my garden is dead

It turns out my garden plot is one of the “new” plots the park district created for this growing season. The soil wasn’t great to start with, but the bigger problem is that it’s on the low side.

We had torrential rain this spring, and my plot was completely underwater for about six weeks.

My gardening neighbor was able to get a new plot in the center. The rest of us just watched our gardens rot.

When things finally dried out, I could have replanted. But, to be honest, I didn’t have the heart.

So. Much. Work. Down. The. Tubes.

It just makes me sick.

But the alternative—investing more resources into something that isn’t healthy to begin with—isn’t good either.Sometimes we just have to cut our losses and move on. Is it painful? Yes. But this is life too.

Sometimes we work really hard and our garden dies.

What do I do all day?

I have been in constant motion since 5:30 this morning, and have very little to show for it.

Anyone else feel this way?

I got up, made a pot of coffee, checked email, started a load of laundry, unloaded the dishwasher, packed lunches, cuddled my toddler, woke up the noisy boys, fixed breakfast, then walked the boys to school.

That was all before eight o’clock.

Things slowed down after that with a walk along the river with my toddler to say good morning to the ducks. We stopped on our way home to watch the construction trucks that were breaking up concrete at the gas station on the corner.

Home to play choo choos, a quick trip to the grocery store, lunch, books, and a nap for the toddler. More laundry for me, putting away groceries, making a batch of banana muffins, chatting with a friend on the phone, picking up the house, and folding laundry.

At 2:20, the toddler’s up, time to get the noisy boys from school. We walk to school and back, then gather around the table for muffins and milk. The noisy boys take the toddler outside to blow bubbles and run around, so I take advantage of the quiet and write this.

Because, to be perfectly honest, I’ve got to get that sex post off the top of my blog. Judging from the email I’m getting, people think we’re doing it all the time over here. Just for the record, I am no sex expert. And my husband’s not even in town at the moment.

Enough said.

Anyway, time to start homework, make dinner, and take the noisy boys to soccer practice.

Then back home for baths and bed. And for me to sit and think about what on earth I’ve done all day.

being flexible

If there’s one thing I’ve learned as a Mom, it’s the importance of being flexible. It’s fine to make plans and have a schedule—in fact it’s great—but everything is subject to change. Everything.

Llama Papa was planning to meet a friend for dinner and bowling on Sunday night. He took the noisy boys to the pool that afternoon while I settled down at my computer to write during the toddler’s naptime. About forty minutes later Twin A. ran through the door, yelling “Emergency!”

I was on the phone with my sister-in-law, and jumped up to see my husband walking in, holding his dangling arm. He dislocated his shoulder. (He’s done this before, so he knew right away what happened.)

Ouch.

A kind neighbor drove him to the ER, and his sister met him there. (She offered to stay with the kids so I could go, but honestly, she is so much better with these kinds of things, I knew she could offer him more support than I could. And after hearing the details from the experience, I’m sure I made the right decision, seeing as I would have been passed out on the floor...)

I tucked him into bed a few hours later, drugged up and muttering that he needed to get those hooks hung in the closet.

I assured him the hooks could wait.

As can everything else on our schedule. I’m always amazed at how quickly time gets freed up when something like this happens. Nobody is ever too busy for a trip to the ER.

(Please pray for my husband. He’s feeling much better and planning to follow up with an orthopedic doctor this week, Lord willing. He leaves for a trip to Yosemite on Friday for a week of backpacking with friends. And, yes, he’s still planning to go.)

paint chips and georgie rooms

Things are sizzling around here. We promised the noisy boys a new bedroom before school starts, and it’s been quite a project.

Their old room has an adorable Curious George mural on one wall. They loved it, until about a year ago. Since then, poor George has been covered with basketball stickers and spiderman posters.

Because I can’t bring myself to paint over George, not just yet, we decided to move baby b. into the “georgie” room. Which meant that the twins would move into the guest room, and the guests would move into baby b’s room, which means…a lot of painting.

And while we’re at it we may as well paint our room.

Right.

