Dykstra House

Grace Momma

2010-04-12T10:30:00.000-07:00

Today is a momma-needs-grace-day.

Normally on Mondays I keep a regular schedule of getting kindergarten offspring off to school, jumping in the car to go to the gym and getting baby to bed for a nap.

But today, my heart is heavy about things I understand and things I don't understand. My emotions are whacko and my baby is energetic.

So I sit.

And I brew some coffee.

I watch a Discovery channel show on mammals. Tush, meet couch.

And I put a frozen pizza in the oven. Just for me.

Being a stay at home mom means no days off. Few breaks. Little time to re-charge.

So I'm popping a pizza because I don't have bon-bons. And because I'd like to eat something without someone picking food off my plate or begging for my food with bright blue eyes. Darn cute, compelling eyes.

I'm watching animals on TV because I don't want to watch anything else that would make me feel lazy or inept. Plus, they're kind of cute.

With a little mental rest and physical pampering, hopefully my baby will wake up from her nap to a smiling momma.

A grace momma.

"Arthur" Luther King

2010-01-17T06:59:00.000-08:00

"Mom, did you know that Monday is Arthur Luther King's birthday?"

Suppressing a smirk, I inquired further: "And who is Arther Luther King, Morgan?"

"He's a man who took down signs at water fountains that said 'Whites only' so that black people could also drink from them."

I smiled and said, "Yes he did, Morgan."

______________________

It isn't often that I think about race relations or Martin Luther King's contributions. This past Saturday offered me the opportunity to give to others and get out of the house a bit. I jumped at the chance.

My church was arranging a get-together at Roseland Christian Ministries. The center offers meals for homeless, shelter for women and children and housing programs for families. It's an incredible place that mostly serves blacks. I learned the reason why:

I was informed that the city of Roseland used to be, largely, a Dutch populated place. But several decades ago, industries moved out of the Roseland, took most of the Dutch with it and left a middle class black population with no real jobs. It pretty much devastated the city.

I've been in cities where parts of the town are in shambles, but I have little recollection of seeing a city with such widespread poverty. If I were to summarize the city it would be thusly:

chained link fences, broken

dogs

bars on windows and doors of all buildings, residential OR commercial

unusual window treatments (newspaper, for some)

old cars

I know a picture is worth a thousand words, but I took no camera to Roseland. I was there to be a part of Roseland, not to document my brief stay there.

When I arrived at the center, I was told that I would be helping in the Women and Children's Center. My main job for the first few hours was to take plastic toys and wipe them down with bleach water. The cleaning water quickly turned various shades of gray as we sanitized. At one point it turned a color that was slightly reddish brown and I wanted to gag.

After a few hours of cleaning, we were encouraged to interact with the women and children. The operative word there is "encouraged" because, honestly, the women wanted little to do with us.

There was a large room with couches lining the periphery. In every couch there was a woman, maybe two, and they were all sleeping or in various forms of slouched wearyness.

I knew enough to not expect a welcoming committee from them.

A lot of emotions can pile up when one is a stranger in a shelter. I expected to feel grateful that our family had employment, or grateful that I had a home or (can I be honest?) grateful that I wasn't them.

Oddly enough, as I looked at these weary women I thought to myself that I have been in this state before.

Not unemployed.

Not squatting in a shelter.

No, these women have been through MUCH more than me.

But the emotional wearyness of being a mother, of having little means to change a particular situation... I have been there.

I didn't see women who were a different color than me.

I saw women who were mothers, doing them best with what they had.

I felt akin to them; I'm pretty sure the feeling was not mutual.

I didn't feel pity for their situation; I felt empathy for their souls.

So I did the best thing I knew to do for these women: I loved their children.

It wasn't difficult to enter into these little ones' lives. Kneeling to their level offers them an opportunity to look you square in the eye and give you a shy smile or offer a slobbery piece of puzzle. I wanted to scoop them all up and take them home with me. I wanted to make chocolate chip cookies with them and offer them a place to run. I wanted to rescue them from a world of mismatched, dirty couches and very weary mothers.

One little girl crawled up to me and a little boy followed her and picked her up.

"What's her name?" I asked him.

"I dunno," he said.

"Are you her brother?

"I never met her before," he clarified.

Children were taking care of other children who they didn't know. And most likely, their mothers were children when they had THEIR children. I knew the cycle existed, I just didn't know it started so early. I'm used to white bread women who hover constantly over their children and wipe the noses of their infants before they even BEGIN to sneeze.

This world was quite different from mine.

I'm not sure what Dr. King would say to me personally about how to improve race relations. But for my part, it wasn't about being some great hope.

It was about seeing that these homeless women were proud and weary. They were worthy of being seen.

Hopefully these women will have the courage to see it in themselves and make a voice for them and their children. That is my prayer.

Blessing

2010-01-06T12:23:00.001-08:00

One month ago, my grandfather died. He was my first grandparent to part from the earth. I consider myself fortunate to known my grandparents for so long. Somehow, however, the goodbyes are no less difficult.

Before my grandfather died, he called me on the phone. He had been in and out of consciousness for several weeks. What's more, when he was awake, he was ill and had trouble speaking. But on the evening that we talked on the phone, he was strong. He sounded almost well.

We spoke about some family matters. Before my grandfather left the conversation, he said something in a strong clear voice: "Emily, you have always been good to the family. God bless you."

He didn't say "God bless you" in the cavalier way people do when they sneeze or feel they should say something religious. His tone was thankful, as if the words were never said before until he said them right then.

I've heard of people blessing others before they died, but I've never experienced it until now. I've read about people fighting over blessings of their fathers in Scripture. And to be honest, I've always thought it was silly to fight over blessings. They seemed like wispy wishes.

But today I feel differently. When someone takes some of their last breath to say words of strength and love and hope to another, they are unforgettable; they're life-giving. And that's how I felt-- like he took some of his air and put it inside my lungs.

It's been one month since my Granddad died. Today I was a little teary-eyed. I felt scared about something. But when I remembered my Granddad's blessing, I felt strength. Strength in God and His mighty gaze. Strength in truth and true family. I felt blessed.

May you know blessing today as well.

Dinner Out

2010-01-06T11:23:00.000-08:00

A dinner out with Dan if I acted like baby Eve.

____________________________

Waiter: "Good evening. Would you like to see the menu?"

Dan: "Yes, please."

Me: (Clapping)

Waiter: " The specials tonight are Ritz crackers and oatmeal cookies."

Me: (More clapping.)

Dan: "Um, okay. That sounds kind of strange for a 4-star restaurant, but I'll go with it."

An appetizer tray appears moments later. The Ritz crackers have an unknown pasty substance on them. The oatmeal cookies are bite sized.

Dan: "Look, dear! Your favorites."

Me: Looking at them skeptically. I take a small bite.

Dan: "You know, hon, if you don't like it, just put it on the side of your plate. Letting it drop out of your mouth like that is rather embarrassing."

Me: More tongue spitting.

Dan: "Let's move onto the cookies, shall we?"

Me: Clapping and giggling.

Dan: Takes a bite of the cookie first. "Um, I'm not sure you're going to like this kind. It definitely has a different flavor."

Me: I take a huge bite and start gagging.

Dan: "Sweetie, little bites. Little bites. And please don't throw your food on the floor. If you don't like it, I'll take it from your plate."

Me: "Uh-oh."

Dan: "I said stop it. Stop dropping your food. Do you want some more crackers, then?"

Me: Clamping mouth shut. Can't penetrate. Starting to grunt.

Dan: "Oh dear. Sweetie, it really is considered uncouth to mess your pants at the table. Can you wait until the bathroom."

Me: More grunting. Face turning red.

Dan: "Are you all done, then? All done?"

Me: "Dada!"

Dan: "Waiter! Check, please. This food was atrocious. My very accepting wife could hardly swallow one morsel. We will never be visiting this restaurant again."

Waiter: Sees food all over floor and smells something fowl. "I'm sorry your visit was not to your satisfaction sir. Can you please tell your wife to stop wiping her nose on my jacket?"

New Blog

2010-01-03T15:27:00.000-08:00

Join me, won't you?

http://cookiecutterhouse.blogspot.com/

December Hath A One Year Old

2009-12-29T18:26:00.000-08:00

There is a little baby in the house who is responsible for my weary lids and my full heart.

She is now a one year old. And she has me absolutely smitten.

Today, for the very first time, she said "Mama".

Well, okay, she has said "mama" before but it doesn't count because 1) she said to to an inanimate object and 2) she said it with a whiny, tired voice.

Here's why today's version counts: I came into her room to pick her up from her nap. She jumped up and down wildly in her crib and said, "Mama" in a happy voice.

I spent a great deal of the afternoon marveling at this child.

I do that. I marvel.

And I usually do it one child at a time.

Plus, Morgan was playing with a friend and not around. It was the "Mommy Marvel at Eve Hour."

I marveled at how Eve has learned to get our attention from her play yard.

Sometimes she poops her pants and smiles at us expectantly.

Sometimes she throws her toys of the yard and gives us a puppy dog look.

Much to our chagrin, she has recently discovered that if she sticks her little index fingers far, far down her throat she will make a very gross gagging sound. And gross gagging sounds sometimes accompany gagging liquid. But most importantly, it gets attention.

Can she walk, you ask. Yes and no.

Can she? Yes.

Will she? Uh-uh.

My stubborn sidekick will only step sure-footedly when big sister is around and she doesn't actually know that she's walked to her. She prefers to remain a quadruped for the time being.

But I do have this: She dances. A lot.

Any slightest beat or sound make her cock her head to and fro like a clock pendulum. Help her if she's listening to something faster; she could put Eddie Van H*alen to shame. Or so I gather.

This age is endlessly fun. The smallest change in octave to my voice will cause her to crawl wildly away from me. And then, just when I'm about to catch her, she becomes scared and runs AT me. It's a technique that I hope she kicks in the near future as it signals daredevilish tendencies.

She's smart, I just know it. Sometimes her eyes give off that glazed expression, but only when she's plain tuckered out. She manages to say Dan's name ("dada") with a sing-songy tone that begs to have his credit card. He responds in such ooey gooey fashion (who wouldn't?) that I check our credit report regularly to make sure he hasn't done so. Seriously, it's a love fest here.

But the frosting on Eve's cake is definitely Morgan. I'm pretty sure that Eve would grow another set of arms if it meant she could touch Morgan all the more. She loves her. She wants to be like her. She plays with Morgan's toys and follows her around the house. It's absolutely precious. And while I'm loathe to admit that the coming years will have me begging for Eve to not follow her sister, for now it's darn cute.

So there you have it. In the midst of a crazy December, there was given to us a one year old.

December

2009-12-29T07:51:00.001-08:00

It's been a very different December.

Other Decembers began with a slow crescendo on December 1st featuring Christmas music and baking of cookies and became progressively faster with Christmas parties and cookie swaps. By December 23rd, the flurry of activities turned into a mad dash for the last perfect gifts, a resolution to not spend quite as much the next year and culminated into a joyous frenzied Christmas Day.

But this December, I am worn. It started with a family funeral. Somehow funerals tend to sap more than just a day of visiting loved ones. It's so much more.

And then the month snowballed into a bevy of bereavements from there. I managed to putter into Christmas Eve a bit threadbare. I took a moment to pour some melted chocolate onto a cookie sheet, sprinkle it with crushed candy canes and crack it into pieces for our Christmas Eve night. An hour later we were calling the plumber due to our basement which decided to flood.

With God's help I managed to keep my head screwed on straight throughout this December. And by God's grace, I walked through it. He held my hand at my grandfather's grave. He enabled me to show love to friends who are very important to me, who are struggling. And in a large, watery puddle in the basement, He kept me from crying as my husband and I held each other in the flood.

In retrospect, there really isn't a more appropriate way to spend Christmas Eve than threadbare, poor and tired. There just isn't.

After Christmas, I was reading Morgan a new Bible. It's the Storybook Bible and it's perfect for the kid who says, "I've heard this story before." Absolutely perfect.

As I read Morgan the story of Abraham and Sarah, I wept. I've heard this story 100,000 times if I've heard it once. It was brand new to me. The book refers to God's saving hand as "the Secret Rescue Plan" and calls Jesus the "Rescuer"... It's an adventure book about love. It sees the big picture of each story. It's marvelous.

I read her many stories from this Bible. I couldn't stop. "Why are you crying, Mom?" my daughter asked. "Because I'm happy," was all I could tell her.

Because I'm threadbare.

And poor.

And washed out.

And He rescues me.

Three a.m.

2009-12-25T01:36:00.000-08:00

It's in the 3 o'clock morning hour here at the Dykstra House.

My Morgan gently knocked on the door and asked to open her Christmas presents. "Just your stocking," I told her. Aw, heck, I'd show her. I got dressed and came downstairs.

Little sister cried; she wanted to be part of the action. I gave her a warm bottle and watched Morgan open her stocking. The excitement, the glee... it was all worth it.

Now little sister is back in bed and momma is soon to follow.

But the excitement of my Morgan will be treasured in my heart.

Christmas Spirit

2009-12-23T18:52:00.001-08:00

This morning, in the true spirit of Christmas, I barked at Morgan. *sigh*

I made "crazy face".

Not familiar with "crazy face"? T'aint pretty.

It's the face of a momma who is on the brink of insanity. If you take a roll of Scotch tape and apply it to your face haphazardly in order to rearrange your features, then you'll have perfectly imitated "crazy face". Add a convincing growl and you're on your way to the funny farm.

I knew at the moment that "crazy face" made its appearance that I needed to mend my relationship with Morgan. Fast.

I asked Morgan, "Would you like to go on a date with Mommy?" She did. (Thankfully, whew!)

Then I called the sitter across the street and asked her to come to my house at 11:30.

Because the Christmas movie I wanted to take Morgan to started at 12:30.

I grimaced at the freezing rain. I said a prayer of safety and we were off.

I forgot how wonderful it was to be alone with Morgan. I forgot the feel of her hand in mine. And I forgot how much fun it is to let her choose her very own candy at the theater. *Big, wide eyes of excitement.*

We found our seat in the theater. We saw a lousy movie. It was scary and not Christmassy.

But it didn't matter. We were in it together. Disappointing movies and inclement weather. Together.

It's been a crazy December, but I think I found a Christmas spirit in that moment. She was under my nose all along.

Advent

2009-12-21T06:44:00.000-08:00

Recently it has been difficult for me to blog. Somehow, the blogs I love to read in bloggyland make me feel as if life, though difficult, can be easily summed up in a few paragraphs. That which is distasteful to blog about can be easily omitted. Cute stories of my children can gloss over other feelings which are boring to blog about. And to read.

So, I don't blog.

I don't have cute pics of children, festive recipes to share or a humdinger of a revelation. But I do have this:

I am a wicked-tired stay-at-home mother.

Can I say that in bloggyland? It's not comforting or funny or exciting and there's nothing redemptive about it... but it's true. I'm tired.

Each day I make choices to keep my day more simple and each day I'm completely humbled by how much craziness is in the air.

Snow pants. Seriously. Who knew snow pants would cause so much havoc?

And baby nap schedules. Or worse yet, skipping the nap.

A husband who is overly active in church.

A deep pang of grief at the loss of two people in my life.

A hellfire anger for the miscarriage of my friend.

Schedules. Responsibilities. Feeling lost.

It's too much. The prayers have barely left my mouth when another wave comes.

So my husband and I have been taking small steps towards sanity:

We decided to skip the company party.

And another Christmas get together.

We decided to watch a movie together at home. It took us three sessions and two days, but we finally finished a 2 hour movie we had been wanting to watch.

This morning I sat on my couch, opened the word of God and wept. I said a prayer in my heart that went something like this Christmas carol:

"Oh come, oh come, Emmanuel, and ransom captive Emily."

For everyone who asks receives,

and he who seeks finds,

and to him who knocks it will be opened.

Luke 11:10, The Bible

Fog

2009-12-02T04:06:00.001-08:00

A little fairy came to me and granted me one wish.

"One wish?" I clarified.

"Just one," she said.

"Then I wish I could remember the past month."

"Impossible," she said and exploded into a thousand pieces of light.

_______________________

Here's what I can gather from the evidence:

There was some sort of big festivity that happened here last week. There were pieces of a large, cooked bird in my fridge and little containers of leftover side dishes. Must have been a big dinner as far as I can tell.

And there are new toys and clothes scattered here and there along with bits of wrapping paper. An early Christmas must have arrived as well.

From the near-empty chicken nugget bag in my freezer, it's apparent that a certain child has been trying out her new teeth with great vigor. Hard crumbs of food under the high chair also indicate some life form with a voracious appetite has been there. A knowing bend in my back suggests that I've been bending over to clean up said floor a lot. Just a hunch. (Couldn't resist the pun.)

From the "size 7" youth pants in the laundry, I deduce there is another little girl who is growing quite tall. There are crayon drawn pictures sitting on various high tables around the home... obviously an attempt to keep littler hands of prey from them. There are little stories as well, written in a language locally known as "kindergarten-ese." It's adorable.

There was a very handsome man in bed with me this morning. He has a wedding ring on his finger (as do I) and appears to be nonplussed by my presence. It appears we are married. He's very cute.

It's a little foggy around here, but I'd say we're hanging in there. And that's probably all a mother can hope for at this moment.

Renewed Vows

2009-11-28T04:37:00.000-08:00

I was talking to a friend a few weeks ago about marriage.

About how sometimes man and wife just coexist in the same house, trying to make sense of the beauty and responsibilities of life.

Not much connection.

Fortunately, Dan and I have been able to have little snatches of time here and there to strengthen us... Little moments that strengthen our laughter and help us release our responsibilities, that help us see the real us.

