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.

Just Shy of Hallmark

The old adage, "Self-employment means working 80 hours a week for yourself so you don't have to work 40 hours for someone else" rings true in our house, more often than I would prefer.  One of my worst battles in our upholstery journey is the war between family togetherness and success...because I often feel like a single parent in order for that success to flourish.  And this introvert craves breaks that go well beyond the two-hour, child-free doctor appointments that act mostly as a bandaid on a bleeding artery. 

 I am not trying to complain.  I love my husband, though I've never considered myself to be a clingy person.  Prop me up in front of a book, and I'm content for hours with zero social interaction.  However, throw a few night-waking, early-rising, forever-fighting children into the mix during a week when every fixture in the house seems cursed by Murphy's Law, the grocery supply dwindles (in stark comparison to the dishes in the sink that have succumbed to the Quiverfull movement), and each "Payment Due" date jumps out of the calendar like a starving lion, combined into a toxic brew of husband-consuming customers expecting their furniture to be stamped out like a factory (and priced like it, too), and I find myself tempted to run to the upholstery shack, slam the door, and initiate some real adult conversation.  Usually something mature and articulate, like:

"Hello, Love.  Just wanted you to know:
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUGGGHH!!!
I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMORE!!!
See you at supper...I hope."

 Just a thoughtful token of expression to let him know I really care.

On the days weeks when a time crunch demands his absence dawn through dusk, the battle for harmony in our home can climax into a real blood bath.  Pacifists like me don't handle mealtime wars very well.  More often than not, I'm tempted to raise two bowls of maple syrup-laden oatmeal in a white flag of surrender to my children's preferential eating habits, and then leave the room so the sounds of their open-mouthed chewing don't grate on me like the gourmet cheese I wish we could afford.

Sometimes I feel selfish and wonder if I am the only woman with this struggle.  I know I am not, but I always hesitate asking, for fear of sounding ungrateful.  I know there are widows, soldiers wives, and women with lacklustre spouses who would view our situation as pure cake.  And I know my husband works hard for us, loves us, and keeps us afloat.

But I still struggle.  Commonly, when I am asked how the upholstery business is treating us, an honest response of "Great, though overwhelmingly busy.  We've hardly seen each other all week," is always met with the immediate reply, "Well, busy sure beats the alternative!"

Fabulous.  I had completely forgotten my near panic attack last time the mortgage was due and the phones had been painfully silent for weeks.

Like most modern-day women browsing websites for information and calling it "research," I did try to google for answers once, hoping to hit upon a sympathy blog or perhaps a snarky little tidbit to make me laugh.

I typed:  "wife of self-employed husband"

Top ad?  "Stop Your Divorce!"

No kidding.

Don't get me wrong, I really do love our business.  When I think of my husband going to work for someone else, it feels so wrong.  And when I think of not having an endless supply of free fabric scraps at my disposal, it feels downright sinful.

There is just this selfish, immature little part of me that craves for a sense of understanding from the outside.  A validation that feeling so beat down from woman-powering the daily grind alone, from spending hours tripping over toys and tots to whip up a halfway delicious feast...only to have an appointment-challenged customer pull in the driveway the second we all sit down to dinner, or from everyone's cars, trucks, snow plows, mowers, blowers, chainsaws, weed whips, furniture, and appliances taking precedence every Saturday when it feels like this old house is crumbling to the ground with every tumble of the toddler, really is a legitimate reason to feel overwhelmed or insignificant.

When I am too exhausted to formulate a prayer other than "Help!", I sometimes feel like my spirit prays and refreshes me when I am at my absolute worst.  If there is one thing we are discovering along this pathway we are attempting to carve, it is that God will take care of us, many times in ways more nail-biting and painful than we'd rather endure, but also in ways more cry-your-heart-out meaningful than we could ever imagine.

This is a card we received in the mail, the very next day after one of our late-night "vomit sessions" (a typical spill-our-guts conversation after a period of high-stress.  Fantine [Les Mis] was right...the tigers really do come at night.  Mine happen to come around 2 a.m.).

