A Crabby Customer's Top 10 Guidelines for Hosting a Garage Sale

1.  If you advertise it, host it.

Your loaded newspaper ad attracts me.  Your failure to conduct the sale at said date and time annoys me.  Please don't tempt me to forget I'm a Christian woman and mentally shout curses at your empty driveway and closed garage door when you should be fulfilling your advertised promises.

2.  List your address, not your neighborhood.

A cleverly-named cult of matching mailboxes and overgrown bungalows may swell you with pride and satisfy the worth of those exorbitant HOA fees, but your cookie-cutter neighborhood is not the center of the universe.  I want to come to your garage sale, not Parade of Homes.  If google can't find it, neither can I. 

3.  Place enough signs to adequately direct me to your sale.

Advertisement along the main road is great, but don't send me on a wild goose chase only to leave me stranded in your neighborhood.  It wastes my time, my gas, and makes my kids cranky.  Until you can install a yellow brick road, I need a little guidance at the fork in the road.  Pound in a sign, and make sure the arrows are pointing in the proper direction.

4.  Make merchandise clearly visible to the street.

A large portion of your clientele is young mothers like me who must determine if the items are worth parking, air-conditioner turn-offing, unbuckling, and herding for.  Boxes or large, brightly-colored objects offer potential promises of reward for this effort.  And if your garage does not face the road, please place enough objects in the driveway to entice me.  I grew up hearing a true story of a woman who was murdered while hosting a sale in her backyard-facing garage.  I wish to shop, not be murdered.  Interesting items help ensure the risk will be worth my while.

5.  Ease up on the lemonade pressure.

I do not buy things I don't want or need.  My polite "No" means no.  Any children further proselytizing over-priced punch cease to be cute and officially join the ranks of telemarketers, mall kiosk representatives, infomercials, and street evangelists.  And mom, please don't glare at me...in the long run, I am encouraging your little entrepreneurs to strive for excellence in something other than promoting the sale of flimsy, mass-marketed products from China.  Call me this winter--they can shovel my driveway or some other useful business endeavor.

6.  Arrange your tables like a U, not a W.

Inner garage traffic jams prompt my fight-or-flight response, not my shop-til-you-drop one.  I will not enter your garage if I clearly assess I will become trapped in your garage.  Make the center table an island, not a peninsula.

7.  If you don't have more than one table, don't bother.

Seriously.  Drop it off at Goodwill, people.

8.  Clearly price your items.

If you will not put forth the effort to price your items, I will not put forth the effort to purchase them.  Pricing in general gives me a good idea if you are a fair, decent person looking to get rid of clutter and give someone a deal while making a few bucks, or if you are a greedy scab sitting in your garage all day trying to make a living off your basement full of glass mugs, dusty VHS cassettes, and Beanie Babies.  I will negotiate with you only if I know I will not offend you.

9.  Remember you are hosting a garage sale, not opening a branch of Gymboree.

Children's clothes are a temporary necessity, not an eternal investment.  Just because you paid full price for that precious, owl-embroidered romper your blessing only wore for two weeks doesn't mean I want to.  I do not know if your child spit-up, pooped, or peed in their attire, but I bet they did and I know mine will.  I refuse to pay more than $1 for their clothing items.  So if you price your clothes $1, I may purchase a garment or two.  But if you can hook me at $.50-cents or less, I may just walk my bag-laden self down your driveway having made you $10-$20 richer.  Price to sell, not to profit.

10.  When the sale is over, take down your signs.

Every. Single. One.

Hosting a garage sale is a lot of work but can be fun and even profitable.  Following these ten easy guidelines will help you conduct a successful sale and make good customers like me a lot less crabby.  And you know what they say...if this particular life experience happens to give you lemons--make lemonade.

Just don't try to sell it to me.

Sick and Tired

“The challenge of ministry in our home is that we do not always feel very “spiritual” when we wash our dishes. It hardly feels significant to scrub our toilet.  And we can feel that we are truly ministering when the Lord uses us to communicate a word of wisdom to someone, or He provides an opportunity to share the gospel with our neighbor. That seems like real ministry. And that is real ministry to be sure! But no more so than when we are wiping runny noses or cleaning the bathroom.”

