Today I Didn't Have My Coffee So...

...the dog took a dump in the house, and the cat barfed all over everything in two separate rooms, and Littles threw multiple tantrums, and we got muddy during our morning walk, and Littles got my church clothes wet during his bath, and the dog tried to chase rabbits during our afternoon walk, and I accidentally kicked the dishwasher and got a huge bruise on my shin, and the dog got scared by the Swiffer when I was trying to clean up his annoying fur and mud tracks and then he peed (ironic, isn't it?), and Littles took his brace off instead of falling asleep, and I had to share my pizza with him during dinner, and I think I'm going to move to Australia.

On the flip side, today I didn't have my coffee so...

...I was up and showered before Littles was out of bed, and we made it to church with 2 minutes to spare (and didn't run over anyone on the way), and we had skype time with the Man, and I got an hour long nap, and I dusted, swept, and mopped, and I took care of three loads of laundry, and Littles and I got to watch home videos of him as an adorable and slightly less rambunctious baby, and I cleaned the kitchen, and I baked two loaves of zucchini bread, and I invested in a friendship, and Littles helped me make smoothies for dinner (this is before he started stealing my pizza), and we had a musical extravaganza of flute, piano, and metronome, and we admired the post-rain Oklahoma, and I spent time in prayer and Bible study, and I sang my heart out, and, no, I did NOT dance like nobody was watching me, and I changed Little's explosive diaper (he ate an entire carton of blueberries yesterday) and didn't complain once, and I beautifully put the dog in his place several times, and I very nicely fed the cat, and I took time to write a blog about how inspirational I am and...

...on the whole I felt like I was rather productive and it was a pretty good day with or without coffee and with or without the events included in the first paragraph of this blog. Is that selective listening for daily life? Or just choosing to rejoice in the good things instead of be grumpified over the bad?

With that said, I don't plan to not drink coffee tomorrow. I don't think my other shin would be happy to join the first one in all its bruised and battered glory. Plus, my cleaning supplies are running out, and coffee and cleaning supplies are obviously directly related.

October Perspective

October is the fallen leaf, but it is also a wider horizon more clearly seen. It is the distant hills once more in sight, and the enduring constellations about them once again.

Hal Borland

October and I have a love-hate relationship.

On the one hand, October issues in autumn, one of my favourite seasons of all.  It is crunchy, vibrant leaves and cool air. It's sweaters and skinny jeans and the return of really comfortable boots. It's apple bread and spice cake and pumpkin muffins. It's rainy days curled up on the couch with a cup of coffee and a journal. I like to watch the year run out of time, to look back and see where we've been without yet having to think about where we're going next.

On the other hand, October means Halloween. All month. It manifests itself in ugly decorations of plastic bag ghosts, decapitated hands hanging out of car doors, and fake blood smears in the windows. Even on an Air Force base. Unfortunately. I admit that I have no appreciation for Halloween at all. Sure, it can be cute to dress your kids up, and trick-or-treating is a wonderful way to meet neighbors, but I can do without the grisly and gruesome. I've never been drawn to the macabre (even though I had a certain odd fascination with my Gothic Lit class in college), and so most of the time I ring in November with a deep breath of fresh air and thank God that All Saint's Day finally arrived. Does this make me stodgy?

This year, it seems that I'm getting the aesthetic horrors of Halloween without the balancing effect of fall. Oklahoma has been so dry that there aren't enough leaves to change colour and fall off the trees, and the temperatures are still hovering in the 80s and 90s. It's a welcome break from the 100s, so you're not hearing me complain, but it feels...off...somehow. Admittedly, I've baked enough autumnal fare to make up for the lack of cooperation with the weather, and we did finally get in some good rain (which I am thoroughly enjoying), but I've been a bit sad to miss out on the lovely fire imbued trees this year. I think Virginia spoiled me.

Would it be innovative or pathetic if I went to the store and bought yellow, orange, and red streamers and used them to haphazardly festoon the two trees in our back yard? Because I am considering it at this point.

Prayer

Dear Lord,

Please help Little Man to remember the times I was a good parent more clearly than the times I should've been arrested by child services.

   Help him to remember the hugs and the kisses and the tickling (and the "elbow bonks") more than the "LIIIIITTLLLLLEEEEE!!!!"s and the "What Were You Thinking?!"s.

   Help him to remember the times we actually cooked something healthy or fun more than the times it was peanut butter crackers in the car or week old delivery pizza.

   Help him to remember that I allowed him to get a dog because I loved him and wanted him to learn compassion and responsibility more than the fact that most days I am driven completely crazy by said dog and have no compassion for any canines and want someone else to take on the responsibility of picking up dog poop out of the yard.

   Help him to remember the times that I let him pretend drive more than the times I dragged him kicking and screaming from the car.

   Help him to remember the times we played with legos and blocks and balls more than the times I was trying desperately to get housework done and kept saying, "If you step in that dust pile one more time, young man..."

   Help him to remember the times we went to the playground more than the times we didn't. Especially please help him to remember the times I actually played with him on the playground instead of sitting my pregnant self on a park bench and watching from the sidelines.