The painter has been here every morning this week, and our entire upstairs looks like it threw up clothes and sheets and books and stuffed animals. We’ve basically been camping out in our own house.

Fun.

I realize I’ve been quiet on this blog lately. Between trips to the pool and painting and vacations, I haven’t had much computer time. Once school starts, I’ll be back to posting more regularly.

Only nineteen more days. (But who’s counting?)

I'm lousy. Thanks for asking!

The first time it happened, I was staring at the raw shrimp on sale for $7.99 a pound. Just a few minutes later, it happened again. This time I was handling lemons in the produce department, looking for a slightly tender, juicy one.

“How are you doing today?” the produce guy asks.

“Fine, thanks.” I respond.

“You don’t sound too convincing,” the produce guy continues. “Are you sure you’re doing okay?”

Well, actually I’m not.

But does the produce guy really need to know that? Seriously. Does he moonlight as a therapist, drumming up business all day long in the produce department at the Jewel?

What do you say to this?

wild animals

Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep posting about my silent retreat in the midst of the everyday chaos that is my life?

Don’t get me wrong, I want to keep posting about it. And I will. Tomorrow.

But this week my life feels a little bit like my blog when I was away -- overrun by wild animals who carry food into the living room and smear peanut butter on the couch and make entirely too much noise.

(By the way, I enjoyed coming home and finding that my blog had been blogjacked. It brought a smile to my face and I am grateful for this forum to foster such a fun and generous community. I feel like one of the cool kids now! And I’m glad this is a place where you feel comfortable enough to kick off your shoes and just hang out for awhile. And don’t worry about cleaning up next time. As Twin A. reminded me this morning, “our house is ALWAYS messy.” Thanks, buddy. I’m feelin’ the love.)

But back to the wild animals who live in my house.

After asking to play Star Wars Wii at least thirty-nine times yesterday, Llama Papa was annoyed.

“For the last time, no. No Star Wars Wii today.”
“But WHY?” Twin A. whined.
“Because you’re driving me crazy,” Llama Papa answered.
“I know,” Twin A. responded, “But what does that have to do with playing Wii?”

You’ve gotta love the logic of a Kindergardener.

finding grace

Saturday I woke up feeling sorry for myself. I looked at the calendar and started counting, “one, two, three...ten days until my husband gets home.” I should confess that I have been blessed (cursed?) with the personality of most writers I know. We’re a melancholy lot who thinks entirely too much. At least I do.

Prone to self-pity, it’s a matter of discipline to not dwell on the dark side.

And God is good, folks. He has showered me with grace during this past week, and I am trusting that His grace will be enough this week, too.

Because it always is.

Even when things are difficult, or maybe especially then, God’s grace abounds.

Yesterday it was 57 degrees. Above zero. Have I mentioned that I live in the greater Chicago area? That’s nothing short of a miracle, people. Watching the noisy boys ride their bikes yesterday afternoon and horse around with the neighborhood kids? Grace.

Friday night three girlfriends came over after all of my kids were in bed to just hang out and laugh, try to watch a movie, and eat cardboard weight watcher popcorn. Nobody mentioned the huge mess and crunchy floor. Grace.

On Saturday morning my sister-in-law came over and picked up all three of my children and brought them back after lunch, ready for a rest. Grace.

My in-laws plan to pick up the noisy boys every day this week and take them to school for me, so baby b. can have an uninterrupted, long nap. Grace.

Our calendar this week is full of playdates and invitations to share dinner with friends. Grace.

“I forgive you, Mom,” offered Twin A. when I apologized after losing my patience trying to tie three sets of shoes and get out the door in time for church. Grace.

Each time he said, “My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness.” So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ can work through me. (2 Corinthians 12:9 NLT)

chocolate and rusty nails

Advent. That’s what I was planning to write about today. A specific memory of the Christmas I was on bedrest with the twins and the deep, abiding peace of Christ.

But, friends, today has not been a deep, abiding peace of Christ kind of day. Not even close.

I woke up in a panic at 4:45 this morning, obsessed with getting the boys’ birthday invitations in the mail. The dishwasher was next, and then wrapping. And then my people were awake.

