AccidentalDesign »

…if you’re in central Arkansas in the next couple weeks.

My wall hanging made the cut for the art show and sale and you can see it in real life starting this Saturday.  Follow this link to see dates and times.  It’s free.  And amazing.  To see the soul of all these artists and how Luke 15 has affected them is striking.  Come.  Bring somebody that is still a long way off.  That needs to know He’s waiting at the end of the long road home.  Someone that may need to know that all is forgiven.  Buy something.  Vote for me, I could use the money.  (did i just say that?) Bring your children.  It’s a great way to teach them a Bible story.  That is our story.  That may be their story someday.  I hope to see you there.

TheKiddos »

…but soccer season is finally here again!

For that sweet girl on the right, well, she has another long year before she can join the fun.  It’s so hard to wait.

TheOldest.  His confidence level is unbelievable this year.

TheMiddlest.  I’m amazed how much he retained from last year.  Oh, and he scored 2, count them t.w.o., goals in the game!

After the games, when they were told to “stand together and hug like you like each other.”  It worked well, don’t ya think?

Look, I’m a Soccer Mom with a cuddly future soccer player.

TheKiddos »

Last week we celebrated our oldest’s 7th Birthday.  (Two days before the penny crisis derailed all thoughts for the rest of this week.)  It was the birthday without a party.  The first of it’s kind around here.  You know the kind of party, the kind that involves balloons, lots of people focused just on this one child and lots of unneeded presents.  Full of meltdowns and tired kids.  Not to mention my inability to spend two real minutes with my birthday child.  The thought of eliminating these events has been kicked around for awhile, but we just weren’t sure.  We jumped off our party wagon and had our own version of a party.  With just our family.  Where we baked a cake and only the Birthday-Boy got to help.  He also designed our menu for the special evening.  Macaroni with Cheese (original not shells), Sweet Potato Casserole, and of course, Bacon.  Really.  We cooked and ate these things.  Together.  On one plate.  With smiles on our faces.  The cake is a basketball (that he decorated himself).  You know, because Troy Bolton of High School Musical (hello, people, get your head in the game) plays basketball, duh.  I loved it.  The quiet evening (quiet, you know for us - remember this is the point that I yelled “ssshhhh….top!”), the $2 roller skates that were bought at a garage sale, the gold fish (hey, did you know they’re all of 28 cents?!  “Sure, everyone can have their own goldfish!” TheBaby-est got one - who knows what he would name it if he could - probably something like “Penny”, TheMiddlest named his “Fish”, TheBirthdayBoy named his “Oliver”, and ThePrincess named hers “Pirates of the Carribean Enemy.”  Really.)  We have video of TheBaby-est singing his heart out to his oldest brother.  So sweet.  And I had real time with my baby.  That is growing up.  You can’t help but blink, can you?

TheySay »

Today ThePrincess acted like she was gagging and trying to throw up to the giggles of her brothers.  Inspired by, of course, all the gagging and throwing up of TheBaby-est in his penny crisis.  I wonder where on earth they get their serious natures from.  She says to TheMiddlest, “Yook, I gakking.  Agh, agh.”  To which he responded, “That’s not gakking.  That’s throw upping.”

(A funny aside - I went looking for a picture of these two together especially a silly one.  Not a one.  I’m not kidding.  You can’t get these two together unless they’re fighting.  And then I came across this one that my honey took not too long ago.  Ah, the family bed, the only place TheMiddlest and ThePrincess can be found not trying to kill each other.)

Understanding »

If that doesn’t scare you, this should:

These two pictures are before and after pictures of the penny lodged.  And then dislodged.

This is a souvenir of our 7 hour adventure at Arkansas Children’s Hospital Sunday evening.

