jessclark.tv

He is not a tame lion: my journey out

2013-06-17T11:45:00.003-05:00

I spent my first 20 years bouncing from Charismatic church to Christian school, to a Christian home, to a revival youth ministry to a revival road ministry. Somewhere along the way I got tired of hype. Don't misunderstand me, it's not all hype. But there was hype in me, some kind of tendency to pray louder and make more rules to try to gain God's favor, or more honestly, to get God to obey me. And this wild, beautiful BIG God is not very obedient. He is good, He is love, but He doesn't take orders.

So when my world collapsed and I was left fatherless, with a severely disabled child and 2 other children that I watched suffer and die, all the rules and my holy heritage held little comfort. I found myself clinging to the life raft that was the love of God, with all the other tenets of my faith floating by me like debris. Many of those "sure things" sank in that storm, and the ones that stayed afloat are all tethered to His great, great love.

Some of it was right to shed. I don't make a lot of judgment calls these days, I am more likely to give someone the benefit of the doubt. I am more compassionate and more relaxed. I have gray areas, some that are compromise and some that are healthy questions. I am more aware of suffering, more aware of the damage an ignorant "faith" can cause to the injured. I am less sure of what God will do, and more sure of who He is.

"Do you trust Him?" people will ask me, usually people who are adrift in those same seas of pain. I tell them I do, I trust Him to be good, in the deepest way that anyone could ever be good. I trust Him to be present. I trust Him to be enough to get through the grief. I do not trust Him to do what I expect Him to do, or to give me the outcome I really want. Maybe He will, I say. That's why I ask Him. But if He doesn't, then I know He knows how sad and angry that makes me, how I wish I could hit Him and scream at Him, take out my rage and my helplessness on Him. I also know He is not afraid of my anger or my pain, He is not angry because I am broken and afraid. He is the ultimate Father, absorbing my blows and my questions and standing solid and secure. When the storm is over and I am spent, He is the same, solid and secure, my safest place.

I've been resting for a long time, healing. I'm realizing now that the time is coming, or is here, or has been here for a long time, time for me to let my brokenness become more of a backdrop and less of a shell that protects me. I'm a cynic. I'm a cynic that laughs at things I truly believe in, like that God still speaks, that He still heals, that the Gospel matters. Somewhere I stopped laughing at "human videos" and started being embarrassed of Jesus. I don't know how, yet, to embrace an authentic and loving Christianity, free from hype, while still being vulnerable to the truths that are essential.

I don't know, I don't know how. I'm just taking a step to say I don't want to be jaded anymore. I don't want to be critical of the "church". I don't want to be afraid of commitment. I don't want to actively resist being a leader because of my mistakes and my wounds. Somehow, I want to use all of it and come out being solid and secure and safe. I guess I'll start by talking to Somebody who knows.

a letter to my children: about sleeping

2013-06-11T23:09:00.001-05:00

My dear, dear, precious children:

There was a time when I begged God for you, with tears and the smallest faith that you would ever be real. Now I beg God that you would please, please, for the love of Him, go to sleep.

It's not that I don't love hanging out with you, I do! When the sun is up and I have lots of energy, almost half as much energy as you. I love to google answers to your questions and answer as many of them as I can before my brain short-circuits and I am forced to retreat, hands raised in surrender to your overwhelming curiosity. Sometimes, though, when the sun has been down for hours and hours, and you just keep pooping and stopping by my room for leisurely chats, I don't feel maybe as much like talking. In those moments, hours full of moments, I feel more like throwing Rage Grenades and making screeching emotional statements about what is your motivation because you are breaking me.

It might not be super clear to you, but by 10 or 11 pm, I am half the woman I was at 7 pm. I'm like some kind of morning glory that just wilts away in the moonlight. Like a morning glory that binge-watches Netflix and eats Oreos, and for some absurd reason, I do not wish to share my Oreos with you in the deep of the night. Go to sleep. Dear.

In retrospect, maybe we should have just built a ball pit instead of bedrooms with bunk beds, because the beds are the least likely place that you will sleep, in that weak moment when you quit hitting your sister long enough to fall asleep in a pile of toys in the corner. Listen, I respect your passion. You're all about justice, I get that. I'm just saying that maybe after a certain time, you might think about lying down and reading a book, maybe catch a little shuteye, instead of screaming into the hallway about who is threatening to hit whom and who muttered "tupid mom", because right now Mommy might not even intervene if you used the real bad words you learned from that Mario chat board. Mommy might just hand you a cigarette and walk away, right this minute, if it meant that maybe it would be quiet for more than 15 seconds.

In closing, you could not be more loved than you are. You are the absolute joy of my heart, the light of my life. You are the best thing that ever happened to me. Now help me out with a SECOND best thing and go to sleep. Please. Please.

Love,
Mommy

Week 3: I just keep me hanging on

2013-06-10T15:32:00.002-05:00

My quests for fitness and the closest thing to a Tex-mex restaurant continue. On the fitness front, had a difficult time working out last week because I was so busy eating birthday cake and doughnuts. I have literally no doubt that someone has worked eating doughnuts into a fitness routine, but since I am really hoping to live long enough to get the Senior Rooty at IHOP(ancakes), I will do no more than googling it, immediately after I finish this sentence. As I suspected, that is a thing.

Today I did water ~~aerobics~~ fitness, which was way more amusing than I expected. But that's for next week's vlog. I hope you people aren't expecting some kind of finite results, because I think the scale is in the basement and I don't have a measuring tape. I can tell you this much, my red jeans still have me in an Anaconda Squeeze, so I have not yet achieved good-enoughness, from a gut standpoint. I think I have good-enoughness as a general emotional or self-esteem whaddyacallit.

