responded, “Yes, honey. There goes a school bus. Mommy and Grandpa see it, too.” My father and I returned to our conversation when we heard the cry again, “School bus!! There goes another school bus.” Once again, I looked up to see a school bus passing by. Again, I acknowledged that I had also seen the bus. Grandpa and I attempted our conversation yet again when I heard from the back of the van, “House. There goes a house.” My father and I looked at each other and then quickly looked up. Driving past us was a semi pulling half a double-wide trailer, curtains intact. Deanna had, in fact, seen a house drive past us (or half of it, at least).
When Daelyn was two, I was quizzing him one day about his siblings’ names. I asked him what his brother’s name was. “Deanna?” he asked. “No, son,” I responded. Assuming the next one would be easy I quickly asked, “So, what’s Sissy’s name?” “Dane,” he answered with a grin. Turning to 5 yr. old Dane, I asked, “What do you think we ought to do about this baby of ours?” Without a blink, Dane quickly answered,”I think we ought to put nametags on everyone, Mommy.”
Dane is crazy about worms and fisihing. One day, he was working in the back yard with his father. He ran into the house and excitedly began telling me that they had found a real, live fishing worm - “like the ones we use for fishing, except live!” (We really do use live worms for fishing - I just don’t think he realizes that.) Referring to our vacation two weeks before, when we had gone fishing with live bait, I said, “Like the ones we used in North Carolina, son?” After thinking for a minute, he responded, “Well, sort of like those ones, only not as dirty.”
When Deanna was born, Don and I decided we didn’t need TV for entertainment any longer - we’d just sit around and listen to her. Children sure are fun to have around.
Hope you enjoyed the stories.
Mother: “It says, ‘Patient Parking Only’.”
Toddler: “Mama, you can’t park here. You’re not patient.”
It reminded me, I have no idea why, of a time when Deanna was a toddler. We had all been pretty sick with colds and runny noses for several weeks. We were
visiting my sister and Deanna was kneeling on the floor, cuddling my sister’s beagle dog. She gave him a big kiss on his wet nose, then looked puzzled. She jumped up from the floor, ran and got a Kleenex, held it to the dog’s nose and, in her most motherly voice, bellowed, “Blow!”
Then there was the time that my father and I were stopped at a very long stoplight on our way somewhere. Deanna was buckled in her carseat in the back of the van. Grandpa and I were deep in conversation when Deanna yelled, “School bus. There goes a school bus.” She was enamored by school buses and yelled everytime she saw one. I glanced up to see a bus driving past us on the intersecting road. I responded, “Yes, honey. There goes a school bus. Mommy and Grandpa see it, too.” My father and I returned to our conversation when we heard the cry again, “School bus!! There goes another school bus.” Once again, I looked up to see a school bus passing by. Again, I acknowledged that I had also seen the bus. Grandpa and I attempted our conversation yet again when I heard from the back of the van, “House. There goes a house.” My father and I looked at each other and then quickly looked up. Driving past us was a semi pulling half a double-wide trailer, curtains intact. Deanna had, in fact, seen a house drive past us (or half of it, at least).
When Daelyn was two, I was quizzing him one day about his siblings’ names. I asked him what his brother’s name was. “Deanna?” he asked. “No, son,” I responded. Assuming the next one would be easy I quickly asked, “So, what’s Sissy’s name?” “Dane,” he answered with a grin. Turning to 5 yr. old Dane, I asked, “What do you think we ought to do about this baby of ours?” Without a blink, Dane quickly answered,”I think we ought to put nametags on everyone, Mommy.”
Dane is crazy about worms and fisihing. One day, he was working in the back yard with his father. He ran into the house and excitedly began telling me that they had found a real, live fishing worm - “like the ones we use for fishing, except live!” (We really do use live worms for fishing - I just don’t think he realizes that.) Referring to our vacation two weeks before, when we had gone fishing with live bait, I said, “Like the ones we used in North Carolina, son?” After thinking for a minute, he responded, “Well, sort of like those ones, only not as dirty.”
When Deanna was born, Don and I decided we didn’t need TV for entertainment any longer - we’d just sit around and listen to her. Children sure are fun to have around.
Hope you enjoyed the stories.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
My Knight in White Reflective Armor
For those of you who don’t remember, I’m fair. In my 20’s and even into my early 30’s, every summer my hair would get bleached naturally from the sun and would get light streaks in it. It happened every year and I seldom thought about it - I never really did anything to my hair, no perms, no color, not even haircuts. So, once when a friend of mine asked me about my hair, I was understandably confused.
My friend: “Who does your hair?”
Me, clueless: “Does what to my hair?”
My friend, with one eyebrow distinctly raise: “Your highlights...”
Me, having to pause to think for a moment and looking even more stupid than usual: “Oh, that. No one. The sun. They’re natural.”
I wasn’t sure she ever really believed me. But, when my hair began to darken in my late 30’s and it no longer seemed to be affected by the sun (possibly because I didn’t catch a glimpse of Mr. Sun for months at a time while I was busy birthin’ babes), I missed the lightening effect during the summer months. For a few years, I got it highlighted in December or January to lighten up my face and the highlights would last for the whole year. But it’s been several years since I had it highlighted and I was sorrowfully missing it.
Like any good woman practicing being as cheap as possible (I just have trouble paying $60 to make my hair the color the sun used to make it for free) I decided to take matters into my own hands. I bought a color kit from Wal-Mart, invested in a highlight cap and tool from the beauty supply store, and whacked off a hunk of hair in the back underneath to use for a color test.
If you’ve never attempted to highlight your own hair, you have a treat in store for you. It would be worth making up to your worst enemy if necessary to get help with highlighting. The problem is using the little crochet hook to pull hair through the holes in the cap. The front and sides worked out okay, although not exactly easy, and my arms got horribly tired, but when I got to the back and could no longer see the tool or the holes in the cap, I knew I was in trouble. I did my best to pull a few strands in the back through the cap and then decided I’d just go with the flow.
When I pulled the cap off and rinsed my hair, the first thing I noticed was that it had strawberry blonde highlights. I have never, in my entire life, been a strawberry blonde. My sister Trina, and her daughter Amanda, who love to play with their hair color, have tried streaks in almost every color short of dark brown: strawberry blonde, platinum, ash, auburn, and even darker brown than their natural color. But not me. I'm a blonde. No strawberry for me. I called her and complained that my hair was strawberry. And her response was, of course, "You've never been a strawberry blonde!" This came as a huge surprise to me.
I guess natural was a little out of the question. But I managed to get different shades of blond in different spots, depending on the length of time each strand processed and, in general, I really liked the results.
After several weeks, the red highlights died down and I was left with soft blonde streaks, the exact look I was going for. I even went to my hairdresser for a trim and she commented that she really liked my color. I was thrilled beyond belief and told her I had done it myself. She was very surprised (a clue she was telling the truth) and commented on how hard it is to do colorations on yourself. Was I ever smug!!!
It’s been several months now and my highlights had grown out about 2 inches, leaving very dark roots that really can’t even be described as roots anymore - more like two-tone hair. So, while I was at Winn-Dixie, trying to scarf up any Going Out of Business deals, I got a highlight kit.
Yesterday afternoon I donned my old T-shirt, pulled out the kit, mixed the creme with the powder, and began the process. I wanted to be certain to really get the roots around my face, so I coated them especially well. After the appropriate processing time, I washed, conditioned, towel-dried, and blow-dried my hair. It appears that I did a great job covering the roots. So good, in fact, that around my face my hair is practically white (did I mention I'm FAIR?). Further back, away from my face, I have thin RED highlights (surprise, surprise). Still further back, I have light blonde highlights blending with my natural darker-color hair.
It was quite shocking. The children were a little skeptical when they saw me (putting it mildly - Daelyn wasn't sure who I was). We took off for church. Deanna has Choir on Wednesday’s and Don and I started Handbells last night. He directs and I do my best to keep up. So, on Wednesday’s, we eat at 5:00, leave at 5:30, and meet Don at church as he arrives from work.
I was standing in the doorway of the fellowship hall chatting with a friend when Don walked by. He stopped for a quick kiss and headed in to get set up. When I went in, several people glanced at me and I heard at least one gasp and one other person sucking their breath in quickly. One brave, very dishonest soul loudly said that she loved my hair. I commented to whomever wanted to listen that I didn’t think Don had noticed yet. Don - my sweet, loving husband who hates change, wants me to leave my hair exactly the way it is (no curling, no wave perms, no cuts, no color...), and is not a particularly observant person by nature (when we were first married, I used to joke that I could walk naked in front of Don and, if he noticed at all, he'd ask if I needed him to crank the air conditioning up some). Without looking up from his director’s podium, Don said, “She must have just done it. It hasn’t settled down yet. After a few days, it’ll blend better, look more natural, and be beautiful.”
What a man!! I knew there was some reason I’m crazy about him. How many of you can say your husbands know that highlights will tame down over time? And how many husbands can rise to the defense of their wives in front of a gaggle of women without even looking up from the podium.
My hair might be white, my skin fair, but he's the FAIREST of them all!!
My friend: “Who does your hair?”
Me, clueless: “Does what to my hair?”
My friend, with one eyebrow distinctly raise: “Your highlights...”
Me, having to pause to think for a moment and looking even more stupid than usual: “Oh, that. No one. The sun. They’re natural.”
I wasn’t sure she ever really believed me. But, when my hair began to darken in my late 30’s and it no longer seemed to be affected by the sun (possibly because I didn’t catch a glimpse of Mr. Sun for months at a time while I was busy birthin’ babes), I missed the lightening effect during the summer months. For a few years, I got it highlighted in December or January to lighten up my face and the highlights would last for the whole year. But it’s been several years since I had it highlighted and I was sorrowfully missing it.
Like any good woman practicing being as cheap as possible (I just have trouble paying $60 to make my hair the color the sun used to make it for free) I decided to take matters into my own hands. I bought a color kit from Wal-Mart, invested in a highlight cap and tool from the beauty supply store, and whacked off a hunk of hair in the back underneath to use for a color test.
If you’ve never attempted to highlight your own hair, you have a treat in store for you. It would be worth making up to your worst enemy if necessary to get help with highlighting. The problem is using the little crochet hook to pull hair through the holes in the cap. The front and sides worked out okay, although not exactly easy, and my arms got horribly tired, but when I got to the back and could no longer see the tool or the holes in the cap, I knew I was in trouble. I did my best to pull a few strands in the back through the cap and then decided I’d just go with the flow.
When I pulled the cap off and rinsed my hair, the first thing I noticed was that it had strawberry blonde highlights. I have never, in my entire life, been a strawberry blonde. My sister Trina, and her daughter Amanda, who love to play with their hair color, have tried streaks in almost every color short of dark brown: strawberry blonde, platinum, ash, auburn, and even darker brown than their natural color. But not me. I'm a blonde. No strawberry for me. I called her and complained that my hair was strawberry. And her response was, of course, "You've never been a strawberry blonde!" This came as a huge surprise to me.
I guess natural was a little out of the question. But I managed to get different shades of blond in different spots, depending on the length of time each strand processed and, in general, I really liked the results.
After several weeks, the red highlights died down and I was left with soft blonde streaks, the exact look I was going for. I even went to my hairdresser for a trim and she commented that she really liked my color. I was thrilled beyond belief and told her I had done it myself. She was very surprised (a clue she was telling the truth) and commented on how hard it is to do colorations on yourself. Was I ever smug!!!
It’s been several months now and my highlights had grown out about 2 inches, leaving very dark roots that really can’t even be described as roots anymore - more like two-tone hair. So, while I was at Winn-Dixie, trying to scarf up any Going Out of Business deals, I got a highlight kit.
Yesterday afternoon I donned my old T-shirt, pulled out the kit, mixed the creme with the powder, and began the process. I wanted to be certain to really get the roots around my face, so I coated them especially well. After the appropriate processing time, I washed, conditioned, towel-dried, and blow-dried my hair. It appears that I did a great job covering the roots. So good, in fact, that around my face my hair is practically white (did I mention I'm FAIR?). Further back, away from my face, I have thin RED highlights (surprise, surprise). Still further back, I have light blonde highlights blending with my natural darker-color hair.
It was quite shocking. The children were a little skeptical when they saw me (putting it mildly - Daelyn wasn't sure who I was). We took off for church. Deanna has Choir on Wednesday’s and Don and I started Handbells last night. He directs and I do my best to keep up. So, on Wednesday’s, we eat at 5:00, leave at 5:30, and meet Don at church as he arrives from work.