― Carolyn Mahaney, Feminine Appeal

A friend recently posted this quote on facebook, and I've been pondering it for awhile.  This week was rough.  Sickness struck our house during a crunch to complete a major upholstery project, and no sooner had the kids recovered from hacking up a storm and sending me running for the barf basin at least a dozen times, that I could no longer fight off the impending muscle aches and serious woozies that finally crashed me to the couch for two days.

The thing about being sick as a mom is that you just can't enjoy it.  I never knew what a luxury it was to be sick until I became a mother.  Gone are the days of being nursed back to health.  Those blissful days when you learn the healing powers of a day off school, endless 7-Up (in the special smiley face cup with the straw), the tv remote all to your couch potato self, and the parental-reinforced feeling that the mere act of aiming your upchuck into the barf bucket makes you a brave little trooper.  I have to say, most of my memories of childhood illnesses are fond ones.

Now that I'm a mom, however, I croak my sore throat to a different tune.  It's a warbling combination of "I need to suck it up and be stronger.  People need me," and, "I WANT MY MOMMY!!!!"  Usually, this plays out looking like the boys getting to watch far too many episodes of Thomas & Friends until the obnoxious, singing British children make tearing up the entire house seem a more viable activity, and my grand accomplishment for the day is pulling out whatever frost-covered dinner happens to be stored in the front of our freezer and throwing it in the oven.  It's safe to say the days of luxurious illness have been trumped by survival of the sickest.

And I can tell you, it certainly does not feel like ministry.

As a mother, I often feel pulled in countless directions.  If it's not, "Mommmmyyyy!!!  He hit me!", it's usually, "I'm hungry!  I want a snack!"  Generally, this is when I've just sat down to accomplish a task.  And the forever stinky diaper on two chubby legs speaks non-verbal volumes.  Even the simplest chore can take hours when one's train of thought is consistently derailed.  Sometimes a good day at our house is a day that, quite frankly, ends.

To add to the mix, I often feel an unspoken expectation that getting through the day in one piece is simply not enough.  Never mind that a mom's role is completely sacrificial--my fighting farewell to a physical and mental capacity I never realized I needed until constant invasion pounded me so much that I find myself pinning straight-jacket tutorials to my "Sewing Inspiration" Pinterest board.  Don't get me wrong, I love being a mom to my two boys, and I know it will be the greatest role I will ever fulfill in my life.  But there's always a nagging feeling that serving our family is just what we SAHMs are supposed to do--what we chose to do.  It's our job and, therefore, does not count as actual "ministry."  If we are not attending every church meeting, serving on some children's ministry, studying the Bible every spare minute (whenever that is), and visibly helping the poor, needy, orphans, and widows, nor visiting the elderly on a regular basis, then by golly, we must not be good Christians.

It's not that serving those outside the home isn't an important facet of Christian life, it's just that in this particular period in our lives, outside dictations combined with the current flurry of demanding home life can stretch this fragile rubber band to the point of snapping.  Or, in my most recent case, crashing with illness.

As I was laying on the couch this week, feeling somewhat like a useless inconvenience only good for drooling on a pillowcase, I thought about the quote introducing this post.  I reminded myself that the majority of my ministry in this home is unseen and will probably be misunderstood by many.  That does not mean I'm not ministering.  I recalled a few moms of grown children who reassured me that raising any child under 5 is the most difficult job in the world that really does tie one to the home.  But it's only for a season.  People will never see the whole picture of self-employment combined with our home life, and may question my routine need to wind down a busy day in the quiet hours of my home instead of performing acts of Christian service to be seen by others.  But I know at this particularly exhausting period of life, taking proper care of myself is the foundation for taking care of my family--my ultimate God-given priority.

So while laying on the couch, planting my children in front of a stack of dvds, and tossing some frozen taco soup into a pot on the stove definitely did not feel like ministry, my children were supervised, clothed, and fed.  At the end of two days, we had survived.

And for this season of life, I know that was enough.

Pin It ! : Motherhood

Dear Random Pinner I am Following,

I couldn't help but notice your interest in following my boards and repinning nearly every photo I've collected.  I figured you must have good taste, and therefore, I chose to follow your boards as well.

It is obvious to me that you are a new-mom-to-be.  Congratulations!  From the endless boards of baby portrait ideas, sewing inspiration, homemade nursery decor, etc., I can tell you're a thoughtful, thrifty woman who is excitedly anticipating and preparing for the arrival of your new bundle of joy.  For that, I applaud you and wish you well.