The morning hit a major snag when I started to wrap a gift and realized the security tag was still on it. I cursed Kohls all the way to the store and vowed to never shop there again no matter how cheap things were. But the woman apologized, a real “I’m-so-sorry-you-had-to-drag-that-baby-out-in-the-cold apology,” and my anger vanished.

For the moment.

The anger reappeared when I stopped off at Burger King to get a refund on the kids’ meals I picked up last night on the way to the children’s museum. The kids’ meals that had no cheeseburgers or milk in them. Only fries. And when I explained the problem to the teenager behind the counter, she accused me of trying to steal cheeseburgers. Honestly, folks. I could not make this stuff up.

I called a friend this afternoon to vent about the craziness of the day, and do you know what she was doing? She was scrubbing the rust off of nails to make some kind of Christmas ornament. She had tried soaking the nails all week on her kitchen counter in an effort to make them rusty, but the darn things wouldn’t rust. So she soaked them in toilet bowl cleaner. It worked, but the rust was orange instead of black. So here it was, one-thirty on Friday afternoon and she was scrubbing away on orange, rusty nails. Of course.

Because we all know Christmas is not about the abiding joy and peace of Christ. It’s about shopping and baking and cards and scrubbing freaking orange rust off of nails to make ornaments.

Oh, and I almost forgot the best part of the day. This afternoon I made myself a cup of tea and got out my latest grocery store find: 100 calorie triple fudge brownies. Doesn’t that sound great? A nice, 2-point treat to go with my tea. Desperate for chocolate, I open the package up and pull out a small, wrapped bit of brownie smaller than my thumb.

That is just wrong.

empowered

How did this class empower me, Andrea wants to know? I’ve already written a full six-page essay on the subject, but I’ll spare you that.

I’m less fearful. Most people are surprised to learn that I was walking around most days in a state of hyper-awareness, unable to sleep well, and constantly thinking through “what if” scenarios. (What if someone sneaks into the garage while we ride our bikes around the block?) Facing these fears head-on was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done. But knowing I’m able to handle a worst-case scenario attack allows me to let go of this hyper-vigilance. Freedom from fear? Empowering. It opens up a whole new world.

I’m more assertive. Just knowing that I have the ability to kick the tar out of someone allows me to set a verbal boundary right where I want it, knowing that if they escalate the situation, I’m prepared.

For instance, I mentioned the drunk man at McDonalds. I was there with my three boys several weeks ago, and he zeroed in on me right away. (I think it’s the blonde, slightly overweight factor. Drunk guys dig chicks like me.)

“Oh, you have three boys,” he said.
“I do.” I responded, noting his slurred speech.
“I have two boys and then I get my girl. You want to know how to get a girl? Let me tell you.”
“No. I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Oh, come on. I’m just being nice. Let me tell you what my wife and I did one night...”

(Loudly) “You need to leave me alone. Now. You’re drunk and you don’t belong here. You need to leave.”

And he did.

And can I just say that I was kind of disappointed that I didn’t get to kick him?

A few months ago I would have handled this differently. I would have been friendly instead of assertive, thinking maybe he would leave me alone if I was nice.

So, how do I feel empowered? I feel much more confident setting verbal boundaries and I am free from fear. The list goes on, but these are the big ones.

Next week? How to share God’s love with drunk men at McDonalds.

the corner of the room

The pile feels endless––an old pair of shorts, a bag of hotel shampoo, the August issue of Family Circle, faded jeans. A few treasures, but mostly junk, languish in this dusty corner of my bedroom. My Mother’s wedding dress lay buried at the bottom of it all.

I unzip the cover and feel the soft, white velvet. She had a Christmas wedding. I can still hear my Mother’s angry voice, “Nothing good ever came from that marriage.”

I want to answer, “Well, me. Maybe.” But I don’t. Like so many other things, this is not about me.

What to do with the dusty dress now? I can’t bring myself to toss it away, into the Salvation Army bag. And so it hangs, crowded into the corner of the guest room closet.

