Born that way . . .

Here are Ava and Helen, happily playing in Helen’s room. I guess little girls are just born that way.

Tea, my deah?

What She Said.

The following are some excerpts from Ava’s extensive chatter vocabulary:

• “Mom, you say ‘no’ a LOT.”
• Outside of Dirt Cheap (a mile or two from BK) — “I smell food. Smells like Burger King. I think it’s chicken and fries.”
• “Did you know there are many mansions in Jesus’ Father’s House?”
• “I’m so frustrated with this pee-pee. I’ll just play in the sandbox until my panties & shorts dry.”
• “When I grow into a little dog, then I will poop outside in the grass. And peep.” Are you pretending? “No, mom — the real grass.”
• “Look at that poop! It’s a . . . triangle. . . snake . . . dragon . . .”
• “Ow, ow, double ow.”
• “[Luke & I are] talking. Having couch time.”
• “Hey, Dad. I feel rain dots.”
• “The pee-pee was going down my legs like a slide.”
• While Luke was screaming — “My room is so, so noisy, Mom & Dad.”
• With arms in her jammies and the “feet” trailing out behind her — “Mom, I look like Jesus.”
• When told she looked tired, Ava replied, “No, I think I look hungry. For ice cream. For strawberry ice cream.”
• “Can you get me a tissue? ‘Cause Ava has a bugger comin’ out with my cryin’.”
• [three babies] “Their names are ‘Crocodile,’ ‘Fishy,’ and ‘Alligator.’ Fishy and Alligator had a very good time today. They helped their mom.”
• While I’m nursing Luke and Ava is preparing to get some chocolate milk: “Look, Grandma — Baby Luke’s checking for choco nulk. His mommy is choco nulk. (chocolate milk)
• While praying: “It’s Baby Uke’s turn now.” “He can’t talk, Ava, so he’s too little to pray out loud.” In amazement with eyes extra wide open – “Yes, mom, he did pray. He said [breathe] [breathe], Amen.”
• Although her class was making cute footprints with paint, Ava refused, claiming that “Daddy would not like it if I got paint on my feet.” No amount of persuading and reassurance would make any difference.
• After seeing Aunt Judy: “But Mom, I did not get to say to Aunt Judy, ‘I snell gum.’” Because smelling gum is the new way to ask for some . . .

Waterboarding?

All was too quiet. Then, I heard happy noises. Given the nature of my daughter at this stage in her life, investigation is warranted. I find this:

Daughter is squirting son in the face with a vengeance, and same son is slurping it up delightedly. Water dripped from his forehead, chin, neck. . . you get the picture.

Playing with your sister is fun. Right?

Five minutes later, with no picture to prove it, Ava shut the two of them up in Luke’s room and some serious waterboarding commenced. At least that’s what I assume, given the fact that the baby started screaming and was completely soaked by the time I made it in to rescue him. The problem, dear Ava, is that torture only works when the object is actually able to speak.

Oh, and I wasn’t really briefed about the fact that this was going on. I was just informed. And had I known this would happen I’d have never given her the water bottle. Hmmmm. . . Sounds just as twisted here as it does on the news. Sometimes we’re more responsible than we wish to admit.

So, given the fact that I was ultimately responsible, I dryed off the soaking wet, cold child and dressed him in warm clothing. The water bottle is now on top of the fridge. Oh, and we’ll be shutting down Penntanamo Bay ASAP, just as soon as we find something to do with our prisoners.

Ava’s Tree Chair & Subsequent Ouchie

Ava’s Daddy made her a very special tree chair. She loves it and has been showing everyone who walks through the door.

It even comes equipped with a board for drawing.

The branches were SO tempting — perfect handholds for swinging like a monkey.

Sometimes nature hurts a little.

Oh, well. It’s still an awesome place!

