Shamrocks and Late Nights

I had every intention of taking on the role of that mother, you know, the one who anticipates every holiday and presents her kids with an appropriate craft and history lesson on its origin. I know my limitations, so I planned to make simple shamrocks with the kids and Google search St. Patrick to provide just enough basic details about the man for whom this holiday is named.

Yeah, it didn’t happen.

Instead, at 8:50, when we are typically heading out the door for preschool which is five minutes away, we were all still in the kitchen. I realized the date and looked in horror at my three perfectly well-dressed children in the clothes they had laid out the night before–none of which had any green.

Because my priorities were in order, I made a mad-dash up the stairs, ripping through my son’s t-shirt drawer, pushing clothes out of the way in my daughter’s closet, finding completely new outfits for them down to the little green hair clip to adorn my daughter’s strawberry-blonde locks. I threw my son’s shirt over the bannister knowing that if I saved him the 30 seconds it took me to get his sister’s clothes and walk down the stairs, they both would arrive miraculously on time for carpool.

Hannah Grace, excited to change and put on more clothes, followed me up the stairs. Moving faster than she had in at least a week, she helped me whip off her shirt and pants and donned an outfit that said she was proud of that eighth of Irish blood in her.

When we reached the bottom of the stairs, I looked in horror at my son who had not performed the Jedi mind-trick of removing his first shirt without actually using his arms and replacing it with the one I threw down the stairs.

“Caleb! Why haven’t you changed?”

“This shirt isn’t green.”

“But it has green on it!”

My voice was getting a little shrieky. Clearly, Caleb didn’t understand the sense of urgency I was going for, as it was now 8:55. Clearly, he didn’t understand that the only reason I got him a new shirt was to prevent him from possibly getting pinched. It could happen. Preschoolers can be mean.

Caleb walked away as I began grabbing an assortment of bags of the book and diaper variety that I had previously piled up at the door. I unbuckled Chloe who had been sitting in her booster seat at the kitchen table while I had run from one room to the other. And, suddenly, Caleb emerged from the laundry room.

“I’m going to wear this one.”

In his hand was a beautifully green t-shirt. Perfect.

“Did you get that shirt from the laundry basket?” I asked suspiciously.

“No.”

“But you just came from the laundry room, and that shirt wasn’t in your drawer upstairs.”

“I got it from here.”

Caleb took me into the laundry room and pointed to a small pile of clothes on the floor that weren’t even good enough to make it into a basket.

Hmm. Even better.

I snatched the shirt out of his hands, gave it a quick look-over, smelled it, and tossed it back to him.

“Okay,” I agreed.

Caleb pulled the new shirt over his head, and we made our way out the door at 9:00 for the preschool carpool that was now just beginning. I ushered the older two into the van and ran to the other side with Chloe, who, of course, decided now was the perfect time to start the I-can-arch-my-back-so-far-you’re-going-to-drop-me routine. Once she was buckled, I started to run back to my seat when I noticed Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum staring at butterflies and rainbows in the air.

“Get buckled!” I insisted.

And for a moment, I started to panic. But then I remembered who caused this fiasco. I remembered the two times I hit snooze this morning, and I remembered how I chose ‘green’ as more important than ‘on time’. And as we headed toward the school, I relaxed as I remembered that carpool runs until 9:10, and if we arrived later, I’d simply walk the kids inside.

Every week since I started writing on the fruits of the Spirit, I’ve been tested. In fact, I can honestly say that I can’t wait until this study is over. I don’t like being tested, and I don’t like seeing how much I need to improve. Prior to having kids, I was gentle. I was kind and patient. After having three kids, my impulse is to freak out and speak harshly when things get chaotic.

And I know now that being gentle isn’t about cooing at a little baby or about how to handle china. It’s about my response to my daughter who stared at the garbage men in a comatose-like state for three full minutes in the middle of the driveway while everyone else was buckled in the van. It’s about the words that I held back when I found a mysterious wax-like substance melted into our newly cleaned carpets. It’s about the temper that I contained when my kids had their own St. Patrick’s Day parade in my bedroom with every gift bag and piece of tissue paper they could find. And it’s about my attitude when I was rocking my daughter to sleep at 10:10 p.m. while her daddy was out with his friend, and I had spent the last two hours trying to get her to stay in her room. ‘Gentle’ truly is a gift from God.

And ‘gentle’ is hard, but I’m getting better. I’m trying to look at life logically and see that the craziness of every day isn’t really all that big of a deal, but the tone of my voice when I speak to my children is.

