Ostriches Look Funny

Pirates and Broccoli

noreply@blogger.com (Ostriches Look Funny) — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 03:48:00 +0000

Tonight, as I prayed with Q, I said, "...and please help him to grow up to be strong and to know that You love him all the time..."
"yeah, and make him eat broccoli," interjected Q.

I paused, collecting myself, "Are you asking God to make you eat...broccoli?" I asked, seriously.

"Yeah. You always say broccoli makes you grow up to be strong, and I never eat it, and I think I wont be strong since I hate broccoli," he explained.

And that, my friends, is why being a mother is rewarding. I haven't showered today, but I've been surprised. And amused.

This reminds me of another Sunday incident. I was showing the boys the latest OK GO video, where the band members drive around in a car and the car hits pianos, wind chimes, etc. with retractable arms. There is a scene where the car's retractable arms are whacking a long line of blue barrels, for percussion purposes. Q asked what they were and I innocently remarked, "They're barrels."

"Oh. Barrels like pirates use to make rum?," asked my four year old.

"Yes. Exactly," I said, because I am a stinker.

"So, did they get the barrels from some pirates then?" he asked.

Feeling like an affirmative would be overstepping the boundaries of truth in advertising, I said, "It's possible I guess, but I don't think so. You can use barrels for other things if you're not a pirate, they aren't just for making rum."

He seemed disappointed. I made a mental note to thank Robert Louis Stevenson for referring to rum so frequently in Treasure Island. It's conversations like this that make literature so much fun.

Sharks Eat Bacon and So Do You

noreply@blogger.com (Ostriches Look Funny) — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 23:00:00 +0000

The kids asked if they could go to the zoo and I said we could. I mean, we can. We can always go to the zoo, unless it's raining. We can especially go to the zoo if there is still playdoh under the dining table after a vigilant playdoh eradication. The zoo is a destination for those who are losing the playdoh war.

I say playdoh war like it's something I'm actually fighting. I have been sitting here for five minutes drinking coffee and eating a chocolate chip cookie. Let's not kid ourselves, I'm not fighting...I'm eating...with my back against the playdoh.

The wonderful thing about staying home with children is you don't actually have to stay home with them. So, we left.

At the zoo, we watched the tiger get trained. YES! It was thrilling! I'd show you a photo but I accidentally sat on my camera in the car and forgot it in my chair.

The animals were very active and smelly today, as were the children. Sheldon was all for running around until he tripped and scraped his forehead on the asphalt. Then he wanted me to carry him, which wasn't happening since I was also pushing a stroller that was pushing a baby.

Sheldon's favorite thing about the zoo is the petting zoo, which is populated entirely of goats. We go to the zoo to pet the goats, because "dey yet us pet da doats at da zoo".

Q's favorite part of the zoo was getting his allowance. He has been feeding the cat and picking his toys up each day (mostly) and has earned a dollar a week. I never have cash on me, unless I'm going to the zoo. The zoo makes you pay for parking. Since I had cash, I paid Q. He had five dollars burning a hole in his pocket.

Actually it wasn't in his pocket. He spent most of his zoo time flailing his five dollars around and asking to buy candy. Needless to say, we had to stop at the gift shop on the way out.

The gift shop is very expensive. He didn't have enough money for binoculars. He had barely enough money for a shark head on the end of a stick that opens and closes it's mouth. He bought it.

I suspect the rest of his month will be full of Budget-y angst while he waits for his next payday.

He named his shark "Razortooth" and suggested we mosey over to the manta ray exhibit. He wanted Razortooth to stick his shark head in the manta ray pool and eat a manta ray.

On the way home, he wondered if sharks eat bacon.

I said they did...if they could come by it.

Then he asked me where bacon comes from and I told him, "Pigs"

"But how do pigs make bacon, Mom, how do they make it?"

Feeling wicked I said, "They die."

He was shocked. Then I reminded him how much he likes bacon AND sausage, and that every time he eats it, he's eating dead pigs...which is why we don't waste our food.

He stuck his tongue out at me and I mentally checked of the "Biology" segment of our educational day. I could probably check of "Nutrition" as well. Eat your heart out Public Education System.

When I reminded him he was without funds for the rest of the month he announced he would feed the cat SIX times in a day so he could get SIX dollars.

So if anyone has a cat they need fed, give me a call. I have a willing four year old.

(I call this one, 'Portrait of a Foot')

Nonsense

noreply@blogger.com (Ostriches Look Funny) — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 00:00:00 +0000

I'm rather sick now and the main suspect is the ridiculous amount of dried apricots I consumed whilst planning a hypothetical vacation during nap time. I can only blame myself I suppose.

The day has not been one of my most glorious ones, hence the escapism manifested in becoming my own travel agent for an hour. It was fun, but I probably should have put the giant bag of apricots to the side while I investigated 3,000 dollar a night hotel rooms. No matter how grand you know your life is, there are some days where all your problems would be solved if you could only get your hands on a 3,000 dollar/night hotel room.

And do you know why I rarely blog now? Why my posts are lucky to have proper sentence structure? Because I have a bunch of little people climbing all over me. Since the last paragraph I have been asked to cuddle, because I'm "soft" (ahem), and I have had someone commandeer the mouse to click over on a photo of an owl that we "will never see again" and now that same someone is demanding that I type, "Quinten wants to invite Caiden, Kayley and Ainsley over for his birthday party"...which is in September. It's never too early to be prepared for a party, and it's never too early to stop eating apricots. There's only too late.

Speaking of stomach disorders, or as Q has helped me type, "disqorgrs", I have been feeding the baby prunes and finally the floodgates have been let loose ("next time you have to press 'T' will you tell me and I'll press it for you mom?"). All this to say that I've noticed that prune baby food is a prophetic food. It's an exact representation of what is to come, but less stinky.

