jessclark.tv

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.

sassmouths

2013-03-21T16:21:00.001-05:00

I often tell myself, "I am going to be the worst mother-in-law ever," and then I'm like, "Don't be so hard on yourself, self!" but I don't listen, because by that point I'm usually thinking about cookies, and the cookie brain is the strongest. Mmm, cookies. Hang on a minute, y'all.

I'm just acknowledging that I might have a little blind spot in regards to my children. I didn't really think I was capable of that, seeing as I am a pretty realistic person and I know, I know that I am raising small humans who carry at least my husband's flaws. At least. But you know, as time passes and I run into things about them that need to be corrected, it's always a little bit of a surprise that maybe they are not better than all of the other children in all of the world. But maybe they are, who am I to judge?

The newest development among the 6 and 7 year old set is the sass mouth. I can't say I'm shocked. Sass Mouth is a condition that runs in our family for many, many generations. Some people have even suggested that I have it. To that I would gently reply, and I mean this from my heart, "Your mom has a sassy mouth."

I've always considered my sense of humor a gift, a tool to help life work more smoothly, to bridge gaps and lift spirits. I'm seeing it now as a possible problem, because these punk kids are hilarious. They are sometimes defiant, disrespectful and demanding, but so funny. I'm always warring within myself (is this a theme?) between grounding them or giving them a high-five. I know the answer. I've been reading parenting books since I was 5, for lack of childish reading material. I know I have to be the boss. Which reminds me of a hilarious thing that Toby said, when the MOG took the whole case of bottled waters into his office and locked the door, "Why does he get all the water? Does he think he's the boss or something?" I, being a parent and responsible adult, laughed excessively and then explained that he was, in fact, the boss. I think they believed me.

I'm making progress. At dinner, we've moved from "This fish tastes like DIRT." (somewhat true) to "Mom, how can I say this nicely? This tastes like nothing." or, "This is not my favorite, but that's just because I don't like any of it." How do you keep a straight face, maybe you're thinking. I don't. I laugh all day long and so everybody around here thinks they are the Comedy Boss and I am their semi-competent hired hand and driver.

I'm gonna get a grip on all this really soon and I'm going to lay down the LAW on these kids. And then we'll all laugh and laugh....

R2 visits school

2013-03-20T10:27:00.000-05:00

We didn't put R2 in school until he was 9. Up to that point I had attempted to homeschool/preschool him, but it seemed like he needed more structure and routine, plus physical, occupational and speech therapy, so we put him in public school and he loved it. Most days he seemed annoyed to come home.

This past Thanksgiving break is when he stopped walking and started his rapid decline, so we haven't sent him back since then, because he was so terribly sick. A teacher from his school comes to our house an hour a day, and that seemed to be working until last week when he started screaming "OUTSIDE! OUTSIDE!" at her. Like us, she was mostly just overjoyed to hear him talk. Later we figured out that what he was trying to tell her is that he wanted to go to school outside our house. He verified that by screaming the word SCHOOL at me for an entire day later that week. It was loud and frustrating and totally awesome.

Our first trial run was the "job fair", an exhibit the school district holds annually, in which the special education kids get to practice job skills that they might be qualified for. At first I was kinda like, hey, isn't this a little insulting, with the silverware rolling, shelf-stocking and other menial tasks, but then I watched 70 special teenagers go from table to table, learning these skills and getting so excited when the timer beeped and the teacher would hand them a prize ribbon or medal. Richy had the best time. He was so excited to see his friends, and they were yelling his name and making little excited noises. He had to have a lot of prompting to get a can from the table to the shelf, but once he got started he was so proud of himself. He earned 3 medals, which he wore for days.

The next day we drove up to his school to try an hour or so. I was so touched that every teacher we saw knew his name and was thrilled to see him. It's hard to send a nonverbal kid to school and to trust that he's known and understood and loved. I have total confidence now, though, after seeing teachers who don't even have classes with him cry out of happiness that he's doing so well. We spent an hour in his classroom, and he played the visiting rockstar, only participating in activities that he liked and snubbing the other choices. He didn't talk for them, but he did a lot of jumping and chuckling, and more than one teacher and administrator dropped in to tell me that they had been praying for him and planned to keep it up.