I’m trusting that He will see this change through and am clinging to the promise that “he who began a good work in [me] will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus” (Philippians 1:6).

And until that day I’ll keep practicing my deep breaths and counting to ten as I watch the applesauce hit the floor for the fourteenth time.

“²² But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, ²³ gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law” (Galatians 5:22-23, New International Version, 2010). Emphasis mine

Now it’s your turn! Link up with your own post on ‘gentleness!’

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Medicine Cocktails

In one of the small compartments tucked away in the corner of my brain, there is a memory that I can pull out and access clearly. In this memory, two little kids are coming down the stairs, laughing, each with a little medicine cup in hand, my son with a bottle of Motrin. A new bottle that is now more than half finished. My children had been doing shots with a liquid fever reducer. I remember the panic I felt as I dialed Poison Control and the relief when I learned they would not overdose.

In another compartment, there is a memory involving an antibiotic. I can see myself measuring out the dose on the counter for my baby and then taking the dose to that baby who was sitting in her high chair. When I come back to the counter 31.3 seconds later, the bottle of antibiotics is empty, and I rush to dial the pediatrician. I know that children can’t overdose on antibiotics, so I leave Poison Control alone this time, but I now need another prescription.

These are two memories tucked away, the most vivid of a few. Given my children’s propensity for sneaking medicine, one could imagine my surprise when I’ve had to enlist every creative means possible to get my daughter to take her antibiotic this week, the same daughter who did shots with Motrin and downed a bottle of Amoxicillin.

We tried the normal way–give her the cup and drink. She refused. I then tried putting the antibiotic in a medicine syringe. She continued to turn her head. I next resorted to force. Caleb held down her arms while I tried to shoot the medicine down the back of her throat–I needed someone to hold her head, too, unfortunately.

After Hannah Grace losing her dose of medicine and my sweatshirt gaining it, I called the nurse:

“Can I mix the medicine with anything?”

“Yes, chocolate syrup.”

Darn me and my healthy eating.

Since I didn’t have any chocolate syrup, I resorted to syrup of the maple variety. After all, in another compartment of my brain, I have a memory of Hannah Grace standing with the refrigerator open, chugging a bottle of 100% pure maple syrup. This should’ve been a piece of (pan)cake.

It wasn’t.

Another dose of medicine lost, a new meaning to knots in the hair gained. I tried to brush Hannah Grace’s hair, but the brush couldn’t even move through the combination of sticky syrup and gooey medicine. I pleaded. I threatened:

“If you don’t let me brush these knots out, I’m going to have to get your hair cut really short like a little boy!”

“I want to look like a little boy!”

I had forgotten that she does, in fact, want to look like a little boy.

I tried applesauce. It hurt her tongue. I tried chocolate pudding. She finger-painted with it (No joke. She seriously got a piece of construction paper and made handprints with her chocolate-medicine-pudding while I was cleaning the toilet).

And then I gave up.

Except, I couldn’t really. The strep throat germ had to be killed. I called the pharmacy and filled the second prescription that the nurse had called in earlier for me that day when things weren’t looking too hot. But we added watermelon flavor this time, per Hannah Grace’s request. And I headed to Publix at 7 p.m. with a baby in her pajamas, a little boy with his hands in his pockets, and a little girl with severe knots in her hair.

And I type in fear this morning.

There are no more medicine cocktails that I can create. She must drink the watermelon-flavored medicine, the $3 more expensive watermelon-flavored medicine, this child of mine who used to do shots with Motrin and drink Amoxicillin like it was sweet tea.

Maybe I should make a pitcher of tea, just in case….

The Cookie Test

Yesterday, I left church not dwelling on a specific scripture, but agonizing over whether or not my children had any shred of self-control. As a tie-in to his sermon on the faith of Abraham and the need for those with faith to wait, our pastor showed a video on “The Marshmallow Test.” In this experiment, children were brought into a room without distractions by themselves and given one marshmallow. They were told that if they resisted eating the marshmallow, at the end of fifteen minutes, they would get one more marshmallow.

In the original Stanford study from 1972, follow-up studies were performed on the children who participated, and the results showed that children who resisted eating that first marshmallow grew up to have happier, more successful lives.

Immediately, visions of my children hiding under the dining room table, scarfing down homemade cookies came to mind. I saw the lollipop stains I had to clean off the carpet as they tried to devour their Valentine’s candy under that same table without Mommy noticing. My heart was filled with dread as I came to the realization that my children were doomed to a life of failure. There was no way they would resist the marshmallow. So, naturally, I had to recreate the test to see just how bad a parent I really am.