Nearly a decade ago I pledged my love and faithfulness to Dan. Today the vows are a little more specific, but no less precious:

I, Emily, take you Dan, to be my wedded husband. To have and to hold, from this day forward,

For dirty laundry-bin-clothes-shopping or clean drawer-ed clothes,

For humdrum evenings or chaotic black Friday morning shopping,

For VISA bills or lottery wins,

For silent weeping in hospitals or joyfully wrestling a baby into clothes,

For minivan or sports car,

For beer gut or six pack abs,

For exhausting birthday parties as well as movies-in-bed,

For the appearance of white hairs on our heads or wrinkles on our faces,

to love and to cherish 'till death do us part.

And hereto I pledge you my faithfulness.

Friendship

2009-11-19T16:07:00.000-08:00

There's a continuous blog going on in my head but the connection of my head to my hands to the keyboard is difficult of late. Is it lame to say that I have been a mother 6 years and it still surprises me how much joy and work it is?

As usual, I digress.

Recently I met with a group of women. A really cool group of women who I like very much. I like their differences and their ideas and their vim and vigor. (I've always wanted to say that... "vim and vigor"... tickles the tongue, it does.)

So as I was meeting with this group of women, the subject turned to food. My ears perked right up. How to make dinners. How to get good deals on food. That sort of thing.

I'm a self confessed foodie.

I'm not afraid of a little fat.

And I'm not afraid of cooking something for two hours if it means it's wicked good.

I wanted to hear about flavors and richness and the beauty of taste and texture. I wanted to hear about obsessions with coconut or mishaps with caramel.

As the conversation continued, I didn't really hear anyone say, "Oh man... you have GOT to try this such and such..."

Instead I heard words like "quick" and "easy" and "just open a can of..."

I became very quiet. And, can I confess, I felt really sad.

"Emily, this is ridiculous. You stop being such a food snob. Listen up, girl. You may learn something new," I told myself. But the loneliness stayed. And it seemed to grow.

Fast forward a day. My friend Ann and I are talking on the phone. She tells me, "Hey Em, I made a gluten free carrot cake recipe for you. It's pretty good."

"You did? You made one for me?" I don't think I've had a good gluten-free baked item since I went glutenless a month ago.

"Yep... I can't get it out of the pan, but the taste is really good. I found some special flour at the Whole Foods store. Did you know you can buy bulk spices there? And if you just need a little, you can do that, too!" Ann is such a foodie.

"But Ann, you're not gluten free," I said, putting two-and-two together.

She laughed.

"So you went out of your way to make a special cake for me?"

More laughter. I was deeply touched.

"Well... I like the challenge," she offered. Did I mention that she's modest?

The next day I ate some of the best darn carrot cake known to man. It was sensual and had layers of flavor that hit your tongue at different times--it was earthly and moist and somehow chocolatey. It was amazing.

Now I know it's frowned upon in nutritious circles to be an emotional eater, but I can honestly say that I rarely eat a bit of food in which I don't have an emotion. I really don't know how to stop being an emotional eater. That being said, when I ate this cake I nearly cried for the goodness of it. Each bite confirmed friendship and fellowship and goodness and creativity. My tongue did a happy dance, it did.

Later, I called my mother and told her the two stories. I don't have to explain "foodie" to my Mom. She called me into the fold with her love of cooking years ago. And I didn't have to explain the friendship part, either. We just ate the story up.

God's Grace, Anew

2009-11-18T15:33:00.001-08:00

I've pictured the grace of God for a long time like this: a gentle, loving father figure stooping to pick up the pieces of a person covered in filth, wiping him clean. The spirit is somber and sobering.

But today I have a new picture:

My daughter Eve, who is desperately social, was sitting in her wheeled exersaucer. While I was checking email in the office, my clever infant found a way to scoot until she reached the door frame where she repeatedly bang, bang, banged on the door, giggling with glee at the sight of me. She had messed her pants but didn't seem to care. But she was completely delighted to be in the sight of me, bumping around awkwardly in the wheeled toy.

I love this image. I picture God delighting in His children as we seek His face eagerly and awkwardly, as we shriek in joy at His presence and as we come to Him even though we're dirty... We come to Him because we're dirty and social and in need of Him to pick us up and love us.

Thank you, God, for little Eve and this new picture of grace.

Stay at Home Ponderings

2009-11-17T08:59:00.000-08:00

It's 11 o'clock in the morning. I've just returned from the gym and, honestly, I should shower. It's one of the plusses of being a stay-at-home mom: I can do whatever I want, whenever I want. *cough, gag, snort and all manner of eye rolling*

The minuses to being a stay at home mom are the same as the plusses: (flexibility) because one moment you're on-top-of-the-world with organizational ecstasy and the next moment you're reluctantly giving the two-hour slot you allocated to (whatever) to the tire center with a nail in the tire. *Boring*

So I'm seizing this moment to blog.

Recently, I was reflecting on what life was like one year ago. I was somber. And weepy. And happy. And crazy. The happy little hormonal rainbow that we call pregnancy was a joy ride for all involved.

I was reflecting on this as I watched my nearly one-year old baby pull tissues out of the box with great glee. About how I couldn't possibly have pictured this feisty little girl in my life, about how I clung religiously to this grainy sonogram picture of her gnawing on her fist and loved what I knew of her. The sonogram picture is still on my fridge from one year ago. One day I'll take it down, but not now. I have reasons which the heart alone knows for keeping it up there.

Much happens in a year. I'm up to my eyeballs in childproofing this house from my wonderfully curious infant. She adores SOS pads, at least the emptying of them from the box. She loves to chew on the ottoman and this little wood finial from Dan's chess table. She's got an adorable temper which I will blog about in a year with different feelings, I'm sure. And she dances with this odd flip-flop of the head that makes you wonder if she's got a tick. Again, adorable.

Last year I sat in her nearly-perfect nursery that smelled like fresh paint and rubbed my belly with all the holy ponderings befit of a mother-to-be. And this year I can barely keep the diaper bin empty as I wrestle my infant to the changing table.

The heart is amazing in it's capabilities, isn't it?

Last year, the quiet ponderings.

This year, I still ponder, but it's done in little snatches of time... a photo I snagged which remains in my constipated digital camera, a scrap of paper with a mad jumble of words on it which reminds me to tell Dan a funny story. That sort of thing.

What joy, to be a part of life, to ride the waves of God's goodness and to marvel at how he fills the heart again. And again. And again.

Friday

2009-11-13T05:13:00.000-08:00

It is Friday morning.

Even if this day kicks my tush like it did every day this week, tomorrow is Saturday.

Saturday= Dan.

Dan= help.

Saturday is good.

I am eager to cleanse the house of the sickness that became this week.

When sickness hits our homestead, we are in triage mode.

Dishes only get done out of absolute necessity.

We eat whatever the freezer offers us.

When fresh fruit and veg are gone, they are gone.

I have worn the same jeans all week long. Denim is the ultimate in fabric forgiveness but even this pair could use some rest. And a wash.

I can see the horizon of health and will welcome it with open arms. There is something about the opening of curtains and letting light stream in and picking up laundry off of the floor that lends itself to reclaiming health and home.

With Comet cleanser in hand, I will oust the virus from our bathrooms. Truthfully, it may do absolutely nothing. But I'm not setting out the welcome mat for it, either. Begone, you terrible health-taker.

With some extra rest for my little one, perhaps today will be the day that she'll eat well and fuss less.

If nothing else, it's Friday. Beautiful Friday.

Sick Week

2009-11-12T11:27:00.000-08:00

This is the fourth day in which my infant daughter has been sick. In fact, at this very moment she is fighting sleep. Her tired pink eyelids don't know that she is sleepy so she is wailing, pleading with me to pick her up and let her play.

Earlier this morning I sat on the floor with her and just let myself be a present mother. I just sat there. She crawled to me and then away from me to a toy. Then back and forth, back and forth, just to make sure I was still there.

At one point she stood eye to eye with me and turned red in the face while she grunted. I was oddly honored that Eve felt comfortable enough to do her business with me present. I laughed inwardly at her beautiful shamelessness.

Being a mother is, in my opinion, one of the oddest jobs on earth.

I smile as my shiny-faced infant holds out her arms to me and immediately thrusts her face onto my shirt, rubbing her runny nose all over it.

I sometimes smile, sometimes grumble at the sound of Cheerios crunching under my feet on the kitchen floor. "Missed a few," I say to myself. At other times, I'm so dogged tired from the day that I forget or downright refuse to wipe up the food from the floor.

Cheerios.

Banana pieces.

Whole chunks of chicken nuggets.

I justify the food on the floor with a Biblical story I learned as a kid: Kind Boaz told his workers to leave sheaves of wheat behind the harvest so that poor Ruth could find some food.

And so do I.

I laugh at Eve's strength when I bring the bulb syringe to her nose. With surprising speed, she whips her head left and right to avert the inevitable. If I use a tissue, she rips it right out of my hand and throws it on the floor so I can't clean her face. Feisty little one.

My favorite moment with her is right when she wakes up. We hug. I pat her back and she pats mine. It makes me smile every time.

As I reflect on this week, I don't see much in the way of what I have done. I suppose every mother feels that way when there is sickness in the house. But I see that through her mucous-rivered face she feels happy and safe. She even dances. That's all a mother could ask for on days like this.

Morgan Tells It...

2009-11-12T10:39:00.001-08:00

I couldn't help but smile that Morgan "got" this about being married. *So* Proud:

Emily: "Morgan, when you have babies, can I snuggle them and take care of them?

Morgan: "Yep. 'Cause me and my husband are going to go on a little vacation."

Emily: "Yeah? Where are you going?"

Morgan: "I don't know. Maybe just go out for dinner."

Emily: "What restaurant?" (Expecting her to say McDonalds...)

Morgan: "I don't know..." (I can tell she doesn't know what restaurants grownups go to on date nights.)

Emily: "And then what?"

Morgan: "Then we'll come home, put on our jammies and brush our teeth and go to bed."

Of course, Morgan. Of course. That sounds delightful.

____________________

Morgan had gas issues (both ends) while visiting grandparents last month. The whole visit consisted of her yelling "Excuse me" loudly in the house so all could hear. I told Morgan that unless people were, um, "bothered" by it, you don't need to say "excuse me".

Fast forward a few weeks at the dinner table:

Morgan: "Dad, did you hear me burp? 'Cause I need to say 'excuse me' if you did."

Oh, for the love of Pete... She thinks of everything.

Nit Pick

2009-11-09T03:55:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, my mother was in town. Before she came she suggested, "Why don't you two go out and spend the night in some bed and breakfast? Get a night away?"

"I couldn't," I told her.

But then I thought about what a rare gift this was:
Dan.
Me.
Sans children for a night.
It sounded good.

I called her back and accepted.

When the time came for Dan and I to leave for our night away, I was so excited. Dan had booked a night at the new Trump hotel in downtown Chicago and was taking me to his favorite sushi restaurant for dinner. Eeeek!

We weren't able to leave for our date until later in the afternoon. The day was filled with its usual busyness. When the time came to leave, we hoisted the suitcases into our Corolla and dashed down the road for a quick fill-up before we left. We were eager to reach the city before traffic got too backed up.

"Um, Dan? I can't find the gift certificate to the spa, " I said sheepishly. I really didn't want to stop our journey already. We were in "flee" mode.
But I married a patient man who didn't even "harumph" at the thought. We turned around and retrieved the gift certificate.

Okay, NOW we were off.

It had been a while since I had gotten away with Dan for a night.
And it had been a while since I had sat in our 11 year old Toyota Corolla.
It was loud and small and, well, perfect for the short trips to the train station Dan makes every morning. It had no radio and so it offered Dan and I an opportunity to talk and laugh, albeit loudly.

We arrived at the city in less than an hour which really impressed me for Friday night traffic. "There's the Trump!" Dan pointed to a tall, impressive building on the skyline.
I was starving and eager to check into the hotel.
We saw The Trump quite a bit that evening. From the south, from the north, from every whichway direction imaginable. The only part of the hotel we couldn't find was, well, the front door.

Grrr.

Recall earler comment about Dan's patience? Well, he married an opposite.

I could feel a hot impatience in my chest. He didn't get directions? The GPS on Dan's phone wasn't entirely clear. And if you're familiar with Chicago, then you know that some streets have upper and lower levels.

It was at this moment that I realized that I had to set the tone for my attitude for the weekend. The patience I fell in love with in Dan (the patience that enabled him to turn the car around and get the gift certificate I forgot to bring) was also the patience that allowed him to not be frazzled by the adventure of being lost for nearly an hour in the city.

I watched as we passed our hotel again and again.
I looked at my dear husband, cramping his tall frame into a too-small car and being totally non-plussed at our being lost in Chicago. It was probably at that moment that I softened, enjoyed the ride and let him take the lead.

From the moment I decided to stop being negative (in the name of "efficiency"), the air in the car became easier to breathe.
Dan and I laughed more.
I enjoyed the ride and the view.
And when we finally reached our destination, we were able to laugh when we saw that the price of parking our yabba-dabba-do car was almost more than the car was worth. "Hey, we don't do this everyday," my easy-going husband said.

We took out our luggage and stepped into a very nice hotel with very pretty things.
Clean things.
Happy people.
Lovely smells.
Warm eucalyptus towelettes upon our arrival. (You have got to try this.)
A pillow menu, of all things.

But what mattered most was the smile on my face, the smile on his face and the opportunity to rejuvenate with my favorite man on earth.

If I had continued to nitpick, I would have missed the view from our hotel room window.

More importantly, I would've missed the big picture.

Dining Room

2009-11-05T14:05:00.000-08:00

I love decorating my dining room for the holidays.

It says, "Pay attention... something special is happening."

It's warm. It's inviting. And it's my favorite thing to do.

This year I bought these sconces to help balance the long wall above my buffet.

I'm all for using whatever you already have in your house for decor so....

when I really really wanted some tall pillar candles, I fudged.

I set two on top of each other. (Shhhhh.)

And then I added mixed nuts to keep them in place.

These pumpkins and corn were bought in Iowa at a darling farm.

And the feed-sack-turned-runner?

I bought that beauty on my birthday this year in Charleston at an antique shop.

I love the graphics on it.

I doubt I'll use it on a real table setting, however because antique burlap doesn't like to be washed. So I learned. *wink, wink*

And then after having all this decorating fun over the past month,

I realized that that darn patch on the other dining room wall it still unpainted.

Drives me batty. Like putting makeup on half your face.

But I have plans, yes I do. Plans.

Tissue Encounter

2009-11-05T13:13:00.000-08:00

"Tra la la la la... Nothing to see here folks. Just an innocent baby. Playing with tissues."

"What is on my hand? Don't you people clean the floor?

Seriously! It's like a pig pen here. Wait, let me taste it."

"Ith very thticky."

"I have got to inspect this stuff."

"Okay, let me try again. Down the gullet you go."

"I was right the first time.

Nast-o."

"I have GOT to get this taste out of mouth."

Disclaimer regarding the cocktail shaker: It was shiny... what'd you expect? :)

Morgan's Not So Private Journal

2009-11-02T10:35:00.000-08:00

Nothing like a "My Little Pony" to warn you

not to drink and drive.

(No idea. Don't ask.)

You r speshul to me, too.

"How to make a Book

Here is how to make a booke

Think uv wt you

wont to rit in your book

Then ritt it."

See? There's no reason for writer's block, silly writers.

"Boo and You stick together like glue."

I need to translate this because, honestly,

I fretted this morning when I thought her journal read: "Lick gloo".

Monday Prayer

2009-11-02T06:07:00.000-08:00

Today I woke up and, for once, started my day right.

I had some time with hubs, in prayer. Had some laughs, too.

I needed to start this day with prayer because I'm a helpless rag of a woman.

Because my grandfather is dying.

Because my parents are divorcing.

Because my best efforts to love are tainted by tiredness and impossibility at times.

I needed to start this day with prayer because I had a wonderful weekend reconnecting with the man I married. Because we had an awesome dinner on Friday night with flavors I could never in a thousand years dream could be made and stayed at a posh hotel and marveled at the beauty of the city. I had to thank God for the amazing time of rejuvenation.

I needed to start this day with talking to God because the first on my list of to-do's this week are so mundane. Calling people about broken things. *Yawn* So uninspiring. So not posh.

I needed to start the day with God and me and Dan facing the same direction.

I have no idea what this week holds. Great big laughs at my infant daughter. Even bigger laughs as Morgan writes notes in her special way of spelling things. Bumpiness at family dynamics.

And more prayer.

Joyful, tearful, quiet, ecstatic, mundane and revelation-filled prayer.

There is Roast...

2009-10-22T17:46:00.000-07:00

Morgan, the Menu Maker:
(Translation follows)

There is roast
and there is potatoes
Last but not least there is
corn and beef.

Perspective

2009-10-19T06:19:00.001-07:00

It's Monday morning. I am under the delusion that the wonderful man who stayed home with me all weekend and helped with house and children is supposed to stay here.

I forget that there is a mortgage to be paid and, by golly, that I like a warm house.

So he goes to work. I'm thankful, of course, but I'm also fighting against the slump that is called Monday morning.

Come to think of it, I did this pre-children when I worked the nine-to-five. There was an unsaid rule that people should enter into the doors of corporate America on Monday morning with very quiet voices and coffee in tow. Then we'd take a few minutes to start up the computer, arrange the papers on the desk, check voice mail and slowly dip into the week. It was a transition that took the utmost delicacy.

Children do not know about this rule. But that's okay. I have embraced the chaos which I come to expect.