I was standing in the doorway of the fellowship hall chatting with a friend when Don walked by. He stopped for a quick kiss and headed in to get set up. When I went in, several people glanced at me and I heard at least one gasp and one other person sucking their breath in quickly. One brave, very dishonest soul loudly said that she loved my hair. I commented to whomever wanted to listen that I didn’t think Don had noticed yet. Don - my sweet, loving husband who hates change, wants me to leave my hair exactly the way it is (no curling, no wave perms, no cuts, no color...), and is not a particularly observant person by nature (when we were first married, I used to joke that I could walk naked in front of Don and, if he noticed at all, he'd ask if I needed him to crank the air conditioning up some). Without looking up from his director’s podium, Don said, “She must have just done it. It hasn’t settled down yet. After a few days, it’ll blend better, look more natural, and be beautiful.”
What a man!! I knew there was some reason I’m crazy about him. How many of you can say your husbands know that highlights will tame down over time? And how many husbands can rise to the defense of their wives in front of a gaggle of women without even looking up from the podium.
My hair might be white, my skin fair, but he's the FAIREST of them all!!
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Victory!!! At Least For Now
This morning, while in another room, I heard Dane and Daelyn arguing in the Den. Apparently, Daelyn had gotten ahold of one of Dane's Lego toys and was playing with it. Dane snatched it from him.
Daelyn: "I had it first, brother. Give it back."
Dane: "It doesn't matter who had it first. It's mine and I don't want you to play with it."
Daelyn crying. Dane silent. I called Dane to me and Daelyn followed. I asked Dane if he had taken the toy from Daelyn. He admitted to snatching, a no-no in our house. Then I asked if Daelyn had retaliated by hitting or kicking.
The answer was NO!!! No aggressive retaliation. Just tears. Finally, victory!
I talked with both the boys. I explained to Dane that he had no right to snatch and that he was to come to me with a problem, not take matters into his own hands. He asked Daelyn's forgiveness for snatching the Lego boat from him. Then I explained to Daelyn that every time he plays with Dane's Lego's, he loses some. I told him that, even though he had it first, he should not play with Dane's Lego's. He asked Dane's forgiveness and kissed him.
The next thing I knew, Daelyn was getting one of his favorite trucks to give to his brother as an expression of love. They hugged and went off to play together after I told Daelyn how happy I was with his choice to cry and not hit. He was very pleased with himself.
Small victory, but victory all the same. One checkmark in the "Good Choice" column.
Daelyn: "I had it first, brother. Give it back."
Dane: "It doesn't matter who had it first. It's mine and I don't want you to play with it."
Daelyn crying. Dane silent. I called Dane to me and Daelyn followed. I asked Dane if he had taken the toy from Daelyn. He admitted to snatching, a no-no in our house. Then I asked if Daelyn had retaliated by hitting or kicking.
The answer was NO!!! No aggressive retaliation. Just tears. Finally, victory!
I talked with both the boys. I explained to Dane that he had no right to snatch and that he was to come to me with a problem, not take matters into his own hands. He asked Daelyn's forgiveness for snatching the Lego boat from him. Then I explained to Daelyn that every time he plays with Dane's Lego's, he loses some. I told him that, even though he had it first, he should not play with Dane's Lego's. He asked Dane's forgiveness and kissed him.
The next thing I knew, Daelyn was getting one of his favorite trucks to give to his brother as an expression of love. They hugged and went off to play together after I told Daelyn how happy I was with his choice to cry and not hit. He was very pleased with himself.
Small victory, but victory all the same. One checkmark in the "Good Choice" column.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Repentant Heart
We've been clamping down on Daelyn lately. He is much more aggressive that Dane ever will be. Our biggest problem with him is that he hits, kicks, bites, punches...when he's frustrated, which seems to be all the time. Deanna and I used to jokingly say that he had entirely too much testosterone. But I came under conviction that God gave him all that testosterone for a reason. We don't want a wimpy boy who grows up into a wiener man. We want strong, aggressive boys who will grow to be strong, confident men, willing to protect their families, friends, their country, and their way of life.
Despite the good of testosterone, Daelyn needs to learn to control his aggression. After several mutations of discipline, Don and I finally came to a time-out. Anytime Daelyn is violent, he gets a 3-minute time-out on a stool in the kitchen. We set the kitchen timer and he can get down when the timer beeps.
He spends lots of time on the stool. One day, he had 7 time-outs back-to-back - 21 minutes on a stool doing nothing for a very active little boy. It does appear that his violence is coming better under control. I'm trying to teach him to not react with his fists or feet - instead, to come to Mama to intervene in a problem with his brother (the typical antagonist). If he could learn to talk before acting, we'd be getting somewhere.
Even though he is a bulldog, he has a gentle spirit. I still don't completely understand how this is possible. If he accidentally hurts me, he is very quick to say, "I'm sorry, Mama, I'm sorry," even at times when it's not necessary. After being disciplined, through a time-out or spanking, he's always very quick to hug me, ask forgiveness, and profess his love. He has a repentant heart. His actions just haven't caught up with his heart yet.
There are worse things in life than an active, aggressive 3-yr. old with a repentant heart. I have great hope that, as he matures, his actions will begin to submit to his heart and the result will be a strong teenager with a gentleness and understanding beyond his years. His sweetness certainly is becoming less veiled and more obvious.
We continue using time-outs and any other techniques we can think of to train him to hold off acting until he has an opportunity to think. Maybe then his heart will kick in first. It will be nice to see these two opposite sides of his personality merge into one.
In the meantime, he has a way about him that makes women all over want to grab him, squeeze him, and hug him. He's a mischievous character, but a sweet one.
Despite the good of testosterone, Daelyn needs to learn to control his aggression. After several mutations of discipline, Don and I finally came to a time-out. Anytime Daelyn is violent, he gets a 3-minute time-out on a stool in the kitchen. We set the kitchen timer and he can get down when the timer beeps.
He spends lots of time on the stool. One day, he had 7 time-outs back-to-back - 21 minutes on a stool doing nothing for a very active little boy. It does appear that his violence is coming better under control. I'm trying to teach him to not react with his fists or feet - instead, to come to Mama to intervene in a problem with his brother (the typical antagonist). If he could learn to talk before acting, we'd be getting somewhere.
Even though he is a bulldog, he has a gentle spirit. I still don't completely understand how this is possible. If he accidentally hurts me, he is very quick to say, "I'm sorry, Mama, I'm sorry," even at times when it's not necessary. After being disciplined, through a time-out or spanking, he's always very quick to hug me, ask forgiveness, and profess his love. He has a repentant heart. His actions just haven't caught up with his heart yet.
There are worse things in life than an active, aggressive 3-yr. old with a repentant heart. I have great hope that, as he matures, his actions will begin to submit to his heart and the result will be a strong teenager with a gentleness and understanding beyond his years. His sweetness certainly is becoming less veiled and more obvious.
We continue using time-outs and any other techniques we can think of to train him to hold off acting until he has an opportunity to think. Maybe then his heart will kick in first. It will be nice to see these two opposite sides of his personality merge into one.
In the meantime, he has a way about him that makes women all over want to grab him, squeeze him, and hug him. He's a mischievous character, but a sweet one.
Monday, August 22, 2005
Is that HAIR?
For those of you who don't know me, and perhaps some of you who do, I am very fair. Both my parents were blonde with blue eyes. My mother's hair began to darken after her first baby but my father's remained almost white until he grayed. His eyes are still a beautiful blue. All my sisters and my brother are fair, as well. They all have blond hair, in varying shades of blond, and light eyes. My hair, like my mother's, began to darken as I aged. Now, it is more of a dirty blond (if you ask me) or a light brown (if you ask Don). I have light green eyes that changed from blue in my 20's.
So, all that said, I'm fair. Over the years, I've come to realize that I have lots of hair, it's just so light that it's not noticeable. I shave my legs once a week, before Church, whether I need to or not. On the rare occasion that Don and I get to sneak out on a date, I may shave an extra time just to please him. It's not that I'm European and like to braid the hair under my arms, it's just that the hair on my legs is so light and thin that it's really not noticeable, even to me. Don, on the other hand, has this gorgeous flock of thick, dark, curly hair. The hair on his arms and legs is also dark, thick, and curly. He's of Welsh descent and looks like a typical Welshman. Deanna inherited his skintone and thick, luscious hair. She attracts the sun and looks less caucasian and more Indian after this summer. The boys are fairer and look more like their mom. Thank God Deanna got Don's hair. (Hang in there. I really am going somewhere with this.)
On the way to St. Simon's Island for our Anniversary Trip, I had my feet up on the dashboard and was admiring my pedicure. My toenails looked so crisp and pretty, my cuticles all neat and orderly. Then I noticed, gasp!!, it's true - I have hair on my toes.
I was absolutely floored. Not just my big toe, but all my toes, at the knuckle. (Yes, I have very long toes and they all have knuckles - which brings great joy and humor to my sister, Trina!) As I began inspecting them closely, I discovered that some of the hairs were as long as an inch. I sucked my breath in. I found this unbelievable. How could I possibly have such long hairs and never have noticed them before? The answer is, of course, (say it with me, now) I'M FAIR!!!
Don heard me suck my breath in and asked me what was wrong. I blurted out the whole, disgusting truth. Fully expecting him to turn up his nose and unconvincingly murmur something about how it didn't matter, I sat quietly waiting for his response. None came.
"Don," I shrieked, "I have hair on my toes. Doesn't that disgust you? It does me!!!" Don sat quietly for a moment, concentrating on his driving, and then, in his sweet, gentle, sincere way, said, "Patti, I love you. I love you just the way you are. I love you with hair, I love you without hair. A little hair on your toes sure isn't going to bother me."
I'm afraid Don gets a lot of bad press from me. He is the most gentle, kind man I've ever known. In ten years of marriage, I've never once heard him say anything negative about anyone, not even in the privacy of our own room. He is more than just the great love of my life - he is the man who continually brings me back to the cross by his example. But he also has a great sense of humor that, reciprocally, requires he be poked fun at from time to time.
I looked at him hard, secretly wondering if maybe he had a thing for hairy toes and had noticed all along and just had never said anything. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw me staring at him, turned, smiled, and winked at me. Now what's that supposed to mean? A wink!! Don winks as a sign of affection but, also, when he's pulling a great joke off on someone.
Just to be on the safe side, I pulled out my trustee Swiss Army Knife that I keep on my key chain, extended the scissors, and began clipping the hairs. Don laughed.
I realize they'll grow back but, for now, at least they're short blonde hairs. Maybe by the time they grow out again, I'll be able to figure out if Don was winking because he really does love me the way I am or because he thought the whole situation was funny.
God forbid the answer be both.
So, all that said, I'm fair. Over the years, I've come to realize that I have lots of hair, it's just so light that it's not noticeable. I shave my legs once a week, before Church, whether I need to or not. On the rare occasion that Don and I get to sneak out on a date, I may shave an extra time just to please him. It's not that I'm European and like to braid the hair under my arms, it's just that the hair on my legs is so light and thin that it's really not noticeable, even to me. Don, on the other hand, has this gorgeous flock of thick, dark, curly hair. The hair on his arms and legs is also dark, thick, and curly. He's of Welsh descent and looks like a typical Welshman. Deanna inherited his skintone and thick, luscious hair. She attracts the sun and looks less caucasian and more Indian after this summer. The boys are fairer and look more like their mom. Thank God Deanna got Don's hair. (Hang in there. I really am going somewhere with this.)
On the way to St. Simon's Island for our Anniversary Trip, I had my feet up on the dashboard and was admiring my pedicure. My toenails looked so crisp and pretty, my cuticles all neat and orderly. Then I noticed, gasp!!, it's true - I have hair on my toes.
I was absolutely floored. Not just my big toe, but all my toes, at the knuckle. (Yes, I have very long toes and they all have knuckles - which brings great joy and humor to my sister, Trina!) As I began inspecting them closely, I discovered that some of the hairs were as long as an inch. I sucked my breath in. I found this unbelievable. How could I possibly have such long hairs and never have noticed them before? The answer is, of course, (say it with me, now) I'M FAIR!!!
Don heard me suck my breath in and asked me what was wrong. I blurted out the whole, disgusting truth. Fully expecting him to turn up his nose and unconvincingly murmur something about how it didn't matter, I sat quietly waiting for his response. None came.
