Mud Kitchen: A Pinterest Success Story

I stayed up till almost midnight last night making this pinterest board in an attempt to reclaim our backyard from the fireants/weeds/junk/debris/bad mojo. Today we spent about $12 at Goodwill, an hour combing through my kitchen cabinets and the various and sundry toy boxes and we built THIS!
















We've got a few bricks destined to become a "stove" under that metal shelf.

Hopefully I"ll be able to show more completed "kid-friendly back-yard" projects soon!!


eta: this post has attracted waaaaay more spam than I'm prepared to delete (probably due to it's pinterest links) so I'm closing comments here Feel free to email me, though!

In which I complain about shopping trips with toddlers and my own klutziness

Today started out with Jamie peeing in his Spiderman undies-- DELIBERATELY-- because he wanted to wear his "Flash" undies, so I suppose I should have known...

But then the trip to Salvation Army went so well and I had a free drink on my Starbucks card, so I splurged and bought cake pops and hot chocolate for the boys and I found Jude's sneakers for only four dollars and then found out they were actually half price...

So I let my guard down.

And then we hit the restrooms at Ross...... Public restrooms are a nightmare. I hate them. I avoid them to the point of near embarrassment and then, when bladders are at the busting point, we trudge toward the germ-infested cesspool of Horrible like condemned men to the scaffold. This time was no different. Jamie tried to crawl under the door of an occupied stall twice. Judah cuddle the sink fervently. Both boys rubbed their entire bodies repeatedly up and down the long wall beside the changing table and then took turns raising and lowering the changing table apparatus about 123408745087 times.

And then, just as we were about to escape the madness (after THREE re-washings of hands), juggling coffee cups, toddlers, purse, etc through the door; a quick backwards turn to stop Judah from sticking his fingers UP the hand dryer caused me to jerk my coffee cup and a six-foot wave of thick black sugar-free-peppermint-mocha surged up and over the ENTIRE front of my blouse!

Let me share with you that there is NO WAY to clean thick black sugar-free-peppermint-mocha off a Christmas green blouse adequately with a wad of toilet tissue.

No.

Way.

I walked out of the bathroom, trailing boys and an air of injured pride and still sporting a giant brown, grainy smear of  thick black sugar-free-peppermint-mocha covering the entire left side of my blouse. My bright, Christmas green festive blouse.

When you walk out of a public restroom sporting a giant brown grainy smear of brown ANYTHING, you know e.x.a.c.t.l.y. what people are going to think it is.

Exactly.

I held my head high and proud and continued on my way, found the rest of my items and headed for the checkout lane.

And then Jamie peed his pants again. And threw a temper tantrum when I tried to put his flip-flops back on so he could walk to the van because Ross doesn't let you take carts out into the parking lot I don't know why.

I gathered the remaining shreds of my dignity around me, grabbed my soaking wet toddler and dragged him out the door and as I passed the older woman in line behind us, I heard her chuckle....

"Hehehe, he just doesn't want to put his shoes on... he's so cute..."

By the grace of God, I managed to smile tightly and mutter something that could have been mistaken for politeness before exiting the store.

I think I will never use a public restroom again.

Never again.

Never again.

 

A Costco Santa

When the posters of their pictures started popping up on the news links, and all over Facebook, I had to stop reading the Newtown updates... it got a little too real.

You know those antidepressant ads that show the woman's depression as a bathrobe that sneaks up on her and slyly envelopes her whole body on occasion  even though (we're lead to believe) she mostly keeps it at bay-- in her pocket, or hanging on the back of her chair? My fuzzy blue suffocating bathrobe is fear. Fear for the safety and health of myself and my family, fear of the dark, fear of the unknown, fear of rejection, fear of heights, you name it. 

After I married J, and through the subsequent years of maturing in the Lord, I gradually began to learn how to deal with my fears (another, much longer post for another time) and now the blue bathrobe is almost always quite firmly shut into a closet and nearly never makes it as far as my shoulders...

But now and then events like last Friday suddenly give that bathrobe a new power and I find myself carrying it around in my back pocket again. Too close for comfort. I find my mind wandering, my heart suddenly clutching, my throat swelling and my palms sweating.

And then yesterday, the Lord appointed a Santa Clause to sit in the Costco dining area...

So, no. Probably not. But it felt a little like that.