I have already done a stamping craft project with Morgan and given the baby a bath.

As I picked up my grumpy infant this morning, I noted with an "ugh" that she has a cold. She rubbed her fat fist through her runny nose to make her face somewhat glossy and fussed. Poor thing. "No gym for Mommy today," I noted.

In ten minutes, the doorbell will ring and two neighbor girls with bright faces will say good morning and immediately launch into something they did this weekend. While they're telling me about it, Morgan will be scrambling to get her coat on and the baby will be crying as I stuff her in her fleece body suit.

My natural response is to flee from the chaos, but the children are attached to the chaos. I want the children. I love them. I don't want the mess of the art, but I want the adorable drawings. I don't want the mounds of laundry, but I want the curiosity of my infant as she smears cake on her arms.

So I embrace them both. Package deal.

And I guess I'll embrace the Mondays that hold us as well.

As Long as She Thinks So...

2009-10-12T09:07:00.000-07:00

Any takers on what "Eve is..."?

Vision

2009-10-11T17:52:00.000-07:00

It's Sunday. I can see clearly now.

Okay, maybe not perfectly, but clearly enough.

My family spent this weekend with dear old friends in Michigan. We had hoped to meet some new friends there as well, but the cold season is upon us. That will have to wait for another day.

Point is: I went to Michigan with fuzzy vision and came back with clearer sight.

Here's how I know:
On the road trip back, I sat between the girls in the back seat. I laughed with Morgan. I can't remember the last time I laughed with her with no care for time. We giggled about nonsense words and blew bubbles with our gum. It was effortless fun. Not prepared or contrived or premeditated. Just fun.

On my other side was my bendy baby... she gnawed on her toes and laughed at me as I changed my voice and made overly dramatic faces. My, I'm blessed.

I looked in the front seat at Dan and thanked God for a kind husband. We haven't seen a lot of each other lately. The fog of life keeps me from seeing the blessings right in front of me. My, he's handsome. And funny. How in the world did I land such a gem? God's gift, for sure.

I'm unsure how a beautifully simple weekend with friends could adjust my vision so, but it did. Now I'm an evangelist of joy and fun and "oh-what-the-hey"... Something about living in the moment with 5 spunky children and 4 dedicated parents will revive life in anyone's soul.

We picked apples. Have I seen my husband so giddy? Apple juice dripped from his chin as he sunk his teeth into a very large Jonagold.

We ate food. Very good eats. My friend Sarah speaks "foodie" very well.

We laughed a great deal.

And tonight, when I came home, I saw something amazing: There are people in my house.
I didn't see Cheerios on the floor.
I didn't see laundry or bills or messyness.
I saw Dan and Morgan and Eve.

Thank God for friends and food and weekends.
And brand new eyesight.

Morning Mayhem

2009-10-09T14:24:00.000-07:00

It's not an ordinary evening. I'm blasting "Do you want crying" (Katrina and the Waves) and dancing crazily for the benefit of my extremely-fussy, 'oh-my-land cut the tooth already' infant. It's only appropriate. She's smiling. I am, too.

The day didn't start with smiling.

Try as I might to get this precious kindergartener out the door on time, she manages to drop a woozy right before we leave almost every day.

"Mom, I can't find my glasses."

"Mom, I didn't want to wear my ponytail anymore" she tells me as her hair (still in the general shape of a pony tail, mind you) has a large, gentle kink in the middle of it.

My personal favorite:
"Mom, this doesn't fit, this doesn't fit, this doesn't fit..." followed by a child trying to clothe herself while she writhes on the floor. Outrageous.

Serenity, I say to myself.

"SERENITY, " I scream out loud.
That's right.
I scream.
I seem to be the only bloggy mother who struggles with an anger problem.
I scream. Totally frustrated.

I hate when I scream. I do everything in my power to not let the awful volcano rising up the back of my spine explode into my daughter's face. But I did. I screamed. "Where are your glasses? Why don't you have your glasses?" I ask her a bevy of questions to which I already know the answer: "I don't know," she cries.

So the morning started badly.

And then I went to the mechanic expecting to dread every minute in the dirty waiting area but... I didn't. I had a very nice conversation for a half hour with a real down-to-earth lady. My, that was nice. So nice. She was a mother of three (now grown).

Feeling really impressed with this woman, I asked her, "So how did you raise three young children and maintain your sanity? Did you have any little luxuries?" I expected some real age-old advice. A little nugget of truth.

Here's the essence of what she said, "I didn't know what I was doing. Just get up every day and do what you need to do."

That's it? She could be an ad for Nike.

She added, "I read the kids a lot of books. There would be days where one would be sick and fussy and another would be crying. We just read books."

I sat there on that rainy day and thought, "You know, she may not have said anything special, but she did acknowledge that being a stay-at-homie is a crap shoot. You just do what you need to do each day whether you feel like it or not, hope you're doing the right thing in God's eyes and one day they grow up."

I'm home again now. The world isn't more sparkly like they show in the Dis*ney movies after someone has a revelation. But it's doable.

There are "do-overs" on the horizon.

There's always Katrina and the Waves.

And for today's mistakes, there's forgiveness.

Tis the Season

2009-10-08T13:05:00.000-07:00

I'd like to dedicate this blog to the pharmaceuticals.

I have a cold. I did too much yesterday and my body is saying, "Whoa, baby, slow down."

Thankfully, there is cold medicine. (Hallelujah chorus.)

I love cold medicine because first it hits me straight between the eyes and makes me sleep. (Zzzzz)

And then it takes the aches and pains away. (Ahhhhh)

And then... then it makes me think in s-l-o-w m-o-t-i-o-n.

Today as I was driving the car on an errand I was thinking the following... very slowly:

"Hmmm, I wonder if I should be driving.

Was there a warning about 'operating a motor vehicle' while on these meds?

Who says 'motor vehicle' anyway? Just say 'wheels'.

Tra la la la la la.

Look at that bird! I like birds.

Is a baby crying? Why is there a baby in my car? Am I a mother?

Stress is such a fun word to say... Stresssssssss.

I think we'll have cereal for dinner. I like cereal dinners.

What gender am I?

Am I married?

I'm glad the lines on the road are yellow. So pretty."

Thank you, peace-in-a-box. How I owe thee.

Birthday Journal

2009-10-07T15:00:00.000-07:00

Morgan's teacher has students whose birthday it is go home with (drumroll, please) the coveted birthday journal.
It's a big deal to these little kids. They write what they did on their big day.

Here's what I've found in this journal:

William
"...We opned presents. My favorite was the vehicle playset."

Jill
"I got my ears pierced! They are sparkly!..."

Daniel
"...I will have a party at Brunzwick on Saturday..."

and then, there is my daughter who began her entry thusly:
"I am going to hav lefdovr pink cake..."

Serenity.

Soup Days

2009-10-07T11:44:00.001-07:00

This morning started with a bang. A rush. A 6am "quick-open-this-present" because your father has to leave for work.

Breakfast.

A crying baby. Teething, naturally.

A doorbell rings. Three different times.

The phone rings.

The morning is full of life and vim and vigor. I wouldn't want it any other way.

But then, I wouldn't mind a little slowness once in a while. A little quiet. Restoration.

Hush, busy morning.

After this morning's busyness, I had a hankering for some soup.

Roasted veggie soup.

Now if you're the "5 minute dinner" kind of person, may I gently suggest to you that you need this soup. Because this soup tastes like time and love and joy.

First, I cut up some veggies. Root veggies work great, but so do others.

Parsnips.

Carrots.

Celery.

Onion.

I know you're used to hearing amounts of things for recipes, but I'm resisting it. Fill up your cookie tray with veggie goodness. Keep it in a single layer. Like this:

Drizzle some olive oil on it and season it with a little salt. Not too much now.

Now, put it in the oven at 400 degrees for about a half hour.

When the veggies start to tenderize and turn brown, pull them out.

Use your nose and your eyes and a piercing fork as your guide.

Here, smell:

Now, put them in a generous stock pot and pour a half cup or so of white wine on them.

And then add some chicken stock to cover. Maybe a dash more.

Now taste it. Not quite right? Add a little oregano.

Put the soup on medium for a little while, say 20 minutes.

Now you can eat the soup just the way it is and it will be perfectly yummy.

But we want it to be masterful.

So add a little cream. The olive oil will float in little bubbles on the top. The veggies will look more vibrant, the stock will appear deeper.

If your windows are open, you may hear the doorbell ring because a neighbor just wanted to "drop by".

It's up to you if you answer it.

Party

2009-10-03T19:11:00.001-07:00

This is what a six year old looks like.
Happy. Confident. Wearing purple.

And this is what decor from that six year old's party looks like:
Orange. Pink. Purple. Balloons, too.
With a My Little Pony theme.

And this?
This is the most decorated cake you've probably ever seen.
Morgan loved it. We put her mini Little Pony figures on them.

There were purple tutus.
And dancing.
And hats. She insisted on hats.

This is little sister, Eve. She's never seen a balloon before.

Here's some fun decor pompoms I found (on super sale!) but didn't know how to decorate with.
But then I put my thinking cap on...

The top of the cake had a Twizzler rainbow, pink marshmallow clouds and candles. Oh my.

The friends had fun making a craft!

And Morgan was delighted.
That's all we wanted, really.

We had a game to see which of two teams could make the tallest marshmallow tower using only marshmallows and glue, er, frosting.

The craziest, most wonderful six-year-old birthday cake ever.

Make a wish!

And take time to smell the craft flowers. (No, not really.)
The guests made these beautiful felt bouquets.

My, what fun we had.

And now, this Momma needs some sleep.

Gift Giving

2009-10-01T08:50:00.000-07:00

This morning as I was putting on my earrings, I smiled to myself.

Last December before I gave birth to hope-made-flesh, I told my husband that I wanted him to come to the hospital with roses. What's more, I gave him specific instructions:

Me: "Dan, don't forget to bring me roses to the hospital, okay?"

Dan: "Okay, hon."

Me: "Red ones."

Dan: "Gotcha. Red ones."

Me: "Oh, and make sure they are in a vase, not that tissue stuff."

Dan: "Roses. Red. In a vase."

Me: "Arranged, not dumped in the vase."

Dan: (Laughing) "Anything else?"

Me: "Dan, this is important to me. This is how I want you to give me the gift, okay?"

Dan: "Okay... Red roses. In a vase. Arranged nicely."

And so in the days before the great hope child arrived, I reminded Dan frequently of his gift to me. Truthfully, it became a chore. For both of us.

The day arrived. I gave birth to a loud, squishy full-of-life daughter and Dan arrived on cue with a large vase of long stemmed red roses arranged by a professional.

It was just what I wanted.

He set them on the table and did something like watch TV. I don't know. I remember thinking that it was totally anti-climatic.

See, back in January of that year when I pumped liquid hope (IVF drugs) into my abdomen, I thought that if this awful stuff could produce a child, then we were going all out in the celebration department. We weren't going to chince on things that mattered.
Like a really nice nursing chair.
Or really pretty decor.
Or red roses. Arranged. In a vase. Given to me after the baby was born.

After looking at the roses I determined that at the very least we could get a really pretty picture of us all (even Morgan) as we left the hospital. Something memorable.

It was memorable all right.

Dan had a seizure right there in the hospital. He was unable to drive home.

So we left the hospital, both Dan and me in wheelchairs, accepting help from very nice strangers. I put the baby on my lap and the red-roses-arranged-in-a-vase on the wheely hotel-looking cart.

When the time came for us to get a family picture in the lobby, I declined.
Due to a severe blizzard and subzero temps, Morgan couldn't be at the hospital with us.
Dan hadn't showered and was still fuzzy from the seizure.
I had just had a baby (Duh) and felt very, very frustrated that my fairy tale picture of the hospital stay had been quite different.

Fast forward a week.

It's Christmas Day. Dan can hardly wait to give me my gift. We agreed on a budget and I could tell from the small box he was about to give me that he probably spent the entirely of his budget on this item.

He must have.

Real pearl earrings. With small diamonds on the side.

He was beside himself with excitement. He told me about how he researched for the best pearls and then researched for the best price. He was absolutely elated.

Despite my athletic wear garb, I put on the pearl earrings and felt very special. And very happy.

My, so that's what it feels like to receive a gift. A true gift.

This morning as I put on my earrings, I smiled at this story.
At my neurotic-control-freak-hormonal tendencies.
And at my husband's bursting-with-excitement gift.

He could have given me dryer lint and it would have been a hundred times better than the gift I forced him to give me.

But even better was the gift of himself.

A Note

2009-09-30T06:54:00.000-07:00

A rocky morning.

A mother brooding downstairs.

A little girl grumping upstairs.

And then, a three page note that a mother can read and perhaps you can decipher as well:

I still love mi famle

And I am sre fr mi mstax

So wil you forgiv me

Dear Lord, I'm crying.

Waiting

2009-09-29T08:27:00.001-07:00

I am in stutter land, friends.

Every time I come to blog, the biggest, most amazing stories happening to me are, well, somewhat inappropriate to blog about. They're too intimate or personal or would break a confidence.

Rats.

So I'm waiting. I'm waiting for the drama to settle, for God's words to come to me (maybe they won't).

But what I can say is that God is immensely, completely, utterly enthralled with patching and improving relationships.

Today I was thinking about someone who I needed to write and *wham* there was an email from that person. Waiting for me.

And then on Facebook a friend told me that we had a rocky past and *wham* God's grace was there, covering over old scraped knee wounds with His perfect love. Bringing smiles to our faces and erasing years of hurt.

I'm waiting. And resting.

Like Elijah when he was being hunted down and the angel of the Lord told him to eat and then eat some more because the journey ahead was a doozy.

Or like Elijah when he waited for God's voice and finally found it in a quiet spot.

Waiting.

Birthday Coming

2009-09-25T20:00:00.000-07:00

Shhh... It's rather late and the children are sleeping.

And me (giggling...) I am getting excited about a certain little girl's 6th birthday party.

I'm excited because I found some cute Martha Stewart decorations on super duper sale. The hubs isn't the biggest fan of her or of "giving to her coffers" (Lands, he's smart, isn't he?) but he likes when I say the word "sale". I like the word "cute", so it's win-win.

The kiddo wants "rainbow balloons" and a "My Little Pony party, please". She also wants a tiered birthday cake.
(Like a wedding cake, you ask? Yes, yes. She's crazy about weddings.)
I'm not a master cake baker, but I bought some rainbow Twizzlers (Oh please don't let Dan find them in the closest and eat them) which will make a beautiful rainbow somewhere on the pastry.
And some foil-wrapped toilet paper rolls will probably do for the columns on the tiered cake, doncha think?

Darn if JoAnns fabric didn't have those tempting 40% off coupons. Now my wallet is a bit lighter and my dining room table is heavier.
With 14 yards of purple tulle.
Soon to be tutus.

It's bound to be a crazy hour and a half of frosting, giggling, running and mayhem. I hope it's fun. I'm putting some loving into it.

Pics later, okay?

Days of Grace

2009-09-23T08:11:00.000-07:00

A long time ago, my friend Sarah told me that God's grace comes in many different ways in motherhood. I wish I remembered verbatim how she put it, but the essence of her sentiment was that God provides for mothers.

I've never forgotten that conversation. Sarah probably has. She is a busy mother of three (Hi, Sar!) and probably forgets her gender most days due to exhaustion. So it meant a great deal when this friend and weary-but-wonderful mother would share this with me.

I thought of this yesterday as I was about to take Morgan to a birthday party. It was a bit of a rush to get there. I threw the baby in the car seat (no, I did not throw her...) and made haste to pick up another little girl and whisk ourselves to an hour and a half of birthday enchantment. The venue for this party was a really swanky little tea party place in Naperville. There are times when I roll my eyes at the hoity toity, but I was absolutely smitten by this darling little place. I'll spare you all the details, but know that there were purple walls, lots of sparkly things and real china cups. Oh my.

So as I dropped off my load (read: two little girls), I realized that I was footloose and fancy free. In downtown Naperville. With my little Eve. So fun.

I've been meaning to come here for some time because there's a special spice I needed for a recipe and, well, there's a Penzey's spice shop in Naperville. Can I tell you how much fun it was to go into a spice shop, tell them I needed Ancho Chile Powder and have the lady confidently ask "Small or large size?" *Swoon* I love it when I spend $3 in a hoity toity place but feel like I've spent $50.

And then, someone gave me a G*ap gift card a while ago and I haven't been able to use it, so off I went to Gap to get baby girl a little outfit.

As I spent the hour and a half gladly strolling the streets with my baby, I felt thankful. Wow... there is that grace I needed. There is that spice I wanted. There is that bit of time I didn't think I'd get. There is a little gift to me... a little refreshment. Thank you, God.

Morgan Kay

2009-09-19T19:27:00.000-07:00

Having two daughters in two very different stages of life is quite interesting. Baby Eve gets a fair bit of attention, so I have to be careful to watch my Morgan. She is changing just as quickly. For starters, my five year old daughter is a funny mix of girl + infant + woman.

There are times when she'll put on an outfit and my husband and I look at each other and send her right back up to her room for another go. She looks too, um, womanly.

She's five, folks.

Five.

I mean, she's nearly six, but that's no sixteen. My, how's she growing.

There are other times when she utilizes new words like, "for example" or some big word like "horrendous" and I have to keep my concentration on WHAT she is saying instead of smirking like the dorky proud parent that I am. "My child just used a multi-syllabic word correctly," I'm thinking. I look into her blue, strong eyes and realize that she wants to be thought of as, well, worth listening to. And she is. Believe me, she is.

