Thursday, December 18, 2014

Mary and Strong Willed Shooters

Tonight at Advent after reading the story of the angel Gabriel's announcement to Mary:

The Man: Boys, how would you feel if an angel appeared to you and told you that your life was going to change completely?

Little Man: I would tell him NO.

Tiny: I would shoot him with Daddy's gun.

And that, my friend, is Advent with strong willed boys.

Here they are with their strong-willed Mama. Also, note the nice necklace Littles made me.

What's interesting though is Mary's real response: "I am your servant. Let it be to me as you have said."

Christmas twins. Slay me now.

Can I tell you what I would've said if an angel showed up on my front door step with the news that my world was about to be turned upside down?

"Buddy, you've got the wrong girl."

This girl might be up for the job. She's tackling stairs and beginning her career as a pianist. {photo by the Man}
You know why I know that's what I would've said? Because that's what I say pretty much every day about the four little "unexpecteds" (some more so than others) that have dumped my world upside down over the last few years with all the unexpected things they do (the heart attack I got a few mornings ago when I woke up at 3am to find Tiny staring at me, his nose an inch from mine…unbelievable).

Sure, now he's sleeping. {photo by the Man}

It doesn't matter that an all-knowing God gifted me with these kids. Obviously, He over estimated my abilities here. See, somehow this ends up with me pridefully knowing more than God. I'm good like that.

So I'm thinking, instead, about Mary's incredibly humble response. You know what the root of humility is? Understanding who we are in God's eyes.

I can't handle the cuteness. {photo by the Man}

Obviously (again), if I can just see myself the way Jesus sees me, I'd understand why he thinks I'm the one for the job, why He picked me for these kids, this husband, these friends, this life... What a gift Mary had to be able to see herself with God's eyes.

May we all be gifted with such grace so that when God gives us the unexpected, we respond, "I am your servant. Let it be to me as you have said." Instead of my less eloquent, "Buddy, you've got the wrong girl." Or worse, "NO!" and then try to shoot the messenger.

These kids: tried to do the dishes the other day while the Man and I put the twins in bed. {photo by Josh}

Thursday, December 11, 2014

Carpe the Pack Mule!



I have finally achieved my goal of being a pack mule.

Also, I strapped Littles and Tiny to my legs, so I'm a walking tornado of chaos. Kidding. About the extra leg irons, not about the tornado of chaos.

By the way, Bruiser looks stoned in that picture, but he was happy in the next one, I promise. This picture, however, was the one Littles chose for the blog. I'm putting him in charge of images and possibly layout, and plan to hand over all content and editing to Tiny by the end of the year because, you guys, this is just too much for me.

But you know what isn't too much for me now? Everything else. Because thanks to my handy dandy Ergos, I can now strap on both babies and go. And by "go", I mean anything that would've formerly been challenging to do while tripping over a pair of very loud and insistent babies. It's a miracle they haven't fallen into the oven or gotten trapped in the fridge yet. The second you move one baby to a safe part of the room, the other baby moves in for the kill...

Also, now that I'm an Ergo sporting, military mama, I truly fit in here. All I need is a burger from In-n-Out (animal style), and I'll be a true Californian (although does the military wife part negate part of that? I don't know. I'm so confused). But the important part is that now I can one up all the other Ergo wearing moms buying organic produce and sushi at the commissary. Day seized!

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

For Love of a Sentence

A well-known writer got collared by a university student who asked, "Do you think I could be a writer?"
"Well," the writer said, "I don't know…. Do you like sentences?"
The writer could see the student's amazement. Sentences? Do I like sentences? I am twenty years old and do I like sentences? If he had liked sentences, of course, he could begin, like a joyful painter I knew. I asked him how he came to be a painter. He said, "I liked the smell of the paint."
The Writing Life by Annie Dillard


A few weeks ago, a friend posted on Facebook saying, "I read today that what you loved to do for fun when you were ten is similar to what you love to do today." 

When I was ten, I'm pretty sure I was in my dress designing phase where I was positive if I could just learn how to sew, I could make gorgeous ball gowns for real live fairy tale princesses. Mom got me sewing lessons. I systematically broke every sewing machine they placed in front of me. Some things just aren't meant to be.