I think of my little neighbor friend, only eight, who endures this grief. Last year, she sat at my kitchen table and cried. “This divorce is even going to screw up Christmas,” she told me, incredulous. “I have to be with my Dad two days before Christmas, and then my Mom on the actual Christmas. But we’ll never be all together. Can you believe it?”

And so we made cookies together. And when she left, by some miracle, she was smiling again. Last week, her best friend moved away from our street, and when the van pulled away, I reached over to hug her. She had no tears then. “Well, at least we can write!” she chirped. “Oh,” she said, “by the way. Christmas is all messed up again this year.”

“Then lets make our cookies again,” I offered.
“Yes, I’d like that.”

Me too, dear one. Me too.

on cleaning up

It’s all coming back to me, this having a toddler thing. I feel like I’m on a treadmill all day long, moving, but never going anywhere.

And I’ve decided that cleaning up with a toddler in the house is like trying to vacuum in the middle of a hurricane.

I put baby b. in his high chair, and he eats breakfast while I unload the dishwasher. When he’s done, I clean up the high chair mess while he toddles off to the family room and dumps a box of tinker toys. Before I’m finished with the kitchen, he wanders back in with his broom to “help” me sweep. And on and on it goes, all day long.

Yesterday I gave up for a few hours and actually tripped on my way across the living room.

At least he has a healthy sense of curiosity.

Any illusion that I am able to keep all of these balls in the air AND keep a tidy house are officially shattered. Twin A. had a playdate a few weeks ago, and when the little boy’s Mom came to pick him up, I invited her in. I didn’t apologize for the mess; after all, four Kindergarten boys and a toddler had been happily playing for two hours.

And they were all alive.

She told me later, “I love your home. It’s lived in, like our house.” And the next week when Twin A. played at her house, she invited me in for the first time. We pushed the pile of mail on the counter to the side and had a cup of tea.

Maybe this toddler thing isn’t so bad after all.

paying it forward

I didn’t know I was pregnant with twins. I just knew I was exhausted. Scheduled to move across the country in three days, my husband and I both had long lists of things to do and people to see. A few days before the move, my friend D. called. “What are you doing tonight?” She asked.
“Dinner with my family,” I told her.
“I’d like to come over and clean for you while you’re gone.”
“Oh, I can’t let you do that,” I stammered.
“‘I’d like to,” she said. And I believed her.

And so we went out for dinner, and my dear friend came over and cleaned our bathroom. When I came home and saw the white grout, I tried to forget what color it had been before. And I cried at this gift of pure friendship; I could not repay her.

The moving van pulled up to my neighbor’s house early this morning. The house hasn’t sold yet, but her husband has already moved. They’ve been living apart for 6 months now. To say it’s been a hard year is a gross understatement.

She drops her young son off right after the noisy boys leave for school. Baby b. is down for his nap.

And so I give her this gift that she cannot repay. I give it with joy; with tears.

What can you give today, with no expectation of repayment?

funny little things

Baby b. is officially toddling all over the house. And, in case I haven’t mentioned it here before, he is so stinkin’ cute.

Lately, he’s taken to wearing a video sleeve on his arm. He just marches over to the videos, pulls a video out of the sleeve, and slides that sleeve right on, like a jacket. He’s very proud of this, and waves his arms up, smiling and shouting “Hi! Hi!” And he wears the sleeve around the house for hours, switching videos every once in awhile.

And the noisy boys are no longer interested in Sponge Bob or Cyberchase or Diego. Not since they found the Discovery channel. Now they want to watch Mythbusters and Dirty Jobs and Man vs Wild with all of their T.V. time. (Of course, Llama Papa is thrilled by this turn of events.)

At one point, we were watching someone clean raw sewage out of a basement, and the noisy boys were so taken with this, as was my husband, and it occurred to me: I am the only female in this house with four males.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course. I’m just saying.

These shows have inspired an entirely new genre of play. Yesterday the noisy boys spent three hours building experimental robots out of boxes, caps, foam, and remote control cars.