Without further ado, week 3:

evan and rees are nine

2013-06-07T15:47:00.000-05:00

(disclaimer: these are some of the very few pictures we have of our twins alive and I wanted to share them with you.)

Today our boys would be 9. We celebrate their brief lives and the great, great impact they have had on our lives.

nine

How many? they ask

and I hold you in my mind

like a dream, like a secret prize

In the shadows of my heart

you age

through a veil, through a glass

you are alive

my daydreams keep time

losing teeth, climbing trees, sweaty sleeping blonde heads

always with me

in the shadows of my heart

And I am so rich

with my arms overflowing

laughter all around me

laughter in me

but always

hearing

the laughter beyond me

the week we found out there were two

Evan and Rees born June 7th, 2004, died June 9th, 2004.

Swimsuit season: or how to induce depression

2013-06-06T17:52:00.000-05:00

I think there's probably some kind of chemical surge, maybe some chemtrail or something that pops up this time of year and makes adult women temporarily delusional. "I think I'll buy a new swimsuit this year!" they think, like that's a thing you can just do.

Let's just put aside for the moment the fact that we live in a godless culture where we wear chonies out in public like some kind of reenactment of a party at Xerxes' place. Some day, maybe I will weigh all that and become some kind of swimwear abolitionist, but for now I'm just gonna strive for slightly above average American modesty standards.

When I was a kid, I just wore whatever, and then I was a teenager and I wore whatever was the absolute dorkiest possible option, because of both my dorkiness and the craftiness of my parents. I spent my weeks ensconced in yards and yards of pleated plaid and my weekends in Tweety Bird one pieces, waaaay past the acceptable Tweety Bird age of acceptability. Maybe because of these aggressive efforts, I managed to stay unmarried until the age of 17.

I'm gonna tell you something you might find depressing, 16-18 year olds. This is probably the best you're ever gonna look, godless-western-culturewise. You'll get smarter so you might have better hair and makeup someday, but your cellulite factor is at an all-time and unrepeatable low. Don't take it too hard, you're going to like yourself a lot better in 10 years, but you will want some fabric over your "problem areas" which are approximately from 6 inches above your kneecaps to about 3 inches below your chin. Just plan on covering all that up.

Somewhere out there, probably with the White Pants family, there are evidently women above their teens who have perfect swimsuit bodies. I only know about them because of Pinterest. (Sorry for any personal friends who thought I was referring to you) All of the stores that people like me go to have a million of suits for the White Pant crowd, and so we, the rest of us, go and try them on and then we cry a lot and eat nacho cheese from the can. I can't say I understand the dynamic of "My body is disgusting, give me more food to eat for my body," but I participate.

Maybe I'll just become a burkini crusader, or start some feminist campaign against the oversexualization of our gender. Or maybe I'll buy a swimsuit with a long skirt and some big purple flowers and me and my mama can take mother/daughter pictures. See, lots of options.

R2 is 14

2013-06-05T08:30:00.005-05:00

I'm going to be unapologetically sentimental today. 4 months ago we did not expect our son to be alive today. We made tentative plans to celebrate his birthday in April, just so that he could have one last celebration before he left us. This morning he came in my room in his sister's flowered fedora, carrying the streamers we'll put up later, and his joy is contagious. It's his birthday, and that's all that's on the agenda today.

He's been a miracle every day of his life, but today is infinitely sweet. You don't pass through the valley of the shadow of death unchanged. We're all moving a little slower and laughing more. His remaining health and behavioral issues are still frustrating and exhausting, but every interaction carries a new weight and meaning. We're so unimaginably thankful to God for this gift of time.

Today, despite all the odds, Richy is 14. Let's party.

(if you're new here, R2's birth story, and R2's illness and recovery)

redux: Admonitions to the Children of Clark

2013-06-03T16:02:00.001-05:00

As I am/was scrolling through old posts to see which ones sound like they belong in a book that I will someday write, I came across this one and wanted to throw it out here again, because these posts are kind of like children to me, and this sentence is getting ridiculous so I'm gonna cut it short.

Without further ado, Admonitions to the Children of Clark:

If the room is made dirty, who then shall clean it? For you say, "It was not I who dirtied the room!" Yea, even with marker stains on your hands you say these things, even when the wall testifies against you. It is not to me to clean the room, for I am your mother, and indeed, you should obey my commandments, lest a curse fall upon you, the curse of being grounded from PBS kids.

to read the rest of this entry, click HERE.

week 2: am I fit now?

2013-05-31T17:50:00.000-05:00

If you're any decent type of stalker at all, then you know I have been devoted to fitness for days now. This week I tried Zumba and a cycle class in addition to some of the stuff I did last week. I'm not deliberately trying every class the Y offers, but I bet I would OWN water aerobics for arthritis. I'm about 90% sure I'm going to try the non-arthritic water class, just because I can.

I can tell it's going to be a mental challenge to get dressed and out of the house, especially when my kids aren't in school. There's a relatively good accountability here, though, what with y'all expecting vlogs and whatnot. Let's just see how it goes.

The week in review:

anything is possible

2013-05-30T10:13:00.000-05:00

My kids ask a lot of questions. Well. Mostly the middle two kids. R2 just points at stuff and Tristan mostly issues commands. But the talkers, they like to corner me and help develop my character, but only when I'm awake or sleeping.

