Day 2

I'm still alive.

But never have I ever walked around with tighter/flabbier clenched buns.  The whole point of a worm infestation cleanse is to get rid of the worms.  And I'm walking around keeping them in like they're the greatest.  Or something special.

Petrified.  To release my anal sphincter.  I did it.  Twice so far.  I did find that having a stool under my feet (like the squatty potty) encouraged relaxation.

Poop 1
I got out of bed this morning feeling tired.  And wouldn't you know, I'm stumbling around trying to find dirty clothes on the floor to put on, and a hairbrush to brush my remaining 103 hairs on my head - those worms start knocking.  HELLO!  Let the girl put on some deodorant before she has to face the fangs.

I clenched real good till I was ready for the day aka the worms.  I even frushed my teeth.  I was completely ready.  Like, if the UPS man came - I was that ready.  And then I answered the call of the wild worms.

It doesn't do anybody any favors to whip their body around after every ker-plop.  It's a fine way to have to clean the bathroom a few times a day.  Patience is a virtue.  And a fine virtue to put into practice.

Alas, I saw nothing.  And was completely relieved.  And completely disappointed.

Poo 2
Every time my poo stalls, I imagine a long worm stuck, half in-half out, writhing wildly.  Guys, fangs are real.

  So, yup.  Moving on.

Anyway, I consorted to patience this time.  And when I was done I saw lots and lots of tiny, minuscule white line thingsies. Complete satisfaction knowing that something was dying.  Smug.  And pleased.

How I'm feeling:

Day 2 was when others started to feel gross from the toxins starting to multiply due to worm death.  I am pleased to say that I feel no different minus being slightly more tired and slightly nauseous.  Sounds like I'm pregnant.  Maybe I am! (with worms)  I've been following my tea and crumpet aka worm killer pills schedule like a kindygartner.  And once again feeling smug that I have managed to stay on track for 1 1/2 days.

Dinner?

Lets talk about last night first.  Chicken and beans are a common occurrence around here.  But throw in some rutabaga soup and literally, batten down the hatches, secure your valuables, life is no more as it once was.  Big D threw an entire chopped up jalapeno pepper in his small portion.  Murn ate hers for breakfast with much lamenting.  Ed cried and gagged his one required spoonful until daddy bribed him with a whole chicken leg if he finished his 1/8 of a cup serving. (Didn't you know that chicken legs are cool?  And worthy of gagging and choking down 4 spoonfuls?  They are.)  WW wasn't even offered any.  And I ate my bowl, pleased as punch, knowing that I was killing off candida.

Big D called me this morning (because we never see each other) to ask how I felt.  Awkward, and what is that supposed to mean . . . ? Well, somebody had a tummy ache and wasn't feeling very well and wanted to know if it was the soup.  *Why yes!  You figured out my life squelching secret - I was trying to poison you all with rutabaga soup*  2 things:  a) maybe your tummy doesn't like the entire pepper you crammed down your throat or b) maybe when I said you have too much yeast in your body, maybe I was right.   Those are my best two guesses.  All other guesses are not my best.

But dinner tonight?  It's going to be equally as awesome.  As dinner is, every night.

Creamy chicken soup

Sahwid with avocado green goddess dressing aka tear and gag-reflex inducing pig slop

Grain-free bread

Takeaways

1)  When naming a blog, be wise.  Never name it something you'll regret.  Like, "Whispers of Love" or "The Witherhalls's Happenings" or "Bluebirds Sing the Beauty of the Earth".  You're going to wake up someday and not want to talk about how love whispers anymore.  Or fun zoo trips.  Or how you gathered a whole bouquet of wildflowers on your evening walk.  Maybe you'll wake up some day with your mind a fizzled mess of slow fog, and the best you can do is talk about poop.

2)  Life is a continual of changing seasons.  Really really embrace each one.  I know that I won't be talking about poop forever.  Someday I'll have life altering epiphanies and wisdom words and life giving faith speaks.  But that's not today.  And I'm ok with that.  And you should be ok with the season that you're in too.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

False Advertising Deserves a Nose Tweak

So I got this email about a local production of the Nutcracker ballet.

Key juicy points:
1)  It was rated on a professional level as:  just below the city's Nutcracker ballet.
2)  Tickets were only $5 a person.
3)  The show was run by a Russian.  And Russians know how to dance.

Things I planned:
1)  Fun, family, Sunday-afternoon, culturalization time - for cheap.  So if anybody pooped their pants in the middle of the performance, I wouldn't feel crazy about leaving.
2)  It was a surprise for Murnice.  Beautiful costumes and fancy ladies twirling.  What 8 year old wouldn't feel like a queen?
3)  I invited Friday Friends.  That was a surprise too.
4)  Dinner all together after the ballet.
5)  Big family smiles, as we shared the day together with good entertainment, good fellowship (I hate that word - so I used it just to annoy other people who hate that word), and good food.

The way it really went down:
1)  It really cost $8 per person.
2)  There were about 37 people there.  All parents and grandparents.
3)  I don't have words to describe the horrific-ness of the actual ballet.  But I'll try.
a.  the music was crammed through ginormous loud speakers.  I use the word "cram" because there are no other words for:  way-too-loud-with-the-tone-set-to-make-your-eardrums-bleed.
b.  we were only given two clues that we were actually watching the Nutcracker.  Clue #1 they played Nutcracker music  Clue #2  the first scene was Clara waltzing around with her nutcracker, in her see-through nighty
c.  there is nothing more possibly maddening, then to be watching a performance - of any sort - only to have to watch a bunch of snotty-nosed little kids run around in circles with no rhyme or reason.  What makes it ever worse, is when the mothers scream a little louder, clap a little harder, and bounce up and down in their seats.  (Yes, that all happened)
d.  the worst part for me, was when the Arabian dancers came out.  Grown-ups.  And they couldn't dance at all.  Not in sync for a second.  They did the same 4 moves the entire dance.  One Arabian dancer put her pants on backwards.  They tried being sexy - which only made it so much more uncomfortable.
4)  Murnice cried.  She hated every part of it.
5)  Friday Friends never showed up.  Nor have they told us why they didn't show up.  It's all very fishy.
6)  The show lasted 40 minutes.  Worst $8 ever spent in the history of spending money.
7)  The place we ended up eating at smelled of moth balls and musty car oil.  And I'm pretty sure my burger was a rotting tortoise carcass.
8)  Big D and I fought the whole time.