But there are times when I realize that she is still very much a little girl. I recently started taking her to a girls club at our church. She was, by far, the youngest member. Other girls are in junior high. I smiled as my eldest daughter was invited to fill a plate with snacks at the end of the evening. Morgan had brought a friend to this evening's gathering. Between the two of them, the brownie tray was 10 brownies lighter. That's right: TEN. I smiled at how these little girls have not gotten to the "Am I fat" or "I'm watching my weight" thoughts that often infect girls. They love chocolate, by golly, and they're gonna fill their plates. (For those who are horrified at their gluttony, yes, yes, I did "help" them put some back.)

Tonight we were at a Chinese restaurant and a little boy (age: 8?) came up to Morgan and offered her a sticker. "Would you like this clown sticker?" he said. My Morgan hardly broke eye contact from her wonton soup as she said, "No thank you." Completely not flustered. As if she expected it. I marvel at this child. Totally unaware that this little boy probably liked her. (Oh, please... not this early.)

As I watch my little Morgan grow and become more independent, I release my hold. At times I release her reluctantly and at other times I think she can't grow quickly enough.

It's times when she shares her heart that I love this growing up process most of all. She'll giggle in an embarrassed way as she explains that she doesn't know anybody's name at school. I tell her that she'll learn; it's okay.

She'll ask me to put a ponytail in her hair. Then she asks me to put THREE ponytails in her hair. I gulp and wonder if I'll be brave enough to let her look the way she wants, even if it's bizarre.

When we're in the car, sometimes we'll break out into funny songs.

We'll laugh about how trees look naked in autumn. "Heehee... naked."

And when she's grumpy, we'll have contests to see who can be the grumpiest.

Naturally, we break out into laughter.

She's still at the age where she'll describe bodily functions without any shame. I'll spare the details, but know that she wants to educate us about the full and healthy functions of all ends of her body. 'Nuff said. Again: I love this child.

Morgan Kay: It's a joy to know you. Without you, I wouldn't see joy in the little things in life. I love how you walk into a room, decide you want to paint a picture, and immediately do so. I love how you put bright green socks on your feet even though they look ridiculously happy on your feet. And I love how you use 10 gallons of hairspray each morning to keep your cowlick from getting hair in your face.

You are my Morgan. And I am so glad you're in my life.

Title

2009-09-17T11:38:00.001-07:00

It's easy in the muck of stay-at-home-ville to think that one is basically in a state of constant chaos for the purpose of proving entropy. I have a daily battle of will when my alarm clock (aka- my daughter, knocking gently at my bedroom door) reminds me that I should, in fact, admit that another day is upon me.

It doesn't help matters that my husband, in a gesture of goodwill towards my mush mind, reminded me that René Descartes declared his existence was based upon his ability to think. ("I think, therefore I am.") This gives me pause for two reasons: First, because most of the time I question if I can, in fact, think. The morning hours especially give me reason to question this as I put the milk in the snack cabinet and the dry goods in the fridge. Secondly, I don't know if I can trust a man who goes by the name René... sounds too girly to me.

But I digress.

Today, in a state of optimistic thinking, I told myself that my repetitive house keeping efforts certainly have merit. I decided to reframe my situation by renaming my efforts into titles that I might find in the world or marketplace. I reason that I will respect my efforts more.

This proved a bit difficult when I was checking out my groceries at Mei*jer today. A particularly lonely cashier gabbed incessantly about her opinions of the president, the safety of baby toys and about how helpful plastic bags can be for using in the bathroom trash. I'm not hatin' on the lonely out there, but I do use the checkout time to add my groceries before hearing the grand total. With careful concentration, I turned down the volume of my chatty friend and determined the sum of my groceries within two dollars. Thoroughly amazed at my abilities, I determined that such mind control is only found in Star Wars episodes. I must be... a Jedi.

Wow, this was getting fun.

Later, I listened to my baby's sounds as she crawled around the house. I noticed that her gibberish turned from a squealish "GLA GLU BLA" to a whispery "as soo foo" tone. (Alert! Alert!) I was able to determine her exact location and that she was about to bring a wad of fuzz to her already open mouth. With such deft hearing, I reasoned that I would make... an excellent bat or, barring that, a Navy Seal.

I mentally went down the list of how many ways I benefit the family:

Appeasing a rowdy playdate crowd with Goldfish crackers: Crowd Control

Feeding the never-full-baby: Sinkhole Management

Turning away youth at my front door (in a nice way) as they try to sell me lame, expensive products: Sandbag Piler

Taking money from my clothing budget and using it for my housewares budget: Chief Financial Officer

Using my index finger to wipe food off my baby's face. Eating said food: Recycling Managment

Using same index finger to scoop non-food out of baby's clamped-shut mouth: Bill Collector

Raiding my daughter's closet to find where the smell is coming from: K-9 Officer

and, finally, using superb phone skills to maneuver through a sticky insurance situation: Bee Keeper

Whew. I feel better about myself already.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a sleeping daughter. My mind-control is telling me to get off the computer. :)

Date Night

2009-09-14T09:46:00.001-07:00

Fighting all the responsibilities which threatened to undo our datenight, Dan and I left our beloved offspring in the capable hands of a babysitter Friday night and had... an amazing dinner.

I am as cheap as they come when it comes to datenights. I make every effort to not spend too much money on an evening if I don't have to because we're already forking out dough for the sitter. But there are times when the occasion calls for it.

Like being married to your best friend for nine years. *swoon*

(And all the men rolled their eyes.)

Dan and I had an amazing dinner at Adelle's in Wheaton.

I'm not here to tell you I had a fancy evening out.

I'm writing because I had a beautiful, unforgettable evening out.

It wasn't life changing, but it was life giving.

Have you ever been in the presence of something so beautiful that you felt physically changed afterward? I hope so. That was me. Friday night.

The ambiance at Adelle's is hard to describe without sounding cliché. It was simply breathtaking.

I wanted to live there. Forever.

The restaurant is surrounded by a garden with a tall brick wall. There is ivy and small trees planted here and there. My favorite part was... hold your breath... twinkle lights... all over the trees.

The restaurant had this really amazing way with decor. A privacy curtain was created using multiple ball-chain necklaces that the miliary uses on dog tags. Simple star ornaments hung from a bay window. Our table faced a fireplace filled with glass ball ornaments (how clever!) instead of a hot fire in summer. Sitting in that dim room with the perfect companion and just the right amount of laughter and talking at the tables surrounding us, I felt safe and happy and carefree.

I felt like I could breathe great big breaths of air and eat as slowly as I wanted.

I felt like someone else was taking care of me, giving to me.

It was unforgettable.

Dan and I swapped tastes of our food. Fish tacos. A crab cake. Meatloaf. Duck in berry sauce. Amazing. I could taste the love in all the flavors. The restaurant is one of those places that takes good, simple dishes and then surprises you with a new infused flavor. The tomato aioli which accompanied my crab cake was totally unexpected. And, of course, delicious.

And for dessert? Mousse.

Can I say that again?

Mousse.

Mousse, mousse, mousse.

Chocolate swirled with vanilla and a pool of raspberry sauce at the bottom.

Caught up in the moment, I wanted to sell all my possessions and eat at this exact table with my husband every single night. I had been in a beautiful place with thoughtful food and my favorite person... and I won't forget it. Ever.

Brave

2009-09-13T15:31:00.000-07:00

This year I turned 35.

In previous birthdays, I have had a definite "this is a good age" or "I'd rather be younger" feeling. I remember starting to feel like an adult at age 25. Birthdays 18-21 were fun. My first teen-aged birthdays were greeted with giddy delight; If memory serves, my aunt bought me a subscription to "TEEN" magazine. The periodical was beautifully dribbled with makeover before and afters and some articles about boys, fashion and eating habits. But most importantly, it said "TEEN" on its cover to cue my arrival.

When this 35th birthday arrived I thought something profoundly simple: "By golly, I'm the age I have always been." If this is a bit cryptic for your tastes, it just means that when I was 13, I wasn't ever particularly fun, in my mind. I held the weight of a 35 year old. When I turned 26, I still had the furrowed brow of a 35 year old. And when I had actually turned 35, I felt something different... not thrilled, not horrified... I felt like my flesh and time had finally met up. I figure that when I'm twice this age, I'll still act like I'm 35 and I'll be thought of as immature.

Now, as a certified 35 year old (*wink*) I did start to have some misgivings about my life. Birthdays are great for tugging us a little more towards wisdom. I realized, with some surprise, that I have spent most of my life feeling really unsure about who I am and what makes me tick. You know how some people are known for... I don't know... being healthy or being organized or being witty? I have struggled a great deal in embracing the quirks and idiosyncrasies of being Emily.

But now, I'm bringing the weaknesses to God and asking Him to help me still be me, only braver.

1. When making purchases, have a peace about it.

Ugh. I am one of the most indecisive people ever when it comes to decisions. And purchases made with a crying baby or a pleading 5 year old pulling on me do not improve my decision making process. So now I am trying to step back from a purchase, ask myself honestly if I have the room for it in my home and if it is worth maintaining. If I don't have a true peace about it, I need to not buy it.

Case in point: This weekend my neighbor was selling some amazing furniture at her yard sale. It was all I could do to resist an über cute desk set and adorable dining set. They were vintage; I melt at the word "vintage"... I called Dan at work to ask him his thought. Honestly, I had hoped he would say no. Instead, he said it was my decision. Grrr... I must have visited the furniture three times. After going through my entire house, room by room, I finally realized that I had no proper place for any of it. I said no and I'm glad for it. Plus, I reasoned that that cute furniture should probably be in someone else's house. Decision made.

2. Before I try to contact someone, ask myself if I'm doing it because I'm afraid of quiet or if I really feel that I should call them.

I love to connect with people. But even more, I love to get the dish on my girlfriends and have a good laugh or cry or pep talk. Being a Mom affords me the opportunity to have constant peopleage (it's a new word) in my life, but speaking "ba ba" to my squishy baby is hardly edifying socially. So I find myself calling people. At times I do it frantically, like the talk-crazed mother that I am. And then I think, "Did I honestly just call that person to fill in a half hour?" *Horrified*

In a nutshell, I'm learning to ask God for peace about connecting with others. Strangely enough, I have spent many-a-prayer asking God that I might have time with... the man I married. I'm delighted to say that God is very interested in me spending time with Dan. 'Nuff said.

3. Pause before making a time commitment to an organization and then, if prodded, join with a glad heart.

Shortly after the ultrasound which revealed that our baby would be "Eve" and not "Evan"... I began to think about life with two girls. Our church has a club for young girls called GEMS which meets Tuesday evenings. I talked with Dan about the commitment and he asked great questions like "How much time will it take?" and "Will I still get dinner?" I just had my first leader's meeting this week and I am really excited about doing something I believe in...

Being generous in heart and wise with time.

4. Whatever I do, ask for God's presence and peace.

Alright, this sounds totally full of fluff, but it makes sense to me. I tend to put my concerns into two categories: Things God cares about and Things God doesn't give a hoot about. This is really wrong theology, I finally admitted. And then I put faith into practice.

For weeks now I have looked longingly at my sewing table (also doubles as my dining table) and wanted to create. I've fretted a good deal about this ridiculousness until I asked myself, "Do you believe God cares about this?" When the answer came back, "Heck, yeah!", then I asked God for the peace to sew and the time to do so. On Wednesday, baby Eve slept like a trooper and the coffee filled my veins nicely, so I sewed. Soon I shall share pics of the dropcloth curtains I sewed for our TV room ... in one day. Whoohoo!

On Eve

2009-09-09T07:25:00.000-07:00

I'm struck by a pattern I see when complete strangers see my beautiful baby girl.

Women say, "Oh, would you look at those big blue eyes" or something to that effect.

Men often say, "Hey, there, buddy." One out of ten men will notice that she's in pink and correct themselves.

and children... children say it like it is: "That baby don't got no hair!"

Indeed. :)

Coming to Terms

2009-09-08T11:11:00.000-07:00

Nine-ish months ago when I gave birth to the most beautiful baby Eve there ever was, I had no idea that life would change this much. I didn't know my heart could expand to twice the size of Montana and I certainly didn't realize that the clock would run on "fast" mode.

For starters, the joys and sadnesses of life are hucked out so quickly that when I take a breather, I'm not sure if I'm crying for the joy or sorrow of it.

My worry warts are being removed (permanently I hope) by the sheer fact that I don't have time for it.

A new relationship in my life is challenging my notion that I can, in fact, play well with others. But then, by God's strong Word, I realize that loving sincerely is a whole lot harder than looking like I'm being nice. I'm humbled and reliant upon His great love.

My husband and I come to God with scraps of problems, the equivalent of not being able to tie our shoe laces, and marvel as God wraps up the loose ends and sends us running again.

Thoroughly tired of having a cluttered, dirty kitchen, God gently helps me to stay on a simple regimen of putting pots, pans and dishes away... with a thankful heart... and shows me the joy of waking up to a kitchen that is clean and ready for action. What's more, He's giving me the desire to make dinners again and to share foodly goodness with others, my not-so-secret joy.

I'm learning to put even the most mundane, seemingly unimportant tasks into His great hands. Laundry. Mending. Cleaning. Working out. Resting. (Help me, God, make time for each.) And I'm learning to take care of my body again (patience, dear, patience) and find some clothes that will get me through this season of life. Oh, please let it be a season, says me.

I look longingly at a sewing project I've been wanting to do for ages. I ask God for the time and peace to do it.

I learn to downscale projects or time eaters that aren't important whatsoever. I learn to be more efficient but also to rest. Both are gifts.

I'm learning to stay, to suffer long when the occasion calls for it, to be quiet when words don't come for prayer and to sink my teeth into joy when it does come because of its fleeting nature.

My attempts to blog concise, clear thoughts become muddied when my too full heart can't possibly put into words its great bounty.

I marvel as I've finally realized that my husband doesn't want a well-run house so much as a happy, well-rested wife.

And while it's tempting in this economy to neglect date nights or time away in favor of the almighty savings account, a simple night out with the husband pumps fresh blood into my veins and wind into my tired sails and reminds us that we love laughing with each other. It's an act of faith to do so and the rewards keep coming.

A quick look at the clock reminds me that I have a few hours before my dear Morgan comes home from school. I am off again. Happy and humbled and tired and thankful.

Paper Trail

2009-09-04T07:56:00.000-07:00

Hello out there. I'm in hiding.

Just when I thought I'd have a little breathing room with Morgan being at school, my arch-nemesis arrived: details and organization.

There's a lot of things I'm good at: I like sewing and cooking and graphics. I like the house generally cleaned up, but when it comes to nitty, gritty details my brain goes into "does not compute" mode... also known as "huh?"

The first day my daughter came home from school, I donned my best "How was your first day" smile. She responded with a "Fine. Can I play with my friends?" and thrust a folder with papers inside for me to peruse.

I signed, folded, copied in triplicate* and sent back all manner of school material back to her teacher. There is a "take home" side of the folder and a "send to school" side, I quickly learned. That should have been a red flag for me.

The next day Morgan came home with more papers. Papers with dates. Important dates. Words in bold print. Places to write our names and sign up for this and that. I gulped and put them on my kitchen counter. At one point, I couldn't see my kitchen counter for the waves of paper that had multiplied upon it. We were averaging 5-10 papers a day.

So I bought an organizer.

And a three ring notebook. The big kind.

This was war.

I promptly recycled or punched holes in the papers and claimed my kitchen counter back.

Every day the paper load seemed to increase. But I was ready for it.

And then, yesterday.... I heard forests of trees shriek as I opened her pack: School Fundraiser info. There were papers stapled on the front of the pack to entice you to open the pregnant envelope. There were papers telling me that there were other papers to look at in her pack that night.

I looked at the School Fundraiser packet and gulped. I can't think of a worse thing to do to my friends than to take the pack of papers that give me ulcers and shove them in their general direction with my cute, doe-eyed daughter as bait in the hopes that they'll give me paper back in the form of a check. What's more, the Fundraiser is selling, among other things: Wrapping Paper. Paper, paper, paper.

But wait, there's more:

Yesterday I received two pieces of communication from Morgan's school which said the same thing, once in email form and then, just in case I didn't want to go paperless... once in paper... that Morgan's class will not be attending a certain program. What? Why are they so paper happy?

I mean, of course I know the answer to all of this mayhem... probably a psychotic mother who loved her children a whole, whole bunch threatened to sue the school if they did not communicate ad nauseam about the programs her children would and would not be attending. And she probably threw in some "communication must be in paper form" clause because she was the wife of a logger.

*Breathe*

So there you have it. I'm hiding. If you have a problem with that, put it on paper.

* I jest, I jest.

September Hath Two Girls

2009-09-02T05:23:00.000-07:00

Morgan and the sunflower

Morgan and the her new glasses!

Ain't she cute?

Morgan's artwork of a duck... made out of sunflower petals.

I love this kid.

Pick me up, Mommy!

This pic isn't too clear, but it shows how Eve holds her lips. So funny.

Teething, teething...

Eve loves to tilt her head. Often she giggles and giggles as she does it.

A more somber moment...

Year 2009 Resolution Updates

2009-08-25T13:00:00.000-07:00

1. Learn some new hairstyles.

No progress whatsoever. I am still very much that 7th grade girl who tried to understand the stuff on top of her head. But I did add bangs. Whoohoo!

2. Learn to preserve jam.

No jam. But pickles, yes. I'd love to say that "I'm a natural" or "It's so easy" but I'm not to that point. I did feel very domestic.