Sometimes I sit in the big chair at 7 am and ask myself, "Does God have a mustache?", but not because I want to know. If I was asking questions, I'd be asking a lot more of the "What's the deal with calories?" kind of questions, because, obviously, the food thing is all injustice. I look at them through the cloud of the morning, and I know that if I don't answer the question no one will ever put on their shoes ever and the questions will keep coming.
"Well." I say blearily, "The Bible says He has a beard, so.."
"Tell me about His beard. Have you seen Him? Does the Bible say He has a mustache?"
"Um. Well, I don't think so..."
"But it could, right? I mean, have you read the whole thing? Has anybody seen Him?"
"I have... read it... I've read it. I don't remember a mustache...."
"Well. I think He has a mustache."
"You're probably right. Have you seen your shoes?"
"I think God wears a stripey dress."
(soft weeping)

"Well, what if there was a meteor that we didn't detect and it came and smashed our car?"
"Um. That's not going to hap-"
"But it could happen, right?"
"I... guess?"
"What would happen to us? We'd be dead, right?"
"Guys, did you have fun at the park? Let's talk about the park."
"If a meteor hit the park..." MUSIC UP.

"What if God wanted to fly, or dig a hole and hide in it? I know He doesn't have to. But He could. It's possible, right? What if He wanted to punch the devil?" Is there a laser ray gun? Is time travel real? Are aliens real?"
"You know who you guys should talk to? Daddy. You should talk to daddy. He's right in there, in that locked office, with his earplugs in and ocean waves on his speakers. You should knock on the door and ask questions."
"Are there robots who fight? Can people fly? What would happen if this was a REAL light saber? So most people lose their teeth when they're 7 or something, but there are three-year-olds who have lost their teeth, right? I mean, somewhere in the world there is a three year old with no teeth. It could be, right?"
"I-"
"Will I ever get to eat your special chocolate? Can we add that cashier on Facebook? When will I be a grownup? I don't want to drive a car. Is this the future? When is the future?"

One thing I have learned from my daily interrogations is that technically, anything is possible. Except maybe running out of questions. Although I guess it could happen...

werkin it out

2013-05-27T15:35:00.000-05:00

Last week I decided to try fitness. After all, we were fasting entertainment and the only other option was cleaning the house. Also, I have noticed an alarming trend in all my jeans, suddenly switching from normal low-rise jeans that a cool person would wear to a fairly tight, muffin-top inducing mom jean, and by suddenly I mean over a 6 month period. And now we're approaching swimsuit season and my only options have become fleeing to a nice Muslim country where people can wear clothes, or to face the problem head-on. ("What about loving you for you?" you ask. That is technically another option, but I really also want to look good in a swimsuit that no one will ever see because of my modesty tee and board shorts. Just roll with me.)

I've weighed options over the last months. I'll set up a TV by my treadmill! I thought. But then I remembered that I hate running more than I hate the devil, and also daytime TV stinks. I'll run in the neighborhood, I thought. But then I remembered that I hate running and also I hate nature. Eventually I decided to try every class at the YMCA. So that's what I did last week. Technically I have not tried cycling, Zumba or Pilates yet, and I don't know that I will.

Now, you might be familiar with gyms on sitcoms and rom-coms where attractive people with just one big secret meet each other and sweat prettily in spandex stretched over their muscled 20-something bodies. That's not exactly the scene at our local Y. For one thing, the median age is about 70. "Active Older Adults" they call 'em, and those grannies can power walk something fierce. I don't mind this crowd a bit. In fact, I feel kinda like a PYT.

I did interval training, which is basically aerobics with a modern facelift, and I was very terrible at it, because there's a lot of hand to the right but leg to the left and by the time I figure out which side is right, the octogenarians are already walking backwards and stepping perkily up and down from risers. The other days I did things I was a little better at, like picking up stuff and jumping jacks and such. Friday, I did yoga and I was highly amused at myself but yoga is no time for jokes, because Buddha probably frowned upon gigglers. I did like how stretched I felt after the class. Planning on going back because I, like many of my senior comrades, have a little bit of a hunchback and I heard rumors that yoga might help out the ol' posture.

Also I ate good, for me, which might still be somebody else's very worst week, but I don't care so much about that. Will I sustain all this productivity now that I have the internet again? Time will tell.

white shirts for children and other jokes

2013-05-14T15:01:00.000-05:00

Time really sneaks up on you. A lot of the time with little kids, you wake up in the morning and fight your way till bedtime and it seems like endless hours of the day, but then you notice that your baby is a kid and it's a cosmic sucker-punch.

That is why, this week when I got the chance to buy them new summer clothes, I was disturbed to find myself in the big kid clothes for the older 3. It doesn't make any sense, because obviously they are still little babies and they are never going to leave me ever. Speaking of that, sometimes I think I'm only a couple traumatic life events away from dressing my adult children in sailor suits and making them pose with giant lollipops and balloons for family portraits.

I did okay for the boys. Lucky for me we live in a totally unrealistic eternal youth Peter Pan kind of culture for men, so I will be able to buy them Star Wars undies and Sesame Street shirts well into their thirties. Girl's clothes, on the other hand, are not cool. I have a SIX year old. Sometimes I think maybe everybody else's kids must be really calm and still all the time, because there are white clothes out there for children, and even white shoes... I don't think we've ever had a white item last one wearing before it is irreparably stained. Is it just us? And do other people have 6 year olds who can wear dresses with gauzy thin overlays? Because mine would shred that before I took it out of the Target bag. And I'm not even getting into the little sleaze-slogans, because that's a whole 'nother blog. Just the flowy, sequinny shiny grownup clothes for people who still consistently try to climb fences to meet neighborhood Rotweillers and carry tree bark and rocks in their decorative pockets.

