Joining the Mob

My throat hurts. Must be getting a cold.

I just finished cooking a pot of vegetable soup that doesn't have enough salt and bluberry muffins and two batches of fudge that are just perfect- (guess you can't have it all)- and also just received email confirmation that my FOURTH batch of Christmas cards is being mailed overnight. I didn't order a fourth. I ordered a first and it went to Jacksonville. I ordered a second and it was over saturated- the kids looked like they'd hopped out of tanning beds- which led me to order a third. But the fourth is a mystery.

Speaking of mysteries, I wanted to post some pics from the Murder Mystery Party we went to Saturday, hosted by Abi and Peter, but because I'm busy with numerous projects (like writing addresses on cards that were supposed to be here weeks ago,) I'm not going to spend time writing about it, but will instead refer you to Dana's rendition if you need explanations for the odd behavior seen above.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a GOOD NIGHT'S SLEEP!

For Evan

I still can't believe I have a child who comes home from school with paper bag pumpkins, homemade applesauce, and pockets full of acorns. I've been told from mothers in malls, mothers in grocery stores, and mothers everywhere to soak it up and enjoy it because it goes too fast. But the reason everyone says that is because no one has figured out how; how to soak this stuff so deep into the pores that there's enough excess stored up for the years when you're grown and gone. It's impossible, and one day I'll be sitting here posting about you as an adult and wondering where that little person I used to write about went.

But enough moping. Today I'll celebrate the joys of the right now instead of dwelling on how you wiped away my kiss the other day before running into your classroom.

Moving has marked a clear divider on your growth. I can look back at the before and after of moving and see a radical difference. Year three was a hard year for you- for us. It was a year of testing in many ways. You were testing your boundaries, and the Lord was testing mine. Let's just put it this way: we both have authority issues. We also both have anger issues.

Now that I think about it, watching you develop has kind of been like watching myself.

I remember developing the ability to think independently and rationalize on my own about the time middle school rolled around. Suddenly I didn't agree with everything my mom said or did anymore. I thought because I could analyze and rationalize out of my own intelligence, I was as good as grown; that I knew it all, or could figure it out. What I didn't understand was that experience actually is worth it's weight in gold. It counts for something. And experience can't be laid hold of the easy or fast way; it takes time. And that stinks. But that is where the fruit of patience is grown.

Our big problem this past year was that instead of reaching this frustration at age eleven or twelve, you hit it at age three.

The encouraging part is that since your birthday, since moving, I can already tell year four is going to rock. For one, you've started lifting the potty seat and standing. For two, you have started making a huge effort to use manners and speak politely. You say "excuse me, mommy," a lot right now. (I'm trying to teach you it's not a magic word that delivers attention on demand, but a way to be considerate.) You also seem to accept and even appreciate authority now. It is becoming more of a source of security and less of an all-out war for you.

(This sort of appreciation the Lord is instilling in me, too, and trust me- it'd be easier for you to just learn it now.)

But the number three reason this year is going to rock is that the older you get, the more "firsts" there are to come. You are at an age where rides and plays and books and holidays really mean something to you. Where your eyes twinkle at the thought of reindeer pulling a sleigh. You asked 5,000 questions when we read "The Polar Express" for the first time this year.

See, back when it was just the two of us while daddy was at work, the days would start to get long come the five o'clock hour. (A one year old can only provide so much conversation.) You were definitely the baby, and I, the mother. But now there's a new facet to "us." Now I have the joy and privilege of being your friend, and what's more, of having you as mine.

We have quiet times together; me with my coffee cooler and you with your chocolate milk. We read about Bible doctrine and Bible stories and we talk and question and pray. We draw with sidewalk chalk and you can draw anything I can draw. We get excited about things together; decorating the tree, drinking hot chocolate and eggnog, birthday parties, seeing friends and family. (Ok so I don't get as excited about eggnog as you do.)

But what really astounds me is how you compliment and encourage me. It is such a pleasant surprise because it's not expected of you. It probably sounds in my ears similar to how our praises sound in the ears of God. You compliment my chalk drawings, my cooking, my coloring. And you've become very affectionate. When you were a year old it was like pulling teeth to get one indifferent kiss out of you, but now you smother me in them. And not just me- you drip tenderness everywhere.

One place this honey oozes is all over your little brother. I need to be better about writing down the phrases you coo to him. It is so often that you do it, that I take them for granted. The ones that come to mind are "hey, sweet boy, hey!" and "are you so sweet?" and "hey, little hand!" and "belly, belly, belly, belly," (and you kiss and blow on his belly.) Even since I last wrote about how Jack reacts to you, he's grown even more attached. The sound of your voice gets him whapping his hands with excitement and he smiles when you come into view. He LOVES you. Even reaches for you. Those are the moments when I hear that familiar sound of another crack splintering through my heart.

The same sound echoes when I hear you and your sister playing.

You went through a brief phase after being sick where you weren't very nice to her. I'm not sure if you were just getting spoiled from all of the sick care or what, but we had a good talk about it, about how it hurts her, and in your deep sense of compassion you've been caring and loving ever since. You protect her from things and love on her. Yesterday morning when she came out of her room upon waking you said, "Good morning, Madalyn!" She said, "Thank you, Evan," because she so appreciates your attention. And then she climbed on the couch and you tickled her feet affectionately and kissed all of her boo boos. (She has a lot of boo boos right now- that post coming...)

The two of you love playing tag lately. You'll play for a good hour, running around the house pushing each other, running from each other, belly-laughing in fear. I always think it's gonna turn ugly any minute, but it hasn't yet. I can't even tell you the pleasure I get from those giggles drifting through the doorframes and echoing on the walls. I love that sound.

Your sister is not only your friend, but a source of amusement for you. Mostly you treat her as though she's younger and you're the leader, but every now and then I catch a glimpse of admiration in your eyes. You look up to her some, too. She makes you laugh. Sometimes she'll be hamming it up in one way or another and you'll have this dreamy, quiet smile pasted on your face as you watch her. You don't even know you're smiling because you're so "in the moment" of watching her. And every now and then when you have this expression, a giggle creeps up your throat as though even you didn't expect it. What a treasure, the sight of it.

Your tenderness also gives you a high sense of caution and sensitivity that is unusual for your age. You get fixated on things. You've always been this way. You get fixated on a particular idea or concept, on a certain toy, or a particular memory.

Speaking of memory- it's flat out frightening how far back you remember things. The other day we were coloring with chalk in the driveway and a yellow car drove by. "Look, mommy! A yellow car- just like Mike's car!!" I said, "who's Mike?" Then I realized you were talking about our neighbor from back when you were two years old, Mike, who had a bright yellow truck.

My reaction is always the same to these memories that shock me. First, I'm impressed with you. Then secondly, I start shrinking; what else does he remember?? Every time I've ever lost my temper? And the thoughts snowball from there...

Your teachers have told me the only way you struggle at school is when you are working really hard at something and someone else wants to join in and might mess it up. But she said you excel in other ways; that every morning you run up to the letter of the week on the chalk board and she spends some time doing Phonics with you because you're way ready for it.

You play first grade level games on your handheld Leapster; you spell too many words to count. You tell me about the silent e and other principles. The longest you can spell is probably Madalyn. The other day you walked out of the class with a piece of paper that the teacher had written everything you were thankful for on and Madalyn's name was spelled Madeline, with the e in the middle scratched over and made into an a. I could tell just by glancing at it that you had corrected Mrs. Tina while she was writing it, and she probably gave up on interpreting. The first thing you said, right in front of her, as you turned the corner of the room was "Mrs. Tina can't spell Madalyn very good."

