Every once in awhile, every great, great while, I do something that I like to call: GNO. Girls night out. Generally we eat dinner, have a drink or two, throw our heads back and laugh, and talk about sex.
Last night it was something new. We tried that Painting with a Twist thing. You know, where everybody paints the same exact thing and then takes a picture. . . . . .
38 girls and 2 guys crowded into this room. The music was dance club, obscenely loud. And I'm guessing it was only to mask the 38 wine filled, estrogen overdriven, shrill screams that inevitably erupt from . . . nowhere. The 2 men were obviously dragged there. And I cried a little for them.
There is a reason that they encourage wine at this sorta thing. Participating in this activity, can cause abrupt waves of intense anger. The type of anger that makes you want to throw your dirty paint water in your neighbor's face. Followed by death jabs of paintbrush on: not-so-fine master piece.
The paintbrush, SOMEhow manages to do what it isn't told to do. And everybody knows it's not always the best choice to try to fix a painting when there is little experience involved. . . . . Even Ed knows that blue and yellow makes green. And green is never appropriate for snow. Except for my painting.
Minus the anger, it was fun. It wasn't great. It wasn't awful. It was just fun.
And then, the highlight of all highlights happened. *shudder*
It was time to go. I went over to the coat hooks, which were in an "L" formation. (I will also preface this with: my bottom is much larger than it normally is.)(baby weight) I started looking for my coat which ended up in a frantic search that lasted 1.462 seconds. I couldn't find my highly, desirable, brown Land's End jacket. (It was just buried by all the other not-so-small parkas) But in my frantic pawing, I knocked someone's gigantic power mitten out of their coat.
I bent my large bottom over and somehow, SOMEhow, managed to lose my balance. I did however, swing the main girth of my weight aka Mrs. Mcgillicutty aka my dimpled backside up against the wall to regain lost balance. Or, what I thought was the wall. Or, where the wall used to be. Or, the wall that was still there, but was hiding. I felt this odd sensation on my buns. Something that didn't quite feel like a wall. And feeling very confused, I literally put my back into "it". I put every ounce of lady lumps I own, and gave it an "all or nothing" but chose an "all" and slammed my goods (still bent over) into the wall that definitely was NOT a wall anymore. And still feeling very confused as to what was happening, I stood up, straight and tall - Carmen Electra style - all the while pushing every bit of my womenhood backwards. When I finally got to the upright position, there was a cozy, plush landing for my back.
And then, and ONLY then - did I realize that I had just given a man a lap dance. Somehow, in stealth mode - ONE of the 2 men that were there, decided to slip behind me for a simple coat grab - oblivious that an R-rated moment was about to happen on him and to him. There were no mysteries left to the imagination. ALL was experienced. We became one, if that is possible with your clothes on. (Which it is)
And then I left in a complete horrified stupor. And the pizza flag whipping in the wind, whipped my painting. My green snow painting.
Take Aways
1) If you're going to become familiar with a complete stranger, do it thoroughly and quickly.
Friday, November 21, 2014
Thursday, November 6, 2014
Homskul iz Grat
These are the days that I love, love homeschooling. These. This. It happens once every 5 million years - but in these very rare instances, when all the stars align in the most glorious way. When I can breath for two seconds. And love, grateful for most. I love homeschooling.
First it starts with the weather. And there is no set perfect "love homeschooling" weather. But today is the most perfect, most quintessential day of fall. Dark. Miserably dark. Turn-the-lights-on-so-you-don't-trip dark. Misty and sometimes rainy. Leaves still on the trees. But half on the ground. And cold. It must be cold for a quintessential fall day.
I have one lamp on in the house. I figured I would take my chances tripping. And haven't so far.
The kids: One is completely naked, one is wearing a swim suit cover-up, and one is properly clothed.
Me?: Yes, yes. Still looking like Miss Hannigan
This week, I have decided to take off from the drudgery. Take a break from the brow beating. We've worked for 11 weeks without a break. So, well deserved for all. But mostly me.
I have a 3 year old, naked man figuring out a 60 piece puzzle. He won't stop talking. And I dream about yelling with the all the strength of 1000 earthquakes, "please, please SHUT UP". But I don't. I don't know when the next magical moment is going to come. And what if I squashed it, and then it never came? So I let him talk, and say "mama" 14 times in a row before he forms the rest of the sentence. And 99 out of 100 times it's something like: "mom, do you think this piece goes here?" But that 1 out of 100 times is so worth it. "mom, when you were a little boy, did you have a big scrotum?"
Murnice, hiding in the corner with all 20 Beanie Babies we got from Great Grandmother. So much imagination in the corner.
And this, all this, is why homeschooling is so great. Always together. Naked or not. Imagination growing and working. We can move slow, or we can move fast. I can look like a swamp donkey and snuggle just as effectively.
Today, I choose to ignore the pee-laden bathroom. It will still be there tomorrow. I will drink another cup of tea. I most likely will ignore lunch time and just pull our a bag of chips for the naked man and half clothed girl to fight over. And they'll feel like kings and queens eating chips for lunch. I will strive to make dinner. And if not, we'll have toast. With lucky butter. And if the stars stay aligned, I will attempt to start my fall sewing. Fall is for sewing. And re-vamping. And freshing-up and re-decorating.
Also, I broke a knife on a head of garlic. The middle of the blade snapped. My birthday knife is no more.
Take Aways
1) Attempt to look like a swamp donkey more than not
2) Eat chips only more than not
3) Be naked more than not
4) Stay away from garlic more than not
5) Don't paint your lamp in Easter egg colors, ever
First it starts with the weather. And there is no set perfect "love homeschooling" weather. But today is the most perfect, most quintessential day of fall. Dark. Miserably dark. Turn-the-lights-on-so-you-don't-trip dark. Misty and sometimes rainy. Leaves still on the trees. But half on the ground. And cold. It must be cold for a quintessential fall day.
I have one lamp on in the house. I figured I would take my chances tripping. And haven't so far.
The kids: One is completely naked, one is wearing a swim suit cover-up, and one is properly clothed.
Me?: Yes, yes. Still looking like Miss Hannigan
This week, I have decided to take off from the drudgery. Take a break from the brow beating. We've worked for 11 weeks without a break. So, well deserved for all. But mostly me.
I have a 3 year old, naked man figuring out a 60 piece puzzle. He won't stop talking. And I dream about yelling with the all the strength of 1000 earthquakes, "please, please SHUT UP". But I don't. I don't know when the next magical moment is going to come. And what if I squashed it, and then it never came? So I let him talk, and say "mama" 14 times in a row before he forms the rest of the sentence. And 99 out of 100 times it's something like: "mom, do you think this piece goes here?" But that 1 out of 100 times is so worth it. "mom, when you were a little boy, did you have a big scrotum?"
Murnice, hiding in the corner with all 20 Beanie Babies we got from Great Grandmother. So much imagination in the corner.
And this, all this, is why homeschooling is so great. Always together. Naked or not. Imagination growing and working. We can move slow, or we can move fast. I can look like a swamp donkey and snuggle just as effectively.
Today, I choose to ignore the pee-laden bathroom. It will still be there tomorrow. I will drink another cup of tea. I most likely will ignore lunch time and just pull our a bag of chips for the naked man and half clothed girl to fight over. And they'll feel like kings and queens eating chips for lunch. I will strive to make dinner. And if not, we'll have toast. With lucky butter. And if the stars stay aligned, I will attempt to start my fall sewing. Fall is for sewing. And re-vamping. And freshing-up and re-decorating.
Also, I broke a knife on a head of garlic. The middle of the blade snapped. My birthday knife is no more.
Take Aways
1) Attempt to look like a swamp donkey more than not
2) Eat chips only more than not
3) Be naked more than not
4) Stay away from garlic more than not
5) Don't paint your lamp in Easter egg colors, ever
Sunday, October 19, 2014
Sex, Apparently
Sex. I am fully aware that sex is not the highlight of a marriage. But right now, it seems like it is. It's there, the holy grail of full fledged adulthood. I can see it peaking at me from dusty corners and poopy toilet lids. It hides in the grease film that engulfs my head and the toe hairs that feel the need to party. It taunts me playing catch-me-if-you-can. And because it's so close and so unachievable, I think about it ALL. DAY. LONG.
I JUST WANT TO FEEL LIKE A WOMAN. With lady bits. Who is in a relationship with somebody who thinks my lady bits are neat.
And you know, I am in this relationship with this man who knows what a spanking is. And he thinks my lady bits are pretty neat. (At least he used to. It's been so long I'm not even sure he knows what lady bits are anymore.)
We do all the right things. Write messages on pieces of paper that float around in the dustbowl aka our mole hole aka the place we call home. We even use our phones, because a picture is worth a thousand words. And sometimes words are worth as many words as you typed. We smile at each other nicely. We talk (in person) how wonderful it would be to "play that old banjo" and "eat at the clam bake" and "fox trot around the world" and "twist and shout". We talk about it all. With smiles of course.
But here's the problem.
WAILING WILLIAM IS HIS NAME, WAILING WILLIAM IS HIS GAME
For real. I have another baby. And all of that ^^^^^ is true. Without an ounce of writers exaggeration.
And so all the time that I could be spending "filling up the old urn" and "walking the bat cave" I instead spend feeding forever my first love child. (For real, he is my first love child. *sigh* *giggle* that was fun. A time when my body was a wonderland. And sleep was optional. And overrated. And sometimes, downright stupid.) And washing dishes for Big D because he's never home. And sometimes I like to show him that I love him. And homeschooling. And laundry and cleaning the pee pool that collects at the back of my toilet. Laundry. And enzyming the poop stains away. And making up things to eat, because that takes a real artist. Especially when you don't go grocery shopping. You would think that my baby weight might have dwindled. Not an ounce. Not. One. Bloody. Ounce. It's stuck. And boy, do I feel like a woman. Well, surfacely. My thighs not only touch each other. They smoosh and smack and dimple. And when I walk they do their own dance. Actually, everything does its own dance. Quite an interesting sensation . . . .bunny trailllllll .......................And I spend money. Because apparently I stress spend money. And amazon prime is secretly my lover. And poor Big D is stuck smack in the middle of it. Too tired to yell at me. And too in love with me since I washed his dishes.
It's dreadful. I sit and feed WW and then just think. Think about all the neat things I should look up to see if AP has it. Did you know that almonds are amazing? As in superfood amazing. And they make really good milk for WW. Because apparently my super power right now is making milk. But did you know that raw almonds aren't really raw. At least in the US. They have to be pasteurized. And that happens with either a steam process that cooks most of the goodness away. Or, with a chemical toxic waste fumigation bath. And so if you want almonds, simple simple almonds. With all the goodness that they're supposed to come with, you have to dig hard to make sure you're getting plain old almonds. How incredibly stupid is that. I JUST WANT A BLOODY ALMOND! Straight from the tree. Pick the damn almond and hand it over. Apparently, it can't be done. Sorry WW, you have to have half-ass milk.
So that's the trouble I get in, just by pulling out my milk bags. But I do want to tell you some good news. We (Big D and I) found a time to have our genitalia go a courting. It actually happened.
Dinner was sizzling on the stove, at the verge of being done (sausage. No pun intended. For real.) The kids were 5 minutes from the end of their movie they were watching, WW was at the very last seconds of his evening nap, and Friday Friends were to arrive at any moment. Yes, all of this was happening, and it was the most prime(al) time to reacquaint ourselves.
Does it count if you lift the lid of a garbage dumpster, peak inside at all the goodies, snatch one thing, and then leave . . . does that count as dumpster diving?
And I'll leave you to figure out what all of that means. It's not too difficult. But I will say, that's how incredibly awesome it was. (sarcasm dripping like a diarrhea explosion)
I'll end with this: there is always hope. That's my take away. And my two cents. And my best advice. And the coolest thing I could come up with to say. And what I really believe.
Because if I didn't believe that, there would be no reason at all to try again. To be and do my absolute best. And so I make the conscious choice to choose to hope.
I JUST WANT TO FEEL LIKE A WOMAN. With lady bits. Who is in a relationship with somebody who thinks my lady bits are neat.
And you know, I am in this relationship with this man who knows what a spanking is. And he thinks my lady bits are pretty neat. (At least he used to. It's been so long I'm not even sure he knows what lady bits are anymore.)
We do all the right things. Write messages on pieces of paper that float around in the dustbowl aka our mole hole aka the place we call home. We even use our phones, because a picture is worth a thousand words. And sometimes words are worth as many words as you typed. We smile at each other nicely. We talk (in person) how wonderful it would be to "play that old banjo" and "eat at the clam bake" and "fox trot around the world" and "twist and shout". We talk about it all. With smiles of course.
But here's the problem.
WAILING WILLIAM IS HIS NAME, WAILING WILLIAM IS HIS GAME
For real. I have another baby. And all of that ^^^^^ is true. Without an ounce of writers exaggeration.
