Sunday Morning Disaster

Rain + mud + worms + boys = Sunday Morning Disaster.

Relaxing is no longer an adjective that floats to the surface of my mind when I envision Sunday mornings.

Pre-children years included favorite music filling the house as we emptied our coffee cups and played footsie under the kitchen table.

Post-children years include the music of wailing as we squeeze our crew into uncomfortable church clothes intermingled with the sound of laughter as they streak through the house after their baths decked out in their “nuder-man” outfits (yes, that means naked!).  Meanwhile, the coffee maker sits collecting dust on the counter and the only thing being emptied at breakfast now are my cups of patience and joy as bowls of cereal topple off the table and lakes of milk form on my freshly cleaned hardwood floor.

All of this really gets me in the mood to go to church and be spiritual.  That’s why I’m relieved that real church isn’t a showcase for saints (oops, I missed that anointing for sainthood!) but rather a hospital for sinners.

After what happened this last Sunday, I was more than ready to raise my white hankie in surrender and admit that I sin with the best of them.  Glory hallelujah!

The children were lassoed and decked out in their outfits that included (for the boys) white long sleeved shirts and khakis (with strict instructions to not touch or even THINK about anything dirty), the mountain of Cheerios were swept up and the lake of milk was sopped up as my little soldiers were marched to the door to begin our "Exodus".  I typically begin the “Exodus” from our house about half an hour before we actually need to LEAVE for any given event as history has evidenced Murphy’s Law is a FACT with four children under age five.  

One baby loaded in the car seat and placed in the van, check.

One little girl buckled into her car seat with a handful of fruit snacks to keep her momentarily happy, check.

One three year old boy buckled into his seat with a book to read, check.

One four year old boy buckled into his seat with a book to read as well, check.

One Momma still wearing slippers…oh, snap…check.

“Okay, guys--Momma has to grab some shoes, I’ll be right back so just relax and STAY IN THE VAN, okay?”

They all nodded and I was foolishly deceived into thinking this is what things would look like when I reappeared.  I raced back outside…where I ran smack dab into my four year old son whose hand was submerged up to his elbow in a bucket of DIRT.

I did a double-take, what’s this?!  I immediately noticed His white polo shirt was now a lovely shade of brown and then he noticed a moment later that I had smoke coming out of my ears.

“Oh, Momma…" Gideon said, "I had to check to make sure the worms we caught yesterday are all alive.  Oh, wow--yup, they are.  Okay, I’ll get into the van now…oh, wait--I guess I have a little dirt on me…”

I would like to say I was very spiritual at that moment and reflected on the joys of boys and laughed about it all.  I would like to say that…but, I’ll shoot straight with ya’ll: I didn’t.  I did one of those First/Middle/Last-Name-of-Your-Child-Hollers that probably woke up the neighbors that were hoping to sleep in on a Sunday morning.  I have (quite infrequently) my saint moments, then, the rest of the time, I’m a sinner.

When Gideon and I climbed back into the van a few minutes later (with a clean shirt and dirt still under his fingernails), a little smile was starting to replace my crabby-Momma-face (thank God, that is such a bad look on me!).  When Gideon caught my eye in the mirror as he buckled back into his seat, I winked at him and his face lit up in a smile of his own, all was forgiven.  If God can forgive me for being a SPAZ about LITTLE things, for freaking out when I should take a moment to think before I speak, then how much MORE should I be quick to forgive my children who sometimes mess up in little ways.

I backed out of our driveway and headed towards the hospital for sinners…that was just the kind of place I needed to be on a Sunday morning like this.  I had some dirt of my own that needed to be cleaned up.

The Crazy Arby Derby

I loaded my crew into our mini-van and grabbed my cell phone while I was backing out of the Arby’s parking lot.  I couldn’t wait to call my husband.

“Well, that was fun taking all the kids to Arby’s for lunch.”