The other day I was writing the names of friends down for you and when I wrote Ethan you said, "no mommy, Efan is with an f." You like to use words like actually, amazing, and absolutely. You also say of course a lot. Like when I heard Madalyn ask you to get her water from the fridge water dispenser. You took her cup and as you were walking over there she asked, "are you gonna get me water, Evan?" "Of course I am," you said. You also say amazing and wonderful and delicious. If you and Madalyn are good in a store you'll say, "we were such amazing kids in there!" Or sometimes you'll say, "Actually, you could do it that way, mommy."

You recently came up to daddy with a picture you'd drawn of planets and you'd written plooo, trying to spell Pluto. When he suggested a u you reasoned that that couldn't be right because double oo's say the ew sound.

You know all the planets and the order they are from the sun, and you love to draw them and talk about them. This interest was sparked by the glow-in-the-dark planet and star stickers on the ceiling of your bedroom that were here when we moved in; just one of the many reasons I count as affirmation that this house was hand-picked by God for us.

Whenever someone would visit our home that first month here, you'd pull them into your room, turn off the lights, shut the door, and make them lie on their backs on your floor to view your personal planetarium. You counted the hours until bedtime because you were that anxious to lie and look at them. Whoever created those stickers had no idea the joy they would bring. And now planet-themed gifts are all daddy and I have on our list for you this Christmas.

You're still gifted at entertaining yourself and have a HUGE imagination... wonder where you got that from? You have letters on a magnetic board in your room and you turn them into people and creatures and buildings and robots and move them around, creating whole worlds and civilizations. One time you ran into the kitchen with a "j" turned upside down and said, "Look mommy, it looks like a musical note!"

You have good fine motor skills. You color inside the lines now, and appropriate colors. And when you color, you don't just color, you act out entire movies and events. You color something as it grows and bring in a could of thunder. You change the characters faces from smiling to frowning on what they encounter.

You love "The Little Einsteins" and "Mickey Mouse Clubhouse" and "Dora the Explorer" right now. You make Madalyn act out all three. You gave out friendship bracelets like on Dora the other day and we had to lift our arms in the air to make fireworks like in that episode.

You love cooking, playing in the sandbox, and collecting leaves. You're such a mix between me and daddy. You use your imagination and play just like I used to, but the things that interest you are things that would interest daddy. And you're more of an introvert, more cautious than I am.

You have a sense of humor. You know what sarcasm is because of your daddy. He'll say, "well we're gonna brush our teeth, read a story, and then it's time for your spankings."

"Are you just kidding," you'll smile knowingly.

You'll even dish out your own sarcasm or silly phrases now. When you were sick your lips were peeling off. We were leaving the doctor's office and you said, "look mommy, it came off" and you dropped it on the floor. When we got out to the car you said, "Oh no! We left my lip in the doctor's office!"

You sing songs from school and songs from Jack's baby toys. Lately it's been a song about Mary and Joseph on their way to Bethlehem, and "Pop Goes the Weasel" and "Hickory, Hickory Dock." (You insist it's two Hickory's.)

You make boy noises. You can imitate a firecracker to perfection. You squeal in a very high pitch and then smack the palms of your hands together as your squeal tapers to an end. You came up with that yourself.

I can't remember if I recorded it or not; the day you asked Jesus into your heart. I think I scratched the date down somewhere and I'm afraid it's been misplaced in the move. But we were having out quiet time and you asked if Jesus lived in your heart. I asked if you wanted Him to and you said, "yes. I do." And so I told you all you had to do was ask him. You said, "will you help me," and we prayed together. One of my three biggest prayers answered in that moment.

Since then, you have grown and grown on that front. Your favorite Bible story is about Elijah calling down fire from God in front of the false prophets. When Grandpa McDonnell (aka "dadaddy") dedicated you to the Lord three plus years ago, he and grandma gave us a series of books on sound doctrine made into children's stories. We read them almost daily now- which is weird because at the time I couldn't imagine you ever being old enough to understand them. Your favorite one is called "What Happens When We Die." A little morbid, but okay. You understand about the soul being different from the body, and how Jesus' death was different because He came back to life.

I love being able to talk to you about things some adults never talk about. I love that when we were in the jacuzzi the other night for the first time since we moved here, you looked at daddy and me and said, "I want to thank God for our jacuzzi and our pool." I love that for the first time you didn't ask me to pray the prayer for you but were willing to do it yourself; "God thank you for our jacuzzi and pool, amen."

From us you got and will always get a very resolute "AMEN."

Thank You God for this joy named Evan. AMEN.

Evan, months 50-52

Give Me a Break

If anyone read their Orlando Sentinel today you would have noticed that the Magic Arena (aka 'TD Waterhouse Centre') has officially changed their name to the Amway Arena.

Yes, you read that right - the Amway Arena.

For those not familiar with Amway, it was pretty much a multi-level marketing company that made many people rich who joined at the beginning and made many people broke who joined at the end. It's a typical scam that was eventually deemed illegal by the United States government.

How did this happen? Well, the owner of the Orlando Magic was also the co-founder of Amway and he wanted it that way.

As a resident of Orlando, FL I have only one request to go along with this name change:

Could they please make the arena pyramid shaped?

If You Want to Laugh

Watch this video:

The Unexpected

You'd think I'd be used to stepping on toys right now, but sharp objects penetrating your feet- not something you ever really get used to. Like the scene on Home Alone when the robber steps on ornaments; always funny, never fun.

But I was even more surprised than usual tonight when I went looking for Madalyn's blankie at bedtime and felt the familiar stabbing pain, because tonight- well tonight when I looked down to view the latest toy-turned-weapon, I found baby Jesus. From the nativity. I stepped on baby Jesus.

Why is that so funny to me? And should it be? Maybe You're trying to tell me something, Lord, and-just like with Shaun in the car earlier- I'm not listening.

This may or may not be in some way related to my ill will towards the hair "stylist" who shaved Evan's head earlier today. The first words out of my mouth had been "not too short." Let me put it this way, she somehow managed to give him a buzz cut with scissors. I said "yes, round the bottom." So she rounded the bottom by his neck. Then with her next cut she lopped it off entirely. Gone. I thought, 'oh well, at least there's the top.' Then she lopped that off. If the bags under his eyes and pale color leftover from last week's illness wasn't enough, now he definitely looks terminal. I'm not trying to be funny or insensitive, that's simply the best way to describe it. Evan asked me if he could get a green lollipop next time. "Sure, sweetie, but that's going to be a very long time from now," I said.

If I hadn't been too tired to work up the tears, I would've cried. Not because I usually care if it looks bad. I mean, it does look bad, but it'll grow. It's just he'll be seeing a lot of people he doesn't normally get to see this month, and not only will they not get to see him in normal form, but they might not recognize him altogether. Heck, I was afraid his sister would start crying when we got home and ask who was this kid and what did he do with her brother. And she might have, except that she would take a lollipop from a werewolf, so it didn't really count.

The good news is that it could've been worse. It could've happened to Madalyn. Evan's hair will grow back in like two or three days, but Madalyn- we'd be waiting another two years just to get her hair clips in again.

See? There's always a bright side. You just have to look hard enough. It may take a baby Jesus to the foot to bring me here, but I always arrive. :)

Shaun just got back from Publix and said he got me part of my Christmas gift early. He's serious. It's a banana tree. Not like you would grow bananas on, but like you would hang bananas on. Let me repeat: he's serious.

I told him I'm blogging this. He says, "hey, it could've been worse, Honey. I could've come home wearing a banana hammock."

And how can I argue with that? He's right. It could've been worse.

For Madalyn

We're seeing less and less of the baby in you. Where did she go? And who is this chatty (and frequently passive-aggressive) child in her place?

Still, baby or not, you sprinkle sugar wherever you go, but what's newer, a whole lot of SPICE. You flavor our lives. Your brothers agree. And I find myself sitting here scratching my head and asking how such a tiny person can inject so much softness and so much spunk into a family at once?

I'm not sure where to begin describing your personality and the ways you're changing and growing; two is such an amazing age. I better break it into categories to keep my thoughts linear...