And so all the time that I could be spending "filling up the old urn" and "walking the bat cave" I instead spend feeding forever my first love child. (For real, he is my first love child. *sigh* *giggle* that was fun. A time when my body was a wonderland. And sleep was optional. And overrated. And sometimes, downright stupid.) And washing dishes for Big D because he's never home. And sometimes I like to show him that I love him. And homeschooling. And laundry and cleaning the pee pool that collects at the back of my toilet. Laundry. And enzyming the poop stains away. And making up things to eat, because that takes a real artist. Especially when you don't go grocery shopping. You would think that my baby weight might have dwindled. Not an ounce. Not. One. Bloody. Ounce. It's stuck. And boy, do I feel like a woman. Well, surfacely. My thighs not only touch each other. They smoosh and smack and dimple. And when I walk they do their own dance. Actually, everything does its own dance. Quite an interesting sensation . . . .bunny trailllllll .......................And I spend money. Because apparently I stress spend money. And amazon prime is secretly my lover. And poor Big D is stuck smack in the middle of it. Too tired to yell at me. And too in love with me since I washed his dishes.
It's dreadful. I sit and feed WW and then just think. Think about all the neat things I should look up to see if AP has it. Did you know that almonds are amazing? As in superfood amazing. And they make really good milk for WW. Because apparently my super power right now is making milk. But did you know that raw almonds aren't really raw. At least in the US. They have to be pasteurized. And that happens with either a steam process that cooks most of the goodness away. Or, with a chemical toxic waste fumigation bath. And so if you want almonds, simple simple almonds. With all the goodness that they're supposed to come with, you have to dig hard to make sure you're getting plain old almonds. How incredibly stupid is that. I JUST WANT A BLOODY ALMOND! Straight from the tree. Pick the damn almond and hand it over. Apparently, it can't be done. Sorry WW, you have to have half-ass milk.
So that's the trouble I get in, just by pulling out my milk bags. But I do want to tell you some good news. We (Big D and I) found a time to have our genitalia go a courting. It actually happened.
Dinner was sizzling on the stove, at the verge of being done (sausage. No pun intended. For real.) The kids were 5 minutes from the end of their movie they were watching, WW was at the very last seconds of his evening nap, and Friday Friends were to arrive at any moment. Yes, all of this was happening, and it was the most prime(al) time to reacquaint ourselves.
Does it count if you lift the lid of a garbage dumpster, peak inside at all the goodies, snatch one thing, and then leave . . . does that count as dumpster diving?
And I'll leave you to figure out what all of that means. It's not too difficult. But I will say, that's how incredibly awesome it was. (sarcasm dripping like a diarrhea explosion)
I'll end with this: there is always hope. That's my take away. And my two cents. And my best advice. And the coolest thing I could come up with to say. And what I really believe.
Because if I didn't believe that, there would be no reason at all to try again. To be and do my absolute best. And so I make the conscious choice to choose to hope.
Thursday, August 21, 2014
Heart-Lead with No Guilt
So . . . . ice bucket gallore . . . .filling up my newsfeed. (AHEM!!!!!) I am a desperate SAHM who needs to be entertained a tad more than to watch everybody (literally) and their brother, father, sister, and mother . . . .AND NOW CHILDREN????!!!!!!! dump semi icy water over their head. In the name of bringing awareness to a disease.
I'm going to guess that this post will cause some mixed emotions. So be it.
1) I am aware of ALS
2) It is a horrible disease and way to die
3) I watched a family friend fade
4) I truly feel awful that humans die this way and that family members and friends can only watch helplessly
5) I am not passionate about this disease
6) I will not be doing the ice bucket challenge
7) And I don't feel guilty for feeling this way
I can feel empathetic, but that doesn't mean that I need to feel guilted into doing some sort of silly stunt just to let the world know that "I'm a good person".
In the privacy of our own home, where the world can't see - besides Big Brother - Big D and I are bombarded with hurts of this world. Sorrows, misfortunes, turmoils, wrongs - all results of sin. So much illness and disease. So much death, in horrible ways. So much struggle just to survive. And in our privacy, we open our hearts to hear what God has to say to OUR FAMILY, personally. Where does he want us to quietly give. Doesn't he tell us to not let the right hand know what the left hand does? (I think - somewhere)(Yup, Matthew 6:3)
....................................................................................................................................................
Honestly, I'm kind of disgusted. All this outrage over ALS. But what about so many other things. Why is nobody vomiting all over my newsfeed in the name of abortion? Or the ISIS crisis? Or sex trafficking? Or child pornography? Or orphans? Or a million other things that are plaguing our society and world. Are those things too big? Or too far away from OUR world? We can't touch them personally, so we jump on the ALS bandwagon because our friend's dad's cousin died 11 years ago.
I'm not trying to make fun of this, I'm just completely wondering why? Why ALS? And why did the world literally ALL decide at once that THAT was a good thing to do?
And who's sending the money? If you read what most people write - dump ice water over your head in 24 hours OR get penalized and send $100 to ALS. Is there some sort of ALS ice bucket police out there? And is the money being sent, guilt money? Who wants guilt money?
The whole thing is bizarre and makes me shake my head. Those who feel passionate about this disease are already doing what they feel is right according to their heart. Donating anyway. Supporting in the ways they can, anyway.
But telling everybody to feel the same way, and do the same thing - because facebook told me too . . . . . . . .
I think the world would be a much better place if we just did what Jesus told us to. And that being - love our neighbor as our self. If we all looked inside our inner-souls, and listened to what spoke to our hearts - and then gave in whatever way we could to THAT - wouldn't it be a much grander thing? The whole world would be touched in someway. Because we all are different. With different thoughts, feelings, emotions, ideas, convictions. Our hearts are all pulled differently.
Why can't we be heart-lead? Instead of facebook lead.
And on a sidenote, I kinda liked this article regarding the whole thing.
I'm going to guess that this post will cause some mixed emotions. So be it.
1) I am aware of ALS
2) It is a horrible disease and way to die
3) I watched a family friend fade
4) I truly feel awful that humans die this way and that family members and friends can only watch helplessly
5) I am not passionate about this disease
6) I will not be doing the ice bucket challenge
7) And I don't feel guilty for feeling this way
I can feel empathetic, but that doesn't mean that I need to feel guilted into doing some sort of silly stunt just to let the world know that "I'm a good person".
In the privacy of our own home, where the world can't see - besides Big Brother - Big D and I are bombarded with hurts of this world. Sorrows, misfortunes, turmoils, wrongs - all results of sin. So much illness and disease. So much death, in horrible ways. So much struggle just to survive. And in our privacy, we open our hearts to hear what God has to say to OUR FAMILY, personally. Where does he want us to quietly give. Doesn't he tell us to not let the right hand know what the left hand does? (I think - somewhere)(Yup, Matthew 6:3)
....................................................................................................................................................
Honestly, I'm kind of disgusted. All this outrage over ALS. But what about so many other things. Why is nobody vomiting all over my newsfeed in the name of abortion? Or the ISIS crisis? Or sex trafficking? Or child pornography? Or orphans? Or a million other things that are plaguing our society and world. Are those things too big? Or too far away from OUR world? We can't touch them personally, so we jump on the ALS bandwagon because our friend's dad's cousin died 11 years ago.
I'm not trying to make fun of this, I'm just completely wondering why? Why ALS? And why did the world literally ALL decide at once that THAT was a good thing to do?
And who's sending the money? If you read what most people write - dump ice water over your head in 24 hours OR get penalized and send $100 to ALS. Is there some sort of ALS ice bucket police out there? And is the money being sent, guilt money? Who wants guilt money?
The whole thing is bizarre and makes me shake my head. Those who feel passionate about this disease are already doing what they feel is right according to their heart. Donating anyway. Supporting in the ways they can, anyway.
But telling everybody to feel the same way, and do the same thing - because facebook told me too . . . . . . . .
I think the world would be a much better place if we just did what Jesus told us to. And that being - love our neighbor as our self. If we all looked inside our inner-souls, and listened to what spoke to our hearts - and then gave in whatever way we could to THAT - wouldn't it be a much grander thing? The whole world would be touched in someway. Because we all are different. With different thoughts, feelings, emotions, ideas, convictions. Our hearts are all pulled differently.
Why can't we be heart-lead? Instead of facebook lead.
And on a sidenote, I kinda liked this article regarding the whole thing.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
4 Pregnancies, 2 Births - 6
I woke up the next morning. Ned was a memory. He was completely gone.
I'm a light sleeper. The bathroom is inches from my bedroom. Nobody flushes the toilet in the middle of night.
I think Jesus scooped Ned up for me. He took him home. And left me to heal. To feel. To believe in goodness and hurt and grace. He left me with a hole in my heart, and said, "for me. What will you do with this, for me?"
You see, God doesn't promise blissfulness. Or loveliness. Perfectness. Great life - if we choose to love him. No, instead he promises to never leave our side. To bring joy in the morning after a night of wretchedness. Strength, when we feel we can't. A second more. And grace. Oh, so much grace.
I hid from the world. And told no one of my empty hole. Business as usual, for what needed to be done. Work, etc.
I have a vivid memory of being out in town with Queen Bee and Murnice. We wanted to go to an upscaley boutique. I needed to use the restroom, as I was still bleeding quite a bit. My mental state was so raw. And the horrific-ness of how I was treated because I needed to use the restroom would have brought poop-flies to a standstill. The lady who brought me to the bathroom had to stand right outside the door. And Murnice asks why there is blood.
That my dear, are the remnants of your brother, who is no longer.
I hid for months. And stalked everybody on facebook in my darkened house. Looking into their scar-free lives. Feeling every moment. Allowing every bit of mourning to surge through. Allowing myself to feel what needed to be felt. I did not give myself a timeline. Or beat myself up for still feeling so sad, months beyond. I just remember opening my heart, and wallowing.
....................................................................
The next couple of things that happened, I do not remember the order. But in my mind, they happened close in time.
Up to this point, we had been trying to conceive for 3 years... . . . .
There was this guy at church, who for some reason was drawn to Big D and myself. He always made a point to say hi - but it never went any farther than that. We always thought it was a little strange, but there's nothing you can do about strange-ness. One Sunday we must have looked exceptionally down, and it came out that we were struggling with infertility and losing babies. And he looked at Murnice and said, "she's not your last one." And then he ran away.
(update: within the last year, we have started to build a relationship with him and his wife. And that whole conversation came up. He was horrified that that came slipping out of his mouth 4 years earlier. I told him the power those words held. So much hope.)
..........................................................
I was driving by myself one Sunday, praying my mamsy-pamsy prayer (I'll get to that later) and Jesus reached down into my car, slapped my little cheeks, and said, "Foxy, what do you want?"
HOT DAMN, I WANT A DADGUM, REAL-LIVING BABY, THAT I PUSHED OUT OF MY OWN ALREADY TRAIN-WRECKED VAGINA. THAT'S WHAT I WANT.
And that was the first time that I had ever uttered those words. The first time that I was real with myself and with God. Real, with not feeling unworthy of having a desire. Real, with screaming from the rooftops what my selfish wants were.
You see, for 3 years we prayed like this: Dear Jesus, we are so grateful for Murnice. Healthy, wonderful Murnice. But we would love to have another baby if it's your will. Because we want your will. And we recognize that you see all and know all, and maybe another baby just isn't in the cards for us. And if that's the case, just give our hearts a peace and take away this desire for more babies. Above all, we want what you want.
Which is fine and great. But we were totally missing the point, that Jesus wants us to be real with him. To share our desires, as silly or earthly or spiritual, he wants us to give him details. Nitty-grits. Just because he loves us that much. He wants to shatter our earth-ridden minds with extravagance. Just as any lover would desire to do. He wants to know us intimately. And intimacy comes with details.
So we changed our prayer. We asked for a baby. Send us a baby. Not, "if it's your will". Or, "if you deem it appropriate". Just plain and simple, give. us. a. baby.
The end.
I'm a light sleeper. The bathroom is inches from my bedroom. Nobody flushes the toilet in the middle of night.
I think Jesus scooped Ned up for me. He took him home. And left me to heal. To feel. To believe in goodness and hurt and grace. He left me with a hole in my heart, and said, "for me. What will you do with this, for me?"
You see, God doesn't promise blissfulness. Or loveliness. Perfectness. Great life - if we choose to love him. No, instead he promises to never leave our side. To bring joy in the morning after a night of wretchedness. Strength, when we feel we can't. A second more. And grace. Oh, so much grace.
I hid from the world. And told no one of my empty hole. Business as usual, for what needed to be done. Work, etc.
I have a vivid memory of being out in town with Queen Bee and Murnice. We wanted to go to an upscaley boutique. I needed to use the restroom, as I was still bleeding quite a bit. My mental state was so raw. And the horrific-ness of how I was treated because I needed to use the restroom would have brought poop-flies to a standstill. The lady who brought me to the bathroom had to stand right outside the door. And Murnice asks why there is blood.
That my dear, are the remnants of your brother, who is no longer.