Do I sound like an ungrateful fleabag?

Once again I'm spit-fired, flustered at the way a simple afternoon was supposed to go.  At least I didn't almost die again.

I guess it's just more confirmation that the couch is where I belong.

On a side note, I actually got dressed to leave the house.  Big D said that I looked so lovely.  And that my breasts looked lushishly large.  (That's what happens when you put a bra on for the first time in forever)

P.S.  Does anybody else love to sniff down their own shirt to smell their musty armpits?  I am not ashamed.

Life is Never Pretty

I felt hope.  I felt grateful.

And it came sweeping over me with such gentle surprise.

You see, I've been sinking.  We haven't been in the best health over here for a little while.  I shower once a week.  Literally.  I don't get dressed.  Heaps of dirty and clean laundry are scattered.  I think I vacuumed last in 2011.  The bottom of my white porcelain sink is orangy/brown.  We eat food out of boxes.  A new herd of fruit flies have moved in.  Big ones.  Twice the size of normal ones.  And they don't like my fruit fly trap.

My bathroom is ripped to shreds.  It has a functioning shower and toilet.  But no sink.  Which means nobody washes their hands anymore.  Nor do we brush our teeth.

The sheets on the bed?  Thank goodness Big D hasn't brought me "down-town" in awhile.  Otherwise we'd be sleeping in crunch.  Because that's how much I'm sinking.

There is no dinner.  There are no thoughts of dinner.

And sometimes I sleep.  And sometimes I don't.  It all depends on how gracious Ed is.  And if the stars align in their magical pattern.  And if "cozy" (his blanket) is perfectly perched upon body.  And if he can find his "hole" in blue.  And if pink cat is present, but not hogging his personal space.  And whether or not he needs to pee or have a drink.  Or a snuggle.

And that's just during the night.

The days are far worse.  With so much screaming and crying.

And Murnice fights me every second.  If I take two breaths, she's off and playing.  Because there is nothing more fanciful, than to play when there's school to do.  Elaborate and thorough games.

But today, as I was sitting, taking my daily, convulsive, diarrhea-squirt session, I felt it.  I felt a wave of gratitude.

I don't know where it came from.  Or why it decided to show up.  Or why it thought I was worthy.  But I really liked that fleeting moment.  I really liked feeling hopeful.

Honestly I didn't realize I was sinking this much, until I breathed fresh.

I wouldn't mind a prayer or two.

The end.

Bigger is Better, But Wisdom is Best

I knew it was going to happen.  Or at least I was prepared for when it did happen.

You see, one of my spiritual gifts happens to be intuition and discernment.  It's a blessing and a curse.  And maybe I'll talk more about that another time.

I became "aware" about two weeks ago.  It was a Friday night.  Friday Friend party night!!! . . . . . except I had a nervy feeling in my stomach about work the next morning.  (I run a swim lesson program)  I wasn't sure if I was just being a wench or my "feelings" were legit.

So I went exploring.  And my mind's eye came up with a picture.

In my home town there's this really neat family.  It's a pastor and his family.  And a couple of years ago they adopted 3 teenagers from the Ukraine.  Two of the kids come to swim lessons on Saturday, and one of those kids is a daredevil on the diving board.  He's good.  And fearless.  All the makings you need to be a diver.

My mind picture was of this daredevil hitting the diving board with his head.  He would need to be backboarded. And it was going to happen right at the end of swim lessons, when the whistle was blown.

I hated it.  But I prayed over it.  Asking God to please let that not happen.  But if he did, to please cover me in wisdom, as I would be the one to be making the calls.

I prayed real hard.  And I went over and over, in my head, the drill for backboarding a victim.  And nothing happened that Saturday.  And I breathed.

Fast forward to last night.  Having moved on from my nervy feelings . . . . I wasn't thinking about diving board accidents anymore.

Tuesday night is homeschool swim.  I bring Murnice and Ed for a lesson. Mother runs the program.  Sometimes I lifeguard.  Sometimes I teach a lesson.  Last night I lifeguarded.  Mother was playing with Ed in the shallow end while she chatted with me.  The whistle blew to signal the end of class.  And the divingboard made a horrific sound.

I looked up to see 3 adults rush to the divingboard.  I knew somebody had hit it.  And then saw that it had been B.B. Bobby.  He was at the edge of the pool.  Which was a good sign that he could move.  I started yelling "DID HE HIT THE BOARD" as I ran down to the deep end.

After about the fifth time of asking the question, somebody finally said "yes, he split his head".

B.B.Bobby is out of the pool at this point, bent over, blooding running down his face.  I take this all in as I grabbed the backboard and start ripping the velcro to shreds.

I'm yelling out commands, "CALL 911" and "HELP ME GET HIM ON THE BACKBOARD".

Immediately about 5 adults surrounded me and start yelling at me, "HOW DO WE HELP?"

This is funny to me.  You know how in fast moving events, its blurred?  So I wonder if what I was saying was actually making sense to bystanders?  And then I wonder if I even answered their questions?  Or if I just did it myself?

I remember throwing my hands up in the air at one point because I couldn't even get to all the straps because there were so many people surrounded him - supporting and gauzing and evaluating.