“Wait a minute!”  My husband replied on the other end, “Did you just say ALL THE KIDS, ARBY’S and FUN in the SAME sentence?”

I always feel naively optimistic upon entering any establishment to eat when I’m flying solo with my fab four in tow.  Either I’m subscribing to the “Ignorance is Bliss” theory or my hunger takes over the logical part of my brain that is screaming, “Don’t do it!  Get out while there is still time!” 

 

With the smell of curly fries and roast beef luring me in, I succumbed to the magical spell of Arby’s.  Once we were inside, I unloaded my four-year-old, three-year-old, and one-year-old into a booth and scooped the baby into my arms.  I would have to have to leave my three darlings for a moment to go up front and order, but I wouldn’t leave them alone, I was leaving behind the Holy Spirit, I mean-The Holy Fear of Their Momma!  

“Sit here,”  I said, locking eyes with my wiggly Judah to make sure he heard so he would be without excuse on the day of judgment, “Please be good.  Don’t stand on the table, on the booth or your brother’s head.  Don’t eat food off the floor, don’t lick the windows and most importantly, DON’T MOVE.  I’ll be right back with yummy food for those who have resisted the temptation of acting on every crazy thought that pops in their heads!!”  My children looked like angels as I backed…slowly…away, keeping them in my line of sight as I stepped into the food line to order.

Thankfully, only one lady stood in front of me in line.  Un-thankfully (is that a word?!), she had probably been a live witness to Noah’s Ark and the Great Flood and was apparently going to be paying for her entire order in…pennies!  Dear Lord, I prayed, this is going to take a miracle to get back to my kids in under a century.  Please make them behave.  

One glance towards those three little angels quickly assured me it would take a miracle to get my unattended children to behave, as in the good Lord Himself showing up (bolts of lightning and a loud, booming voice would sure sweeten the deal).

It was like “Home Alone: Arby’s Booth Edition” at the table, it looked like a game of The Muskrat and The Weasel was in full-swing as Jude, Gideon and EvaLee laughed gleefully and chased each other under the table and through the booth seats, stopping now and then to investigate a fry that was squished into the carpet.

I tried to appear calm and collected as I bounced Gabby on my hip and casually glanced at Grandma Penny at the counter.

“Let’s start over,”  The clerk smiled at the sweet little lady, “Here’s five pennies, six, seven, eight, nine….yes, mam’, the total is $6.84 again.  Okay, where was I?  Oh, yes: nine, ten, eleven…”

I tried not to lose my place in line as I did my best to send a discreet evil eye at the boys (EvaLee is still young enough to qualify for Momma‘s “Get-Out-of-Jail-Free-Card“) but they were too busy having fun to notice the smoke coming out of my ears.  They were all popping over the booth like a group of Jack-in-the-Boxes on speed.  Finally, Gideon caught my eye and I took the golden opportunity to hiss things like, “Sit down!” and “Be quiet, stop that!” without actually making any noise as I didn’t want to draw any more attention to them or me.  I figured the neon sign over the kids, flashing “CRAZY, HUNGRY, SILLY CHILDREN HERE!!” was enough excitement without the a side-show of their mother shouting and hopping around across the restaurant.  I was praying Gideon could read lips…and deeply furrowed brows.

Speaking of praying, I was also praying Grandma Penny would suddenly unearth a ten dollar bill from her tiny knitted purse and we’d all get to order before the new year!  My heart sank as I heard the clerk still counting, “…seventy-five, seventy-six, seventy-seven…”.  Sweet Jesus!  I was just reaching into my own purse to throw a twenty on the counter and save us all from celebrating our retirement in the Arby’s order-line when the clerk exclaimed, “…and that should do it, Mam’!  You’re all set!”

I breathed a sigh of relief when all of the sudden my ears filled with The Bang Heard ‘Round the World: my wiggly three-year-old, Judah, attempting to stand with full force under the table and banging his head as a result.  The sigh of relief I had just been breathing froze mid-breath as I waited for it…and waited…yes, there it was, THE CRY.

