Does she change her mind mid-laugh to accuse you of being mean?

Does she tell you she was expecting “more attention” for her birthday?

Does she delight in using the word “vagina” in public, non-restroom-type settings?

Does she inform your elderly neighbor that “if he’s still alive” when she grows up that she’d like to cook dinners for him?

Does she ask you “what will happen?” if she misbehaves, and then ask you to wait while she calculates the cost?

Is she beyond excited about the taste of the red sprinkles on her sugar cookie until you point out (like an idiot) that the cookie is white, but her lip is bleeding? Does she then writhe in pain at what was clearly your fault?

Does she suffer injuries the moment you close the door on her temper tantrum? Is her pain exacerbated by the fact that she has an “uncaring mother” who “likes it” when she gets hurt?

Does she think this song is about her? Does she? Does she?

Is she such an engaging host that the kids at her party follow her everywhere? And when your house goes strangely silent you find them all packed into the bathroom talking to her while she’s taking a dump?

You left her at my house, dude. Come get her. Preferably before the party is over and she has a chance to dress her guests in her spare underwear.

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©2010 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and BEWARE. She’s part of the package.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

But two blocks away from my house the cops flew helicopters, blocked off the streets and went door-to-door this weekend because they were looking for a rapist. The cops were out again this morning. He has not been found.

Police reports mixed with hearsay claim that the 23 year-old girl walking home at 4am and was forced into her home, from which she was abducted. She reappeared in a neighboring jurisdiction seeking medical attention. She didn’t know her attacker and they’re linking him to a murder-suicide several towns over.

My heart is with her today. And my head swims in the reality that I sometimes I forget I live in. I often miss what’s going on in the world when it’s just far enough away that it’s not home.

The cool breeze still filters through my windows, but just the ones upstairs.

Everything downstairs is locked.

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©2010 CK. All Rights Reserved

*                    *                    *

Last week my mom shared the story of my little brother’s cranial healing (Miracles Part I). It ended with a pediatric neurosurgeon telling her that my brother’s craniosynostosis, a condition that is corrected only by many years of surgery, was gone.

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Our pediatrician was skeptical after reading the neurosurgeon’s report. He pointed out that if our son’s head was normal, he would have a soft spot, but he couldn’t feel it. This disturbed the doctor, so he personally measured our son’s head at every appointment until he was satisfied that our son’s head was growing.

At first everything seemed to improve. But as the months passed, it became clear that my son wasn’t using his legs; they looked like they belonged on a rag doll. At nine months old, he still wasn’t crawling, or standing, or sitting up by himself. To get around, he would lie on his stomach and use his forearms to pull himself along the floor, like a “GI crawl.”

The pediatrician pointed out that his hips, knees, and ankles were excessively double-jointed. He recommended he be taken back to Children’s Hospital for testing on his nervous system. All I could say was that I had to trust God for a healing. After all, why would God perform such a dramatic healing on his head and then leave him crippled? The pediatrician was not interested in my faith, but he conceded. I dreaded well-care visits after that because I knew the doctor and I would continue to debate the issue.

By the time my son was 15 months old he was able to crawl, pull himself up on furniture and walk while holding onto our hands.  The pediatrician was not satisfied with his progress and made it clear that by 18 months he had to be walking totally unassisted or tests would be required. There was nothing more I could do but leave the outcome in God’s hands.

During the next three months my son could take two steps, occasionally three, before sitting down. The day before that fateful 18 month check-up, I saw him sitting on the floor as I reached for something in the closet. Without any prompting on my part, he stood up and walked at least ten feet through the room to get to me. He wasn’t wobbly. He didn’t toddle or fall down. He walked as one with many months of experience. From that moment on, he walked all the time. I stood there, completely in shock, and watched him go.

When we arrived at the pediatrician’s office the next day, I put him on the floor and he walked all around the waiting room.  The nurses and office staff cheered. I was so excited. The doctor nodded and said, “I’m glad he’s walking, but can he talk yet?” I wanted to scream. My son hadn’t spoken a single word in any of his 18 months of life. I went home feeling discouraged and heavy-hearted.

Several weeks later, my sister phoned me late one night and told me she felt that God wanted me to “lay hands on my son and pray that his tongue be loose.” I never laid hands or prayed out loud before, and was very uncomfortable with the idea, but I felt a strong pull to do it. I went to my son’s crib and put my hand on him. I prayed out loud to God as I was instructed and then left his room.

