It's Almost Naptime

Our new estate

2019-03-29T12:09:00.002-05:00

Chez D #5

I sold a house.
I bought a house.
Then I moved.

Now the way that you just responded to that tidbit of Mis-life info will reveal oh so much about you and your sordid or non-sordid property exchanging past.

If you went "Oh! Congratulations! New house! Fun! Super duper neato for you!" then I know that either a) you've never done the sold-bought-move thing or b) it has been over two-ish years since you did the sold-bought-move thing.

However, if you just grasped my virtual hand and went "Oh. How are you? You need a hug? A glass of wine? Can I bring you a casserole?" then I know that you have done the sold-bought-move thing a) within the last two years or b) perhaps longer, but it was overly traumatic and you still shudder at the thought.

{You are so sweet a casserole would be lovely. Two, actually, because I have four teen-or-almost-teenagers and jeez louise they never stop eating. Rice, please, because I'm trying to go gluten free yet again and I will probably give up soon but humor/support me until then. Yes mushrooms are fine, we love the mushrooms. No allergies...maybe an unproven intolerance but don't worry about it beggars can't be choosers haha cabernet please...}

I am convinced that when moving, just like in childbirth, a blessed spirit of amnesia overcomes our minds and hearts and lo, our very corpora* and causes us to forget both the figurative and literal abuse we endured in order to procure our new humans slash homes.
All painful memories, gone {snap} in a supernatural moment,
when we gaze into our precious new babes slash walk in closets.
Otherwise the human race slash real estate market would {snap} cease to exist.

The last time we sold-bought-moved, it was hellacious.
Like, for real, my moving horror story can top your moving horror story hands down.

In 2013, we bought a lovely home for an overpriced Austin sum, closed, showed up on moving day and ... the sellers hadn't, you know, moved.
All their stuff, furniture, boxes, still in the house we now owned.
So my furniture? It went in the yard while they took their sweet time moving out of our house that we had closed on a week before.

And the house was filthy. Really filthy. Inside and out. Filthy, like, I told Eva, "I'll give you .25 for every pile of dog poop you pick up out of our new backyard" and she said "Mom I'm at $3.25 but I have to stop or I'm going to throw up"
BUT WAIT! THERE'S MORE
they left tons of stuff in OUR new house and refused to pick it up and we paid hundreds of dollars to have their junk hauled off and I gave away a lot of it and THEN,
THEN,
a week later when they asked where an ugly rug was and were told that I gave it away on Craig's List they proceeded to
$UE U$
for
TEN THOU$AND DOLLAR$
for $aid ugly rug.

I told you!
Winner winner gluten free chicken casserole dinner!
Yeeeeeea me!!

Comparatively, this move? Piece of cake. We had sweet sellers, sweet buyers, a wonderful friend for a realtor, and it went off pretty seamlessly.

But even a pretty seamless move is a good 7.9 on the stress scale.

But, a week later, we are in.
All seven of us.

A week later, I feel like I've unpacked probably 75,545 of the 100,874 boxes. Each room is a good 50% normal.
I cooked a real meal last night.
I got my laundry room sorta organized.
We no longer have a ~~money pit~~ pool.
We can slash probably never will walk slash will still be late to church.
My closet here is so much better than the last one.
I can't find my earrings or my moisturizer, but...
No one has sued us {yet} {knock wood}
It doesn't feel like home, yet.

But it will. This I know.
Because if I have learned anything, it is that home is where my people are --
whre my little (ha!) people are, and where my big hairy person is.

We are here.
All seven of us.
Sleeping, eating, loving, arguing, already clogging toilets, here.
Which means,
we are home.

* Corpora, which I googled, is the plural for Corpus, which means body, which every Texan knows because Corpus Christi slash Body of Christ slash Spring Break slash South Padre Island. I'm not a Latin scholar, but I play one on the internet.

I {still} don't want my children to be happy

2019-03-13T13:43:00.003-05:00

"I want them to be happy," she gushed. "I want to be supportive of everything they want to do, but I do want them to have somewhat of a normal [life]. Finish out high school, college experience -- maybe because I didn't have that, I really want that for them."
- Lori Loughlin, 2016

I am the mother of five children, ages 8 to 15. This means that over the next decade of my life, college admissions are going to consume a great deal of time, energy, prayer, and probably, angst.

Knowing what awaits me, I have been intrigued by the scandal that broke this week about parents bribing college officials for their children's admission.
This article has very detailed, and very damning, information.

It is appalling. Prime examples of horrifically bad parenting. Even if we could afford to do what they did - which we can't - we simply never would. Easy to feel superior, isn't it?

Allegedly many of the children, some of who have graduated and are in the workforce now, had no idea that their parents had schemed in this way. Perhaps they first discovered that a significant portion of their identity was a lie when they checked twitter this morning.

Gosh, what a tsunami of emotions those kids must be experiencing.

Some of the parents, no doubt, paid thousands of dollars and told thousands of lies because the image they wanted to present to the world starkly conflicted with the reality of their son or daughter's academic abilities or inclinations. Sometimes their teens were active participants in the felonious charade. For those parents, I'm sure this was just the pinnacle of a lifetime of glamorized obfuscations which started within days of the births of those disappointing newborns.

But for some, maybe, it wasn't like that.

For some, maybe, they had good kids. Kids who didn't get in trouble, who did their homework, studied for tests, took ACT prep classes, and despite their best efforts, just didn't make the scores to get into the school of their dreams.

This could be my son in a couple of years.

Shep is a really good kid. A conscientious student. Usually with a straight A report card.

And Shep wants to play college football, ideally for Texas A&M. He wants to play college football with every fiber of his being. He works as hard as he can, obsesses about his weight, spins hours trying to improve his skills.

In three years, he will find out if all his efforts paid off.
They might not.
And my son might be devastated.
And then so will I.
Not because I care about football (I really don't), but because I care so much about Shep.

A friend told me recently, "a mother is ever only as happy as her unhappiest child" and I can attest to that truth. The bigger my kids get, the bigger their hurts get. I've sat by helplessly when one was in pain, whispering encouragement, rubbing backs, and praying desperately long after they've cried themselves to sleep. I've wished so hard that I could change their situations. I've wished that I had a genie in a bottle who could grant the wishes of my child's heart and spare us both from the ragged aches we were experiencing.

For some parents, the sham "Edge College and Career Network" appeared to be that genie. So those parents took the stopper out of that bottle and filled it with dollar bills, because they didn't want their child to be hurt. Or embarrassed. Or unpopular. Or to feel left out.

They just wanted their child to be happy.

Which reminded me of a little something I wrote nearly a decade ago, when these kids who will be leaving for college so soon still had recess every day and the vast majority of their heartaches could be solved with a lollipop and a good nap.

I really need to reread this in this stage of parenting, to remind myself that, as much as unhappiness hurts, unhappiness is the inescapable reality of this fallen world.

And when I try to cheat the system to make their unhappiness go away, what I am really doing is cheating them out of the opportunity for their Creator who loves them more than I do to use their pains and disappointments as catalysts to mold their characters, to teach them to pray, to experience his grace, to learn the uncomparable blessing of contentment, and to eventually, someday, to weep with gratitude and relief when looking back on those seemingly unanswered prayers.

Now, more than ever, I need to remind myself that often, when I cheat my children of their unhappiness, I cheat them of their holiness.

Here is that original post:

MONDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 2010

I don't want my children to be happy

Dear Shepherd, Sissy, Maggie and Ikey,

Recently we were told by people whom we love and respect why they oppose our plans to adopt. One of the reasons given was that we would not be able to pay for your college education.

It's true.

You all have college funds - college funds which recently took a terrible hit - but "they" say that by the time you're 18, college will cost anywhere between $200,000 to half a million dollars each. You might as well know now, we won't be covering that. I'm telling you now, babies.

The people said that the day would come when you would look at us with resentment because you had to apply for school loans while many of your friends got a free ride from their parents.

Maybe you will. Maybe you'll resent us. I really hope not. But maybe I should tell y'all now why your dad and I have decided to do what we are doing.

I know you're going to think I am going off topic (I do that a lot) but several years I saw a story on a TV show about how the latest trend was for parents to give their daughters boob jobs for high school graduation (I don't know what they gave their sons.) When interviewing one of the moms, she said, "I just want my daughter to be happy." And as I tossed a throw pillow at the television, this really huge thought occurred to me: I don't want my children to be happy.

My goal as your mom is not your happiness, sugars. In fact, I spend at least half my day making you unhappy. If I had a nickle for every tear that falls in this home on a daily basis, we wouldn't need to worry about college tuition at all.

Happiness is fleeting, sweet babies. That means it doesn't last. It's a quick feeling that comes from a funny movie or a heart shaped lollipop or a really good birthday present. It's great. I love to be happy. But happiness is a reaction that is based on our surroundings. And our surroundings are so very rarely under our control. Even when - especially when - we think they are.

So no, I absolutely don't want you to spend your life chasing something that has so little to do with your own abilities. You'll just be constantly frustrated.

There are two things I desire for you, precious loves. There are two things that I spend most of my time as a mother trying cultivate in you. Happiness ain't one of them. (This means, sorry, no boob jobs for you.)

The first is, I want you to be content.

Being content is so much different from being happy. Being content is not based on your surroundings. Being content comes from within. Contentment is a spirit of gratitude. It's the choice you make to either be thankful for the things you do have, or to whine about the things you don't have.

Being content and grateful leads to consistent joy.

As you know, because I've told you lots of times, Paul talked about being content. Paul said that he had "learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want." And Paul was in some rotten situations, kiddos, really rotten.