So we're going to give it a shot. His energy level is super high but he doesn't understand endurance, so he still gets really tired after a little while. Starting next week (this is spring break), we're going to send him on Tuesday and Thursday and see how he does.

It's hard to believe, still, that he is almost back to normal and in some ways, better than normal. It's starting to get super happy, though. I'm thinking about doing some jumping and chuckling myself.

teh funny

2013-03-15T16:43:00.002-05:00

R2's recovery continues. Yesterday and today he and I did little test runs to see if he's up to returning to school and it was such a good experience, and I'm gonna tell you all about it, but not today, because this is Funny Week, in honor of my dear friend Tracie. Y'all pray for Tracie's son Mattie as he fights a serious infection and consider helping in a practical way. Now, back to Funny Week.

And just like that, the funny is gone. The pressure, people. I'll tell you my first joke, one that used to slay 'em when I was 2. "There's a guy, walking down the road, and..." (a healthy pause, because timing is everything) "and a PIE SMASH IN HIS FACE!"

Obviously, it was a calling. Now I deal primarily in the, "Nice to meet you, Hungry," game, which is met with open derision. "That is not funny, MOM," they say, like I asked for a review. I could tell them that people on the internet say I'm funny, but it wouldn't make any difference, because I have convinced them that the internet is a web of lies, which has helped Toby install less freeware on our computers, but may have lessened my impressiveness around the ol' domicile.

I could talk a little trash about the man I love, but he's delicate these days, what with the near-death experiences and whatnot. I tell you what's gonna happen. I'm going to hit publish and then 40 things will pop in my head and I'll be giggling at myself all night, ALL ALONE.

So that's it, that's the end. Don't worry, Tracie, I'm gonna have a comeback real soon.

Local hero buys milk, sundries

2013-03-13T14:53:00.000-05:00

March 13, 2013

A Kansas City woman exhibited unimaginable courage and creativity this morning by buying groceries at Walmart. Jessica Clark, 34, took the proverbial bull by the horns today and brought home multiple bags, sending shockwaves through her home and surrounding neighborhoods.

"It was a pretty normal morning," said Clark, a well known Facebook status-updater and mother of 4 medium sized children. "I was having some toast in my bed, you know, holding it up high so the baby couldn't reach it, catching up on some TV, and it hits me: we are totally out of milk." It's a scenario we've all feared, a dilemma that strikes at the very core of every human. These are the moments that define us, will we rise to the challenge or fall by it?

"If there is no milk," says Nobel Prize winner and renowned molecular biologist Hazi Neutenberger, "then what is there? Is there cereal? Dry cereal? Is there anything? There is nothing. Without milk, the people will die." Clark was not unaware of the risks. "I can't say I thought about it for long. The choices were no milk or, you know, putting on real pants and going to get some more." She tells the story in a self-effacing manner, downplaying the agony of struggling into her medium-fat jeans and dressing the baby, moments that any of us would recognize as overwhelming. No one would have blamed her, says an anonymous neighbor, if she had just let it go. "We watched her, from, like, the window. She was just walking out there like it was, like, nothing, just putting the baby in the car and pulling out like, like, well, like a hero," the neighbor says, breaking into tears at the retelling. "I don't know what I would do, I don't know if I have that."

Clark, seeing no way around it, drove her minivan to Walmart and bought not just milk, but extra baby wipes and a frozen pizza. "I seen her," says the cashier, "I seen her standing in line, feeding the baby them colored Goldfish and I thought, my God, what a woman."

Was it easy? She says it wasn't. "The waistband of these pants is starting to really dig in, you know? And it's just... parking is not easy. It's not, we all know that. And it's like 11 in the morning, so I'm breakfast hungry but McDonald's is already on the lunch menu, and I don't, you know, want a cheeseburger for breakfast..." Eyewitnesses watched her load the sacks into her Toyota Sienna, wincing in the cold wind. When we asked her about her achievements despite the odds, she answers with a chuckle, "Listen: I'm no hero. I just did what anybody would do," she says, humble even in the face of staggering accomplishment. "I don't want to answer to my kids someday, say, well, it was hard, so I didn't do it, I didn't get the milk. Now I can say, you know, eat your cereal."

It's a lesson for all of us, a day to eat our cereal and to be our better selves. Thank you, Jessica Clark. Thank you.

