Fish or Snake?

"What father among you, if his son asks for a fish, will instead of a fish give him a serpent; or if he asks for an egg, will give him a scorpion?" Luke 11:11-12

I was recently thinking back on my husband's decade in the military (our family's decade as a military family). Ten years, two deployments, five kids, five moves, more short term separations than I can count... Looking back, I see things so differently now than I did then, in large part because I now have a different perspective on so many of the things that happened.

This morning I read the above verse and it reminded me of a scene in one of our favorite family movies, Father Goose. In the movie, Leslie Caron's character, Catherine, believes herself to be bitten by a snake which turns out to be only a stick with thorns. When one of the young girls goes to kill the "snake" and discovers the truth, she brings it back to Walter (played by Cary Grant) who believes Catherine to have died from the poisonous snake bite. The following conversation ensues:

Anne, holding out stick: It wasn't a snake. It was this.
Walter: Well, that's not a snake.
Anne: It looks like a snake.
Walter: Well, that's not a snake.
Anne, hands Walter the stick: Here, watch out for the thorns.
Walter, takes stick: Thank you. [pause] It's not a snake.
Anne: It looks like a snake.
Walter, considering: No... it doesn't... This looks like a snake!

I think sometimes I'm a lot like Anne, trying to defend the way I see things wrongly with "But it looks like a snake." I think back to my first pregnancy. I was so angry at God for disrupting my plans for grad school and a career that it took me several months to see my transition into motherhood as a fish to nourish me instead of a snake to harm me. Similarly, the two deployments we have gone through (which is so few compared to many others) looked like scorpions attacking our marriage instead of precious eggs that fed us on the yolk of community and dependence on Christ. The many separations appeared to be stones to beat us down instead of bread to strengthen us (Matt 7). I can look back now and know that what God gave me was not a snake to bite me but a fish to feed me...but what I want is to recognize--in the moment--that I have a God worth trusting even when sticks look like snakes.

One of the ways that we are able to do this more effectively is to consistently put truth into our minds. I have to remind myself over and over again that no matter what things may look like on the surface, God is good and does good. If that is my truth then I can act out of that truth, no matter the circumstances. One of the quotes I have been meditating on this year is from Julian of Norwich who said, "All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well." Although--in the spirit of honesty--I memorized it wrong and have it in my head as "All is well, all shall be well." The mindset is the same: all is well because we know that Jesus has already won the battle against sin. All shall be well because we know we have hope for the future. But we have to remind ourselves of these truths because on the surface, things don't always look so good.

So we say to ourselves, over and over again: all is well, all shall be well. God is good and does good. It looks like a snake...but it's not one. And we ask God to give us more of his Spirit so that when we look at the world we can see it the way he does, so that we can see the gifts he gives for the gifts they really are. And we know that He wants to give us his Spirit because he tells us so. And he's worth trusting.

"If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!" Luke 11:13

Pre-Waffle Blurbage

It seems that it's time for a blurb blog, which basically means that there were too many little stories that I'm too lazy to post about separately and actually develop into real stories. I'd apologize but, let's be honest, this is not a surprise to anyone. I've been doing this for years now. On that note, here we go!

The Man finally bullied me into buying a GPS watch for my runs. He says it's so he and the kids can keep track of me during my long runs, but I know the truth. The truth is that if I get eaten by a bear or alligator, he wants to be able to hunt down and shoot the beast that left him to raise 5 kids on his own. Incidentally, said GPS watch likes to beep at me at various times during the day and tell me to "Move!" Communist. YOU CAN'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO! (I totally got up and moved, which tells you a lot about how susceptible to suggestion I am.)

After 5 moves, I've finally figured out my decorating style: just add more books to it. Fixes every decorating problem known to man. Also, I had someone tell me that they had a friend who might actually have more books than I do. My internal response: challenge accepted. Sounds like it's time to take the kids book shopping again...

I gave the Little Man his first sewing lesson this week. He seems highly motivated--and may that so continue. Life skills for the win.

I overheard the twins playing a game of pretend with Twinkle yesterday. In it, Bee pronounced loudly that marriage was prison. While her dad may be happy that his brainwashing skills are working and he will never be replaced in her life, I'm wondering what subconscious messages she is picking up...

