The Simple Things in Life

The children got their Report Cards last week - all E's, yet again.

It's not that I'm not proud - of COURSE I'm proud, how could I be anything but - it's just that, after a while, it loses some of its glitz. What do you do for the children to encourage them when this seems to be par for the course. I decided an ice cream cone would make them feel special without going overboard.

With Lent starting tomorrow, I decided today was the day. I dropped off the other children from my car pool and took my three to Dairy Queen for a cone. They opted for eating inside.

Ah - the small things in life. A creamy, sweet, ice cold cone to enjoy with three of my favorite people in the world. It hit the spot, for them as well as me.

Now, it's back to the grindstone. We've got to study 100 spelling words for Deanna's Unit Test tomorrow so she can continue to make E's.

Laundry piled to the Ceiling

The two chores that frustrate me the most are doing laundry and unloading the dishwasher. These two just seem to be a never-ending battle. The laundry is worse for me than the dishwasher, but they both are jobs that I tend to put off.

I do laundry on Mondays and Thursdays - two days out of my week taken up with standing in the laundry room, folding, hanging up, or tossing (either in the washer or dryer).

Sometimes, I'll let the laundry slide a little and won't get it finished (one or two loads left on the floor) until the next laundry day. But, with this new chore schedule, the children have to take their clean clothes out of the laundry room on Monday and Thursday afternoons and put them away so, if they're not done, they can't complete their chores.

And, it's in MY best interest to have it done, so I have help putting away all the clothes. It's amazing how many dirty clothes a family of five can generate.

When I was single, I'd do one load of laundry each weekend, maybe two, and iron all my suits, skirts, and blouses on Sunday night for the following work week. That seems like such a distant memory. It was wonderful to be able to do laundry whenever it seemed like I was getting low on something and it not be a big deal.

I always cook a big meal for Monday night. We don't have any leftovers, usually, coming off the weekend, and I like to start the week off with a bang, instead of with corndogs or hotdogs, our usual fill-in or "Mommy's been too busy to cook today" meal. Additionally, there's always a ton of housecleaning to be done after the weekend.

For example, I got up this morning with 7 loads of clothes to wash, one load of towels, dinner to make, the dining room to clean since we have a meeting here Wednesday afternoon, the living room to dust, mop, and straighten, the kitchen counters to clean and disinfect and the kitchen floor to mop, the 1/2 bath floor needs scrubbing with Clorox, as does the floor in the children's bathroom. Then I've got the Den floor to vacuum and neaten, the hallways to dust and (deep sigh), Don asked me to run to the Boy Scout office and grocery store for him as well as call the children's Allergist with a question.

I'm always hopeful upon waking, anticipating all I can get done in one day, but this is a little much, interspersed with feeding the children breakfast, going over homework, getting them out the door and to school, making Daelyn's lunch and laying down with him for his nap until he's soundly asleep and I can sneak out, and it's already time for the other two to be home from school.

Sigh (yet again). It looks like I'll be doing well to finish the laundry and, maybe, do the dining room and living room. But dinner's in the crockpot and smells wonderful and I have great hope for tomorrow.

I have to remember that my situation isn't as bad as some. I only have 3 children and they're small. Once, when my sister's washing machine was on the blink, she did laundry over here. Her children are BIG (as are she and her husband) and she could only fit about 4 pairs of blue jeans in a full load. Three days worth of laundry from her house was about 8 loads of wash.

Despite my frustration, I have to keep in mind that I'm happy with my life, content with the choices Don and I have made. I have to say, I'd still rather be doing laundry in my own home with the baby asleep across the hall than working for somebody else with my baby in day care.

There's always a plus side. The trick is remembering it when you can't see over the top of the laundry pile.

Chore-pathy

We're at the end of our fourth week using the Chore Chart and Virtual Allowance. Deanna's flourishing. She loves the order, the organization, and always having a clean room. It only takes 10 minutes each morning consistently and her room is neat for the first time ever. She also feels like she has more free time because her chore and homework time is so scheduled. There's no time wasted. Time for a snack and visiting with Mom is scheduled in, but she also has a quitting time for homework so, even if she's not completely done, she always gets playtime. She's carrying her virtual allowance forward so she can get her $50.00 matched by Don and I to put in her savings account.

Dane is another matter. He's sluggish, can't seem to finish anything on his morning schedule on time, and hasn't done any of his evening chores this week. I finally sat down with him yesterday and talked with him about the problem. He claims that he can't hack it because there are times next to everything and he doesn't have a clock in his room. I told him not to worry about the times - just focus on moving down the list. When everything's done, we'll look at the time and see how he's doing. The truth is, I've padded lots of extra time into his schedule, so he can easily get everything done in the morning, even with a few distractions. But he needs to work down the list, not jump out of bed, dress, and take off into the Toy Room to play. I asked him if he thought it might help for me to redo his list without times. "Yeah," he responded. "That would work. I wouldn't worry about the time and be able to work."

It's worth a try, although I really think the problem is that he's just not interested. I'm going to do his morning schedule sans the times and we'll see if there's any improvement. But, I fear, I'm going to have to teach the child discipline before we'll have any success.

Daelyn's Prayer

Daelyn has lots of affectionate terms for me. I always thought "Mommy" was an affectionate term, but he thinks he needs something else. For a long time, he called me "Cuppie" (don't know what this means - just his little sweetness) but, now, has moved on to "Scruffie". I think I prefer Cuppie.

Sometimes, he just calls me "his little Mommy", which I find hilarious. Little, I am not and, especially in comparison to his size, but that's HIS term of affection and I shouldn't dissect it.

I woke up this morning with a headache. I took two extra-strength Tylenol while Don walked the kids to school. After he got home, we were sitting in the Den talking about our schedules for the day and I told him about my headache. Daelyn, jumping from piece of furniture to piece of furniture (imitating SpiderMan) overheard mine and Don's conversation and hollered, "I'll pray for you, Mommy."

His prayer went something like this: "Lord Jesus, bless my little Cuppie Mommy. Take away her headache and don't let her get any rotovirus or asthma or the virus like I had. Help my little sweet Mommy to not die and to feel better..."

I quickly jumped in with an "Amen". The whole prayer was very sweet, although he mentioned every possible ailment he was aware of and everything was done in slow motion so this brief little prayer took about 5 minutes while he pondered each word carefully after he finished the one before.

My sweet baby. SpiderMan one moment, Billy Graham the next.

Frustration

This morning, Deanna was crying in the Boy's Room. I went in to see what was wrong and she said that Daelyn had hit her in the stomach hard and her chest hurt, she was having trouble breathing.

Sometimes, I feel like I have no answers or parenting ability. I go crazy trying to correct everything that happens. Daelyn is an active, aggressive, typical 3-yr. old boy. He's not MORE aggressive than any other. He's not MORE active than any other. He's very typical. As a matter of fact, from what I've seen when we spend time with his friends, he's probably a little less aggressive and active than most of them.

But there's always something: "Daelyn, get you shoes off the furniture." "Daelyn, don't climb on the back of the couch." "Son, don't be so rough with your brother." "Don't hit." "I'm going to have to spank you if you hit one more time." "Don't run in the house - you'll fall and get hurt." "Don't sit on the kitchen table." "Son, you're going to fall if you climb up on that stool."

Literally, at least once a minute, I'm addressing something with him. And he's a good child. My friend, Rachel, talks about not micro-managing. I'm definately a micro-manager. But these formative years are so-o-o-o-o-o important in establishing order in a child's life. And I want him to begin to understand that there are consequences to his choices - you could get hurt, you could get a spanking, you could break the furniture, you could hurt one of your siblings that you love.

Even if I choose to let some things slide, what about this hitting and hurting his siblings. I CANNOT put up with that - it's simply not an option to allow my children to be violent to each other. The home MUST be a place of solace and protection, where a child feels safe, not lives in fear of their sibling hurting them and Mom doing nothing or only giving a slap on the wrist that's forgotten before it's finished.