Judah’s waaaambulence went off in FULL glory, giving every fire-truck and police-car in town a run for their money.

He bolted like an Olympic Sprinter towards me (I always wonder how much pain they could be feeling if they can run with that amount of focus and speed!) and jumped into my arms where he received (in addition to the attention of EVERY Arby’s patron) a kiss from me that silenced all his woes.  Just like that, he smiled and returned to the Boisterous Party at Booth #5.

I finally placed our order and reunited with my long-lost sanity and children.  We were just finishing the last of our milkshakes when a stooped elderly gentleman approached our table, his eyes twinkling as he leaned in towards us,

“Your children are so well behaved.”  

A milkshake never taste so interesting as when it comes through one’s nose when they attempt to suppress delirious laughter.

“Thank you, sir,”  I replied, “Um…you mean these children?  Did you see them while I was in line?”

He smiled and nodded, “Yes, I sure did and they are good.  I was so blessed watching you all eat and how nice of kids you have here.  I was just remembering my own children.  My baby boy just turned forty-five.”

Wow, forty-five, I thought, when my oldest is four, that feels like centuries away!  But time is short…life is short.  I thanked the sweet old man and as I watched him shuffle out the door, it felt as if life suddenly slowed down a bit.  I turned around and looked at each of my children, trying to freeze in my memory that moment in time, a moment I would never have again: Gabby chewing on a French-fry, covered in drool, EvaLee loudly slurping the last of a milkshake with a happy expression on her round face, Judah trying to nonchalantly slide under the booth (for the hundredth time, what exactly is the attraction to that spot!?) while I shook my head “no”, and Gideon jabbering away with his report from the front-line about any sibling that was committing a misdemeanor I may have missed.

Yep, that’s life sometimes.  Messy, loud, hectic…and fun.  I wouldn’t trade it for a million quiet dinners with the most famous people of the world at the fanciest restaurant in town.  So when I called Bob a few minutes later and said, “Well, that was fun taking all the kids to Arby’s for lunch.”, I really DID mean it.

Meltdown Momma!!

I try to have a melt down at least once a month.

Okay, so I don’t actually try to…it really comes quite naturally.  And the whole “once a month” thing isn’t an actual goal, but I do seem to be making that quota as overall as I’m batting about 12 for 12 (12 melt-downs in 12 month’s time).

Here are the necessary ingredients that combine to create my monthly recipe for disaster; too many goals (my fault), too little sleep (my fault), too much striving in my own strength (my fault), too big of pride to ask for help (obviously, my fault again) and last (but certainly not least), too many unused Kleenexes in our home that are feeling lonely and need to fulfill their nose-wiping/mascara-swiping destiny.

I could perhaps blame it on the busyness of life with four tiny blessings underfoot each day…but I was still batting 12 for 12 when I had just one kid.  So maybe if I was child-free I could cope with life’s stresses in a more balanced way.  Hmm…sounds like a nice theory, but again, reality tells a different story as my husband has many fond recollections of hanging up his “The Doctor Is IN” sign on a monthly basis during our dating and newlywed years to be my listening ear as I bawled my eyes out.

And, honey, don’t even THINK that I was melt-down free before I had a man because let me tell you, then the tears came even more frequently as I lamented the void of good-hearted men in the universe.

In conclusion, the only common denominator in these monthly melt-downs is.... Moi’ (note to any men reading: don’t assume this always fell during the “Pass My Shotgun” week as there were the plenty of occasions when it didn’t).

The funny (or not so funny, depending on if you’re my husband or not) thing about Mama’s Meltdown Day is it could strike at any moment though it is usually preceded by days of suppressed feelings (most of which I haven’t had time to analyze and figure out) and if you throw in a few diaper-explosions or burnt dinners, the great day could arrive even sooner than anticipated.

