We cut them loose and all four kids headed for the same bucket.  We thought they would fire at each other from across the yard, but they preferred the up close and personal method.

Ellen was less than thrilled when Adam smacked her in the back.  I don’t believe she entirely understood the point of playing water balloons.  Once they’d chased each other around the yard, the kids knew exactly which direction to head:  Daddy.

As the sun set behind the fence, Adam chased Ellen around the corner of the house with the final water balloon.  Squealing and crying occurred.

Ellen wasn’t the only one.  Willa didn’t like all the running and screaming and wet stuff.  Of course, she spent most of the day crying for no reason, so maybe this was just more of the same.

Over the wails of our two girls, the neighbor peeked over the fence and told us, “Y’all are such fun parents.  You do such fun things.”

To my credit, I didn’t snort in her direction.  She didn’t see us go back inside to a totally trashed house, more wailing and gnashing of teeth during pick-up time, baths for everybody (wailing and gnashing of teeth from the parents), and an early bedtime when Sam shoved Adam off the ottoman just for kicks.

Here’s hoping our kids choose to remember that 3.2 minutes of fun they had throwing water balloons over the other 8,589 hours of their childhood.

Around Christmas time, my anonymous friend C suggested that I let her help me decorate the master bedroom.  She and her husband, The Chef, come over most Monday nights for dinner, so we had lots of opportunities to discuss our plans.  In other words, we had months and months to argue over paint colors, bedding, and design aesthetic.  Oh, and we ate a lot.  (This picture was taken when we celebrated our shared birthday week.  She insisted on anonymity.)

Sometime around June, we committed ourselves to a paint color and my room actually began its transformation.  Here’s a before shot, which actually makes my bedroom look a lot prettier than it did.

Here’s the after:

Now let me explain.  Our room is pretty big.  But we haven’t got any furniture besides a bed and bedside tables.  In order to fill the space, we pulled the bed out into the middle of the room.  Then we hung up the giant peacock screen (I can’t tell you exactly how Andrew attached it to the ceiling with fishing wire, but I remember that it involves duct tape, pvc pipe, and some MacGyver magic) to divide the space.  Back behind the bird screen, we have a little sitting area.    Because of all the doors at the other end of the room, there was no place for a sitting area if the bed was against a wall.  So we took the bed off the wall.  This isn’t really finished yet and I certainly didn’t pick up properly, but this might help you imagine the view behind our bed.

It’s cozy and totally hidden from view.  Perfect for hiding from the kids meditation and relaxation.

I had originally planned to cover the bird screen with fabric, but when I got it in the room it matched so perfectly we didn’t have the heart to cover it up.  A happy accident.

C took the fabric we had intended for the screen and put it into tiny little frames on the wall.  And I finally bought the giant mirror from Ikea that I’ve been eyeballing for an entire decade.  (Not kidding, I first laid eyes on it in 2000.)

Here’s a close-up of the fabric squares.

This serene, slightly funky decor suits us just fine and we’re really enjoying it. C and I argued non-stop, but we had a total blast.  (We’ve been friends since grade school.  Arguing is our love language.)  And I admit, I’m a tough client.  It’s hard to design a room for someone who insists on having dark bedding so that she can “eat chocolate during naptime and not worry about getting it everywhere.”

Overall, we make a pretty good design team I think.  But would you want these people to design your next room?

Today that trip feels eons away from ever happening.  We thought we saw the plans starting to form.  Andrew’s vacation time was accrued.  The road blocks in Uganda were clearing.  The money was beginning to appear.  And we were sure that referral was just one email away from arriving.

And maybe it is.

But the last email I had from the lawyer had words like “patience” and “delays” and “please keep in touch.”

For a few months now, we’ve been hesitant to plan anything.  Any appointment I made it was always with the caveat “unless we’re in Africa.”

But last night, even before we heard from our lawyer, we realized we had to start making some plans.  Any plans.

Andrew and I haven’t had a weekend away together since before I got pregnant with Willa.  (Unless you count those months of me on bed rest where the house was quiet and I was medicated, which I don’t.  A pregnant, medicated wife isn’t a wife, she’s just a gestational vessel.)  We didn’t take the kids on vacation this year because there was no money.  And we couldn’t plan it.