These are my deeper thoughts.

I feel like perhaps I'm torturing you, as I do my husband, who I called an hour ago to announce that I had eaten too many apricots AND I had found a hotel suite that has a doorbell that howls like a wolf if you press it.

Consider yourself loved.

For When You Aren't Quite Ready To Face The Cat Litter

noreply@blogger.com (Ostriches Look Funny) — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 18:25:00 +0000

As I type this I'm trying to find a spot for my coffee in on a desk full of remote control devices. The remote control helicopter is being charged in my computer's USB port that I have specifically reserved for my Kindle in my mind. No one asks a mother what she has reserved in her mind, which is an irritation.

My husband is feeling sick, the boys have colds, the baby has a tummy ache brought on when I started feeding him homemade baby food. I'm trying not to take it personally, but a trip to buy prunes is on the horizon. As a result of the baby's tummy ache, I have discovered that carrots are a constipating food (?) according to Google...and I have not slept for two days. Well, I've slept, but only in moderation.

It's Monday. On my counter is an empty yogurt jar, a pan, a jar of baby food, four empty bottles of wine to be recycled, dish soap, cereal box, tinfoil (?), two cereal bowls, two sippy cups, and a Darth Vader talking mask. I have some cleaning stuff I should be doing. The cat litter is getting full. This day could be poopy. It's time to reign in my attitude.

I'm thankful for night baths. For the glow-in the dark squid that saves us from the deadly shark. For the little boy hands that hold mysterious creatures and the little boy brains that invent the violent and dangerous adventures.

I'm thankful for cereal faces and "pills" on our shirt. For people who don't like to spill milk and eat breakfast in the nude. For the milk beard and the mischievous grin.

I'm thankful for baby faces that make baby feeding a hilarious event that takes forever. For the "mmm" sound he makes when he likes what he's eating. For bibs.

I'm thankful for humorous packaging on less than exciting products. For the smiley plastic faces that greet me when I open the fridge now.

I'm thankful for green in winter, for green in my brown 1984 kitchen, for the hardiness of spider plants. Live long and prosper humble house plant.

Swords and Stones and Saviors

noreply@blogger.com (Ostriches Look Funny) — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 20:08:00 +0000

This morning my 4 year old asked me to read his Children's Bible to him, so of course I had to drop everything I was doing, which was nothing, and sit down for a story. Of course, he picked David and Goliath. Show me a 4 year old boy who doesn't love the story of David and Goliath and I'll show you a 4 year old boy who hasn't heard the story of David and Goliath.

I read it for the eleventy billionth time, I used my scary giant voice, I helped him determine who was a Philistine and who was an Israelite in the illustration, and it all ended with the classic rock to the head.

"I thought David cut off Goliath's head. Grandma Donna said he cut off his head," Q queried when we were done. Oh that Grandma, spreading the finer details of death near and far.

"Er, yes. Well, he DID cut off Goliath's head after he killed him, but they didn't put that part in your kid bible," I said.

"Why not? Why they not put it in my bible?"

"Ummmm...because kids don't usually like that stuff," I answered lamely.

"Yes the do!"

This whole conversation got me to thinking. First of all, I'm starting to suspect that my mother is watching too much NCSI. Secondly, I don't think telling a four year old that someones head got cut off is a bad thing. Third(ly?), I'm shocked at myself.

I don't allow my children to watch television commercials or listen to the radio. I think that gratuitous violence is dangerous, almost as dangerous as Katy Perry. Yet here I am, talking about decapitation with my kid.

Why?

When I was in college I took a course in Children's Literature and we read the original version of Grimm's Fairytales. They were gross, graphic and scary. I still do not plan on reading them to my children because trust me, they are gross...but my professor explained that children liked them because they dealt with their unspoken fears. "What if my parents die? What if I am hungry? What if a bad troll tries to eat me?"

Just because children are innocent doesn't mean they are unafraid. I know a certain child who refuses to go into the hallway without a light because of the Monsters. He is two. He is old enough to know that there a bad things, scary things. He is small enough to feel helpless against them.

And so the old fairytales had children baking witches in ovens and ripping open wolves stomachs and worse. To face a terror is the first step to becoming brave, the cowards run.

Q asked me to drag out my Bible, the one without pictures. He asked for a battle story that wasn't in his bible, and I told him he could draw a picture as I read it to him, unedited. He heard about God sending thunder down to confuse the Philistines, and he drew a picture of a bad guy getting hit by thunder. He heard about the Egyptians drowning in the Red Sea and he drew a picture of the sea with some dead horses floating in it. Then he lost interest and asked me to teach him about octopuses and how they suction and squirt ink.

His drawings were hilarious. They made me think of art therapy and I giggled a little to think of what someone would say if they were shown his violent drawings. He was extremely proud of them, excited even. Perhaps every child needs art therapy, perhaps we are all small and traumatized by the horrific possibilities this life holds. Perhaps every infant screams because they know it's possible that their mother won't show up.

Are you afraid? Do you live in the midst of violence? Are you in imminent danger of losing your parents? Your head? Are you a few tragedies away from being hungry?

Yes, you are in danger. The children know it, they sense it, their mortality.

We make ourselves feel save in our fenced in back yards and our good sides of town, but they are all illusions. I don't want to tell my children they are invincible. It would be a lie, and all children know it. Instead I want to validate their worries and show them that there is Someone bigger than monsters, Someone brighter than the darkness. I want them to know they need a Savior.

So, I read to them about battles and sin and violence. I read them the story of the human condition and they smile as they hear about a God who always wins His battles, who always helps His people. They are learning about a just God who demands blood for our sins, a loving God who sends himself to bleed for us, the final sacrifice. It's gory. It's true. It's what we need, no matter how old we are.

