confessions of a soggy mama

Makeover Midnight Monday

2012-01-30T22:26:00.000-05:00

I thought having a weekly post on here would make me more inclined to blog regularly, and keep track of the quiet little happenings in our quiet little life. It doesn't. It stresses me out. And really... My mom is pretty much the only one who reads this, and I can just call her and say, "Hey, mom! Guess what I decoupaged today?!" And she'll be all sweet and tell me how brilliant I am and how pretty I am and how perfect I am. And it's just much easier and less stressful.

But my sister Gwenn asked for a Makeover Monday post. And here's the thing: Gwenn is a missionary in Haiti, where she spends her time ministering to the downtrodden and disease-stricken impoverished masses. And gets lots of tattoos. But that's neither here nor there. The point is-- I know that, in the scope of her encounters with cholera and earthquakes, she doesn't really care about how Hobby Lobby is having a special on Mod Podge. But she was sweet enough to ask, and for that alone: Gwenn, this one's for you.

A couple of summers ago, an Amish family had a gigantic yard sale in their barn. They had all sorts of amazing ~~crap~~ vintage treasures for cheap. Blue mason jars for a dime, an antique metal lunch pail for twenty-five cents (which now houses the girls' "tools" thankyouverymuch). It was a pack rat's dream come true.

I found this for fifty cents:

I felt a little nostalgic when I saw it, as I am pretty sure that we have a photo of my pint-sized dad in a similar chair. Only his might have been red. Also, I might have made that up. I can't remember. Regardless, it was 50 cents, and it made me happy, and it came home with me (after I somehow managed to cram it into the backseat of my ex-car, our Mazda Scrotege. Yes, that's really what we called it. As in, Evie would say, "Hey, Mom! Are we taking Dad's truck or your Scrot to the grocery store today?" Parents.of.the.year, I tell you.)

Normally, I like to leave vintage stuff the way that it is. But this was looking kinda craptastic in my house, and Chris would give me the Stink-Eye whenever he happened to look at it. He doesn't share my love of... you know... rust.

So I took her apart.

That, folks, is 50 years worth of smashed up bananas and toddler goop. Blech.

I covered up her lady-parts:

What does that even mean? I am not sure why I just typed that.

And sprayed her down.

Because I couldn't find any vinyl fabric in a pattern I liked, I used iron-on vinyl and some fabric I had laying around to make the chair cover, and also replaced the rotting-asbestos-black-mold-of-death padding.

Voila!

And there you have it. A cute little vintage-ish high chair that is mostly useless because I didn't put the screws back correctly when I was reattaching the seat. And Chris hates it too much to fix it for me. So there you have it. A cute little vintage-ish death trap.

Is it bad that I still let Cana sit in it?

Poor middle child.

Makeover Monday: nursery before and after

2011-12-25T23:17:00.000-05:00

I hope everybody had an amazing Christmas! Ours was super low-key and relaxing. And by relaxing, of course I mean imbibing a ridiculous number of Christmas cookies, picking up bits of Moon Sand smashed into the carpet (what part of me thought that was a good idea?!), and playing with my new (old) 1918 paper cutter (my husband knows me so well). I thought about doing a Christmas post on some of the gifts/crafts that I made this year. But then Chris told me (truthfully) that one of the gifts, a unicorn costume for my eerily unicorn obsessed daughter, looked more like a pig in a party hat. So I decided that perhaps it wasn't worth a post. But I definitely am going to be adding some cute pictures of my adorable little lovies enjoying their Christmas! So grab a cup of cocoa and stay tuned. Organic cocoa made with local, raw, grass-fed cow milk, of course. 'Cause I am crunchy like that. Really.

When we moved in to the Crack House, we planned to make the smallest bedroom into the nursery. It didn't seem horrible at first glance, but there had been some water damage that had to be repaired. The previous tenants, when they realized that water was coming into the room from the exterior, lifted up the corner of the carpet and coated the seam with spray foam. Great idea for keeping out moisture. (Did you catch that? That was sarcasm. Using spray foam to seal a leak = water coming into the house elsewhere. Truth.)

While it wasn't cosmetically the worst part of the house, it did need some work to waterproof it and repair the water damage.

We painted, and replaced the ceiling tiles and carpet.

It's an itty-bitty room, so it's hard to photograph...

but I think it's sweet and cute. For a sweet and cute little baby.

Not that she has ever actually slept in her crib. In fact, I am currently petitioning the Household Manager to let me turn the nursey into a playroom. So far it's a no-go.

I like decorating baby rooms-- but I am not really into "cutesy" nurseries. I'd rather something that can last for a while. Unless you decide to turn it into a playroom, of course. What about you? Are you into Winnie the Pooh and pastels? Pretty pinks and boyish blues? How did you decorate your nursery for your babies?

Thrifty Thursday: vintage pulley-- what would you make?

2011-12-23T08:30:00.000-05:00

I know I said I wasn't going to make T.T. regular, and I'm not... but this is one of my thriftiest finds yet. 'Cause it was F-R-E-E!

I understand that some girls want fancy jewelry and electronics this Christmas.

Not me.

I am perfectly happy rummaging though shelves at Goodwill and rifling through other people's curbside trash (you think I jest?). So you can imagine my excitement when Chris got me a "present" (ie, found this super cool vintage pulley in the rafters of our barn). He was all excited to give it to me, which is how I know that he secretly loves my dumpster diving habit, and can't wait to see what I pick up next on the side of the road. Right, honey?

I already had an idea when he gave it to me, as I had seen this photo in Dwell magazine months ago:

But a quick pinterest search yielded some other fun stuff (sorry, I couldn't relocate some of them and can't give credit to their owners):

I am kinda partial to the first hanging pendant lamp-- maybe beside my bed in lieu of a lamp? Or maybe the globe light in a future homeschooling space? Somehow I feel as though the pulley bookends wouldn't have the same aesthetic affect when propping up my stack of smutty Sophie Kinsella novels. But the possibilities are endless! What's your favorite? Any other brilliant pulley ideas for me? Anyone else like ~~crapping up~~ beautifying their homes with other people's castoffs?! Tell me about it!

Advent--welcoming the Savior

2011-12-20T08:00:00.000-05:00

Oh, yes. Oh my word! Yes, come in! Please. Welcome!

I am so sorry... I was really hoping to be better prepared for You.

Wait, hold on a sec. Shoot, yeah. That's the baby crying... lemme grab her. My apologies.

Ummm, wow. Where are my manners? Have a seat. (Cana, hush! We have company!)

I'm really embarrassed. I had hoped to have the house cleaned up more.

See, I had it all planned out in my head. Candles, music, clean and well-behaved children.

Sorry, I'm so tired. Frazzled. And oh, my kids are making me crazy tonight.

(Evie, stop kicking your sister! He's here--He said he would come and He is here!!)

Yeah, sorry. I know this is totally not ideal... I was really hoping that we could sit and chat. It's been so long since we've really talked.

How can You get a word in edgewise amidst all this din?

But oh. Please don't go.

What I am trying to say is, I need You here. I desperately need You to stay. And yes, I am going to have to interrupt You sixty times so I can change a diaper or wipe a nose or kiss a boo-boo.

But I've invited You here. And I've been waiting for so long.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Oh, yes. Wait, what? Is that You? Really?

We're so sorry-- You'd think we'd be better prepared for You.

Wait, hold on a sec. Are you serious? A baby crying in a manger? My apologies that we didn't have room.

Wow, where are my manners? Have our treasures.

Here's our incense, our myrrh.

We're really embarrassed; we were hoping to have our hearts cleaned up more.

See, we had it all planned out in our heads. A military coup, a prosperous society, well-nourished children. We are so tired.

You're really here. You said You would come and You are here.

Sorry. I know this is totally not ideal. I can't believe that we can sit and chat... the face that Moses was forbidden to see, the face he longed to see... we can really talk.

How can You get a word in edgewise amidst all this din?

But oh. Please don't go.

What we are trying to say is, we need You here. We desperately need You to stay. And yes, we will spit on Your face. And yes, we will deny You three times. Yes, we will mock You and hang You on a tree and kill You.

But we've invited You here. And we've been waiting for so long.

Makeover Monday: Pottery Barn Pinterest Project

2011-12-19T08:00:00.000-05:00

Please pardon the piddliness of this post.

Projects are plentiful and pending ~~completion~~ perfection.

(How about that thar alliteration?! Shout out to Miss Dixon, my sixth grade language arts teacher. Who got married to a man but then left him for my female 10th grade language arts teacher. True story. Boo.)

No, of course I didn't just google a synonym for "completion". Ahem.

Awesome alliteration aside, this is just a quickie post about one of the Pinterest projects I've done lately. What's that? You're not on Pinterest? Well, by all means, stop caring for your kids and preparing meals for your husband and get on over!!

I saw this bad boy at the Pottery Barn outlet several months ago, and I fell in love a little bit:

But it was $69.00.

The heck you say.

So when I saw something with a similar look on pinterest a while back, I whipped ~~my hair back and forth~~ it up.

I had some of the materials on hand, and grabbed the rest for about $2 at the thrift store (brass candlesticks and old cake pans multiply like bunny rabbits on the shelves of Goodwill-- so easy to find.) I have also seen people use new cake pans, but I like ~~old crusty crap~~ the weathered patina.

A little spray paint and Gorilla glue later, my own little tiered cake stand cutie:

Ok, so yeah. I like the Pottery Barn one better too. But considering that I spent about $5 total and not $69 + taxes and tags, I think it's a decent stand-in. How about you? Have you made any Pinterest projects lately? Are you a compulsive pinner like me?

What's that? You actually prefer to play with your kids instead of mindlessly browsing images of houses you will never own? Me, too.

Of course.

Thrifty Thursday-- Dish it up

2011-12-15T22:07:00.000-05:00

Just kidding. I don't think I am doing a weekly feature on ~~crap~~ amazing stuff I got at the thrift store. But I don't know... I do get some incredible things there. Just ask my husband. He loves it when I bring home amazing stuff from the thrift store. Really.

Like these bad boys:

What's that? You're not impressed?!

I should have seen that coming.

You see, the thing about me? I have a fetish for vintage schoolhouse stuff. Wait, does "fetish" only apply if it's some kind of sexual preference? I think it might. In which case, I definitely do not have a schoolhouse fetish. I just really really like it.

Which is kinda weird, considering that I haaaaated elementary school. I mean, ugly-cried every morning and begged my mom not to make me go to Mr. Clymer's class. (I called that one, though. He totally ran off with one of my classmate's moms that year. Bad egg.) I was the fat kid who got teased all the time. Which is weird, cause I wasn't really a fat kid. Now I am the fat kid, and people don't really tease me for it. At least not to my face. Go figure.

Ahem. Anyway. I digress.

Don't these trays remind you of your elementary school days (before they started hating the earth and using stryofoam)? Can't you just picture the little chocolate milk box and the little pizza rectangle (wait- maybe I was the fat kid.), all nestled sweetly into their own little space?

They make me smile, in all of their pee-yellow and puke-orange glory (there's more colors, but that friend, is another amazing post). Next I am totally getting a hair-net and doling out mashed potatoes with an ice cream scoop. Oh yes, I am.

My kids think they are the shiz-stinking-nit. Smart kids.

God love the Goodwill, for making this schoolhouse-~~fetished~~ smitten mama smile, one ugly plastic tray at a time.

She made the paper!!

2011-12-14T00:36:00.001-05:00

Last week, when we were out enjoying Christmas in the Park, a photographer for the local paper asked if he could take a picture of the girls.

Not shocking, right?

'Cause who wouldn't want to peruse the paper with their morning cup of coffee and stare at these wee beauties?!:

I mean, come the heck on!

So when we received our paper the other day, I eagerly thumbed to the community section, past the Help Wanted ads, past the girls' basketball scores (who CARES?!) and found....

Wait for it...

Keep waiting...

It's gonna rock your world...

Keep scrolling...

*Sigh*. Almost missed it, but I recognized that little pink and black jacket.

You win some and lose some, babe. I really hope that wasn't the entirety of Evie's 15 minutes of fame, or else she got J.I.P.P.E.D.

Makeover Monday--my little kitchen

2011-12-12T07:30:00.000-05:00

When we bought our house a year and a half ago, we had been looking for a loooong time for an investment property: at least two units, with a large barn or garage for Chris's production business. We finally found our new place--less than a mile from our old apartment and PERFECT for us. Well, let me clarify. The house part of the property was perfect for us. 4 bedrooms, hardwood floors, clean... lots of character. But Chris didn't want us to live in the nice, clean, perfect-for-us house. Oh, no. You see, in the back of the property, there's a warehouse. A garage. A barn. Whatev. 5000 square feet of crusty old space. And Chris wanted us to live there. Of course he did. 800 square feet of the garage had been converted into a very small, very poorly built apartment. We took one look at it and ~~affectionately~~ dubbed it "The Crack House". And this was to be my home sweet home.

I fought tooth and nail to get my way. But in the end, and for multiple reasons, I am so glad I lost that battle. I love my little ~~garage~~ house and I wouldn't trade it for anything. As we have had money, we have been renovating every inch of it-- and adding lots of inches, too (about an additional 1000 square feet, by means of adjoining the apartment with empty garage space)! If you're in the marble counters and Viking appliances design camp, my little house will probably do nothing for you. We ain't fancy folk. But if you're into, uh... goodwill glam?... then come on in. You'll be right at home!

Here's the kitchen before:

That's it. If you can look beyond the pink countertops and complete lack of prep space, you will notice that itty table on the right. That was their only dining space, and there was no pantry or other storage (you can kinda see where they kept all their food on a shelf in the corner). There's nothing wrong with this, per se. But there is NO way that this would be practical for 2 adults and (then) 2 kids. The doorway on the right (directly before the table) went into one of the bedrooms-- really kinda messing up the feng shui in the kitchen. (Errr, what I am trying to say-- it took away useable space in the kitchen. ;) ) The whole place was literally falling apart (which you can't really tell from the above pics) and smelled like 5000 dogs had died there.

What's that you say? Water-soaked drop ceiling tiles aren't your thing?!

Yeah, me neither.

A word about peel-n'-stick vinyl tiles. I have nothing against them. My boyfriend Nate Berkus uses them all the time. But if you apply them OVER CARPET and the carpet gets wet--- you create a Stank-Nasty-Black-Mold-of-Death-Breeding-Hot-Mess. You can quote me on that.

But, lucky for me and my Black-Mold-of-Death-hating-self, my husband's got a jack hammer. And he knows how to use it. (Heh. That sounded dirty.) He started with gutting the kitchen (we saved the cabinets and reused them in the garage. But that pink countertop went straight to Ugly Countertop Purgatory where it's currently petitioning the Ugly Countertop Gods to let it come back into style someday.)

Then he put a hole in the wall, into our future living room.

(It's a good thing he's got lots of truss, or else how else would we hold up the ceiling?)

"This is already much better," I am thinking to myself. "Now I can wash dishes and keep an eye on my kids while they ~~watch PBS Kids until their eyes get red and pussy~~ errr, play with their Waldorf dolls and imagine stuff."

So, a couple hundred trips to Lowes, a crap-ton of awesome ~~slaves~~ friends and a couple dozen pizzas later:

This is coming into the kitchen--the same view as the first "before" pic.

We (and by we of course I mean Chris and our ~~slaves~~ friends) moved that ill-placed door on the right to a separate wall, freeing up that kitchen wall for more counter-space and cabinets. He also replaced all the insulation, replaced the florescent lights, and tore out the drop-ceiling and replaced it with drywall.

My walls are "grellow" and brown-- which makes me think of mint chocolate chip ice cream. Which is fitting, since this place used to be Rosey's Ice Cream Factory, dating all the way back to the 1940's. (See that pic on the wall? That is a calendar page from an original Rosey's ad! Incidentally, Ruby was almost named Rosey. Is it too late for a do-over?)

View from the living room. There was initally Pergo flooring in here, but same issue as the peel-and-stick vinyl. It was installed incorrectly and therefore needed to be replaced. I was really hoping that we could do hardwood or cork flooring in here, but when we found this tile for $1/ft at Habitat Restore, it was a no-brainer!

Heh. These little guys are like Elf on the Shelf-- they show up all over our house. Last month, they were all up on the heat vents on the dining room ceiling. Incidentally, there is only one member of our family who can reach the heat vents in our dining room. Ahem.

Another steal-- the sink and faucet were $40 from Habitat Restore. That place is like Disney World!

I.am.a.dork.

We still have some stuff to do-- ie, get around to putting all the trim/molding back, replacing some appliances as they begin to crap out. But it's so much more practical for our family now! (And in case you were wondering-- we converted another room to a dining space, since we got rid of the "eat-in" kitchen [if you can call it that].)

What about you? Any Black-Mold-of-Death stories in your house? Put any holes in your walls lately (on purpose. Or not.)? Am I the only one who can't get DC Talk's "Tearing Down the Walls" out of my head whenever I think about this post? ("What walls?!?") Ha. Now it's in your head, too.