Since I don’t have hidden cameras, I performed the test in my kitchen where I could watch my children, and I had them take the test together. And since I didn’t want to have to buy a bag of yucky marshmallows for this test, I bought a box of Back to Nature Classic Creme Cookies. I did my best to not converse or actively engage with them once I started the kitchen timer, and I did not encourage them to hold off on eating the cookie. I simply stated the rules at the beginning of the test: “You may eat your cookie now, but if you wait until the timer goes off, I’ll give you another cookie.”

Four seconds into the test, my three-year-old daughter looked at me with a resigned look on her face.

“I’m going to eat my cookie now.”

Clearly, the last four seconds were the longest of her life, and her bright blue eyes dulled a little, conveying the inward struggle she had to endure.

I didn’t dissuade her and was ready to accept the fact that she was doomed to a life of failure, that I had failed as a parent, when she said, “No, no, I’m going to wait.”

I took to cooking a quick dinner while the children waited in their chairs. As I spread the tortilla chips across the baking sheet for the nachos we were to have, I happened to look up as Hannah Grace was putting her cookie to her lips, quickly bringing the cookie back down. I wasn’t near the timer, but I think we were about a minute into the test.

Caleb, my almost five year old, found his Leapster video game to occupy his time, and I’m pretty sure playing video games is against the rules and would’ve invalidated the results. However, I quickly snatched the Leapster from him and instructed him that he had to stare at the cookie from his chair–without any games in hand.

I looked up again at four minutes into the test, and Hannah Grace, once again, had the cookie to her lips. A couple of minutes later, the cookie was gone.

“Hannah Grace, did you eat your cookie?”

“No, Caleb gave it to Chloe.”

“What?!”

“Caleb gave Chloe my cookie!”

I looked at Caleb with disbelief written across my face. Did he really ruin this test by giving Hannah Grace’s cookie to their baby sister?

“I accidentally gave Chloe Hannah’s cookie.”

“You gave Chloe the cookie?”

“Yes, I accidentally gave Chloe Hannah Grace’s cookie.”

Caleb actually had a slight look of remorse and embarrassment.

“How do you accidentally give someone a cookie?!!”

I quickly reached into the box and set another cookie in front of Hannah Grace. Yes, these results were definitely invalidated. However, a couple more minutes into the test, Hannah Grace had the cookie in front of her lips again. The end result would be the same.

I have to admit that I felt surprised and disappointed at the same time–surprised that both children made an effort to not touch the cookie but disappointed that Hannah Grace couldn’t hold out.

Or could she?

Finally, the timer went off, and I immediately walked to the table. Caleb’s cookie was perfectly intact. He exceeded my expectations, more than proved me wrong by not even showing the least bit of temptation from that cookie.

But then I was perplexed. As I looked at Hannah Grace’s cookie, expecting to find chunks missing from the round chocolate disks held together by creme goodness, I noticed a cookie broken in half, but not eaten.

But I saw her put the cookie to her mouth, and she had a chocolate rim around her lips!

“Hannah Grace, did you not eat the cookie?”

“No,” she said with a smile conveying the victory she thought she achieved.

“But you have chocolate on your face. I saw you put the cookie by your mouth….” I trailed off waiting for her explanation.

“I licked the cookie!”

And licked it she had. She must’ve licked the cookie with all the force her little tongue could muster, tasting every bit of that chocolate and creme that she could without technically eating the cookie.

I didn’t have it in me to disqualify her. After all, I didn’t give her any rules except to not eat the cookie, and a full cookie she had in front of her. Never mind the fact that the cookie was moist with saliva.

As I walked over to the counter where I had set the box of cookies, I pulled out the plastic tray and grabbed two more of the promised treat. I set one cookie before each child, giving them the grand total of two, and pondered what kept these children, prone to sneaking every sweet in the house, from eating the first cookie that I laid before them. All I could figure was that they believed the promise of one more cookie to follow, and that promise was enough.

“Abram believed the LORD, and he credited it to him as righteousness” (Genesis 15:6, New International Version, 2010).

I smiled as I looked at my two children, enjoying their cookies, chocolate crumbles around their lips, a trail on the table, and I let out a sigh knowing that they were not doomed to a life of failure and that I had managed to teach them some self-control. And I marveled at the lesson that they had helped bring home for me–that I, too, have a parent who will deliver on what He has promised. Temptation might encourage me to take a bite, but if only I can resist! Because, after all, everyone knows that two cookies are much better than one.