I hid for months. And stalked everybody on facebook in my darkened house. Looking into their scar-free lives. Feeling every moment. Allowing every bit of mourning to surge through. Allowing myself to feel what needed to be felt. I did not give myself a timeline. Or beat myself up for still feeling so sad, months beyond. I just remember opening my heart, and wallowing.
....................................................................
The next couple of things that happened, I do not remember the order. But in my mind, they happened close in time.
Up to this point, we had been trying to conceive for 3 years... . . . .
There was this guy at church, who for some reason was drawn to Big D and myself. He always made a point to say hi - but it never went any farther than that. We always thought it was a little strange, but there's nothing you can do about strange-ness. One Sunday we must have looked exceptionally down, and it came out that we were struggling with infertility and losing babies. And he looked at Murnice and said, "she's not your last one." And then he ran away.
(update: within the last year, we have started to build a relationship with him and his wife. And that whole conversation came up. He was horrified that that came slipping out of his mouth 4 years earlier. I told him the power those words held. So much hope.)
..........................................................
I was driving by myself one Sunday, praying my mamsy-pamsy prayer (I'll get to that later) and Jesus reached down into my car, slapped my little cheeks, and said, "Foxy, what do you want?"
HOT DAMN, I WANT A DADGUM, REAL-LIVING BABY, THAT I PUSHED OUT OF MY OWN ALREADY TRAIN-WRECKED VAGINA. THAT'S WHAT I WANT.
And that was the first time that I had ever uttered those words. The first time that I was real with myself and with God. Real, with not feeling unworthy of having a desire. Real, with screaming from the rooftops what my selfish wants were.
You see, for 3 years we prayed like this: Dear Jesus, we are so grateful for Murnice. Healthy, wonderful Murnice. But we would love to have another baby if it's your will. Because we want your will. And we recognize that you see all and know all, and maybe another baby just isn't in the cards for us. And if that's the case, just give our hearts a peace and take away this desire for more babies. Above all, we want what you want.
Which is fine and great. But we were totally missing the point, that Jesus wants us to be real with him. To share our desires, as silly or earthly or spiritual, he wants us to give him details. Nitty-grits. Just because he loves us that much. He wants to shatter our earth-ridden minds with extravagance. Just as any lover would desire to do. He wants to know us intimately. And intimacy comes with details.
So we changed our prayer. We asked for a baby. Send us a baby. Not, "if it's your will". Or, "if you deem it appropriate". Just plain and simple, give. us. a. baby.
The end.
Thursday, April 17, 2014
Wonder No More
Oh, it's happened. The thing that parents - probably more so mothers, than fathers - expect, know, is bound to happen. Someway or another. That really awkward happening. Where you don't know how to prepare for it. Or even know how you're going to respond to it. You just hope that all the stars align and make it, the "happening", happen as smoothly as will allow.
This past weekend came straight out of heaven. The weather, that is. 80 F. With full sun. So much hope glittered that day. I was feeling needy, as usual. And Big D thought it incredibly appropriate to do his best at avoiding the fact that I needed a Dr. Pepper right then and there, on the spot.
You might be thinking I sound a little bratty at this point. But I can assure you - I was not bratty. At least in the beginning.
We stopped at the grocer after church. (Yup, went to church) Big D needed to get milk and pickles.(another long, ridiculous story) I asked him to also grab some Dr. Pepper. My tongue was drowning in saliva, just from the thought of chemicals and cancer.
Now, I don't think it's very good natured of a wife to ask . . . *real whiney voice* "did you get milk? did you get pickles? did you get Dr. Pepper?" when he gets back to the car. It's 3 items. I expect that a grown, reasonably minded-man can remember 3 things. And I should really restrain all my nagginess.
So I restrained. And it wasn't even hard for me.
I even let him eat his lunch before I brought up my Dr. Pepper. And by bringing up, it was just a simple "where did you put the Dr. Pepper?"
And the next part, is the part in the story where I roared. And displayed everything so natural and unlovely that every woman possess. I think I stomped once or twice. And made some ugly faces. Maybe some curse words thrown in for good measure. And demanded. DEMANDED, immediate action.
Even with the fine display of displeasure and urgency, Big D still thought it was appropriate to ride his bike to fetch the forgotten beverage.
And what's a girl to do? He already made up his mind. He wanted to ride his bike. He knew I was beyond rabid tiger-like. There's only so much of a fit that can be thrown over something as childish as a drink.
So I chose to trust that Big D would move his very-out-of-shape legs, very fast the few miles and mountain he needed to ride. (I'm working on trust) (that's why I didn't naggy ask at the grocer, the first time, if he had remembered everything)
Let me tell you, I really think only 7 minutes went by before he was back in the house. Puffing, red-faced and slightly miserable looking.
And I looked as pleased as a spoiled brat on Christmas - waiting for my pony to be presented.
............................................................
Um..................Yup, the "pony" was left at the stable. Because somebody forgot to bring their wallet.
And then I shut down. Because you can only get so mad before it becomes too emotionally exhausting.
I felt a little bad for Big D. . . . .butmorebadforme.
The third time, he drove. And remembered. And by the time he got back, I was so relieved. And needy. He was so pumped full of anger, frustration, and testosterone - that we agreed to take care of business. Adult style.
To set the tone: 80 degrees, sunny and bright, middle of the afternoon, windows open, both kids outside - and had been outside for awhile - playing like kings and queens.
At this point, the adult as to make a choice. Go out and tell the children to NOT come inside unless there is blood oozing from some body. Or, believe in fairy tales and all things false and movie-like and just do "it" because the chances of the kids coming inside on this incredible day - are slim to none.
We chose choice B - believe in farty-tales.
And with that choice, we then had to make another choice. Close the bedroom door, and have no warning of when child A or child B or child A and B could come barging in. Or choose to keep the bedroom door open so that we could hear the little warning pitter-patters and apply appropriate coverage.
Once again, we chose choice B. Keep door open.
I also will preface the next part with the key point, that the consummation of our marriage, plan - was indeed going to happen fast. In other words, a "quickie". Two minutes - tops.
1:27 seconds - we hear the toilet lid slam down and the faucet turned on.
For those of you that have been to our mole-hole, you know very well that the bathroom door is directly across from our bedroom door.
List of thoughts and actions that happened in the next .005683 seconds:
1) How did any child walk by our door without me seeing them
2) It must be Murnice, because she can be stealth like
3) But that slamming of the lid was definitely boyish
4) Panic from Big D
5) Hysterical giggling from me
6) Very nervous "what do we do?!" from Big D
7) "They've already seen everything, so just hold still" from me
8) Audible yell from me, "nice job kids"
And then I found out it was just Ed. I really really think an angel carried him into the house, plopped him on the toilet, and caught his pee in his own angel hands - because there is just no other explanation as to how a bumbling, chatty-Kath, trippy-slap-feeted, pigpie - almost 3 year old boy could have walked through my house (hard wood floors) past my bedroom door, and peed without a scent of a sound.
When I yelled, "nice job kids", Ed interpreted that as "come into the bedroom and take a good peaksy. And while you're at it, lets talk for awhile."
"Hey dad, why are you snuggling with mom? Can you get Murny the gum down. She wants the gum. Mom, I see your ninnies. Haha, dad - you have a big butt. Can you get the gum. It's in the garage. It's too high." etc - for another 2 minutes. Just round and round. "Gum" - meaning Big D's cross bow. . . . . (I feel like I should be a disclaimer here that says, we have never allowed our children to play or use the cross bow. Or any cross bow.)
So I finally said, "Ed, daddy wants to spend time with mama's boobies" (earlier that week, he and Murnice got into a verbal altercation over what Dad liked better - boobies or nipples. I don't think that's ever a phone call, over lunch, you expect to get from your kids. . . . . . Dad picked boobs - for the sake of the children. Don't judge what happens over here in this family. I have bizarre children)
And then he snickered a few more times about things that strike a 2-year-old as humorous, and finally left.
Approximately 21 seconds later, I HEARD (this time) both blessings come into the house, and tramp down the hallway.
I start whisper screaming "THEY'RE COMING!!!!!!" And I'm not sure if Big D was taking the scripture of "doing everything as unto the Lord" aka giving it your all and applying it at that moment. Or . . . . if he just didn't care. Or . . . .if there was no level of comprehension of "they're coming" ...................................
. . . . . Yup . . . . . . .and then we had 2 kids in the bedroom with us. Giggling at the-picture-is-worth-a-thousand-words, display.
Things I am grateful for:
1) The modest position we chose to consumate
2) That we don't ever have to waste another speck of a wonder, dreading the "great reveal"
3) That the children do not seem to be struggling from any forms of PTSD, OR have asked any questions
4) That Big D and I were able to not "be weird" causing confusion and tears
And now I'm going to run away, and not make eye contact with anybody for awhile.
This past weekend came straight out of heaven. The weather, that is. 80 F. With full sun. So much hope glittered that day. I was feeling needy, as usual. And Big D thought it incredibly appropriate to do his best at avoiding the fact that I needed a Dr. Pepper right then and there, on the spot.
You might be thinking I sound a little bratty at this point. But I can assure you - I was not bratty. At least in the beginning.
We stopped at the grocer after church. (Yup, went to church) Big D needed to get milk and pickles.(another long, ridiculous story) I asked him to also grab some Dr. Pepper. My tongue was drowning in saliva, just from the thought of chemicals and cancer.
Now, I don't think it's very good natured of a wife to ask . . . *real whiney voice* "did you get milk? did you get pickles? did you get Dr. Pepper?" when he gets back to the car. It's 3 items. I expect that a grown, reasonably minded-man can remember 3 things. And I should really restrain all my nagginess.
So I restrained. And it wasn't even hard for me.
I even let him eat his lunch before I brought up my Dr. Pepper. And by bringing up, it was just a simple "where did you put the Dr. Pepper?"
And the next part, is the part in the story where I roared. And displayed everything so natural and unlovely that every woman possess. I think I stomped once or twice. And made some ugly faces. Maybe some curse words thrown in for good measure. And demanded. DEMANDED, immediate action.
Even with the fine display of displeasure and urgency, Big D still thought it was appropriate to ride his bike to fetch the forgotten beverage.
And what's a girl to do? He already made up his mind. He wanted to ride his bike. He knew I was beyond rabid tiger-like. There's only so much of a fit that can be thrown over something as childish as a drink.
So I chose to trust that Big D would move his very-out-of-shape legs, very fast the few miles and mountain he needed to ride. (I'm working on trust) (that's why I didn't naggy ask at the grocer, the first time, if he had remembered everything)
Let me tell you, I really think only 7 minutes went by before he was back in the house. Puffing, red-faced and slightly miserable looking.
And I looked as pleased as a spoiled brat on Christmas - waiting for my pony to be presented.
............................................................
Um..................Yup, the "pony" was left at the stable. Because somebody forgot to bring their wallet.
And then I shut down. Because you can only get so mad before it becomes too emotionally exhausting.
I felt a little bad for Big D. . . . .butmorebadforme.
The third time, he drove. And remembered. And by the time he got back, I was so relieved. And needy. He was so pumped full of anger, frustration, and testosterone - that we agreed to take care of business. Adult style.
To set the tone: 80 degrees, sunny and bright, middle of the afternoon, windows open, both kids outside - and had been outside for awhile - playing like kings and queens.
At this point, the adult as to make a choice. Go out and tell the children to NOT come inside unless there is blood oozing from some body. Or, believe in fairy tales and all things false and movie-like and just do "it" because the chances of the kids coming inside on this incredible day - are slim to none.
We chose choice B - believe in farty-tales.
And with that choice, we then had to make another choice. Close the bedroom door, and have no warning of when child A or child B or child A and B could come barging in. Or choose to keep the bedroom door open so that we could hear the little warning pitter-patters and apply appropriate coverage.
Once again, we chose choice B. Keep door open.
I also will preface the next part with the key point, that the consummation of our marriage, plan - was indeed going to happen fast. In other words, a "quickie". Two minutes - tops.
1:27 seconds - we hear the toilet lid slam down and the faucet turned on.
For those of you that have been to our mole-hole, you know very well that the bathroom door is directly across from our bedroom door.
List of thoughts and actions that happened in the next .005683 seconds:
1) How did any child walk by our door without me seeing them
2) It must be Murnice, because she can be stealth like
3) But that slamming of the lid was definitely boyish
4) Panic from Big D
5) Hysterical giggling from me
6) Very nervous "what do we do?!" from Big D
7) "They've already seen everything, so just hold still" from me
8) Audible yell from me, "nice job kids"
And then I found out it was just Ed. I really really think an angel carried him into the house, plopped him on the toilet, and caught his pee in his own angel hands - because there is just no other explanation as to how a bumbling, chatty-Kath, trippy-slap-feeted, pigpie - almost 3 year old boy could have walked through my house (hard wood floors) past my bedroom door, and peed without a scent of a sound.
When I yelled, "nice job kids", Ed interpreted that as "come into the bedroom and take a good peaksy. And while you're at it, lets talk for awhile."