The fall is still falling...

2011-12-09T08:00:00.000-05:00

Last week, my amazing sister Gwenn blogged about some difficult experiences they are facing as they walk the lives of missionaries in Haiti. In discussing these struggles, and referring to the broken state of our world, she stated, "the fall is still falling". Maybe that's something Christians say all the time, but I had never heard it that way before. It resonated with me. The curse, spoken thousands of years ago, to people I have never met, is still unfolding-- trickling down and puddling at my feet.

The fall is still falling.

This past week, there were some heartbreaking stories on our local news station. On Monday afternoon, five teenagers were killed in a devastating car accident. The following day, our community again caught it's breath when we learned that three more children-- 16 year old twins and their nine year old sister-- were killed in another vehicle crash.

The fall is still falling.

I understand the doctrine of a fallen world; I have read (and reread) the curse spoken to Adam and Eve. I can imagine the grief of a holy God, whose justice required Him to banish the ones he loved most. I get it, I think, theologically-- working the ground, pain in childbirth, our husbands will rule over us. And I can even accept the inevitability of death, probably because I know the end of the story--there is a victor over the curse; through the "second Adam", there is redemption.

But I will never understand the death of a child.

Now hear me, this is not a charge against God. I am not accusing Him of not being good, of not being compassionate, of not being just. Surely, our idea of justice must be childishly laughable to a God whose very essence is holiness. I know that I see but dimly; my very highest thoughts are not His.

But oh, I think of those mamas. Six women who will never face another day without an aching weight in their chest. I hold my babies and think of the ones who cannot. The ones who will never, ever be "ok" again. And oh, my heart longs for heaven. When every wrong will be made right.

But until then, the fall is still falling.

During Advent, we've been reading about the prophesy of a Savior. I've been teaching the girls the lyrics to "O Come O Come Emmanuel".

O Come, Thou Day-spring, come and cheer
Our spirits by Thine advent here
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night
And death's dark shadows put to flight
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel

For now, as we muddle through life and grapple with grief and the ins and outs of the human existence, I trust that we are never forsaken... that our circumstances are filtered through the hand of a loving God... that they are specifically designed--by God, for us-- so that He might be glorified. But how I long for my spirit to be cheered by the advent of Christ. I long for the day when He disperses the gloomy clouds of night, when death is robbed of it's sting and victory.

Emmanuel--- God with us.
Oh, come.

A Walk in the Park

2011-12-06T08:00:00.000-05:00

We live in an adorable little town smack dab in the center of Pennsylvania's Amish country. It's quite picturesque, really: lots of farms and horses and buggies. And whoopie pies in every flavor imaginable. Heck to the yes.

For several years now, we have been going to our town's Christmas tree lighting, and, the following day, the "Christmas Day in the Park", a fun craft/treat/Santa Claus outing. Can I just say that the Christmas tree lighting is always super lame-o? Like, Christmas carols two octaves too high and a piddly 6' Douglas Fir... Really, people? I could do better than that in my front yard. Next year, we're doing it at my place.

(Yes, I went out in public without makeup. So shoot me.)

(I told the girls to give each other a hug. They started hugging the tree instead. Dirty little hippies.)

But the next day is usually pretty fun for the kiddies. We started at the Visitor Center, where each kid was given a bag with a colored balloon on it. We visited each vendor downtown that had a corresponding color balloon; inside there were crafts for the kids, stories being read, or a small gift or treat.

(Our awesome friends Michelle and the Lovable Levi joined us.)

They also opened the Elementary school, where they had more crafts and games and live music and a zumba class for the kids to work off their candy canes.

Outside, they had fire pits and free marshmallows, funnel cakes and horse-drawn carriage rides, while Santa rode around and waved at the littles (on a crazy loud fire truck, waking up my baby who was so peacefully slumbering in the carrier). But I can't really complain because everything was F-R-E-E, which was definitely in the budget this month!

Then, should you want to stand outside in the arctic line, you can wait for an hour and a half (yes, we did) to sit on Santa's lap.

Or, if you're Cana, lurk in the background and give him the stink-eye.

Some of these activities fall into that "more fun in my imagination" category. It's cold, and the baby is cranky, and the girls have melted marshmallow and candy cane glop congealed to their jackets and their noses and their mittens. (Wait. They weren't wearing mittens. BAD MAMA!)

(wiped out!)

But one thing that I really admire about my parents is how purposeful they were about creating traditions for us. (For years, we went Christmas caroling [with a group] at 4 am on Christmas morning. No lie.) I have such wonderful Christmas memories from when I was a child, and I want to do that for my girls. Even if it means falsetto Christmas carols and congealed marshmallow glop.

What about you? Do you have any special traditions from when you were a child? Do you still practice them with your children/family? Have you created new traditions? I'd love to hear and get some ideas from you!

Makeover Monday-- Chevron Buffet Table

2011-12-05T08:00:00.003-05:00

I love doing crafts and fun home projects. I don't do them super well, so it seems a little narcissistic to document them on my blog ('cause who really cares if I spray painted my candlesticks? Yeah, didn't think so.) But, two things: 1) I really want to become more purposeful about blogging. Not necessarily because I am wanting people to read it, but because I think it's a really easy way to chronicle the life and times of our little family. And 2) I actually love when my bloggy friends post pictures of their homes, or a craft they completed, or a Christmas gift they are creating. Because even if I don't share their style sense, it almost always motivates me to want to create something personal for my own home, most of the time using something we already have. So, in that spirit-- I am going to try and regularly post some of my projects (remember-- we gutted a garage/warehouse and turned it into a home, so there are lots!) on Mondays. Hence "Makeover Monday." Lame, huh? "Magnificent Makeover Monday"? "Moderately Magnificent but Mostly Marginal Makeover Monday"? It needs work.

Speaking of makeovers, I need one. For reals. Clinton Kelly can hit me up any.day.of.the.week.

I saw this buffet months ago in a junk/antique shop downtown. It wasn't so much that I *loved* it-- but I had been wanting some kind of buffet/server in our dining room. I did love that it was only $20. So I called Chris and asked if I could buy it. He said no. :) But he went back a few months later and picked it up for my birthday. Awwwww....

Not surprising that it was still there, cause it was in rough shape. Here it is before (I had already removed the door):

(It's ok. I know it's ugly.)

Here it is after a coat or two (or four) of paint:

Kinda fun? Kinda lame? I (personally) love how it turned out, and it's great for storing bibs and tablecloths and our huge stash of mismatched cloth napkins. It's definitely not perfect, but nothing in my house is. It makes me feel more comfortable with my lack of personal perfection. :) Are you working on any makeovers? Do you know Clinton Kelly? Can you put in a good word for me?

Occupy Lititz

2011-12-03T21:35:00.001-05:00

The riffraff finally found their way into our part of the country last week.*Sigh.*

(I have a feeling this could change everything.)

"Ruby does the Frog"

2011-12-02T07:07:00.000-05:00

Alternate title: "Me Babbling on like a Momma-Moron for 30 Seconds and my Baby being Cute for Approximately 1/10 of a Nanosecond." Nana, this one's for you.

with a mother's kiss

2011-12-01T06:53:00.000-05:00

Can I just be completely candid and say that sometimes, I despise being a stay-at-home mother? Really. I don't mean, "eh, sometimes it's a little difficult..." I mean, sometimes I hate it. I know, I know. There are millions of women who would do anything to be able to stay home with their babies all day, everyday. I know that I am ~~lucky~~ blessed to be able to do it. But sometimes, it just blows.

I am under no illusion about the demands of a working mother; I know it is exponentially harder to care for your home and your family and make dinner and shop for groceries and give baths when you're working outside your home. But sometimes I sit and fantasize about what it would be like to have adult conversations every morning. To not have someone (or two or three someones) sitting on your lap while you're trying to answer an email. To not take your lunch out of the fridge and have little baby birds surround you, open-mouthed and waiting for you to share. I know it's not easier. But sometimes I like to fantasize.

I don't want to give the impression that, given the choice, I would prefer to have a "real" job. 'Cause I wouldn't. I don't want to give the impression that I don't enjoy my children. Oh, I do! So very, very much! It's just that... well... honestly? Sometimes parenting can feel more like a chore than a joy. I read all the mommy blogs and we save our toilet paper rolls to make crafts and go on nature walks and have dance parties and make playdoh pizza. And that's so idyllic, right? Except that most times? Most times, I have to stop Cana from eating paste when we are making toilet paper roll crafts, someone's melting down on our nature walk because she's hungry, someone bumps into the dresser during our dance party and gets a goose-egg, and playdoh ends up in hair and smashed into the carpet. I am trying to learn to "roll with the punches" and chill out and not let smooshed-up-playdoh bother me. But sometimes, it's just more fun in theory.

We broke out the Christmas music a few weeks ago. We were listening to James Taylor, a cd I ~~stole~~ permanently borrowed from my mother. We were singing along to "In the Bleak Mid-winter". Remember it? "If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb..."? But I was particularly struck by a verse that I had never noticed before:

Angels and archangels may have gathered there
cherubim and seraphim thronged the air
but only Mary, in her maiden bliss
worshipped the Beloved with a mother's kiss

Mary was advancing the Kingdom of Heaven... with a kiss. Later, she would worship differently; maybe feeding the poor or visiting the shut-ins... but for now, she worshipped by kissing her baby, changing his diaper, nursing Him when His belly was hungry, quieting His cries when He scraped His knee.

I'm no Virgin Mary and my kids are faaaaar from the Holy Child. :) But I want to remember this. When Cana is eating paste, or when the girls are bickeringbickeringbickering. When Ruby just won't go to sleep. When I've tripped on a toy again. When my first impulse would be to scold or nag or even yell at my children, I want to worship instead. Worship by responding kindly, by speaking gently. Worship by dying to myself (and my carpet) and allowing them to enjoy being children. Worship by getting off of Facebook and playing with them. Because, at least in this stage of my life, my job--above groceries and scrubbing the toilet and giving baths-- is loving my family.

And I long to do it well.

God is an Attachment Parent

2011-11-16T14:55:00.000-05:00

OK, so let me say off the bat: this is not a post about judging parents who choose to formula-feed their babies, who work outside the home, or who love Gary Ezzo. (Although, as an aside, I could write a 5000 word essay about how much I hate Gary Ezzo.) It's (shockingly!) not meant to be snarky; it's just some thoughts I have had recently on my parenting journey.

Last week, my sweet sister-in-law invited me to go along with her to New York City next month. I have not been to NYC since I was a little girl, and I have been longing to get away to check it out as an adult. I thought about it for a while before I decided that it would be wiser to sit it out this year. You see, Ruby won't take a bottle of breastmilk, and NYC in mid-December would likely be cold and no fun for an itty-bitty. And even if Ruby would take a bottle of breastmilk, 12+ hours away from my baby would be excruciating painful, unless I wanted to carry my Pump-in-Style over my shoulder and pump on the steps of Madison Square Garden every 3 hours. So, yeah... disappointingly, a no-go.

But this week offered me a fun surprise! Chris was touring for a few days with Jake Shimabukuro, and would be in NYC all day Monday and Tuesday-- but he didn't have a show on Monday, so he'd be free to hang out and play. I lined up someone to watch the big girls, bought a train ticket (pathetically, my first time ever on a train!), popped Ruby in the sling and headed out to the big city. Ruby was a doll; she alternately checked out the Wall Street Occupiers and dozed against my chest through FAO Schwartz and Central Park.

But I am not going to lie. There were a few times where I thought, "Man, this would be way easier without an infant." Any parent out there would attest to the fact that infants require a lot of face time. For the first several months, a breastfed baby cannot be away from their mama for more than two or three hours. I began to think, "Wow... that doesn't always make it easy for the mama." In fact, I was kind of starting to feel like "poor-me-I'm-a-martyr-to-my-children-who-are-sucking-the-very-lifeblood-out-of-me-every-two-hours-around-the-clock!!"

And then I had, as Oprah would so obnoxiously say, an "aha!" moment. Breastfed infants can't be away from their mamas for more than a couple of hours because God designed them to never be far from their mamas. It's such an embarrassingly simple truth that I feel self-conscious even typing it out. It's not accidental that human babies are born as the most helpless of mammals. Calves can walk within a few moments of birth, and kittens begin weaning from their mothers at just 4 weeks of age. Human babies are purposely and compassionately designed by God to need us for everything.

How have we as parents gotten so far away from this truth? We read up on how to schedule our baby's feedings, naps, bowel movements! because it simplifies our lives--when our babies intrinsically know what they need, when they need it. We fill our home with "baby entertainers" like swings and bouncy seats and play-yards that mimic the motion and noise of a parent-- and our babies just want to feel our warm bodies beside them. Most land mammals go to sleep with their young tucked in snugly beside them, while we relegate our babies to a lonely crib down the hall.

I'm ill-qualified to judge other parents; after all, I routinely bribe my kids with treats and let them watch copious numbers of library movies. And I firmly believe that different methods work for different parents. But I, for one, am painfully aware of the fleeting brevity of this sweet infant stage. And as such, I will store up these moments of night wakings and unpredictable napping and frequent nursings and the feeling of being housebound-- I will store them up as precious jewels from Jesus... for it is from Him that I have been fed when hungry, held when tired, comforted when scared. It is Him who stored up my "tears in a bottle" instead of letting me cry it out in a quest for my independence.

My heavenly Father... the ultimate attached parent.

Do not rejoice...

2011-05-02T21:53:00.000-04:00

Last night, Chris and I were watching the Apprentice. I hate to even admit that on the world wide web. I didn't *mean* to watch it. Seriously. Chris just happened to turn it on as I was getting up to go to bed and I get.sucked.in.every.time. Just about the time that Nene was about to shove her boot up Star Jones' bottom, the TV switched to breaking news: President Obama was going to make an important announcement from the White House. Chris and I mused over the possibilities, while mourning the loss of the Nene and Star footage. Maybe we were going to war with Libya. Maybe good ol' Barack was gay. Maybe he was resigning. MAYBE, just maybe-- he was resigning so he could replace Steve Carrell on The Office, surmised Chris. (You know-- cause "being the President is too hard-- [that's what she said].")

Obviously none of those scenarios was the case. And as the news of Osama Bin Laden's death went viral, I found myself wondering how I should feel about this. How should I react? Surely, an immense amount of pride in our military-- coupled with a slight distaste on the back of my tongue at the way the President seemed to take credit for this feat. Surely, a reminder of the evil, evil nature of this terrorist, coupled with the thought that he got what he deserved.

But then the camera panned outside of the White House to an impromptu parade on Washington Avenue-- people yelling and jumping and dancing and singing "We are the champions" and chanting, "USA!!! USA!! USA!!!" Later, I watched as jokes about Bin Laden and photo-shopped cartoons of him appeared on facebook. And truly-- it's funny. I laughed at them (like someone commenting about Osama's last fb update: "someone at the door--brb." Come on. That's funny stuff.) But largely, as a whole, as a nation... I began to wonder-- is this really the appropriate response? To joke? To celebrate death? Even the death of an evil man?

A friend posted this Scripture on her facebook, and it was a timely reminder for me: "Do not rejoice when your enemy falls, and do not let your heart be glad when he stumbles." (Proverbs 24v17) Why not? This man was directly responsible for the death of thousands of innocent Americans; he was indirectly responsible for the death of tens of thousands of our military men and women as they pursued him in the war on terror. If we should rejoice in anyone's death, it would be this man! But even God-- who has the most right of anyone to be offended by this man's actions-- doesn't rejoice. As Ezekiel 33v11 says, "'As surely as I live, ' declares the Sovereign Lord, 'I take no pleasure in the death of the wicked, but rather that they turn from their ways and live.'"

I can't laugh because it's not funny. War sucks. It is ugly and gut-wrenching and awful. And even if we are the ones who come out on the top, there's really no winner in the end. We're all losers. I can't rejoice... because this man-- this wretched, sinful man-- wasted his life on something he believed was the truth. Just like the fictional Calormenes who threw their devotion at the feet of a donkey for the love of Tashlan, this man was utterly, despicably blind--giving his life away to hatred and violence and extreme-ism-- because he thought that's what his God required of him. He's not the first, and it's certainly not merely his particular religious leanings that make him guilty of this atrocity; Christians have been killing and hating in the name of Jesus for centuries.

I'm still trying to process this... what it means for America, for Islam, for the precious families who lost so much at the hands of this man. I guess this is what I want to take away from it: I want to *get* it. I consider myself a religious person, but I don't want to be religious in the way that Bin Laden was religious. I want to know the heart of Jesus. I want my heart to break for the things that break His heart. I want to follow not just the letter of His law, but the stirrings of His soul. I don't want to spend my life following what I believe to be real Christianity, only to find out that I missed the spirit of it. I read an article today about how some Muslims are angry about the way that Bin Laden's burial at sea was handled, saying that it wasn't truly done with Islamic custom in mind. Really? 'Cause I'm not so sure Allah's gonna overlook the blood of three thousand innocents just because Osama's head is pointed toward Mecca. I don't want to rely on the proper burial rites, or the requisite church membership. I want to know God.