“We fear men so much, because we fear God so little. One fear cures another. When man's terror scares you, turn your thoughts to the wrath of God.”- G.K. Chesterton

The Cat Is Dead, Absent From The Body But Not From The Head

noreply@blogger.com (Ostriches Look Funny) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 04:27:00 +0000

I've been under the weather lately, and aren't we all? Especially when it rains. There's no getting over rain. There's only under it. Unless you have an airplane, and I don't.

In any case, let us all take a moment to be thankful for antibiotics.

So things have been busy, because if you're under anything (especially weather) and surrounded by three boys with loud noises and a penchant of throwing hangers at unusual times, you're busy. Busy keeping your head up, busy keeping the cat from being assassinated right before your eyes, busy eating yogurt so you can continue being thankful for antibiotics, busy painting your fingernails sparkly red so you can immediately remember that you need to put another log on the fire and spend ten minutes trying to get the log into the fire without smudging your nails. Mission Impossible.

Because of the aforementioned weather and general business, I was cranky when I woke up. My husband told the boys they could use my hair dryer as a gun and that led to screaming and fights over who's turn it was to use my blow dryer as a gun, and I hadn't had a drop of coffee.

It was enough to send me spiraling to the farm, so off I spiraled. I can't pretend to be a parenting guru, but I can say that I enjoy being a mother and I enjoy my children, so even if they turn out rotten I had fun turning them out. I believe that if a mother feels like running down the street after the garbage truck screaming "Take me with yoooou!" before 7 a.m. it's time for a change of scenery.

I don't think we can control how our kids turn out exactly, but we can work at making the journey a pleasant one. If you have boys in your life that are trying to use your hair appliances as weapons, go outside. For the love of Hairspray, GO OUTSIDE!

Anyway, today at the farm my mother was talking to me about Chip the cat, who was dead. I couldn't remember which farm cat Chip was, and then I didn't know Chip was dead, so I was confused for a moment. Or two. Perhaps like you are now.

"Oh yes, Chip died suddenly in his sleep. We found him right outside our door. Dead. And Q was here for a visit when it happened so I showed him the cat. You know, so he would know what death looks like," said my mother.

I can always depend on my mother to guide my children gently into the dark and stormy waters of reality.

"YEAH!" interjected Q (who is four by the way, and no stranger to death now), "Chip was dead, and all his body was chewed off and nothing was left except his head!"

I just stared at my Mother who began her defense. "No! He was not! He died in his sleep and he was all there, what are you talking about? He just looked like he was asleep!"

"No. His eyes were open," retorted Q.

"Okay yes," my Mother allowed, "Chip's eyes were open, but he was very peaceful. He was sleeping with his eyes open."

I went inside after that. Wouldn't you?

That's pretty much all I have for you tonight.

p.s. Tonight before bed, Q fell down while running around like a maniac. We asked him if he was alright and he said, "Yeah. I HAVE to be tough if I'm going to be The Hulk when I grow up." So wise, so true.

p.p.s. Maybe I should be apologizing for this post. I feel a mild sense of wickedness, the sort of feeling you get when you get your little sister to dump your parent's Document Shredder contents on the lawn of a high school friend in the dark of night. Not that I ever did that....it took him a few days to get all the little pieces out of the grass.

p.p.p.s. I still haven't apologized. You see, this is how I talk in my brain, before I edit myself. I thought you should know.

p.p.p.p.s. That's a picture of my cat, Dr. Claw, who is not dead.

Things That Happen While My Coffee Languishes: A Morning Log

noreply@blogger.com (Ostriches Look Funny) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 16:35:00 +0000

1:30 a.m: Hear baby cry. Decide baby is crazy if he thinks he's getting fed. Decide to let baby cry it out.

2:00 a.m: Try to comfort baby, but only succeed in making baby extremely angry

2:30 a.m: Send husband in to comfort baby. That doesn't work either. Baby hates everybody.

3:15 a.m: Give up. Feed baby. Baby is happy and friendly and goes back to sleep

6:00 a.m: Tell the boys it's not time to get up yet. Feed baby in the hopes of a little more sleep

6:30: Tell oldest he can use the bathroom. Stop asking. Geesh.

7:00: Get up. Change diaper (baby's, not your own). Get cheese bagel for oldest child.

7:02: try to explain the Simpson's on Daddy's travel mug to four year old.

7:03: try to put the idea of satire in four year old terms. Succeed in making it seem like lies are okay if they are funny.

7:04: hear some classic four year old humor while you make coffee.

Example: Knock knock
Who's there?
Nobody
Nobody Who?
TREE! AHahahahahaha

7:30: Feed baby spinach cereal mix, wonder at his enjoyment of something so green. Decide you need to make baby food because baby food is expensive and you have given birth to a pork chop.

7: 45: Look for blender

8:00: Realize you broke your blender two years ago in an attempt to blend ice for an adult beverage. Wax nostalgic about adult beverages.

8:01: Decide a new blender is cost effective in the face of the giant pork chop you have given birth to.

8:02: Get shot by a laser gun and told, "I'm going to shoot this arrow and you'll be dead. HORSE RIDER!" while trying to convince two year old to put on underwear before shoes. Briefly consider being dead for the rest of the morning, but quickly come back to life when screams and cries ensue over a sandal (interesting side note: it's raining, so sandals are worthless...unless you are two). Confiscate a paintbrush that was being used for non painting purposes.

8:05: Realize you have no idea where you put your coffee.

Today I Burn Bridges With My Relatives

noreply@blogger.com (Ostriches Look Funny) — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 17:49:00 +0000

Last night it rained, wildly pounding the roof and the gutters. The tree branches swayed and bent and the sky was weeping when I went to the bathroom at 3 a.m. Then, the sprinklers came on. We conserve water here, if nothing else. But seriously though, I wouldn't want my weeds to be thirsty.