I told you my baby-est was gonna be the end of me.  Then end of me.  And what was I saying about lettin’ ‘em be and then just scoopin’ ‘em up and takin’ ‘em to the E.R.?  Yeah, well, I only meant that when I fully expect to go to the E.R., right?  Not when I think my 18 month old maybe had something in his mouth.  And then he didn’t.  I swept his mouth as I’ve been trained.  Nothing.  And then he gagged, threw up, cried.  And repeat.  About 8 times.  In about 10 minutes.  And when he started drooling along with it, life sped up.  And slowed down.  We began making split-second decisions.  Who was going?  In what vehicle?  What about the other children?  If I go alone, I’m holdin’ the baby in my lap as I drive, in order to handle whatever comes next - immediately.  Not acceptable to my honey.  We load everyone in the van.  As is.  My girl had dressed herself after church in pink tights (showing her flower undies) and a not matching shirt - no shoes, no pants.  The baby - in a diaper and throw up.  Me - shorts, tank top, no bra, and the dress shoes I wore to church - slipped on as I ran out the door.  And the throw up.  Don’t forget my throw up covered shirt.

It was the longest 90 mph ride of my life.

My other babies were alternately saying,”Go faster Daddy” and “Is he gonna live, Mama?”

I ran in the door of the hospital with a sleepy, lethargic, drooling baby.  But his color and breathing were normal.  I clung to that.

They streamlined me like I’ve never seen.  “Come on through.”  “Come on back here.”  “Tell us what’s going on.”  “Let’s have a listen.”  “We’ll take you straight back to a holding room and get the doctor right here.”

Many professional listeners and they all agreed.  His breathing sounded great.  But something’s going on.  Scheduled for an X-Ray.  They explain this contraption.  It won’t hurt him.  It just holds him still.  It’s kind of cold and a tad uncomfortable.  He’ll just be scared.

“Do whatever you need.  Just fix my baby.”

My sweetie in a raspy voice calling for me, facing away from me, more skinny-looking than before (is he always this small?) “Mommmmy.  Mommmy.”  I stood as close as they’d let me and from the next doorway spoke so he could hear my voice.  My comforts that didn’t comfort.  And the nurses that gasped and said,”Oh, there it is!  Mom, we’ll have to do a second X-ray.”  I looked.  I shouldn’t have.  Seeing his tiny little grainy image on the screen and this bold bright white circle right in the middle of it.  It was just too much.

I was relieved to know what it was.  And that it was fixable.  I was devasted that my baby was enduring all this.  I was scared - what comes next?  I was pressured to get it together for my other three children that were waiting for my reassuring stability in the holding room.  I was overwhelmed with guilt.  Why did I keep such a messy house?

More doctors.  More questions.  “When was the last time he ate?”  “I’ve consulted with the surgeon and I’m not comfortable with the risks of anesthetizing him within 6 hours of eating.  The ENT surgeon is certain that he’s stable enough to wait.  We’ll schedule your general anesthesia and removal procedure for 8:30pm.  Try to relax and make him comfortable.”

My honey leaves with the others and finds Nana to rescue some very stressed, very little people.  Daddy made it back to us by 8:24pm.  We are catered to while he was away.  Warm blankets.  Toys, trucks, music makers, books, Toy Story on video in our dimly lit holding area.  “A coke for you, Mom?”  A baby that is tired, worn-out, hurting, hooked to machines, with bracelets on his wrist and ankle.  And a Mama that won’t nurse him in his hour of need.

A procedure that’s delayed until 10pm.  A baby taken from me crying.  Both of us.  I have no one to hold up anymore and my honey catches me.

I feel crushed.  By my ineptness.  By the hour.  By my hunger (when did I eat last?  did I really go to church today?).  By my guilt.  By my doubts (if I just cleaned better, watched better, parented better.  if I didn’t have four children..) By the hospital at night.  By the mom that I talked to in holding.  Her fear.  Her tiredness.  The other baby in holding that kept pulling his IV out.  By the weight of a beautiful facility that would be the dreams of any child, the sweetest night nurses, the most competent doctors, and the inevitable pain and fear behind each door we passed.  The realization of how common our predicament is.  How mundane.  How run of the mill.  How simple the procedure for our child.  How inconsequential.