Camping

Jake was planning to camp with some guys last Friday night. Soooo, as a treat for us abandoned ones (not that I was too sad to sleep in the air-conditioning), I told Ava that we would spend the night at Grandma’s. Sadly, Jake’s outing was cancelled, leaving me to wonder how we would break the news to Ava or if we should still follow through with our plans. Enter brave husband. Same husband offered to set up the tent at Grandma’s and sleep in it with Ava. Furthermore offered to take niece & nephews as well.

After much excitement on the part of one two-year-old that I know well, we finally made it to mom’s. It’s amazing how imagining how good it will be is almost as fun as the event itself. She spent lots of time talking beforehand about the size of the giant marshmallows she would put on a stick.

Here are some pics:

Truth be told, Daddy slept better in the tent with daughter than Mommy did inside with son. (Grrr…)

Here is the special grandma who allowed us to crash her place. We love you!!

Love My Luke

If it’s true that the things you work the hardest for are appreciated more fully, it’s no wonder that I love me some Luke. To say that, as a mother, I recognize his cry would be such an understatement. In fact, his silence scares me — more than once, I’ve had to check on him to make sure he was still alive because he wasn’t crying. Don’t get me wrong — he’s a smiley little flirt in public and at fleeting times at home. However, his little belly has rolled his life thus far into a  bit of an uproar, leaving a tired family in its wake.  To quote his daddy, “It’s a good thing God made you so cute, little man . . .”

Those two tiny teeth created quite a stir in the days leading up to their grand entry. We believe, given the amount of fanfare recently, that their partners from the north might be about to join them.

He’s on track to be as mischevious and destructive as his sister, with a hint of “boy” thrown in the mix.

In the end, no amount of crying could ever make me want to miss that awesomely fuzzy hair,

those sweet, kissable cheeks

And that belly laugh.

Yep, I sure do love me some Baby Luke.

(even though there’s screaming in the background right this minute!)

Pancake Artist

I’m an artist. I’m learning that I can work magic that my child is enthralled with. All it takes is a little imagination to go with some pancake batter. We keep experimenting, and we’re getting better and better at it. Here is today’s offering of a puppy and a teddy bear. The puppy was subsequently decorated with Reddi-whip to make it look like Gracie.

She so beautifully blessed the food after we had it ready. I love to hear her pray, even though this is really just recitation via song for her. She does spontaneously talk to Jesus pretty often.

Thanks, Your Highness, for the private audience.

Yesterday I did something I haven’t ever done before. I wasn’t sick. There were no unforseen circumstances. No kids were sick or ornery. I just felt such a strong urge, so I did it.

I skipped church.

Yep, sent my husband and kids and stayed in my pj’s. Didn’t last long, though, because it was such a beautiful day that I had to grace the outdoors with my presence.

I grabbed a container and trotted across the road to my neighbor’s flower bed. She’s been gone for several years, and her family has yet to part with the house. So, we have a ready-made dewberry patch handy. As I was painstakingly reaching among the thorns, God and I began a little rendezvous that went something like this:

“These are cool, God. Is this supposed to be a parable of life for me or something? Nothing good comes without a little pain and effort?”

Because of His great love, we are not consumed.

“What’s that? Nice. Thanks. So, anyway, God, what’s Heaven like. Do you just go straight there or do you have to hang out somewhere waiting for the rapture?”

A day is as a thousand years, and a thousand years as a day.

“True, true, so what does it matter? When you die, you’re finally done. The ultimate rest. So, too bad we don’t really know what it’s like.”

I’ve given enough details to make scores of people long for it for centuries.

“I guess you’re right. And even if you hadn’t, how can it not be awesome? After all, it’s conceived by the same creative mind that created the most beautiful spots on earth. And Heaven is that Mind’s idea of perfection. It has to be absolutely stunning. . . My sister is in California at one such beautiful spot. Wonder if we’ll ever be able to afford seeing it?”

Heaven is free. You WILL make it there one day regardless.

“Awesome. Sometimes I wish there wasn’t life to be lived between here and there.”

Because of his great love, we are not consumed.

“That again. It is a pretty awesome verse. Lamentations? I think it goes into the ‘great is Thy faithfulness’ verse. I’ll have to look it up.”