My heart hurts for this whole situation. I am intensely proud to call myself an American, intensely proud of our Navy Seals. Seriously-- those men are no joke, and I am grateful for their sacrifices. But I am saddened by the state of our broken world... that it comes down to us hunting each other down, hating each other, killing each other. And while God is still on His throne, this is not the way it was supposed to be. My heart yearns for heaven; come, Lord Jesus. Come.

A few of my favorite things recipes...

2011-03-30T08:07:00.000-04:00

I'm all about ease of use. I'm all about finding good deals and being thrifty. I'm all about craftiness, but prefer projects that a) have few steps and b) can be completed in a nap-time or two. I made this for Evie one Christmas, and I ~~thought I was going to curse~~ cursed a whole lot while finishing it up in the wee-est wee smalls on Christmas morning.

(Don't you judge me for that pink linoleum. It was a rental and we don't live there anymore. ;) )

So in the spirit of crafty-thriftiness-involving-three-steps-or-less-that-can-be-completed-in-less-than-a-nap-time, I bring you some easy-peasy recipes for a few of my favorite things:

Cana doesn't often have problems with diaper rash, since her cute little bum can breathe in her cloth diapers. And my all-time favorite cloth-diaper-friendly salve is CJ's Butt Butter, but as this works just as well (just not as yummy-smelling), it's hard for me to justify the extra expense. This cream is made with coconut oil, which is awesomely antibacterial and antimicrobial... and it's a really healthy cooking oil, too! This recipe is also good for eczema, dry skin, etc. But the Shea butter makes it kinda stinky, so I'd throw some of your favorite essential oils in there if you're using it for that purpose.

Homemade Diaper Rash Cream:
1/8 c coconut oil
1/4 c raw shea butter
3-4 tablespoons talc-free cornstarch or arrowroot powder (optional, to thicken)

Combine it all with a mixer and you're done. (I do use liners with our cloth diapers when we use this cream, just to be on the safe side.) Waaay cheaper than store-bought stuff, and so nice to know all the ingredients going on your little one's nether-regions. :)
(Compliments of Passionate Homemaking)

I might have posted this recipe before-- shoot me. I love homemade soup, but I am a pretty sucky soup maker. I don't actually know if Kristi "came up" with this recipe (if it can even be called such, since it is so easy!) but it is guh-ood. Hubby doesn't care for beans (what the world?!) so I save this for an easy lunch for the girls and me. They inhale it. I throw in a bunch of fresh basil and garlic, and whatever else I have around; I'm excited to make this with fresh tomatoes from our garden this summer (provided I don't actually kill said tomatoes with my black thumb of death).

Kristi's Yummy Tomato and Bean Soup
Large can of tomatoes
2 cans cannelloni beans (or whatever kind of bean tickles your fancy)
Fresh/dried herbs, garlic, onion, add-in veggies-- whatev.
Throw it all in the food processor or blender, heat it up on the stove, and enjoy. So good!

I'm not a huge fan of all of the chemicals and metals they put into commercial deodorant. Do they cause breast cancer? I don't know. I try not to be too much of an alarmist when it comes to stuff like that. But if there is an easier and cheaper way to use something that's completely natural...? Then I see no reason for not doing it. Also, commercial deodorants are expensive, and all the natural ones that I have personally tried-- work marginally at very best. I have tried several different homemade recipes, some involving making a paste and then shoving it all into an old deodorant tube. But I think this one works better, and is way easier. I guess feel free to correct me if you've been around me lately and I stink to high heaven. But fyi, that might have more to do with not having time to bathe than a homemade-deodorant-fail. Just sayin'.

Cheapo Homemade Deodorant
1/4 cup baking soda
10 drops tea-tree essential oil (I was sensitive to this for the first couple of days that I used it, but the ol' pits got used to it. Gah. I just used the word "pits" on my blog. That's disgusting.)
10 drops of your favorite essential oil. Or you can be all crazy and do 5 drops of two different kinds. I used lavender and patchouli, 'cause I am a dirty hippy like that.
Mix it all together. The EO will kinda glob up, so you either need to mash it all up with a fork or send it through the food processor to get it really fine. I store mine in an old jar I saved from the recycling bin, and I apply it with a big powder brush. A little messier than traditional deodorant, but what's a little mess when you're avoiding potentially toxic, cancer-causing elements? Sign me up!

Grateful

2011-03-06T18:46:00.000-05:00

You know how life has ebbs and flows? Everything is great (until it's not). There's enough money (and then there's not). Everyone is healthy (and then they're not). I think marriage is a lot that way. It waxes and wanes with the seasons. Some days are unspeakably happy; others-- you wonder if God truly can give you sufficient grace to be married to this man for the rest of your life. Right now is a truly joyous season in my marriage. I'm not sure that Chris would say the same thing. But for me, I am feeling so grateful that Jesus has given Chris to me.

Being a mom of two little ones can often be an unflattering role. I lose my patience daily, I am unkind when I don't mean to be, I bribe my kids with lollipops, and am often completely inconsistent in discipline. Chris comes home to ~~two~~ three cranky girls, often unbathed and in stained, unmatching clothing-- all of whom are stuck to him like little leeches from the time he walks in the door. "Daddy, let's wrestle!", "Daddy, can I play the smashing ants game on your phone?", "Daddy, I HUNGY!!", "Honey, PLEASE take these kids from me-- I need a break!", "Babe, can you take the trash out?" etc. etc, ad nauseum, world without end, amen and amen.

We're a needy bunch, us Strayer women. And when you add pregnancy to the mix, it's like the perfect storm. Let me preface this by saying that, for the most part, I have had relatively easy pregnancies. And for the most part, I try to make a conscious effort to not be that pregnant lady-- the one who's always complaining about being nauseous or swollen or sore or miserable. 'Cause truly-- the ends more than justify the means. And in addition-- we know several families who are dealing with the frustration and aching sadness of infertility... or the blinding pain of losing a child... and I remember that I have no room to complain about swollen ankles. That said, pregnancy does have a way of humbling you; you physically cannot do all that you would wish, you're tired all the time (but can't sleep), and your normally-oh-so-very-steady hormones are all over the place. It's a (God-given) reminder of our limitations and our fragile humanity.

I need Chris. Desperately. Need him for the mundane "man-chores", and need him to hold me up when I'm feeling weak. He has been such an extension of Christ's grace to me; he comes home from work, exhausted (I mean, he works three jobs, after all!) and still listens to us, plays with us, laughs with us. He gives me needed time away from the girls, and plans special little projects and "daddy dates" to the utter delight of our children (raising ducklings, Chris? Really??). He's always working on projects to make our home more beautiful and functional; he picks up the slack when I am too tired to finish my tasks. He doesn't complain when the house is a wreck, or when dinner is peanut butter and jelly (again) or when all we have to eat in the house is eggs and lollipops. In fact, he just doesn't complain at all.

I wrote earlier that I am not sure Chris would agree that this is a blissful time in our marriage. Though pregnancy can be difficult for women, I think that it is often just as difficult for their husbands. And not for nothing-- but I am the one who is being served by all of Chris's thoughtfulness and care. He's the one who is constantly putting aside his own agenda, his desires, his plans--- laying down his very life for his family. I am intensely grateful for my husband, and I am glad I have the rest of my life to "pay him back" for his attentiveness and compassion for me in this season.

Just as soon as my ankles aren't so friggin' swollen. :)

Top 10 Parenting Must-Haves

2011-01-31T13:59:00.001-05:00

I am sure you moms out there remember the drill: you're 20 weeks pregnant with your first kid (or waiting to bring your adopted baby to his "forever-home"), and you have it on the DL that some friends are planning a baby shower for you. So you grab your husband and jump into your (probably clean-ish, since you don't have kids) car, and head out to the local Babies-r-us or Target. You grab a registry gun (while your husband checks his email on his phone) and go.to.TOWN! 'Cause it's your first baby-- and of COURSE you need all that stuff that Babies-r-us recommends. A swing that records your own voice singing lullabies, rocks six different directions, and shoots beams of light across the ceiling? Check. Some new-fangled electronic crib monitor that sets off your smoke-detectors and simultaneously calls the fire department and the pediatrician if your baby ceases movement for 3.5 seconds? Check. A convenient hand-held Itzbeen timer that lets you record when you last fed your baby, when she last had a bowel movement, what her daily horoscope is, and a handy feature that randomly picks her lucky lottery numbers. Check check check.

Things are usually different with your second kid. And as we await the birth of Girl #3, I can already see where this one is headed. The thing is, I hate baby gak. I HATE it. (I mean, unless it's really cool... but it's usually not.) It clutters up my house, is usually done in tacky primary colors-- or, if you're a bit more "progressive", pink and brown. You spend $9394857495 on it (or assume that your friends should, when they throw you a shower), use it approximately 3 times each (until you realize that all your baby wants is a boob, a clean diaper, and you) and then sell it all at a yard sale for $2. In my very humble opinion, it's largely a brilliant marketing move on the part of baby-gak makers; they convince you that you need this stuff, and if you don't have it, your neighbor will probably call CPS on you.

That said, there are definitely some essentials that have made my parenting experience a much saner and more pleasant journey. So, in the spirit of preventing you from putting that Itzbeen timer on your registry, I bring you my Top 10 Parenting Essentials. Don't leave your postpartum period without them.

1) 7th Generation Lemongrass/Thyme disinfecting spray. Kids are gross. And this yummy smelling cleaner almost makes you forget that you are cleaning up petrified kid puke from the plastic base of the carseat. Almost.
2) Dishwasher. This is a new-ish one for me, since we never had one until we bought our house 6 months ago. Seriously, it changes my life. Throw one of those little jelly-looking tabs in it, fire it up, and git 'er done.
3) A good sling/soft structured carrier/wrap/mei tai. Different parents prefer different types, but whether it's an Ergo or a Storchenwiege (or both), it's the best piece of baby gak I have ever purchased (a good carrier is pretty pricey-- but a) I buy them used and b) if you're not buying the crazy seizure-inducing swing and the 17 speed baby bouncer, you're actually saving money in the long run.)
4) ~~booze~~ Diet Dr. Pepper (for me, not the kids). Since I have been pregnant for 3 out of the last four years, and breastfeeding straight through the last four, the booze is low on the list. But Diet Dr. Pepper. Yum-stinkin'-O. As my dad would say, it's like little angels dancing on my tongue. Yeah, yeah, I know... caffeine, artificial sweetener- not so good. But so far not associated with fetal alcohol syndrome, so I am feeling pretty good about this choice.
5) Yummy Earth lollipops. I'm not disillusioned here. I know that organic evaporated cane juice= sugar. But somehow when it's made organically with beet juice and "other natural flavors", I feel like I am making a more righteous choice. I distribute them pretty much indiscriminately at our house. And I mean, how can you say no to flavors like "pomegranate pucker" and "tooberry blueberry"? You can't. Case in point.
6) Lunchables. Which leads me to a less-righteous choice, one which I hesitated to include out of fear of the backlash. But I am just gonna lay it all out there. Ok, my kids have MAYBE had these 3 times; it's not like it's an everyday occurrence. I am not gonna lie, though-- there are times as a parent that I plan very, very poorly. And I find myself at Target at 8 pm and I haven't fed my kids dinner. Yes, I understand that it's processed cheese food and congealed pig fat "turkey" slices-- and it probably can't qualify as dinner. So shoot me. The few times I have bought them, they saved me from meltdowns of epic proportions, and for that, I am eternally grateful to congealed pig fat and processed cheese food.
7) Bumgenius cloth diapers. I am a big fan of both the organic all-in-ones and the Flip covers with prefolds. GREAT diapers, and way cuter than disposables. (Oh, yeah, and they don't fill up the landfills like the plastic trays that Lunchables are packaged in. I figure they cancel each other out.)
8) Bank drive-through. I used to work at a bank, and felt righteous indignation at the frazzled moms in their dirty minivans who came through the drive-through with 17 different transactions. The only difference with me is that I usually try to take as many detours through the DT as possible, breaking up my transaction into 17 separate trips. 'Cause I've caught on to the fact that, not only does it get me out of the house, but my kids get a lollipop each time through. This, in turn, buys me approximately four minutes of peace and quiet. Which to me, is vastly worth it.
9) Burts Bees Baby Buttermilk lotion. This stuff smells divine. And here's the thing: my kids don't get bathed all that often. (Again, spirit of complete candor here...) The first-born used to get bathed at least once a day, far more often if she happened to pee-out of her diaper or spit up her breakfast. Now we've adopted a more laissez-faire, "Little House on the Prairie"/once-a-week approach... minus filling up a tin tub in the kitchen with buckets of melted snow. I have found that if you smear some baby buttermilk on those dirty little chillins' and pat down their hair, they are pretty much good as new.
10) Nap-time. Seriously, does anything else need to be said about this? If I could go back in time, I would skip the Itzbeen and swing and register for 2636463436437 of these bad-boys. And never once feel a moment of buyer's remorse.

Even though we ain't got money...

2011-01-27T17:16:00.000-05:00

So I know it's not just us. Nobody has money in January. In many cases, it's because we've overspent on Christmas gifts or spent a small fortune traveling to exotic locale for the holidays. In our case, it's neither. Although I would commit murder to be in an exotic locale right about now.

It's our first winter as homeowners, and predictably-- there are expenses that we underestimated, didn't expect, or didn't plan well for. And as any do-it-yourself-er could attest to, home renovations always end up costing more than you anticipated. Especially when that home renovation project involves turning an old, musty garage into an awesomely adorable abode. Crazy how that works. And there are always things that need to be fixed or tweaked or replaced; I spent a portion of yesterday, during our snowstorm-going from room to room- identifying new places where our ceiling was leaking. And then in true melodramatic, stir-crazy, wacko-pregnant-hormone fashion, I began thinking about all the other things that need to be done... and about how the oil man just came and left us some oil and a huge bill... and about how we'll need to fix the clutch/heat/radio in my car, oh, wait! get a new car so that when the new baby is born, I can fit all my kids in it. And my heart immediately began to give way to fear. "Lord, what will we do? How will we pay for these things? What else can I cut out of our budget? Lord, what will we do??"

Let me first say-- I think we live fairly frugally. We don't eat out, I am trying to learn to be better with coupons, we cloth diaper, we almost always buy used clothing or get hand-me-downs from generous people in our lives. We don't have a fancy car, we keep the heat at 62; we're typically not reckless with money. And while we are feeling the "pinch" right now more so than in other times in our lives, we are, by God's grace, not behind on anything-- and have always been able to pay our obligations on time. These financial issues are what my missionary sister calls "first-world problems."

But none of that is the point, because there are always things that we could do better, always ways that we could be wiser stewards of our money. It's not the point, because God is not so concerned with my finances as He is with my heart. And the moment that my heart began to fear, I began to accuse the character of God: "You have not been good. You have not been faithful, You have not kept Your promises." WHAT?! Let's quickly pass over all the material stuff-- you know, a house, job, clothes, food-- "little" things that I somehow feel God "owes" me, and consider this: my soul has been purchased with the blood of a spotless Savior. The deepest need I have, the only one of eternal importance-- has been secured at the expense of Another. What arrogance-- that I can accuse God of not providing for me! That I can accuse Him of not being good! What a wretch I am.

Today, as the girls were napping, I was painting a closet and enjoying having a few quiet, kid-free moments. As I was cutting in the trim, I was reminded of the Scripture, "Your Heavenly Father knows that you need them." You remember the story, right? Jesus is teaching on a mountainside, to a people probably well familiar with poverty, and He cautions them to not be like people who don't know God-- who run after food and drink and clothing as though their lives depended on it. He reminded them, "your Heavenly Father know that you need it." I immediately saw my sin and began weeping into my paint. God met my deepest need in sending a Savior, and yet He still concerns Himself about the minutia and lilliputians that can seem so pressing to me. In addition, He gave me a wise husband who works unfathomably hard for our family; and even though I know he sometimes doesn't feel it, He gives my husband wisdom to lead our family with shrewdness and purposefulness.

I look at the heating oil bill; He knows that I need it. I look at my growing daughter and think of spring clothes for her; He knows that I need it. I look at my little car and my growing family; He knows that I need it. I look at our leaking ceiling; He knows that I need it. I look at the state of my soul, lost in sin without a thought of God; He knew that I needed it, and send His Son so that I could be reconciled to Him. May my soul be quiet and still before my God; He is, by His very character, faithful. My God is for me. I have nothing to fear.

Another post about my kids...

2010-10-23T11:51:00.000-04:00

I know, I am one of those super annoying people who only ever post about their kids. Well, KID, in particular. It's not that I don't love Cana to smithereens, but she's still kinda... you know, a baby. I promise that once she's bigger and cracking me up more (rather than just waking me up), I'll be annoyingly persistent in sharing stories about her, too. Shoot me-- my kids are cute. I can't be held responsible for that.