Deanna needed me to intervene on her behalf today. I walked into the room after the incident, Daelyn and Deanna were both crying, she was supposed to have been in her room cleaning it, I was tired and had just woken up and couldn't think real clearly, and it was hard to figure out who was REALLY at fault. Daelyn is always at fault, but there are times when he's provoked or his siblings will suggest playing a certain game, and then want him disciplined when they get hurt playing the very thing that was their idea.

So I sit here today, frustrated. I fear I've failed my daughter. And I might have failed Daelyn, as well, by allowing him to hurt his sibling with no repercussions. The playing field is too crowded for me right now and there are too many things to consider, not to mention my emotions in the midst of this. I want to be a good parent, but at times like this, I have no idea what that means.

Lord, give me the grace today to see your Will in every situation. Give me eyes that see clearly, vision that's not blurred. Help me to be YOU to my children, teaching and training with my ultimate goal of their eternal life with you always in sight. Help me to make good choices and good decisions. Help my children to learn quickly, to not be sluggish in grasping the REALLY important things in this life, like loving you, themselves, and each other. And most of all, bring your peace to our home. Amen.

Puny

When I went to tuck the kids in last night, Dane wasn't in his bed. I called for him and followed his voice into my bedroom. He was curled up on Don's side of the bed with a throw-up bucket.

"What's wrong, honey?" - a rhetorical question. It was actually pretty obvious what was wrong. That's me. I'm a master at picking up on subtleties.

"Daddy said I could get in your bed. I feel puny."

Puny. A great word that encompasses just about everything. Have a headache? "I feel puny." Have a stomach ache? "I feel puny." Crampy? "Puny." Legs hurt? "Just a little puny today, thank you."

I snuggled Dane for a few minutes, kissed him goodnight, tucked him into our bed, and went back to tuck Sissy in. While I was with Deanna, visiting a little before slumber, Daelyn came running into the room and climbed up on her bed.

"I'm tucking Sissy in now, Son, I'll be with you in a minute. Go get in bed."

After a few threats, he screamed a little and headed into his bedroom. When I was done with Deanna, I headed into his room and prayed over him, carefully tucking him in and covering him with his special blanket that Grandma gave him. I made sure he knew that if he got out of bed, he'd get a spanking, kissed him, and headed into the Den to talk with Don.

While we were sitting, discussing the day, Daelyn showed up.

"What are you doing out of bed?" I asked, knowing full well that the answer will range from "I had a nightmare" (during the whole 5 minutes he's been in bed) to "I have to go to the bathroom".

Daelyn looked unusually dejected.

"What, Daelyn? What is it, honey?"

"I can't sleep without Daney in the room. I miss my Puny brother."

Competitiveness

Deanna got a Dance Mat for her birthday in October. Then, she got a different kind from her Aunt for Christmas. She loves them, but they occupy the TV and cover almost the entire floor of the Den. Nobody can do anything in the Den while the Dance Mats are in use.

Since the Olympics started, we've done very little on the Dance Mat. It's been put away so we can enjoy the Games in the evening. Yesterday afternoon, Daelyn begged to do some dancing. It's been rainy and cold and it seems he understands the importance of working off some of his energy in a constructive fashion inside. I was thrilled with the idea - much better than hitting me over the head with a light sabre or poking Dane with a wooden sword, or even running, shrieking through the house. So, we obtained Sissy's permission and plugged it in.

Daelyn has no concept of watching the arrows as they move up the grid and stepping on the correct arrow on the Mat at the appropriate time. He just jumps like a wild person all over it. Great exercise, terrible score.

Yesterday, he began his "dance", bouncing like a ping-pong ball in play. Deanna came in from the kitchen and sat on the loveseat to watch. Dane shouted instructions to deaf ears, then decided he needed to show Daelyn how it was done. He demonstrated on the Mat for a while, then got frustrated when Daelyn did his own thing, and decided he needed to teach pinball instead. After a while of being ignored, he gave up and went to do his homework.

Deanna sat quietly watching, until Daelyn, with all his crazy jumping around, managed a pretty high score on one of the dances. Deanna couldn't help herself. That competitiveness of hers got the better of her. Within minutes, she was on her feet (both, including the broken one) jumping around on the Dance Mat.

Don and I both hollered to her to stop. She pretended not to hear over the noise of the music. When the song finally ended, I said, "Deanna, what are you doing. Your foot's broken. You have NO BUSINESS on that Dance Mat."

"I'm being careful, Mom, and I'm not using my broken foot." Yeah!! Sure!! I knew what was happening here. Deanna couldn't stand that Daelyn's spastic movements had claimed a good score, and she just had to beat it, even with a broken foot.

Although I knew she would suffer for it later, there was no stopping her. We've fought the battle of competitiveness before and I choose these battles very carefully. I could have threatened her, the only thing that might have succeeded, but it just didn't make sense to me. She would suffer the consequences of her actions. So I let her dance.

About five minutes later, totally exhausted,she declared, "Okay, Mom. I'm done now." I glanced up to see her walking down the hallway to the kitchen.

Over her shoulder, she called back to me, "Oh, by the way, check out that score. And I did it with a broken foot."

No Need for a Neighborhood Watch

My kitchen table sits on the back corner of the house, surrounded on two sides by ceiling to floor windows. From there, you can see the backyard as far up as my parent's house (5 houses up the street), across the street since we're the first house up from the corner of a side street (there are 7 houses in view from that angle), and up towards the front of the house and across the street on that side. All told, you can see about 13 houses and many backyards from the vantage point of our kitchen table, at which we spend many hours.

Daelyn has become known as the neighborhood watch. He announces any traffic in or out of any of the yards or homes. He sees every stray pet within 2 blocks and tracks their movements. He can tell you who's home, whose cars haven't moved in a while, and who's visiting whom in the immediate vicinity. It can be a little scary.

Over Christmas, our neighbors to the corner called to say they were going out of town. They wanted Daelyn to know so he wouldn't worry about their car being gone and would watch over their property. This week, that same neighbor called. They were concerned because the vehicle belonging to the people across the street from them had not moved in several days. They thought perhaps the owner was sick and called to check on that family.

At first, I was a little surprised that they called me. I wasn't quite sure why they didn't call the couple's daughter, who lives next door to the house in question. It finally occurred to me that they figured Daelyn would have the scoop. After all, the car hadn't moved in several days. Daelyn was bound to have noticed and quizzed me, resulting in my checking on this couple myself.

I guess he's just been busy riding his bike and is falling down on the job. I'll have to warn him he needs to tighten up. His security reputation is at risk.

The Lame Man Healed

The Sermon at Church today was based on the Scripture where the paralyzed man is lowered by his friends through the roof of the house Jesus is visiting in the hopes that he will be healed. Our Pastor explained that people with a serious ailment such as this were considered little better than lepers. They were ritualistically unclean and it was believed that they were in this condition due to great sin. To come in contact with someone in this condition meant that you were also considered unclean until you could go through the process of ritualistic cleansing.

Our Pastor focused on the love these people must have had for their friend to be willing to not only suffer impurity but to go to such lengths in faith to have their friend healed. He said that these people who tore away at the roof and lowered their friend were the only people present who were there for someone other than themselves. Everyone else present had selfish motives. These people alone came in selflessness. This Sermon was a perfect lead-in to our Lenten Program.

Next week, all Church families will be given a booklet which contains a list of prayer requests and a whole section of service/ministry needs. Every family is being asked to pray for the requests daily during Lent (not necessarily EVERY request every day - possibly a chunk each day, divided throughout the week) and to pick a service or ministry to reach out to each week. Today, our Minister stressed that no one is going to follow around behind us to make sure every family reaches out weekly to meet some need, but he believes we will really begin to embrace Lent if we take the time to enter into this Program.

But back to our scripture from today. Jesus says to the paralyzed man, "Your sins are forgiven." Interesting choice of words. Does this fuel the belief amongst the Jews that this man's paralysis was a result of sin. Why would Jesus choose to heal him using those words? Why not say, "Be healed?" WAS the man's paralysis a result of sin in his life? Certainly, we all need forgiveness of our sins, but those are the specific words that bring healing. Obviously, forgiveness brings each of us healing. Is that what Jesus was trying to teach us from this passage?