Potty Parties

I think I mentioned a few months ago that you decided to potty train yourself before I was ready. You're doing really well. Still having accidents, but it's all good. It becomes a part of daily life after a while; eat, sleep, brush teeth, throw pee pee pants in the washer... but once you started, and set your mind to it, how could we look back?

You have days with no accidents, where you remember completely on your own, and then there are days when I ask you constantly, and still, you are constantly having accidents. Maybe it depends on how caught up in your playing you are... or the temperature... or the humidity, wind factor, the location of the moon? Maybe you're just a two-year-old potty training.

I remember thinking, back when Evan was potty training, that one of those unexpected parenting joys was seeing your little boy run around in big boy underwear. I remember thinking there was nothing more precious than a little toddler boy in his "big boy pants." I was completely unprepared for how cute you'd be in your Hello Kitty and Tinkerbelle "big girl panties."

I took you to the doctor at the end of the summer for vaccinations and you sat there in your summer tan and sparkly pink kitty underpants, your pink hair bow pinning back your baby whisps- what a sight. Even the nurses had a fit. One of them told me I had to take a picture of you in your big girl panties; "Oh I took pictures of my daughter," she said, "who cares if it embarrasses them later, it's just too cute."

And you got so excited about your panties in the beginning. "KITTY!" You'd say. Or "Tinker-bay-elle," like a little Georgia girl. (You went through a phase of talking rill suthern, to where you pronounced your name Maaayd-nen.)

A month or so ago, when you were still figuring out all the technical details of this "going on the potty" deal, I watched you listen carefully for the pee pee, and when it came you sang, matter-of-factly, "That's my bot-tom." You could've been talking about a drink dispenser, the way you said it.

Also a month or so ago, I was on the phone with a lady at the bakery, placing an order, and I heard a small voice on the phone exclaim to us both, "I go pee pee on the potty!" I'm sure the whole bakery was very happy for your success that morning. And even now, your enthusiasm is going strong whenever you meet success. For the both of us.

Coordination Station

Evan was our first baby and so of course we thought he was unusually good at every thing in every way. We loved to wonder at how coordinated he was for something so small. And he was. But you are even more so. Or maybe it only seems that way because you have no sense of caution.

After pulling out the riding toys in our new driveway! we were astounded at the way you took to them. You got on your little Cinderella push cart and your legs started swinging like the Easter Bunny hops, on either side of the thing. Off you flew, a natural born skateboarder it appeared, down the hills and into the grass. What a sight! You and Asphalt are at the beginnings of a very complicated relationship- I can tell.

The other day we were on the back deck and you made a game out of jumping off the sand box lid. No, running down it like a ramp. Each time it looked as though you were just before knocking your front teeth out when you recovered, smiled, and went back for another rush. Between stunts, you would stand at the peak of it, swing your pointer finger up into the air, and proclaim, "I have an idea! Watch me!" or "Wait a minute," (and finger up again on cue,) "watch me!."

Your coordination is not only apparent in rough and tumble activities, but also in the finer art of dancing. We've known this about you for some time. It's nothing new. You used to rock in the grocery cart basket to "Material Girl," remember? But your moves are getting even more assorted, expressive, and specifically choreographed for the particular type of music played. One of your favorite songs to dance to right now is a song that says "every move I make I make in You, You make me move, Jesus, every breath I breathe I breathe in You." We've come a long way from "Material Girl," and my heart's never been happier than watching you dance that song out in a very literal performance.

You also love to dance in front of the oven door where you can see your reflection. You do lots of swooping arm motions there, like a ballerina tossing an armful of flower petals into the air. Four words on that: so darling to me.

The only physical act that's not so charming or graceful to us is the way you step on our feet.

I don't know what it is about stepping on our feet, but when we sit on the couch you walk on them like stepping stones. It actually doesn't bother me so much because I don't have hair on mine, but your father has come close to throwing you across a room. He's taken to calling you Grip Tape. Having assessed the situation much deeper than I have, he claims the reason your feet are so painful is because they're so padded. If we were Indians he would name you Kills with Foot. Like the Word of the Lord, your feet separate joint and marrow, muscle and skin, Madalyn. (Heb. 4: 12)

Vocabulary 101

Although you are way ahead of the game for your age concerning vocabulary and communication, you have a funny way of substituting more exciting words for things more ordinary. For example, you call your chandelier your "party" and your bed covers,"colors." As in "I need my colors!" You and Evan have your own Christmas trees in your rooms, little ones, and instead of "tree," you prefer to call it "my treat." Ironically, though, you call Mr. Chris "Mr. Christmas." (But you like to do that with lots of names like Mrs. Stephanie being "Shasta," as I've mentioned before, and you're now calling Mrs. Dana "Miss Donna." She's taken to calling you Marilyn and we have a running joke that Donna and Marilyn will take a road trip together one of these days.)

You also combine words, or just become flat lazy and use the first name that comes to mind. This means you'll often call daddy mommy and mommy daddy. And sometimes we become Mahdy and Dahmy. No joke. Quite often we're called that. And our response is always, "I'm not Mahdy." You do the same thing to your grandparents- as though one of their names covers the pair of them.

Another thing you've recently started telling me is that your froggy's coming off, and you hold out a finger at me. I finally figured out you were saying that your finger was coming off. You meant your finger nail. And you say "finger" just fine on its own, but for some reason when you try to say the whole thing- "My finger's coming off," it comes out as froggy.

You're also a little confused about what Happy Halloween means because you say it all the time now. You'll have your shopping cart and stop by to tell me you're off somewhere. "Happy Halloween!" you say with a wave. And then the other day you blew out a handful of flowers like they were birthday candles and said, "Happy Birthday to me!" (It's okay, we'll work all these things out eventually.)

On the subject of Halloween, though, it was a great occasion for you. (Thank you, Ainsley Clifford and family,) because you got to borrow a so-cool JoJo the Clown girl (tv character) costume. You kept telling the moon "Hi, moon! I'm JoJo!" (That after asking me who cut the moon, because it was just a sliver that night- I'd like to see the scissors that did that, too.)

You were not only thrilled with your costume, but with every other kid's as well. Trick or treaters would come to the door and you'd peek around the doorframe and marvel, "Ohhh, wow."

In many ways you're language is showing vast improvement. You used to call letters and numbers minutes. Now you call them A,B,C's. You can't sing The Alphabet Song yet. You do the "now I know..." part perfectly, but for all the letters you substitute "u, u, u..."

You can sing all of "God our Father," (Evan's school blessing,) Jesus Loves Me, and Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. You make up long songs when you lie in bed at night. We hear you in there singing and chatting long after your brothers are asleep. When you don't know words to a particular tune you'll substitute la, la, la. You'll come by with a baby, singing, and ask, "wanna sing la, la, la, mommy? Sing la, la, la, mommy." Another thing you ask me five thousand times a day is "Wanna come play in my room? Come play in my room, mommy." Or "wanna come play upstairs with me?" I wish I could say yes every time. I really do. But somebody has to write these things down about you. Somebody has to wash your dishes and clothes and clean up a little before disease spreads throughout your home.

You still don't know your colors. Actually I can't tell if you know them or not. It's like you flunk under pressure but almost always answer right on impulse. I don't think girls can be color-blind, though, so we'll work that out eventually, too.

A few cute things you've said recently:

When I called you young lady you retorted, "I'm not a la-dy! I'm a grill!"

When we were on our way to a birthday party you looked at your reflection and exclaimed, "I'm so CUTE!"

When you put your boots on the other day you said proudly, "Look at me! I'm Woody!" (From Toy Story.) I thought it was interesting you chose Woody the cowboy and not Jessie the cowgirl. But I get it. Woody's cooler.

The Spice

1) It's funny, the things you name beautiful. Lizards, the kitchen trash... "Oh it's boootiful," you'll coo.

2) The last two times you had trouble falling asleep were when a) you wanted to watch a baseball game, and b) you wanted to play a video game.