A combination of staying up too late watching a bad 83rd Oscars and having three children wake up a tad too early prevented me from linking up this post yesterday. So here it is! Just a day late…and for any of those following my weekly Journeys, this week I will ponder goodness. I would love for you to join me and link up your own post on Friday!

^“22 But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, ²³ gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law” (Galatians 5:22-23, New International Version, 2010).

Lesson Learned!

From the time my daughter was old enough to have a conscious will, she has loved beautiful and girly things. From jewelry to makeup–she loves them all–and the more colors and glitter, the better!

I was not surprised to find her one day sitting on my bathroom floor, makeup smeared all over her face, mascara wand in hand as she painted her toes. I was not surprised when I found the missing necklace from my jewelry box adorning my daughter’s neck. Nor was I surprised when I found evidence of her princess stamp set marking a trail along the bannister. My daughter believes in spreading beauty and color throughout her world, no matter if she is wearing the beauty and color or her parents’ furniture.

I was never surprised at any of my little girl’s antics. I was, however, surprised at her brother’s.

I wasn’t completely naive–I knew better than to leave little kids alone with scissors–but the combination of trying a recipe for dinner that was taking too long and a crying infant left my attention divided. Way too divided. And in a brief moment, I learned that my son would make his own attempt at beautifying the world:

I just wish he wouldn’t have made this attempt the day before his sister’s second birthday party. And I really wanted her first haircut to be, well, a good one.

I thought I learned my lesson; I figured my son was just young. He was just doing what three-year-olds do. Heck! I cut my own bangs, to my mother’s horror, when I was three. Except that he tried his hand at hair design again when he was four. In exactly the same place that he cut his sister’s hair the first time.

If I hadn’t learned my lesson before, I learned it now. Scissors were no longer put up high–they were put away all together! The only time cutting was a part of arts and crafts was when the kids’ baby sister was napping and dinner preparation had not yet commenced. If Mommy had to use the bathroom, the scissors came with her! She would not make this mistake again.

So it’s really embarrassing that this story continues….

In a quest to save money and prove that I had skill, I took my son outside to cut his hair. I really didn’t know what I was doing, so the haircut took three times as long as if I got it done in the salon. My plan to cut his hair while the baby was napping was a good one. His other sister was playing outside. And when the baby woke up, I took the scissors with me to get her.

Unfortunately, I forgot that there were clippers in my little haircut accessory pouch. My son, however, didn’t. In the thirty seconds I was gone, he found an electric outlet outside, plugged in those clippers, and took a chunk out of his hair–right in the front. And for good measure, he took out a section from his sister’s hair again–in a slightly different place from the last two times. I guess he was starting to learn about symmetry.

So, while others might see a cute picture of a boy and his father, I see that a chunk of hair is missing from his bangs.

Clearly, I do not think fast enough for my son. My tears at lost hair do not have an effect, nor does punishment. And, frankly, I’m not sure any of those things can persuade a person with a passion.

So why fight it? I’ve learned my lesson–I’m enrolling my son in cosmetology school.

I’m linking up today with Mama Kat for her writer’s workshop. I combined two of her prompts–a lesson learned and a time my toddler got into something he shouldn’t have.

Don’t forget to come by tomorrow and link up your own post on kindness for this week’s ‘Journeys!’

The Extra-Terrestrial and Other Stuff

The other night we opened our small group by having everyone share a fear or something that really freaks out him or her. Before we began, I have to admit, I felt a little proud–after all, I really only had one main fear.

Too bad that fear is kind of crazy.

You see, I am terrified of something that really shouldn’t bother me. I’ve never had any experience with this thing, nor will I probably ever. Yet, the thought of it can start my heart racing, my body tingling. I’ll stay awake at night curled in a little ball, holding onto Matt’s arm as we sleep.

But if this thing is real, Matt’s arm isn’t going to help.

No, nothing can save me if the aliens come.

That’s right; I’m terrified of aliens, so terrified, in fact, that I cannot even look up a picture to place within this blog. I tried to find a picture of a UFO instead, minus the aliens, but when the pace of my breathing quickened, I had to stop.

I know they are probably not real, and I also know that, even if they are real, they most likely aren’t coming for me. Unless they can read minds and know I’m currently typing about how afraid I am and they come for me and then they take me to the mother ship and they stick those probe thingies in my eyeballs and then they impregnate me some little alien baby that will burst forth from my stomach in four months (they grow quickly) killing me and setting forth their plan to take over the human race.

Whew.

By the time it was my turn, I had heard fears ranging from giant camel spiders in Iraq to snakes to sinking in the ocean, and I felt like I could have a panic attack. I didn’t even realize that I shared some of these fears, and I was sure when I talked of my fear of aliens to the group, I might send some of us over the edge. But everyone just stared at me and gave a polite chuckle….