3. Grow an honest-to-goodness producing garden.

Oh, it's producing. Some beautiful tomotoes. Some struggling cabbage. A bit of weeds and some very hot leaf lettuce. (Who knew leaf lettuce came in flavors of fire?)

4. Memorize the Ten Commandments. In order. Verbatim.

Okay, I've memorized the KIDS version of this. (They don't say "adultery" for commandment 7... they said "Be faithful in marriage".) Am still learning the verbose big person version. :) But they're important, so it's worth it.

5. Give knitting a whirl.

Notice I said "a whirl" and not "become a master knitter". Well, I'm whirling. I'm knitting something that is beginning to look scarf-like.

6. Make family first:
1. My household family.
2. My siblings/parents.
3. My "family-ish" friends.

This isn't really a measurable goal. What was I thinking?

7. Make Dan more of a priority.

Ditto.

8. Show hospitality in simple ways. (Dan wants to showcase his beer... Beer and Chili dinners?)

Oh yeah... I had a baby... what was I thinking? I've shown hospitality to two little girls and that's all. :)

9. Use my decorating abilities to make the house feel more like "us" and less like the last owners.

This one is coming along okay. I'm getting there. Will post pics as progress occurs.

10. Show my gratefulness for health this year by doing physically fun activities. Canoeing? Biking with the fam?

Recall early comment about having baby. Survival.

First Day of School

2009-08-24T19:34:00.000-07:00

"Dad, I'm nervous."

"About what?"

"What if I don't get any trophies today at school?"

Huh?

Like my backpack?

Posing...

More posing...

Note: Morgan's mother is not crying.

Because she cried in the shower the night before.

We Dykstras like to keep it real.

Real weird.

We're walking... We're walking...

Why I forgot the Baking Powder While Grocery Shopping Today

2009-08-13T19:08:00.000-07:00

"Can I choose the snacks, Mom?"

"What does 'ish' mean, Mom?"

"I wonder what human flesh is..."

(Times a hundred.)

Away.

2009-08-12T13:09:00.000-07:00

My husband is away on business.

Eight years ago if he was away on business, he would come home to an apartment that was sparkly clean, candles lit on the table. His wife would don a pretty apron and some swanky music would be playing. We'd probably have some vino before dinner.

Tonight when he returns, the scene will be a bit different.

The house will be, in a word, loved.

There's some ant bait on the floor. I'd pick it up except that it is still wooing the last of the little buggers into their sugary death. The kitchen is in a state of perpetual use as evidenced by the sink's full belly of crusty plates. Most of the laundry is done (hallelujah!) but a few lone socks and washcloths are bound to stay on the floor.

I would have done more yesterday to pick up the house, but I had a violent stomach virus that made me wonder for a half second if I was pregnant again. (*No and more no.)

The dining room is quite a sight at the moment as well. There are packing boxes filled with foodstuffs and beach towels in anticipation for our beach week`. My five year old has been pawing through the boxes, examining their contents and suddenly "needs" whatever is in them.

"Take my temperature, Mom." She found the thermometer.

"Can I have this blanket, Mom?" She already has laid it on the ground to look at all the colors.

"Where are my goggles?"

It's all I can do to stay packed.

This is a funny time of married life. Between taking care of self and the little ones, I look foggily across the dinner table and see... the man I married. He's the man I desperately want to talk to but can't right now because it would involve spelling v-e-r-y l-o-n-g words to keep our little Morgan from understanding. He's the man who I don't see twelve hours a day (on good days) but will always take my phone call at work and at least pretend to be interested. He's a gem.

Our worlds are quite different of late:

He's up to his eyeballs in spreadsheets.

I'm up to my elbows in bedsheets.

He wines and dines others so much that he's totally cool with cereal for dinner.

I'd cry for a Chicken Cordon Bleu.

And as much as I'd love to present him with a perfectly coiffed wife and house upon his arrival home, I know that the man I married then still wants the same thing that he wants now.

A little peace. A smile. Some laughs. Movies in bed. And probably some other things that you think you know (smirk) but you really don't.

So come on home, babe. I'll wait to hear your car pull in the garage before I pour the milk in your Cheerios.

Kiddieland

2009-08-06T19:18:00.001-07:00

Was fun. Way fun.

The End.

Eve Pics

2009-08-06T19:16:00.000-07:00

She's one happy 7-month old.

And she desperately wants to crawl.

(In due time, my dear. In due time.)

For Andrea

2009-08-06T19:13:00.001-07:00

These pics are for my friend Andrea.

Who calls my produce pics "Food P*rn".

Because she is in Antarctica.

And yearns for fresh produce.

And now I'll stop.

Chopping up sentences.

Aunt Becky

2009-08-06T19:09:00.000-07:00

Aunt Becky came to visit. She's fun to play with in the rain.

Umbrella attack!

The face says it all: Aunt Bex is a hit!

Rain friends.

Eve is unsure about Aunt Becky. But she did smile for her. Just not in this pic.

Morning Prayer

2009-08-04T05:31:00.000-07:00

Dear God,

Let my heart be where yours is.

If your heart is telling me to call a friend, please let kiddo nap time be successful.

If your heart is telling me to be still, give the courage to do so. Even in the midst of chaos.

If your heart is telling me to release my hold on money or "organization" or any other false securities, then please give me the resolution to live with less.

Amen.

The Garden

2009-07-28T03:49:00.000-07:00

There's an old hymn, "I Come to the Garden Alone", that I have, respectfully, never understood.

For starters, the words reference "dew" and "roses" and use other word pictures that I don't typically embrace. I do like the refrain, but probably not for the right reasons: it is fun and sing-songy in that old church tent revival sort of way. I sing in an obedient I-wish-I-felt-this-song-more-deeply fashion. I see the younger crowd spout off the lyrics, but the older folk...mmmm... they are my favorite to watch. While everyone is busy singing, their eyes glass over with tears. The tune transports them to another time. They harmonize. They reach deep within their lungs and pull out their best Sunday-dressed notes. It's something to watch.

It's pretty clear to me why I have never understood this hymn. Unlike older generations who were intimate with the earth, who grew up with a little dirt under their fingernails, I am several generations away from this earth-touching population.

I've planted herbs before in pots. That doesn't really count.

But this year, I was hit with a wave of domesticity that made me want to connect deeply with my past. I planted a garden.

It sounds romantic to plant a garden. It has its moments.

Purchasing seeds. Ordering yards of garden soil mix. Patting little seeds in the ground and showering them with the hose.

To date, the garden hasn't been too much of a burden. But I haven't felt like a true gardener yet, either. I recall my mother using two hands to hold a basket pregnant with squash and beans and all manner of vegetable when she visited her garden. My garden's yield pales in comparison.

I have some leaf lettuce that is doing extremely well. The radishes are touch-and-go. But last night the kohlrabi was ready. The bulbs on this turnip-like plant were full. I reached to pull it out, and it didn't give, not at first. Looked like this was going to be a two-hander. I used both hands and gently, but firmly pulled. It yielded, along with a clump of rich garden soil.

The one who farms for a living may find this to be old-hat, but I'm a novice and still in the garden-smitten stage. There was something so very, very satisfying about pulling up that kohlrabi. It ignited the senses. I smelled the earth as it clung to the roots. I felt the weight of the fruit ease as I shook off the extra soil. I felt the smooth skin of the kohlrabi and marveled at the many different shades of green a garden can offer. It was a sensual experience. Almost spiritual.

As I put the fruit in my harvest bowl (aka- "colander"), I walked back to the house with a feeling of immense satisfaction. I grew something.

Months ago I bought the plants, put them in the soil that I ordered, laid them in the raised bed that my husband made and watered them. My part in the life of this kohlrabi was hardly "creator"; I'll settle for "maintainer" or "watcher". But I felt very much like a sub-creator. God allowed me to join hands with Him in bringing this kohlrabi to be in my garden.

My, oh my.

For dinner my husband enjoyed a side dish of freshly cut kohlrabi. It was no hymn, but it transported him to his youth: He'd take a paring knife to his garden, cut fresh spring onions or kohlrabi and eat it right there with his feet still in the dirt.

The next weeks I'm waiting for something special. It's the equivalent of the grand finale fireworks on the fourth of July: the tomatoes. They're starting to turn color.

I'm downright giddy.

Why I Should Be Your Mother

2009-07-23T08:22:00.000-07:00

My friend "M" is about to be a mother. I'm so excited about her baby shower. She is adopting a little girl from Ethiopia.

Thinking about "M" reminds me of my firsts as a new mother. I didn't have a lot of confidence. I compared myself a lot with others until I finally realized that I was hand-picked to be Morgan's mother.

This is a crazy conversation I made up in my head about accepting motherhood.

______________________________

Child to be: "So, I see here from your resumé that you have no experience as a mother."

Me: "Correct. No experience."

Child to be: "Any experience as a nurse?"

Me: "Um, no."

Child to be: "Preschool teacher?"

Me: (Agitated.) "No. And while we're at it, I wasn't Mar*tha Stewart or Big B*ird."

Child to be: (Sitting back in chair): "Okay, You have no real qualifications. Why do you want to be a mother?"

Me: "Does everyone have to go through this interview? This is clearly not what I had in mind. The Baby Gap ads lead me to believe this would be a little more fun."

Child to be: (Nonplussed) "This conversation is purely from your imagination so enough with the small talk. Pony up the info."

Me: (Thinking) "Okay, I can sew a little."

Child to be: "I'm listening."

Me: "And cook. I can cook, too. Do you like Chicken Cordon Bleu?"

Child to be: "Maybe. Sounds fancy. How do you feel about interruptions?"

Me: "Um, well, I don't like them."

Child to be: "Dirty clothes?"

Me: "(Sarcastic) They're wonderful. Where is this conversation going?"

Child to be: "Give me your day planner there."

Me:"My what? (Hesitant.)"

Child to be: "Day planner. Fork it over."

Me: "Um, okay, what are you going to..."

Child to be: "How would you feel if I poured my bottle all over it?"

Me: "Please don't."

Child to be: "I wish I could stop, but I really can't help myself. It looks important. I know when things look important."

Me: "My passport is in there."

Child to be: "Well, you might want to call for a new one because now your name is too blurry to read. I guess passports don't like to be wet."

Now there is a stare-down... Child is smirking and cross-armed. I am holding my best poker face.

Me: "You know, your dimples are really cute when you scowl."

Child to be:"My what?"

Me: "Your dimples. They look like your father's. And that way you raise one eyebrow... also like your father."

Child to be: "That has nothing to do with..."

Me: "And the way you hold pencils... I do the SAME thing. They'll try to unteach you in kindergarten, but I'm pretty sure you'll be too stubborn to listen."

Child to be: "So?"

Me: "So? Listen, kiddo... I may not have a perfect calendar with carefully thought out preschool-appropriate games and crafts. I may not feed you organic kumquats imported from South America. And chances are good that your clothes and mine will be stained for the next ten years but... what matters most is not the clock or trends or appearances. What matters is that you were put in my life. I may be far from perfect but I'm the perfect mother for you."

Child to be: "Is that so?"

Me: "Yep. Hand chosen. You're mine."

Child is pondering...

Child to be: "Well, I guess that's alright with me."

Me: "Good. Now come over here and give me a hug, you rascal."

Summer Fun

2009-07-22T18:07:00.000-07:00

Eating popsicles on the front porch.

Baby Eve gets her first popsicle.

Sisters. *sigh*

Sugar + Eve

(And no, she's not nekkid... she has a diaper on.)

A very sticky baby wants me to pick her up.

Morgan--Growing Up

2009-07-22T17:49:00.000-07:00

Morgan and I made a "countdown to kindergarten" decor which hangs off the mantel.

Thirty-six days to go!

Learning to scoot.

T Shirt Fun

2009-07-22T17:47:00.000-07:00

I bought Morgan a plain tshirt and then added this fabric on top. What fun I had!

Foodie Books

2009-07-19T18:31:00.000-07:00

I'm reading a book right now that is really popular, Julie & Jul*ia. You've probably heard gobs about it, but basically it's about a woman named Julie who discovers her mother's book by Julia Chi*ld, "Master*ing the Art of French Cooking". She decides to make every recipe in the book (524 of them) in one year. Oh, and she blogs about it along the way. I guess that's where the book comes from.

*ahem*

I'm a foodie at heart. I adore the idea of cooking through a cookbook (more on that later), so when the library told me that my copy of the book was waiting for me, I couldn't wait to get my grubby little hands on it.

Without meaning to be critical, I'm disappointed in this book. The book is quite crass at times and lacks the heart of a true foodie in my opinion.

A little background: I read a book about Julia Child last year and was immensely impressed with her easy spirit. She seemed to have no trouble rolling up the sleeves on her large frame and telling the formidable Cordon Bleu cooking school that she was gonna learn her some cooking. Oh, and she was in her mid 30s when she discovered this new love.

So it was with this spirit that I cracked open the beginning pages of this book and found myself in the life of someone who was not particularly a foodie so much as someone drowning in the everyday of life. And because she's bored and stressed with her New York life, she sees fit to write. I'm not finished with the book and I don't know if I will. I find myself yearning for more Julia and less Julie.

*Let's switch gears*

That being said, Ms. Pow*ell, the author, lends a very attractive idea: cooking every recipe in a cookbook. There's something strangely interesting and ultimately obsessive about reading and doing a cookbook cover to cover and letting its author, essentially, walk with you.

I recently read a delicious cookbook called "Sweet Tea and Screen Doors" by Martha Hall Foose. It's a very approachable book. The recipes are laden with stories and tips in the margins that feel much more like a big front porch conversation than a rigorous study in southern cuisine. And the recipes I tried were, well, unforgettable. Cabbage rolls (which I made into a casserole for the sake of time) that made me cry for my momma. And real Strawberry Buttercream frosting on strawberry cupcakes that tasted like they grew on a vine. I shared them with a handful of friends and the experience of eating them with these precious few was almost religious.

I returned the library book but I may just buy the thing. I renewed it and must've had the book for 3 months before finally admitting that others may want to read its fine contents. Rats.

More than anything, I loved walking with Ms. Foose through her southern experience. I've been toying with the idea of making every recipe in her book. And that's saying a lot for me because one of her recipes involves turtles. In soup.

One of these days, I may buy my own copy, hear the new spine of the book crack gently and lend its pages to my eager eyes. I'll hear her voice invite me to walk with her. I just might.

And... He Graduates

2009-07-19T10:45:00.000-07:00

Many, many years ago, my mother and father gathered their tender flock to the living room and told them some startling news. "Your mother is having a baby, " my father began. I remember her sitting as they said this. She smiled. I can't remember our reactions as a group, but I'm sure mine was a bit of confusion (don't we have four already?) and a great deal of joy (Hooray! Babies!)

My mother confessed to me years later that baby five, baptized as Andrew Calvin but known to all of us as "Drew", was not planned. It's not that he was not wanted. He was not planned. There is a difference.

Until that point, baby number 4, "Becky" was still in her adorable, dramatic 2-year old cuteness. Our baby cravings were still satisfied by her.

When life is already quite full, it's hard to know how to let another little life squeeze into the cracks. But it happened. He happened. He came. And I'm so glad he did.

I was 12 when Andrew arrived on the scene. I was every bit the awkward, gawky girl/woman creature that being twelve allows. I wore very large glasses. I didn't really do my hair so much as untangle it every morning. I wore bright, rainbow-y colors. And that particular year, my parents had moved our abode to a more country setting where I would make new friends.

My first years in junior high give credence to all the clichés about junior high. I had a boy ask me out with one of those "check yes or no" letters. And almost every day on the school bus a gang of girls would single me out and whisper "You're ugly" the whole. Ride. Home. It was brutal. I quickly embraced every key of junior high survival by borrowing my sister's too-short-for-me skirts and donning some art supplies on my face as makeshift makeup. I needed to be loved and accepted.

So it was in this time of life that I came home from school, wondering who I was, and cuddled my baby brother Drew. I took care of him a great deal. When he cried at night, I brought him to my mother for feeding. I loved to change him and take care of him. I played with him on the floor. I loved to make him laugh. He needed me but I needed him more. Babies are very healing that way.

Additionally, Andrew was born shortly after my dear, beloved great-grandmother had died of cancer. My mother took care of her and wept deeply when she departed. The spirit of this great women would be dearly missed. Andrew provided healing there, too.

Some children are born with great, great anticipation. Some are never wanted at all, but come anyway. Andrew was the child who we didn't know we needed until he came. Against all odds, our gentle intruder became instantly fused into our crazy web of family in a way that was different from us all.

For one thing, Andrew is athletic. For those of you unfamiliar with my family, that is a stunning statement. From an early age, Andrew would watch baseball (I dunno... some kind of masculine sport?) and keep a ledger of scores and strikes. The kid could barely write, but he wrote that. He seemed to instantly understand every sport he attempted. Wrestling. Baseball. Track. He was good.

Secondly, Andrew is extremely easy to get along with. "Played well with others." That sort of thing. He could tame the wildest bunch with his easy manner. We all love him for this to this day.

Strangest to me is that Andrew has a way of setting his mind on something and running after it. His sweet nature would suggest that he doesn't have ambition. Au contraire. When he wanted a dog as a young boy, he did something about it. Some kids would just beg and whine. Not Drew. He sat for hours in the morning, pouring over books about dogs. He wrote in large, careful handwriting "Boxer", "Dalmation", "Labrador" on his long list of dog-wishes and peppered my parents with these until they finally succumbed. I can't be sure, but I think someone told me that if you pull out the "D" encyclopedia at my parent's house, it will automatically open to the dog section. He looked at it a lot. For the record, he did get his dog: a lab.

Finally, I just love my brother's heart. He loves to love others. He has a sensitive, soft heart that is fiercely protective of family and friends... and little creatures.