"Don," I shrieked, "I have hair on my toes. Doesn't that disgust you? It does me!!!" Don sat quietly for a moment, concentrating on his driving, and then, in his sweet, gentle, sincere way, said, "Patti, I love you. I love you just the way you are. I love you with hair, I love you without hair. A little hair on your toes sure isn't going to bother me."
I'm afraid Don gets a lot of bad press from me. He is the most gentle, kind man I've ever known. In ten years of marriage, I've never once heard him say anything negative about anyone, not even in the privacy of our own room. He is more than just the great love of my life - he is the man who continually brings me back to the cross by his example. But he also has a great sense of humor that, reciprocally, requires he be poked fun at from time to time.
I looked at him hard, secretly wondering if maybe he had a thing for hairy toes and had noticed all along and just had never said anything. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw me staring at him, turned, smiled, and winked at me. Now what's that supposed to mean? A wink!! Don winks as a sign of affection but, also, when he's pulling a great joke off on someone.
Just to be on the safe side, I pulled out my trustee Swiss Army Knife that I keep on my key chain, extended the scissors, and began clipping the hairs. Don laughed.
I realize they'll grow back but, for now, at least they're short blonde hairs. Maybe by the time they grow out again, I'll be able to figure out if Don was winking because he really does love me the way I am or because he thought the whole situation was funny.
God forbid the answer be both.
Sunday, August 21, 2005
The Rock
Today in church, the Gospel was Jesus asking his Disciples, "Who do men say that I am?" The next question was, "Who do YOU say that I am?" The Gospel went on to Simon stating, "You are the Christ, the Son of the Living God!" Jesus renames Simon, gives him the name Peter (meaning "rock") and states, "On this rock will I build my Church."
Peter, at this point, becomes the head of the Church and, in the Catholic tradition, the first Pope. He, indeed, was a rock that formed the cornerstone of the Church.
Our Pastor talked about the difference between what people say about you and what people who actually know you think about you. He illustrated his point by talking about his new neighborhood. His family has recently built a new home and moved. He said that a young man visited their home and told them that everybody knows who they are - word spread very quickly through the neighborhood that the new family was the preacher from St. Bartholomew's Episcopal church. But, while this young man espoused to know them, they did not know him. How well can someone know you when you don't know them? Lots of people knew ABOUT Jesus, many less really KNEW HIM.
Do we know about him or do we know Him? Our challenge is to draw closer and closer to Him until we can truly say that we know Him personally.
I read a wonderful quote today on someone else's blog. The quote was from St. Francis and says, "Preach the Gospel at all times. When necessary, use words."
I think that's the whole point of our Pastor's sermon. We need to be so close to our Lord that we reflect His love without ever speaking.
Our Pastor went on to explain that while our Father chose to build His Church on Peter, each of us are a part of the rock. It is our responsibility to help build the Church, not leave it to others to do. Each of us were handed out a small rock to help us remember our part in the job of building.
It's impossible to build something without having something to add. If you're needy, instead of adding to the rock, you just take from it. This process of adding must first mean that each of us are strong enough to be able to give back more than we take. To reach a level of strength where we have something to offer to the Church, we must draw nearer to Christ. Here we are again.
It seems that the solution to both of these tasks is to continue to draw nearer to Our Lord - if we want to be able to tell others, through actions or words, who He is, we must first know Him. If we want to help build The Church, as we've been asked, we must first know Him.
I'll keep my rock. I hope it will help me remember how important it is to my life and those I love that I continue to draw ever nearer to my Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ.
Peter, at this point, becomes the head of the Church and, in the Catholic tradition, the first Pope. He, indeed, was a rock that formed the cornerstone of the Church.
Our Pastor talked about the difference between what people say about you and what people who actually know you think about you. He illustrated his point by talking about his new neighborhood. His family has recently built a new home and moved. He said that a young man visited their home and told them that everybody knows who they are - word spread very quickly through the neighborhood that the new family was the preacher from St. Bartholomew's Episcopal church. But, while this young man espoused to know them, they did not know him. How well can someone know you when you don't know them? Lots of people knew ABOUT Jesus, many less really KNEW HIM.
Do we know about him or do we know Him? Our challenge is to draw closer and closer to Him until we can truly say that we know Him personally.
I read a wonderful quote today on someone else's blog. The quote was from St. Francis and says, "Preach the Gospel at all times. When necessary, use words."
I think that's the whole point of our Pastor's sermon. We need to be so close to our Lord that we reflect His love without ever speaking.
Our Pastor went on to explain that while our Father chose to build His Church on Peter, each of us are a part of the rock. It is our responsibility to help build the Church, not leave it to others to do. Each of us were handed out a small rock to help us remember our part in the job of building.
It's impossible to build something without having something to add. If you're needy, instead of adding to the rock, you just take from it. This process of adding must first mean that each of us are strong enough to be able to give back more than we take. To reach a level of strength where we have something to offer to the Church, we must draw nearer to Christ. Here we are again.
It seems that the solution to both of these tasks is to continue to draw nearer to Our Lord - if we want to be able to tell others, through actions or words, who He is, we must first know Him. If we want to help build The Church, as we've been asked, we must first know Him.
I'll keep my rock. I hope it will help me remember how important it is to my life and those I love that I continue to draw ever nearer to my Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
Pardon Me While I Brag
I'm writing today as a proud mother. My children go to a private school, Alleluia. They won't begin until after Labor Day. Today, there was a Work Party to prepare the classrooms and grounds for the upcoming school year. We went as a family. Don was assigned to electrical work and I took the three children with me.
We were asked to work in the 1st. grade classroom, which will be Dane's room this year. The teacher listed several jobs that needed to be accomplished. I jumped in and volunteered to clean the interior of the desks.
I got out rags for myself and each of the children as well as some 409. I squirted cleaner on each rag and then we all began to work. There were several other children there who were bored and either went out to the playground to play or followed their mothers around. It was hot, hot, hot and parents and children alike were struggling to work in the heat.
My three children, from the 3-yr. old up to the 8-yr. old, worked side-by-side with me with no complaints, despite the heat and boredom. When they finished one job, they'd say, "Okay, Mom, what do you want me to do next?" We worked for a solid hour cleaning out desks.
I had to leave early due to another commitment. As I was gathering my supplies, a friend asked if Deanna could take twin toddler sons belonging to a new Mom in the class outside to play so the Mom could work. I explained that we were leaving, but Deanna spoke up and said that she would like to stay and serve. My god-daughter overheard the conversation and said she'd be happy to bring Deanna home at lunchtime.
The boys and I left and Deanna stayed to help another mother by keeping her children occupied. Never a complaint, just a heart to serve the Lord through serving his servants.
God's word promises, "Raise up a child in the way that he should go and, when he is old, he will not depart from it." I daily stand on this promise in scripture and pray that Don and I can instill such a love for the Lord and His work in our children now that we won't have to wait until "he is old". It sure looks like we have a good start. From my mouth to God's ears.
Now, for my dear friend, Lydia:
Zucchini Bread
3 eggs
1 c. oil
1 c. sugar
2 c. zucchini
1 t. vanilla
1 T. salt
1 T. soda
2 T. cinnamon
1/4 t. baking powder
3 c. flour
1 1/2 c. nuts (optional)
Mix together beaten eggs, oil, sugar, grated zucchini, and vanilla. Add in flour. Mix in remaining ingredients. Pour into greased and floured loaf pans and bake at 325 degrees for 1 hour. (If using cooking spray in pans, flour over spray.) Allow to cool in pan for 10 minutes, then turn out onto cooling rack.
Hope you like it, Lyds.
We were asked to work in the 1st. grade classroom, which will be Dane's room this year. The teacher listed several jobs that needed to be accomplished. I jumped in and volunteered to clean the interior of the desks.
I got out rags for myself and each of the children as well as some 409. I squirted cleaner on each rag and then we all began to work. There were several other children there who were bored and either went out to the playground to play or followed their mothers around. It was hot, hot, hot and parents and children alike were struggling to work in the heat.
My three children, from the 3-yr. old up to the 8-yr. old, worked side-by-side with me with no complaints, despite the heat and boredom. When they finished one job, they'd say, "Okay, Mom, what do you want me to do next?" We worked for a solid hour cleaning out desks.
I had to leave early due to another commitment. As I was gathering my supplies, a friend asked if Deanna could take twin toddler sons belonging to a new Mom in the class outside to play so the Mom could work. I explained that we were leaving, but Deanna spoke up and said that she would like to stay and serve. My god-daughter overheard the conversation and said she'd be happy to bring Deanna home at lunchtime.
The boys and I left and Deanna stayed to help another mother by keeping her children occupied. Never a complaint, just a heart to serve the Lord through serving his servants.
God's word promises, "Raise up a child in the way that he should go and, when he is old, he will not depart from it." I daily stand on this promise in scripture and pray that Don and I can instill such a love for the Lord and His work in our children now that we won't have to wait until "he is old". It sure looks like we have a good start. From my mouth to God's ears.
Now, for my dear friend, Lydia:
Zucchini Bread
3 eggs
1 c. oil
1 c. sugar
2 c. zucchini
1 t. vanilla
1 T. salt
1 T. soda
2 T. cinnamon
1/4 t. baking powder
3 c. flour
1 1/2 c. nuts (optional)
Mix together beaten eggs, oil, sugar, grated zucchini, and vanilla. Add in flour. Mix in remaining ingredients. Pour into greased and floured loaf pans and bake at 325 degrees for 1 hour. (If using cooking spray in pans, flour over spray.) Allow to cool in pan for 10 minutes, then turn out onto cooling rack.
Hope you like it, Lyds.
Friday, August 19, 2005
Kisses Galore
When Deanna was a baby, she really disliked Don's mustache. Even as a newborn, she would wrinkle up her nose and make faces when Don kissed her. As she got older, she got very adept at avoiding his kisses by dodging her head back and forth. Don was crushed. He was 30 when she was born and couldn't wait to shower affection on his little love. I kept telling him that she'd grow into a love for him as she got older and, I was sure, would be "Daddy's girl" very soon. When she hit 3, we gave up. She never really has become Daddy's little girl - she's Mommy's all the way.
When she hit about 2, she began verbal bantering with Daddy over kisses. He'd ask for a kiss and she'd say she was all out. Once, I served corn-on-the-cob for dinner. Deanna couldn't say the whole name, so she shortened it to "cobbon". Cobbon became the name for all types of corn. Cobbons also apparently resided in her tummy because, when Don asked for kisses, she would tell him that the Cobbons hadn't brought any up from her tummy yet. Don, being highly intellectual, would respond with "Tell the Cobbons to bring some kisses up to your mouth for Daddy."
One day, Don asked for a kiss. Deanna, as usual, responded that she didn't have any. Don, attempting to out-think her, smiled and responded that she needed to tell the Cobbons to bring some up. Deanna widened her eyes, looked directly at Don, and retorted that the Cobbons had gone on vacation.
Then Dane was born. When we brought him home from the hospital, we began putting him to bed between us at night. In his sleep, he would reach with his right arm and begin patting his Daddy. He would continue patting until he found Don's mustache and then, in his sleep, would rub it. He loved giving Daddy kisses and would smother Don's mustache with wet, sloppy sugar. Don finally had his baby and Dane loved his mustache.
Next, Daelyn appeared on the scene (it wasn't really quite that sudden - we had at least a few month's warning). He had brother and sissy who needed love, as well as mommy and daddy. In his attempts to spread the affection between all of us, sometimes he'd give these wimpy, peck-like kisses. None of us liked the pecks and the children learned to beg Daelyn for "the good stuff" - juicy, big kisses. Dane would run into the kitchen yelling, "Mama, I got the 'good stuff' from Daelyn."
Everything seemed to be working out great in the kissing department until a close friend of mine, Cindi, pointed out that this might not be a great practice when the kids hit their teens. She described an imagined scene for me - Daelyn meeting his girlfriend's parents for the first time.
Girl's Father: "So, do you like my daughter?"
Daelyn: "Oh, yes, I think she's wonderful. But I can't convince her to give me the 'good stuff'
just yet. Maybe soon."
We decided to settle for the term "nice kisses" and do away with "the GOOD stuff". The most important thing, after all, is that lots of affection is shared amongst family members - all family members, not just Mommy. Daddy and his mustache need his share, as well.