How could Paul be content whether he was in prison or if his life was literally a shipwreck? Because Paul was constantly seeking to be in the will of God instead of his own, was constantly sacrificing his own comfort for the sake of the gospel, and was constantly being confirmed, strengthened, and blessed by God because of his obedience. He was given a supernatural power - that means something kind of like magic, God magic - to do things that most other humans could not do. And guess what? The bible tells us (in Ephesians 1) that God will give you the exact same power! If you want it!

Which leads me to my second desire for y'all.

I don't want you to be happy. I want you to be holy. That means, I want you to seek that God-power to make you content. I want you to want the Kingdom of God more than your own kingdom. And that's hard, babies, that is so hard. And that usually means passing up a lot of what the world considers happiness. But it means that you will achieve blessings directly from God that most of the world never dreams of because they are too occupied with the achieving the perfect birthday present!

This means you may be poor, 'in want' as Paul said, and that's okay. It will never, ever be okay with the world for you to be poor. So you'll be up against the world. But not your dad and me, loves, because it was never our goal for you to be wealthy - at least not in the way that the world considers wealthy.

Darlings, we love you so much. You will never even grasp how much we love you until you have children of your own, and then you'll get it, and then you'll apologize for the ways you treated us ;) But our goal is not to please you. Our goal is to please our Heavenly Father. And nowhere in the bible does the Lord command that we save our money to send our kids to college.

But the Lord does command us to care for the orphan around fifty times. He does tell us to care for the poor around 300 times. He does tell us that when we care for the neediest, we are caring for Jesus Himself. And in chapter six of the book of Matthew, He tells us to seek His kingdom first, and let Him worry about the rest, like college tuition. Because it's all His anyway.

They said that one day y'all would resent us for using 'your' college money to go and get your sister out of an orphanage in Ethiopia and bring her home to you.

But I know my babies. Even at your tender ages, I know your hearts, and I have already seen you weep for the least of these. I know the prayers I offer up to God that He and not the world would shape the desires of your hearts. I am trusting Him to answer those prayers.

So, sugarbears - I just don't believe those people.

Love,
Mommy

Perspective

2017-11-21T11:11:00.000-06:00

My grandpa Chester died the year Walker and I got married (the week we got engaged, in fact-there's a story there). We had always gone to his farm in East Texas for the holidays, so that year while we were on our honeymoon, my mom and her sister got a beach house for Thanksgiving so it would be very different.  My mom has kept this tradition up with our family every year. 

We've gone to the same place for several years now. All of us look forward to it every year. Someone told me yesterday they had done some study about how the beach eases depression and lifts spirits - but I didn't need a study. I know this already. 

There is something about the sun and the waves and the wind that physically, emotionally, and spiritually recalibrates our bodies and souls. 

But more than that, looking at that giant ocean reminds me in no uncertain terms how very very small I am, and thus gives me incalculable comfort at how very, very big God is. 

Perspective is a wonderful and necessary thing. 

The sea is his, for he made it,

    and his hands formed the dry land.

Oh come, let us worship and bow down;

    let us kneel before the Lord, our Maker!

Psalm 95:5-6

your kid is a racist. and so is mine.

2016-09-21T06:30:00.000-05:00

I was a senior in college in Austin. I had a job in the after school program in an elementary school near campus. One day one of the kindergarteners, a little girl named Sonya, sat on the playground, buried her face in her knees, and wept.

"What happened?" I begged her to tell me. Finally she did.

"I was standing at the tree, and we all wrapped our arms around it. And then Hannah said she didn't want to hold my hand because I'm black."

When Hannah's mom came to pick her up, I told her what had happened. Horror spread across her face. "I don't understand!" she cried. "We are not racist! We don't even see color! Her own godfather is black! How could she say such a thing?"

A decade passes. Now I am the mother. We named him Shepherd. He was beautiful. He was smart. He was funny.

When he was twelve months and ten days old, his sister was born. When he was twelve months and fifteen days old, I sat on the bottom stair in our home, holding my peacefully sleeping newborn in my arms. Shepherd toddled over to me and his beautiful, rosebud-lipped sister. He looked at her. Patted her soft pink blanket. Touched her silken hair.

Then, with as much strength as his precious, adorable little hand that was attached to his sweet chubby little arm could muster, he slapped her hard in the face.

A decade, plus two years. Shepherd has three sisters now. His littlest sister is now in kindergarten, just like little Sonya. His littlest sister is also the same color as Sonya. His littlest sister is also the most extroverted extrovert. She loves new adventures and new friends. Begs me every day for a playdate. Lists each of her little friends and asks why they can't play today? Right now? "People person" was a phrase invented for the Bethies in the world.

Bethie also has a speech delay, which hasn't bothered her too much, until now.

The year has been going well, aside from the usual kindergarten end of day tired/cranky/sassiness. But Thursday, she tells me, "Momma, I had a very bad day today at kindagarten."

"Why, sweet girl? What happened?"

"Two boys who sit next to me at the blue table. They were mean to me."

"What happened? What did they say?"

"I told them to be quiet. They say for me not tell them what to do. Then they say that I talk weird, that I don't talk like them. Then! they tell me I not American, Momma! They say I not America!"

I used to cry with every Oprah, every sad documentary, every long distance commercial. It's possible I even sought these things out for the emotional catharsis. But then I became a mother, five times over. Three of my children are currently in puberty. My emotional cup runneth over.

I rarely cry over news stories anymore.

But today I did.

Today I read about a freshman girl at American University who had a banana thrown at her while she sat in her dorm room. A black girl. Another mother's daughter who I imagine as beautiful, and smart, and funny as my daughter. A girl who got accepted to American University, an upper middle class, politically liberal, predominantly white educational school in an expensive urban neighborhood.

A school that sounds exactly like Bethie's elementary school in Austin.

A decade from now. I see an 18 year old Bethie in her first year of college. The most extroverted extrovert. Who loves new adventures and new friends. The year has been going well. Then she calls me to tell me about a very, very bad day.

"Momma. They were mean to me. I was sitting in my dorm room studying, and someone came by and threw a banana at me."

Two freshman boys are under investigation at American University. Two smart boys. Probably from upper middle class, educated, politically liberal families. Two boys who saw that other mother's daughter but decided to make it very clear that according to them, she was not human. She was a monkey.

So they threw her a banana.

She didn't belong.
She should go back to Africa.
She not America.

Racism is taught people say.

But I bet, I just bet, that if you asked the parents of those two boys, they'd be as shocked as Hannah's parents. I doubt they are any white hoods hanging in their closets. I bet they'd say "But we aren't racist! We have black friends! We don't even see color! How could our child say such a thing?"

Fearing the different is inherent. Call it tribalism, call it social identity, call it xenophobia.

I'm a Christian.
I call it original sin.

We are all born haters. We are all born baby-slappers. We all naturally loathe, mock, and alienate the different. We all cling to what we know and who makes us feel secure and who makes us feel like we belong in an uncertain, unforgiving world.

We are all born racist.

Your child is racist.

My child is racist.

Because racism is not taught. Racism is inherent.

Five year old Hannah did not have to be taught to not want to hold Sonja's hand. One year old Shepherd did not have to be taught to hate and envy his little sister for dividing his mother's affections. Two little boys did not have to be taught to shame my daughter for "not being American," which is kindergarten speak for "you're different and you don't belong here" which could quickly evolve into "Go back to Africa."

I used to think that my children would not be racist simply because their dad and I are not racist. Therefore, we didn't really need to discuss it, especially when they were still so little and beautiful and smart and funny.

Racism is taught, right?
So we won't teach them racism.
Problem solved.

But now I realize how callow that was. Because both their dads and I are big readers. But I never expected my kids to learn how to read just because their dad and I read.

Not one of my five children had to be taught to throw food on the floor. Or to throw a tantrum. Or to disrespect their parents. Or to lie. Or to steal. Or to hit their siblings.

None of them have seen their dad or I do any of these things, yet somehow they were born naturals in each of these areas. If my children would became respectful, moral, contributing citizens purely by osmosis, I would have mothered several, perhaps dozens, more.

What I have spent the past decade plus doing is trying do is to UNteach these innate skills. To replace them with the inclination to honor and respect other people, both inside our home and outside of it. To see the image and likeness of God in each and every mean, annoying, hateful, tattling human they encounter, and treat them with dignity not because of how they behave, but simply because of the Image-bearers that they are.

It is relentless, grueling, frustrating work. Many days I gaze in shock and awe at the vitriol and evil they spew at each other - vitriol and evil that they did not learn from their dad and me. Many days I am convinced that they are unrepentant sociopaths and my life's work will all be in vain.

The only thing that keeps me hopeful is to know that other mothers feel the same way. That my own mother felt the same way. That hearts will change. That prayers will be answered. That my evil little sociopathic children are perfectly normal.

Because to sin is the nature of children.

Yet these children - who commit such atrocities on the people who share their very DNA, their tribe - these children are the ones we expect to be naturally loving and accepting to people who look different from them?

No.
Racism isn't taught.
Racism is inherent.

Love is taught.
Respect is taught.
Honor is taught.

Proclaiming "I don't see color" is a horrible thing for you to do to my child.

And to your child.

Because we all see color. Kindergartners see color. College freshmen see color. My daughter sees color every time she looks in the mirror.

Color is good. Color is what makes life colorful.

Saying color doesn't exist as a parenting technique is as effective as saying sex doesn't exist or stop signs don't exist or the internet doesn't exist. Haphazard at best, and deadly at worst.

And if you pretend it doesn't exist, you certainly can't rejoice in it.