Here we are napping together. Can't you tell?

When I was ten, I didn't like children. I mean, children that weren't me, of course. Does ten count as a child still? I never did that whole babysitting thing. It wasn't in my wheelhouse. Guess what I do now? Oh yeah, lots of children. That's okay. They're cute because they're related to me, so…I guess we'll give that one a pass.


When I was ten, I really liked to read. I mean, really (really) liked to read. And I liked to write. But only if people told me that what I was writing was brilliant beyond belief. I wish I was kidding about that part. But you know what the great part about reading is? No one can tell you you're doing it wrong. It's great. The writing thing? Leaves behind plenty of evidence about whether or not you're stupid.


Bruiser and Bee like to play a hybrid game of tug-of-war and peekaboo with Tiny's pajamas.

Some days I may be a bit on the stupid side. Then I pick reading over writing. It's a smart choice. And then because I feel smarter because of making the good choice to read (and hopefully reading something intelligent), I start to think I may be smart enough to start writing again.


This is a rabbit trail.



I have no idea how much sugar Tiny ingested while we were making Christmas cookies in order to achieve that smile.

Moving on


Last week I read Annie Dillard's The Writing Life (while reading about monasteries in other books) so I've been thinking rather a lot about vocation. Plus, I had a birthday, so I'm spending an inordinate amount of time asking myself what I'm doing with my life.


The obvious answer is, I'm raising four kids (thankfully, the Man and I make a pretty good tag team in this area). But other than that (on the days when there is time for something other than that), what am I doing? I'm reading and writing. It's what I love to do. Someday I hope someone will pay me to do it, but in the meantime, I'm doing what I love and that's it.



We got creative with our icing methods.

Annie Dillard says to:


Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

So, if you were dying and I was dying this is what I would say to you (not really): I love sentences. I love reading them and I love writing them. Sometimes I even like saying them out loud. So I'm going to spend my time working on sentences--sometimes I may even sentence my children to bed before dessert so that my two worlds will meet.

What do you love? Does it happen to be what you loved when you were ten? Or are you branching out in your old age?

This kid asks to hold my hand just because, wants to take pictures with me, and told his dad that I'm always nice.
So basically he lied. Who wouldn't love that?

Friday, December 5, 2014

Only the Fun Stuff

It's about time for you to catch up on some of the happy that's been happening around here, you know, just a few of the things I would share with you if you were sitting on my couch, sharing a cup of coffee, and getting covered in dog hair and the residue of chaos that coats our home. So, here you go!
  • Bee's pre-sleep reading this week has cycled between truck books, tractor books, and Walt Whitman. Hope she doesn't grow up to be scarred for life.
If the reading material did no damage, her crazy brother might push her over the edge.

  • On a similar note, Tiny brought down a blue bib and a pink bib for lunch today. He was adamant that the pink bib was for Bruiser. I acquiesced to his request. It didn't go over well.

Bruiser's face says it all.
  • I served the kids spice cake and stew for dinner one night this week. I tried to convince myself that was a completely appropriate dinner, but the truth is that I just didn't want to wait to eat dessert.
Technically, this wasn't the night of stew and spice cake, but see how happy the spice cake makes her?

  • Incidentally, when we sat down to eat aforementioned dinner, Littles turned to Tiny, who was bouncing off the walls, and said, calmly: "Let's have a nice Christmas dinner, shall we?"Civilization at its best.
Spice cake requires a death grip.

  • The mealtime hand holding war has been started, thanks to Tiny. He has agreed, grudgingly, to touch fingers with Littles, but that's it. Nothing further.

I think it's because he's been marked by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named
  • I bundled up the kids this week to go walk in the rain. Because that's normal. Littles dressed himself in his puffy winter coat and a pair of gloves. Again, because that's normal. By the end of the walk he had stripped down to a sleeveless shirt. I will say it again: normal.
We watched Kung Fu Panda with the boys last week. Can you tell?

Everyone loves rain. Except for Bruiser. When he's wearing that hat, he doesn't love anything but anger.