Childhood is a wonder. Noisy? Yes. But also sacred. And oh so much fun!

being right

I woke up too early to sore muscles and three sick children. Halfway through my coffee, I glance at my calendar.

“9:30.”

With no memory of what this might refer to, I ask my husband, who reminds me that we’re having blood tests today for our new life insurance policy, so I shouldn’t eat or drink anything. For the next four hours.

Perfect.

Oh, and I’m a classroom volunteer for Twin A.’s class. I rummage through my in-box looking for the volunteer schedule that tells me what to do when I can’t make it, but it has evaporated into the land of un-filed email that can never be found. And so I email the teacher and the schedule coordinator, explaining that Twin A. is sick and I’m not sure what to do about my volunteer shift.

His teacher emails me right back and tells me not to worry about it. She has extra help today. Just give A. lots of hugs.

And then I get an email from the coordinator. A very rude email detailing sick policy protocol, which I have clearly broken. And she sent it out to the entire class.

Have I mentioned that I’ve just had a very emotional two days of getting beat up and my body hurts all over? And I’m starving, but can’t eat anything? Oh, and I have three sick, needy children?

This is a good reminder to me to show grace. I have been that coordinator, sending out curt emails. Being right.

But right doesn’t matter sometimes. Sometimes kindness, courtesy and grace should be above “right.”

words for a friend

When I stepped into the world of blogging, I had no idea what I would find. Honestly, I was just looking for a place to write and exchange ideas with other people who were looking for a place to write and exchange ideas.

And so I met Charity, and was immediately struck by the depth of her insight. I have been encouraged and challenged by her thoughts. I have grown to love her as a sister in Christ.

I wept as I read of her current struggle with cancer, surprised by the depth of my own emotion for this woman I have never met. After all, wasn’t I just saying that blogging cannot take the place of true community? And yet my first instinct had me checking mapquest to find out just how far away she actually lives. Maybe not too far to bring a casserole, which is what I tend to do when there are no words.

And then L.L. Barkat invited us to share our thoughts about Charity, and it got me thinking again about community. If there is a place for casseroles and hugs, is there not also a place for words?

Even when there are no words.

Friends – please pray for Charity.

Several years ago my mother-in-law asked me, “So, what do you do when one boy wants to go to the park and the other one wants to make cookies, but you really don’t want to do either one because it’s almost naptime?”
“Um. I say no.”
She was so busy being Super-Grandma, the thought hadn’t crossed her mind.
She and I still chuckle at this and I often remind her as I drop the kids off for an afternoon, “Remember: you can always say no!”

As parents, we say no. (Or we should.) But we don’t like to hear it ourselves, do we? “No” is simply not the American way.

When my friends and I were in Colorado, we ate at a resteraunt in downtown Estes Park. It was a moderately nice place, and as we placed our orders, my Aussie friend asked for a bowl of soup and an elk patty “with no bun or anything.” (We were all curious to try elk.) “Can I get that?” my friend asked.
The waitress looked her in the eye and said, “No.”
It was hilarious. And yet the American in me wanted to get the manager and insist that my friend get exactly what she wanted. My British and Aussie friends simply moved on. “Oh, okay.”

When is the last time someone told you “no, you can’t have that?” Is it any wonder we walk around with a sense of entitlement, angry with God when He doesn’t do things exactly our way? Angry because we really, really want something, and He seems to be saying “No?”

community

“Do you think you can walk to school with us, or should we take the car?” I ask Twin B., currently crashed on the couch with a bad case of croup.
“I can’t walk,” he responds, rasping with each word.
“We’ll take the car then."
“Why don’t you call Grandma?” He reasoned, doing his best to look even more pathetic than he is.
“Good idea.”
So I did. Grandma happily came over while Twin A. and I walked to school. And because he had a doctor’s appointment scheduled for the afternoon, I asked a neighbor to walk Twin A. home.

Some days are just like this. There’s simply not enough of me to go around. Three boys often need to be in three different places at the same time—with baby b.’s “place” usually being his bed! I am grateful to live in community with family and friends and neighbors. And I wonder, how do people get by without this sort of community?

