Of Deadly Australia

A few nights ago, after our own terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, we decided to read about Alexander as we tucked into bedtime, because we all know, it doesn't get worse than that for a white, middle class American child (I mean, waking up with gum in your hair? Tragic.). As I read the last line, my daughter surprised me with her response:

Me: "Mom says some days are like that. Even in Australia."
Micaiah: [confused, like someone just said the most ridiculous thing she's ever heard] "But how can there be days like that in Australia? There are no people in Australia, or they'd die!"

I giggled to myself. My indoctrination was working.

A number of years ago, while I was in the throes of lonely middle school years, my family tossed around the idea of a move to the land down under. My dad had been given a rare career opportunity that would take us all to Australia to live for two full years.

Already a traveller at heart, I was elated! Two years in Australia?! We'd get a koala for a pet and go snorkeling in the Great Barrier Reef on weekends (hey, let a sixth-grader dream, ok?). And the only thing standing in the way was our answer - yes or no?

Uh, yes! Duh, yes. (said the sixth-grader in me)

But then there was my sister - who was not in the lonely middle school years, but in the thriving high school years - the ones with friends, with prom, with basketball games and graduation. She would be giving up the two final years of those moments for this adventure. And she was not having it. To be fair, I don't actually recall her declaring this in any sort of diva-like tantrum. It was more of an understanding my parents had of where she was in life and what she needed.

Blah. Blah. Blah.

All I heard were my dreams for our pet koala being flushed down the high school toilet. High school was lame, friends were over-rated and being stuck in land-locked Missouri was not worth any of it.

But, now, as I look back with fresh eyes, I am grateful. And I'm not going into some sappy, "if we'd gone my life would have been different" direction - but rather, "if we'd gone, I might not have survived." Because in the years since, I have discovered something:

Everything in Australia wants to kill you.

It's true. In fact, after much research (or sitting on the couch as facts swarm at us from internet and television), my husband and I have come to this very real conclusion. Because every time you find a list of the "top deadliest," "most poisonous," and "scariest" it's Australian native creatures and plant-life that top the list.

Like spiders who don't just attack because they're scared - but will HUNT YOU DOWN*. Plants that induce such pain that those who touch it opt for suicide rather than endure the torturous agony. Snakes (and not the innocent, cute kind - because I don't mind those) that slither right into homes.

I mean, seriously, death around every corner.

Thus, as a responsible parent, I have passed this information along to our children. We've watched YouTube videos of deadly plants, and I was sure to point out where the majority of those came from. My kids know it well: Australia = Death. And I had no idea how well I had passed along this message until that night, as we read about poor Alexander and his hated railroad train pajamas.

And, suddenly, through my daughter's brain-washed eyes, that innocent children's book took on a much darker turn. I mean, just how bad is it when your marble washes down the drain, that you would turn to Australia as your hope and dream. And thus, it has become clear to my children, poor Alexander has turned suicidal in the face of his dessert-less lunch and white shoes with white stripes. He clearly has nothing left for which to live.

Imagine there shock, therefore, when I re-assured them, "There are actually people who live in Australia . . ."

Maybe I need to re-consider my educational strategies . . .


*Please note: these facts about Australia are true. I did not look them up or bother with cross-references. Because I've heard them. On the internet, no less. So, absolutely true. Beyond a shadow of a doubt. . . . But don't quote me on that.

**I've also heard there are pretty things and neat people. But I'm sure that's just a conspiracy contrived from the Australia Board of Tourism, who realizes it might otherwise be difficult to lure people to a former penal colony. See - once upon a time, they understood and they sent people, DANGEROUS people, there to DIE. Pure fact.

Of Her Big Decision

About a year ago, we were in our pretty new house and one afternoon I was changing a boy's dirty diaper (ah the glamour of motherhood) when from the next room I heard my beautiful five-year-old call out from the comfort of her tiny pink armchair, "I just asked God to come into my heart!"

Wait, what?!

I had a panicked moment of realizing I needed to finish the task at hand - hello, poopy bottom - while my daughter was apparently having a spiritual epiphany next door.

"Baby, wait right there! I'll be there in a minute and we can talk about it!"

I wasn't prepared for this moment. I mean, really, was not prepared for my daughter to just pronounce this simple little act as something to be done as swiftly and matter of course as brushing one's teeth. I knew, at five years of age, she probably did not know quite what she was doing, but at the same time, why couldn't it be that simple? Why couldn't she decide in the simplicity of her little purple bedroom to follow Jesus for the rest of forever? And if she made that decision, why shouldn't she follow through?

But wasn't it supposed to be more complicated than this? Weren't we supposed to have a heart to heart? Weren't we supposed to lead her in some prayer or something?

So, I was torn - between the organic nature of a child making her own decisions, and recognizing the weight of this sort of decision and the gravity with which this decision should be handled.

Of course, we talked - I told her if she was really ready to make this step we would talk with our pastor so he could help her understand what this meant.

Now, it's important to understand that at this time in our lives we were attending our church's Saturday evening service - so, while our church's typical Sunday morning crowd averaged about 400 attendees per service, we were used to sitting in the second row of a congregation of about two dozen every Saturday night. And after nearly every service our little precocious one was always so eager to go tell Bro. Todd whatever her news for the week was - whether it meant showing him her new Bible or her new shoes. She loved talking to him.

But when I suggested talking to him about this most important decision, one she should be thrilled about, she suddenly resisted. Deciding, nevermind, she didn't really want to be a Christian.  I was baffled, but didn't push.

Later, in talking to our pastor's wife, she told me this was usually a good indication if a child was "ready" - because if she truly wanted to become a follower of Jesus, nothing would stop her - not even talking to Bro. Todd.

Thus, we continued to wait. I wasn't eager to push her too early, anyhow.

Fast forward a year, and many spiritual conversations, later, to Good Friday.

