Of Movie Night

As Philip and I settled in this evening, I with my chosen craft and he with his, for a quiet movie night, I glanced at the clock, noting, at just past 8 o'clock, that we may even be able to squeeze in two movies if they were of reasonable length.

But it was not to be so.

Between rising to investigate the pending "severe thunderstorm" rolling into town, multiple snack breaks for this hungry mama, a pause to mop up the half-bottle of juice which my husband successfully exploded on the kitchen floor, his attempts at brewing tea, changing a little boy who was hot and sweaty in his crib, then, later, bathing said boy who had now vomited his dinner over himself and his crib, comforting same boy, reading another bed-time story and nestling him back into bed, running the washing machine to rinse soiled bedding and pajamas, then running another cycle to include the juice-soaked towels and mop-head, along with aforementioned soiled bedding and pajamas, it would seem a two-hour movie can, apparently, easily consume a span of three and a half hours.

When did movie night become so complicated?

Of Poured Blessings

I believe this morning was the first occasion the low rumbles of (non-threatening) thunder, along with the pitter patter of drops hitting the window actually inspired me to get out of bed. Typically, these sounds beckon me to remain in my cozy nest, and, quite honestly, my headaching and slightly-nauseated pregnant self partially wished to follow the old patterns and let the other three head off to church without me. But the excited words of my daughter when my husband entered her room, "It's a storm!" - the likes of which we have not seen here in these parts for the better part of two months - were too much to ignore.

So as I heard him, infant in hand, and happy, pajamed little girl in tow, opening the front door so they could take a look, I needed to be there as well. And when that same happy girl refused to go eat breakfast, begging, instead, to get her feet wet, I had to open the glass door for her, so we could all, in p.j.'s and bare feet, enjoy this glorious blessing together.

What better way to begin the Lord's Day than by basking in His goodness pouring down?

Of Climbing

I take it as a good sign for his physical development.  Our little guy started climbing today.  That's right, he can't stand, but he sure can climb (to a certain extent).

After months of simply crawling to his sister's Pottery Barn Kids armchair, and then kneeling in front of it as he pounded his open palms on the seat or bounced a ball off the top, our big boy finally pushed off of his knees, and his feet, and to climb atop the seat himself.  And boy was he proud!  Like a king on his pink throne, he took in the world around him.  Squirreling around, he tried to see just how much he could reach from his newfound height.

Of course, his newly discovered talent served to spark his sister's renewed interest in the chair, while she attempted to reclaim her rightful place in the world.  It was tough to enforce the "one child at a time" rule when she looked so darn cute sitting next to her brother, while subtly attempting to oust him from the spot.

They eventually learned to take turns, but what Emmett hasn't quite learned is a graceful exit strategy, which currently includes a controlled fall to his hands so he can crawl back out - sometimes successful, sometimes not.

We're so proud of our new little climber, though.  And are suddenly very motivated to bolt down every piece of furniture in the house.

Of Failures

My head knows it's not my fault.  I am not a failure as a parent.  My head knows it, but the rest of me is a lot tougher to convince.

The part of me that sees and reads about almost every child we know younger than Emmett (though of a reasonable age, of course) is not only standing but moving their tiny feet, one after the other - while our thirteen-month-old gets much praise and adulation for simply pulling to his own two feet while Mommy pulls his hands up higher than he can reasonably reach while resting on his booty or knees.

And the part of me that sees and reads about almost every child we know younger than Micaiah (though of a reasonable age, of course) who seems to already be using the potty - and has learned to do so in a matter of weeks, or even days - while our near-three-year-old, after months (and months, and months) of encouragement, positive attitudes and training still continues her dis-interest in all things potty.  Or, rather, she likes the idea of Dora underwear or M&M's for sitting on the toilet, but is not really into actually trying for a permanent move from diapers.

My head knows it's not my fault.  These things can't be forced and if they're not interested, the only result of forcing a child into either of the above activities is, most likely, irreversible psychological damage.

But part of me still feels like a failure as a parent.  I suppose if this is where we fail, life could be worse.

Of Stranger Danger

I had an inkling this morning while preparing breakfast for the little ones (read: putting Apple Jacks and bananas on their respective high chair trays and filling their sippies with milk - I'm so gourmet it kills you, doesn't it?) that I should take a moment or two to try to explain the concept of "danger" to our rambunctious near-three-year-old. Not wanting to complicate breakfast, however, I shrugged off the feeling.