I imagined, (as I looked hopelessly for a basic playdress with a nice pattern that could handle a lot of spaghetti sauce) a family of 6, like mine, only with children whose hair laid flat on their heads instead of rising in massive cowlicks as soon as it dried, hair that could be parted and controlled, and these children had no chocolate on their faces and clean fingernails and white shirts and blue jeans with knees and matching shoes. They sat on the couch on their bottoms, not even one family member was upside down or gleefully smashing a banana into the cushion or just barely touching his sister with one finger to make her scream, and not even one sister was smacking her brother hard. in the face. This family could eat a meal without a dish ever falling on the floor or a cup of juice being knocked over 3 times, even the mom in this family ate at the same time as the children! No one poured sauce down their shirts or rubbed pudding in their hair. The mom had white pants. And she had worn them multiple times.

I don't know these people, but I know that Target knows them. Evidently they are their (wait for it) target demographic. Me, I'm okay with my upside-down chocolate-covered heckraisers. Makes life interesting. Maybe I'll wear white pants when I'm 80.

Mother's Day roundup

2013-05-09T12:12:00.001-05:00

In honor of Mother's Day, which I usually kind of skip, I'm reposting last year's Mother's Day post. In fact, I'll just link to a bunch of Mother's Day posts. Tomorrow we are off on a weekend ministry trip with the Clarklings. And may God have mercy on my soul.

Mother's Day through the Blog Ages

the Ballad of the Overflowing Trash

2013-05-07T10:34:00.002-05:00

this is the story of a garbage bag
its stench would be the devil's brag
take heed, ye ears it reaches
a harrowing tale, its evil preaches

a wretched mound of every ill
diapers, coffee, banana peel
ne'er noticed or taken away
"Room for more" thought he, e'ery day

"I could take it out," thought she
but filled with ire, she let it be
"Surely someone will take a hint."
and passed it by with face like flint

one thousand days and thousand nights
the horror stood, a holy blight
and though she stared with baleful gaze
her rage broke not his mental haze

a thousand years with words unspoken
brought to her knees, proud woman broken
collected the bags and those hauled outdoors
while ne'er he knew of her humbling chores

This is the story of a garbage bag
and also a cautionary tale to nag
learn from the woman with egg in her shoe
to ne'er be silent on what a man should do

Uncoordinated: I don't brain so good

2013-05-06T15:52:00.001-05:00

Followed a train of thoughts today about my mental and physical coordination. The train led to nowhere. Still writing an entry about it.

I was a clumsy kid. I was also a hypochondriac, so that one time when I broke my arm, no one believed me until it turned purple and would no longer move. Then, a week later, when I tripped over a hose, fell, and broke at least one finger on the other hand, no one believed me again until a day or two later. 7 years old with a cast on one arm and a splint on the other. I was what you call "glamorous". To this day, I regard both roller skates and water hoses as enemy combatants.

I'm not bitter about any of this, because I have it all blocked and shoved way into a corner of my heart where no one goes. I kid. Actually I'm not bitter because I am a parent now, with a hypochondriac kid, and if she ever breaks a bone I'm sure we'll wait to be sure. True story: as I was typing that I remembered last year she broke her collarbone in the night and we waited till the next day to get it checked out. So I speak the truth.

One of my older sisters is a dancer. Every time I say that I feel I have to very quickly follow up with a disclaimer like, "A dancer like ballet and jazz and modern and stuff," lest someone suspect her of being a lady of the night. Actually, now, she dances with a troupe of black-clad athletic Stomp types, which is even harder to explain. The point is, she's athletic and coordinated. My other 3 siblings do not dance, and I don't know if they're klutzy or not, because I'm pretty self-absorbed, I guess. Also, I'm the baby by a decent number of years, so. But that sister, Leah, I always wanted to be like her, with the dancing and the backflips and stuff, but it's hard, because stuff like walking without falling down is challenging.

In addition to my lack of grace, I am kind of mentally uncoordinated. I mean, I'm smart, but my processes are complicated. When I cook, I use all the dishes. When I clean the floor, I never remember to clean the table first, so then I have to clean the floor again. Today I failed to read the whole recipe and ended up having to move the ingredients to a different bowl and then I realized I hadn't melted the peanut butter so I had to fish it out and melt it and then throw it back in, stuff like that. In the end my chocolate-peanut butter-pudding-pops will no doubt be tasty, but I just think most people probably have less kitchen carnage to arrive at the same result.

I think it's a disability, like someday if they examine my brain they'll find all the smarts squished up on one side like when Milk Duds melt in your glove compartment, and on the other 3/4 of the brain it'll be all squiggly and wacko, and then I will finally make sense. Until then, I salute you, graceful and logical ones, as soon as I remember how a salute works.

There is no "kid" in "pool".

2013-05-01T15:39:00.000-05:00

This spring keeps getting sucker punched by winter. Every time I'm like, "Hey. Where are my flip flops, anyway?", winter is all like "Sike!" because winter doesn't know that 90's catchphrase was probably really "psych". Also because winter is a punk.

Oh yeah, you're hilarious. Look at me laughing.

And around here, weather is fairly relative, anyway, because most of us would prefer to remain in a climate-controlled environment at all times. The exceptions are Tristan, who we do not allow outdoors without a squadron of armed guards, and Brynn. Poor, poor Brynn. She would love to be outside in the snow and the rain and the fakey-spring and the summer, but nobody else wants to play out there. "Novel idea," you say, all sneeringly, like a guy named Brad in an 80's movie, "how about you parent and go out there with her?" Listen, Brad. You're lucky I don't have a can of paint or a pie or something right now, because you'd be getting it in the face. I can't go outside, because of nature. So now you understand.