The card was addressed to the handsome upholstery guy, from a man whose mower he occasionally repairs.  Quite a few months ago, he had spent a Saturday repairing the mowers of a needy family this man knew.  The cover of the card says:

Thank You

The goodness

and generosity

you share so happily

are wonderful reminders

of the true meaning

of God's love.

The inside script:

Thank you for being

the blessing you are

to all who know you.

Inside were two gift cards to a family restaurant, along with a handwritten note:



"Just a token of love to share for you & family.  The card says it all, what a Blessing.  The reason I said family is because there has to be times your wife has "lost" you hrs. on end, due to you helping out others.  The [P_____'s] are a good example of how you went out of your day to help me, help them out, fixing the steering on their riding mowers.  So no excuses, you & family go out & enjoy the day."

And so tonight, we made no excuses.  The upholsterer and his wife shut off the cell phone, locked up the house, and drove our little family of four out to dinner.  We sat in an isolated corner and ordered our kids pancakes and chocolate milk.  We let them drink the syrup straight from the little personal bottles.  We reached across the table to sample each other's food.  We allowed ourselves the grace to enjoy each other's presence without feeling the need to leave the room or jump up and serve the entire world.

And while my grilled chicken salad was only a bed of boring iceberg lettuce and the yellow-dyed cheese less than gourmet, the peace of validation for togetherness felt like pure success.

Photographic Memories of a Childhood Obsession

When I feel overwhelmed with life, I enjoy browsing through photos of my childhood.  My dad was (and still is) a photography nut (hey, I come by it honestly), so events of my younger years were snapped, developed and stuffed into albums that would probably put my facebook profile to shame.  Being the youngest of three, my albums don't quite rival the Gone With the Wind size bestowed to my older two siblings, but I still have a collection of prints decent enough to make me realize why we could never afford to pay for my dream of one day becoming Olympic gymnast Shannon Miller.

This was before digital, of course, so relaxing with this photojournaled history of my childhood is truly an aesthetic experience that blends classic memories with the scent of processed film and PVC-coated plastic.  A balm for the anxious mind as well as a treat for the olfactory senses (I confess, I love that plastic-y smell of baseball cards and new toys at Christmas.  Mom didn't call me "Miss Nose" for nothing.).

I'm not sure if it's the need to escape a stressful day or the secret desire to sniff synthetic materials and still feel Christian about it that prods me to open my closet and pull out an album, but I always revel in the flood of simple memories that gives me hope that I am not permanently damaging my children for life.

Today was one of those days that sent me running for the closet and reaching for an album.  As I was turning the pages with a happy sigh (and sniff), a few photos in particular made me smile.

You see, when I was a little girl, I used to be obsessed with steering wheels. 

My Kool-Aid stained face says it all--I was in heaven...and I wasn't going to share it.  Missing from this snapshot is the accompanying photo...the photo stuffed in one of my siblings' epic-sized albums that pictures my brother and sister in the back seat of the truck, scowling because I had insisted on hogging this giant wheel of wonder to myself.  They simply didn't understand my need.  I wouldn't be surprised if my sister's flip-flop in the upper right corner of this photo was really intended for my head.

I remember one Christmas when I received a Smurf-Around, the 1980's commercialized spin (ha ha) on the popular "Sit-n-Spin".

It was a marvelous toy, as most toys were in those days.  I smurfed around on it a few times like little Johnny and Susie on the box coaxed me to, then promptly tipped it over to create an instant steering wheel for my new "car".  Oh, the places I drove!

The obsession didn't stop there.

Whenever asked to choose which park we would visit as a family, I always cast my vote for "the park with the steering wheel."  (Yes, there were parks without steering wheels in those deprived days, and I can't wait to tell my kids about it).  Nevermind the swings, slides, and spring-loaded metal critters...I staked claim on that glorious wheel mounted to the wooden wall, and drove to my heart's content until dusk called us home.

People who accuse my generation of having no imagination obviously never ate breakfast at our house.

If they had, they would've marveled how one barely-awake child could polish off a piece of toast for the sole purpose of utilizing her now-empty plate for the steering wheel of an Indy race car.  In my world, obeying the speed limit was never a requirement.