"Hey dad, why are you snuggling with mom? Can you get Murny the gum down. She wants the gum. Mom, I see your ninnies. Haha, dad - you have a big butt. Can you get the gum. It's in the garage. It's too high." etc - for another 2 minutes. Just round and round. "Gum" - meaning Big D's cross bow. . . . . (I feel like I should be a disclaimer here that says, we have never allowed our children to play or use the cross bow. Or any cross bow.)
So I finally said, "Ed, daddy wants to spend time with mama's boobies" (earlier that week, he and Murnice got into a verbal altercation over what Dad liked better - boobies or nipples. I don't think that's ever a phone call, over lunch, you expect to get from your kids. . . . . . Dad picked boobs - for the sake of the children. Don't judge what happens over here in this family. I have bizarre children)
And then he snickered a few more times about things that strike a 2-year-old as humorous, and finally left.
Approximately 21 seconds later, I HEARD (this time) both blessings come into the house, and tramp down the hallway.
I start whisper screaming "THEY'RE COMING!!!!!!" And I'm not sure if Big D was taking the scripture of "doing everything as unto the Lord" aka giving it your all and applying it at that moment. Or . . . . if he just didn't care. Or . . . .if there was no level of comprehension of "they're coming" ...................................
. . . . . Yup . . . . . . .and then we had 2 kids in the bedroom with us. Giggling at the-picture-is-worth-a-thousand-words, display.
Things I am grateful for:
1) The modest position we chose to consumate
2) That we don't ever have to waste another speck of a wonder, dreading the "great reveal"
3) That the children do not seem to be struggling from any forms of PTSD, OR have asked any questions
4) That Big D and I were able to not "be weird" causing confusion and tears
And now I'm going to run away, and not make eye contact with anybody for awhile.
Monday, April 7, 2014
I Am Not 23
It's never a good feeling to hear that your spouse finds somebody that they see on a regular basis, attractive. But not just attractive, hot. And not just hot, but they also have a tight ass.
Now I know that I'm going out on a limb airing a very difficult conversation. But I have never been one to hide things. Or to pretend our lives were anything but real. And messy.
I normally don't struggle with self confidence. I'm pretty good with "what you see is what you get. And I'm really ok with that." I'm working on my ever changing new body as babies come and babies go. Every time there seems to be a new body that is left behind. A little extra skin. A little more flop. It's hard. It's something that every mother has to work through. And it's something that no baby partner/spouse will ever be able to understand. The emotional struggle of being ok, agin and again, with what can't be changed.
Every woman wants to feel good. To feel queen like. And different things make different lady-loos shine.
Me personally, I feel the most queenlike when I have an astronomical amount of beads around my ankles, wrists, and neck. And to top it truly off - every finger would have a ring. Or maybe two. My hair would be in some sort of quasi-greasy mess. And my clothes, - yes, they would appear raggish to some. Flowy. Lovely.
If you see me in this sort of fanciful attire, I'm having a great day. I feel great. You could say, I wear my feelings. Literally.
Big D on the otherhand . . . .*ahem* finds things such as *gag* sneakers *puke* *choke* attractive. Yoga pants. Things that leave nothing to the imagination. Tight. Bordering on slutty. (But he wouldn't say that) Everything that I'm not. Sexy business clothes? He says yes. Workout attire? He says yes. Modern look? He says yes.
And I'm over here, on the couch with my 30 year old threadbare skirt on, feeling magical. Most of the time.
I kinda compromise by keeping my undergarments a tad more flare-y.
I believe in staying true to yourself. Not changing who you are for somebody else to accept you. But, that doesn't mean that every once in a while I'll pull out a pair of pants that show off how flat and unattractive my bottom has grown with the years of marriage and number of children that I've acquired and have lived through.
And that's me, most of all the time.
But I am human. And I am woman. Which means that I do become a crumbly mess topped off with a large shot of hormonal whipped cream. Sometimes.
Sometimes, on those weepy waily days. Where you just want the world to tell you that you are enough. That you are desirable. That your ass is tighter. And the cheese-dimples are just lust sprinkles. And sorority Honey Buns, that's only made it to year 23, has got nothing on all that you have created. All that you have made your life. And everything that your dimples have brought with sacrifice.
My human self is crushed with not being "good enough". Crushed with not being worthy of "tight ass" status. (so silly, I know) . . . . . . . . . . . .
But there's another part of the story. The part of the story were I've fought with Big D for almost 10 years on being more transparent. More truthful, in the way of not leaving out by omission. By sharing the hard stuff, that could dig a deep nasty hole. And make for tears. Hurt feelings. Feelings of self-loathing. That could crumble my self-confidence.
And he is finally hearing my heart. And he is stepping out onto a scary limb. That no man wants to be a part of. The messy part. The part where a man thinks that it's better to just keep things to himself. Quiet. To not wake the dragon. Because they don't have the energy to go to that dark place with their wife.
He's choosing hard over easy. He's choosing transparency over blind. He's choosing honor over pride. I am so loved.
As utterly crumpled in spirit as I am, I wouldn't have it any other way. Maybe I'm not as confident as I think myself to be. Or maybe I'm just having a weak moment. Or maybe I need to find fresh-faced Honey Bun's a couple of 30 year old, threadbare skirts to wear to class.
Now I know that I'm going out on a limb airing a very difficult conversation. But I have never been one to hide things. Or to pretend our lives were anything but real. And messy.
I normally don't struggle with self confidence. I'm pretty good with "what you see is what you get. And I'm really ok with that." I'm working on my ever changing new body as babies come and babies go. Every time there seems to be a new body that is left behind. A little extra skin. A little more flop. It's hard. It's something that every mother has to work through. And it's something that no baby partner/spouse will ever be able to understand. The emotional struggle of being ok, agin and again, with what can't be changed.
Every woman wants to feel good. To feel queen like. And different things make different lady-loos shine.
Me personally, I feel the most queenlike when I have an astronomical amount of beads around my ankles, wrists, and neck. And to top it truly off - every finger would have a ring. Or maybe two. My hair would be in some sort of quasi-greasy mess. And my clothes, - yes, they would appear raggish to some. Flowy. Lovely.
If you see me in this sort of fanciful attire, I'm having a great day. I feel great. You could say, I wear my feelings. Literally.
Big D on the otherhand . . . .*ahem* finds things such as *gag* sneakers *puke* *choke* attractive. Yoga pants. Things that leave nothing to the imagination. Tight. Bordering on slutty. (But he wouldn't say that) Everything that I'm not. Sexy business clothes? He says yes. Workout attire? He says yes. Modern look? He says yes.
And I'm over here, on the couch with my 30 year old threadbare skirt on, feeling magical. Most of the time.
I kinda compromise by keeping my undergarments a tad more flare-y.
I believe in staying true to yourself. Not changing who you are for somebody else to accept you. But, that doesn't mean that every once in a while I'll pull out a pair of pants that show off how flat and unattractive my bottom has grown with the years of marriage and number of children that I've acquired and have lived through.
And that's me, most of all the time.
But I am human. And I am woman. Which means that I do become a crumbly mess topped off with a large shot of hormonal whipped cream. Sometimes.
Sometimes, on those weepy waily days. Where you just want the world to tell you that you are enough. That you are desirable. That your ass is tighter. And the cheese-dimples are just lust sprinkles. And sorority Honey Buns, that's only made it to year 23, has got nothing on all that you have created. All that you have made your life. And everything that your dimples have brought with sacrifice.
My human self is crushed with not being "good enough". Crushed with not being worthy of "tight ass" status. (so silly, I know) . . . . . . . . . . . .
But there's another part of the story. The part of the story were I've fought with Big D for almost 10 years on being more transparent. More truthful, in the way of not leaving out by omission. By sharing the hard stuff, that could dig a deep nasty hole. And make for tears. Hurt feelings. Feelings of self-loathing. That could crumble my self-confidence.
And he is finally hearing my heart. And he is stepping out onto a scary limb. That no man wants to be a part of. The messy part. The part where a man thinks that it's better to just keep things to himself. Quiet. To not wake the dragon. Because they don't have the energy to go to that dark place with their wife.
He's choosing hard over easy. He's choosing transparency over blind. He's choosing honor over pride. I am so loved.
As utterly crumpled in spirit as I am, I wouldn't have it any other way. Maybe I'm not as confident as I think myself to be. Or maybe I'm just having a weak moment. Or maybe I need to find fresh-faced Honey Bun's a couple of 30 year old, threadbare skirts to wear to class.
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
Ezer Kenegdo - I Do Not Serve
I could start this blog out a million different ways.
I don't serve.
I am a feminist.
Ok, two ways. . . . .
So recently this topic of serving has come up in conversation. Serving your husband, that is. And what rampage I'm about to unleash on is purely and only my undignified opinion. I am not trying to ruffle feathers, or change your mind. I'm just executing my right to have diarrhea of the mouth. I would also like to say, that this is today's opinion. As a woman, I tend to change my mind a lot. On a regular basis. But today, this is how I feel regarding this whole topic. Serving.
I think it's a bunch of boulder crap.
And I will do my best to explain why I believe that.
When God created woman, he said to Adam that she, his wife, Eve, was his ezer kenegdo. This phrase is apparently quite difficult to translate. (So the translater says) In our simple English language. Man-driven, man-applauding society, we use the words: helper. Or help meet.
I am utterly repulsed by this verbiage. I was not created, the crown of glory, to be a helper. A helper is somebody like a mother. A helper can be a slave. A helper can be secretary. Or anybody who can make somebody else's life easier. I was not created to make some man's life easier. Oh, no. (my pulse rate is quickening quite rapidly)
I was not made to be down-trodden, dinner maker, drink getter, bender-over to make peeners happy. I am not a sex object or baby maker.
I will not be talked down to. Or put into "my place" by some man. I will not cower in fear because I said the "wrong" thing. Or feel bad when sex didn't go the way that "he" expected. I will not feel guilty if I say, "no".
I am a war partner. War partners are equals. They fight together. Equally. Hard. They're rough. And do things that don't make sense to others standing around them. They're risk takers. And brave. And don't allow guilt to fill their souls. They speak the truth. For there isn't time for mind games, for resentment, for bush hiding.
........... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ...........................................
I'll share what the translater discovered.
Ezer is used in only 20 other places in the Old Testament. And everytime it's used, God is being described. (Besides that one time it was used for Eve) And it was used when God was needed to come through, desperately. Most of the contexts are life and death, and God is our only hope. Another way to translate ezer, would be "lifesaver."
Kenegdo means alongside or counterpart.
It goes on to say, why would you need a "lifesaver" if your mission is to be a couch potato? You need an ezer when your life is in constant danger.
We as women desperately want to share life together as a great adventure. Is there truly an woman who deeply desires a life of rubbing cheese-covered toes and being mommy to lazy-ass husband? Is that the real desire?
Wanting to share in this life adventure comes straight from the heart of God, who also wants this. God doesn't want to be an option in our lives. An appendage, a tag-along. And neither does any woman.
(Taken from Captivating by John and Stasi Eldredge)
We were created for bigger and better than what we allow ourselves to believe. We are ridden and riddled with guilt. Which doesn't come from God.
When did we start thinking it was normal and our duty to play mommy to our husbands? When did this start being ok? And when did we start feeling guilty for NOT playing mommy?
God says that I am to respect my husband. (Full-fledgedly agree) (although I suck green slimy balls at it)
My heart of hearts wants to respect my husband. I don't want to cut him down with words. Or ignore his trying attention. When he has a conviction, I want to honor him in his conviction. Because it's not about me, at this point. It's between God and him. And he is held accountable to what God has for him.
God says that we are to serve others. (I full-fledgedly agree)(although I struggle 39.4970 lbs with this) There are so many different ways to serve. Time, listening heart, money, action, words. Of course this all comes down to giving. Yes, yes! Serving is good. We need to meet others where they need to be met. In the messy dirt. With humility. We are called to this.
BUT, I draw a line in the sand when it comes to my husband. And this is where the confusion comes in. Women interpret serving their husbands as being there for their every beck and call. And heap coals of guilt upon themselves when they don't perform to a certain level of slave-hood.
Servanthood is something that you do when their is a legitmate need. Getting my large and ever increasing, cheese covered bottom off of the couch to fetch my husband (who is sitting in the next room at the computer on his even larger bottom) a nice cold, refreshing drink - because he asked for it - is not servanthood. THAT is slavehood.
Another part of this whole conversation . . . I (obviously) stay at home. Which doesn't mean that I'm lazy. Or that I struggle finding things that need to be done. Mothers, wives - you know that our work is never done when it comes to tending to the house and children. But that's exactly what it is. Our work. I choose to stay home. Therefore I choose to take care of the tasks that need to be accomplished for a smooth sailing ship. I enjoy laundry. If I didn't - I wouldn't do it. I enjoy making dinner 3-4 nights out of the week. If I didn't, I wouldn't cook. I enjoy homeschooling. I enjoy cleaning my bathroom once a week. And vacuuming once everyother month. I choose to not live in a land filled with resentment. It does not work for me. Or my marriage. I do not sweep under the rug. Instead, I tend to pull that rug up and give it a good shaking a few times a day.