When “Mama’s Meltdown Day” does arrive, it is sure to never dissapoint in the amount of drama that it produces.  “Days of Our Lives” and “As the Stomach Turns” have nothing on me.

The ideal setting for the meltdown to take place is usually someplace that gives off a pathetic vibe and isn’t too cheery because misery loves lame company.  I try to hold it together (ever the brave, sacrificing marter of motherhood that I am) until the children are napping or watching a movie in the hopes they won’t land in therapy when their older for being a live witness to a hysticarl alien taking over their normally happy mother and watching her inhale an entire box of Kleenexes in a single breath.

Once these elements are in place; children distracted, Kleenexes in hand, dark corner of the bathroom located, and (bonus) a quick glance in the mirror to remind myself I’m truly pitiful (greatly helps if I didn’t have a chance to change out of my pajamas and never put on make-up or did up my hair)...then the dam breaks.  Look out Hoover, you have real compition now.

Of course, it gets rather boring just crying, eating Kleenexes, dwelling on all of the negative things in my life (NO positive thinking or praying allowed!!) and just SITTING there, so after awhile, I do what any responsible and accomplished woman would do: call your man and share the love.

Since my man isn’t always aware that Mt. Meltdown has been having some suspicious activity under the surface the previous week, when he first picks up the phone and hears me sobbing on the other side, unable to articulate what’s happening, the hair on his back stands up in alarm.  Is she okay?  Was their an accident?  Did something happen to one of our kids?  Is the house on fire (or, more likely, dinner?)…did the car break down?  

“Baby!  Talk to me!  What’s wrong?”  His worried tone is fuel for my fire.

“I can’t do this…it’s so hard!”

“What’s hard?  Are you okay?  Where are the kids, dear?”  

“They’re watfching Sesame Street, don’t worry about them.  Ths is about ME.  I’m NOT fine!  I’m having a…(tears)…a….(sobbing)….a…(deep, ragged breath)…a MELTDOWN!!!”

“Oh.”  His voice sounds relieved, “That’s good.  I thougth something was wrong.”

Ah, men.  No wonder they have a shorter life expectancy than women.

Work deadlines will have to be pushed back an hour…or year…while I pour out my woes and unload the burdens of this world onto the hefty shoulders of my own John Wayne.  The only feedback needed from the man on the other end of the line are these words,  “Yes.  Oh.  Uh-huh.  Really?  Yes.  I UNDERSTAND.”  Of course, when the dumptruck of emotions has unloaded, I can think a little more clearly and realize I am an desperate need of some quiet time with God.  As strong as my man’s shoulders are, he can’t carry my burdens for me.  The only One that can is the One that promised me, “Cast your cares upon me, for I care for you.”

Well, there you have it.  That’s a moment-in-the-Mama’s-Meltdown-Day for you.  It’s nothing fancy, not something I’m proud of and typically I am at fault for arriving to that point.

But, the way I see it, if I DIDN’T have a monthly meltdown then,

1.  The Kleenex company would be out of business.

And,

2.  I wouldn’t realize how desperately I am a sinner in need of a Saviour (and having a good man and a bucket of icecream helps too).

Fear Factor: Dinner Edition

Do I have picky toddlers when it comes to new foods?  No way…at least not if they have a napkin to spit into on stand-by!  


We are always trying new foods around here.  In fact, just the other day I made them try something new, their daddy’s favorite dinner: Green Bean Casserole.  I think casserole is a code name for any food that could do moonlighting in little glass jars and be sold as baby food.  Don’t get me wrong, I love casseroles!  And the leftovers in my fridge are always happy to find a new home in my 9x13 pan and a new identity with a last name of “casserole”! 

Here’s how tonight’s new food tasting went down:


My four-year-old, Gideon, was the first one to sit in the electric, I mean, dining room chair.  He poked at the Green Bean Casserole (a delicious mix of green beans, rice, ground beef and cream of mushroom sauce) as if it were home to a live alien that would at any moment jump off his plate and attack him.  It took a bit of gentle encouragement (such as, “Eat it or else, kid!”) before he finally took a bite so small it would take a microscope to identity what actually traveled the 1,000 miles from his plate to his frowning mouth.