I remember one Christmas when the top toy on my list was yes, you guessed it--a steering wheel.  Who would've thought a piece of black plastic, molded in the shape of the Knight Rider wheel (with Kitt, too!) would make a little girl's dream come true, but I was wild with excitement.  No more tipped plates or toppled Smurf-Arounds for this driving diva.  Those served their purpose well, but now I was a real class act, cruising in style with all the latest battery-powered sound effects.  There was no stopping me.

When I grew a little older, my family visited amusement parks like Cedar Point and King's Island.  Sack slides and junior roller coasters were all good and fine, but my heart staked claim on any attraction resembling an automobile.

However, once I wised up to the gimmicks of this merry-go-round-in-disguise, I sought fulfillment elsewhere.  Faux steering wheels can only pacify for so long, and I quickly followed my instincts to the real rumble of power:  the Model T's.  These beauties had steering wheels that actually steered, pedals that actually worked, and real gas that emitted a deliciously noxious fume not for the faint of heart.  Since I was still too small to drive by myself, my dad would push the pedal while I would "help" steer the wheel.  I was content in this designated driver arrangement for a few summers, but oh, the joy that filled my heart when I finally surpassed the yardstick's mandatory height requirement to reach both steering wheel and pedal and could officially drive solo.  I had the power!  And I couldn't wait to exercise my freedom.  Which brings me to another memory:

Those Model T's can jump the track if you try hard enough.

The safety experts might tell you otherwise, but I distinctly remember testing my theory of vehicular freedom on a sharp left bend in the track with a hard right yank of my wheel.  For three glorious seconds, I tasted the thrill of victory...until the safety wheel keeping the bottom of the car riding smoothly along the boundaries of the road's metal rail lodged directly on top of the rail which, quite shockingly, rendered me stuck. 

Had I not turned around and noticed the pile-up of cars behind me, I may have reveled in the woes of betrayal by my circular instrument of power, but I had no time to mourn.  Fortunately, my dad was in the car behind me and eventually jumped out to lift my Judas Car back onto the track before the scary, half-hung-over summer employee ride operators could chastise me for something they secretly wished they had had the guts to try.

Those were the days.

Today, I find myself wondering why on earth I used to be so obsessed with steering wheels.  As an adult, I certainly don't tip my breakfast plate, topple my children's sit-in-spin, or even relish any bonus thrill in the reality of driving my car place to place.  In fact, hiring a chauffeur sounds rather heavenly in this overwhelming time of life when I believe that M.A.D.D. really ought to stand for Mothers Are Drowsy Drivers (and need to get off the road).  I have often joked with my siblings that perhaps my steering wheel obsession was symbolically a quest for power and control.

But I think in many ways, I envy that little girl.  The little girl who loved, imagined, and created for the sake of loving, imagining and creating.  The girl who attempted to jump the track of the ordinary, just to see if it could be done.  The girl who did not feel the need to offer an explanation to spend the time doing the things she loved the most.  When life feels like an endless onslaught of mundane routine, I find myself missing her.  Not because I want to shirk responsibility or somehow turn back the clock.  But because today I need to remind myself that somewhere, she is still a part of me.

And I really need to find her again.

Let's Tell the Truth

My living room, 15 minutes prior to the arrival of company.

Two boys' accomplishment in 5 minutes of unsupervised behavior.

Lunch every day, 7 days a week.

Sometimes on fine china

Our stylin' carpet...

...courtesy of "leak-proof" sippy cups.

The #1 To-Do project "first thing this spring"

It is now October.

I always forget to water my plants.

One time I caught my son peeing in this flower bed that faces the busy street.  I soon realized he had also pooped.

Sometimes my children break things.

Toss stuff in the oven and bake things.

And do this about 75% of the day

...until I could scream in frustration.

And wonder why I can't seem to get my act together...

...until I visit a friend and notice their house, their children, their frustrations are remarkably similar to mine, complete with polka-dotted sippy cup carpet.  And I heave a sigh of relief that I am not the only one who feels absolutely helpless some days (ok, most days!).  It's vulnerable to admit that the ideal I strive for can easily morph into the idol I strive for, and if I am not careful, I burn myself out.  Big time.