And then he was finally on the board, properly.  Strapped.  Immobilized.  He was nauseous and dizzy.  And then there's ice.

B.B.Bob was breathing and conscious.  The ambulance was on their way.  And then I realized, Ed was missing.  I didn't see him anywhere in the mass of people.  I yelled real loud.  Three times.  "WHERE'S MY SON".

And there he was.  Wrapped in a towel, sitting.  By Murnice.  Guarded by the lovliest mom.  She shared herself.  Her time.  While others took care of her children.

And then we waited.

I kept going over check lists in my head of what needed to be done.  I not only needed to observe the happenings with B.B.Bobby, but there was paper work, and disinfecting, and kids that needed to be taken care of, and dazed parents that needed to be walked step by step through simple directions - such as how to get dressed, a pool to generally organize and lock up, cars and belongings to collect and be driven back to Mothers - since she was going on the ambulance ride, and organizing helpers to stand in the parking lot to direct the ambulance to the correct door.  Since Father wasn't answering the phone he needed to be personally got, along with warm clothes and cell phones. And phone calls to later evening funs had to be cancelled. 

I am amazed.  I am grateful to the helpfulness of all.  From sitting with smaller children to lending underwear.  Standing in the cold outdoors with just a bathing suit to guide the EMS to cleaning up the blood bath.  To covering in prayers and not leaving his side with jokes.

I was covered.  I had already prayed 2 weeks before.  Wisdom.  It was the most perfect, worst accident the pool of 30+ years has seen.

8 staples.  No headache.  Nothing broken/fractured/sprained.  Bloody and bruised, yes.  His hands are very tender and swollen.  And they are the worst of it, pain wise.

I believe with all my heart that that accident was meant for the daredevil diver.  I believe with all my heart that my prayer changed what was meant to be.  And God was gracious and so perfect.

My heart is full of Thanksgiving.

Some Days are Good. Some Days are Bad. This Week has Been Awful.

I wish there was something great to say to the world. ... I guess the greatest thing there is to say is:  I'm still alive.  And so are the kids.  Big D . . . . . barely hanging on, ready to move into his own bachey pad.

I've been having quite a difficult week. So difficult in fact, I don't even have anything sarcastic to say about it.

The awfulness kinda started on Sunday, where the kids thought it would be grand to cry all day.  I liked that so much.  And then Murnice grew a fever.

Monday the kids cried all day.  Except I was home alone, because Big D still has a job.  And I reached an all time low of screaming and yelling, but not being satisfied with the decibel being used.  I wanted the yelps and roars to be louder.  I don't think that's ever happened to me before.  Generally, raising the voice brings some sort of relief.

Normally, I can hold everything together like a regular old adult when Big D comes home at regular time.  The count down begins at 4 pm.  And usually everyone survives.

But Monday night, Big D attended the stupidest event of the year.  Literally.

But, on our shared calender, it said that "relief" would be here at 7pm.  That's what it said.  And I literally believe the calender.  Because I have to put my hope in something.  I need to have some sort of count down.  And 7 is only 1 hour later than normal.  And I thought I might be able to be a normal adult and hang on to life in an orderly fashion for one extra hour that day.

And 7 turned to 7:30, and I had all the crying and screaming I could take for 3 years piled on top of each other.  And then I turned really ugly.  I think black tentacles crawled out of my butt.  And maybe, but I'm not sure - I turned into her.

You're probably wondering what the "stupidest event of the year" is.  And I would be pleased as punch to tell you all.

Stupidest Event of the Year:
Some big wig that probably only practices missionary position, who has way too much money and has the need to flaunt, feel important, flaunt some more and a whole array of other issues that I want to talk about but won't because I want to show Big D how much of a big normal adult I am sometimes. . . . . .decides that there is no other way possible, to show his appreciation to the world that he employs, then to throw a stupid dumb butt clam bake.

Big D finally came home around 8 - just in time to put Blessing 1 and Blessing 2 to bed.  And I was in such a sour mood, I thought it highly appropriate to write more about flushing babies down the toilet.

That put the icing on the cake.  I was in such a wicked mood when I was done.  It marinated all night, and was quite potent on Tuesday morning.

At this point Murnice was feeling better but complaining about a slight sore throat.  Ed, on the other hand could not keep his fingers out of his anus.  He was itching and scratching so bad, to the point where he would wake up in the middle of the night and ask for "man-unders" just so he could scratch his poor anus.  I thought it was a rash at first, but nothing was helping it.  In fact it was getting worse.  And then Mother suggested pin worms.

Glory be.

Our day Tuesday, was just as bad as Monday. So much gnashing of teeth.  Mainly from Ed.  Obnoxiously more so than usual.

By the time Wednesday came around, I was emotionally spent and done.  All of my grace had been used up.  Empty of patience.  Sweet words and kind smiles ran away days ago.  And I had nothing left to give.

I managed a doctor run where I was told Murnice had strep and Ed had a staph infection.

And then I went home and held my head in my hands and waited until 3, when I promptly called Big D and told him that if he cared about the sanctity of human life . . . . now was the time to show me where he stood on that whole debate.

So today is Thursday.  I've had the chance to breath 40% more than the other days.  I managed a trip to Marshalls with a 79% satisfaction rate.  I fed the kids chemicals and dye for lunch aka mac and cheese.  And I'm growing my armpit hair out.  I can almost twisty it.  I have passed out 4 kisses.  And even muttered the words "I love you".  AND I know what we're having for dinner, and it's only 4 o'clock.  Feeling almost like a queen.

Take Aways
1)  Be thankful for sperm donors who have the kindness in their heart to leave their plush, quiet offices to come hold screaming blessings.
2)  Run Away.
3)  Consciously breathe.
4)  Embrace the all time lows, it makes any other day seem glorious.