A) The baseball game. This happened when you got up to pee pee and saw your daddy watching a Cardinal game on tv. You crawled onto your tummy beside him on the end of our bed and acted completely carried away in the excitement of it. The score would pop up and you'd chant "123, 123," wildly. Whenever it showed the man at bat you'd chant, "battery, battery, 123, 123." And then "Oh, wow!" when he'd swing.

B) The video game. Evan has a handheld Leapster electronic game toy. When it was left in your room, you snuck out of your bed and played it late into the night until we discovered you hunched over it on your bed, the light from the screen glowing on your elated expression. You're too little to understand the game, so you just had the rabbit, who was supposed to be jumping on certain letters, landing in the water and splashing in error and you laughed and laughed at it;
Look at that bunny!"

3. Evan tried to take a doll from you the other day and you swung it away from him by its feet. As it circled your head by the ankles you yelled, "NO! It's MY baby!"

(I'd like to note here that that was NOT learned by example.)

4. Before we moved we had Dum Dums in a bowl on the counter, "out of reach." I found you with not one, not two, but three of them, unwrapped, bundled together, and pocketed (yes all THREE) in your cheek while you watched tv. Just moments before you used a blue marker to color your face like a member of Kiss.

5. Several weeks ago you and Evan came home from Sunday school with pictures of your family members. Evan had five cut-out peach-colored faces for each of us. You had a black father, a white mother, and a black brother. You yourself appeared Asian and Jack was- interestingly enough- left off the sheet altogether.

In this way, your being slightly color-blind is a good thing. I guess. So long as you can identify us in a mall if we ever get separated.

6. You say to me rather frequently, "C'mere, mommy. NOW!" It was cute at first.

7. You put everything in your mouth. Especially coins. (A literal walking piggy bank.) The other day you had something in there and I pried your mouth open and said "What are you eating?"

"My bracelet," you said as normal as if it were a Cheeto from under the couch.

8. A few weeks ago you asked for a hug and cuddled right in. You said, "mmmm" then- "get off of me."

9. When Evan was sick you came up to me with his plastic throw up bowl on your head and said, "Lookatme! I'm Buzz Lightyear! And beyond!" (You don't say the "to infinity" part. Who needs that part, it's wordy.)

10. You throw things in the pool. It's an obsession. The object flying through the air and landing on the water is simply fascinating and never ceases to amaze you. You're an addict. They need a support group for this kind of thing.

The Sugar

1. You love dress-up clothes. You love your sparkly shoes with the heels that Honey got you. You walk in them better than I walk in heels. You also love your squeaky shoes that grandma McD got you and we take them away from you as punishment. Because it works- "Madalyn, you be a good listener or we're gonna take away your red MaryJane's."

2. You love princesses. You love Ariel the mermaid, too. We draw her in sidewalk chalk. Well I draw her... and Ursula, Scuttle, King Tritan, Flounder, and Sebastian. Oh and the seahorse that doesn't have a name because Evan likes the seahorse.

You draw purple lines and tell me what they are. I think they're beautiful.

3. You have a crush on Uncle John. You turn inside out over him. Before Thanksgiving you talked him up so much beforehand that he was just too much in person. He was the only person you've ever been shy around because he was so built up at that point.

4. You're polite. If I hug you or Evan hugs you, or if we give you something you always say "thank you!" without prompting. If I tell you, "you're such a sweet sister, Madalyn" or just rub your back for a moment, you say "thank you, mommy," very seriously, as though you were needing that right at that moment.

You say "excuse me" when you burp.

5. You love flowers. You spend HOURS picking flowers (weeds) in our backyard. You pace the entire breadth and depth of the yard with a bouquet of weeds bouncing in one hand or the other. You climb ladders and play with sand and get on the swing, all while clutching your flowers.

6. You love your baby brother. You ask to help feed him baby food and you rub his head while I change him and help with his diaper tabs.

7. You're tender and sensitive to other people's feelings. You are the nurse of the house and the first to rub a back or inquire if someone's alright. You say "bless you" when we sneeze. I was cutting my toenails the other day and you came up behind me and rubbed my back gently and said, "ohh, mommy. aw, mommy." I guess you thought it hurt. I assured you it didn't.

You're still telling people Evan's sick. It was a big deal. You were very concerned. You gave him hugs and rubs frequently and he was very limp in his responses. "Hug me, Evan," you finally commanded him. I don't blame you. He's getting a little too accustomed to this "sick thing."

8. You nurse your baby dolls. This started two nights ago. You came up to me with a doll and said "My baby's really hungry," then lifted your shirt and shoved your baby's head under. "I'm feeding it my belly button," you said.

9. Evan rocks your world. You miss him when he's at school. You called for him in Target the other day and smiled because you knew he wasn't there. Wishful thinking.

10. You cuddle with me at night. You wrap your small arms around my neck and pull my face down to yours. We rub noses. You tell me you love me. You tell me thank you when I tell you I love you, too. We pray and sing. You smile wide as the horizon when you sing the words "yes, Jesus loves me," as if you know how much.

Do you? Do you know how much we love you? You couldn't possibly. To think He loves you even more! I need that thought. I need that truth like your flowers need rain-

He loves you most. I don't understand it. You won't understand it. But never forget it.

Madalyn, Months 28 and 29

Giving Thanks, 2006

By late afternoon on Thanksgiving all the neighbors already had their yards and homes fully decorated for Christmas. There's a 20 foot inflatable snowman with spotlights just next door. The kids are in Heaven.

Apparently, we're already slackers on the street, falling behind because we didn't spend one holiday decorating for another. Honestly, we'll be doing good to get a wreath on the front door this season, and not just because we're still living out of boxes.

Last Saturday Evan came down with a high fever. Sunday, Shaun took him to an AfterHours Clinic and he tested positive for the flu virus with a temp over 105. Mid-week I took him to the doctor when the high fever persisted and mouth sores developed, and just now we've returned from yet another visit to the clinic because he's had this 105 fever for nearly 6 days now.

We're all on Tamiflu. Evan's had who knows how many doses of Motrin and Tylenol. Between that and everyone else's Tamiflu doses, and rubbing Aquaphor on Evan's lips, and washing my hands a thousand times a day, well it's a full-time job. We have Lord knows how many medicine droppers floating around the kitchen, circulating from the utensil drawer to the mouths, to the sink, to the dishwasher... and only two of them actually fit into the bottles. This leaves me pulling out my custard bowls to pour the medicine in and draw out of with the bigger syringes. And every time I feel like an apothecary mixing and grinding my concoctions. At the clinic tonight we found out we'll be adding Abuterol (sp?) for slight wheezing, to prevent this from turning into Pneumonia.

I have a breathing machine, thankfully, however I lost the tubes in the move and so we have to visit a medical supply store before the treatments can actually commence. Fun, fun. Just what I want to do on a Saturday, how about you? Forget Christmas shopping at the mall- I'll just do some one-stop shopping at the medical supply store and buy everybody Dr. Scholls foot pads and throat lozenges. No worries, though- I'll find red and green or something to keep it festive.

And Christmas card pictures may not happen either the way things are going. If not because of this sickness, then because Evan's hair is going to be so long by then from us putting off his haircut that he might be mistaken for that character on the Adam's Family. His hair grows remarkably fast, like his father's. At his last haircut the stylist kept referring to him as "fuzzball." As in "I thought i just saw a fuzzball fly by... where did he go running to?"

But to get back to the holiday I originally sat down to comment on, we had a nice Thanksgiving at our house. Uncle John and family came down for a visit to the new house and took their chances being around the germs that lurk herein. We didn't let the poor hygiene or sickness rain on this Thanksgiving because we like to eat.