But when we share our lives with each other, we expose the truth that sometimes "getting our act together" is simply that--acting.  It's so easy to sweep ourselves away in the desire to maintain a positive, Christian image of motherhood--of ourselves--that we lose sight of the fact that perhaps it's our willingness to admit our shortcomings that truly establishes the common ground for friends to face the daily trials of life together.  Because the truth is, we all love our families and we all strive to become more like Christ...but sometimes the real picture of what that looks like is spilled milk, unattended clutter, crying children, and moments of absolute frustration.

In the honesty of openly sharing our lives with each other, strength arises in uniting our weaknesses.  Let's tell the truth that we can drop all pretense and use our struggles to encourage, commiserate, uplift, and carry each other because we are free to be ourselves--imperfect works-in-progress.  Let's tell the truth that we can smile when our children fight, laugh when they drop their drawers in the middle of the yard, and feel perfectly at home in a sea of clutter.

Let's tell the truth that honestly, we wouldn't have it any other way.

I Hate Cats

I hate cats.

They are sneeze-inducing, flea-producing, overgrown rodents that are, quite frankly, a menace to society.

As they say, "The only good cat is a dead cat", and I heartily concur.  Me, along with the millions of other cat-haters who deliberately swerve their vehicle on (and off) the road towards the furry felines, in fervent hopes of making this world a better place--one flat cat at a time.

Oh, I am not totally heartless.  I must confess--I had a cat once.  He was a marbled, grey-and-white long-haired beauty, claiming ancestry in the noble breed lineage of--"Cat."  (Admit it--a cat is a cat is a cat).  I think I may have even loved him--for a full five minutes until our ancient furnace kicked on and scared the bajeebers out of pretty kitty so badly, he screeched through the house and tore up the mini blinds.

That cat now lives in Cleveland.  Need I say more.

And from that day on, our household thrived in a blissful era of sneeze-less, cat-less harmony.

Until last night.

Last night, the unthinkable happened.  An evil, stray feline, whom I'm convinced is the spawn of Satan, slithered into the upholstery shack (after midnight, of course, when sin roams the earth), and claimed the heart of the talented, yet somewhat naive towards feline wiles, Handsome Upholstery Guy.  With naught but a curl of his tail and purr of his...his...evil cat-ness, the fanciful feline stole the heart of the Handsome Upholstery Guy, while the rest of us slept innocently next door.

Then this morning arrived.  Handsome Upholstery Guy confessed to the crime, which I'll admit, sounded pretty darn cute.  To be specially adopted by a stray cat, particularly without the aid of a steak bone or pork chop is really one of nature's rare feline wonders, and I was somewhat eager to meet this meow-ing marvel.

However, after popping an antihistamine and scanning the deck where kitty was last seen, I admit I was not overly crushed to find it empty.

Because you know I hate cats.

So when I sat down to enjoy my morning cup of coffee, you can certainly understand the horror that surged through my veins when from the dew-kissed planks of our house's side deck (ok, it was really sprinkled with ill-aimed stinky diaper bags from the evening before), squeals from my children arose, alerting me to the return of evil personified in feline form.

That darn cat!

I made up my mind then and there I was not going to love him.  Remember, I hate cats.  Any logical person must understand my sentiments.

The children certainly hated him.

Raspberries to you, evil kitty.  You'll not steal a piece of my heart!

You are terrible with kids, ferocious kitty.  You really need to leave.

The sandbox is not your potty, rancid kitty.  Go...away...

Stop staring at me, crazy kitty.  You know I hate you...

and would never hold you...

Because you are evil.  And you make me sneeze.

So scat!

I'm not going to love you.

I'm not going to let you inside.

And I most certainly am not going to let you jump in my lap, nuzzle your head, and purr your wicked wiles upon my mortal soul, until you fall asleep and snore your sinful way into my heart.

No, I am going to stay strong.  For the good of my family.  For the good of society.  For the good of all cat-haters across the world.

Because I. Hate. Cats.

Welcome to the family, Zurg Johnson.

Achoo.