I don't like doing dishes. And I don't do them. I don't like putting the children to bed. And I don't do it. I don't like going to church right now. And I don't go.
But, if Big D asked if I could put the kids to bed for him, so he could study longer, I would. For him. Probably not with joy in my heart. (I never said I was perfect) But for him, him whom I want to respect. He, who has needs to. He who never abuses my ezer kenego - because he respects my position next to him in this war. He knows I am his lifesaver. Not quite the lifesaver he had in his fantasy mind, but he respects the choice God had for him. Specifically.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
I am looking so forward to all of your comments regarding this hot topic. Because it is a hot topic, filled with confusion. Share away, my lovelies!
*Disclaimer* please forgive every and all misspellings. I'm working on the tabby cat - and I don't know how to set up spell check.
I don't serve.
I am a feminist.
Ok, two ways. . . . .
So recently this topic of serving has come up in conversation. Serving your husband, that is. And what rampage I'm about to unleash on is purely and only my undignified opinion. I am not trying to ruffle feathers, or change your mind. I'm just executing my right to have diarrhea of the mouth. I would also like to say, that this is today's opinion. As a woman, I tend to change my mind a lot. On a regular basis. But today, this is how I feel regarding this whole topic. Serving.
I think it's a bunch of boulder crap.
And I will do my best to explain why I believe that.
When God created woman, he said to Adam that she, his wife, Eve, was his ezer kenegdo. This phrase is apparently quite difficult to translate. (So the translater says) In our simple English language. Man-driven, man-applauding society, we use the words: helper. Or help meet.
I am utterly repulsed by this verbiage. I was not created, the crown of glory, to be a helper. A helper is somebody like a mother. A helper can be a slave. A helper can be secretary. Or anybody who can make somebody else's life easier. I was not created to make some man's life easier. Oh, no. (my pulse rate is quickening quite rapidly)
I was not made to be down-trodden, dinner maker, drink getter, bender-over to make peeners happy. I am not a sex object or baby maker.
I will not be talked down to. Or put into "my place" by some man. I will not cower in fear because I said the "wrong" thing. Or feel bad when sex didn't go the way that "he" expected. I will not feel guilty if I say, "no".
I am a war partner. War partners are equals. They fight together. Equally. Hard. They're rough. And do things that don't make sense to others standing around them. They're risk takers. And brave. And don't allow guilt to fill their souls. They speak the truth. For there isn't time for mind games, for resentment, for bush hiding.
........... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ...........................................
I'll share what the translater discovered.
Ezer is used in only 20 other places in the Old Testament. And everytime it's used, God is being described. (Besides that one time it was used for Eve) And it was used when God was needed to come through, desperately. Most of the contexts are life and death, and God is our only hope. Another way to translate ezer, would be "lifesaver."
Kenegdo means alongside or counterpart.
It goes on to say, why would you need a "lifesaver" if your mission is to be a couch potato? You need an ezer when your life is in constant danger.
We as women desperately want to share life together as a great adventure. Is there truly an woman who deeply desires a life of rubbing cheese-covered toes and being mommy to lazy-ass husband? Is that the real desire?
Wanting to share in this life adventure comes straight from the heart of God, who also wants this. God doesn't want to be an option in our lives. An appendage, a tag-along. And neither does any woman.
(Taken from Captivating by John and Stasi Eldredge)
We were created for bigger and better than what we allow ourselves to believe. We are ridden and riddled with guilt. Which doesn't come from God.
When did we start thinking it was normal and our duty to play mommy to our husbands? When did this start being ok? And when did we start feeling guilty for NOT playing mommy?
God says that I am to respect my husband. (Full-fledgedly agree) (although I suck green slimy balls at it)
My heart of hearts wants to respect my husband. I don't want to cut him down with words. Or ignore his trying attention. When he has a conviction, I want to honor him in his conviction. Because it's not about me, at this point. It's between God and him. And he is held accountable to what God has for him.
God says that we are to serve others. (I full-fledgedly agree)(although I struggle 39.4970 lbs with this) There are so many different ways to serve. Time, listening heart, money, action, words. Of course this all comes down to giving. Yes, yes! Serving is good. We need to meet others where they need to be met. In the messy dirt. With humility. We are called to this.
BUT, I draw a line in the sand when it comes to my husband. And this is where the confusion comes in. Women interpret serving their husbands as being there for their every beck and call. And heap coals of guilt upon themselves when they don't perform to a certain level of slave-hood.
Servanthood is something that you do when their is a legitmate need. Getting my large and ever increasing, cheese covered bottom off of the couch to fetch my husband (who is sitting in the next room at the computer on his even larger bottom) a nice cold, refreshing drink - because he asked for it - is not servanthood. THAT is slavehood.
Another part of this whole conversation . . . I (obviously) stay at home. Which doesn't mean that I'm lazy. Or that I struggle finding things that need to be done. Mothers, wives - you know that our work is never done when it comes to tending to the house and children. But that's exactly what it is. Our work. I choose to stay home. Therefore I choose to take care of the tasks that need to be accomplished for a smooth sailing ship. I enjoy laundry. If I didn't - I wouldn't do it. I enjoy making dinner 3-4 nights out of the week. If I didn't, I wouldn't cook. I enjoy homeschooling. I enjoy cleaning my bathroom once a week. And vacuuming once everyother month. I choose to not live in a land filled with resentment. It does not work for me. Or my marriage. I do not sweep under the rug. Instead, I tend to pull that rug up and give it a good shaking a few times a day.
I don't like doing dishes. And I don't do them. I don't like putting the children to bed. And I don't do it. I don't like going to church right now. And I don't go.
But, if Big D asked if I could put the kids to bed for him, so he could study longer, I would. For him. Probably not with joy in my heart. (I never said I was perfect) But for him, him whom I want to respect. He, who has needs to. He who never abuses my ezer kenego - because he respects my position next to him in this war. He knows I am his lifesaver. Not quite the lifesaver he had in his fantasy mind, but he respects the choice God had for him. Specifically.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
I am looking so forward to all of your comments regarding this hot topic. Because it is a hot topic, filled with confusion. Share away, my lovelies!
*Disclaimer* please forgive every and all misspellings. I'm working on the tabby cat - and I don't know how to set up spell check.
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
It's a Glorious Day for Sweatpants
Today is a sweatpant day. (Everyday I try to think of a reason to make it a sweatpant day - but today, it legitmately is a sweatpant day)
It's also a no shower day, no brush your teeth day, no clean your ears day, or wash your face day. At all cost, there is to be zero gussying up.
I made my decision based on this:
Mother went to Florida. And I really thought she was getting back today (Tuesday). Which affects me, because I am the picker-upper.
But wouldn't you know, I'm making dinner last night (Monday) - and I get a text (that resembles the Egyptian hieroglyphics) from Mother. Stating something along the lines that she's in Atlanta until 8:30 "boo-hoo".
And the only reason she contacted me, was to say that she had to tag her baggage, so to pick her up 1/2 later than her flight actually got in.
So . . . . Mother. If you didn't have to tag your bags, you were just assuming that I, your ride from the airport, knew your flight schedule - telepathically?
Yes, yes. That's how Mother works. She would call around 11 pm and say that she was "here and waiting, and on the lower level and where were we?"
Oh, Mother. Thank the Lord you had to tag your bags.
So what that all really meant for me - was to relay the message to Big D (who really is the airport chauffeur) And then I (lucky me!!!) had a whole extra hour to watch more RobinHood. (My latest tongue-slurping show on Netflix)
I guess to explain that more - I don't like to stay up by myself. So if Big D goes to bed, I have to scurry to make it to the bathroom first. And then of course bed first.
Big D has the. worst. bathroom manners. And it is a mood changer for sure, if I get stuck in the bathroom with him.
First, he pees for 17 minutes. Standing up. Which just makes me cringe to think about all the pee splatters splattering all over my teeth-brushing sesh.
But thee worst thing he does - is hog the entire sink when brushing his teeth.
We have a small bathroom. So when he's bent over the sink with a toothbrush down his throat (which is the entire time, full 2 minutes of teeth brushing) his large bottom sticks out so far - that anyone (large or small, male or female) is banned from entering or exiting. The entire doorway is blocked. With a large bottom.
Now that gets me real excited. Especially when I'm trying to race him to bed. Because I don't want to be the last person in bed. Because I hate closing up "shop". And sometimes I like to annoy him with mindless banter. And if he makes it to bed 0.0056878 seconds before I do - he falls asleep.
So every night it's a race. Stay up as long as I can, but get to the bathroom/bed first.
All of that to say, because Big D had to get Mother at the airport late, I had extra time to watch tv. And. I. Did.
. . . . . . . .
Finally rolling into bed around 11:30, half-way between pleasant thoughts and dreaming, I felt a very soft nudge of the bed.
So soft, that I was certain there was an intruder in our bedroom - who accidentally bumped the bed. And he was now going to have to kill me for seeing him.
I slowly rolled over, to face my fate.
It was just Murnice. Sometimes she can be more than stealth like. It's a curse for us parents.
She wanted to tell me her tummy hurt. We had a nice conversation. She didn't feel she needed the puke bowl.
But then she burped. And her eyes got real big.
The next part happened in slow motion.
She turned. I heard the splatter. I saw the silhouette of her slipping. Arms out. Hair whooshing.
And I yelled, "stay there!!!"
And she did. And puked and puked.
I started to giggle. Because there was nothing left to do.
It was midnight. The boy was in his nest - which meant he would wake up. There was a sheep-skin rug and pile of clothes on the floor. There was copious amounts of puke. And I heard the splatters. A girl is crying in the middle of our room. And Big D, 1/2 before, was complaining about how late it was then. Sleep will be limited tonight. And smelly. Praise the Lord.
In one foul swoop, Big D managed to sweep Murnice off her feet, throw her in the tub, and turn on the light. Where I observed the damage.
We had steak for dinner.
It looked like somebody had shot a cow in our bedroom.
Meat particles were everywhere. But not on my sheep-skin rug. God loves me.
And the night played out exactly the way a mother knows how it's going to play out. Big D disappeared for 30 minutes. Ed woke up. And cried. I Norwexed cow bits. We got to bed even later. With interrupted sleep of more puking. And wafts of stomach acid.
. . . . . . .
So I'm wearing sweatpants today. And I like it. And Big D is going to like it too. He may even pinch my buns. And appreciate the extra jiggle that sweatpants allow.
It's also a no shower day, no brush your teeth day, no clean your ears day, or wash your face day. At all cost, there is to be zero gussying up.
I made my decision based on this:
Mother went to Florida. And I really thought she was getting back today (Tuesday). Which affects me, because I am the picker-upper.
But wouldn't you know, I'm making dinner last night (Monday) - and I get a text (that resembles the Egyptian hieroglyphics) from Mother. Stating something along the lines that she's in Atlanta until 8:30 "boo-hoo".
And the only reason she contacted me, was to say that she had to tag her baggage, so to pick her up 1/2 later than her flight actually got in.
So . . . . Mother. If you didn't have to tag your bags, you were just assuming that I, your ride from the airport, knew your flight schedule - telepathically?
Yes, yes. That's how Mother works. She would call around 11 pm and say that she was "here and waiting, and on the lower level and where were we?"
Oh, Mother. Thank the Lord you had to tag your bags.
So what that all really meant for me - was to relay the message to Big D (who really is the airport chauffeur) And then I (lucky me!!!) had a whole extra hour to watch more RobinHood. (My latest tongue-slurping show on Netflix)
I guess to explain that more - I don't like to stay up by myself. So if Big D goes to bed, I have to scurry to make it to the bathroom first. And then of course bed first.
Big D has the. worst. bathroom manners. And it is a mood changer for sure, if I get stuck in the bathroom with him.
First, he pees for 17 minutes. Standing up. Which just makes me cringe to think about all the pee splatters splattering all over my teeth-brushing sesh.
But thee worst thing he does - is hog the entire sink when brushing his teeth.
We have a small bathroom. So when he's bent over the sink with a toothbrush down his throat (which is the entire time, full 2 minutes of teeth brushing) his large bottom sticks out so far - that anyone (large or small, male or female) is banned from entering or exiting. The entire doorway is blocked. With a large bottom.
Now that gets me real excited. Especially when I'm trying to race him to bed. Because I don't want to be the last person in bed. Because I hate closing up "shop". And sometimes I like to annoy him with mindless banter. And if he makes it to bed 0.0056878 seconds before I do - he falls asleep.
So every night it's a race. Stay up as long as I can, but get to the bathroom/bed first.
All of that to say, because Big D had to get Mother at the airport late, I had extra time to watch tv. And. I. Did.
. . . . . . . .
Finally rolling into bed around 11:30, half-way between pleasant thoughts and dreaming, I felt a very soft nudge of the bed.
So soft, that I was certain there was an intruder in our bedroom - who accidentally bumped the bed. And he was now going to have to kill me for seeing him.
I slowly rolled over, to face my fate.