I do have some concerns, however, at the one-dimensional nature of these glowing photos.  I would simply hate for you to limit your scope of motherhood by not embracing all the future has in store for you.  Based on your Inspirational Quotes board of trite expressions, I assessed your keen desire to live out the framed, scrapbook-paper-mounted motto "Knowledge is Power."  Therefore, I am taking the liberty to provide a few additional, pin-worthy items you might strongly consider to embellish your collections and broaden your mothering horizons.

Let's start pinning, shall we?

At the hospital, you may be overwhelmed with an influx of well-wishing friends, relatives, and/or nurses living vicariously through your life-changing experience.  As these surrogates of resources tend to gush endless questions, compliments, and advice for the new mom, you will be drop-dead-tired and not exactly the makeup-enhanced, radiant woman-with-new-baby hospital pic typically posted on the facebook newsfeed.  Therefore, it would be wise to prepare a script of handy replies to the onslaught of questions, which may be condensed into four simple categories.

I love your taste in nursery decor, from the cheery turquoise walls to the trendy decals you plan to make with your Cricut.  Way to save a buck.  The diaper changing table makes me giggle, as I imagine you will soon discover just how quickly you will go through that tidy stack of 5 or 6 diapers nestled so prettily in the color-coordinating Pottery Barn canvas baskets.  Rest assured there is no shame in redesigning your changing station to suit your needs.

And though your nursery pins feature sunshine streaming through sheer curtain-swagged windows to illuminate a glorious aura, baby might squint at this feature.  Therefore, a few adjustments to the window treatments may be necessary. 

Speaking of sleeping habits, I understand this is of great concern, as it is a challenge every exhausted mother must endure.  Judging from the 46 pins of guaranteed baby sleep solutions, I would say you've got a handle on things...except for one tiny footnote:

Oh, don't let me discourage you.  Babies are great.  But as you industriously follow those clever tutorials for cupcake-printed Boppy slipcovers, please consider a few useful grown-up prints to rest your unshowered-for-three-days head upon after you've finally nursed baby to sleep.

And when s/he wakes up forty-three minutes later, you might wish to select tips from your 23 pins on How To Soothe A Colicky Child.  In fact, kudos to you for organizing a warehouse of the latest baby swings, BPA-free binkies, bouncers, white noise machines, baby slings, etc.  Any of these is a worthy choice.  But if it comes to a matter of sanity, you might wish to pin this to your board "Good Idea."

From the wide variety of topics you cover, I can tell you are an unselfish, giving person who always thinks of those around you.  This includes a board devoted entirely to your husband.  Nine items, to be exact. Not quite the 100+ average on your 53 other boards, but a sincere acknowledgement nonetheless.   I thought I could save you some time, however, when I noticed you pinning thoughtful, homemade trinkets to leave where you hope he'll find them, as well as your latest pin:  a book about 21 ways to please your husband.  Honey, let me remind you of the fact that you are pregnant...do you really need a book?

I am delighted, however, that you are indeed an avid reader and have lofty aspirations to read to your child.  Good for you!  I myself enjoy filling our home with books for story times.  Nevertheless, I have to admit that you rather startled me the other evening when it was apparent we were simultaneously pinning items to our various boards, and suddenly, book after book after book after book after book after book kept popping up on my "new pin" notification.  Why, everything from individual stories to daunting lists like 100 Books Every Child Should Read Before Kindergarten (and heaven forbid they don't!).  It's safe to say you've got about 525 books to complete before junior/ette turns one.  Now, I hate to be the one to break this to you, but somewhere between #36. Goodnight, Moon and #87. The Very Hungry Caterpillar you'll need a breather.  This might be a good time to try one of those handy household tips such as protecting your ice cream from freezer burn.

While we are on the topic of reading, I would like to thank you for indirectly enlightening me.  I couldn't help but notice all the wonderful instructional blogs and tips you've pinned regarding how to get the most out of story time with your child.  From props to puppets to DIY crafts, I am now aware that simply sitting down and reading a book to my child does not suffice.  Moreover, I realize I have deprived my children immensely by not specifically seeking out relevant topics such as recycling, racial harmony, and multicultural customs.  I don't suppose Artie Bennett's The Butt Book is on your list.  Perhaps Pin it #526 for a rainy day when you cannot attend to that neglected list of gardening ideas.