I suppose I should confess that I have nothing important to tell you today. I just have goofy Christmas pictures, and it's January. But what could be more exciting than goofy Christmas pictures in January?

I don't know either. This morning is a pretty regular morning, if you ignore the sparkle on the street from the rain. Outside the raindrops are shining and sparkling in an extravagant way, and inside I'm just sitting here waiting for the parade, or the amazing appearance of an important person, or something big. Instead, everything is little. There was a spat over crayons, and Dr. Claw the unfortunate cat has been chased within an inch of her life.

The point is, nothing big is happening inside. Someone just handed me a yellow glitter pen sans lid. It worries me. Life is full of riveting details. But why is it so beautiful outside? So fresh and sparkly? Why is the moss on my neighbors roof exploding in vibrant green? I would take a picture but the magic doesn't translate. Just believe me, it's beautiful. And I can't seem to catch it, the exciting splendor of a Saturday morning after rain. You know?

At present we are on the outside of the world, the wrong side of the door. We discern the freshness and purity of morning, but they do not make us fresh and pure. We cannot mingle with the splendors we see. But all of the leaves of the New Testament are rustling with the rumor that it will not always be so. Some day, God willing, we shall get in. -C. S. Lewis

When You Don't Bow You Miss Babies And Other Low To The Ground Things

noreply@blogger.com (Ostriches Look Funny) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 16:24:00 +0000

I just thought you should know, when I started blogging I was somewhere else.

I was almost lost, and entirely hopeless. In my dark place I learned to write, to live in the neat boarders that come with punctuation marks and paragraphs. I counted the pearlescent lotion bottles on the messy bathroom counter as gifts, and I said thank you for all of the small things, because I could only look at the small things.

The big things were capable of eating me, so I didn't look at them. It was humbling to take notice of the way the birds lived, tiny feathers and twig houses. It was humbling to look at things no one else looks at, but it kept me sane, it kept me grateful.

Things got better, and I got tired of being humble, so I stopped.

I stopped counting the ways that sunlight fell on the carpet, and I raised my head.

I was afraid that all the intentional staring, all the focus on the crisp way an envelope folds, or the spiced dull way a warm coffee tastes, was a mental trick.
Was being grateful only a way for me to keep my sanity in a world of baby spit and anonymity? A way to ignore reality?

I turned 30 and panicked. I'm still here, wearing purple tights and drinking decaf, typing to the rhythm of the washer as I always do, because the dirt never ends. Every ounce of me wants to live bigger, to throw away my pajamas and become a person who is too busy for birds and envelopes and lotion bottles. Instead I'm here with little people and little problems and little sleep. I have a choice to grow discontent and fear for my celebrity, or to open my eyes and find the secrets in Motherhood.

It comes down, as it will again, to the question of purpose. Do I live for a principle or for myself? And then...what if the principle is a Person?

I think I've lost a little of my faith lately, because I stopped bowing my head. Because I started looking in instead of out. It was very stressful to look at life through my self. Flesh is a terrible window, and it's very dark. I'm looking for the old ways again, counting everything a miracle, finding God in the details and watching my chubby infant child testify to the overwhelming importance of the small.

Gratitude for the small:

Three teeth in a baby mouth
flannel pajamas
library books for my Kindle
new toilets
Downton Abbey
paper snowflakes
children songs
loud plastic drums
loud plastic guitars
a quiet life
baby food in a bag
a baby who sits
G.K. Chesterton

500-512 of my gratitude list

I Never Do This But I'm Sickly Today

noreply@blogger.com (Ostriches Look Funny) — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 00:30:00 +0000

Today I'm a big ball of functional snot. I'm sick and I have a mild headache compounded by the loud shouts of small boys who have immediate needs that are urgent, even if I don't think they're urgent. Juice, it seems, is a matter of national concern. I felt like saying hello to all you guys, and then I noticed that Flower Patch Farmgirl was doing it, so I said to myself, "It must be cool" and jumped right in. Without further ado, here's some random and mostly pointless information about me:

current guilty pleasure: Someone gave me the world's biggest bar of chocolate for my 30th birthday. Of course I'm eating it.

current nail color: Pftt. No.

current playlist: The Muppet Movie Soundtrack. Don't hate, it's ridiculously happy and the kids love it.

current read: Blood, Bones & Butter: The Inadvertent Education of a Reluctant Chef by Gabrielle Hamilton (I've read like 10 pages and her run on sentences are hurting my brain) and Orthodoxy by G.K. Chesterton (I'm in love).

current drink: Dr. Pepper, from a can, in a cup, with ice.

current food: Whatever I can find in a hurry. Oh, and this Tuna Salad, which has caused me to eat two cans of tuna in one day one time, and anything pasta.

current favorite show: Downton Abbey. I just wish there was MORE of it, you know? Because I seriously obsess over it while I wait for new episodes. It can't be healthy.

current wish list:

Source: naughtybettyinc.com via JoAnn on Pinterest

Some childless fine dining...or cool boots. I tried to buy boots once this winter, but my 23 year old sister wouldn't let me, I don't know why she's the fashion police, she bought JEGGINGS for crying out loud. They smell like diesel (her jeggings, not the boots). I was very close to buying some vibrantly colored rain boots this year, but it's a good thing I didn't because it hasn't rained at all. I wish it would rain. I also wish to start making my family eat more beans. That seems weird now that I've typed it, but there you have it. Beans I say.

current needs: to shower

current triumphs: I hung this plant in my kitchen:

It may not seem like much of triumph but I had to put it in the ceiling twice. The first time I managed to screw it in to some ancient putty, and it fell with a crash a few hours later, taking the ceiling with it. I thought about giving up my dream of succulents dangling by the kitchen sink, but I tried again and hit drywall. This is probably the most boring triumph on the planet, but I live small.