We began the day discussing what the significance was. She had read on her calendar that it was the day before "Passover Begins" - so we talked about Passover. She has always been a big fan of the story of the Israelites putting blood on their doorways so the Angel of Death would not kill the firstborn sons in those homes. Yet, when I asked her if she remembered what Passover meant, she began with, "It's when Jesus took the bread and said, 'This is my body, if you do this you will be part of me.' and he took the wine and said, 'This is my blood . . .'"

Here is where I want to thank the amazing staff of our children's department at church - because I never taught her this part of the story. These are all words she clearly must have learned in Sunday School.

Of course, we discussed that further and went about our day. Later, we discussed that at the service that evening we would have The Lord's Supper but they would not have any because it's only for those who have made the decision to follow Christ. I was really trying to prepare them for the moment of the passing of the plate when crackers and juice would pass them by and Mommy and Daddy wouldn't let them have some. Because no one needs to deal with an Emmett who isn't getting a snack when they're trying to focus on the body and blood of Christ.

But, then, the natural consequence of my warning was that everyone suddenly wanted to become a Christian - it's all about that bread and juice (or bread and wine, as Micaiah continued to emphasize). Which meant, of course, I had to spend the next hour or so convincing Emmett that he couldn't become a Christian just to have food in service.

And the subject was dropped.

Until another couple of hours passed and Micaiah, always loving to just drop the spiritual bomb as if it's nothing, came marching down the stairs with the broadest grin I'd seen on her face in a long time, and declared, "I just went upstairs and asked God to come into my heart - and now I'm a Christian! And now we can talk to Bro. Todd and I can get baptized!"

Well, now I was torn. Because here I was, yet again, caught unaware, and not sure where to go from here. On the one hand, that was really exciting news. On the other hand - was she, too, just looking for that bread and wine? And why couldn't she ever do this when her father was home?! So I sent her back upstairs where she and I could talk.

I asked her multiple questions, such as what it meant to ask God into her heart, why she wanted to do so, etc. And the whole time, she had the most brilliant smile on her face. I can describe it as none other than a Holy Spirit change.

And sure enough, as she finished out the afternoon, her attitude (which we'd been fighting with all week) was completely changed. She was helpful and kind and there was always that smile (even days later, when a friend of ours commented to her about how polite she had been, her response was, "It's because I'm a Christian").

At church that evening, she was eager to tell everyone, "I'm a Christian now!" and even continued to ask, "When will I get to tell Bro. Todd?!" (which we did immediately following the service). And after much deliberation, she even was allowed to have her first taste of the Lord's Supper (and when I say much deliberation, I mean, she didn't even get to have her own bread, because I didn't decide until after the plate had passed and I finally tore mine in two to share with her), because I realized I didn't need to wait for her to understand what it meant - she had already told me that morning.

And that everlasting smile - the joy of a changed heart - would not leave her beaming face.

Which may have only been slightly eclipsed by the cries of her brother as we left church that evening, "But I didin't get anything to eat!"

Of Their Fork

Our kids share a fork.

And it's not because we have any lack of silverware or because we are trying to teach them some important lesson. No. It's because this is their compromise.

In a world where there are many floral-handled silverware, which, by the way, are way better than the white-handled silverware, either option being the rejected hand-me-downs from dad's and mom's (respectively) college days, there is only one fork with a solitary rose adorning the smooth silver handle. And there is one little girl who appreciated the beauty of that simple rose. And there is one little brother who just always has to have what his sister wants.

So, at some point, after much fighting and a long fork time out, they struck a compromise - they could share it. Now, at breakfast, one hurries to eat their eggs before passing the fork along to the other. For other, more fork-intensive meals, I have to draw the line and either one person gets to have it (which almost never happens) or they agree to save the precious fork until morning. And when they see their fork, gleaming, all freshly-washed in the dishwasher, they squeal with delight, "We can share today!"

And this is their preferred method of eating. Like Laura and Mary sharing a tin cup back on the prairie.

Except, you know, they actually have a choice.

You know, whatever keeps the peace.

This is it. The Holy Grail of Forks. And, yes, I had to retrieve it from its eternal home, the dishwasher, for this photo.

Of My First Daughter

Dear Micaiah,

I loved watching you dance in the leaves last weekend. Or, rather, twirl while waiting. Waiting for them to fall so you could dash to catch them. Jumping through your imaginary hopscotch board on the driveway. Waiting. Just so you could catch a bit of autumn in your hands. I delighted in watching you, my beautiful daughter - way bigger than I ever gave you permission to be.

It occurred to me - you are the first little girl with whom I've stood in the front yard, watching for leaves to tumble through the air.

Being the oldest, you have had to struggle with Mommy and Daddy as we bumble through this parenting thing. As we determine how we're going to discipline and when. We've expected so much (at times too much) from you because we still don't know what we can expect from a little girl your age. As the big sister, we expect you to set a good example and, let's be honest, at 6, you still need a good example. And we fail so often at that. And let's not even talk about the ways we've failed you at potty training.

But despite all the difficulties and weighty expectations, I want you to know, I treasure you. I fill with joy at all the moments we've shared, because being the oldest doesn't just mean you the first child in my womb or the first baby of my own flesh held in my arms.

Yours were the first tiny hands I held as those precious legs learned to stumble their way over this earth. Yours were the first bedtime stories I read (I was so eager, I started on your very first night at home - with, appropriately, "In a People House"). Your feet were the first I tried to squish into tiny shoes. You were the first strapped to my grocery cart - the first little hand waving, "Hi!" to every stranger I passed, melting them with your endless smile - you are still melting hearts at the grocery store.

You were the first I buckled into a stroller and the first for whom I stirred together baby cereal. Your head was the first little bald baby head I washed. You were my first pint-sized cookie-baking partner and the first arms I wrapped around a squirming baby brother. Your toes are the first little nails I painted and the first to dance on top of Daddy's.