So much packed into such a little story. Firstly, we have the desire of this man and the faith and hope that Jesus can and will heal him if he can but reach Him. Secondly, the faith and love of his friends that is so sacrificial, concerned not for themselves or the shunning that may be the result of their actions. They are fully committed to doing whatever is necessary to bring their friend to Jesus - even tearing off the roof by hand. Thirdly, we have the disciples who have not, themselves, attempted to bring the lame and infirm to Jesus. They're simply spectators as the mob crowds Jesus, all wanting something. And, fourthly, is our precious Lord, loving all, withholding nothing, reaching out His healing hand to all that have the faith to ask.

Which of these am I? Can I honestly say that I have the faith of the paralyzed man or the love and commitment of his friends? Or am I just a Disciple, standing on the sidelines, gaping in astonishment when Jesus brings healing. Of course, at times I'm all of these. But, which do I resemble most often?

Perhaps the answers will become clearer to me this Lent.

The Challenge of Answering

On Thursday, when all the kids were home from school sick, I was sitting at the computer working on something while the children watched a movie. On Wednesday afternoon, I made a mad dash to the library and checked out 3 movies, suspecting we may have a problem on Thursday. And boy was I thankful I had.

So, I'm on the computer, Deanna's laid out on the loveseat with her foot elevated, Daelyn's sitting with her, and Dane's plopped on the floor, all entranced with some movie when the phone rings.

"Deanna, can you get it, please," I ask, hard at work and not willing to be disturbed just yet.

The phone rings again. Then again. Finally, Daelyn snatches it from the recharger.

"Shesus wuvs hue," he says, undistinquishable to anyone except family members as "Jesus loves you", our family phone greeting. There's a pause and then he says, "No, I'm sorry. She's in the bathtub."

"GIVE ME the PHONE!!" I shout and reach quickly, trying to snatch it out of his hand. But he's quicker than me and dodges quite adeptly, giggling.

"Son, give me the phone this minute!!! Who's on it?" I ask, trying to pressure him into compliance. When I finally manage to retrieve it, the caller turns out to be my sister.

"Just how many hours a day do you spend in the tub?" she asks.

I don't know what's wrong with my children. When we were little, we had huge pile-ups in front of the phone anytime it rang. Everyone ran for it at the same time, considering it an honor to be the winner who claimed the prize of announcing, "Hello. Hunt's residence." At my house, the phone rings, and I'm the only one running. I've had to jump out of the tub, naked as a jaybird, and sprint for the phone because I'm expecting an important call only to discover the entire remainder of the family sitting within arm's reach. My children have no desire whatsoever to answer the phone. And the truth is, it's scary when they do. Deanna takes messages incorrectly, Daelyn always guesses as to who the caller is and reports the wrong person to me, Dane answers and then gets distracted and forgets to pass the phone along and the caller sits and listens to cartoons while Dane holds the phone in his hand, waiting for commercials to deliver it.

The other day, Deanna and Daelyn were both sitting on the loveseat - RIGHT NEXT TO THE PHONE - when it rang. I yelled from the other room for someone please to answer it. It rang 4 times and then clicked over to the answering machine. I came tearing into the Den from the laundry room as Deanna was just reaching for it - about 30 seconds into the answering machine greeting.

"There's no one there, Mama," she claimed, accusingly - as if I had some maniacal plan to force her to answer the phone when no one had really called.

"That's because they got the answering machine and hung up, Deanna," I screeched. "If you answered it before the answering machine picked up, you may have more luck."

But my rants are wasted. They just don't care. They turned out to be more like Don than me. He says I'm a slave to the phone. He's so extremely the opposite that having a phone in the home is somewhat of an inconvenience for him.

I even changed the greeting on our answering machine once to say, "We're probably home and just haven't picked up the phone yet, so leave a message and we'll call you RIGHT BACK." People find this so hard to believe, they hang up without leaving a message, assuming anyone sitting right next to the phone would answer. And for some reason, our Caller ID never seems to pick up these calls.

Another time this week, Daelyn tried answering but knocked the phone off the back of the table. Then he and Dane began the process of trying to reach it. They stretched from the loveseat, then they decided they needed to move the table out of the way. About 5 minutes later, they retrieved the phone.

"Give it to me!" I yelled, "there might still be someone on it."

Dane: "Oh, Mama, of course nobody's on it. It's been too long..."

I snatched it from him anyway, and as it approached my ear, I heard laughing.

"Hello?? Hello," I yelled into it. "Is anyone there?"

My sister's voice (yes, the same one from the bathtub conversation), "What's wrong with you people?"

So, if you call our house and don't get an answer, hang on and be patient. We'll get around to answering eventually.

A Kiss Well-Planted

There is a man who goes to Church with us that can only be described as a curmudgeon. He's older - retired a few years ago - and never married. He's a little chubby, wears his pants below his belly, and always has about 3 days growth on his face. His hair is always too long, he's partially deaf, and he refuses to speak to women.

For 11 years now, I've been going to church with him, but he's very careful to greet Don and ignore me. He's not an unkind person, just a curmudgeon. And it's not only me that feels that way. Recently, an older woman from Church used the same word to describe him.

Several months ago, after Church one Sunday, I was standing at the coffee service area getting myself a cup. I had noticed that we were out of sugar packets and planned on getting some more out of the cabinet after I finished putting cream in my cup. Frank walked up on my left side and began to prepare a cup for himself. He glanced around and commented, to no one in particular, "I need some sugar."

I turned briskly, planted a kiss on his cheek, and went back to stirring my coffee. He began waving his arms, huffing and sputtering, until I was a little afraid he was having a heart attack.

"Why did you do that?" he blurted out. I responded simply, "You said you needed some sugar."

Since that day, whenever I see Frank, I hug him and give him a kiss on the cheek. He still had never spoken to me, in greeting or in conversation, nor used my name - until 3 weeks ago.

Church and Sunday School were both over. We had finished visiting and Don and the children had already headed out the door. I was walking across the fellowship hall when I heart Frank yell, "Bye, Patti." I stopped, turned around, noting that he had not only spoken but also used my name. Quickly, I realized that I had neglected his hug and kiss. I walked over to him, leaned down, and said, "Sorry, Frank. I almost missed your kiss today."

He hung his head, never making eye-contact with me, and muttered softly, "I wait for that all week long."

I said, "And I'm awfully glad I can give it," and left.

I've thought alot about that incident lately. Who knows what happened in that man's past to make him so leary of women. It could have been anything from a cruel or abandoning mother to a crushing romance gone wrong. Whatever it is, he feels compelled to not reach out to women. He's not unkind, just dismissive. However, he desperately needs someone to break through his resistance and LOVE HIM. Just like every other human being on the face of the earth, he needs love - accepting, non-critical, consistent love. Who would have ever thought that what began as a little joke would become so important to this isolated, lonely man.

The Lord uses lots of imperfect intentions on our part to accomplish His work. I would be thrilled if I could say that my plan all along was to love Frank. The truth is far from that. I had no intention at all. The thought just struck me at the time that kissing him would be funny. It wasn't disrespect, just impishness on my part. Perhaps, it was even a prompting from the Holy Spirit. In any case, in retrospect, I DO believe that it accomplished the Lord's purpose and, by following through and continuing this practice, have brought a lot of Jesus to this fella.

Just think what could be accomplished with a little forethought, prayer, and purposefully good intentions. I've got way more hugs and I'm sure lots of you do, also, to share with lonely older folks that need them.

My prayer today is that the Lord will use me to reach out to those that the world has forgotten and make sure they don't feel dismissed - not by Him, nor by me.

Sickies on the Home Front

I have three sick children home today. Daelyn complained all day yesterday of his stomach bothering him and his throat hurting. Yesterday afternoon, he said he thought he was going to throw up and that his head was hurting and, sure enough, he started throwing up in the afternoon and, by last night, was running a fever. He was up at 4:30 this morning throwing up, but he did manage to get some good sleep.

Dane came and crawled in bed with me this morning, complaining of his stomach, head and throat. Why not, I thought. Everybody else is suffering from the same thing. So I kept him home from school.

Deanna stayed home yesterday and doesn't seem to be any better, so I kept her home again today. She's nauseated, doesn't want to eat, her tonsils are swollen, and she has a headache. I'm sure it's viral, but she's miserable. If she's not feeling better soon, I'm afraid I'll have to take her in for a strept test. At least she's not throwing up.