Recently, LL Barkat wrote a great post on her blog, Seedlings in Stone, about community as it relates to blogging. Can blogging provide true community? I chimed in on Seedlings with my opinion, and I’m sure she’d love to have you join in the conversation!

change

I have a friend who moves every few years. She gets antsy if she stays in one place for too long. She craves change.

I’m the opposite. When I was in junior high, my parents announced that we were moving across the country and I was convinced they were trying to ruin my life. (Seriously. I was probably in my twenties before I realized that the move had nothing to do with me. Ya think?)

But change comes whether we like it or not. And this week, it came in the form of a layoff for my husband.

Don’t. Panic. We’re fine.

Actually, we’re more than fine. We’re excited to see what God has in store for us next. In the meantime, we’ve got a long list of household projects to keep us busy. (And, yes, I do use the terms “we” and “us” loosely!)

As much as I hate change, I’m ready for this one.

So is twin A. When I told him that Daddy was going to look for a new job, he cheered, “Yeah!!!”
“What’s the best thing about Daddy not working for Apple?” I asked, curious about his response.
“He won’t always be on vacation!”

As much as I’ve tried to explain that business trips are not vacations, he doesn’t get it. In a five-year old’s world, a plane trip + a hotel with a pool + eating out for every meal = vacation.

Please join me in praying for a more family-friendly work situation! And not too soon. I’d really like to get the garage cleaned out.

then and now

I walk briskly, pushing the double stroller, hoping to burn off the half-a-package of Oreos I ate instead of dinner. The sugar gives me quick energy, but ultimately lets me down. At least the babies have stopped screaming. From five to seven, nobody’s happy. I walk by the neighborhood school and try to imagine my babies as boys, going to school. Five more years. In five years, I think, I will have a life. I’ll spend more time on my writing, organize my closet, and clean out the garage. I’ll stop eating Oreos for dinner and get more exercise. I’ll have lunch with friends. Surely in five years I’ll have a friend? In five years, I’ll have time for me. It will be my turn.

I navigate baby b.’s stroller down the sidewalk and chat with the noisy boys as we walk to school. “Is today gym?” Twin B. asks.
Twin A. answers authoritatively, “No. Today is ORANGE day. I think it might be music.”
“Actually,” I respond, “it’s yellow day. And you guys have gym on different days. Honestly, I don’t know if it’s gym today or not, B. But you’re wearing your gym shoes, so you’ll be ready either way!” The noisy boys get a kick out of the color system our school uses to keep track of “special” days like gym and art. Or maybe they’re just amused that I cannot for the life of me figure the system out. Either way, it’s a common topic of conversation.

I offer quick hugs as they run to join their classmates and walk briskly home. I put baby b. down for his nap and look around. Three baskets of laundry need folding, the lunch dishes need to be put in the dishwasher, I have four phone calls to return, the kitchen floor crunches, and the family room looks like a bomb went off. I fold laundry while I return phone calls, do the dishes, sweep, and defrost chicken for our dinner tonight. I think about an article I want to write while I snap green beans. Maybe tomorrow, I think, as I get baby b. up for the walk back to school, glancing at the still-messy family room. Maybe tomorrow.

Kindergarten

New notebooks, markers, and pencils weigh down the noisy boys’ school bags as they excitedly march down the sidewalk, ahead of me and their dad and their baby brother. We walk the four blocks to school and join the throng of children and parents and cameras, all commemorating this first important day. Other Moms wipe their eyes, and I determine not to be one of them. I focus on the noisy boys—this is their day, not mine, and I truly am excited for them. This strategy works right up until the end, when they line up behind their respective teachers, and I notice that all of the other children are waving at their parents, while the noisy boys are completely focused on eachother, waving and calling out: “Goodbye A.!”
“Goodbye, B. Good luck!”

That’s when I lost it.

It’s also when I realized that separating them was a bigger deal than I expected it to be. And so it is. I am in new territory and it’s overwhelming, but God is here too. And I have a really, really big new calendar ready to hang on the wall.