We had a DELICIOUS meal that I couldn't stop remarking and humming my way through eating. (I'm very vocal about my food. So is Jack- hums through an entire jar of sweet potatoes. And so is my brother, come to think of it; he and I sound like a cloned set of Homer Simpsons when we throw back a good home-cooked meal- po-tat-oes, mmmmmm, the drool dripping.) And after eating we sat back and kicked up our feet to digest while the grandparents chased the kids around and worked off Sister Shubert's yeast rolls.

Jack, too, enjoyed his first Thanksgiving; attacked his first helping of mashed potatoes like a lion after his kill. Madalyn was delighted at all the options! and at all the grandparent attention that was not being shared with Evan because Evan was half-dead on the couch, hot as the hinges of hell, with cracked and bleeding lips and a mouth full of canker sores. He wouldn't even eat cake. Cake!

This brings me to the particular reason I'm thankful this Thanksgiving season; something we say we're thankful for all the time but that we really take for granted more often than not. This year I find myself especially grateful to the Lord for our general good health. I thank Him and praise Him deeply for that gift.

You know how when sickness hits it has a way of throwing every trivial and temporal thing out the back door, how it leaves you standing there with the very few things that really matter resting in the palms of your hand like magnified objects. When things are paired down for you like that, perspective settles on you like a soft snow, and a strange sort of peace and contentedness- a reverent appreciation- sets in. So as much as I hate- and I mean HATE- to watch my child suffer, I fervently pray that this past week will be fruitful. That it will help our family enter the advent season on a fresh foot, with what matters most on the forefront of our minds. Because this fever of Evan's sure has burned it into mine.

Jack, Months 4 and 3

For Jack

You embody everything calm and pure about my day. When we get you out of your crib in the morning you've rolled to your back, are kicking your feet and making your hungry noise, your mmm mmm mmm. There's nothing like lifting you into our arms; your body is so fragile and soft through your cotton sleepers, and there's a sacredness about feeling your small organs at work beneath the thinness of your new skin. You're very vocal and use lots of inflection to let us know just how desperate the situation is, just how hungry you really are- mmm mmm AH! mmm mm AH! And maybe you really are that hungry because at your 4 month appointment you were in the 75th-90th percentile for length and in the 25th percentile for weight. Long and skinny.

You had your first taste of babyfood a few days ago. Bananas, on the 14th. The reason for this really wasn't your weight because the doctor said that's probably just how you'll run- long and skinny, just the way you arrived- but rather the decision was made after we watched you reach for some pasta on daddy's plate the other night and moan longingly. At first it seemed a coincidence. At first. Then you made it clear you wanted real food and you wanted it NOW.

I've found that you like bananas but hate pears, so when I place them on your tongue your face distorts in disgust to say 'did you mean to put this in my mouth? Gross.' And back it comes. It could easily become a game, watching your reaction each time, but then it just seemed mean, so I gave up on pears for the time being. Now sweet potatoes, bring on the sweet potatoes! Just like your brother when he was a baby. And sweet potatoes are infamous for gas. What is it with men and gas... gaseous foods, things that run on gas, things that makes gas... it's like the more gas, the better. No wonder you all love meat, potatoes, boat engines and rocket ships.

And speaking of your brother, he adores you. Like not just 'sort of,' but is entering into stalker territory. He smothers you with kisses; kisses that trigger between your cheek and ear in machine gun explosions; rapid fires coming in long series that seem, at times, neverending. I battle with how much to let him kiss you and when to call in security. I'm glad he loves you so much, but I'm trying to keep your hearing in tact too, you know? At least until you're old enough to take up drums like your daddy and damage your eardrums on your own watch.

And you adore your big brother, too. You love to lean over your bumbo seat to watch him color, your eyes follow his flitting body all around the room and you smile when he approaches and especially when he talks to you. If you're upset in the car he prays for you. How many four month olds have a 4 year old brother who already prays for them? How many people live an entire life with no one praying for them?

He prays that you wouldn't be sad and that you would feel better. He tells you not to worry because Jesus is always with you. Never forget this about your brother. Never forget that he was one of your first intercessors and shoulders to lean on, because then you'll always know where you can go when you need these things in the future. I have never been so proud of Evan, never so happy for you, as when I hear that little voice talking to the God of the universe about his baby brother.

Madalyn cares deeply about you, too, but has a completely different way of showing it. Because of this, she gets a different reaction out of you than Evan does, with a little more reverence or bashfulness or something because she isn't as smothering, because she's a bit more of a mystery to you and you admire her for it. When she comes into view there's almost a guaranteed smile out of you.

She likes to check in on you now and then and she's the first to tell you it's ok if she thinks your distressed about something like thunder or lightning. She was very concerned after you had your vaccinations and told everyone she encountered that you had had shots. One lady in the grocery store answered her, "he got shot?" (And that's what happens when you get the story from a two year old; syringes pricks turns into bullet wounds and before you know it you've become the baby from last night's evening news story.) Today when I brought you in to wake her from her nap she said, "Good morning, I love you, Jack."

Daddy is your breath of fresh air when he walks in the door after work at night, (fresh air for us all, really.) You kick your legs wildly at the sound of his voice and grin a gummy smile at the sight of him. But I can't resist swelling with pride over the fact that, so far, I'm the only one who's made you laugh.

The funniest thing in your world is having the sweet potatoes scared right out of you. I'll pretend to be looking somewhere else and then turn and say BOO all of a sudden, and laughs just leap right out of your gut. It is the most precious sound in the world, without question. The more I frighten you the harder you laugh. I wonder if this means you'll be a thrill seeker?

And you like me to talk to you while you lie on your back and then viciously attack your neck without warning. That's equally as funny. Evan's copied me a few times on these things and gotten some single chuckles out of you as well.

What's more precious then watching your chest bob with each chuckle? Nothing. Not a thing this side of Heaven.

Some things are a close tie. Like when you stroke my face and reach for my hair. (Although Evan doesn't really understand your hair fixation.) Poor Evan with his mass of thick curls. His hair is irresistible. You always go after it when it's in close range. He's generally very patient about it- tries to remain calm while I pry your dead, cold grasp off of it- but yesterday he finally asked me in a very distressed manner while rubbing a very sore scalp, "why does Jack always pull my hair?"

The best thing about this month with you is the way it has unfolded new parts of your personality. You have these huge eyes that take in everything and everyone, and you make quite a variety of noises to tell us how you feel about things. You have quite the romance going with the wipes bag. You enjoy being in your bumbo seat and your swing and playing on your back on your playmat on the floor. You drool and gum on anything you can get your mouth around, suck your thumb when we tuck you in bed, and sometimes when you're awake, using one hand to steer the other to your mouth. You're in 6 month sizes. You have a slight case of cradle cap. You have a downy, fuzzy head I can't stop rubbing, and the lips of an angel. The scent of your breath and the oils of your skin should be bottled and sold. Your smile melts me into a pathetic puddle of weakness. Your eyes light up the longest hours of night (and there are certainly plenty of those.)

Jack, what else can I say? You're everything we all hoped for and more. I am so very thankful God put you in our family, so blessed and humbled to call you my son. I hope and pray you'll never mind calling me your mother.

Warning: Long-Winded Woman on the Loose

Not blogging for the past month or more has been a lot like holding my breath for a really long time while crossing over a bridge. That should explain why this post will probably read like one long exhale, like random pools of thoughts dripping down a page...

The New House

I love our house. I love all the things I expected to love about it, but even more, I love the completely unexpected things. We're kind of in the country now. Papa Johns and Pizza Hut don't deliver here. That should speak volumes. But I'm surprised by how much I love living in "the country."

I love driving past land every time I go somewhere. I love passing the farm across the street in the morning light, with the water sparkling and the horses drinking, and the dots of trees across the pasture with their leaves changing color, like bright brush dabs across a canvas.

I love the marsh land I pass, the lily pads and the hermitesque home that's nestled discreet and solitary upon its shore. I love to imagine who lives there. I love the hills and curves and bumps in the road that runs alongside it.