Good news: maybe you're wrong

2013-03-12T15:28:00.001-05:00

I was an old kid. I was a weird kid, bookish and awkward (but hilarious, seriously, I think I was very funny) but I spent most of my time with my parents and their peers. Adults have always made a lot of sense to me, not so busy with chasing each other with bugs or making extensive lists of “Boys Who Are Cute”. I had a list, but Reagan was on there… anyway. I was odd. I am odd.

I tell people, “I have always been 40,” and that is not true in a numerical sense, although 40 seems to be gaining speed as I cruise through my 30s. But I was an old soul and then I got married young and tragedy hit repeatedly through my 20s and now I am old.

So I’m just going to be old here and say something to all you youngsters, and that is, none of us know what we’re talking about. We’re all winging it through life, trying to do what we think is right for our kids, for our careers, for our bodies and our relationships, and sometimes we hit gold and something goes right and so we write a book about it, like the formula will work for everyone. It won’t.

I’m not anti-advice. I’m not anti-parenting books or nutritional advice or relationship tips. It’s just that they mean less, the older I get and the more I realize we’re all screwed up a little bit and there’s no cure. You know what I mean? There was only one perfect guy and His book is a little vague about vaccinations.

I’m gonna dish out some advice, since that is the thing to do: love what you’re passionate about, teach from what you’ve learned, and give grace to everyone else to learn, too. Takes all kinds, y’all. Your life will be much easier if you are not offended by the way other people live their lives.

So if your friend feeds their child only jelly beans and they sleep hanging upside down like sloths and all of their clothing is made from foil, but they seem happy and healthy, maybe just bless them on their journey and love them for their weird selves and don’t try to fix them.

And get a haircut and a real job, ya darn kids.

me and Thomas

2013-03-07T15:43:00.000-06:00

I've had the revelation lately that maybe Doubting Thomas gets a bad rap. I think he and I could have a slightly cynical conversation over a couple of pots of tea and both get up encouraged. See, I have an easy faith in God, I feel like I get the basics of His heart (like 1/gajillionth of His heart), that He loves us and He weeps with us and rejoices with us and so on. What I don't have a lot of faith in is how much control we have over the events in our lives, how prayer affects that, how "faith" affects that. Lots of questions there. So I kind of have a "Won't hurt to ask" policy, which anybody with big that-leg-is-gonna-grow-back-on faith would find seriously lacking.

So even during this horrible trial with R2, I was doing what the doctors said to do and asking, in my deepest heart, in the place in my heart where my first baby has his rooms and boxes, if something could change. I never expected anything to change. People around me had higher hopes, greater faith, maybe. I didn't mind that. I just had the facts and my desperate hopes.

And we've gotten some kind of miracle. I can't call it something else, the neurologist can't even call it something else. We sat in a circle in his office, the MOG and I, R2, and the neurologist, and we all laughed because it doesn't make any sense, but he is not dying, not now. He's still broken, but this threat has passed, and it seems like further recovery is underway. There is no way to know what the future holds. We're definitely more aware of his fragility than ever before. You better believe we are relishing these days.

So, how do I feel, people have been asking. I never feel like I feel appropriately. Like, I should just be ecstatic, out of my mind excited but I'm a little numb, like an observer watching a really great movie. I can tell I'm deeply relieved, that most of the weight and tension of the last 4 months has lifted, but so much of the heavy and the deep and sad has come to live with me, and so the joyful and the thankful still has that weighty undertone, there is no giddiness. I'm weighty with gladness. This has been the Narcissist Hour. Same time, same channel tomorrow.

So Thomas, in the Bible, for those of you less familiar with ol' Tom, was a disciple who wouldn't believe that Jesus was Himself, resurrected, until he could touch the crucifixion scars in Jesus' palms. I've always given Thomas a little bit of a side-eye, but now I think maybe Tom had been through quite a bit, and maybe the unpredictability and the loss just made him a little slower to catch on to the miraculous. It gives me a lot of comfort that that hesitation didn't seem to hurt Jesus' feelings at all. It gives me a lot of comfort that Jesus is really really familiar with our weakness and our humanity and He is not shaken by our unbelief, He just keeps doing what He does. It makes me feel like I can come close to Him with my questions and my fear and my immaturity and it's okay, because He likes me and He's not afraid of the work. A lot of comfort.

miracles

2013-03-04T11:06:00.001-06:00

If you follow us on other social networks, then you probably already know what I am going to say. Kate Middleton can rock a hat. I kid, but that's true. What I'm actually referring to is the amazing progress we are seeing in R2.