When she hit about 2, she began verbal bantering with Daddy over kisses. He'd ask for a kiss and she'd say she was all out. Once, I served corn-on-the-cob for dinner. Deanna couldn't say the whole name, so she shortened it to "cobbon". Cobbon became the name for all types of corn. Cobbons also apparently resided in her tummy because, when Don asked for kisses, she would tell him that the Cobbons hadn't brought any up from her tummy yet. Don, being highly intellectual, would respond with "Tell the Cobbons to bring some kisses up to your mouth for Daddy."
One day, Don asked for a kiss. Deanna, as usual, responded that she didn't have any. Don, attempting to out-think her, smiled and responded that she needed to tell the Cobbons to bring some up. Deanna widened her eyes, looked directly at Don, and retorted that the Cobbons had gone on vacation.
Then Dane was born. When we brought him home from the hospital, we began putting him to bed between us at night. In his sleep, he would reach with his right arm and begin patting his Daddy. He would continue patting until he found Don's mustache and then, in his sleep, would rub it. He loved giving Daddy kisses and would smother Don's mustache with wet, sloppy sugar. Don finally had his baby and Dane loved his mustache.
Next, Daelyn appeared on the scene (it wasn't really quite that sudden - we had at least a few month's warning). He had brother and sissy who needed love, as well as mommy and daddy. In his attempts to spread the affection between all of us, sometimes he'd give these wimpy, peck-like kisses. None of us liked the pecks and the children learned to beg Daelyn for "the good stuff" - juicy, big kisses. Dane would run into the kitchen yelling, "Mama, I got the 'good stuff' from Daelyn."
Everything seemed to be working out great in the kissing department until a close friend of mine, Cindi, pointed out that this might not be a great practice when the kids hit their teens. She described an imagined scene for me - Daelyn meeting his girlfriend's parents for the first time.
Girl's Father: "So, do you like my daughter?"
Daelyn: "Oh, yes, I think she's wonderful. But I can't convince her to give me the 'good stuff'
just yet. Maybe soon."
We decided to settle for the term "nice kisses" and do away with "the GOOD stuff". The most important thing, after all, is that lots of affection is shared amongst family members - all family members, not just Mommy. Daddy and his mustache need his share, as well.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Pajama Time
When I was single, and a career woman, every weekday I rose early, dressed in a skirt and blouse, did my hair, my makeup, and headed to work. On Sundays, it was the same routine for church. But, on Saturdays, I'd sleep late and then work on my chores in my pajamas. I made sure all my friends knew so if they dropped by on Saturday, they wouldn't be shocked by the plain-faced, straight-haired, pajama-clad woman that answered the door.
My friend, Jane, who was my Maid of Honor in my wedding and lives next door to me, would often call early on Saturday morning and wake me up. "Get out of bed, unlock the back door, and get a cup of coffee on," she'd say, "I got somethin' to tell you!" Jane and I never felt compelled to dress for each other. I'd stumble out of bed, start the coffee pot (I always had at least one of those good, flavored creamers), and find something wonderful like muffins to nibble on with our coffee. Jane would throw on her London Fog over her nightgown and run from her back door to mine. We'd sit sipping coffee, nibbling our breakfast, talking, and praying together for a couple of hours. One morning, while she and I were deep in conversation (at all of 7 a.m.), my kitchen door flew open and in walked my neighbor, an older man suffering from Alzheimer's. Apparently, his wife, who was his caregiver, was in the bath or otherwise occupied, and he had snuck out. While Jane and I sat there in shock, he wandered into the living room, smiled at me, sat down in a recliner and commented, "So, we have company today, do we?" I smiled back, walked over to him and said, "Yes, Daddy, we have company," took him by the hand and escorted him out the front door and around to his house. His wife was frustrated and scolded him, to no avail however, because he thought I was his daughter. She thanked me and I returned home in my pajamas. After that, Jane and I always locked the door behind her.
After I had children, and they started school, my mornings became rather hectic. I would rise, wake the children, and immediately start their breakfast. After a whirlwind of eating, reviewing homework, packing lunches, and getting them out the door, I would sit down for a bite myself. Then it was time to put on water to steep for ice tea, unload the dishwasher, get the laundry started, etc. I would get so busy with chores, that it would be well into the morning before I would take the time to get my bath and dress for the day. And I always had to be sure Daelyn was occupied before I could chance "the bath" or the house would be destroyed by the time I was done.
People have asked why I don't rise earlier than the children and get my bath before they're up. I've tried, oh, I've tried, but Daelyn seems to sense my rising and wakes up as soon as I'm out of bed. If I'm up at 4 a.m., he's up at 4 a.m. If I don't get up until 6 a.m., he's not up until 6. There's no getting around his radar, so I'm still faced with the same problem. It makes no difference when Don gets up. Nobody's radar seems to be tuned into him. Only MOM.
Most of my close friends know this about me and no longer ask when seeing me at 3 p.m. in my flannel pajamas if I'm sick. They know pajamas are a pseudonym for work clothes. But the people driving down the road and other acquaintances from the neighborhood probably wonder when they see the baby headed down the driveway on his bike and me chasing behind in my pajamas.
At least I don't wear Victoria's Secret to bed.
My friend, Jane, who was my Maid of Honor in my wedding and lives next door to me, would often call early on Saturday morning and wake me up. "Get out of bed, unlock the back door, and get a cup of coffee on," she'd say, "I got somethin' to tell you!" Jane and I never felt compelled to dress for each other. I'd stumble out of bed, start the coffee pot (I always had at least one of those good, flavored creamers), and find something wonderful like muffins to nibble on with our coffee. Jane would throw on her London Fog over her nightgown and run from her back door to mine. We'd sit sipping coffee, nibbling our breakfast, talking, and praying together for a couple of hours. One morning, while she and I were deep in conversation (at all of 7 a.m.), my kitchen door flew open and in walked my neighbor, an older man suffering from Alzheimer's. Apparently, his wife, who was his caregiver, was in the bath or otherwise occupied, and he had snuck out. While Jane and I sat there in shock, he wandered into the living room, smiled at me, sat down in a recliner and commented, "So, we have company today, do we?" I smiled back, walked over to him and said, "Yes, Daddy, we have company," took him by the hand and escorted him out the front door and around to his house. His wife was frustrated and scolded him, to no avail however, because he thought I was his daughter. She thanked me and I returned home in my pajamas. After that, Jane and I always locked the door behind her.
After I had children, and they started school, my mornings became rather hectic. I would rise, wake the children, and immediately start their breakfast. After a whirlwind of eating, reviewing homework, packing lunches, and getting them out the door, I would sit down for a bite myself. Then it was time to put on water to steep for ice tea, unload the dishwasher, get the laundry started, etc. I would get so busy with chores, that it would be well into the morning before I would take the time to get my bath and dress for the day. And I always had to be sure Daelyn was occupied before I could chance "the bath" or the house would be destroyed by the time I was done.
People have asked why I don't rise earlier than the children and get my bath before they're up. I've tried, oh, I've tried, but Daelyn seems to sense my rising and wakes up as soon as I'm out of bed. If I'm up at 4 a.m., he's up at 4 a.m. If I don't get up until 6 a.m., he's not up until 6. There's no getting around his radar, so I'm still faced with the same problem. It makes no difference when Don gets up. Nobody's radar seems to be tuned into him. Only MOM.
Most of my close friends know this about me and no longer ask when seeing me at 3 p.m. in my flannel pajamas if I'm sick. They know pajamas are a pseudonym for work clothes. But the people driving down the road and other acquaintances from the neighborhood probably wonder when they see the baby headed down the driveway on his bike and me chasing behind in my pajamas.
At least I don't wear Victoria's Secret to bed.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Our Latest Challenge
We had a dress rehearsal for the beginning of school yesterday morning. Deanna had an 8:30 dental appointment, which is the same time school starts each day. We had to leave the house around 8:00, 8:10 at the latest.
I let them sleep as late as possible, but at 7:30 all three of them were still in slumberland. If I let them stay in bed any longer, either we'd be late, I have to take three children in pajamas to the dentist, or they wouldn't have time for breakfast. I laid their breakfast out for them and then woke them quickly. I instructed them to get dressed first and then come and eat.
To my amazement, everyone followed directions. They all got dressed, including sandals, and then went to eat. They finished eating while I was putting on my makeup and curling my hair. We had 12 extra minutes, so I sent them to clear their places at the table. That done, I decided to attempt their rooms. I asked each of them to straighten up their beds and put their pajamas at the foot of their beds. By the time I was ready to go (before 8:00, by the way), they had all finished, were ready to load up, and Dane was chomping at the bit for me to come and look at his room.
We had enough time to spare that I checked both their rooms. Dane had done a lovely job straightening his bed and the whole room looked better. Daelyn had tried very hard and his bed looked much better than usual, albeit a little lopsided (more of the comforter was hanging off than was on), and Deanna's room was much-improved by a neat bed. I was delighted with the children and they were very pleased with themselves.
As I walked through the kitchen on my way to the van, I noticed that the table was completely clear, all the trash had been thrown away, sippers were in the fridge and everything was ship-shape. I was utterly amazed. I decided the children needed a reward.
When we returned from the dentist, I made some phone calls and invited a friend for each of them to spend a portion of the day with us. Then we picked up Deanna's friend and went swimming.
The problem is that the only reward they'll get for cleaning up before school each morning is going to school. It certainly wouldn't be worth it to me! I guess part of my job as THE MOM is to teach them that the reward is in the sense of pride they get from a job well-done.
Hope I'm up to the challenge - and they are, too.
I let them sleep as late as possible, but at 7:30 all three of them were still in slumberland. If I let them stay in bed any longer, either we'd be late, I have to take three children in pajamas to the dentist, or they wouldn't have time for breakfast. I laid their breakfast out for them and then woke them quickly. I instructed them to get dressed first and then come and eat.
To my amazement, everyone followed directions. They all got dressed, including sandals, and then went to eat. They finished eating while I was putting on my makeup and curling my hair. We had 12 extra minutes, so I sent them to clear their places at the table. That done, I decided to attempt their rooms. I asked each of them to straighten up their beds and put their pajamas at the foot of their beds. By the time I was ready to go (before 8:00, by the way), they had all finished, were ready to load up, and Dane was chomping at the bit for me to come and look at his room.
We had enough time to spare that I checked both their rooms. Dane had done a lovely job straightening his bed and the whole room looked better. Daelyn had tried very hard and his bed looked much better than usual, albeit a little lopsided (more of the comforter was hanging off than was on), and Deanna's room was much-improved by a neat bed. I was delighted with the children and they were very pleased with themselves.
As I walked through the kitchen on my way to the van, I noticed that the table was completely clear, all the trash had been thrown away, sippers were in the fridge and everything was ship-shape. I was utterly amazed. I decided the children needed a reward.
When we returned from the dentist, I made some phone calls and invited a friend for each of them to spend a portion of the day with us. Then we picked up Deanna's friend and went swimming.
The problem is that the only reward they'll get for cleaning up before school each morning is going to school. It certainly wouldn't be worth it to me! I guess part of my job as THE MOM is to teach them that the reward is in the sense of pride they get from a job well-done.
Hope I'm up to the challenge - and they are, too.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
The Connection between Food and Affection
In a magnaninous display of affection, Dane impulsively threw his arms around Deanna from behind her at lunch yesterday, knocking over her 16-oz. cup of strawberry milk with her medicine mixed in. It spilled all over the table, the bench, her, and the floor. Deanna attempted to grab the cup quickly before it all spilled, but Dane's arms were wrapped around her so tight, she couldn't move.
Dane looked crushed when he saw the mess, Deanna was angry, and I laughed. No use crying over spilt milk, right? Besides, Dane was trying to be loving - he just failed to approach it with finess. Deanna's going to have to learn that if you want attention from other people, you're not always able to direct it. Like husbands, people show affection when they feel the desire or need, not necessarily when you need it.
I think men have a manual, provided at birth, that requires they ignore you when you're desperately seeking attention and shower you with love while you're trying to cook dinner. Just look at little boys, tugging at your shirt while you're trying to get the meal prepared.
With lots of years of training, most grown men can be taught to recognize when affection is needed, but they never seem to outgrow the connection between food, or just the anticipation of food, and displays of emotion.
Dane was just following his natural tendency - it was meal time, he felt affection, why not bear-hug sissy? He's getting his practice in early.
Dane looked crushed when he saw the mess, Deanna was angry, and I laughed. No use crying over spilt milk, right? Besides, Dane was trying to be loving - he just failed to approach it with finess. Deanna's going to have to learn that if you want attention from other people, you're not always able to direct it. Like husbands, people show affection when they feel the desire or need, not necessarily when you need it.