Today, Evie was telling me about a scene in Popular Mechanics for Kids, a series they carry at our library-- and that is currently Evie's answer to life.

She said, "Mom. There was a commercial in PMK... and this man was in the hospital and he had those sticker things all over his chest..."

"Oh, yeah?" I absentmindedly replied.

"Yeah, just like me--when my heart was broken!!"

"That's right, honey," I responded, "You did have lots of EKGs."

Evie paused for a moment, then added, "Mom, Jesus GAVE me that hole in my heart so that He could walk through it and LIVE there!!!"

*Sigh* I love that girly. I mean, I realize that her theology is in need of some serious adjusting in more than one area... but come on, people! This kid is awesome.

Evie: thoughts on candy and theology

2010-10-21T16:46:00.000-04:00

Driving in the car to the grocery store, I hear Evie in the backseat consulting her "list".

"Mom," says the wee miss, "I have a list of all the kinds of candy that we need to get for Daddy at the store."

"Oh, you do?" I question. "Is it just for Daddy?"

"Well," ponders Evie, "My dad is a good man. I think he'll share with me. So, for Dad AND me."

Dubiously I reply, "Evie, I don't know that we are going to be getting any candy at the store today."

Incredulous, Evie asks, "Why NOT?!"

"For one thing," I respond, "it's not good for our bodies. Or our teeth. Or our skin."

Evie ponders for a few moments, then counters, "Mom... I guess I will just have my rules talk to your rules."

"Oh, you will?", a bemused mama snickers.

"Yes," Evie confidently replies. "And MY rules are GOD'S rules!"

Well, I guess there's no arguing with that.

Giveaway @ Our Adoption Adventure: 100th Post and A Giveaway

2010-06-16T23:06:00.000-04:00

So honestly, I have only met Michelle and Herb a handful of times, though I have high hopes of gaining their real-life friendship at some point! ;) I can't really personally relate to Michelle's emotions and fears and hopes as she follows Jesus on an adoption adventure-- but I do know the unsurpassable joy of being a mama, and I understand that it is a position to be coveted. I love Michelle's honesty, and I can't wait to hear that they are bringing their baby home to his or her forever family!

Michelle is doing a giveaway over at her blog, and it's super cool! Check it out! (But don't win, cause I want to win!)

Our Adoption Adventure: 100th Post and A Giveaway

Agita

2010-05-20T13:52:00.000-04:00

You'd think that I would have to break my blogging silence with some earth-shattering revelation, some clever quip, some great theological debate. But I'd rather not, thankyouverymuch.

I will, however, break my blogging silence to tell you that I might be leaving my husband for that nice little old man who works at the Habitat Restore. Only because it might get me a discount there. Forget it, it's pretty cheap anyway. Probably not worth it in the long run.

But marital infidelities in the ceiling panel aisle aside, I am pretty much in love with this store. How have I lived in Lancaster for more than 5 years and never been there??? Me, who gets a severe case of agita if I even just walk by a yard sale, flea market, or thrift store? My guess is that, not owning a house, I had relatively little incentive to go in and buy, you know, tile. Or light fixtures. Or really stinking cool old windows. Or old posts whose patina would make my grandmother swoon.

But folks, as of tomorrow--- Lord willing and the creek don't rise-- I will be a ~~homeowner~~ ~~landlord~~ ~~slum-lord~~ well, whatevertheheckyouwanna call it. And as such, I find myself in need of some tile. And light fixtures. And really stinking cool old windows. And old posts whose patina would make my grandmother swoon. (ETA: I just learned the word 'patina' and I think it's pretty swell, so you'll probably be hearing a lot of it out of me lately. Or reading it a lot from me lately, especially since I am not quite sure how to pronounce it. PAT-ina? Pa-TINA? Who knows.) I am most excited about a fabulous old sink I found to put in my brand-spanking new kitchen, which my way-cooler-than-that-nice-little-old-man-at-Habitat-Restore husband is putting in for me. Speaking of swell, he pretty much is. He's pretty much a miracle-worker, and I am super excited to see how our little crackhouse garage apartment is going to metamorphasize into a flippin' cool ~~party pad~~ ahem, family home.

And if it doesn't, here's hoping Old Mr. Re-Store man waits for me.

The Office Baby is Breast-fed!! (aka, Melody rants about nursing)

2010-03-05T06:12:00.000-05:00

So, there are very very things on TV that I get excited about. I do enjoy a good Murder Mystery every now and then, but holy cow-- I love the Office!!! So much so that I started getting my kids ready for bed at 6:30 last night just to ensure that everybody was deeply asleep by the magical 9 pm (didn't work... *sigh*). So you can understand how, as a huge Jim and Pam aficionado, I was on edge all day-- waiting for the episode in which their out-of-wedlock-conceived-baby is born. (Yes, I am a heathen. I know.) As a whole, I was kind of disappointed in the show; it was fine, I had a few chuckles. Didn't change my life or anything.

However, I do think that, for such a mainstream show, it was interesting how accurately it portrayed the breastfeeding/attachment parenting culture in US hospitals. In one scene, Pam is frustrated as she tries to get baby to latch on. A nurse comes in, and strongly encourages taking a little break and bringing the baby to the nursery. She insists, "It will be okay; I will just give her a bottle in the nursery." When Pam argues that she's read about nipple confusion, and doesn't want the baby to have a bottle, the nurse rolls her eyes and rebukes Pam. Throughout the episode, the nurse is constantly trying to take the baby to the nursery, and continually dismisses Pam's breastfeeding struggles with a snide, "It's FINE. Lots of babies are bottle-fed!"

Now, don't misunderstand me: this isn't a tirade against mothers who, for whatever reason, choose to bottle-fed their children. This is, however, a tirade against health care professionals who, on one hand, write literature extolling the benefits of breastfeeding, while shoving a bottle of formula down your baby's throat with the other hand. As expectant parents, we read all the books about the whys and hows of breastfeeding, but modern health care does not equip us with the resources we need to successfully breastfeed our children.

But it doesn't stop with our feeding choices. We aren't allowed to be the parent anymore. Many hospitals require a litany of tests, the vast majority of which cannot be held in your hospital room. Our babies, who have been nestled safely inside us for months upon months, are continually wrenched from our arms and wheeled in a plastic bassinet to a germ-y, bright hospital room in which they are subjected to a series of loud beeps and heel-pricks. Jaundiced newborn Cana had to be placed under the bili-lights for hours on end; because of a new "security" measure at the hospital, I wasn't even allowed to go to the nursery to sit beside her bassinet and sing to her. My MOTHER was, but I couldn't be with my baby. We had to fight tooth and nail to try to prevent doctor-on-duty from recommending that Cana receive formula, believed to be beneficial for jaundiced babies. Newborn Evie was wheeled back from a test in the nursery, clutching a plastic pink pacifier-- one that I had specifically asked that she NOT receive.

There is no refuting, regardless of how you choose to feed your child, that breastmilk is-- hands down-- the best possible thing that you can give your baby. There are no close seconds. The American Academy of Pediatrics recognizes this. The World Health Organization recognizes this. Why then do hospitals so very thoughtfully send us home with diaper bags chocked with cans of formula and buy one, get one free coupons? Even the lactation consultant at the hospital mentioned something to me about "when I start supplementing with formula". Wait, what?! When did I EVER mention that that was in the plan? We are taught to trust our doctors-- we believe that our pediatrician's word is as good as gold. Yet, all too often, they give us advice regarding breastfeeding that is just plain bad! I feel so sad for women who badly want to nurse their children, and don't have a network of sisters and mamas and friends who will come along side them in this journey-- and talk them down when it just seems easier to warm up some formula. (It's not.)

I know this sounds like a bitter rant against modern medicine. It's not. There are a ton of doctors out there, a ton of nurses and midwives, who truly want to help facilitate breastfeeding. There is an initiative called "Baby Friendly Hospitals", which prevents formula companies from preying on exhausted new mothers; it instead sends mamas home with a tub of Lansinoh and some nursing pads. Sadly, this is the exception and not the norm.

The Office ended with a sweet victory as Pam gets fussy baby to latch on and nurse for the first time, in the middle of a busy parking lot. As is typical, TV depicts a drama that has a happy ending in a half an hour. Breastfeeding challenges may last way, way longer than that. But as I cuddle with my two year old, and my baby, and nurse them down for the night-- I can unequivocally say-- it is absolutely worth it.

---*ahem* steps off soapbox----

I want to embarrass my kids.

2010-02-28T23:15:00.000-05:00

When I was growing up, my mother owned-- seriously-- the most heinous winter coat on the face of God's green earth. This in not an exaggeration; I am not speaking in hyperbole. It.was.ugly. It was a bright hunter's red wool material-- not nice, squishy, soft wool like Cana's diaper covers. Oh, no. It was scratchy and coarse and prickly and UGLY. It had a red and black plaid liner on the inside, and a cinched waist that would have done a great disservice to even the most chiseled of Hollywood midsections. It was UGLY. I wish I had photographic proof of the magnitude of its awful-ness; my words cannot possibly do it justice. But I am afraid that pictures were purposefully NOT taken, thinking that less evidence of the fashion crime would somehow lessen its consequences. (Have I mentioned that it was ugly??)

My sisters and I tried to get Ma to stop wearing it. Oh, believe me. We tried. I am pretty sure we hid it on more than one occasion, spilled grape juice on it in hopes of its demise, left it out in rainstorms, hoping the moisture would felt the wool to an unmanageable size. We tried to replace it one Christmas with a fancy new leather coat. But my little Italian mother would always insist, "It's warm. I like it. I am not getting rid of it."

*Sigh*. So, trash or Salvation Army ('cause, you know, they'd want it) aside, we resorted to the next best thing. When mom would pick me up from violin lessons, I'd pretend not to notice her flashing red beacon, waiting beside her car; I'd tell my friends that my mom must have forgotten me, and I would just walk home. Or if she insisted on wearing the wretched garment to our town's Christmas tree lighting, I would stand a few paces away and bemoan the influx of the homeless bag-ladies into our quaint little city.

But you know, something changed in my psyche in the last few months. I found myself on the market for a new winter coat. I scoured newspaper ads, ebay, online vendors. I had throughly convinced myself that if I was going to make it through this apolcalyptic winter, I must have the appropriate outerwear. And of course, with a new coat comes all the necessary matchy-matchy accessories. But then two things happened. Having not been to the library lately, I happened to peruse my bookshelves for something to entertain me. I noticed Dave Ramsey's Total Money Makeover. It was a hand-me-down from my sister... and because it is a book about debt (or so I thought), I figured it wasn't something that would apply to me; we didn't have any debt. But I was desperate, so I decided to give it a shot. And man, my perspective was dramatically changed. I won't get into all of the particulars; it's just not that interesting. But it really reminded me of the futility of acquiring STUFF. It clutters my home, it gets dirty, it gets broken; rust and moths destroy it, robbers break in and steal it.
The other, more dramatic mind-altering moment was on January 12 at 4:53 PM. I watched the news in horror-- relieved that God had spared my sister and her family in Haiti-- aghast that He, in his supreme wisdom, had not spared another quarter million people. I read my sister's post about holding a child who was literally starving to death. And suddenly my matching mittens seemed less urgent. Writing my measly support check for them reminded me-- if I had been more guarded with the resources with which God had entrusted me, I could have written a much larger check-- and not even had to think twice about it. I had foolishly and repeatedly invested in myself, more than I had in the kingdom of God... foolishly insisting on my own way, when the God of the universe was willing to pay generous dividends. My chief purpose in being on earth is not to have nice things and create a nice home for my family; my chief purpose is to glorify our Creator. And when I really sit down and think about how that NECESSARILY must affect our finances, I am humbled.

Years ago, I stumbled across a Great Depression-era saying:
"Use it up, wear it out. Make it do, or do without."
Really? REALLY? Do without? How, in just 80 years, did we go from THAT to having 2.5 TRILLION dollars of consumer debt in the US, $8100 for every man, woman, and child...?!?! We have hoarded all our belongings and melted them into this golden calf of STUFF. We are deceived. God, help us. We have it all wrong.

My crazy old mom had it right, for once. :) That coat may have been ugly, but it was warm. THAT, friends, is the chief purpose of coats. A quick inventory of our coat closet yielded not one but THREE acceptable winter coats. Yeah, they are kinda ugly. One of them I have had since I was 16. But it's fine. And man, I plan on wearing that coat as long as God and my girth allow. Evie and Cana are going to HATE me for it, but I am going to be smugly smiling on the inside, nice and toasty warm-- pushing my grocery cart full of bags at the town Christmas tree lighting....

Groans

2010-02-08T11:58:00.000-05:00

I've been feeling for weeks that I should write a post about Haiti. About my sister and her family, who are doing such wonderful work there. And every time I have tried, I find that I have no words... which, if you know me, is pretty miraculous. My finite mind cannot wrap around the depths of this. I have been following Gwenn's blog as they are working out their faith in Jacmel, truly being the hands and feet of our Savior. I encourage you to check it out for a very real, honest picture of what is going on there.

As I was catching up on some of her posts this morning, I found a stirring in my soul to pray. To kneel before our Father with sweet Patricia, with tiny Clara... and yet, my cloudy head couldn't even compose a coherent prayer. I am so far away from the reality that these people live daily; I don't know their individual situations or needs. All that I could whisper was, "Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!!" And I was reminded that our Father doesn't need my verbose ramblings-- He has promised that "In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express." (Romans 8v26)

Oh, Gwennie... know that our God is groaning for you... is daily bearing your burden... has heard your cries... will strengthen you and help you. When the rest of the world has moved on to the Super Bowl and Brangelina's marital discord, know that you are not forgotten. You are sheltered under the wings of the Almighty.

Bad influence...

2010-02-02T21:35:00.000-05:00

I am one. A horrible one. Poor sweet little Evangeline who looks up to her mama for everything.

A few days ago, Evie was struggling to re-adjust her panties after a little pee break. (Yes, she had them all in a wad.) As she's yanking and pulling and fussing with them, I hear her say, "Damn it! Damn it! DAMN IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Of course, I lovingly corrected her, without a trace of a smile (ahem) and then said, "Evie, that is a very impolite word. Please don't say that word anymore."

A few minutes later, still struggling with aforementioned undergarments, I hear her quietly say to herself, "Damn it. Damn it. Damn it."

I respond a little more harshly this time: "Evie! Mama told you not to use that word!"

Evie's eyes shift nervously, and then light up with a brilliant idea. "I didn't say damn it, Mama. I said FAMN IT."

Sigh. Profanity AND lies. It's gonna be a long eighteen years. ;)

Tiger Woods-- a murderer?

2009-12-14T04:00:00.000-05:00

I heard on the news last night that the now infamous golfer is taking an indefinite furlough from his sport. I heard that his mistresses are coming out of the woodwork at an alarming rate. I also heard that there has been confirmation that he is not actually human, but was sent here as a wee little alien from a distant planet to redeem the sport of golf for his native home and deflower all the young virgins.

Actually, I didn't hear that part. I made that up.

Anyway, it would seem that Tiger Woods is a great big douche-bag, after all. All of America started at this news-- so shocked that an All-American hero--their golden boy and idol-- could be capable of such atrocities. As his sponsors scurried to distance themselves, one question sizzled across the air-waves: How could he do this vile thing?!

I think a more appropriate question is: Why haven't I done this vile thing? Why haven't you? Why haven't I stolen that which I coveted? Why haven't I beaten my children? I mean, when we get right down to it, why haven't I whipped out my .45 and gone on a crazed killing spree at the market?

Grace. Beautiful, undeserved grace.

Our media scorns that which they also glorify... in their movies, their magazines, their advertisements, they celebrate the lust and sensuality which has been the undoing of this sports legend. Observing this duplicity, I feel oddly compelled to examine my own. I have never cheated on my husband... But I have murdered him.

You see, Christ abolished the distinction between the seed of sin, my thoughts--and their fulfillment, my actions.
"You have heard that it was said, 'Do not commit adultery.' But I tell you that anyone who looks at a [man] lustfully has already committed adultery with [him] in [her] heart."
and,
"You have heard that it was said to the people long ago, 'Do not murder, and anyone who murders will be subject to judgment.'I tell you that anyone who is angry with his brother will be subject to judgement."

By the Savior's definition, I fit those titles. Textbook example.

Tiger Woods, an adulterer? Not just an adulterer, but a murderer, a thief, a liar, a blasphemer... a sinner. Tiger Woods is a wicked, wretched worm of a man.

And I am a wicked, wretched worm of a woman. In fact, I am the worst sinner I know. By far.

But because these charges were leveled at Another, I go free. I am pardoned while the Son of Man bears the shame of my adultery, my fornication, my lust, my murderous thoughts. This grace is a profound mystery to me-- that the King should wear my scarlet letter while I am declared clean. A mystery, indeed.

Put a Sling on It...