But today, I’m making plans.  There’s a weekend away to plan, there’s Thanksgiving trips with family to dream about, and we may even make those dental appointments this month.

The difference is, I’m making plans with my hands wide open.  Instead of clenching my fists and hoping against hope that my plans will change or my plans will work out, I’ve got my palms turned up.  Those plans, they are just mine.  And in truth, I don’t know The Plan.  I don’t get The Timing.  I don’t understand His Glory like I should.

My calendar is just a piece of paper (or a document on Google).  His Glorious Plan is the one I want.  So I make my plans, because it keeps me sane.  But the real sanity comes when I whisper in my heart, “if He wills it.” I don’t place my faith in the plans.  I place my faith in He who is Absolutely Certain of The Plan.  And that makes all the difference.

Isaiah 25: 1 O Lord, you are my God; I will exalt You, I will give thanks to Your name; For you have worked wonders, Plans formed long ago, with perfect faithfulness.”

But lest you be concerned, life is still very much rolling along as usual.  For instance, ever since I went fall shopping for the kids at the consignment sale, Ellen has been obsessed with her new shoes.  Today, she lined them up in the window and guarded them like a mother bear.

Not all of those shoes fit her, but she’s playing house and it involves wearing a pink princess dress and lining up her shoes.  She didn’t get her version of playing house from MY life, apparently.

Meanwhile, Willa did her own dress-up game, only she never bothered getting OUT of the dress-up box.

This picture was taken AFTER lunch, of course, because her before-lunch-look involved much more snot and whining.  Which looked suspiciously like my after-lunch-pre-nap-look.

You all should come visit.

No, really.  You bring the chocolate and I’ll put on my pink princess dress…

Never thought you’d read those words from me, did you?

Sam woke us up early this morning to tell us that Ian was throwing up.  This did not inspire peace and calm in my mama-heart, I assure you.  The pediatrician said that we had to take him to the ER.  In the meantime, Adam threw up and Ellen woke up saying her tummy hurt, so we both relaxed a little.  If it was a virus, that was a lot less scary.  (And by “relaxed,” I mean mentally.  Physically, we were a bit crazed dashing from kid to kid with buckets and wash rags.)

Ian and I spent the morning in the ER while Andrew had the other sick and well children.  I believe it was a time of bonding and Nick Jr. for everybody.

The first doctor we saw had the nerve to mention things like “meningitis” and “lumbar puncture.”  I will forever hate her guts just for speaking such words in my presence about my son.  Fortunately, they decided to start with a CT scan.  By this time, Ian was keeping some fluid down and getting his color back.  When the CT results were normal, and word came from Andrew that Ellen had puked, we all agreed this was a stomach bug and settled down a bit.

We had hoped that we might be able to see a neurologist while we were at the hospital, but apparently neurologists are as elusive as unicorns.  Even our pediatrician was surprised when we were sent home without further testing.

And so we wait.  We’re handing out saltines and soup and, for once, trying to be grateful for the stomach bug among us.  Nothing like a little perspective…

Since I know disinfecting is heavy on my mind right now, I’m pleased to tell you that our old natural home cleaners are now for sale again.  We sold the business and the new owners recently launched a new look.  I’ll be stocking up, for obvious reasons.  How about you?

Last night at dinner Ian fell out of his chair and had a seizure.

No, that isn’t a punchline.

Andrew held Ian while I called 911.  I’ve never dialed 911 before.  Later, it occurred to me to be impressed I could do it.   I don’t remember punching those numbers.  By the time the EMT arrived, Ian was awake and wondering what had happened to him.

We later realized that something similar had occurred earlier in the week when he was alone in a room with only Willa for company.  He claims he woke up on the floor and Willa was screaming at him.  But he didn’t have the words to tell us what happened, so all he said was, “I fell asleep while I was playing with Willa.  And my eyes popped out of my head.”

You have no idea how panicky that makes me feel.

I’d like to say it was the panic that made me eat chocolate peanut butter in the doctor’s office with a tongue depressor, but we all know I would do that on a normal day.