The funny thing about losing stuff that had been placed in large boxes is that you don't realize just what all got lost at the off set. So, as you unpack and set up house, you keep having realizations of "Oh, and that was in that box too..." You also find yourself unpacking and putting away at least three dozen different things that you wish the movers had lost instead. Seriously, movers, you couldn't have lost the pancake griddle that was on its last legs instead of the heirloom family art?

Some of my children, who shall remain nameless, spend their days toting around enough attitude for a whole bevy of teenage girls. It has not escaped my attention that we are still two years from double digits for child number one, much less the rest of them. The sarcasm, the eye rolls, the drama: I'd be impressed if I weren't supposed to be helping discipline these little sinners.

My children are also in possession of a lot of Opinions (capital O necessary) about how to hang pictures and put together furniture and serve meals. I maintain the right to ignore all Opinions except my own (and possibly the Man's) and to respond, "Nobody asked you, Patrice!" even though none of my kids will get that reference.

Twinkle's favorite part of hanging family pictures: getting to see Dada whenever she wants.

Blueberry war paint is the in thing right now. I'm trying to decide whether the purposeful face painting is worse than the kid who ate neatly but is still left with startlingly blue teeth.

Toddler nursing: when they pause periodically to pull pieces of chewed up apple out of their chipmunk cheeks and gift them to you. Also, when they get out of bed at 230am, walk downstairs, and scare the crap out of you by waiting right next to your face so that you'll nurse them and put them back in bed. Also, when they signal that they are so over library time by flopping into your lap like a dead fish and proclaiming, "Nur." Thankfully she was momentarily distracted by a bouncy house so that I could get out of there without public indecency (kid has no appreciation for my attempts at modesty...or scheduling...or weaning).

Lego sword fighting: explosions of legos at every sword strike. Some ideas were meant to die early deaths, preferably before one's parents die early deaths by killing themselves stepping on legos that one left everywhere post lego sword fight. And no, lego shields do not fix this problem.

On that note, it's Saturday morning, and I should probably go make breakfast a reality for the hordes before they revolt. And yes, before one of you helpful people points it out, there are no pictures of Bruiser in this post. I have a lot of kids. There will not be equal representation at all times. Life is not fair. But at least there are waffles on Saturday mornings and the hope of a beach trip.

Showing Up

I had big plans to post a blog Thursday night, but then the boys' bookshelves got in and I spent the evening obsessively assembling them and unboxing books. Part of this was that I was sick of the boys' books taking over the floor of our guest room (which has been the dump room for the last month) but most of it was that in my mind I was playing out the part in The Little Princess when Ram Dass transforms Sara Crewe's room while she sleeps. I imagined the boys waking up the next morning and expressing a fervor of excitement. Naturally, expectations didn't line up with reality, and the boys (while grateful) didn't descend into rapturous thrills of joy. Evidently bookshelves are run of the mill where they come from.

Then I was going to post a blog last night--and my furniture assembling plans even conspired alongside me so that I could be done setting up the TV stand before pizza and a movie night and be free to spend the whole evening writing. Except that Twinkles woke up while I was still assembling and I got flustered and rushed and somehow managed to slide a piece of molding on backwards (probably in between telling the twins and Tiny to stop fighting and yelling for Littles to come save me from the Toddler of Terror) and didn't realize until I was almost done with the entire assembly...and couldn't finish due to my mistake. At that point, I decided to take the kids for a walk on the beach and regain my sanity. Once the kids were in bed, the Man graciously helped me take apart the TV stand so that I could fix the molding, reassemble it, and finish the job. Let me tell you what a saint he is: he only once reminded me that he'd asked me to wait and do the assembly together.

Anyway, my Saturday morning disappeared while I unboxed DVDs and alphabetized them (let's place bets now on how long it'll take before Twinkles messes them up). Then my early afternoon disappeared while I meticulously hung a bunch of lined up picture frames on the wall (I'm pretty sure they're all crooked). But here we are now. You're welcome.