4 Pregnancies, 2 Births - 5

So I've kinda been ignoring this story.  It's hard to write when I don't feel sad.  I skimp on information, and hurry the story.  And make it sound more lovely than it is.

I left off where I just found out that I was pregnant for the second time.  I felt no bond.  I was excited, but it was an outward excitement.  My heart felt nothing.  Except betrayal.  I couldn't trust my body to grow a baby.

I was desperate to feel pregnant.  Bloated, tired, achy, nauseous, anything.  I wanted confirmation.  I wanted to be pregnant.  I wanted a baby.

I was in an odd emotional state.  Of wanting something, desperate.  But not believing, accepting.

At 5 weeks pregnant, Sister Bear had her wedding.  The wedding party had to wear all white.

5 weeks pregnant was when I lost my first baby.  I was a mess, just thinking about miscarrying and wearing all white.  I don't look at Sister Bear's wedding pictures and think, "Sister Bear's wedding".  I think - "5 weeks pregnant with a baby I never held".

I survived the wedding.

I played head games of:  I think I feel a little nauseous.  I think I feel bloaty.  But I didn't.  I felt nothing.  I called my midwives and told them I just didn't feel pregnant even though I was registering as pregnant according to pee tests.  I had more blood work done - and it confirmed that I was pregnant.  My levels were good.

I named my fetus Ned.  So when he died, I could say:  "Ned is dead."  And that was the way that I was handling my pregnancy.  Just knowing that I wouldn't hold this baby.

I still don't know if it was intuition that this baby wasn't mine.  Or if it was my nonbelief that killed Ned.

In the middle of August one weekend, I went to Pier 1 with Queen Bee.  I told her I was pregnant a few weeks earlier.  I ran into an old neighbor.  She asked if I was pregnant.  I said no.

When I got home, I used the bathroom.  And was bleeding.  I told Queen Bee to go home.  Big D had a friend over.  He got kicked out too.  I like to think about how that conversation went.  Big D:  "So, um - my wife is losing our baby, so you need to go home."  Brandon:  "Um, this is weird.  Good-bye."  (In my head, that's how the conversation went.)

The next day was Murnice's 4th birthday.  I made a tie-dye cake while wearing a big crunchy pad.  Waiting for my baby to fall out.  I cried all day.  We went to the beach.  I made 4 trips to the park bathroom.  Waiting.  Hoping that I wouldn't have to say good-bye to my baby in a dirty, sandy public bathroom.

Big D and I did the best we could celebrating.  Celebrating life. Celebrating Murnice.  Celebrating what we had been given.

We put our new 4-year-old to bed.  And around 9 that night, Ned slipped out.  The finalization is hardest.  Because there is always hope.  The devastation, rampant.  And Big D is in the shadows.  Again.  Unwilling to mourn with me, together.  Unwilling to acknowledge that this was ours.

Ned laid in the bottom of the toilet.  I did not have the heart to flush our baby.  And I did not have the strength to scoop him out.  He was just there.  And I was stuck.  Feeling so guilty for not feeling brave enough to scoop him out.

Jesus was so kind.  I had prayed earlier that it would be a gentle miscarriage.  And it was.  So peaceful, so gentle and complete. 

The end.

Struggles of a Couch Lover

I'm doing this virtual bible study called:  Good Morning Girls.  Admitted - worst, cheesiest, run-away name ever.

But I'm doing it because  . . . . um . . . . lots of reasons.  My current house of worship does not have something that makes my toes sing, I don't feel like paying money to go to community bible study (cbs), I hate packing the kids up and then spending 17 hours to do something that appears and feels holy but only gets my crunchy panties in a twist and makes me feel like drinking before lunchtime.

So this seemed to be the perfect solution.  They provide me with everything I need - minus the bible, binder, and actual paper to be printed on.  And I can participate when I want.  How I want, with no panty twisting.

After you join, you can decide if you want to do the study on your own, or with a group of people.  And you can choose your own group through their forum.  Facebook, email, text, instagram.  Some groups actually get together face to face.  I love how it is so form-able to all different lifestyles.

At first, I had my wall built up 14 cubits tall and 16 cubits wide.  (That was a bible joke)  Because remember, I struggle with women.  But being on week 3, hearts are becoming apparent.  I don't feel the need to be so guarded.  And  I like that a lot.  I also like that I don't have to actually talk.  Because talking is the worst for me.  I can just write.  And writing is good.

What I really wanted to talk about today, is something that I struggle with.  Something that's been on my mind awhile.  Something that maybe other SAHMs struggle with.  Or maybe I just do.  Because I'm such a wench. (Actually I'm not a wench, I just wanted to say "wench".)

So - being in the work world, it's easy to feel like you're doing things for God.  You're generally around people all day long.  Doing things for people all day long.  You have this sense that you're helping and giving and sacrificing.  And the opportunity to share God's love is prevalent.  The opportunity is ALWAYS in your face.

When I was off my couch working in hospitals, going to school, massaging, etc - I was always in prayer.  Seeking direction and blessings.  I was able to do hard, gross things - in the name of "love".  And it felt good.  And rewarding.   And I felt like I was accomplishing things for the kingdom of God.  And earning extra jewels for my crown.  (That's an inside joke - the jewels part)

But now I live on my couch.  Unable to leave it for more than 17 seconds before the world falls apart. I do nothing but break up fights, and hold hands to help poop come out better, and make 8 year olds repeat every word they say like an 8 year old, instead of like a baby, and fight and fight and fight over concepts that were learned 4 years ago, and sing Pippi Longstocking songs that I don't know the words to, except "squish squish".  I wash dishes with food rotted on and drink tea with backwash in it, because Ed needs his daily tea almost as badly as I need my daily tea. And my new chore is cleaning pee off the back of the toilet 34 times a day, because somebody doesn't understand the dire importance of holding their peener down while urinating.