And this year, my dear little pipsqueak of a brother persisted in a long college journey and became-- drumroll, please-- a graduate. Somewhere between being the freckled, silly, energetic little boy who followed the older sibs around the house, he became a man.

He has his own dog now. A pitbull named Taj. And now that he's graduated, he will show this world his soft, caring heart, his fierce commitment to friends and his inability to say "it can't be done".

Congratulations, Drew.
I'm proud. And I love you.

These Days

2009-07-18T03:22:00.000-07:00

It's 5:30 in the morning. I've been up for an hour.

I'm normally up at 4:30 to give the baby in her bottle and put her right back to bed.

But then I saw a great opportunity to talk to my husband; I took it. And, well, now my mind is awake.

I want to share something really big that is happening in my life. It's something I've come to terms with but you probably aren't prepared for, so brace yourself:

My parents are divorcing.

(I feel like there should be a great big 10 second pause here.)

I'm not saying this to make others uncomfortable or to ask for pity. I'm certainly not saying it to dishonor my parents. I've just come to terms with this terrible statement. Somehow, by saying it, I take the first step in acknowledging the truth of it, but spurning the sting of it.

I try not to wrestle this beast because the instant I think I've got a handle on it, I realize that I've used all my strength on the equivalent of its big toe... and there's a whole lot more of it left.

These situations never come at the right time of life, do they? I mean, this is not a good time of life for me to question the foundation of my family... not as I'm raising my little girls.

I can think of a much better time of life for this: never.

Never, ever.

Not ever.

A thousand nevers.

The end.

They have a name for adults whose parents are divorcing. They call it "Adult Children of Divorce". There must be enough people suffering from the effects of it that they should give it a nifty label like that. "I have ACD." Um, no. I will not ever say that.

For my part, I have a renewed vision to build my home into a solid place. I pray a lot.

For me. For my marriage. For my children.

And I roll up my sleeves a lot, too. I'm doing a heap of house projects.

I'm sewing.

I'm Craigs*listing.

I'm purging.

I'm trying not to overdo it but the truth is that purging a boat load of "blah" from my house feels as if I'm purging any bad things that might harm my own marriage or household.

I also have this urge to be very, very domestic. I asked my friend Ann for her family pickle recipe the other day. My friend Beth offered her pickle recipe which is "very easy" and only takes a few hours to cure in the fridge. But, I told them, "I want Ann's recipe. It's one of those kinds that needs to sit in a crock for 3 days. I want the difficult recipe. I don't want it to be easy." Easy things don't last, I reason.

At the same time, I told my husband that I specifically did not want to use his family's recipe for something (even though it might be better) because I wanted to use my family's recipe. "I guess cooking my family's recipe is my way of holding together the pieces of my past. I don't want your family's recipe for this; I need to use mine."

It doesn't make sense here (pointing to my head), but it makes a heap of sense here (hand over heart).

Now it is nearly 6 in the morning. My husband is running on the treadmill downstairs. In a few minutes, Morgan's internal clock will tell her to get up and ask me for her morning cocoa. The day will be a series of bottle making, diaper changing and sandwich slapping.

But sometime today I will pause and thank God for the privilege of wiping a dirty floor; I'll thank him for all the feet that make it dirty. And this evening I'll go to bed. I'll be quite tired and sleep will come quickly. But I'll be thankful.

My Morgan

2009-07-13T17:41:00.000-07:00

Before Eve was born, Morgan was an only child.

This may seem like a remarkably condescending and somewhat obvious statement to make about our two children, but Morgan was a full five years old before Eve hit the scene. Try as I might to disregard well-meant comments about "How will Morgan do" (said with a slight tilt of the head for effect), when Eve was born, all these people were all right. Morgan was, as one person put it, "dethroned".

Naturally.

By the time Morgan was a year old, she had so many pet names that she probably didn't know her given name.

Pumpkin.

Lover ducky.

Squish.

I even called her "Ging Ging" for a while; it was a pleading sound she made as an infant as she wailed for food.

A host of other names we had for her but I have since forgotten.

Now before Eve was born, Dan and I had the all important discussion about what to call Eve. Not what to name Eve. What to call her.

Allow me to expound a moment:

You name your child what you want to see on fancy embossed wedding invitations. "Louis"

You call them the name they'll keep if they're big sports stars. "Lunkhead"

You name them what you want them to be. "Felicity"

You call them what they turned out to be. "BamBam"

I've sufficiently explained. I'll continue...

As I held and fed newborn Eve, the Morgan I had known and loved became a bit ornery. In fact, when my mother came to visit and held the littlest one, Morgan threw a towel over my mother's head so she couldn't see Eve.

Some time after Eve was born (it's all a blur, but I'll say at 2 weeks old), I couldn't find Morgan. I wanted to yell after her, but I knew she needed gentleness, so I beckoned instead, "Where's my Morgan? I miss my Morgan."

A bashful Morgan materialized.

I put on my biggest smile, "Oh, it's my Morgan! Hooray! My Morgan is here."

Now you can call me exaggerative, but I swear that when I used that little two letter word "my" before Morgan's name, her heart settled. She regained her place of security. If I'm honest, every time I utter that possessive word it seals her sweet spirit a little closer to mine.

I still use it today. When she's hurt. When she's tired. I draw her close and remind her that she's mine.

My Morgan.

The Pits

2009-06-30T06:25:00.000-07:00

Like most summer-hungry folk, I've been MIA in the blogging world lately. Totally worth it for the better weather.

*ahem*

But I thought I'd take this opportunity to share a funny moment.

The other night, Dan and I had a date at home. Put the kids in bed. Got subs. Watched some TV.

A commercial came on and asked us, "What kind of pit are you?"

We're talking arm pits, folks.

And then it continues to describe different kinds of pits. Not only is this an all-time low as far as desperate marketing moves, but as I bite into my super favorite sub, the commercial offers, "Hairy pits?"

Gag. Barf. Gross.

Maybe next time we should rent a movie.

Six Months

2009-06-24T05:17:00.001-07:00

Watch out, world.

I'm Eve Lorraine.

I can roll this way and that.

I can put things in my mouth.

And since I'm a breastfed baby, I can count.

To two.

I'm social and smart.

I'm cute as a button.

I gnaw and thrash when I want to learn.

I took a while to get here, so I've gotta get going to make up for lost time.

Gotta go. Gotta learn, spin, roll and eat.

Watch out, world.

Gardening

2009-06-24T05:10:00.000-07:00

We put in a garden this year.

I'd like to say that it took a half hour to do.

Of course it took longer.

(Those durn half-hour home improvement shows did me wrong.)

But I digress: Point is, we did it.

This cute guy made the beds.

(Must resist commentary on how it's the only bed he's made.)

The ultimate boy toy: a dump truck.

(Pound chest here.)

Morgan is a great helper.

Roll call: radishes, carrots, lettuce, tomatoes, rosemary, cabbage, brussels, peas and others.

Bathing Suit

2009-06-20T04:24:00.000-07:00

Dear God,

Please help us to find Morgan's swimming suit.

You know the one that I special ordered?

Because it was one-piece and wouldn't fall off my growing daughter's body?

That one.

Yep.

It's wicked hot and she'd sure like to use it.

Love, Emily

iBlog

2009-06-19T06:43:00.000-07:00

When I first began blogging, I did it for the fun of it. It was my "dear diary" online. I did do some minor editing because not everything I think or feel should be available to everyone... but on the whole... a diary.

I considered blogging to make an empire of myself and have a massive following but I'm not that type of person. I'm more of a "behind the scenes" gal.

Now I realize that the real reason I blog/read blogs is to know that I'm not alone; it's cathartic.

And when I feel really, really stressed and lonely, I think of women in far worse situations:

The pioneer women who I hold in such high esteem for eschewing all things culture bravely left family, friends and support in favor of...well... I'm not exactly sure. Personally I think they needed their heads checked. They probably followed their hunky stud of a man (think "Marl*boro man") into a situation that he described as the "Wilderness of Love" and found themselves promptly pregnant, bored and without many means of changing their situation. The most excitement they could hope for was a coyote cookout or a good, strong Dust Bowl. And there's only SO many ways to serve prairie dog and ketchup. Blogging would do them a heap of good, says me.

It might take a while for the Eskimo wife to begin blogging anything of worth... (Day 1: Boy it's cold here. Day 2: Still cold. Day 3: Today it was chilly. Day 4: I like ice.) But in the end I think she would start to find friends in far out places who could bring a little joy to her frozen tukkus. She might, for example, share recipes with a Caribbean friend she'd find online, put out a line of fish sticks that would put Long John Sil*ver outta business and start her own cottage, er, igloo industry. It could happen.

I fantasize on behalf of these women, but the truth is that most stay-at-home folk probably feel a little unmoored from people or from reality. I'll just throw this one out there: There are so many days where I find myself in a strange, strange situation that doesn't fall neatly in any categories or goals for my life that I feel exactly like the lonely Pioneer Woman.

Just the other day I went grocery shopping with my father in law. (I know... isn't he great?) He suggested that we needed some more Pedia*lyte for the little one. They were plum out of what we needed on the shelf. I was content to leave the store, but the provider instinct in my FIL kicked in high gear. "Stay here, Em... I'll find someone who works here."

He came back a few minutes later with the following information:

"Okay... there is a red phone in the next aisle. Pick it up and tell them what you want."

A red phone.

Okay, I'm game. I found the brightly colored phone and picked it up.

It rang about 10 ten times before a disgruntled gentleman answered.

Him: "Hello?" He sounded confused.

Me: "Hi. I was told to call on this phone to ask if you have any more Orange Pedia*lyte."

Him: "Who gave you this number?"

Me: "Um. Well, I was just told to pick up this phone. No number."

Him: "What do you want?"

Me: "Pedia*lyte. Orange flavor please."

Him: "I'll send someone over to the aisle."

Me: "I know where it is. The shelf is empty of it. Do you have more in the back?"

Him: "What's there is there. (Thanks, Socrates...) We don't have any more."

As I'm talking to Mr. Backroom, my father-in-law is staring at me with great hope and wide, twinkly eyes. I want for all the world to tell him that his kind gesture offered us several bottles of the stuff. More than that, I wanted to leave the store and forget this whole thing happened. Me.

Picking up an actual old-fashioned, non-wireless phone.

In red.

The whole situation had a back-in-time sort of feel to it. To be honest, it somewhat creeped me out; there's five minutes of my life I'd like to have back.

And then I wonder: Are there other mothers out there who are totally strapped for time... have to choose between shower and breakfast every morning and find themselves sacrificially giving a slice of their sanity or a trickle of time to ... I dunno... a red phone scenario? Am I the only mother out there who forgets that 6 o'clock comes every night and, by jove, that's my cue to serve dinner? ("Maybe they'll forget about dinner," I reason.)

Or am I the last lass on earth who find herself in a really hearty conversation about... brace yourself... shrubbery... and wishes she could swap this dribble for reading a book or enjoying a Margarita with her husband? I mean... how do I end up here?

So, I blog. I blog to know I'm not alone.

I blog to know that other people love food and friends and funny moments as much as I do.

And then, after I've said my peace in Bizarro World, I'm happy.

To Self

2009-06-16T10:13:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I write these notes to myself. This is a letter to me before giving birth to Morgan.

Dear Self,

I am writing to tell you a bit about motherhood. You are about to embark on the most amazing journey of your life. Those words may sound cliché, but you'll learn to embrace clichés because they often hold a certain element of truth.

Plus they're easy and witty and you don't have the mental energy to make your own.

You've struggled a great deal of your life with being patient. Motherhood will either make you or break you in this arena. I hope you choose the former. This morning, for example, I had reserved a babysitter for my daughter (yes, you're having a girl!) and had to set aside my plans in favor of a doctor visit. Seems my dear 5 year old has a bought of strep and it's very likely that she has shared it with me as well. The time this morning I planned (yes, you're starting to get organized!) and held onto for dear life as a sanity preserver (did I mention Dan is out of town?) you had to lay down.

Plus Morgan was screaming. No way to ignore that now, is there?

Your efforts to be healthy will be a bit harder to come by, but keep trying. You need your strength. Morgan's doctor suggested that we give her some Gator*ade for her sickness (the whole "pumping fluids" thing). The shelf was laden with drinks that were not named in flavors. More like colors. So just forget the whole natural thing and get whatever colors she wants. It's alright.

In the past you have allocated a week to prepare the house and fridge for guests. It probably fell under the category of "entertaining". May I gently suggest laying down entertaining for the sake of its gracious sister, "hospitality"? The in-laws are coming today to visit a bit early (Thank you, God) and the time you had allocated to guest-prep has been rescheduled. Indefinitely. It's okay to go grocery shopping once they get here. And it's okay to look a little disheveled because, most likely, you feel disheveled. Just do me a favor and brush your teeth. It's the least you can do. And it may be the most you can do this particular day.

I know I'm probably painting a picture of fear in your heart, but I'm really happy. Life is about basics right now. And it's really good. With the second baby (another girl, yes) I've learned to choose what matters. Don't worry your little designer-heart... I still like a cute house and bought a darling mini-palm tree for the guest room the other day. But at the end of the day, it's the people in the house that matter, not the house itself.

Enjoy the moments ahead of you. You are about to embark on a wonderful journey... of self.

Your friend with the future in mind,

Emily

Obey, obey, obey

2009-06-16T09:33:00.000-07:00

I should obey Mommy.

These are the lines I had Morgan write out after a series of situational difficulty in hearing.

She balked as she wrote them.

She writhed in her chair.

She took a good deal of time.

She questioned her parentage-- the maternal side.

And then, after all the fanfare, she wrote these lines:

"I love you Mommy"

*Heart pangs*

She knows I love her.

Back Seat

2009-06-12T05:10:00.000-07:00

I am in the car with the girls. I hear Eve crying in the back seat.

Me: "Morgan, why is your sister crying?"

Morgan: "Well..."

The long pause tells me that it's gonna be a good one.

Morgan: "Well, I asked her if she wanted the toy and she shook her head 'no'. "

Oh brother.

Morgan: "So I bonked her on the head."

Me: "You bonked your sister on the head?"

Morgan: "It was an accident."

Yard Sale

2009-06-08T04:33:00.000-07:00

This weekend we had a neighborhood garage sale. It's a great time to get rid of stuff and it's usually a big hit since so many families participate.

I had a ton of baby stuff to unload. Cute girl clothes. Barely used baby equipment. Blankets.

I sent Dan outside to man the garage sale while I got the baby fed and clothed. I came outside just as a super cute pregnant woman was perusing our merchandise. She looked to be in her twenties and had two friends flanking her side and telling her, "Oh, you definitely need that" or "No, you don't need that... I never used my (enter baby equipment name here)". She was being mentored. It was beautiful to watch.

I took that opportunity to plug in my two "veteran" cents. I sat my super cute and well fed baby girl on my hip and popped over her direction.

"Oh, when are you due?" I asked the super cute pregnant lady.

"September." She gleamed.

"Having a girl?"

She was.

With that I launched into a hard sell of how my super cute baby clothes for sale would fit her super cute style. She smiled politely, bought a few super cute pieces and left. The garage sale had been so stellarly bad that at this point I just wanted someone to take my stuff. Hard sell was necessary.

Then I went inside to the bathroom sink and saw something horrible.

There, in the mirror, was someone who was not super cute.

My hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. Fuzzy little hairs poked out.

My face showed the fact that I had been up at 3:30 that morning to feed my baby.

This wouldn't have been so bad if I had taken the time to wear makeup.

I guess I thought my glasses would camouflage my face.

There were stains all over my black t-shirt. Black shows stains remarkably well.

I looked for all the world like the pale, tired, running-on-adrenaline mother that I was.

Years ago, I saw a woman wearing pilled forest-green sweatpants and I swore that I would never let myself go to that level. Every woman has her threshold of, shall I say, "comfort". For some, its velour. For me, it was pilled sweatpants. To borrow a saying from my husband, "What better way to tell the world you've given up than to wear sweats?"

I put the baby down, ran upstairs and brushed my hair. I freshened my face. I put on jeans instead of sweats. I put my contacts on instead of my glasses.

In my overly-neurotic and somewhat sleep-deprived "I-want-that-stranger-to-respect-me-and-not-think-mothering-has-to-look-like-this" state, I ran downstairs and outside to the sale. The super cute pregnant woman was gone. Rats.

"Where's that pregnant woman?" I asked Dan.

"Don't know."

"You know... that super cute one who was just here? Where did she go? Did she go down the street?" I was persistent.

"I don't know, Em. And why does it matter? She's gone now."

How could I explain The Threshold in 3 seconds to a person of the male gender?

*sigh*

But wait, Self... There is another way to look at this... You've just shown a super-cute-mother-to-be that even if you are a bit scary looking, you can be happy.

In any case, she'll find out on her own. Probably in September.

A Little Laugh

2009-06-07T19:53:00.001-07:00

Over Memorial Day weekend, Dan and I were driving home from Iowa. We stopped at a McDon*alds to grab a bite.

I was feeding Eve when Morgan announced that she needed the bathroom.

Dan looked at me helplessly.

"Don't look at me." I told him, "Just take her in the ladies room. Or the mens room. I don't care... either one."

Several minutes later, Morgan and Dan came out.

"So?" I asked. "How'd it go?"

"We went to the men's room" Dan announced.

"Good."

"Yep." He paused.

"Except that Morgan loudly asked me if all people have v*ginas while she was in the stall."

Peas

2009-06-07T19:25:00.000-07:00

My daughter Morgan is five.