I know the fear is irrational, but, nonetheless, it is real. When Matt is away on a trip and I hear a noise in the dark, my mind goes to strange places. And while fear can serve a purpose–we stay away or are cautious of unsafe environments–this fear does nothing useful.

And, unfortunately, when I really began to think about this topic, I found that I have a list full of unproductive fears:

What if my children don’t love God when they’re older, and they rebel? What if they don’t love me? What if one of them gets sick–really sick? What if something happens to Matt?

The list could go on and on. And while the above list at least covers real people in my life and lists more rationale fears, the end result is the same: the fear gets me nowhere.

And since I’m too busy to waste my time dwelling on the unproductive, I choose to place my thoughts elsewhere:

“Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things” (Philippians 4:8, New International Version, 2010).

Not on snakes.

http://i226.photobucket.com/albums/dd309/KenMarsh/python.jpg

Not on spiders.

And definitely not on aliens.

(No picture available)

What frightens you? How do you overcome fear?

Back When I Was a Rookie Parent…

I have never shared this story with anyone, but it’s time….

It was the middle of the night, and Caleb was in bed with us. Perhaps, he had just finished nursing, or maybe he was having a tough night sleeping–I’m not sure–but I am very sure about the events that followed and my rookie-parent reaction.

The black of night filled our room, and the only noise was the heavy breathing of Matt as he slept. Caleb was nuzzled in close to me, resting quietly. Until, BLLAAACCH!!!

And out of nowhere, this precious little boy, around five months old at the time, threw up three times his body weight. Matt and I shot up in bed instantly. The noise–it was horrible. I swear I watched our baby’s head spin around seven times before the vomit left his mouth, gasped as I heard a splash when the throw up hit our bed.

This experience was our first with a child and vomit, and, thankfully, I had just read an article the day before from one of those parenting magazines that I won’t name (because I can’t remember). I never skipped an issue that came to my ‘Inbox’ telling me what my child should be doing at this stage in his development. I read all the articles on vaccines and child safety, and I studied which foods I could introduce to my baby when. I trusted this source. So when this magazine instructed me to have my child seen immediately if he began throwing up and was less than six months old, I took the advice seriously. And I did what any parent would do…

…I called 9-1-1.

That’s right; I hopped out of bed, handing the baby to my husband, picked up the phone in the middle of the night, and dialed the phone number reserved for emergencies. After all, this event was an emergency. My baby had thrown up, and the magazine said he needed to be seen immediately. And the only way he could be seen immediately was if I called the paramedics to rescue him.

My saving grace was that we used Vonage, an internet phone system. We had set it up when we lived in Oklahoma so that we could have free long-distance while we lived away from our family. A plus side of this service was that when we moved back to Georgia, we didn’t have to change our number. Apparently, however, our emergency services were tied to the state in which we first ordered Vonage. When I called 9-1-1, a dispatcher in Oklahoma answered.

“9-1-1, What’s your emergency (or something like that)?”

“My son just threw up, and he’s only five months old!”

Surely upon hearing my son’s age, the dispatcher would signal all the emergency personnel in the area. And in the process of explaining my emergency, we began to realize that we did not live in the same area.

During the confusion of explaining where I lived and figuring out where the dispatcher was, a cloud began to lift from my mind. I noticed the dispatcher did not seem overly concerned that my son threw up, and I decided I did not need an ambulance sent from Oklahoma. The dispatcher asked, “Is your son okay?” and through my foggy memory, I believe he offered to connect me to the correct 9-1-1 in Georgia.

I looked over at Caleb in bed with my husband, his little baby head no longer spinning, and I came to my senses: “No, we don’t need an ambulance. Thank you, Sir, but we are going to take him to get checked out.”

And, no, I did not mean in the morning. That’s right; we put on clothes, strapped that little baby in his car seat, and we drove to the emergency room in the middle of the night. After all, our baby threw up once.

Apparently, I had not yet learned about the ‘after hours’ phone line. I had never heard of such a thing, having never called my own doctor’s office after they closed. After all, if I were sick in the evening, I would just call them in the morning.

And if I were too sick to wait until the morning, I would go to the emergency room.

I didn’t realize that my child’s pediatrician had an ‘after hours’ phone line to give parent’s advice in the middle of the night. I didn’t realize they had anticipated how crazy parents, especially new parents, can act. Had I known, I probably wouldn’t have called freakin’ 9-1-1 because my son threw up once! And I probably wouldn’t have waited in the emergency room for three hours because my son threw up once…and not again the whole time we waited.