(For a brief explication of library culture, please read my post here).

Speaking of customs, I see that you already have baby's first (and second!) birthday party all planned out.  My, you certainly are on top of things, aren't you?  Monkeys, Dr. Seuss, and Harry Potter (3rd birthday...really?!) are all lovely themes.  Invitations, decorations, and crafty little favors will definitely make baby's party worth remembering.  Nevertheless, you might prepare for the fact that there is one aspect of the party beyond your control:  baby's reaction to the traditional birthday serenade.

In truth, get used to the fact that there is a lot about raising a baby that is beyond your control.  This includes the child's grandparents.  I am in no way suggesting your family is one to cause strife, but when I saw your gallery of adorable portrait ideas specifically honoring the grandparents, I couldn't help but add one that will be of great practical value:

Feeding in general seems to be on your mind lately, and I'm not merely referring to the explosion of ingredient-categorized recipe boards every time you have a new craving.  I am just a little disturbed by your fondness for photographed breastfeeding sessions.  God bless you for desiring to sacrificially nourish your baby how nature intended, but let's remember to balance the obvious artistic license with a healthy dose of reality.

In conclusion, dear Random Pinner, when it comes to being a new mom, there are definitely a lot of wake-up calls.  Not only quite literally throughout the night, but also in matters of expectations.  Please don't let reality rob your joy, but ground yourself in the sense to know that on the days when you forget to thaw one of those 101 Budget-Friendly Freezer Meals, it really is ok to order carryout.  When your baby kicks and fusses through the first page of I Love You Through and Through, every. single. time., when you're too exhausted from zero sleep to even think about stimulating his ever-expanding sensory skills, or when you realize that shabby chic little sign that says, "Good Moms have sticky floors, messy kitchens, laundry piles, dirty ovens, and happy kids" actually makes you want to jam a screwdriver in your temple because the overwhelming sea of clutter caused by those "happy" kids is enough to drive a person mad, please allow yourself the honesty to admit that motherhood isn't exactly what you thought it would be.

Sometimes.

And when you experience those moments when you realize it is everything you dreamed it would be, pin them to your memory because every day, you will need them to remind yourself:

 

Best wishes for a smooth, safe labor and delivery...and a healthy outlook on motherhood.

Sincerely,

A Random Follower 

Introverted Mom Gives Birth

(In honor of Extroverted Son's 2nd Birthday)

Today is labor day.  Introverted Mom is in labor.

I don't think I'm in labor.

Introverted Mom's contractions are mild.  Introverted Mom's contractions are irregular.  Introverted Mom wants a Valentine's baby.  Introverted Mom kicks back, pops peanut m&m's, and watches the Winter Olympics.

 This is the life.

The afternoon breezes on.  Introverted Mom charts her contractions.

If I just take it easy, Baby Valentine will live up to his name.  I will go to the hospital, be dilated 5 centimeters, get my epidural, kick back and watch ice skating until Baby Valentine is born precisely on February 14th.  A mini-vacation!

Sounds like a plan, Introverted Mom.

Another contraction, stronger than the last.

Breathe through and relax.

The afternoon vanishes.  Time for Introverted Son's bath and bedtime.  Introverted Mom calls Introverted Grandma.

"I'm having more contractions, but they're still scattered apart.  I've had a few strong ones, but it hasn't been too bad.  I think we'll just keep Introverted Son here for the night.  I'll probably go to the hospital tomorrow."

Really, Introverted Mom?

Another contraction.  This one is strong.

A bigger contraction.  Introverted Mom leans over the couch for support.  Introverted Mom calls Introverted Dad into the house.  Introverted Mom telephones Introverted Grandma.

"I was wrong.  We're bringing Introverted Son over.  Right now.  Bye!"

Introverted Dad grabs Introverted Mom's hospital bag.  He rushes over to Introverted Mom who has dropped to the floor on all four, breathing hard.

"Get Introverted Son in the car, Introverted Dad.  Don't worry about me.  I'll meet you out there."

I can't have this baby in the living room!

Introverted Family speeds to Introverted Grandparents' house and drops off Introverted Son.  Introverted Mom fears she may give birth in Introverted Grandparents' driveway.

