I'm realizing it's getting to be a week between entries, and sometimes longer than that.  Ugh.  I sit here staring at my computer screen when I should really be in bed, reading the ad running across the top of the screen for Clorox:  Kills the germs that make kids sick.  Who else doesn't have time to clorox their house?  Who else isn't worried about the kids getting sick as much as she's worried about catching what the kids have and then not being able to keep up?  I mean, seriously, I hate when they're sick...but when they get sick, they're over it in three days, max.  When we Mommies get sick, we get every single symptom they had to the 100th power, then we catch every other virus known to the grocery cart we raced down the aisle at Walmart with in an attempt to find the correct medicine for the symptoms they have and that any child in the house may actually ingest without running screaming in the opposite direction.  By the time we've nursed them through whatever they have, we can almost guarantee that we're going to catch it.  There should be provisions made in health insurance plans:  sick children should be entitled to night nurses--so that mothers can sleep at night and therefore, not so wear themselves out that they get sicker than the kids by the time they're well.  There's nothing worse than keeping up with lively, healthy kids when you feel like death warmed over.  And here I am, with some unknown illness that makes me cough all night, sound like I smoke three packs a day when I talk, and walk around the house in zombie mode the very week after my kids recover from the stomach flu.  Guess who's speaking from experience tonight? 

 

I know you've been there with me.  Sorry to whine.  I am not unique in this circumstance.  It's just been a week, and I'm tired of feeling yucky.  OK.  I'm done now.

 

We really have had a fun week.  Yesterday, we lived "a day in the life of a Roman child" starting at 5:50am...that's right, I walked into the kids' rooms at 10 of 6 by the light of a candle, dressed in a toga (my husband kept joking that he was going to be really mad if the cops had to crash our toga party yesterday), telling them it was time for school.  They stopped at the "Roman Bakery" in the kitchen to grab their sticky buns, bread or banana nut muffins (which I got up at 4 to finish making...what is my problem??) and munched on them "on the way to school" (which translates as sitting at the kitchen table talking about being a Roman child on the way to school in the dark).  We did lots of drill and practice, lots of dictation and memorization (which sounds boring, but it's not something we do every day, so they really enjoyed it), and they had so much fun, we finished all our work in record time.  By 10:30, we were done (and that included an hour of Mommy-needs-to-crash-on-the-couch-because-she-only-slept-for-4-hours-last-night--please-do-your-chores time), and the rest of the day, they pretended to be Romans.  Seriously, how can you plan a better hands-on lesson for your kids than having them play the lesson??  I really think it's a day they'll remember.  I really hope it's a day they'll remember.

 

Today, on the other hand...we accomplished, well, not quite as much.  After making and crumb coating the cakes for my sister-in-law's baby shower, I made the diaper cake for her gift (which, if you haven't done, is very fun...and a very practical gift), and found the recipe for the fondant I used on the cakes...and made a list of things to do for today...and crawled into bed at 12:25 this morning.  I couldn't drag my rear out of bed today, so everything was rushed...I hate those days.  They cakes got done, the kids school work, though independent, got done, my friend Hannah got her hair cut in my kitchen, and the house...isn't completely wrecked.  Don't look closely, but at least you can see the kitchen counters again.  The table...not so much.  The shower went very well...so much fun, actually, and couples showers can really go either way...I was glad I chose active, don't-single-out-the-guys games.  Good food, fun games, great mom- and dad-to-be, an excellent glass of cabernet, tasty marshmallow fondant (will never use Wilton fondant again), nice gifts, and a son who kept everyone in stitches...formula for a good shower.  The girls spent the evening with their cousin Brittany and her best friend, Ashley, which was perfect for them.  They watched movies, ate popcorn, went to the park, and basically hung out with two teenaged girls...they were in heaven.  I don't even want to think about 6 years from now when they're the ones babysitting Regan and whatever other little ones Andy and Jenn have...unreal. 

 

And with that said, I have to go to bed.  The day needs to end.  The kids came home and fell into their beds (after a serious melt-down in the car from Bryson Boy...poor guy), and I should have done the same.  And now I will.  I hope you all enjoy your weekend and plan some down time.  I'll be enjoying mine!!  And it will probably be a week until you hear from me again.

 

You don't really care, do you??  :)

It is the most glorious 78-degree day of the spring...OK, it's the only 78-degree day of the spring, but I revel today in its gloriousness.  That's not a word, is it?  I digress...