There he is. A beautifully round old gentleman in khakis and a white polo shirt, sitting on his motor scooter, eating pizza and drinking coke. A plainclothes Santa. Incognito Father Christmas. But the beard, the cherry nose and the red hat were dead giveaways. There's no fooling five year olds in December.

"Look!" Judah stage-whispers urgently, "Look, Mama! Is that...? Is that... Santa??"

"Santa!!!" Even Jamie can tell. I mean, that beard-- curly mustache and all-- unmistakable.

We walk over. We say "hi," shyly. We say "... are... are you...?" In awe, "...Are you Santa?"

And he says, "Ho ho ho!"

Yes. Yes, he did. He said "Ho ho ho!"

And he said, "I'm just here to check and see how all the children are behaving for their mamas and daddys during shopping time! Are you being good little boys? Would you like to see something?"

He pulls out his billfold and shows them a picture of himself in a bright red suit.

"See that? That's me on Christmas Day! Next week I'll put on my suit...."

And then he digs around in his pocket and pulls out a handful of trinkets and hands one to each boy.

"Merry Christmas!!"

And we say goodbye and wave and walk along, and Santa goes back to his coke and pizza and somehow I find that my scratchy blue bathrobe is now firmly shut back into that closet. I am reminded that my children are still safe and happy and there are manymany adults who love them and love children in general and that it is ok-- right now. And right now, that is all I really have. Tomorrow and later and next year is in the Lord's loving hands and so am I and so are my children.

He came to earth a helpless, vulnerable child. How significant is that? This carol is my theme for this Christmas:

Thou who wast rich beyond all splendour,
All for love’s sake becamest poor;
Thrones for a manger didst surrender,
Sapphire-paved courts for stable floor.
Thou who wast rich beyond all splendour,
All for love’s sake becamest poor.

Thou who art God beyond all praising,
All for love’s sake becamest man;
Stooping so low, but sinners raising
Heavenwards by thine eternal plan.
Thou who art God beyond all praising,
All for love’s sake becamest man.

Thou who art love beyond all telling,
Saviour and King, we worship thee.
Emmanuel, within us dwelling,
Make us what thou wouldst have us be.
Thou who art love beyond all telling,
Saviour and King, we worship thee.

And the story of the writing of that hymn tells also of vulnerability, sacrifice, love, fear of parents for their children and the Lord's loving hands.

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Walking in the Shadow

I wrote this post last spring, but never posted it. I think I just felt that I spend far too much time on this blog grieving over my distance from my family, which I worry will make my friends here in Florida feel a little sad. But today seems like a good time to revisit the topic of longing for the Lord's Return. Ron Owen's lyrics could have been written just for a day like yesterday and today.

I talked to my mom on the phone today. We chatted and spent time catching up on each other's lives and then, when I simply had to get back to Real Life (ie; dishes, babies, laundry and etc) I handed the phone off to Judah to visit for a while too.

As I listened in the their conversation, I found myself wishing, oh how much so! that I was listening in on a conversation where both participants were sprawled on the couch in my living room-- instead of just one of them. And the words of my favorite song from the show I'm singing in next week are now running on a tear-inducing loop through my heart...

Some day, we'll cast our weapons down!
We'll break the bow and spear,
Faith will conquer hate and fear!
Somehow until that day appears
Love will light our way,
We'll hope and dream and pray
That someday will begin
Today!

No more yearning, no more longing, 
No more waiting, no more wanting
No more wishing, no more grieving, 
No more crying, no more suf'fring
No more dying now and evermore...


Come quickly, Lord Jesus...

Jamie Escapes

Yesterday I realized I hadn't seen or heard Jamie for about five minutes-- which is about the longest I ever DARE leave him to his own devices. Rounding the corner into the hall, I saw the front door wide open and my heart hit my toes, until I saw....

(you'll have to click over to see the whole photo)



Obviously he's starting to dress himself...



I wonder what the neighbors thought??

Men In Black IV: Die of Cuteness

Aunt Polly and Uncle Will, we want you to know we're taking this job COMPLETELY seriously.



Well, you know, mostly...



Err, perhaps some of us less than others...



Oh, whatever.









sorry about the red-eye, i didn't really have time to edit...


Judah on Brotherhood

Me: "No, Jamie, Judah would never beat you up. He's your big brother-- he protects you!"