And yet.  Not.

“He came through it great.”  “Here’s your culprit.”  “They’ll call you when he wakes up.”

More waiting.  More praying.  More pacing.  My arms are empty.

“Come this way, Mama, and just listen for him.  He’s calling you.”

“mama.  mommy.” Such sweet words.  Such sweet relieving words.

Holding.  Cuddling.  Nursing.  Relief.

The baby-est diapered, dressed and cooed over by strangers right there in my lap.  Funny “We’ve been there too” stories.  Ice-breakers.  A “puh-ple” popsicle.  A warm blanket wrapped around not only my baby but me as well.  Burritoed together against the newly cool weather and buckled into our safe familiar van.

We spend the next day “licking our wounds” as my honey says.

The thoughts still swirling.  I can’t help but think of Christian “Dozer” Drews.  I can’t help but ask “Why?” on Marsha’s behalf.  I marvel at her faith.  I struggle with the desire to clean my house like it’s never been cleaned and the pull to just sit with my children and love them more.  I’m so torn.  Which one is right?  I can’t do it all.  I can’t do enough.  I can’t be enough.  And all the circles of thoughts come to rest each time at the same place of comfort.  I can’t.  I’m not asked to.  He does.  He holds our days.  He has them numbered before there is even one.  And nothing I ultimately do or don’t do changes that.  He has us.  He has my baby-est.  And I’m so glad the pressure’s off me.

TheBaby-est woke the next morning dancing.  Laughing.  Squealing with all his siblings hovering over him.  Checking out his unusual markings from the night before.  So much giggling and tickling and loving.  So much relief. So many new mercies.

Understanding »

While trying to bake a birthday cake (with the birthday boy himself), and cook his special-ordered dinner, with 4 small people (who “help” so much), 2 cats, and a dog are battling for the best spot at my feet, my 17 month old dropped two of my glass casserole dishes to the floor.  Which brought about my so sensored, calm, perfect response of, “SHHH*#”  But I didn’t say the whole bad word.  Nope, I stopped short with a gritted teeth “stop!”

To which my middlest immediately said, “Why did you say “shtop” when you’re supposed to say “stop”?  Why did you say the “sh”?”

And then my almost-indescretion was flaunted in my face with all four children sing-songing “Mama said shtop!  Shtop!  Shhhh—top!  SHHH - TOP!!”

Good.  That’s good.

Tips & Tricks »

Due to lack of funds, and an oldest child who used to scream throughout the haircutting process (and sometimes still does) - I have learned how to cut hair.  Kind of.  Like everything I attempt I kinda get it right.  Sometimes.

The 2 older boys have been the actual hairdresser maybe a total of 5 times.  Combined.  And everytime I left there I was exhausted, more broke, and thought “surely, I could do this.”

So I set out to figure it out.  One mistake at a time.  I did take my Middlest to the hairdresser when he decided he didn’t want to be my baby anymore and wanted dinosaur hair.  Remember? Heart-breaker.  On so many levels!

After that first cut, though, I’ve maintained it on my own.

Haircutting day is a loud, not always joyous, messy day.  One that I start preparing the boys (and myself) for, verbally, for days.  Many warnings “Boy, y’all need a trim.”  “In a couple days I’m gonna cut y’all’s hair.”  “Tomorrow is haircuttin’ day.”  “Prepare your brains for a haircut today.”

And then I line ‘em up, and snip away.  Over the years I’ve trimmed just the ends, maintained a sweet little boy bowl cut, a high and tight, a long and shaggy “like the big boys”, a surfer/dinosaur/spiky number, a current “Troy Bolton” (if you don’t know that’s a High School Musical reference - well, then shame on you), and now adding to my portfolio - the cutesy girl “bob”.  Yep, I did it.  I succumbed to the gentle asking of a little girl “Mommy, you cut my hair now?”  And since I could take no more of the girl-mullet - I snipped away.