I feel worn out and disgusting most moments of everyday. I do not feel close to God.  Nor do I feel that I'm doing anything for the kingdom.  But I know this feeling is a lie.  This job is just more trying for me than my other jobs.  I can't leave this job.  Not for a second.  I'm tired.  I'm not EVER doing anything new or fresh.  The fights I broke up yesterday, are the same today, the same song, the same dirty dish, the same pee dribble.

But because my life and days feel so monotonous, I wanted to know if there was something else that I was supposed to be doing  Something a little more exciting.  Some other way to be giving, honoring.  I wanted to know if I was missing the boat.  I feel so lazy - just sitting on my couch, holding hands.

He said, "I want you to know me".

As great as it was to hear his voice so fast, that's not the answer I was looking for, or expecting.

You see, "doing" makes us feel worthy.  Because we still hold on to this belief that we have to earn God's love.  And acceptance.

And above all else, he merely wants our heart.  Our attention, to be part of our day.  Not our acts or services.  He wants to be friends.  And he wants to share his love with us.  Because he thinks we're that great.

The end.  Minus the part where I say - I don't need any comments from anyone that says something stupid like:  being a mom is the most giving, hardest job there is.  And other things on that same note.

Take Aways
1)  When we don't feel like we're doing anything, maybe it's a sign that it's a new season.  And relationships need to be renewed.
2)  A book that has been blowing my mind. lately.  It has a wah wah write up that makes it sound like only women with bleached coiffed hair in their 50s should read it.  But not so.  Ladies who wear 3 day old rotten underwear can read it too.  And like it.
3)  While typing up "number 2", Ed took such a big swig of tea, that he erupted into choking coughs, which spewed tea everywhere.  School books.  Couch.  Clothes.  Carpet.  Nay Nay.  Computer.  I drink black tea.  My heart is leaping for joy at the moment.

Weekend Catch Up - Labor Day

Yeah, I've been slack in writing.  The problem being:  Sister Bear is in town.  And I've been spending probably, too much time with her.

Sister Bear is 37 weeks, great with child.  She also is starting a photography biznazz.  She wanted to use me and the rest of us, the Witherhalls to play around with different poses and backgrounds.  Things of that nature.  Things to broaden her portfolio.

So, she thought it would be neat to try a more "intimate" shoot.  Which included Big D and myself.

First she picked out all these clothes that were a) either plastered to my bottom.  Or, b) falling off of me in a boner-inducing way.

Then she chauffeured us in Mother's minivan out to the edge of civility.  Where we found my father hiding in the tall grass spying on a rabid raccoon covered in flies, but still alive

 Rabid raccoon and intimacy.  I was completely overjoyed.  For multiple reasons 1)  I was half dressed, and we drove to the precise location of where my father was.  2)  There was a rabid raccoon meandering about with flies.  3)  We could not see rabid raccoon approaching because of tall grass.  4)  We had to listen for rustling and watch for grass movement.  4)  I could not run in the clothes I was wearing.  5)  There were no rocks to throw when rabid raccoon with flies, appeared.

I guess the title of that photo shoot - if it had a name, would be called:  Lips and Buns.  It was not my favorite moment in time. Big D is still giggling and trying to keep his "manhood" under wraps.

Also, the least flattering moment, was when Sister Bear was doing a close-up.  And these were her precise words:  "ew!  your mustache is growing.  Relax your face!"

*AHEM*  Did that really just happen?   You just said my mustache is growing?  I mean, I know I have blonde fuzzies, but is it really that noticeable/horrific?  And then you want me to completely relax my face after saying something like that to me?

That was great.  I guess I'll just blame it on the pregnancy hormones.

Other highlights include:
1)  Having quite a few more photo shoots.  Including trespassing.  A lot.  Sister Bear is so talented.
2)  Fighting with Big D most of the weekend.
3)  Having an important man at church ask how I was.  And I told him that we were fighting.  And he felt nervous.  Maybe because I had crazy eyes.  And asked us to lunch.  And it was magical.
4)  Started a bible study called:  Good Morning Girls.  Not the best name.  But I'm trying . . . .
5)  Celebrated Murnice's birthday for the 3rd? time.  She wanted spaghetti and balls.  (she doesn't call them balls - just me) And I spent all day making a cauldron of sauce and balls - and she didn't really like it.  It's a good thing I like her.
6)  Going to a wedding.  Where Sister Bear lost it.  And Big D was in the wedding.  So it was me, with 3 wittle kids and a very pregnant hormonal emotional lady that I was in charge of.  It got REALLY exciting for about 58 minutes.
7)  Big D and I are still sleeping in the same bed = miracle.


The raccoon is no longer with us.  It happened to be in the road when Mother was driving.  One account said she ran and backed over it 5 times.  Another account said 7.  She enjoys wilderness hit and runs.  I think she likes to use it as her hand/eye coordination practice.

The end.

Worst Idea of the Year Thus Far

I'm derailing from doom and gloom today.  Just need a little break.

So, once upon a time, I woke up last Sunday with a strange persona.  Normally I LOVE just sitting home on my (fill in the blank).  But this particular morning I got dressed, looked super fancy, and fully expected to go to church.  But, Big D was incredibly grumpy and said he wasn't going.  So I made sweet, sweet love to him and whispered something along the lines of going canoeing with the kids.

This day was going exactly the way Big D would describe his wildest dreams.  Naughty Karen and then gross adventure time.  (See, I said I woke up with a strange persona.)

He eager beaver agreed.  Since this was one of his dreams for the summer.  And I quickly moved before I realized what I had agreed to.