current bane of my existence: my head cold. I think all my current problems stem from my head cold.

current celebrity crush: Phoey. I really don't know. I think I need to get out more.

current indulgence: How is this different from a guilty pleasure? You just want to know all the bad things don't you? Chocolate I say! And Dr. Pepper!

current blessing: coffee, a very cute husband, and the marriage of garlic and butter.

current outfit: jeans, Derrick's dodge ball t shirt, my sister's hooded sweatshirt, a beaded necklace Q made for me this afternoon. It's all pink and plastic and it makes me feel that pony beads are forever. I'm just now realizing that I've become a human hermit crab, gathering articles from various places to adorn myself.

current excitement: discovering I can rent e books for my kindle from the local library. I am also excited because I plan on adding some glow sticks to the boys bathtub and giving them a glow in the dark Friday night bath. I saw the idea on Pinterest, the origin of all good ideas and half of the ideas that sound good but end up being bad.

current mood: slightly hungry and stuffy but optimistic about a relaxing Friday night.

current link: http://twelvedaysold.blogspot.com/ She cracks me up to Antarctica and back.

It's A Purple Moustache World

noreply@blogger.com (Ostriches Look Funny) — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 21:29:00 +0000

I told you my winter is gray, but I was lying.

Don't look so shocked

I noticed the colors today, after I stumbled from my bed and blindly poured cereal and determined justly who was getting the Spiderman bowl. I noticed the colors when I noticed the oranges on the table and decided to squeeze some. I'm getting a head cold so orange juice is prudent...but orange juice is so much more than prudent isn't it?

I held a ball of fire in my hand this morning and it didn't burn me. I've seen that miracle before in Januaries past, so I just made a note of it and opened my eyes a little wider.

It was the moustache that did me in.

Today's color is purple, as in purple moustaches. And frankly, I just can't handle it. I want to live in a world with purple moustaches. I want to be here, in January, to see the oranges, and the purple moustaches, and the way the green playdoh falls on the floor in small flakes of vibrant mess. Have you noticed yet that the ordinary things are not ordinary at all?

For the Winter

noreply@blogger.com (Ostriches Look Funny) — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 23:29:00 +0000

It doesn't snow here. Things in the Winter are more grey than white, more overgrown than blanketed, and more depressed than they should be.

Depression can find anyone, even if the Anyone has a fleet of red bicycles and a moose hatted child in plain sight to cheer them.

In January I talk to myself. Things look bleak, but looking can trick you. You can only see so much sometimes. You can only see January.

Spring is coming, so put that on your bicycle. Spring. Is. Coming.

"When a train goes through a tunnel and it gets dark, you don't throw away the ticket and jump off. You sit still and trust the engineer."

- Corrie Ten Boom

It's Officially Official

noreply@blogger.com (Ostriches Look Funny) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 21:12:00 +0000

I'm taking a blogging break.

Merry Mayhem With Weapons...and Pink Eye

noreply@blogger.com (Ostriches Look Funny) — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 21:50:00 +0000

Can you find the Christmas cat?

The days have been filled with coffee and sugar cookies and more coffee. They have been runny nose, ear infection, pink-eye days, but they've been decorated with e e cummings poetry, plastic ornaments and pine needles.

On Monday I enlisted my mother to help me make Christmas sugar cookies. I have a hippopotamus cookie cutter that I break out for Christmas time, an ode to the immortal Christmas tune, "I want a hippopotamus for Christmas". I think it's hilarious but my dear mother was just...not impressed.

And she kept calling it a pig.

And she frosted all of my Christmas hippos green.

Nonetheless, they were delicious. Q was in charge of decorating them and he took his job very seriously. I'm still stepping on sprinkles. I am sorry to say that they are almost gone and it's only December 8.

My mother has been asking me why I haven't been blogging and there are lots of reasons, some big and some small, but mainly I've been distracted by conversations with my kids that challenge my ability to keep a straight face. Example:

"MOM! Come into the barn for the party!"
"Um, I'm trying to do dishes, then I'll come."
"NOOOO! You'll miss it, come now! Hurry"
So, I hurry to the playroom AKA barn. I say, "OOOH! Party!" and start to do a little shuffle with a side of a wiggle...
"MOM! NO! NO! You can't dance!"
"What kind of party is this! I thought you could dance at a party!"
"NO! Not this kind of party. Here! Here's your sword. You have to ask us what you can touch, because some of these things are dangerous. Like this, this dinosaur, it's dangerous....its...MATCHES. So, don't touch it. We are storm troopers, here we are to fight some bad guys."
"Storm troopers don't fight bad guys," I explain, crushing their dreams in the name of Star Wars accuracy, "They work for Darth Vader, who is a bad guy"
"Oh. Well, we are going to fight bad guys so we aren't Storm troopers. I'M SPIDER MAN! You're a storm trooper. Try to get us."
I do an interpretive dance with the foam sword. The baby laughs. I stab two boys in the bottom.
"MOM! Watch out! Tobin is Darth Vader. Run! RUN!"
I look at Tobin, who is in his exersaucer, chewing on his baby toy. He is super chubby and he has pink eye.

If there was a way to wrap all this madness up in a neat bow, I'd do it, but frankly I don't know how to wrap this thing up. So, THE END and Merry Christmas.

p.s. I still haven't done the dishes.

Waves of Emotion and Unseasonal Pirates

noreply@blogger.com (Ostriches Look Funny) — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 17:07:00 +0000

The waves of adventure, mayhem, hilarity and moodiness have been washing over me so quickly that I have been spending all my free energy catching my breath and Christmas shopping. There hasn't been much time for writing.