2009-12-07T23:07:00.000-05:00

Seriously wish I had come up with this.

Hibernation

2009-11-24T09:18:00.000-05:00

And so begins my season of hibernation.

Until about January 6, I have no plans of leaving the house. I will mail-order my toilet paper and milk, walk outside to my chicken coop to get some eggs, curl up with my babies and watch Frosty the Snowman on the couch.

But I am not leaving.

I will not be fighting with the large lady with the cane and motorized scooter at Walmart over the last package of canned pumpkin. I will not be standing in line at Target for four hours to buy Evie a Zhuzhu hamster, orwhatevertheheckthey'recalled.

I will not be joining my crazy, over-the-top, chicken-farming husband at 4 am on Black Friday. $10 off a circular saw just isn't worth battling an angry, sweaty, greedy mob of Christmas cheer.

Don't get me wrong. I love Christmas. But running with these bargain-crazy, credit-card toting, New-Jersey-driving (sorry) in a sweaty, over-crowded mall where "Feliz Navidad" is playing on repeat at eardrum-bursting levels--- just makes me want to come home, curl up on my changing table and go to sleep. Like this girl:

Didn't know how much I'd need You...

2009-11-13T22:34:00.000-05:00

Five years ago, in a small Outer Banks ceremony, I became Chris Strayer's wife. Well, to be technical-- it was five years and 1 week ago (but we won't mention how I forgot our anniversary [and Chris didn't], 'cause it's just not relative to the story). The point is-- I was young, in love with Jesus, in love with a boy from Pennsylvania-- in my mind, there was no way that this wouldn't work. We were in love and we were Christians, so it had to work. It had to be easy.

I am at my Mom's house this week, visiting with my sister and her family who are on furlough from Haiti. In a desperate quest to find something to read after everyone else had gone to sleep, I stumbled across a binder of stuff from my wedding. And on a crumbled sheet of computer paper, I re-read vows I made to Chris five years ago. And I realized-- wow, I can't keep these promises:

"Chris, it is with great joy and anticipation that I enter into this new life with you. I am so excited that you have chosen me to belong to you, and I promise to be a wife worthy of your confidence and trust. Because I have known the example of Christ's unconditional love for me, I promise to love you regardless of our circumstances: whether well-fed or hungry, whether in plenty or in want. I pledge my time, my attention, my affection and my faithfulness to you. I promise to listen to you, pray with you, care for you, and spur you on toward love and good deeds. Recognizing that God has given you authority over me, I vow to honor, obey, respect and submit to you. I promise to be a Godly mother to our future babies, and I promise to be your best friend. It is my earnest prayer that as your wife, I would always encourage you to seek and to love the Lord above all else. Forgetting what is behind and straining toward all that Jesus has for our future, I promise to be by your side for as long as the Lord grants me breath. Chris, I know that I am unable to keep these promises in my own strength, but because Christ has promised that His grace is sufficient even in our weaknesses, I vow to be to you a loving and faithful wife. May God deal with me, be it ever so severely, if anything but death ever separates you and me."

In reading this, I was immediately floored by the magnitude of my failures, the depth of my depravity... the myriad of times I have chosen to love myself instead of Chris, to follow a fashion instead of the Savior. But I was also struck by the depth of mercy of my God. I can get so consumed with the day-to-day, the diapers, the electric bills, the house, all these lilliputians of life that sneak in to destroy my joy--- that I forget that my marriage is not about me. It's not about my husband. It is about Christ. He cares about my marriage more than I care about my marriage. Yes, this union was designed by God for my enjoyment and refinement; but more, it was designed to show me (and the WORLD), the heart of God towards His bride. This is the Gospel-- the goal that Christ be glorified, not that I be comfortable. I thought, despite what I had heard, that it would be easy. That it would come naturally. Instead, it has thrown me to the foot of the Cross at every turn, casting my only hope on Jesus; I didn't know how much I'd need Him.

What would my vows have looked like if I had written them after being married for five years? Probably something like, "I promise that (I'll try) not to kill you." :) My failings are abundant each day, His mercies are new every morning. My righteousness is dirty rags, His grace is sufficient. Great is Your faitfulness, oh Lord. Great is Your faithfulness.

Missing joy...

2009-10-27T14:13:00.000-04:00

She slipped out unnoticed one day when I forgot to latch the door.

And so I rise each day and nurse babies and make breakfasts and shopping lists and play-doh pizzas; I kiss boo-boos and sweaty little baby curls. I wipe up spills and runny noses.

But it's mechanical and dutiful and forced. These are beautiful things-- beautiful children. My God has blessed me abundantly. So why is it such a chore?

Oh, Jesus-- soften my heart. Make me content.

Cana's first 'do

2009-10-23T11:27:00.000-04:00

It's Beauty Parlor Day at the Strayer house, what with blue-painted fingernails, flat irons, and THIS:

Piggies are running amok 'round these parts:

*sigh* I love having girls.

Crunchy Tribal Goddess Mama

2009-10-05T09:25:00.000-04:00

THAT is how I would like to be referred, from now on, please.

'Cause no, I didn't clean the bathroom today.

No, I didn't fold the laundry.

Yes, I fed my kid Cheerios for breakfast (again) instead of our *ahem* usual diet of sprouted grain toast and organic tahini topped with ground flaxseed toppy.

But darnit, I got my infant on my back with a long piece of fabric. And nothing but a long piece of fabric.

Just like the crunchy tribal goddess mamas do.

Panic

2009-09-21T10:29:00.000-04:00

That's what I felt when I woke up in the middle of the night and couldn't find Cana. My head popped up-- she wasn't in the co-sleeper. I looked on either side of me on the bed. She wasn't there. My heart stopped. I recalled stories I had heard of co-sleeping accidents, and imagined that Cana was smushed between the mattress and the headboard. Or maybe I had kicked her off the bed in my fitful sleep. Maybe I had rolled over on her...

Wait...

There is a kid sucking on my boobie.*

Has been for the duration of this internal dialogue.

No, it's not Evie.

I breathe a sigh of relief and snuggle back under the covers.

*I hesitated to post the phrase "sucking on my boobie" but then I figured that it is my blog so I can say it if I want. Plus, it sounded better than "There was a kid benefiting from my lactation skills" or something like that...

Eat her with a spoon

2009-09-15T15:26:00.000-04:00

This kid, that is...

..when I'm not too busy eating this one with a spoon:

...or re-touching photos of myself in iPhoto so I don't actually have to pluck my eyebrows...

... or vying for space in the bed...

...or indefinitely shirking the task of sorting through the girls' fall/winter wardrobe (SO glad I have a crib for this express purpose!)

...or, you know... wearing a green shirt and eating a walnut in front of the computer.

Naked as the day she was born

2009-09-13T22:36:00.001-04:00

Well, you know, plus a tee-shirt and baby leg-warmers.

We potty-train in style 'round these parts.

Lil' half-pint better get this down soon. Cold weather's a-comin'.

"Why yes, yes she is..."

2009-09-08T16:50:00.000-04:00

I am constantly getting comments about how cute/sweet/adorable/brilliant/verbal, etc. my little Evangeline is. And of course I am very modest about such compliments and follow them up with something like, "Yeah, well, you should see her when she's tired" or "She's not really that smart... she has yet to read through all the classics..."

But in this post, false modesty is going out the window.

Why, yes, yes she is cute/sweet/adorable/brilliant/verbal and FUNNY. And kinda weird and quirky, too. Like how the little sunspots on my arms are called "frinkles", or how her BabyLegs legwarmers (she insisted on wearing ONE of them, inside out, around the house all day yesterday) are called "sock-warmers".) Or perhaps how she insists on sleeping cuddled with a plastic Pooh cup that she received as a party favor (she puts an extra pacifier in it and calls it her Nukie cup). And it was bad enough when she decided that she must wear Dad's Creation toboggan hat to sleep... but then she found one of mine and insists on wearing BOTH to bed (her nightcap[s] so to speak... I need a few myself these days.) Or like how a few minutes ago, I asked her to help me make her bed (a task she generally enjoys, but she was feeling a bit persnickety this morning) and she manages to choke out, between gut-wrenching sobs, "I can't do it!!! I'm NOT a hard worker!!" Or today, when we were reading in Matthew about how little ones have their own angel, and Evie said, "I go to Jesus' house and see my angel." Sometimes if I'm feeling a little hormonal and overwhelmed and weepy, she'll come over and rub my back and say, "Mama, are you tired? Your belly hurts? It's ok, mama. Don't cry; it will be okay, mama."

I LOVE this kid. There's a lot of things I never anticipated about parenthood--ie, the utter disgusting-ness of toddler poop, or the overall toll that two years without sleeping through the night has on a mama--but perhaps the greatest is this: I never anticipated how deeply, and with such raw emotion, you could love these tiny little people. I'm overwhelmed by God's kindness to me-- not just that I get to be a mama, but that I get to be a mama to THESE sweet babies, that they are my family, my responsibility, my joy.

Faux Hawk

2009-09-01T09:53:00.000-04:00

Did I give my youngest one a faux hawk this morning using some leftover hair-texturing putty I found in the bottom of the bathroom drawer?

Well, of COURSE I didn't.

I mean, she's a GIRL, for crying out loud. Plus, I would never put those nasty chemicals NEAR my child's head.

Never.

My newest niece

2009-08-30T21:36:00.000-04:00

Am I allowed to call her that? I think I am. She feels like my family, and I've never met her.

Meet Fritzie.

I don't know her background; I haven't heard her story. But I do know this-- she has not been left as an orphan; Christ has come to Fritzie (John 14v8)-- in this case, using the hands and feet of my sister Gwenn and her husband Nick. She will join their family at Haitian Children's Home on Monday.

This is the Gospel, friends. Not multimillion dollar church buildings, not concerts with lights and fog machines, not a set of legalistic ideals that could purchase a pardon. A child was alone; she now has a mama and a daddy. She has a sister and two rascally brothers-- and many more siblings to come. In a sin-drenched world gone heart-breakingly awry, this is hope. This is Christ. This is the Gospel.

Life on the outside...

2009-08-20T13:01:00.000-04:00

Outside of the sling, that is. Lest people think that all that there is to Cana is a tuft of spiky black hair, here is iPhoto evidence to prove otherwise.

And that startled, "What the *@#$ is going on?!?!" look? Yeah, that's permanent.

New Sheriff in town...

2009-08-07T09:08:00.001-04:00

Evie was playing with the little neighbor boys the other day, and they emerged from the basement like this. I love dress-up.

everything is sacred

2009-08-03T09:00:00.000-04:00

I was on facebook last night, 'cause you know, that's what I do and it's more fun than say, scrubbing the toilet. And I came across some friends' album from their recent trip to NYC. They are awesome people, and they were awesome photos. You know, swimming in fountains at Central Park and going out to comedy clubs till the wee smas. And as I looked through picture after picture, I felt something stirring in me. Jealousy? Regret? I'm not sure that I could pinpoint the exact emotion, but it wasn't pretty. In my typical "grass is always greener" fashion, I was comparing my life to theirs. I'm not really an adventure-taker, married very young to another non-adventure-taker. So it follows that my life is rather ho-hum at times. You know, wake up when the kids wake up, clean up various and sundry bodily fluids throughout the day (theirs, not mine), scrub marker off the wall, read board books, more bodily fluids, try to rest when the girls sleep (but they seem to have devised a twisted little version of Whack-a-Mole-- the one where as soon as Thing #1 goes down, Thing #2's sweet little head bobs up in awakeness and loud demands of milk. I mean, not that I would bash their heads in to make them go back to sleep or anything. ~~But I have considered it.~~ )

It's just, you know... monotonous. And it's just, you know... beautiful. I realized this the other day: I may have missed the boat (for now) on trips of international intrigue or all night pub sessions, but--Jesus, help me be grateful!--this is what I have always wanted. Since I was a little girl, I have wanted a little girl. In His kindness, God has given me two. I have wanted a home and a husband who loves me; I sometimes feel as if the ones I have are insufficient :) but God has given me this home, this husband, these children, in His infinite wisdom and in His unfathomable goodness. This is His plan for me, and it is for my good.

Help me to find joy in this, Jesus! In every giggle, every pout, every diaper change, and every late-night nursing, every opportunity for correction-- help me to serve these little ones, help me to serve my husband-- as service to YOU.

Everything is Sacred
Caedmon's Call

this house is a good mess
it’s the proof of life
no way would I trade jobs
but it don’t pay overtime

I’ll get to the laundry
I don’t know when
I’m saying a prayer tonight
cause tomorrow it starts again

could it be that everything is sacred?
and all this time
everything I’ve dreamed of
has been right before my eyes

the children are sleeping
but they’re running through my mind
the sun makes them happy
and the music makes them unwind

my cup runneth over
and I worry about the stain
teach me to run to You
like they run to me for every little thing

when I forget to drink from you
I can feel the banks harden
Lord, make me like a stream
to feed the garden

wake up, little sleeper
the Lord, God Almighty
made your Mama keeper
so rise and shine,rise and shine
rise and shine cause

everything is sacred
and all this time
everything I’ve dreamed of
has been right before my eyes

Giant boob baby

2009-07-24T23:22:00.000-04:00

So this past week I loaded up my girls and headed down to NC. One night, my parents took us out to dinner at my favorite restaurant, Full Moon. Incidentally, my sister Gretchen works there. Evie sat in a high chair, in a black-bean-quesadilla-stupor while Cana snoozed in the wrap on my chest.

My sister calls me later, laughing so hard she can hardly talk. Apparently, in the restaurant where she works, there is a window that the employees can see out of, but pedestrians can not see into. The male cooks like to spend their non-busy hours checking out the scantily clad female tourists (they are called "ho-dogs" according to Evie. Oops.) One of the cooks runs into the other room, yelling, "Neil, you have to check this lady out!! She's got one giant boob right in the middle of her chest!!"

Yeah, it was me... with the baby on my chest (see the little tuft of Cana hair poking out in the pic on the left?)

And just for fun, here's my little babywearer. 'Cause, you know, she's crunchy like that.

Post-partum Ponderings and a Picture

2009-07-16T09:13:00.000-04:00

Please pardon the poor photo-- our camera is broken. Or, not really broken; it just never really worked.

So I am happy to report that I am able to fit into most of my pre-prego jeans. But my pre-prego BELTS don't fit. Explain that twisted logic to me.

I really love co-sleeping with the Itty-Bitty. Mostly because I'm lazy and can just flop over and nurse her. What I don't really love is that I sometimes forget that, unlike my 2 year old, Cana needs to be burped after she nurses. What I really really don't love is waking up in a pool of non-burped baby vomit. On the sheets that I washed yesterday. Goodness knows when they're going to get washed again. Throw down a towel and forget about it-- that's this mama's solution.

With this baby, I've ventured out into the wrapping world-- not as in gift-wrapping, as in wrap-style baby carriers. I've gotten some positive comments when I step out in the Gypsy Mama (such as a little old lady at the playground yesterday that asked me how in the world I ever got brave enough to try that) but mostly just really curious (mean?) stares. Maybe it's because, hearing the raspy, gargly baby snoring emitting from said fabric, they think I am carrying around a guinea pig, not a baby. And that would be even weirder than wrapping a baby. Aside: is it bad that my primary motivation for babywearing is to hide my postpartum pooch? Oh, wait. There's nothing postpartum about it. It was always there.

Toddler poo on cloth diapers is EXPONENTIALLY grosser than newborn poo on cloth diapers (or any sort of diaper, I would imagine. But disposables don't need to be dunked, so that lessens the grossness factor in my mind). And changing a 2 year old's diaper-- although it never really bothered me before, has become slightly obscene. Perhaps akin to changing my mom's diaper or something. Not that my mom wears diapers. That I know of. It might be time to get more serious about potty-training. My daughter, not my mom. My mom is on her own for that one.

I'm contemplating going to the Outer Banks next week to be with my family while Chris is at Creation West. Am I asinine to even attempt an eight hour trip with both girls (by myself)? Or would it be more asinine to attempt 8 days at home with both girls (by myself)? Evie is definitely in favor of going, and as long as I pack enough orange Tic Tacs and Yummy Earth lollipops, her obedience can most likely be bought. Cana doesn't care for orange Tic Tacs, so we might be up a creek there... Anyone want to take an all-expenses-paid trip to the beautiful Outer Banks of North Carolina? Scenic lactation stops are scheduled every 2-3 hours. (Or as scenic as you want them to be; I'm not shy.)

Babies don't keep...

2009-07-15T12:29:00.001-04:00

Song for a Fifth Child.

Mother, O Mother, come shake out your cloth,
Empty the dustpan, poison the moth,
Hang out the washing, make up the bed,
Sew on a button and butter the bread.

Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?
She's up in the nursery, blissfully rocking.