 

My friend Kendra told the most adorable story today in her blog about her son Lukas and a conversation they had.  Almost any conversation that is blog-worthy must be cute, and this was no exception...I have one I have to tell you about simply because I don't want to forget it either.  Laine is just full of these stories lately, although I have been running around with sick kids (and my sick self), and have had no time  to jot them down.  This one is too good to keep to myself.

 

I stand in my kitchen one day two weeks or so ago, swiping crumbs off the table into my hand when all of a sudden, Lainie storms down the steps and runs sobbing into my arms.  "Mommy!" she screams, "Reasa just said that Beth and Ruth hate me and don't want to be my friend anymore and they never loved me and they only want to be friends with her and she's being so, so mean!  Now they can never be my friends again and I'm all alone, Mommy!  I have NO ONE!!" 

 

I stand there totally speechless.

 

Let me explain.  Over the past few months, my children's make-believe has become something far beyond extravagant, and has often dipped into the realm of, well, maybe frightening is a good word for it.  I choose that word only because sometimes they so wholly engross themselves in their play that they can barely remember their real names when I call for them, and they have little time for anything but play in their world of make-believe.  Now really, I'm not complaining.  I could find them sucked into their favorite tv shows, turning into blobs of mush on the floor of the family room, and instead they choose the world of play.  This is good.  However, at the point where your child cries because her sister doesn't agree that the stick she holds is The Wand of Life and is capable of magically healing the torn-off leg of her favorite doll...well, you see the issue here.   Along the way in this wondrous world of make-believe, Lainie has decided she has two imaginary friends (and since their arrival, they have adopted imaginary pets, acquired imaginary jobs, taken on imaginary phone numbers, caught imaginary illnesses and ailments, cruised through imaginary vacations,...).  The friends' names are Beth and Ruth.  With that said, let me now take you back to the screaming, sobbing child as she howls, "I have NO ONE!!"

 

I look at her dumbfounded.  She sobs and continues talking about how horrible her life is and how she has no friends and now she doesn't even have Beth and Ruth and on and on and on as I stand there with no words.  I call (loudly, with feeling ) for Reasa to come downstairs (amazingly, she responds, recognizing her name on the first call)(I think she knew she was dead meat already, and didn't want to push her luck), prepared to reprimand her for being so mean to her sister, and give her the how-dare-she-talk-so-unkindly-about-her-sister's-imaginary-friends speech when suddenly it dawns upon me:  these "girls" are LAINIE'S IMAGINARY FRIENDS.  Not only are they imaginary, but Lainie invented them!  Reasa has absolutely no say whatsoever as to whether or not these girls like Lainie or whether or not they exist, for that matter.  Reasa reaches the bottom of the steps braced for the scolding, and I turn back around to face Lainie.  "Laine Morgan," I begin, and she looks at me, shocked to see that I have not beaten her sister to within an inch of her life upon landing on the pink rug, "whose imaginary friends are Beth and Ruth?"  "Mine," she sobs.  "And Laine Morgan," I continue (oooh, the whole name, twice), "who created Beth and Ruth?"  "I did," she replies. "Then can Reasa possibly tell you that your imaginary friends don't love you anymore?  Can she decide what they say or do?  And if she tries to tell you something, do you have to believe her?"  "No," Lainie says with a sniffle.  "Get back upstairs and play with your sister, Laine, and stop letting her push you around!"  She kind of looks at me, as if the truth is just setting in...and suddenly, she gets this grin on her face--you know, the kind that slowly spreads from ear to ear with the mouth partly open, almost in disbelief--and she dashes back upstairs (following her sister's lead).  I never heard another word about the trauma of her life, or the disappearance of Beth and Ruth that day or any other...if anything, she has played with renewed passion, and Beth and Ruth have found adventure after adventure (complete with Reasa and Lainie, of course).  It totally kills me that she absolutely knows they're imaginary and still fabricates the most amazing stories...it's unbelievable. 

 

I love my kids.  They bring me endless...joy.  Almost every day.

We're away.  It's wonderful.