Once the ¼ sized granular of rice with one microgram of sauce hit his tongue, all hell broke loose.


There was great convulsing as he franticly flapped his arms, gasping with great difficulty around the piece of food in his mouth, “Need napkin...napkin PLEASE!!!”

My eyes were rolling as my hand supplied him with the requested emergency extraction tool.  Soon all was right in the world again as he sealed the offending morsel of food in the napkin and politely placed it on the edge of his plate.


“Okay, I tried it!”  Gideon smiled broadly at his shocked audience.


Hmmm…not exactly what I had in mind!


Thankfully, his younger brother, Judah, had missed the Broadway production since he had been using the restroom while Gideon had been risking his life on the “Fear Factor: Dinner Edition” show.  Little did Judah know as he plopped into his chair the road of great peril and danger that lay ahead for him.


“What’s this?”  He asked as he poked at the casserole pile on his plate.  Yes, they are definitely brothers!

“Me not like this stuff.”  


An evil eye from his mother did an amazing thing to his transform his choice of words.


“I mean, this is not my favorite.”  Judah decided he wanted to live to tell about this dinner.

Gideon rushed onto the scene to save the day for his discouraged Momma and said, 


“Just try it, Jude.  I took a bite!”  Wow, that was surprising.  I was feeling good about Gideon’s encouragement and just as Jude was about to try it, Gideon added,


“I just spit it in a napkin after I tried it.  Just have a napkin ready!”


Okay…I just lost that loving feeling.

Judah’s fork was emptied quickly…back onto his plate as he shook his head, 


“Me not want that!”  After numerous attempts by Judah to place the food into his mouth, the brave, brave boy finally succeeded with a bite that was actually followed by a swallow.


We all waited with baited breath and my heart soared with hope: here my toddler is, trying a new food and I think he’ll actually like it!


This soar of hope was followed by a quick crash landing as the napkin he had on stand-by (per his brother’s recommendation) was suddenly filled and sealed, joining his fellow regurgitation-holding-buddy on Gideon’s plate. 


“Now what’s to eat, Momma?”

Our lives are certainly never dull on “Fear-Factor: Dinner Edition” at the Cole place.  Next casserole I have in mind: Thai (you-up-to-get-you-to-eat-it) Casserole.  Stay tuned for our next episode…

Why I Decided to Home-School

It’s official: I'm home-schooling.

I have decided it's pretty much the BEST way to do things as a parent.

You see, during my P.P.D. (Pre-Parent Days), I thought I had it all figured out.  I figured I would bring little Sally/Jonny into this crazy world and teach them EVERYTHING they would ever need to know.  I would be their main source of knowledge and truth, with God as my side-kick, of course.  Although that statement is a bit exaggerated, it definitely was the basic foundation of my P.P.D. theology.

Imagine my great surprise when I realized this truth: my children may teach me MORE then I ever teach them!  Thus, I have decided to grab my favorite Strawberry Shortcake pencil (old passions die hard), a wide-ruled notebook and put on my “listening ears and watching eyes” (as an old teacher of mine used to say) and be “home-schooled”!

That’s right: I’M going to be “home-schooled” by a group of teachers that hold an impressive variety of degrees from P-U College (the ones still in diapers), California Institute of Wreck-ology (Mr. Judah hails from here with honors) and John Hoppin’ (all-over-the-place) University.  

I’m discovering there is always more that can be learned in topics that I thought I had already aced in elementary school; such as reading, writing and arithmetic.  Reading took on a fresh meaning when I confirmed one really can read Dr. Seuss books until your eyes are ready to fall out of their sockets and the teachers will still NOT be satisfied, they will demand, “Read it ONE more time, please!!”.  Writing has definitely become a creative art when my teachers show me the variety of places one can use pencils, pens and (my personal fave) permanent markers.  I once again remembered that math has never been my favorite subject when we recently tried to solve this problem: 4 children + 1 mama + 5 errands=1 headache > anything Tylonol can solve.