For some reason, the boys can throw up quite aptly in a bucket, but Deanna says, "I'm not going to throw up, I'm not going to throw up, I'm not going to throw up" right until she does, so she never prepares. I guess she thinks that, by denying it vehemently, she can keep it from happening.

One time, she was feeling poorly when I put her to bed. During the night, she came into my bedroom to tell me she was worse. She climbed in the bed, on top of me, and sat up, straddling my belly.

"Mama," she started, "I'm not feeling so..." She never got the rest out. She threw up - all over me - in my face, my hair, all over the bed. When she finished, she was so appauled with herself, she had this pained look on her face.

"Do you think maybe next time you could do that somewhere other than in my face," I asked her, lightly. She burst out laughing, relieved that I wasn't angry with her, and then realized she wasn't finished yet and made a mad dash for our bathroom, giggling the entire way. She didn't quite make it to the commode and, when she let loose, the tile floor served as a trampoline. I was up for 2 1/2 hours disinfection the bathroom floor and walls up to about 3 ft. from the floor. Deanna had to have a bath and wash her hair, our sheets had to be changed (and Don displaced while that was happening), and I needed a bath and a good hair-washing. But it's quite a memory.

Thank goodness we didn't make any memories last night.

The Cast is a Shoe

Our Pediatrician called night before last and told me not to send Deanna to school. He was going to call the Orthopedist first thing in the morning and get Deanna in early to get her cast. He said for me to be ready to go by 9:00 a.m.

This man obviously is married. No single man would understand the need to be certain a patient was clear about what "early"meant. And only a married man would recognize the leadtime necessary to get children ready and out the door to make it to an appointment on time.

We dressed and then waited for the call. At 9:30, we finally heard from our Pediatrician's office, telling us that the Orthopedic Group could see Deanna at 11:00 - hardly "first thing". Pediatricians seem to be much more zoned in to family life than some other doctors. Dr. Hannah understood that Deanna needed to go to school (and her Valentine's Party) and was attempting to get her there as quickly as possible. This Orthopedic guy wasn't the slightest bit concerned about her party and seemed to think he had us over a barrel. He was right.

We got there at 10:45, expecting to fill out paperwork and wanting to be prompt so we could move things along and get Deanna you-know-where. If I had any idea at 8:15 that her appointment wasn't until 11:00, I would have sent her to school in the morning and picked her up in time to get to the doctor's. Third grade is tough, and even an hour missed results in huge amounts of make-up work.

Thank the Lord I had the good sense to grab a lunchbox for Daelyn on the way out the door and throw some crackers, a Twistables, a couple of Valentine cookies, a baggie of popcorn and his milk sipper in it. Deanna had her lunch in her backpack if it got too late, and it seemed a good idea to do the same for Daelyn.

So much for being early. We waited an hour and a half for our scheduled appointment (see my Pet Peeve, #5 ). I finally pulled out the kid's lunches and let them eat. When the nurse came for Deanna, we began wheeling her back in a wheelchair and the nurse turned into a Treatment Room.

"Aren't you taking her to the cast room," I asked, impatiently, trying to move this show along.

"The doctor's looking at her X-rays now. He'll be in here to talk with you in a minute."

The doctor walked (I'm using this term out of politeness - flew in like a speeding bullet would really be more accurate) through the door in a few minutes. Of course, by that time, Daelyn had managed to entirely cover the treatment table in tiny sugar cookie crumbs with red sprinkles. The doctor didn't sit down (maybe he was concerned Daelyn had left some other surprise on the rolling stool); he just stood in front of Deanna.

"What'd you do?" he asked briskly. Deanna explained. He grabbed her foot, poked a spot on the outside and said, "Is that where it hurts?"

Deanna yelped and hollered, "YES!!"

"That's because that's where the break is," he responded. IF YOU KNOW WHERE THE BREAK IS, WHY ARE YOU POKING IT, I wanted to scream at him as that protective mothering thing raised it's head.

"The nurse will be in here in a minute to put a funny shoe on it for you," he said, and walked out of the room. I stood, my mouth agape, trying to take in the 20-second diagnosis and treatment.

I sputtered. "But, but, but ... I have questions." It was too late. He was already gone. The nurse, also very brisk, put a shoe on Deanna's foot, clipped the ends of the velcro tabs, handed me a form to sign for insurance (all in about 40-seconds flat), and said, "He'll be back in a minute." Then out she went. I dampened a paper towel and began cleaning off the treatment table. Work helps me think. I glanced over at Deanna who sat, dazed.

"Mama, what does this mean?" she asked. "Are they going to put my cast on over this shoe?"

While I was carefully considering my response, the door flung open again and in breezed the doctor.

"Okay, any questions? Does she need pain medication?"

"Yeah, I have questions. You're not going to cast it? Is she supposed to walk on it? We have reservations for skiing in 10 days - can she ski?"

Deanna and I both clearly remember his responses. "Cancel the ski trip", "I'm giving her Tylenol with Codeine - don't use it if you don't need it", "I WANT her to walk on it" and "She NEEDS to go to school". He did give us a few more answers but, all-in-all, we were in the room for about 7 minutes from the moment he first tore in until we walked back out - after waiting for 1 1/2 hours.

On the way home in the van, Deanna said, "Mama, we could make a plush doll of that doctor."

"What do you mean, honey? A plush doll?"

"Well, you know how you can make plush dolls to say two different phrases? His doll would say "I WANT her to walk on it" and "She NEEDS to go to school".

I wonder if we could sell him one at our re-check in 3 weeks? Just think how effective a tool that would be. He wouldn't even need to actually come in the room. He could just lay the plush doll on the treatment table and let it do the talking for him.

At least we got a good laugh out of our 7 minute appointment.

All that and Flowers, too!!

I don't usually post twice in one day, but I thought I'd give all my readers an update.

Don arrived home from work tonight with a dozen long-stemmed white roses (OUR flower) in his arms. Nestled amongst them was a metal floral decoration - a 3-dimensional stained-glass iris with beautiful green stained-glass leaves and a stained glass 3-dimensional butterfly perched on the top.

He also had a card from the children for me for Valentine's Day. Deanna, who read my earlier Post commented simply, "Well, Mom, you got the flowers, too."

What's more, I got the MAN. Thank you, Lord.

A Valentine Story

When Don and I were courting, I was thrilled to have a Valentine, for a change. I couldn't wait to get roses delivered to my job, a sign visible not only to me, but to everyone, of his love.

The roses never came. I got a lovely card, brought over to me that night, but no roses delivered to my job. No flowers at all delivered to my job. No flowers, period. Nothing but the card on Valentine's Day.

Don had sent me a small dish garden of roses about two weeks before Valentine's Day with a note that February X (I don't remember the exact day that this arrangement was delivered) was Valentine's Day in his book. I thought it was a special expression of his love, until the actual day came and went and the shocking reality began to sink in. Those were the only Valentine's flowers I was getting.

I got up the nerve sometime later, probably after we were married, to ask him about it. He explained that the price of roses tripled a week before Valentine's Day and he thought it was price gouging and refused to pay those prices. So he had bought my roses while the prices were "still reasonable".

Needless to say, he's not the biggest romantic in the world.

Nobody at work really believed I was dating someone seriously. There had been several guys for long periods before Don, but I was never serious about any of them. We dated, they proposed or got serious, we stopped dating. When Don came along, I knew he was the one and I was committed to the relationship, but none of my work friends were convinced he wasn't going to go the way of all the others. Flowers would have gone a long ways towards convincing them of our seriousness. But there were no flowers.

Once Don and I married, I explained the importance of flowers ACTUALLY ON Valentine's Day to him. That first year of our marriage, he tried. He apparently ordered a dozen roses from the florist for me and they were scheduled to deliver them to my office, but I was newly pregnant and already having problems with my pregnancy. I left work that day before the roses arrived. The Security Officer on duty, who worked for me, sent the flowers back and told the florist to call Don. He decided to have them deliver the roses when I returned to work. I never returned. I was hospitalized and, eventually, quit work to be a stay-at-home mom. Once again, no flowers.