Yours were the first little hands I taught to roll dice on a game board or how to hold a hand of Skip-bo cards (your great-grandma would be so proud). You were the first little dancer I've driven to class. You're the first one I ever packed up for a sleepover at Aunt Dayla's or whose hair I pulled up into a princess bun for the local parade (in fact, your hair is the first little girl hair I have ever successfully pulled into any hairstyle that was passable).

You are my first daughter and I have learned so much from you. Thank you for your patience, your smile and your sweet innocence. I love you so much.

Love always, Mommy

Of the Ways They Interrupt

Every morning (or as best fits into the day's schedule) we read an excerpt from The Jesus Storybook Bible, after Momma has finished her eggs and while the kids continue to munch on their cereal. We've cycled through the story of God's people a few times by now, and each time we finish, we just come right back to The Beginning.

Today was the most serious of the readings. The Crucifixion.

As I read about how He carried his cross and the soldiers mocked him, trying my best, with my voice, to portray the gravity of the moment, each of my children clamored for my attention. Emmett, sitting closest, placed his hand gently on my arm. Joseph shot his arm in the air, Micaiah's hand also stood raised.

I finished the page and turned the book to show the pictures as I addressed them each in turn.

"Yes, Emmett?" I acknowledged his gentle waiting hand.

"Um, in the song, they call it a 'tree' - or, I mean, in the story at church. And, um, also . . . Not now, but on the next page, I mean the next chapter it's coming, they're going to put Him in the Tomb."

"That's right, Emmett. What did you need Micaiah?"

"Um, I think we should go Me, Emmett and Joseph to pray for breakfast, lunch and dinner." That's right, before the story started, the kids had been arguing over who would pray for the meal, just as always.

"Micaiah, it is up to Mommy and Daddy to decide who will pray and when. You will not make a chart or set a schedule. We will decide for whatever reasons we choose."

She pouts and I turn to Joseph, still waiting with his arm up.

"Yes, Joseph?"

"Um, Jesus - monkeys like bananas!"

"Yes, yes they do."

Those are my children in a nutshell. Emmett, the sponge - always listening, soaking things in, making connections and asking questions. Micaiah, the planner - with a solution to every problem and a plan to make things right (what else from the girl who arrived on her due date - right on schedule). Joseph, well, Joseph.

Man, I love these kids.

Of Losing Her Teeth (Literally)

Way back in January (which feels like yesterday), I took Micaiah for her regular dental check-up, where she received exciting news: she had her first loose tooth! Now, of course, as we all know, if it took a dentist to tell you your tooth was loose, it's probably not on the precipice of falling out just yet. But Micaiah, who has been waiting for this moment ever since she first watched The Berenstain Bears Visit the Dentist at the tender age of three, was ecstatic.

And for months we got to hear her tell everyone she met, "I have a looth tooth!" performing her best mimicry of Sister Bear's loose-tooth-lisp (try to say that without lisping). So, the day before Easter, on a Saturday morning visit to the donut shop, we smiled and nodded while she, once again, told us about her precious tooth. Until I got finished paying and joined my family at the table, where my husband said, "You need to see this"

Lo and behold, that tooth was loose! More than dentist-tapping-on-it loose, but tongue-wiggling-it-prominently loose. "That's going to come out in the next couple days," he declared.

He may have over-estimated.

That very afternoon, Micaiah came from her room after nap time to tell me a sad story, "I was playing with my tooth and fell out and now I can't find it!"

Wait. Back up. It what? "Wait, is your tooth in your mouth?!"

"No! I don't know where it is!"

Still processing. "It came out?"

"Yes, and then I lost it!"

You're telling me! She lost a tooth! Her first tooth! And she was more upset at the literal losing of the tooth than at the fact that she now had a distinct hole in her bite. No worries, though, Daddy came to the rescue and found that tooth in the thick pile of her new carpet (we had just moved in a few weeks before and the texture, thick enough to lose something in, was still new to her). And our baby girl got to leave her first tooth under her pillow. And the Tooth Fairy almost forgot for the first time to give her a dollar.

And of course, our precious planner, put that dollar right in her future-car fund. She has much more restraint than her mother.

Fast forward a couple of months. She had started it again, insisting the tooth right next to the half-filled hole, where her new chomper is pushing it's way into place, was loose. And sure enough, it was a little wiggly. And by two nights ago, as we prayed for her before bed time, her smile showed a distinctly crooked tooth - it was barely hanging on.

Thus, after breakfast yesterday morning, when she came to me with the same story, "I lost my tooth. I don't know where it is!" I was a little less surprised, but no less excited. We were able to narrow the time down to realize she probably lost it while she ate, but the little guy is still missing.

Thus, she wrote a note and left it dutifully under her pillow, hoping the Fairy would understand. Unfortunately, the Tooth Fairy's response must have fallen out from under the pillow while she slept, so the poor girl woke up thinking the Fairy had taken the note, been utterly disappointed in her and left nothing in return. I can only imagine the shame she bore for the hour or so until Momma found the new note and read it to her.

No worries, she found the dollar the Tooth Fairy dropped under her bed - and this one isn't going in the car money - it went straight into the money purse. This one is getting spent.

As for me, I'm ready for this little girl to stop taking the phrase "losing a tooth" quite so literally.

(Side Note: She's totally wearing the same skirt in those pictures. Considering she doesn't wear that skirt every day or anything, I find that humorous. Could just be me.)

Of Continuing the Tradition

Once upon a time there was a little girl - a princess in her own right. And every month, as a part of the routine school day, she would receive a precious white sheet of paper containing the key to the realm holding her some of her family's most precious memories. For on that paper were coupons . . . to a magical place called . . . Skateland.

And just about once a month, the family would load up the car on Friday night, head to the edge of the kingdom of La Vista, Nebraska, and pull into the parking lot of the white brick building with bold black lettering spanning the length of the wall, declaring its name to the world. They would find a secluded table, lace up their tan rentals with orange wheels and hit the polished wood rink. The lights were always too dark to make out much, unless you were there, in the center of the action, or you donned your very own glow stick.