Judah: "Well, prolly I would beat him up if I were mad at him, but if a monster tried to eat him, I would defnilly protect him. Defnilly."

The Many Faces of James

It occurred to me that I never really posted an update about Jamie at his second birthday-- we were too pre-occupied with Sofi turning TEN!! (on a side note, can you believe we're only seven years away from a high school graduate???) But as they say, better late than never! I give you James Oliver Forshey, two years old:

















And less we forget, in the midst of all the cute, there is also plenty of MISCHEIF and climbing skillz far beyond his age....

More Narcissistic Self-realization, because this is a blog, after all...

I made my stage debut at the age of four in a four-man family production of Goldilocks and The Three Bears, performed for the local homeschool support group. I remember it like it was yesterday... Especially this one part where Goldilocks rocks and rocks in Little Bear's rocking chair until she "breaks" it. I had to rock and rock and then tip the chair over backwards. It took some nerve, let me tell you. I remember the rising adrenaline, the quickened breath-- gradually rocking further and further back almost not able to let go and then realizing I'd committed, gone past the balance point, no turning back now and over we went-- crash to the ground. It never really hurt. Not really. But the deliberate letting go of safety and launching myself, Me, Elisa, into the momentary reality of Goldilocks... That was terrifying. And exhilarating.

I've spent a lot of time on stage. Not compared to some, but still. Significant. From the age of four through all of college we had two productions every year without fail-- Christmas and Spring. Like clockwork. And like clockwork, my mother swore every year she'd never do another one. But she always did. And then there where twice yearly violin recitals. And when I started teaching violin in high school we added in two recitals of my own each year. And then I got married and J starting directing productions for his school. And then I started an after school drama club. The Stage Me and the Real Me have kind of merged together by now.

My mother was my drama teacher. She taught me how to throw myself into The Role.

It's like a roller coaster, the long slow minutes creeping up up up to the opening curtain, the mounting tension, the rising adrenaline, poised for that split second as the audience gazes on the opened stage-- the characters poised to begin, the moment of truth. Here we are balanced between heaven and earth, between ordinary me and The Role. I can choose to throw my hands up and whoooooeeeeeeeeee down the track, reveling in the energy and the speed-- I can channel that adrenaline-- refuse to flee or fight, but rather BE someone else for an hour or two. It's terrifying. And exhilarating. I actually hate roller coasters. But I love acting.

I've learned over the years how useful that is... to know how to throw oneself into a Role that way. It can be a superpower. It can also be a bad habit. And like any superpower, it can eventually become so much a part of you that you kind of forget what you're like without it. Which is good, and bad. The Stage Me almost forgets the other me. The one who hated crowds, and talking on the phone. The one who had no friends, who got physically ill before every violin lesson and concert. The Me who is still curled up, tiny and almost invisible now, like a scared little child in the middle of my tummy where the sick feeling still sometimes bubbles in those tense moments before the curtain rises, before the intro starts, before the door opens, before the happy greeting is returned, before the handshake is accepted, before I'm sure that I've pulled it off. That they believe me. Before I know that I'm accepted in whatever Role I'm playing-- wife, mother, friend, helper, teacher, confidant, adviser...


This is the secret about extroverts. Most of us are just good actors.

But I'm learning day by day, to trust that I can Be each of those things, not just act them. And I'm learning too, that I'm perhaps not as good an actor as I think. Or maybe just that I don't have to be as good. That there are people all around me who see through that and maybe even see a little glimpse of the almost-invisible-child and still accept me. And that years and years of acting has created something real, too.

I suppose if one plays a role long enough, one eventually becomes that thing.







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More about my Pop-pop

I wrote this about my Pop-pop in 1998... It might not seem like it was about him on first glance, but it was Pop-pop and Grandmom that I was thinking of as I pondered the importance of deep roots "in the pattern of things". I have been blessed to grow up in a family full of traditions and an order of life. I know many would envy me that security and I have never taken it for granted.

They Have Roots

Tall fir trees
Standing sentinel by the lake
They, all dressed in golden touches of the dying sun,
Stand faithful
In their duties for a hundred years;
Guarding my
Past and present from the future.
They have roots
Firm deep in the pattern of things.
So seeing
I go on my way a little
Comforted.