Least you think it’s all work and no play for little Mommy, be assured, games abound at Cole University!  Recently, my sanity and I played Hide and Seek when I was trying to get everybody ready for church and I lost my mind.  It’s still missing.  The classic “Duck, Duck, Goose” took on a fresh meaning when fellow-pupil, Daddy, got a bit rambunctious during recess while spinning Ms. EvaLee in a circle.  Jude ducked, Gideon ducked and Mama got the goose-egg.

Yet the most invaluable lessons that have been taught at Cole University since it was founded in 2006 are the subjects I hadn’t previously realized I was so very lacking in; having important priorities, patience and a child-like heart.

I love to watch my tiny professors teaching these lessons in hands-on ways, such as the other day when Mr. Judah stooped down to comfort his little sister who was bawling her eyes out over her first real owie, a skinned knee.  

“Don’t worry, EvaLee.  Sometimes it’s blood, but sometimes it’s just ketchup.”  He stood by her side the whole time I was cleaning her knee, his pudgy hand gently holding her tiny one.  As I carefully stuck a Disney Princess band-aid on her knee, I wondered if I was as gentle as Judah with those who are suffering in my own life.  Do I take time to weep with those who weep and rejoice with those who rejoice?  (Romans 12:15) That’s just one of the important priorities they have taught me.

Another priority they have taught me (reminder lessons are needed often!) is that the cleaning, errands and busyness of life can wait: these precious little people won’t always fill our homes with noise and laughter.  They won’t always poke their head into the kitchen and ask (for the fifth time), “Mommy, are you coming to read me “Monkeys Jumping on the Bed?”.  They may not always light up like a Christmas tree when you say, “Who wants to play a game with me?”.  But the dirty dishes will always be there (unless you hire a maid, we can dream!) and the “To Do” list will never end.

As for patience, I thought I was a VERY patient person until I had kids (just like I thought I was a pretty selfless person until I got married!).  One of the recent “Patient Tests” I have taken at Cole University involved having all the kids loaded in the van, one kid missing inside the house and discovering him (name not mentioned to protect the un-innocent) piling enough toilet paper into the potty to fill the Grand Canyon.  My ideal response would have been to calmly enter into a dissertation with this particular teacher about the pros and cons of waste-management.  As it were, I think our 90-year-old-neighbor called over to say that I hollered aforementioned boy’s name loud enough to be heard by her, which being heard by Ms. Helen regardless of the distance, is truly one of the Seven Wonders of the World.

I’m still hoping God was grading that test on a curve.  As the saying goes, I need patience and I need it NOW.

I don’t know how many degrees you earn in a school that you attend for 18 plus years and in all truth, I don’t really care, I’m just hoping to graduate someday!  Through these past few years, the most treasured lesson I have encountered is the child-like heart that I’m blessed to observe on a daily basis and, to my even greater joy, capture in my own life in the smallest of ways.

The faith to believe in everything from Santa Clause to the possibility that the snow will melt and spring will actually come to Wisconsin.

The innocence in the naivety of not knowing any evil or darkness in our world, with the exception of cartoon bad-guys that wear all black and have overly evil, deep-throated laughs and maybe a night spent with out a nightlight.

The joy in whom God made them to be and all the special things He created in this world; from the tiny ladybugs they love to observe for hours and then gleefully squish, to the funny way the squirrel outside our window eats an acorn.

The humility of spirit when you compliment something special they did or said only to have them offer up a shy grin and say, “Thanks. I don’t know why, I just can do that stuff and be good at it.”

It’s been another amazing day in my “home-school” class and I am just hoping my teachers will grade on a curve because I have a LOT more learning to do.