And when the announcer would declare a couples skate, the princess would push herself off the floor, except for that magical time of night when it was her turn with the king - her daddy. And they would hold hands as they floated around the rink to the tune of Billy Ray Cyrus crying about his Achy Breaky Heart.

They were fond memories, indeed.

That same princess grew up. And though it had been years, the day she married her very own prince, they celebrated on a rink of blue. They danced their first dance and skated their first skate in their beautiful wedding attire. And her mother and father, who had spent months joining awkward pre-teens at their local rink, preparing their bodies for the task at hand, were there, too.

And it was a fond memory, indeed.

Thus, the princess found herself, eight years later - having not donned skates since that magical day she joined her life with her prince - at the same skating rink with her very own little princess.

The little one's legs were shaky and unsure. The orange wheels pulled themselves from under her more than once and she eventually needed a brace - patched together from PVC pipe and a little duct tape - to even stay upright without her mother using every muscle to keep her on her feet. The little princess was scared - terrified, even - but she pushed through. She would take a lap and take a break, but each time, she would muster up her resolve and declare, "I want to go back out there." She fell and let her mommy pick her up. She teased her mommy when she, too, took a couple of stumbles. She wore a brave smile and let loose cautious giggles. She was vulnerable and courageous. And they skated the couple skate (though no Billy Ray Cyrus was to be heard) and watched the glow-skate. The older princess was proud, heart overflowing.

And it was a fond memory, indeed.

Lacing her up (this task is SO much harder than it looks!)

Ready to roll!

This face, her expression after her first go-around, sans brace, sums up how she felt about the experience in the beginning.

Stretching her skating legs.

*Many thanks to the dear friends who invited Micaiah to her first-ever skating party and for letting me join in the fun!

Of Our Non-Expendable Brood

As we await the long-coming arrival of Baby #4 to our growing flock, I recognize we have crossed a threshold - in fact, we crossed it back in 2011, when our youngest had just turned one, our oldest was still yet two and we learned our third was on the way, the point at which the question on everyone's lips subtly changes to, "So, are you planning to have more?" to "So, do you think you're done?"

And whether real or imagined, there is a definitive sense of judgment in our culture toward those populating the earth with more than the allotted 2.5 children. Sometimes I feel the weight of those questioning eyes, with my burgeoning belly and three little ones scurrying underfoot as we head to the library or the grocery store.

Yet, I watch my children playing, all seated together on the floor engrossed in a book or huddled into the plastic Fisher Price tree house out back, and as I melt in their large brown eyes I ask myself this question, "Which of these would I give up so as to have a socially acceptable amount of off-spring?"

Would it be the fiery strawberry blonde? Maybe it would have been nice to have waited just a little longer before starting our family - more time for my husband and I to have to ourselves as 'just us' before taking the deeper plunge from marriage into family. We could have traveled. We could have indulged in couple time and spare change. But then, where would our boys be without their big sister to lead the way? And who would impress me with the compassion she shows for others or her aptness for learning?

Or maybe it would be that middle one. Perhaps it would have been nice to have that longer gap - breathing room between Micaiah and Joey? But then, what would I do without my sweetly sensitive, yet rough and tumble little boy with that insatiable curiosity? And with whom would Micaiah have "camp-overs" in the living room or play hide-and-seek throughout the house? Joey isn't quite old enough for that, yet.

Well, then there's that, maybe we'd just give up that youngest one. He doesn't do much to contribute to the family, yet. Perhaps we could have enjoyed those first two a little longer if we'd spaced it out a tad. But, then, whose mischievous grin would break my stressful days? Or who would climb in my lap every time I sat on the floor to be with the other two?  Who would stand next to me in the kitchen, waiting to help, as I prepare meals? Who would offer Emmett the joy of having a brother and future games of cowboys and Indians or catch in the yard?

Then again, maybe we should have just been done after three. That's a perfectly acceptable number. But then, what would I do, on those long days, without the refreshing kicks, tiny reminders of life inside and the purpose I hold? Where would be that hope of a baby sister for our eldest - something of which she has long dreamed?

Where would we be, as a family, if any one of us were missing - had never even existed? Perhaps we'd be just fine. But seeing where we are now, I wouldn't have it any other way. I know God has formed our family perfectly, and I have a strong sense he's not finished with us yet. Which is just fine - because he seems to have done a wonderful job of putting just the right tiny souls into our wonderful little mix at just the right times.  Perhaps not every family is meant for this kind of blossoming - their perfect number may be smaller than ours - but I am so grateful for all we have been given, and all that is yet to come.

Of Walking Away

By the time my husband's alarm sounded this morning, I was in shock - there was no way that sleepless night was over already. Surely it was only 2am and his poor clock was just confused.

Unfortunately that was not the case. And my poor brain has been suffering the consequences of its own inability to rest. As evidenced by the fact of my sitting up in bed (entirely too early), rubbing my hand over my swollen belly and thinking, "I sure am getting fat." It was maybe a full two seconds before I remembered there was life growing in that belly, not just a stash of chocolate chip cookies.

Thus, after pouring milk on the cereal of a daughter who loathes milk on her cereal (though loves it in her cup) and dealing with the apocalyptic outcome of that brain-fogged action, as I listened to the chorus of my two eldest arguing over who would be allowed to open the fridge so the boy could put his un-finished cup of milk inside, I sighed. Trying once, unsuccessfully, to supersede the volume of his irrational sobs, to offer some sort of resolution (or, perhaps, a solid, "Stop crying and put your milk in the fridge! Sissy already has it open for you!"), I simply shook my head and walked away.

This was way below my pay-grade.

I recognized this issue was, in fact, one that could be settled by young children, and the value of my sanity was much higher than the fairness of whatever outcome they could manage.