Maybe if I cross my legs....

Introverted Dad races them onward to the hospital.  It is dark.  It is snowing.  There is a slowpoke nitwit obstructing Introverted Dad's heroic dash to medical assistance.

"C'mon, you #$%&$@ !!!!" yells the Christian, generally mild-mannered Introverted Dad.

"Go Introverted Dad!" cheers Introverted Mom.

This is going to make the best story ever.

A red light.  Foiled again!

*pant pant pant*

"Don't worry.  I'm just panting to help with the pain.  I'm perfectly ok," reassures Introverted Mom.

Tomorrow I will confess what I liar I am.

"You say the word, and I'll go," proposes Introverted Dad.

Introverted Mom looks both ways.

"Ok, GO!!!!!!!!" commands Introverted Mom.

The hospital glows on the horizon.  What a glorious sight!

I think I can, I think I can.....

Introverted Dad parks in the front circle.  He whisks Introverted Mom up to the motherhood wing.

After a series of mundane hospital paperwork procedure, Introverted Mom finally checks into a room.

"Take this gown into the bathroom and change so we can check how far along you are," advises nonchalant Monotone Nurse.  Introverted Mom reluctantly obeys.

Another contraction.  The urge to push.  Super strong.

I am NOT going to give birth in the bathroom! 

Breathe, Introverted Mom!  Breathe!

Introverted Mom makes it back out to the bed.   Another contraction.  The urge to push.  Introverted Mom pants.

"Just try to relax and take deep breaths" coos Monotone Nurse.

I am trying not to deliver this baby right now, Monotone Nurse!

"I can't tell how far along you are.  I'm going to go get another nurse for a second opinion" declares Monotone Nurse, as she scuffles out of the room.

You're going to what?!  Why are you leaving me?  How long will you take?  Why are you walking?!  Run, lady, RUN!.....owwwwwwwwww!!!!

Introverted Mom grabs the bed rail for dear life.  After a full 60 seconds, she sheepishly turns to Introverted Dad.

"Are you doing ok?" squeaks Introverted Mom.

Introverted Dad blinks.

Another contraction.

Where's that blasted Monotone Nurse?!?  Does she want Introverted Dad to deliver me or what?!

"I need you to get a nurse in here!" wails Introverted Mom to Introverted Dad.

Finally, Monotone Nurse returns with her superior, Slightly More Competent Nurse.

Another contraction.

*pant pant pant pant pant pant*

"Just relax and take deep breaths.  Breathe innnnn........breathe outttttt...." drones Monotone Nurse.

I am not hyperventilating, you wannabe lamaze lady!  I am trying to keep this baby inside!!!

"She's at 10," mumbles Slightly More Competent Nurse to Monotone Nurse.

10?  That means I can push, right?

"Can't I have my epidural now?" wails Introverted Mom.

"Sorry, you're at 10.  It's too late," replies Monotone Nurse.

Oh. Crap.

Introverted Mom wants the baby out.  Introverted Mom wants the baby out now.

"NO, don't push yet!" panics Monotone Nurse, marginally changed in pitch.  "We need to wait for your doctor to come!  She'll be here any minute!"

Wait for my doctor?! The one who's currently driving here in this blizzard?!

Nurses swarm the delivery room.  Introverted Mom continues to cling to the bed rail for dear life.

Guess I don't get to watch ice skating tonight.

Another strong contraction.  An excruciating urge to push.

They said I'm at 10.  I know I'm allowed to push.  I know they're fully capable of delivering a baby.  They just don't want to do the dirty work.  Well guess what, ladies.......

Introverted Mom has had enough.

The next contraction hits.  Introverted Mom feels the power.  Introverted Mom goes for the gold.

"The head's crowning!" gasp the nurses to one another.

You bet the head's crowning!!!

The nurses scramble to find the nearest doctor on the floor.  Finally, a doctor arrives, grabbing his gloves and announcing his name.

What did he say his name was?

He could be the maintenance man for all you care, Introverted Mom.

"There goes my water!" growls Introverted Mom, defiantly pushing away.

"Stop pushing!" order the nurses, stricken with a deer-in-the-headlights look.  "We need to wait for the doctor to get his gloves on!"

Catch it bare-handed, buddy.  That's why I'm paying you the big bucks.