But Brynn has been requesting an outside swimming day for months now, even though indoor swimming days with a blue food color bath seem like a super fun idea to me. Our annual pool strategy is like this: buy a $10 pool, use it for a couple of months, forget about it, throw it away when it's a slimy bowl of horrors. Wait 10 months, repeat. She's been putting the pressure on pretty hard, coming downstairs in her swimsuit on 40 degree days and such. Finally we had some nice days so I planned a trek to Walmart for a new Annual Petri Dish of Fun in the Sun even though it might snow tomorrow.

That's right, snow. In May. Like I said, I don't care so much, because of the indoor factor. But this poor kid... I bought the pool and I brought it home, only to find that our air pump is lost. So I did what any nutso lunatic would do and blew it up by mouth and then spent 20 minutes trying to take a picture of myself before I realized I was a little high from the pool fumes and the lack of oxygen.

a little help from my friends

I set it up in the backyard, on a deep pillow of dandelions and tall grass, because we don't mow our yard here in Narnia, and I fought the water hose until it came loose and then I laboriously filled the pool I self-inflated with water.

"You do it," she says, "like THIS."

Brynn was ecstatic. "WAIT," she orders, like I'm about to dive in. "I AM GONNA PUT ON MY SWIMSUIT BECAUSE I'M SO EXCITED AND I'M GONNA SWIM YOU'RE THE BEST MOM IN THE UNIVERSE EEEEEEEEEEE" and so on and then she ran inside and found her suit and put it on and put one foot in the water and said it was too cold and she had decided maybe she didn't feel like swimming.

Just before the War

The pool is now filled, not with humans, but with bathtub toys they will inevitably forget to bring in, and I will end up outside in the snow, collecting Tiny Rabbit because she CAN'T TAKE A BATH WITHOUT TINY RABBIT.

For the next 10 minutes, they will be enthralled with thinking about getting in the water, and then they'll be done until spring comes again, maybe next week, maybe never. Somehow, it's all totally worth it.

Daddy: 13 years

2013-04-30T14:41:00.001-05:00

death is a thief
death came and took you down
a giant of a man
fallen
and I thought
joy had left the world

death is a thief
but death is not forever
I learned in time
patience
you are only
a veiled room away

death is a thief
but death is not the winner
I have you with me
everywhere
I can hear you
in my own laughing

life is a gift
life is more than a body with breath
we are beyond time
eternal
momentary
rich, immortal, together

winging it: ignoring the mommy wars

2013-04-29T11:55:00.001-05:00

One of the great things about the internet is that everybody can just say their opinion at any time and there is a distinct possibility that a billion people will read it. This is also a very, very terrible thing about the internet.

Now, I was raised by people who followed the philosophy of the great Rhett Butler. He, if you recall, frankly did not give a *darn*. Their strategy was part confidence and part arrogance, but it did teach us, their children, to not pay too much attention to what other people thought about what we said or did. So even with parenting, I've always observed the mommy-wars and baby message boards with a bit of detachment, because, come on, I know these kids, despite what hottiemommy08 might think.

Still, I remember as I watch my 2 year old eat french fries off the floor, I remember what some people think about that kind of thing. It doesn't stop me, but I am aware of a potential side-eye at any moment, because I might have progressed from laid-back to borderline negligent in my 14 years of parenting.

All this to say, when I purchased a "baby leash" after Tristan a) ran down the driveway into the road b) ran away at a picnic and was found exploring options to get in the creek c) met all the DOGS everywhere and d) has propelled me and/or the MOG into a full-effort sprint on multiple occasions, I heard them, the leash critics, in my mind. (Just take a second and realize how many commas I put in that sentence. I am out of control.) Like cmip for example:

But now I am old, and he is fast and reckless like a Vin Diesel car and I just want some control. So we harnessed him and took him to the lake. And you know what, priusmomof3? It worked. Pretty much.

At first he was like:

but then he figured out he was tethered and he was like:

and then he was like, I'm gonna go IN THE LAKE anyway:

and finally we just found a big open road and let him be like:

In the end, we're all figuring out these humans God gave us to raise. So grace to you, however you figure out to do that. Me, I'm gonna strap him down and feed him cheeseburgers until he falls asleep.

mommy morning brain: or the lack thereof

2013-04-23T11:17:00.000-05:00

There are so many times in life when I think, "I wish I could draw." Also sometimes I really really wish I could do a standing backflip, because life often warrants the kind of celebration that only a standing backflip can convey. "Yay!" I say, lamely, unable to communicate inside my earthbound prison. But the drawing, that's because I have these funny ideas in my head that maybe a picture could say so well, but I can't draw, so I have to write a thousand words to describe it instead, and then the MOG is like, "eh, that blog is too long," and I can either post it anyway, because I am the boss of this blog, or I can take his advice and chop words until my picture is a skinny little surgically altered Housewife version of my original thought, i.e. Twitter.

And sometimes it's harder to get the words out of bed than you might think. Like this morning and every weekday morning of my life, when I am sitting in my big chair swilling chai tea while small people fire questions at me at breakneck speed. You know that part in Star Wars and also all of the movies when you go turbo or warp speed or whatever and all of the sudden the galaxy is all stripy and blurry? That's like every morning. "Put on your shoes," I say robotically. "Put on your pants first. Put on your pants. Put on your pants. Put on your pants." While I am aimlessly repeating phrases, they are doing cartwheels, acting out massively complicated scenarios in which Sonic the Hedgehog ninja-chops a lot of bad guys, and then the bad guys cry a lot because they got ninja-chopped FOR REAL, and then they run in circles until everyone in the house is awake and demanding "breaktist and gartoons" and I stare bleakly into the cosmos, "Put on your pants," I say.