All that to say: things rarely go as planned but, at least in my experience, we do tend to get there eventually. Maybe it doesn't look the way we think it should, but that doesn't negate the hard work it took to get there or the possible joys along the way. Maybe instead of the 3-4 mile solitary run you had planned, you end up eking out just two miles while pushing the baby in the stroller. It's still forward progress. Maybe instead of the curtains staying up, they fall back down for the fourth time and you finally fill in the holes with putty and go back to trouble shooting a different option. It still counts. Maybe instead of making a great impression at your husband's squadron BBQ you trip and nearly fall flat on your face. You still showed up.

Maybe the things not going as planned in your life are bigger than aesthetic annoyances or minor embarrassments or inconvenient mistakes. The truth is still the same. Say it to yourself: this still counts. This is still progress (however slow). I still showed up.

We keep showing up, even though the progress does not appear to be forward. We keep showing up, even though the world tells us that what we do does not count. We give each other hugs. We take walks when we need to. Sometimes we have a good cry. We smile at each other. We give a compliment, no matter how small (because the best way to feel better about ourselves is to encourage someone else). And then we show up again because to be alive is to keep moving forward, even when it feels that we are moving backward, even when we're not sure what forward is any more.

Keep showing up. There is a quiet Voice waiting to tell you, "Well done, good and faithful servant. Come further up. Come further in." Take a breather, but don't quit yet. There are bigger adventures to come.

Bring on the Beach. Bring on the Books.

Florida summer for us is all beaches and books (and setting up the house still but that kills the alliteration--and you don't really want to hear about assembling bookshelves and falling curtain rods, anyway).

Here's the thing about taking five kids to the beach: it takes a solid half an hour just to get everyone's sunscreen on. However, it has proved to be, in the words of my husband, "Not as stressful as we think it will be but also not as restful as we hope it will be," which I thought was a remarkably elegant turn of phrase. Unrelated side note: he also told me the other day that "If we make the hard choices now then life is pretty easy, but if we make the easy choices now then life ends up pretty hard," which was rather annoyingly on point when it comes to many things (especially my inability to correctly hang curtains). But back to the beach...

Beach time with all five kids is pretty exciting. Naturally, we bring home at least two pounds of sand per trip per child (do the math) and enough sea shells to start our own marine museum, but for an hour (or two), everyone is happy--including me. Sure, Twinkle tries to drown herself at least a handful of times, but for the most part, it's surprisingly relaxing. Sure, the twins get in trouble for trying to throw sand. Sure, the Bigs try to race hermit crabs. Sure, the twins try to bring hermit crabs home after taking them for walks on the beach. Sure, the Littles is determined to see how far out he can go on his own and how far he can let the current carry him before the Man and I start freaking out. Sure, Bee tries to make sand angels (which will inevitably get sand in crevices of her body she didn't even know existed). Sure, the Man and I will relax to the soothing sound of children saying, "Mom! Mom! Mom! Dad! Dad! Look at this! Look at that! Mom! Dad!" But: it's all worth it because of Momentary Happiness. And because the water makes my heart smile (which is an anatomically incorrect metaphor).

Beach time aside, the majority of our summer (so far) is being spent reading books together out loud. Before we got in our household goods, we would curl up on our bed and I'd read to the kids while Twinkle napped or after she was in bed for the night. Now we split our time between the living room and the back porch, although today we took a walk down the beach and read half a chapter of Prince Caspian while sitting at the edge of a pier eating pretzels. I tried to concentrate on the book while internally freaking out that one of the twins was going to fall off the end of the pier and I would have to jump in and save them with Twinkle still strapped in the Ergo. Normally though, book reading is accompanied by Mommy snuggles or coloring books or playing with Mommy's hair. Today the kids put an entire basket of bows in my hair. I felt like the Beast after his makeover. I probably looked like the beast after his makeover (clarification that we're talking about the part when he gets bows put all in his mane, not the part when he has lasers coming out of his fingernails).

Anyway, the important part is that we've been plowing through The Chronicles of Narnia since late May. The Horse and His Boy was extremely helpful in teaching my children phrases such as, "Oh my mother and oh the delight of my eyes" and "To hear is to obey." Littles keeps reading ahead and then offering his siblings spoilers and being taken up on his offers because evidently my kids can't stand the suspense. But my favorite part has been the adoration of the kids for Aslan and the depth of theology with which Lewis writes. On the lighter side, we're also reading the My Father's Dragon series again. I read it to the big boys when the twins were babies but thought it was time for a reread now that Bruiser is reaching the height of his dragon obsession (he has asked for another dragon costume that actually breathes fire for Halloween this year). And for my darling daughter, we are reading Ballet Shoes for the first time. And the boys are hanging in there with her just fine because manly men should be well rounded.