Introverted Mom assumes the proper delivery position.  The contractions intensify.  Introverted Mom needs to bite something.  Bad.  Introverted Mom instinctively raises the first thing her hand clutches to her mouth and opens wide.

What is this?

Why, it's Introverted Dad's hand.  Strong and sure.

Introverted Mom connects wide eyes with Introverted Dad.

Oops...

"It's ok...you can bite my hand if you need to," reassures Introverted Dad.

Awww....

Another contraction.

Owwwwwwww!!!!

Ah, the proverbial "ring of fire."

The books really weren't kidding!

 No, they weren't kidding, Introverted Mom.

"Head's out!" cheer the nurses.  

Almost done!

One final push, Introverted Mom!  You can do it!

"The baby's out!" announce the nurses.

"Praise. The. Lord!" heaves Introverted Mom, falling back into the bed.

"It's a boy!" state the nurses, displaying him to the delighted Introverted Parents.

A boy!  I'm so happy!  That wasn't so bad after all.

You are awesome, Introverted Mom.

A cry fills the room.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"

Whoah, that's no little baby cry.

"What is THAT?!" a bewildered Introverted Mom asks Introverted Dad.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!"

"He's got some healthy lungs" declares Introverted Dad.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!"

No kidding.  That's quite the warrior's cry.  We may very well have a little extrovert on our hands.  Our little Extroverted Son.

The nurses clean, weigh, and wrap the wailing wonderchild, start Brahm's Lullaby on the hospital loud speaker, and soon return Extroverted Son to Introverted Mom.

"This is what we call a 'Stop-and-Drop' baby," laughs Monotone Nurse, slightly musical after all.

Extroverted Son chews his hands and raises his wide eyes to Introverted Mom.

This is what I call perfection.

Extroverted Son captivates Introverted Mom and Introverted Dad.  The baby who would be born on Valentine's Day entered the world on his own terms, chose his own date, and created an entire scenario worthy of a good laugh.  Extroverted Son has a lot to teach his Introverted Parents.

I will recount this gold-medal story some day, so we will never forget.  Until then, I'm going to bask in the glow of this sweet little boy who has changed our lives forever.

Sounds like a plan, Introverted Mom.  Sounds like a plan.

Suicidal Hymns at Arsenic Hour

I wanted to wrap up my little series on L'Chaim (gluten-free) today, but an obstacle hindered my goal.


Arsenic Hour.


Ah yes, Arsenic Hour--that magical time of day between dinner preparation and presentation which mutates the most angelic creatures into raving hellions, determined to obliterate any scrap of motherly resolve to maintain composure and control over her domain.


No matter what I do throughout the day to alleviate the task of meal preparation, my children's timely squabbles, squeals, and perpetual owwies (today it was a bloody lip) procured at the exact moment mommy's hands are covered in raw chicken goo testifies to their remarkable, supernatural ability to hail the arrival of Arsenic Hour with astounding punctuality.


Gourmet cooking shows fail to impress me.  Sure, the top-notch equipment, bountiful budget, and multiplied feet (not inches!) of cleared and properly sanitized counter space all complement the chef's ability to produce a palette-pleasing plate of eye candy that I certainly have no talent to parallel.  But really.....throw a few fighting toddlers and scattered toys underfoot of a sleep-deprived master chef wannabe managing boiling pots, sauteing vegetables, a mortgage-due date on the calendar, and a schizophrenic "Treasure this moment!" voice pounding in their head, and now you've captured my interest.


I am not a fan of reality television, but you bet your boots I would voraciously watch a hidden camera investigation featuring kitchens across America at Arsenic Hour.  Because I am convinced the people who airily proclaim and photograph those bonding, "teachable moments" (you know, those flour-kissed toddler noses with grubby hands mixing batter) as a blanket assumption for how every single household ought to operate on a daily basis, are, quite frankly, liars.  Or not stay-at-home-moms.  Or not human...


I suppose I could celebrate Arsenic Hour.  Embrace it.  Be thankful for it.  Find the good in every facet of meal prep, like affording food and raising a family.  Remind myself that years down the road, I will miss these blessed days of being unable to step out of the room for sixty seconds without hearing *Thump!* *Smack!* *"AAAaaaaaahhh!  Mommmmmmy!!!!" echo through the house, because by golly, precious moments like these just flew by too fast.