Pretending you don't see color means you can't talk about how wonderful and un-boring God made the world and all the people in it. Pretending you don't see color means you can't discuss how amazingly and lovingly we were designed to be protected from the sun in Africa or to absorb more vitamin D in Scandinavia. Pretending you don't see color decreases the glory of a perfect bowl of pho or a perfectly melded salsa. Pretending you don't see color denies history, both the good parts and the bad parts. Pretending you don't see color mitigates the experiences, sufferings, and triumphs of entire groups of your neighbors. Pretending you don't see color means there was no slavery in this country nor a civil rights movement. Pretending you don't see color is lying to your child.

Pretending you don't see color means that you cannot examine your own heart and root out the inherent racism that may still exist within it. Pretending you don't see color means you won't examine it, confess it, grieve it, unteach it, and murder it, before you pass down a malignant inheritance to your child. Your child, who will one day go to kindergarten, or university, with my child.

Pretending you don't see color may break my daughter's heart at best. Pretending you don't see color may be deadly to my daughter at worst.

Pretending you don't see color will never teach your child to love, respect and honor other colors.

Please talk about race with your child. Now. Right now. Before kindergarten, if possible.

Because your child was born a racist.

But you have been blessed with an amazing opportunity to redirect their heart.

Further reading:

How to teach your kids about the nations
Help the children love the different people
Resources for talking to your kids about race and racism
Celebrating diversity in our homes
How white parents should talk to their young about race

A letter to my son

2016-06-11T16:36:00.000-05:00

Your mom at 23.

Dear Shepherd,

There's a big case in the news right now about a woman at Stanford, a prestigious university in California, who went to a party, drank way too much, passed out, and was raped by a 19 year old student. It's been all in the news.

And for the past few days I've been wondering how to discuss it with you.

You are 12 years old, not quite 13. You are on this teeter-totter between manhood and childhood. Which, just so you know, makes learning how to do the mom thing really tricky. I'm never quite sure how much to tell you, especially when it comes to things like sex, and drugs, and drinking, and my own mistakes.

But you've recently told me lots of very personal things. And I can't tell you how happy and honored that makes me, that you've confided in me. So now I'm going to confide in you.

Back to the girl at Stanford.

Here's the lowdown on the case: a 23 year old girl, we don't know her name, but we know that she's very smart and funny and has a job and a serious boyfriend. She's very normal. She goes to a frat party at Stanford with her little sister. Imagine your sisters in 10-15 years: Eva and Maggie at a college party. Or Maggie and Bethie.

The girl drank way, way too much, as always happens at frat parties. It's stupid and reckless and dangerous but it happens. You asked me before if I ever got drunk in college and I think I changed the subject. Now you know. I got drunk lots and lots of times in college. Way too many times. It was just what we did - it honestly didn't occur to me that there was another option. Just so we're clear: there is. Repeat after me: Drinking is not mandatory in college.

So. She's wasted, really wasted, can barely talk or walk.

Yes, your mom has been that drunk before. Not in 20 plus years, mind you. But yes.

It's hard to know whether or not to tell your kids this, by the way, because it seems like we're giving you permission to do the same thing. So let's be clear: I am not. Don't do that Shep. Don't ever do that. When you drink that much you *only* do stupid things. Trust me, you will not make one solitary wise decision when you are drunk. Every single thing you do when you're drunk will be stupid and dangerous. Say that out loud. Now. Say it. Out loud. Every single thing I do when I'm drunk will be stupid and dangerous. And some of those stupid things will change my life.

So she's walking out of the frat house, she's wasted, she's in stupid and dangerous territory, and she's lost her sister, and this guy named Brock, at Stanford on a swimming scholarship, finds her. She passes out back in the parking lot behind a dumpster. When you pass out from drinking, you're, like, in a coma. No one can wake you up. First you have a 'blackout', where you are conscious, but you will remember none of it later. Then you just fall into a deep sleep. This is when some people never wake up - the alcohol poisons their system so much that it shuts down and they die. The scariest part is, with alcohol you cross this line very quickly and never realize it. Just one beer can be the difference between living and dying.

Yes, I've passed out before. Once in college. It was freaking scary.

So, she collapses, and this guy, only seven years older than you - you, in a few very short years - sees her lying on the ground, helpless. He has a choice to make now.

If you were in this situation, what would you do? Think it through. If one of your sisters were in this situation, or I, or GG or Mimi, what would you want someone to do?

The choice Brock makes is this: he rips off her clothes and violates her body with his. And he took some pictures of her when she was naked, and sent them to his buddies. But then some other guys, grad students from Sweden of all places, ride up on bicycles, see him, yell, he runs, they tackle him and call 911.

One of the Swedish guys? When the police got there, he was so upset by what he'd seen, that he was sobbing - a grown man sobbing. He could barely talk to the police.

So rapist dude goes to jail, and his trial was last week. And, he blamed her. He said she came on to him, that she totally was okay with what they were doing, that she even enjoyed it. He also said he'd never done drugs, but his text messages showed he was a liar (yes, the court can and will seize your phone and read all your texts. The internet is forever.) The jury didn't buy it and he was convicted of three felonies. The judge got to determine how long he would go to jail for.

His dad wrote this letter to the judge. Read it and tell me what you think of it.

So the judge only gave him six months in jail, and the whole country is freaking out over that. He also got kicked out of Stanford. He was a really good swimmer, he wanted to go to the Olympics, and now he's banned from competitive swimming forever. And he has to register as a sex offender for the rest of his life. And the whole country hates him. His life as he knew it is over.

So my fear is that you're thinking now, whoa, that's really harsh! I mean, that's not nice what he did, but they were both really drunk...

This is why we're talking right now.

Now read another letter: this one is from the girl's boyfriend to the judge.

And I've been a little obsessed with this story, for lots of reasons, but here's one of them.

My senior year at UT, I took a Women's Studies class. Yes, that's a thing. And no, it was not full of leather clad lesbians - in fact there was only one. The rest were very cute sorority girls. And me, and two guys. One was a boyfriend of one of the girls. The other was named Chris C.

And one night, I was out on Sixth Street, and I drank too much beer, and I ran into Chris C.

I knew him okay, he was cute, but I didn't know him well enough. But I was drinking. See up there, the part about stupid dangerous decisions.

He drove me back to his apartment, and we kissed - I'm sorry, I know this is grossing you out.

Just kissed. No big deal. I still remember what his living room looked like. Which you know his amazing since I have the absolute worst memory. There was a fireplace. I was sitting on the arm of his sofa. It was brown suede. He was standing up.

He told me to go back to his bedroom. I said no. He said yes, a little more insistently. I got a little worried, and I said, "I'm not going back to your bedroom." And then he said, "You can go back to my bedroom or you can effing get out of my house." Only he didn't say effing.

So I grabbed my purse and effing got out of his house.

Problem was, he lived off campus - way off campus, down Mopac somewhere. I had no idea where I was. I think I was north of Zilker Park somewhere. Far from campus! It was deserted. No buildings, nothing. And Shep, I was walking up and down the freeway in the middle of the night, terrified, crying, all alone, having no clue where I was, and there was no one around. This was pre-cell phone days, okay? I was totally helpless. Your mom. That was your mom. So many ways this story could have ended.

So how did it end? God totally saved me. In the midst of my utter stupidity and drunkenness. a white pickup truck pulled over and this woman got out, ran toward me, and said "Do you need some help??" In the car, she called Chris C. a slew of cusswords as she drove me home. Then she told me that sometimes we get saved by angels, and she was mine. She probably wasn't. She was probably just an Austin woman in a white pickup truck. But she may have been a real, honest to God angel in a white pickup truck. I still wonder.

So, he certainly never raped me. All we did was kiss, then he was a total ass, and I left. Big deal, right?

Here's what you need to know honey - that experience destroyed me. .

I went from being a confident, happy, I-can-rule-the-world 22 year old to an insecure, depressed, fragile little girl. I didn't want to get out of bed. The UT campus where I'd spent four years, that I loved, that I knew so well, suddenly became scary and full of danger and formerly cute college guys who were now all threatening. I had to make appointments to tearfully and humiliatingly explain to my professors why I was missing so many classes and not turning in my work. And get this - I still had to go to class with Chris C! I had to listen to him raise his hand and give proper professor-pleasing Women's Study answers, the same answers that deluded me into trusting him and thinking he was a good guy. A safe guy. I wanted to kill him.

Because the kicking me out etc etc was bad. Total jerk move. But here's what really happened to me that night: in one instant, my world was completely, forever changed by the revelation that any man, at any time, can do any thing he wants to me, simply because I am a woman.

Shep, just thirteen years ago you were in my tummy, and now you're six inches taller than me, and still growing. You're a kid and you can overpower me. You can overpower almost any woman. You roam the earth every day with that reality, even if you don't realize it.

I knew that before, in my head, but after that experience, I knew it in my heart. And it was terrifying. To this day, I see every man as a potential predator and take precautions to that end. Which, sadly, is actually a healthy outlook, one that I teeter-totterly teach to your sisters.

So why am I telling you all this yucky information? Especially when, like you said, "I'm only 12, and I really don't plan on ever raping anyone."

Because I don't think that Brock's mom every thought he would ever rape anyone, either.

Because Brock's dad still thinks he is gentle.

Because Brock's friends and family say that he's a great guy, that he was a great student, got great grades, liked to eat great pretzels. They are all listing what he did prior to that night. But it's not what we do that matters - it's what is in our hearts. And when Brock saw an unconscious, helpless woman, it wasn't his grades or his swim times but his heart that saw her as a mere body for him to do with as he pleased.

Probably, one day you too will be presented with a similar situation. Maybe even while you'll still in middle school.

When Jesus sent out his apostles, he told them, "I am sending you out like sheep among wolves. Therefore be as shrewd as snakes and as innocent as doves." He meant that naivete was not an option when changing the world. They needed to know evil to combat evil, without actually practicing evil. It's a teeter-totter.