I get a little anxious when my cup gets full. I know I shouldn't be anxious, and I'm pretty good at letting the big things go, open handed. It's the little things, the things that I should be able to manage, that send me spiraling into the sea. For example, there is a Pirate Skeleton in my clothes closet. He has been lurking in there since Halloween, thanks to my beloved husband.

I forget about him until I need a clean shirt. Then I have to push his pirate parts out of the way and I think to myself, "WHY oh WHY is he still in my closet? My life is a perfect graveyard of buried housework. Nothing will ever be right. I'm a bad parent. My sons are going to grow up expecting their wives to leave pirates in their closets all year, and I want so much MORE for them."

Seriously. This happens.

I should just go take that thing down, now while I'm remembering him, but I will probably forget after I finish this post, and the pirate will continue to haunt my socks and jeans.

The point is, I'm teetering right now. Holidays can do this to a person. Especially an absent minded, day dreaming perfectionist like myself.

The thing is, there is no sin in leaving Halloween decorations up all year long. I don't think. Probably.

NO. There isn't! If I don't get around to moving Pirate Bones McGee it's okay. If I don't bother to fold underwear and throw them in to the drawer in a organic mass, that's okay too. If I never learn to sew, if I never make my boy's bed, if I don't paint my toe nails and let them chip their way into oblivion, it is OKAY.

Not all of us are Martha Stewart. SOME of us don't even own a glue gun. It is NOT WRONG TO WRITE directly onto the wrapping paper in a permanent marker instead of making a cutsie gift card.

Life is more than gift cards and crafts and timely holiday decoration removal.

There are some things I may have MISSED if I had been worrying about Martha standards. Things that are important. Things that are hilarious.

Behold, a recent conversation with my 4 year old:

"So, what is your favorite kind of dog?"

"Uh, A BULLDOG!"

"Oh really? I didn't know you liked bulldogs," I say as I sip my coffee.

"YEA! But I want my bulldog to have really big HORNS!" he continues and I start to choke on my coffee, "BIG HORNS TO STAB SNICKERS WITH!"

Snickers is our dog. She is a small, tortured soul in the body of a neurotic Yorkshire terrier. And no, I did not break the news to my son that Bulldogs are hornless. Let him live the dream a little longer.

Linking up at Chatting at the Sky for Tuesdays Unwrapped.

(Traveling Around In My Flip Flops Today)

noreply@blogger.com (Ostriches Look Funny) — Fri, 25 Nov 2011 17:32:00 +0000

I was born bathed in blood.

Exposed and helpless, I don't remember the tears and sweat that brought me to this world, the waters of suffering and sacrifice. Those things are my mother's story. I only felt red cold fear.

I am from Adam's seed and with the seed comes the knowledge. Knowledge of good. Knowledge of evil.

The rest of this story is over here, at Imperfect Prose...visit me there today?

The Crows Keep The Time

noreply@blogger.com (Ostriches Look Funny) — Thu, 17 Nov 2011 05:58:00 +0000

The crows flap their feathers to the rhythm of the drum, to the wind in November dropping seeds on the ground.

The wings in the sky are beating to a rhythm, to a beat, to the music of a God who breathes.

I can hear Him now, as I watch the black beasts count the measure of the Winter, hold the tempo of the weather, and the leaves clap their hands and fall down, all together now.

I think I can hear Him as I drive through the country, past the cotton left unpicked because the rain came too soon, past the tractors spinning dust and the trees dropping almonds. Past the grapevines flaming red and the cat who is dead, bloated on the side.

He is here, in the potholed world we suffer through. We dance and we cry and we all fall down, and I think there is truth in the darkest places, in the darkest spaces. The black crows testify with stretched out wings on the telephone pole. The ground is brown, the dirt is bare, but I look up and I see the birds are dancing to the beat.

I listened real hard. I felt the whisper, the Spirit, the breath of a God who doesn't have fences. I hold my breath in the face of the grace that holds hands with the broken, who counts the measure of our pain with ravens and promises us deliverance, singing songs in November.

"Be patient, therefore, brothers, until the coming of the Lord. See how the farmer waits for the precious fruit of the earth, being patient about it, until it receives the early and the late rains." - James 5:7

Flitting About And Filming It

noreply@blogger.com (Ostriches Look Funny) — Wed, 16 Nov 2011 16:29:00 +0000

I'm going to the farm today, mostly because I am sick of doing vacation laundry and partially because I'm completely against routine. It's a weakness of mine, but I don't handle the everyday regular...everyday. What I'm trying to say is, I like change. I like adventure. I like doing different things every day.

I guess that sort of explains how I ended up packing every one's bag on Saturday night with the intention of going somewhere fun. The "somewhere fun" ended up being Disneyland, which I KNOW is insane, but we can talk more about that later. In the meantime, here's a video of Q recapping our trip...and telling me to stop drinking coffee...and then telling me to drink coffee. Four year olds are textbook dictators, of the insane variety. Anyway, here you go, high quality visual amazingness:

Update: Dealing with residual Disneyland crap, Q asked me "How do dreams come true?" I said, "Is there something you think about doing? You plan how to make it possible..."
"I dream of flying."
"Oh," I said, "then you make plans to fly on an airplane"
"NO I mean fly by myself!" he said.
"Um, well maybe if you think of some other dream that's more possible.."
"How would I be a possum? What? Oh, I guess get a possum costume..and walk around like a possum"

Disneyland. Bringing your 4 year old Possum dreams, because possums are possible.

Because My Kitchen Smells Like Bug Spray and There's a Stranger In My Shower

noreply@blogger.com (Ostriches Look Funny) — Tue, 08 Nov 2011 04:28:00 +0000

Some days are expensive.

We had to call the plumber (he came at 8 p.m.) and my arch enemies (ants) invaded my Nutella. The time change sucked the sleep out of us, everyone was cranky, a little less wealthy, and one shower down from our usual pair.