Four years later, I still don’t understand why the doctor in the ER didn’t seem more alarmed. I told him Caleb threw up at least an entire bottle’s worth of breast milk, but he didn’t believe me. He said it was probably only an ounce. I reminded him that Caleb was only five months old; he didn’t seem too concerned. But the magazine said that he needed to be seen immediately….

So we left the ER that morning with baby and anti-nausea pill in hand. But I never gave it to him. After all, he only threw up once.

Matt, Jennifer, Caleb--high school reunion night — The Rookie Parents

What’s the craziest thing you ever did as a new parent? Surely, I’m not the only freak!

And don’t forget to link up your own post tomorrow! This week’s journey is on love. Click on the ‘Journeys’ tab at the top of the page for more information. I look forward to reading your posts tomorrow!

Ten Indications Your Husband Is Away on Business Again

10. Your son’s first baseball practice ever is scheduled for the first night your husband is out of town, and you’ll get to tote your 3-year-old and 21-month-old along to experience it.

9. Thirty minutes after your husband leaves, your son wakes up with a rash all over his body. You get to take three kids to the doctor’s office and find out your son has strep throat–all before ten a.m.

8. Your son, who has been looking forward to his first practice for two weeks, cannot go to baseball practice. You now get to carry around the guilt of knowing that your cursing the timing of his first practice with your husband’s trip has somehow caused him to get strep throat.

7. The rare coffee date you scheduled with your friend almost a month ago for when two of the three kids would be in preschool must be rescheduled.

6. Knowing that you’re quickly losing your mind the longer you haul around three small children, you make a short list of items you will need to get at the grocery store while waiting for your son’s antibiotic. While you leave the store with three items that you did not need, you manage to forget the first item on your list–and your brain.

5. You find yourself sitting on your bed twitching and eating M&Ms–and you don’t even like chocolate.

4. Your husband, in his kindness, planned a menu for the week, made a corresponding grocery list, and bought the food before he left. However, he neglected one small detail–that each meal would take two plus hours to make, and you would be feeding the kids dinner at 8:00 p.m. (You’ve never even made one of Rachael Ray’s 30-Minute Meals in less than an hour and a half).

3. During the two hours you spend cooking that first meal when your husband is away, your children conjure up the North Wind to sweep through the playroom. You grab your camera to capture evidence of the catastrophe, but the batteries are dead. You then grab your phone and snap a few shots, but the photos aren’t there when you try to upload them to your computer. The disappointment of not having proof for your husband is worse torture than the actual clean-up.

2. Deciding she can’t make it until she reaches the bathroom, your daughter pulls down her pants and pees on the kitchen floor that you had just mopped a couple of hours earlier–and this daughter is NOT the one who is potty-training.

1. Your youngest child decides that 10:15 p.m. is a perfectly acceptable bedtime.

What craziness happens when your spouse is out of town? What chaos ensues if you go away?

And Then I Laughed

Throughout the week, I racked my brain trying to think of a story to write for this week’s Writer’s Workshop. As I lugged wet clothes out of the washer, I paused to think of the last time I laughed. In the midst of reading about the missing Knuffle Bunny, my mind would wander to think of a time when I was wrong.

Sure, I could think of a couple of times when I had laughed recently, but most were in response to a silly expression one of the kids made or an amazingly correct use of sarcasm by my four-year-old. I’m not sure I could recreate the moment where anyone else would laugh, too.

And then there were the times when I was wrong….hmm…I was struggling with this one a little bit. I was sure there was something–I have a terrible memory–but I kept drawing a blank.

The funny thing is, I immediately thought of at least ten instances when Matt was wrong. I thought of the time(s) when he made us late to church because he thought he could wake up 30 minutes before we had to leave; those days with a newborn in my arms and a 17-month-old running around my ankles and some words uttered 9 months earlier that this situation would not happen; and finally, no matter what he says, I know that the thermostat and/or heater is broken–if the tip of my nose is frozen, and my hands are numb, it is not 70 degrees in the house!

But the last time I was wrong? I got nothing.

So at dinner, I decided to confront Matt with my problem:

“I really want to do that Writer’s Workshop this Thursday, but I can’t think of anything for any of the topics.”

“Really? Well, what are the topics?”

“There was something about prenuptial agreements, but I didn’t want to touch that one…when was the last time I laughed really hard?”

“Modern Family.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to write about a T.V. show.”

Matt proceeded to reenact the dialogue that had me laughing a few nights previous.