To the average person, Morgan may seem like a very short thirteen year old.

Somewhere in the past year, Morgan's mannerisms and body have changed. Her plump baby fingers have become longer. She tells stories and moves her hands to add drama. She furrows her brow and uses the most adjectives she has at hand. She's very in touch with her feelings.

After a somewhat interesting afternoon with my pre-pre-teen (that's no typo) I told Morgan that I had something to show her.

I took her hand in mine and went out to the garden we planted. To the peas, specifically. About a week ago, I filled Morgan's palm with pea seeds. For those unfamiliar, they look just like shriveled peas but lack the luster of fresh ones. They're easy to pick up individually... perfect for little fingers.

I used my index finger to poke one inch holes in the soil and asked my fellow garden gal to put the seeds in them. Then we re-covered them with soil.

As I brought Morgan to the garden today, I showed her how the peas were now growing. I was thrilled. Seizing the Mommy-teaching-moment, I told Morgan this story:

"Morgan, see how the peas are growing? Well, the peas are like you. When I teach you new things about how to grow or make friends or be kind, it's like I'm putting a little seed in the ground. I don't know if what I'm telling you will ever grow into something more, but boy am I excited when it does."

I used my momentum to drive my point home.

"I am so proud of you, Morgan. You are growing into such a young lady. I'm so proud of the way you're learning to get along with friends and taking care of your sister. So proud."

I gave her a heart felt, Momma-couldn't-be-prouder smile. Yes, the dorky kind.

"Mom?" my sweet daughter asked.

"Yes, Morgan?"

"Can I play with Emily?"

Thud.

I released the hold of my teaching moment.

Smiling, I gently covered the seed with the soil again. Not yet, but maybe soon.

And Then Grace Came

2009-06-02T18:06:00.000-07:00

Dan.

Roses.

A movie.

In bed.

Monday, Take Two

2009-06-02T07:48:00.000-07:00

I don't know how to be still.

I don't know how to eat sitting down during the day. At the table. With a fork and knife.

I don't know how to set an alarm clock so I will have a bit of "me" time before I'm gently erased throughout the day.

And I don't know how to take the one million simple little tasks I have to do and just. do. one. at. a. time.

Laughing... I keep buying things to organize my life.

So this morning I went to my Heavenly Father and told Him, in essence, that I'm lost.

Lost, lost, lost.

Too many waves have washed over and I need a Rescuer.

Come rescue me, God. You'll find me in the kitchen. Under the dishes.

Mattresses

2009-05-31T13:00:00.000-07:00

For many weeks now, I've tried to blog about what's happening in the Dykstra household. What's happening is immensely difficult and confusing and trying. It's really not bloggable. It doesn't fit neatly within any category and it only gives the hearer a sense of unrest. No neat little ends to tie up within, say, 5 paragraphs.

So why am I blogging at all?

If you're at all familiar with the phrase "go to the mattresses", then you'll have an idea.

When life is truly overwhelming and plans to be so for a long while, what do you do? To release tension? To remember who you are? For me, I often go to my cookbooks.

When I want to remember the strength of my past, I like to dig in some old family recipes, collect new family recipes and try new ones... Food.

The point isn't to eat the food in a gluttonous cry fest of anxiety. The catharsis comes in the thoughtful making of the food. This isn't a time for low-fat or quick-n-easy. It's not a time for gourmet ostentation either. It's a time of reflection, joy and nourishment.

In making the recipe of, say, my precious Great Grandmother's Caramel Frosting (to *die* for), I connect with her hospitality and grace. I remember her dining table stretched to its very longest length and card tables attached at the ends to extend it still further. I remember the joy of receiving a piece of this marvelous cake and feeling like I was well cared for. This woman knew how to bake, too. Her cheese rolls? Made with real lard and goo-gobs of sharp cheddar. Her kitchen was never really closed, it just took a nap on occasion. She loved people by making them really. good. food.

My grammy preferred baking to cooking. To this day, I think she makes a pie almost every other day. I watched her knowing hands take a simple fork and mix the crust the last time I visited her in Florida. I wanted to stay there at that very counter forever and listen to her pad around the kitchen and tell me tidbits about groceries that were on sale. She's the quintessential grandma with cookies in the oven, on the counter in a tin or in the freezer. One day, I may even share her simple Hersh*ey Kiss Shortbread cookies. *swoon*

My loving husband would have me believe that he basically grew up on slabs of steak and sides of potatoes. He jests, of course. I know this for a fact because a few weeks ago I visited his parents by myself with the girls and copied beloved recipes from his grandmother and mother. (That's right, Dan. I got the noodles recipe.) And I got a few others. Pickles. Pies. Jams. Oh my.

Life doesn't promise to be easy, so I have to keep moving forward and show my daughters the heart of our home. You know--it may just be in the kitchen.

Mark*lund Home

2009-05-30T18:29:00.000-07:00

Today my family and I did something different for a Saturday morning activity. We visited Mark*lund Home, a home to many wonderful people, many of whom happen to be severely handicapped.

Have you ever walked into a place and known that there was a spirit of hope there? At Mark*lund, the hope was more than just a whiff... it was seeping out from the mortar and bathing each resident there.

Before I arrived, I was advised to find some less handicapped children to acclimate my 5-year old daughter to people with less mental and physical abilities. To be honest, I did it just as much for myself as for her. Can I confess? I was scared.

Our first introduction was to a little girl, 'Tina"*, who was the only one who could wheel her own chair. She rode right up to Morgan and another little girl who came with us. Forget the adults... this little one wanted to play. Morgan was shy at first and stayed flatly against the wall. I understood.

The nurses there had us gather in an activity room where we met about 10 of the residents. First we did a craft. The children at Mark*lund have very little physical ability, so we did the craft for them and showed them the results. We wrote their name with foamy stickers on construction paper.

As I got to know this group of 10, I saw less of their handicap and more of what a momma would see. I saw beautiful long eyelashes and stunning, deep eyes. I saw wide, open-mouthed smiles. I saw a hand reach slowly for someone else. I saw a tantrum. I saw an accomplishment. I saw kids with feelings just like everyone else, but with less ability to communicate those feelings.

After the craft, my dear Morgan was still not excited about this morning venture. She sat in a far corner and stuck her tongue out, somewhat gagging. Morgan exemplified the feelings that I felt inside, but knew I had to overcome. "See the image of God," I kept telling her. I told myself the same.

The second hour we played a version of Yahtzee in which 6" soft die were cast by the children. Dan loved this game. The children loved the game. And my dear Morgan began to shed her fears and started to hand out the dice to the other children. She also began asking the nurses questions: "Why does he have that thing in his throat?" or "Why is there a tube on her finger?" The kind nurses helped her feel more at ease.

At the end of the game, Tina wheeled up to Morgan again. Morgan donned an overly exaggerative smile and waved with her fingers. Tina waved back. The nurses became excited, "Did you see Tina wave? She hasn't done that in ages!" My heart swelled with such joy that my daughter would work past her fears to interact with someone quite different from her, that she would give and receive love.

The ride home from Mark*lund was pretty quiet. A heart can only hold so much and mine was overflowing with a cocktail of mixed emotions.

I was amazed at Mark*lund home's facility and staff... so hopeful, so kind, so enthusiastic.

I was darn proud of my Morgan for facing her fears and deciding to love, to be part of the game.

I was glad for my husband's support and thankful for baby Eve's quick smile to the residents there.

I was torn to see children there whose parents didn't want to be involved but who had wonderful friends in the staff.

God, bless Mark*lund Home. Bless it, bless it, bless it.

* Names are changed.

Morganisms

2009-05-28T07:32:00.001-07:00

While making egg sandwiches for breakfast:

Morgan: "Mom, why don't we let these eggs hatch?"

_______________________

We're putting in a garden today. In my excitement I said this prayer loudly and dramatically: "Lord! We thank you for this garden and pray that it will be fruitful."

"And vegetable!" Morgan added.

Whatta kid.

Whatta Face!

2009-05-17T13:22:00.003-07:00

You 'Kin Do It

2009-05-14T04:59:00.001-07:00

Entry

2009-05-11T19:12:00.000-07:00

This is one of the most important areas of our house.

It's not the first thing our guests see, but it's the first thing we see as we come in from the garage. It's kind of my "control tower". The whole house can be messy, but this area must have some semblance of cleanliness to it.

I switch containers on this console every so often.

This wood bowl is my former fruit bowl.

Now it holds our mail and papers of that day.

I like it to be empty each morning.

It seems to say "What will this day hold?"

And by the end of the day, it is full of news once again.

Basket

2009-05-11T18:57:00.000-07:00

I've lived in this house for about 2 years now. I've looked at a bare wall in my family room for those two years and wondered what to put there. It needed something.

I bought something from Pott*ery Barn but it didn't look right. At least not there.

My sister Noel can buy a house and have it completely decorated (fabulously, I might add) in about 3 weeks. She's amazing.

But I'm slower. I've tried to design more quickly. It's not my style.

__________________

A few weeks ago I went out with my friend Stephanie to Gen*eva. If you've never been to Gen*eva, Illinois... it's about the quaintest place on planet earth. Amazing finds.

Steph may as well be my good luck charm, if I believed in them. Last time I went shopping with her I found a yellow clay urn in an antique shop.

This time we found a basket. A really unique one:

It's from France (or so they told me). I think it's some type of harvest basket. Check out the size:

As soon as I saw it, I knew it was "the one" for that wall. I asked the cashier how much it was. It's probably uncouth to say to all of bloggyland how much this puppy was, but it was so reasonable that I had to hold back my shriek of delight.

Don't know about you, but as a stay-at-home mom, I don't get much time to shop for good deals let alone really über cool decor. It's just not that time of life.

I felt like God was smiling on me, holding that basket there until I could get it. Do you ever have those moments?

The basket is mounted on the wall. The large scale speaks of bounty. I picture the many hands that may have held the 10 handles on this basket. Perhaps a family? I hope that the guests of our house feel the warmth it offers.

(Thanks for the suggestion, Jenni... Here's what it looks like in our room.)

College

2009-05-11T12:56:00.000-07:00

Emily: "So Daddy tells me you want to go to Ras*mussen College."

Morgan: "I saw it on TV. If you rewind (Tivo) you can see it, Mom! I want to go there."

Emily: "What's so good about Ras*mussen College? Why do you want to go there?"

Morgan: "So I can graduate." She says this confidently.

Emily: "Graduate, huh?"

Morgan: "And go to prom. You get to wear fancy clothes and (enter excited, hushed voice here) go in a limo."

Emily: "Wow. That sounds great. But what's the point of going to college?"

Morgan: "To learn about having kids and stuff."

Hehehe... You wish.

Emily: "Don't you want to go to Cal*vin College? Daddy and I went there."

Morgan: "No, I want to go to Ras*mussen. I saw it on TV..."

Mother's Day 2009

2009-05-10T19:16:00.000-07:00

Me and Da Girls.

These Sweeties love each other.

Move over, Hall*mark. Homemade cards are the best.

The eyes say it all, don't they?

My daughter loves her sweets.

She's totally oblivious to anything except the cleaning of the cupcake wrapper.

I'll pour the lovin' on her anyway.

This baby has captured my heart. And her toes.

Mother's Day Eve

2009-05-09T17:07:00.000-07:00

It's the eve of Mother's Day.

I spent a bit of the evening speaking with my five-year old about how I'm not trying to frustrate her by not letting her spend every-waking-minute with her friend Emily. This little girl lives two houses down. The sun rises and sets with Emily according to my impressionable daughter. In fact, Morgan learned to spell my name (Emily) surprisingly early due to the fact that she writes Emily a friend letter nearly every day.

Morgan was frustrated with me, though, because her shouts to Emily over the fence to get her to play were an exercise in futility. It could be that it was too late in the evening to play. Most likely it was that (I found out later) Emily was indoors and Morgan was shouting from two houses away from outdoors.

*For the love of Pete*

I had Morgan come inside, sit on my lap and talked to her.

I told her that when I was a little girl my mother seemed to always say "no". Seemed like mommies were better at saying "no" than "yes".

As I was explaining why we couldn't always be outside or always play with neighbors, I was aware of how much I appreciate I mom. And how much MORE I appreciate her with two children as opposed to one. In fact, years from now I imagine I'll start a foundation in my mother's name when the girls are teens. The years and appreciation grow exponentially.

Being a mother, it seems to me, means spending the day weighing how to best spend time:

To read a book to child or to nap?

To exercise or spend time in prayer?

To "sneak chocolate" with daughter or to empty dishwasher?

If life had any boundaries before children, they were washed away and made threadbare by the laughter, tears, pleadings and sighs of little ones. An hour allocated to washing the kitchen floor is loaned to a mother who needs to look long and wistfully at the pink eyelids of her sleeping baby. A stained shirt worn for 2 days straight by a weary woman is suddenly the perfect attire for attacking a puddle on the way to the mailbox.

There are the phone calls to insurance companies, healthcare providers and schools.

There are the mountains of forms to fill out in triplicate.

The checks to be written to various foundations, committees and charities.

And in between all the "duties"... there are the reason for the duties... the children who represent the strength of our virtues (we hope). If we're honest, we'll admit that a certain part of our parenting wants to be different from the way we were raised. And if we're blessed, we'll admit that a great deal more of the way we were raised can be imitated, passed on.

For obvious reasons, I couldn't convey all this information to my squirming five-year old. She was still nursing her emotional wound and her ears were too small for these words.

One day I hope she'll hoist her own preschooler on her lap and tell her that, by and large, she had a good childhood and that she hopes her little one will have one as well.

One day.

Pics

2009-05-08T05:10:00.000-07:00

Park

2009-05-07T05:15:00.000-07:00

I was on my way to the grocery store this past week attempting to find a place to park.

As I was finding my parking spot, I was struck by my criteria for a good spot:

1. As close as possible to the front door. Duh.

2. As close as possible to a cart corral.

3. Not next to any white, windowless vans. Just a safety thing I fall for.

4. The quickest spot I could find.

Now to some of my friends, these criteria might seem like no-brainers. But as I negotiated my vehicle around the painted lines, pedestrians and carts, I was struck that I park very differently from how I grew up.

My mom wanted the closest spot available. Mom was willing to circle the parking lot several times and wait for someone to come out of the store. I recall Mom having coffee in tow so she was set as far as "the wait". Mom took the "whirly maple seed" approach. (Remember those maple seed "helicopters" falling from the trees above? Whirling, whirling, whirling...landing.)

Mom's approach drove me crazy because I was a bit more impatient. If God gave you two good legs, then just park. You can walk a bit. Plus, it's good for you.

Some people I know are more methodical. They like a spot that is within spitting distance of the door. They've even methodically calculated the trajectory of said saliva in order to determine the best place to park their vehicle. The whole way to the grocery store they are thinking about-- no, more like willing-- the parking spot to be open. And the entire time they are in the store shopping they are thinking about how great it will be when they return to this spot. If there were an option to "rent" the parking spot in question in order to keep it just for themselves, they would.

Now lest someone crows "don't be hatin'"... please be advised that I got lost in the mall parking lot last week for a half hour. I'm not the authority on methodical parking.

My husband is the kindest person I know when it comes to parking. He's not aggressive at all. Earlier in our marriage I tried to change him by barking orders like "Put on your blinker! Someone else is gonna get it!" or "Quick... zoom around... he saw it, too!" But then I realized that the gentleness that I love in Dan was evolving into an uptight version of the Dan I married. One time we rear-ended someone while he was driving out of a parking lot. This was entirely my fault as I was distracting him with random, type-A driving orders. I think that was the point at which I realized I had gone too far. *Loopy*

I'm pretty patient with most drivers at this point. I still get a little annoyed at those folks who --pull in, pull out, pull in, pull out-- in order to center their car exactly in the spot. If you're that poor at pulling in a spot, go to the back of the parking lot and practice. Away from my car. :)

So there's my take on parking. It says a lot about a person, doncha think?

Short but Sweet

2009-05-04T18:52:00.000-07:00

Emily told Dan not to leave his shoes in middle of walkway.

Dan went out of town.

Emily saw Dan's shoes in the middle of the walkway *yet again*.

But Emily missed Dan.

She moved his shoes *once more* and smiled at the thought of him returning.

And leaving his shoes in the middle of the walkway.

Doorknob Theory

2009-04-30T19:08:00.000-07:00

Recently my husband and I made a purchase.

(Before I continue... the point of this post is not to say "Lookie, lookie! I got something new." Au contraire. The point is to talk about how we purchase things.)

*ahem*

Dan and I love to save money, but we also like quality. These two desires are sometimes mutually exclusive.

When I was preparing for Eve's arrival, I used Morgan's old crib (which I bought at a yard sale for $20) but bought a new stroller (which cost much more than $20). I had a stroller from Morgan, but it was breaking and it had a hard time turning. As I debated about whether I should use the old or buy the new, I used my old theory of purchasing: The Doorknob Theory.

The Doorknob Theory is essentially this: If the item in question is something you'll touch every day (or see, or smell...) then make sure it's something you'll enjoy. If you buy something cheap just to save a buck but every time you use it you dread it, then the purchase wasn't worth it in my book. The Doorknob Theory.

This way of purchasing works for me and Dan. I ended up buying the stroller new as cheaply as I could and I have loved every. single. time. I pull it out of the car to use it. Love it. Very thankful for it.

But I digress: The purchase Dan and I recently made was a media center.

I shopped Craig*slist.

We shopped at discount furniture places.

We shopped at department stores.

We even shopped at a great outlet and tried to convince ourselves for a whole 5 minutes that a cheap, scratched, dented media center would work just fine.