   Help him to remember the times I've let him watch Veggie Tales during dinner and please don't let him remember that one time that I conned him into watching Psych with me instead.

   Help him to remember the bubbles and the sidewalk chalk and the piano and the flute that he always wants more of and the books and the "airplane" rides and the favourite picture bulletin board and the new and evidently super cool potty more clearly than the times when I've put my head down on the table and just desperately wanted a break, a cup of coffee that's still hot, and a conversation that doesn't include the words "dog," "'ground," or "smoo-ie".

But most of all, Lord, please help me to be the kind of mom that I actually want him to remember clearly. Please.

Amen.

In Which I Play the Little Woman Card

Shall I set the stage for you? It's Tuesday night, nine o'clock, and the Oklahoma night is silent except for the persistent wind and occasional bark of a dog. The Little Man is fast asleep in his room, and the husband is back on that dead cacti infested Army base where we began our blogging journey almost three years ago, yes, the inimitable Camp Bullis with its awful cell phone reception and equally spotty internet. The pregnant belly and I are sprawled out on the couch with a cup of coffee (decaf!) recuperating after a long day of playgrounds, pumpkin bread, and preschool children. Then suddenly I hear a sound.

The sound of rustling. And thumping. And crunching.

The cat is still on the couch with me. The dog is still taking his last potty break in the yard. And Alex only thumps. He doesn't rustle or crunch. Then I realize that the sound (oh, inadequate word!) is emanating from the garage. My first thought, I admit, was "What idiot is dumb enough to break into the house of a Security Force's wife?" I could have a dozen cops at my doorstep with drawn weapons in the space of 5 minutes. And we live in such a sleepy little town that said cops would be more than happy to have a little bit of such excitement. But then I realized that I'd heard that crunching sound before. It sounded awfully like...dog food being eaten?

It was at that point that I remembered our only partially closed garage door. It sticks a bit at the bottom, and since today was trash day, I hadn't gotten it completely shut when I'd pulled the trash bin back in. Something had crept under the garage door and gotten into the dog food. And while I hoped that something was a stray dog or cat, the chances seemed fairly slim.

Screwing my courage to the sticking point but forgetting that I had a broom in the kitchen, I grabbed the Man's old racquetball racket, and tentatively opened the door into the garage. And peaking out of the bag of dog food was a long, thick, rat-like tail! Closing the door as quickly as possible, I realized that even I know they don't make rats that big in Oklahoma. Conclusion: there is a opossum in my garage. Further conclusion: I am too chicken to take it on.

It could be rabid!

Enter across the way neighbor and now absolute most appreciated friend I will ever make in my entire life who, on receiving an incoherent text message including the word "possum" (yes, misspelled in the heat of the moment) and more than enough exclamation points, sends her husband and nephew (and their broom) to save the day. Without me even having to ask. Seriously. She's that awesome. Her husband and nephew are also that awesome. I am still not awesome. Just chicken. I did, however, man up enough to video tape the ensuing excitement:

Apologies for the shaky camera work and all the squealing. And, as an apologetic note to poor Josh and his slandered good name, in retrospect, I realize that the couch that we have not yet gotten rid of was NOT what lured the opossum in. Mea culpa. [Edit: reloaded the video as it wasn't playing and for some reason it uploaded twice. Hopefully one of them will work this time!]

Learning Curve

I've learned a lot the last two years and nine months of marriage. Admittedly, it was a sink or swim experience at times, but since the learning curve has been on my mind recently, I thought I'd share. Not so much so that you can glean from my wisdom as that you can laugh at my inexperience--which is always more fun!

• After years of fighting with the fitted sheet, I have finally learned the trick to folding them to where they actually look folded. All credit goes to my amazing mother-in-love. One question: WHAT TOOK HER SO LONG TO TELL ME THE SECRET?!?! Obviously I was incapable of figuring this out on my own.
• As soon as you finish mopping the floor, someone will track in dirt. It will be either a) your adorable toddler, b) your slightly annoying but semi-lovable pooch, or c) your wonderful husband who is trying valiantly to provide you with green grass in the middle of a quasi-desert. 
• Mondays always constitute craziness. The house is a wreck from the weekend, and everyone in the house is grumpy that "Dad" isn't home. Do something fun fast before the Monday sucks the life out of you.
• A load of laundry a day keeps me from having to do twenty gazillion loads in a row by the time I finally get to it. It's a small price to pay for sanity.
• My plans for Saturday morning family breakfast pan out much better when I tell my husband about them on Friday night instead of Saturday morning. Somehow it took me two years to figure this out. I blame the pregnancy brain.
• Dogs like to eat cat poop. This was one of those informational things that I shouldn't have had to learn as a housewife. The easiest way to get the excess litter off the love seat where said dog likes to eat said cat poop is to just vacuum the couch. That I understand learning now. But someone should've warned me about the cat poop consumption earlier. I feel like it's one of those things you should learn around the time you find out that you can't drink a whole gallon of milk in one sitting but you can cook salmon in a dishwasher.
• Liking a clean house and being good at cleaning house are not the same thing. Sadly. Liking a clean house and having enough money to hire a maid are also not the same thing. This is additionally sad.
• Taking a nap when your son is taking a nap is more restful in the long run than sitting on the couch and watching something mind numbingly idiotic on hulu. But knowing this in my mind does not always equate the physical energy to walk from the couch to the bedroom.
• Coffee makes everything better. This is a truth universally acknowledged.
• If there is no coffee, fresh flowers also work.
• You can always choose which household tasks to leave until later. Cleaning the bathroom is not one of them.
• In the long run, a happy kid and a happy husband are always more important than a clean house. Resign yourself to an occasional sink full of dishes in exchange for an afternoon of legos or an evening of Numb3rs on the couch. If you don't, you'll finish the dishes to the dulcet tones of a screaming toddler which will make you too grumpy to be nice about the legos or Numb3rs (incredibly). 
• Your husband wants you to jump on the bandwagon when it comes to his sports team. Resist the urge. Eventually, he will recruit to his team both of your sons (even the unborn one), the dog, and the cat; remember that he needs a devil's advocate. It's good for him. Even if he doesn't realize it. (Josh's comment as he watches the Cowboy's game: When are you going to bed?)