I love the sunsets that settle over our subdivision in the evenings in the wide open sky; sunsets I missed when I was further into the city. I love the brightness of the stars at night without the city lights. I love that we heard a horse whinny from our front yard the other day, just carrying on and having a temper tantrum with some frustrated keeper across the way.

I love that our attic is so easily accessible with stairs and a light on a string. I love that I have a separate closet from Shaun. I love that my kitchen counter us unusually low and very accommodating to my height; how I enjoy being in the kitchen more on that basis alone. I love how Madalyn will stay on the stairs and climb them and stay up them not because she's good at entertaining herself but because there are stairs! I love the closet maid set-up in my pantry that allows me to see each cans label and keeps them single file. I love that most messes land on tiled floor. I love that We have a long driveway for riding toys and sidewalk chalk and sidewalks; that we're on a cul-de-sac. I love the trees in our backyard. I love the dirt and grass and almost the weeds because it's been so long since we've had a yard. ALMOST the weeds.

If this sounds as bragging I'm misrepresenting my heart. These are praises. Praises sung to a God most deserving because I am most undeserving. In fact I can't believe how much I've been complaining about how overwhelmed and tired I am with the move. It's high time for some praise! Time to declare the sacredness I feel about this place, this decision of God's not ours (although He didn't have to drag me kicking and screaming.) I'm realizing that the expected joys about this home aren't as loved as the unexpected because the unexpected are what show us how hand-selected this place is for our family. And in this provision I feel so loved and taken care of and spoken for by a God Who cares this specifically for me.

From one man he made every nation of men, that they should inhabit the whole earth; and he determined the times set for them and the exact places where they should live. Acts 17: 26

He tends his flock like a shepherd: He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart; he gently leads those that have young. Isa. 40: 11

On Television

2 shows I watch to make fun of:
Jericho
Vanished

2 shows I watch to watch:
Standoff
House

Recent Conversation

Shaun: Why don't you just do it this way?
Me: Because I think outside the box, you should be proud.
Shaun: No with you, there is no box.


Shaun: Mommy’s hair’s got something weird going on.
Me: It’s sexy
Shaun: It is kind of sexy
Me: I know. I see how people look at me.
Shaun: No, Katie, (as though he hates to be the one to break this to me,) that’s fear.


Evan: No, I can't eat my broccoli.
Me: Why not?
Evan: Because a tree will grow out of my ear.
Me: Who told you that?
Evan: You. In my scary dream.


Recent Discoveries

1. The Scooba floor scrubbing robot is possibly the best invention. More impressive than a space shuttle. More practical than a mop. More efficient than a Swiffer. And a husband who loves buttons means you get a robotic maid and a house-cleaning husband all at once.

2. There was a very good reason my life used to be governed by "to do" lists. It was the only way anything ever got done.

Like Poetry to Me (over just me over-thinking life again)

The local Christian radio station sends out bumper stickers to whoever donates money because they are a listener-supported station. I love that. Not just that they're listener-supported but that they give away the stickers. I love knowing who's on the road with me. I see the sticker everywhere and it makes me feel so connected with the people around me. That sounds cheesy. But it's true. Every time I'm on a particular road it seems I end up behind a car with that sticker and I love that.

The other day I was driving down this certain road and thinking about how "fall" it looked outside. Even in Florida, someone dropped randomly alongside that road would have to know the season from the deep blue of the sky and the changing leaves. And something about fall has always made me excited. Maybe because the fall is to winter and Christmas as an appetizer is to the main course. And as I was noticing this, I found myself behind a small blue convertible carrying a middle aged balding man who couldn't seem to keep his eyes from his reflection in the rear view mirror, couldn't keep his hands from his hair. It was that or his nails. His cuticles apparently an object of beauty to him. And at the risk of sounding judgmentalntal, but by all obvious appearances, he was the most important thing in his universe. (At least while he was in that car... away from his family... where he could pretend to be anything and anyone he wanted to be.) Look, we've all had these moments, okay? (See recent post titled "The Italian Chick.")

Now better still, directly in front of him I noticed an oversized van wearing a "choose life" license plate donningning "that bumper sticker" I'm so fond of. It seemed a great contrast, quite an image, these two lined up like that. And if just the sight of them weren't contrast enough, when the van pulled into a church parking lot without a blinker, (probably because a small passenger was drawing on the driver's neck with her lipstick so that she was slightly distracted from proper blinker action,) Mr. Mid-Life Crisis Waiting to Happen honked and threw his hands up in disgust. As if my heart weren't already warmed over towards that van! I then fell madly in love with its entire family of passengers right then and there, faces I'll probably never see till Heaven, so tell me how can they then be so dear to my heart?

Shortly after this, I sat at a light with these thoughts swirling (which is what happens when I don't blog regularly and it's not always a pretty thing,) and another car with not just a sticker but a whole plate advertising "that station" turned by me and a beautiful fall leaf floated off of the hood much slower than the car's speed, drifted right down in front of my window. It happened as if on cue, as though a camera was shooting a scene somewhere nearby and the leaf was a special effect. maybemabe it was divinely on cue, because it tied all these fighting thoughts together, these thoughts about the season and the people in the world around me. We're all connected more than we know, you know? And something about that is really poetic to me.

The Kids

So I'm sure you're wondering how I've written this much with very little mention of the three people who rule my life right now. Well it's coming. But I'll save it for another post. Next time. Surely I've bottled up some good stories over all this time, right? So keep tuning in. Like my friend Dana says, I'm "always good for making other people feel better about themselves." You got a crazy story? Had a bad day? I can top it. And if I can't, my husband or kids can. Guaranteed.

Gotta Love Our Troops

Life on Hold - For Good Reason

You might be wondering what in the world has happened to all of the blogging and posting lately. Well, the McDonnell Family is in process of moving into their new home and it is taking up all of our time right now. Well, honestly, I get the luxury of going to work during the weekdays so I decided I would post an update on the family to the best of my posting abilities (sorry, no political statements to be made this time).

The new house is an undeserved blessing from God that was purchased not by our might which makes it even more of a blessing. We purchased it 2 weeks ago and finally made the move (2 U-Haul trips) last weekend. It has actually gone pretty smooth insofar. All of the kids rooms have been painted. I was able to successfully drain the pool on accident and almost fell off a ladder yesterday when trying to close the attic entrance. I am so in my element when it comes to household maintenance. It runs in the family.

That's sarcasm.

I used to think I was good at performing various 'electrician' duties around my home (back in Jacksonville). However, I became so bold as to electrocute myself a couple of years ago at Nana's beach house while attempting to install a new outlet. I could swear that I saw Grand Jack almost laugh when I went flying across the room. I would have laughed too.

So, needless to say, we hired an electrician from Del-Air and he did a great job last night in about an hour. Crazy thing is, he never flipped a breaker.

Evan loves his new room because the previous owners left glow-in-the-dark stickers on the ceiling that he can stare at. He is also getting better sleep because Madalyn is no longer in his room keeping him up all through the night.

Madalyn calls her room "my party" which is really funny because she says, "is it time for me to go to my party?!" before bedtime. Her room is very girly and pink with a chandelier which was partly installed by me and then correctly installed by an electrician.

Jack's room is the furthest away from any of us (this is a good thing) and he has been an angel throughout this whole ordeal. He only cries when he is hungry or tired (again, not by our might).

I mowed the front yard the other day and it took me an hour. Time for me to get a riding lawnmower so I can officially be like that guy in the commerical who says, "How do I do it all ...? I'm in debt up to my eyeballs ....! Somebody help me."

I like buttons. Pools don't have buttons. They have levers. I like buttons.

Never try to light a pilot-light when it is located next to a large propane tank.

Water softeners should be called "unremoveable soap dispensers" because I can never get the soap off of my hands or head.

A pool-safety fence is also meant to keep out adults.

Why hire a maid to clean your floors when you can buy a robot to do it for you?