This is how I feel sending you out into the world.
This is why we're discussing this even though you're still 12 and don't really ever plan on raping anyone.

It would be really easy for me to just say, be the hero, Shep! Be the Swedes on the bikes! Be the angel in the white truck!

But then it would all be about the things you do. And your dad and I have raised you and your siblings with more intent than that.

The girl wrote a long letter to the court too. It was amazing. Utterly amazing. I've debated about letting you read it because it's graphic. But I think you need to read it too, so that you can get to know her as a real person, not just a victim. Because I think it will sink into your heart.

And I hope my story will sink into your heart, which is why I told it to you, embarrassing as it is to me. I hope that talking about these things openly and honestly in the few years that I still have you will shape you into the man we know you can be.

We're doing our best to teach you that all people are image bearers of God, even when they are lying unconscious behind dumpsters. That all women are to be seen as your little sisters, or your mom, or your grandma, or your future wife, or your someday daughters. That women's beautiful bodies are inhabited by precious, unique souls that matter to God. That when you violate a woman's body, you violate her soul.

We named you Shepherd, after the Good Shepherd, defender and protector of the weak. Your dad and I have raised you to be a defender and protector of the weak. You know that the only way that women are weaker than men is physical strength - but height and weight and muscle mass combined with a darkened, selfish heart is a stupid, dangerous, oh so dangerous thing.

My prayer for you, Shep, is that the strength of your body always pales in comparison to the strength of your heart. So that when, not if, but when you see a woman who is defenseless, the snake in you recognizes that she is in danger in order that the dove in you will protect her from evil.

Protect her, Shep.

Love you so much,

Mom

notes from a referral

2015-03-08T21:33:00.003-05:00

...On July 20, 2011, age 11 months, Bayesh was seen by a pediatrician and was reported to have marasmus (severe malnutrition), stunted growth, plagiocephaly (asymmetrical flattening of the head with a flat frontal bone and an open anterior fontanel), a head circumference below average between -2 and -3 standard deviations, acute gastroenteritis (stomach virus), and diaper dermatitis (diaper rash). Weight at 5kg (11 pounds). It was reported that she has a scar on her right wrist joint. Her nutritional status was reported to be inadequate, her developmental status was reported to be not satisfactory, and her overall health status was reported to be not satisfactory at that time...

All a friend can do

2015-03-06T23:34:00.000-06:00

We moved to Austin from Spring, Texas in August of 2012.

A month later, the day before we got our referral, I got the news. The news from Spring that something was wrong with Jake, they weren't sure what, but they were pretty sure it was cancer, but they weren't sure what kind.

Days later, I got the other call. That it was cancer, and that it was everywhere. Everywhere. His legs, his pelvis, his abdomen, his skull, his jaw. The jaw part upset me so much. That his tiny little four year old jaw was full of baby teeth and cancer cells.

The news did not get any better.
It got as bad as news can get.

Michelle kept me updated in texts and calls. And I felt the frustration of being three hours away from my beloved Mardon, Jake's mom, where I couldn't help. I couldn't do Mardon's laundry or take her meals or watch her four other hurting kids or clean her fridge.

I constantly texted Michelle with desperate pleas asking what I could do.

She'd try to come up with small long-distance-doable tasks. But the reality is, when they diagnose your child with a cancer that kills 70% of it's victims, there flat out isn't much your friends can do.

Except pray. You pray a lot. You pray tearfully and desperately. You pray even though you are 70% sure that your prayers won't be answered the way you want them to be.

Then, after two years of torture, which is much longer than anyone thought he'd stay, the week comes where you keep your phone on you all the time and walk about in a daze and wake up in the morning scared to check your texts until finally the one from Michelle comes at about six that says "He's gone."

"We're waiting for the funeral home. She's cutting his fingernails now."

And the thought of cutting the fingernails of your 6 year old for the last time is too much, it's just too damn much.

So you hold it together until the kids are at school, when you finally let go with that soul coughing sob that you haven't experienced since the last time a friend lost a son.

And then what do you do?

Then, then every time your own seven year old son, the one who went to preschool with Jake, the one whose handmedowns you passed on to Jake, every time that son says, Mommy, will you tuckle me in?, you do it. You do it. You do it when you're tired, you do it when you're aggravated, you do it when you're in a hurry. You stop and you do it, every time, and you do it the best that you can, with extra kisses and extra tickles and extra prayers. You breathe in his hair and you feel his skin and you kiss his fingernails that need cutting. You savor it. You thank God for it. And sometimes, lots of times, you do it tearfully and desperately, for Mardon.

Because, aside the prayers - the never ending prayers - appreciating tuckling him in is the only thing that a friend can do.

Monday.

2015-01-12T18:01:00.001-06:00

I wear earplugs at night due to Someone's snoring.
Sometimes when I wake up I put them in the pocket of my robe.

I take a lot of vitamins in the morning.
Sometimes when I wake up I put them in he pocket of my robe.

Sometimes I reach into the pocket of my robe, pull out a handful of what is in there, toss everything in my mouth, and swallow it with a swig of coffee.

Dear Momma I saw at the Doctor Today With the Nine Month Old Triplet Boys,

2014-07-08T22:16:00.000-05:00

Dear Momma I saw at the Doctor Today with the Nine Month Old Triplet Boys,

I really want to say, first off, that I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

Because when I realized that in addition to your toddler daughter, there were three identical infant boys, and I had an instant spliced image in my brain of one half a pregnant-with-triplets you (you look fantastic, by the way) and the other half three babies all screaming at once at 3am, all I could manage to sputter to you was, "God bless you." And that's so not okay, because "God bless you" was one of those things people used to say to me, when I had four children under four. And I never knew how to take it. I didn't know if they had just insulted me or uttered a sincere prayer for me. I saw that same confused look on your face. I'm so sorry.

It's just that I realize now that for us mommas who are on the other side of the baby days, sometimes seeing little ones brings back a sort of PTSD of our very worst newborn night, when he wouldn't quit screaming for some unknown reason and then we turned too quickly and whacked his little head into the bedroom doorway and cried with him because we had previously suspected but now were convinced that we were the absolute worst mother in the history of ever. So when we see you with the circles under your eyes we start to sweat and shake a little and maybe aren't totally responsible for what we might say.

But I want you to know that what I really, really meant was, God bless you. God bless you with these babies. God bless you and your exhausted self. God bless you.

And what I really wish I had said to you, there in the hallway, is, "You are so blessed." Because I know that you realize that. When they are all asleep. You stare at them in their cribs, in their little footy pajamas and their little butts in the air and you bend down and smell their sweet little heads and you are hit with such a wave of love and gratitude that it knocks you to your knees.

But I know that there are other times, when one has whined for twelve straight hours and one has diarrhea and one has just broken that sentimental thing that was your grandma's that survived a century of countless children but was demolished within seconds of your child sighting it, after you were up all night with the other one who is teething and your husband is out of town because of course he is, I know it's easy to forget how blessed you are. So easy. It's so easy to get wrapped up in how sticky your floors are and how your laundry is never caught up and how skinny you used to be and how painful literally painful not sleeping feels.

I wish after I told you were were blessed that I said, "Listen. These are the hardest days of your life." Well, maybe for you, the hardest will hit in about a year when they are all walking and pulling books off bookshelves and discovering gravity and toilets, but you're close. Because these are the hardest days. They are so hard. It's exhausting, to be obsessed with every biological system and aspect of another human, not to mention several humans. Digestive, excretory, respiratory, neurological, endocrine, gross motor, fine motor, psychological, emotional. You're fully aware of all of them at all times of every day, and ha! that's just when they're healthy. Throw in a rash or stomach bug and it can push you right to the teetering edge of sanity. Sometimes your brain wants to explode. Sometimes your heart wants to explode. Frequently both at once. But then one of them breaks out in hives over, what? what? and you slam another Diet Coke and just soldier on. It's hard. It's so, so hard.

And then I wish I had looked you in the eyes and said, "But it gets easier." Because it gets easier. So much easier. For instance, I have five kids, and every one of them wipes their own behind. All five. The amount of my life dealing with poop has decreased by about 97%. Well, 96%. Not only that, but they all sleep all night. But wait there's more - they can make their own cereal, brush their own teeth, and - wait for it - they even put their own laundry away. One even makes delicious gluten free brownies with absolutely no help from me. Regularly. Yes I'm serious.

Every stage of parenting has its own challenges, I've learned. None of it is easy. But the manual labor stage of it, the pure physical exhaustion, will never, ever be at the level it is for you right now.

If you hadn't been freaked out by a perfect stranger looking you in the eyes and speaking to you intensely and passionately I may have gone on to tell you that my baby boy? The one who used to smell so sweet, and slept with his little butt in the air and would destruct everything that came within twelve feet of him? Well, he'll be 11 next month. And he stinks. I mean, true, manly B.O. I know, it's so crazy. And his voice just got really deep all of a sudden. And the hormones flow like lava, hot, burning, freakish, explosive lava around here. And I'm only one inch taller than he is and we wear the same size shoe but I still totally outweigh him, dammit . And tonight when he was in the pool my neighbor nudged me and said, "Oh my gosh, does Shep have abs?" He has abs, Momma. MY BABY HAS B.O. AND ABS.

AND ONE DAY YOUR BABIES WILL HAVE B.O. AND ABS TOO.

And you'll look at them and go, how did this happen? When did this happen? Where did my babies go? What smells like B.O.?