I finished with the dewberries and went to the backyard. I was delighted to find some volunteer zinias and then noticed that my green beans seriously needed picking again. I started grabbing a few, then got hooked. It didn’t take long for our conversation to begin again.

“Is this not an awesome reminder that you’ll take care of us? ‘All I have needed your hand has provided.’ Food just grows. Crazy how that works.”

Because of his great love, we are not consumed.

“Okay, God — I see a pattern here. I get the message. I’m humbled beyond words.”

On April 4, my in-laws came to visit. While they were here, my brother-in-law got some freaky illness and ended up in the hospital for a few days. They left on April 13. Luke threw up that night, and the rest of us followed suit on April 14. Ava went to the doctor on April 15, and then again on April 17 for the most violent stomach bug we’ve ever had. Unfortunately, I’d kept Judy’s kids on the 14th so Gene could have more tests run, and unknowingly exposed them. They became sick with the same illness several days later. Since we were clearly ragingly contagious, no one wanted to set foot in our house, leaving us to fend for ourselves. On April 18, as I was laying on the couch with my screaming baby, I wondered about the health of my grandfather. He died at almost the same moment as I prayed for him & grandma. On April 19, relatives began arriving and we hosted my cousin & his wife for the time over the funeral. I LOVED having them here, but it was still abnormal for my kids. On April 20 & April 21, the kids stayed in childcare at the church. The last guests left on April 23. On Saturday, April 25, after almost a month of constant fussiness, I felt like I was about to lose it. My parents were gone out of town, my one sister (as mentioned before) was in California, and the other was still battling the “sickness.” I felt so totally overwhelmed, all I could do was cry. It was then that I entertained thoughts of having private church.

Maybe God put the idea in my head. I think He wanted to remind me that He loves me and I will not be consumed. I think He wanted to reassure me that he will provide for us. I think he wanted me to find myself in surroundings quiet enough to hear His voice. In short, He summoned me for a private audience.

Thanks, Your Highness. It was just what this weary princess needed.

Thanks, Grandpa

“I guess I just want to thank you for naming you son after me,”  he said with a hint of uncustomary shyness in his voice.

I replied, “And I want to thank you for being someone I would want to honor in this way.”

Now my grandpa’s gone to be with Jesus, and I’m reminded again of how true my quick, although sincere, reply was. At times, especially as a teenager,  I felt restricted by his standard of expected conduct, and at times I felt hurt by comments he made, but that’s not what I’ll remember. I’ll remember the apology he brought to me after finding out he had really hurt my feelings. I’ll remember all the times I expected a judgment or at least a comment (okay, sometimes I did get a comment,) and found nothing but love and acceptance. I found out really quickly that whether I cut my hair or wore earrings or painted my toenails really didn’t matter to him deep down as much as the condition of my heart before God. Every encounter served to deepen the love and respect I held for him.

As he handed out bulletins and greeted the sea of humanity flowing through the doors of Grace Fellowship, I was often struck anew with the knowledge that his heart truly desired to see God at work. Sure, I church was probably way too upbeat for him, but I’d even heard him comment that the drums “weren’t that bad.” I know he gave his share of criticism and suggestions, but he was happy that people were being reached with a message of hope. He loved the song, Days of Elijah, and I’m sure what he’s hearing now doesn’t even compare.

I know there are countless lives he touched — as a farmer in Pennsylvania, a farmer in Alabama, a prison chaplain, a hotel/restaurant owner, a prison ministry pioneer, an evangelist. But even if none of that existed, if he had never done anything great, he would still be important to me. Sometimes people forget that he was also a father, a grandfather, a great-grandfather. He was my grandpa. I’ve never known life without him. I can just barely remember when they built a house a couple hundred yards from us. After that, they were always so close. He is inextricably wound throughout my childhood and into my adulthood.  He is in almost every holiday memory, at nearly every birthday. My children both met him within hours of birth, and Ava loved him as her special “Grandpa Weber.”