Yes, I suppose I could do all of these things.  And I'm not saying I haven't or shouldn't.  But the life-sucking madness of Arsenic Hour exasperates me.  It is the culmination and explosion of every suppressed negativity throughout the day.  The roaring lion that devours all resolve to maintain control.


I believe at some point, every parent has experienced Arsenic Hour.


And I wish more people would tell the truth about it.


Honestly, I almost always reach a point in every attempt at peaceful dinner preparation that makes me want to toss every scrap of half-cooked meat, grain, and vegetable in the garbage and let the family fend for themselves.  But I know I can't do that, and so I chop, boil, bake, fry, kick-the-possessed-Chuck-the-Tonka-Truck-With-The-Broken-Off-Switch-out-of-the-way...onward, until my task is completed.


For me, Arsenic Hour is a fine line between duty and sanity.


So today I transported my mind to happier thoughts of suicidal hymns.


I just love a good hymn.  I grew up on real hymns, not contemporary "praise and worship" fluff or even the dastardly attempt to modernize the old greats by stripping them of their original language, tune, tempo, and even theology (McHymn, anyone?).  Since I've become an adult, there are very few songs where I know every word of every verse, but I still recall dozens of the hymns I grew up with.  They always come to me when I'm struggling through these "times that try the soul" (Anne of Green Gables, thank you very much).


Tonight, in the midst of the chaos of Arsenic Hour, I found myself singing "When We All Get To Heaven."


Sing the wondrous love of Jesus
Sing His mercy and His grace
In the mansions bright and blessed
He'll prepare for us a place.


When we all get to heaven
What a day of rejoicing that will be
When we all see Jesus
We'll sing and shout the victory.


What struck me about this hymn was not the typical exhortation on the love of Jesus, but rather, the focus on heaven (Brilliant, I know--it's in the title, for pity's sake).  But it really made me think about a common thread among countless other hymns:  passages of dying, leaving the toils of earth, and spending eternity in heaven.  At first glance, the lyrics focusing on dying and going to heaven sound slightly suicidal.  I'll Fly Away, When the Roll is Called Up Yonder, Sweet By and By, Shall We Gather at the River merely name a few.


In this day and age where we (particularly Christian mothers) are pressured to bow to the god of hearth and home, treasuring every moment with our children and placing family service above all else, my soul felt refreshed to remember these old hymns that honestly acknowledge the toils of life are just that--toils.  They encourage me to strive to serve Christ and remind me of the hope and assurance of a greater reward.


But they don't do this at the expense of glossing over the reality that life is full of hardship.


Oftentimes, it feels like one simple statement of exhaustion, frustration, and temporary insanity (often feared to be permanent damage) is immediately swiped to the far right on the receiver's one-dimensional windshield-wiper scale of:  Great Christian Mom----or-----> Backslider, with no in-between measure to understand the subtext of the statement.  To assume a hymn writers' focus on leaving the toils of life and finding true rest in heaven is suicidal because they are just not relishing each breath God gave them is no more ridiculous than interpreting every exhausted mother's statement of looking forward to days of peaceful meal preparation as evidence she does not appreciate the blessing of motherhood.


In fact, I believe it's evidence that she has a purpose and a goal--to raise mature, independent adults.


Just like the great hymns remind us, we are striving, trusting, serving.


Let us then be true and faithful
Trusting, serving ev'ry day
Just one glimpse of Him in glory
Will the toils of life repay.


If we did not have hardship, we would not need to strive.  If we were not plagued by doubts, we would not need to trust.  If everything was handed to us on a golden platter, we would not need to serve.  Our greatest reward would mean nothing if we did not endure the sacrifice of self in this life.  Yes, there is much to enjoy in life, but God gives us hardships, not to conjure happy thoughts of blossoms and butterflies, but to refine us and to teach us obedience through perseverance.  To remind us that this world is not our home.


And so, when Arsenic Hour invades our peace again, I will persevere in confidence.  Confident that I am serving a greater cause than simply slapping dinner on the table.  Confident that I have a greater reward besides a messy kitchen and a half-fried brain.  Confident that my desire to complete this daily task without the clatter of craziness does not mean I don't appreciate my children's younger years or treasure them any less.


Confident that when we all get to heaven, I will not miss Arsenic Hour.  


What a day of rejoicing that will be.