It was just Murnice. Sometimes she can be more than stealth like. It's a curse for us parents.
She wanted to tell me her tummy hurt. We had a nice conversation. She didn't feel she needed the puke bowl.
But then she burped. And her eyes got real big.
The next part happened in slow motion.
She turned. I heard the splatter. I saw the silhouette of her slipping. Arms out. Hair whooshing.
And I yelled, "stay there!!!"
And she did. And puked and puked.
I started to giggle. Because there was nothing left to do.
It was midnight. The boy was in his nest - which meant he would wake up. There was a sheep-skin rug and pile of clothes on the floor. There was copious amounts of puke. And I heard the splatters. A girl is crying in the middle of our room. And Big D, 1/2 before, was complaining about how late it was then. Sleep will be limited tonight. And smelly. Praise the Lord.
In one foul swoop, Big D managed to sweep Murnice off her feet, throw her in the tub, and turn on the light. Where I observed the damage.
We had steak for dinner.
It looked like somebody had shot a cow in our bedroom.
Meat particles were everywhere. But not on my sheep-skin rug. God loves me.
And the night played out exactly the way a mother knows how it's going to play out. Big D disappeared for 30 minutes. Ed woke up. And cried. I Norwexed cow bits. We got to bed even later. With interrupted sleep of more puking. And wafts of stomach acid.
. . . . . . .
So I'm wearing sweatpants today. And I like it. And Big D is going to like it too. He may even pinch my buns. And appreciate the extra jiggle that sweatpants allow.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
You Can't Win Them All
It has been on my heart more and more - eating healthy.
I don't mean, drinking my milk and eating my greens. Because I don't do either of those things.
What I mean is, looking more into the quality of the food I'm eating. Going back to basics. Real material. Grandparent traditions. You know, junk like that.
Just because it's been on my heart, doesn't mean that I'm doing it all-together-now, style. I'm doing a lot of reading and researching. What will work best with my personality and our lifestyle. . . . .
I'd like to thank Mother Green Toes and The Prairie Homestead for kicking starting me. There are so many exciting things out there that I had no idea existed. Like eating dirt. And other things, that I did know about - but have never read an article that gave me the down-and-dirty (no pun intended), solid facts about - say, . . . . the health benefits of squatting while turding.
Moving on . . . .
With that being said, in the middle of all this exciting reading that I've been doing, Big D and I have really been get. ting. it. on. So much so, that there has been an alteration in my Ph level, leading to a collection of more yeast than normal. *ahem*
Ladies, let me encourage you to stop rummaging through your chemical drawers, and start looking on your kitchen counters. All's you need is a little of God's green earth crammed up into some-man's-land for relief and healing.
Healer of choice: fresh garlic cloves. Peeled of course. It smells incredibly divine. And makes me dream of fresh bread.
Midwife also suggested: taking shots of apple cider vinegar.
Ok, unbeknownst to the world (and Big D) I have been thinking about this for awhile. But it sounds overwhelming. And Easter eggish. And oh, so sour. And chore-ish.
But given the choice of being a walking bread machine, or not . . . .I'll take my shot. With a happy heart.
I have never (I say this with truth) felt more like a queen. The rush it provided. Screams came out involuntarily. Arms lost complete control, and flapped like a bird on crack. It gave me more of a rush than skinny-dipping at an illegal location with 3 male friends in the middle of winter. Would. (Did).
Yes. I will be doing this every night. And ANY time I need to feel alive.
So, with garlic cloves and apple cider vinegar under my belt (no pun intended) - I'm really starting to feel like I'm moving somewhere.
The next step was (yes, I said was) to take some fermented cod liver oil every day. It's such a small amount. And the benefits alone would want to make anyone open up and swallow.
The kind of CLO I got - recommended to me by none other than, M.G.T (she is the queen of CLO) ALSO had coconut oil (health) and butter oil (wealth) (not really, just more health - and a bonus of oral health - which is great, because I don't go to the dentist. Long story.) in it.
Today was the day to crack open the bottle. No reason why I chose today. Probably because I was feeling so brave from my shot of ACV.
I did take a whiff before scooping my spoonful, (It was a solid, because of the coconut oil) which caused me to stare long and hard at that spoonful. Thinking all sorts of encouraging and positive hogwash. And then I said, "it can't be that bad." And crammed it into my mouth.
At that precise moment:
a) I thought I was going to die
b) The phone rang
c) I started to gag and dry heave
d) Ed started screaming
I refused to spit it down the drain - because it cost so much money. And so I started to frantically flail around the kitchen looking for a suitable dish to spit it into. Now, once the offensive rotting fish liver is out of your mouth - it really isn't out of your mouth. CLO mixed with coconut and butter oil - makes the thickest, most liquid-resistant coating known in the scientific world. It also, somehow, swims up into your nasal passages.
You can gag and dry-heave all you want. Blow your nose. Cram your mouth full of chocolate cookies. It's there to stay. And you just have to go with it.
I answered the phone while cough-gagging. Took care of screaming Ed. And had 17 nightmares. About what to do with my daily allotment of CLO.
I decided the next step, was to make a smoothie. All sorts of yummy things. Liver juice included. I mixed it real good. Smelled it multiple times. I didn't gag. I tasted it. Didn't gag. In fact, I couldn't taste Nemo's guts at all.
Oh, I was feeling real proud. Until I got to the bottom of the barrel. Only to see that the oil had hardened onto the bottom of my blender. You know, with all the frozen fruits and ice cubes. . . . (idiot)
Two tries for a day equaled enough turmoil. And so I melted it with hot water and dumped it down the drain.
Except, when you mix fermented cod liver oil with hot water - you get a fine blast of death, in the face. That permeates throughout the entire kitchen. And fresh mingles with the old minglers - up your nose.
Key the gagging and dry-heaving, scene 2.
The cold water only hardened up the oil, which clogged the sink. Leaving me to have to reinstate the hot water.
Key the gagging and dry-heaving, scene 3.
I finally dumped about a gallon of clorox down the drain. And that seemed to neutralize the air enough to breath some.
I can honestly say:
1) I'm not giving up yet. One more recipe to try - and if that doesn't work, I'm going to choose to be ok with throwing it in the trash.
2) That was the worst thing I have ever, ever tasted and or smelled. It had me begging for my old offensive list of: coconut water, beets, fish eggs, and . . . . splooge. (TMI?)
3) You can't win them all.
My health-aware goals for the next couple of weeks/months:
To make my own bread
To make my own yogurt
To make elderberry elixer
To make vanilla extract
To make dishwasher tablets
To continue to be aware of what I'm eating. How is it being made? What the heckity heck is in it?
P.S. I can still taste fish lube. It must be stuck to my lips. They feel extraordinarily smooth.
I don't mean, drinking my milk and eating my greens. Because I don't do either of those things.
What I mean is, looking more into the quality of the food I'm eating. Going back to basics. Real material. Grandparent traditions. You know, junk like that.
Just because it's been on my heart, doesn't mean that I'm doing it all-together-now, style. I'm doing a lot of reading and researching. What will work best with my personality and our lifestyle. . . . .
I'd like to thank Mother Green Toes and The Prairie Homestead for kicking starting me. There are so many exciting things out there that I had no idea existed. Like eating dirt. And other things, that I did know about - but have never read an article that gave me the down-and-dirty (no pun intended), solid facts about - say, . . . . the health benefits of squatting while turding.
Moving on . . . .
With that being said, in the middle of all this exciting reading that I've been doing, Big D and I have really been get. ting. it. on. So much so, that there has been an alteration in my Ph level, leading to a collection of more yeast than normal. *ahem*
Ladies, let me encourage you to stop rummaging through your chemical drawers, and start looking on your kitchen counters. All's you need is a little of God's green earth crammed up into some-man's-land for relief and healing.
Healer of choice: fresh garlic cloves. Peeled of course. It smells incredibly divine. And makes me dream of fresh bread.
Midwife also suggested: taking shots of apple cider vinegar.
Ok, unbeknownst to the world (and Big D) I have been thinking about this for awhile. But it sounds overwhelming. And Easter eggish. And oh, so sour. And chore-ish.
But given the choice of being a walking bread machine, or not . . . .I'll take my shot. With a happy heart.
I have never (I say this with truth) felt more like a queen. The rush it provided. Screams came out involuntarily. Arms lost complete control, and flapped like a bird on crack. It gave me more of a rush than skinny-dipping at an illegal location with 3 male friends in the middle of winter. Would. (Did).
Yes. I will be doing this every night. And ANY time I need to feel alive.
So, with garlic cloves and apple cider vinegar under my belt (no pun intended) - I'm really starting to feel like I'm moving somewhere.
The next step was (yes, I said was) to take some fermented cod liver oil every day. It's such a small amount. And the benefits alone would want to make anyone open up and swallow.
The kind of CLO I got - recommended to me by none other than, M.G.T (she is the queen of CLO) ALSO had coconut oil (health) and butter oil (wealth) (not really, just more health - and a bonus of oral health - which is great, because I don't go to the dentist. Long story.) in it.
Today was the day to crack open the bottle. No reason why I chose today. Probably because I was feeling so brave from my shot of ACV.
I did take a whiff before scooping my spoonful, (It was a solid, because of the coconut oil) which caused me to stare long and hard at that spoonful. Thinking all sorts of encouraging and positive hogwash. And then I said, "it can't be that bad." And crammed it into my mouth.
At that precise moment:
a) I thought I was going to die
b) The phone rang
c) I started to gag and dry heave
d) Ed started screaming
I refused to spit it down the drain - because it cost so much money. And so I started to frantically flail around the kitchen looking for a suitable dish to spit it into. Now, once the offensive rotting fish liver is out of your mouth - it really isn't out of your mouth. CLO mixed with coconut and butter oil - makes the thickest, most liquid-resistant coating known in the scientific world. It also, somehow, swims up into your nasal passages.
You can gag and dry-heave all you want. Blow your nose. Cram your mouth full of chocolate cookies. It's there to stay. And you just have to go with it.
I answered the phone while cough-gagging. Took care of screaming Ed. And had 17 nightmares. About what to do with my daily allotment of CLO.
I decided the next step, was to make a smoothie. All sorts of yummy things. Liver juice included. I mixed it real good. Smelled it multiple times. I didn't gag. I tasted it. Didn't gag. In fact, I couldn't taste Nemo's guts at all.
Oh, I was feeling real proud. Until I got to the bottom of the barrel. Only to see that the oil had hardened onto the bottom of my blender. You know, with all the frozen fruits and ice cubes. . . . (idiot)
Two tries for a day equaled enough turmoil. And so I melted it with hot water and dumped it down the drain.
Except, when you mix fermented cod liver oil with hot water - you get a fine blast of death, in the face. That permeates throughout the entire kitchen. And fresh mingles with the old minglers - up your nose.
Key the gagging and dry-heaving, scene 2.
The cold water only hardened up the oil, which clogged the sink. Leaving me to have to reinstate the hot water.
Key the gagging and dry-heaving, scene 3.
I finally dumped about a gallon of clorox down the drain. And that seemed to neutralize the air enough to breath some.
I can honestly say:
1) I'm not giving up yet. One more recipe to try - and if that doesn't work, I'm going to choose to be ok with throwing it in the trash.
2) That was the worst thing I have ever, ever tasted and or smelled. It had me begging for my old offensive list of: coconut water, beets, fish eggs, and . . . . splooge. (TMI?)
3) You can't win them all.
My health-aware goals for the next couple of weeks/months:
To make my own bread
To make my own yogurt
To make elderberry elixer
To make vanilla extract
To make dishwasher tablets
To continue to be aware of what I'm eating. How is it being made? What the heckity heck is in it?
P.S. I can still taste fish lube. It must be stuck to my lips. They feel extraordinarily smooth.
Monday, January 13, 2014
Heart Secrets
I feel bruised. Utterly battered. And it's not my body. It's my heart. And it's radiating to, throughout the rest of me.
Something happened last night. Something different than other nights. Although similar things happen most nights.
Have you ever woken up from sleep, and have walked in on a conversation between your spirit and God? It's overwhelming just thinking about the magnitude. The power. The thought, of what that means. The comfort. That there is something bigger than just us. Than just flesh.
I never remember details in the morning. But I do remember having a holiness visited.
I knew something was going to happen last night. But I didn't expect to feel so war weary. And that's what it must have been. War. Spiritual war, over my heart.
My favorite author of all time is John Eldredge. He is able to speak to my darkest, the way no one can. God has used him to ravenously rip open heart wounds, and allow healing.
And so I read his words with trepidation. Slowly. Knowing more work is to come. And exhaustion.
He is known to use classic reads to illustrate points. Illustrate the beauty of God's heart. But it always catches off guard.
Bear with me as I share thee story that opens to my story. (It starts slow, but it ends in beauty)
And being very tired and having nothing inside him, he felt so sorry for himself that the tears rolled down his cheeks. What put a stop to all this was a sudden fright. Shasta discovered that someone or somebody was walking beside him. It was pitch dark and he could see nothing. And the the Thing (or Person) was going so quietly that he could hardly hear any footfalls. What he could hear was breathing. His invisible companion seemed to breathe on a very large scale . . . .