I can think of more to add to the list, but this is getting long, and I've also learned (completely unrelated to marriage and motherhood) that nobody reads the whole way through really long posts. Or the serious ones. Or if they do read them, they don't comment on them. And what is the point of blogging without comments? Then it just becomes pure narcissism! Oh wait, maybe it already is... Oops?

Hope

Hope is the thing with feathers/That perches in the soul./And sings the tune/Without the words,/and never stops at all. 

Emily Dickinson

I've been thinking about hope a lot lately. I've found that it comes in many different forms, and it doesn't always look the way I think it will, but that's starting at the end instead of the beginning of my thoughts about hope. I suppose that "hope" is not an unusual topic to think about as a pregnant woman. I have a special kind of hope growing inside, making itself evident in some ways but not in others. Every kick and wiggle reinforces the desire that is growing inside me just as surely as the baby is. With my last pregnancy almost every hope was centered around the Man somehow being able to video in for the birth--and he was. With this pregnancy, I've been hoping for a pair of healthy feet, and according to the doctor's assessment of our ultrasound, that's exactly what we're getting.

Our hopes don't always end up in such neat packages though. There are, of course, the bigger hopes, the ones that we spend years waiting for, but I think most of what I'm talking about are the small hopes: the hope that Littles will sleep past seven (he won't), the hope that the dog won't rip my arm out trying to get to a jackrabbit (he won't), the hope that the Man will make it home for dinner (it's a 50/50 chance). It's hopes like these that, in some small way, make or break us. Do we stop hoping--and working--for change because we are frequently confronted by disappointment? Do we find ourselves blinded to hope fulfilled in the face of hope disheartened?

I'm not necessarily here with the answers, just with thoughts. I've been thinking a lot about 2 Corinthians 4:16-18, "So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal." For some reason, I feel that these verses are the key to hope. Not that we don't hope for those little things that may or may not occur (or the big things that may take years in the coming), but that we keep our hopes within the perspective of forever with Christ. I guess this is just a lot of rambling to say that, like everything else in life, hope is only beautiful when seen in relation to Christ.

That's one thing I love: all the boys, boys, boys, boys!

Apologies for the butchering of a Grinch quotation for the title, especially when this post isn't even Dr Seuss related, but I am writing about boys. Specifically, I'm writing about James Dobson's book, Bringing Up Boys. My wonderful husband gave me Dobson's book for Mother's Day this year after some broad hinting on my part. I've been spending the last few months reading a chapter here and there and praying. Lots of praying. Why the praying, you may ask? Because Dobson's book was heavy on the statistics, and I am easily freaked out in my current pregnant state. I love my little man (and my big one), and I really want to be the best parent possible, and raising a boy right now is not the easiest thing in the world. So, my initial reaction to Dobson's book was mild paranoia. With that said, I found it extremely informational and challenging...and somewhat encouraging as well.

Let me be honest and say that I didn't quite know what to expect going into Bringing Up Boys. Most of the parenting books I've read have been super encouraging and presented lots of parenting tips and the occasional heart warming story. Dobson's book was much more statistically driven and seemed to be geared specifically towards opening eyes to the difficulty of raising boys in our present culture. He does give some good parenting suggestions (especially toward the end of the book), but the majority of the chapters served primarily to warn parents against the dangers of passing off the job of parenting to someone else. If I could sum up the book's message, it would sound something like: "Man up, and parent!" And I think that's a legitimate message.

Many of us are so scared to parent that we just don't. We don't discipline because we don't want to hurt our children's fragile feelings. We don't invest time in our kids because we're too busy working extra shifts so we can give them everything they could ever want. We don't closely monitor our kids because we don't ever want to invade their privacy. We don't parent. But the truth is that our kids need parenting more than ever. They are bombarded by a growing number of negative influences every day. And they are desperately searching for something, someone to help them navigate the waters of an increasingly hostile world. I'm hoping to take Dobson's challenge and be the best parent I can be to my little man...and his coming little brother. And I hope that you will keep me accountable to do so.