A couple of years ago, after watching me looking longingly at other people's Valentine's bouquets for years, Don finally broke down and showed up with a dozen long-stemmed roses that he had bought for me at the grocery store. I was thrilled. It took about 9 years, but I got roses. Not florist-delivery roses, but roses, all the same. Like I said, not a romantic.

After 5 years ago, I was fussing at Don on some occasion because he gave me a beautiful card but hadn't written my name on the envelope and hadn't signed the card. I asked him if he were saving it, in pristine condition, to either resell or to pass along to his next wife. I said something like, "The least you could do is write something meaningful in the card that you feel about me."

"Patti," Don said, "you know I'm not much of a talker and I don't really know how to tell you how I feel. So, over the years, I've worked very hard at picking out just the right card. I spend hours looking at the cards, until I find just the right one that says exactly how I feel, what I'M thinking. There's nothing left to add. The card says it all." That was quite an eye-opener to me.

Recently, I've felt a little insecure about my parenting skills. I asked Don last week if he thought I was a good mother. "Of course," he answered, his pat answer to every question I ask. I pressed further, "But do you really appreciate me? Or am I just the maid or the homework tutor?" Again, "Of course I appreciate you." It's not that he's insincere - I'm sure he means it - it's just that when the answer's always the same with the same intonation and inflection, you begin to doubt that it's sincere.

This morning, when I went into the kitchen, there was a large envelope with "Mommy" scrawled on the front. I opened it up to find a beautiful card with a satin ribbon and white lace, adorned with a picture of a vase full of red roses that read, To my Wife. I'm grateful for you."

On the inside the card said, "I may not be the best at telling you my feelings, but I notice and appreciate you, the things you do and the way you do them, all the time. I mean that. Not a day goes by that I don't look at you and think to myself, "I'm a lucky guy." Even though I may not say it, I am still grateful deep inside for all you bring to our marriage, thankful for the little nurturing touches you wrap around each day ... and glad to be married to someone so warm, so giving, so wonderful. Happy Valentine's Day." Handwritten at the bottom was the note, "I love you very much, Don."

Um, big gulp, knot in my throat. The boy's learning. The envelope addressed, the card signed. And could it respond more appropriately to the concerns I've had of late?

I don't even care if I get flowers. This card says it all.

No, sweetheart, I'm the lucky one. Happy Valentine's Day, Don. I love you.

Cast Tomorrow

Deanna broke her foot. She was hopping on it at school Friday during recess and landed on it sideways. Don and I were both home but feeling badly and we had lain down for a nap with Daelyn. The phone rang, but I ignored it, needing sleep more than chit-chat. Don left about five till three to pick the children up from school and, while he was gone, I listened to the answering machine.

Boy, was I embarrassed and upset. I left my little girl sitting there in pain with ice (all of 4 cubes, she said later) on her foot, waiting for her mommy while I was happily sleeping. She hopped up the front stairs and into the dining room, unable to put any weight on her throbbing foot.

She spent most of the weekend on the loveseat with it elevated and an ice-pack (mixed vegetables) on it. Yesterday, I insisted that she try and walk on it to see if it was just bruised and she could work out the kinks. Although it hurt, she was spurred on by the knowledge that Chuck E. Cheese awaited us today since the kids were out of school. We had planned on going early today but I was very concerned that she wouldn't be able to hop all day at Chuck E. Cheese and would have to be able to walk some to be able to go.

So, she walked, but her foot was still swollen this afternoon, and I placed a call to our Pediatrician. She was examined and sent for an X-ray and I just got the call back from the doctor. It is, in fact, broken - not the ankle, but the long bone along the side of the foot. They'll schedule her with an Orthopod in the morning to get casted.

Sitting at her table at school is the son of a Family Practice doctor. Friday, after the incident, some of her friends were waiting on her and were clustered around her trying to help. The boy commented, "I don't know what all the fuss is about. It's not like she broke it."

Deanna has every intention of telling him tomorrow, when she arrives late with her cast on her foot, that he needs a few more years of medical school.

Spoken out-of-turn

Daelyn has developed a sometimes annoying habit of picking up catch phrases from movies we watch as a family and then using them indiscriminately for the next several weeks.

It wasn't too bad when the phrase was from the family classic, "Seven Alone".

"I know there's good in you, boy, I just hope I live to see it."

Now, however, he's moved on to lines from SpiderMan which, in context, sound completely innocuous but, repeated by themselves, take on a whole different meaning.

I guess I shouldn't complain. My nephew grew up watching reruns of "The Andy Griffith Show" and can probably still recite entire episodes from memory. We got awful tired of his Barney imitations and, never, with any preamble or explanation. He'd just launch into a squeeky, slightly nasal tone and recite some goofy line.

Barney: "Nip it in the bud, I always say. Nip it, nip it, nip it."

Andy: "Barn...?"

Barney: "Nip it, Anj. Just nip it in the bud."

We always worried a little about him when he started quoting Otis, the town drunk.

My favorite episode is the one where Andy is asked, once again, to head up the fund drive for homeless boys. He finds out from Opie's teacher, whom he dates, that Opie gave the next to the smallest donation in the class. The only person who gave less than him was a homeless boy. He confronts Opie who explains that he's saving his money to buy a present for a little girl in the class that he likes, and Andy begins his lecture.

Andy: "Do you know that for every 10 boys in our county, there are 2 1/2 homeless boys?"

Opie: "Gee, Pa, I'd sure like to see that."

Andy: "See what?"

Opie: "A half a boy."

Andy: "It's not really a half a boy, son. It's a ratio."

Opie: "Horatio who?"

In the end, after disciplining Opie for hoarding his money for his little girlfriend, Andy is humiliated to find out that Opie is saving to buy this little girl a winter coat because she doesn't have one. Apparently, Opie understands the concepts Andy's trying to teach him much better than Andy.

Classics like that are hard to beat. And Daelyn never seems to memorize lines from Veggie Tales videos. Only the lines spoken by the boys from "across the tracks" in "Where the Red Fern Grows" and the lines spoken by the villain in SpiderMan.

I'm just hoping, over the next 16 days, he doesn't pick up on the Passion-phrase coined by Turino for the Winter Olympics. That one, spoken out of turn, might REALLY get us into trouble.

One Reason to do Chores

Dane, while doing his Saturday chore of a 45-minute clean-up of the Toy Room: "I better clean everything out of the doorway so we can close the door. If Daddy gets us a dog, we'll have to be able to close this door so the dog won't eat up all our toys."

It's not as if Dad's bringing home a puppy tomorrow or that the doorway of the Toy Room won't be trashed again by the time Daddy finally gets around to a puppy. But I guess it's good training and I shouldn't complain.

As long as it motivates the children to keep our home orderly, it gets a big thumbs up from me.

Ill

I've been feeling poorly all week. I woke up Monday, bounded out of bed, and began laundry. By noon, I had a headache and diarhea and was slowing down. I've grown gradually worse all week and am still fighting symptoms.

I can't seem to pull off standing in the kitchen long enough to do homework and snacks with the children as well as dinner, so we've had to "make do". We had leftovers on Monday night and I ordered out pizza on Wednesday.

Deanna, in a moment of pity, volunteered to make dinner one night. I might have taken her up on it if the menu had not been peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and popcorn.

Time to start cooking lessons.

Pet Losses

The Doughty family pet history has been a little less than perfect. As a single woman, living alone, I adopted a kitten that my sister's cat had birthed. I named him Frolic and he became quite my baby. I think I may have written about him in the past.

Frolic was extremely jealous of Don when we were courting and would walk along the back of the sofa and try and force Don away from me by throwing his entire body between us. But he loved our children and was just as much a part of our family as each human member.

A couple of years ago, we had to put Frolic to sleep. He was struggling with incontinence and severe arthritis (the first probably a result of the second) and was humiliated by his own lack of control. There were other problems, as well, and Don and I felt it was the right time. We buried Frolic in the backyard under a tree where he'll always be close to us.