“You know, there was the topic about the last time I was wrong. I’d write about that, but I just can’t think of anything.”

There was a pause as Matt looked at me with a straight face. His blue eyes began to twinkle.

And then I laughed.

After seeing the left side of his lip curl into a smile and then hear the snicker escape from his own mouth, there was nothing left I could do but join him.

Visit Mama Kat for more stories of laughter or women who can admit when they’re wrong. And don’t forget to get your post ready for tomorrow’s Journey on forgiveness! For more information, click on the Journeys tab at the top of the page.

The Crazy Old Bat Remembers

Before I begin, I will apologize for this post. While I liked the posts I wrote this week, they left me a little depressed. I guess that’s what happens when one’s baby gets put in a cast! As a result, I decided to use one of Mama Kat’s writing prompts as a chance to lighten the mood.

4.) Read the quote and let it inspire your post: “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel”. -Maya Angelou

Caleb held the door for his sisters as they walked into the bright room. Sun streamed through the blinds on the back window. As they approached the desk, a woman stood and smiled.

“I’ll tell Elizabeth you are here.”

One minute later, Elizabeth wheeled their mother into the room; she was obviously expecting their arrival. “Look, Mrs. Davis,” she said cheerily. “You have visitors.”

“Hi, Mom,” Chloe said sweetly, bending down to kiss her mother on the cheek.

The old woman’s expression did not change, a straight line for lips, her eyes gray.

The brother and sister followed suit, and Caleb thanked Elizabeth while taking the handles of the wheelchair from her. As he pushed his mother into the den area, Hannah Grace walked over to blinds and closed the set to the left of the room. The family made their way to the familiar couch, passing the old man who had taken up his regular residence in the chair in front of the T.V.

The children smiled as they passed him, nodding ‘hello,’ while the old woman let out a barely audible, “hmmpf.” Caleb turned his mother’s wheelchair to fit in between the couches, and the three children sat.

“So, Mom,” Caleb began. “How are you feeling today?”

The old woman didn’t answer.

“Has Elizabeth taken you for any walks lately?” Hannah Grace inquired. “The weather has warmed up quite a bit.”

“Yeah, Mom,” Caleb agreed. “Everyone came out for Tyler’s baseball game yesterday, and it was such a nice day. He won his game, you know.”

“He did so well,” Chloe added. “The day was perfect for the game. The drizzle held off until just as we were leaving.”

Mrs. Davis offered a slight laugh, and the children looked at one another and smiled, hopeful for the interaction they craved from their mother.

“I told him it would rain,” she said quietly.

“I don’t think we talked about the game…” Caleb trailed off as his mother continued.

“He didn’t listen. He never did.”

“Who didn’t listen, Mom?” Chloe wondered if she remembered, if she could connect the dots in the memory forming.

“The trees were beautiful. Spanish moss covered our heads. But we ran, oh how we ran!” She laughed at the picture in her mind.

“He wanted to walk–where did he want to go?” She paused for a moment. “I don’t know,” she muttered quickly, “but we had to walk, and he didn’t know where he was going!” She looked at everyone and smiled.

“We walked and walked and had to turn around…oh!” She laughed again.

“Did it rain?” Chloe asked?

“What?”

“Did it rain, Mom?” Hannah Grace continued. “You said before that you told him it would rain.”

“Oh. It lightninged!” A glimmer returned to her eyes. “We ran and ran because we thought the rain would pour on us.”

“Did it?” Caleb leaned forward, smiling.

Mrs. Davis looked down, searching for the answer. She didn’t know.

“We ran, and I thought we were going to get struck by lightning, and we laughed, even though I was a little afraid. He never ran so fast. I don’t think he ever ran much.” Her eyes were moist.

“Now wait a minute!”

Everyone looked up sharply, not expecting an interruption. The man in front of the T.V. stood up.

“I’ve run plenty! And I wasn’t slow!” The man was offended.

The children looked at one another, shocked that this was happening.

The old woman just stared, searching her memory. And then,

“Oh, please! You run one race, and now you think you’re an athlete!”

“Jennifer, your memory is fuzzy. I ran plenty, so don’t make me out to be some incompetent fool!”

“If the shoe fits!” she retorted.

“I can’t believe it,” Caleb whispered. “She’s remembering!”

“I’m going to get Elizabeth,” Hannah Grace said as she moved through the couches.

Chloe moved over and rested her hands on her mother’s shoulders.

“Now, Mom, try not to get too worked up. Dad, you need to take it easy; let’s see what else she can remember.”