And you'll see another momma at the doctor's office with one or two or four babies and you'll hopefully be more encouraging that I was to you. But you will still think, God bless her. Because you will have learned that as hard as these days are, that God's grace is harder. Stronger. Unexhaustive. Always available to mommas who are at the teetering edge of sanity. And that grace will guide you through the baby years, the toddler years, the elementary years, the puberty years, and beyond. You'll need it in every stage, and it will be yours at every stage, just for the asking. Because that's what parents do, they obsess/love/go without sleep for their children. And while we're loving/obsessing over the babies in our home, our heavenly father is equally loving/obsessing over us.

Don't ever quit reaching for that grace.
It tends to feel the most powerful at about 3am when you're covered in bodily fluids.
At least that's been my experience.

God bless you, Momma.

I really do mean it.

God bless you.

It's a three year old thing

2014-05-16T09:05:00.002-05:00

Bethie is doing great. She started speech therapy and is learning to say "Yesssssssssss." She's energetic, smart, and hilarious.

But something pretty horrible happened last October.

She turned three.

Which means that now, every day at 11am, I pick her up at school. She is cute and charming to the teachers, to the teachers' aids, to the other parents, to the other kids waiting on the little steps. She says, "BUH byyyyye!" in her signature way and waves or hugs each of them as they all remark how adorable she is, her teacher gives me some anecdote about how nurturing she was to another child when he was crying, the boymoms say how they love her wardrobe and hairbows, and she prances to the her coach/Ford Expedition that awaits.

Then she hops in the car, all by herself, and I hold my breath.

If it is a good day, she looks at me and says, "Mama! 'Peech?" or "'Ome?" or "Go?"or maybe "Eat?" and launches into a modified version of Wheels on the Bus.

But some days it is one of Those Days.

And on Those Days, after her customary charm and prance, she alights her coach and just stands there. When I ask her to get in her carseat, she looks at me, squints her adorable little almond eyes, and says, "NO." So when I lift her up to physically put her in her carseat, she arches her back and slides down so that it is almost impossible for me to do the buckle, chanting, "No, no, NO Mommy! NO! NOOOOOO!" Then she holds up both of her little cute little hands and arranges her cute little middle fingers and shoots me a double bird.

Okay, not really. Her fine motor skills are not quite that advanced. They didn't have a lot of playdoh in the orphanage, you know. Had she had access to small muscle building toys I'm sure she would have perfected the double bird by now and maybe added a, what do you call it, when you put one hand into the crook of your other elbow? As if to say SHOVE IT, MAMA ?

Those Days, I don't like. Those Days I take a deep breath and wonder how long till I can get her into bed for a nap and hope that I have a Yo Gabba Gabba waiting on the DVR. Those Days I handle really well. Sometimes. Sometimes on Those Days I don't handle it well, because as much as I was hoping I would magically evolve into the perfect mother the moment we adopted her, dang it, it hasn't happened yet.

Yesterday, she took one of Those Days to a whole new level. Yesterday shall go down as Bethie's First Epic Tantrum.

It was about five o'clock and I was helping Eva rearrange her room. Bethie had had one fruit popsicle and came to me, face smeared in red, holding another wrapped in plastic, asking, "Ope? I wan more. Ope?" I told her no, one was enough. She screamed YESSSSSSSSSS. I said no.

She screamed NO! MOMMY! WANT! MORE!

And she threw the popsicle down on the floor.

I told her to pick it up.

She screamed NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

And slammed the door in my face.

Okay, this, this is the difference between boys and girls. I've had two toddler boys. One of them was very strong willed. Very challenging. But he never slammed a door in my face. Slamming doors in faces in a female thing. Slamming doors is a, I'D FLIP MY FINGERS AND MY TOES OFF AT YOU RIGHT NOW IF ONLY I HAD THE FINE MOTOR SKILLS TO DO SO.

Females slamming doors in faces has built an entire network, y'all.

Evangeline, sweet, mostly obedient, so conscientious almost ten year old Evangeline, who loves her little sister more than almost anything in the world, watched all this, wide eyed. Then she turned to me incredulously and said, "Who does she think she is?!"

Smirking at the irony, I opened the slammed door and said, it's bedtime now, little girl. NOOOOOOOOOOO! NO NIGHTNIGHT! NOOOOOOOOO! It's been a while since I undressed a child whose bones have suddenly turned into noodles, but the skills came back. Got the clothes off. Then laying her down on the bed, I crossed one of my legs over her thrashing legs while inserting two kicking feet into a pullup and pajama pants on still thrashing legs. Then pulling a top over a screaming, gyrating head.

I won. The pyjamas were on.

I didn't earn that Tantrum Management mommy merit badge for nothing, y'all.

Then I kissed her, told her I loved her, and put her to bed. She tried to run out of the room several times and we had to fetch her and lay her back down. She screamed. About 20 minutes. Then fell asleep. Deep, deep asleep. For fourteen hours.

Afterwards, Eva was going on and on about how unbelievable that was. She was amazed. She couldn't believe that her precious little sister had done that. Over a popsicle!

I said, "Eva. You know when I told you you were hard? That was you. THAT WAS YOU."

"Every day??" she asked.

I nodded. "Just about. Every. Day."

Her eyes were as big as saucers. "Wow."

Wow indeed.

Evangeline Rose was the. hardest. toddler. ever. She woke up in the morning, fought with me for approximately seven hours, took a nap, then fought me three more hours till bedtime.

For Halloween of 2006, when people asked what she was going to dress up as, I always said, "A witch," then muttered, "appropriately."

She was all of 25 months old.

And she was a terrorist.

I have a clear memory of me, very pregnant with Ike, at the very end of my frayed hormonal rope, looking at a beautiful, charming-to-everyone-ELSE three year old girl, who glared at me with squinted eyes as I said in a very pathetic Sally Struthers voice, Do you even love me? Do you? Because the way that you treat me, I don't even think you love me!

I blogged about that girl. I wrote this when she was exactly - exactly - Bethie's age. Later, I confessed to you here:

I recently told Walker, at the end of an especially hard day, "If Eva Rose and I were dating, we would have broken it off by now. We would both have said, "It's not you, it's me. You're great, really. I just don't think it's working out."

But we're not dating. She's my daughter. She's the result of my prayers and wishes. And, as always, God knew to answer the prayers that I never prayed, but needed. For I can no longer claim to be unaware of my own sin. I can never claim to be ignorant of my own need for the cross. I can never, ever deny my desperation for daily, sometimes hourly, redemption.

I think there was also another reason. I think that while God was refining me by the fire of one crazy strong willed toddler, he was also preparing me for the crazy strong willed sister who would follow her later. Those hard hard years were a grace in disguise. Because that first little girl? I birthed her myself. She had no traumatic background. She wasn't taken from all she knew before she became ours. There was no tragedy in her past. She had no issues, attachment or otherwise. Yet she almost caused me to lose my ever loving mind. Just about. Every. Day.

And now, she's helping me to raise her protege.

I have thought many times over the past year that I am really, really glad Bethie was not my first child, but my fifth. My fifth two year old. My fifth three year old. Because if my first child were adopted, I know I would be freaking out right now, thinking that tantrum, and all Those Days leading up to it was an adoption thing, an attachment thing, a parenting thing.

It's not.

It's a three year old thing.

Three year olds are narcissistic, irrational, demon-possessed little sociopaths.
Until five minutes later when they are adorable, cuddly, funny little puppies.

They are all like this.

All of them.

Whether you adopt them or not.

So, sweet little Bethie, with your adorable/evil ways, I'm on to you, girl. I know that October, when you turn four, will be the month of my deliverance. It will get better. I know this is not the Forever You, nor the Forever Me. I know that This Too Shall Pass.

I know that you are exploring, testing, seeing just how far you can push me. Seeing just how far my love for you will stretch.

Bring it on, pumpkin. Momma can take it. My love for you will stretch and stretch and stretch and it will never, ever break.

And I might even love you just a little bit more, the minute you turn four.

FRACTALS

2014-03-03T18:20:00.000-06:00

Inspired by the Oscars.

Our gift, to you.

One year to normal

2014-02-18T21:07:00.001-06:00

I can't tell you how many hair products and shea butter based lotions I've tried in the past twelve months, searching for the magic paraben free formula that will detangle curls or soothe away excema. Last night I found an half used tube of cream in the back of the cabinet. I began to rub it on Bethie's squirming, smooth, freshly bathed brown skin. And I had to pause a minute, because the smell was so overwhelming.

I shook my head and sadly whispered, "Wow."

It wasn't the honeysickle or coconut oil that almost knocked me over, no. This was the scent of fear. Of trepidation. Of cluelessness. Of sadness and loss and hope. A sweet miasma of uncertainty like I had never previously known. Because this cream was what I, her new momma, rubbed all over her soft brown skin in Addis Ababa, and in the first few weeks that she was home in Austin.

One year ago today, a horrified little girl kicked and screamed and and cried and clawed her way into our family.

The weeks that followed were so intense - and so exhausting - that I couldn't even write about them. All I could do was the next thing. And the next thing. And the next thing.

It's the most awkward thing in the world to have a child handed to you like that, with little to no instructions, and to be told she's all yours. Take her. Do the thing. The mothering thing. It's awkward when it's a tiny baby in the hospital, and it's awkward when it's a toddler on a dusty street in Africa. It is, honestly, flat out absurd.

But you do it, you take the child, and you take her home, and the things that don't come naturally, you do awkwardly. You feed and bathe and rock and read and sing and tickle and rub scented lotion over smooth skin. You do this day after day like a blind woman groping in the dark until one day you realize that it doesn't feel quite so awkward anymore. Then more days pass and it starts to feel normal. A few more days and it's natural. Then it becomes routine. Somewhere along the way you quit questioning your every move. You make mistakes - lots of mistakes - and discover that this strange child is strong enough to weather your mistakes. You realize she's stronger than you are.

You realize that God is stronger than you are.