The children struggled with Frolic's death. Months later, they would still cry occasionally and ask me to tell them stories about our much-loved pet. Being concerned about the impact on their emotional health, Don and I had a long talk about pets and agreed that I would look into purchasing a guinea pig for the short term with the long-term solution being a dog. But we needed to wait at least 2 years before acquiring a dog due to the ages of our children and the amount of attention required from me to perform daily duties.

I researched cost as well as lifespan of guinea pigs. I talked with the Vet about what kind of care one would need. I read a book about care of guinea pigs. We even had the children allergy tested and discussed this possible pet with their allergist. In the end, we decided we would purchase one once we returned from a 2-week vacation to California to attend my nephew's wedding.

The week after our return, Don got sick with a stomach bug and needed some quiet in the house. In an effort to give him some peace, I took the boys shopping. We strolled through the aisles of the store and then, at the boy's request, hit the Pet Store. We headed straight for the guinea pig section. We stood cooing over them and then asked to hold one. The sales person let each of the boys hold a little female and then I held her.

"Do you have a guinea pig?" she asked.

"No," I responded, "but we've decided we're going to get one. Just not today, but soon."

"Well, if you're interest," she said, "we have one that was abandoned in front of the store and needs a good home. She comes with her cage and an igloo house, an exercise ball, a water bottle and food dish, Vitamin C drops and some food and hay."

"How much would you charge for all that?" I asked, quickly calculating in my head and arriving at a value of over $200.

"She's free to a good home. We can't charge for her. She's not ours. We just want to find a family that will love her to adopt her."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. It was too good to be true. We asked to see her and instantly fell in love. There was a piece of paper taped to her cage that said, "Freda". I rolled my eyes. This was no Freda. She was far too regal for such a common name.

As we were driving home with our new baby, the name "Antoinette" hit me. Our guniea pig had a tuft of hair on the top of her head that looked very much like a pompador. The children scoffed at the name until I looked up Marie Antoinette in the Encyclopedia and showed them a picture. They laughingly agreed that what we had living with us now was certainly an Antoinette.

We loved our Antoinette, though Deanna and I both developed allergies to her. I would hold her anyway and scrub my arms afterwards, willing to suffer the sneezing fit to bestow affection on the littlest Doughty. Last June, we moved into a friend's cottage on their property for a two-week "in town" vacation. Antoinette moved in with Grandma and Grandpa, which she had done before but, before the two weeks were out, she died. We believe it was from a broken heart. She just missed us too much. She lost her will to live without her babies talking to her every day. We buried her in the backyard next to Frolic.

The children were grief-stricken. Don decided he had to do something, quick, but we couldn't figure out quite what. Then, on the 4th of July, we were at a picnic and Dane came home with a fish in a bag. The next morning, Don hit Wal-Mart around 5:00 a.m. and came home with all the necessary fish items.

Thus began a very long, painful attempt to have fish. Don bought a couple more so each of the children would have one. They promptly died. He went back to the store and brought home another one for each of the children as well as one for him. They all died. Next, I tried. They died. We were getting tired of returning little dead fish bodies in the "Product Guaranteed" bag to Wal-Mart. I tried a Pet Store. They died faster. After about 20 fish, all told, Don and I had another heart-to-heart.

"I don't think it's healthy for the children to become calloused to death," I explained. But what choice did they have, under the circumstances. Don agreed and we washed out the fishbowl for the last time. We have been a pet-less family ever since, waiting for the day we can adopt a puppy.

Two nights ago, the children finished their homework, played outside, and got all their chores done in record time. They asked if I would rent a movie for them to watch if they bathed before dinner. I agreed. As soon as Don walked through the door from work, I shot out of the house and to the video store. I picked up "Where the Red Fern Grows" and brought it home to watch with the children.

We got 2/3 of the way through before bedtime. I promised the children that they could see the rest of it after school of before bed the next day, yesterday. When I picked them up at school, Deanna announced that she had very little homework and, once it was completed, I turned the movie back on.

I sat with them while they watched the last of it. After the second dog dies, the young boy in the movie asks his mother, "Do you think there's a Heaven for animals?" His mother responds, "I'm sure there is, Billy, I'm sure there is."

Deanna, my tender-hearted girl who was afraid to watch the movie because she knew it would be sad, looked over at me with twinkling eyes.

"When we get there, there's gonna be a lot of fish." She grinned.

At least now, she can talk about it without crying. However, I noticed she didn't mention Antoinette or Frolic. Maybe she's not completely over all her pet losses just yet.

Together

I wrote yesterday about the strong family culture from which I come. Maybe it's because of this culture that I seem to be raising my children in, perhaps, a little different way. You see, I'm not interested in my children having a lot of playtime with their friends. It's more important to me that they have playtime with each other. Dane and Deanna both have all day at school to be with friends. But their siblings provide secure, unconditional love that supports and builds.

When my children get home from school at the end of a hectic day, they usually just want to "BE HOME". They want to play with their own things and their own siblings. They are, for the most part, home bodies, like their father. Don's idea of a great vacation is taking time off work to stay home. If he had it his way, he'd never leave the house, except for work. I want my children to build relationships and have friendships outside the home, but I want them, first, to have a stable foundation and be able to play with each other. Deanna has friends that aren't happy unless they have a friend over. I would love it if my children never felt the need.

Already, they ask to have friends over far less than any of the other children I know. We shoot for each of them having a friend over to play once or twice a month after school. That way, their homework and chore schedules don't get skewed and they have plenty of downtime with each other.

I hadn't realized that my children had also embraced this idea until the event I wrote about in this Post happened. It seems that, like my family when I was growing up, my children have a very real need for each other. I find this a little surprising considering the differences between my childhood and that of my children's.

I was raised in a committed Christian home. My parents loved the Lord and taught their children to love Him, as well, just like Don and me. The difference is that, while I was raised around good people (military families living overseas have their own peculiar culture), they weren't necessarily Christians raising their families with the same ideals and values as my parents. Don and I, on the other hand, have surrounded ourselves with Christian families. My children go to a Christian school where the children are all taught the same ideals and values as mine and the biggest issue is whether a Disney movie is appropriate to watch with another's children present without calling and asking first. All the parents of my children's friends are sensitive to spiritual issues and we call each other on.

Another difference is that we always lived on the economy of the country. That is, we never lived in neighborhoods or military housing. We were close to each other and played together because WE were all we had. My sisters and brother were my playmates because there were no others close by. Perhaps that's why not being surrounded by other Christians didn't impact us more - we weren't by anyone, except family. My children have an entire neighborhood full of friends with which they can play - all within 3 blocks of our home. But they seldom stray outside of our yard and, if they do, it's usually 5 houses up the street to Grandma's house.

Perhaps the major difference is that we had four girls, only separated by 6 years of age. There was always a sister around that you could interest in some activity or other. But Deanna has no sister and the boys have 2 1/2 years between them. Daelyn is only 3, but Dane is in First Grade. Somehow, though, they seem to be able to reach across age and gender barriers and love playing with each other. Sometimes, they'll all do boy-things, like play race cars or have light sabre battles. Other times, they'll all do girl things. Deanna will dress her brothers up and give them purses and they'll prance around the house in heels and have tea parties. Still others, they'll do non-gender activities like puzzles, video games, or reading. The activity seems to matter little - what matters is that they do it together.

I am so in awe of the Lord and the way He brings about His plan. Although it was the desire of my heart to have children deeply in love with Him and each other, I was clueless how to make this happen. The Lord, however, in His wisdom, knew the ticket, and gave me one of the desires of my heart.

Thank you, Lord, for children that love and appreciate each other. Thank you that they enjoy the simple life of spending time together and sharing what they have with each other. Thank you for the great joy that they bring me. And, most of all, Lord, thank you that they each feel the same and recognize in each other this need, being certain to not trample on it, but to nurture their love for each other.

Thank you for this life.

Family Culture

My family has always had a strong family culture. Perhaps this is, in part, because we were raised overseas. My father was an officer in the American Army but, because both my parents were from Canada, being in the military was their opportunity to see the world. We lived in Taiwan for 4 years and Belgium for 3. My parents always chose to live on the economy rather than in military housing on base. I'm sure there were lots of reasons for this choice, but part of it most likely was their desire to emmerse themselves in these different cultures as well as the limited size of base houses. Being a family of 7 (small in my neighborhood) made it a little difficult to fit into a typical base house.