I think men have a manual, provided at birth, that requires they ignore you when you're desperately seeking attention and shower you with love while you're trying to cook dinner. Just look at little boys, tugging at your shirt while you're trying to get the meal prepared.
With lots of years of training, most grown men can be taught to recognize when affection is needed, but they never seem to outgrow the connection between food, or just the anticipation of food, and displays of emotion.
Dane was just following his natural tendency - it was meal time, he felt affection, why not bear-hug sissy? He's getting his practice in early.
Monday, August 15, 2005
Substitute Teacher-itis
While Don and I were away last week, his parents stayed with our children. They live in West Virginia and only see the children once or twice a year. I was delighted they were coming. My mother-in-law is one of the kindest, most generous and gifted people you could ever want to meet. My father-in-law, also very talented and artistic, can best be described as "game".
Several years ago during one of their visits, when Deanna was about 2 or 3, I walked by the bathroom door and saw Dad Doughty seated on top of the commode with his feet in the air. Deanna was sitting on the side of the tub with her feet also in the air. I stood looking dumbfounded. Dad laughingly told me that he and Deanna were in the jungle and they had to lift their feet so the alligators wouldn't get them. Anything Deanna wanted to play, Grandpa went along with. Game.
So, I thought this would work out wonderfully. They'd get time with the children by themselves, it'd be like a vacation for the children (getting to do lots of fun things with their grandparents), and I'd sleep peacefully on my trip knowing the best possible care-givers (other than my parents, of course, who can't deal with the noise and activity level any more) were watching over my little sheep.
Actually, it was Don's idea. He e-mailed them and asked. I intercepted their answer and quizzed Don about it. He knew I would be able to enjoy myself without worrying about the children if they were being cared for by his parents. Anyway, they agreed, came, and we left. I did leave a few instructions for my mother-in-law, like what the kids typically eat for meals, medicines, bathtime and bedtime - typical babsitter-type stuff. And from there, blithely exited off with my husband for a whale of a good time.
While gone, we had a conversation with Deanna, who was frustrated because she "tried to explain to Grandma how we do things, but Grandma won't listen". God bless Grandma. As if it's not hard enough being in a strange home and dealing with all the activity of three children (including a VERY busy 3-yr. old), she had Deanna setting her straight. I encouraged Deanna to let Grandma do things her own way and then relayed the story to Don. We prayed for Grandma and our sweet little girl who's used to mothering her brothers and has a very strong sense of what SIMPLY MUST BE DONE THIS WAY!!
When we arrived home on Wednesday night, excited to see the children and anxious to show them our live blue crabs (I realize "crabs" is not a word, but it's common usage at the Pier), Don and I quickly began handing out their gifts. I sat at the table with the children to show them how to clean a crab - he was cooked, of course, 'cause Grandma had a pot of boiling water waiting on us. While the children gathered around, I noticed Grandpa taking bags out to their car, which Don and I had used for our trip so they could have the van with the built-in car seats. Packing up tonight for their early departure tomorrow, I thought.
The next thing I knew, Grandma said, "Well, goodbye." I glanced up and noticed her purse on her shoulder. "Where are you going?" I asked, a little slow on the uptake.
"Home," she said. "We enjoyed it. See ya." Quick hugs to all and they got the heck out of Dodge. My father-in-law paused to tell us that he hadn't slept the entire time they were here, so they might as well be driving. And then, they were gone.
Don and I sat stunned. The children were so excited to have us home, I'm not sure they even noticed. I looked at Don and he shrugged. I mentioned before that I was a little slow on the uptake. That's a typical condition with me. Some people are perceptive - I'm not one of them. It takes me hours to process information and "figure it out". I decided the processing of this information had to wait - there were crabs to eat.
The next day, Deanna and I were running errands when she announced that the boys had really given Grandma and Grandpa a hard time, and they didn't know what to do about it. I asked her if they put the boys in a time-out. She said that they tried to send them to their room, but it didn't work (they share a room, so this isn't exactly separating them).
Finally, my very slow, groggy wheels began to turn. Here were Grandma and Grandpa, in their late 50's, taken out of their very quiet life and stranded in a house they're not terribly familiar with (I recommended to Grandpa that he put his hanging clothes in my closet when they arrived - he said he couldn't remember how to get to my room), being chided and corrected by Deanna and trying to keep the boys from killing each other before their parent's return. Grandma doesn't know where anything in my kitchen is, but she was preparing 3 meals a day. The noise and activity alone must have been exhausting. But then, add the behavior of the children, and I'm amazed they didn't meet us in the driveway with suitcases in hand.
I told Don about my thought process. He chuckled. We decided to send his folks a very nice floral arrangement - fast. My sister recommended two tickets to the Ballet, as well.
I guess mailing them my firstborn is a little out-of-the-question.
Several years ago during one of their visits, when Deanna was about 2 or 3, I walked by the bathroom door and saw Dad Doughty seated on top of the commode with his feet in the air. Deanna was sitting on the side of the tub with her feet also in the air. I stood looking dumbfounded. Dad laughingly told me that he and Deanna were in the jungle and they had to lift their feet so the alligators wouldn't get them. Anything Deanna wanted to play, Grandpa went along with. Game.
So, I thought this would work out wonderfully. They'd get time with the children by themselves, it'd be like a vacation for the children (getting to do lots of fun things with their grandparents), and I'd sleep peacefully on my trip knowing the best possible care-givers (other than my parents, of course, who can't deal with the noise and activity level any more) were watching over my little sheep.
Actually, it was Don's idea. He e-mailed them and asked. I intercepted their answer and quizzed Don about it. He knew I would be able to enjoy myself without worrying about the children if they were being cared for by his parents. Anyway, they agreed, came, and we left. I did leave a few instructions for my mother-in-law, like what the kids typically eat for meals, medicines, bathtime and bedtime - typical babsitter-type stuff. And from there, blithely exited off with my husband for a whale of a good time.
While gone, we had a conversation with Deanna, who was frustrated because she "tried to explain to Grandma how we do things, but Grandma won't listen". God bless Grandma. As if it's not hard enough being in a strange home and dealing with all the activity of three children (including a VERY busy 3-yr. old), she had Deanna setting her straight. I encouraged Deanna to let Grandma do things her own way and then relayed the story to Don. We prayed for Grandma and our sweet little girl who's used to mothering her brothers and has a very strong sense of what SIMPLY MUST BE DONE THIS WAY!!
When we arrived home on Wednesday night, excited to see the children and anxious to show them our live blue crabs (I realize "crabs" is not a word, but it's common usage at the Pier), Don and I quickly began handing out their gifts. I sat at the table with the children to show them how to clean a crab - he was cooked, of course, 'cause Grandma had a pot of boiling water waiting on us. While the children gathered around, I noticed Grandpa taking bags out to their car, which Don and I had used for our trip so they could have the van with the built-in car seats. Packing up tonight for their early departure tomorrow, I thought.
The next thing I knew, Grandma said, "Well, goodbye." I glanced up and noticed her purse on her shoulder. "Where are you going?" I asked, a little slow on the uptake.
"Home," she said. "We enjoyed it. See ya." Quick hugs to all and they got the heck out of Dodge. My father-in-law paused to tell us that he hadn't slept the entire time they were here, so they might as well be driving. And then, they were gone.
Don and I sat stunned. The children were so excited to have us home, I'm not sure they even noticed. I looked at Don and he shrugged. I mentioned before that I was a little slow on the uptake. That's a typical condition with me. Some people are perceptive - I'm not one of them. It takes me hours to process information and "figure it out". I decided the processing of this information had to wait - there were crabs to eat.
The next day, Deanna and I were running errands when she announced that the boys had really given Grandma and Grandpa a hard time, and they didn't know what to do about it. I asked her if they put the boys in a time-out. She said that they tried to send them to their room, but it didn't work (they share a room, so this isn't exactly separating them).
Finally, my very slow, groggy wheels began to turn. Here were Grandma and Grandpa, in their late 50's, taken out of their very quiet life and stranded in a house they're not terribly familiar with (I recommended to Grandpa that he put his hanging clothes in my closet when they arrived - he said he couldn't remember how to get to my room), being chided and corrected by Deanna and trying to keep the boys from killing each other before their parent's return. Grandma doesn't know where anything in my kitchen is, but she was preparing 3 meals a day. The noise and activity alone must have been exhausting. But then, add the behavior of the children, and I'm amazed they didn't meet us in the driveway with suitcases in hand.
I told Don about my thought process. He chuckled. We decided to send his folks a very nice floral arrangement - fast. My sister recommended two tickets to the Ballet, as well.
I guess mailing them my firstborn is a little out-of-the-question.
Sunday, August 14, 2005
Interpreter or Mob Boss?
The children went up to Grandma's house yesterday for a while in the afternoon. When Dane came home, he was holding a small plastic container and handed it to me. "Here, Mom," he said, "Grandma sent you some rootbeer upside-down-cake." It took me a minute, but I finally figured out that Dane had substituted rhubarb, a word he doesn't yet know, with rootbeer, a word with which he's very familiar (Grandma makes the kids rootbeer floats quite often). Of course, I called Mom immediately and thanked her for the rootbeer upside-down-cake.
Later in the afternoon, Daelyn came into my room to snuggle. He had been outside performing his daily self-imposed chore of "lawning the mow". (Someday I'm going to post a picture of him in his "lawning the mow" getup, which includes yellow rain boots, a yellow plastic construction hat and day-glo sunglasses.) He was tired and hot and just needed Mommy Time. As we were snuggling, he mentioned that it smelled bad outside.
"Is it my mountain of mulch?" I asked, knowing that it's deteriorating as we speak and quite odorous, at that.
"No, Mama, not your mulch. It was the sass suck."
???????? What in TARNATION is a "sass suck"?
I asked a few well-thought-out questions and finally got to the bottom of it. Daelyn was trying for "trash truck" but has trouble with blended consonant sounds (especially "t" and "r"), so he had substituted his old standby, "s". We spent the next 20 minutes working on t-rash and t-ruck, separating the "t" and "r" to help him form both consonants individually.
I also noticed, while snuggling, that he seemed warm. Took the temp and, yup, 101.5. I gave him a dose of grape liquid Tylemol before his nap, and he complained horribly about the taste. My other two kids prefer the grape taste and, in the past, we've looked hard and long for GRAPE. Now, Daelyn doesn't like the grape - all we had.
After dinner, his temp started going up again. We told him he needed more Tylenol and he flatly refused. So as to not confuse him about who's in charge, Daddy and I forced the issue, using a syringe to shoot it into his mouth. He then took several sips of milk. We were pretty smug, thinking we had won this battle, when purple milk began seeping out of the corners of his mouth. He refused to swallow and, eventually, spit the sips of milk laced with Tylenol out on the floor. Daddy decided he didn't need medicine badly enough to go through this.
Later, after preparing for bed, I discovered Daelyn stretched out in the middle of our bed, sound asleep and hot as Hades. He roused as Don and I were piling in and began talking with us. We once again told him he needed medicine. NO WAY!!!! We tried every angle we could think of, even pulling the name of our much-loved and authoritative Pediatrician out of the hat and telling Daelyn the doctor would want him to take it. No luck. Finally, Don sent me to the kitchen to get the Blue Raspberry Advil and mix it with 1/2 t. of Children's Benadryl for the little guy. I added about 1/2 t. of honey to the mix, stirred it with a toothpick, and took Daelyn his cocktail. I held him in my lap with his head leaning back against my arm and Don held his hand, ostensibly to provide moral support but, more likely, to keep Daelyn from knocking the medicine out of my hand and all over the bed (we've been this route before). I forced the first sip through clenched teeth (his and mine) and, once he tasted it, he opened up and took the rest. Afterward, we were snuggling again and I was brushing his hair with my fingers. "Thank you, Mommy," he said. It was worth the battle.
Any of you single men out there that are auditioning women as potential spouses, make sure you add to your list of needs someone who's bilingual and a linguist, a great interpreter, had a secret life as a hit-man with the mafia, has been to Pharmacy School, and was, at some time in her life, a pro-wrestler. And, of course, still can snuggle with the best of them - all essential job skills.
Later in the afternoon, Daelyn came into my room to snuggle. He had been outside performing his daily self-imposed chore of "lawning the mow". (Someday I'm going to post a picture of him in his "lawning the mow" getup, which includes yellow rain boots, a yellow plastic construction hat and day-glo sunglasses.) He was tired and hot and just needed Mommy Time. As we were snuggling, he mentioned that it smelled bad outside.