And I left. I entered my room, closed the door, and started to get dressed, feeling slightly guilty over my inability and unwillingness to fix it.

It was only after the door had been opened again, as I straightened my sweater over that bulging belly, that Emmett came dashing into the room, sister close behind.

"Momma! I opened the fridge and 'Caiah held my cup and then she gave me my cup - "

"And then I threw the door closed!" she finished, triumphantly.

Though the slamming of the door isn't exciting to me, the fact that they successfully navigated the field of conflict resolution with a solution that left them both happy and proud of their independence re-assured me of my decision to walk away. Had I not, I would have missed this blessed moment - the one when Momma realizes it's not just her fatigue talking, but her children really can solve their own problems (some of the time, anyway).

And sometimes it takes us just walking away to realize how independent our children can really be.

Of Our Little Potato-Head

Philip had finished telling me the adorable way Emmett had reacted when Philip asked to check his diaper. As he left the room, I giggled and told Micaiah, who sat next to me, "Your brother is silly."

She laughed, too. "Yeah, he's like a potato-head. Like a potato who says, 'I'm going to jump and turn around when Daddy needs to check my diaper. And I'm going to stick out my toochy [her pronunciation of tushie]!"

Yes, Micaiah. Just like that kind of potato.

Of Naming the Baby

Conversations out of nowhere:

M: "I think we should name the baby Anna."
E: "I think it should be Emily."
M: "Anna!"
E: "Emily!"
M: "Anna!"
[after multiple rounds of this . . .]
E: "Maybe it could be Anna Emily."
M: "No! . . . . Maybe it could be Emily when she's bad. Like, 'Anna Emily Rowland.'"

First of all, I have no idea how they decided on these names. We have not really discussed naming the baby, especially not with the kids, nor have either of those been mentioned by anyone in our house in such a context (Micaiah's go-to toy name is Sally). Second, the spontaneous middle-name compromise of Emmett was an overall surprise - I would have never expected him to think of combining the two names. Third, I love how Micaiah presents her solution as though she had not just heard that two seconds before.

These children surprise us always.  We kind of like them.

Of Showing Off

A little over a week ago our new five-year-old - a fact she will tell anyone and everyone with whom she comes into contact - "I'm five!" - ventured out for a sleepover with her doting aunt, a part of a birthday gift from said aunt.

With oversized backpack hanging from her shoulders, filled with all the precious things required for such an adventure (P.J.'s, hairbrush, storybook and dance clothes for the next morning), she bounced to Aunt Dayla's car, ready for an evening of pizza and girl time. 

She's so grown up.

She returned to us the following morning, post dance class, decked out in tights and leotard, sporting fancy new nails. Well, the finger nails weren't new, but the hot pink polish on the fingers and sparkly purple on the toes sure were.

And was this girl proud.

For the next 48 hours, at least, everyone she met was a new audience for her excitement.

"Look!" She would announce, proudly holding out her fancy fingers to anyone who may or may not listen - cashiers, the friendly custodian at church, the operator of the inflatable place, and countless others- "My Dayla did them!" (After the sleepover, Aunt Dayla officially moved away from her more formal title, or even the less formal "Dia" coined when this girl could barely form more than one syllable in a row, into the much more intimate "My Dayla." I think she's kind of loving it.)

And as this girl boldly and eagerly shared her news with all she met, it made me wonder.

Why is this not the way we show Christ to others?

When was the last time we initiated a conversation with a total stranger, let alone used the opening line of, "Look at what My Jesus has done for me!"

Let us move forward with faith like a child. He has created in us something beautiful - should we not be eager to let His handiwork shine?

Of Dance Lessons

Micaiah began taking dance lessons last week. It was maybe an exciting moment for Mommy because I've always wanted my children to find something they love and have the opportunity to pursue it. And this girl loves to move to music.

We had chosen a program taught by dance students at a local university (some may not realize our town actually boasts two small religious-affiliated universities within its borders, but, in fact, we do). I had spent absolutely zero time in my past eleven years in this region (more than a decade! How is that even possible?!) on said university campus and felt like a freshman all over again as I roamed the small grounds attempting to find the one spot I was supposed to be.

Except I would be the only freshman toting an over-eager near-five-year-old in leotard and tights as I sought the one university student awake on a Saturday morning who might be able to actually help me find where we should be. It was not an easy task as my eyes combed the tree-laden grounds with not a human being in sight. We did finally prevail upon one lone baseball player on his way to breakfast (it would appear the sports players are the only ones alive at that hour) who attempted to aid our quest, but his directions ended us at a locked door.

Finally, after 10-15 minutes of searching (which is a long time when you're standing in a square of about four buildings and, thus, have limited options, really) and some questionable advice from a cafeteria worker who, apparently knows nothing about her workplace beyond the cash register or the tables of the dining hall (and who can blame her - it's not like she's ever needed to find her way to the fine arts building for ballet), and a few tears (the frustration of arriving early and being in the proximity of the desired location but having not a clue how to get there may have worn on Momma's stress level just a tad), we made our way to the right place, just in the nick of time.

In fact, Micaiah was the only student in her class for that first lesson, so I suppose we could have been as late as necessary - but you could not have convinced me of the fact as I desperately sought our destination.

Week Two was bound to be much better. I was toting two extra boys to entertain for that 45-minute span and this fact made me a little nervous, but at least we knew where we were going and that fact alone thrilled my sometimes-nervous soul.

On the way, as Emmett chattered about going to sissy's ballet (pronounced "buh-LAY") class, Micaiah asked me ever so sweetly, "Mommy, did you take ballet class?"

Thinking fondly upon my one year at the city hall in small town Nebraska, clad in tights and little pink ballet shoes, I responded, "When I was very little."

"Did Grandma know how to get there?"

I responded tentatively, unsure where we were headed, "Yes . . . "

"Well, maybe she should have taken me last time."