“I can remember that your father is a fool!” Mrs. Davis yelled. “Who makes his wife walk miles in a lightning storm?!”

“It wasn’t lightning when we left, and we had a good time, Jennifer. We were together…” he trailed off.

“Yes, it was a good time,” she agreed softly.

Mr. Davis walked over from where he had been yelling across the room.

“You remember?” he asked, making his way to his wife.

“Yes,” she answered, as he took her hands in his. “Yes.”

Hannah Grace was back with Elizabeth, the other two siblings, tears streaming down their faces.

“Mrs. Davis, let me get you a glass of water,” Elizabeth offered.

“Elizabeth, move out of the way, please,” the old woman stated with authority. “Matt, let’s go. Take me to my room.”

“Mom, wait,” Hannah Grace said. “Let’s talk a little more; let’s visit.”

“I will see you kids later. Push me, Matt; let’s go!”

The old man grabbed her wheelchair, winking as he passed by his children.

“But…wait…Mom…Dad…” the children didn’t know what to do next, as they were left alone in the den.

Mr. Davis wheeled Mrs. Davis down the hall, and gently pushed open the second to last door on the right. He parked her wheelchair next to her bed.

Mrs. Davis raised a shaking hand to her grey locks, pinned in a bun, and let her long, straggly hair fall to her shoulders. Mr. Davis reached in her wheelchair and grabbed underneath her legs and behind her back, heaving her onto the bed. Both took out their dentures and placed them side by side on the night stand.

And they embraced.

And for the first time in a very long time, they remembered what it was like to make love. Or at least to try.

What? Too much? My apologies to Nicholas Sparks and anyone who now wants to throw up. If you’d like to read any more short stories about “The Crazy Old Bat” without sex, click here.

For a more thought-provoking post, please return tomorrow ready to link up your own post for Journeys responding to the following verse: “But Jesus called the children to him and said, ‘Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.'” (Luke 18:16, New International Version, 2010).

The Researcher

It’s amazing what I’ve learned about myself by discovering what I’m not. And most of the things I’m not, I’ve learned from watching my husband.

Before we were even engaged, my future husband helped me on this process of self-discovery. I had my first job teaching students American literature, and I had decided I wanted to buy a desk and bookshelf. I hate shopping, so I had planned to find a desk that I liked at the first store I went into and then go home.

Matt, however, had a better idea. He took me to every store that carried desks in the entire state of Georgia, causing my eyes to blur and stomach to feel nauseous. And in the end, I bought a desk from the first store I went into. But as Matt so wisely stated, now I could be sure that I had the desk I really wanted.

Matt is always informed. Whereas I decide I want something and get it right then and there, Matt whips out his computer or phone, looks up all the reviews, compares prices between this site and that, orders a background check on the store owners, etc.

When I said we needed to get our chimney inspected, I found a coupon in one of our mailers and called that number. Matt, however, e-mailed me the number of an inspector he had found online after reading 10,000 reviews.

When Matt and I were going out of town so that I could attend a conference and have a night away together in the process, I showed Matt the list of hotels provided by the conference. Matt looked up every hotel on that list and off, spent three days equating the walking distance from the hotel to the convention center divided by the driving time to local restaurants times the access to Wi-Fi…so we could stay in the room for a total of nine hours.

Matt researches everything. When he was preparing to leave for a business trip, he Google-searched how to iron and pack a shirt–apparently Martha Stewart knows more about this topic than I. When I said the meat in the refrigerator was fine, Matt had to ask the online community how long meat stays fresh. And before beginning his workout routine, Matt read an entire book on the subject and cross-referenced all the sources in the back to determine what actually was the most effective way to get healthy.

I kidded with Matt that if he spent half as much time working out as he did reading about it, he would already look like this man.

While Matt’s propensity to rely on the internet before making a decision can drive me a little crazy, I have to admit that I always feel better about our decisions knowing Matt’s thoroughly investigated them. I trust him and his judgment, and I appreciate that he cares enough about the choices we make to ensure we’re making the right choices.

There is one choice that he didn’t fully investigate, though…

…me.

He didn’t realize how nasty I can act when I’m tired. He didn’t know how a countertop strewn with papers can turn his wife into a raving lunatic. He didn’t imagine how ugly his bride could appear without makeup and sleep.

And, yet, if he’s suffered from buyer’s remorse, he’s never tried to return the original for a better model. Matt’s committed to this purchase, and for that, I will always love him.

I’m joining Mama Kat today for her Writer’s Workshop.

And don’t forget to join me tomorrow and link up with your own journey on faith!