If you haven't followed the whole story, I'll sum up. Our special needs son was diagnosed with a neurodegenerative disease a few months ago, after an extended period of losing functions, losing his ability to sit or stand without support, losing control of much of his muscular system and eventually refusing even to be spoon fed. In February his situation was so severe that our medical support recommended we call in end-of-life specialists and set up hospice care for the home. I can't even go back to the agony of those weeks. Every morning I would walk into his room, trying to brace myself in case he had left us during the night. He was so deeply tired and in many ways, we felt like he had given up on this life, had been given a glimpse of heaven and was ready to leave us.

We tried our best to release him, to explain the situation to the little kids and to tell him that we'd be okay, that he could go if he needed to go. We braced ourselves for weeks or months. And then something changed. It's spiritual, it's physical, it's all of it. He started trying again.

We went from forcing him to drink smoothies from squeeze packs to using scarfs and wrap blankets to hold him in an upright position so we could spoonfeed him avocados and bananas, with another band holding his head up since he could no longer do that, to now, sitting independently in a chair, eating anything we feed him and even experimenting with feeding himself a bite or two with much prompting. He is walking, he is sitting up all of the time, he is so happy.

The most exciting thing to me is the vocalizing. R2 talked as a baby and then lost that function gradually over the years, about 5 years ago he stopped entirely. This week he has started trying to speak again. He echoes some words, (his first words were "thank you") but a lot of what he is doing is just trying his voice, moans, giggles and whispers. And he is goofy almost all the time. It has been so long since he was happy that I forgot his real personality. Isn't that crazy? Anyway, he is "making jokes", vocalizing these long tones and then laughing. Brynn says he sounds like the whale language from Finding Nemo. :D

I, despite loving Jesus deeply and being raised in church and Christian school (or maybe because of those things), am always hesitant to use churchy language or "Christianese" on my blog, or in my life. I can't get away from the miraculous elements here, though, y'all. I don't know what tomorrow will look like, I don't know what any of this means for the long term, but I know we're seeing miracles today. All I asked for was more time, and God is giving me back my son. It's so huge that I can't wrap my mind around it. I can't even get super emotional yet because I am just trying to process what is happening. To go from fully releasing him to the Lord to realizing that he might have a long life, and be even better and stronger than before, that's a lot to work through. I am so thankful, so amazed, so deeply grateful. Thank you all for continuing to pray for him, for us.

Here's a little video R1 and R2 made:
http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=10151471617613416.

on hold

2013-02-22T14:24:00.001-06:00

"Thank you for calling Bank of Stupidity, we appreciate your call. For your convenience, we will use an automated hypersensitive robot female to mishear you. Is that okay?"
"NO."
"I'm sorry, did you say Billing? Transferring you now."
"I..."
"I'm sorry, I didn't understand that. Please choose from the following options, 'Saturday', 'German' or 'Obstetrician'."
"CUSTOMER SERVICE"
"Okay, you'd like to speak to Customer Service. Is that right?"
"YES. Please for the love of God..."
"Did you say 'Pork Chops'? Your approximate wait time is 94 minutes. Please be patient, you are so important to us. We at Bank of Stupidity live for the sound of your soft breathing. Our customer service representatives are eager to assist you, manic to assist you. Please do not hang up, you are the one bright light in this dismal existence. Our customer service representatives consider you the wind beneath-"
"Mama?"
"I'm sorry, I didn't understand that. Would you like to be redirected to a representative from India?"
"Maama. Maaaaaaaaama. Maaaaaaa-"
"NO"
"MAAAAAAAAA-"
"Transferring you to India now. Your hold time is 94 minutes. Please remember your ticket number 'FSFBV1DDC' so you can repeat it to your representative who knows 14 English words."
(soft weeping)
"Did you say Customer Service? Please hold. Our customer service representatives are talking to someone they have no affection for while they wait to talk to you. Please enjoy this collection of hit Slayer songs played on harpsichord and triangle while you wait. Your hold time is 106 minutes."