 

I'm sitting in a hotel room at 10:15 Friday night with my family.  We're watching the national geographic channel for no reason whatsoever.  We spent the whole afternoon/evening playing.  Seriously.  We jumped in the car at about 1:30 and first drove for 2 hours to the Eastview Mall--the home of the only Build-A-Bear Workshop in our general vicinity (if two hours away is "our general vicinity").  The kids each walked out with a new outfit for their Build-A-Bear.  Amos left dressed as Buzz Lightyear, Clyde (now Claudia) came away in a purple dress with pink jewelly flowers, and Cutie exited in a very trendy Hello, Kitty pink, studded t-shirt and pink skorts.  The kids just giggled when we turned the corner and they realized where we were going.  So fun.  When we left the mall, we drove back across town to find a hotel room.  Seth was all excited--we didn't make reservations anywhere earlier in the week because we weren't sure we wanted to commit to something.  In addition to this, we've been learning all about "negotiating price" in our Financial Peace University class we're taking, and he was anxious to try out the "technique" at a couple of hotels (walking in with cash, saying, "That's not good enough," when given a price, etc.).  We wound up at Super 8 for about half the price listed at most of the other local hotels (not that much less than was listed for the room, but less, just the same).  And we have a newly remodeled room with two queen sized beds, rather than two doubles.  :)  We then drove to a plaza across from a different mall, and wouldn't tell the kids where we were eating (it was 5:30 by this time).  As we walked toward Chuck E. Cheese's (the kids have never been before), we kept telling them we were going to Aspen Dental (right next door) or Uno's (across the parking lot).  They did the "Noooooooo, Mommy, we're not really going there are we?"  :)  We spent 3 hours eating dinner, using up our tokens (some very kind woman gave us fantastic coupons as we walked in the door).  For less than we would have spent on Applebees for the whole family, we had pizza, soda, salad and 132 tokens.  After turning in our 406 tickets for ridiculous little trinkets (and tootsie rolls!), we left with three exhausted children.  Target provided our "bednight snack" (because you can't go to bed without bednight snacks, you know), and Dibella's provided Daddy's...then we drove to Steve and Barry's (not realizing they had one here), and the kids got a jump-start on their summer wardrobe (a very small start, but a start, none-the-less).  And I found a pair of jeans for $11 that I don't have to hem!!  We got back to the hotel room at about 9:45, and here we are, just turning off the tv so the kids can go to bed.  It's 10:45.  Tomorrow, we laze around in bed, check out of the hotel, grab a bite for breakfast, and spend a chunk of the day at the Strong Children's Museum...a weekend all about the kids.  How much fun is that? 

 

The best part of the whole thing?  The way they have responded.  When you spend every waking moment with your children, and some of the sleeping ones, for that matter, you tend to see a lot of the not-so-great moments with your kids.  You wind up feeling like you spend your life policing them, correcting bad attitudes, breaking up squabbles, listening to whining...you can easily forget how wonderful they are.  If they (and this includes every one of them) have thanked us once for all of this, they have thanked us 20 times.  The gratitude just spills out of them.  They're almost in shock--they can't believe this is all for them. 

 

Makes you wish you could afford to do something like this every weekend.  But then, it probably wouldn't be quite as much fun if life worked that way.

I stood in the shower yesterday morning with my mind racing.  Determined to be at the church on time for our Sunday morning run-through, I set my alarm for 5:30, realizing that before I left at 6:55 (the last possible moment I could leave and still arrive on time) I had to be completely church-ready, and I needed to hide eggs, wake up the kids, watch them empty their baskets and find the eggs, then get the girls hair done before I left.  All of these things raced through my mind...one colossal checklist, to which I added "warm up my voice," "get something warm to drink, preferably not coffee," "run through the words to the semi-solo I sing at the end of service," and "prepare my heart for worship."  And that was where the brain race began.  I don't know if you have found this to be true in your life, but amidst the clatter of everything else in my brain, I knew that I could not fully concentrate on preparing my heart for worship.  As a lead worshipper, I have come to the realization that what I do on the platform has very little to do with what I sound like.  Though we do what we need to do to come musically prepared, spending three hours (at least) in rehearsal beyond what we do on our own, our worship leading must spring from a heart ready to worship, not just a brain ready to perform.  There are days when this feels like a battle.  Yesterday was one of those days. 

 

There is a reality of living my life that I try very hard to ignore--I think we all do this to some extent.  Though I attempt to get as much done the night before as humanly possible so as to not forget something, or simply to avoid the stress of a morning where I have to get the kids out of the house by a pre-determined time, there is always more to do than I really have time for.  And if I hit the snooze button even once, I can forget sanity right from the start.  No snooze button yesterday.  However, on Easter morning, the normal getting-around tasks are further complicated by extra activities.  I couldn't focus.  My shower is my refuge most days--Sunday morning is no exception...actually, it is even more so on Sundays.  And the blessing of children still asleep means that the rest of my morning routine remains quietly uninterrupted as well...lots of time to focus.  Not this morning.  Bombarded by thoughts of what I needed to do, I rushed through my shower to work through the next thing on "the list."  Standing in front of the mirror with a powder brush in hand, I raced back through that list, and the last thing kept nagging at me:  "prepare my heart for worship." 