November 23, 1998

He's the only one who ever called me "Lisa"

I feel like the roof is coming off my Life House-- so many of the spiritual and familial pillars of my world have left this life this past year. There's left only my parents, one now seemingly fragile layer left between me and eternity.

Goodby for now, Pop-pop. I've been missing you for along time, I think. Although, to be fair, I did the first leaving. In my mind I can hear your gruff voice in prayer, feel that mighty grip-- such agony for the short seconds of a meal's grace-- you did that on purpose, didn't you?. I can hear the teasing, "What-what??", "Hello, Lemuel!", and the head-tilted, sideways grin, waiting to see what did I think of that?? I so much remember your hands. So much. Gnarled and knotted-- strong as a tree, gripping the fabric and stretching it tight, tacks in the corner of your mouth. Tap the hammer to your lips to spit a tack on the tip and tap-whack, fasten the fabric tight to the frame.

"My Pop-pop made that."

I loved to say those words. And still, the men who make me things are the men I love the most.

The smell of glue and fabric and wood dust, Postum with lots of cream, ice cream. Oh how that man loves ice cream! Chocolate, right? Rich chocolate ice cream. Rich as your life.

Oh the richness of the life you led! Oh what you've left me in stories and knowing and history and belonging to something safe and big and strong! I will tell my stories of you all my life and even though they never knew you, they will know of you.

The rocks you dug up from the corn field and laid for the foundation of the house you built for your bride, where my mother was born, where I was raised, where my brother and sister were born and where you didn't die, but left behind to come away in your old age to start again-- so hard, so brave, a little unhappy, but we loved having you.

The camping-- oh! the camping trip stories I have told... Remember the hurricane? Remember the frogs turned loose? Remember all the fish I never caught? And ice skating? And snowball fights?

The dogs... Remember the long noble line of beagles? Remember burying them behind the chicken coop? Remember the chickens? And the grape arbor? Do you remember Grandmom yodeling? Does she remember how? Does she play the fiddle for you? Do you dance?

I play the fiddle, Pop-pop. And I hold my tacks and pins in my mouth like you, and I squeeze my children's hands when we pray and I kind of love the smell of glue, and I suppose one day I"ll have to take them camping.

I miss you. See you soon....

This week's PSA

Have you tried Ziplist yet? You should.

I posted on FB last week that I was looking for a way to do menu plans and grocery lists online. Someone suggested Ziplist and I'm giving it a try. So far I love it. My favorite features so far...

• My top favorite feature is the toolbar button that works a little like the Pinterest button. When you see a recipe on a website or blog, you click your "Recipe Clipper" button and it finds and stores the recipe for you on your Ziplist account. 

• I can make my grocery list and organize it my either the categories (departments in the grocery store) or the stores I'm buying each item at. This is key for me, as I shop at several different stores each week to get the best deals. It's nice to have a separate list for each store

• I can make a weekly menu plan by selecting recipes I've stored or by entering recipe links, and entering them into the week's calender. Then I can add each recipe to my grocery list (it does it for me, actually) and deselect items I already have on hand.

The site also searches for online deals on the items I have on my grocery list. It keeps a log of the items I put on my list each week (including the store where I purchase them), so each week's suggested list gets "smarter". Ie; I don't have to re-enter each item every time I make a new list.

I haven't explored the site fully yet, but it appears to have other home organization helps beside menu/grocery stuff. I recommend you check it out!



Do you have any favorite online home-maker helps? Have you tried Ziplist before? What other things should I try out?

This I know.

I know one thing about mothering. One thing beyond a shadow of a doubt. It is this:

My Words Have Power.

The words I speak to my children create reality for them. I can tear down or build up with my words. That's my job. Everyday I must selectively demolish and build. Demolish the bad-- harmful habits, hurtful words, disrespectful patterns of speech and behavior. Build the good-- diligence, bravery, perseverance, kindness in speech and actions, faithfulness in the little things and self-control. I build these things largely by talking about them, teaching them, praising their first timid appearances in my children's characters.

So I know this. The problem is, sometimes the demolition seems to take up all my energy, all my time and emotional resources. Sometimes the bad and ugly seem to rise far, far above my puny little wrecking balls and loom over my head with promises of visiting my children in juvie one day soon... the little delinquents.