If the horse had been any good-or if he had known how to get any good out of the horse-he would have risked everything on a breakaway and a wild gallop. But he knew he couldn't make that horse gallop. So he went on at a walking pace and the unseen companion walked and breathed beside him. At last he could bear it no longer. "Who are you?" he said, scarcely above a whisper.
"One who has waited long for you to speak," said the Thing. It's voice was not loud, but very large and deep . . .
"Oh please-please do go away. What harm have I ever done you? Oh, I am the unluckiest person in the whole world!" Once more he felt the warm breath of the Thing on his hand and face. "There," it said, "that is not the breath of a ghost. Tell me your sorrows." Shasta was a little reassured by the breath: so he told how he had never known his real father or mother and had been brought up sternly by the fisherman. And then he told the story of his escape and how they were chased by lions and forced to swim for their lives; and of all their dangers in Tashbaan and about his night among the tombs and how the beasts howled at him out of the desert. And he told about the heat and thirst of their desert journey and how they were almost at their goal when another lion chased them and wounded Aravis. And also, how very long it was since he had had anything to eat.
"I do not call you unfortunate," said the Large Voice. "Don't you think it was bad luck to meet so many lions?" said Shasta. "There was only one lion," said the Voice. "What on earth do you mean? I've just told you there were at least two the first night, and . . . " "There was only one; but he was swift of foot." "How do you know?"
"I was the lion."
And as Shasta gaped with open mouth and said nothing, the Voice continued. "I was the lion who forced you to join with Aravis. I was the cat who comforted you among the houses of the dead. I was the lion who drove the jackals from you while you slept. I was the lion who gave the horses the new strength of fear for the last mile so that you should reach King Lune in time. And I was the lion you do not remember who pushed the boat in which you lay, a child near death, so that it came to shore where a man sat, wakeful at midnight, to receive you."
"Then it was you who wounded Aravis?"
"It was I."
"But what for?"
"Child," said the Voice, "I am telling you your story, not hers."
(C.S. Lewis, The Horse and His Boy) (Which I took from John Eldredge's Waking the Dead)
I read this as if it were a fairy tale. It's lovely. My heart felt an enlightening, as it does with any story that we are shown the greatness of the whole. . . . But that was it. Until John turned that story into our story.
He goes on to say that our life, is a story. Filled with twists and turns. Great moments. Horrific failures. Many firsts. And through all of these different experiences, our heart has "learned" something. Some truth. A lot is false rubbish that we cling too, and soon believe to be true.
He asks heart questions. "Is your heart good? Does your heart really matter? What has life taught you about that?"
I'm reading this with a quiet heart. Alert. The house is asleep. It's dark. And I'm primed to have my heart rummaged.
And then John says, "Imagine for a moment that God is walking softly beside you. You sense his presence, feel his warm breath. He says, 'Tell me your sorrows.'"
In the stillness, it was as if God took my weather-beaten, hardened hands in his and asked me what my sorrows were.
The simplicity and rawness of the question shook all around. And the hurted, angry, deeply-buried tears came so fast. Oh, to be asked that question.
But he wasn't done there. He wanted to know what I believed about my heart.
I didn't want to answer this question. And honestly, I couldn't think of anything. I thought naively that I must simply be wonderful, and have no beliefs about my heart.
And then it came. The ripping. Shredding. Of my innermost. A 31 year old secret that I haven't had words for. Felt, - yes.
Our most hurt, often starts with our family. Truth. Hard truth, but truth.
I don't know how to say the next part politically correct. So I'll say it, the way it is.
My heart was not seen, growing up. My innermost, God-created, was squashed. Disciplined. Re-directed. Ignored. Misinterpreted.
And that's what I believe most about my heart. That it's not seen. That it doesn't matter. And if anything, it's wrong. My heart is wrong. Even with the best intentions, I don't trust it.
What if I'm a self-made introvert? Because I believe that my heart isn't seen. So why bother? Why give it out? Every time I do, it's squashed. Rejected. Noses turn up. The weird glances. The appalled stares. Who wouldn't be driven to lead a loner life?
To have your deepest, darkest wound handed to you. The horror. The relief of truth. And the over-bearing burden of what to do next. With this knowledge.
John always says to invite God into our hurts. To reveal more, to bring healing. When we know truth, we know what we're up against. We know better how to protect, how to fight. How to pray.
I woke up many times last night to a spirit/God conversation. I woke up to thoughts and songs playing in my heart. None of it I can remember.
My entire chest is aching today. Not the inside, but the outside. As if I participated in highly strenuous activities. But I haven't. Because I sit on the couch.
There was war last night. And it was over my heart. And it was dirty and terrible. I know because I can feel the physical impact. The weight of evil fighting so hard, dragging it's claws through my chest. Fighting to hold on.
I know this is the beginning of this part of my heart healing. And with my healing history, it's years long. I'm in no rush. But I am looking forward to stepping out on the other side.
I do want to say, that I don't have resentment or hard feelings toward family members. It really is not there. As humans we do the best we can with what we know.
And thank the Lord, I'm done.
Something happened last night. Something different than other nights. Although similar things happen most nights.
Have you ever woken up from sleep, and have walked in on a conversation between your spirit and God? It's overwhelming just thinking about the magnitude. The power. The thought, of what that means. The comfort. That there is something bigger than just us. Than just flesh.
I never remember details in the morning. But I do remember having a holiness visited.
I knew something was going to happen last night. But I didn't expect to feel so war weary. And that's what it must have been. War. Spiritual war, over my heart.
My favorite author of all time is John Eldredge. He is able to speak to my darkest, the way no one can. God has used him to ravenously rip open heart wounds, and allow healing.
And so I read his words with trepidation. Slowly. Knowing more work is to come. And exhaustion.
He is known to use classic reads to illustrate points. Illustrate the beauty of God's heart. But it always catches off guard.
Bear with me as I share thee story that opens to my story. (It starts slow, but it ends in beauty)
And being very tired and having nothing inside him, he felt so sorry for himself that the tears rolled down his cheeks. What put a stop to all this was a sudden fright. Shasta discovered that someone or somebody was walking beside him. It was pitch dark and he could see nothing. And the the Thing (or Person) was going so quietly that he could hardly hear any footfalls. What he could hear was breathing. His invisible companion seemed to breathe on a very large scale . . . .
If the horse had been any good-or if he had known how to get any good out of the horse-he would have risked everything on a breakaway and a wild gallop. But he knew he couldn't make that horse gallop. So he went on at a walking pace and the unseen companion walked and breathed beside him. At last he could bear it no longer. "Who are you?" he said, scarcely above a whisper.
"One who has waited long for you to speak," said the Thing. It's voice was not loud, but very large and deep . . .
"Oh please-please do go away. What harm have I ever done you? Oh, I am the unluckiest person in the whole world!" Once more he felt the warm breath of the Thing on his hand and face. "There," it said, "that is not the breath of a ghost. Tell me your sorrows." Shasta was a little reassured by the breath: so he told how he had never known his real father or mother and had been brought up sternly by the fisherman. And then he told the story of his escape and how they were chased by lions and forced to swim for their lives; and of all their dangers in Tashbaan and about his night among the tombs and how the beasts howled at him out of the desert. And he told about the heat and thirst of their desert journey and how they were almost at their goal when another lion chased them and wounded Aravis. And also, how very long it was since he had had anything to eat.
"I do not call you unfortunate," said the Large Voice. "Don't you think it was bad luck to meet so many lions?" said Shasta. "There was only one lion," said the Voice. "What on earth do you mean? I've just told you there were at least two the first night, and . . . " "There was only one; but he was swift of foot." "How do you know?"
"I was the lion."
And as Shasta gaped with open mouth and said nothing, the Voice continued. "I was the lion who forced you to join with Aravis. I was the cat who comforted you among the houses of the dead. I was the lion who drove the jackals from you while you slept. I was the lion who gave the horses the new strength of fear for the last mile so that you should reach King Lune in time. And I was the lion you do not remember who pushed the boat in which you lay, a child near death, so that it came to shore where a man sat, wakeful at midnight, to receive you."
"Then it was you who wounded Aravis?"
"It was I."
"But what for?"
"Child," said the Voice, "I am telling you your story, not hers."
(C.S. Lewis, The Horse and His Boy) (Which I took from John Eldredge's Waking the Dead)
I read this as if it were a fairy tale. It's lovely. My heart felt an enlightening, as it does with any story that we are shown the greatness of the whole. . . . But that was it. Until John turned that story into our story.
He goes on to say that our life, is a story. Filled with twists and turns. Great moments. Horrific failures. Many firsts. And through all of these different experiences, our heart has "learned" something. Some truth. A lot is false rubbish that we cling too, and soon believe to be true.
He asks heart questions. "Is your heart good? Does your heart really matter? What has life taught you about that?"
I'm reading this with a quiet heart. Alert. The house is asleep. It's dark. And I'm primed to have my heart rummaged.
And then John says, "Imagine for a moment that God is walking softly beside you. You sense his presence, feel his warm breath. He says, 'Tell me your sorrows.'"
In the stillness, it was as if God took my weather-beaten, hardened hands in his and asked me what my sorrows were.
The simplicity and rawness of the question shook all around. And the hurted, angry, deeply-buried tears came so fast. Oh, to be asked that question.
But he wasn't done there. He wanted to know what I believed about my heart.
I didn't want to answer this question. And honestly, I couldn't think of anything. I thought naively that I must simply be wonderful, and have no beliefs about my heart.
And then it came. The ripping. Shredding. Of my innermost. A 31 year old secret that I haven't had words for. Felt, - yes.
Our most hurt, often starts with our family. Truth. Hard truth, but truth.
I don't know how to say the next part politically correct. So I'll say it, the way it is.
My heart was not seen, growing up. My innermost, God-created, was squashed. Disciplined. Re-directed. Ignored. Misinterpreted.
And that's what I believe most about my heart. That it's not seen. That it doesn't matter. And if anything, it's wrong. My heart is wrong. Even with the best intentions, I don't trust it.
What if I'm a self-made introvert? Because I believe that my heart isn't seen. So why bother? Why give it out? Every time I do, it's squashed. Rejected. Noses turn up. The weird glances. The appalled stares. Who wouldn't be driven to lead a loner life?
To have your deepest, darkest wound handed to you. The horror. The relief of truth. And the over-bearing burden of what to do next. With this knowledge.
John always says to invite God into our hurts. To reveal more, to bring healing. When we know truth, we know what we're up against. We know better how to protect, how to fight. How to pray.
I woke up many times last night to a spirit/God conversation. I woke up to thoughts and songs playing in my heart. None of it I can remember.
My entire chest is aching today. Not the inside, but the outside. As if I participated in highly strenuous activities. But I haven't. Because I sit on the couch.
There was war last night. And it was over my heart. And it was dirty and terrible. I know because I can feel the physical impact. The weight of evil fighting so hard, dragging it's claws through my chest. Fighting to hold on.
I know this is the beginning of this part of my heart healing. And with my healing history, it's years long. I'm in no rush. But I am looking forward to stepping out on the other side.
I do want to say, that I don't have resentment or hard feelings toward family members. It really is not there. As humans we do the best we can with what we know.
And thank the Lord, I'm done.
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
Why I Feed my Kids GMOs
Back when I was responsible, I got up at 6:30 am. That's what they tell SAHMs to do. Its "key" to staying on top of the day. And the demands. That's how you know you're a "good" mom. If you get up before your kids. Put clothes on that don't stand up by themselves. Or reek of musty arm pits. Clothes that say "good morning beautiful children. I am eager to begin this special day with you. And later, I'm going to do your dad. On the kitchen table." And don't forget, your first cup of tea - by yourself - it's vital to good momship. And if we're really striving for greatness, a moment in God's word, to refresh our spirits.
Yes, those are all key to being a good mom. Personally, I didn't know this until I started reading other people's blogs.
I tried it for a while. It was nice. But it made the day longer. And quite frankly, this season that I'm in - cold, winter - calls for sleeping. As long as the children allow. I get up with the sun still. (I can't help it that the sun wants to sleep too. And doesn't get up until almost 8.)
A key component to a longer, more peaceful sleep, is to provide cereal in the cupboard and milk in the refrigerator. Murnice is becoming more independent by the day. (With much encouragement, as she likes to be served on all levels.) (She is also learning the fine lesson of serving others - her brother.)
Her getting breakfast for them both is magical. It allows for so much more peace and love to reside in my heart.
But three things have entered into the picture.
#1 I'm getting more and more skived out by GMOs.
#2 There remains only $6 left in the food budget for the next 1 1/2 weeks.
#3 We have officially run out of all cereal, that doesn't resemble and taste of rotting air and cardboard remnants.
All of this means that pure terror and havoc have replaced my once beautiful wake-up moments. These children are waking up like hibernating bears. Who is that hungry upon immediately waking up?