But *ding, ding, ding*... the Doorbell Theory warned us that every time we opened the rickety DVD drawer, we would hate the purchase.

So we bought a new one. The price was fair. Not a bargain, but fair. And you know what? We love it. In fact, the new media center has so much storage that we were able to consolidate TWO other media centers we had been using and repurpose one for Eve's room. Now THAT's a good feeling.

Well, that's our way of shopping. I'm curious about others.

Kindergarten Jitters

2009-04-29T19:19:00.001-07:00

My daughter will be entering kindergarten next year.

I wish I were more excited.

If I were the homeschool type, I would totally homeschool her. My husband and I both agree that it wouldn't be a good idea for us.

So Dan and I visited two private schools for her.

We liked the first one. But not for her.

The second one was also okay. But only just.

Secret option C is the public school right behind our house.

I received a packet of information for this public elementary school. There are 23 pages of information to fill out or read.

Twenty three.

I guess it should give me confidence that the school we're choosing is thorough, but-- may I be honest?- my natural inclination is to think that the choice we're making for her now will affect her for the rest. of. her. life. I mean... I only had to fill out one, maybe two forms in order to get married. But twenty three?

In an ideal world, I would have the perfect combination of homeschool, private and public school for her. All of the good facets of these schools, none of the bad. Ideally speaking.

It's my momma's heart.

Neighborhood Cookout

2009-04-28T13:26:00.000-07:00

"I am a dyed-in-the-wool _________."

Foodie

Control Freak

Overwhelmed Domestic

Social Butterfly

I'm not sure how I'd fill in the blank. One week I'm really good at staying healthy. Another week I'm really good at communicating with my spouse or friends. And some weeks I'm really good at apologizing a lot.

What I can say is that if you give me a small group of friends, some good food and a meaningful (but not completely burdensome) conversation... something feels right.

And being a Domesticator (it is a word, I tells ya), I'm tossed between spur of the moment playdates, an adorable but sometimes fussy infant and scraps of food that I manage to swallow between phone calls. If they had a 12 step program for "How to Sit Down and Eat a Decent Meal", I would totally go.

Point is: I'm hungry.

Hungry for meaningful friendships.

Hungry for food. Good food.

And I'm hungry for rest.

So last Thursday, a couple of us neighbor ladies were shooting the breeze outside talking with giddy anticipation about the 80 degree day that was forecasted. I threw the idea out there: "Hey ladies... let's have a potluck tomorrow. I'll bring the burgers for grilling."

In keeping with the "eating" theme, they gobbled up the idea.

One person brought buns. Another brought veggies and fruit. I brought the meat. The day was great. Kids ran outside like the crazy sunshine-starved Chicagoans that they were. We ate. We laughed. We idiomatically shot the breeze.

It was a hit. There was even talk of doing this regularly in the summer.

I'm totally digging this way of hospitality. I don't have the energy to have people over all the time while wild children run around my house. But if you give me a good backyard, food, folks and fun... I'd say this calls for a repeat.

______________________

Special thanks to Sandy of Reluctant Entertainer who encourages her readers to show hospitality in meaningful (but not overdone) ways. She's my hospitality hero.

Sisters

2009-04-24T06:59:00.000-07:00

Flirt Tea

2009-04-22T04:56:00.001-07:00

When I was single, I loved to flirt. I didn't do anything over the top--except for once when I played tag with a guy's best friend in the dark and got shinned by a log. (What is it with women thinking they can get to a man through his best friend? Lame, lame, lame.)

Anyhoooo...

Once I became Dan's right hand woman, I turned the flirties "off" with all others and let Dan become the target of my womanly wiles.

We got married and I found that I still wanted to flirt with him.

A year into our marriage, I found that my heart still leapt when he walked into a room.

After several years I began to wonder when this man would stop making me act so goofy.

Last week we went to a furniture store and an older saleswoman helped us. She told us about this line of furniture and invited us to look online. The name of the furniture was Hoo*ker. We were able to suppress our fifth-grade smirks. But then the woman continued, "Make sure you go to Hoo*ker Furniture.com and not just Hoo*ker.com." Her gaze was penetrating as if she were warning us.

At that moment, I knew I could not look at Dan. I made eye contact with another piece of furniture and managed to suppress the laughter until Dan and I got in the car. He has that effect on me.

A few years ago a friend visited our house and opened the medicine cabinet of our bathroom. (Yeah, I don't know why people do that either.) He found some little notes that I wrote to Dan inside the cabinet. They said things like "hubba hubba" and how lucky I was. My friend wished that his relationship with his wife was like that. It thought about that comment for a moment. And then I told him, "You know, I'm only mirroring what he does to me. He fills my cup and makes me feel special."

And he does. Dan writes me emails. Sends facebook remarks. And I love reading his online vernacular because I can absolutely picture him saying it.

This morning I watched him pull out of the garage; I do that almost every morning. I don't know why I do that... I guess it's because we're never quite finished with a conversation when he's leaving for work. When Morgan is with me, sometimes we come up with a mini dance routine to do when he leaves. One more smile from him as he zooms off.

I love this man. I love how he still drives a 1997 Corolla (the ultimate of man-mobiles) because he considers a paid-for car more important than his ego. I love how he wields the most amazing patience with me, with Morgan... and I'm sure, eventually, with Eve. I love his humor. I love that he wants to be a part of our family. I've never heard him even allude to "woman's work". Heck... he'll even get those items at the grocery store... and every woman on earth knows what I mean by "those items". Uh-huh. He's that guy.

*swoon*

So why I am writing this post? Well... because life is full of ho-hum days. I'm grateful for a man who helps us dodge the national average of marital unhappiness and keep life focused on the good.

*Have a good day at work, Sweetie.*

All in a Tuesday

2009-04-21T06:29:00.001-07:00

My daughter has just informed me that she hates me. It's the first time she has ever said this.

My initial reaction would be to give her "what for" and give her a reason for hating me.

But I know that what she meant to say was that she hates how this morning started; she doesn't hate me.

The morning started chaotically. I jumped with a start at 6:30 and yelled downstairs: "Dan! You're going to be late for work! You need to get dressed."

Turns out he was already showered. And dressed. And about to head out the door.

How did I not hear him?

I came downstairs to a Morgan who was half a shot shy from being a human espresso. Lands, this child has energy. "Hi-Mom-Guess-what-Daddy-gave-me-He-gave-me-medicine-and-a-vitamin-And-can_I-kiss-Eve?" Something like that. I forget her exact words.

I not-so-secretly covet her energy.

I gave the Bottomless-Pit (aka- "Baby Eve") a Mommy sandwich and some rice cereal.

I gave Morgan Rice Krispies. Somewhere between the "If you get up one more time from the table" warning and "I hate you" there were little rice shaped cereal pieces that rained through the air and covered the floor.

*Breathe*

The hate statement rushed through me. I vividly remember the adrenaline rush as I told my own parents that same phrase. The words bolted up my lungs and past my lips before I could put the guard on them. I never meant it. I meant I hate being told "no". I meant I hate being the child instead of the parent. I didn't hate them.

And so this morning, I put my daughter in time-out and I recalled my parents' forgiveness. I must have told them a hundred times that I hated them. I'm sure I told them a hundred times a hundred that I loved them, but the hate phrase is so poisonous, it seems like more.

I think being a parent means getting a second chance at life... getting a chance to be a forgiver because (if you've had good parents) you've had so many times of being on the receiving end of forgiveness.

I love my Morgan. I love her energy, her honesty, her zest for life. And I love the forgiveness that brings us closer together.

*Breathe*

Life, Part I

2009-04-20T19:38:00.001-07:00

Here's my IVF story:

A year ago this month, I nervously awaited a phone call.

I had just spent the previous 2 months preparing my body with drug injections. The hope of having another life in our family was too burdensome, so I did the injections robotically.

When the day came for us to go to the clinic to harvest the burgeoning eggs, the hope was no less heavy. I was glad for Dan's presence. He has a way of knowing when to be silent and when to make light of the situation. But, that's why he's mine.

They harvested 11 eggs. We joked that they were the 11 faithful disciples.

We prayed for those 11 eggs.

It's hard to know how to pray for 11 eggs. We didn't want 11 children. So we left it in the hands of Him who made those marvelous pieces of life in the first place.

A few days later we received the first call: Seven of the eggs were doing well. Seven. More prayer.

A day or so later we were told that 4 were viable. We were told to come in for the next procedure: the transfer.

The whole week felt like a lot of numbers and phone calls and prayer. It was an intensely surreal week.

By the time we got to the office, three of the eggs were okay for transfer. Hmmm... We didn't feel that we would be ready for triplets. The staff assured us that they only transplanted enough eggs that they felt would give us one healthy embryo. More prayer.

About a week later, blood work revealed the result. I received this phone call:
"Mrs. Dykstra?"
"Yes."
"We received the results from your blood work. We needed your numbers to double."
"My numbers doubled?"
"No... Your numbers tripled. It appears you are pregnant."
"My numbers tripled? Am I pregnant with more than one?"
"We're not sure. We need you to come it for an ultrasound."

I called my mother and we wept with the good news.

The ultrasound revealed two sacs. It appeared that we might be having twins. Yikes.

My husband told me later (MUCH later) that he prayed that only one baby would be entering our life; he didn't feel that twins would be good for us.

The next week's ultrasound revealed one embryo. One little sac. One little embryo that started from a group of eleven, and then seven, four, three, two... One.

We had to name this little one "Life". We had to name her Eve. My, how she fought.

We fought for her. She fought for us.

Life.

This is the box of drugs that came in the mail. It's a little intimidating.

Dan was a trooper and helped me with my shots. I called it "Baby Juice".

To anyone unawares, this is simply a picture of me, Morgan and an Easter Bunny. However, what I remember about this picture was that I couldn't button my cords and could barely zipper them because the IVF drugs had caused such swelling in my abdomen. I was glad to wear a long coat to hide my secret.

Dear Eve

2009-04-18T18:05:00.001-07:00

I've debated about writing this post for a long time. But then I reasoned that this post is for Eve... both now and when she is old enough to read it. And so I wrote it:

Dear Eve,

You are four months old now. I can't possibly put into words how much you have changed my life, but I'll certainly try.

My main goal upon your arrival was to see if I could breastfeed. I had trouble with your sister in this realm, but with you, there was a different flow, no pun intended. We connected a bit more easily. For the first few months of feedings, the flow of milk was exceeded only slightly by the flow of joyful tears which dripped onto your precious little frame. I couldn't believe that I should have the honor of being your mother. You seemed too perfect, too amazing.

Today we have the feeding down pat. You're a bit playful lately and paw at my neck and head with your free hand while you eat. It's adorable. You love to touch, touch, touch.

You still like to maintain a feeding or two in the night, but it's fairly efficient. When I go to change you in the dim darkness of the room, your feet pump excitedly as your little eyes try to adjust to the amount of light. You long for me to play with you and speak, but if I do, I know I'll get you too pumped up for bedtime. Again: adorable.

I'm a bit weary, but I've chalked that up to the next few years of my life as my energy level concedes to yours. Your little legs kick with a staccato vigor that seems impossible for your young age. My womb, however, recalls their swift strength. You love to pump, pump, pump your chubby stems in the bouncy seat and watch the dangling toys bounce above you. You are pure life, my dear. Your name is apt.

One of my favorite parts about being your mother is knowing that in a matter of seconds I can calm you simply by holding you close. There's something spiritual, delicious and powerful about the connection a mother and baby have. And for all the emotional and physical feeding I offer you, you certainly give it back in spades. The love a baby has for its mother is astounding. I see now why some people love having gobs of babies in their house. It can be addicting.

I treasure these moments as much I can. I doubt I'll be afforded another opportunity to raise a child again and so I must soak up the last bits of every stage with my whole self.

Well, I could write pages upon pages of how wonderful you are, but I must go to bed. Another wonderful day awaits. Another day for you to grow one step closer to grasping that toy with your fist or learning to roll over. And I must go to sleep so I can be awake for as MUCH of it as possible.

Love you, little one

Mommy

Craft Day

2009-04-09T07:25:00.000-07:00

Morgan and I were stuck inside the other day. It was sunny, but cold. And little Eve was sleeping. Stuck.

I took a look at our dining room. I love to prepare holiday tables early so I can enjoy them all week. My mother did that and I adopted the tradition as my own.

The table was pretty, but it lacked something. Hmmmm...

Perhaps it needed a personal touch. Nothing a little paper towel roll can't handle.

(Huh?)

You're not goin' in the recycling bin today, Mr. Paper Towel Roll.

Today you're going to make a decoration.

And with the help of Mr. Green Construction Paper,

you're not gonna look too shabby.

When you can't find good Easter grass, make some.

Voila! Grass within, & yellow shell on the outside.

And some itsy bitsy pieces of pink tissue paper wadded on the bottom...

We made a cup.

Little fingers help fill the cup with love. Love of mints, that is.

So pretty.

Wouldn't be complete without some naming...

Little hands write little words on little pieces of paper.

And then the sun came out some more...

The Mother Inside

2009-04-07T11:48:00.001-07:00

In my camera I have 30 pictures to download, optimize and display which would make you think that I'm a creative, energetic and fun momma. They're really fun and inspiring. But I can't do that right now because I'm in one of those moods.

If you're anything like me, you know the one. After a nice cycle of balance and rest and peace for several days, one foot trips the other and the weeks snowballs into a potpourri of half done life. Well meant intentions stay in the realm of intentions: Eating healthier works until some distressing news finds solace in the pantry. Balancing between rest and play becomes a half-baked attempt in which one is never really asleep or awake.

I swear that that statement about "half done life" is in the job description of every mother. The job starts off easily enough: "Oh, c'mon honey... a baby sounds like so much fun!" There are baby showers which allude to the work ahead but are cleverly disguised in fresh and funky prints. Then the mother-to-be watches one too many Friends episodes in which parenting is considered cute and coordinated and is caught unawares.

Now before someone sounds "Don't be hatin'"... I'm not. In fact, I was just thinking in the car today that I really, really love being a mother. I love how Morgan brings me back to the basics of living. I love how Eve is just pure life. I love the downscaling & the simplifying; I love taking care of their little bodies and minds and feeding the kindling of their spirits. Love it.

I guess my beef with parenting is that I'm not too good with letting go of my old life. Sometimes I have my own tantrum when I want to design on my schedule, my budget, my terms. I don't want to cook dinner quickly. I want it to be slow and methodical and relaxing. And while I'm at it: I want all my ingredients to be pre-measured like they show on those half hour Food Network cooking shows.

Yesterday I saw this über cool Easter cake project which involves cake mix, frosting, lollipop sticks, melted chocolates and little candies. Just reading the supply list should have caused me to run for cover. But no, no... the little "oh-its-so-pretty-can-I-have-it" girl inside me surfaced and before I knew it, I was twenty bucks lighter at Jo*anns Fabric store contemplating when the dickens I'm going to have time to make these buggers.

I'm torn... Do I feed the messy artist in me or tell her to wait for her rainy day to come?

I wrestle. A lot.

Just now I remembered this verse from Romans (7:21-23), which describes what I feel a great deal:

So I find this law at work: When I want to do good, evil is right there with me. For in my inner being I delight in God's law; but I see another law at work in the members of my body, waging war against the law of my mind and making me a prisoner of the law of sin at work within my members.

Now I'm not calling pleasure or creativity "sin". It's not that.

But I do recognize that I want. It. All.

I want perfection and, well, I can't have it. Not here. Not possible.

So for today, if I want to embrace my child, I'm going to embrace the cold that comes with her. And if I want to enjoy making some crazy lollypop-cake delights, then there's a mess to clean up. They're all one big bundle called life.

That's all for now. Soon I'll have those fun blog posts that are cooped up in my camera and mind, but for now... a little honesty and a little nap. :)

Heart of a Momma

2009-04-01T11:47:00.000-07:00

Before I was a mom:

I was a perfect parent.

I knew how to discipline, how to get the best deals, how to seize the day and transform a 70 year old creaky house into a warm and inviting space. Children would fit neatly within my future life with perfectly timed naps and minimal sickness and I would fit neatly within my pre-pregnancy jeans directly after birth.

When I became a mother:

I was the humbled parent.

I quickly learned that children take up approximately 4000% more physical space that their body. They also take up 5 times more mental energy than it takes to fly an airplane in a thunderstorm (I surmise). And if my emotional heart could hold, say, 2 cups of love, I learned that it could hold more. Way more.

I also learned that the formulas I clutched religiously for parenting advice needed to be tailored to my strong-willed child. I fought against letting go of some organization and the perfectly clean house in favor of helping my daughter ride the all-important tricycle.

When I doubled my offspring:*

I learned that the heart heals even better than it grieves.

That an entire day can be filled with chaos but the laughter of my children for 2.5 seconds will make it a different day entirely.

I learned that dragging my brood to get the best deal at every store in Chicago will quickly make my little friends into my little fiends. (That's no typo.)

I'm learning that Toys*R*Us has nothin' on our family: rubber gloves become dress up clothes, foil can make robots out of ordinary boxes and, well, I better hide the checkbook because it looks an awful lot like a coloring book.

I learned that when I'm entirely frustrated with a sassy lassy, I need only fold the laundry to see that the little baby socks will soon become the big girl socks. Patience will make the time more soft.

And when patience is overdrawn, sometimes the solution is a nap, a movie time or some snacks. For everyone.

And last of all, when I scorn efficiency or multi-tasking in favor of some blue corn chips, I'm pretty sure that I'm not the only bone-weary momma who is doing so. Just a hunch.

*(Those of you with, like, 4 kids will laugh at my relative ease)