The result of living on the economy was that we played mostly with each other. It was too far for friends to come over very often. So, playing in the streets and neighbors yards until well after dark was only a fantasy for us. And, since we didn't have American television, there was little sense in attempting to watch T.V. In Belgium, there were 1/2 hour radio programs in English that came on every weeknight, and we gathered around the radio like fallbacks to the 50's in the evening to listen for that half an hour. It was amazing, the stories that could be told with sound effects. Most people younger than 50 have never had this experience, and I'm thankful that I have.

We also read a lot. We'd sit around in the evenings, each of us with a book in hand, and read for entertainment. When a family member read a funny part, they'd yell, "Listen to this!" and everyone would lay down their books momentarily to hear this part re-read outloud. There'd be lots of, "I want to read that book next" or "What else has that guy written" or "Did you get that book from the library". Lots of "phrases" that our family uses are a result of these years and things that my siblings read aloud to us as a family.

The other thing we did quite often was go to movies as a family. On Saturday mornings, there were matinees at the base theater (which was very cheap entertainment, probably subsidized by the military) and the youngest of us would go to see these - lots of Elvis Presley, John Wayne, and Walt Disney. And, once every couple of months, our family would all attend, together, a movie. Back then, there were lots of family movies, and we enjoyed lots of them as a family. On the long drive home, we'd talk about the movie and "catch phrases" would be repeated over and over. Sometimes, we'd recall a song from the movie and sing it, different family members filling in different parts until we had the whole thing. In any case, there are phrases that we use now, as a family, that no one other than a Hunt would ever understand. Things like, "You're being a Mommy Mushroom" or "Stop making that noise with your nose...what noise? I'm just breathing...well, STOP IT!!" or "Hey, little goldfish, where are you going to?" became common around our home.

There's an old joke about a new inmate in a prison. After lights are out at night, from somewhere down the darkened hallway, a voice yells, "#69", followed by peels of laughter by all the inmates. Then, someone yells out, "#34", again, followed by laughter. This continues with yells of "72" and "48" and, finally, one voice yells out, "#22". No one laughs. The same voice yells out again, "56". Still no laughter. The new inmate, stumped by this behavior, asks his cellmate what's going on.

"Well," the cellmate explains, "we've got a jokebook in the bathroom. It's the only reading material we have. Everyone's memorized all the jokes, so we don't tell the joke anymore, we just yell the numbers. Everyone thinks about the joke and laughs."

"So why didn't they laugh at those last two?" the new guy asks.

"Oh, that?" his friend responds. "That guy never could tell a joke."

My family's sort of like this. We've shared the same jokes for so long that, now, we don't even tell the joke. We skip right to the punchline.

If you're ever around us and you hear remarks that don't make a bit of sense, just laugh along. It's probably at least as funny as #34, if you only knew what it meant.

Whining about Wine

Don and I are attempting to, periodically, have a special meal on Saturday night that is a Christian adaptation of the Jewish Sabbath Meal. It's called a Lord's Day Meal and it focuses on inviting the Lord into our home and entering into the Sabbath in peace and focused on the Lord. Two of the elements of this celebration are tearing a loaf of bread and passing it around the table with each attendee breaking off a hunk and sharing it. Another is the passing of the Sabbath cup. A blessing cup is filled with wine. Each attendee is passed the cup, has an opportunity to thank the Lord for whatever's on their heart, and takes a sip before passing the cup on.

Two weekends ago, we had a Lord's Day Meal. I filled a glass with wine left over from the ONE box I bought for Don's 40th birthday party in September. Knowing that Don wasn't going to drink the wine and we certainly wouldn't allow the children anything more than a tiny sip, when it was my turn, I took a large gulp. The level in the glass dropped dramatically.

Daelyn: "Mommy sure loves her wine."

I sure hope he doesn't say this in public, out of context. This comment could be seriously misunderstood.

Recently, I began seeing a new doctor. As he was reviewing the information sheet with me
about my medical history, he asked if I drank alcohol.

Me: "I wish!! I'd really like to."

The problem is, the sheet asks how many glasses of alcohol you consume in a week, to which I had responded "0", zero, the old nothing. It doesn't ask how many in a year, or even a month. I'm sure if I put the truth, 1/8 glass/week, they'd laugh me out of the office or think I had made some sort of mistake.

And how much wine do I consume on a Sunday from the Communion chalice? What percentage of a glass is that sip?

Someday, I'll be able to have a nice glass of wine with dinner on weekends. I'm not interested in beer or mixed drinks, but some red wine occasionally, for intestinal health and overall happiness, simply for my own pleasure, would be very nice.

I just need to make sure I don't do it in front of Daelyn. The last thing I need is my son announcing in public that his Mommy likes her wine.

That Quiet Spot in my Room

Dane's been making this very unnatural sound lately. It's an expression of frustration or dislike, as when I tell him to turn off Spiderman and go brush his teeth and get in bed. It sounds something like a "HUH", but very drawn out and in a high-pitched squeek.

I've told him over and over again not to make that sound. It grates on my nerves and it just sounds nasty. Yesterday, Deanna and I were on the way to get our hairs cut (in French, the term really is "hairs"), when Dane started making that noise in the van. My skin started to crawl and I began the lecture, yet again, about not making that ugly noise.

"You sound like a sheep with a stomach ache," I told him.

Huge mistake. Huge. Now Dane's making the noise more than ever just so his siblings can yell, "The sheep with a stomach ache", and roar with laughter. Coming home from the hair appointment yesterday, Daelyn laughed non-stop. Even that got irritating after a while. Apparently, he thought this whole sheep thing was hilarious and couldn't quite get over it. At least, it was a genuine laughter and not a fakey, forced-kind.

As I sat down at the computer, I could hear the children in the kitchen. They get to ride to school today, Dane on his bike and Deanna on her scooter, with Don following along in the van. They were putting coats on and suiting up with helmets and backpacks, and the racket was almost deafening. Deanna was belting out arias from Phantom of the Opera while Dane and Daelyn were having a laugh shouting match - see who could yell the funniest thing the loudest before they broke into peels of laughter themselves.

And Don wonders why I'm so desperate to have HIM deal with the kids by the time he gets home from work at night. Unfortunately, his exposure is so minimal (and, in truth, his personality so different from mine) that it doesn't seem to phase him at all. He just tunes it out and goes about his routine. I, on the other hand, am considering renting an apartment nearby that I can escape to as soon as he walks through the door at night.

We had planned on our Master Suite being that apartment when we first added on to our house. It's huge and I had dreams of putting a couch in it. I invested in a beautiful stained-glass oriental lamp and had a lovely natural wood table with two shelves in the shape of a heart to put next to the couch with the lamp on. I put them against the long wall facing the bed in anticipation of finding just the right couch and even had a recessed light put in the ceiling over that area. I had dreams of locking myself in, curling up with a good book and a cup of hot tea (darn, I forgot a mini kitchen with a hotplate for making tea in my bedroom), and relaxing to the sounds of classical music while the children raged outside the door with their father supervising. I even bought this lovely, soft taupe throw blanket to go over the couch that matches the color of my bedroom walls in preparation for "the day".

Instead, my parents decided that my lovely, empty wall (waiting for the right couch to come along) was the perfect spot for their room-size, 2-piece sewing center. My mother had this piece of furniture made for her when we lived in Taiwan next door to a furniture factory (by factory, I mean a tar-paper shack with several thatched extensions, a few people milling around, and lots of noise, but which actually produced beautiful custom-made teakwood furniture). Many years ago, when Mom and Dad moved into their retirement home, they had a special room built on the back for Mom's sewing center. However, she now does little sewing and decided that room could be put to better use, so what to do with this huge piece of furniture? Oh, yeah, Patti's got room in her new empty house - let's send it over there!! My lovely wall and 1/3 of my total bedroom space is now home to a teakwood catch-all. There's no space for a couch and, even if I had one in my room, we've discovered that these hardwood floors do not absorb ANY noise, they just bounce it around through out the house, so there is no peace and quiet anywhere within these brick walls.