 

I have been a Christian since I was six years old.  I remember it vividly...sitting on the couch beside my very-new-Christian Mommy praying to ask Jesus to forgive my sins and be my Lord and Savior.  Can a six-year-old fully grasp what this means?  Probably not, but as much as my mind could understand what it meant, I prayed it.  I spent my kid years in Sunday School, Children's Church, CYC, Bible Camp, VBS, and every other activity in which I could possibly participate.  I know that Jesus died on the cross on a Friday, that because he was sinless, his death served as payment for my sins, and that on the third day, Easter Sunday, He rose from the dead so that I could live with Him in heaven some day.  I know this.  My children can already quote these words, and whether they truly understand them or internalize them at all is up for grabs at this point--to be discussed in a future blog--but they know what happened and why.  As a teenager, this all became very, very real to me.  A couple of years ago, watching The Passion (or should I say sobbing through The Passion) I was struck once again with the seriousness and reality of the choice that Jesus made.  The consequences of that choice.  The way that choice has resounded over centuries, and will continue as long as the human race continues.  I have had moments in my life when Easter has held incredible significance for me.  For whatever reason, this year, I have struggled with dealing with the significance.  

 

I think your mind can get to the point where it takes over for your heart.  Over 27 years, I have come to understand what Jesus did.  What he stood for.  The man He was and therefore, the person I need to be (and fall dreadfully short of actually being).  I spent 3 months at the age of 21 questioning what I believed.  It was a very short 3 months.  I kept winding up at the same conclusions I had always drawn:  it was truth.  My heart knew it, and my mind was convinced.  And now, though this fact has not changed, it has led to complacency.  I KNOW all of this.  It is head knowledge.  The sacrifice he made, as amazing as it was, did not resonate through my being yesterday.  I feel like I understand the depth of his love for me and, as much as I hate to admit it, I take it for granted.  All of this made its way through my brain as I brushed on foundation.  So, I stood there looking into the mirror, realizing the truth of why I couldn't seem to prepare my heart for worship:  it's not me who prepares my heart for worship.  It's shutting up and letting God do it.  I have taken all of this over with my brain!  It has nothing to do with how I feel, how I think, or what I need to do for Him.  It is getting myself and what I think I know out of the way and allowing God to step in.  Realizing that He is worthy of my worship of Him.  Shutting off my complex thought processes for long enough to realize what is there underneath them:  He is worthy.  It is my privilege to worship Him.  Sunday mornings, Monday afternoons, Tuesday in the middle of the night, with every breath, every word, every action.

 

I felt like I had finally woken up.

 

I don't know if I worshipped differently yesterday morning--or at least if it was visible to anyone else.  I'm sure it wasn't.  But something clicked for me as I sang.  I forgot the words to one of the songs we sang in first service (and was, of course, not facing a screen).  I messed up the ending of the sort-of-solo second service (thank heavens for 3 other singers to cover up).  I ran in 20 seconds after third service started (in the dark, in heels that hurt, very out-of-breath for the first couple of phrases).  It didn't matter.  I worshipped with my heart, prepared by the Lord, not by my brain.  Who do I think I am anyway? 

 

 

Wow.  I can't believe it's been a week since my last entry.  Time flies...and that statement does not necessarily imply that fun was involved.  Some fun, but mostly just insanity.

 

Remember what I said not too long ago about the temperature plummeting again?  Well...today we experienced the full gamet of weather.  This morning was warmish...overcast...obvious that it would rain.  It did.  Then the temperature dropped.  We got hail.  Twice.  The size of marbles.  Then it rained some more, and by the time I left Walmart at almost 11 tonight, we hovered somewhere around 35, with snow flurries.  Huh.  Go figure.

 

Snow for Easter?  Yeah, 35-38 with isolated snow showers.  Ugh.  My poor girls in their little strappy dresses and shoes!!  We'll figure something out!  Still gotta find Bryson pants for Easter.  He's harder than the girls are sometimes!  And let's not even talk about how hard dresses are to find for Moms.

 

It's another one of those nothing-important-to-say nights.  Most of them are anymore.  I think it's the presence of three 2-year-olds in my house on a regular basis.  By 9, I'm pretty much completely useless.  It's 12:00.  I'm three hours past useless.  Just imagine what that looks like.