If I could draw, that could be like one picture. But I can't, and besides, I'm tired. After the Battle For Pants comes the Battle For Everything Else like Put on Shoes and Eat Your Cereal and I Don't Care About Your Opinion, Wear Those Shoes and many, many more battles until the war is won except Put On Your Seatbelt, which can last for upwards of 2 hours while we sit in the driveway and I gently weep into my steering wheel. "Is your brain having a stressful day?" Toby asks gently. "Put. on. your. seatbelt," I sob into the Toyota symbol.

"Drink coffee," you tell me, and a) I would, except that coffee, despite smelling like a log cabin full of sleepy kittens and soft blankets, tastes like what I would expect if I were to lick the undercarriage of an 18 wheeler after a long drive through Port Arthur, Texas, and b) it doesn't make me feel awake, it makes me feel nervous, which would take Robot Mommy to Jittery Crack Mommy, which is worse. So. No coffee.

I'm sorry this is long. I can't draw, see?

in light of the Boston Marathon: be quiet

2013-04-16T10:37:00.001-05:00

We live in dark days. More and more, the business of an average day is shattered by gunshots, an explosion, a disaster. In those moments, the world grinds to a halt and we all stand for a moment, speechless with shock and loss. For some, that moment of silence ends far too soon. My heart is always so grieved when people take to the “air” of social media with their answers and their agendas while the blood is still being washed off the sidewalk.

I’ll tell you my experience. The night that my sons died was the darkest night of my life. It felt like my body was going to rip in two from the weight of the grief and regret, the questions, and most of all, my aching empty arms. The people who loved me the most were the ones who just waited, just sat in the crater of silence and waited. They had no words of wisdom, no explanations, just presence. Years later, when the loss has become more of a dull ache and the memory of my sons is sweet, those friends and family are still the ones I trust with my victories and defeats.

Today, families and friends of the victims of the Boston Marathon don’t need to hear why guns would or would not help. They don’t need to consider conspiracy theories and they don’t need us, the movement that fights for awareness of the value of every human life, comparing their violent and senseless deaths and maimings to the death of millions of babies. It doesn’t matter if your cause is righteous. Be quiet and honor the dead. Anything less is not pro-life.

Today, I urge you to be quiet, sit in the silence and pray. Pray for the people who carried out this act, pray for the families of the dead and wounded. Pray for the medical personnel and law enforcement as they forgo sleep and try to bring comfort to the injured and their families. Pray for our nation as we once again grieve the loss of our brothers and sisters. Just pray. Only God can help us.

shot to the... leg

2013-04-10T17:47:00.000-05:00

Me: So here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re going to get a shot-

Brynn: AIEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAEEEEEE

Me: And it’s not gonna be that bad, it’s like a pinch and then-

Brynn: MY BLOOD WILL COME OUT OF ME. THEY WILL POKE ME AND THEN MY BLOOD WILL BE COMING OUT OF ME

Toby: It’s not that bad, Brynn! It’s like a pinch, See, I’ll pinch yo-

Brynn: AIIIIEEEEEEEEE HE PINCHED ME! OH NOOOOOOOO IT HURTS IT HURTS

Me: And, it’ll hurt for a minute and then it will be done and we’ll get ice cream and-

Brynn: I AM NOT GETTING A SHOT

Toby: See me, Mom? See how I’m brave?

Nurse: Okay, Clark family, wow, brought the whole bunch today, I see

Brynn: AIEEEEEE DON’T WANT A SHOT

Toby: This is my sister Brynn. She is scared. She is gonna scream-

Tristan: IWANNNANICREAM

Me: After this, Tristan, once we’re done

Tristan: IWANNANUP

(uses rolling stool to climb on paper-covered table, runs and jumps)

Nurses: OH, HONEY, OH LET'S NOT JUMP

Me: C'mere you

Tristan: EEEEEEEEEEEE

Nurses: Now, Brynn is 3^rd percentile on height. Did you know Brynn is small?

Toby: Did you know that this room is decorated like Star Wars? This is the Star Wars ship

In my head: It’s the Death Star. Our pediatrician has the Death Star in her office.

Nurses: Does Toby have any allergies?

Toby: I HAVE BUMPS ON MY HEAD. SEE THESE BUMPS? I FORGOT TO WEAR UNDERWEAR-

Brynn: HEEEE HEEEEE HE FORGOT TO WEAR UNDERWEARS. MY BROTHER ISN’T WEARING UNDERWEARS

(Tristan is pulling stickers out of the drawer and throwing them in the air)

Nurses: And you’re getting shots today?

Brynn: I DON’T WANT A SHOT I’M NOT GETTING A SHOT I’M SCARED-

Me: Yeah, but I have this chart

In their heads: Oh good, she has a chart

(Tristan has removed his robe and is working on his diaper)

Nurses: The doctor will be in shortly.

In my head: Define “shortly”

The sun rises and falls, dictators rule and are deposed, the cold rain washes canyons in the earth. A tiny foal struggles to stand and becomes a mighty stallion. A tree is bent by the raging winds and grows to tower above the changing landscape. And still we wait.