The next morning when I went to pick my son up out of his crib, he smiled up at me and said, “My want ba-ba.” I lifted him in my arms and cried. From that day on, he used words whenever he wanted to communicate with us. The doctor was satisfied with his progress after that.  The storms of my son’s life had passed.

Sometimes I think back to those days and wonder what my son’s life would have been like had God not intervened. I’m so grateful for all He has done. I have learned first-hand that no problem is too big or too insignificant for God. He doesn’t tire or get impatient with the number of times we ask for His help. The Bible says, “God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in time of trouble.”  Psalms 46:l.

God does not always answer our prayers the way we want, or in the time we want Him to, but He can be trusted to always do what is best for us.

©2010 JPE. All Rights Reserved

–

Now that all of that’s out of the way, I can tell you a little about my brother. He never faced any disabilities as a result of those years, nor did he need surgery. Instead he grew into a musician and a brilliant artist. He currently animates for Rockstar Games, and at his last job he won two Emmy Awards for his broadcast graphics. You can check out his awesome work here: BeautifulRust

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To listen to Pastor King’s message, When I Need Answer to Prayer click —>here

If you’re looking for something else, you can also search through 6 years worth of Pastor King’s sermons here —>Cherrydale Archives. Not quite sure what you’re looking for? Allow me to recommend his series on the Book of Ruth. It’s one of my favorites.

©2003 Cherrydale Baptist Church. All Rights Reserved.

Even though I was determined to make TWO feel as important and included as ONE, it was nearly impossible for the first two years of her life. She slept for most of the day, and when she was awake she wanted to be with ONE. And when I’d make an effort to single her out for some toys or coloring, ONE would stop whatever she was doing and make a beeline for my lap. Or she’d literally stand right in front of my face. Our only real “alone time” was when ONE was punished, which meant there was also a lot of screaming, so my focus was never on her, it was on not losing what was left of myself.

I never meant to overlook TWO, but she was just so easy and agreeable. She was so sensitive to my needs that when I started to cut out mentally, she would go out on the porch and play by herself. She never seemed phased by it. She became my safe-haven. And then I read this post by Gibby, and I remembered my friend. And I remembered that TWO was a child and not my hiding place. I vowed to correct my behavior.

When the school year started, TWO and I found ourselves the proud owners of 8 hours alone per week. Our first morning together we sat in the playroom and I asked her what she wanted to do. She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. It was like she never suspected that we could do something, just the two of us. She grabbed my hand. “Play me, Mama! Play me!” And we played. Dolls and babies and ponies and music. I’d been cleaning the toys in that room for years, and yet somehow I’d never really played with them before that morning.

I realized that she was tougher than I thought. She allowed me to intervene on her behalf when ONE was being unfair, but she was more than capable of standing up for herself. So I let her. Our house got nosier as a result, but her backbone straightened. She used to shy away from rough kids pushing her around. Now she looks to me, I smile and wave her forward, and she pushes back. Not in a violent way, but in a way that keeps her from getting trampled.

I’ve started anticipating our Mondays and Wednesdays. We take our time, go out for breakfast, and run errands. We focus on each other. I’m at ease and can celebrate every single inch of her without ONE’s watchful eye. Sometimes I feel like I’m cheating on ONE because I delight so completely in my time alone with TWO. I don’t love TWO more, but I can understand why it would appear that way to ONE. ONE is just like who I am. TWO is more like who I’ve always wished I could be.

I’ve realized, just like with any other type of relationship, you have to make the time to get to know someone. Somehow, sharing a roof and every waking moment of the day simply isn’t enough. A loved child can go unknown, even in a small family. If it wasn’t for my friend, I might have taken for granted that TWO and I had the best relationship that we could. We didn’t then, but we do now. I hope my girls are lucky to find friends like the ones I have. And I look forward to the day when they’re grown up and I can be one of their friends too.

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©2010 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and your ass is mine.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

But 42…

When I think of 42, I think of my mom. All responsible and mom-like. When she was in her 40′s she was a full-time SAHM of three kids, and a part-time college student with a ragin’ 4.0. When I look at her now, I still see her as that. Eternally 42.