We consoled ourselves with goat cheese and cranberries, table grapes and fire light. We tried to settle in for a quiet evening with our favorite baby and his bear.

Full of riches, I snapped at the children. They're so bouncy, so jumpy, loud and pushy full of random kicks and pokes.
I made a mean face and I watched their faces fall and frankly I don't know how to be stronger, kinder, and more deserving of the little whirlwind people that I live with.

They just keep growing taller, dirtier, and louder. It's breaking my heart and I'm loving it.

So I gather my patience again. I tell them they don't know how much I love them. He says they do; I love them 18. I laugh and say my love is not a number.

And when the day gets dark and pinched, it's always helpful to stand on a table in your underwear.

But, it's always MORE helpful to look at the light instead of the dark, to count the ways you're rich, the ways you love and are loved, to add until you can't.

"I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love." -Mother Teresa

The Monotony of Motherhood

noreply@blogger.com (Ostriches Look Funny) — Thu, 03 Nov 2011 03:23:00 +0000

"It's Like Deja-vu, All Over Again" -Yogi Berra

I rock the baby in the dark, his hand holding my shirt. Eyelids raise, close, raise, close, to the rhythm of the rocking and it's up and down, slowly now.

The muffins are in the oven and music's in the air. I rock and count the songs to fourteen minutes. I say a small prayer, "Lord, let me hear the timer. It's fourteen minutes and this is a slow rock".

I settle and smell the baby's head and we incie weencie spider our way to sugared donut muffins and sleep, respectively.

Outside the evening tucks itself in quietly with crisp breezes and gentle rustles, but inside I hear the noisy sounds of sheet music while my boys play in their beds. There's a giggle and a whisper, set to the beat of the creak of my rocker, with a cheer from children's music on the kitchen radio. Kermit faintly croaks about being a proud frog in the Glen, and a two year old stumbles confidently through bedtime sentences. He's sitting up in his bed, softly reciting the things he knows, repeating things to remember.

It's momma, dadda, night-night time, cars. It's sometimes, sometimes, sometimes. A new favorite of his, this word, sometimes. I listen to his chant and the clack of matchbox cars in the dark.

I listen to my four year old's whispered theology. God made us special, much more special than squirrels. We get boo-boos and then we get scabs, because God made us, He made us this way; better than squirrels.

The squirrel's are a surprise, but I say Amen anyway as I eavesdrop on his soul talk.

Baby's eyes are closed, and time's up.

I lay him down and walk over the toys I picked up before dinner. They're back, intent on living in the hallway, plotting their midnight assassination attempt towards my tired feet. I kick them away and hurry toward the oven. Everything is up and down, words, actions, messes and monotony. At night, my life is on the gentle cycle of the dryer; tumble and turn. Children sigh and lights dim. Momma eats a muffin. Rinse and repeat.

For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, "Do it again" to the sun; and every evening, "Do it again" to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.” -G.K. Chesterton

Because I Used to Hide and Cry

noreply@blogger.com (Ostriches Look Funny) — Mon, 31 Oct 2011 21:42:00 +0000

When I die, bury me in candy. Maybe not in Crunch bars, but Butterfingers and Milky Ways. Dance at my funeral and comfort my bones with sweet things. Ignore the absence of dental work.

Pay attention while you can, to the vibrant colors that make up the world. The flaming orange of the fall pumpkins. The dull grey of the wooden walk. These are gifts, as are googly eyes and washable paint. Make art from humble gourds in the garden.

Dance and be colorful. Laugh when Spongebob, Made From Sponges, falls off the Merry-Go-Round. Square people always have a hard time spinning, help them up and start again. Life is short and scary. Make it color. Make it music. We are the joyful ones.

Death is serious business, but so is joy. I wore bunny ears when I showed my children witches. I gave them a hot dog when they met a zombie. Throw a party. Run outside. Hug the dead and the undead you encounter, today and everyday. We are more than conquerors in Christ.

Christmas in October

noreply@blogger.com (Ostriches Look Funny) — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 22:39:00 +0000

This post is dedicated to Nancy. We got in a twitter fight over Christmas Music. I said it was too soon and then she threw her bible at me. Then we took the fight to Facebook where I tagged her on a photo of an Emu. She'd been emued, and I thought the whole thing was over. Then, I became the recipient of some pretty ridiculous/awesome diapers. They were free. Seriously though. IT. IS. OCTOBER. PEOPLE!

That being said, it's never to early for adorableness. I know I could use some after today.

Update: this diaper has just been filled. An October Christmas present to me, if you will. Ho! ho! HO!

Old Ladies, Shoes, Etc.

noreply@blogger.com (Ostriches Look Funny) — Mon, 24 Oct 2011 16:42:00 +0000

At 4:30 this morning I threw a temper tantrum in the hallway. I stomped my feet on the cold tiles and threw my hands in the air, fist first. I was not sleeping, and my 4 month old was not sleeping. He decided to rise at 12, then at 2, then at 3:15, then at 4:20. Boo.

It's almost 9 a.m. and we're having movies with popcorn. Things are pretty cozy here; my table is covered in mutilated construction paper and safety scissors, there's a cool autumn chill in the air, the coffee is working it's magic and the baby is finally asleep.

In the wee hours of the morning I thought peace would never reign. I fantasized about sending my kids off to my mother, for their own safety. Surviving the day seemed impossible.

It's like that in the night; the hopeless hours where everything is dark, everyone is crying and there is no rest. I give myself up for lost, the sun rises and the coffee brews. In daylight the shadows fade and I lower standards to a comfortable level of pajamas till noon and Barney for breakfast.

I used to run away from hard things. I was ruled by fear. Fear comes in many shapes, but it balloons into a suffocating sphere when you reach the end of your strength. I've always been afraid to lose my strength, and at 4 a.m. I'm still afraid. What will the morning bring?