  • Our family officially has a girl. Bruiser knocked the standing lamp over on top of himself the other day, and Bee cried harder than he did.
This has nothing to do with the lamp incident. It goes with the next blurb. And yes, that's Bee wearing Tiny's jacket.

  • Last night we dragged our dinner, both high chairs, and a spare kitchen chair out to the front porch to have dinner in the pitch black fog. All the boys thought this was a great idea. Bee was not so sure. The neighbors are having late night conversations about my sanity. In my defense, I keep forgetting how early the sun sets…and it seemed like fun when Littles and I came up with the plan that afternoon.
In spite of the glazed look in my eyes, we had a good time.

In other news…

Here's what I'm reading: The Cloister Walk by Kathleen Norris (I only have a couple more days until this is due back at the library, so I need to crack down and finish it. There's a lot of food for thought here, though, so I'm wanting to go slow but I already used up my one renewal option!)

And here's what I just read: The Hour Before Dawn by Penelope Wilcox (May I say: lending kindle books may be my new favourite thing ever. Thanks, Mom! May I also say: I didn't intentionally pick multiple monastic books to read this week…it just happened.)

A mushroom palace!

And here's what I'm reading online: The Anti-Hustle (because some of us just aren't made to go and then go and then go some more no matter how intense our scheduling skills may be or how much we are capable of convincing ourselves that we should do everything)

And in case you missed it, here's what I've been writing: Hope and the Helicopter Angel (because we all need a little or a lot of hope right now)

We introduced the boys to White Christmas this week. They are entranced. Naturally.

Monday, December 1, 2014

Hope and a Helicopter Angel

Hope is a funny thing. It's one part waiting, two parts trust, and a whole lot of really strong coffee. It's the ability to look at life and say, "It may be awful right now, but that doesn't mean it's going to be awful forever." Hope is believing in tomorrow. Somedays, hope is even believing in whatever is left of today.

That's what I love so much about this time of the year. Because in the middle of the ugly that is so much of this world (you know what I'm talking about: you read the news), Advent reminds me that Christ came…and that He's coming again. And I need that.

Sometimes too, I need my little helicopter angel to keep me company.


Usually, I place her in a very prominent place in our home so that she can be a conversation piece for holiday guests, but this year, I'm being selfish. She's holding court on my nightstand because I need her to remind me of hope: hope that Christ has come and will come again, hope that I can get out of bed and start another day with some measure of grace, hope that eventually (if I pray really hard) my hair will be that awesome.

And in case the helicopter angel, with all her magical Christmas spirit, fails me, I've been thinking a lot about this verse lately:

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit. Romans 15:13

Sunday, November 30, 2014

Anti-Perfection

I'm realizing that Christmas is run by anti-perfectionism in our home. Well, a lot of things in our home are run by anti-perfectionism; I just realized it when we were decorating for Christmas.

The only picture I got of the kids on Thanksgiving. Seriously. Because I can't cook and take pictures simultaneously.

I let Littles help me decorate the tree…I wouldn't necessarily have placed some of the ornaments where he did.

I let the kids move the manger scenes around and play with them during the day…pretty sure I tripped on one of the magi on the way to dinner tonight.

Setting a pretty table is one of my favourite things. Green, also a favourite. And candles.

I let the boys take the nutcrackers off the Christmas tree and they turned them into knights defending a castle (and one of the ball ornaments became a bomb)…I picked up a piece of wood before bedtime that I'm pretty sure used to be a nutcracker staff. I'm too scared to look and find out if I'm right.

My first time to cook all of Thanksgiving dinner solo. It was fun! {Pie not pictured}

The problem is that I like perfect. I like everything in its place. I like pretty.

But I love my kids. I also love the idea of them growing up thinking I'm super chill and fun, which is a long shot, but letting them deconstruct Christmas for me is a start.

I also love pretty bookshelves. I gave up on that one once the twins got mobile. Evidently, books are fun chew toys.

I know there are twenty gazillion posts out there about the true meaning of Christmas and how we can't let our desire for picture perfect memories keep us from making actual memories, but I just wanted to share this simple thought that I had.