Not ten minutes later, our doorbell was ringing with a shadow behind the glass taller than any typical visitor to our stoop (especially being that our only "typical" visitor is my rather small sister-in-law).  Not being appropriately dressed for strangers at this time of the morning, I panicked - I knew Sesame Street was probably a little too loud to pretend no one was home, but I also wasn't sure I wanted to even try opening the door - I always panic at the thought of a stranger at the door - dressed or not.  When what to my wondering ears should I hear but my daughter, yelling, "Is it Dia?!  Mommy, who is it?!"  I tried to quietly urge her to shut her trap (ok, I really was nicer, but still firm), but she did not seem to get the hint, continuing in her obnoxiously loud voice, "Mommy, who is it?!".  Knowing I definitely could not pass off the "we're not home" theory, I dashed to the bedroom for a robe, only to hear more yelling from the living room, "Come in!"  I could have died - and taken a certain little girl with me.

Of course, by the time I returned to the front door, the tall, shadowy stranger had disappeared and I would later learn it was someone sent by the electric company to trim trees in our backyard.  But none of that mattered.  What made me whirl around with the glare of death toward my toddler was the fact that she did not listen to me and, in fact, did the exact opposite of what I had requested in a moment that could have been dangerous.

Thus, I decided maybe this morning would be the perfect time to discuss strangers and the danger they can pose.  I'm praying there was not a reason coming in the near future that necessitated that lesson being taught today.

Of Emergency

Our city is currently in a "State of Emergency."  Due to many water main breaks throughout the town, all of the four water towers have now been emptied and many homes are without water.  Those of us who still have this precious commodity flowing through our faucets are asked to boil it before use and, for that matter, use as little as humanly possible.  I'm not going to lie, when I first received the automated phone call with all of the above information, my eyes starting tearing up of their own free will (yes, my tear ducts are a separate entity altogether).

Much as with the sound of a tornado siren (though to a much lesser degree), those three little words - "State of Emergency" - push a panic button found somewhere deep inside and I feel as though the world as we know it is going to crumble at our feet.  Of course, the logical part of my brain explains this is not true, which is why the misting of my eyes lasted but a mere few seconds before I simply pulled out our two largest pots, filled them with water and set the burners to "Hi" so we would be prepared when the children needed something to fill their sippie cups.

Regardless of all that is occurring, I know one primary truth: God is in control.  And I am grateful for the fact that we at least have the option of heating liquid which has come from our own sinks rather than having to dash to the nearest store still in possession of the bottled variety.  Yes, there is much to be thankful for and much still needing prayer, such as those working around the clock to fix this mess and get us back on track.  To the best of my knowledge there will be no looting or riots in the street.

Life goes on.

UPDATE: Mere minutes after posting, my husband turned on our faucet and noted it seemed to be going at full pressure, as opposed to the weak job it had been performing for the past 36 hours.  Apparently they have taken care of the major breaks and are focusing on the minors while the water towers refill.  What'd I tell you?  Life goes on ;)

Of Thin Skin

It took a great number of years - or comparatively so for the span of years I have lived thus far - for me to discover my real passion in life.  It was not until I was in my early twenties that I realized those younger years of awkward cursive on paper in the form of short stories my brain would spew out, coupled with my knack for editing friends' papers through high school and an unexpected love in my senior year elective creative writing class were all indications of my heart's desire.  I longed to write.  I enjoyed doing so and to be actually paid for such an endeavor would be a true dream.

Turns out I'm not one who finds great ambition in the pursuit of dreams, but I am working on the discipline aspect.  The one true notion which has always inhibited my ability to truly embrace this dream is my incapacity for taking criticism - mostly that of the un-constructive nature.

I have always found, in this technological age of being infinitely connected to others of the world who we know not personally, that one negative response to a blog comment or note to another on Facebook will turn me into a downward spiral.  My stomach goes in knots, my blood boils, my mind races with witty comebacks which I know I will never deem to write, for lack of desire in being entangled in another's bitter tirade.

I become consumed.

All due to one response, by someone of whom I know nothing other than the pointed words typed on the screen before me.

If this is how I respond to such meaningless drivel as is poured forth by internet "trolls" who get their kicks from making others miserable, how could I possibly bear to stand naked before the world, my mind laid bare on the pages of a book, inviting negativity, anger and bitterness in droves from those who are merely waiting for a single mis-step, wrong word or incorrect theory?

How will this girl ever develop a skin thick enough for the goal she pursues?