Brynn is SIX

2013-02-13T11:33:00.003-06:00

My original plan was to not have kids. I was an ambitious 7 year old, and I knew that being the first female President was going to be consuming enough without throwing in a family. Then later, when the hubs and I simultaneously reached the age of accountability and got married, we agreed that ministry would be easier without kids. I tell you what, nobody knows more than a couple of 18 year olds with wedding rings and a bank account.

A couple of years later we found out we were pregnant (well, I was) and threw that whole plan out, gleefully. Then I had R2, the twins, and then Toby. Every pregnancy, I was sure I was having a girl, and I would name that girl Caitlyn Bryn. So by the time I got pregnant with my 5th baby, I had decided that I only had boys and I was trying to figure out how to name my son after Smith Wigglesworth without naming him Smith Wigglesworth. AND THEN IT WAS A GIRL. Let me tell you how long it took me to decide to name her Brynn. No long, that's how long. 8 years of writing down that name and I finally had my shot. We changed the other name to Kathryn in honor of Kathryn Kuhlman, but Brynn stuck.

I made it to 29 weeks with Brynn, and it was a hard fight. As soon as I had her in my hands, everything changed. There is something so elementally different about a girl, and not just the stereotypical things, although she is awfully stereotypical. There is a fragility in Brynn, a thin veil between her skin and the eternal. She feels, she sees, she knows. It's a strange quality, this iron core of her will and intentions wrapped in an eggshell of passion and emotion and depth. She's beautiful and compassionate and stubborn and sweet.

She is so made of strength. When she was born she was 2 lbs, 12 oz and not much more than a foot long, but she exuded strength. I leaned on that strength for the 2 months it took her to grow enough to come home and then I leaned on it when she would push her tiny frame to crawl, to walk. Now I run headfirst into that strength on a daily basis as she exerts her independence, which I am equally proud of and terrified by. Her humor and her confidence are a strength to me. She gives me such joy.

Last night I crawled up in her bunk to have our ceremonial "last-night-you-are-5" talk, and she told me all the things she planned on doing when she was six. At the top of the list was being much, much taller. She giggled and she planned, and I laid beside her, soaking in the end of five, watching her talk and knowing that she is changing, she is growing.

Whoever she will be, whatever she will do, I am confident in who she is. What a gift my girl is to me.

the waiting room

2013-02-08T17:35:00.000-06:00

I used to spend my days counting down... days still summer, days till school began, till I graduated, till my wedding... and then one day my pastor's wife reminded me that I was discounting today, that all my anticipation was robbing me of the gift of today. Or, maybe even more eloquently, what a salty roommate told one of my brother-in-laws as they worked their way through rehab, "If you got one foot in yesterday, and one foot in tomorrow, you're gonna end up peeing on today."

And then I had a baby no one expected to live, and the countdowns came from everywhere. 24 weeks, they said, 72 hours, the first month, the next hour is crucial. I learned quickly to live in the moment, to let today's worries be enough. The future was an unknown, but today had enough work to keep me busy. So I learned. It served me well, through more babies and bedrests and developmental delays and tours and now it is crucial.

Because now I spend my days and nights in a waiting room. There is no urgency to attend to normal tasks, everything routine seems extraneous and maybe even silly. It seems very important to be in the same room with my baby, to be able to see him breathing and eating and crying and smiling. Sometimes it seems normal in the waiting room, like everything is not wrong, and we live out our days and we talk and we forget for a moment that we are waiting, until we are reminded that everything, everything is temporary. Sometimes that reality hits like solid punch to the stomach, other times it is a tiny gasp of surprise, a bittersweet heartache.

All I know is, without a miracle, my son is on a course to leave this waiting room, this lobby, to be born into what is real. Months, years, we don't know. Today, tomorrow, what will be, we don't know. Somehow he, with his broken body and his damaged brain, understands far deeper realities than I do. On his worst days, talk of heaven will bring out bright eyes from him and his infectious smile, even as we cry.

We're asking for a miracle, or at least for more time. Please, more time. What is becoming increasingly real is our surroundings, our waiting room for the real world. It is undeniable. So for now, for today, we cling to what we know, to love, to waiting, together.