But my experience with 42 doesn’t get much deeper than that. Kind of like when I was 22, and I couldn’t picture what life would be like now. I figured I’d be alive, but that was about it. And now at 32, I’m equally as limited when I imagine the next decade. I’ll be alive and my kids will be teenagers, so they’ll probably leave me alone in the mornings. Not that it will matter, they’ve already trained me to wake up butt-early on my own. So I’ll still love coffee. And I probably won’t be able to get my jeans at PacSun anymore since my kids will die if I complain to their friends that Bullhead’s Venice-cut got so tight around the ankles that I had to amputate my feet.

22 was ten years ago, and it flew by. I wish I’d taken more pictures.

42 is ten years away, and I know I’ll sail past it in no time.

But from where I’m standing today, I no longer fear the next 10. I’m finally starting to understand just how multifaceted 42 really is. It is much more than age. It is also degrees. And 42 degrees is divine.

42 means GRASS.

42 means unlimited asphalt. Streets without folding chairs blocking crappy-ass neighbors who wait until you finishing digging out your spot to then take it and stay there until 11 at night, forcing you to forge through 3-foot snowbanks with groceries…

Not that there was any food left in the stores. Because your crappy-ass neighbors freaked out about the pending snow storm and bought everything while you were still shoveling out from the LAST snow storm. But I have great hope, because I believe in my heart that 42 will cure Arlingtonians of their need to hoard organic potatoes and onions.

42 means that the big kids are out and about again, defacing park property. And once all of the toys are in the creek, the ground will be hard enough for the little kids to stare at them longingly from behind the fence.

And most importantly, 42 means that our memories of winter will soon be nothing more than:

So if 42 years of age is anything like the feeling of 42 degrees following a freezing 32, I think I’ma enjoy me some 42 just fine.

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Up for a few more TIME CAPSULES this morning? Try Naked Dinner, Denny’s or Lines

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©2010 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and your ass is mine. And your potatoes and onions.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

Sort of…

Actually, he drank the bottle of wine by himself, got rowdy and loud and really embarrassed me. And since I’m not even slightly confrontational, nor do I admit how I feel – especially to a boy – I told him that he brought down his gun. He’d been so drunk he couldn’t remember, and therefore had no choice but to believe me. After he got all worked up and was sufficiently remorseful, I told him I was just kidding.

He didn’t find it nearly as funny as I did.

Because of this “joke” and many others of this nature, I’m willing to admit that ONE’s sense of humor is probably my fault. In my defense, I stopped this kind of behavior before she was born (I like to think I grew up a little), so she’s never witnessed this side of me. Which means it’s somehow hereditary. Engrained. Genetic vindication for my mother…

ONE loves to make us laugh, but she doesn’t really “get” humor yet. Her knock-knocks are painful. Her timing is off. She’s funny, sure, but rarely on purpose. She also has a difficult time telling the difference between storytelling and lies, and since she’s still so young, I allow her stories to ramble on until they die. Her imagination is fun. But lately, everything has started blurring into lies.

This is what she considers a “trick:”

FRIEND: I went to Disneyworld with my family!

ONE: That’s nice. I already went there before you, though. My older sister, Anafelia, took me there when I was ten.

ME: Pea…

ONE: IT’S TRUE, MAMA! You just don’t know because you weren’t born yet.

FRIEND: Really?

ONE: Tricked ya!

And then she “kids around…”

FRIEND’S MOM: It’s must be so nice having your parents and father-in-law as neighbors.

ME: What?

FRIEND’S MOM: ONE was telling us how they each live next door.

ME: Pea…

ONE: I was just kidding!

Okay, so not a big deal. Easy to deal with and laugh off. But then there are plain lies that she calls jokes and kidding around when she gets caught.

Saying that her sister woke her up at 5:30 when my office is right next to their room and I hear, “TWOOOOOOOOO? Oh, TWOOOOOOOO? Are you awake?” Or the bag of candy she had “no idea” was in her toybox. Or the toothbrush that still had toothpaste on it after she brushed her teeth. Or the television that just happened to “turn itself on” while I was in the basement doing laundry. I mean C’MON! If she were a serial killer, she’d already be serving time.

When I question her about it, she smiles and says, “I just enjoy lying to you.” THIS chooses to be honest about. And the worst part? I GET THAT. I loved the storytelling. I loved the testing. I loved weighing whether or not the repercussions were worth the action my whole being was dying to attempt.