That noise you hear in your grass is your sprinkler system about to turn on. I would recommend NOT putting your ear to the lawn to figure that out.

All in all, we are very happy with the new place and things should return to normal (all screwed up) eventually.

September Shots

The Grocery Store Hates Me

I don't know when the conflict initiated, but Publix has made it quite clear we're at war, and it is personal.

Today my mom visited and watched the kids so I could go to the store- are you ready for this- ALONE. I know. Big day. And especially since today is the day I learned that the store's quam is not with my offspring, but with me.

Well maybe I'm exaggerating. I did pretty fine till check out, when a 2 liter coke slipped between the bars beneath my cart and I attempted to wiggle it lose. Big mistake. I had made a puncture so miniscule that you might have thought I was attempting arthroscopic surgery and, alas, my carefree run to the store became a big flop.

Heads turned toward the circus act of me trying to shield the spraying syrup while doing some jig of indecisiveness, like a potty-training toddler trying to locate a bathroom in the midst of an accident. I squeezed by my cart and lay the weapon spray-side-down in a trash can and may or may not have sprayed the cashier across the bottom in the process. Then I began looking for clean up and trying to figure out how I would get another Coke. I needed it for small group and I was not coming back.

If Shaun had been with me when this happened two things would've been very different for me.

1) The moment the plastic popped I would've just turned to him and said, "Shaun, quick, open your mouth!"

and

2) he would still be making fun of me and reminding me for the umpteenth time what a klutz I am forever doomed to be.

But that would've been well worth having his mouth on standby, and a price I'd have been very willing to pay.

So I guess I'll have to start shopping somewhere else now. The cashiers will all scatter when they see me coming. It's a shame, too. I loved Publix. The cookies they give the kids, the balloons, the car-chaped grocery carts. As much as it caters to kids, I should've known it had nothing against mine. Just me.

The Italian Chick

A few mornings ago, Evan walked into our room and vomited on the carpet at the foot of our bed. A day or so after that, the toilet was clogged with not so pretty water, if you know what I mean, and then Madalyn used it against warning and- ta da! Overflow all over that carpet. Jack had a few unusual spit-up episodes 'round about that same time, but it wasn't until yesterday that we realized a virus was in the house. Yesterday, because that was the morning when Madalyn, too, walked into our room covered in dried vomit, then later threw up all over her carseat, and then again today had two more episodes and walked around whiney and pale. We've gone through so many Clorox wipes you'd think we were a decontamination unit, so much Resolve we should just buy in bulk- wholesale- and start a carpet cleaning company.

Maybe you can already tell where this is headed... another one of those self-loathing, sem-confessional blah blah blah posts. So I'll jump right into it already-

I've been feeling discontent and easily overwhelmed lately... always followed by a wave of guilt, (you know, for feeling discontent and easily overwhelmed,) and- not to mention- short-fused. What bothered me most was that I couldn't figure out where it was coming from.

Was it the baby blues? I'd never had them before. Was it all the sickness and transition? Still, I didn't think I could be so easily thrown. Maybe it was quite simply the state of being cramped with 5 people (and three of them very messy people) into 1600 square feet of living space with no yard, no hamster wheel, to run our restless legs on. But then so many more families- bigger families- live in smaller and get along just dandy. We lived with such people up at Wheaton and their happy carrying-ons put us to shame in a major way. But then why do I always have to take that "it's all relative" outlook and guilt myself to death? Isn't that self-destructive, contributing to the funk I'm in? I mean everyone can say that- there's always a worse-case scenario. But fact is, we're human and we're self-centered and when things get tough we prefer to worship our pitiful selves in our own little pitiful world. It's like we enjoy it in some sick, sadistic way. That thought points me right back to the guilt road (also self worship) and it's an endless cycle...

So I've been pondering this. Pondering, pondering... the kind where you wish you could turn your brain off because why does it matter anyway, just shape up already, self! And then God answered my ponderings. He answered them as I sat and watched Food Network's young and beautiful Giada De Laurentes slice an onion with frosty white painted fingernails so gracefully I expected classical music to commence. He answered me as I watched her package another perfect meal in another perfect transparent teal take-out box, as she poured Italian lemonade into beautifully shaped individual bottles and topped each fizzing bottle with a cork, smiling her broad smile with her hair falling just so, her necklace sparkling just so.

I had gone from laughing at how impractical it all was every show, to admiring the craft, to actually believing I could do the craft, too, to getting flat ticked off that, in fact, I could not do the craft because WHEN WOULD I?

While Giada was meticulously wrapping tiny globs of Nutella in small egg roll wrappers and placing them on a neat sheet of parchment paper atop a brand new baking sheet, I was cleaning up poop and vomit and sweating like a pig putting three kids in carseats. While she was rolling Italian words off her tongue like music, I was trying to keep to my new "no yelling" rule for just one day. While she was planning glamorous outfits to match her foods and their containers, I was pulling up slightly gaping maternity clothes and wondering when my closet floor would be clean enough to lug down the box of normal clothes again and sort out some things that might fit.

My brother bought me one of Giada's cookbooks long before I was a viewer... last Christmas, actually. The same year my mom gave me Writer's Block was also the year John gave me Giada De Laurentes' Everyday Italian "because she's hot." A cookbook where you can't tell at first glance if it's a portfolio for a promising model, or an original recipe collection, because it's half pictures of Giada and half recipes. Okay maybe more of a 75/25 ratio.

And for the record, nothing says Merry Christmas like a hand-me-down gift. Like when you buy a certain cd because you want to burn a copy before passing it on to your mother, (I mean, not that I've done that or anything... ) But seriously, what do I want with a book someone else drooled on prior to moi?

Anyway, enough of that- now that I've begun living vicariously through Giada, I've pulled that second-hand sucker out and book-marked a recipe or 20. Because not only is she beautiful, but it as it turns out, she can in fact cook. Wonderfully.

She can cook, she can dress, she can wrap things in pretty packages, and she has all her ducks in a row. She's a trendy, posh, young Italian Martha Stewart. In short, her turquoise tiled kitchen is filled with magic because she's got it going on. And I don't.

And that was when God woke me up out of the trance to tell me that my vicarious living and resulting self pity was sucking the joy right out of my life with the tenacity of a vampire bat. I had found something to be discontented about. The beautiful tv celebrity Giada by all appearances had her ducks in a row and- boo hoo- I did not. Talk about a refresher course on the basics!! It's like I'd dumped the 1st commandment out with the dirty diapers.

If you've attended a Beth Moore study perhaps you've heard her mention the captivity of activity; how our constant going, going, and doing, doing can even become a stronghold over us. Well I can't exactly say that it's a stronghold because I don't have the luxury of going, going and doing doing. It's worse than that. I'm in captivity to the idea of activity. I'm coveting the opportunity to be a Martha when God's giving me the perfect set-up to really learn to be a Mary. It's strange, too, because normally I feel too much of a Mary, not too concerned with having all my ducks in a row. I'm not one who can't sleep if there are dirty dishes in the sink, who feels guilty if her kid goes a day without a tooth-brushin'. But lately that's all changed. And it started with the transitions and illness that entered with Jack's birth and has swarmed around us ever since. That was when the power to choose how to do things and when to do things was snatched from my hands. And I resent it.

I'm bitter watching Giada because if I should want to get on a cooking kick or maybe take some extra time in the morning for make-up and a nicely chosen outfit, well it's not an option. At one point I thought, 'maybe if I just paint my fingernails a frosty white I will feel clean, surrounded by cleanliness, and as if my fingers are magical instruments like the fairy godmother's wand, turning ordinary things into sparkling wonders.' And I really believed it might happen for me. Only I still haven't had a chance to paint them. I finally got around to cutting my toenails this morning, and even that I had to do while on the phone, to multi-task.