And your understanding of grace, of redemption, of the true meaning of blind faith reaches an entirely new level. You realize that all of these things are hard and born of terror and pain. All are messy. All of them make no sense. All of them are beautiful. All of them are possible.

We're there. Praise the Lord, one year later, the absurdity of grace and redemption and faith have become our normal.

She's blossomed, this girl. I can't even describe how much. For 364 days I've had the amazing blessing of witnessing a flower unfold. A rebirth. She's not shy and introverted, like she was in the orphanage. This child is silly and extroverted and adventurous. She's loving and tender and sweet. She's smart and sneaky and cuddly. She's whiny and annoying and demanding. And she loves shoes more than almost anything.

The most amazing thing is how we did it, how we all labored through to deliverance: we fed. And bathed. And rocked and read and sang and tickled and rubbed lotion over smooth brown skin. We did it awkwardly until we did it naturally. We did some things well. We made some mistakes.

We loved her.

That was all we did.
We loved.
We loved her awkwardly.
Now we love her naturally.

We love, because he first loved us.
I John 4:19

Happy 2014!

2014-01-09T22:06:00.001-06:00

One of my new year's resolutions was to blog more. Like, once a week even. It's two days into the second week already '14 so I had better get something on the page. Good thing I was just having some deep bloggable thoughts.

Such as:

Have you ever considered that Eve was tempted by a lizard?

In Genesis 3, while God is cursing Satan for, you know, aiding and abetting the world debut of sin and death and all, and he says to him:

Cursed are you above all livestock
    and all wild animals!
You will crawl on your belly
    and you will eat dust
    all the days of your life.

If crawling on his belly was part of the curse, does that mean that the serpent had legs before?

And, maybe, arms?

Could it be then, that instead of the moment looking something like this

Eve Tempted by the Serpent, by William Blake

the evil instigator behind the Fall of Mankind actually looked more like this?

If so, well, that explains everything.

Giving thanks: for finding my wedding ring and not marrying a pothead

2013-11-06T21:46:00.002-06:00

I'm thankful that my wedding ring decided it missed me enough to be reunited with my finger.

I 'misplace' my wedding ring regularly. But there are only so many places that I places it so it always manages to show up eventually. But this time was different. This time it disappeared for like THREE MONTHS. And we were getting nervous.

And by we I mean Walker, who around day 15 started the nightly, "Have you seen your wedding ring yet?" to which I flippantly flipped my hand (I can do that) and say Pshaw, It Will Show Up Eventually. But then 15 days turned to 30 and then like, 45 and I really, really wished that I had gotten it appraised like our insurance agent told me to do back in May.

So then I called my mom to make sure it wasn't at her house and called my mother-in-law to make sure it wasn't at her house and at my mother-in-law's advice, made sure my sister-in-law Laurel knew that it was missing because turns out Laurel has this amazing talent of praying for lost things and voila, eventually they show up. Apparantly I am married to the brother of the Presbyterian St. Anthony and I never even knew it. But now that I now that I know, you betcha I'll be texting her daily to pray for my keys and my iPhone. And the remote. Lots and lots of could-you-pray-for-the-remote texts.

So the grandmas were on it and St. Laurel was on it and I was on it and Walker was on it but it still did not turn up.

My wedding ring is kinda big. Bordering on obnoxious even. Walker actually borrowed from his 401K to pay for it. That's when I knew he loved me, when he became a financial slave in order that I be properly accessorized. We bought the diamond from my dad who got it from A Guy because my dad's got connextions cause he makes jewelry as a hobby (WINNING) and so he showed Walker several diamonds once we were engaged and my husband was wise enough to choose the one that my dad had nicknamed Big Boy. Then about a year later my dad made the setting for Big Boy (way, way better hobby than golf.) It's very modern and at the time it was not me, I was more a white-gold-filligree-surrounded-by-lots-of-pretty-little-stones type girl. And as I recall I had a thing for baguettes. Not the bread, the diamond cut. Although I'm quite fond of the bread as well. But my dad said (put on your best North Carolina accent here) "Hell naw Melissa, when you have a good diamond you don't clutter it up with a bunch of pissant stones, you show that baby off" and honestly I was just so thrilled to FINALLY HAVE A ROCK ON MY FINGER WITH A MAN TO MATCH that much to my surprise I discovered I could care less what it actually looked and had no input whatsoever in the setting my dad chose. Voila, I became a yellow-gold-modern-simple-one-big-rock type of girl.

But I also had this other fake wedding ring I wore. It was a James Avery man's gold band with a cross in it similar to this one. Who's James Avery? That's right, you're not from Texas. Anyway, the ring was not mine, it was this other guy's, so when I did not feel like wearing Big Boy I wore another guy's wedding ring instead.

I'll explain.

When I was in college I very, very briefly dated a guy - I think his name was Lance? - and one time he left his ring at my house or something. I don't recall the details. All I knew is his mom had given it to him and it was very special to him. She probably hoped having a big gold cross of Jesus from his mommy on his finger would entice him to behave in college...but alas. Her maternal Jesus accessorizing was futile.

Because on about our third date he took me to a party where I knew no one and he disappeared for like an hour and left me with a bunch of strangers and when I finally found him he was smoking pot in a back room and That Was The End of I Think His Name Was Lance. Afterwards, I called him four or five times (or maybe one or two, whatever, I did my part) to say, 'Hey, I have your very expensive ring your mom gave you that is very special to you' and he said 'yeah yeah I'll come get it' but he never did. But it was way, way too big for my dainty and delicate fingers so it just languished in my jewelry box.

For twenty long years. Then, I married this guy who never disappeared to smoke pot and had kids with said un-pothead and by the third of fourth baby my fingers sadly were so undelicate and undainty that often times it was a struggle to put Big Boy on. Then one day I noticed that cross ring sitting there being all ignored like a girl on a date with a pothead so I slid it on and voila it fit.

Both Pothead Who I Think Was Named Lance's ring and Big Boy were missing together. Which reassured me that they weren't both lost, just missing.

I hoped.

Summer turned into fall and Pothead and Big Boy were still missing. Walker still asking. St. Laurel still praying.

Then yesterday, my daughter committed a grievous sin and left purple nail polish out within reach of a very girly toddler. Girly toddler got into purple nail polish and gave herself and the floor and the chair quite a sloppy manicure.

So I went to get the nail polish remover and a cotton ball to clean up both girly toddler and now girly chair and floor.

Now, cotton balls. If you were to ask me, how often do you use cotton balls? I would guess, once a week? Once every two weeks? Cotton balls and I, we seem to have a good, solid, continual relationship.

But apparently I have been neglecting my cotton balls like a pothead on a date. Because when I went to the thing where I keep the cotton balls - a very organized thing, thank you,

brought to you by a third trimester nesting/labeling/organizing frenzy brought to you by aforementioned un-pothead, guess what I discovered? All safe? And nestled?

BIG BOY.

I told you he'd turn up!! Eventually!

I guess I had hidden him there. Hidden him so, so well. Now you know where to hide your jewelry. In the cotton ball thingy. Because you and cotton balls? Not as close as you thought.

I immediately - well, after cleaning up the purple toddler - I slid...pushed...forced...grunted Big Boy down on my finger which thanks to three Diet Cokes was swollen up like a third trimester nester. Then I took a picture of my finger to put on my husband's facebook page.

Except in the photo my finger was so red and bordering-on-gangrene

(I assume, having never actually experienced gangrene) that I didn't use it, but I waited a few minutes to see if the blood would return to my heart. When it didn't I just photoshopped it to a decent shade of flesh then posed my finger over my bible like the UnPothead I am

(I'm kidding. I actually was doing my bible study which is sort of another miracle. When I realized it made me look holy I giggled because, well, you know.)

Having missed me so much, Big Boy stayed on my finger for a full two days until finally some shampoo coerced it to slide off.

Pothead, however, is still on the loose.

Time to text St. Laurel.

Math class is even tougher

2013-09-23T22:42:00.000-05:00

In 1991, I was a raging feminist, like all good juniors at the University of Texas at Austin. I mean, I shaved my legs, because I was a raging feminist who still wanted to get asked out on dates. And I still wore cute shoes and big earrings. Cause 1991 was The Year of The Very Big Earrings. But, still, I thought All The Thoughts and Read All the Books and Protested All The Oppressors.

I just did it cutely.
And hairlessly.
And accessorized.

That year Mattel released a Barbie doll - one of those Barbie dolls that I swore my daughters would never play with - one of those Barbie dolls that twenty years later my daughters don't actually play with because they are far more into Good Little Feminist toys like princess dressup and My Little Pony and pink Legos ice cream parlor sets - and this particular Barbie caused all kinds of crazy controversy because when you pulled the string in her back she said, among other vapid things, "Math class is TOUGH."

And the world went ballistic, or, at least the world of the university campus. How dare Mattel perpetuate such outlandish gender stereotypes?? How dare they insinuate that little girls struggled in math?? What was this, the Dark Ages? No! This was 1991, a modern era, where women were free to become engineers! and mathematicians! and wear big earrings!

At college I listened to the debate raging in one of my many Women's Studies classes, I read the op-eds in the Daily Texan, I nodded disdainfully and disgustedly with an outraged brow. But I kept silent. Very silent.

Because inside, I was thinking to myself, but only to myself lest my Accessorized Feminist card be revoked, "But...math class IS TOUGH."

I enrolled in the one basic math class that my English major/Psych minor required but then they started asking me all these questions about tossing some coin? over and over? and trying to figure out how many times it would land on heads? or tails? one hundred times they tossed it! and the pressure was just too much! too much for me! so I dropped it.