Thanks, daughter, I love you, too.

Of More Milestones

Our home has reached a few milestones in just 24 hours.

The first occurred yesterday evening when we flushed Micaiah's first pet (well the first that belonged to just her). However, lest you be concerned for her overall emotional state, she still hasn't even realized poor Embien's demise. I thought, certainly, our little observant one would be sure to notice a gaping hole on her art table where once her colorful fish sat. But, no. She colored quite happily this morning with no mention of a missing fish. I'm thinking she'll handle the grieving process just fine when his death has finally been uncovered.

It's a sign of maturity (I'm sure). Besides, we ordered her Kindergarten curriculum this morning (she sure is growing up fast!), so, clearly, this big girl can handle saying good-bye to a floating creature to whom she rarely gave more than a passing glance (right?).

And we reached yet another milestone last night in the development of our newest member of the family. We reached the point in the pregnancy when Fred had to make his appearance. Fred is my candy-cane shaped body pillow which eases the transition for this belly-sleeper into the side-sleeping position when the belly starts getting in the way. I really thought I'd be able to last longer without Fred in my bed, but it turns out, just as I'm transitioning out of the first trimester, his time has come.

Philip is really a good sport about this giant interloper in our sleeping/cuddling space (though, let's be honest, I'm not much of a cuddler so Fred isn't much to blame in the lack of pre-sleep snuggle in our home), though as I hugged my sleeping buddy for the first time in over two years, my living/breathing partner had to grumpily declare, "Wipe that silly grin off your face!" Yeah, Fred definitely gets a lot more snuggles than my patient husband. But we all know who I really love, so it's alright.

After all, Fred doesn't change diapers or cook me dinner when the morning sickness settles in.

Of the Sibling Connection

Gram and Grandy have spirited Micaiah away this week for some quality grand-daughter time (given they'll have quality grand-son time while she is adventuring in Ecuador later this month). They have spent an amazing amount of time tuckering that girl out on one excursion after another - I'm sure she won't even want to come home (I probably wouldn't).

Meanwhile, Philip and I have been doing our best to soak up every minute with these precious boys, particularly with the middle child who is currently enjoying the benefits of being the oldest at home. Thus, last night we took him, just him, on a special date with Mommy and Daddy while Joey enjoyed some quality Aunt Dia time.

We took the little guy first to the library, as we typically go on Tuesday mornings but tiny one slept until noon that morning (no, I'm not complaining about the glorious amount of sleep allotted to me with the early riser out of the house). Emmett was quite happy to meander the library, picking out movies and books and playing with trains. Of course, after selecting the trains to borrow, he went through his ritual of testing their size, a routine established after a particularly sad instance when his chosen vehicle could not pass through the tunnel on the train table. Ever since, that's the first place his trains go, just to be sure. Philip, who rarely gets the pleasure of accompanying us to the library, found this deliberate action quite humorous.

Finally, as we had a movie to head to, I suggested Emmett go put the sticker on his summer-reading-program calendar so he could pick out the prize he gets just for coming to the library every week. Philip was surprised, figuring we could squeeze out at least five more minutes before heading out. He doesn't know the process that is picking a prize out of that small bucket. In fact, because of this lengthy process, in which Emmett pulls out every possible toy in every possible color, with varying degrees of enthusiasm which suggests he might actually want a few of them, before putting them back and causing my head to droop with exasperation, we were still ten minutes late to the theater. What he finally walked out of the library with, proudly in his pocket, was an orange pencil sharpener in the shape of a puppy. Because the yellow and blue ones weren't good enough.

After the movie, which included indulging in too much popcorn and too much soda, we headed home to tell Aunt Dia all about his exciting adventures. And even though he had already headed to bed by the time we were talking to her, when he heard his sister's voice on the speakerphone in the living room, he rushed out to say hello.

"Do you want to tell her what you did today?" I encouraged him, knowing he saw the same movie she had seen with Gram a few weeks ago and thinking he might be excited to tell her. Instead, what came out in his slurred and halting three-year-old speech was,

"Caiah, I got a sharpener!"

Now, had this been an adult on the other end of the phone, I probably would have translated, considering they actually care about carrying on a conversation, but I knew it would take longer to explain the entire story to the four-year-old than was necessary for anyone. Besides, she just wanted off the phone, anyway, since she'd already told us all good-bye.

There was a long pause while she processed the sounds he'd made, which I'm sure were even less clear after traversing the airwaves. I waited for an, "Oh, ok" that would have come from any older listener that would indicate, "I have no idea what that meant, but I'll pretend" or even a, "What, Bubba?" because she hasn't yet learned the art of the polite pretending.

After the few moments of silence, what she finally responded with was, "Oh . . . did you get that at the library?"

Philip and I dropped our jaws in shock. She not only understood what he said, but actually followed the thought process back to its source?!

Clearly children truly do have their own language. Or maybe it's just the sibling connection.

Either way, these kids are great.

Of Our Future Mommy

About a month or longer ago, during one of her infamous "I-don't-want-to-leave-wherever-we-are-because-wherever-we're-going-certainly-won't-be-as-much-fun" breakdowns, Micaiah declared, "I'm going to have a new Mommy and a new Daddy who won't let me go home and won't let me go to sleep!" Apparently she meant this as a threat - it really sounded to me like her new parents were sadistic, but whatever helps her sleep at night - or not.

Clearly, when she began to realize New Mommy and New Daddy weren't coming for her on their white horses, she changed tactics. Her new goal is simply making the world a better place for her own off-spring. This includes consoling herself about the fact that Joey did not come out a baby girl by declaring, "When I'm bigger, I will have a baby girl. When I'm a mommy." She is also already begging to buy baby clothes for this future daughter when we pass the racks at Wal-Mart. "Mommy, can we please buy this for my baby?!" "What baby?" "You know, the one I'm going to have when I'm a mommy."