Book porch view of our armadillo family

And that, right there, is our summer. Give or take a few bear sightings, a family of armadillos, chasing the escapee dog down the beach in the rain with newly met neighbors, waiting for the new family pictures to arrive in the mail, putting together new chairs, putting together new bookshelves, putting together new living room furniture, hanging curtains, rehanging curtains, re-rehanging curtains, hanging pictures, waiting to hang pictures, checking the mail again to see if those new prints have arrived, etc., etc., etc. but mostly the beach and the books, which, in my humble opinion, is a pretty phenomenal way to spend a summer.

Where We've Been

I find myself wanting to apologize for it being over a full month since the last time I wrote, and then I realize: no, I have five kids and the amount of stuff we've managed to squeeze in over the last month and nine days is pretty impressive. We've traveled through six states. We've moved out of an old home and into a new one. I ran a half marathon and spoke at a women's retreat. We went to a three day homeschool conference. The Man finished an old job and started a new job. We've looked for a church. We've made new friends.

We've had movers lose things (and cried about it). We've had movers break things (and resignedly accepted this to be our lot in life). We've filed impossibly confusing claims with the movers (and ate pints of ice cream to make it tolerable). We've acknowledged that most likely nothing will ever come of said claims (and rolled our eyes at the system). We've done a lot of online shopping to replace the items we will now probably never see again (and given the Amazon delivery guy a lot of extra work).

We celebrated the Man's birthday and Father's Day. We had our first three house guests (before we even had our stuff). We've done beach trips (and time in the mountains). We tracked down mailbox keys, flag-holders, and new doctors. We've had run-ins with bear and deer (but so far no gators). We've put away and thrown away and given away. We've found our new library and joined their summer reading program. We've read good books and watched a few good movies. We've sweated in the sunshine and rested in the breeze. We've cooked all the meals that make home feel like home again.

The kids have gotten tan and happy, and I have hidden in the shade and made close friends with my sunscreen. Trigger has lost half his body weight in fur and discovered that he likes the ocean when it's not freezing. The cats have delighted in giving us heart attacks at every stop by hiding under hotel beds and suitcases--and even now by hiding in the linen closet so that we think they've escaped the house and gotten eaten by a bear. Littles has toured the elementary school and survived his first legit assessment test. Tiny has upgraded to our former guest bed because Bruiser has officially taken the bottom bunk in what is now the "boy room". Bee is glorying in her "girly room" and trying to refuse entry to the boys. And Twinkle, ensconced in aforementioned girly room, has finally started sleeping through the night and learned how to say important things like "ball-ball" (pinecones) and "I wanna snack" (which, miraculously, means exactly what it sounds like).

There have been bike rides around the neighborhood and car rides into town and runs through the base. Most importantly there have been walks along the shore. There have been many nights sitting on the back porch talking but also afternoons snuggling on the couch--in the air conditioning--reading  The Chronicles of Narnia. There have been school mornings to finish out the semester and days of unpacking and figuring out where to hang the few pictures we have left and afternoons of running errands by piling hot and sweaty kids in and out of the car.

There have been short tempers and apologies. There has been yelling. There have been forever memories and sweet moments of family love. There has been whining. There has been growth. There have been meltdowns--and they weren't all by the kids. There has been thanksgiving.  There has been joy. There has been life.

So here I am: same song, second verse...just from a different state. Welcome back. And feel free to put in requests for what you want to hear about this summer, which then increases the chances of me getting back to you before July...

Moving Military Kids

April was the month of the military child, and I planned to put up a post about my military kids at some point, but suddenly it’s May. And we're in the middle of another move. 

I hear a lot this time of year about how amazing our military kids are. And that’s true. They are resilient, courageous, and resourceful. But you know what else? They are also just kids. And we ask a lot of them. This is our eldest’s fourth move, and he is eight. That is fairly normal for military kids, if not on the low side. That means four times, he has said goodbye to his church, his neighborhood, and his friends. Four times, he has watched his entire home be packed up and taken somewhere new. Four times, he has started over again, making new friends, trying out new foods, exploring new places. Four times (more than that, really), his dad’s job has changed dramatically, which causes a marked shift in our family life. This is not unusual for military kids.