Today I woke up remembering that demolition is only half of my job. If I tear down and neglect to build in it's place, then I create a vacuum, and we all know how nature feels about that. If I spend all my time disciplining, training, giving out consequences and negatively reinforcing, and then collapse in exhaustion on the couch, my household momentarily bullied into a semblance of peace, then I've missed it. Because while I rest and recuperate, slowly at first and building to a tempest, comes in all manner of  horrible things pouring into the vacuum created by my unfinished work.

Today I woke up determined to do some Rebuilding. I had to slow down first. As always. It always starts there. Giving up my right to Accomplish Many Things. So we started slooooow. We did our chores. We went for a looooong slooooow walk.

We ate lunch.

We read books.

We drew pictures.

That's it. That's all I did today. At least, on the surface. But down deep in Judah's heart I was building all day. Laying the foundation of the man he's going to become one day-- by God's Grace. I praised his bike-riding. His strength. His endurance (he biked nearly four miles while I ran with Jamie in the stroller). I told him about scientists and their keen powers of observation when he noticed a funny kind of grass growing beside the path. "Hooray! I'm going to be a scientist one day!!"

And all the rest of the ride he noticed. Everything. I mean it. Ev. Erything. I was interested in him all day. I taught him that he is important to me, that I care about what he has to say, that I enjoy talking to him and listening. (I'm writing this post in 45 sec bursts, in between helping him with his snapping turtle play-do sculpture).

I know my work is not done because we had one good day. I know there will be plenty to knock down and tear out tomorrow, but I've been encouraged in my determination to Speak Truth into my children's lives. Partly because because I can see it working....




"Mom, sin is really tough to fight. When we try to fight it, we lose... but if we relax... if we relax down in... God can get up and fight it away for us. It's like a big wall in front and we relax down behind and God can *swooosh* fight off Satan for us.You know how in church? In Church we say dat when we sing and pray... Satan TREMBLES? You know dat? It's jist like dat."

Jamie's Penchant for Mischief reaches New Heights

No really. I mean it. See?


WHAT ARE YOU DOING UP THERE????




BUSTED!!



Young man, how in the world did you get up there???

"Kime Dat!"




He actually did "kime" right up the front of the dresser. Like Spiderman.

Lord have mercy.

The Liturgy of Laundry

One of the hardest things about being a mother is the sheer monotony of the vocation. I've blogged about this before, but it bears repeating. The work that we do every day is undone almost immediately. The larger spiritual goals to which we attain are very long term and it may be decades before we see our ideals for our children come to full fruition. I far too often find myself replacing my daily responsibilities for home and hearth with lesser, more easily attainable and more apparently "productive" tasks. Even "good" things, when elevated above the Best become little more than idols. Fellowship with other moms is a good and godly desire, but leaving dirty dishes in the sink to pack my children, in their unwashed clothes, off to a playdate is probably less often a Best thing than I would like to imagine, however refreshed it might make me feel in the short term. Staying up too late reading inspirational blog posts?... ditto.

I have been helped recently by a book (it is so often a book of one sort or another, isn't it?) by Kathleen Norris, "Acedia and Me". While written from the perspective of a childless widow, and with a much deeper exploration of the topic and far more inspired applications, I have found in it a nugget that I find quite profound for the circumstances in which I find myself-- homemaker, mother-of-three, impatient servant. That is, to seek to become aware of  a Sacramental quality in my daily work. A liturgical parallel, if you will. The daily-ness, the repetition, the lack of immediate and visible result-- all those things can be said of many of the rythms and repetitions of the church's worship.

And in the same sense, my daily routines, if attended to with a reverential and sacrificial heart (in the sense that I offer them to the Lord as a sacrifice and an act of worship) becomes my Liturgy of the Hours, in a very real sense. And with this emphasis I can rightly order my goals; shifting from an expectation of Results, Product and Effect in my environment (my children are clean and well-mannered at all times, my house is spotless, my laundry stays cleaned and folded in the drawers, the weeds never regenerate, etc) to a desire to see change in myself-- in my attitudes, affections, endurance and perseverance, as well as a deepening relationship with Christ. This shift in perspective, in expectations, will I think cause me to be less impatient towards, less critical of, less dissatisfied with my children and husband. I will be concentrating more on the log in my own eye and less on the specks in theirs.