Seeing myself so deeply embedded in her makes it hard to step back. I get these intense urges to “fix” everything about her because part of me fears she’ll be like me in ALL areas. Especially the areas that have yet to come. She and I are so similar that I know most of the behavior is for attention because I, too, used to be an attention whore. As the sister of a brilliant younger sibling, I often went into overdrive with the need for attention until I grew up and the spotlight finally lost its joy.

But that was me and this is her. So I observe. I listen. I watch. I over-think whether or not she’s trying to “tell me something” beneath her action. I plot the best, most creative punishment. I debate how to dole it out and when to apply it. And then I obsess over what’s a lie and what’s a story and how to describe the difference. I get so caught up in my thoughts that I don’t notice her standing in front of me until she waves her hand in my face.

“Mama,” she admonishes, a glint of her father’s mischief in her eyes.”You should just enjoy me, you know.”

I’m tryin’, kid. I’m tryin’.

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©2010 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and the jokes on you.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

*                    *                    *

Don’t worry. It’s okay to roll your eyes. I’m a skeptic too, especially when it comes to “miraculous” stories better suited for a Chicken Soup book.

But this story is different. It’s one I know by heart. I could tell it to you myself, but I won’t. I’ll let my mom tell you instead.

This is the story of my little brother. And of how God found my mom during the most traumatic years of her life, and taught her how to trust Him.

Meet my mom, Joy.

—

Pregnancy and giving birth for the first time were incredible experiences for me. Everything was easy, and caring for my daughter met needs I never realized I had. I was thrilled when I became pregnant a second time. This pregnancy, however, turned out to be high risk. I had numerous physical problems and had to stay off my feet and avoid lifting anything heavier than a cup of tea. My son was born healthy and strong, but he was also very colicky and cried unceasingly.  I felt distressed, overwhelmed and intensely guilty that I wasn’t spending enough time with my three-year-old daughter.  My confidence as a mom evaporated.

During a routine appointment when my son was two months old, the pediatrician informed me that his head hadn’t grown since his birth. I was stunned.  X-rays confirmed that my son was born with craniosynostosis.

An infant’s skull is normally made up of five free-floating plates with space in between them, which allows for the head to pass through the birth canal and enables the skull to grow in response to the brain. The “soft spots” in the back of the baby’s head are where these plates meet.

My son’s skull did not look like that. His skull was one solid plate.

Numerous surgeries would be needed.  The first surgery would cut the skull into the plates and plastic strips would be inserted to prevent the skull from closing again. Follow-up surgeries would be needed throughout his childhood until his head reached its adult size. And at the end of the surgeries, his head would likely have a distorted shape.

I went numb. There was absolutely nothing we could do. I thought about God, but He wasn’t an option. I grew up in an Italian-Catholic home in the 50′s, which for me meant that God was an integral part of my daily life. Not personally – I had no idea who He was – but in rituals and routines. As the second of ten children I believed in Him because I was expected to; I did not question my mother. But I was also taught that to ask God to take away a problem would be “failing a test.” So instead of praying, I panicked.

We met with a pediatric neurosurgeon at Children’s Hospital in Philadelphia who confirmed the diagnosis, but advised us to put off the surgery for two months because my son’s brain still had room to grow. The next two months were difficult. I cried a lot. My daughter came up to me every time she saw me cry, and gave me her favorite stuffed animal, Huggs.

Finally, at my lowest point of despair I felt a longing, a need, to pray. Even though I didn’t understand God, I knew about His miracles. I’d heard stories of them my entire life. I looked at my son. He was my child and suddenly I didn’t care how crazy or impossible it sounded – I wanted a miracle for him. For my family. My husband and I started to pray every day for God’s intervention. I still worried and feared as we neared the date of his first surgery, but I fought it back with prayers. It was all I had.

Two months later, we returned to Children’s Hospital.  A second set of x-rays were taken of my son’s skull and both sets were displayed on a light board.  It didn’t take a medical degree to see a dramatic difference between them.  The original set showed a skull without any of the necessary markings on it.  The second set showed thick lines indicating the spaces between the plates. My first thought was that they belonged to a different child.