It's one of those obsession rides I get on that robs me of all my content. I can't believe I still fall for such an obvious stunt. It's like tripping over a piece of glowing, fluorescent wire. I know I wouldn't swap places with Giada for any amount of money, and deep down, I don't envy her at all because I have everything I want packed securely under my 1600 sq ft roof; three healthy (well, sort of healthy) children and my best friend I call husband. But still- a day, just a day in her shoes would be nice. A day of makeup and outfits and cooking for the people I love under exceptionally good lighting sounds pretty blissful right about now.

Since I can't clean house, just pounding this out will make for a good substitute. It's like I am cleaning house, getting this off my chest and out into cyber space. I was really trying to avoid more gutter stories, too, knowing full well the internet has heard more than it ever wanted to know about the bodily functions underway at our house. But I can't help it. It's therapeutic.

So consider this my verbal surrender, before God: I, Katherine McDonnell, hereby declare that I am surrendering all my ducks to the Lord. If He so desires them to roam, to run in a serpentine fashion, or to take off bolting in twenty different directions, then so be it. Because He cares for me, He can have my ducks. This does not, however, mean I won't continue looking through the newspapers for the ideal next home, nor will I stop watching Everyday Italian... unless I receive Word that these things, too, need to go alongside the attitude. My loyalties lie with the Lord and His will in the chaos that is my life. The only place I want to be is the very place Mary resided; sitting at His feet, soaking up His presence, receiving His delight in me.

(Just the fact that He doesn't hand me and my annoying self over to my worldly lusts should be enough to keep me there, shoudn't it?) To think He delights in me! Lord, help me believe it.

Thank you, Blogland, for the therapy you afford. And now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to take a bath and paint my nails a frosty shade of white.

If You're Going to Beat Up Someone

Make sure it isn't a reporter and that a camera isn't recording your every move.

Yesterday morning, one of the three greatest things to happen to me over the past 4 years had a plate of hot cakes with me at the breakfast table, his request. This birthday we celebrated his transition from toddlerhood to childhood. A large bite for a mother to swallow, let alone digest.

We had made cupcakes for his class but school was cancelled due to Ernesto's arrival and into the freezer they went until Friday. A recipe for playdough saved the drizzly day, and we made three batches of pastel blue, yellow, and green, which now sit on the counter combined into a single, salty turqouise lump. And TWO showers were allowed instead of the one-a-day rule.

Wow. Talk about a fun birthday.

Yesterday evening, when we tucked the kids in at bedtime, thanking God for giving us Evan, we realized we were thanking Him at the exact time he gave him to us just 4 short years ago; 7: 06 p.m.. For me, it was just one more display of His faithfulness and blessing in and on our lives.

Happy Fourth Birthday, big boy!

Yesterday

Writer's Block, Entry # 1

Last Christmas my mom put a small, cube-shaped book in my stocking called The Writer's Block. It contains "786 ideas to jump start your imagination" and they're actually pretty useful.

For a year it's peeked out of a basket on my desk shelf, mocking me. I've folded it open a few times and smirked at the suggestions inside, but have always dropped it back into the basket instead of using it. Enough of that.

I dread my children growing up but I also welcome the idea of having more time to develop myself in one way or another. I'd love to learn to play a musical instrument, however wildly beyond me that may be. I'd love to research biblical topics of interest, read more biographies on all kinds of people, and learn more of the craft of writing and writing well. And while I have the rest of my life to do these things, I want to start the habit of them even now, in the craziness of mommyhood.

Therefore, consider this your warning. If you start seeing a weekly "Writer's Block" post, just excuse it. Just know it will be my attempt to challenge my "inside the box" brain at the art of story-telling. I figure creative juice is probably like breast milk- the more you pump, the greater your supply. (And that analogy is a perfect example of why I need to keep writing.)

But the first Writer's Block entry I want to post today isn't my own, but an excerpt from the book that amused me, a story that won a short-story contest that had to be 55 words or less, written by Jeff Whitmore, called 'Bedtime Story'-

"Careful, honey, it's loaded," he said, re-entering the bedroom.

Her back rested against the headboard. "This for your wife?"

"No. Too chancy. I'm hiring a professional."

"How about me?

He smirked. "Cute. But who'd be dumb enough to hire a lady hit man?"

She wet her lips, sighting along the barrel. "Your wife."

Writer's Block prompts-

Jeff's story has it all- suspense, sex, betrayal, revenge, and murder- in a mere fifty- three words! Attempting one of these super-short stories is a valuable lesson in the economy of language- notice how much of Jeff's story is suggested, from the relationship between the characters to the gun itself. With this model in mind, craft your own story of fifty-five words or less.

Do you know how hard that would be? Yeah right.

And this is why Writer's Block always lands it's square butt right back in the basket.

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

While their brothers were in school Wednesday, Sydney and Madalyn had their first manicures. Iridescent pink. And purple... and white. (Hey, toddlers have a hard time making decisions, and 'a girl can change her mind, you know.')

The fingernails were the first thing Madalyn showed Evan when he got in the car that afternoon, the first topic of conversation-

"Ohhh, they're sooo pretty, Madalyn," he said, much to her satisfaction. Then he turned to ask me if I would paint his like Madalyn's.

Shaun came home late that evening, after bedtime, so he never saw the nails that day. But the next morning he awoke to a plump, dimpled hand fanned in front of his face, as, understandably, showing off her finger nails was top priority that day, Madalyn's waking thought. Charmed, Shaun knew one thing was for sure- he'd never be woken up sweeter. That was the peak of his wake-up moments, right there. Not even a Christmas morning back in the 80's could top it.

I'm not a very girly girl I don't think. I mean, I like a manicure once in a blue moon. I like getting dressed up and having nice things but I don't enjoy shopping on any given day of the week. I have to be in the mood, and when I am, I get things done. I don't stop at every mannequin to oooh and aaah and assess things. Walk in, quick scan around, grab some hangers and I'm half way there. I don't like chick flicks just because there's a boy and a girl and a love story. I hated Ever After and Return to Me and Sweet Home Alabama and Maid in Manhattan, and countless others... (Okay so I never saw that last one, but I'm pretty sure I know where I stand on it.)

But a good love story, one well-told and well-acted... Now that I love. Like The Notebook or Far and Away, Something's Gotta Give, When Harry Met Sally, My Big Fat Greek Wedding or The Cutting Edge. (So I've seen way too many movies, now that I think about it but that's beside the point...)

The point. The point(!) is that watching Madalyn get SO MUCH JOY out of painted fingernails made me realize that if she's a girly girl, well then I will be too. Or to quote The Notebook since I just mentioned it; if she's a bird, I'm a bird.

When she told me that her polish was almost all gone today I asked her if she'd want me to paint them again sometime. She muttered something about Shasta and her face showed it was a certain yes.

Side note here: Shasta would be code for my friend Stephanie. For some reason Madalyn calls Stephanie by her dog's name, and has been so stubborn about it, no matter how many times she's corrected, that we've given up and Stephanie is officially Shasta to her. And it's so darn cute, the familiarity with which she says it, that who can blame us? Stephanie's kids call me Miss Donnell, so what does it really matter anyway, right? Aunt Shasta it is.

But that was when it became clear to me, that moment when she muttered about Shasta painting her nails again with bright, hopeful eyes, that was the moment when I realized if she wanted us to paint each others nails every day for the rest of our lives I was game. If she wanted to spend several minutes of our lives talking about fashion, if my back ached while we dissected every shoe Dillards had on display, I would not only do it, I would enjoy it.

If she loves Ever After, finds the screenplay to be deep and flawless (which I doubt she will, knowing there is a very rough and tumble side to her,) then so be it. If she likes every boy meets girl story, that's just peachy with me. I will even go so far to say that if she cries during a movie starring Jennifer Lopez, if she's reaching for tissues because J-LO has her that moved, then I will probably even cry with her. Because when I look at Madalyn, painted little fingernails and beyond, I see how much we're made of the same stuff. And she moves me.