Oh, I've grown as shiftless as Little Boy Blue,
Lullabye, rockabye, lullabye loo.
Dishes are waiting and bills are past due
Pat-a-cake, darling, and peek, peekaboo

The shopping's not done and there's nothing for stew
And out in the yard there's a hullabaloo
But I'm playing Kanga and this is my Roo
Look! Aren't his eyes the most wonderful hue?
Lullabye, rockaby lullabye loo.

The cleaning and scrubbing can wait till tomorrow
But children grow up as I've learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down cobwebs; Dust go to sleep!
I'm rocking my baby and babies don't keep.

Me and the Yellow-Belly Baby

2009-07-10T11:18:00.001-04:00

Well, at least yellow-ish. I pretty much had to post this photo when I realized that my head scarf kinda matches my sling. And for one week postpartum, that, friends, is a magnificent, post-worthy thing.

A quick recap of the last week: labor sucks. Induced labor sucks even more. Induced labor while being on an all-liquid diet is a fate worse than death. (Not really, but you know what I mean.) Pushing a baby out in 10 minutes after being in labor for 28 hours=bliss. Sending your husband to Sheetz at 1 am to get you a Turkey Bacon Ranch Melt= double bliss. The milky smell of a breast-fed baby=almost as yummy smelling as aforementioned T.B.R.M. Searching for 1/2 hour to find a MIA bloody little umbilical cord stump, only to find it in your nursing bra= I have no words. Trying to position my two tandem nursers at the same time= hilarious. The laxative effect that breastmilk has on toddler poo=absolutely horrifying. The magnifying effect breastfeeding has on my *ahem* bosom=de-freaking-lightful.

Update on Baby

2009-07-02T13:28:00.003-04:00

Here's an email that I sent out to our small group a little while ago. Please pray!

Here's the latest:

After my appointment this morning at Maternal Fetal Medicine, my
doctors decided that it would be safest for our baby to be born soon.
Soooo, I'm supposed to be at Women and Babies at 4 PM to start a
cocktail of drugs that will ready my body for labor (at my appointment
this morning, I was only about 1-2 cm. dilated and 50% effaced-- not
enough to go into labor naturally, obviously). While this certainly
wasn't the ideal "birth plan" that I had in my head, we've been
praying for wisdom for the doctors to advise the best course of action
for our baby. I am confident that God has heard our cries and so we
go ahead in faith that this is His best for us, too. He does all
things well.

A few things to be praying about, please:

-- no c-section. Because the baby already has considerable risk factors, the doctors have advised me that they will not tolerate any
sign of distress in the baby during labor. While a c-section is
definitely not the end of the world, I would much prefer not to have
one, for obvious reasons.
-- no NICU for Baby. In addition to the risk of anemia, being a few weeks early carries its own potential complications. Pray that baby
will be strong and healthy!
-- pray for a good beginning to breast-feeding, please. I know that maybe this seems like an odd request in light of everything else, but
it is very important to me. While I had no problems with Evie, I'm
feeling anxious that the interventions necessary in birth as well as
the potential necessity for the NICU could cause some speed-bumps.
Pray that I would be surrounded by a group of doctors and lactation
consultants that would be supportive of this desire, rather than
pushing supplementation
--pray for my sweet Evie. This morning after the appointment, I got
really weepy thinking of how she won't be the only baby anymore.
Please pray for the network of family and friends who will be caring
for her while I am in the hospital-- that she would be loved on
tremendously and wouldn't even miss me. Pray that she would love her
little sister and that Chris and I would have wisdom to know how to
love and care for each of our little ones in the best possible way.
--pray for my mom, who is traveling BACK to PA as I type this. Bless
her-- I can't put into words how much I appreciate her. And sometimes
you just want your mom. :)
--pray for Chris, who does indeed have the flu. He is feeling much
better now, although still not 100%. (The doctor said he's gonna have
to wear gloves and a mask to touch the new baby!) Pray specifically
for Evie and Baby, that they would be protected from this nasty virus.
-- I know this is long-winded, but one last thing: many of you know that my sister, Gwenn, along with her family, is a missionary in
Haiti. For the past 2+ weeks, she has been violently ill-- she's lost
25+ lbs. and is extremely weak and drained. She was originally
diagnosed with malaria, but now they are no longer sure. Gwenn is
currently en route back to the US to undergo testing at Duke. Please
pray that the doctors will be able to quickly diagnose and treat her.
Pray for her family as she is gone. I love her a ton and really wish
that I could be with her.

I thank my God every time I remember you. We will keep you updated.

His love never fails,
Melody (+Chris)

Tragedy averted...

2009-06-16T09:10:00.000-04:00

The MIA gauchos have been located. In my closet. Folded neatly. The very top pair of pants on the pile.

I swear they weren't there yesterday...

Missing Maternity Gauchos--Reward Offered!!

2009-06-14T21:40:00.000-04:00

Missing since the week of June 8th. Last seen on a pair of amply-sized, slightly cellulite-ridden pregnant-lady thighs. (OK, maybe not *slightly* cellulite-ridden. You got me.) Size Medium Liz Lange for Target. Lovingly cherished and will be eternally missed if not recovered.

What's that you say? Maybe if I actually *washed* the 17 loads of laundry climbing up the wall in the bedroom? What's that you say? Maybe if I folded, sorted, and put away the 6 loads of laundry residing in a crumpled, wrinkly heap on the guest room bed? What's that you say? Maybe if I actually organized the mountains of maternity pants spilling over the top shelf of my closet and threatening to fall to the (*GASP*) no-man's-land crevasse of my closet floor? Maybe I'd find them then, you say?

Maybe, friend, maybe. But I think something much more sinister is going on here.

Scenario 1: Chris, appalled at the thought that I may actually pack aforementioned gauchos in our Creation luggage and (*double GASP!) wear them in public, has stealthily snuck them from Mt. Maternity Pants in my closet, cut them into small, unidentifiable pieces, and mixed it in with the chicken feed.

Scenario 2: Evie, appalled at the thought that I may actually pack aforementioned gauchos in our Creation luggage and (double GASP!) wear them in public, has stealthily stolen them from the dirty laundry pile (brave girl!), wadded them into a small, unidentifiable mass, and stowed them underneath the mounds of baby clothes that have yet to be sorted and put away for the new baby. (She, of course, being a smart girl, knows that said baby clothes probably won't get sorted and put away until AFTER the baby's arrival, thus squelching the need for maternity gauchos. At least that's what I'm hoping.)

No matter the circumstances regarding their disappearance, their swift return is fervently desired. No questions asked.

Maybe some questions. Like, why in the world would you steal my most beloved article of clothing?! What kind of sadistic individual are you?!

Oh, and there won't actually be a reward. I'm pretty sure that they were only $12.99 or something, so I'd really be messing up that profit margin. HOWEVER, there WILL be a reward offered if you want to come and wash the 17 loads of laundry climbing up the wall in my bedroom, fold/sort/put away the 6 loads of laundry residing in a crumpled, wrinkly heap on the guest room bed, and organize the mountain of maternity pants spilling over the top shelf of my closet. But it probably won't be much more than $12.99.

A Poor Man's Pool A Lazy Mom's Pool

2009-06-11T15:45:00.000-04:00

Ev actually *does* have a little baby pool somewhere, but I'm deathly afraid of using the electric air-pump thing-er, and I am definitely not going to subject my pregnant lungs to trying to blow it up. And I definitely think she preferred the mixing bowl method, anyway. I'm contemplating starting a poll as to how long said bowls will stay on the porch... :)

My man... :)

2009-06-10T12:36:00.000-04:00

Purple Door has been getting a lot of positive media attention this year. And while I obviously recognize the fact that there is a stellar team behind this ~~k-ass~~ kick-a :) festival, I can't help but feel very proud of my man, Purple Door's HAWT producer--the one and only, chicken-farming, Stray Lights-owning, Haz-mat-call-running Chris Strayer.

(In addition to PD, he also produces some pretty stinkin' cute babies... just sayin').

This is a recent article from Gospel Music Channel. You should probably be there. ~~It will be the highlight of your summer, maybe even your life.~~ It's gonna be cool.

The Summer of Rock!
EMAILPRINTBOOKMARK
By Andy Argyrakis, senior music editor, GospelMusicChannel.com

Now that the long Memorial Day weekend is over, the nights are getting longer and the smell of barbeque is in the air, summer’s officially in full swing. But the true barometer of the season is unquestionably the festival circuit, which is once again overflowing with a series of red-hot rock acts from the past and present. While certain soirées are regular Christian music fixtures (such as Creation, Cornerstone, Kingdom Bound, Ichthus, Alive and Atlanta Fest), a recent poll of artists indicated several under the radar festivals gaining newfound momentum. So with that, here’s a sampling of where to catch ample amounts of rock in an outdoor environment anchored in the gospel.

Purple Door’s a powerhouse

For the past 14 years, Lewisberry, Penn.’s Purple Door festival has steadily ascended from a small regional celebration to a national destination. This year, fans from across the country can descend upon the Ski Roundtop from August 14–15, taking in sets from a slew of crossover favorites and core Christian market rock n’ rollers. Anberlin, Family Force 5 and mewithoutyou lead, alongside a stellar supporting cast including Disciple, Project 86, Fireflight, Seabird and Spoken.

“Purple Door is purposely designed and booked to reach today’s generation featuring many styles of music – hardcore, punk, rock, rap, hip-hop, emo, acoustic and on and on – as well as many [crossover] acts,” says festival producer Chris Strayer, indicating the secret of the event’s success. “You tie this together with seminars and speaking and you have something for everyone. Oh yeah, we dropped our ticket prices. We realize that times are hard so we wanted to do our part. The price of our tickets, including the gate price, is the cheapest since 2004!”

Fans are sure to get even more bang for their buck considering several artists will also be speaking, including Project 86 frontman-turned-author Andrew Schwab. In addition to debuting tunes from the band’s forthcoming Picket Fence Cartel, he promises to create a uniquely intimate experience for the fans.

“It’s always cool to have that type of interaction with people alongside the stage performance of the band,” he muses. “You can connect with people and say things in a completely different way than just yelling at them!”

Disciple’s leader Kevin Young is also ready for double duty at Purple Door, which he explains won’t be much different than the regular dialogue already a part of the band’s concert performances. “I do a lot of speaking anyway so it shouldn’t be hard to balance,” he suggests. “As far as what I will speak about, I might give my testimony [but] I’m not sure yet. You’ll have to be there to find out.” ~(continued from page 1)

Festival spokesperson and Springboard Entertainment owner Anita Crawford notices buzz surrounding the event is at an all-time high, especially considering this year’s headliners rarely play Christian market events anymore, thanks to the demand of the mainstream market. That coup has prompted additional media attention and swelling audience sizes, which in a time of economic instability, further brands Purple Door as an interesting anomaly.

“Each year is bigger and better and has an amazing line up,” she confirms. “Purple Door strives to present ‘heavy-hitting’ artists who are making an impact in music and culture. Many of these bands are also playing primarily in the general market. Publicity from prominent outlets gives exposure on a larger scale, exposing a wider audience to the event and giving more music fans the option to attend.”

I am NOT a good pregnant person...

2009-06-08T15:02:00.000-04:00

I'm just not. Unlike my sister Gretchen who was like 46 weeks pregnant (or you know, something like that) at Creation and still climbing steel in the blistering hot sun. (Or, you know she would have been if ~~my mom~~ the Creation-Powers-That-Be let her.) Oh yes, I'll be at Creation this year. But not because I intend on being even remotely useful. For several reasons though: an air-conditioned trailer (the blistering hot steel at Creation has NOTHING on my living room right now), free popsicles from the Popsicle Lady, no cooking for 10 days, all the cheesecake on a stick I can possibly stomach, and an even greater potential for napping. (IE, "Evie, I really think Nana needs your help ~~passing out popsicles~~ ministering to the kids. Why don't you go with her while I get some really important ~~housework~~ trailerwork done?!" *or* "Evie, I'm pretty sure Uncle Jon needs some help to find out where those rascally teenagers stowed the cheba [mwah ha ha] in K-field.")

All things Creation aside, I am getting to the miserable stage MUCH sooner than I did with Evie. I. am. huge. My toes are all swollen like little Vienna sausages. I pee every 7 1/2 minutes. OK, maybe a little longer at night. But I still wake up every 7 1/2 minutes because of the lovely return of pregnancy-induced Carpal Tunnel Syndrome. I've seen a recent return of the Hyperactive First Trimester Gag Reflux (H.F.T.G.R.) which makes taking my prenatal vitamins or brushing my teeth just swell. I. am. tired. I pant and sweat and swoon in the sun like an old fat man, making simple tasks like hanging Evie's diapers on the line sheer torture. And speaking of diapers, pregnancy has led to a heightened sense of smell. (Surely Evie's dirty diapers haven't always smelled EXACTLY like a Creation port-a-pot?! Surely I wouldn't have been able to stick with cloth diapering all this time if they had.) I. am. tired. Naps have become a necessity, rather than a luxury. A NECESSITY. My house is filthy... I'm trying to remember if this is typical of a non-prego Melody... messy, yes. Filthy, no. I. am. tired.

Lest you think that I am praying and petitioning for the early arrival of the littlest Strayer, I'm not. I'm not delusional. I know that having a newborn is exponentially harder than being pregnant. So no, I'm just whining.

But seriously, while the above was mostly meant tongue-in-cheek, I would appreciate your prayers... mostly for my heart... in the coming weeks. I have found myself increasingly impatient with my sweet little Evie, less ready to engage her, more ready to be critical of her. And I hate sounding like a mean shrew of a mom. And, as most of you know, there have been a few complications with this pregnancy; and with the recent onslaught of doctor's appointments and specialist's opinions, etc. etc., I find that there are times that I am giving way to fear... rather than trusting the One that holds my tiny baby in His hands.

I hear a slightly disgruntled cry coming from the wee little toddler bed in the next room, so that's all for now. Enjoy the blistering hot sun today!

Friday Funny...

2009-06-05T05:55:00.000-04:00

Maybe everybody else doesn't find breastfeeding humor as funny as I do... but I figure, you gotta laugh at yourself if you're likely going to be lactating for the next five years straight... Just kidding. Hopefully.

Humungo Melody Mother of Evie (and Baby)

2009-06-02T19:24:00.001-04:00

I hesitated to post this picture... interestingly enough, not because of the embarrassingly generous girth of my ~~butt~~ errr, belly... but because of the disgustingly dirty mirror that my camera flash revealed. I'd like to blame it on my new vinegar/lavender sprig + recycled newspaper mirror-cleaning regimen, but it's most likely because it hasn't been cleaned it in two weeks... 'Cause you know, I'm too busy composting chicken feces and growing Kombucha SCOBYs...

Funny Evie-isms

2009-05-29T10:47:00.000-04:00

Scene-- Whilst sorting her strawberries into small, family-sized piles:
"That one's Auntie Gretchen. That one's Nico. That's Uncle Jon." (etc. etc. etc.) And then she laughs hysterically as she pops each tart little berry into her mouth and masticates with much merriment.

Scene-- Picking up a tiny scrap of scrambled egg that had escaped from her plate onto her high-chair tray, she cups it gently in her hand and strokes it tenderly:
"Oh, my tiny little baby. Don't cry, tiny baby." (inserts a convincing "waa waa") "It's OK, tiny baby. I love you." Kisses tiny baby. Then eats it. (Should I be scared for her wee sister?)

Scene-- finds a pair of her underwear in the (clean) laundry pile. This particular pair is adorned with little red fire engines and police cars. (Yes, I got them at a yard sale. And yes, they're for little boys. Give me a break--I'm doing my part to be green by buying used--I'm *sure* that affects my carbon footprint, at least a bit.) I turn from my computer to find that she has placed it neatly on her head:

"It's my firefighter helmet, Mama." Flame-retardant and all.

Scene--bangs her sticky little fingers all over the full-length mirror. Small child knows that this is a deliberate act of disobedience, but continues to grumbly defy despite her mother's sweet pleadings.
Mother: "Evie, are you being purposefully disobedient?!"
Evie: (gasps, clearly shocked and appalled by the suggestion) No, Mama!!!!!!!! I'm just whining!!"

Don't hate 'cause I have the coolest kid around. :)

Meet the newest Strayer!!!

2009-05-28T17:08:00.001-04:00

... or Strayer(s)...

I did that purposefully to see if I could get any google-reader people to actually come and look. (For the record, the wee babe is still tucked safely inside.) The chicks, however, are not. They never were. That would be weird.

As you can see, Chris re-did the chicken house into what I have called the MckMansion.

I'm not really sure why I like to call it the MckMansion; that conjures up images of me slaughtering above-pictured chickens, waiting until their headless bodies stop writhing about on the ground, plucking their feathers out one by one, and turning them into tasty breaded morsels. And if I can't even get over my aversion to eating poop-covered eggs (just kidding, I clean them off) then I definitely won't be able to turn them into nuggets. (For the record, I am pretty much over my aversion to the poop-covered egg part. I realized that Evie was covered in much worse things when she was born, and I still love her. A lot.)