The pediatric neurosurgeon assured us we were looking at the correct x-rays and that our son’s head was normal. There was no need for surgery. We asked the doctor if this was a condition that corrected itself. I will never forget the strange feeling that washed over me when the doctor looked directly at me and said, “No, craniosynostosis does not correct itself.” He remained professional and very matter-of-fact, but could offer no medical explanation for what had occurred.

It was at that moment that I realized the feeling was peace. The impersonal God I had grown up fearing had actually listened to my prayers. He reached down and touched my son’s skull and made him whole. He knew my little boy and He loved him.

He loved me.

My son was healed.

©2010 JPE. All Rights Reserved

—

This was the first of three miracles my little brother experienced before he turned two. It was also the beginning of a journey that armed my mother with the most unwavering faith I’ve ever witnessed. A faith that, in the end, changed my life too.

Stay tuned!

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To listen to Pastor King’s message, When I Need Healing click —>here

If you’re looking for something else, you can also search through 6 years worth of Pastor King’s sermons here —>Cherrydale Archives. Not quite sure what you’re looking for? Allow me to recommend his series on the Book of Ruth. It’s one of my favorites.

©2003 Cherrydale Baptist Church. All Rights Reserved.

Check out my guest post, Lady in White, at The Kitchen Witch, for the exciting, humiliating answer.

(And while you’re there, poke around a little. TKW is one of my blogging BFFs and her recipes and stories never disappoint. If you’ve been around here long you’ve met TKW on this post: Take This Paci and Suck it. You can either stop by and say, “hi,” or you can reach her at: 1-800-Awesome.)

You guys are awesome. I am so excited by all of these new recipes! I received such a tremendous response to this post that listing all of the information here made it difficult to navigate. So I’ve moved the info here–> RECIPE SWAP.

I’ll be updating it on a regular basis as I find, or am sent, new recipes. You can find the Recipe Swap page listed on the sidebar and I’ll indicate anytime new stuff has been added. Please feel free to comb through and take some for yourself!

And I know the thrill you’re experiencing. I’ll never forget the time I found a crumpled fiver at a Roller Skating Rink birthday party. It was glorious. Slush Puppies and Nerds never tasted as good as they did the day everyone watched me consume them after cake. I’ve found a wide variety of other things too, so I’m with you. I get it.

But there’s a difference between discovering an item that was lost or discarded, and what you’ve just experienced.

To clarify, you followed me into the kitchen and observed me dump the contents of my purse onto the counter. Then, you watched me sort and declutter until I left the room to get your sister up from her nap. At which point you poked through my things until you found the dollar in your hand, which you’re now insisting is yours to keep.

That is not a discovery, that is premeditated theft.

No? You don’t agree? Let’s break it down.

When you’re walking through the park and find a quarter by the tree? FINDERS KEEPERS (Though you might want to consider how many dogs enjoy that tree.)

That stuffed animal at CVS? Yes, I know it was on the wrong shelf, but it still belongs to the store. If you try to take it home, it’s THEFT.

That pile of glitter on the ground by the picnic bench? FINDERS KEEPERS. (But trash. I don’t believe for a minute you’ll make a “craft” out of it.)

That Barbie bike you saw your friend prop up against the tree? THEFT for thinking it. GRAND THEFT for taking it.

That gumball in the metal compartment of the gumball machine? Gross, but FINDERS KEEPERS.

And one last thing, the correct response when I ask you to return my money is NOT: “This isn’t actually your money. Daddy is the one who works. It’s his money.”

Yes, Daddy works and I stay home with you. Yes, this money did technically come from his paycheck. You need to understand, however, that this dollar is but a mere token for which I am compensated for saturating my life with you. If I were given a paycheck for my duties, our family would go broke. Your allowance? We wouldn’t even have enough left to thank you for feeding the dog.

And just so you know, by YOUR definition of Finders Keepers, every last one of your items belongs to me. You room? Clothes? Toys? I’m letting you borrow them, but I found them first, so they’re mine. Food? Snacks? Candy? You can keep them, but again, mine.

Your upcoming birthday party? …that’s right, you’re catching on. Now, put my dollar back on the counter and we’ll pretend this conversation never happened. Which, judging by the way you’re eyeing your sister’s lollipop on the table, you already have.

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©2010 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and yo ass gonna get dropped at the Rink.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.