"Is it my mountain of mulch?" I asked, knowing that it's deteriorating as we speak and quite odorous, at that.
"No, Mama, not your mulch. It was the sass suck."
???????? What in TARNATION is a "sass suck"?
I asked a few well-thought-out questions and finally got to the bottom of it. Daelyn was trying for "trash truck" but has trouble with blended consonant sounds (especially "t" and "r"), so he had substituted his old standby, "s". We spent the next 20 minutes working on t-rash and t-ruck, separating the "t" and "r" to help him form both consonants individually.
I also noticed, while snuggling, that he seemed warm. Took the temp and, yup, 101.5. I gave him a dose of grape liquid Tylemol before his nap, and he complained horribly about the taste. My other two kids prefer the grape taste and, in the past, we've looked hard and long for GRAPE. Now, Daelyn doesn't like the grape - all we had.
After dinner, his temp started going up again. We told him he needed more Tylenol and he flatly refused. So as to not confuse him about who's in charge, Daddy and I forced the issue, using a syringe to shoot it into his mouth. He then took several sips of milk. We were pretty smug, thinking we had won this battle, when purple milk began seeping out of the corners of his mouth. He refused to swallow and, eventually, spit the sips of milk laced with Tylenol out on the floor. Daddy decided he didn't need medicine badly enough to go through this.
Later, after preparing for bed, I discovered Daelyn stretched out in the middle of our bed, sound asleep and hot as Hades. He roused as Don and I were piling in and began talking with us. We once again told him he needed medicine. NO WAY!!!! We tried every angle we could think of, even pulling the name of our much-loved and authoritative Pediatrician out of the hat and telling Daelyn the doctor would want him to take it. No luck. Finally, Don sent me to the kitchen to get the Blue Raspberry Advil and mix it with 1/2 t. of Children's Benadryl for the little guy. I added about 1/2 t. of honey to the mix, stirred it with a toothpick, and took Daelyn his cocktail. I held him in my lap with his head leaning back against my arm and Don held his hand, ostensibly to provide moral support but, more likely, to keep Daelyn from knocking the medicine out of my hand and all over the bed (we've been this route before). I forced the first sip through clenched teeth (his and mine) and, once he tasted it, he opened up and took the rest. Afterward, we were snuggling again and I was brushing his hair with my fingers. "Thank you, Mommy," he said. It was worth the battle.
Any of you single men out there that are auditioning women as potential spouses, make sure you add to your list of needs someone who's bilingual and a linguist, a great interpreter, had a secret life as a hit-man with the mafia, has been to Pharmacy School, and was, at some time in her life, a pro-wrestler. And, of course, still can snuggle with the best of them - all essential job skills.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Packrats Live Here
My sister started a Blog the day after I started mine. I was frustrated with her - could she not have waited one week and let me bask in my uniqueness (ha, ha) before she jumped on the bandwagon? Her blog today, which is hilarious, explains that she comes from a long line of "Project Maniacs", which, of course, includes me. As I read her blog, I couldn't help but think of all the projects I have pending.
When Don and I moved into our new house, which I designed with gobs of storage areas and lots of big closets, we decided to put our TV and stereo in the den instead of the living room. However, our old entertainment center wouldn't fit in the den, so we used an old one of Don's that had been in his study.
When it came time to unpack the boxes, I discovered about 30 full of stuff that had come out of the entertainment center which no longer has room for them. In order to clean out the living room, where all the boxes were stacked until unpacked, I crammed them all in a spare living room closet. On top of that went our tents, which can't be stored in the attic, and all our camp chairs, which we use often. It's an avalanche waiting to happen. We've been in our house for two years this October and I think it's time to clean out that closet. But this is no simple task. First, everything has to be removed, which means the living room will be destroyed once again. Then I have to find places for all the "stuff". My friend, Rachel, considers herself to be a minimalist. I guess that makes me a maximumist. While all of her counters and tables are clean and neat with no junk accumulated, most of the surfaces in my house cannot be seen. My friend, Kelly, is the same way. I love to walk into her home and be greeted by peace and neatness. My house, however, has that cluttered feel, despite the space and storage we designed into it.
I often find myself reminding people that I wasn't this way before marriage. Once a month, I pulled out the fridge and oven and scrubbed the sides and the floor behind. But now, in addition to having three children to constantly clean up behind, I also have a husband who is the messiest of them all. Lest that seem an unfair evaluation of Don, perhaps it would be better to explain that he sees nothing as trash - everything can be used again for some purpose and must be stored in case there's some future need for styrofoam or cardboard, old keys, chunks of wood (honest!), or anything else I try to throw away. Our attic is full of old, empty boxes that he just can't seem to part with. ("We might need to send out a package to someone and where would we be without the right size box?")
I guess I'm doomed to live in envy of my friend's neat homes. I considered asking one of them to come into my house and help me figure out how to keep from accumulating so much JUNK, but the bottom line is, it's useless. Any order I put in my home will only last until the kids come home from school with papers.
Still, I keep hoping. And, every now and then, clean furiously throwing out things while Don's at work and can't reclaim them. If I could just train my children to throw things out, I'll feel like I've accomplished something. Baby steps!!
When Don and I moved into our new house, which I designed with gobs of storage areas and lots of big closets, we decided to put our TV and stereo in the den instead of the living room. However, our old entertainment center wouldn't fit in the den, so we used an old one of Don's that had been in his study.
When it came time to unpack the boxes, I discovered about 30 full of stuff that had come out of the entertainment center which no longer has room for them. In order to clean out the living room, where all the boxes were stacked until unpacked, I crammed them all in a spare living room closet. On top of that went our tents, which can't be stored in the attic, and all our camp chairs, which we use often. It's an avalanche waiting to happen. We've been in our house for two years this October and I think it's time to clean out that closet. But this is no simple task. First, everything has to be removed, which means the living room will be destroyed once again. Then I have to find places for all the "stuff". My friend, Rachel, considers herself to be a minimalist. I guess that makes me a maximumist. While all of her counters and tables are clean and neat with no junk accumulated, most of the surfaces in my house cannot be seen. My friend, Kelly, is the same way. I love to walk into her home and be greeted by peace and neatness. My house, however, has that cluttered feel, despite the space and storage we designed into it.
I often find myself reminding people that I wasn't this way before marriage. Once a month, I pulled out the fridge and oven and scrubbed the sides and the floor behind. But now, in addition to having three children to constantly clean up behind, I also have a husband who is the messiest of them all. Lest that seem an unfair evaluation of Don, perhaps it would be better to explain that he sees nothing as trash - everything can be used again for some purpose and must be stored in case there's some future need for styrofoam or cardboard, old keys, chunks of wood (honest!), or anything else I try to throw away. Our attic is full of old, empty boxes that he just can't seem to part with. ("We might need to send out a package to someone and where would we be without the right size box?")
I guess I'm doomed to live in envy of my friend's neat homes. I considered asking one of them to come into my house and help me figure out how to keep from accumulating so much JUNK, but the bottom line is, it's useless. Any order I put in my home will only last until the kids come home from school with papers.
Still, I keep hoping. And, every now and then, clean furiously throwing out things while Don's at work and can't reclaim them. If I could just train my children to throw things out, I'll feel like I've accomplished something. Baby steps!!
Friday, August 12, 2005
She won't run out of gas anymore!!
Got more to do than you can ever accomplish in one day? Find yourself tiring well before bedtime? Starting to trade off daily chores - "Okay, TODAY I'll get the laundry done, TOMORROW I'll cook dinner"?
This woman complained one too many times that she "just ran out of gas". Her mistake was not her lack of energy, but her choice of words. Her husband and children apparently got tired of her excuses for not getting the household chores done and decided to send a clear message.
God save us from our own metaphors. I always tell my children to be careful what they wish for - they may get it.
This woman complained one too many times that she "just ran out of gas". Her mistake was not her lack of energy, but her choice of words. Her husband and children apparently got tired of her excuses for not getting the household chores done and decided to send a clear message.
God save us from our own metaphors. I always tell my children to be careful what they wish for - they may get it.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
All the Angles
This morning's news tells a story about a convicted thief who escaped with his wife from a courthouse after she shot and killed one of the guards. The police finally were able to locate the couple when a cab driver reported that he had driven this couple to a budget hotel in Ohio. They told him they were going to an Amway convention, which he felt was suspect since they weren't "pushy about their product".
What a sad commentary on Americans. I would have thought their story to be very believable - Amway sales people are everywhere and from all walks of life. Going on an over 100-mile trip, across state lines, in a cab may seem a little odd to you and I, but I'm sure there are many people that would see that as ordinary.
What amazes me is that they stayed where left by the cabbie. They had been in the same hotel room for several days, eating take-out food. If you're on the run from police, running may be a good idea. They don't call in "on the stay" for a reason.
Makes me very happy to have a quiet, southern life - driving my minivan, talking with all the clerks at the grocery store, running our little errands to the bank for suckers. Once while visiting Don's parents, my father-in-law announced that he was going out to run errands. Dane begged to go with him. He kept trying to explain that he was "running errands". I finally told him that my children love running errands, so he took Dane along. When he came home, he told me that Dane had gotten candy at the florist, a sucker at the bank, and gum at the Post Office. Grandpa was amazed that Dane had made out so well. I smiled, knowingly, and reminded him that Dane loved to run errands. "He knows all the angles," I told him.
The Hyatte's certainly didn't know all the angles. Perhaps the only advantage to our poor educational system is dumber crooks.
What a sad commentary on Americans. I would have thought their story to be very believable - Amway sales people are everywhere and from all walks of life. Going on an over 100-mile trip, across state lines, in a cab may seem a little odd to you and I, but I'm sure there are many people that would see that as ordinary.
What amazes me is that they stayed where left by the cabbie. They had been in the same hotel room for several days, eating take-out food. If you're on the run from police, running may be a good idea. They don't call in "on the stay" for a reason.
Makes me very happy to have a quiet, southern life - driving my minivan, talking with all the clerks at the grocery store, running our little errands to the bank for suckers. Once while visiting Don's parents, my father-in-law announced that he was going out to run errands. Dane begged to go with him. He kept trying to explain that he was "running errands". I finally told him that my children love running errands, so he took Dane along. When he came home, he told me that Dane had gotten candy at the florist, a sucker at the bank, and gum at the Post Office. Grandpa was amazed that Dane had made out so well. I smiled, knowingly, and reminded him that Dane loved to run errands. "He knows all the angles," I told him.
The Hyatte's certainly didn't know all the angles. Perhaps the only advantage to our poor educational system is dumber crooks.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
We're home - exhausted, but happy. Don and I had a wonderful time and could easily have stayed another two days, but we're also very glad to be with our children again.
One of the highlights of our trip was crabbing this morning after checking out of the Bed and Breakfast. Yesterday we went down to the St. Simon's Island Pier and wandered around talking to the fisherman. I was amazed how many people were out crabbing. One man with his two children took us under his wing and explained the whole process to us. Three hours later, when we left the pier, we stopped at a Bait and Tackle shop and priced crab nets and coolers. A clear plan began to take shape.
This morning, we bought our nets, our chicken back, and a styrofoam cooler to transport our catch home. With my camera around my neck, we made for the pier. Our first throw into the water, we came up with 2 crabs, and so it went. Somebody gave us some leftover chicken when they stopped for the day. I tied some more into our net and then threw a piece over the side, hoping to attract a few more crab. A lady near us saw me and told me she had a weighted string with a hook that we could use. Uncertain how to get an attached crab all the way from the water surface to the pier, I played around with it for a while and, lo and behold, pulled it towards me and could see a crab hanging on, unwilling to give up her meal. I yelled to Don, who quickly maneuved our net under my string. When I pulled the string in and the crab fell off, he fell right into our net!!! I got so excited, I shrieked. Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to look. Several people ran over to see my prize. It was like a little community of crabbers, all helping each other and cheering for the other's victories.
We came home with 24 blue crab. I couldn't wait to get in the house and show the children. We boiled them and sat down to a crab feast, only to discover Deanna, Don, and Daelyn don't like crab, and I was too tired to eat. I cleaned 4 or so for Dane, who had his fill, and we'll have to tackle the rest another day. It was a very fun day, topping off a fun week, but Don and I are thrilled to be home and the children are very happy we are.