She enters and interviews me. I am Geraldo, standing on the shores of the Gulf of Mexico as debris ricochets around me. There is a light saber jabbing me in the side, a nonstop monologue about Mario in one ear and an underlying wail from the one man vaccination protest camp. Their voices are lifted in song, in story, in chaos. She types laboriously, tracking charts while all around us the world burns.

And then she is gone, much quicker than she came. She sends in her henchmen and they hold people down and inject them, while I stand innocently by, making weak promises of ice cream and ponies and vacations. And then it’s over, and we are suddenly cut loose, free to roam about the free world.

Home now, with the only reminders a collection of bloody smiley face bandaids and Tristan's hair full of ice cream. I remember, though I'd like to forget. Maybe I should take up drinking.

Your marriage is boring

2013-04-09T12:05:00.000-05:00

Dating is complicated sometimes. I mean, I'm sure it's complicated for you single people, too. I was never single so I don't know. My life went like childhood, girl meets boy, girl's parents sign consent at the courthouse, girl and boy live busily ever after. So, I don't have advice for you today. I have tons of advice, in fact, one of my most popular posts is about dating. But not today, try to stay focused.

Once you're married for a while, there aren't a lot of surprises. In fact, surprises after 10 years or so are typically not good surprises, so being in the know, that's a good thing. But you know, you've told all the good stories years ago. And movies don't help, because they always portray "bad dates" as the ones where the guy slurps spaghetti or the woman is griping about her shoes the whole time, and silence at dinner in a movie is always like 2 DVD skips away from adultery and divorce, so you start to worry.

The thing is, maybe before that you were relatively happy with conversation like, "Hey, remember yesterday when that Coke exploded in the kitchen?" and he's like "Yeah. That was crazy." and then you just eat chips and sort of hang out. But then you start to worry, hey, are we bored with each other? Why don't we have witty conversations and butterflies? Hollywood, you are creating a monster.

You're writing the story, you're living the story, I have to remind myself. Some days will be dreamy and butterflies and most days will be living comfortably and uncomfortably with someone who is part of you. Marriage is work, it's hard and it's a continual decentralization. It's also a partnership and a friendship. It will never be perfect, but it can be really good and deeply satisfying, much more than moonlight and hookups and "magic". Living together, cleaning the toothpaste out of the sink, changing diapers, holding hands at a gravesite, dancing awkwardly and briefly at a wedding, slamming a door, hanging up and calling back to apologize, days and days and days of the mundane; we are living precious history.

So go on a date with the person you picked, or the person your tribal leader picked or whatever, and talk about the kids and the weather and don't worry about being witty or original or lame or boring. Real life is all of it. We get to live life together, and that is magic.

negotiating with terrorists

2013-04-03T12:11:00.002-05:00

Okay, Tristan, let’s have a talk, you and me. Lately, you might have noticed I’ve been saying “no” quite a bit. I can tell that you think it’s cute when I act like I’m in charge. I know it might be a little bit confusing when I am saying “no, no, no” but I’m laughing a lot. And sometimes, it seems at random, I exert some kind of discipline. Maybe during lunch on Tuesday, you smacked your brother in the head and nothing happened, then today you did the same thing and got your fork taken away. Perplexing. Sometimes I try to prevent you from getting inside the dishwasher or the oven or from writing on the TV with a marker. It seems like I am perpetually trying to keep you from living your dreams.

I’m going to need you to level with me, though. No more lies. When I ask you if you stink, no more running away as fast as you are able with a loaded diaper, yelling, “I NO TINK!” I think we are bigger than that. Honesty, unless it is me lying about how many cookies are left in the box. Also, raisins are candy.

Sometimes in life, you can’t find the help you’re looking for. And even when you yell “INEEAGRUNGAR” as loud as you can, repeatedly, for one hour, I might be unable to locate the grungar, because that is not a thing. Let’s reason. Let’s watch cartoons, okay? Let’s watch a lot of cartoons, because that is a lot like a grungar.

Another thing we need to talk about is humor. There are times when you hit the window very, very hard with a blunt object while laughing hysterically. I don’t want to try to quantify comedy, it’s subjective and we both know that. But when I ask weakly for you to please quit breaking the house, I am not shooting for “funny”, even though it seems like I have you in stitches. Other times, when you try to empty Daddy’s file cabinet and I am laughing but Daddy is not, I might be sending a mixed message. Let’s play with toys. How do you feel about toys? We have a lot. Despite your current preferences, you might find blocks and squishy animals every bit as fun as screwdrivers and coasters. Agree to disagree, got it.

Listen, I don’t want to get on your bad side. I think we all remember the incident when I tried, absurdly, to make you eat dinner instead of cookies, and you screamed until Daddy put you to bed with no cookie. It was a bad night for all of us. I admire your persistence, it takes a lot of dedication to repeat the word cookie until you fall into a sweaty and frustrated sleep. When you wake up the next morning, cheery and smelling like the bowels of hell, we will be friends again. I might need to change your diaper, but you have to believe it’s not something I want to do, so let’s just try some cooperation. Okay? Please?

I think we’ve covered a lot of ground today, good progress. We both have things we’d like to happen, changes. So, let’s compromise. I am prepared to give you whatever you want, instantly, as long as you stop screaming. Also, if you make a really cute face, I will give you whatever you want, instantly. Okay? Okay. Good talk.

pranking Scrooge

2013-04-01T11:55:00.000-05:00

I was raised on mischief. My dad was a prankster and a comedian, even when you really wanted him to be serious, and my brothers were always on the wrong side of the line, you know, the "you just crossed the line" line. So I love a good joke. Now, the Man of God likes jokes okay, but he draws the line at pranks. That was particularly ineffective when we were youth pastors.