What can I say? She's a planner (and I have no idea where she got that trait - certainly not from her parents who just got finished throwing together plans for celebrating their soon-to-be-three-year-old's birthday party the night before the festivities are to take place).

But more than settling with God just what these beloved children will look like or be named or even planning their wardrobes, she has already begun taking notes about how she will behave as a mother. Primarily by not doing what I do.

"My kids won't have to go to bed when I'm a mommy!"*

"When I'm a mommy, I won't give my children squash!" (yes, that's a direct quote, as are all of the above).

My feeling on these ground-breaking methods is, "When you're a mommy, I'll try my best not to judge your parenting choices so long as you stop judging mine."

Respect, that's all I gotta say, girl. Respect.

*I felt it crucial to document these declarations for the day when my grandchildren are sobbing over being sent to bed early for not eating their squash. Not that I'll be rubbing her nose in what she said as a four-year-old. I'm way too mature for that.

Of a Morning at the Movies

A few years ago I started seeing advertisements on various money-saving blogs for a summer movie series that various theaters across the country do - one children's movie a week, during the day, at a wonderfully reduced rate. Yes, they're old releases, but who doesn't love watching a movie on the big screen? Of course, I've come to realize with small(-ish) town living that the terms "regional" or "select theaters" generally rule us out. And such has been the case since I first learned of this summery movie extravaganza.

Not so this year, my friends. Not so this year.

This year our town joins the ranks, screening various children's favorites for only $4 - sure it's not free as others do, but the price of admission includes popcorn, a drink and fruit snacks. You won't hear any complaining about that from our kids (especially since they're not paying for it).

As soon as I caught wind of the excitement to come, I loaded up my calendar - each and every Thursday morning screening is prominently labeled, so I'll know which days we need to be lining up at the ticket counter.

Yesterday was the first of these much-anticipated days.

I loaded up the kids - a little concerned about how Joey would do, but also recognizing I was going to a movie theater at 10am to watch an animated movie everyone probably already owned on DVD - I doubted a squawky toddler would receive much attention. I knew I'd have my hands full, but it's not like I'm completely clueless at this point when it comes to toting around three children under the age of five.

I've got this.

What I forgot to factor in was toting around three children under the age of five (one on my hip) and three kids' boxes filled with popcorn and soda cups to spring-loaded theater seats not equipped for the meager weight of pre-schoolers and the inability to take bathroom breaks with the above mentioned munchkins and their snacks.

Let's just say, I have quite a few mental notes of how to do it better next time. These include not handing Emmett his popcorn tray until he has figured out how not to get scrunched by the chair, not arriving early so as to cut down on the time needed to hold a 15-month-old's attention (well, and just plain hold him - especially when he's using all his squirmy might to escape to the floor) and not having to share my (aka the baby's) popcorn with older brother (which includes a side-note of making sure his doesn't get spilled) - because when the popcorn is gone, so is that fidgety baby boy.

All things considered, we all had a fairly enjoyable morning. Joey finally resolved himself to the fact that Mommy wasn't letting go (no matter how good the popcorn on the floor looked) and, thumb in his mouth, settled his tiny head on my arm. Emmett learned how to hold his seat in place and made sure to point out to me all the parts that were funny. Micaiah leaned over at one point, to snuggle with Momma, and had a great time laughing when the other kids laughed (even if she didn't always get the joke).

The kids and I agreed, a morning at the movies is definitely not a bad way to pass the summer time.

Of Taking Steps

I previously mentioned God has been gloriously messing up all my preconceived notions of what our life would be in just the past couple of weeks.

That may not be completely true. While I've only recently (like, very recently) realized just how drastically he is re-arranging my priorities and centering my focus back to Him, if I were going to be honest, I'd point you back another month or so to the starting point of my current inner revival, the point when I really wasn't feeling it, exactly, but I was taking a step of obedience anyway - and one step is all He needs.

It was back when a group from our church returned from a journey to the Holy Land, and my heart started to yearn.  My heart that has spent many months overseas, but has not stepped foot out of the midwest, let alone our country, in six years. I longed to go - anywhere. But just because I longed for it, didn't mean it was where I needed to be. Yet, as luck (wink wink) would have it, the very same morning, I noticed an announcement calling for all interested in mission trips for the year to attend an informational meeting.

I still didn't know if I was called to get on a plane, but I knew, without a doubt, God wanted me at that meeting.

So I took a step.

Despite his misgivings of whether we really needed to be there, my husband joined me while we received information about all the upcoming plans our church had for reaching the lost with the name of Jesus. And I tried, believe me I tried, to feel a calling. I tried to feel the nudge to go on a medical trip to Quito, Ecuador - we'd done it before and I definitely had the vernacular down for pharmaceutical translating. But my heart wasn't really in it this time. I thought it would be great to join a group going to Colorado - I mean, we have friends there and I'd really been wanting to go. But I wasn't really sure that was meant for us, either. In fact, if anything, the only trip that even vaguely stuck in my mind was a mission to visit orphans, and other children in need, in Ecuador. But I ignored that thought, because I don't work well with children and I have never felt inclined toward orphanage work. It's not my thing.

So I shoved it away.

The only clear thought I had was how neat it would be to take our children on one of these trips someday. But surely not now. Surely. They're too young, right? As our coordinator of missions continued his spiel, I meandered the "policies and procedures" just to put my mind at ease. Yet it's only stipulation was children under 16 must be accompanied by a parent.

"Are there any questions?"

"Yes, what's the minimum age for a trip like this?" That was the question burning in my mind. But everyone there knew my oldest child was only four. And clearly they would think me an idiot for even asking.

So I shoved it away.

And Philip and I later both agreed. Nothing stuck out to us. We weren't meant for an overseas mission at this time.