This is the part where, if you are married to me, you say, "You mean, probability? You couldn't grasp probability?" with a look on your face like you are seriously reconsidering whether I should be the X to your babies' Y. To which I simply squeak, "Math class is tough."

That class with the coins and stuff hung over my head for my entire college career like a cloud of infinite diameter and volume and other vague mathy terms. Finally my very last semester of school I called the testing center to see if I could re-take the test that I took as an entering freshman that would let you place out of that math class. The one that allowed all my smarter friends to skip it. But when they looked up my score from four years earlier, it was discovered that since that time, they had lowered! the required! score! to place out of! the class! which meant I didn't have to take it!

And in that moment, I knew, that if you tossed a coin a million times it would always reveal that Jesus loved me. He loved me with infinite diameter and volume and...stuff like that.

Therefore, by the grace of a big loving voluminous God, I have not sat in a math class since the 80s, and - shhh don't tell anyone - {I cheated on a whole lot of those high school tests} {to increase the probability of my graduating} {don't worry, Jesus has infinitely forgiven me for it}

Annnnnnd, I turned out okay. And now, via the power of the iPhone, I am more than okay, I am a bona fide mathematical genius.

Until my third grader has homework on a night when her dad is out of town and I have to call on the infinite love and wisdom of same Jesus to avoid squeaking only, "Math class is tough."

Evangeline has this worksheet she has to do every week called Sunshine Math, which is the biggest oxymoron ever created. Sunshine Math. Can't fool me with the happy clappy name, Sunshine Math people. Let's call it Torrential Downpour Math cause me? Drowning.

Last year, in second grade, I could handle her Sunshine Math. I might have to breathe deep and draw a few stick figures and talk it through but I could do it. But this year? Third grade?

Oh. Tough. Math class. It's tough. Math class is tough.

When I was in third grade it was the times tables and the word problems, which was not fun but manageable.

It was NOT THE THIS.

How many planes is a scissors worth? WHAT THE WHAT?? Bonus points: "What's the meaning of life?" THIRD GRADE Y'ALL.

(Not to mention, did anyone else think 9/11 with the planes and scissors and such? PROVEN: math teachers are terrorists.)

Nor this:

Here's the answer, Tina: ANN IS EVIL. FIND A NEW FRIEND.

I want to stick this Sunshine Math where the sun don't shine.

But these answers do not suffice for my contorting, frustrated nine year old, who happens to be an amazingly gifted writer who can accessorize like a beast. So instead of asking me to join her while I sit and rock in a corner repeating mathclassistough I draw my little pictures and search my extensive English major vocabulary to try and help her figure out the answer.

And then we pick out some earrings and write some stories and wonder if she's old enough for an iPhone.

That morning

2013-09-11T08:19:00.000-05:00

Robert Clark—INSTITUTE

I was teaching PreKindergarten. I walked my kids to music class and saw some teachers watching TV in the library. When I joined them they told me that one of the Twin Towers had been hit by a plane and while we were watching, the other was hit. I immediately said "This is Osama bin Laden," and the other teachers said, "Who?" But I had just watched an A&E Biography on him the week before where he swore that he would strike again and be successful this time. He did and he was.

We frantically emailed parents telling them that school was closed and to come get their kids. It took some parents a couple of hours to get there, the traffic downtown was so bad. When my little babies asked why they were going home early I had no idea what to say so I told them, "It's such a pretty day outside, we want you to go home so you can play," and from then on, every time it was pretty outside, they asked if they could go home and play. And I would feel guilty for lying to them but how on earth do you explain 9/11 to a four year old? How do you explain it to an adult??

While we waited for the parents to come I would step into the hallway so they could not see me cry. There was usually another teacher doing the same and we would hug each other and cry silently so the kids wouldn't hear us. When the moms got there, more hugging and silent crying. Then we all went home and stayed glued to the television until bedtime.

The news just got worse and worse.

I remember thinking, this changes everything. These babies, my sweet four and five year old babies, will never know a world pre-9/11. And that broke my heart. That still breaks my heart.

Where were you that morning?

Whassup August

2013-08-26T10:57:00.002-05:00

Yes, I'm saying Whassup to be ironic.

This blog brought to you by:

SCHOOL STARTING! WAHOOO!!


1st grader, 2nd grader, 3rd grader, 4th grader. And baby sister.

Around the glorious interwebs:

How do we help Miley? from Annie Downs. Oh, Miley, Miley, Miley. Y'all, I did SO MANY STUPID THINGS when I was twenty. Thank God I did not have a camera on me at the time.

Do y'all read The Nester? If not, this is a great time to start because she just bought a farmhouse in desperate need of some love. And we get to watch her BEAUTIFY IT. I am ridiculously excited.

Kristen's series What I Want You To Know is always interesting, to say the least. The post last week by an ambivalent foster parent will make you dizzy.

I Corinthians 13 for Moms: some wisdom here. Reminds me of my I Corinthians 13 for My Children I did a while back.

Why I Called Out Joel Osteen and Joyce Meyer: the prosperity 'gospel' gives me hives, y'all. Big welts of angry.

What I'm Reading:

You can go to Goodreads and find out. Y'all, I'm sorta addicted to Goodreads. It's the only social media that I actually enjoy getting emails from because I love seeing what my friends are reading! You also may or may not see that I may or may not be reading a book about strippers.

Also, this. I read some of this out loud to Walker on our road trip to Houston. Well, I tried. It was hard because I kept ugly-crying. I, um, related. Maybe because Don and I are from the same neck of the woods ? (Southeast Houston shout-out)

Favorite book I read recently:

What I'm Watching:
How Bethie's Life Was Saved by Gus Fring

Breaking Bad is back and listen to this, y'all!!! Shep went to drama camp a couple of weeks ago. The last day was the final performance (he was Nick Bottom in a couple of scenes from A Midsummer Night's Dream.) There was a dad there and I kept staring at him, thinking, he looks so much like Gus from Breaking Bad. So much! Wow, I bet he gets that all the time! It's so uncanny!

Obviously, I am not used to living in Austin, aka, mini-Hollywood.

So after the play, as he is opening the door for us and making sure Bethie does not run into the parking lot (hence the hyperbole above), I say to him, "You look so much like the guy from Breaking Bad" to which, y'all knew it, he said, "That's cause I am the guy from Breaking Bad." WOW!!! Giancarlo Esposito!! He's in Austin filming the TV show Revolution, which I have not watched. So then I said, awkwardly, "Ah! Sorry you died!" He just waved. And then he sold me some meth.

Also, Project Runway. As pathetic as the product placements are, we (yes, Walker watches it too) are still loyal to our dear ProjRun. And equally loyal to the hilarious recaps on Tom and Lorenzo, which I enjoy as much as the show. "Sustainicorn" - I die. And did y'all know that Tim Gunn plays the Baileywick the butler on Sophia the First, a cute new Disney Junior cartoon? His voice cracks me up. I wish Tim Gunn were my butler.

Also, "Oprah: Where Are They Now." I have loved seeing her catch up with some guests. Yesterday I watched one where she caught up with all the Brady Bunch - y'all. I grew up watching every Brady Bunch at least 36 times each. Here is what I learned: the way contracts were written, actors only got residuals on reruns for the first ten runs. Which means none of the BB actors have made a dime off the show since about 1974. I am still reeling from the injustice of this.

At this very moment, I'm watching Yo Gabba Gabba. Which in addition to being very creepy, displays a collection of the very worst song lyrics in the history of children's programming. But it keeps my two year old engaged for twenty minutes, so DJ Lance Rock is my friend.

Funny YouTube:

What I'd Like to Blog About Soon:
Our new house, our new house lawsuit drama, and angels. Any other suggestions?

Personal Tragedy:
Bethie has started climbing out of her crib.

Okay, off to clean my house before the kids come home BECAUSE THEY ARE AT SCHOOL THANK YOU JESUS HALLELUJAH AMEN

What are y'all reading/watching/cleaning?

Nurture and structure

2013-08-23T19:18:00.000-05:00

It started last night while I waited for Walker, whose flight had been delayed from Chicago, to come home. Minutes before midnight, I heard her crying. I went into her room, rocked her several minutes, kissed her, laid her back down. She cried again.

Walker came home and went up to her, tried to soothe her. Didn't work. She began screaming, a weird, new 'cat scream'. Furious. Hysterical. After ten minutes I told him to go to bed and I took over.

Both of the girls awake, crying, miserable. Sent Maggie to Eva's room. Told Bethie to lie down, and she did, but wouldn't fall asleep. As soon as I thought she was, I'd try to sneak out, she'd pop her head up and scream. Finally I brought my pillows and my Kindle and climbed into the top bunk of Maggie's bed.

So now it's 2:00 am.
She sleeps.
Till 5am.
In case you weren't counting, that was a whopping three hours of slumber.

At 7am I ran up to HEB to buy popsicles and watermelon for the 40 or so people who were due to arrive at my house in three hours for a last-day-of-summer bash.

At 8am Walker left to drive to Houston. She whined. She screamed. Maggie whined. And screamed. Ike whined. And screamed. All I wanted to do was whine. And scream.

I put her down in her crib to nap. She screamed some more and hit me.

Then I made the decision to walk out of the room before I completely lost control.

And texted about forty people and told them the awesome last-day-of-summer swim party with popsicles and watermelon was canceled, because I. Could. Not. Deal. Which completely infuriated my other kids.

So now everyone is mad at me and I am mad at everyone.

Already a really, really, really bad day.
And it was only 9am.

Friends came to the rescue, took one kid to one playdate and three other kids to swim and I laid down with her and tried to get one or both of us to sleep. When she finally napped, I couldn't. Because this is what happens when you adopt a kid. They freak out, they have a tantrum, they scream all night, they act clingier than usual, they begin hugging strangers. They do all the stuff they did when they first came home. The stuff you thought you had gotten past. The stuff you thought you'd conquered. The stuff that they had quit that made you think you were a fantastic mom with a happy attached kid.