The morning brings the dawn. Slowly, over coffee cups and crayons, I'm learning the secret to popping the balloon of fear. I'm learning to trust that when I reach the end of my strength, God's strength is still there, working in me, through me, weaving peace in cartoons and crafts. There is no dark with Him, He never rests, and He has offered us all Peace that Passes Understanding. All it takes is surrender. I seem to have a lot of white flags.

"May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope." -Romans 15:13

I am weak
He is strong
silk and sugar with a splash of coffee
construction paper
googly eyes
glue
a clean "poop trash" (Shel's name for kitty litter)
sleeping babies
awake babies
babies in swings
baby showers
a get away planned
a future face to face meeting with a person who loves
pen tattoos

485-499 of my gratitude list

Joy In The Ante Meridiem

noreply@blogger.com (Ostriches Look Funny) — Fri, 21 Oct 2011 22:12:00 +0000

I like to think God is pleased when we greet the dawn in a tricorn hat.

It takes trust to run at sunrise, with a whisk, in the autumn crisp. To be children of joy...

Well, it's a tall order in today's world. It calls for a bit of surrender and a touch of humility.

Sometimes kitchen utensils help. And hats.

Dr. Claw And The Longest Post Ever

noreply@blogger.com (Ostriches Look Funny) — Thu, 20 Oct 2011 03:04:00 +0000

For many years I've longed after a cat for my own possession.

I've always liked cats, having fond memories of Pookie Flower, the not-so-brilliant Siamese that I grew up with. She wasn't the friendliest of animals, but she had glamour. And mystery. Glamorous mystery. Plus, my mom ended up pulling kitty litter duty, so all my cat experiences are poop free.

I have, on several occasions, attempted to adopt a feline friend. I should note that Derrick, my beloved and long suffering husband, is not a cat person. The first cat we adopted was criminally insane. That cat would just climb onto curtains, couches, screen doors, pants, anything really. He would then perch there, on whatever it was, and um, meow. I chalked it up to feline neurotic-ness, but then he started peeing (at a very young age) on pretty much everything. He went to the farm.

Then there was the cat that I adopted that was a black, long haired snuggle bug. Friday, also known as Meow Meow (aren't they all), was a purring machine. He did have a nasty habit of cuddling at night, purring lustily, and then biting you on the nose. He also would sneak up on you from behind and try to bite your legs off. Those cats! So funny with their neurotic behaviors. Hahaha!

I had a c-section and found his unexpected pounces to be rather painful, so he went to the farm again, to be watched diligently by my mother. He promptly was ran over.

I somehow manage to attract the crazy cats. The violent, slightly incontinent cats of the world seem to flock to me.

Recently I realized that the best way to get a "normal" feline was to have someone find one for me. My little sister is 23 and living with my "empty nest" parents. She regularly adopts animals. So far, she has brought a ball python and a beta fish into my parent's home. She has also adopted three feral cats and a dog named Sherlock, who loves to fetch and jump in the pool but who, sadly, hates men. The cats and the dog are living at a house my parents had hoped to rent out. It's my belief that they had better get cracking on finding a renter before my sister adopts a lama.

Anyway, I asked her, "Find me a loving, cuddly kitty that will put up with the boys."Months passed. I forgot about my request. Then, yesterday, my baby sis called me. She had my cat. And, she had taken the liberty to bring it home with her, to my mother's house.

My mother was overjoyed. She said, "JoAnn doesn't need a cat!" and "I don't want anymore kitty litter! Why can't that cat go be an outside cat?!"

My sister, knowing how much I hate dirty cats, insisted that it stay indoors. However, there was a shortage of kitty litter at the farm, owing to the shortage of inside cats. To remedy this problem, my sister filled a cardboard box with soil and locked the kitten in the bathroom over night. In the morning, when my mother went to, ahem, use the facilities, there was dirt all over the floor. Cat prints along the toilet bowl rim, on the sink, on the, well, everywhere.

My mother was overjoyed. Again.

I went to pick up the children, who stayed at the farm while I had eye surgery and while there I noticed the thick, adorable tension between my mother and the kitten.

I interviewed my sister on the cat's tendencies. She assured me that it had not climbed anything, nor peed on any furniture, nor attacked her in the dark. She told me it was a Maine Coon cat, which she knew to be curious and independent, and cuddly.

"Curious, independent and...Cuddly? No. You made the cuddly part up!" I said.

She started laughing, silent, shaking laughter. I had caught her being a cat-oil salesmen.

Then I asked her why they are called Maine Coon cats, and she said, "Oh, well, because they're from Maine and they hunt raccoons"

I stared.

"Are you sure it's not because they're from Maine and they have stripes like raccoons?" I queried.

More silent, shaking laughter. This girl was unreliable.

SOLD! I took the kitten. It was Derrick's turn to be overjoyed.

On the way home, the minivan held a meeting on "What to name the Cat." I was all for it's original name, Cricket. The boys would not stand for it. Cricket would. not. stand.

They declared it was to be named Iron Man, and I declared it to be an impossible name for a girl cat, and they cried, and declared it to be Iron Man, and I almost gave up until I realized that it looked exactly close enough like Dr. Claw's cat on the beloved cartoon "Inspector Gadget".

So, we are now living with Dr. Claw, who spent the evening hiding under the bed and fighting with the dog. This morning it curled up in the sink and glared at me with disdain while I took a shower. Dr. Claw spent the entire day sleeping on my bed. She also fell off a windowsill and is currently, as I type, licking a fork I put in the sink. In short, Dr. Claw is acting like a marvelous, neurotic but not incontinent, cat. I'm super happy.

Here are some photos of Dr. Claw. I call this series, "Oil and Water, Cats and Cameras, Sun and Moon, Hot and Cold, Bananas and Carrots".