Yet, one week later, the thought bubbled again. What would it be like to take my pre-schooler to Ecuador? I pondered how I would entertain her on the plane, or a van, or all the boring lulls trips like these can have when there are scheduling issues or changes in plans. And for every "difficult-for-a-four-year-old" scenario I could drum up, a response immediately popped into my head.

And then He spoke it to me. What I would call my life verse, if I had ever been pushed to claim one, "Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, 'This is the way; walk in it.'" (Isaiah 30:21) In that moment, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, I was hearing that voice. 


Dang it.

But I still didn't want to believe it. I needed someone to tell me I was wrong. I knew, surely, my husband would think me insane and that would the end of this crazy mental talk.

So I told him my thought. The one about packing up our four-year-old, taking her on a plane and flying to a city in the mountains of Ecuador. I assured him I knew he must think me crazy.

"Actually," he said, quietly, "I don't think you're crazy. I think it would actually be really good for her."

Sigh.

We knew, though, there was still one more step. Because surely someone at the church would see the insanity of even presenting such a thought for consideration. Surely there was a bylaw or something that would put an end to the nonsense. Surely. But deep down I knew. I knew my daughter and I were going to Quito in July.

And that night, when I spoke to the leader of this particular trip, her enthusiasm was genuine when she stated, "She would do so great! The kids we're working with are so much more willing to open up when they have a child their own age to play with."

And that's when the reality struck me. I was out of people to tell me no.

The only bridge left to cross was me turning in that application. It was me saying, "Yes, Lord, we will do this.  We will go."

So I took a step.

And this is how I find myself realizing my children can now pick out Ecuador on a map. They know what language is spoken (though their training in it is not quite the success story for which I'd hoped) and they know it'll take a long time on the plane to get there. Micaiah talks about going "on an adventure - like when we go to Ecuador" and Emmett will ask, "Is that Ecuador?" when looking at prayer cards.

My heart is overwhelmed with excitement at introducing my daughter to this South American culture which has so easily become a part of my own. I smile at the thought of her playing side-by-side with the children of Quito - playing house through the language barrier and begging to invite her friends home. And I feel humbled to think she will see Jesus at work, whether she grasps it all or not.

This trip is a life-changer. For both of us.

Of a Child-Like Faith

In flipping through a board book recently, Micaiah did as she typically does, recalls what she remembers of the story and makes up the rest based on the pictures.  As I fluttered about doing various things, preparing to head out the door to meet someone, I heard her declare, "And then Jesus died on the cross."

Looking over, I noticed this particular book was one about Easter.  She had turned to the illustration of three crosses on a hill and knew their significance.  She continued, "Jesus died on the cross, because . . . I don't know why.  Mommy, why did Jesus die on the cross?"

I love the beautiful curiosity God built in children that can turn a board book into an opening for the gospel.  Recognizing this wasn't an issue to be glossed over and had infinite importance, especially when compared with a simple meeting, I stopped in my flurry and embraced the moment.

"Do you know how we sometimes disobey God?"

Nodding.

"And when we disobey God, we need to be punished, right?"

Nodding.

"Well, God sent Jesus to die on the cross to take our punishment for us."

"But Jesus is God."

And with the simplicity only a four-year-old can muster, she speaks the truth of a King.

"Yes, Jesus is God. God became a man so He could take our punishment."

Oh, how precious the beauty of Easter and the vastly important job we, as parents, have to impress this knowledge on our children.  Knowledge with which they will someday wrestle to make it their own, but now, at this very young age, they accept as truth, without question, because we have told them it is true.

"At that time the disciples came to Jesus, saying, 'Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?'  And calling to him a child, he put him in the midst of them and said, 'Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.'" - Matthew 18:1-4

Let us not waste these precious opportunities to speak Truth to our children, but let us also embrace this Truth as a child, ourselves.  Our faith is to worked out with fear and trembling (Philippians 2:12), yes, but at a certain point we will have to acknowledge it as faith and faith alone - we must accept it as True, because our Father has told us it is True.  And He alone is trustworthy.

Of Facing their Fears

While most children would jump up and down (pun so entirely intended) at Mommy and Daddy's surprise of spending the morning leaping on inflatable mazes and slides (albeit, not quite as exciting as Paris or the zoo, which were Micaiah's guesses), our children tend to be a little more anxious than most.  

In Emmett's defense, Saturday morning's excursion was his first experience with a bouncy house, so some trepidation is understandable.  But when a kid only the day before announced, "Look, Mommy!  I'm standing on the moon!" while perched on the arm of the loveseat, and proceeded with, "I'm jumping on the moon!" while flailing himself on the cushions, one might reasonably assume he'd more thrilled to be able to perform such actions with permission this time.  Apparently one would be wrong.

His sister took some warming up, as well, but by the time she discovered new "friends" (some legit, from church, and some brand new to her, but everyone is always welcome), she was running through the maze with the best of them.

The slides were an issue, which was sad because it was a large part of the experience overall.  So, the second time I accompanied our daughter down, I pointed to the warning sticker at the top of the hill, indicating tandem sliding as a taboo.  "See," I told her, "You're supposed to go all by yourself."

"Yeah.  But let's go anyway."

That's my little rule-breaker.

After that, it was all about the law - only because it gave her leverage over her brother. 

"See, Bubba?  It says to go by yourself."

And that was all it took to convince the little guy we had to push and pull onto the inflatable in the first place (the one who had spent the majority of the past hour stepping gingerly toward a bounce-house before hurrying away before we could talk him into it) to declare, "I have to do it all by myself!"  And off he went, scurrying up the rubber-covered ladder/stairs to throw himself down the nearest slide (nevermind the fact he had never even been interested in the activity with accompaniment, let alone by himself).

Before we knew it, we had a sliding fool and a social butterfly scurrying hither and yon among the growing crowd.  

Oh, and their little brother? It was all we could do to keep that guy from climbing the ballooned sides himself from moment one. This little man knows no fear. "They don't want to play?" he seemed to say, "Don't worry, I've got this!"

Oh how different children can be.