The heart-shattering roars of "FEED US!!!!!!" make me only want to crawl under my mattress and dig a secret passage to the neighbors house.
I try to squash their hollering, if only for a few minutes, by playing sweet games with them in bed. Like "kitten". Kittens snuggle quietly. And purr. I do get the occasional lick though.
And then the two of them see through my games. And decide together, silently, to begin the upheaval. To begin the overthrow of the peace that did once reign.
The children care nothing for any living being, besides themselves. They could care less if I was stark naked standing in the ice-box of a kitchen, while peeing my over-night load all over the floor. Just as long as I was serving them. Flipping eggs. And pouring morning juice. Putting their slippers on.
I am not allowed the luxury of throwing something on my ever-growing, hibernating bottom - without getting a tongue lashing. The screams and squawks that come from such small, selfish creatures. They send me straight to the hell-hole of insanity.
This morning I decided, there are just some things that are needed to keep the queen somewhat subdued. And it may not always be the healthiest choice. Or the choice that we feel good or proud about. But it's a season. And. Seasons. Don't. Last. Forever.
We have to weigh. What's a healthy choice for mom? For right now. For this season. And choose to be confident in our choice.
And I guess I'm choosing to be confident in a morning bowl of GMOs.
Yes, those are all key to being a good mom. Personally, I didn't know this until I started reading other people's blogs.
I tried it for a while. It was nice. But it made the day longer. And quite frankly, this season that I'm in - cold, winter - calls for sleeping. As long as the children allow. I get up with the sun still. (I can't help it that the sun wants to sleep too. And doesn't get up until almost 8.)
A key component to a longer, more peaceful sleep, is to provide cereal in the cupboard and milk in the refrigerator. Murnice is becoming more independent by the day. (With much encouragement, as she likes to be served on all levels.) (She is also learning the fine lesson of serving others - her brother.)
Her getting breakfast for them both is magical. It allows for so much more peace and love to reside in my heart.
But three things have entered into the picture.
#1 I'm getting more and more skived out by GMOs.
#2 There remains only $6 left in the food budget for the next 1 1/2 weeks.
#3 We have officially run out of all cereal, that doesn't resemble and taste of rotting air and cardboard remnants.
All of this means that pure terror and havoc have replaced my once beautiful wake-up moments. These children are waking up like hibernating bears. Who is that hungry upon immediately waking up?
The heart-shattering roars of "FEED US!!!!!!" make me only want to crawl under my mattress and dig a secret passage to the neighbors house.
I try to squash their hollering, if only for a few minutes, by playing sweet games with them in bed. Like "kitten". Kittens snuggle quietly. And purr. I do get the occasional lick though.
And then the two of them see through my games. And decide together, silently, to begin the upheaval. To begin the overthrow of the peace that did once reign.
The children care nothing for any living being, besides themselves. They could care less if I was stark naked standing in the ice-box of a kitchen, while peeing my over-night load all over the floor. Just as long as I was serving them. Flipping eggs. And pouring morning juice. Putting their slippers on.
I am not allowed the luxury of throwing something on my ever-growing, hibernating bottom - without getting a tongue lashing. The screams and squawks that come from such small, selfish creatures. They send me straight to the hell-hole of insanity.
This morning I decided, there are just some things that are needed to keep the queen somewhat subdued. And it may not always be the healthiest choice. Or the choice that we feel good or proud about. But it's a season. And. Seasons. Don't. Last. Forever.
We have to weigh. What's a healthy choice for mom? For right now. For this season. And choose to be confident in our choice.
And I guess I'm choosing to be confident in a morning bowl of GMOs.
Monday, January 6, 2014
A Few Words from FoxyBigLittleBits
Don't wizzle in your pants - or anything. I know I've been slacking horrifically. And have had many tongue lashings by "those" who feel they are allowed to give tongue lashings. . . . . . But the holidays are so distracting. And I've been slumped on my couch. And it's hard to have anything interesting and of worth to say when you're slumped and distracted.
So this will be a boringesque-Christmasesque letter type of update.
Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving at Mother's is always hectic, frantic, and somewhat overwhelming. Loads of people. Mostly family. But there are always some guests whom I've never met before. I always wonder in those situations what "they've been told". Because you know they've been given the run-through of who is who and all that nonsense. I know this happens, because I do it.
Everybody is required to bring some food contribution. And that's always fun cooking on a stove that has 2 burners that work (the small ones) and a poor oven that's over worked and under paid.
This year we fed the kids first and then sent them to watch a movie. It was also the first year that both I and Big D ate in peace. Full peace. I don't think I'll ever forget that meal. (I'm definitely getting excited just thinking about all the gravy I ingested.)
At Mother's, there is no such thing as sitting-and-letting-your-meal-digest. No. It's straight to work. Mother promptly starting handing out "work cards". This is where she wrote down all the jobs that needed to be done, in order to clean up from dinner.
Now this brought me great pleasure. NOTHING gets me more excited to see some lazy bottom, sitting around and letting "others" clean up a mess, that THEY have contributed to. And I don't mean to sound too sexist right now . . . . but it's mostly the men folk who participate in this rudely behavior.
So Mother passes these cards out. Well actually, we got to pick our own card (blindly). Some people got off real easy. Wipe off counters. Others had more challenging tasks. Wash all the pots and pans.
The most glorious part - everybody had to participate. The most laziest of lazys, new and old.
Then the fliers come out (black friday). And everybody gets a little frantic, and the breathing gets heavy. And with all the heavy breathing - somebody gets hungry. And they pull out all the dessert. And I think, "so soon?"
And that's Thanksgiving.
Christmas
I did all of my shopping online, from my couch. It was the most perfect decision I've made in a long time.
Big D and I don't give each other anything. So many less emotions to deal with that way.
Although, I did buy Big D some beer soap. Because it makes me feel crazy thinking about the chemicals he smears around his body in the name of cleanliness. So I found some homemade manly soap. But chose to give it to him immediately, instead of waiting for Christmas morning. His rate of appropriate approval is greater if I just give it to him versus wrapping it up and making a big "special" deal about it. And it worked in my favor. He likes his beer soap. And feels like a dragon king smearing it all over his manly bits.
The kids open their gifts on Christmas eve. Which frees up Christmas day of tears and anxious hearts of not wanting to leave their new junk at home while we visit all of the hometown family.
Christmas day is not my favorite. Although I love the spirit and preparation of it. Music included.
Ed
Ed is starting to play by himself. Key word - starting. It really is a Christmas miracle. He still prefers to sit on top of me on the couch. He poops in the pot like a champ. He is also a lazy pee-er. Which means that he squirts 42 pee dribbles on whatever he's wearing BEFORE he decides he should use the restroom. He is still sleeping on our bedroom floor in his "nest". And he'll be there until he's 17. He sleeps soundly through all adult activity. (I sleep through all adult activity too) (Kidding) When he's mad at somebody or something - he will call them or it a "stupid beagle". Yup, too much Merry Christmas Charlie Brown. And I think it's hysterical. But I don't let him know. I am somewhat of a responsible mother.
Murnice
Don't really have a lot to say about Murn. Once they reach a certain age . . . . it's like . . . . .she's hates everything. And everything is a fight. . . . So, a few months ago, Murnice thought it was funny to scare Ed. On multiple occasions. Let the punishment fit the crime I say. (And it's a punishment that will last many years) She is now responsible to go with Ed anywhere and every time he's "scared". It's magical. She's is also learning the hard lesson of showing grace and a generous spirit. And thank the Lord, she is starting to love reading. (But I still have to force the reading time)
Couch
The stains never end. I had a Norwex party a little bit ago. And Couch got a scrubbing for the guests. She looked pretty for 1/2 the night. I've also decided that Couch smells musty and uninteresting. And somewhat disgraceful. So she'll be getting a flushout soon. In the meantime, she's still super sweet and inviting to me. And never judges.
Words Spoken by God
It's really easy for me to get wrapped up in other people's misfortune. And then I feel guilty. Guilty that I'm not going through something horrific or that I don't have any hardships right now in my life. So I was chatting with God about all of this - I can't remember in what context - but I remember just feeling guilty that I have such a pleasant life. And then God said to me, "don't feel guilty for the things that I've blessed you with."
God is not the God of guilt. Guilt does not come from God. He brings truth and understanding. And I'm really thankful for his permission to be glad in what he has given.
For those of you that don't struggle with all of that - stop judging this baby truth.
And that's all I'm going to write. And hopefully soon, I'll feel the need to have another episode of diarrhea of the mouth.
So this will be a boringesque-Christmasesque letter type of update.
Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving at Mother's is always hectic, frantic, and somewhat overwhelming. Loads of people. Mostly family. But there are always some guests whom I've never met before. I always wonder in those situations what "they've been told". Because you know they've been given the run-through of who is who and all that nonsense. I know this happens, because I do it.
Everybody is required to bring some food contribution. And that's always fun cooking on a stove that has 2 burners that work (the small ones) and a poor oven that's over worked and under paid.
This year we fed the kids first and then sent them to watch a movie. It was also the first year that both I and Big D ate in peace. Full peace. I don't think I'll ever forget that meal. (I'm definitely getting excited just thinking about all the gravy I ingested.)
At Mother's, there is no such thing as sitting-and-letting-your-meal-digest. No. It's straight to work. Mother promptly starting handing out "work cards". This is where she wrote down all the jobs that needed to be done, in order to clean up from dinner.
Now this brought me great pleasure. NOTHING gets me more excited to see some lazy bottom, sitting around and letting "others" clean up a mess, that THEY have contributed to. And I don't mean to sound too sexist right now . . . . but it's mostly the men folk who participate in this rudely behavior.
So Mother passes these cards out. Well actually, we got to pick our own card (blindly). Some people got off real easy. Wipe off counters. Others had more challenging tasks. Wash all the pots and pans.
The most glorious part - everybody had to participate. The most laziest of lazys, new and old.
Then the fliers come out (black friday). And everybody gets a little frantic, and the breathing gets heavy. And with all the heavy breathing - somebody gets hungry. And they pull out all the dessert. And I think, "so soon?"
And that's Thanksgiving.
Christmas
I did all of my shopping online, from my couch. It was the most perfect decision I've made in a long time.
Big D and I don't give each other anything. So many less emotions to deal with that way.
Although, I did buy Big D some beer soap. Because it makes me feel crazy thinking about the chemicals he smears around his body in the name of cleanliness. So I found some homemade manly soap. But chose to give it to him immediately, instead of waiting for Christmas morning. His rate of appropriate approval is greater if I just give it to him versus wrapping it up and making a big "special" deal about it. And it worked in my favor. He likes his beer soap. And feels like a dragon king smearing it all over his manly bits.
The kids open their gifts on Christmas eve. Which frees up Christmas day of tears and anxious hearts of not wanting to leave their new junk at home while we visit all of the hometown family.
Christmas day is not my favorite. Although I love the spirit and preparation of it. Music included.
Ed
Ed is starting to play by himself. Key word - starting. It really is a Christmas miracle. He still prefers to sit on top of me on the couch. He poops in the pot like a champ. He is also a lazy pee-er. Which means that he squirts 42 pee dribbles on whatever he's wearing BEFORE he decides he should use the restroom. He is still sleeping on our bedroom floor in his "nest". And he'll be there until he's 17. He sleeps soundly through all adult activity. (I sleep through all adult activity too) (Kidding) When he's mad at somebody or something - he will call them or it a "stupid beagle". Yup, too much Merry Christmas Charlie Brown. And I think it's hysterical. But I don't let him know. I am somewhat of a responsible mother.
Murnice
Don't really have a lot to say about Murn. Once they reach a certain age . . . . it's like . . . . .she's hates everything. And everything is a fight. . . . So, a few months ago, Murnice thought it was funny to scare Ed. On multiple occasions. Let the punishment fit the crime I say. (And it's a punishment that will last many years) She is now responsible to go with Ed anywhere and every time he's "scared". It's magical. She's is also learning the hard lesson of showing grace and a generous spirit. And thank the Lord, she is starting to love reading. (But I still have to force the reading time)
Couch
The stains never end. I had a Norwex party a little bit ago. And Couch got a scrubbing for the guests. She looked pretty for 1/2 the night. I've also decided that Couch smells musty and uninteresting. And somewhat disgraceful. So she'll be getting a flushout soon. In the meantime, she's still super sweet and inviting to me. And never judges.
Words Spoken by God
It's really easy for me to get wrapped up in other people's misfortune. And then I feel guilty. Guilty that I'm not going through something horrific or that I don't have any hardships right now in my life. So I was chatting with God about all of this - I can't remember in what context - but I remember just feeling guilty that I have such a pleasant life. And then God said to me, "don't feel guilty for the things that I've blessed you with."
God is not the God of guilt. Guilt does not come from God. He brings truth and understanding. And I'm really thankful for his permission to be glad in what he has given.
For those of you that don't struggle with all of that - stop judging this baby truth.
And that's all I'm going to write. And hopefully soon, I'll feel the need to have another episode of diarrhea of the mouth.
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