Tiny's contribution to the Christmas decorating was entertaining the rest of the family with his shenanigans.
We all know who his aunt is.

Yesterday when I was biting my tongue for the twentieth time as the Little Man grouped all his favourite ornaments on the same tree limb, I thought about how Jesus says simply, "Let the little children come to me."

We had an extra doggie with us this week helping with the set up.

How can I let the little children come to Jesus when I'm too busy cleaning up spills and crumbs and rearranging sparkly ornaments?

Littles was pretty excellent with the fake tree branch fluffing.

How can I lead them into his presence and share with them the joy and awe of his birth, if I'm more concerned about the presence of messes and the joy and awe of having things my way?

The twins did some bead untangling for me. Or re-tangling. One of those.

How can I let them come to Jesus unless I slow down and let them first come to me?

So close and yet so far.

Anyway, all this means that I'm taking a continued stance of anti-perfectionism.

It may not be "perfect", but right now it's perfect for us. Everything may not be in the place I originally appointed, but it's in the place it needs to be. And yeah, maybe our tree isn't pretty in the traditional sense, but I'm almost positive it qualifies as beautiful.

Bee woke up extra early this morning so we could enjoy the tree together before the sun came up.

So, let the little children and the anti-perfectionism come.

Thursday, November 20, 2014

Choices

The Man and I are just a month or so shy of six years of marriage, so I've been thinking a lot lately about what makes a marriage work and why. I don't write a lot about my marriage here because the Man likes his privacy and because I'm hardly an expert on the subject--and naturally, I only write here on topics in which I am qualified to give well thought out advice.

Cue hysterical laughter.

Anyway, let me start out by saying I've never been one of those to hold much stock in "true love". I love the Man, don't get me wrong, but it's all too easy to be in love one day and out of it the next. If you asked me what I believed marriage was about, I would've said commitment. And that's a terribly practical answer and not necessarily wrong, but also a little on the cold side.

Commitment, all on its lonesome, can leave you hanging on by the skin of your teeth. That kind of commitment is a little bit like my first birth story: I was doing it without pain medication even if it killed me! (Incidentally, it didn't kill me.) (Neither has marriage.) (The kids might.) (Also, needles in my spine are scary.)

Lately, though, I've been thinking about how marriage, and the deepening love that comes alongside it, is more about recognizing the small moments of tenderness and laughter, allowing the perspective with which you see your married life to be colored by those little gifts.

Maybe it has less to do with "This man is the all encompassing love of my life" (and the flip side of that coin: "so help me, I will stay married to this man or die trying") and more to do with taking note of who it is you married and the incredible person they are becoming.

It's laughing at the just-for-you joke he made (which may possibly have included an Alias reference).

It's savoring each bite of the Vietnamese summer rolls he brought home for you in the late afternoon as a pre-dinner "appetizer".

It's returning the favor when he nails you between the eyes with a sweet potato fry midway through supper. Don't let it bother you when you miss his head by several inches.

It's treasuring the fact that he put sambal on the roasted asparagus, knowing that he loves your culture too.

It's being grateful for the rearranged study schedule, instead of guilty that you're needing extra help at home.

It's racing the shopping carts at Costco after raiding all the free samples together--and not even coming close to beating him…in the shopping cart race, not the free sample gathering. You've got him on that one. Trust me.

It's knowing that no difficult conversation, no enforced separation, no difference of opinion, no full blown argument, no anything will outweigh the fun of being with him because suddenly you find that you're actually paying attention to who he really is, instead of just skating by on emotion or grit.

She's trying to usurp my place with her cuteness and subtle cunning, but I will prevail.
No other pictures available thanks to the Man's strong anti-camera stance.

Marriage, like most things in life, turns out to be more about perspective than I realized. Perspective and laughter and kindness.

And the great thing is that these are choices we can make even when we're not necessarily feeling those same first flutters of what we like to call "love", and not in a grit-my-teeth-and-get-through-it kind of way.

We can choose to invite laughter into our homes.

We can choose to be kind.

We can choose to see them for who they are now instead of who they used to be or who we want them to be.

We can choose--even when it's hard. And really, I think that's pretty wonderful.