I know that he is happy now, that he is with his Savior and his son. His life, although well-lived, is still covered by the grace of Jesus Christ. In that I find peace and I know that grace extends to me as well. I’ll see him again.

He began the prayer by reminding  Jesus that Luke’s life would be lived without his influence and ended the prayer with this: “. . . and we want to meet him again in heaven someday.”

Grandpa, I promise I will do everything in my power to raise my children to honor and serve the same Jesus who has by grace through faith saved you and me. You’ve kept your end of the deal — you enjoy the rest and glory of Heaven and I’ll work to continue your legacy here. One day, I pray with all my heart that my Luke Martin will have a chance to meet the wonderful man we named him after.

I love you. I’ll miss you.

Lynette

I am no supermom.

Sometimes I just don’t know about this mom thing.  To be honest, I guess I didn’t really ever get it. I always loved kids and thought it would be great fun to have a bunch of my own. But I didn’t have a clue that the fun could be interspersed with such frustration.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my children. They are the pride of my life and some of the dearest loves of my heart. It’s me that keeps showing up and ruining things. If ever there was a way to reveal the most awful things in a woman’s soul, it’s got to be motherhood. (Yes, I said “awful”. Not “awe-inspiring,” “awesome” and the other mushy gushy words usually associated with motherhood.)

I find myself to be very selfish & impatient. I find myself groaning and gritting my teeth when I hear my precious baby cry and cry and cry and scream and cry and cry and scream and . . . you get the picture. I often forget that a baby is probably not doing this intentionally.  But at the time, it sure feels like they have a personal agenda to suck up that precious moment you had dreamed about all day when you might have a second to pee in peace or that 15 minute snooze you were sure would improve your disposition. It feels even more intentional when the wailing wakes the other kid after not nearly long enough and all hopes of previously-mentioned plans falling into place are now completely dashed. So you pray, pray, pray that the wailing will stop. In fact, you tell God, it HAS to stop. You’ve had it. And if that stupid burp doesn’t come up soon and let my sweet baby boy come back, there’s going to be some kind of fury unleashed.

Ugly picture. See — motherhood brings out the worst in me.

I yelled at Ava today. I’ve been trying and doing better (I thought) at just letting her little antics go unnoticed.  I think it’s the fact that she is simply unable to play with actual toys unless she’s shut in room time, and even then I get nervous if it’s quiet. The other day it was two $28 MK gift sets (thankfully testers, but barelyused and definitely good for the bargain table. . .) The room still makes me sneeze, and I think the body butter ended up smashed through the little mesh windows of her playhouse — right next to Luke’s diaper cream from a month ago and the VicksRub from a week or so ago. So back to why I yelled at her today. First, we were in the laundry checking on my bedding (which Luke had so graciously consented to decorate with carrot puke) — the stain hadn’t come out, so I laid it aside. Literally while I was looking at the duvet cover, Ava somehow got the Shout, and had it sprayed all over the kitchen floor. I saw the bottle on the island and wondered why it was there about the same time I felt my nice leather moccasins sticking to the floor. I guess it wasn’t really a “yell,” as those who’ve really been yelled at would classify outbursts, but it was as loud and forceful rendition of her name as I’ve used lately. So I mop it, all the while giving a discourse on how inconvenient this is for mommy.

More ugly. Not only am I selfish, I’m lazy.

Of course, she completely wiped out on the wet floor. More crying. It’s the theme song of my house today.

Maybe that’s why Ava tried to get Luke some Mylicon — opened the bottle beautifully and carried the dropper upside-down like a pro. Didn’t lose a drop, even while she ran from me to stand on Gracie’s pillow and hold the offending hand and medicine behind the TV stand/cabinet thing. “No, mom, don’t take it. It’s baby Yuke’s.”