It could not have been a more perfect day.  Weather was insanely divine.  We were text-book renters.  Arrived on time.  Grabbed the proper floatation devices.  And waited by the shuttle.  Not all the other renters where as fine as we were at following the rules.

We survived our third-world-country ride to the launch destination and were the first to be launched. That was neat, because we were the only ones with kids.  And also the only ones who hadn't canoed together.  Ever. Actually I'm making that up.  I don't know if we were the ONLY ones.  But because we were first, we were made a spectacle of.

It started out so romantic.  Big D in the back.  Me in the front.  Kids in the middle.  Perfect family.  Minus the fact that Big D had never had canoeing lessons.  And I have.  Big D thinks that in order to make a turn, you paddle really hard.  (Did I emphasize "really"?  Because when a turn appeared, it was like he turned the jet engine on in the back)

Now this quickly got old.  Quickly.  I was getting tired of crashing into the banks.  (Remember, we are in front of all the other boaters) And I decided I was going to be the steer-er. And kicked Big D to the front. He cried.  But we did not tip over.

Probably an hour into the trip things started to go from romantic to worse decision of the year thus far.  (Today I like using the words "thus far.")

I am comfortable and fine with steering.  I enjoy steering.  However, Big D still thought that he had to paddle as fiercely as he could when he spotted the next hair-pin turn.  I basically did not do any paddling - I was just a rudder.  And we were still crashing at a anger inducing rate.

An hour and a half into the trip we started noticing an alarming amount of very large spiders in our boat.  I don't know if I've shared this or not - but I don't do spiders.  If there is a choice of:  spider gets too close OR boat gets tipped - boat gets tipped.  Also, Ed decided he was tired of sitting nicely, and blue was wet - so the next sensible thing to do was to start screaming.  Which showcased Big D's very pleasant mood.  He started hooting and hollaring.  Yelling things to the other boaters.  Snarling and gnashing of teeth.  I literally wanted to whale him over the head with my oar.  But he was too far away.  Lucky for him.

The only non-complainer of the whole trip was Murnice.  Who just kept on paddling, aka hitting our oars with her oar and throwing water up on Ed and blue - which was not helping Ed's attitude, which only gave fuel to Big D's  fire attitude.

At this point I had mentally, emotionally, physically, and almost spiritually given up. My right arm was burning due to the fact that I had to keep my oar on the right side of the ship.  Emotionally I couldn't handle Ed crying and Big D being a fruit tart.  I wanted to just stop and snuggle the poor wet boy.  But I was too afraid of a) tipping over b) losing sight of the spiders c) drifting into more spider homes d) collecting more spiders e) wasting time f) never making it back home g) getting lost at sea.  My left butt bone had dug a hole through my small amount of muscle and large amount of jiggle and was sitting squarely on the hard metal seat.

And then, we came to a fork in the river aka stream.  We were with a large group of people.  And everybody went to the left.  And we went to the right.  Before I knew it, we were paddling against the current.  And everything began to escalate into a down-right emergency.  With one final dramatic huffy paddle, I threw our boat head on into the biggest, spideriest, reptile filled bank there was.  We rammed hard.  Which got Big D really excited.  I think he also realized that it was his turn to wear his grown up panties, take control, and get us home.


He started to paddle really hard.  Making his earlier jet engine look like a paddle boat.

The part that I didn't tell you, was that our boat had flipped around with my massive crash, and we were now backwards.

Big D didn't care.  He was going home.  And I decided I might be able to scrounge up the energy to help.

You know the Olympic boat races, where they're going so fast that bodies are flying forwards and then lunging backwards?  Yeah, we could have been medal contenders in the Olympics.  Ed was holding on for his dear life.  Not a peep was coming out.  Murnice had put her paddle away and was hanging on hard.

And we were flying.  I think we were actually flying up over the water, like they do in the cartoons.

Wouldn't you know that we ended up taking the short cut.  Beat everybody by a mile.  Or maybe a 1/2 mile.  I think the workers were a little confused to why the canoe was coming in at such a disconcerting speed backwards.

And that will be the last time that I EVER come up with ridiculous ideas.

Take Aways
1)  Just because you wake up with a different attitude towards life, doesn't necessarily mean you should embrace your new ideas.
2)  But if you choose to embrace your new ideas, be sure you know how long of a ride it's going to be.
3)  Or, just stay home.
4)  On the couch.
5)  And watch tv.

4 Pregnancies, 2 Births - 2

This is not my favorite thing - going back and remembering.  Trying to gather all the small parts that have made up this big part of our life.  Because there are so many small parts.  I wished I had journaled it all then.

With the birth of Murnice, I knew that I wanted to pursue something in the more natural field of medicine.  I thought a good place to start was becoming a doula.  It was a simple weekend class, read a few books - and that qualified you to attend births.  Which I wanted to do.  I wanted to be part of the magic that happens when babies enter the world.

I liked the class.  Abhorred the instructor.  And never finished the course to qualify becoming a doula.  Ok, the honest truth is - I didn't think I was good enough/knew what I was doing.  (which goes back to my lie that I'm not good enough)  And I did abhor the instructor, which didn't help with me feeling supported in pursuing.

So then I decided that I was going to go to massage therapy school.  Murnice was 18 months when I started.  I loved, loved, loved, massage therapy. I loved my classes. I loved my classmates.  I loved the consistency and schedule.  And I loved that I was at the top of my class.  I met some really great people.  And I became in the know of the body and how to naturally treat.  I loved learning.  And  I started learning about how to naturally treat infertility.  I felt like a queen.