And, my children have no concept at all of the purpose of closed doors. They seem to have some misconception that you close a door to keep heat or cold inside or out, including interior doors. I'll be in the bathtub when the door will fly open and in will stomp one of the children.

"Mom, my sipper is empty. Would you please put some more milk in it?" or "Mama, I'm having trouble with this math problem. I don't really understand. Can you look at it and explain it to me?" or "Mommy, Daelyn hit me over the head. I think he needs a spanking."

Being the sarcastic, tongue-in-cheek person at heart that I am, my response is usually, "Sure. I'll get right on that," quickly followed by, "Where is your father?"

Inevitably, the response is, "On the computer." It's not that Don purposely ignores the children, he just doesn't seem to hear the noise and rumble. I've often suspected he secretly puts earplugs in before he opens the door to the house every evening. Either that or he's taught his brain to ignore the sounds emitted by his offspring. In any case, Daddy doesn't get asked to refill sippers, to help with Math, or to discipline Daelyn - Mommy's chased down, regardless of what she's doing.

Have you never heard of locks, you might ask. Oh, believe me, I've tried. But my children don't understand a locked door any more than they do a closed door. They will kick it, bang on it, yell through it, try and pass notes under it and, in general, completely ignore in every way possible a locked door. It's pretty hard to relax when Daelyn has his face smashed on the floor with his mouth against the bottom of the door, yelling under it, "Are you there, Mommy? Are you okay? Why is the door locked?" while Dane is shrieking, "Daddy, something's wrong with Mommy. She's not talking!!!!!" and Deanna's walking down the hall, with the sound reverberating both off the walls and the hardwood floors and bouncing right into my room, belting out "The Point of No Return" from a musical which shall remain nameless.

The whole situation is much worse than just lying on my bed with the door wide open. Occasionally, the children will walk right past the door and not even look to see if I'm in the room. But a closed or, God forbid, locked door, draws them like a magnet.

So, Mom gets a little crazy by evening, Daddy remains completely unmoved, and the children continue to dance their little dance of putting Mommy in an early grave.

Mercy, Lord, falling like raindrops from Heaven. Lots of it, please.

Forgiveness

At bedtime the other night, Deanna came into my room and sat down on the bed.

"Mama, I don't feel good."

Oh, goodness, here we go, I thought. Don't tell me she's getting the flu again or the lower dose of stomach medicine the doctor put her on is messing with her digestive tract. But she continued.

"Something happened at school today that upset me and I don't know what to do about it. Mrs. Routhier was reading to us out of the Bible today about not letting the sun go down on a problem between you and a friend. She's trying to teach us how important it is to deal with problems. I think I have to do something about this problem before I go to bed."

"Why don't you tell me what happened and I'll try and help you," I responded.

This is roughly the story. A friend of Deanna's was hanging out with their teacher from last year on the playground while she was supervising recess. Two other girls, one of whom Deanna is very close to, sort of elbowed their way in and, figuratively, pushed the other girl aside. The other girl, in frustration, talked to Deanna about her feelings of rejection and her hurt. Being the peacemaker that Deanna is, she decided she needed to talk to her friend. She approached her and the girl brushed her off, speaking, in Deanna's opinion, harshly to her. She wouldn't listen and was very defensive. Deanna was less concerned about the incident with the teacher, but very concerned that her relationship with her close friend was in trouble. And then, there was this thing about the sun going down...

"You ought to call her, honey, and try and talk it through," I offered. Her friend really is a kind person and loves Deanna. Deanna agreed to the phone call and I spent a few minutes coaching her as to what to say. It's not easy for a 9-yr. old to confront a friend that she feels has wronged her and handle it appropriately.

She called her friend and explained that she felt badly about how things had gone that day. She expressed her concern that her friend hadn't listened to her. Her friend responded that she had been thinking about it all day, too, but didn't have the courage to call Deanna about it. She told Deanna that she was wrong, asked her forgiveness, and told Deanna that she loved her.

Talk about Matthew 18:15 in action!! I'm so thankful my children have these kinds of Biblical principles to stand on and friends that practice them, as well. AND Godly teachers that help my children learn His ways and what He thinks about issues and relationships. What could have been a relationship-breaking incident instead was a relationship-building.

God's mercy continues to fall on us - like raindrops from Heaven.

Speech Therapy

Several months ago, Dane's first grade teacher pulled me aside one day when I went to pick him up.

"I'm concerned about Dane," she began. "He has a lot of saliva when he says 's's' ."

"Yes?" I prompted.

"I think he has a speech problem and may need speech therapy. He needs to get checked out by a Speech Therapist."

Thus began a several-month escapade, which ended over the Christmas holidays with a screening by a Therapist. The verdict - Dane lateralizes. This means that, instead of forcing the air across his tongue and out his front teeth when he makes certain sounds, he rolls his tongue over top of itself and forces the air out the sides of his mouth, resulting in a saliva-y s, x, k, and z. The Therapist placed her forefinger in front of her lips, as if she were making a "shush" gesture and told Dane to feel the air on his finger when he said the letter "s". Dane immediately followed suit and she told me that if I had him practice this for 5 minutes a day, he'd have the problem corrected in no time.

She said, however, that Daelyn had several speech problems and needed an Evaluation. Apparently, the public school system has speech therapists and, even though we don't attend public schools, we pay taxes and have a right to their services. She told me to contact the Board of Education and arrange to have Daelyn evaluated. She said they don't take children younger than 3 but since Daelyn would soon be 4, we ought to start right away and get a good foundation laid before he starts Kindergarten.

On Monday of this week, I began the process of trying to contact the correct person. Luckily, the director of the Public School Speech Therapy program is married to a guy that used to work with my husband, Don, and we know each other. I left a message and she called me back within an hour.

"Patti," she asked, "it's not Dane with the speech problem, is it?" Suddenly, a memory flooded back. Last January, exactly a year ago, we were at a Family After-Christmas Party with Don's previous work group that they were in attendance at, also. We sat together and Susie visited at length with the children. Before we left the Party, she told me that Dane had some speech issues that would most likely resolve themselves with age. She also mentioned that we'd have to watch Daelyn. I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about and nodded politely, oblivious to the fact that she was a Speech Therapist. There was a lot of background noise and I couldn't hear her well and just assumed I had misunderstood what she said. Now, this whole conversation made perfect sense. While visiting with my children at the Party, she had reverted into "work mode" and had been evaluating my children's speech patterns. Wish I had known then what I know now. I would have taken huge advantage of this social contact.

The really funny thing was that she remembered the whole conversation and was concerned that her evaluation of Dane had been incorrect. I was amazed with her recall and quickly reassured her that Dane's little minor issue had been resolved, and that Daelyn was the culprit at present. She told me that she would contact the person responsible for evaluations and have her call me within the week. She added that if I didn't hear from this other woman by the end of the week, to call her back and she'd take care of it. How refreshing to "KNOW SOMEBODY". It's been a long time. Back in my working days, I knew lots of somebody's and was able to pull lots of strings to get things done, but that's been 10 years ago, and all my somebody's are nobody's now.

Today, Daelyn and I spent time with my friend, Kelly, and her little guy, Kolbe. While the boys dressed in Spiderman pajamas and masks and ran around saving the world, Kelly and I drank Decaf coffee and visited. I told her about my Speech Therapy news. She told me the following story and gave me permission to use it in my Blog.

It seems that her sister had a child who didn't speak real clearly. Sometimes, however, we moms are the last to know. Her sister was so used to her child's speech patterns that she didn't even notice. Once, while on vacation, the mother and her son went to the hot tub by the pool. While they enjoyed the jets, they visited, chatting up a storm. There was another woman in the jacuzzi, also, who sat and listened for a while. When the Mom looked up and caught this other woman's eye, the woman commented, "Such a cute little boy. What language is that that he speaks?"

I dunno, but I think, if that were me, I would have said, "A rare dialect of the Punta Tribe from Sri Lanka." Kelly's sister, however, graciously explained that her child was speaking English.

I'm hoping to get Daelyn's therapy started soon so we can purge any Punta Tribe dialect and begin speaking English around here. After all, I'm not a linguist.