So, inappropriate moniker notwithstanding, you will notice that the peeps are in a separate cordoned-off wing (kinda like the Green Room at Creation, except a lot more poop). I didn't want Ruby, Bustard, or Henrietta to think that they were tasty, breaded morsels and eat them. I'm not sure if they do that or not. But fish do. And chickens are gross. So there's probably not a whole lot stopping the chickens.

Memorial Day

2009-05-25T15:56:00.000-04:00

I am embarrassed to admit that I have never really been sobered by holidays like Memorial Day, Veterans' Day, etc. It was always just an excuse to get off of school or work. And to qualify my next statement, having never been in the military myself, I don't think that I will ever completely "get" it. But being a mama does really change every facet of how you view the world. Since my sweet baby was born (and as I anticipate the arrival of another), I am becoming more aware of the sacrifices that are made by our military. First and foremost, by the men and women who have given their lives-- and secondly, by the mamas who will never hold their sweet babies again... the wives who go to bed alone at night... the small children who will never be able to celebrate a carefree Memorial Day cookout with their Dads.

My mom shared this photo on her blog-- the young woman is one of my sister's best friends from high school; she lost a dear friend in Iraq. It was particularly moving to me.

There is no greater love. I am grateful.

Channeling her inner Evie Grace...

2009-05-20T14:50:00.000-04:00

I didn't think it was *possible* to give Evie a run for her money in the Chubby Cheek Department:

But her sister certainly seems to be trying:

Ode to my Maternity Gauchos and other thoughts...

2009-05-18T20:04:00.000-04:00

Chris recently gave me (at my request :) a gift card to Motherhood Maternity and an Evie-free evening in which to use it. Even though I asked him for it, I'm pretty sure I was doing him a favor. How could he not be tired of seeing me in the same ill-fitting black tee-shirt and secret-panel ~~Mom~~ maternity jeans day after day after blessed day?! I was sick of seeing me in this ensemble, and I don't even have to look at myself all that often (believe me, when you're 7 months pregnant and haven't had a haircut in 6 months, you try not to).

I digress... while out on my excursion, I stumbled upon a pair of black maternity gaucho pants. Maybe not the most flattering thing for a girl of my girth to be wearing, you may be thinking. And that would be an accurate assessment. But merciful host of heaven! these things are a dream come true. As my wizened old father would say, it is like an veritable angel dancing on my ~~tongue~~ hips. If it weren't for the logistical considerations that would complicate such an ensemble, I would seriously consider wearing these gauchos while giving birth, in lieu of an epidural. They will, at very least, be my postpartum pants of choice. (So now Chris can look forward to the next 2.5+ months of seeing me in gauchos and aforementioned ill-fitting tee-shirt day after day after blessed day.)

I love Lancaster County. I love hearing the horse and buggies go by at night, and picking up Amish-made whoopie pies at the local farmer's market. So imagine how I rejoiced at the simple pastoral scene I observed on a farm near our house the other day: teenaged boy, bedecked in straw hat and black overalls, sitting on his plow in a field taking a well-deserved break, among his yoke of oxen... texting on his cell phone. What's next? Police breaking up Amish hymn-sing-a-longs because of illegal drugs being distributed?! Oh, wait...

In chicken-related news, Bustard, Henrietta, and Ruby el Segun are an accomplished egg-making trio; Evie and I have quite the adventures going out (several times a day) to check on the "ladies" (Ev's words, not mine). Here's the problem: I seem to have an aversion to eating said eggs. I'm not sure-- observing un-hygenic chickenly habits and scraping poop off of their eggs seems just a bit too close to nature for me. Yet another reason why I'm not crunchy.

An Exercise in Humiliation Humility

2009-05-12T13:07:00.000-04:00

So it's that time of year again, when our thoughts turn to ~~the hot-ness of Bigsby~~ the lush, rolling hills of Orbisonia's Agape Farm. Since I was a wee little babe in my mama's belly, I have been a faithful Creation devotee. I even met the infamous Chris Strayer there (he was a total punk back in those days). And when I was offered the opportunity to ~~get a free meal pass and an all-access badge~~ marry the love of my life, who works each year for the festival, I jumped at the chance.

To be completely honest, I'm not really sure why I still go. Ever since ~~my fiance~~ former DC Talk member Kevin Max stopped perfoming, and Jennifer Knapp decided that the Lilith Fair was a bit more up her alley (in more ways than one), I'n not so much into the bands anymore. There was that one year (I think I was fifteen) when I wanted to marry Joshua Harris, mostly because he wrote what one friend calls "The Fat Girls' Guide to Dating". (I was a fat girl, so I was pretty sure he'd date me. Except he didn't date. So there's that.) Another year (I was thirteen), I pledged to marry Michael Guglielmucci --an accomplished youth pastor/musician. (He ended up lying about having terminal cancer for years in order to divert attention away from his porn addiction... so, probably good that didn't work out either.)

But I digress. All of this ~~witty banter~~ ~~mindless musing~~ talk isn't the point. One of the highlights of my summer, maybe even my life (tee-hee) is that two of my nieces and my nephew make the trek up from NC to attend the festival as well. (Goodness only knows why. Can I refer back to the hot-ness of Bigsby?) I suggested to my niece Katie , a precocious home-schooled 7-year-old, that she might consider making a "Creation Memory Book". I thought it would be a good creative outlet, help with her reading and writing and cognitive skills in the long summer months-- 'cause, you know, I care about things like education and creativity (hence letting my daughter watch PBS Kids till her eyes get red and pussy). I referenced the Creation Memory Books that I made with my best friend, Christina, when we were roly-poly, DC Talk-obsessed, cowpie-picking-up, giggly preteens. My sister, being the ever-vigilant home-schooling mama that she is, asked for a sample of my work-- possibly so that she could give Katie the best possible example of template, meter, cadence, etc. (I did, incidentally score a perfect score on my 10th grade writing test... a feat accomplished by only 20 other students in the state of NC... so really, she couldn't ask for a better tutor.) So without further ado, I bring you a sampling of the Chrissy/Melody Creation '95 Memory Book. Enjoy. (You should be able to click on the image if you want to see even more gory details.)

(I would like to say that Chrissy and I got so caught up in the ~~stalking of K-max~~ worship music that we forgot to faithfully log our body-cleansing rituals. But that's probably not true. I was kind of a gross kid.)

What happens when you wake up at 4 AM...

2009-05-09T12:12:00.000-04:00

...because you don't feel like sleeping anymore and then you play outside all morning while Mama has a yard sale on the front lawn?

I'm glad you asked. You fall asleep en route to the toy box, with your granola bar (which you tearfully INSISTED on having for lunch) midway to your mouth.

Moral of the story: be thankful you didn't insist on ice cream for lunch.

Ruby el Segun, Henrietta, & Bustard Mustard

2009-05-07T10:13:00.000-04:00

My husband's family has had a handful of egg-laying chickens in their backyard since he was knee-high to a grasshopper (or roughly around that size). We have often talked about how fun it would be to have some of our own. Well, finally ~~because he got so tired of me forgetting eggs at the grocery store~~ because he loves me so much, he built a little hen-house and ~~stole~~ bought some Rhode Island Reds from a local Amish farmer.

And no, because you asked, they are not free-range and they are not organically fed. We're not crunchy like that.

They arrived to their new abode this morning, and Evie and I promptly spent some time christening them (as they christened the pristine springtime lawn with chicken shieza... they really are nasty little creatures). I knew right away that the little one had to be named in loving memory of Ruby, the friendly little bantam hen that lived down the road from Nana and Granddad. She was a great favorite of the grandchildren, who, according to local legend, met her untimely fate at the long end of a butcher knife. (We thought it would be disrespectful to her memory if we just named our chicken Ruby--- hence the "el segun".) Henrietta is the big bossy one, and Mustard is the one with the silvery wings. (I think Evie got confused when I asked her what she wanted to name the chicken; she thought I asked what she wanted ON TOP of her chicken... but the moniker stuck.)

I'm not quite sure that I have the nerve to open up said chicken-house to remove our tasty brown eggs... or to change the water or the feed. So Ruby el Segun, Henrietta, and Mustard may meet their untimely fate at the long end of my negligence. But that's just what I like to call the life cycle, folks.

(First rule of ~~urban defense~~ chicken-raising: approach from the perimeter. Second: always keep one eye on the chicken.)

My crunchy kid...

2009-05-05T16:08:00.000-04:00

We've already established that I am the antithesis of the term "crunchy granola"; Evie, on the other hand, may be a little hippie-mama-in-the-making:

*she's WAAAAYYY into co-sleeping. I'm pretty sure she'd be on board if we decided to sell our bed on craiglist, set up a futon mattress on our bedroom floor and enjoy the family bed until she's sixteen. NOT that there's anything wrong with that...

*the kid FLIPS out if I don't provide "toppy" for her yogurt, strawberries, etc. And by "toppy", I mean wheat germ or ground flaxseed meal. She uses her thumb and her pointer finger to then scrape all the toppy off of the particular food item and eats it plain. Blech. ME, on the other hand? Give me aspartame any day.

*She could go indefinitely without bathing and totally be fine with that. Maybe she's joining the no-poo movement?

*She would possibly also be on board with the idea of breastfeeding until she is sixteen, kinda like this kid. I, however, am not. (NOT that there's anything wrong with that...)

*She loves tie-dye.

*She's very into the concept of "gentle discipline". In fact, if we just indefinitely scrapped the idea of spanking, she'd be a happy girl.

Then again, she also imbibes mass quantities of "bustard" (read=mustard) by the spoonful, could watch PBS Kids till her eyes get red and pussy, and enjoys any kind of brainless, made-in-China toy that goes 'zip' when it moves, and 'pop' when it stops, and "whirrrr" when it stands still. So maybe I'm infecting her with my toxic philosophies after all...

(Sporting her organic cotton tie-dye shirt and smiling for the camera. Just kidding, it's not organic. And those marks on her arm? NOT tribal henna markings, just non-homemade paint.)

How to make a baby...

2009-04-30T12:58:00.001-04:00

I totally stole this from Kristi's blog. It made me laugh. Now if she can only post one on how NOT to make a baby, I'd be set...

Riding in cars with Ev...

2009-04-27T20:17:00.000-04:00

Like her mom, she never goes anywhere without her sunglasses and a snack.

Haitian Children's Home

2009-04-18T11:52:00.000-04:00

In nine days, my sister, her husband, and their three small children (Nia, Nico, & Josiah) will make the permanent move to Jacmel, Haiti to be a part of this. While my heart is sad for me, I couldn't be more excited for the 20 kids who will become a part of their family. This, friends, is the heart of the Savior. This is the Good News.

"The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me to bring good news to the poor; He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to those who are bound..." (Isaiah 61v1)

Channeling her inner Flock of Seagulls...

2009-04-05T18:28:00.000-04:00

Evie has the moderately annoying habit of pulling her laboriously crafted pigtails (if such scant sprigs of hair can qualify as such) out of her hair. Coupled with her new default "Cheese!" face, she's a 1980's rockstar waiting to happen.

PS

2009-04-04T19:08:00.001-04:00

You probably shouldn't leave your one-year-old in the other room while you're uploading cute photos of her onto your blog. You might walk into the kitchen to see her sitting at the kitchen table, drinking from your glass of water, and texting on your cell phone.

Just so you know.

Lazy day...

2009-04-04T18:50:00.001-04:00

Chris had a class all day long today, so I decided that Evie and I were going to have a "Jammie Day"; well, if you want to get technical, I showered and changed out of one pair of sweats into another pair of sweats... and Evie has been wearing a onesie all day. It wasn't entirely unproductive, actually; I sorted through a bunch of baby stuff and started to prepare for our upcoming yard sale, did mass amounts of laundry, listed some stuff on craigslist, etc. etc.

But by about 4 pm, I was bored out of my mind. Was there a bunch more cleaning/organizing I COULD have done? Of course. But instead, Ev and I whipped up a batch of cookies. And yes, I am a bad mom and let her lick the beaters (errr, singular "beater". I licked the other one. But it was for the baby. I swear). So, long day... but at least 37 minutes of my day were pleasantly occupied with sweet baby giggles and peanut butter kisses. :)

Oops, better go... Evie just brought me the packing tape and asked me to "try it on". We'll see how that goes.

She got that sucker CLEAN!

Enjoying the fruits of her labor.

Humbling...

2009-04-04T12:51:00.000-04:00

It's kind of humbling when you see/hear yourself reflected in your one-year-old's words/actions/attitudes, etc.

Today, I was recapping Evie's markers, preparing to put them away. Apparently, Evie wasn't ready for me to put them away. She looked at me, beetled her little brow (actually courtesy of Nana), squinted her eyes, and said, "DON'T you do that, Mama! DON'T you do that!!"

Eek. I guess I need to work some more on that whole "gentle and quiet spirit."

sigh

2009-04-02T21:39:00.000-04:00

Chris brought home some girl scout cookies tonight.

That man is my hero.

Out-takes

2009-04-01T21:27:00.000-04:00

When I was in Raleigh this past weekend, saying goodbye to my sister who is moving to Haiti, I decided to go get Evie's portraits made for Chris's birthday gift (he had mentioned that it would be nice to have it done, and really... what do you get for the man that wants nothing?! :) ). In her almost 21 month existence on this earth, she has never had her pictures taken professionally. Mostly because I prefer candid shots to, say, Evie in front of a Grecian temple or something. Also because I am pretty lazy. And cheap.

But I digress. Although it did prove to be a horrific experience that I will likely never repeat, we did get lots of cute shots of my girly. I'm not going to post those cute shots here; it would ruin the Mother's Day "surprise" for my mom and Chris's mom. I will, however, post a few of the "out-takes" that were on the CD in my package deal. (The saleslady told me that I pretty much needed to have a CD with the images; she said that if my house burned down, I would feel really horribly if I lost all the pictures of my kid...?!?!)

The taking of and subsequent purchase of these photos coincided with Chris's trip to Cite Soleil, one of the biggest slums on the planet. I am in NO WAY judging those who choose to purchase their children's portraits on a regular basis; it's a really nice memory to have. But it was definitely a sobering reminder to me-- that while there are precious souls literally subsisting on mud-cakes (really), I'm spending a small fortune on marginal memorabilia. My sister "gets" it-- that's why she's moving to Haiti. I think that Chris is starting to "get it", especially after this recent trip. God, help me to see the value of things in YOUR economy; help me to store up treasures that neither rust or moth can destroy! Help me to "get it"!

Deep Thoughts on Parenting...

2009-03-17T12:38:00.000-04:00

If your one-year-old starts calling from the back seat, "Tummy HURT! Throw up!!", you should probably pull over the car. She might be bluffing, but if she's not-- oh, boy... what a mess.

All you can do is watch helplessly from the rear-view mirror as the (substantial) contents of her stomach embed on the upholstery of your car.

The Master of Disaster!

2009-03-16T16:10:00.000-04:00

As the video mentions, Evie has been in her "big girl bed" for at least a few weeks. After the first day, we haven't had *any* problems with her getting out of bed during nap or nighttime.

Until today.

Let me make a disclaimer: Yes, I was napping in the next room (I'm pregnant--sue me!). But I had the monitor on, as I always do. And like any other mom, I can even hear the subtle yet distinct change in breathing when Evie awakes; I NEVER heard a peep out of that kid. Not one. Perhaps she has mastered the art of stealth. Or perhaps I was just really, really tired!

PS-- remarkably (and providently?!), Evie managed to find the owner's manual for her umbrella stroller in the closet. She colored (in pink permanent marker) on that, but not the rocker, or the books, or the walls, etc. etc. Thanks be to God. That's not flippant; literally-- thank You, God.

Oh, and PS 2-- If anyone cares, those are gdiaper liners strewn about the room-- NOT maxi pads. I mean, not that it would be any more unusual to have maxi pads in your 1 year old's closet than, say, MAGIC MARKERS!!! sigh.

Future Philanthropist?

2009-03-11T14:52:00.000-04:00

As aforementioned, Evie is a very musical little girl. She loves to make up songs about diapers, her baby sister (yes, it's a girl!), her sandbox, and most recently, Barack Obama. (I'm not kidding.)

But this one takes the cake. On Sunday, we were driving through the city and she spotted Water Street Rescue Mission. She pointed out her window and demanded, "What's that?!?" (her mantra these days). I said, "Oh, that's the homeless shelter, Evie."

A few minutes later I hear her clear her throat and prepare to debut her latest melodic masterpiece:

"Homeless shelter, homeless shelter-- Let's be friends!! Let's be friends!!
Let's play together, let's play together! Let's be kind, please be kind!"

Well, I can certainly think of less noble aspirations for my girl. :)

Twinkle Twinkle Little Painting!

2009-03-02T14:33:00.000-05:00

Evie's first finger painting experience, predictably, led to a gooey mass of green-ish slime, but also afforded the opportunity to perform one of her favorite songs!

The (almost) littlest Strayer :)

2009-02-27T14:20:00.000-05:00

(**Disclaimer-- I know this photo is probably completely inappropriate for me to post. Oh, well.)