A couple of things I remember about my infertility and going to massage school.
1)  My closest friend at school had a miscarriage (years ago) when the baby was 3 months.  She was so lovely to me during this time in my life.
2) I decided to try infertility treatment at a clinic (which I'll write about more in a bit) but for those of you who have taken Clomid - (and for those of you who have NOT taken Clomid) know that the vaginal area smells worse than 7 rotting fish carcases.  And when you smell that special, and you're naked on a massage table - you feel pretty self conscious.  Not to mention, hyped up on all sorts of hormonal highs and lows.   . . . .  I was treated so lovely and gently.
3)  In the back of my head, or you could say - in my mind's eye - I felt that at graduation I would be pregnant.  It was just a feeling I had.

With infertility, you must be baby free after trying to conceive for one full year before you are named "infertile".  After trying for almost two years to conceive I decided I wanted to give drugs a try.  Because I firmly believe that God is not always just going to hand over what's wanted.  Sometimes you have to work hard.  Sometimes you have to open yourself up to new ideas.  God has given us a brain.  And God has guided the brain to create medicine.  I remember not wanting to do the meds, but that want of a baby was bigger.

The clinic was awful.  But that was my own perception.  I walked in with an almost 3 year old.  And there was a lot of hate and anger and judgment given to me through eyes.  I felt awful parading my 3 year old around and wanting another baby.

I remember having to go to the clinic it seemed like every other day.  Getting blood drawn, checking levels, checking viable eggs.  I remember freaking out about taking Clomid - the possibility of having multiples.  And not wanting that.  To the point where if the choice was multiples or none, I was choosing none.  The medical team decided that I should take only half of the recommended dose.  I remember wigging out with having so much blood drawn.  And crying a lot.  I remember the nurse who was a Christmas Angel who was so sweet to me, and used the baby needle.  And I literally didn't feel a thing.  And I thought she was magic.  I remember when it was time to have my eggs checked, there was only a male doctor to do it.  And he was so rough and insensitive, physically and emotionally.  I am angry that I allowed somebody to treat me the way he did without standing up for myself - physically and emotionally.  I am angry that Big D just stood there watching what was happening.  But I think he was in as much shock as I was.  I never went back.  And I didn't get pregnant.

That's all I'm writing today.

Wonderland

My body is a dermatologist's wonderland right now.  The problem being:  chlorine is my enemy.

Anywhere that skin touches skin = hives, rashes, flare-ups, intense itching, and such.  Including my eye lids.

I have this incredibly sexy skin routine to help make life a tad more manageable as well as squander the rumor that I have body lice.  It is not preventative, only helps.

Here's how it goes:

1)  Before entering water, apply a thick layer of Vaseline under arms, behind legs, and (gulp) and where the sun don't shine unless Big D and I are being exciting - these are the areas that react the worst to the chlorine
2)  Immediately after exiting pool, rush to take a shower with Dr. Bronner.  Apply layer of Dr. Bronner and let sit for a minute.  Rinse off.
3)  Wipe down Vaseline area's of body with vinegar soaked cloth and let sit on skin for 1 minute.
4)  Hop around enthusiastically, pretending you're the Easter Bunny.
5)  Re-soap up body with Dr. Bronner and poof, scrubbing dangerously hard and rinse.
6)  Upon getting home for the day, apply layer of arrowroot powder via a make-up brush on Vaseline area's of the body.  This allows the body to not sweat, which exacerbates the vicious cycle of sweating, itching, move hives, etc.
7)  Right before bed, apply a thin layer of corticosteroid cream to arm and leg area.

It's more than a pain-in-the-butt.  It takes a lot of time.  My running off to the shower and minimal entrance into the pool makes me look like a weeny whiny baby . . . . . . ..  It's awkward when people touch me and they get a finger full of Vaseline (haha, that'll teach them for touching me)

And on top of all my skin pooplems, my head has decided to reject the whole idea of chlorine as well.  I sneeze all day.  Which produces massive amounts of snot.  (Do you know how hard it is to blow your nose while in the pool?)  I also look like I have a horrific case of wanky pink eye.  (I try not to get too close to the parents, for fear they'll panic, hit me over the head, and never send their children back)

So to sum things up,  I am a lust worthy lady over here.  Big D could not be more thrilled that he does not have to share the bed with the pink-eye, flea infested, Easter Bunny (get it?  The vinegar smell?)

You may ask, is it really worth it to work at a place where your body rejects your decision?  Yup.  Sure is. (Thanks for asking, by the way.)  It's like my skin is just being a naughty screamy two-year-old.  I'm not going to leave the store until I get what I came for.  You can scream all you want, but this mama ain't leaving.

This mama wants her bathroom redid.  I want to feel like a queen when bathroom duties call.  NOT like a sad turnip in a cardboard box.  Waaaaaahhh!

Take Aways
1)  Yup.

 Fun Fact
Murnice is learning how to play chess, which reminds me:  when Bruver Bear Chuck and I were kids of a reasonable age, we had to stop playing chess together.  Because, it always ended up in a bar-room brawl.  I think the reasonable age was teenagers old. Homeschoolers are cool.

17 Things That I'm in Love With

1)  I can not get enough of Manischewitz wine.  Wow, wow - in my tum.

2)  Seeing Iss for 13.49957 seconds at a funeral over the weekend.

3)  A new nephew from Bruver Bear Chuck.

4)  Being told (from my boss) that I've changed - in a good way.  (Wonder what's changed?)

5)  Workouts at Mothers.  Because we all do it together.  It's grand.  And really sweaty.

6)  Watching Bruver Bear's Wensleydale and Bobby turn into men.  Maturity AND body hair wise.

7)  The way Big D kisses me when he hasn't seen me for 3 days.

8)  The way Big D dances naughty-like for me.

9)  When Ed dances because daddy is going to get more wine at the store.  He is allowed "1 sip" from my cup - you know, a little European mentality.  This drives Big D nuts.  Absolute nuts - which of course brings me great pleasure.

10) Far-away fireworks - because somewhere somebody is either having fun, or living by the skin of their teeth doing something illegal.