We have tests scheduled for next month, but the doctor assures me that right now, there’s nothing for us to do but watch him closely.  And pray.

And so we will.  Join us?

Sam and Ian’s recent acquisition is “Bummer.”  They got this one from me, only they say it “Bommer.”  Which isn’t quite as effective, especially when they use it after every. single. sentence.

Please note my oh-so-classy daughter coming out of the bathroom, still yanking up her pull-up.  I could have cropped her, but this picture was so “real life” it made me laugh.  Which brings me to the subject of Ellen.  Today I noticed she’s started saying, “Dat’s ah-may-zing, Mommy!  Dat was ah-may-zing!”

This is precious and I don’t mind one bit.  But…  later this evening, I heard a voice echoing through the house, “I’m DOOO-OOOONE!”

Every parent knows what that means.  And also what follows.  I had to wander through the house yelling, “Who is it?  Which bathroom are you in?  Well, why did you pick the bathroom that was farthest away?  I’m coooo-oooming!”

I found Ellen upstairs in her bathroom.  I took care of her needs while she chattered away.  “Why do we poop, Mommy?  Why God make us dat way?”

And then, just as I flushed her deed down the toilet, she said it:  “Dat poop was ah-may-zing, Mommy.  Ah-may-zing.”

It’s like Andrew said when I told him about Ellen’s phrase, “Sometimes, you’ve got to be your own P.R.”

In Ellen’s case, P.R. stands for “Poop Rooter.”

If you’re reading this in a Reader, click over and check out the new Vitafam digs.  Thanks to Jules at Everyday Designs for consulting on the header.  And, of course, thanks to the HTD (hunky tech department) here in the House of Vitafam.  Without him we would cease to exist.

When she’s not climbing, she’s honing her fashion skills, working on how to properly accessorize with red ruby slippers.

Or she’s mocking her sister and “boinket,” by pretending to suck her thumb and dragging her own blanket behind her.

I don’t recall seeing a baby this young with the ability to mock her siblings with such panache.  She’s got a flair for the funny, that one.  (To understand how funny this is, you need to understand that Willa isn’t attached to her blanket at all.  She just followed Ellen around for twenty minutes, making fun of her, mimicking every mannerism of Ellen’s.)

Finally, Willa’s latest accomplishment is spending an entire service in Big Church.

I was very surprised when she made it through the hour and a half service, and even more surprised when she did it again this week.  Sit Time has magic powers, y’all.

And so does she.

I celebrated a birthday yesterday.  I didn’t have any sort of crisis of aging (well, not much of one) and I didn’t feel the need to buy a sports car or dress like I’m 12.  I was fine.  This was due largely to the love of all the people around me, who showered me with well wishes and chocolate.  I was so blessed.

But in my head, I sort of felt the need to crawl in a hole.  Because as much as I love my birthday, as much as I love the excuse to party and be spoiled, as much as I love the attention, I’m really not worth all that celebration.  No, really, I’m not.  I’m a sinful person, wrapped up in imperfect skin, living in a fallen world.  My birth?  Not really worth noting.  My life?  Totally meaningless.

Until Him.  Until Jesus.  Until the God who created me, who loved me before Infinity, provided the sacrifice that would make me whole, make me clean, make me beautiful.  Through the ugliness and sorrow of the Cross, I was saved from a horror of my own sinful making.

And now I mean something.  Because HE means something.  He means everything.  And His salvation, my redemption, gives my life purpose.  And that purpose is His glory.

So if there’s anything worth celebrating in my birthday, it’s what Jesus has done with all my nothingness.  Oddly enough, if I remember correctly, my acceptance of Christ’s work for me happened in the same month as my birthday.  So that’s what I’m celebrating.  I’m celebrating the grace and mercy I received.  I’m celebrating this beautiful life I live and the work He’s given me to do.  Truthfully, I’m not really celebrating ME at all.  I’m celebrating Him.

For from Him and through Him and to Him are all things. To Him be the glory forever. Amen.  - Romans 11:36

linking up with Tuesdays Unwrapped.