The highlight of temporary housing for Twinkles:
joining Trigger in the kennel.

I’ve seen the effects of stress on our kids more than usual this time around. One of my children had two a day accidents for two weeks until we started loading the trailer, at which point things went right back to normal. Two of my children responded to move month by refusing to listen to anything I said (it made for a fun last few weeks—ears seem to be mostly functional again). Early bedtimes have been resumed due to an uptick in meltdowns, tears, and in-fighting. Flexibility is up. Normalcy is down. Last minute changes (and last minute emergencies) are king. This is move month for the military kid.

Road trip stops

Doing it right

Move month is also Littles hanging out with his dad while the movers load the truck. It is teaching the kids how to say goodbye well. It’s having the Bigs help me take pictures off the walls, and Littles informing me that taping nails to the backs of frames is his favorite part of moving. It’s telling Bruiser every day how much longer until we leave to see grandparents. It’s getting in extra snuggles with all the kids and extra family time since the Man isn’t at work. It’s being blessed by neighbors and friends who want to see you one last time or bring you a meal because they remember how tiring it can be to move. It’s taking down bed frames and realizing that your kids are disgusting because no matter how many times you’ve vacuumed their room, they still manage to hoard stickers, old bandaids, and half eaten, pilfered biscotti behind their bunk beds. It is surviving broken dryers, flooded lodging, changed plans, long hours in the car, and each other's sometimes shortened tempers.

Sometimes you make use of deserted parking lots to
get a little scootering in while the baby nurses.

Moving is exhausting

Move month is a chance for these kids to grow and learn and explore…and receive extra cuddles because their hearts are feeling a little tender even if they’re excited about what’s next. I’m thankful for my military children, not because they are super human but because they are mine. They’ve greatly enriched my experience of being married to military, and I hope that they will love the way they’ve gotten to grow up. I know it’s not necessarily normal. But then again, because of it, neither are they.

Painting over Paintings

The Man is at the house hanging out with the packers as they box everything up, and I'm at temporary lodging listen to the kids play a very loud game of pretend that involves a set of rolling ottomans and probably imminent death. This is moving. Moving is also going back to the "old house" at least twelve different times for all the things I've forgotten (Tim's Atlanta Braves cap, the dog lead, the french press), frozen waffles (that the kids inform me are better than the ones I make homemade), squeezing in last minute stuff (like a half marathon, a women's retreat, and more time with friends), and trying to keep suitcases from exploding all over lodging (a near impossible feat).

This time, though, the biggest symbol of our move was painting over the "mural" in our living room. 2.5 years ago when we moved here, we discovered that half the walls were concrete and utterly immune to my attempts to hang pictures. I got a concrete drill bit and that worked in some places, but the living room wall refused to comply. Finally, I talked the Man into making a date night out of splashing some water based paint on the wall. I then spent the next few days taping off what I wanted, scrubbing off the rest, and adding a border to make it look like there was actual planning involved. It became a conversation piece every time we had guests over and really defined our living room. It became a happy memory for me of painting with the Man. It also helped me work through some of the sorrow I felt about my miscarriage and our latest move. And if you don't understand how splashing paint on a wall can help you process grief, I can't help you.

When I painted over it, all those memories came rushing back, and not just the memories but how they made me feel. I remembered both the laughter and the grief...and felt a little overwhelmed by how much there was of both of those even as we prepare to head to our 5th home in ten years. It took three coats of paint to cover up, and I left behind a plain white wall that the next tenants can break a drill bit on in their fervor for hanging paintings.

I may have cried a little bit, but as the Man said: there will be other walls to paint. There will be other memories to make. Other ways to remember. Other fun date nights. Other griefs that remind us of God's goodness. And we may paint over our favorite murals, but it doesn't actually get rid of them. It just puts them under a couple layers of paint, saving them for an archaeologist to find some day or--and this is more likely--preserving them (and the pen scribbles one of your artistic children added when you weren't looking) in your mind--and on your wall--forever. Even if you're the only one who remembers that they're there.