Maybe crabbing will be like fishing for them - they'll enjoy catching them but, not so much, eating them. I guess the the fun is in the pursuit. I know it was for me.
One of the highlights of our trip was crabbing this morning after checking out of the Bed and Breakfast. Yesterday we went down to the St. Simon's Island Pier and wandered around talking to the fisherman. I was amazed how many people were out crabbing. One man with his two children took us under his wing and explained the whole process to us. Three hours later, when we left the pier, we stopped at a Bait and Tackle shop and priced crab nets and coolers. A clear plan began to take shape.
This morning, we bought our nets, our chicken back, and a styrofoam cooler to transport our catch home. With my camera around my neck, we made for the pier. Our first throw into the water, we came up with 2 crabs, and so it went. Somebody gave us some leftover chicken when they stopped for the day. I tied some more into our net and then threw a piece over the side, hoping to attract a few more crab. A lady near us saw me and told me she had a weighted string with a hook that we could use. Uncertain how to get an attached crab all the way from the water surface to the pier, I played around with it for a while and, lo and behold, pulled it towards me and could see a crab hanging on, unwilling to give up her meal. I yelled to Don, who quickly maneuved our net under my string. When I pulled the string in and the crab fell off, he fell right into our net!!! I got so excited, I shrieked. Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to look. Several people ran over to see my prize. It was like a little community of crabbers, all helping each other and cheering for the other's victories.
We came home with 24 blue crab. I couldn't wait to get in the house and show the children. We boiled them and sat down to a crab feast, only to discover Deanna, Don, and Daelyn don't like crab, and I was too tired to eat. I cleaned 4 or so for Dane, who had his fill, and we'll have to tackle the rest another day. It was a very fun day, topping off a fun week, but Don and I are thrilled to be home and the children are very happy we are.
Maybe crabbing will be like fishing for them - they'll enjoy catching them but, not so much, eating them. I guess the the fun is in the pursuit. I know it was for me.
Monday, August 08, 2005
We're Off!!!
Don and I are on our way - our Anniversary Trip. Three days of sun, fun, and aloneness!!! I can't think of anything more wonderful, except, perhaps, for my husband, children, parents, parents-in-law, sisters, nieces and nephews, friends, this life, and all God has given us. Thank you, Lord, for your love and bouteous provision.
Sunday, August 07, 2005
The Never-Ending Battle
DEANNA'S HOME!! We missed her terribly, especially her brothers. Grandma and Grandpa encountered several accidents along the road home, so they were very late arriving. I couldn't get the boys to bed. They wouldn't have been able to sleep, anyway, waiting to hear Sissy's voice.
Daelyn climbed into her bed this morning to snuggle her - chose Deanna over Mommy. That's a first.
And Grandma and Grandpa Doughty, Don's parents, are here for a few days to watch the children while we go away for our anniversary. We leave tomorrow morning for ST. SIMON'S ISLAND. I found this sweet little Bed and Breakfast down there that's right on the beach. It's appropriately named "The Beach Bed and Breakfast". The Suite we have reserved is ranked in the top 5 in the country. But our trip's not about the Suite. It's about being alone with Don for the first time since our honeymoon. We had Deanna shortly after our first anniversary and thus, the child-rearing years began. We've had a nursing baby ever since. So, time alone with Don, including trips, have been virtually impossible.
In preparation for our special time, I bought a few new outfits and had a pedicure - something I've never done before. Don got me a gift certificate for Mother's Day. I cashed it in yesterday. Girlfriends, if you've ever needed pampering, this is the way to go.
They put you in a massage chair (mine had a remote control and I could choose the type of massage I preferred) and your feet go into a whirlpool. This sweet little girl worked on my feet for an hour. To console me, she told me that my feet weren't nearly as bad as many that she sees. But my heels and the sides of my big toes needed much pampering. Living in the south, I wear open sandals about 9 months out of the year and I have a tendency towards dry skin. So, the parts exposed the most could have passed for the Sahara during a dry spell.
But they're done, and I feel "pretty". When Don and I were courting, he could always tell how important I thought a date was by whether or not I had done my toenails. As we would drive down the road, he'd say, "Are your toenails done?" If so, he knew this was a big one - at least to me. Yesterday, when I returned home, I made a big deal out of showing him my toes. Maybe if I do this for 10 more years, I can actually train him to get interested at the sight of painted toenails.
So, we prepare for our trip. And, we try furiously to get the house cleaned before leaving so Grandma and Grandpa, who will be sleeping in our room and using our bathroom, don't have to wallow in nastiness while we're gone. We're used to it. They're not.
I actually started cleaning at the beginning of the week. Unfortunately, by yesterday, the kitchen, after working on it for 3 solid days, was worse than when I started. I don't understand it. I know that often when I clean, things get worse before they get better, but this was a little off the charts. I think everything works against me when we're having company. By bedtime last night, the dining room was VERY clean, the den was the cleanest it's been in months, and the kitchen was in fairly good shape. That was the best I could hope for.
While I pack and attempt to clean the master suite, someone has to keep the children occupied. Otherwise, the rest of the house will be destroyed. It's a trade-off. I can only typically keep one room clean at a time - the one I'm working in right then.
Ah, the joys of motherhood. I just have to keep reminding myself that this is a short season (at times it seems Oh, so long) and before I blink my eyes, all three will be in school, my house will stay spotless, I'll have time for my crafts projects, and I'll be twiddling my thumbs trying to figure out what to do to fill up my free time. Here's hoping, anyway!!!
Daelyn climbed into her bed this morning to snuggle her - chose Deanna over Mommy. That's a first.
And Grandma and Grandpa Doughty, Don's parents, are here for a few days to watch the children while we go away for our anniversary. We leave tomorrow morning for ST. SIMON'S ISLAND. I found this sweet little Bed and Breakfast down there that's right on the beach. It's appropriately named "The Beach Bed and Breakfast". The Suite we have reserved is ranked in the top 5 in the country. But our trip's not about the Suite. It's about being alone with Don for the first time since our honeymoon. We had Deanna shortly after our first anniversary and thus, the child-rearing years began. We've had a nursing baby ever since. So, time alone with Don, including trips, have been virtually impossible.
In preparation for our special time, I bought a few new outfits and had a pedicure - something I've never done before. Don got me a gift certificate for Mother's Day. I cashed it in yesterday. Girlfriends, if you've ever needed pampering, this is the way to go.
They put you in a massage chair (mine had a remote control and I could choose the type of massage I preferred) and your feet go into a whirlpool. This sweet little girl worked on my feet for an hour. To console me, she told me that my feet weren't nearly as bad as many that she sees. But my heels and the sides of my big toes needed much pampering. Living in the south, I wear open sandals about 9 months out of the year and I have a tendency towards dry skin. So, the parts exposed the most could have passed for the Sahara during a dry spell.
But they're done, and I feel "pretty". When Don and I were courting, he could always tell how important I thought a date was by whether or not I had done my toenails. As we would drive down the road, he'd say, "Are your toenails done?" If so, he knew this was a big one - at least to me. Yesterday, when I returned home, I made a big deal out of showing him my toes. Maybe if I do this for 10 more years, I can actually train him to get interested at the sight of painted toenails.
So, we prepare for our trip. And, we try furiously to get the house cleaned before leaving so Grandma and Grandpa, who will be sleeping in our room and using our bathroom, don't have to wallow in nastiness while we're gone. We're used to it. They're not.
I actually started cleaning at the beginning of the week. Unfortunately, by yesterday, the kitchen, after working on it for 3 solid days, was worse than when I started. I don't understand it. I know that often when I clean, things get worse before they get better, but this was a little off the charts. I think everything works against me when we're having company. By bedtime last night, the dining room was VERY clean, the den was the cleanest it's been in months, and the kitchen was in fairly good shape. That was the best I could hope for.
While I pack and attempt to clean the master suite, someone has to keep the children occupied. Otherwise, the rest of the house will be destroyed. It's a trade-off. I can only typically keep one room clean at a time - the one I'm working in right then.
Ah, the joys of motherhood. I just have to keep reminding myself that this is a short season (at times it seems Oh, so long) and before I blink my eyes, all three will be in school, my house will stay spotless, I'll have time for my crafts projects, and I'll be twiddling my thumbs trying to figure out what to do to fill up my free time. Here's hoping, anyway!!!
Saturday, August 06, 2005
Training Day
Yesterday, the boys and I had lunch with my Catholic Priest friend, Fr. John, at our favorite hangout, Pizza Hut. We love Pizza Hut because Deanna and Dane always have coupons for free pizzas through the Book-It reading program at school, Daelyn eats free, Fr. John and I can get stamps on our Buffet Card (6 stamps and you get a free meal), and Danyah (pronounced "Dan-yah") works there. Danyah is our waitress, or at least she was until they promoted her. She got so used to Fr. John meeting us there that when she saw his SUV or our van pull into the parking lot, she would prepare our table with our drinks laid out (diet soda for Fr. John, Sierra Mist for me and Deanna, and fruit punch for the boys) and begin the pepperoni personal pan pizzas for the children. It was pretty amazing to walk through the door and be met by a smiling, friendly face who told us which table was ready for us and then to approach the table to see our drinks sitting waiting. Thankfully, she never got so far ahead of us as to bill us before we arrived.
Someone other than us finally realized what an asset Danyah was to the restaurant and promoted her, so we have to start all over again training a new girl. But we hang in there, faithfully performing our duties of retraining the Pizza Hut employees.
So, today was training day, i.e. lunch with Fr. John (or Uncle Father John, as my kids call him, since we have an associate minister at our church who is also Fr. John). After having to tell the waitress what we wanted to drink, and exchanging the typical pleasantries, we got down to the serious business of the day. Fr. John desperately needed me to, once again, teach him how to make a worm out of a paper straw wrappper. Apparently, he hadn't been attentive enough to technique in our previous lesson and had been out to dinner with some friends, promising them a cool trick. When the trick never materialized, the friends were disappointed and John was frustrated, thus a refresher course in wrapper worms.
I diligently reviewed the technique, explaining as I demonstrated. Then the boys applied the water and we watched the worm wiggle. John's error, apparently, was that he had removed the wrapper from the straw, thinking he could just accordian-fold the wrapper and achieve the same result - negatory!! The wrapper must be left on the straw while it's condensed to an inch or two of crunched paper. Then, after gently removing the compressed paper, being certain to keep it compressed, you can add a drop of fluid to a spot on the worm and WATCH IT WIGGLE!!
The waitress appeared with our drinks and asked if she could get us anything else. I explained that we had to have another straw for the practicum. Although her brow knitted, she obviously knew she was in training and smiled politely, delivering a fresh straw.
Before we finished lunch, John geared up for his worm lab exercise. He began the process of pushing the wrapper down the straw. We discussed various methods of condensing the paper and I demonstrated the most effective procedure. John practiced and achieved maximum skrunch. He then removed the wrapper, paused for the drumroll, and allowed Dane to begin applying fluid one drop at a time. While we were waiting for Dane, who seemed to have difficulty getting anything in his straw, the waitress wandered over. We encouraged her to watch John's final exam.
As Dane dropped fruit punch slowly, the paper began to move. Our waitress gasped. John smiled.
It's a tough life training a new waitress, but somebody's got to do it. Danyah, wherever you are, we miss you but we're doing our best to put a happy face on lunch and bear up under the burden.
Someone other than us finally realized what an asset Danyah was to the restaurant and promoted her, so we have to start all over again training a new girl. But we hang in there, faithfully performing our duties of retraining the Pizza Hut employees.
So, today was training day, i.e. lunch with Fr. John (or Uncle Father John, as my kids call him, since we have an associate minister at our church who is also Fr. John). After having to tell the waitress what we wanted to drink, and exchanging the typical pleasantries, we got down to the serious business of the day. Fr. John desperately needed me to, once again, teach him how to make a worm out of a paper straw wrappper. Apparently, he hadn't been attentive enough to technique in our previous lesson and had been out to dinner with some friends, promising them a cool trick. When the trick never materialized, the friends were disappointed and John was frustrated, thus a refresher course in wrapper worms.
I diligently reviewed the technique, explaining as I demonstrated. Then the boys applied the water and we watched the worm wiggle. John's error, apparently, was that he had removed the wrapper from the straw, thinking he could just accordian-fold the wrapper and achieve the same result - negatory!! The wrapper must be left on the straw while it's condensed to an inch or two of crunched paper. Then, after gently removing the compressed paper, being certain to keep it compressed, you can add a drop of fluid to a spot on the worm and WATCH IT WIGGLE!!