The rest of the story, which is actually pretty funny, actually started in stages — part a month ago, part earlier in the afternoon. Earlier in the afternoon, while I was nursing Luke, I heard Gracie whimper.  I knew she needed water (Ava had taken it outside earlier and dumped it), so I asked Ava to get her some. Clearly Ava can get water, because this is an all-too-frequent issue with us. So, I relax, believing the dog to be taken care of. Fast-forward to Jake’s arrival home, then rewind a month. While looking in the cupboard to find something that might go with the brats I had set out to thaw (made with real beer — maybe it won’t all cook off. . .) , he slipped. On the WD-40 residue from the “cleaning” spree a month ago (my best explanation for the ice-like conditions there.) In in effort to keep his balance, he stepped/stumbled all over the dog’s dishes, which went flying in the air. Great — the mop is still out and wet. There’s definitely water in there. Ava just refilled it.

The smell hit us at about the same time and poor Ava heard a doubly-forceful rendition of her name. The sober look on her face revealed her troubled conscience. Further investigation revealed about 1/3 of a bottle of rubbing alcohol, missing and presumed to be all over the floor, under the fridge, etc., in a failed attempt to kill Gracie, or at least get her good and juiced. I literally would not have known. The bottle was perfectly recapped, with not a drop spilled. I wish I could say I laughed, but I was in such a foul mood after lots of baby crying that I could only be irritated that Jake went to cover the lemon tree before he cleaned it up. I pulled the fridge forward for good measure and took great joy in throwing away every toy I found there, save the pig’s hiney from our fridge farm.

More, more ugly. I’m selfish, I’m lazy and I’m completely no fun.

If we had a home visit, I’m quite sure we’d be judged an inappropriate environment for kids, especially after the dog food was found to have bugs in it. GRRRRR. And yesterday, and as the meat saleslady was walking away after my “not a good time,” I looked down to realize that Ava was standing quietly by my side, holding her pants AND panties in her hand. See, lady — I told you it’s not a good time. I’ve got a baby screaming for lunch and a naked two-year-old. Meat is the last thing on my mind. Nor do I have a great desire to talk about my television viewing habits, telephone- survey lady. So could you all, kids included, just leave me alone!!!

Bedtime was near at 6:30 and it pounced up poor Ava at about 7:15.  She excitedly used her new Diego battery-powered toothbrush (well, daddy used it in her mouth) and was quick to tell me later that daddy had also “gossed my teeth.”  At 8:15, after a round of screaming, etc, from both kids, I think it was getting quiet.  I’m sure Ava at least is dreaming about the Dora “vitamin kill” she can have in the morning at “breakiss.” Now it is complete bliss.

Coffee. Quiet. Clean Sheets. Bleach pen worked to take the killer spit-up off my duvet.  Sigh.

Sometimes I hate what my children pull out of my inner soul for me to see. But deep inside, I know they’re in a unique position to make me a better person. For sure they’re able drive me to God. And, hey — sometimes I need the push.

For the record, I think they’re great kids. Ava is smart and generally very respectful and responsive. Luke is so happy when he’s happy. . . I wouldn’t change a thing about either of them. I know that there are so many, many people out there who are longing to be in my position, who wish to hear a baby crying in their home. I do know this, and deep down I never really forget. I think that’s why it stings when I find myself so out-of-sorts.

When I get to the end of the day, I look at them sleeping and my heart melts. They say you forget childbirth, but I think you forget a whole lot after birth as well.  That’s why each day can begin with a clean slate, and your love for your children is only strengthened by the struggles of the day before. Hopefully your stamina as a mom increases, too, because I keep waiting for the day that my abilities as a mom will be up to par with my kids’ activities.

My living room wall says it so well — it’s written there to remind me — We do not remember days. We remember MOMENTS. I have some great ones, and I’ll always cherish them, whether I’m doing everything right or not.

Just because I have it, here's the Vick's concoction, set so beautifully before her unsuspecting child. This is a FINE example of Ava's roomtime activities.

AND the failed attempt at painting her nails with daddy's paint brush and cleaning up the spill with a washcloth.

But they clean up, and we love them very much!