So when you finally try and get your exhausted self to sleep, you analyze the hell out of it. Was it from our trip to Houston? That's when the tantrums began. Was it from the Ethiopian food we had when we came back? Did that trigger some repressed memory? Was it that time she got left behind for ten minutes? Did those ten minutes erase six months of attachment?

Is it me? It must be me. Obviously, it's me, I'm the mom. What have I done to make her insecure? How have I backtracked on all the progress? Have I not been loving lately? Have I been too tired and cranky? Have I been too strict? What exactly, precisely, specifically have I done to completely decimate her psyche?

WWKPD? What would Karyn Purvis, the adopted child whisperer, do? Well, she wouldn't need to do anything, because she would have have gotten herself in this situation. Okay, WWKP tell Missy to D?

My friend Grace texts me, KP would say: amp up the nurture and structure.

Nurture and structure. That's what kids from hard places need. Nurture and structure.

Isn't that what all kids need, hard places or not?

Isn't that what I NEED? Nurture, which I am completely bereft of since my husband has been out of town for the better part of two weeks. Structure, which we have not had since school let out in June. Oh, Lord, how I crave structure.

The day did not improve. At Meet the Teacher, one of them refused to look her teacher in the eye or allow herself to be hugged. And by the fourth classroom, the eighteenth form to fill out, the tenth "I'm hungry/thirsty" whine, one of them screamed NO in my face when I told him to go outside. In front of the new teacher who had just been refused a hug. While the little one literally climbed on my back and did the cat scream thing. In front of the new teacher. And several parents.

One of the top five Bad Mommy Days ever.

Which makes me remember, as I shower after sending three children straight to bed at 6pm.

I had bad mommy days before I adopted. Lots of 'em. Lots and lots and lots.

I had two year olds who threw tantrums, who hit, who acted super clingy for no discernible reason. Who sometimes flat out pissed me off. Who I sometimes had to leave in their cribs and just walk away. In fact, I had exactly four two year olds who acted like this. And come to think of it, every single one of them started having sleep issues when they were...about Bethie's age. Started waking up at night, screaming, acting scared. At the time, I chalked it up to a developmental leap, bad dreams resulting from a suddenly very active imagination. I actually chalked it up to them being bright and creative. I don't once recall blaming myself for it.

Maybe it's an adoption thing. Maybe it's the food or the travel or me being an absolutely sucky mom.

Or maybe that's just the way that two year olds act sometimes, regardless of where they gestated. Especially when they are lacking nurture and structure.

Maybe the kid who screamed all night and whined all day is just really, really normal.

Maybe she just needs a hug, and a rock, and to be told several times it's time to go to bed.

And maybe that means that I'm not a bad mom after all.
I'm just a mom who, for the love of all things, desperately needs some nurture and structure.
And a hug, and a rock, and to be told it's time to go to bed.

My child at six months

2013-08-19T22:26:00.001-05:00

Six months ago today, this little girl was placed in my arms for evah.

And it was a little horrifying. For both of us.

One year ago next month, we received referral photos of a tiny little girl who had no family. She was tiny and her face was covered in molluskum contagiosum. Her big brown eyes looked sad in all the photos we got of her.

We were told that she was shy, bashful girl, scared of new situations, who had trouble warming up to strangers, and who had to almost be forced to eat.

Recently I was at the social security office (for the third time) and I looked at the photo of Bethie on her immigration papers.

That is not my child. I don't even know that child.

This is my child.

My child is silly and giggly and bright. And cuddly and sweet. And sneaky.

My child will also throw a tantrum when she doesn't get her way.

She is obsessed with shoes and jewelry and has definite opinions about her wardrobe.

She shakes her booty and makes tooting noises. My child's swim teacher said was the quickest learning two-year-old she'd ever seen. She pulls up a stool to get the chips and salsa down from the counter.

My child insisted on having her ears pierced when she saw her sister do it and is now quick to show any stranger her new earrings or painted fingernails.

My child sneaks on her mommy's iPhone whenever she can. She loves to tattle on her siblings. My child happily strolls into the church nursery each Sunday without looking back.

My child knows that if she nestles her head just so into her mommy's shoulder will always get an extended snuggle.

This

is my child.

2013-08-19T20:07:00.001-05:00

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Don't blame the mother

2013-08-16T00:20:00.001-05:00

Scene from the side of the road, where a certain child was told to get out until she finished her temper tantrum.

Have you ever been in a store and seen a woman with children that were so incredibly loud, badly behaved and out of control you couldn't help but give her dual glances of pity and scorn?

That would be us, tonight at Lowe's.

It's all Walker's car's fault. His car that broke down on the side of the road while he was in Houston, where he's been since Monday. Well actually, it's the mechanic's fault, because he couldn't get fixed until today. So he couldn't come home.

And since he couldn't come home, I decided to paint my family room. Because Walker is not here. Because if he were here, he would be quick to remind me that it would be prudent to complete the other 42 projects still dangling incomplete before I tackled such a large one as painting our family room. But he's not here because his mechanic could not fix his car until tomorrow so my kids were deplorable in Lowe's.

Actually, it's the Lowe's paint guy's fault, for making me wait. Because I had to get paint on the way back from picking Shep up at drama camp. And what I thought would be a super quick errand turned into a it'll-be-twenty-minutes-are-you-freaking-kidding-me-no-there's-a-lot-of-people-ahead-of-you errand. With five kids. Five hungry, tired kids. Five hungry tired kids who by day three of being daddy-less always morph into irascible little anarchists.

Including the newest, who seems to have gotten a memo lately saying, "Hey, kid, you're two. And so far you've been pretty sweet. You're making the rest of us look bad, so here's what we need you to do: you know that really annoying high pitched scream you do? The one that makes your mom cringe? Let it rip every time you hear the word No whilst simultaneously bursting into tears. PS - refuse to nap this week." Which one of y'all's kid sent it to her?

It's Lowe's fault too, for putting Doritos in the aisle right next to the books, where I had tried to placate my children for the long it'll-be-twenty-minutes-are-you-freaking-kidding-me-no-there's-a-lot-of-people-ahead-of-you wait. Doritos right at a two year old's eye level. A hungry, napless, high-pitched-screaming chip-loving two year old. Who happens to be sisters with a certain seven year old who is LOUD even when she her introverted self isn't exhausted and peopled out from two playdates in a row. Who happens to be sister to a little six year old boy who finds no greater joy than contriving ways to make both his big sister and his little sister scream as much as possible in the book/Dorito aisle at Lowe's.

Ultimately, it is the Austin Independent School District's fault, because according to my facebook, it is one of the last school districts on God's green earth to start school, and if my children had been in school today, I could have gone to Lowe's all by myself, gotten my paint, and been on my way with nary a stare from a revolted stranger.

So before you blame me for being the bad mother who can't control her high-pitched-screaming sick-of-summer sister-torturing children, just understand, it is truly not my fault.

SHE BLOGS!!

2013-08-10T14:12:00.002-05:00

Gratuitous Bethie photo

I used to follow lots of adoption blogs. I'd ride with them thru the ~~nightmarish roller coaster~~ adoption process, delight with them when they got their referral, take note of their what-to-pack posts, cry when they got their kid in their arms, rejoice and share on facebook when the child was finally HOME, and keep checking in to see how the family was transitioning.

One thing I always noticed, is that after they got back home, those moms had the NERVE to just QUIT POSTING!!! Wha?

I followed you for years, I bought your tshirt, I faithfully retweeted you every step along the way, and now you've just FADED INTO CYBERSPACE?

WHAT ABOUT ME? I want cute pictures! And videos! And cute funny sayings! And outfits, what about ALL THE CUTE OUTFITS?!?!?

All this to say,

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry both the the moms that I judged and to you, sweet faithful praying t-shirt buying re-tweeting facebook-sharing wonderful readers.

I get it now. The non-blogging. I get it.

First there's the jetlag, which lasts, for, like, ever. Then the transition. The mental exhaustion. The physical exhaustion. The newborn haze, except, the newborn weighs 25lbs, likes to fish in the toilet, and is a much pickier eater.

Then life hits, like, in our case, you buy a new house with a new pool that is green half the time and you move and get sued by the people you bought it from and then Summer Happens where the kids are home all the time and hijacking your computer in between whining about how bored they are and asking to buy new apps on the mini iPads your mom bought for them and screaming bloody murder that their sibling bombed the Minecraft mansion they worked so hard on with the media room, the dungeon and the reflection pond populated by chickens and zombies.

Just. Too. Much.

Lately, tho, something started happening that hasn't happened in months: I started brain blogging. Ie, composing posts while I did the dishes or drove to VBS.

Did any of y'all get those posts that I sent you telepathically? No? Too bad, cause some of them were really good.

I also had a problem of not blogging for so long, that I thought, well, I better come up with something GOOD. Had to remind myself that there is beauty in vapidity. Well, if not beauty, then at least a nice diversion when you get in the grocery store line without the good magazines.

All this to say, I think I'm back.

Missed y'all.

So tell me. What's been going on with YOU?

I die

2013-07-16T21:28:00.001-05:00

How's she doing?

2013-07-11T13:01:00.001-05:00

See for yourself.

Dreams come true

2013-05-28T21:48:00.004-05:00

Ike and Bethie, both on my lap in their jammies, watching So You Think You Can Dance

I have a dream that one day...
little black boys and black girls
will be able to join hands
with little white boys and white girls
and walk together
as sisters and brothers.

I have a dream today.

Martin Luther King Jr, 8-28-63