The waitress appeared with our drinks and asked if she could get us anything else. I explained that we had to have another straw for the practicum. Although her brow knitted, she obviously knew she was in training and smiled politely, delivering a fresh straw.
Before we finished lunch, John geared up for his worm lab exercise. He began the process of pushing the wrapper down the straw. We discussed various methods of condensing the paper and I demonstrated the most effective procedure. John practiced and achieved maximum skrunch. He then removed the wrapper, paused for the drumroll, and allowed Dane to begin applying fluid one drop at a time. While we were waiting for Dane, who seemed to have difficulty getting anything in his straw, the waitress wandered over. We encouraged her to watch John's final exam.
As Dane dropped fruit punch slowly, the paper began to move. Our waitress gasped. John smiled.
It's a tough life training a new waitress, but somebody's got to do it. Danyah, wherever you are, we miss you but we're doing our best to put a happy face on lunch and bear up under the burden.
Friday, August 05, 2005
Musically-savvy-challenged
We were coming home yesterday from getting my allergy shots (and seeing our wonderful friend, Lydia, who works at the Allergist's office - hey, Lyd!!) and I had the Christian station on the radio. We have three choices for music in the van: Deanna singing Phantom of the Opera, the Christian station, or the "Dinosaur Jones" tape. Since Deanna's gone (coming home tomorrow, though - yay!) and I'm Dinosaur Jones'd out, I opted for the Christian station. Unlike my friend, Rachel, who has boys the same ages as all my children and whose sons beg to listen to The Beattles, we're a little musically-savvy-challenged, if you couldn't already tell by our three music choices. But Rachel's father, the grandfather of these wonderful boys, now a spirit-filled Christian and Educator, was once a studio drummer who played with some of the hottest rock bands of his time. My parents, by contrast, weren't entirely sure how to spell "rock music" and listening to it was out-of-the-question (although I still managed to memorize "Knock Three Times on the Ceiling if you Want Me" - am I dating myself?). So, when I feel the need to rock, we put on "Dinosaur Jones, Dinosaur Jones, prehistoric dinosaur lives in his home. Believe me, it's true, I wouldn't lie to you ... bum, bum, bum, bum, bum (we're seriously rockin' now!!!) ... they call him Dinosaur Jones."
Ah, but I digress. We're coming home, listening to the Christian radio station and a song is playing, the chorus of which says something like, "Following you, following you, my Lord ..." We pull into the driveway and I'm unbuckling Daelyn's car seat when he says, "I don't like that song that was just playing."
Me: "Why not, son? It's a beautiful song."
Daelyn: "I don't want to swallow Jesus."
Me (laughing): "Son, the song doesn't say swallowing Jesus. It says 'following Jesus'."
Daelyn: "Oh." Looking thoughtful for a moment. "Following Jesus where?"
That is the question, isn't it? My answer took a little time, but after pondering, I quietly answered, "Wherever He wants to lead us, son."
Lord, give me a heart to follow you wherever you lead without questioning the direction. And pour out such a poor sense of direction on my children that they have to follow you unquestioningly.
Ah, but I digress. We're coming home, listening to the Christian radio station and a song is playing, the chorus of which says something like, "Following you, following you, my Lord ..." We pull into the driveway and I'm unbuckling Daelyn's car seat when he says, "I don't like that song that was just playing."
Me: "Why not, son? It's a beautiful song."
Daelyn: "I don't want to swallow Jesus."
Me (laughing): "Son, the song doesn't say swallowing Jesus. It says 'following Jesus'."
Daelyn: "Oh." Looking thoughtful for a moment. "Following Jesus where?"
That is the question, isn't it? My answer took a little time, but after pondering, I quietly answered, "Wherever He wants to lead us, son."
Lord, give me a heart to follow you wherever you lead without questioning the direction. And pour out such a poor sense of direction on my children that they have to follow you unquestioningly.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Define Baby
A few days ago the boys hatched a plan to irritate me using one of my pet peeves - baby-talk. I absolutely hate baby-talk. I never even used it when my children were newborns. I have always talked to them more or less as adults and expected that, in time, they would understand what I was saying. My mother used to say when Deanna was two that she talked like a University Professor. All that adult talk paid off.
And baby-talk can become a habit so quickly. Only a few sentences and, it being so cutesy and all, before you know it, you're crooning like a half-looped great-grandmother.
I immediately responded with my "That will stop this very minute" speech. Dane poked out his bottom lip (which is a sure sign that at least he heard me, something that runs in very short measure around our house), slumped his shoulders, and said okay. Daelyn, on the other hand, just sat looking at me with that seeing right through you stare. A few minutes later, I heard Daelyn used a high-pitched squeeky baby voice again.
"Son," I said, rather harshly, "I told you to stop talking like a baby. I'm not going to tell you again."
"But, Mama," he responded, again giving that sizing-me-up look, "I AM a baby!"
And baby-talk can become a habit so quickly. Only a few sentences and, it being so cutesy and all, before you know it, you're crooning like a half-looped great-grandmother.
I immediately responded with my "That will stop this very minute" speech. Dane poked out his bottom lip (which is a sure sign that at least he heard me, something that runs in very short measure around our house), slumped his shoulders, and said okay. Daelyn, on the other hand, just sat looking at me with that seeing right through you stare. A few minutes later, I heard Daelyn used a high-pitched squeeky baby voice again.
"Son," I said, rather harshly, "I told you to stop talking like a baby. I'm not going to tell you again."
"But, Mama," he responded, again giving that sizing-me-up look, "I AM a baby!"
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Hooray!!!
Smooth, shiny bodies...huge smiles...infectious laughter...fond looks towards mom...big splashes...happy boys!!!
It didn't rain - hooray!
It didn't rain - hooray!
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Spotted furniture
We're having a meeting at our house tonight (possibly), so I have to furiously clean. I tried yesterday, but I had a terrible headache yet again. I don't know how three small children can leave such s swath of destruction in their paths. I did get the kitchen almost done yesterday, at least all the toys have been removed and you can walk across the floor without tripping. And I started on the dining room, which is shaping up. But the den is littered with dust, small pieces of plastic and crayon paper, as well as mashed popcorn kernels. Since this is the room we use the most, it always gets the dirtiest the fastest.
The living room is another matter altogether. Years ago, when we only had two children, I bought a set of natural pine bunkbeds. When Daelyn came along, we were very thankful to have them. But I've always been frustrated with the cheap, pressed board dressers we use for them. For two years now I've been looking for a nice solid wood dresser to match the bunkbeds. I finally found one at a U-Finish-It store and, after saving my little pennies (very little) for almost a year, I purchased a chest of drawers. It's now in the living room in pieces with a coat of natural finish and the first coat of polyurethane. Last night, I decided to attack the second coat so I could get it out of the living room and into the boy's bedroom before the meeting tonight (we might need the use of the living room), and discovered white spots ALL over the drawers and dresser. Some pieces were worse than others, but there weren't any that escaped the white spots. I have no idea what caused them, but I spent the better part of last night trying to sand them out, unsuccessfully, I might add. I did get a few drawers sanded and the second coat on them, but I still have two in very bad shape left and the sides of the dressers. And, because of the amount of sanding I did, they each probably need a third coat. Very little CLEANING got done.
So I still have all the cleaning to do as well as the dresser to finish and remove from the living room. And here I sit, typing.
Pray for nice weather. My one hope is that it doesn't rain and we'll have a pool party at a friend's house instead of the rain plan, which is my house. If it does rain, I guess my friends are just going to have to understand that I'm not perfect and neither is my home.
Regardless of what happens tonight, my in-laws will be here this weekend, bringing Deanna home, and I simply have run out of excuses for why my house is always messy. I know my mother-in-law doesn't inspect, nor does she expect, but for years when they visited, the house was messy because I was getting married, had just had a baby, or was pregnant with a very difficult pregnancy. All of those reasons were good and valid (even I can see that), but I am now solidly married and will never again be pregnant. Excuses (or at least good ones) are running horribly thin. My house needs to be clean for a change. So, the boys need to keep themselves occupied while I hunker-down. If it's not ready for tonight, perhaps it will be for Grandma and Grandpa's arrival.
Here's hoping!!
The living room is another matter altogether. Years ago, when we only had two children, I bought a set of natural pine bunkbeds. When Daelyn came along, we were very thankful to have them. But I've always been frustrated with the cheap, pressed board dressers we use for them. For two years now I've been looking for a nice solid wood dresser to match the bunkbeds. I finally found one at a U-Finish-It store and, after saving my little pennies (very little) for almost a year, I purchased a chest of drawers. It's now in the living room in pieces with a coat of natural finish and the first coat of polyurethane. Last night, I decided to attack the second coat so I could get it out of the living room and into the boy's bedroom before the meeting tonight (we might need the use of the living room), and discovered white spots ALL over the drawers and dresser. Some pieces were worse than others, but there weren't any that escaped the white spots. I have no idea what caused them, but I spent the better part of last night trying to sand them out, unsuccessfully, I might add. I did get a few drawers sanded and the second coat on them, but I still have two in very bad shape left and the sides of the dressers. And, because of the amount of sanding I did, they each probably need a third coat. Very little CLEANING got done.
So I still have all the cleaning to do as well as the dresser to finish and remove from the living room. And here I sit, typing.
Pray for nice weather. My one hope is that it doesn't rain and we'll have a pool party at a friend's house instead of the rain plan, which is my house. If it does rain, I guess my friends are just going to have to understand that I'm not perfect and neither is my home.
Regardless of what happens tonight, my in-laws will be here this weekend, bringing Deanna home, and I simply have run out of excuses for why my house is always messy. I know my mother-in-law doesn't inspect, nor does she expect, but for years when they visited, the house was messy because I was getting married, had just had a baby, or was pregnant with a very difficult pregnancy. All of those reasons were good and valid (even I can see that), but I am now solidly married and will never again be pregnant. Excuses (or at least good ones) are running horribly thin. My house needs to be clean for a change. So, the boys need to keep themselves occupied while I hunker-down. If it's not ready for tonight, perhaps it will be for Grandma and Grandpa's arrival.
Here's hoping!!
Monday, August 01, 2005
"Speak less, listen more"
I'm a lecturer - it's true, I've become my mother, at least in this small way. It's a shame I couldn't become like her in other ways.
The other night, I was putting the boys to bed and discovered green magic marker all over the bunkbead ladder. After sorting through several fibs, I got to the bottom of it, but instead of just disciplining the perpetrator, I began lecturing.
I couldn't help myself. Perhaps it's my natural tendency towards talking or my desire to explain things to my children, but I seem unable to keep it in check. I remember my nephews reaching a point where, if my sister tried to discuss anything with them, they immediately fussed at her to stop lecturing them. I don't want my children to reach this point of frustration.
So, how do I stop lecturing and start responding less verbally and with more action? Lately, I've been praying to draw nearer to the Lord. Several weeks ago an old and dear friend of mine, a very godly man who is with the Lord now (Dale Clark, for those of you who know him) appeared to me in a dream and told me simply "speak less and listen more".
I think this might be the key, not only for my lecturing habit but also for every other area of my life. There are probably lots of us out there who can benefit from this piece of sage advice.
But how do I talk less? That I don't know - except for God's mercy. I guess I just need to pray more and harder, and rely on that mercy we've all been promised - showers of it.
The other night, I was putting the boys to bed and discovered green magic marker all over the bunkbead ladder. After sorting through several fibs, I got to the bottom of it, but instead of just disciplining the perpetrator, I began lecturing.
I couldn't help myself. Perhaps it's my natural tendency towards talking or my desire to explain things to my children, but I seem unable to keep it in check. I remember my nephews reaching a point where, if my sister tried to discuss anything with them, they immediately fussed at her to stop lecturing them. I don't want my children to reach this point of frustration.
So, how do I stop lecturing and start responding less verbally and with more action? Lately, I've been praying to draw nearer to the Lord. Several weeks ago an old and dear friend of mine, a very godly man who is with the Lord now (Dale Clark, for those of you who know him) appeared to me in a dream and told me simply "speak less and listen more".
I think this might be the key, not only for my lecturing habit but also for every other area of my life. There are probably lots of us out there who can benefit from this piece of sage advice.
But how do I talk less? That I don't know - except for God's mercy. I guess I just need to pray more and harder, and rely on that mercy we've all been promised - showers of it.
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