Our youth group kids, primarily the boys, continually delighted me with their efforts. It was the trial of my young life to not respond-in-prank to their shenanigans, but I was limited by the ol ball and chain, telling me not to escalate. If I could go back in time, I'd probably just escalate without mentioning it to him first, so I wouldn't be unsubmissive and stuff. One of my favorite things they did was the time they tried to sell my car. Luckily we came out and found the For Sale sign with our phone number and a hilarious price before the calls started coming in. Another time they duct-taped our front door shut. We were serenaded at 3 am by a trio of white teenage mariachis. One prank involved a stuffed parrot, kidnapped and held for ransom with a series of clues and photographs. I am confident Ned would be stuffed in a bass drum to this day, had we not had an informer.

Every April Fool's, EVERY one, I try the sink-sprayer trick. Every year it doesn't work. He is never amused. I think I quit for a few years but this year I decided to give it another try, doing a few little computer shenanigans and always, the sink sprayer, and my audience of Toby and Brynn were fiendishly delighted at the idea. Their energy is prompting me to give pranking another try, and so I must press on. For the children.

not going mad: one benefit of social media

2013-03-27T13:04:00.001-05:00

I was thinking about prairie wives this morning, as I am wont to do. I wonder what prairie wives thought about? Staying alive, that's what. Between the blizzards and the rattlers and the ne'er do wells at the local saloon, and by local I mean like a day away. I bet there was less crime out in the dugouts and soddies, because by the time the ne'er do well got there, they'd either be sober or dead from rattlers or blizzards. Prairie wives, they just had their babies, maybe a kindly Native American woman would happen by with some oxwillow or something, or maybe not. Maybe they would just birth their babies all alone and then cook up a mess of flapjacks. Have a baby, whip up some flapjacks, slap a grizzly bear on the nose and call it a night. Them were women, y'all. Nowadays we call each other superwoman if we go grocery shopping with 2 toddlers. Which is super hard, respect.

I tell you what has always creeped me out the most about prairie wives, the solitude. Now, right this second I would pay cash money for some solitude, primarily in sticky nickels and pennies, but these women had too much solitude. I read some book one time about a prairie wife going crazy. (You'd love it, Brooke.) I guess her husband was off somewhere, as husbands tend to be, harvesting corn or playing their rock axes in Arkansas or whatever, and she didn't have any kids yet, or maybe she did, that can add to the crazy, and she was miles from another woman and she just stared out at the tall prairie grass as far as she could see any direction and something just snapped and she went nuts. I don't remember what she did, maybe caught the grass on fire or something, but I haven't forgotten the primary elements of alone, tall grass, bonkers.

That scenario has always been very concerning to me, along with the risk of accidentally trapping myself in my sheets and bedspread and never being able to find my way out, or choking to death on a sip of water. I'm not morbid today, I just hit a roll of concerns there and was unable to stop myself. Which brings up another fear, brakes going out. Prairie wives be like whaaaat? we got WILD BOARS AND TUBERCULOSIS up in here.

I was thinking about it all because I spend too much time on Facebook and I think it's because the lure of instant connection is just too good to pass up. Not only can I be connected to the best angles of my friend down the street, I can also see the most flattering parts of the days of my friends across the world. I'm thankful for that, for the ability to communicate and commiserate, even if it's your "best self". As far as neglecting our children, prairie wives neglected their kids to milk the cows and quilt and stuff, which was all meaningful and contributed to the good of the household so I know it doesn't hold up, but quit your judging. It's keeping me from prairie madness, so just be thankful for that.

love in the drive-thru

2013-03-22T15:26:00.000-05:00

I had to take Brynn to the doctor yesterday. That's a thing with kids, doctors. They have to go. Now, I know some of you hippies don't take your kids to the doctor and I don't mind that at all. But if you ever happen to have a 2 pound kid (my specialty), then you learn to love them. Doctors, that is. Kids are easy to love when they're 2 pounds, even though they look kinda like aliens. Where am I here? Ah, right. Doctors. So we went and then the doctor asked me what does Brynn eat.

And with that, the world went a little slo-mo as my mind tried to remember what the child eats. She's six, for pete's sake. She has eaten a great deal of things. Being the only girl, she has eaten fewer insects and under-chair gum than her brothers, but still, there is so much to be said. So I am blank, blank and I don't say anything, which sounds pretty damning from a parenting perspective. Then I remember the terms "Standard American Diet", used in a derogatory sense on multiple food documentaries. Oh yeah, I watch food documentaries, until I start getting terribly stressed out about the thought of eating only kale for the rest of my life. Organic, happy grass-fed kale. "Standard American Diet," someone sneers, while flashing pictures of obese people eating all of the things I love.

Anyway, I told her that Brynn primarily eats cheeseburgers and macaroni and cheese, which I can't say I'm proud of, but you don't lie to a pediatrician. First rule. "I always plan to get healthier," I say weakly. That's true, I always do plan that, but somehow every day just ends up being a surprise somehow, like I wasn't expecting everyone to need lunch again. On Monday, I think, things are going to change around here. And they do, they always change, but that change typically means another scattered and carbolicious meal, rather than some kind of studious healthier choices.

Truthfully, I'm just shooting for getting to the place where we are eating less fast food and more meat and vegetables. Not kale-fed free range buffalo from my backyard, just maybe less soy/beef from McDonald's. You know? When you are like me, and this is how you have always eaten, "health" can be terribly intimidating. So I'm just going to aim for "health-ier". But not tonight. Tonight I'm eating brownies.