Evie is turning into quite the big girl these days. I've always heard mamas say that seeing their "babies" gain independence is bittersweet, but I am truly relishing each new thing she learns and accomplishes. It is so fun to see her little personality develop! So, because I am sure that my three readers are dying to know, I'm gonna brag on my girly a little bit!

Ev is talking like CRAZY; she totally gets the whole sentence concept... I mean, she doesn't always use the proper tense or subject/predicate order, but she is becoming quite the little communicator. Somebody (not me; Elmo, maybe?) has been working on phonics with her lately; I heard her saying to herself yesterday, "C says CA--CA--CA!" She loves to sing, and she loves to make up little songs by herself; you know, "Ode to the Potty" and other such classics...

Speaking of which, she is becoming quite the little potty-proficient these days. Although she still wears her cloth dipes for the majority of the day, she will often tell me when she needs to go. She can be found at all hours of the day, sitting on her little pot with book in hand, tending to her bid'ness. She gets one Smartie if she pees and two Smarties if she, well... you get the idea. She thinks Potty Treats are the best thing in the whole wide world (well, pretty much.)

Evie Grace started sleeping in her BIG GIRL BED! (woot, woot) last week, and the adjustment has gone much smoother than I anticipated. She is very proud of this accomplishment, and likes to go "check out" (her words) her bed several times a day. We wanted to get her well-accustomed to this before The Newbie comes along, so she wouldn't feel like she was being "kicked out" of her space. She still wakes up fairly regularly at night, but the wonderful thing is that I can curl up in her little bed with her and nurse her (yes, she's still nursing!) back to sleep. I so love those cuddly times with my girl; it's not often that she wants to snuggle in her waking time anymore, so I will take what I can get.

I could go on and on, and perhaps I will (another time). I love being this girl's mama. I'm grateful that Jesus gave her to us.

Evie's Grandad...

2009-02-16T12:23:00.000-05:00

... is pretty incredible. My Dad came up from NC to visit us this past weekend, and Ev followed him around like a little puppy dog. When she woke up in the morning, one of the first things out of her mouth was "GRANDAD!!" They had fun playing guitar, coloring on newspaper with Grandad's special pen, taking walks together, and sampling Evie's first pork roll (blech).

I have a lot to learn about parenting from my Dad. He has the benefit of both experience and retrospect; he knows that it's perfectly OK to let the baby push her doll stroller back and forth and back and forth and back and forth through one little stretch of the Echo Tunnel, rather than insisting on walking straight to the end of the path. He is always careful to explain the in's and out's of good behavior to Evie, while I am often guilty of just blindly demanding obedience. While I can become irritated with Evie's sometimes inconvenient cries of "Hold you, mama! Hold you!", my Dad is quick to respond, "Great! I love to hold you, Evie! We're good friends, right?" Though she's often the type of helper that makes the job harder, Grandad allows (even WELCOMES) Evie's "help" on a task, embracing the teachability of the moment. My dad, the true renegade attachment father before his time!!

Lord, help me not miss these moments with my precious girl! Help me to embrace the mess and the questions and the "hold you!!"s. Help me to see the wonder of a smashed-up caterpillar on the walkway, or the excitement of the baby slide at the park.

My friend Julie has this quote on her blog; I love it. I want this perspective in my life:

"Here is a sweet fragrant mouth to kiss; here are two more feet to make music with their pattering about my nursery. Here is a soul to train for God; and the body in which it dwells is worth all it will cost, since it is the abode of a kingly tenant." (Elizabeth Prentiss)

Little Miss Stray Lights :)

2009-02-11T12:29:00.000-05:00

Come on, what dads do you know that bring a lighting board in just so he can teach you a few basics?!?

Baby belly

2009-02-09T11:25:00.000-05:00

I ventured up into the attic this morning and broke out the maternity clothes. Ah, the bliss of stretchy-waist jeans!!!

Some observations...

2009-02-06T14:03:00.000-05:00

1) 10+" snow plus a 32" little girl= HILARIOUS. I mean, I probably should've helped her, but come on. You gotta get your kicks somehow.

2) Speaking of kicks: The Wiggles? They're a little bit hot.

3) There's nothing sweeter than having your sweaty-heady baby fall asleep on your lap when you're checking your email.

4) There's nothing more annoying than a cashier who refuses to *help* bag your groceries EVEN THOUGH she's done ringing you up. So she just stands there and watches you do it while your 1-year-old systematically sorts your credit cards into two piles: mouth or floor.

5) Only slightly less annoying is when the 6 mo. prego manager comes over to help bag (on a separate occasion) but she can't put the 5 lb. container of bleach in your cart because she's "in a delicate condition". A) It's FIVE LBS.!! B) You're pregnant, not crippled. C) I'M PREGNANT, TOO FOR PETE'S SAKE!!

6) If you're in the transitional stages of labor, don't come into the OB's office and wait for an appointment. Especially when the hospital is in the same building. I'm waiting here with all the other blissfully comfortable 4 month pregos; believe me, we don't want to remember.

Self-explanatory... :)

2009-01-31T11:54:00.001-05:00

America's Next Top Designer?

2009-01-29T15:17:00.001-05:00

Evie found a box full of burp clothes and flat diapers this morning and said, "Mama, wear it!" This, friends, is the result. Work it, Evie.

Why you shouldn't leave your one-year-old alone with Crayolas...

2009-01-27T20:09:00.000-05:00

I left Evie in her high chair for about two minutes while I ran to check my email. When I got back into the kitchen, she laughed and gleefully exclaimed, "Mama! Color face!!" Really, Evie? Thanks.

PS-- Just an FYI-- those markers really aren't as washable as they claim.

Come on Puxatawny Phil!

2009-01-25T15:44:00.000-05:00

I never put a whole lot of thought into the whole tradition of Groundhog Day, beyond casually following the Today Show's newscast as I got ready for work. I mean, I am old enough to know how this works; I would be more inclined to credit El Nino or, I don't know-- God?!? with the early arrival of spring than a rascally little rodent.

But this year, the game has changed. I am *DONE* with winter. Seriously, absolutely over it. My former co-workers used to get mad at me when I'd be the solitary figure in the

parking lot, flailing out the awkward moves of a snow dance in March. Hey, I'll admit- the first seven minutes of playing with a one-year-old in the snow is fun/endearing/cute/etc. Beyond that, it's cold. (That is, assuming, that aforementioned one-year-old makes it out of the house without a meltdown. Leg warmers followed by long underwear followed by overalls followed by six shirts followed by three pairs of socks followed by PUSH! PUSH! PUSH! into snowboots two sizes too small followed by...

you get it. It's a tantrum waiting to happen.)

So all that to say, I am summoning the Groundhog powers that be, and praying for an early spring. Evie and I miss our old haunts-- the playground, the walking trail, Echo Tunnel (as we so christened the slightly grimy walking trail tunnel that goes under Newport Road). I will not be sad to retire Brownie, Puffs, Beauty, or P. Diddy (as we so christened her various winter jackets, so as to not become confused by the various and sundry options) and pull out a lightweight fleece or *GASP* go coat-less. I am anxious to open the windows in the house, and roll down the windows in the Maz, and let the wind blow through Evie's hair... err, head.

Don't call me on February 2nd. Don't email or text. I'll be the solitary figure in the parking lot (perhaps with Evie Ergo'd on my back) flailing out the awkward moves of a spring dance.

Useless...

2009-01-23T11:40:00.000-05:00

Jodi Picoult makes me a bad mother/housekeeper/wife/Stray Lights book-keeper :). I shouldn't be allowed to go to the library.

Some pics I ganked from my sister's facebook...

2009-01-22T11:07:00.001-05:00

Evie, surprisingly enough, did NOT poop in the tub while Abbie was in there.

A "special treat"--ice cream!

Evie specifically chose this itickets hat and put it on herself. Maybe she's mad in the picture cause she just realized it doesn't match her outfit.

This is actually a little doll diaper bag that Evie thinks is a hat. Weirdo.

Deputy Evie.

Oh, and PS... Evie would like to put out a PSA for those who haven't already heard. She's going to be a big sister!

Emily Post would be proud...

2009-01-05T20:32:00.000-05:00

We try to be vigilant about teaching Evangeline her manners. And thus far, she's been a good pupil. She always says "Bless you, Mama" when I sneeze and very often remembers to say "please" and "thank you" without being prompted.

Tonight we were having dinner, and I was attempting to squirt some mustard from the almost empty bottle onto my plate. And let's just say the bottle made a very *ahem* "unladylike" noise. Evie Grace, perched in her high chair, gasped and exclaimed, "Oh! Excuse me!!"

Now if I can just get her to stop smacking me across the face all the time.

This girl is totally my kid...

2008-12-30T12:54:00.000-05:00

I was just getting Evie dressed (yes, at 1 PM. I know, I am the mother of the year). I was having a hard time getting her jeans buttoned over her gi-normous cloth diaper booty. So I said, "Evie, you're too chubby."

She responded, "Yeah. Suck it in."

I've trained her well. :)

Evie's first fat lip and some cute videos...

2008-12-29T20:11:00.000-05:00

Evie and I were playing in the living room tonight. She was running across the room, crashing into the couch, giggling hysterically, running back to me, giggling hysterically, etc. etc. And it's funny... even as she was doing it, and even as I was laughing at her silliness, I could *distinctly* hear Denise Goodale's (my mom) voice in my head: "It will only end in tears." (This was her mantra in my formative years.)

And it did, when Evie tripped on the rug on her way back to me and bashed her face against my knee. Lots of tears, lots of "real" blood, and one decidedly adorable fat lip.

Evie likes to remind me often, just in case I would be inclined toward forgetfulness:

I'm not sure I could say the same thing about myself, but I am pretty sure Evie is smarter than a fifth-grader (or at least smarter than your average 17-month-old). :)

Superstar!

2008-12-19T14:19:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, Evie and I went to the Hands-on-House, a super fun children's museum a few miles away from us. We have a family membership, so we go fairly often. It was almost empty yesterday, which is perhaps why she had the courage to dress up like a giraffe (with kitty cat face paint) and use the pretend microphone to sing her ABC's on the little stage. She's getting to the age where she KNOWS she's a little ham, and she loves to "work the crowd". I sure do love that girl.

Pray for Hannah

2008-12-18T21:25:00.000-05:00

Hello bloggy world! I interrupt my state of blog-o-sphere silence to bring you the following:

This story has been heavy on my heart lately, so I thought I would ask for your prayers for this sweet girly. Hannah Garman is a four-year-old in our town. She is also the niece of some of our friends. Christine, Hannah's mom, was diagnosed with breast cancer when she was pregnant with Hannah. She passed away two years ago. About a month ago, Hannah was diagnosed with Glioblastoma Multiforme, an extremely rare-- and terminal-- form of brain cancer. Even with aggressive chemotherapy and radiation treatments, Hannah is not expected to live to see next Christmas.

The outpouring from our community has been tremendous. Hannah thought it would be fun to see how many cards and letters she could get in the mail. Yesterday alone, she got more than 600. Tonight, several of the local emergency management agencies banded together to give Hannah her own "card parade". I counted more than 100 police cars, ambulances, fire trucks, etc. all en route to drop off a special delivery of cards to Hannah. As Evie and I stood on the hill beside our house and watched them drive by, I couldn't help but be overwhelmed... yes, with grief for this incredible family... but also with hope. We're in political and economic times when it is hard to see past ourselves. But the suffering of a child is a pain that is universally felt; cause I am pretty sure-- as much as we try not to-- it's not too hard to imagine our own children in such circumstances.

It is my prayer that this outpouring will result in more than just bouts of goodwill and warm wishes. The entire community is riveted on this family, the media has picked up this story... it is my prayer that the Lord will move graciously and powerfully on behalf of sweet Hannah. That as this town watches, they will see the power of our God move mightily. That when doctors and medicine have spoken "death", we will hear Jesus speak "life". Oh God, have mercy.

If you would like to send a note to Hannah, they can be mailed to:

Hannah Garman
259 N. Reading Road
Ephrata, PA 17522

Or keep updated at:

And just for fun...

2008-11-21T11:27:00.000-05:00

Here's a pic of my girly in the first snowfall LAST year. Luckily *some* of the chub in her cheeks has redistributed itself into the rest of her body since then...! :)

Ralphie, I can't put my arms down!!

2008-11-21T11:08:00.000-05:00

This morning we were very excited to wake up to our first snow "storm". In reality, there is probably only about an inch or two on the ground, but for a Carolina girl, that's a pretty big deal. My mom bought Evie a snowsuit during the after-Christmas sales last year (OK, I MADE her by it by implying that she wasn't a good nana if she didn't). So I suited Evie up, made a quick stop at K-mart for some snow boots (is it just me, or is K-mart not cheap anymore? What's the point of spending $68 for a cashmere sweater from K-MART?! But I digress...) and then we had at it. Here are a few action shots. (Is it bad that when she fell down [which was often] I made her writhe about in the snow without any help until I could snap a photo? I just couldn't stand it-- it was too cute!)

When I was little, we were always allowed to have hot cocoa when we came in from playing in the snow. At the ripe old age of 16 months, I wasn't quite ready to introduce that to Evie. But she warmed up by nursing and cuddling with mama when we came inside. Fun adventures with my girl!!

Pampered Chef for Haiti

2008-11-09T20:24:00.001-05:00

I'm reposting this from my sister Gwenn's blog. She, her husband Nick, and their three small children are planning on moving to Haiti next year to be house-parents/siblings :) at the Haitian Children's Home. One of their friends is doing this super-cool and generous thing as a means of raising support for Gwenn and Nick's move. I thought I'd pass it on-- Pampered Chef sells GREAT stuff, and it makes really wonderful Christmas gifts, too! Hint hint...
Reposting this!!!

Come on friends-- let's get some shopping done!
********************
Starting Saturday, November 1, you have an opportunity to get some Christmas shopping done and support our move to Haiti. Think of it this way, you will be shopping with purpose! (What could be better?!)

A friend of ours in Kentucky is a Pampered Chef consultant. She is doing a Pampered Chef online party to support the HCH-- specifically, Nick and I's move. You shop normally FOR YOU (or for Christmas gifts) online. Pampered Chef will donate 15% of the price of your purchase to HCH for our benefit. Additionally, Ashlee (the consultant) is donating 10% of your purchase price as well. So for everything you order, 25% of the cost will be going to us to help get us to Haiti!

The party is open November 1- November 15. So hurry!

Pampered Chef is ALSO offering this great deal-- 20% off of all classsic unglazed stoneware! It's a pretty good deal. That stuff is great.

You can either choose to have your order shipped directly to your home, or have it sent to me if you are local. (But be forewarned, if it is sent to me, I will not be able to get it to you until after Dec 2 since we will be in Haiti when it arrives.)

So click here:
http://www.pamperedchef.biz/pendley

From there, click "Order Products" and be SURE to mention me, Gwenn Mangine, as the host.

PLEASE help us out and forward this to your friends!

OBEY!

2008-11-03T21:45:00.000-05:00

Evie understands the letter of the law, if not the spirit.

**I promise at some point, this blog will actually be about something other than cute Evie pictures or anecdotes. I mean, because who (other than her dad, nana, and aunties) really cares? But sorry folks, she just makes me smile! :) **

Evie la Pew

2008-11-02T13:41:00.000-05:00

Pretty stinkin' adorable, huh? (Get it, "stinkin'"... I know, punny...)

Thanks a lot, Gretchen...

2008-10-27T13:45:00.000-04:00

So I've tried to be purposeful about teaching Evie to be polite. I am always telling her that it will get her far in life :). And thus far, she's done me proud. She almost always remembers to say "please" and "thank you", and often remembers to say "yes, ma'am" or "yes sir" (although, like her pronunciation of Asher [see a previous post]), "yes, sir" sounds remarkably similar to "a**hole". Just sayin'.)

This weekend we were on the OBX visiting my family. We went out to lunch yesterday and Abbie, my three year old niece, began getting squirmy and antsy. So Gretchen (her mom) corrected her with a firm, "Sit DOWN!"... And then proceeded to encourage Evie to similarly instruct Abbie. You know where this is going... All afternoon, and several times during the (long) trip home, Evie beetled her little brow, screwed up her little mouth, and screeched, "Sit DOWN!!" I'm trying to rectify the situation by re-instructing her to say, "Won't you have a seat, please?" but so far, it's a no-go. It might be payback for me trying to teach Gretchen's kids to curse when they were small.

In other cute Evie news, she is loving the Donut Man lately. He kinda makes me want to shove an ice pick through my brain, but Evie likes him, so we listen. Her favorite song is "Obey". The chorus goes, "O-B-E-Y! Obey your mom and dad! O-B-E-Y! Makes them very glad!" So Evie has been walking around the house lately singing with all her might-- "OOOOO BBBBBB DAD!!!" I guess mom doesn't make the cut.

Man, I love that kid.