1 Timothy 2:15
Yet she will be saved through childbearing—if they continue in faith and love and holiness, with self-control.

linking up...

Merbaby

(this is the fourth in a series of posts I'm writing about my Water Babies. you might want to read part one, part two and part three,

James in the pool is the most improbable. Guests watch incredulously his tiny body launching from the deck, arching dragon-fly-like, wings extended back, as he splashes belly-first (every time) and then hangs almost motionless, face-down in a deadman's float for a moment, as mother-eyes watch to see if a panicked rescue is in order...

But no, he's merely taking stock of his domain. He jack-knifes underwater, touching his toes and then straightening out to kick his way to the other side. This child swims a good eight to ten feet without a breath. I hold mine while I watch... just to see... so I know when he's running low, when he's about to have to breathe or drown. He swims one-sided. His right arm takes comically vigorous strokes, while his left plasters to his side, his legs thrashing the water determinedly.

On the longest jaunt-- 20 feet, clear across the pool-- he has to flip to his back to breathe. He waits for a moment, white-knuckling the edge of the deck, grins up at me "Wha wide, Mama?" ("other side?"), then pushes off with his toes, sideways, face down, kick-rightstroke-kick-rightstroke, then swoosh he flips to his back, tiny ohsotiny face floating high in the deep blue water, utterly isolated, utterly serene, calm, self-confident.

A baby island in the deep end. 

Kick, kick, kick. Flip under, eyes wide to find the direction, re-orient, float again, kick kick kick to the edge.

Goal achieved.

Destination reached.

He elbows up over the edge, toddler pot belly resting on the deck and arm-over-arm, knees up onto solid ground. But only briefly. This solid ground is not for him. He prefers the world where he is the equal of all, where he is the master of all he sees...

Merman

 (this is the third in a series of posts I'm writing about my Water Babies. you might want to read part one, part two and part four)

Judah... Judah in the pool.

Oh my heart.

Of all our children, he is the one we most worry over. The one we pray God we don't ruin. He seems so easy to hurt. So hard to Shepherd. So hard to understand.

But in the pool, he is strong, confident, brave. He is happy.

When this child is in the water, he is all. the. way. in. He's the one I rarely see breathing. He often just floats, spread-eagle, face-down. He dives, strong arms, broad shoulders-- so like his daddy's, but so small. He's so thin and light, it's hard work to get to the bottom to fetch a diving stick. But he charges down, dolphin-kicking determinedly.

The water seems to fuel his imagination as it does Sofi's. He talks to himself continuously, narrating a hundred adventures and ballads. His imaginary friend, "Betend Friend" (B.F.'s been around since Judah first started talking, many moons ago), swims and plays and "talks" with him. He spends a lot of time upside down. He doesn't so much swim, as he just plays.. underwater... He hardly seems to acknowledge the difference between air and water, up and down are equal, there are no limits, no rules, no expectations. Here in the water he doesn't have to worry about spilling things, knocking things over, running into stuff. His absent-minded way of walking through life is totally fine, safe, acceptable-- in the water.

If only he could float, spread-eagle, face-down all through his life, staring off into the deep. I think he could always be this happy.

Mermaid

(this is the second in a series of posts I'm writing about my Water Babies. you might want to read part one, part three, and part four, too)

Sofia is almost ten. She stands poised, as all ten-year-olds do, on the brink of young woman-hood, awkwardly suspended between adult and child. Vacillating between the two, rarely perfectly comfortable in either world-- the grass always green on the other side of the proverbial fence.

But in the water she perfectly straddles those two worlds, my graceful water-girl-woman. She glides and swoops and twists, mistress of herself. She feels, I think, a little safer, a little private, here in the water. She goes back to her imaginative games, elaborate plots and characters played out on the bottom of the deep end. Completely unconscious of any audience, or even any world outside these four concrete walls and 20,000 gallons of blue, she acts out her fantasies, her dreams.

I'm glad she has this place where she feels so Right. I remember all too vividly the wrong-ness that dogs one during those early teen years. A place where one feels one truly belongs is so important. When I watch her dart and glide and dive, I think perhaps we will survive these next eight years without too much heartache. Perhaps here in the pool we will always be friends. Perhaps we can come out and swim together and all the argumentation and conflict will wash away, untangled and smooth...





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