11)  Big D's extra naughty dances.

12)  Fettuccine Alfredo  Um, one of the biggest o's I've had in my mouth.

13)  Murnice's headband that turns her into a crunchy soul.

14)  The Pissa Eater

15)  Ed pronouncing the word bear, "beer".  Favorite.

Take Aways
1)  I don't follow number rules
2)  It's better to work out in numbers.  Especially when people have as weak of muscles that you have.
3)  Stop judging my wine drinking.
4)  Stop judging my wine sharing with Ed.

Fun Fact
I am really digging the side pony tail and side braid.  A lot.  And you should too.

Where I've Been - Day 2

I really out did myself on the weeny whiny baby part on day two.

Weeny Whiny Fit #1
Being woken up at 7am by a very eager beaver husband who could not wait to get to our destination for the day.  Hershey Park.

Weeny Whiny Fit #2
Having the tv turned off on me while I was watching a cat hoarder show snuggled up in bed, refusing to move my bottom and thoroughly enjoying cable.

Weeny Whiny Fit #3
Fit #3 never ended.  From the time we left the hotel until the time we pulled into our driveway back home I threw a fit.  I do want to say that I really tried my hardest to remember this trip was not about me.  But there were just some times were I couldn't keep it under cover a second more.

Honestly, I view amusement parks like a chore when you have children.  There is nothing amusing about them.  Just driving to one makes me want to turn around, right back to that cozy bed I left and watch cat hoarder shows.

Things that make me hyperventilate
1)  The line of cars just to get into the park
2)  The hot sun
3)  The amount of pavement.
4)  The masses of people that are all pleased as punch that they are at Hershey Park.
5)  I don't like pleased as punch people.
6)  The lines people commit to stand in just to go on a 30 second ride.
7)  The bathing suits that should be illegal to wear.
8)  The fast-food around every corner that cost 3 arms and 2 toe-nails.
9)  The incredibly awful/creepy waiters named Julian that ask stupid questions and stare too long.
10) Big D's over exuberant attitude about staying as long as possible.

Personally, I was ready to leave around lunch time.  Approximately an hour and a half and 3 rides in.  We had officially experienced the Hersh Park.

I really turned into a 2 year old at this point.   I will not go into details.

But I guess the highlight of day 2 began when Big D finally deemed it was allowable to leave.

It started raining.  And we only had a mile to walk back to the car.  And then it went from raining to - Jesus really wanted to host a spontaneous white tee-shirt contest but you didn't have to have a white tee-shirt to participate.  And then we couldn't open our eyes.  And the parking lot that was the size of a Hawaiian Island turned into an ankle-deep watering hole.

And Big D got really excited looking at me, because I looked like a drowned sewer rat - and that look really does it for him.  Or maybe he got excited because it looked like I was wearing spandex. Who knows.  But he was paying me extra attention.

And then the arguing began.  Big D thought it would be wise and pleasant to throw everybody in the car with all of our belongings and drive somewhere to change.

Now any mother knows this is the foolishest of foolish decisions ever.  If we did that, we would never get dry the whole way home - due to the car and seats soaking up our rat-hood.

So I put my foot down hard, which caused a mighty splash.

How we went from wet to dry and had a semi-pleasant ride home until we went to the Mulberry Cafe
1)  Undressed kids in Noah's flood and threw them into the car with a semi-dry towel. (a miracle gift from God)
2)  Shouted through the window to Murnice to dry herself off and then Ed.
3)  Opened the trunk and retrieved kids clothes in approximately .00034 seconds and threw them in the car.
4)  Shouted more instructions through the window to Murnice.
5)  Wisked all drowned clothes into a pile and then found a bag collection that was supposed to go to Weggers but was forgotten about for such a time as this.
6)  Shouted more instructions to get into car seats.
7)  Adult clothes came off - all thoughts of modesty don't waft around when you are in survival mode.
8)  Laughed that we could see daddy's peener.
9)  Jumped into mostly dry car and finagled clothes on.

I would like to point out that Jesus did stop the rain for a few minutes in that 30 minute wet clothes/dry clothes dance so that we could do few vital car rearrangements.  Thank you Jesus.

Take Aways
1)  Never, never agree to discounted homeschooler tickets to amusements parks again.
2)  Smile smugly that when mother says it's time to go, that mother knows best.  And if we had left when mother said lets go - we would have been very dry and pleasant all the way home.  And had time to go to Olive Garden vs. Mulberry Cafe that ended up being a rodent hole.  AND we would have gotten home before midnight.

Guilt vs. Conviction

I've been struggling with the concept of guilt versus conviction.

You've probably seen that thingy going around on facebook.  There are two rows.  Each row has a header. One says "God" and one says "Satan".  I don't remember anything else on the list except that God brings conviction and that Satan brings guilt.

Ok.  Great.  But what does guilt versus conviction look like?.  Or feel like?  There's always that underlying feeling of "you should have done this" or "if you loved me . . ."  or "you are so unholy".  And the list never ends of these voices.  They sound good.  They sound like things I think God would say.  Because he wants us to strive for all things great and holy.

And then I got my answer.  Guilt just makes you feel guilty.  Conviction punches you in the gut.  Knocks you on your face.  And you can do nothing but beg for forgiveness, because the stench of your sin overpowers the pride to stand and ignore the offense.  It's almost like a reflex.  This hearing or reading of truth.  Penetrates to the soul.  And washes.

So there you have it.  In case you were wondering the difference.

And now it's thundering, so I must get off of this electrical device.

Take Aways
1)  God's love should never take us by surprise - but it always does
2)  I love it most when God reveals.

Fun Fact
Murnice has picked up a Florence  Nightingale book and can't put it down.  Also, I have cherry coke in the freezer and I can't stop thinking about it.