The baby hasn’t had a trim yet.  Still tryin’ to grow that stuff in.  Chikezie got a new shaved-do a couple months ago too, but he managed to miss the scissor-happiness that occurred this day.

Oh, while I was at it, I cut my locks off too.  And then I went to a real hairdresser and asked her to make me cute, not just choppy.  I don’t have a post-hairdresser pic yet.  Stay tuned.

TheAnimals »

He/She showed up at our house this weekend.  We ignored him/her.  Well, as best as a bunch of children can ignore a kitten really.  When he/she was still here, and, as TheOldest upon waking the next morning proclaimed “The little kitty stayed!  And now it’s at our window meowing!”  We fed him.  Her.  Whatever.  No, I can’t tell the gender, I’m that animal ignorant.  Really.  No idea if it’s a boy or a girl.  I tried looking there.  It didn’t help me any.  And come to find out, it didn’t much matter when naming it.

And can I just say I’m amazed at the naming process.  How different than when my honey and I used to name animals before we had kids.  Such agony.  Such discussion.  Trying out of names.  Maybe they’ll stick, maybe we’ll change it.  Remember Chikezie? But this time, after much explaining that we didn’t know if this kitty belongs to somebody or not and that we’ll have to give it up if it does and if it shows up missing one day then we know it went back to it’s former home.  (But just between you and me I think it’s a keeper.  It was too skittish, too skinny, and just loves us too much!)  Anyway, we asked the kiddos what they wanted to name it.  And TheOldest said,”How ’bout Cornflakes?”  (c’mon, get it?  he’s quoting from the Frosty the Snowman where they’re trying to name his new wife [who's name incidentally becomes Crystal, not Cornflakes.]  The kids are all throwing out names and one kid says, “Cornflakes?”  and everybody else says, “Nah!”  c’mon, I thought it was a great reference!  Especially to come up with it in September and on his own!)  Anyway, TheMiddlest says, “No, we ought to name him Frosty!”  And so to appease both boys the new kitty’s name became Frosty Cornflakes.  Cracks me up!  And to think the name search took all of 3 minutes.

Yes, ThePrincess did get a say.  She’s in a naming pattern.  Everything has to be named Aisha.  Which might’ve stayed if the boys’ had not been so clever and stolen the spotlight.  Sorry, girl, round one of the quickest wits went to the boys this time.

Cornflakes is doing great.  So skittish.  Wouldn’t even come to us on Sunday.  Chikezie initially pretended that he was going to eat him/her.  And then this happened last night.

Now, Daisy’s a different story.  But she always is.  Lots of noise.  Lots of bullying.  Lots of makin’ sure Cornflakes knows his/her place.

As far as the kiddos ~ it’s awesome.  We haven’t had a kitten since we’ve had kids.  Daisy was almost 3 when TheOldest was born.  I had forgotten how much fun they are.  Last night while I was trying to work on the rag seat for the rocking chair renovation she/he kept attacking the strings I was trying to braid.  ThePrincess hauls the kitten around just like little girls should - in that almost drag/carry/hold “I’m gonna love him, and squeeze him, and make him mine” kinda way.  And tonight she was right at home smack in the middle of their school work.  Laying on top of their worksheets and batting at their pencils.

Too much fun!  Welcome to our crazy little life - Frosty Cornflakes!

Understanding »

You think I would learn…

…to put the baby powder out of reach when I have climbing toddlers.  Good grief.

For my newer readers - a year and a half ago my girl did this:

Somehow, though, this keeps me from screaming and instead makes me smile.  These little feet won’t always be this size.

I'mPublished! »

Now you know better than that.  To see what it really looks like come on over to Heart of the Matter and check out the havok toddlers can wreak on my well-laid plans!